#purple aizawa

[friendlygirlswag]

is aizawas hair the same length as shinsous old hair with his quirk activated.... is that why they did this.... the old switcharoo...

[sillylilguy999]

bro i need to draw overhaul BADLY

LIKE HORREDOUSLY

LIKE IM GONNA SCREAM IF I DONT SOON the obbession is takign over i SKHDFKJWLEIUROUWEFYOISUDOYHCKUSYDLKCBHSLKJDFHLKJHSEKUYOIUSYINUXJKJHSKJHTKWJTUDVNSOWIEURY(SI&UI

sigh

i need help fr

hes just

YGHHGHJSJH

HES SO BABYGIRL

the way i can draw him wihtouht a reference FINE is CONCERNING

sighghhghg i need to do my biology and chemistry

i hate science fr (i just wanna draw my bbgs forever)

like aizawa tooo oooooomg hes my handsome little guy (hes like twice my age)

[plusultraetc]

another snippet from the next chapter of ‘now i’m glad i get forever’ that I’m pretty sure is surviving the chopping block 🤞

[captainbrookeworm]

“Now which one of you gutter punks is next?”

HE’S SO COOL YOU GUYS

Likely be posting MHA for a while I’m still neck deep in the hyperfixation 2 months after making this drawing lol

Speedpaint:

[genie-made-of-clouds]

Aizawa: my kids don't understand what a cool dad they have. We heroes are like ninjas– you can never see us coming

Hitoshi: you're not a ninja, dad

Aizawa: oh yeah? Then watch me do this

Eri: do what?

Aizawa, smirking: exactly.

[rainbeaudingo]

Thinking of making a fic where Shirakumo is seriously injured but not killed by the building collapse. The Hero Commission approaches Aizawa, promising to take care of Shirakumo and his family, they just want to learn more about Erasure. Grief stricken and seeing the toll on Shirakumo’s family, he agrees.

He continues at U.A., everything seems relatively normal, but he can’t tell his own friends what’s going happening to him. And why would he? He’d let himself be experimented on a million times just to ensure Shirakumo and his family were taken care of. He doesn’t think he’s much of a hero, especially since he couldn’t save Purple Highness and Shirakumo, but the commission convinces him he’ll save thousands, maybe millions of people with his quirk.

I wonder if any hero would save him? Would even notice something was wrong? I was thinking Nighteye might learn about him and think he’s absolutely perfect for helping All Might against AFO. Who knows.

[puppyguppy]

You’re coherent – for the moment.

At least, you think you are. Which, you suppose, confirms the suspicion. The theory. Since you’re thinking in general. Lucidly so, and about something other than – emptyheatdeepneedfilledtouchtouchtouch –

You’re still warm, you still ache, and your head and insides still throb with the same pulse of your heart. Your head feels heavy. You’re sweating, and shaking still, but it feels like the crash of a fever. Something you’re familiar with, at least, at last. Your fingers and toes hurt from flexing and curling so much, into the sheets and into themselves. And you’re still so - so wet. In places you shouldn’t be, at least not naturally; not that any of this is natural, technically. Just some fucked up side effects from a quirk. Despite how saliva pools thick and copious between your tongue and teeth, your throat feels dry. Parched. Unsatisfied. Denied, like a desert is sometimes denied the promise of a monsoon. Not that you’d been promised anything.

Nothing more than your safety and security, anyway.

