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[fictional-scenarios]

waiting list

i may not do them all, but ask box is always open! rules >here< 

*please remember that i work a full time job, manage an entire household, and provide round’ the clock care for my kitty during his medical treatment. requests may take some time!

*any >donations< grants a fic of your choice instant priority!

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[fictional-scenarios]

this could be us if i stopped disappearing for a year at a time and actually wrote things

[johnnyjoestarrelatable]

found family but they're all absolutely horrendous people

[resimlerdekaldik-deactivated202]

[fictional-scenarios]

hello! can i request an angsty fic with aizawa and f! reader where they break up? thank you!

i hope you enjoy this! i did it from his perspective, hope thats okay! also i know he probably wouldn’t actually be like this in a relationship, but for the fic, this is the only way i could see him being at fault :3

always appreciate reblogs and comments! if you’d lie to support me, here’s my ko-fi!

In the worst of the aftermath, Aizawa was not angry. He was never angry, not truly. Not even when he’d snap at his friends for bringing up her name, or when he’d feel rage churning in his stomach at the thought of her being with another. He was never angry. 

He was sad. So devastatingly, core achingly sad, that it kept him bed ridden for days at a time. Work, come home, eat and sleep. It wouldn't end. 

He’d always considered his quant home a safe haven, but lately it’d been feeling like a prison. It felt like a haunting museum, little bits of her as far as the eye could see. The memories were so vivid, he could still almost see the figure of her standing in his doorway. He could see her leaning on the window sill peering outside. He could see her shoes by the front door, her toothbrush in a cup upon his sink. He could see her under the covers with him, hushed laughter and soft snoring into the early morning.

Even now, he see’s her beside him in bed. He see’s the indent of where she should be, now terribly empty. It makes him feel cold, alone. 

But, being alone had never been a huge issue to him before all this. In fact, he knows it was the downfall of him. 

She’d just wanted him to go out with her now and then. She just wanted to take photos with him, hold his hand out in public without feeling like she’d been forcing him. 

Aizawa buries his face in his hands, his back leaning against the cold wall, blanket curled around his waist like a weight. 

All she had wanted was just a little more life. Just a few more kisses, a few more hugs. A few more signs that he truly cared for her, but he wouldn’t hear of it. She knew he loved her, why couldn’t that be enough? 

He refused public dates that weren’t anniversaries or events. He hated photos. He hated when she’d clasp fingers around his own, hated it because all it brought was attention. Paparazzi's scavenging and ruining every affectionate and tender moment they’d shared together in public. 

He never understood why it had to be public. He couldn’t wrap his mind around why she would insist they get out and so something together. Why couldn't hanging out in the seclusion of his home be enough?

Always so stubborn, especially when it would have been the correct time to give in. His annoyance and unwillingness to be anything other than slow moving and low maintenance drove her away from him. He was just fine being on his own, so why couldn't she?

‘I feel like you’re embarrassed of me,’ She’d cried, having hit her breaking point. ‘I feel like you don’t even really care about me.”

Aizawa’s jaw tightens. Of course I care about you. Why else would I want you here?

He should have said that. But, he didn’t. Just silently witnessed the destruction unsure of what to do next. Unsure of whether to argue, or remain dormant and quiet. Not quite apathetic, but he was never one for a shouting match. 

Unfortunately, he chose to remain still in the face of a crumbling heart. 

‘Even now, you won’t say a word. You don’t ever talk to me, Shota. You never ask how my day was, or if I want to go do anything. Why do I feel like I’m just here so you’re not lonely?’ She’d had fat tears welling in the pits of her eyes. She looked drained, broken. ‘I need more,’ Voice cracking, a terrible realization she’d stumbled upon. ‘I need more than that.’ 

It was a tense moment of silence. She shook her head and choked back a harsh sob.

‘Then that’s it.’ Lip trembling, feeling unwanted. ‘I can’t do this with you anymore. I’m leaving.’

At the lucid memory, Aizawa wish's he could go back and punch himself in the head. Say something, you idiot, he’d scream. Tell her to stay.

She’d passed him by, and the door slammed shut before he even turned to watch her go. 

It’s been weeks now, and he can’t seem to get his head right. It’d taken days before she came to collect her things, something he hoped would never come to be. A stupid part of him believed that she’d come around for some reason. It’d happened before- her storming out, him never changing, her missing him enough to just... Get over it. This time, however, was much different. 

Sinking in the memories, Aizawa feels his throat tighten at everything she’d said, and even worse, everything he didn’t say. His phone lights up beside him. 

yamada: are you still moping in there???? come out w us tonight! you need to get outta bed at some point

yamada: its been weeeeeeks!!!!!!! come on!!!!!!!

Aizawa knows he does. He knows his friend has been trying to get him to leave since it happened, but it’s hard.  He answered his friend, deciding that tonight he would in fact go out for a few hours just to clear his mind- anything is starting to become better than seeing a home empty of her. He sends the message, and his heart grows heavy.

