#I FORGOT HIS STUPID SCAR AGAIN snaps my pencil in half

[rubydubsnuby]

Ouuaggh it's soooo tiring to have your life threatened at your job every day...

[burntretinas]

like constellations, we’re joined (3/?)

They say that a red string binds us all, connects everyone to someone. It is around our little finger, tying us to our destined lover(s), regardless of time and place. As our lives go on, that string will stretch or become tangled, but will never tear nor break. Yagi Toshinori has led a life where his lover(s) cannot be known to the public lest they are placed in great danger, forcing the man to abandon any hope of love. His red string is stretched taut.

Maybe a man called Aizawa Shouta can change that.

link to chapter 2: https://burntretinas.tumblr.com/post/169919687607/like-constellations-were-joined-2

Loud shrieks accompany the pitter-patter of feet in the classroom. Chairs scrape the ground and tables are pulled apart as students circle around each other, hawking over one another, talking over each other, as their bright eyes and bright teeth flash, learning about one another and sizing each other up.

A bell rings clearly, silencing students and sending them running to their seats and reveals a tired Aizawa Shouta crawling out of his sleeping bag. He stands still at the helm of his desk, eyes sweeping over his students.

His face twitches as he exhales loudly, spying out of the corner of his eye, a lurking All Might. Two ridiculously tall sprouts of hair pace along the windows facing the corridor, shadowed eyes bopping up and down, glancing over at perceivably opportune moments.

His class are unaware, their eyes glued to Aizawa, afraid to peel away waiting for further instruction.

Not again, he thinks, what the fuck is he doing.

Aizawa has noticed a recent trend in All Might’s behaviour as the man tries to “secretly” spy on Izuku Midoriya. He doesn’t think he has noticed that in his larger form, he tends to stick out, especially those stupid bangs which can be clearly seen from any fucking window. Aizawa doesn’t particularly care or want to know how a grown man’s spatial awareness of his own body could be that fucking bad. Additionally, there is no goddamn way someone’s hair can stick up like that, it has to be fake. Aizawa refuses to believe anyone could just style hair like that, completely forgetting, perhaps ignoring how Hizashi achieves his certain parrot-like look.

“Sensei!” Tenya Iida’s sharp voice breaks Aizawa’s chain of thought. “Are you OK?”

Aizawa tears his thoughts away from the ridiculous spectacle outside and claps his hands, the edges of his mouth curving upwards.

“It was a logical ruse!” Aizawa’s grin triples in size as the class cower in confusion. “I was waiting for somebody to -

“Sensei, you can’t keep saying that when you forgot your lesson plan or changed your mind ya know,” Kirishima cuts him off bluntly, scratching his head.

Aizawa glares at the boy, whilst the rest of the class have turned to face him, stifling barely hidden laughter behind their hands.

Toshinori crumbles the paper in his hands, dropping it in the waste bin next to his desk. He carefully pulls a new sheet of paper and begins to rule out another lesson plan.

“All Might, have you tried making on the computer? It might be faster,” Cementoss says quietly, popping over All Might’s shoulder.

“Ah yes, but I’m afraid I’m having a hard time getting around the software, so I’ve decided to go a little old school for a while,” he gently laughs as he waves the ruler around.

Cementoss nods, satisfied with his response and walks away with a steaming mug of tea.

Is young Midoriya fit to be my successor, to inherit All For One, Toshinori scowls as he brushes away such thoughts. His thoughts were in a loop today, like a broken record, winding back to the same chords over and over. These jarring thoughts crept on him as he saw anything that reminded him of the youth. Boundless enthusiasm was everywhere he turned lately, as he worked in a school for upcoming heroes. Boundless enthusiasm was something Midoriya had plenty and all his thoughts turn to protecting and pushing him into his new role as upcoming hero. Eraserhead was an obstacle, the man renown for expelling an entire class for “no potential” was bound to clash with Midoriya, a boy who had only recently received his quirk.

Crack.

The pencil in his palm pulls him from his thoughts. It lay broken in two, split by the force he pressed on it, accidentally, unaware. Toshinori swallows. He peers at his lesson plan and his heart drops as he wonders the pitfalls of academic teaching. His palm curls around the broken pieces and he drops them into the bin.

