#socks are only moderately better

[canisalbus]

Who's more likely to be able to stand a full day in toe socks? Vasco seems like he would think they're funny, but Machete has the Endurance of a daily heel wearer so it's a toss up to me lol. There's also toe socks that look like fingerless gloves (I think they're more doggy toe friendly)

I'm going to go with Vasco here, he might indeed think they're funny. Machete is very particular about what he wears and how clothes fit and feel, something as unorthodox as toe socks might Upset Him Greatly on a sensory level.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Gearing up for the stat boosts

MDZS Disco Elysium AU Part 3 (Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 4)

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 4: market day

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

Reblog if you liked it!

You've heard a lot of people say that the honeymoon period only lasts the first few weeks of marriage and that after that things can start to get complicated. But the rule didn’t seem to apply to you.

Maybe it was because you two were young and enthusiastic, because you were too busy missing him to think about arguing, or maybe it was just that you really were made for each other.

You often tried to steal as much time as possible from your husband’s demanding job because being an FBI agent often took him away from you, and sometimes having a few domestic moments was all you both desired.

Grocery shopping was one of those activities that really made you feel like a married couple, and it saved you many trips to the store for food.

“Which do you prefer? Soy or almond milk?”

“Soy has phytoestrogens and more health benefits in moderate amounts. Almond is for people looking to maintain weight, and although it’s healthy, it’s low in protein.”

“Soy, got it,” you said with a small smile at his intellectual response.

Every time it was grocery shopping day, your job was always to push the cart and grab an item or two within reach, but most of the time, Spencer was the one in charge of selecting your groceries. After all, he had a pretty extensive knowledge of the benefits of each food. He always wanted to take care of you, and since he was often away, one way he could do that was by ensuring you were well-nourished.

“Look, I found some tea,” he announced happily, making you look away from the yogurt section in the fridge to pay attention. “Lavender, passionflower, valerian…”

“For your insomnia?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, dropping the boxes into the cart “And some mint and lemon for you.”

“You know me so well,” you smiled sweetly, leaning on the plastic handle, letting him gently caress your cheek.

You two had known each other for so many years that there were details about each other you knew by instinct. You knew his favorite brand of coffee, how he liked it with a specific number of sugar spoons, that you needed to buy him two sets of socks because he always liked mismatched ones, and you knew the exact spot on his head to stroke to help him fall back asleep after a nightmare. He knew you hated wearing shoes indoors, that you had a specific way of sleeping, and that you hated the smell of cinnamon. There were so many things you did as if they were second nature that it seemed impossible to list them all.

The truth is, people at Spencer’s work were quite surprised to find out that not only did he have a girlfriend, but that you were getting married. The event was private, very intimate, and not at all pretentious because that wasn’t your style.

You both had no problem moving into a new, slightly more spacious apartment, now that everything was doubled. But you were managing it quite well, to be honest.

You continued strolling through the grocery store, staying close to your husband, and then remembered you needed some bread. You pushed the cart over and stood next to a woman who seemed to be in a dilemma, staring at two loaves of bread as if trying to analyze which was better.

“The best one is that one,” you said, hoping not to make her uncomfortable. She looked at you confused, so you decided to speak again. “It has less sugar and the necessary carbs for good nutrition. There’s a study about it; it’s true.”

“Oh, sweetie, I wasn’t looking for the healthiest, just the one with the best quantity and price. It’s for my kids. Those children could eat an entire loaf in a day, and I can’t afford that.”

You laughed honestly and gave her a look of understanding. She was a bit older than you but not old enough to be considered elderly.

“I think you’re right.”

“I love my kids, but I won’t lie… sometimes they drive me crazy,” she confessed, and you both laughed again.

“Darling, do you want me to make pasta for you this week? Rossi taught me a recipe that…”

He trailed off when he noticed you had company, and for some reason, he suddenly felt shy.

“That’s fine, love. We can eat whatever you want,” you replied kindly. “I already have something to go with it.”

You winked at him when he noticed the wine you had tossed into the cart, and then he smiled and went off in search of the necessary ingredients.

“Your boyfriend?”

“Husband,” you corrected her. There was a strange pride in saying that.

“Husband! Oh, that’s so sweet. How long have you been married?”

“We’ll be married for four months next week.”

“Young love, so beautiful,” she sighed, as if nostalgic for a time that now seemed too far away. “And he helps you with the shopping?”

“I help him, actually,” you laughed. “He’s the one who selects everything. Before we got married, I had the worst eating habits, and he hated that. So we try to eat better now.”

“Marriages are so different now,” she said, and upon hearing that, you expected to endure a conservative speech and internally dreaded it. “My husband never joins me for things like this; he’s not even interested. In this and in much more, to be honest. And it’s nice to see that girls nowadays can have these kinds of relationships. You know, where they’re supported.”

Somehow, that touched your heart, and suddenly you wished you could hug the woman, but you held back. Then, you looked over at Spencer. He was in the vegetable section, apparently comparing two bags of spinach. You could recognize him in a crowd without a doubt, with his slouched posture, his messy hair (freshly cut, by the way), and his peculiar formal attire.

You had always appreciated having the man in your life, even when you didn’t have a romantic relationship, but you had never stopped to think how lucky you were that he had decided to love you.

“I’m glad too,” you said in what was barely a whisper.

You didn’t say anything else. The woman said her goodbyes kindly, and you just smiled at her, too busy gazing at the man with loving eyes. You stood there watching him, and when he approached, he couldn’t help but notice your strange expression.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I just had a very revealing conversation with that woman.”

“Huh, yeah?” he hummed, dropping a collection of items into the shopping cart “And what was it about?”

“About you,” you answered casually, lifting your hands to place them on his chest and then sliding them to his cheeks “Talking to her reminded me that you’re the best husband in the world.”

Carefully and affectionately, you stood on your tiptoes and planted a loud kiss on him. Spencer laughed as his cheeks blushed, returning the favor with a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“I don’t know if I am, but I try.”

“And that’s why I love you,” you confessed sweetly.

And then, it was Spencer who felt lucky.

[cuddleprofiler]

BONA FIDE - When you send Spencer all the letters you wrote throughout your relationship.

Word Count: 4.2k approx

Genre: fluff, somewhat angst I guess

Warnings: Burning, that's it

A/N: Positive Criticism is welcomed. Flashbacks are in italics and letters are in bold and italics.

“What is it?” Spencer spoke to himself quietly in the middle of the night. The team had been on a case in New York City. Somehow, his amazing girlfriend had an inkling days ago that he might not be present on his birthday, so she packed a gift for him to open at midnight in whichever city he would be at the time. Now, sitting cross-legged on the bed in his mismatched socks—something you always teased him about—he carefully unwrapped the present you had snuck into his go-bag.

Moments ago, you had been on the phone with him, your honeyed voice urging him to open the gift and not to poke fun at her. You wished him a Happy Birthday, but confusion lingered in his mind. Why would he make fun of you? What could you possibly have gifted him that warranted that?

“Letters?” he puzzled, seeing the pack of letters tied together with a red ribbon. There was nothing written on the letters except dates — going back a few years. Alongside the letters was a box of assorted cookies, all his favourites.

He chuckled to himself, recalling how you would look at him with exasperation every time he indulged in cookies as soon as he returned home after a case. Your concern for his sweet tooth had even led you to create a PowerPoint presentation, hilariously outlining why moderation was key. 

“No matter how sweet you are Spencer, you will remain so with or without sugar.”, you told him.

He laughed so hard at your presentation that soon you followed him, and both of you were on the couch, his arm around you while your face was buried in his shoulder, laughing.

However, he still didn't understand why the daughter of dentists became a bakery owner. Perhaps to ensure her parents' teachings reached everyone, helping them maintain their sugar intake and thereby increasing awareness among the masses. But he knew the influence of your mom’s cooking and baking must have been one of the reasons you pursued a career as a baker.

A ping from his phone broke his reverie. It was a message from you: “Eat the cookies too and don’t dwell on the PPP incident.” He could almost picture your mock-annoyed smile, your eyes narrowing playfully as you tried to look intimidating but only ended up adorable. He shook his head, smiling.

Reaching for the box, he opened it, savouring a cookie while picking up the first letter. He glanced at the date and realized it was from the year you met, back when you were just the charming owner of the bakery he frequented while he was still just an FBI agent.

“Dear Dr. Spencer Reid,” it began. 

“I don’t even know why I’m writing this letter. I mostly do this for my close family and friends. My mom started this trend, and I’m continuing it. But we aren’t close, are we? I didn’t even notice you the first time you came into the bakery, nor the second. But today, at ten o’clock, I felt something was off. I checked every ingredient in the kitchen; everything was perfect. But when I got home, I realized what was missing… you.”

As he read, his heart raced with warmth. This was a glimpse into your early feelings, a record of how your relationship had begun. He appreciated the effort you put into this; he knew you had a habit of holding back your thoughts. He knew how much you loved him. All your actions screamed it. But you always had a tight leash on your thoughts. He had become better at understanding you over time, but your words still amazed him.

It was you who was missing. You always came in on Wednesdays, and today's Wednesday, and you didn't come. I didn't know whether you had found a new bakery providing more delicious baked goods and coffee than mine or if you were out of town. You were in the FBI, right? And you once said, I could vaguely remember, that you had to leave a lot for work. Must be an important person. :)

He laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “There’s no way I would find better food than yours, Y/N. Only you, baby. Even the whole team is addicted to your baking, especially Rossi and Hotch.”

I got so used to you, so comfortable with you that a day without you made me come out of my zone. I felt like a child on Christmas morning, eagerly searching for the presents that Santa might have left. 

You coming into the bakery with a smile brings good vibes into my life, I guess. You talking about the origin of the ingredients I use in my goods and complimenting my and other chefs’ baking skills feels so nice. I didn’t realize how much you brighten my day until now. Thank you, Dr. Spencer Reid. I won't be able to say all this in person. I get nervous easily if you have noticed. So, this letter, which I am never going to give to you, has to suffice for my conscience to not make me feel guilty.

Yours truly,  

Y/N Y/L/N.

He felt as if he were in high school, where teenagers had crushes and were continually gazing at each other to gauge their feelings and thoughts. However, here you had given him the letters instead, to let him know what you thought all along in their relationship.

He couldn’t help but remember how he had been drawn to you from the first moment he stepped into your bakery. It wasn’t just your incredible baked goods; it was you—your laughter, your passion, your warmth.

He was walking on the pavement to a newly opened bakery near the FBI building. JJ had been gushing about the doughnuts and the other goods they had been selling for days. She had once taken some for Henry, and he was hooked! The next weekend, JJ and Will had taken Henry there, and all of them came back fascinated by the bakery and its owner.

However, he was more convinced when Hotch overheard JJ and spoke about how much Jack liked the bakery (his almost-smile told him that he did too) and how nice and polite the owner was—an appreciation from Hotch, which was rare—he was sure.

He was on his way to the bakery. As he neared his destination, he could smell the aroma of melted butter, coffee, and cinnamon. His feet instinctively took over while his mind was lost in the sweet aroma.

Soon, he was standing in front of “BONA FIDE.”  

“Wonderful name,” he mused to himself. He opened the door and went inside. He was mesmerized by the interior of the place. It was so perfectly planned. Everything was set in place in such a manner that it provided comfort to anyone seeking it, and peace to anyone looking for it. “No wonder JJ and Hotch are fans of this place, especially Hotch.”

Glass display areas on his right were filled with every baked good he could think of—garnished doughnuts with nuts and sprinkles, blueberry muffins, chocolate chip cookies on red plastic trays, croissants, Danishes, a variety of cakes in white boxes, and much more.

The left side had a sitting area, with tables and booths. His eyes roamed over the table near the windows. Every corner was filled with medium-sized palm trees, enriching the colour palette of the place. Each table also had a small plant.

He heard a honey-rich voice,  

“Welcome to Bona Fide,” she murmured, looking up at him from the diary she was writing in, placing the pen down and securing the position of the page.  

“She’s beautiful,” he thought, and he immediately flushed at his own thoughts. He hoped you hadn’t seen him.

“Hi,” he gave you a bright smile. “Um, do you have some blueberry oat muffins?”  

He mentally face-palmed at his own question. Of course, they do. He is in a bakery.

You nervously shuffled around the counter, tapping your foot lightly. “Yeah, yeah. We have that.”  

“Nice. Can I get one of those and an espresso?” he asked. “Please add an almond croissant as well.”  

“Okay. Please wait for a moment.” You went away. You came back after a few minutes.

“Um, sorry, I forgot to ask. Do you want it to be packed or…?”  

He had initially thought of eating in the serenity of his house. He didn't want to waste his time in a bakery, with all the sounds of different age groups mixing and causing him a headache after a day full of paperwork. However, his plans changed the moment his eyes fell on you. It would be more peaceful here than at home, even with the other nine people present.

“It's okay. I will eat it here.” You passed him a smile.

“By the way, do you know croissants are native to Austria, originated from crescent-shaped pastry—”  

And that's how all of his visits went from then on to your bakery.

He continued to the next letter.

“Dear Spencer,” it began. “I feel so intelligent whenever you come into my bakery because I designed it myself. Every time the sun highlights your features, I feel blessed. You look ethereal, especially with your floppy hair and that charming smile. You might not notice, but I can’t help but stare at you sometimes.”

He was glad he was not reading in front of you. He would surely be a blushing mess if he had read it in your home. Even though it would have been funny, you would have put your head on the pillow, hiding from him. The thought made him chuckle softly. 

“Someone should compliment you; you’d blush and look adorable. But I’m sure I’d fumble if I tried to do it in front of you. I try to avoid staring, but you make it impossible. My coworkers have even pointed out my goofy smile whenever you’re around. They’ve figured out my crush on you. See, you’re the profiler, and they are here figuring out my crush on you. You should have done that first.”

“Well, baby,” he murmured, “I’ve been too busy admiring you to notice.” 

He was intent on preserving every little detail of your beauty in his remarkable memory. The way your eyes would widen and your lips part whenever someone praised your work or you, followed by a soft "thank you" as your cheeks flushed with colour. He loved how you would sing Taylor Swift songs when you thought no one was around to hear, each baked good accompanied by its own special tune. These quirks were just some of the many things he found endearing about you—what truly made you, you.

But I think it's good that you haven't figured it out; else, I would be a tomato shaded in front of you. I wouldn't want to be embarrassed, I’m sure of that. You teasing me is enough.

I love the way your eyes become a shade lighter than usual whenever you talk about what you love. It looks like a hundred-watt bulb has been ignited in your eyes. You love reading, and I love listening to you. Apart from my crush, it's an honour to meet such a knowledgeable and kind-hearted person, Spencer. Always be such a sweetheart.

“Now I know why she keeps looking at me like that whenever I read or speak in general,” he said, going over the words deliberately slowly. He wanted to absorb every feeling that would come with the first read of these letters.

As he continued reading, he felt more connected to you than ever. Your thoughts laid bare were a testament to the bond you shared, and he cherished every word.

The next letter revealed your hesitations about asking him out, a rush of emotions spilling onto the page. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, but every Wednesday, I get cold feet. It’s silly, I know. I see you with other girls, and it makes me realize how much I want to be more than friends.”

His heart swelled as he read your candid thoughts, your honesty striking a chord deep within him. You had navigated your feelings with such vulnerability, and he appreciated the depth of your affection.

Every time I had to endure a girl flirting with you, only I knew how much I was controlling myself not to have my fist contact with her face. Yes, I know all of them were more beautiful than me, maybe smarter. However, that doesn't mean I can't be jealous.

He gasped slightly, his jaw going slack. He didn’t know that you were jealous all that time. So, this is what the fun-making part is? His features softened. You always acted cool, so it was hard to tell when you were jealous. He would make sure he didn’t make you angry on this matter; else, he had first-hand experience of your violence. He shuddered.

I didn’t expect you to be interested in me. Imagine my surprise when you asked me out! I’m really sorry for my reaction—I was just shocked.

Spencer smiled at the memory of that day. You had lit up when he said yes, and now, as he sat in the quiet of his hotel room, he relived that moment, the sweetness of it washing over him. 

Being with you feels like a dream. The possibility of getting to know you more makes my heart flutter.

He remembered how his relationship went through the BAU. The disadvantage of being with profilers all day is that nothing’s a secret. The teasing he received from Morgan and Emily. He never even told you that Morgan, Emily, and Garcia went to your bakery for the first time to see you with their own eyes.

“I’m never going to return these,” he said, smiling to himself, knowing that they were pieces of your journey together.

With the cookies and your letters beside him, Spencer felt truly blessed. No matter where he was in the world, he had you with him in his heart.

Rossi, ever prudent, caught on to the way Spencer was talking about Y/N.It was clear to him that love was either blossoming or already in full bloom. With this realization,he pushed Spencer to ask her out. Spencer would always be grateful to Rossi for that. He would definitely ask him to officiate their wedding.

Dear Spence,

I’ve always known you to be compassionate, calm, and composed. Never have I, in all these months, seen you lose your cool. Seeing you so terrified today, standing outside my apartment building, was unsettling—I won’t lie. I never imagined someone could become so important to me that I would worry about them like this.

The moment I saw the fear in your eyes, a chill ran through me. The thought of what could have happened to you if anything had gone wrong sent a jolt of dread through my heart. Now I find myself fearing for my safety, not just for me, but for you. Your pain matters to me; it matters so much that it eclipses my own. Honestly, I think it matters to you more than it does to me. I will forever fear the way your eyes were haunted and will always try to keep myself out of danger as much as possible, Spencer, but if by any chance something happens to me, move forward. Even though it may be difficult, do it for my sake! Move forward and live a beautiful life with your family.

Yours lovingly,  

Y/N.

Spencer let out a shaky breath as he finished the letter, feeling a mix of emotions wash over him. This was his least favourite letter to read. “What does she mean by ‘your family’? It’s our family,” he muttered, fighting back angry tears. “This girl, I swear! We need to talk about this.”

His mind drifted back to that night when a single phone call seemed to steal a decade from his life.

It had been two A.M. when his phone rang. Hell, he would be lying if he said he even looked at the caller ID. He knew it couldn't be from the Bureau, as the team had a week's holiday. He just wanted the call to end as soon as possible.

“Hello?” Sleep thickened his voice.  

“Is this SSA Dr. Spencer Reid?” A calm, female voice broke through, pulling him into alertness. He sat up, suddenly wide awake.  

“Yes? Who am I speaking to?”  

“I’m a paramedic. This is about Y/N Y/L/N. She asked me to call you.”  

“What happened?” he asked, the urgency in his tone making him fully alert. He pushed the covers aside, heart racing at the mention of your name.

“Sir, can you come to her apartment building?”  

“What happened? Please, tell me!”  

“It’s best if we talk when you get here,” she replied, but he wasn’t satisfied.

“Tell me something,” he shouted, but all they said was that there was nothing to worry about and that he should get there. Well, there was something to worry about if you were called to your girlfriend’s complex at two in the morning.

When he arrived, a paramedic met him outside and directed him to you.You were sitting at the back of an ambulance, swinging your legs, a blanket over your shoulder protecting you from the early morning cold.

“Hey, hey, darling! Are you okay? What happened?” he asked, his heart racing as he took in your slumped shoulders and the frown on your face. Your hands shook, and as he stepped closer, he noticed your entire frame trembling.

“There was a fire on her floor. There was some faulty wiring; we got everyone out. She was the last one. We found her in the last room; she was sleeping, I guess, and it shocked her much more due to that,” the female paramedic nearby replied to his question.

As Spencer aim was fulfilled, he could see the firefighters working in the background. He thanked the paramedic and turned to you, locking eyes. You looked wide-eyed, and he cupped your cheeks gently. 

“Hey, don’t worry. You’re okay. You’re safe now,” he reassured you, pulling you into a tight embrace. 

He avoided any kind of physical contact with others as much as possible (except Garcia), but he wished to be near Y/N, to hold her—even if it was just her hand in his—to make sure she was there. With him.

Currently, the need to hold her was paramount. He wished to ensure she was alive and that her blood hadn’t stopped forever because if that happened, he didn't know what he would do. The sob that had been stifled within you broke free as your heart realized it was out of danger. You cried until the fear began to dissipate, resting your head on his shoulder as he held you closer.

“Shall we go?” he asked softly, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace that enveloped you. You hummed in agreement, and he helped you down from the ambulance, wrapping an arm around you for support.

His gaze fell upon the burns on your arms and neck, and he took your hands in his, desperate to comfort you. Your eyes met his, and you assured him they were minor second-degree burns, but he couldn’t shake the anger bubbling inside him. “Why didn’t they bring you out first?” he wanted to shout but the fact was they were doing their duty, and now he had his duty too: to take you to safety and wrap you in a bubble if possible.

In the car, he found the courage to ask a question that had been weighing on his mind for months. “Would you like to move in with me?”  

“You don’t have to do this, Spencer.”  

“No, I’m not asking because of tonight. I’ve been wanting to ask for ages. Please, think about it. Don’t rush your decision.”

Under the moonlight a few nights later, you and Spencer lay in bed, wrapped in a peaceful stillness. The only sounds were your gentle breaths. He was blowing softly on your burns, eliciting goosebumps in their wake.

“Spencer?” you broke the silence.  

“Yeah?”  

“Does the offer still stand?”  

A moment of clarity washed over him as he realized what you meant. He smiled slightly, still a bit dazed.  

“Of course, it does, star.”  

“I don’t think I can live on my own right now.”  

“I want to move in with you.”  

Your lips met in a soft, lingering kiss, a tender expression of the love that had blossomed between you. His hands cradled your face, deepening the kiss as excitement surged through him.  

“Our forever isn’t ending between us,” Spencer declared, his conviction unwavering.  

“While I’m here, nothing will happen to you. I’ll make sure of it.” He wiped away a few stray tears that had escaped your eyes.

He finished reading the last letter while savouring half the cookies and coffee he had made.

Darling,

I meant to write this letter so many days ago, but I was putting it off so I could spend more time with you. It’s funny that I’m writing to you now while you’re right across from me—well, lying on the couch, engrossed in “The Collector” by John Fowles. I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m sneaking glances at you every so often. You’ve caught me twice and also have found myself giggling. Now, you probably think I’m going to do a prank or something on you, and I am two seconds away from laughing out loud as you are currently very, very engrossed in telling me “Why I shouldn’t wage a prank war against an MIT graduate?”

I find it utterly adorable, my sweetness. You know how much I wish for us to remain in this blissful state forever, surrounded by love and free from any threat to the life we’re building together. You know how much I wish we remain like this forever, in so much love always, with nothing ever threatening to bring down the life we’re building. However, life is, for lack of a better term, life, and it will bring sadness and other emotions as well. But what I have realized is that whatever happens, I will always be there for you. The love, care, and understanding that we have gained over the years, Spencer, shines and is a captivating element of our relationship. My mom says, “A relationship having care, trust, and understanding as fundamental properties goes a long way! Love can come after that as well.” We have all of them. I hope our relationship also goes on to infinity.

Do you know why I chose the name ‘BONA FIDE’ for my bakery? There were countless options, but that one stood out. It’s catchy, it has a Latin flair that intrigues people, and, most importantly, it has a beautiful meaning: “Made in good faith—authentic and genuine.” When I opened my bakery, I was embodying that meaning—an assurance that the food and the atmosphere would be authentic and made with love. But now it doesn’t end here. Now, it stretches to you, Dr. Spencer Reid. 

My darling, I’m making you a bona fide promise: I will love you unconditionally for my entire life. I love you, Spence <3. I love you more than I love my bakery, and that says a lot. But in all seriousness, I have never loved anyone as deeply as I love you. You have my heart, now and always.

With all my love,  

Y/N.

As Spencer put down the letter, his vision blurred slightly. It had been so long since someone had appreciated him so openly. Your words filled him with warmth, a wave of gratitude washing over him for the depth of your feelings.