Which was actually pretty amazing. More than what most people would end up with in the same situation as you. More than what you could’ve ever expected. After all, it’s not like you’re dying, even if you feel like you are. Like you will. Not like, right now, not in this sudden, blissful second of reprieve, but. Soon. Soon. Especially if you don’t get something more than some easily eaten food and fitful sleep and sponge baths. They’d told you that the quirk could wear off anywhere between three to seven days. That that was the average, though some sweat it out quicker than others. You’re not sure what day it is. Or if it’s even been a day. Of course, there was an ‘antidote’. A so-called ‘cure’ for the quirk. A ‘remedy’. A quick fix. But, not for you. Because you are single. Single, and currently under the constant, careful watch of a Pro-Hero that’d been dubbed as one with the strongest self-control. And damn-near nonexistent sex-drive. Which was, you know. Fine. Great, even. For him. And really none of your business under any other circumstances. But. You’d been hit by a quirk that more or less sends you spiralling into a horny, hazy heat like some stray street cat. Basically, you just really want some dick. Need some dick. And, supposedly, said dick would fix you right up – if you could just get it. Alas.

They considered you too dangerous to be left on your own. Since you’re single and all. They figured that if they just dropped your ass back at your apartment that you might do something you’d later regret. Which was fair. You couldn’t consent, not confidently, not completely. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, this stupid quirk also, apparently, changes your biology. So, no matter what bits someone may or may not be rockin’, they could still end up…pregnant. And you definitely didn’t want to get pregnant. Don’t. Don’t want to get pregnant. So, you are grateful. For now. For the food and the water (when you can get it down), and the sponge baths and safe place to sleep. Since that’d also been a worry, what with how hard the quirk hit you; they’d been worried you wouldn’t be able to take care of yourself while rolling through the waves. They’d been right. You’d probably be dead by now, were it not for them. Were it not for him. The Pro-Hero taking care of you. The one with unshakable self-restraint and a below zero libido. Supposedly. And long, dark, fluffy looking hair. Dark eyes, darker circles under those eyes, the shadow of stubble across his jaw…broad shoulders but lean muscles, more hair on his forearms and dusting down his knuckles, long thick fingers that only ever touch you through the filter of damp, cool fabric. Or, well, you think – maybe, maybe you remember him holding you up by the back of your head, or tilting your chin up, while you ate and drank, but it’s hard to say. You could’ve made that up. It could’ve been just one of many, many fantasies muddling your brain. Even now, they linger just on the outskirts of your thoughts, lapping at them like white noise but red. Like the Indian Ocean’s lowtide, just waiting for the right moment to swell again and drown you.

It’s crazy to think about, while you can. There are so many heroes, and yet, only one has been deemed safe enough to take care of you. As if any other wouldn’t, or couldn’t. As if it might be too much; the sight of you, the sound of you, the scent of you – whining and moaning, and writhing and crying, begging. Like they might take advantage of you, how much you think you want it, how much you think you need it, how you just might forget it. You don’t think you’re that irresistible, even under an influence such as this. Are heroes just that desperate? That greedy? Some of them, obviously. Yeah. Of course. But not this guy. Not Aizawa, who feeds you jelly pouches and bone broth, and wipes you down between fits and naps. Not Shouta, who stays an appropriate, responsible distance away from you unless absolutely necessary, and murmurs soothing nothings to you through the worst of your haze, your hunger. 

The ceiling above you is some shade of grey. As are the walls, and the bedset you’ve almost melted your way through. None of them are the same shade of grey, but the lack of color is oddly relaxing. It reminds you of overcast, of rain. Of a thunder outside of your head. You crave the cold drizzle of raindrops down your spine, the chilly whisper of words along your neck, the prickle of gooseflesh beneath a blooming bruise sucked spit-soaked into your skin and left to cool. Your stomach muscles quiver, and your next inhale is a bit of a soft choke, airways slightly suffocated by spit. It’s your body warning you; you’ve waded too close to the riptide again, and you’ve got no other choice but to get dragged under. You know you won’t actually drown. You know you won’t die, even if you don’t get dicked down. And yet, something akin to fear still spikes through your chest. You’re alone, and you don’t want to be alone, you’re empty, and it hurts, you want, you need, please, please – “Please - !” “Hey,” you’re not alone. Fingers skim through the perspiration over your forehead, four of them, like sturdy logs that create a liferaft out of the back of a hand. You’re floating again, breathing again, even if all the hero’s done is prolong the inevitable. “How’re you feeling?” He asks, and while he pulls his hand away, you catch the glint of your sweat on his skin, like dewy branches in the morning. Fleetingly, filthily, you wonder what would make them snap. What would make him snap. If anything at all, could it possibly be something like you? Someone like you? How’re you feeling? “I thought heroes were supposed to help people.” 