As he stands from his chair to borrow a pencil from anyone, he bumps into a walking stack of paper.

“Offt,” it groans, as essays drift to the ground, landing in an awkward fashion, entrapping the two in irregular circles.

“Sorry, Eraserhead, I wasn’t looking,” Toshinori’s words sputter out ungracefully, his head bowing down to face the younger man, "Let me help you,” He drops to the ground, gathering up the papers in his arms, trying to find order in the messy stack.

“Thank you,” Aizawa said stiffly. Toshinori raises his head curiously, scanning his face for a way to interpret his words but finds himself at a loss, unable to read the other man. Aizawa wordlessly picks up the rest and pulls the stack from Toshinori’s arms, regarding him with a critical stare, before leaving to his desk. He sits down and begins to re-order the pile in alphabetical order.

Toshinori approaches him from behind and says softly, “Excuse me, but would you have a pencil I could borrow?”

Aizawa bristles, an almost imperceptive move that Toshinori nearly missed, and pulls a pencil from his drawer and, without turning, hands it to him. Toshinori purses his lips but holds his tongue. He sits back at his desk and slowly works. The two are alone in the staffroom as the hours tick by, silence the only accompaniment to the sounds of rapid pen marks and a pencil scratching on paper.

Toshinori slides his finished lesson plan away in his folder and tucks it in his drawer at the same time Aizawa decides to go home to finish marking. Toshinori stands first, his legs moving fast as he places the pencil on Aizawa’s desk with the quick utterance of thanks and he moves away from the younger hero who doesn’t quite seem to like him.

Aizawa’s phone beeps and he curses as he reads the text. Toshinori raises an eyebrow, tempted to ask for more, and cannot hold his tongue this time.

“Hizashi left without me so I don’t have a ride home, so I’ll probably have to catch the train,” Aizawa replies.

Toshinori blinks in surprise at the clear lack of formality between Eraserhead and Present Mic, a strange feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

“I can give you a ride,” the words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

Aizawa blinks in response and slowly replies in confusion, “OK, you can drive?”

“I’m not made of glass, I can still do some things,” Toshinori snaps in reply, unable to stop himself as the mounting pressures of his body was made apparent again.

Aizawa holds up his hands defensively, instinctively taking a step back, “Sorry, it’s not that, it’s just that I assumed that you didn’t really drive anywhere and kind of just did those All Might hops everywhere, didn’t think you needed a car.”

Ten minutes later, Toshinori finds himself telling Aizawa to put his address into the GPS and honestly wishes his stupid hero senses had not kicked in with his offer to drive the one teacher who had not warmed up to him yet.

“Ah, you don’t live too far from me,” he says as a way to fill what he believed to be growing awkwardness.

Aizawa hums in reply.

The car ride is silent, the car engine providing the acoustics for what Toshinori believes to the death of avoiding Aizawa forever. His hands clench around the steering wheel a little too tightly as he imagines having to try and interact with the very man who turned down his getting-to-know-you present and very essence of heroic style.

He moves his mouth, filling the words on his tongue, testing them out and swallows them as they prove unfit or ill-advised. He settles on stilling his mouth, unable to find the words he is looking for to broach the silence.

He slams his foot on the brake sending both men to brace for the sudden stoppage. Toshinori looks up at the red light he nearly missed, sweating as he apologises to Aizawa who appears to have spread all his limbs across the car in an attempt to stay seated.

Aizawa chokes out a gasp, staring at Toshinori with wide eyes.

Ah fuck, Toshinori sighs, settling down in his seat as blood drips down his chin. He swallows the blood pooling in his mouth, ignoring the bitter copper tang. He pulls over at the first available spot and leans over Aizawa to pull out some tissues from the glove compartment.

He wipes his face and drops the tissues in the back seat, making a mental note to pick them up later. He licks his teeth of excess blood, systematically checking them in the mirror.

“You fine?” Aizawa asks, eyes glued to the oversized white shirt soaking up the blood on Toshinori, the fabric clinging to his chest and he can’t help but stare at the edges of a large scar. Tight skin draws over each other, lines, barely covering the flesh beneath, creating ripples in the skin of Toshinori’s side.