He smiled, thinking of the love that enveloped him. If someone had told his teenage self that he would one day experience this kind of happiness, he would have scoffed. There was no way he could have envisioned such a bright future, but now, surrounded by love from friends, the team, and you, he felt truly overwhelmed.

He caressed your handwriting and kissed the letters, hoping his affection could be transferred through conduction. He wasn't worried. Even if it didn’t work, he would show you himself how much he loved you. All his life.

“So it was all planned, huh?” Rossi asked Hotch, as they sat in a bar, drinks in hand.  

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hotch replied, taking a sip of his whiskey, attempting to maintain his composure.  

“You knew Y/N and Reid would hit it off. That’s why you praised her bakery so highly. You basically orchestrated their meeting.”  

“Y/N is a wonderful baker, and I genuinely appreciate her talent. I was not doing what you think,” Hotch said, a smirk threatening to break free.  

Rossi shook his head, amused. “Attaboy!” he muttered, and the conversation drifted to other topics.

[luveline]

If we're still doing dad thoughts- I'm always thinking about kbd!Steve and how wonderful he is. The whole family sitting cosy in the living room and Steve just giving his family heart eyes because he loves them all so much 🥹🥹

thank you for requesting <3 kisses before dinner au, mom!reader

Steve lets out a sigh of content. He feels like a kitten falling asleep over a bowl of cream, or a little boy the night after Christmas. He feels content, in every sense of the word. He had no idea he could feel this happy doing nothing. 

You’re on your stomach. Finally home from work and with no chores left to do, you’ve stretched out the big green puzzle rug and unboxed Avery’s newest one thousand piece jigsaw. The edges are coming together slowly, the constant plink of pieces as you sort through them colour by colour lulling rather than grating. Avery lies opposite you in the same position. She might be Steve’s physical replicant, but she’s your copy now. She’s even perched her hand in her chin the same way you have, the tip of her tongue sticking out between her lips in concentration. 

Wren is awake yet perfectly happy in Steve’s lap. She’s had enough cooing for this evening, babbling as the cartoon mermaids on the TV begin to sing a big musical number. Dove sings along, nestled under Steve’s arm. Many of the words are foreign to her. She swaps them out for nonsense sounds. 

Bethie sits on one of Steve’s socked feet eating pretzels and clapping when the cartoon sea creatures clap, her hair tickling Steve’s knees whenever she moves. It’s the calmest night you’ve had for a while. What’s better is that, besides you and Avery, everybody’s had a bath, and so all that’s left to do tonight is have dinner and go to bed.

You’ll wait until the morning to shower, decked out in your pyjamas, Avery’s hair swept into a protective style to prevent any tangles or knots. 

He can’t really put his finger on why he feels so happy. Perhaps it’s because, at the end of the day, this is everything he’s ever wanted. He doesn’t need the finer things or even the moderately good things, but he has them. He has a nice, clean home (though it’s fit to bursting now with the newest arrival). He has a wife who he loves, and who loves him. He has his four daughters, their pet fish, and a best friend four streets away who he can see whenever. It’s more than he ever thought he’d get, once. 

“Dad,” Bethie whispers. 

“Yeah?” he whispers back, voice filled with a mischievousness that makes Bethie smile. 

“Why are you smiling?” 

You turn to look at him. “You are smiling. What’s funny?” 

“Nothing,” he insists. 

Dove turns under his arm. Her toddler face is pretty much identical to her baby face, the only difference being her mouth full of baby teeth that she hasn’t quite mastered talking around yet. “You are smiling,” she says, like this is a problem to be solved. 

“What’s so bad about that?” he asks. “It’s a good thing, smiling. You guys should try it sometimes.”

Predictably, every girl looking at him is immediately glaring at him. Well, for a moment, but then Bethie cracks and smiles shyly. “I smile all the time,” she argues. 

“You do. Not my cranky pants,” he says, giving Dove a gentle shake. “We don’t like smiling, do we?” 

Dove, despite herself, grins at her dad’s affection. Maybe she’s forgotten you’re home, but she wraps her arm around Steve, careful of Wren’s face, and smiles into his shirt. “No,” she says. “We don’t.”

He kisses her head, sharing a private look with you from over it. 

Avery doesn’t glance away from her puzzle. “I love smiling.” 

“You’re so good at it, that’s why,” you say. Steve hums his agreement. 

“Yeah, you’re beautiful!” Bethie says. 

Avery pulls her head up, then. “Thank you,” she says, sounding surprised and delighted at once. “You’re beautiful too, Beth!” 

“I’m pretty like mom.” 

“And I’m like dad,” Avery says, nodding. She smiles exactly like Steve would as she says it, driving her point home efficiently. Her lips curve up and her almond eyes thin, sparkling with love as she looks between Bethie and Steve. 

“We’re handsome,” Steve says. 

“Handsomely beautiful,” you say. “Ave, did you know handsome used to be a word only said about girls?” 

Avery shakes her head as you delve into an explanation. Bethie crawls to the jigsaw circle to listen. 

“You’re handsome,” Steve says into Dove’s forehead. 

“I am beautiful.” 

“Yes, you are. You’re all so pretty, ‘cos you get your good looks from me.” He laughs. “And a little bit from your mommy, too. Mostly from me.” 

Dove hears the laughter and it catches like a yawn, her giggles peeling as she falls backwards away from him and into her nest of pillows and blankets. “You’re happy,” she says with a big smile. 

“I’m so happy I could cry,” he says. He grabs one of feet to squeeze her toes. “But I’m getting sick of the mermaids, honey. Can we watch something else after this? Maybe something with real people?” 

“Maybe.” With Dove, maybe tends to mean no. 

He shrugs, adjusting the arm that secures Wren to his stomach carefully. She’s peering up at him curiously. “I can’t win them all, can I?” he asks her softly. 

She smiles and gurgles something unintelligible.

“No, you’re right. It’s just mermaids. We’ll live.”

[samstatsupremacy]

My notes from the 92NY Q&A

Someone from Mayfair Witches is in IWTV S2 and Mayfair S2

Ben Daniels sent a thank-you letter to Rollin Jones re: working with such a beautiful cast and lovely project (and called himself Santi-baby in it). Jacob did his best Ben impression and read the email aloud to us.

The two actors Rolin KNEW they wanted from the beginning were Eric and Ben Daniels, before they even started casting

Jacob refused to pit Loumand and Loustat against each other. Said they have different vibes

Sam insists that we won't see "the real Lestat" until S3. We're only seeing everyone else's perception of him (very tongue-in-cheek). In response, Assad said, "Armand has a very good memory. Maybe the most accurate!"

Jacob said filming the Dreamstat scenes with Sam was like slipping on a glove, or an old sock (cue slightly inappropriate giggles from audience)

Delainey said her chemistry read with Jacob felt like everyone else in the room just faded away, and she bonded with him first on set

Lestat plays Harlequin instead of Lelio this season, and the moderator was so affected by Sam's performance that he said "I got pregnant after watching it." Rollin said it was "moves like Jagger" on that theater stage lol. Sam had trouble reconciling this part but he did have fun

Any time Jacob gets complimented, he tries to brush it off. He's so humble!

Delainey said Claudia knows Louis better than he knows himself, and Jacob* thinks he knows her but he doesn't

Eric said that Daniel's impression of Dubai situation is he's just sick of the lies and games from Loumand. He won't be intimidated, and if you push, he pushes back harder. He will not be bullied (much like himself, he added)

Lots of hype for ep5 of this season. Eric said it was the most traumatizing episode he's seen in his life. Everyone else agrees that it gets pretty heavy re: young Daniel's interview

Eric said "working with Jacob is like flying" and Jacob said "the feeling is entirely mutual" - so sweet!

Assad was so preciously nervous bc he admittedly still gets intimidated by the cast. He was struggling to finish his thoughts. He did praise how open and loving the whole cast and crew are. It was cute.

"When Louis meets Armand, Armand is kind of lost but putting on this facade of power that Louis sees through" (Assad's words)

Question: any fun moments off set that still make you laugh? Response: Sam and Jacob look at each other and just burst into laughter. They really struggled to find an answer that they felt was appropriate to share and barely answered it 😅

Q: What series would your character binge?

Everyone answered as their character:

Armand: Buffy

Daniel: Breaking Bad

Claudia: The OA

Lestat: The Real Housewives

Louis: The Real Housewives ("YOU LITERALLY TOOK MY ANSWER" to Sam)

This doesn't even cover the encounters I saw at the stage door. I'll do a separate post for that, maybe

[shibaraki]

PENUMBRA ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: navigating life with two identities is no easy feat. falling for the underground hero known as Eraserhead makes keeping your worlds separate that much harder. it was bound to fall apart at some point.

tags: AFAB GN reader, strangers to friends to lovers, secret identity (reader is a vigilante; wears a mask; reader has a quirk), minor oc characters, morally conflicting relationships, romantic + sexual tension, cats + coffee, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence (weapons; quirk brutality; kidnapping; villain gun quirk), quirkless discrimination, criticisms of hero system, blood loss + injury (bruises, fractures, bullet wounds, reader gets stitches), mutual pining, making out + heavy petting, I promise this is fluffier than it sounds, identity reveal, mild angst with a hopeful ending

wc: 20k

It happens between blinks. Always a forgiving, dreamless sleep. 

When you wake to the obnoxious wail of your alarm the honeysuckle sun has already unsheathed itself from the horizon. “Fuck,” you groan, smacking your lips in displeasure at the dry, cotton feeling in your mouth.

Three and a half hours was better than none at all.  You had fifteen minutes to make yourself moderately presentable—wipe away the sand from your cornea with cold water, lethargically brush your teeth, appraise the shadows beneath your eyes and twist in the mirror reflection as you try to map out any fresh bruises. 

You paint over the purples and blues, wincing as you go. Most were easily covered up by your shirt but you couldn’t take any chances; not the slip of your sleeve, or the dip of your collar. Nocturne’s remnants littered your body, and he would surely recognise them at first glance. 

Your lips shape slowly around the consonants and vowels. “Aizawa,” repeated again and again as you dress yourself. Not Eraser now, just Aizawa. Kill the latter part of yourself, saved only for the night. Don’t slip up. You tuck your rudimentary wings back into thick, woolly socks pulled up over your ankles, snug around your calves. Wearing just jeans and a sweater always feels unnaturally light the morning after a patrol. 

The key eases into the lock. You turn it clockwise, and try the handle once more before you leave. In passing you can hear your neighbours beginning to wake and get ready for their day. Hasty footsteps echo throughout the stairway as you descend it, too behind on time to even think about waiting for the lift. 

You start down the road towards the cafe and tug your jacket closer to your chest. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. Tired as you are, there’s a restless giddiness building in your chest, and it spurs you on further. Aizawa is a creature of habit—he would be there, rumpled and windswept, as he always is. 

The mundane routine wasn’t something you disliked. Not everything had to be exhilarating or dangerous for it to be worthwhile. Life was an accumulation of small victories. When the sun is up, that is when you get to enjoy the fruits of your labour; people in your community with relaxed smiles, unrestrained laughter, going about their day without the burden of worry. 

You enter through the back door of Meowtini. Waiting diligently for your arrival, as soon as they hear the click of a lock the cats are flocking to the staff room, a cacophony of yowls of every pitch. “Okay, okay! I hear you!” you laugh, pushing them away gently with the tip of your foot as you try to get to the kitchen. 

One leg after the other, you step over the security gate. “No kitties in the kitchen,” your voice threads together in a sing-song cadence, hands busy at work collecting the tubs of cat food from the pantry. “I promise it’s comin’!” 

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since your handover, Hideki, had left, and still they behave as if they’d been abandoned for weeks.  

At the cafe there are three rotations. The morning shift runs from eight till twelve. During lunch the doors would be locked, allowing the feline residents reprieve from the public. Second is the afternoon, three till six, and third is the late night shift, reserved strictly for employees able to bake and restock the display cases for the following day. 

You always took the morning shift, without fail. 

A quiet bell sounds by the entrance and all ears in the vicinity perk up. Aizawa enters at eight on the dot just as he does every Friday, still in the all black jumpsuit and weighted capture weapon you saw him in only hours ago, now with his usual work bag slung over his arm. 

You straighten self consciously and smooth down the front of your apron. His furtive stare finds yours through the second security door, peeking over top the new missing person poster tacked front and centre, slightly obscured by the dark hair curtaining his face. 

Some of the older cats slink out from their hiding spots, mewling like kittens. They’re only ever like this with him; their internal clockwork has synced to his arrival, you think. It’s only natural—Aizawa spoils them more than any other regular. 

They shuffle back as the door pushes inward, and he slips through the narrow space into the warmth of your cafe. You watch with inundated fondness as he takes a moment to breathe in the scent, those broad shoulders lifting, chest expanding with his lungs. 

Aizawa bends forward like a puppet cut free of its strings and proffers his hand to the feline closest to him. Ren, an older long haired cat with a black coat to match his own. You get a glimpse of the muscle hidden under that plain fabric, as it slips forward over his bruised collar, and you swallow thickly. 

“G’morning,” you call to him, turning to busy yourself with his usual order. A red eye—black coffee with one added shot of espresso—and a glass of cold water. You massage the ache in your knuckles as the coffee drips steadily into the shot glass, conscious of the broken skin on your third and fourth knuckle that you’d covered with concealer. 

You hear his gruff response, voice low and rough with fatigue in a way that prickles at the nape of your neck. There’s a familiar, pointed weight at your back that fades the moment you turn, his stare now set firmly on the baked goods in the display counter. 

“Want one?” his eyes flicker up, meeting your own as you set the coffee on the surface. “You can give up the bit, Aizawa. I’m already well aware you’ve got a secret sweet tooth”. 

It’s still odd interacting with him like this—as yourself, plain clothed and unmasked, voice as clear as the bell by the door. The first time he had stepped foot in the cafe you’d been overwhelmed by trepidation and fear, only to realise he didn’t recognise you at all. 

“You pick something,” he murmurs, reaching across. Your fingers are still looped through the handle of the mug, and they brush against his rough skin as he takes it from you. There’s coarse, dark hair on the back of his hand, you notice. “So long as it’s warm”. 

Pleased, you hum an affirmative, picking up the pair of tongs behind the counter and plucking one of the croissants from the shelf; crust crisp with a soft yielding centre, brushed with golden egg.

“Hard week?” 

Something indiscernible shifts in his expression. He considers you, “What makes you say that?” 

This is another of those fleeting instances that you think he may have connected the dots. Face pinched in quiet suspicion, he visibly weighs the possibilities. Your pulse throbs on the back of your tongue as the blood rushes to your ears. You warily telegraph your movements and ignore the urge to turn away from prying eyes. 

“Just making conversation,” you smile, though it is strained despite your efforts, and gesture to your collarbones. “I saw the bruises, so…” 

A beat of silence passes, and you are forced to exhale on the off chance that your quirk activated itself amidst the one sided panic. When Aizawa accepts your flimsy excuse with a lazy nod you are forced to temper the immediate relief that follows. 

“I did run into trouble. Though not the kind you’re thinking,” he continues to speak, bending to pet one of the younger cats. Suzu, judging by the broken mewl. He sounds… unbearably fond. “Just someone that likes to get on my nerves”. 

Blunted teeth sink into your tongue. The toaster oven pings behind you, startling you out of your gentle astonishment. Taking the croissant out of the oven, the hot air plumes upward to sting your eyes, and you set it onto a small plate. 

“That’s hardly distinct. I’ve heard you say that about everyone in your life,” you tease lightly. “Starting to think you enjoy it”.

“I wonder about that,” Aizawa huffs, sliding the plate across the counter and stepping around the flock that has inevitably gathered at his feet. He hugs the coffee mug to his sternum, glancing toward his usual spot. 

Despite being the only person to arrive this early, he always checks. Recently, he has also begun to ask, “Too busy to join me?” 

Weeks ago, you’d taken an early break and graded some papers for him while he slept, and he had yet to forget it. “You do a guy's work for him one time,” you laugh, head shaking amusedly. No doubt there were enough poorly written student essays in that worn leather bag to fill your skull with cotton. “I have to feed the cats”.

Do your own job, Hero. The comment sits right at the tip of your tongue, and it takes conscious effort to smother it, pressed up against the back of your teeth. Too much like Nocturne. 

Aizawa levels you with a playful glare—playful by his standards—and his nose wrinkles above the ribbons of carbon alloy coiled around his neck. Then he sleuths off to his booth, gait heavy as if he were wading through wet mud. 

Now you’re free to enjoy the sides of him Nocturne doesn’t get to see; the man you knew as a force to be reckoned with, the voice of reason and stickler for the law, draping himself across the booth like he was part of the furniture, where he could just be; embedded into a scene that gently unfolded around him. 

Ren leaps up onto the cushioned seat, stretching her limbs across his thighs with toes spread. The pro hero slumps down and slips his fingers into her thick fur, head tipping back as the rigidity bleeds from his body. You drink in the way his throat shifts when he swallows, how the dark stubble on his cheeks shadows the underside of his jaw, and quickly cast your eyes to the countertop. 

Aizawa Shouta is unbearably handsome in all manner of ways. You’re sure he would regard you with flat disdain if ever you told him so. The unkempt, rugged appearance was all purposeful—being overlooked or underestimated was the whole point. But you liked it. A lot. 

You recall the whiplash of seeing him during a press conference all those months ago; hair brushed and neatly styled into a half up do, a youthful face freshly shaven, his suit cinching tight in all the right places. Thankfully his facial hair is as stubborn as he is, and you never needed to grieve it much. 

Paradoxically, you are far more masked standing behind the cafe counter now than you were in your gear. There was caution and forethought in every word, every movement; constantly weighing the possible outcomes came with a lot of mental fatigue. You wanted to reach out and touch him, to grasp every version of yourself and overlay them in his mind until it painted a full picture. Look at me. 

Maybe it’s silly, with him sitting so close. But you missed him. You wanted to banter with him again, poke and prod until he got a little rough. 

Eventually a pair of friends trickle in, bringing a brief gust of cold air when they greet you. The dewy morning sun is bright as it peeks over the surrounding buildings, glittering faintly where the condensation clings to the window panes and casting dappled shadows across the floor. You serve them together and make idle conversation, sneaking quick glances at the weathered hero. He rested against his fist, squishing the fat of his cheek. 

“Thank you. Here, since you’re new, take a few bribes too,” you restrain a smile at the sight of him nodding off over his paperwork as you press a few small tubes of wet cat treats into their open palms. “It’ll help warm them up to ya”. 

When the coast is clear you gather some for yourself, fiddling nervously with the packaging and approaching Aizawa’s booth. He’s awake again now. Coffee cup empty and croissant half eaten. The man is a grazer; when he eats Aizawa will nibble around the edges and save the centre. You hear the rough scratch of his pen across paper. Spine arched and tail quivering happily, Ren spreads her toes as she pushes up into his equally heavy handed back pats. 

You know well enough that he’s aware of your presence. Subtle, his shoulders roll back, opening his chest, chin tilted toward you and hair tucked behind his ear to show he’s listening while he works, leg unfolding from beneath his body and stretching until the tip of his toe taps the opposite seat. 

That’s just how he is. Eraserhead’s intentions are largely unspoken. A test, in a way. Tuning into the body language of others and deciphering it is what kept you alive most nights. Hearing the question, the bid for more explanation, the silent praise behind his less-than-expressive expressions had been child’s play. 

Not here though. You needed to maintain a level of ignorance to keep his guard down. Standing at the end of the table you ask if you can sit despite knowing you can. He answers again by gesturing his pen over the table, never lifting his gaze. 

You slide across from him. “How’s the pastry?”

“Groundbreaking,” he concedes dryly before tearing off another bite. 

“Good answer,” you snort, resting your elbows on the table and leaning forward to shamelessly read what he’s working on. The handwriting is barely legible. “What’s the assignment about this week?”

“Overlap of ethics and law. It was supposed to be a two thousand word essay on any case study of their choosing,” he bends back the corner of the papers laid out in front of him to emphasise the thickness and deadpans. “This is all from one student. Five times the word count I set”. 

“Midoriya again, I presume?”

The long suffering sigh is all the answer you need. You decidedly do not watch the slow swipe of his thumb across his mouth. His lips part and he sucks the remaining crumbs. Heat flashes through your body that almost makes your tea seem cold. 

“Should never have clarified that the word count was a soft limit,” he mutters, clicking the end of his pen twice. “Kid is terrible at cutting down his own work. I advised him to only include the key sections of the essay he said ‘but Sensei, it’s all important’”. 

“Sensei,” you repeat, mimicking his voice. “Why did you become a teacher again?”

“I regret it every day,” he replies. You can tell it’s without malice, and not just by the fondness there. He doesn’t mean it—never does. Aizawa Shouta is forthright and honest about everything but his personal feelings. 

“Sure,” your cheeks hurt with the effort not to laugh; amusement hidden safely behind the rim of your mug. The tea burns, and you feel it all the way down to your stomach as you swallow. “If you say so”. 

Dark eyes narrow in on you. It becomes another of those moments where the proverbial walls are closing in. Pushing back is useless, so you have learned to sit and wait. He’s always… surveying you. You think, deep down, his instincts are telling him things that he desperately wants to put a name to. 

“I do,” he rumbles, absentmindedly circling his pen against paper. He twirls it between each knuckle with ease, staring at you for a long while before he says: “You remind me of somebody I know”. 

Bracing yourself for collision does not lessen the impact. As expected, this is when the guilt invites itself in and replaces your fear of being caught with the nauseating shame that too often comes with lying to someone you care about. “Is that a good or a bad thing?” you ask, rubbing at that frantic, skittish thing behind your sternum. “I can never tell with you”. 

Aizawa laughs. More of a snuffed out, breathy sound than anything, but a laugh all the same. You feel it echo to every nerve ending, simmering into a pleasant buzz. He didn’t do it much, and as Nocturne you knew it was embarrassingly obvious how hard you tried to pluck the reaction from him. So much so that you’d started to suspect he repressed it on purpose. 

“It’s a good thing,” he murmurs, overturning another page of Midoriya’s work. Your heart jumps at the unfettered warmth in his tone. Then, following a short pause, he adds, “Mostly”. 

You’re semi content to watch him work. There are always questions, but you’re afraid of what he might see in you if you ask. Forgetting yourself would lead to a lapse in control. Disturbance in the deception might not create an immediate break, but restless, inquisitive Eraserhead would not be able to keep his nails from picking at the frayed thread until the tapestry fell apart. 

Names do not often come up in conversation, only ever by accident. Mostly, he refers to the majority of his class and his daughter with half-baked terms of endearment. You already knew many of the students at UA—albeit not personally, but it was clear that maintaining a strict level of anonymity for his kids was important to him. 

So you dance around the lines he had so boorishly lain, flirting with them a little, but only if you can’t help it. It’s a repetitiveness you’ll never tire of, it’s scripted exchanges and the subtle coaxing until he’s there, in your magnetism. You liked how he’d smile as he receives the tube of cat treat, even if it is a private exchange with the cat in his lap and not you. 

How’s work, how’ve you been sleeping, did you shave again? 

Work is work, sleeping hours should be longer, do you often pay attention to my shaving habits?

People filter in as the time passes. You return to your place at the counter soon enough, kept in place by one of the newer, clingier kittens, Suzu, sprawled on the top of your right shoe. 

You call out to Aizawa as he saunters toward the door. Once again, his stare lingers for longer than necessary on the missing person poster you had tacked to the window. He slouches further into himself at the volume, hands deep in his pockets when he turns to squint with displeasure. 

Wearing a sheepish grin, you wave the little powder blue stamp in the air. When Aizawa leaves his face is flushed and hidden behind the sturdy material of his capture weapon, yet another ink impression of a cat on his pink point card. 

