#I don’t know how I feel about how the Native American hero dresses tho

[yikes077]

Okay watching Miraculous World New York United Hero’s as an American is so funny because I vaguely understand what they meant to show, but give me one American high schooler that would have a bongo to bring to a rooftop party. Plus the “is is a bird/is it a plane” joke made me cackle. And do they not have motion doors in France?? And the supers in America give off so much mha energy. The whole movies feels like an insult but also the funniest thing I’ve ever watched

[katsukisass]

PAIRING: Aizawa x F!Pro-Hero!Reader

WORD COUNT:  It’s gonna be 5 parts, but this second one has 2,023 words.

WARNING(S): Lots of swearing. Body-image issues; self-esteem issues; reader is in pain and hurt, Aizawa is bae. 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Again, if i’m honest idk what i’m truly doing with this, it wrote itself. I think their relationship is cute, tho Aizawa may seem a little ooc? Tell me what you guys think! Again, this is UNBETADED AND I’M NOT A NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKER, please tell me if you find any errors and I’ll correct them right away! <3 

RESUME:  You never thought of yourself as particularly beautiful. But then a certain Pro-hero keeps telling you are and, at a certain point, you just can’t convince yourself he’s lying. [THIS IS PART II, FOR PART ONE GO HERE]

ii.                  scarred, tired and hurting.

 A week later you're discharged, half-high on pain killers and going home. No one picks you up off the hospital and when you get home, there’s also no one expecting you. It’s very tidy, so your cleaning lady definitely showed up while you were in the hospital because you definitely didn’t left it like this. All you have on is a set of mismatched sweatpants you borrowed because your hero outfit was apparently beyond repair; thankfully the hospital provided those for you to borrow, but they smell strongly of cleaning products and honestly it is making you nauseated.

 You need a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes, but you have a serious challenge ahead of you – strip; your shoulders are kinda busted, you did had a broken rib and lifting your arms made the wound on your lateral hurt like a bitch, so… You stroll around spending time while you prepare yourself for the pain that awaits you once you get to shower.

The pants come down easily but damn.

The first sleeve comes off and you kinda wanna leave it like that or maybe cut the fucking shit with the scissors you have on the drawer and then hop the shower. While you take a deep breath and starts taking the other sleeve off, you’re half seeing black and biting down to hold the growls of pain.

Once it’s out, you’re naked, having worn nothing underneath. You thank the heavens and breathe slowly for a bit to calm your heart. Then you enter the shower and close the glass door with the good arm, the other kind of holding your side where a bandage still stands glued to your skin. Recovery Girl was able to make your wounds close, but inside they were still healing, open and hurting. You half imagined she had left your wounds half treated because she knew the only thing that could make you take it easy was feeling that amount of pain in simple, daily gestures and damn if the old lady wasn’t a mastermind.

Under the hot shower you’re in paradise and plan on staying there some time. You wash your hair the best you can with only lifting one arm and it only going shoulder-high – it’s messy, you waist a ton of shampoo but if feels fresher and that’s all you need for today. The whole tentative of using the soap felt weirdly incomplete, you didn’t reached half the places you needed and there were pain for most of it, but well, what could you do?

You tried your best with the towel and at some point just gave up and went to get dressed – and once the sweatpants are on is that you catch your reflection in a mirror.

Fuck.

The marks on your upper body are dreadful. There are welts of vermilion lacerations stretching through your shoulders and down through your right arm and the lateral of your body. The place where the bandage once stood shows a fresh, closed but still healing scar, starting down your breast and ending close to your waist. Damn, so that’s why Eraser where that worried with you – you must have looked close to dying. There were bruises here and there, some gashes on your knees, thighs and arms and you wonder how you didn’t notice before. Did the purple and red become colors you grew used to? Did the pain from it seemed normal, now? Well…  You quickly throw a baggy shirt on and decide to not think about it too much.

 There was no use in commiserating about those scars. You were a hero and it was part of the job. It didn’t look pretty but they were fresh and you would grow use to it too…  They definitely didn’t add to your already humble looks but well… it… were life? The first tear falls unpretentiously through your face and seems to break the dam. You barely remember the last time you cried but damn, you’re crying a river over some scars like a child and it pisses you off and you cry in annoyance and pain because crying makes everything hurt too.

 It had to be the meds. Or hormones? Maybe exhaustion is making you a bit crazy and it takes some time before you finally can breathe evenly.  You lie down on your amazing bed and fall asleep so fast somewhere in your mind you agree that it had to be exhaustion.

 You wake up surprised and without any notion of time. Its dark out and quiet, but that tells you nothing. Getting up and groaning all the way because your body feels like it has been throw under a bus (fun fact: it has) and then hit by a truck (also true), you finally notices your cellphone shining away on your bed, vibrating.

“Hello?”

“Are you alive?” You know this voice, but sleep still clouds your thinking so you just ask who the fuck it is anyway.

“Don’t you have my contact?” The stern question burns a hole in your brain and Aizawa’s face emerges like a punch.

“I didn’t look.” You mumble half-asleep and he sighs.

“Can you open your door? I’ve been in front of your house for the last hour.”

“What time is it?” You look around like an idiot, despite having the phone in your hand.

“Almost eleven.” That shocks you.