“I’m fine,” Toshinori replies, “let’s get you home.”

Aizawa remains silent for the rest of the ride. His eyes occasionally dart over to the white shirt hugging a tiny, thin, lanky frame. His eyes snap back to the road every time Toshinori so much as glances his way, refusing to be caught staring.

“We’re here,” Toshinori says with a gentle smile, snapping Aizawa out of his reprieve.

“Thanks for the ride, sorry for imposing on you like this.”

“No worries, it was no trouble.”

Aizawa gets out of the car and hesitates to invite him in as a way of thanks, opting to stand there awkwardly, his body half in and out of the car, arm resting on the top as his brain short circuits. Finally, he decides to walk away, slamming the car door behind him as he speed-walks into the building.

Oh god, Aizawa can’t help but think, he looks terrible.

link to chapter 4: https://burntretinas.tumblr.com/post/170495229332/like-constellations-were-joined-4

[snorlaxlovesme]

SoMa Week 2017

Day four: Habits

Soul’s fixation with Maka’s hands becomes normal after a while, but is there a reason behind all those impromptu hand massages?

“Hey, whose turn is it to make dinner tonight?” Maka asked Soul, gingerly stripping her dirt-covered gloves from her fingers.

“Yours,” he said with a sadistic grin. Soul was always delighted on any day that wasn’t his turn to cook. “And don’t think I’m letting you back out of it again. I know we have groceries this time.”

Maka nodded absently, looking down at her scarred and calloused hands mournfully. She could barely uncurl them without feeling a tremor run through them.  It was only a month and a half after their fight with the Wolf Man, and while the burns on Maka’s hands had finally healed, the sensitivity remained a constant problem. After missions their functionality was shot to hell. She flexed them gingerly, hoping she’d be able to hold a spatula for next half hour.

“Hey, what’s the hold-up?” Soul called from the living room after not hearing pans clanging together. “You’re not gonna pull that I-have-too-much-homework crap again, are you? You promised to actually make dinner tonight.”

Maka grit her teeth and grabbed a nonstick pan from the drying rack, trying not to think about how difficult it would be to hold a pencil later when she finally did do her homework.

“I got it, I got it. Just don’t rush me, okay?”

Soul must have noticed a change in her voice, because he dropped the asshole routine and turned around on the couch to look at her. “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, reaching into the fridge to pull out the ground chuck for hamburgers. The cool packaging of the beef felt wonderful on her swollen hands.

Soul rolled his eyes and stood up. “Whenever you say ‘it’s nothing’ that means something is wrong and you’re too stubborn to tell me.”

Maka stuck her tongue out at him as he made his way to the kitchen, but didn’t try to dispute him. He was right, after all.

“Your hands are hurting again, aren’t they?” he asked, watching as she tried to grab a spatula using only the tips of her fingers.

Maka sighed. “A little.”

He met her in the kitchen and took hold of one of wrists, bringing her hand closer so he could see it in the light. In most cases, Maka bared her battle scars with absolute pride. She loved her job as a meister and she knew that every scar on her body was an indicator that she made it out of a hard battle alive. But the scars on her hands weren’t inflicted by a kishin, but by her own stubbornness and stupidity. If she hadn’t been so insecure after their fight with the Demon Sword she wouldn’t have caused her and Soul’s wavelengths to be out of sync. The newly pink scars on her hands were a reminder of the way she almost broke up their partnership, and looking at them made her feel a little sick.

Soul prodded one of her callouses without warning. Maka yelped and snatched her hand away.

“Ow! What’s your problem?”

Soul took her hand back. “Sorry, I just wanted to see how bad it was.”

“Yeah, well a little warning would—be—” she trailed off when Soul’s hands moved to grip her whole hand instead, pressing his fingertips softly into the sore parts of her hand. “—nice…….”

It became increasingly hard to focus when Soul’s thumb and index finger were pressing against either side of her hand, massaging slow circles into the meat of her palm. The sensation was foreign and so welcomed that Maka completely forgot what she was talking about. His hands moved slowly up hers, rubbing her knuckles gently and pinching each finger around the joint until she could slowly unfurl her fingers. Maka watched the whole ordeal speechlessly, not sure what to say when her partner gives her a hand massage two minutes after berating her for not cooking dinner fast enough.