He said yes to his friends when he was feeling sorry for himself, but never for her. He knew he deserved it, but it hurt not having her anymore. Especially when all he had to do was say yes sometimes. 

What stung the most was that he didn’t get to see her when she came to collect all her items, cram them into a box and leave for the last time. He’d hoped at that point, if it ever came to that, he could convince her to stay. But.. She hadn’t told him she was coming. Perhaps because she knew she was bound to give in. 

He came from from U.A., hoping that she’d be there, sleeping soundly or sitting terse on the couch ready for an argument ending conversation. 

But, she wasn’t there. In fact, nothing of her was. All her things vacated. Everything but the memory of her stripped away. 

Aizawa had stood stunned in the doorway. Then, it all came crashing down. She was serious this time. It was set in stone.

She’d really left him.

He didn’t think she’d actually leave him. Arguments were always so easy for Aizawa. He was a firm believer in ‘take me as a I am, or don’t take me at all.’ But, he’d never realized just how much changing she’d done for him. 

When he’d first met her at a group outing, she was full of life. She was bouncy and energetic. She had a sea of friends, a world of opportunities. But with him, with Aizawa’s stubbornness combined with her need and want to spend time with him, she went out less and less. Contacts in her phone dwindled from a vast ocean to merely puddles. 

Seldom she went out, and on the rare occasions she was able to get Aizawa to go, she’d dress in her best just for him to chastise her. ‘We’re not going anywhere that fancy,’ he’d remark, not noticing how her eyes fell. ‘Aren’t you a little over dressed?’

Guilt tore up his heart, now. She was always so beautiful dressed up like that, how could he ever say those things? Too late did he notice how she’d changed everything for him. Lost friends, missed outings, just so she could remain by his side. He did everything wrong and wasn't even willing to see it. He felt like a neglectful, stubborn, ass. 

Forcing himself up from bed, it takes all his strength to get up and wander into the bathroom. He’d need to start getting ready then if he was to go later. He was a slow moving creature, after all. Lazily, mentally drained and exhausted, he opens the mirror and pulls his toothbrush from the little shelves inside. The mirror swings shut and he’s met with his dreadful reflection. 

His eyes are even darker, redder, than they ever were with his quirk. Even he could tell he looked worse for wear. Drained, emotionally vacant yet so powerfully overrun with them at the same time. He looked dead. He brings the toothbrush to his teeth, but can’t bring himself to find the motivation to actually begin cleaning up. 

So tired. 

He just wants to sleep again. 

He wants to text her. But he doesn’t.

Tossing the toothbrush into the sink, resting his elbows on the edges and allowing his head to hang in sorrow, he wonders what she’s doing right now. It’s a warm Friday evening, the blue sky wide and clear. He’s sure she’s going out tonight, finally allowing herself the freedom to make up for all the time she’d missed with her friends. Friday’s were always Aizawa’s least favorite day. He just knew she’d want to go out, and he’d always combat it with a movie she’d been wanting to see, coming up with some random excuse as to why it wouldn’t be an ideal idea to go out. 

Then, he’d ignore how she sadly watched her friends social media stories about the night, and ignored their texts asking why she’s never around anymore.

God, what he would give for one more Friday night with her. He’d dress up, he’d take her somewhere so nice even he would be afraid he couldn’t afford the food. Her and all her friends. Whoever she wants, the whole world if need be. He’d do anything she wanted, strut her to a party on a red-carpet. Anything just for another Friday night. 

Aizawa’s eyes cast back up to his reflection. A lump forms in his throat, he watches his eyes glisten with tears. He wants to fall into the floor and forget about everything. 

Pushing himself away from the sink, he shake his head and gags on how tight his threat feels. Without even a moments hesitation, he finds himself right back in his room, pulls the covers aside, and drowns in them all over again. It’s dark, it’s cold. His own rooms uninviting without her. 

Yet, he can’t seem to bring himself to leave it.

His phone sits on his pillow. Aizawa opens his friends message. 

‘im going to stay in tonight. thank you for inviting me. im tired’

Aizawa doesn’t even want to see the messages his friend instantly starts blowing his phone up with. Instead, seconds after the text sends, he holds the power button until the entire screen goes black. He rolls over to face the wall, and he feels like he’s made of led. He swallows hard and gives into sleep all over again. His arm slings around a pillow, and he clutches it to his chest. 

A forever inanimate reminder of where she once laid. 