Exhaustion catches up to you near the end of your shift.  Your coworker, Saeko, a young woman fresh out of college, had arrived miraculously early. She gave you a playful, disapproving once over, smiling til a crooked tooth peeks from between her thin lips. 

“Senpai. With all due respect, you look worse than I did during my final exams last year,” she snorted, jaw rolling as she idly chewed a fresh stick of gum. The teasing jab is fermented with fresh mint. “You can totally dip, if you want. I got it from here”.

“Are you sure?”

A wet smack of her lips. She shucked off her coat with a shrug, untucking the ends of blonde hair caught in the collar. It fell just below the hemline of her skirt, and you saw a faint ladder stretch in her dark tights when she stretched to hang it in the staff room. “Yea, it’s cool. Unless you’re still stickin’ around to wait for Melatonin-san? Thought he usually came at the ass crack of dawn”. 

“That’s not his name and you know it,” you laughed, bundling yourself back up with a passing glance to the back window. Trepidatious, dark clouds make your little concrete world a smidge duller. “But no, I’ve got nothing left to do. Aizawa already stopped by”. 

“Aizawa,” she recites, brows wiggling suggestively. “He asked for your number yet?”

“No, Saeko”. 

“Want me to get it for you?” she pressed the tip of her index finger to her left eye. There’s gold tinted circuitry in the sclera paving toward the iris. It is vivid orange, without a pupil, and it appears to pulse like the lense of a camera. “On the house. Maybe if you get laid you’ll actually be able to sleep”.

Jacket wrapped close to your chest to brace for the incoming gust, your hand tightened around the door handle. “No, Saeko,” you repeated with feeling, as though you were chiding a toddler. “I mean it. No illegal data syphoning at work”. 

Her voice carried through into the side alley, all the way onto the bustling street. Suit yourself, she cackled. The glaring implication that Aizawa could be interested in anything beyond pleasantries fed yarn into that ever-present knot of anxiety in your gut. 

As Eraserhead he entertained Nocturne just fine, but that relationship was more akin to that of a kitten latched to his pant leg than anything else. 

Even if it was a possibility of something more, that flame would be diminished as soon as he found out who you were. 

You rub your hands together, creating heat with the friction and massaging it into your cheeks. The cold bites at the tip of your nose. Falling back into your normal route is natural. Sewn into muscle memory, your legs carry you back home and the thoughts wash over you. 

The apartment seems less welcoming when the sun is up. You thought it might be the clutter, or the sound of your upstairs neighbours slow dancing in the kitchen. Creaky floorboards groan under your feet, above your head, as you find no reason to avoid the weak spots. There were things that needed to be done, and little time to do it. 

Redress the wounds which have not scabbed. Throw some food into the air fryer and scrub your gear clean while it cooks. Eat well, press on all the areas of your body that feel tender and decide to take a painkiller. Plug in your phone and your mask, turn on the TV and listen to the news report as you stretch. Check your costume on the clothes horse, spend close to an hour examining for tears or concerning damage before laying it out on the end of your bed. Nap. 

Blearily, you wake in a dark room, remnants of the day barely visible where it has slipped beneath the horizon, and wash your cotton mouth down with a glass of water. The news cycle is repeating, a red banner rolling bright across the lower half of the screen with urgency. Sidekicks from the Endeavor agency had pursued a villain from the Shizuoka border to the Meguro line on the Shuto Expressway, effectively destroying, in part, one of the main arteries into central Tokyo. 

Not your jurisdiction. Not theirs either, if you think about it. Typical. You pat around aimlessly for the TV remote, lowering the volume to a whisper with a heavy sigh as you scoot toward the edge of your bed. 

Unsteady on your feet, you amble toward the pinboard kept on your accent wall. An oeuvre of loss. You run your fingertips along the pins until they stop on one particular thread. Ono Mizuki. There are others—lines of every colour, yellow, blue, green, orange, interwoven and connected, overlapping from point to point until the pattern becomes clear. 

Tonight you’d patrol further east of the prefecture. There’s one specific neighbourhood in which all the threads crossed. This area was the only other similarity between the victims aside from quirk status, or lack thereof. 

Shadows pleat across your floorboards. The room is always a bit stuffy after you’ve squeezed into your gear. The kevlar strapped securely around your torso beneath the layers of clothing is weighted, and you’re quietly comforted by its sturdiness. 

Strapping on your utility belt is the fun part. Three pouches secured either side of your hips—tucked into each are a basic first aid kit, flash bombs, smoke bombs and a few nightsticks. In the holsters is a granite baton and a small combat knife. Cuffs confiscated last week, all you have righ now are zip ties. You sniff petulantly. Eraserhead’s fault.

Even on the nights you don’t run into him during a patrol, Eraser’s presence is ubiquitous. A veritable shadow. He could be anywhere, could be anyone, and it was comforting in an odd way. You supposed that is what made him such a renowned underground hero. The possibility of being caught by him was enough to deter most criminals. 

That sentiment was not unlike the legacy left by All Might, yet comparing the two—comparing him to any other daylight left an unpleasant taste in your mouth. Less bitter-sweet, more bitter-resentment. 

By definition, heroes are not supposed to be human. Humanbeings are multifaceted. Messy. Heroes are scrubbed to the bone, puritanical, manufactured to symbolise something bigger. A bright, special kind of person in a black and white landscape; an iron club wielded by the voices of the people; the displacement of their personal responsibility. 

To be a hero is to be the penultimate. A moment of choice, gestures of grandeur against one great foe that unites the people. They answer fears, like a God would. 

It’s theatre. 

You found solace in Eraserhead’s own translucence. His stubborn humanity set him apart. You had the unique opportunity to see Aizawa from other angles, to observe the ways in which he illuminated the facets of his soul. He was not all that dissimilar to you. 

The lackadaisical man openly bore his heart on his sleeve only to convince you it’s a trick of the light. A hero that could shoulder accountability and admit fault. He’s well meaning and rough around the edges to ward off those he deems intolerant. Quiet when he knows to be with the memory of a fox—the ears of one, too. Carelessness wouldn’t be easily forgiven. 

Thoughts of him carry you across a grey landscape, towering rooftops and buildings that dwarfed you. The sound of your feet hitting the gravel barely echoes. It had taken months to learn to lighten your footsteps, and even longer to know where to put them. Eraserhead wasn’t the only person that liked to remind you that your fighting stance needed work. 

Dropping into the narrow alley below, you begin to weave through the prefecture's interconnected veins, senses attuned to your surroundings and prepared; any sudden noises, a shift in atmosphere, an item out of place, your breathing came to a stand still. 

Something prickles under your skin as you approach the singular street where all the victims had once been. There is the innate feeling that something wrong has happened here—the kind that beats against your breast bone and begs you to turn back. At first glance the area isn’t overtly suspicious. Some of the buildings are boarded up, broken into or covered in anti-HPSC graffiti, but that wasn’t necessarily a red flag. 

More often than not, areas that received less government funding tended to receive fewer patrols from heroes, and when they did, compensation for damages was rarely offered. It would need to go through the courts, and every day people did not have the means to fight a branch of government when they were busy with mouths to feed. Causation aside, their anger was natural, understood. 

The true source of your discomfort comes from a warehouse at the far end of the road. A big, hulking structure, outer paint peeling to reveal varying layers of sun baked hues, encircled by fire escapes fastened firmly to each floor that gave it an almost skeletal appearance. Creaking in its decrepitude, you hear groans echoing throughout the empty rafters. That unnerving emptiness follows you in, finding a wide empty space entrenched in shadows. 

Except, it feels strangely lived in. Touched by something. Light filters through the window panes enough to outline the tall pillars, looming and evenly spaced. Rubble has been swept into the corners, faint lines from the bristles in the dirt, and tread marks left by the wielder. 

There’s an elevator in the back that you daren’t risk using. You apply some of your weight to the floor and it yields as though it would plummet. You come across a trash bag full of beer bottles and food tubs, which upon closer inspection, are mostly filled with needles and bloodied fabric. 

Tipping the contents onto the floor would only alert someone if they returned later. You wanted to rummage through it piece by piece, maybe bag some of it up to hand off, but as thick as your gloves are you didn’t want to chance being pricked or contaminating something. 

Your shoulder sag with a deep sigh, the sound crackling through your voice changer. One thing that does catch your eye is a bracelet—or what was once a bracelet. The chain has snapped and most of the beads are lost, but a few remain caught by the thicker part of the clasp. They’re speckled like granite and warm coloured, brown, green and orange. You can make out some kanji script etched into the beads. It is not a name you know, but an instinctive urge encourages you to keep it. 

The bracelet is bagged and heavy in your utility belt as you peruse what’s left of the space, passing various rusted machinery covered in tarp. There’s a vice fixed to one of the work benches. The wood is stained dark, smatterings of dried blood dotting the lever. You try not to think about it. 

Tension slips notably from your muscles as the distance lengthens between you and the warehouse. Heading back west, this route winds through the busier parts of the city. People of every shape are weaving around one another in every direction, filing out from the clubs and bars in a chorus of raucous laughter. Non locals might call this the heart but you know the heart lies in where they’re going—home. 

You stick to the rooftops to maintain a vantage point. The air is thick with the bitter smell of alcohol and street food. Vendors made good money on nights like this; you feel your stomach twist in hunger, mouth watering at the sight of browning yakitori sizzling just below. 

A woman stands off to the side, picking off the morsels of meat from her little stick, visibly unstable on her feet. The glow of satisfaction on her flushed face dims with discomfort when her foot narrowly misses the curb, and she bends to rub where the strap of her heels crosses over her ankle. 

Your attention is magnetised to the figure near her. Unremarkable at first glance. The two stand out clearly, both immovable against the tide of civilians stumbling toward Futoura station, much further up the road. He’s watching her intently. Beady focused, unblinking. You notice another pair above his— no, a mimicry of them. Eyespots blending into a close-cropped head of hair. 

His movements are carefully telegraphed as he begins to follow her. In turn, you do the same. The pace picks up when she nears a corner, mostly vacant, forking off into an alleyway that leads to the back of a club. Quicker than you could’ve expected, he throws a look over his shoulder before crowding her into the shadows.

The arch of your boot meets the ledge. You take a deep, deep breath. Desperate and obstructed by a large hand, her frightened yelp is cut short by the abrupt freezing of time. 

You fall through it. The sensation is odd, as if you can feel every atmospheric thread breaking around you like spun sugar. Gravity is merciless. Untouched by your quirk, you drop hard as a stone, and you exhale. 

Everything resumes. The dissonance of stepping into a frame and suddenly being written into it is hard to explain. You buffer and snap forward like a band into the maw of the alley. Startled by the impact, the pursuer swings his elbow back and reaches you first. They often do. Your quirk was good for gaining an advantage or getting away, but it did nothing to enhance your own speed. 

Your balance is terrible, Eraserhead murmured blithely in the back of your mind. Ground yourself. Keep your upper body aligned over your lower. 

“Fuck—!”

Blood is pumping frantically through your veins. Every pained grunt rings loud in your ears, tuning out the muffled cries coming from behind you. There’s a tenderness blossoming across your left side, and it throbs by the fifth and sixth rib. 

While you might be well adjusted to fighting in the dark now, you’re still human. Living, breathing, feeling. Your body and your mind must be split at times like this—two creatures on your shoulder, one that begs to run and live, another that wills you to fight. 

The assailant dives forward in one sluggish motion, rewarded with the sharp chink of your armoured glove as his fist connects with hard steel. He reels away in pain, cradling the injured hand to his chest while the other frantically reaches into his coat pocket. 

Polished silver glints in the moonlight. Your boot meets the hilt of his knife and it pirouettes into the shadowed alley, skidding across the gravel. A look of pure rage crosses his face and his mouth splits open. Fangs. You’re ready when he charges, arms flailing heavily, a roar pushed from deep in his gut. 

Your lungs bloat, and again, you hold. Everything freezes in time and the sound cuts out. A large hand caked in dirt hovers only a hairsbreadth from your nose. His skin smells of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. You step aside and draw your arm back. 

Exhale. One fast, hard punch to the man’s unprotected jaw and his head whips to the right, body arching sideways as all his momentum snaps backward like a rubber band. Time resumes and you power through the sudden sensory overload as his body collapses to the floor with a weighted thud. 

The lack of movement doesn’t deter you from dragging the knife forward with your foot, eyes focused on the unconscious stranger as you crouch to pick it up. A sharp sensation shoots through your muscles as you twirl the weapon between your fingers. It’s clearly new and not well kept. His stance had been entirely amateur. 

After tying his wrists together with multiple zip ties, you turn your attention to his victim. “Are you physically unharmed?” you ask with a gentle tone that still bleeds through your voice changer. 

The woman he'd pinned to the brick wall is curled up by the dumpster, knees tucked protectively to her chest. She has her phone held to her ear with a shaking hand, the fear visibly wracking through her form, stuttering her words. 

“Yes, I—are you—,” she stammers, tears spilling over her pink cheeks. There’s an insistent, tinny voice coming through her mobile speaker, but she appears unaware of it as she appraises you, her eyes wide with what looks to be gratitude. “Are you a hero?” 

“Not really,” you smile at the question and hope she can see the assurance in the happy squint of your own. 

Flipping the knife to pinch the blade, you beckon her to take the hilt. Sirens wail in the far off distance. Shuffling closer in careful, considerate movements, you murmur encouragement as she takes the weapon from you. 

Blue and red cut through the darkness, flashing interchangeably and obscuring her vision. As you move to leave the scene you tell her, “Ask whoever’s on dispatch Nocturne said to send Eraserhead. He’s the best hero I know”. 

Inhale, hold, flee. You are gone from the canvas before anyone can blink. 

The night is alive with a muted bustling. People on all walks of life filter out into the neon lit streets, worn by the day and rushing home to their warm beds. A sense of calm settles around your bones, bleeds into the ache left by old wounds and quietens the restlessness that you permanently house in your body. 

You’re teetering on the precipice of an old office building—a publishing house, if you remember correctly. The cement beneath your boots shifts like a loose tooth as you lean forward, heart reflexively crawling up your throat at the drop, pulse rocketing in your ears. 

Here, you are simultaneously burning and at ease. There’s a satisfaction that comes only when you are standing exactly where you belong. Freedom tastes like three minutes to midnight; crisp air and the faint scent of oncoming rain gathering in the dense cumuli above. 

You smile behind your headgear, adjusting the straps drawn tight around your masked hood with thick gloved fingers. The carbon fiber is an extension of you now, a permanent part of your skin, leaving behind a phantom pressure face even when you have stored this part of yourself away. 

That yearning for self is constant and comes with the setting sun. You exhale and feel the warmth of your breath stick to your cheeks. Swaying against a gust of wind, steadied by a practiced hand, your arms spread wide in a welcoming embrace. 

Like every night before, you whisper to the place you grew up in: “I’m home”. 

Amidst your reverie, you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Barely audible footfalls. Boots scuff against loose gravel. The new presence clouds your senses, as if it has physically reached out to strum the dipole between you and him, and you’re turning before his feet make contact with the rooftop. 

Poppy red eyes scan drag over your form. The clothing you wear is padded and loose fitting for concealment, but still you find yourself conscious of the shape of your body. Humming under your skin is the urge to cock a hip, maybe tilt your head in a manner that is coy, to close the distance between you. 

“Surprise?”

“Hardly,” he drawls. “There’s really nothing I can say to stop you from bothering me on my patrol, is there?” 

“You catch on quick,” you reply with a grin. He may not see it behind the mask, but he hears it. “Only took you what, six months?” 

He looks rightfully exasperated, “Seven”.

Stepping down from the ledge with barely a sound, your hands clasp against the small of your back and bouncing on your toes despite yourself. “You’ve been counting? That’s cute, Eraser”.

Warmth trails behind him and plumes into the air as he exhales tiredly. You follow his movements as he comes to a stop at your side, hand flexing into a fist and out, overlooking the busy streets below, much like you had. “The woman you saved earlier asked me to extend her gratitude,” he returns, ignoring your teasing comment. 

His words temper the playful atmosphere. A quiet bud of pride begins to bloom and your smile wanes into something bashful. Saved, he’d called it. As exhilarating as fighting was, the most fulfilling part of being Nocturne may be receiving gratitude. 

The gleam in Eraserhead's gaze wasn’t so bad to be on the receiving end of, either; half lidded in a way that suggested he was at ease, the scar cutting over his eye and another across his cheekbone, slightly curved. “She wasn’t injured, was she? I didn’t get the chance to check her over,” you fret. 

Another chill dances across the roof and he tucks behind his capture weapon, comically burrowed into the nest of cloth and thick hair. “No, just shaken up,” he reassured. Watching closely from the corner of his eye, he adds, “Refused to tell the detective which direction you ran, though. Quite intent on protecting you”. 

You don’t like the suspicion bleeding into his tone—not that you can blame him. Still, “You think I’d ask a civilian to cover for me?”

Eraser sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “No. But you know it doesn’t matter what I think,”—you want to insist otherwise, staring as his fingers spread to rub roughly over his closed eyelids—“the victim insists they don’t recall you using a quirk, so you’re in the clear. But you need to tread carefully. The guys at the precinct aren’t happy”. 

“Then they should do their job better so schmucks like me don’t need to step in. Didn’t they receive a pay increase just last year?” you respond bitterly. “I don’t need you to lecture me, Eraserhead. I need you to help, because you’re the only one that ever does”. 

The steel toe of your boot meets the ledge with a dull thud, chipping off some of the old brick, and you cross your arms defensively over your chest. You release a hiss as a painful throb pulses through your knuckles where they’re tucked into the crook of your elbow. 

There’s no hiding it. You flinch as he catches your wrist in one quick movement. Struggling is fruitless, you know that better than anyone, but still you like doing it for show. It has the grip reflexively tightening, keeping you in place with a bid for compliance, authoritatively murmuring come here. 

You enjoy it when he touches you. Maybe more than you should. He’s careful, uncharacteristically gentle as his fingers slip beneath the cuff of your glove. Anticipation zips through you and settles in your stomach like a fluttering kaleidoscope. Fingertips brush your palm and suddenly, breathing becomes a conscious act. 

Inhale. Exhale. Each greedier than the last. The temptation to draw out this moment is too great. You wanted his hands on you for a little longer.

The night air bites at your skin. Aizawa turns your wrist over in his grasp, delicately tracing the ley lines stitched into your frigid hand, rubbing over the faded bruising by your third and fourth knuckle. 

“Seems like the fractures healed nicely,” he stated. “Still should’ve rested it longer”.

You can’t look away from his face; softened like wax to a flame, his frown smoothed out in a way you rarely get to see with the mask on. All of that subdued concern and care directed at the point where your bodies connect—at you. 

You reel yourself in. “I am capable of looking after myself, you know,” his tired eyes lift to pin you with a sceptical stare that has your hackles rising. “I am!” 

“Right,” he drawls. His touch lingers on your wrist after he lets go, and you cradle it to your chest. Before you’re able to retort, his eyes dim and he steers the topic to something sombre, “Have you heard anything more about the missing civilians since I last saw you?” 

You rub idly at your pulse point and it beats rhythmically under the skin. You can still feel him. Even when reminded of such sobering circumstances you can’t help but wish, in the deep recesses of your mind, that he had kept his hands on you. 

A young couple stumbles down the lamp lit street. They are hand in hand and sharing unabashed laughter. It’s the sound of freedom; loud and ugly in a way that is wholly human. They stop in a circle of concentrated light and you smile as one man spins the other, their improvisation sloppy in a way that’s heartwarming. 

“A young woman by the name of Ono Mizuki disappeared two days ago. Her father is in fits about it,” you shift your weight between each foot, shoulder bumping against him. Eraser doesn’t move. He listens to you attentively as he watches the very same couple dance with one another, and when you think you feel him leaning into your warmth, you decide to put it down to imagination. 

“She’d been on her way home from cram school when she was taken. He reported it to the police that night but she hadn’t been missing long enough. They said she probably ran away”. 

Eraser releases a heavy breath. “Quirkless?” he asks. 

“Yeah”. 

“Thought as much”.

You shiver, instinctively seeking shelter from the cold, and Eraserhead lets you press to his side. As the couple walks out of sight, the unattainable image of you bundled up in his arms flashes unbidden through your mind. Hastily, you continue to speak, “I followed her usual route home a few days ago and found her rucksack tossed in the trash with her ID and such. Took it to her father”. 

“That’s good,” he murmurs. You try not to preen at what sounds like genuine praise. “Anything unusual at the scene?” 

“No,” you step away to turn and face him with resolve. “But I’m going to keep trying to find her. And the rest of them”. 

Above your heads, the plume of cloud is severed into two, crisp moonlight spilling through the fissures. Eraserhead hums as he lifts his chin to survey the everchanging canvas and you find yourself following his line of sight to a cluster of stars shaped vaguely like a scorpion. 

“And what’ll you do when you find them?” he says after a few beats of comfortable silence. There’s a teasing intonation to his words. “Will you restrain their captor with another zip tie you found at the hardware store?”

You play along, scoffing as he dodges an elbow to the ribs, “You’re making fun of me. You, the reason why my newest pair of cuffs were confiscated in the first place? Who cares what I use. It did the job, didn’t it?” 

Eraserhead does not like heroes without potential. Those who act thoughtlessly; who do not know their own strengths and weaknesses; who put others in danger with their insatiable greed. Quirks may have birthed a new world, but power or not, humans would always be the same. Special power, not special people. 

Which is why his sudden lightheartedness felt so significant. Eraser trusted you, in his own way. If he didn’t you would’ve found yourself on the receiving end of another tiresome lecture. In the early days he’d even cited one of his young students' quirk law essays, dubbing you ‘more troublesome than a fourteen year old’. 

“He was over six feet tall with a strong arachnid quirk. It only worked because you managed to knock him out cold first”. 

It’s hard not to preen as he appraises you from his periphery, almost proudly. You let yourself grin; concealed, yet so wide that it’s obvious, “Correct, I apprehended a guy three times the size of me—”

Slowly, you exaggerate your point further by winding up your middle finger, and waggling it in his direction in time with the mocking punctuation of your voice, 

“—and I didn’t even need a fancy scarf to do it”.

His hand wraps around the offending finger and gently pulls it back, applying just enough pressure to cause discomfort. “A little respect goes a long way,” the threat falls flat, his voice entirely amused and lacking malice. “I could easily break this again”. 

You exhale a breathless laugh, still making no move to get away from him. “It can’t be much worse than dislocating my shoulder”. 

Bingo. Abject regret flits across his features and he lowers his chin behind his capture weapon. “I’ve already apologised for that,” he grunts. 

It sounds as if he’s pouting. His grip pulses once, like he couldn’t help himself. 

“Actually you reset the bone, handed me an ice pack and threatened to arrest me if I got in the way again,” you recount fondly, your smile widening as he retreats further into his carbon alloy cocoon. “Then you said sorry”. 

“That’s what happens when you jump into a fight without announcing yourself,” he mutters, loosening his grip on your finger. Distracted by the new, gentle rub of his thumb into your knuckles, you almost miss it as he tacks on a quiet, “Troublesome”. 

Laughter bubbles in your chest, partially conjured by the nerves as he cradles your hand, “You act like I do it on purpose. My body just—”

“—moves on its own,” he interrupts you, finishing the sentence with a light shake of his head. You mourn the loss of heat when he lets go of your hand. The arm falls limp at your side and you feel him tense as it brushes his hip. “You really didn’t use a quirk against the suspect back in the alley?”

“Who knows”. 

The topic of your quirk came up every so often—though lesser now that you’d formed some sort of camaraderie. You evaded answering each time he asked. At first it was a matter of trust; your meta ability was rare and easily found in the quirk database should he focus his search on your prefecture. Now it’s purely for security. 