“Does the left one hurt too?” he asked.

She nodded slowly, and watched in amazement as he gave her other hand the exact same treatment. He rubbed each bit of her hand with careful scrutiny, waiting until she was able to flex it properly before he finally let go.

Maka looked down at her hands, which definitely still stung but were a lot more mobile than they hand been five minutes ago. How did he do that?

But as Maka opened her mouth to ask him what that was all about, Soul was picking up the package of beef from the counter to get a better look at it.

“Burgers? Cool. Tell me when they’re ready.” And with that, he went back to the couch to watch more TV.

Maka looked down at her hands in bewilderment, flexing her hands again. She still wanted to ask him about what just happened, or thank him maybe, but it seemed like he didn’t want to talk about it. So she picked up the package of beef, intent on leaving it be, for now.

-

“You know, you could just be like a normal person and borrow my laptop,” Soul said, chin resting on his arms as he sat across from Maka in the library, staring at her in boredom.

She didn’t even bother dignifying him with a response, too intent on finishing her essay before study period was over. Her hand was cramping furiously, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from hand-writing it. Maka would type her homework out when she bought her own laptop, not use Soul’s stupid gaming laptop that his rich parents from the east coast sent him for his birthday. Maka didn’t need his dumb charity, not from a slacker partner who didn’t even write his essay at all. No, she had her lucky pencil and fifteen minutes left of library time to finish this essay, if only Soul would stop bothering her when she was clearly BUSY—

Her pencil snapped in half in her furious grip, and Maka’s hand stilled.

Soul looked disbelievingly at the splintered pencil half still in Maka’s iron grip. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little crazy?”

“This essay needs to be finished, Soul,” she said angrily, looking at the two inches of pencil left in her hand. Writing with this was going to kill her.

Soul rolled his eyes before unceremoniously grabbing her right hand and cracking her knuckles one-by-one. After writing two and a half pages by hand already, she didn’t think it was possible to gain feeling back in her fingers, but there it was, blood flowing to the tips again. He kept his hold on her for only a moment longer to roll her wrist forwards and backwards a couple times before letting go without a word, handing her his mechanical pencil.

“Don’t snap that one too,” he told her with no real heat in his voice, his head already returning to its old spot on top of his folded arms.

Maka looked at her rejuvenated hand, her partner, and the pencil.

“Only twelve minutes now,” Soul said lazily, looking at his wristwatch.

Maka shook her head a little and pulled her notebook back towards her, using her new pencil to write out her third main point.

-

Anya fell unceremoniously onto her ass, and Maka giggled a little at her pout.

“It’s okay to not get it on the first try, it’s a complicated move,” she told the first-year gently. Sometimes she and Soul tutored underclassmen on the weekends (well, Soul’s participation wasn’t exactly voluntary), and young Tsugami and her two meisters had become their favorite team to teach. Anya was a very diligent meister, but she didn’t seem to take failure well.

“But it is not my first try!” she cried stubbornly. “I should be better by now. We’ve been practicing for hours.”

Maka laughed and leaned Soul’s handle on one of her shoulders. “You just switched with Meme fifteen minutes ago. Give it another try.”

Anya took a deep breath and looked at her halberd until she heard Tsugami give her a tinny “I’m ready!”

Anya began the sequence again, spinning Tsugami rapidly while performing complex footwork that would allow for tighter circles when she was dodging multiple attacks. Maka watched Anya’s face scrunch up in concentration as she focused on her steps, but her hands grew sloppy. Before Maka had time to intervene, Anya had conked herself on the forehead with the bottom of Tsugami’s handle.

“You’re not letting your weapon help,” Soul said from his weapon form, where he’d been watching them as well. “Tsugami’s supposed to be guiding half of her movements, but you’re taking complete control, Anya.”

Anya looked bitterly at Soul’s blade. “What else am I supposed to do if she’s not contributing?”

Maka could just barely hear a small “I’m sorry” from the tip of the halberd. Tsugami always had a hard time speaking up for herself under stress.

Maka said, “Tsugami, transform. I want the three of you to watch Soul and I perform the move again.”