You’re pouting. You’re pissy, though that’d been unbeknownst to you until this very moment. You’d been – well. Better. Ish. Before Aizawa had started asking dumb questions. Like, how are you feeling? Like, how are you supposed to answer that? 

Aizawa heaves a sigh from where he stands at the bedside, arms crossed and shoulders slouched. He looked tired. More tired than when you'd met him. He’s not always in the room with you, but is he sleeping when he's not? 

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” He tries again, with the patience and forgiveness of a saint. 

Yes? No? Maybe?

You're not sure.

So instead, you ask, “How long has it been?”

He blinks at you, as if startled by the question, and maybe that’s a reasonable reaction if this is the sanest you've sounded in –

“Four days, just about.” 

Fuck. 

So, this shit could wear off any time now. Hopefully sooner rather than later. Maybe it already is. Maybe that's why you can just barely keep up a decent conversation with the man. You hadn’t been lucky enough for three days, but maybe you won't have to make it through five. Hell, it’d probably be over now, if Aizawa just – your stomach clenches again, and this time, so do your fingers and toes. It's pleasure-pain, it's hot but hollow, and you have to force the sound from your throat into words through gritted teeth. 

“I’m close,” you warn him, like you might warn a partner that you're close to cumming. But you're not. Instead, it's coming, coming towards you with all the heat and weight of a steam engine. The blare of the horn is loud between your ears, harmonising with the desperation of your own scream. You pant in time with the rhythm of wheels over the tracks; the same tracks you're tied to, squirming against iron and rope. Of course, the train isn't real, but you are tied up. Bound to the bed by something between a ribbon and a rope. It squeezes you tight, just on the wrong side of right, just like your insides could be squeezing –

“Enough.”

He growls loud and low, and it rumbles through to your core like the color of the ceiling had cracked, while white streaks across your vision, blinding like lightning. You try to look at him, but it's hard to focus through the growing storm. Through the confusion and desire howling through your head, opposing winds of hot and cold – you need to get under. Under something, someone, safe – you need the tornado chased out from inside of you, forced out, you need the eye of your storm calmed with cock – it's ridiculous, humiliating, and the last shred of your sanity rips away with the sound of tearing fabric. 

Aizawa is no longer standing by the bed, but sitting on it. He’s looming over you, shoulders visibly rising and falling with the exertion of his breaths. Like it's suddenly hard for him to breathe, too. His hair obscures his eyes, the way it falls into his face, but his lips are parted. One hand is braced beside you, caving in the mattress, and the other is -

is wrapped around the handle of a knife. 

The blade of that knife, however, is plunged deep into the layers of the mattress, sheets creased right up against the hilt. His grip is white-knucked, and you should be scared. You should wonder where that knife came from, worry about what it is doing here, but. The only thing you feel is jealousy; the bed getting filled instead of you. And you’d settle for that blade right about now, because it'd be better than nothing. Better than your own fingers, and you wouldn't even care where it goes. Your throat, your chest, your stomach – between your eyes, between your ribs, between your legs. Your blood is just as wet as the rest of you. If you can't sweat this damn quirk out, and he won't fuck it out, maybe at least you can bleed it out. The quirk made you horny like a cat. It didn't grant you the nine lives of one. 

You tip your head back and moan like the neglected animal you are(n’t). Your eyes sting with the salt of sweat and tears. Wordlessly, you beg for that blade. Plead for him to plunge it inside of you, something surely much more satisfying than a mattress. When he starts to untie you, you think yes, yes, finally. His hands shake, his limbs like branches bending against the strength of your storm, and you realise – 

He’s affected. 

