#⸻ 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳 | 轟 炎司 › … thread .

[chipen]

drip, drip, drip .. the fall of droplets against concrete fills the air, you can hear the splatter of it as it collides against the hard surface, how it alters the color from grey to a dark crimson. all you can think as you look at this is 'it'll stain'. sure, the rain will wash most of it away soon, when the storm clouds fill the sky and cleanse the earth again, but until then, it'll still be stained; a remanent of this incident will be left, an imprint of what occurred. you stand up on jellified legs, clenching your teeth together when a flare of pain erupts in your knee (either you landed too harsh or your arthritis is acting up again). you can feel a warmth spread 'cross face as the blood trickles down from exposed wound on forehead, spilling down your face in thin streams. the wooziness that blood loss brings is there but you ignore it. like always, you push onwards, acting almost indifferent about the whole affair. " i do it just for you. " monotone voice still manages to retain that sarcastic lilt, reaching up to swipe at brow line with sleeve, annoyed that you'll have to handwash your costume once your home to get that blood out of it. your hands will freeze from the cold water as you try and get very bit of blood out (which is made harder by the dark fabric of it). you sigh a bit just knowing you won't be sleeping much at all. your gaze finally settles onto him, no longer occupying eyes with bloody cement or the wetness of your sleeve, face void of emotion as you wait for him to speak. the silence doesn't bother you as it blankets over, used to the feeling and finding comfort in the quiet; you weren't much of a conversationist anyways. though, the metallic scent in the air is starting to get to you a little and it's taking everything in you not to lean against the wall, a slight tremble from exhaustion and pain. / con't @bulletshot

RARE  -  THESE  DAYS,  THAT  YOU  CHOOSE  TO  TAKE  the  night  shift.  but  sometimes  the  memories  curdled  beneath  the  skin  like  spoiled  milk,  sometimes  that  same  dream  haunts  you  over  and  over  again,  and  the  empty  house  with  only  your  eldest  son's  shrine  greets  you  when  you  come  home.  it's  better  to  be  away.  you  see  it  their  faces,  and  it's  undoubtedly  better  for  you  in  the  end  too.  but  that  doesn't  mean  you're  not  chased  out  the  front  door  by  phantoms,  back  into  the  city  streets  at  one  am  with  the  comforting  heat  of  your  flames  the  only  balm.  on  nights  like  this  -  the  sky  yawns  wide  and  sheds  tears  for  the  lives  you  wrecked  with  bare,  open  palms.

but  he's  the  one  bleeding.

you  stare  down  at  him  -  blue  eyes  lit  stark  beneath  the  curtain  of  your  flame.  steam  rises  from  your  body  beneath  water  droplets,  and  your  youngest  son's  illustrious  teacher  looks  the  part  of  a  bloody  wet  cat.  he's  never  without  his  verbal  sabers  though,  and  for  that  you  feel  no  small  amount  of  respect  as  well.

❝ if  you  wanted  my  attention,  you  could  have  just  called. ❞  it's  almost  like  a  joke  -  except  you  don't  really  do  that,  not  anymore.  instead  -  you  dull  the  flames  upon  your  body,  reaching  out  with  cavalier  intent.  the  flame  patterned  cloth  is  produced  from  utility  pouch,  and  you  fold  it  neatly.  giant,  surprisingly  gentle  hands  smooth  away  inky,  blood  and  rain  damp  hair,  before  you  press  navy  cloth  to  that  leaking  wound.  you  step  closer,  unnatural  warmth  hopefully  a  balm,  before  turning  the  cloth  over  to  press  the  clean  side  to  the  still  leaking  cut.  ❝ not  too  deep,  but  judging  by  your  clothes  i  guess  you  took  other  hits. ❞  no  disapproval  -  just  a  statement  of  fact  -  and  you  pause  only  long  enough  to  glance  towards  the  rainy  night  sky.

❝ come,  my  agency  isn't  far. ❞  it's  not  really  a  suggestion,  but  he  should  be  grateful  you're  polite  about  it,  offering  a  steadying  arm  devoid  of  hellflame,  ❝ you'll  catch  your  death  out  here,  and  your  quirk  is  too  valuable  for  that. ❞

[chipen]

more tags for carrd....