As an underground hero Eraserhead played nice with vigilantes, most of the time. There were others, like Knuckleduster, a grievously-injure-first and ask later kinda guy, whom he wasn’t a fan of. But he never tattled on anyone or turned them in, to your knowledge, as long as they abided by the law. If he knew you’d been using your quirk, he was then still legally obligated to report it. Eraser had a lot to lose by keeping secrets on your behalf. 

That first night you met this other half of him had been surprisingly startling, because so much of him is unchanging. Eraserhead and Aizawa truly were one in the same. His expression so nonchalant and frayed with exhaustion, eyes narrowed and red rimmed, the incredible manner in which he carried his body—somehow simultaneously lazy and graceful, like an old cat. 

Suddenly being wrapped up in white lengths of metal alloy and sent careening into the concrete had been another surprise, albeit less pleasant. The reminder makes your shoulder ache. You recall how his knees straddled either side of your hips, one large hand gripping the nape of your neck while the other bent your uninjured arm at an awkward angle. He’d leaned forward, the full weight of him, hair draping over his shoulders and falling into your vision like a black curtain, mouth rough against the shell of your ear. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You revisited that particular moment a shameful amount. It was as if his voice had rewritten the memory into one of fondness, and somehow the immense pain you’d endured was merely a blip in the story. Eraserheads gruff, bumbling method of apologising had only endeared him to you more. 

Then came the hunger. Voracious, you would finish your less-than-legal nights of patrol with a twisting sensation in your stomach beside the kindling satisfaction. You weren’t willing to seek him out. The Aizawa you know wouldn’t respond well to such an intrusion. Rather, you broadened your routes into the next district over—an area you knew he frequented—and prayed it would play out naturally.

“You’re being quiet”.

You blink out of your stupor as the memories retreat, “What?”

“You’re being unsettlingly quiet,” he repeats. “What are you thinking about?” 

The whole of his face is visible now. In the time you were reminiscing he had tucked his hair behind his ears and risen from the confines of his capture weapon. Outlined by cool moonlight, casting a shadow of his lashes against pale cheeks and exaggerating the bags beneath his eyes. 

Plainly, “I think I’m realising I'm in too deep”.

Your success at worming into his good graces can only be attributed to your persistence. It helped that you already knew most of his tells— 

Exasperation slips from his expression in favour of subdued wonder. His eyes burn red, and you thought if he stared any longer you’d be reduced to nothing but ash.  

You hold his gaze and purposefully exhale. His jaw shifts as he swallows, and the air around you is unbearably thick. The pager on his utility belt sounds off once more in staccato beats. 

All heroes available within a five kilometre radius please attend. 

“Go,” you chide with a wry smirk, “do your job, Hero”.

He grits his teeth and abruptly reaches for his capture weapon in preparation, motions stilted as he glances back at you once more. 

“We’re tabling this for later,” he insists firmly, teetering over the weathered rooftop edge. You nod and offer a complacent wave as he leaves, all too relieved that your disappointment is hidden by the mask. 

—and kept him unaware that he, too, knew many of yours. 

Fatigue wears on you through the night, and you find yourself ambling home at around three in the morning with aching permafrost chipping away at your bones. You wondered if the world fell silent might your joints audibly creak, straining under the weight of your self imposed responsibilities. 

Your thighs protest as you leap over to the next building, heart squeezing in anticipation as your lack of force shortens the distance of the jump. Landing hard with a haphazard roll, your body unravels itself and you lay spread out as you catch your breath. 

There’s a question you’ve been asked many times by both civilians and public servants alike: Why you? 

As you pass yet another missing persons poster, Ono Mizuki’s young, heart shaped face smiling back at you, the only answer left to give is: If not me, then who?

The stairwell leading down from the roof is only slightly warmer, illuminated by a single stream of moonlight from a small broken window. You keep your eyes closed as the door shuts behind you with a resounding slam, blinking them open slowly as your vision adjusts to the darkness. 

Piloted by your subconscious, you can hardly recall reaching your apartment, keys held between your trembling knuckles. It takes three tries before it slots into the keyhole, turning with a resolute click. The familiarity of home lowers your inhibitions with such abrupt immediacy that you could collapse. 

The protective gear you wear works so well because it is armoured, padded, layer upon layer of protection sewn to fit you perfectly. While you’re grateful, you hated how difficult it was to take off. As you lumber further down the hallway you peel away the clothing bit by bit. Mask left atop the shoe rack, boots kicked off haphazardly after a weak attempt at untying the buckles, your soiled jacket left strewn across the living room floor. 

“Shower…” you mutter aloud, your unaltered voice still foreign to your ears. The police scanner is nestled beside the television and habitually, you turn the volume in passing, overlapping tinny, static voices echoing throughout the space. You enter the bathroom and tug at the string light, flinching when you’re blinded by the cheap fluorescence. 

Instinctively, your eyes are drawn to the reflection in the mirror. Left only in your thermal under wear, you look as tired as you feel. The impression of your mask curves over the bridge of your nose and across your cheeks. You trace it lightly with the tip of your finger. 

Stripped naked, you stand beneath the spray and let the sharp pressure unravel the knots in your spine. It’s hot against your cooler skin. Soon the rhythmic pitter patter dwindles into numbness and you urge yourself to get out despite the protest from your muscles. 

You fall onto your half-made bed wrapped in an old bath towel, hair still damp, fighting a losing battle to keep your eyes open. Your consciousness blurs as soon as your head hits the pillow; you find yourself pulled into the recesses of sleep, ever sinking. 

The week passes with disturbingly little fanfare. Not wanting to abandon your regular patrol routes, specific days are allocated to observing activity in the far eastern parts of Musutafu. No other people have been reported missing, thus your pinboard remains unchanged, and the investigation stagnant. 

Eraserhead offered no new information, and could sense some pent up restlessness in you. Suddenly your roles have been reversed, and he is seeking you out frequently with the sole excuse of keeping you in line. He begrudgingly allows you to assist him in smaller takedowns; public quirk usage, purse snatchers, drunken brawls. Tasks for fingers much greener than your own, but placating his concern was more important than pride. 

Your abject indulgence in his company feeds the guilt hollowing out your bones. He felt better having you in his sights, that was clear. You are brittle, weathered by his appreciative glances and quiet praise, slipping away whenever you get the chance before he can see the cracks. 

It’d be simpler if you could tell him everything. About yourself, your quirk, the warehouse, the blood, the bracelet. Eraserhead had taken part in numerous trafficking raids, and that experience is invaluable. But understanding and leniency didn’t mean the rules that bound him were miraculously undone. 

He would be required to inform the PD and hand over any evidence. Your involvement would be revoked, and his report would likely be shucked to the bottom of the pile, ‘quirkless individuals’ typed bold and underlined in red pen. 

Six were already missing, and those were just the people you were aware of. There could be more out there. Other families left wondering, unanswered grief persisting. You had the ability to meddle before you were shut out, and bring them closure. 

Losing an underground hero's tail was a uniquely difficult task. He remained in your periphery in the nights leading up to Friday. His presence was poignant, beguiling in a way that demanded your attention. If the wind changed you could taste him. There was no doubt—for reasons unbeknownst to you, you had escaped capture all this time because Eraserhead chose to let you leave. 

“Gotta admit, you’ve been a bit annoying this week,” you accused. He presses something into your palm in lieu of a response and exhales a short, snuffed out little noise that might’ve been a laugh, or close to one. 

You peer down at the small box of salmiakki and pout as you weigh it between your hands. Salty licorice. “Is this supposed to convince me not to put out a restraining order? I’ll be honest, it’s doing the exact opposite”. 

Aizawa clicks his tongue. His profile is outlined in soft, dewy moonlight, egregious yellow goggles pushed back into his hair. “Salmiakki is good. I like things a little bitter,” he griped. 

You watch him push a piece of the licorice from his own box and tear at it gracelessly with his teeth, strong jaw shifting as he chews. There’s a dry itch in the back of your throat. Averting your gaze to the moon breaking through the stretches of cirrus cloud, you said, “I bet you add extra espresso to your coffee”. 

There’s a shift in tension and you instinctively hold your breath. He’s staring at you, and the intensity seems to worsen the longer time is frozen. Fleeting, you wonder if his quirk makes him sensitive to the use of others. You’d never needed to activate it in his presence before. 

Exhale. Unaffected, Aizawa blinks slowly from the corner of your vision. “My regular is a red eye”.

“Not a dead eye?” 

He hums, “That’s not as on the nose”. 

You laugh just like you did the first time he ordered it, reflexively tucking your chin to hide the surge of affection despite being concealed. You roll the licorice between your fingers before bringing a piece up to your mouth. It thunks deliberately against your mask, once, twice. 

“Guess I’ll have to save it,” you spin on your heel to leave, pausing when he follows close behind. “Gonna stalk me home, too?” 

“You’re up to something,” he insisted solemnly. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of impulsive people. Jump first, think later. You’re going to get yourself killed”. 

“I’m not one of your students, Eraserhead. You don’t need to feel responsible for me. Unless…” the hero doesn’t move when you take a step towards him, then another, “you’d miss me?” 

The teasing intonation doesn’t translate well through your voice changer, a strangely eldritch quality to it. You think he hears it all the same. His expression pinches into a tired glare, but he doesn’t refute your comment and it pleases you; warms you from the inside out.

Quiet befalls you. You worry your lip and tug at the velcro around your wrist. The sound rips through the silence. When it’s loose enough you pull the glove off, hissing under your breath at the sudden chill. “Okay,” you falter, lifting your pinky finger into a hook and holding it out between your bodies. “I’ll pinky promise to try and be careful, then”. 

Despite offering, you’re still a little breathless when Aizawa reciprocates. Cautious, finger twitches at first, before slowly wrapping around your own. His skin is expectedly rough in comparison. You’d seen the scar tissue and callus build up before, uneven on his broad palms, a little dry on foggy mornings. 

He gazes softly where you connect then back up from beneath half lidded eyes and emphasises his next words with a firm squeeze, “I’m holding you to this. Behave yourself, because if you keep meddling you’ll end up with more than just fractured bones”. 

You return the pressure to solidify the promise, bending your wrist slightly until the heels of your hands kiss. A new ache spreads throughout your wrist that you dutifully ignore. I promise. 

There’s no purposeful intention to break it—but he speaks like his word is law, and when have you ever adhered to that? 

Friday morning starts gradually. You struggle to pry your eyes open, the forces of gravity exerted on you from all directions, keeping you pinned like a butterfly to the mattress under your thick winter duvet. The sun is barely out of bed herself, dusky horizon bludgeoned with hues of orange and pink, a glow bleeding around your curtains, filling the room with warmth. 

Everything is palpably insipid. Exhaustion dulls your senses, vision barely focused as you pull up a pair of loose pants, only realising they are backwards when they bunch up awkwardly between your thighs. 

The lifeless reflection in the bathroom mirror glares back at you. Running a cloth under cold running water, you press it to the swelling around your under eyes until the puffiness lessens. You haven’t taken a single break this week, too fixated on all the things that could happen if you did, and your body was paying for it. 

Meowtini is a welcome sight. Being greeted at the door by a gaggle of excitable, nagging cats would never get old. Suzu, five months old, demands to be held and doesn’t settle until you’ve tucked her into the front pocket of your hoodie.

“Better hope we don’t get any surprise health inspections,” Hideki smirks, nodding pointedly at the inconspicuous smoky blue lump. Rarely do you cross paths, but admittedly you’re a little late, and you’ve caught him on the end of a long night. 

“I’ll put her in one of the hammocks and wash my hands before I handle anything,” you huff, hanging your coat up in your locker. The stretch draws your sleeve to your forearm. “Fuck”.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. Actually, can you hand me some of the disposable gloves?” 

Suzu yowls in complaint as you gather her up and set her on the cool tiled floor prematurely. Hideki sidles beside where you are standing, examining your bruised hands under the fluorescent light, and hisses sympathetically. 

“Didn’t know you threw hands in your spare time, Senpai,” he comments with genuine curiosity, tilting his head, pink framed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose with the movement. “Ah. Hiding them from your boyfriend out there, s’that it?” 

“Not my boyfriend,” you mutter reflexively, eyeing his palms face up where they wave in surrender. You snatch the gloves pinched between his thumb and forefinger, pausing as his words finally register. “Fuck, is he here already?” 

Hideki’s face wrinkles with the effort of keeping his amusement concealed. Restless, he tucks the silvery springlets of hair hung over his eyes back behind his ear, only for them to stubbornly bounce back into place. “Got here early, actually. And you’re kinda late, so he’s grouchier than usual”. 

Pulling on an apron, you tie it into a sloppy bow at the back of your neck with stiff fingers, then repeat around your waist. Rushing to the kitchen sink with careful steps around the gathering felines, you call over your shoulder, “Did you serve him?“ 

The water is soothing over the tenderised flesh. It isn’t your knuckles this time—the bruising is obviously new, and begins from the side of your pinky, past the heel of your hand to the bump by your wrist. 

“Course not,” Hideki answers genially from the doorway, perched on the balls of his feet and swaying slightly as he tries to stroke every cat within reach. “The coffee I make tastes like piss compared to yours”. 

“He did not say that to you,” you laugh, tugging the polythene gloves on one hand at a time, fingers wiggling until the material sits comfortably. 

“He did. With his face,” pushing his glasses up to sit on his crown, Hideki’s features flatten into a blank expression, devoid of emotion, and he stares at you unblinkingly with an air of disdain. 

“Come on, that doesn’t mean anything. Aizawa always looks like that,” you try not to grin, biting the soft inside of your cheek between your teeth as you bend to flick his frames back onto his nose. 

It wrinkles as he pouts, pushing up to stand and brushing nonexistent dust from his knees, “Not with you”. 

You head out onto the main floor. Cats and kittens alike tottle over on their paws, coiling their bodies up and around your calves, fur clinging to the dark material of your pants. To prolong the inevitable, and stew a little longer in cowardice, you dip to individually scratch under their chins in greeting. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Ren’s pupils are needle thin, her big eyes blinking up at you as she registers the whisper, blunt claws kneading your thigh like dough. “You’ll help soften him up for me, won’t you?” 

She’s about as impressed as he is, you’d say. 

Rather than ask, you speed straight to the coffee machine. Aizawa glances over from the corner of your eye. Memory guides your hands—you needn’t think twice about it, having made this drink more times than you can count. Still, your movement stutters under the blatant intensity of his stare.

The gloves pull uncomfortably at your skin and irritate the bruising. You tuck a surreptitious grimace into your shoulder, self conscious of how your shape changes under the cheap recessed light; whether you can’t shake your own shadows, no matter how hard you try to conceal them. 

Approaching sheepishly, you feel the hot cup sting against the pads of your fingers. He has pointedly returned his gaze to the papers in front of him, pen tucked between his knuckles and flicking back and forth. It makes you think of a cat’s tail. 

“Morning,” you say, apology clear in your voice as you set the red eye down beside him. Ren is under the table, curled up in the space between his ankles. Her lacklustre effort is appreciated. 

A grunt in return. Aizawa taps the ballpoint to paper, leaving a speck of red ink. Beneath it are hastily written characters, something illegible about the overarching qualities of justice and virtue. He spares no glance to the coffee percolating beside him. Instead you are caught in a leaden snare, his eyes sharp as they skim over your form. 

They linger on the pair of powder purple gloves. “Did something happen?” 

“Aside from oversleeping and almost forgetting to brush my teeth?” you reply bemusedly, allowing some of your fatigue to bleed through. Lies are easier said when there’s a little bit of truth in them. “I’m alright. Made it here in one piece”. 

Now that you’re looking, the lines around Aizawa’s eyes are more pronounced. His skin is pallid as if he’d bathed in moonlight. It is common for Aizawa to be tired but this is different. Worn, there’s a distinct tightness in his shoulders where they knot beneath his ear, flesh and bone brick and mortar, woven with his stubborn concern. 

Casting a quick glance across the empty cafe, you slip into the seat opposite. “Are you?” he peers up through windswept, unkempt bangs. A thick strand is draped over the small bump in his nose. An old break. Sunlight refracts through the grey in his right iris, bouncing against flecks of artificial red.

“You look more exhausted than usual, and that’s saying something,” you continue lightheartedly, hoping to whittle at his exterior. Tap, tap, tap. His knee bounces restlessly beneath the table. A long breath of contemplation and the first chip flakes off when your eyes meet once more. He looks as tired as you feel. 

“People from this prefecture have started going missing, one as recently as two weeks ago. I’m sure you’re aware,” Aizawa murmurs. There’s something underlying those words. Your mind flickers to Mizuki’s poster in the window. You remember how her father had bumbled, shrouded in palpable grief and nails bitten blood-black. 

It clicks, “You thought I might’ve…”

The tension briefly pulls taut, as though bracing for whatever impact came alongside the mere thought of you being missing, and then it drains from his body. You ponder, is it possible to be jealous of yourself? 

Little feet pad across the room. Suzu leaps onto your lap and her light weight anchors you. Gloved hands kept away from her fur, you lean further forward onto your forearms, shortening the distance. He watches your fingers flex toward him—pinky extended, wilting, returning to the cradle of your palm. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, apology unsettlingly sincere; it is overarching, overreaching, large enough to cover every minute from the first time you’d met him to the very last. Sorry for what you had done and for what you would inevitably do. 

Aizawa doesn’t so much shrug as he does visibly let go of the resentment. The underground hero looks somewhat diffident at his own pettiness. “As long as you’re being careful,” he says. 

“I am”. As good a time as any, you take the opportunity to pry with both hands, “Is that what you’ve been working on the past few weeks?” 

“You know I can’t share that information”.

“Right”. 

He brings the coffee cup to his lips, swallowing a mouthful without bothering to cool the surface. From behind the rim, he relents, “Yes. I was brought into the investigation just over a month ago”. 

Suzu kneads at your stomach, giving a muffled mewl as she rolls adipose tissue between her paw pads. Your mouth curls into a small smile only to thin with melancholy, “Ono-san asked that we put Mizuki’s poster up in the window not too long ago. Had it not been for him, I think most people in our community would still be unaware of the other five missing”. 

Aizawa weighs his response carefully, slouching until he is fully ensconced in the booth cushions. You feel the briefest of touches beneath the table as his thighs spread. “The relationship with the local PD is pretty poor, I assume?”

You offer a rueful grin, “If by poor you mean non existent, then yeah”. 

He exhales thoughtfully through his nose, ruffling the hair curtaining his cheeks. While he did always listen to what Nocturne had to say, it was almost as if he needed to feign suspicion to disempower your claims. With you, here, his expression is one of genuine frustration. 

“Why do you think that is?”

Answering his question in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion could be hard. You glance toward the large window, spanning the front of the cafe floor. There are various cat trees and shelving fixed across the clear pane for passers by to see. Beyond that is the main street—overcast by a passing cloud, world a little greyer—and a bus shelter directly opposite Meowtini. 

A large digital billboard flicks through the latest advertisements of Mt. Lady, her latest hair product now covered in iridescent cracks branching from a fist sized hole in the glass. 

Mount Lady has never even stepped foot in this part of Musutafu. 

“Y’know, I read that before the sudden appearance of quirks, public servants were usually labelled as heroes,” you absentmindedly snap the glove against your inner wrist to quiet your nerves. “Serve and protect, same shit HPSC peddle now, but with no special abilities”. 

Aizawa is entirely silent. Even the felines littering the cafe have fallen decidedly quiet. It accentuates your voice, and feels as though you are carrying something much bigger than yourself. “This area is known for petty crime, assault or drug dealing—mostly. Not the type of stuff that brings notoriety. That’s why heroes rarely pass through here anymore”. 

You continue, slow spoken in an effort to properly articulate yourself. “But I think a lot of the police force harbours hidden resentment for those same reasons. Not to suggest they’re… upset by a lack of villainy. But the current hero system has created a hierarchy for crime. There’s no recognition, funding or gratitude working here, so they only really exert themselves when it’ll get them a good headline”. 

Aizawa’s gaze falls on the papers laid out in front of him, a deep wrinkle in his brow. “A serial kidnapping case wouldn’t do that?”

“The victims are quirkless,” you reply, because that was all that needed to be said. He sighs in defeat and you know that he understands. Tentative, you shift your feet, knee knocking his own. Neither of you move away. 

Just as you are debating returning to the counter with his empty cup, he asks, “What about vigilantism?”

You swallow air and strain with the effort not to choke on it. “What about it?”

“Do you think positively of them?” he clarifies, hunching forward to rest his forearms on the table, mirroring your position. The change sees his knee slide along the outside of your thigh, close enough to feel his natural body heat. “There are a few I’ve dealt with who are local to Shizuoka”. 

Heartbeat loud in your ears, you are far too fixated on the press of thick muscle against your right leg to think about the consequences of toeing such an irreversible line. “They’re quite well loved. At least in these parts they are,” you mused, wringing your fingers together. Soreness radiates across the heel of your hand. “I liked The Crawler, back when he was more active”. 

“Yeah?” Aizawa’s brow arches. “He saved my life, once”. 

You sit up straighter. “Really?!” 

Low, he hums an affirmative and you feel it reverb into your chest. All the while he’s watching you carefully, that invasive stare always coming back to your eyes. He holds and tells you, “More recently it’s been Nocturne pulling my pigtails”. 

Spluttering, you repress a noise of embarrassment with the press of your hand, “That’s how you’d describe it?”

He snorts. “How else can I? They follow me around the city like we’re in a playground, do things to get my attention and disappear into the night”. 

Your dignity might’ve folded itself into a paper crane if it were not for Aizawa’s gaze softening imperceptibly. The wrinkles by his eyes smoothen, sinew relaxed under the skin, life returning to his cheeks; his expression is one of far off affection, as though his thoughts had strayed to you despite himself. 

“Irrational and impulsive,” he adds, notably warm. “Above all, they’re irritating”. 

“Hate to have to tell you, Aizawa, but your voice completely gives you away,” you pose, canine teeth sink into the corner of your mouth, afraid you might smile so wide your cheeks will split. “Admit it, you’re a little fond of vigilantes”. 

“Shut up,” he mutters indignantly, and you laugh. Too loud, too giddy, Aizawa’s lips react to the sound by pulling into a grin, all teeth, that he quickly tucks to his sternum. 

Ren and Suzu startle in tandem when you gasp, crossing your arms and leaning into the teasing atmosphere, “When you said I remind you of someone, was it…?”

He pointedly does not look at you—pointedly does not speak. The tip of his index finger slides the empty cup in your direction, an unspoken request for more as his pen returns to paper. 

“Not even going to talk now?” 

The hero makes a twisting motion against the seam of his mouth. Lock and key. Your voice completely gives you away. You cradle the coffee cup to your chest, surprised by the adrenal shake, your heart rumbling as though the interaction had created a tectonic shift. 

Two plates converge closer. He liked you enough, bipedal creature of the night; you had felt your identities overlap and saw the possibilities it could foster. If you told him everything it might wipe away the emotional constipation from his face.

Then again, it may also make it worse. 

So you brew his coffee again, this time plucking one of the freshly made tarts from the display case and setting it onto a plate to sate his sweet tooth. He eyes you perceptively, eyebrow lifted in question, but then a group of college students is stumbling in through the security door, arms interlocked and giggling as they run from the sudden onslaught of rain, saving you the trouble. 

Aizawa remains in his spot for longer than usual, unashamedly staring. You can taste the acrimony. Your excitable thoughts have soured, and again you can only wonder what he’d do once he finds out the truth. Nebulously, you know he wouldn’t have you outright arrested, you’re too careful about quirk use. But the knowledge will burden him enough to tighten his leash on you. It wouldn’t ever be the same again—and that was the best case scenario. 

Reality is rigid. There are expectations, clear borders and assigned roles. Anything outside the confines of right and wrong is looked upon with contempt and misshapen to fit one or the other. Fantasising about Eraserhead is exhilarating, a secret world kept safely between you and I, but more importantly it isn't real. 