It shoots through you like a wildfire, and your heart stops, stomach drops, before you roll. Right onto your side, then your stomach, ass up. You're naked, have been since day one, but you haven't really considered that until now. And by considering it, you appreciate it, in pleased passing because it makes for easier access, and your brain purrs over the natural, animal state of it. In this position, fill me turns into breed me, and he’s…he’s off the bed and across the room again. You're alone again, all alone and empty, sharing the bed with a stupid knife. You’re crying, frustrated and damn near delirious, nuzzling your face into a pillow as if you can rub the quirk out that way. You can’t. And he won’t. But…you lift your head and peek at that blade through a bleary eye. Your body then moves on its own, guided by each silent syllable of thought in your brain, and before you're even fully aware of it, not that you're really aware of anything right now, you’re poised above that blade. Up on your knees, thighs spread and shaking, you’re dripping; and again, before you slowly sink yourself down onto the handle, you wonder if this will make him snap. It settles inside you lukewarm and stiff, but easy, and you clench around it like a cat’s teeth in a canary's neck. It's yours now. Your knife. And you have every intent to ride it for all it's worth, until you collapse and pass out, but before you get the chance, everything stills.

It leaves you reeling.

You almost topple over, but brace yourself with a hand against the bed. The abrupt silence within yourself leaves your ears ringing. You can't believe it – you don't believe it. That it's all over, just like that. You're still shaking, still panting. Still sore, and still seated on the handle of a knife, but you feel…fine? You blink, and then you sniffle a little, before finally looking around you, and –

“You with me?” 

Aizawa's hair is standing up on end, and his eyes are glowing. Red, red, just like the color you've been feeling. It's like he's looking through you, inside of you, and it makes you shiver. You're not sure what's happening, or how his hair is doing that – moving, but you nod.

“Good. This is my quirk. I haven't used it on you yet because it only works as long as I don't blink, and I didn't want to tease you with it. I can't completely erase the quirk’s side effects, but I can momentarily ease them. Do you understand?”

You nod again, but your gut twists with a little bit of anger. You understand, but you wish he would've done this sooner. Like, maybe before you decided a knife made a decent enough dildo.

“Okay. I'm going to have to blink soon, but before I do – would you like to ride something better than my knife?”

Your eyes widen as, for the first time in days, you finally feel shame again. A blush burns all the way down to your toes.

“With the quirk’s effects currently paused, I’ll consider whatever answer you give me to be coherent. And consensual, depending.”

You should just say yes. You don't need to say yes, you know you don't. But, you want to say yes, even now, with a mostly clear head. But, you don’t say yes.

You say, “Do you want me to ride something better than your knife?”

His voice doesn't crack, it snaps. Like a twig beneath a hunter’s boot, eyes glued to his prey. His hair flutters back down around his face, leaves returning to a tree. 

You hold still, hold your breath.

And wait to be shot.

“Please.”

[welovethecloudboytoomuch]

Oboro height compared to HS Aizawa, Hizashi, Nemuri height visual pls?

So I’d love to answer this properly but in Vigilantes we never get canon heights for Aizawa, Hizashi, and Nemuri for when they are in high school.

But… that doesn’t mean I can’t give you my next best guess, so here is my approximation of their heights based upon how they compare to each other:

We’re gonna start on the leftmost side and move right. So, the one other canon height we do get in vigilantes is for His Purple Highness. Who turns out is 2 cm SHORTER than Oboro!

Next, we have Aizawa and Hizashi (HS). These are my best approximations of their height. Aizawa was easy because in panels where he’s next to Oboto he’s always up to the middle of Oboro’s face or to lower part of his chin. So, I estimate he’s around 167cm or ~5’6”.

Now, Hizashi. He is infuriating because in Vigilantes he ranges from being just shorter than Oboro, to being the same height as Aizawa, to being SHORTER than Aizawa. In this case I just went with my gut and put him smack dab in the middle of Oboro and Aizawa, but just know that this could vary. Upper bound being ~185 cm to a lower bound of ~165 cm.