[chipen]

HEROES  GET  HURT.  IT  WAS  JUST  A  FACT  OF  THEIR  existence  -  another  unavoidable  casualty  in  their  line  of  work.  but  heroes  like  eraser  head  -  who  lacked  offensive  capability  (  not  completely  devoid,  only  lacked  as  much  as  yourself  )  and  ended  up  often  mired  in  the  most  dangerous  of  missions  -  or  a  first  priority  at  being  taken  out…  well.  you  wonder  if  perhaps  he  often  got  hurt  more  than  others.  you  wonder  how  many  of  his  own  wounds  he’s  stitched  shut,  how  many  near  misses  he’d  found  himself  encumbered  with.  eraser  head  was  the  best  of  the  best  -  truly  impressive.  but  right  now  you  don’t  see  him  as  that.  right  now  he  just  looks…  small.

a  grunt  of  surprise  leaves  you,  watching  as  he  slips  and  struggles.  on  reflex  -  you  reach  outwards,  curling  your  other  arm  against  him  so  he  doesn’t  face  plant  into  the  nearest  puddle.   ❝ aizaw-  eraser. ❞  comes  your  voice  -  not  quite  a  scolding.  just  a  warning.  your  flames  dim  completely  then,  but  body  still  emits  unnatural  heat,  always  ready  to  provide.  indeed  -  you  don’t  wait  for  his  protest  -  but  instead  bend  downwards,  and  scoop  him  into  your  embrace  with  such  unbelievable  gentleness,  it’s  hard  to  regard  this  as  the  same  endeavor  who  had  charred  a  nomu  to  pieces  only  months  prior.  ❝ don’t  bite  me. ❞  is  all  you  say  -  as  if  worried  the  pathetic  wet  cat  in  your  arms  might  suddenly  grow  fangs.  ❝ and  close  your  eyes. ❞

it’s  harder  to  fly  in  the  rain  when  you  generate  propulsion  from  heat  -  but  you  succeed  -  albeit  with  a  bit  of  difficulty  attempting  to  ensure  your  passenger  is  not  pelted  by  the  growing  droplets.  fortunately  the  endeavor  agency  is  nearby  -  and  the  landing  access  on  the  top  floor  apartment  as  a  good  remodeling  decision,  you  think,  considering  how  often  no.  2  drops  in  -  and  spares  you  and  eraser  a  pelting  of  questions  from  your  night  shift  sidekicks.  you  land  gently  -  and  bustle  inside  with  nary  another  thought,  far  too  committed  to  the  tasks  at  hand.

you  deposit  him  gently  upon  the  made  bed  -  chilled,  no  doubt,  from  lack  of  use  -  and  disappear  into  the  bathroom.  minutes  later,  you’re  at  his  side  -  first  aid  kit  in  hand  -  and  it’s  with  a  jerk  of  your  head  that  you  gesture  to  him,  clinical  and  sure  -  but  not  without  hesitance.  if  there  is  one  person  that  can  easily  get  you  to  sit  -  it’d  be  shota  aizawa,  judging  by  the  red  that  dusts  your  unscarred  cheek.

❝ shirt…  off.  unless  you  want  me  to  burn  it. ❞   again,  it’s  weirdly  gentle.  and  you  don’t  exactly  have  time  for  propriety,  what  with  the  blood  stains  and  grime  dripping  onto  your  navy  sheets.  alas…  you  have  spares.  ❝ let  me  help. ❞

the night washes over you, you bask in the moonlight, ignoring the flares of pain that erupt inside of you. the open wound stings and your body aches, there's going to be several bruises blooming onto skin by tomorrow and you're sure that a stiffness will be felt in bones and muscles, strained by the injuries sustained. your ribs burn with every breath you take and it hurts, like a piercing pain that makes you not want to inhale again, makes you want to sob from how it stabs you with a sharpness you despise. you hiss like a disgruntled cat, wobbling from your unstable stance.

you always preferred to work at night over the day, blending into the shadows and staying out of the spotlight. it was better for you, allowed you to flourish as the underground hero you were. you were the hero that lingered in back alleys or sketchy streets, that occupied suspicious rooftops and dark parking garages. you weren't flashy and you had no desire to be, what's the point ? a hero is meant to save people .. not worry about television interviews or publicity or even fans. it seems that ideal has been muddled throughout the years, overeager heroes joining the scene in search of fame and money .. it sickened you in a way.

you peer at him, the number one hero .. and you think that he's not as insufferable as the others. just slightly, just a bit. a bitter laugh falls from busted lips as you hear his response. it's not one that curls your lips upwards into a grin, no .. instead it leaves from the frown plastered on face, fragmented and weird. and yet, despite the bitter laughter that fills the air, you're leaning into the cloth, almost as if you were yearning to lean into his touch, as if you had hoped it were his hands and not fabric that graced your skin. you blame the blood loss .. and ignore the way your heart stutters in chest and the feeling that resides inside.

then he's offering his arm to you, staring blankly at it for a few moments as you blink once, twice, three times 'til you finally move. you nearly fall but you catch yourself, hands grabbing onto his arm desperately in order to regain balance, a whine escaping clenched teeth as white hot pain fills you. fuck, not good .. you'll live of course but shit. heavy breaths rattle, struggling to fill your lungs with air. your fingernails dig slight into fabric like a cat claws .. it gives you a stability you pathetically need right now. you'll apologize later, when you aren't hurting as much and bleeding in the streets. maybe.

" okay, " you ignore the quirk part. anyone else would be delighted, perhaps, that someone like him would be so interested in their quirk. you just roll your eyes. " sorry to inconvenience you. "