Tsugami transformed back and went to stand between Meme and Anya, unconsciously scooting a little closer to Meme in the process.

“Alright, Soul,” Maka said. Soul nodded in his blade and she took a deep breath, letting everything fall away as she took a step back and immediately fell into an effortless rhythm, spinning Soul and twirling her way through the complicated step sequence like it was nothing. She’d been doing it for years, so of course this move was second nature to her, but it was even easier because she had given Soul the reigns on her hand movements. He spun in and out of her fingers in quick propeller motions, never once fumbling in her hands or coming close to hitting her. The trust she gave him allowed the sequence to look less like a battle movement and more like a graceful dance.

After a few moments she stopped, resting Soul’s handle on her shoulder again. Her left wrist twinged a bit from practicing for so long, but she ignored it.

“Do you guys get it now?”

Maka didn’t think it was possible for the three girls to look more bewildered than before, but one look at their little ‘o’ faces made it clear that the lesson still hadn’t stuck.

“Listen, with practice it will become easier. You just have to learn to trust each other and understand your partner’s strengths and weaknesses—Yes, Tsugami?”

Tsugami put her hand down. “Is it customary for weapons to massage their meister’s hands too?”

“Custom—what?” Maka looked beside her to see that Soul had transformed without her noticing, and his softer hands were delicately rubbing circles into her inner wrist. The slight stinging pain was already beginning to wane.

“Oh, uh, that.” After years of Soul taking her hands in his and miraculously alleviating her pain, Maka had gotten accustomed to it. It wasn’t until now that Maka actually stopped to think about it. Was it a weapon thing? Something that Soul was taught in one of his weapon classes? After-mission medical care was something they had learned back when they were still first-years. Cleaning your partner’s battle wounds was supposed to be a bonding experience for meisters and weapons that brought you closer together.

But this didn’t seem like the textbook stuff that they normally did after coming home from a mission. Soul barely needed an excuse to take her by the hand and massage her knuckles. Sometimes it was after practicing, but other times it was just while they sat on the couch watching TV together. Maka could have the remote in one hand, scrolling through their recorded programs, and the other would be between Soul’s while he rolled her wrist and pressed his thumbs into the meat of her palm.

Why did Soul do that?

Maka looked at Soul for some sort of answer, but Soul just continued his ministrations until he seemed satisfied. Maka had to admit that her wrist felt fully functional again. (And how did he do that?)

When it was clear that Soul wasn’t going to respond, Maka struggled for an explanation. “It’s, um, not customary, per se, but maintaining some form of—of physical contact,” Maka swallowed, “with your weapons outside of battle, can strengthen your bond as partners?”

She looked to Soul again, but he was doing a fantastic impersonation of a mute person today, looking in the distance and refusing to meet her gaze.

Even though her explanation didn’t sound the least bit sure, the three freshman took her word for it. Tsugami and Meme both turned to Anya, where both of them attempted to soothe the bump growing on her forehead.

“Ow! Stop poking it, Meme!”

Maka took this to be a good stopping point for the day, and wished the girls good luck on their form work as she followed Soul off campus, where he had already started pacing away.

“Hey!” Maka said, jogging a bit to catch up with him. “What was with the silent treatment back there?”

Soul’s gaze remained trained ahead. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Just didn’t have anything to add.”

She could have just let it go, but now that Tsugami brought it up, Maka was curious. “So I was right? All the stuff you do with my hands is just a weapon thing?” She didn’t even really know what she meant by that, but that’s all it could have been, right?

“Your hands are a big part of who you are as a meister. It would make sense to keep them in good condition,” he said stoically. It didn’t feel like the whole truth.

“So this is just…to keep me in top form as a meister?”

Soul took her left hand in his as they walked, and again Maka couldn’t help noticing how natural it felt after years of impromptu massages. His fingers were warm as he entwined them with hers.

“What other reason would there be?” he asked her, face falling into a smile that made her palms start to sweat a bit.

If Soul noticed, he didn’t say anything, and Maka was glad for that. She spent the rest of their walk home trying to control the frantic beating of her heart, but she noticed with interest that she never made any attempts to take her hand back, either.