Then Oboro, who we all know is a TALL boy.

Next is Nemuri, who I originally was comparing to His Purple Highness. She sits at about the middle of his face so she’s likely ~10 cm shorter than him at 175 cm. But then I found out her canon height as an adult is also 175 cm! So, we can come to the conclusion that she doesn’t grow anymore after high school and says at ~5’9”.

Then finally we have the rightmost characters: Mic and Aizawa. They both have their canon adult heights.

I hope this helps!

[decarbry]

would you be willing to elaborate on Yaburemes “birth”/development in the glass tube? Was he conscious during it?

so this is actually the content of chapter 3 (I swear I'm working on the next part, I intend to get faster with them I just keep getting distracted ksdfg) so I'll leave the details for then. he is... semi-conscious for the capsule process. but it's a very low-input kind of consciousness because he's essentially blind, deaf, and mostly immobile for all of it :")

[dtaegis]

ok idk their names but the shades guy and the purple hair guy from that league-idk-its-name are so fine ngl..........

[kyurilin]

I'm going to Galaxycon this weekend and for the first time I'm going to attempt cosplaying one of the two days I'm going

So obviously that meant rounding up my Aizawa costume (I JUST REALIZED I FORGOT TO PUT THE GOGGLES WITH THE COSTUME) and knowing that considering how hot natured I am I will probably become not Aizawa by the end of the day

[kulemii]

i wish there was a way to look a aizawa's sword in full! i wanna see it in full detail. it has purple accents and like, i love that for him 💜 that's right, babyboy! match your weapon with your fit! THAT'S DRIP IDC WHAT NOBODY SAYS!

[jamiethebeeart]

Hiiiii don't mind me, I'm just dropping this real quick

[plusultraetc]

this is a continuing problem for the there’s no good tricks but old ones sequel so I thought I would just put the question out there into the world!!

[shigarosie]

"We shouldn't be doing this," Aizawa says, the pads of his fingers pressing into the squishy skin of your cheek as he grips it with one hand, prying your lips off of his. "This is- it's inappropriate, you're my-"

You kiss him again, and despite his objections he reciprocates. His beard tickles you, not quite as scratchy and unkempt as when he first hired you. He has time to take care of himself now. The bags under his eyes- well, they're still there, but much less deep and purple. You know that taking you on as Eri's nanny is the best decision he's made in a while. And with the way you can feel him beginning to grow against your thigh, perhaps the worst as well.

"That's what makes it fun," you say, trying to convince him as your hands snake into his hair. "That's what makes it sexy. Fucking the hot, young babysitter- it's a cliche for a reason, Shota."

"Fuck," he grumbles, nipping at your lip. "Fuck. I'm not that guy. That's not me, I don't fuck younger women who- who I pay to care for my child, I-"

"You're a man," you moan, gripping his hair and pulling it taut. "A man who's been lonely for too long. Wouldn't it be nice to have a wet, hot cunt to sink your cock in?"

"Was this your plan all along?" He growls, walking you back against the living room wall. "Put on your sweet little dresses and take care of my daughter just to seduce me?"

"No," you giggle, arching into him as your back meets the wall. "I'm too good at my job to just do it for a fuck. Getting you to bend me over the sofa and rail me is just... An added perk."

"You're a minx," he says, defeated. "I shouldn't do this."

"But you will... Won't you?"

In a movent so quick and smooth you'd think he was getting laid nightly if you didn't know better, he hooks his hands under your thighs and hoists you up, his erection pressing against your cotton panties. You whimper at the contact, trying to buck against him for an ounce of friction.

"And burn in hell for it."

[genie-made-of-clouds]

Aizawa: alright, listen up you little shits

Aizawa: not you Shinsou. You're perfect, and we're all thrilled that you're here