“And why are you here at this hour?” You ask, despite knowing Aizawa probably won’t answer. He never does.

“Open up. I have food.”

Like awaking a beast, your stomach grumbles and you realizes just how long it’s been since your last meal. Trust Eraser to know how to press your weak points. You end the call without any warning and counts to three before getting out the bed, because every single thing hurts. Everything takes longer, like you’re carrying weight, so of course crossing your apartment also does. By the time you’re opening the door, Aizawa has banged on it two times.

“Are you familiar with the concept of waiting?”

“No.” He deadpans and you mumble a naughty answer under your breath, standing aside for him to enter because whatever he has smells good. You give him a once over when he isn’t looking and is pleased to see he’s in way better shape than you. He limps, but then again you’re pretty certain he fractured that leg, so just to be walking is a good thing.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Came to see how you doing. I went to the hospital and they told me you discharged yourself.” It has a bit of sting, but you’re both way past that.

“Can’t stand hospitals.” You mumble while ruffling though the paper bags he put on top of your american style kitchen counter. There are four takeout boxes and you smell chicken.

“Who would’ve thought, seeing as you keep coming back there?” You normally like Aizawa’s sarcasm. Not when it’s directed at you, though. But he’s a hypocrite and you make sure to call him out, with a finger in the air and everything.

“Look who’s talking. I know you left on day two of observation, don’t even start.”

“I had things to do.” He looks elsewhere like a lying bitch and you stare him into looking at you again. “Liar.” You accuse. It passes some time, in which you pass him two boxes and open yours, happily eating without seating; in the meantime, you also start making tea.

“Why is it that pro-heroes hate hospitals?” He muses while watching you struggle around the kitchen. You do mumble a “don’t know” with a mouthful and after you swallow, you keep talking.

“It remembers us that we’re mortals?” You’re eating a spring roll and talking absentmindedly but Aizawa looks at you through the other side of the counter with wide-eyes. “Maybe stresses our weak state and give us anxiety? Show us we’re not as powerful as we think? That’s not to say about triggering PTSD.”

“You put thought into it.”

“I told you I don’t like hospitals.” You say, matter-of-factly.

You two finish eating in silence. You have no idea if he’s just thinking or maybe tired, but when you look at him, his eyes are travelling through your fresh bruises, scanning the red extension of your new scars that are visible. When he looks at you again, there’s too much emotion in his dark eyes and you look away.

Shota always see too much, you think. Beyond any facade you put, behind your barriers and between the small spaces you barely notices you leave open but are enough for him to slither his way inside your mind. Inside you. He notices things you barely realize you let escape, holds to them, pinpoint them back at you and pushes, pushes, insist until you cave; until you’re bare. You hate it.  

He doesn’t say anything. You do.

“And you? You’re ok?” It’s like a whisper, honestly, and in the silence his eyes seems to burn into you harder. Then he blinks.

“I’m fine. Broken ribs, arm and leg but they’ll heal.”

“Oh, that’s good.” You mumble and then ask, munching on the chicken. “How about your head?”

“My head?”

“You had a concussion.” It isn’t a question. You fucking know he had one. He had to.

“Why you think that?” There’s a somewhat humorous turn in his tone, and you avoid his eyes.

“You know why.” You peek at him, unsaid things in the air and he fucking smiles. The prankster smile, too - the one where the corners of his mouth quirk up, mouth open and teeth showing and his eyes shine.

“Cute.” He throws it at you like a threat, looking you dead in the eye, challenging. There’s a beat of silence while a stare down goes between you two before you literally whine.

“Oh, please. That again?”

“Can’t say you’re cute?” He has a smirk in those ridiculous lips of his and you want to wipe it away with your fists… or something else entirely.

“No.”

“Ok.” He muses. Then devilishly smiles. “Beautiful then.”

“Ok.” You get up from where you are, nodding towards the door. “I think you should leave.”

“Make me.” The daring tone is even worse than the troublemaker smile he has.

“Damn, ‘zawa.” Your hands fly to massage between your eyes. “Behave or I swear to god I’ll kick your ass out.”

There’s a moment while you both just stare each other. Then:

“Okay. I’ll behave.” And he does. He stays around and cleans the teacups despite you saying he can leave then in the kitchen. He throws the take out on the trash and cleans the table and berates you if you even try to help and despite you pouting on the couch, you’re thankful. You’re both throwing ridiculous comments around, like the fact your hair seems like it hasn’t see a brush in weeks - same as his, and that he may need a walking stick sooner than expected. He comes and sits on the couch and makes you lean against him like it’s the most normal thing in the world and you almost felt like it truly were.

He doesn’t talk about the red in your shoulders and you pretend you don’t catch him staring at it. You don’t talk about how his face scrunches up in pain just by having you lean against him and he pretends you didn’t see. It works for you both, this world of pretend, since it’s the only place where you both can say it doesn’t hurt. The distance and proximity, the scars and broken bones, all of which fading in the time while you’re both together on the too-small-for-you-both couch. There’s warmth in this fairy-tale world and the real one is way more dreadful, so you lean back closer to him like your blemish skin doesn’t sting and your arm doesn’t throb and close your eyes.  And when you’re half asleep in his arms and could swear you heard his voice saying “damn, so beautiful”, you just pretend that you’re dreaming.

[PREV. | NEXT]