You forget yourself. He’s still a hero, and there are is too much at stake for you to be distracted by the intricacies of your relationship. 

The night is daunting in a way you cannot put your finger on. Black as a chasm, not a star to be seen, covered by another blanket of dense rain clouds. There’s petrichor in the air, crisp as you breathe in, puddles splashing up the inside of your boots. 

Retracing your steps, you’ve made your way back to the warehouse. It stands eerily in the distance. You circumvent the surrounding buildings with ease, pace quickening at the undeniable flicker of light through the broken windows. 

Just additional reconnaissance. Nothing more. 

But there’s somebody inside this time. You stick close to the shadows and wait with bated breath at the slightest of sound, conscious of the broken bracelet tucked in your zip pocket. At-su, they read; neat kanji lovingly inscribed onto each remaining dainty bead. 

You count three guards circling the entrance and exit. Their steps are leaden, deliberately loud as the gravel crunches underfoot, and you watch their movements until a pattern forms. They mustn’t expect anyone to pry; notably lax, stopping together in alcoves to bum a smoke, laughing about whatever it is they did that day. You are grateful, in part. It makes slipping by much simpler.

Navigating the fire escape is a challenge in and of itself. The thing has been corroded beyond belief, left to fend for itself against the elements, loose at the hinges and too loud for your liking. Even so, you land in one sinuous movement and exhale a shallow sigh of relief when the structure accepts your weight with a meagre groan of complaint. Your gloves are covered in flakes of rust, abdomen still coiled tight to brace for the possibility of falling. 

You wait silently until the muffled voices continue, unperturbed by your arrival. Could’ve been worse, you reason internally, glancing up the ladder steps toward the source of conversation. 

There’s a narrow, tilt and turn window left ajar on one of the higher levels. You curl up beside it and peek down into the warehouse floor. The angle causes strain behind your eyes, obscured by the bulk of your mask. It appears empty, just as you’d found it. 

Distantly, “No… call me in… fucked… First Atsushi, now… Mizu...” 

Atsushi? At-su, maybe? You lean in closer and slow your breathing to listen, instinctively feeling for the accessory in your pocket. The sounds soon sharpened and coalesced into words, frighteningly calm despite the obvious fury lying beneath them. 

“…I told you to be careful. Look at what you’ve fuckin’ done”.

“Sorry sir,” a meeker voice replies, tone sheepish rather than apologetic. “Y’know I can’t help it when they start squirmin’! It pisses me off—!” 

An abrupt yelp is caught, the reply bubbling in his throat until the man is wheezing for air. You can’t see a thing, but you imagine he’s being choked. “Ya feel that, Morita? Your body fights instinctively, just like theirs do,” a chill frissons down your spine at the genuine vitriol echoing through the rafters. “Leave any more marks on them and I’ll put both your arms in the vice, got it?” 

‘Morita’s’ strained acquiescence is barely heard over the blood rushing in your ears. Theories and assumptions filter through your thoughts, flipping through pages of a book, every new possibility too unthinkable to put your finger on. The needles, the blood, the tattered clothing—the bracelet. Bodies, he’d said. Not products, but people, and more than one. 

You’re shaking. You step back, reaching blindly for the rail. Dread swoops through your stomach when it groans loudly and starts to bow under your grip, like it were about to give. “Shit, shit, shit—!”

“Oi!” 

There is a hulking figure running across the rooftop towards where you’re hunched. You were careless. Their gait is heavy, movements slowed by the weight of their arms, silhouette unnaturally thick and bulging. For survivals sake you assume it is to do with their quirk and duck when they swing their arm in your direction. 

Something zips past your cheek, then. It is so fast that it whistles through the air like a bullet, and lands unceremoniously on the concrete behind you when it loses momentum. Oh. You inhale sharply. It is a bullet. Ivory white, slightly knobbled, shaped like a pellet. 

You fall into a crouch with a dramatic inhale and scoop it up into your hand, breath held. Afforded time to glance back at the pursuer, you find him closer than before. Uncomfortably so. Close enough to see the tips of his five fingers unscrewed, hung by a thread, exposed like the barrel of a gun. 

He shoots again. And again. 

Your lungs burn furiously as you leap over the railing and run, the sensation spreading wildly through your chest to your oesophagus, urging that you exhale. Blood thunders in your ears, you can feel the vessels sweltering under the skin of your cheeks as tears gather along your lash line. There’s pressure behind your eyes—bloating, fervourently pushing at the bars of your rib cage. 

Using all the strength in your thighs, you catapult yourself from the next ledge. Your pulse rockets at the momentary loss of stability, held suspended in the air for a fleeting few seconds. 

Your right foot meets the next roof. The impact ripples through your body and forces all the air from your lungs. More guards are converging in the alleys below, chasing. A bullet whips past your shoulder. Cold dread washes over you as the frost dances over your skin, causing you to stumble. It had torn open the sleeve. 

This is your black ice. The weaker ankle that twists, the skidding of a dull tire, the loss of control. For a fleeting moment, you have no edges. Swallowed by darkness as you careen into the stomach of the city, there is a nauseating moment of surprise in which your body tries to readjust. Your heart thunders as your subconscious spins out and you think, this is it. 

“You won’t get far, little mouse,” the voice booms through the night, dripping with vitriol and promise. Your bones rattle as you scramble to move. “We’ll find out who you are!” 

There’s no time to consider the abrupt flare of pain in your hip. You need to keep running. You need to regain control and use your quirk, but the gasps keep coming; fast bids for air hiccuping in and out, refusing to slow. Bated breath activates and the world around you pauses in short, staccato beats. 

It’s enough to increase the distance. More and more until the landscape changes. Despite that, your body maintains a state of flight, blood pumping forcefully throughout your veins, legs moving even as they ache and tear. You’re bleeding, undoubtedly. Heat is pouring out, saturating your suit, the fabric sticking to your skin as it congeals. 

Thoughts filter frantically through your mind in search of a safe place to go. You weren’t often injured enough to warrant a visit to the clinic—technically unregistered with a much appreciated no questions asked policy—but tonight you’d strayed too far, unable to get there before you inevitably passed out. 

But Aizawa—Eraserhead had two places of residence. For the sake of convenience he now spent most, if not all, of his time in the UA dorms; stays at his old studio were improbable but not impossible. Like reading from a celestial phone book, you mentally called to every deity that tonight was one of those unlikely instances. 

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. 

In the thick of your lightheaded, bleary eyed attempt at clinging to consciousness, you see a dim glowing light from the fourth floor of the next building's quaint balcony and stumble with relief. Your fingers are wet, leaving behind smears of red where they slip along the window sill, the squeeze into the open crack made easier by fresh blood. 

“Sorry,” you whisper into the absent night, feeling tendrils of guilt in your gut at the mess you were making. There’s really no time to consider the loss of your voice changer, or the broken mask hanging askew around your jaw, or how you are barely inches away from revealing yourself.  

The window itself is aged, wood splitting under your fingertips, the kind that expands more with every winter and lets in a cold draft you can never quite find. It jams on the first try, loosens a little on the second rattle. Your body protests as you try to lift it open. 

When the pane slides up it is sudden and with far too much ease. The abrupt loss of resistance jars your balance, careening forward into a graceless fall as you roll onto the living room carpet, yelping like a pup, only to be met with the sharp end of a knife at your throat. 

Hand fisted tight in the material of your hood, Eraser’s face is thunderous. Anger unrestrained and dark in a way you’ve rarely seen, an expression you have never been on the receiving end of. His cheeks are slightly ruddy, quirk blazing as his hair stands on end. He forces your head back and mercifully, you are too out of it to be ashamed by the sound you make. 

The blade lowers when he freezes in recognition, the tense atmosphere dissipating while he keeps a tight grip on the hilt. You move with him as he yanks you upright, noticeably gentler than before. “What are you doing here?”

Your eyes are drawn to the tendons flexing in his forearm. There’s a swath of pale skin by his hip where his waistband has slipped. You’ve never seen him in such comfortable, casual clothing before. The black sweatpants are loose with an egregiously neon print of Present Mic’s signature slogan down the side of his right leg. If memory serves you correctly, an exclamation of ‘yeah!’ should be splashed in blocked lettering across his ass. 

“Hey. ‘Raser,” blood loss must’ve contributed to your lack of brain to mouth filter. The words are slurred in your ears, thick with amusement as you point at his lower half and try to whistle. Your hand is trembling with the effort. “Turn around for me f’r a sec”.

Aizawa’s jaw shifts as he takes a long, deep inhale. Broad shoulders rise, expanding with his ribs, your mouth drying at the steep dip of his collar where it falls just above his pecs; his muscles defined enough to create a faint shadow of cleavage, darkened by his chest hair.

You’ve changed your mind. He shouldn’t turn around, not at all. 

Then he exhales, drawn out and slow. The exercise does nothing to lessen the irritation woven into his expression, “How did you find this apartment?” 

A hot, sticky sensation is spreading through the layers of thermal underclothing. Fatigue has draped itself around your bones. You press the heel of your hand harder against the open wound, biting back a pained hiss. Faux bravado prevails even as you are bleeding out on his living room floor. 

“I followed the smell of black coffee and despair,” you rasp, licking away the dregs of copper lingering between your teeth. “All perfectly legal”. 

Blinking away the frustration, his eyes flicker from your bloodied mouth to your shoulder. The fabric is darker, a disquieting shadow spreading through the threads as it soaks up the weeping wound. “You’re injured,” he notes with a quiet curse. Being bundled up in his arms isn’t so bad, you think. Eraser helps you on your feet then, a hand resting at your waist as he takes most of your weight. 

The apartment is quaint. Small. Not enough to feel closed in, just enough to be described as cosy. It is deceptively bare. At first glance you might’ve made a teasing comment about him being a minimalist—but then you look again, eyes racking over the homely touches and trinkets. A pair of old slippers with worn cat ears, cacti kept in matching orange spotted pots, an open book laid face down and full of sticky notes, a framed picture drawn with crayon hung in place of his high school diploma which has been left on the small desk to collect dust. 

“…So cute”. 

You’re jostled at his side as he reaches over the back of the couch with the click of his tongue to pull over a threadbare blanket, covering both the cushions and another notably nicer, newer blanket that soiled fingers should not touch. 

He manoeuvres you in his embrace and circles your lower back, cradling the nape of your neck to lower you with unerring care. “Focus,” you hear him say. “Keep your eyes open”. 

Had they been closed? 

Two fingers are clicked an inch from your nose, startling you into blinking. The world moves without permission; suffusing into a blur of mosaics, bloating with vertigo that sparks a chilling sense of dread in your chest. Starkly warm blood is saturating your shoulder. “I’m leaking,” you croak, breaths coming quicker. “‘Raserhead. I’m—leaking”. 

“Yeah. All over my couch,” he returns. “And I’m going to help you, but I need you to sit still. Can you do that for me?” 

There’s not really any choice in it. Your motions feel lethargic as you recline against the cushion, sinking further. Your body flinches, perceiving it as free fall, and Aizawa smooths the flat of his palm over your unwounded shoulder. “I’m going to cut away your gear and stem the bleeding,” he begins. 

“No…” you groan at the dryness in your throat, swelling, like your stomach has pushed its way up into your oesophagus. Your cognition rolls to a stop. Suddenly, spoken word is not within reach. All you can say is, “Not… Not the mask”. 

At mention of it, his gaze skims over your poorly concealed face, lingering on the oval shaped device tucked under the fabric where it nestled beneath your jugular. The voice changer had devolved into broken static somewhere between being shot at and being found. Had you been able to keep a conscious grasp on your thoughts, you might’ve known to shut your mouth, all too recognisable. 

“Not the mask,” he concedes. Mercifully. A large pair of scissors glides through the padding around your middle. You can feel the weight of Nocturne peeling away, tepid air meeting damp skin as the sharp blades nick on your thermal wear, right above your breast. 

No longer are you a shadow within a shadow—your formless body takes shape. Bumps and curves and imperfections. Scar tissue, old and new. Aizawa’s fingers brush over a new bruise, collarbone purpling, unspooling a tender whine where it sits in your chest. 

“This next part is going to hurt more,” he warns with genuine regret. A little breathless underneath it. You aren’t paying much attention; there’s cloth soaked in antibiotic ointment swiping over the open injury, washing away the dried blood. It cracks like mud, splits into uneven flakes, and creates downstream pathways as the wound overflows. 

You hiss at the sting and force yourself rigid, ignoring the urge to squirm out of his hold. The graze runs through the side of your arm, tissue torn into a natural curve around your shoulder. “You’re lucky this doesn’t need stitches,” Aizawa mutters. His brows are drawn tight, dry bottom lip pinched between his canines as he reaches for something to dress the wound with. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Cold settles in your bones but there’s heat curling in your belly. That same feeling after you get a taste and find yourself craving more; you’ll go home and think of this between seconds, when your mind isn’t crowded with lies and excuses. Selfishness is such a human trait. It reminds you that pro heroes are expected to be anything but. 

The pads of his fingers are hot, rough yet purposefully gentle. You lean into the touch and hope that they’ll cut through you like smooth, warmed butter. “I think,” there’s saliva pooling beneath your tongue and you wet your lips in hopes it’ll cushion your next words. “I think one of the bullets got my hip”. 

An embarrassing noise slips from your mouth when he pulls away. He’s hot even when he’s scowling, you think. Oh, now he’s blushing. Can he read minds? Hey, Eraser. Can you—?

“Stop. Talking,” Aizawa fumes. The order comes through clenched teeth. He rocks back onto his heels, pinching the bridge of his nose as he often does. Continuing under his breath, “You got shot at. Shot. God knows what I did in a past life to deserve this”. 

You pout, “Most of them missed, actually”. He could at least praise you for that. “I saved one. Think they were made of bone. How cool”. 

“We’ll get to that later. Shoulder’s done. Push your pants down,” he sighs, ignoring your dazed comment. The various bottles, packets and containers clank together as he rifles through the first aid with haste. It stops when he zeroes in on you, and your lack of movement. You are told with gritty authority: “Now”. 

You bite your tongue and swallow the suggestive comment waiting idly on it. Trembling, you unbuckle the straps around your waist and open the clasp of your belt to tuck your thumbs under the waistband. There’s an obvious slash through the material, mapping out the bullet's path. A lot of the blood has dried and is sticking to the inflamed skin, pulling at the soft hair on your thighs. 

It is as if you’re tearing off another layer of yourself. Jostling the deep wound, fresh blood trickles over the curve of your exposed hip. Aizawa soaks the cloth again, rinsing the exposed tissue then offering quiet instruction to keep it held there as you squirm. He ducks into the kitchen. Your eyes wander at the sound of running water, desperate for an adequate distraction from the disquieting, restless discomfort building in your chest.

You don’t mean to croon out loud. He returns, catching you staring at the framed picture. Stick figures drawn in crayon; depicting him, long black hair scribbled around his large, misshapen head; a small girl at his side coloured in silvers and pinks, waving around what looks to be a candy-apple; green, a boy at her side with a beaming grin, to large to fit his outline.

“It’s good,” you rasp. Aizawa glances between you and the picture, a ephemeral, fiercely protective look passing over his face as quick as it came. “Even drew your scars and eyebags. I love... the commitment to detail”. 

He softens. “I’ll let her know you like it”. 

And you nod happily, satisfied with that, incognisant of the sterilised thread he is looping through a needle. “Breathe,” you hear him say, feeling the cool press of the forceps once he pulls back the cloth, “Looks like you’ll only need three stitches. I’ll make this quick, alright?” 

“...Yeah,” your answer comes shakily, senses already flooded with adrenaline as your body reflexively braces. 

It is unlike any pain you’ve experienced. You cry out at the piercing, burning sensation spreading through your left side. Nausea washes over you, overcome by dizziness as your vision litters with black spots. His voice anchors you; uncharacteristic rambling, jaw set in determination, steady hands working. 

“Almost done. Deep breaths, just one more to go”. 

Words form but they aren’t aired. You are swimming in the depths of your own consciousness, vision wavering, his concerned face duplicating into three. The timbre of his voice probes the sea, familiar vibrations bypassing your ears. 

“Hey. Look at me,” and you do, head lolling onto your shoulder. “You with me?” 

All that’s left is an unpleasant tenderness. Hip throbbing in time with your heart, the nausea gradually recedes. Aizawa accepts your hand around his wrist, overturning until your fingers entwine, and he squeezes. 

Eventually, you croak, “That fucking sucked”. 

“It did,” he concurred, equally weary. Three dull taps to the mask barely guarding your mouth, loose on its hinges. He wants to take it off, you realise. The now-jagged ridge has cut into your swollen cheek. 

Fear prickles cold over your scalp. “I—I can take care of that myself,” you frantically demur, the remains of your confidence slipping. There are pleas cloying in the back of your throat. We can keep pretending. Let’s stay ignorant. But he waits, he knows—he has known, and he isn’t as generous as you wished he’d be. 

Cautious, his thumb slides over your cheekbone and back, tracing the lower curve of your eye socket. It doesn’t hurt, though you think it should. The swell is enough to somewhat obscure your vision. But there’s no pain when he loosens the straps cinched around your hood, no discomfort with the abrupt loss of pressure.

Aizawa pulls down the lower half slowly. The cotton stuffed into your sinuses isn’t enough to dull the anticipation of being seen. You wondered if he hadn’t already heard your voice, would he have known you just from the shape of your lips. Did he ever look long enough to notice?

A part of you hoped that he had. 

Everything is heightened. You can feel every spring and divot impressed against your back, his breath stirring in your hair. The sofa dips under him. Chest to chest, his lungs expand with a deep inhale, pushing up against your breasts. 

Cautious, his chin lowers, fingers sliding from your temple to your cheek. Your skin pulls. Further still, his touch ghosts over your ear. Infuriatingly slow with it, as if he wanted to discover and memorise each individual reaction. Your fingers tighten at his waist, and he isn’t saying anything. 

The light refracts dimly in his irises, still a glimmer of red where it bends, glowing as he looks at you. Aizawa is always suffused with brilliance despite his avid attempts to appear apathetic. Like an old oil lamp turned to low, his gaze is soft and warm, and you’re inexplicably drawn to it like a moth to a flame. 

He angles his head. Your mouths could align, and his eyes are murky. You think that he might— 

“That should be enough to stop the bleeding,” he says. There are butterfly bandages on your cheek, now, applied amidst his distraction. Layers upon layers of armour can not hide how his voice resonates through your body. 

“Oh,” you breathe, awe visible as it dances in the cold night air. “You… weren’t going to kiss me just now”. 

Eraserhead’s expression is schooled into something carefully blank. His tongue reflexively dips forward to wet his dry bottom lip and your eyes follow the movement. Exasperatingly, he says, “No, I wasn’t”. 

You’re still close, enough that you really could kiss at any moment, feeling a little dazed and justified for it. The anticipation of being touched urges you to chase when he rolls back onto his haunches, legs straightening to stand, but the sharp pull at your shoulder stops you in your tracks. 

Aizawa is half bent, tilted to meet your gaze. He’s flushed. The intimate moment is broken instantly at the call of your name. A surprising wave of relief follows as you are doused in the harsh, cold reality. You resurface and scramble for some semblance of control, hold out your upturned wrists and sigh with forced bravado to cover your earlier faux pas, “Put me in cuffs, chief”. 

Aizawa snorts, batting you away to present the sterilised bandages in his grasp. You watch the fluid motions of his fingers as he unrolls them, “Not even going to attempt to lie?”  

You are half naked. The overlaying waistbands of both your thermal wear and your pants draw tight around your thighs—you’re ensconced in the plush couch cushions, practically splayed out for him, letting him reposition you to wrap your stitches. A strained sound bubbles from your chest that was definitely supposed to be a laugh, “I’m too tired for subterfuge right now, Eraserhead”. 

“Shouta,” he corrects. Calloused knuckles knock against your temple, fist unfurling until fingers brush over your crown, hesitant to hold before returning to dressing your wound. “Might as well use my name, now, if I can use yours”. 

None of this makes sense. In the many outcomes you had accounted for, this ambivalent kindness wasn’t in any of them. Shouta, above all, is a rational man. A logical man, not known for being led by his emotions, and yet, “I don’t understand why you aren’t…”

“Angry?” he supplies tiredly. “Do you want me to be?”

You push through the balls of your feet when he coaxes you to lift your hips, “Obviously not!”

“I want to understand why you’ve been doing this before I waste any more energy,” he says, focused on tying the bandages. They sit tight, like a second skin. A third. “Why didn’t you just get your licence? You’re clearly capable”. 

“Because I didn’t want to be a hero, Shouta! I just wanted…” your burst of frustration tapers, words steadily lose confidence, thoughts scattering and making your voice unsure. “There are always lines you say you won’t cross. But then you cross them, and everything you do becomes a little grayer”. 

Your brow furrows, unable to meet his eyes, “When you know you can cross, it becomes easier to do it. Over time, that clear black line starts to fade, until it isn’t there anymore. I can’t go back anymore”. 

He gazes at you in quiet contemplation. You feel your defences soften when his fingers brush along the dip of your waist. “I wanted justice for my community. Nobody was doing anything so I… did it myself”. 

“And what is justice to you?”

“Justice is fairness,” you blink at the unexpected question, and your tongue feels unnaturally swollen in your mouth. “That doesn’t always mean a happy ending, but it—it means you had a chance. Same as anyone else. I don’t… care if you think it’s too idyllic. People deserve that much. To feel safe, and to have a community they can depend on”.

He hums. While monotonous, it’s his genuine attempt to listen that silences your frustration, “Then, do you think anyone should be able to commit vigilante acts so long as it works in their favour?” 

“Obv—obviously I don’t,” you mutter blithely. Such a broad statement allows for too many loopholes; ones easily weaponised. “But there’ll always be situations that require immediate action. I exist because our… current system doesn’t account for that. People slip through the cracks too easily and they’re forgotten about”. 

“So you are the one exception?” 

The corner of his mouth twitches. He does a poor job of flatten his voice, even still it drips with warmth until you’re soft with it; sounding suspiciously like respect. Aizawa glides his fingers across your navel. You shiver, soft hair raising. 

“Now you’re just being annoying,” you huff. Talking shouldn’t require so much exertion, but it’s enough to distract from the searing pain at your hip. Aizawa works fast, fingers tearing the end of the bandages to knot it above your hipbone. “The law isn't always a clear indication of what is good or bad”.

“No?”

“No,” you emphasise with a heavy nod that knocks something loose in your skull. Suddenly, everything blurs together into long streaks of light, edges softening and diffusing until you aren’t sure where one thing ends and another starts. You flinch and force your eyes shut, face twisted into a grimace. 

Over the incessant beat of your heart you hear a low, concerned murmur, “Careful. I’m not done interrogating you”. 

You groan, “You’ve got shit bedside manner”. 

“Never said otherwise,” he replies plainly, rising to his feet and setting a knee on the cushion beside you. The sofa dips with his weight, and he takes your jaw into the cradle of his hand. You nuzzle into his touch, ready to employ the excuse of delirium.

He says your name again, pauses for a fraction of a moment, “You mentioned the pre quirk era, back at the cafe. What’d you mean by it?” 

You huff heavily through your nose as the scabbed skin pulls under his fingers. “It’s just—with quirks, Pro’s became another kind of a bandage on an open wound, right?” his eyes are half lidded, lazy as always, sharp with interest. “People act as if they can fix everything. But ordinary things are what keep us all together, quirk or not. Everyday people who, despite their own hardships, would stop to help another person, are real heroes. To me”. 

The warmth of his touch lingers as he pulls away and you quell the urge to chase it. “And Pro Heroes can’t be that?” he asks. 

“Being a Pro Hero has been bastardised. It’s like a big celebrity cop game show. I do the same thing they do, and you don’t see me advertising bottled iced tea with my likeness, or plastering my ass on billboards”. 

Aizawa clicks his tongue. Your blood has dried under his fingernails. “Not iced tea. You’d probably be on some fizzy drink that gives me heartburn”. 

“And I’d sooner see your face in a one hundred yen store,” you grumble, turning up your nose to stare at the ceiling. “Bet you’d do well advertising grubs”. 

The corner of his mouth curves into a faint smirk. “And you were behaving so well for me until now,” he murmurs, then reaching forward and slowing with contemplation. Clasped gently around your forearm, you let Eraser guide it under your shirt. After slipping your arm back through the sleeve, he tugs it into place at your wrist. That small gesture should not charm you as much as it does. 

“I like this”. 

Aizawa hums in response, a bid for clarification. You focus on the space between his brows rather than his eyes when you mumble, “This. I like it when you pay attention to me”. 

“Yeah?” his face twitches, as if he were repressing a reaction to your words. “Is that why you enjoy making my life harder?” 

You laugh breathlessly in lieu of a response, and Aizawa settles properly at your side, drawing you into him. There’s a bloodied half-hand print staining the blanket behind his shoulder, air still tinged with a distinct copper smell, forgotten at the first hint of his cologne. 

“You know,” he intones wearily, soft spoken and enunciated as though he were picking each word with care, “I have my own dislikes for how the current hero system works. Justice shouldn’t be profitable, and something does need to change. But it’s also true that heroic acts, even when done under false pretences, leave some good in the world, too”. 

“I have hopes for my students,” he continues. “This is the only full class I’ve ever had make it through an entire school year”. 

“Even with Stain, the League and everything?” 

Tousled hair slips forward over his shoulder as he nods, tickling your cheek. “They've been exposed to a lot more truths than most graduated heroes I know. It’s…” 

The pride in his voice wanes then, rough with guilt. “It’s been rough on them,” he says. On all of us, you hear. “Bettering society shouldn’t require so much blood shed. They’re just kids”. 

Your façade feels brittle, whittled away. Lips pursed thin and pulled into a sad smile. There was so much he claimed responsibility for—fretting about things out of his control, just like any parent would. 

“It’s inevitable that changing the world will come with some growing pains,” before doubt creeps in, you reach up to cradle his face in your palm and skim the scar tissue surrounding his right eye as it closes. He accepts the touch and leans heavily, like he hadn’t realised how much he needed the comfort of another.

“You’re a good teacher, Shouta. You’ve more than done your part”. 

“And your part?” he monotoned. He’s teasing you in his own way, peering through one half open eye. “I have more grey hairs now than I did an hour ago”. 

Your abdomen jumps with your short laugh, getting caught in your throat as you suddenly hiss. “Ah. Sorry,” you wheeze, air filling your cheeks. His finger pokes at the swell and they gradually deflate, breathing through the throbbing pain. “I didn’t plan on coming here. Honestly I can barely remember—I just ran to the nearest safe place”. 

“I can’t believe it was you all along,” he mutters. His head cocks, stubble rubbing against your skin. “No, I can. You had so many obvious similarities but I could never put my finger on it”. 

“You even mentioned my coffee order. Brat”. 

Fully spent, you recline against his chest with an apologetic hum and look up. You’re surprised he lets you, heart stuttering when you find him watching you with a glimmer of intrigue. 

For a moment it’s just the two of you. Blood pumping, beating like a swans wing; in your ribs, your pelvis, the crook of your neck. Those worn eyes flicker down to your mouth. It’s almost physical, the way they trace over the unique dips and curves of your lips. Instinctively, you feel them part, wet, a coy attempt at holding his attention. He doesn’t stray as he murmurs, “It felt awfully one sided”. 

Nose drawing across the bridge of your own, breath ghosting skin. “I’m sorry,” you echo, wedging closer. “Would you’ve preferred not knowing?” 

You’re not afraid of his silence. Knowing him, knowing you, he isn’t thinking of a way to let you down gently. Aizawa Shouta is honest, maybe a little too honest—though his tongue is less sharp these days. 

Rather, he is entangled in his own reasoning and weighing the trouble of telling you. Pink splotches are spreading up his throat. His upper lip curls. “It’s a relief to know I don’t need to pick between one or the other”. 

“Oh,” you whisper in awe, tilting as he is drawn forward. “Are you going to kiss me now?”

Anticipation coils hot in your belly when his mouth grazes your own. Tongue dipping to wet your lips, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. You shiver as they move, forming his reply.

“No”.

A whine is pulled from the depths of your being when he moves away with a toothy grin. You fall onto his shoulder and turn into his throat, “Why not?” 

“Tell me what you were running from first,” he says. 

“What I was—Oh!” he startles at your outburst. You pat frantically around your pockets, producing the bullet and the bagged bracelet. You hold them out to him, “I got some intel”. 

Frustration wrinkles between his brows. “And why the hell didn’t you lead with that?”

“I was literally bleeding out when I got here and then you got all handsy,” you protest, continuing through the affronted glare he gives you, “It is not my fault you look so cute in Present Mic’s merch”. 

“Give me those,” the baggy and the bullet are taken from your grasp with unnecessary force, driven by Aizawa’s obvious embarrassment. He squints at the beading. “At-su?”

“I think it belongs to someone named Atsushi,” you begin. “Are they on the missing persons list?”

Mind no longer a foggy cacophony of unfinished thoughts, every detail comes pouring out into the open. All the things you held close, tucked away in the recesses of your brain, reluctant of who could be trusted with it. He gives you a sheet of paper and you map out your pinboard. You are still shaking from the fatigue, but he doesn’t comment on the janky lettering as you write the warehouse coordinates. 

He knows names, better still he wants to hear them from you and more; asks for your theories and hypotheticals, picks through them, gives each one equal consideration. “I know what I heard,” you insist, circling the address over and over until he’s stilling your hand, covered by his own, the other thumbing away at his phone screen. 

You can feel the two lives you had cleaved clotting back together. Strings of connective tissue, taut and thickening. Like any scab, you’re tempted to pick at it, to see if anything lies underneath. You weren’t expecting him to take to your identity so quickly—to be treated as though you were an equal. 

“I’ve sent the information to a detective I trust,” he states, glaring at the phone until the backlight automatically blinks out. You follow his movements as he pockets it. “That No Name’s gun quirk rings some bells. There’s a group Fourth Kind was keeping an eye on a while back that disappeared. Could’ve moved prefectures”. 

You’ve worked tirelessly to find the answers he’s freely giving you; yet the second somebody accepts the weight you’d been carrying, you feel your knees buckle, and all you can think about is kissing him. 

“Good. That’s good,” you answer dazedly. “There was a lift in the warehouse. Maybe they’re being kept underground?” 

There’s a determined look on his face. You can see the undertones of excitement beneath it. Glowing, hard demeanour turned gauzy and warm. True, you weren’t made to be a pro hero. Aizawa is excellent at that—denying himself the things he wants. You're not. It’s a perfect fit. 

When he sets the device down alongside a sigh of relief you take a chance. His chest expands under your hands as you rest them against his collar. Slow, they slide up over his shoulders, then back around to toy with the short hairs on the nape of his neck. 

He shudders, but lets you guide him down. You don’t want to disturb the stitches, so he goes willingly, shapes around you as he ducks into your space. Finally, laid in the crook of his arms like a bouquet, your heart is full of him. 

Aizawa is all rough edges and purposeful touch. He’s gentle when you need it, teasing when you don’t. The kisses start by your jugular and you’re bereft by it. You can feel a grin broadening against your throat. Mouthing at your pulse point like it could kiss back.

“Shouta,” you whine, nudging your nose into his hair. It’s softer than you expected it to be. He leaves a trail of wet pecks in his wake, following the curve of your jaw to your ears, kissing the delicate shell. It scratches and you tremble, a warm feeling diffusing throughout your body. 

The baritone in his voice rumbles through you as he murmurs, “Yeah?” 

You bury into his scalp, fingers curling insistently. Seeking more of him your leg moves to hook over his hip, to which he stills, holding you in place. You’re certain the hot impression of his hand splayed over your bare inner thigh will linger for days. 

“Can you just…” worse, it moves again, tantalisingly slow. You’re soft between his fingers. His thumb grazes the hem of your underwear while he turns to press an innocent kiss to your cheek. “Don’t do this to me”.

“Do what?”

The air is stifling. His touch dips under the fabric, too quick to register. Your thighs flex beneath the palm of his hand as you pulse. “Fuck. Stop being unfair,” you feel it as he smiles, pressed to the corner of your mouth. “I know you aren’t going to do anything to me while I’m like this”. 

A drawn out, pleased sound rumbles in his throat. Almost as if leaving you teetering on the brink was the point, he takes your words as permission to pull your pants back up—both pairs, stretching the waistband carefully over your wound. 

You are disturbingly endeared by it and pouting all the same. Giving a warm laugh, knuckles brushing along your cheek, Shouta angles himself just so, and brings you into a kiss. 

The seam of your lips part to meet his tongue and he sighs languidly into your mouth. You fist the fabric of his shirt with a sharp inhale, feeling the firm muscle behind it. He kisses you again and again. Chasing, wanting; an ode to your cat and mouse relationship. 

Heat prickles over skin. Between breaths, you mumble, “Want you”. 

The soft pressure of his hand to your lower back brings you closer. You wanted more. Light handed fingertips walk the length of your spine, murmuring appreciatively as it bows, arching into his chest. 

“I’ve wanted you,” he echoes, leaning until your foreheads press together. You watch his eyes fall shut and hear the sotto voce remark, “We shouldn’t be doing this”.

If not for the amused, sanguine tone in his voice, you might’ve started to panic. But he kisses you again. Soft and chaste and shorter than the last. 

“What now?” you smile feebly. The adrenaline is tapering off and you can no longer ignore the ache radiating throughout your body, nor the reality of what you are doing. 

“Now, you need to take it easy,” he instructs with finality, thumb smoothing over your kiss bitten lip. “I’ll get on the phone with Fourth Kind and see if he’ll cooperate”. 

“And the rest?” 

Everything is there, in the small, covetous slant of his grin. All the patience, affection, respect and desire. He chooses all of you, said so himself—you’re fine as you are. 

“The rest comes after”. 

[ittybittykittyfingers]

Winter Clothing Tips

I wanted to make a friendly and detailed list of stuff I've learned from living in a cold climate.

(Note that I do not have vegan-friendly options- suggestions with links to a vegan product's efficacy are welcome)

This stuff is common knowledge where I live but it occurred to me that it might be useful to someone if I laid it all out. I'll be updating this list if I think of more.

I absolutely adore winter and want to help you love it too! Cheers! List below.

• “Cotton kills!" You see, when cotton gets wet, it will suck warmth from your body and freeze on your skin surprisingly easily. Use wool in place of cotton because when wool gets wet, it will still insulate you.

• Know how to layer! Counterintuitively, having layers of thinner, high-quality materials is less bulky than having a single jacket or pair of gloves/socks. Plus, it has the added bonus of being able to be taken off and switched around according to your needs.

1. Base layer - this is the layer that touches your skin. You want this layer to be light, flexible, and moderately form-fitting. This layer's job is to be moisture-wicking. Sweat evaporates, even under layers, so you want something that will move it away so you don't feel the cooling effect. You also just don't want moisture on your skin. Real silk is recommended.

2. Mid layer - this layer can actually be as many layers as you want. I rarely need anything more than a knit merino wool sweater, but accommodate yourself. This layer does the brunt of the work of keeping you warm. Real, non-blended wool is recommended, but really any wool will be miles better than most anything else.

• make it a priority to keep your center warm. Many people choose a vest as a mid-layer as it keeps bulk off of your arms and keeps your middle toasty.

3. Shell - this layer keeps the warmth in and the elements out. Many people go for waterproof shells so they can be worn all year (i.e. rain jacket). Shells have little to no insulation and usually have a hood. You want the shell big enough to always cover your underlayers, but not so big that it bunches up. I don't have a material to recommend here since anything truly waterproof and tough enough to resist puncture will do. It can actually get hot under there so consider whether you might want a ventilation hole for your arm pits. There are plenty of options. Know that any shell which says it's both breathable and waterproof is lying (unless it's a super fancy item, like $300 fancy). Sometimes, a water resistant material will be better for you than a waterproof one. It depends.

• socks, socks, socks! A pair of silk foot liners paired with a good pair of wool socks will keep you comfy all day. Make sure your winter shoes/boots are a bit too big to accommodate the extra space that multiple socks take up. Make sure your socks are taller than the top of your boots. You want the socks sticking out from the top. I like to layer my foot liners the highest, then the wool socks a bit lower, than the top of my boot lower than that. You can always fold the top of socks to make them a comfortable height. (Pro-tip: do not use ankle socks! They will bunch up)

• The above logic should be used for gloves too. You'll want to make sure your shell gloves are waterproof but thin enough that you are able to use your hands. Again, the name of the game is staying dry.

• Waterproof, non-slip boots are a must. You don't need to get fluffy or insulated boots if you use my sock tips. This saves money too because now you have boots to wear all year instead of just winter boots. I'm a fan of Gore-Tex with Vibram soles.

• If you do a lot of walking on pavement and such, get a pair of crampons! There are tons to choose from. They're awesome. They'll have you confidently walking around a frozen driveway with ease. Crampons are these rubber and metal things you strap to the bottom of your boot. They often use either spikes (only recommended for seriously rough terrain) or coils that lay horizontally under your foot to increase traction.

• Speaking of footwear accessories, consider getting waterproof gators. Common wisdom is to tuck pants into your waterproof boots to keep them dry. Sometimes, especially if the snow is deep enough, snow will get trapped at the top of your boots where your pants are tucked in anyway and it'll start dripping into your boots. Gators fix this issue. They're these... they're like shin guards that go all the way around your ankle and up to your knee. They cover the area where your pants meet the boots and will completely prevent snow from getting in. (Pro-tip: if you get ones that are also puncture resistant, they can be used in nice weather too to prevent ticks and protect against snake bites. They're perfect for tall grass. I use mine all year.)

• Scarves are often overlooked but they can make a huge difference. You'll want to find a way to tie them that is comfortable for you. There are plenty of guides on the internet for that. I've found that extra long scarves tend to be the most useful. I like to stuff the ends of them into my layers for extra coverage wherever I need it. Plus, it's easier to tie long scarves.

• Get a good hat that also has ear flaps. I like ones that have space above my head so that a warm air pocket forms, keeping my head comfy. Or you could get a pair of earmuffs that go around the back of your head to pair with your hat. You can use the hood of your shell to protect your hat if you need to, so focus on comfort and warmth for the hat rather than it being waterproof or especially durable. I tend to like alpaca wool for hats.

• Sunglasses can make a difference since blinding light glares off of the snow.

• Before you go out in the snow, put one of those foldable clothes drying racks in your bathtub. Leave a watertight bin by the door you'll be coming in from. Lay a towel at the door if you don't have a good/big enough doormat. You'll be dripping water and littering the floor with snow and ice when you come back inside. Wipe off/ shake off as much snow from your person and knock your boots on the lip of the doorframe before coming inside (this logic works for cars too). Put your wet clothes in the bin. Change into whatever you need to. Bring the bin with you to the bathroom and hang up your articles on the clothes rack to dry. You can keep your boots in there too, just make sure the clothes aren't going to drip into the boots. If you want to get fancy, you can buy a cheap boot dryer to keep in the bathroom.

• Once you get inside after being out in the cold, remove your jacket immediately. It'll take you longer to warm up inside if you keep wearing your outdoor clothes.

• Quick buying tip- if you end up visiting somewhere that's cold a lot, be sure to check out a wealthy location's Goodwill and thrift stores. I've found amazing brands like Patagonia, Kool, and Spider there for cheap!

• TL;DR If there's any one thing I would want to impress upon you, it's that materials matter. You could be wearing 4 cotton sweatshirts and still be cold or you could wear one marino wool sweater with a rain coat and be toasty and comfy.

[butmakeitgayblog]

What the fuck?! Why are your anons such masochists? I wanted to hear about Sal’s hobbies and favorite things to do and someone asked for all dogs go to heaven?! Goddamnit.

🥺

I can give you all that stuff ya just gotta send in in the asks babe 👉👈

So for the record, Sal's favorite hobby is eating. He's really good at it - some say Olympics level talent, but he was never interested in going pro. Man's can snarf down half a bowl of the kibble, fruit, vegetables, raw eggs, and meat medley she makes him in the time it takes Lexa to go and refill his water bowl so he can drank after. She freezes peeled seedless whole watermelons in summertime for him to gnaw at in the backyard, and he can demolish a small 2lb one that's frozen solid in under an hour. Truly impressive. He is intimidated by no plate of food.

Except the ones mom says he better not touch 😔

After eating he likes taking walks*. He is a show dog after all, by his own estimation at least, which means he absolutely deserves to regularly be shown off. His wiggly butt and goofy ass face attract a lot of attention from the neighborhood kids, so going on their slow, ambling morning and evening walks is just the best time because then everyone gets to see him and pet him and perhaps enjoy an only moderately! slobbery kiss🥰 (he's very giving with his time in that way, you see)

After that he loves napping. World class napper. He's got it down to a science honestly. Let him sneak one of his mom's socks from the hamper and curl up (as much as a mountain can curl up at least) on the couch next to mom, and he's out like a light. Will not wake up until he hears the crinkle of a snack wrapper (see hobby one), or mom starts groaning very meaningless, unnecessary things about how her pinned down legs are asleep and 'how do you always manage to end up half on my lap' and also 'my God, Sal, how are you this big??' Questions that really have no answers and thus will forever be mysteries to the universe, so he just politely ignores them and stretches out more and goes back to sleep again.

*car rides will suffice too

[bakugoushotwife]

Threads of Fate 2// s. gojo x fem!reader

a/n: a short cute dialogue loaded chapter mostly from gojo's perspective to bridge the gap!! prepare for the next chapter to be a lil crazy!

wc: 3.9k

chapter one // chapter three

series masterlist

chapter two playlist

Your energy field was already detectable on the training grounds. He hates that the dorms are so close. Feeling the warm hum of your electric energy roused him from the only peace he had—sleep. You were puzzling him. He usually understands everyone upon first meeting, and until now, Suguru had been the only person able to squeeze past his barriers and surprise him. He was different, of course, his support and ability to tolerate the Gojo clan’s star certainly landed him a spot as Satoru’s closest friend. But you…you show up to Tokyo with some sort of comprehension of who he is and what he is capable of, yet your confidence remains unwavering despite it all. You were brand new and all alone, you overpowered him in front of his sensei and his best friend without a sweat. He had never been beaten before. He managed to take it like a champ in front of you to not add to your satisfaction, yet it was all he thought about. He couldn’t escape your visual ability, and if you can simply repress his ability to use infinity then you would always win.

But instead of anger or the desperation to get better, he feels ridiculously intrigued. The way your energies reacted to each other was like nothing he’s ever seen before, sparks of red and green flying around you both just from the simple brush of shoulders. It had changed him, the feeling of what he could only imagine was your energy seeping into his. It was warm, it felt like it was choking him in a way, but it was enjoyable all the same. Enjoyable? It was bothersome. That’s more like it. He wonders if his eyes could adapt to yours, then he could block your attempts. Or maybe he could postpone your activation of them somehow, make you fight him hand to hand…

“She’s already out there training…” Suguru mumbles tiredly, his bunk right across from his own but much closer to the window. 

Satoru scoffs. He knew that already. He wonders if you could feel his presence too, and what you were thinking about yesterday. He decided the possibility of this being an innate technique of yours was slim to none. Though he didn’t know why your cursed energy stopped in your head at the time, his Six Eyes still alerted him to the weirdness of it. Of course it was later revealed that you have your own special eye, but the rest of you seemed relatively normal. He surmises that the natural effect you have on each other is not under your control after all. Though he’s still not sure what to make of it, and that alone freaks him out moderately. 

“She needs it.” Satoru says, extending a long and sinewy arm to feel around his bedside table for his glasses. His other hand rakes the sleep off his face, revealing his annoyed features. 

Suguru smirks. “You got your ass waxed yesterday, are you sure you don’t need it?” He teases, leaning against the window frame to watch your graceful form move along the training dummies, using various weapons to hone in your accuracy. 

He rolls his eyes, sliding his wire frames up his nose and giving his best friend a dissatisfied look. “You’re pathetic.”  

“What, because I can recognize power when I see it?” Suguru raises a brow, his sleepy eyes still reflecting his amusement from yesterday’s events. 

“No, because you’re drooling over the chick already. I’m your best friend! Support me!” He whines, reaching for his uniform with a bratty sigh. 

“I do support you, I support the pretty lady too.” He chuckles, biting his lip as he watches you aerobatically move around with a bo staff. “Don’t act like you haven’t been thinking about her ever since that happened…” Suguru dutifully called out.

Satoru clicks his tongue. “Only ‘cause she’s weird.” He pouts, throwing his socks at his best friend. “Just go propose already, this is ridiculous!” He groans helplessly. 

“I might.” Suguru chuckles, swatting the socks away and chucking them back at rapid speed. “If there wasn’t something interesting happening between you two already.”

The long and lean teen gasped at the insinuation and wrinkled his nose with disgust, huffing and tugging his socks on. “You’re mean! She’s so not my type.” 

Suguru snorted “I’m sure. Fine, more for me.” He chuckled, peering back out the window. He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m sure my efforts are useless though, she literally sparks around you. You get everything.” He slouches back into his bunk. 

Satoru didn’t know how to describe how that made him feel. He felt a pang of jealousy, but he didn’t know if it was toward you or Suguru. This was so annoying. He figured you’d be a pain to train with no matter what, simply because you weren’t him and not as talented. But since it’s become clear you’re just as talented, if not…stronger at the moment. The idea irritates him and excites him at the same time. He has shouldered the burden of being the Gojo clan’s Chosen One since his birth. It’s hard to be raised with the idea that you will be society’s greatest weapon, the only thing that stands between a great evil and humanity. The idea that he didn’t have to do that alone, or even have someone to help him during that time was almost too good to be true. He knew he had Geto’s support, and he was strong too, but everyone could tell it was different for you two. 

He raked his hands over his face. “Well I definitely didn’t ask for whatever this shit is.” He grumbles, pouting as Suguru also steps out of bed to get ready. 

Suguru chuckles to himself, looking at his lanky friend strewn over his bed in clear dread of sparring with you this morning. He had never been challenged in this way. Suguru was amused. As badly as he wishes he could be more of a challenge for the boy he loves, he doesn’t stand a chance at any real defeat of him. Maybe he was jealous of you for being able to do that so easily, or maybe he was entranced by you for it. He couldn’t quite tell. In any event, it was obvious that Satoru and Y/N were fated to know each other, for better or for worse. That would be determined. 

“Hey, maybe if you don’t brush your teeth this morning you can use that hot breath as a weapon.” Suguru suggests with a shit-eating grin. 

Satoru snarls. “You’re funny this morning. Save it for your girlfriend.’

“She’s your girlfriend, you’re the ones assigned to be together.” 

“Jealous?”

“A little.” Suguru kicks Satoru’s shoe as he pulls on his shirt, just in front of the snow-haired boy. “It doesn’t matter, she likes me more anyway. Do you have a plan?”

He holds his hand up and waves it side to side, as if to say yeah maybe no kinda. 

Suguru raises his brow. “So no.”

“So kinda! I was thinking if I can tire her out she won’t be able to use her weird eyes on me.” The boy defends, getting to his feet too. As he stands, he catches a glimpse of you meditating. You look so peaceful, not at all like the snarky American protege he met yesterday. You look relaxed too, notably unafraid. It almost gets to him. You don’t even have the excuse of being ignorant. You know exactly what he can do, and you know you can beat him. You confuse him, but he doesn’t hate it, somehow, despite how badly he pretends to.

Suguru seems unimpressed by the idea. “How do you plan to keep her from just…using them? She knows she can’t hit you until she has them on.” 

He hums, going to brush his teeth explicitly because Suguru made a remark about his breath. Suguru had a point. In that case, he would have to enact Plan B. He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, toothpaste foaming out of his mouth. He will just have to take your attacks until your eyes drain your cursed energy. He’ll have to force you to use your second form on him, the much more painful version of your controlling cursed threads. He’s not sure how he’ll do that, but he’s sure he can figure out a way to force your hand. He would best you this time, and he wouldn’t take any mercy during this fight. He couldn’t let you walk around thinking you were invincible. He spits out the toothpaste, rinsing his mouth out and finding his reflection once more. He was the strongest in the world. He had to remind you of that. His eyes steeled over with determination. 

“Are you ready Suguru?” He asks knowing full well the man was nowhere near ready. He steps aside, letting the other man have his bathroom time. Suguru hummed, brushing his hair. Satoru never really had to work on his appearance past getting the sleep out of his eyes and running a hand through his tresses. He didn’t think Suguru needed to work very hard either, though maybe the brush was necessary since his hair was past his shoulders. He shrugs, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest as he waits. 

“I have a backup plan.” He adds as Suguru begins his skincare routine. Satoru rolls his eyes, but doesn’t actively comment this time around. “I’ll just have to let her use her eyes and tire herself out on me. Don’t freak out when you see that.” He chuckles, knowing how sensitive Geto can be at times, especially when it relates to him. 

“Can’t you just put her in your Unlimited Void?” The other boy asks as he moves on to brushing his teeth. 

“Could, but I don’t have enough control over it. I could kill the brat.” He groans immediately, wishing that was a viable option. He had been practicing the finer details of his Unlimited Void, but as it stood right now, anyone that entered it would most likely die immediately. 

Suguru hums, clearly displeased by the arrangement. He wanted to see you come out on top, but he wasn’t keen on watching his best friend be brutally injured. From how Satoru explained your second form, Suguru was sure you’ve killed people before. He wipes his mouth and sighs, giving Satoru a dissatisfied look. “If you’re sure.” 

Satoru beams. “Never fear, Suguru! You know I can handle anything.” He says, clapping his friend on the shoulder, and striding for the door. That much was true, Suguru does know that Satoru Gojo can handle anything. He cherishes him for that, yet he didn’t want the boy underestimating his opponent. Satoru makes a show of flinging their dorm door open, almost forcibly carefree in the way he strolls to the training grounds. 

Your energy prickles his skin as he gets closer to you. It’s intense, it’s white hot and almost unbearable if it didn’t feel so good. It was addicting in some weird sense. He knows you feel him too, for when he rounds the corner he sees your eyes find him instantly. He smirks broadly; you narrow your eyes and grimace. Suguru just closes his eyes and tilts his head to the side as he grins and waves. 

“L/N-san! Ohayō!” He calls out, elbowing Satoru to say some sort of greeting. He doesn’t; he only strides forward with his hands in his pockets, a forced smirk adorning his features. You’re a better actress than he is, for you're able to walk closer to them, looking rather undisturbed aside from the light sheen of sweat coating your skin. The potency of your energy was too much for him to ignore, and he found himself craving to touch you. Not in any perverse way, though he wouldn’t necessarily be opposed, he just felt as if the feeling of your skin on his could possibly cure this intrusive energy field you’re affecting him with. 

You pop your knuckles and come to a stop just a few feet away from the pair. You keep your eyes trained on Geto, unable to predict yourself if you look at Gojo. You know that’s going to be an issue, considering the matter of your sparring and ultimate goal of training alongside him, but you’ve felt the vibrations of his energy all morning and you know the desire you have to get closer to him can only result in disaster. You’ve never heard of something like this before, and you’ve texted your brother to do some research for you. Until you hear back, you have to keep up this facade. You force a cocky grin to Suguru. 

“Oh please. It’s Y/N, you don’t have to be formal with me, Geto-san.” You assure him, smiling at the way his cheeks show his interest in you. 

“Then just call me Suguru.” He insists, and Gojo fakes a barf. 

After he’s done gagging, he rolls his eyes. “You two are disgusting. Please, stop making out in front of me.” He smirks, giggling to himself as Suguru’s eyes grow wide and you roll yours. 

“Oh whatever, I know you’d love to watch that.” You wink, still keeping your gaze on the flustered Suguru. He notes your confidence and decides to build on it, nodding his agreement. 

“Maybe if he wins this sparring session you can let him see.” He jabs you in the ribs, walking ahead to clear your training dummies away. Gojo’s nose crinkles at the tables being turned, and if he didn’t want to impress you and embarrass you at the same time, perhaps he would sulk about the remark, but instead he pretends to hurl again, ignoring the nasty flames of jealousy splitting his insides. Confusingly, he doesn’t know who for, once again, and he just feels silly and embarrassingly stupid. Why would he be jealous of such a thing? Meanwhile, the other side of him is wildly intrigued by the prospect. He can’t help but feel a sense of ownership over you both, though you’re brand new and annoying to him. Suguru was his best friend, and you were…his weird energy person. 

He begins to stretch, watching you do the same thing. You’re not very tall, and it’s clear that you’re probably stronger than you are fast, built curvy and compact like a wrestler or gymnast. You keep your hair tied up, you’re smart. In fights like these and the real cruel world, your pretty curly locks were only going to be a weapon. He thought Americans were dumb, and perhaps that was still the case. Though that meant he’d have to admit that you’re exceptional, and he’s not sure he can do that just yet. Feature wise, you’re his opposite. Ego wise, you’re his match. Power wise, he would find out soon. 

You disguise your gaze as you watch him. You were sure he devised some sort of plan to keep you from using your Quelling Eyes, though you had come up with many different angles to come after him with. If everything went according to your plans, you wouldn’t have to use your second form or Domain, you could stick strictly to your visual powers and First Form: Puppeteer’s Threads. 

It was mostly a sleepless night for you, unable to shake the consuming heat of his energy no matter the fact he was a floor below you and sleeping. Even out here on the training field, you couldn’t escape it. You watched the sun come up that morning in an effort to clear your mind, but everything was fruitless. Even as the air lost its chill and the morning sky became blue and fiery orange, all you could think about was the diaphanous blue eyes that grinned up at you, even after losing. You were right, looking at him made things much more difficult. It felt like there was a rope embedded in your stomach and he held the other end, tugging you toward him mercilessly. He gives you that enigmatic smile, lowering his black lenses to show you his glowing eyes. You figure that means his infinity is already hard at work, not that he wouldn’t turn it on as soon as the fight officially started anyway. 

“Ohayō, Dallas-chan.” He says, shamelessly looking you over. “You ready for revenge?”

You give him a matching haughty grin. “Luckily I don’t have to prepare for that.”

He chuckles at this, moving closer to you. In his mind, it’s hard to see anything outside of you. His vision with his Six Eyes was complicated. He could see Cursed Energy very well, and the outlines of figures, but sometimes he felt like he saw like a bat. He wasn’t able to make out features often, not while in use, but with you, that too was different. He could make out your smile and the twinkle in your eyes. He couldn’t resist the magnet drawing him to you, and it was clear then that he couldn’t hurt you. 

He didn’t want to. This realization softens his features a bit, and you’re taken aback. His energy thrums around you, it’s so palpable it starts to spark again, and it feels like your head is in a vice grip. As he gets closer, you almost want to step back to avoid exploding, convinced that’s what would happen if this pressure kept building. He was no better off, except the pressure felt clasped around his heart. He could feel every beat, the pulse sending his blood was notable as he kept walking. 

“I–I don’t know if you two should fight like this…” Suguru says, watching red sparks fly from Satoru and green ones from you, the two converging to make bright flashes of yellow light the closer you two got. It resembles lightning, and it bolts around the two of you, now just inches away from each other. 

Satoru nods. “I agree. I think we should look into this..” He suggests, amazed at the light show. Your eyes reflect the jolts of energy and your own awe, lips parted in wonder. Surely this was unheard of. He reaches his hand out to you. “Touch me. I have a gut feeling about it.” 

You look at his large palm, glancing up at his eyes as if you needed a final push. You had felt the same insatiable desire too, though you figured contact could go really well or…really not. 

You sigh, and nod, lifting your grip towards him. For a moment, the both of you bite your lips in anticipation. Suguru looks around nervously, noting the approach of your sensei. You shake, and Satoru craves the relief he knows will come. But Yaga interrupts, yelling loudly. 

“Do NOT touch!” He says, and you fall back a little out of surprise. Gojo looks dissatisfied, his hand falling to his side. He doesn’t know how to argue, and he certainly doesn’t want to beg for your hand, but the feeling he was fighting was growing so insufferable he had to do something about it. Yaga appears in between you, and that forces you two just far enough apart that the sparks die down. 

“What’s going on, Yaga-sensei?” Suguru asks, perplexed by the literal fireworks he saw happening before him. 

You, breathless just from the intensity, nod your seconding of the question. “Yeah, I’ve never seen or heard of this before.”

“It hasn’t happened for several hundred years.” The man gruffs, taking in the sight of the two of you. He couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. “The two of you have a connection imbued into you from the gods. The two of you…are meant to be side by side.” 

Satoru’s eyes widen at this. He was certain of his own power, his own ability to endure whatever life threw at him alone. Though, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued by this fated connection. “What does touching have to do with it?”

“Touching consecrates this bond, you two will boost each other’s abilities from then on, it’s stronger than Y/N’s connection with her twin.” Yaga explains, nodding toward you. “You’ll share cursed energy, you won’t be able to use your powers on each other, ocular or technique. And of course, you’ll be tied to each other for life.” 

“And if we don’t?” You ask, eyebrows raised in interest. 

Yaga tilts his head to the side. “The Ito won’t go away, it will continue to pull at you. But, it’s so rare…this has to be reported to the Higher Ups. They’ll want to see the two of you immediately.” Yaga shakes his head. He knows what to expect. He knows you’ll become a target here, too, and Satoru’s troubles will only grow deeper. 

The aforementioned man groans at the thought. “So what, I’m forever linked to Miss Americana here, and now we have to go before the Higher Ups to see if they’ll let us do what…literal fate wants us to?” He rolls his eyes and looks at you with a different glint to his eyes. He seems annoyed still, though not with you. Maybe he knows about this Ito that you’re so unfamiliar with. You know enough Japanese to get around, though you’re still regularly taking lessons, you still haven’t learned what this means. So you look up at him and shrug. He knows you don’t get it, but on this trip to Headquarters, he would explain everything and he would keep you safe from the Higher Ups’ wrath that’s sure to follow. They already held disdain for him because of his rebellious streak, he could only imagine how they would treat you. 

He looks over at you, and groans. It would be something stupid like this, you’re his freaking soulmate, basically. He’s not necessarily disappointed by this revelation, maybe annoyed yet again that he’s forced into a position that he doesn’t care to be in at this point. Maybe he had feelings for you that he’d been grappling with already, maybe he was being  childish by protesting, but he scrunches his nose up anyway. “An Ito? To the American? Is this a joke?”

You cross your arms over your chest and shake your head. It wasn’t exactly like you had seen this coming either. Sure, you realized his beauty the moment you saw him but his personality was insufferable, and you know he thinks the same of you. Surely you would be at each other’s throats at every waking moment, not the truest form of allies that could possibly exist! You huff. “How’s this even possible?” 

Yaga hums, satisfied to see such a strong connection between the two of you, but nervous at the same time for what’s to come from it. “The powers that be must think the two of you need each other, and that the world needs the two of you. You two should get to HQ as quickly as possible, and remember, do not touch without their permission.” He says, nodding to the two of you.

“Can Suguru come with us?” Satoru pouts, not wanting to be left alone with a girl. He knew he was good looking, but he didn’t know how to interact with a beautiful woman, especially one that’s basically willed to be his. 

Yaga shook his head. “I have missions for Geto-san to complete on his own. This is a mission for two. Now get going.” 

The two of you match dreary sighs, and make eye contact. Your eyes narrow, and then his eyes narrow. 

“Let’s go–”

“Let’s get going–” 

Suguru snickers at the two of you talking over each other. He gives Satoru a knowing look and sighs. “Good luck, Dallas-chan.” 

tags: @aepinkoutsold @purpleguk @ddora-kken @naorizenin @enflamedmusings @getosbigballsack @fadingpalacebonkpsychic @staygoldsquatchling02

[uwukeres]

Re: Writing a massive CoD tea post

Disclaimer: I don't often write long posts on tumblr so my formatting may be way off here, so bare with me while I get my footing a bit. The original thread by @jazzybot4 that is (as of 24/7/23), on-going can be found here. This thread will be in response to all three parts, as I'm tired I've watching someone swing behind the genuine belief of misinformation. This post will primarily be in defense of @zyomih, as OP has made several claims against them that are backed up by little more than smoke and mirrors. jazzybot4 makes some points, such as the previous mod team mishandling some aspects of moderation, I won't argue with that; we were a small team that was fit to moderate a smaller server and not one that had over 1k members. However, where they lose me, and a lot of other folks is when they begin pointing the finger at @zyomih and saying that they are a "Generally unpleasant person, howling screaming tantrum throwing anti." who has apparently abused Leech (formerly known as Maggot-- I will more than likely alternate in between their names, as I knew them primarily as Maggot) and is heavily implied to have sent death threats, used a sock puppet to bypass blocks etc, etc. Lets start at the beginning, if you want to see the same handful of screenshots from the original twitter thread that OP reposts in every single part, use the link above. I'm tired of them rehashing the same two-three screenshots for their argument. Zyo's original posts can be found here (1) (2) and I encourage you to give them a thorough read through, and not just a light skim. (2) is where they first mention Leechknot, as can be seen below:

This is, and continues to be their only mention of Leech in the context of this drama. But, still the comments persist that Zyo is apparently disparaging Leech:

(Taken from the first posts comment section-- sort by oldest, and its the second or third response. This was in response to me asking when exactly in the first post they went word-for-word and proved-- anything really.) So lets take a look at their dm list on their main account:

This screenshot is their last interaction, which is dated June 27, 2023 which was the day of the server hand-over. They have exchanged no messages since-- and there are no deleted messages, as then there would be long-stretches where Leech was seemingly talking to themselves. Note: Leeches messages have been blacked out in order to not leak their private dm's. This screenshot was taken 2024/07/23 (Today) and is current with Leech's current profile picture. While I appreciate the faith you have in my friend to juggle several sock accounts to block evade/send death threats, its simply not true. Zyo has always been the type of person to say them directly. Lets make something clear, I'm not saying that Leech isn't receiving death threats at all; but I know for a fact that they aren't coming from Zyo. Yet still, Since you insist on being a pariah of truth and receipts (of which you don't provide yourself the majority of the time) here is their entire dm list from their only alt discord account (The 'Dart' dummy account):

This screenshot is, again, taken from 2024/07/23. The user on the top of the friends list is NOT another alt account, but a mutual friend. Their name has been blacked out for privacy. Something I wanted to highlight is the fact that NEITHER of these screenshots show any evidence of Zyo sending threats or any type of abuse towards Maggot. Moving on to the allegations that Zyo made and the latter half of comments which you ignore. You incorrectly identified what their main issues with the server are, and I'm assuming this is so you could strengthen your stance that Zyo is, for lack of a better term, full of shit.

Screenshot from the third post, and lets actually go line by line since you seem incapable of following the structure of your own posts. 1. "Hosting Illegal Content."-- This claim is made because the server hosts threads that talk, in detail about Rape and Sexual assault. These are not support threads, as it clearly states in the rules that there is no venting channels. There is no sexual assault depicted with these characters in the screenshot below, nor is there within Modern Warfare games with the exception of Ghosts comic backstory.

And, an accompanying list of those who were active within the top thread (Important note: Mod roles are defined by [Sgt.], [Lt.], [Cpt.] and [Cpl.]):

Which shows that mods were active within these threads. You are right, their unacceptable content list is well within the recommended list that Discord provides. However, underage nsfw has been shared there before:

--and that has a mod engaging positively with it. They are lenient when they come to their mod staff and their more well-respected members (AKA, those with a significant following.) An example of this is here, when a member is asked by a mod to not stream a game that may or may not have some SA undertones in it:

Which does imply a bias, which I don't think is fair to ignore. If you're going to base your entire arguement over accusing Zyo of acting in bad faith, its really pertinent to include the whole context, and not just cherry picking what does and doesn't work for your argument. I noticed in all of your posts, you've always neglected to approach the Underage aspect of the accusations. Which are, by the way, prohibited by Discord TOS:

I can hear the argument already, that members of the server are not trying to 'Normalize' child abuse. However, as the definition goes on to state-- "Do not post content or engage in conduct that in any way sexualizes children.... [in] any type of digital creation." Fanfiction, by law does count under digital creation. As well, if you look at the top of the screenshot from Discord, you can see the searching the phrase "Underage" yields about 55 results; if we assume that at least 5 of them are from mods asking for the content not to be there and at least one of them is dedicated to their unacceptable list, then that still leaves 49 instances of where the content was discussed in the server. 2. "Engaging in Censorship and Silencing pro-Palestine Activism."-- Once again, no, Zyo was not commenting on them silencing Pro-Palestine Activism. They stated (And their thread has been unrolled for a neater screenshot, the original can be found here):

Which is referencing this tweet where the mod-team asks @/aquasuperbat to remove their comment that Elliot Knight is a Zionist. Jazzy, you say in your first part that you will get back to these allegations later but you never do-- so for the record, Elliot Knight (Who plays Gaz) actively follows and has liked several pro-Israel posts on his twitter. A source is included above. Considering how exceptionally online most folks who are in fandom spaces are, Jellycakes more than likely went into it with the assumption that the original poster knew this, and still wanted to gush over him anyway. How does this relate back to Zyo though? From an outside perspective, the deletion of the comment made by @/aquasuperbat and the immediate deletion of the comment made by @/recentlydeceased implies that the mods are, in some aspects, uncomfortable talking about these topics. This is well within their right, however I'm not sure how they can adhere to the no-politics rule when they have allowed charity fundraisers for Palestine in their server. Is that not also inherently political? Or is it only against the rules when it goes against someone's favorite character? Musings aside, you also claim that 'Real' Silencing would have been mods outright deleting the comment without asking first. While not completely wrong, this also doesn't actually reflect what social silencing is; Silence Theory suggests that those who think that they hold the majority opinion are more comfortable expressing their thoughts and opinions. The mod team is comfortable with expressing that they don't want individuals discussing a current war in their server; their opinion holds the most weight since they are in a position of power; therefore their opinion is the majority. THAT is why the server comes off as being a bunch of Zionists, and why Zyo et al. took issue with the screenshots that were raised. So far, you have done nothing to disprove this fact. Rather your more comfortable with insulting them, calling them names and making baseless threats (ex. Threatening to go to the FBI for death threats Zyo has not made.). You've turned them into the architecture of a villain that you need to have in order to excuse the fact that Leech, for as good as a person as they seemed, still allowed Sexual Assault, Underage and suppressed folks who were Pro-Palestine. You attack their moderation style, for their organizing of a server that they passed along over a year ago. You call them an abuser based on what? Vibes? Because it sure as hell isn't evidence that you've shown-- and if it was as damning as your hyping it up to be, why wouldn't you show the evidence? You have constantly said that these accusations have no weight to them, when in reality it's just showing your lack of reading comprehension when it comes to anything over 100 words. Moreover, your moral posturing is laughable, embarrassing and screams of someone who wants to be the main character of a story that they were on the outskirts for. Take a step back, experience some whimsy in your life and accept the fact that you exist solely in a echo-chamber of people who are confirming your bias. I know you want to defend your friend, I get it, I really do-- I wouldn't be writing out this whole damn post if i didn't, but completing a character assassination on someone whose been mostly inactive in the cod fandom for the last year? Maybe I just don't get it because I haven't been active in the Cod Fandom for a while either, but I don't understand where you get off putting Zyo on blast for every small thing that they have ever done to apparently wrong both you and Leech. Just to reiterate: Zyo hasn't had any contact with Leech for almost a full year. If they wanted to get hateful on main, they would do it from main. They're not going to ban evade and hide behind a dozen different sock puppet accounts just to terrorize the lot of you. That's a significant effort for a dying server with a mod team whose views don't, and will probably never align with ours.

[octuscle]

The camera always adds 20 kilograms to your weight, Martin thought, as he looked at the new pictures on his employer's homepage. He had been proud to finally become a senior partner for business law at the firm at the age of 46. But it would make him even prouder if everyone who searched his name on Google didn't see pictures of a fat pig. Well, maybe that was the motivation he needed to finally do something for his health….

Currently, Martin was working four days a week on a project in Paris. His French was moderately good. Just like the English of the other employees in the project was moderate. Maybe it was quite a good idea to go to a gym where he was very likely to have to speak French. Not the gym at the hotel, not a big chain, he was looking for something smaller. And in the evening on the way to the hotel, a neon "Gym" sign caught his eye. Next to it, it went down a few steps. Why not, Martin thought. At least I'm unlikely to run into a customer or a colleague here.

When Martin opened the door, a gush of humid air hit him. It reeked of sweat. The air was filled with the groans of men lifting tons of iron, the slaps of gloves on sandbags, and a murmur of voices that was probably French but could have been anything else. He was appropriately nervous when he approached the young man at the bar, which Martin assumed was the reception desk. It was a difficult communication with hands and feet, but after a few minutes Martin had signed a contract. The young man, who obviously spent a lot of time on the training floor, asked if Martin wanted to start trial training right away. As best he could, Martin was about to counter that he didn't have any clothes to change into, when a training bag was held out to him. From a customer who had stopped paying his fees and whose locker we had to break open, said the young man, who introduced himself as Georgi. Well then, said Martin, and followed Georgi into the locker rooms.

Changing clothes was a challenge. Around him were only naked men whose bodies varied between wiry, sinewy and muscular. And each one was hung like a stud. With his head red, Martin undressed and put on shorts and tank top from his gym bag. He looked ridiculous. Everything clearly too tight. Only the shoes and the socks, whose stench almost took his breath away, fit to some extent. Georgi grinned cheekily and said that Martin would already grow into the clothes. The two went to the training area, where Georgi had Martin do a few burpees first. It only took five minutes before Martin was completely drenched in sweat. The sweat-soaked, tight-to-the-body clothes looked ridiculous, but in fact none of the other gym-goers showed any disdain or anything like that. Probably everyone is too focused on training, Martin thought, and without thinking, took a sip from the water bottle in his training bag. The drink tasted bitter but was refreshing. And immediately began to take its effect on Martin's body. With every minute he trained, he became a month younger and at the same time had one more month behind him of training eight hours a day. And the effect was evident after just a few minutes: The fat melted away, his endurance got better and better. And when Georgi went to the punching bag with Martin after half an hour of fitness training, his punches were powerful and precise. Only when sparring with Georgi, Martin clearly drew the short straw and had to concede a few blows. Georgi was not free of hits either.

When Martin went into the shower drenched in sweat after 90 minutes of hard training, the most he had to be ashamed of was his relatively puny dick. He had the body of a 38-year-old who had already been training hard for almost eight years. The effects were more than obvious: Martin looked like a heavyweight boxer. Surprisingly, this did not surprise Martin, not Georgi, and apparently no one else. Most of the men Martin met knew him and he knew them. And the language barrier had also disappeared. Like most visitors to the gym, Martin spoke fluent French, using slang dyed by the gutter. There was no longer a suit hanging in Martin's locker… After he had started boxing, Martin had quit after a short time and had set up shop as a lawyer in the neighborhood of the gym. And thanks to his contacts in the boxing environment, he had won some lucrative mandates from the demimonde. And this work didn't require a suit. He put on his track pants, T-shirt and leather jacket, picked up his bag, exchanged a ghetto fist with some of the guys and went to the bistro around the corner for dinner and a few rounds of billiards.

With great aplomb, Martin got up at 06:00 the next morning, put on his workout clothes, still drenched in sweat from the day before, and before getting ready for the office, ran around the park for an hour in the drizzle. Georgi would have hated it if Martin had come today without the obligatory conditioning workout. The day at the office dragged on, some of his clients had tax problems, and the tax office was an opponent that others had cut their teeth on. But he didn't get 500 euros an hour, because he himself would go down on his knees in front of such an opponent… But so it was already almost 10:00 p.m. when Martin arrived at the gym. Georgi was not available for sparring, so Martin concentrated on weight training and pressed weights today. When he was one of the last visitors to take a shower at 11:00 p.m., he was 33 years old and had been a professional boxer since he was 21. He had dropped out of law school after a visit to Paris, where he had met Georgi by chance, and had immersed himself in a world he had never known before. Since then, he had won a number of fights, even bigger ones, invested the money well, and also trained a few younger up-and-coming talents from his club. And occasionally, like tonight, he was a bouncer at a gay club, which usually brought quite good tips and usually some ass to fuck.

The next morning, Martin woke up in an apartment that was far too elegant for his liking. Next to him lay a well-built man in his mid-fifties. Martin knew Igor well. One of the most sought-after stallions in town. Stone-rich exiled Russian, boxing promoter and a grenade in bed. Martin's watch already showed 07:00, but he always had time for a quick fuck. For that, even the morning run was allowed to be skipped once in a while. While walking, Igor slipped Martin a few 200-euro notes, slapped him on the ass and said goodbye to the bathroom. Was Martin a hooker? He didn't care, he would even pay for a night with Igor. It was 09:00 when Martin arrived at the gym. Georgi greeted him at the counter and announced two customers for boxing training starting at 11:00 and 14:00. In between, Martin had plenty of time to do paperwork in the back of his small office and check on the teenage punks who were here skipping school in the morning to train for the next street fight. If that happened too often, Martin threw the guys out and demanded proof of a successfully passed exam before the next training session. But from the guys who trained today, he knew they were reasonably stable in school, so he gave a few tips and corrected mistakes in punching technique. It was 5:00 p.m. when he called it a day and worked out himself. Good time, it didn't get crowded for another hour, so he had the evening free to go around the houses himself. After an hour of sparring with Georgi, Martin was done too. He was 28, in the shape of his life. At the age of eleven, his father had taken him first to judo and then to boxing. And today he was technically perfect as a boxer. After being extremely disciplined in the last few days, he now allowed himself some time off. Alcohol and cigarettes were of course taboo for him as an athlete, but fucking his way through Paris' darkrooms was no problem. And it passed for cardio training.

It was Thursday morning and Martin had slept in his clothes. His tank top reeked of sweat, beer, piss and cum. He took a deep breath and his hard-on was already standing out clearly in his leather jeans. Martin opened his pants, freed his cock from the soiled and encrusted jockstrap and began to knead his tits with one hand and his boner with the other. And it wasn't long before he was spurting an impressive load onto his chest. Now it was 06:30. At 09:00 he had a client for a personal training session. And he knew there would be an extra tip if he didn't change. So for the run, Martin just swapped his leather pants for workout pants and his boots for his running shoes and headed out for his run. Just before he reached the gym at 08:30, he got caught in a downpour. Soaking wet, he walked past a grinning Georgi and grabbed a towel. Martin tossed his tank top over the ropes of the nearest boxing ring to dry, rubbed off rain, sweat and bodily fluids from the previous night with the towel and took a swig from his water bottle, which Georgi refilled for him fresh each morning. He rounded out his morning workout with fifteen minutes of jumping rope. When his client came into the gym, Martin took a quick look in the mirror before putting on his shirt, which still was wet and smelled like an beast. He liked what he saw: a nearly 6-foot-3 Teutonic man of just over 26 who had spent almost all of his free time in gyms shortly after starting school.

The mixture of fresh sweat and the stench of the previous night had exactly the desired effect on his customer. Even during the warm-up, he had a massive boner that he could barely control during the sit-ups. There was nothing going on in the gym at this time of night, so Martin unabashedly took his cock out of his pants and started jerking off while his customer completed burpees. Martin liked the combination of pain and desire on his client's face. He made him stop, pulled him to him and pressed his face into the sultriness of his own armpit. With his other hand, he made himself cum, then his client. As if collecting trophies in it, Martin rubbed his own and his client's juices into his shirt and, as if nothing had happened, began sparring. His drink was still working. Combined with the training, he was losing minute after minute of his life time. And moved the moment of his birth closer and closer to the moment when his new life was forked from his old biography. And then came the moment when his lifetime was cut exactly in half.

For a brief moment, he felt as if he had been struck by a blow. And with the blow, everything changed. Born in Sofia to a truck driver and a hairdresser. At the age of four, he moved to Birmingham, where his father had built up a small freight forwarding business and his mother had her own salon. During the financial crisis, his father went bankrupt, became an alcoholic and died in a car accident. At ten, Wanja thus became his mother's protector and worked off his aggression in the boxing ring. When he was 16, his mother married his boxing instructor. Unlike his mother, however, Wanja never took British citizenship and left England after Brexit. His stepfather put him in touch with Georgi, who took Wanja under his wing and groomed him to become a hopeful boxing pro… Bang! His client took advantage of the second of confusion and hit Wanja right in the face. Professional that he was, Wanja gathered himself in a split second and parried the blow. Well dosed, so as not to hurt a paying customer. But strong enough to make clear who was the champion in the ring.

Big thanks to @hotfighter! Without you this story would not have been written!

[striigon]

MYTH and FACT: vampire mythos and how it relates to matija as the “first vampire”

MYTH: vampires can be distracted by spilling grains of rice, seeds, etc. because they have to count every one.

FACT: this is partially true but only if you’re dealing with matija specifically. he has moderate to severe untreated and undiagnosed arithmomania, so theoretically if he’s chasing you down, this is actually a good way to get him off your back because his compulsion is usually too strong to resist. it’s not guaranteed this works for every vampire. the curse that gets spread is only related to longevity and power - he would have arithmomania if he was a vampire or not.

MYTH: garlic wards off vampires.

FACT: this is pretty accurate. matija used to enjoy garlic before his turning but now his nose is too sensitive for it and it gives him headaches. onions and shallots and other strong-smelling things also work, though, not just garlic - a perfume could take him out, or even an especially stinky sock. he has the equivalent of an allergic reaction whenever he’s faced with such things which is a shame because he can’t really have garlic and stuff again without crying.

MYTH: religious symbols (i.e. a crucifix) ward off vampires.

FACT: matija is literally catholic. all this does is get him to roll his eyes. this only came about because of people’s reliance on god to protect them from dangerous, otherworldly creatures and evil in general. unfortunately for them matija is entirely unaffected and can be faced with crucifixes and hallowed ground and holy water with ease aside from perhaps some personal discomfort and guilt (in a pure catholic moment, nothing else more physical).

MYTH: vampires can’t cross running water.

FACT: he doesn’t really know where this one came from. he likes swimming. maybe it’s because he doesn’t often swim in deeper water? his first time crossing an ocean was during his move to the usa. he thinks this might be a jab at his personal hygiene that has since evolved into something more literal, but otherwise this one probably didn’t come from him. he might’ve generated other vampires who didn’t know how to swim that started this one up.

MYTH: vampires don’t have a reflection in the mirror.

FACT: if you take away the vampirism he’s literally just a guy. he has a reflection. it means he gets to look at himself and see that he’s unchanged despite seeing centuries pass. it sucks!

MYTH: vampires need an invitation to enter a home or other private property.

FACT: again, he’s just a guy. he can get in your house uninvited if he wants to. he’s just not a dick about it so he doesn’t come in without an invitation usually. he typically only circumvents this personal rule if he really hates you and wants you to be super scared before he kills you.

MYTH: vampires are vulnerable to sunlight.

FACT: he’s no more vulnerable to sunlight than your typical croatian man. that being said, he is more adapted for night hunting now, and is visually more sensitive to sunlight, and could get headaches if he’s outside in places that don’t experience a lot of cloud cover. nothing a pair of ray bans can’t fix, though.

MYTH: staking kills vampires.

FACT: staking kills anyone, to be fair. it might permanently kill lesser vampires the way it permanently kills humans; all it does is slow matija down. staking is an injury that takes him a while to recover from since his body has to both heal and push the stake out while regenerating, so he wakes up starving and quite a while later depending on how deep the stake went, how big it was, and when his most recent feeding was before death. so if we’re talking about the most effective way to slow matija down, then sure, staking is one of the better methods; but he’s going to be super pissed whenever he wakes up and gets his shit together.

MYTH: silver burns vampires.

FACT: matija’s allergic to silver. all it does is give him a rash.

MYTH: vampires can turn into bats, wolves, and even clouds of mist.

FACT: that’s super fucking cool and matija wishes it was true, but alas, he suffers.

MYTH: vampires can enthrall other people and control their minds.

FACT: if you’re enthralled by matija that’s entirely your own fault, but he’s super hot so i don’t personally blame you. but he does nothing to encourage this (knowingly) and lacks the rizz to do such a thing most of the time.

MYTH: human food makes vampires sick.

FACT: matija can eat human food, still, he just… gets nothing from it. there’s no nutritional value in there for him anymore. it would be like having someone eat nothing but flavored cardboard for a meal. he also can’t tolerate many flavors anymore because of how sensitive his nose is, so if he has to pretend to be human he usually gets something very bland, which is annoying to him personally because he doesn’t like it. but it doesn’t make him sick unless he’s already starving. he still regularly drinks tea and coffee.

i think that covers everything. if you remember anything i’ve forgotten lmk and i’ll add it.

[scribble-dribble-writes]

I saw ur requests are open and that u also write for moder!Obi-Wan. Sooo… I’d like to request a modern!obi x fem!reader where he meets the readers parents for the first time. He’s super nervous cuz they are a bit older (him and reader -> like in their 30s/40s), he was already engaged (but got cheated on maybe and maybe even has little daughter) and he really love reader and is like “but what if they dont like me” (maybe hes especially nervous about her dad). Reader obviously comforts him in his distressed state and the evening goes incredibly well: they all like him (of course) and are happy they found each other.

I hope u can work with that and I wanted to ask if u like more detailed requests like this or if u prefer the more undetailed one for creative freedom?

Love your works btw (all of them)!!!

Hi anon! This ask is so sweet it made me feel warm and fuzzy haha. I like requests like the one you've sent and also undetailed ones too. If it's too wordy and specific I lose interest haha that's just how my mind works.

But I hope you like this one!

----

Buttons and Ties

"Alright, which one would be the better option?", Obiwan walked out of the bedroom, his shirt half tucked in, his buttons still undone with dark trouser pants that were impeccably ironed out. He held two ties next to neck, his eyes expectant for your answer.

You turn to him from your book that you were reading on the sofa. It was clear, his tapping foot, his worried gaze, he was nervous. You were taking him to meet your parents, for the first time in your relationship, for the first time since you've known each other for a year.

"Which one do you like?", you ask putting away the book to give him your attention.

"Which one would tell your father that I am a well suited gentleman for you?", he rambled. To which you could only smile as you pushed away from your seat to meet him where he stood. Folding your arms to act like you were giving immense thought to the ties he held near his neck as he shuffled back and forth on his feet.

"The only validation of your suitability needs to come from the both of us.", your eyes found his as you took the elegant sky blue tie from his right hand.

"So, do you think you're a good fit for me?", you asked, making it sound like an interview to which he finally relaxed and chuckled with you.

"Ah what's gotten into me?", he sighed pulling you close as you fixed the tie around his collar.

"How could I not be? You know my favourite tie.", he said confidently as you dusted his shoulder positioning the tie in place.

"That's the spirit.", you stood on your toes to kiss him on the cheek to which he sighed with content.

"It's going to be fine.", you whispered and when you pulled away, he gave you a soft nod.

"It's just that.", he paused as he tucked in his shirt and sat down to pull on his socks. He remained quite for a second collecting his thoughts.

"What if they don't like me? I'm not the ideal candidate.", he said, busy putting on his shoes and tying the lace.

"I don't have a track record of great engagements or marriages. My life is a mess. And I come in a package of two, along with my little girl.", he continued.

But you crouched down to swat away his fingers from the lace he was unable to tie as he followed his train of thought.

"Your father is a well accomplished man and ...", he trailed off again.

"You deserve better than me, someone your parents might be proud of.", he said finally to which you smacked his knee.

"Ow!", he exclaimed.

"What was that for?", he exclaimed.

"That is for talking nonsense. I want you. That's all there is to it. You're a pilot, a loving father and", you got up to sit next to him.

"the man of my dreams", you smiled, which he mirrored.

"They're going to love you.", you added to watch his cheeks turn red.

"Ok", he finally settled down.

"I'm all ready for your mother's tiramisu.", he kissed your forehead and you set out.

*

The dinner was devine and the company delightful, he had been worried about nothing, almost about to let his own anxiety deny him of the love he deserved. Your mother placed a slice of tiramisu before him.

"Any man who loves my daughter", he heard her say with happy tears glistening at the edge of her eyes.

"and my tiramisu", she smiled. "is a winner in my eyes."

He eased into the seat after he thanked your mother, just when you emerged from the living room with the family photo book in your hands. He caught your gaze and he thanked his past, for being horrid and broken because through that treacherous path, it lead him to you.

He enjoyed his desert as he wrapped his fingers around one of your hands while you rested your head on his shoulder as your mother narrated stories of your childhood. His heart was full and grateful. That all his waiting had gifted him an eternity with you.

[contentment-of-cats]

Understanding pain.

Level 0: No pain at all.

This is normal. Normal life means no pain - not that you've adapted. No pain at all.

By the numbers

Level 1: Very mild and intermittent pain, but it can be ignored.

Level 2: Pain is frequent and needs effort to work around.

Level 3: Pain is consistent but flares into stronger spikes.

The first triad of pain can be handled with occasional OTC painkillers, hot/cold therapy, and resting the affected area. It can interfere with some tasks, but overall your life is pretty normal.

~

Level 4: Pain can be ignored when you're absorbed in something, but is much more difficult to deal with.

Level 5: Pain interferes substantially with concentration, but you can 'push through.'

Level 6: Pain is impossible to ignore or 'push through.' You can't concentrate on anything but the pain.

Moderate pain means consistent use of painkillers, including narcotics. There are times when you can't do simple things like taking out the trash.

Level 7: You can't concentrate on anything, you can't do anything unless it's with a massive effort. The pain wakes you up or will not let you sleep in the first place.

Level 8: The pain is intense, even to the paint of making it hard to think of speak coherently. You can't move easily, even if it's from the sofa to the bed, or to get something from the kitchen.

Level 9: You can't think. You can't speak. All you can do is cry or moan. Moving is enough to make you scream.

This is heavy meds pain. For me, Level 7 is when I take my top dose of pain meds - 10mg oxycodone + 300mg gabapentin + 800mg extended release Tylenol + 500mg of robaxin. It takes 45 minutes to work. I can only lie there and breathe.

Level 8 and 9 is what I call 'hospital pain.' That's when you take your pain meds, call an Uber, and get your ass to the ER.

~

Level 10 is the worst possible pain. You're delirious from it. You're incoherent. It's the closest thing to Hell. You pass out from the pain, then you wake up screaming. You beg to die. It hurts too much for tears.

This is the pain I woke up with after an 8-hour surgery that resectioned my colon, my ureter and bladder, removed 22 lymph nodes and my uterus/tubes/ovaries and gave me an ileostomy. I woke up from the anesthesia screaming in pain. I begged someone to kill me. I'd pass out, wake up and scream some more. They noted it in my record, so I know it was not a nightmare. Other patients were calling their nurses to get me something for the pain. Morphine is your friend after a surgery like that.

You'd think that was the end of it. That I healed up and got better.

That surgery was the middle of November. I could not stand up in the shower until New Year's Eve. I had eight incisions aside from the ostomy opening, and the hysterectomy incision was four inches horizontally at the top of my pubic bone. Coughing was a 6. Sneezing kicked me to an 8. I couldn't lift anything over 10 pounds by doctor's order.

Even though I was and am experiencing pain, learning to understand it is a journey. Pain is a generic word. A patient without the vocabulary can't communicate anything more than, "It hurts. Make it stop." Hospital personnel are also trained to look for 'drug seeking' behavior. There are three types of pain:

Neuropathic pain is nerve pain due to nerve disorders - in my case a tumor pressing on a nerve. Later complications include neuropathy secondary to chemo and radiation and radiation fibrosis. Neuropathy secondary to chemo symptoms include paresthesias, numbness, balance problems, and weakness in the feet in hands. Symptoms of radiation fibrosis are muscle spasm; muscle weakness, atrophy, or tightness; changes in the appearance and texture of the skin, and decreased joint mobility. In my case my fingertips are tingly, and I feel as if I am wearing the thickest possible wool socks. From time to time, I will get jolts of pain in my toes. My hands are stiff, and from time to time I feel as if nails are being driven into my palms. Neuropathic pain feels like burning, or tingling, or sometimes a stabbing or shooting pain that radiates out like ripples, or follows a path like lightning. During chemo I would have an electrical buzzer feel - like someone pushing a buzzer three times. Opioids by themselves do not help much, so a doc will often recommend an antidepressant like Gabapentin, and might also add anticonvulsants or a benzodiazapine like Ativan.

Somatic pain isn't like neuropathic pain. It stays in one place, but that can be a pretty big place. It feels achy, sometimes a throbbing pain. Muscle relaxants like Robaxin help.

Visceral pain is something everyone has had from time to time. Think of the worst case of food poisoning or a stomach bug. It's often experienced by patients after surgery on their stomach, intestines, and/or colon. Opioids are the treatment of choice as they famously slow down peristalsis.

For most people, pain is transient. For others like those with autoimmune issues, it's relapsing and remitting. For others. it's chronic and needs to be managed along with the patient's mental health.

~

Breaking the taboo

Pain and pain management is a taboo subject. People with pain are afraid of what people think of them being in pain or that people will look down on them for seeking treatment for pain. Part of this has to do with not wanting to be labeled a junkie and the taboos surrounding opioids and benzodiazpines, and mistaking the anxiety and depression pain can cause as 'drug seeking.' Some of the bullshit people in pain have internalized is below.

Pain is a part of life. Suck it up.

I can't take my pain meds when I'm low on the pain scale or I will build a tolerance.

I don't want to get addicted.

My meds can cause constipation. I shouldn't take it.

I don't want to bother the doctor for a refill. They might think I'm drug-seeking.

My family/friends think I need to stop my pain meds.

Anyone who tells me that [pain is a part of life has never been in chronic pain. One friend was 'concerned' that I am on meds and that I ought to stop and 'get used to' the pain. I could always use cannabis anyway. I can agree about developing a tolerance to the pain. I did not know how much pain I was in until the ER doc ordered a shot of morphine, or how much anxiety I was having until the doc on my floor ordered Ativan. Expecting someone to live with pain, it's side effects both mental and physical is barbaric and sadistic. Telling them to medicate with your personal choice of painkiller is vainglorious and cavalier.

~

Adjuvant therapies are self-care

These are the things that have worked for me, and allow me some relatively pain-free days and a lower dose of pain meds. Of course, there are still days when I need the full dose four times per day. Pain is not there or not, it's far from binary, and you can have different levels and types of pain in different areas of your body at the same time. For instance, as I write this, my feet are a Level 1, but my hands are a Level 4, my lower back is a Level 2 - and this is with pain meds, low dose, and an extended release Tylenol.

Tai Chi - I have found these exercises very helpful and the shorts are not distracting, letting me focus on the movements. I do 10-15 minutes morning and evening.

Soft tissue manipulation - massage works for fibrosis, but the best tool I have is... a silicone rolling pin.

Lymphedema self-massage and care - terrific tutorials! 10-15 minutes alternating days with Tai Chi.

Resistance bands and balance - these videos are very helpful not just for seniors, but anyone with muscle weakness and balance issues.

Peddle machine - 30 minutes every day. The movement of my legs helps with lymphedema from those 22 absent lymph nodes.

Warm baths with epsom salts.

A full body ice pack like this one.

TENS unit.

[eatpeesweetpea]

REVIEW: My 2nd case of COVID-19

TW: mild self destructive behavior, mentions of ED, the state of California

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"[COVID-19] is the Vipassana retreat of viruses..."

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Following north of two years after its debut, my immune system has encountered its sophomore case of COVID-19. Because I am up to date on my vaccines and boosters as of the time of writing, this is an impressive context for COVID-19's return.

It began as a slight and deceptive, "something's stuck in my throat" sort of feeling at the end of a five day road trip through the California. (Let this serve as foreshadowing to how I will review the state of California.) I had choked on a ramen noodle earlier in the day, so I thought nothing of it. The accompanying "off" body feeling that gradually intensified into the evening made the final leg of the drive somewhat uncomfortable. But overall, an underwhelming opener.

COVID-19 really picked up the following morning. Since my girlfriend is a furnace, she can attest that I sleep slight: one blanket, one pillow, soldier, grumpy. No cuddles. I woke up roughly two hours earlier than usual attempting to sell my music in order to exit the freeway on a motorcycle. In my delirium, I whined and snuggled up. I was shivering under two blankets in a sweater, and clammy. My yucky throat feeling had evolved into an icky dry cough that sometimes produced a satisfying wad of phlegm. I was too lazy to get up and get socks to thaw my icy toes.

Post 600 mg ibuprofen, I had reclaimed some vitality and managed to drag my sorry ass home. I dilly dallied unproductively around my room for most of the day, feeling somewhat paranoid about brain fog, long COVID, some weird swelling above my hips, etc. Come nighttime and my fever had crept back up to a surprising 102.9° F. I slumped at the dining room table and spooned hot chicken soup into my hanging mouth. There is something very fascinating and rewarding about these sorry, altered states of consciousness, and I pondered that for a few minutes before redosing. I went to bed shortly after and passed out.

I mostly slept through the night, only beginning to stir prematurely towards morning. I half-awoke very unpleasantly drenched in sweat and flipped the blankets around a couple times to evenly distribute the spoilage. Once I fully woke up, I recorded my temp at a cool 97.2° F. In fact, the rest of the day went swimmingly. I completed some chores, did some painting, and cooked for myself with minimal medication and nursing only a somewhat irritating cough. My throat was more itchy than sore. As for the body feel, I think I could have successfully ran a quarter-marathon given a sufficiently motivated bear or pack of wolves.

Overall, I have mixed feelings on COVID-19. Within the context of its contemporaries, COVID-19 did no more harm than a moderate flu, and I much prefer its dry, manageable cough to the agony of strep throat. The body load and fatigue of COVID-19 was notably brutal on its first day, but backed off much more quickly than any other condition of its caliber. The true scale-tippers here are the social effects of COVID-19; this is the only sickness where you are expected to inform all of your previous company of the potential that you got them sick. Not fun. This is also the only common illness where you can't get away with re-entering society right about when you feel better. The strict code of courtesy around COVID-19 is good and ethical, but knocks it down a couple points by the standards of my review.

That's not to say there are only negatives. On the other side of the coin, I have appreciated the impetus to refocus on art and personal reflection. I've made my maiden voyage through more albums in the last two days than the last two months. I made my first Tumblr post. As someone who is typically noncommittal about disordered eating, I considered the mild reduction in appetite a plus. And further on the topic of self-destructive glee, anybody who claims they don't want to see just how high they can get their temperature before they get scared is full of shit. Number go up funny dopamine -- so I appreciated the astounding effort on fever here.

If you are looking for a new sickness to contract and have a light ten days ahead, keep COVID-19 on your radar. It is the Vipassana retreat of viruses: painful, isolating, meditative, and occasionally gross. Tolerable. Just don't feel tempted to share the love.

6/10