[fictional-scenarios]

hey! i just wanted to drop by and say that good lord, your writing is a goddamn blessing and im i N L O V E. i hope you have a wonderful day ❤️

waaaa i love you so much anon

[fictional-scenarios]

hey ur writing is really good!! Can i request sleeping hcs for itachi? Like, whats his habits before and while sleeping, how he is while sleeping, does he wake up easily?

itachi sleeping headcanons

itachi is an early bird in nature, so therefore he's also among the first in konoha it seems to wind down for the night. he doesn't have much of a nightlife and greatly prefers dawn to dusk, especially the times before the rest of the town has risen.

before bed, he relaxes with some hot tea and whatever book he's been reading- usually something revolving around classics or history. he also brushes his hair right before slipping under the covers to reduce any tangles for the morning. now and then he'll sleep without releasing his hairband, but he often finds it to be uncomfortable to sleep that way, plus it makes his hair wavy in a way he isn't a fan of.

he falls asleep fairly quickly. not instantaneous, but insomnia is a rare occurrence for him. he also doesn't dream too much surprisingly, but when he does, those dreams are either incredibly vague or exist as a very distant memory in the back of his head upon waking up.

during itachis slumbers, he seldom moves very much. he's mastered the art of silent sleeping. for some reason when he's sleeping on a bed specifically, though, he will always fall asleep on his back but wake up on his side.

he's a groggy waker :} if he wakes up naturally, at ease, when he first opens his eyes he looks like a lost deer for a few moments

although he can sleep in absolute silence if need be, itachi prefers to crack a window open and listen to the outside world. he enjoys the crickets, the sounds of owls and winds rustling through leaves. he isn't a fan of any lights being on as it disturbs his rest

that being said, he really is a super light sleeper. even when he comes home from a mission exhausted to his core, the slightest thing will rouse him back into immediate consciousness. his years of being a high performing ninja and sleeping during the nights of missions has trained him to pick up on even the smallest of sounds.

but! he isn't jumpy. when he stirs to something alerting him, he's either able to quickly gauge if its a threat of not. at worst, he may sit up or even wander out of his room until he's sure nothing is awry. when all is well, it's right back to bed he goes.

[nationalharryleague]

What is your dad’s weird hyperfixation??? They all have one

[0zzysaurus]

all the people in the tags being like “my dad’s hyperfixation on not paying child support” like okay then, my dad is hyperfixated on Battlestar Galactica and jellybeans

[fictional-scenarios]

first snow.

━ kirishima / reader

━ fluff, oneshot

a/n: something soft to reminds myself that winter isn’t all bad.

song 

━ frigid winds kiss the tops of your ears, your breath rising in dissipating puffs. 

“it’s freezing out here,” kirishima hummed. “it feels like we skipped fall.”

“you don’t like winter?” your feet scuffed against the pavement, arms out, trying to balance as you strolled along the curb. 

“it’s not that i don’t like it, it’s just not my favorite.” kirishima strode with his hands shoved in his pockets. “never really understood the hype of snow.”

clouds hung heavy in the night sky, blocking off any gaps that would allow you take a quick peak at the moon, or some stars, even. every now and then wind would rustle and whistle through the barren trees lining the road, wind chimes ringing sometimes almost violently. 

somehow, you still found beauty in it.

you found beauty in the homes warmly lit with candles, and the stretching arms of branches winding into the air. there was something special in a town afterhours, the world hibernated away for the fall evening. so quiet, peaceful.

there was beauty in the way kirishima despised the chilliness, huddled in his coat, yet he still remained beside you. 

“i love the snow, especially at night.” you bumped his shoulder with the side of your head, an affectionate nudge. “have you ever just stopped and watched the snow while everyone else slept? it feels like time is standing still.”

“im usually the one sleeping.” he mumbled lightheartedly. 

the watch on your wrist vibrated, alerted you that you’d seen be arriving upon your destination. it was almost disappointing. with a sigh, you hopped of the curb to walk beside him. “hey, thanks for walking me home.”

kirishima’s left hand snaked out of his pocket to find your own, freezing fingers clasping together. he offered a toothy smile, and said, “anytime.”

you knew he was being honest. the good nature in him would never allow you walk home all by your lonesome on such a cold, dreary evening. still you were grateful. you were always grateful for him- even when he wasn’t doing anything special to deserve it. 

“y’know, i adore you.” you said suddenly, and he blinked at you for a moment, pinks rising to his cheeks and mixing in with the already reddening on his nose. 

“aw, come on,” he let his head hand abashedly, a goofy grin playing at his features. “you’re all sweet on me for walking you home.”

“no,” as the pair of you passed by a brightly shining lamppost, you stopped him, stepping in front of block his way. “i just do. i always do.”

it was always strange seeing kirishima try to awkwardly accept your random displays of verbal affection. he was an all physical man, all wrapping arms around your waist and constantly tugging you against him, kissing the side of your head and the top of your nose. yet, for some reason, he flushed as red as his hair when you’d admire him, tell him how great he looks or how lucky you are to call him yours. 

“you look like an angel, right now.” you cooed, the streetlamp dousing him in light. he shook his head, grinning, flashing those sharp teeth so polar opposite to the softness within him. a big red angel. 

“no, you’re the angel.” kirishima took your other free hand into his, successfully holding both hands in his own and rubbing the tops of your knuckles. “you’re seriously the best person i could ever ask for.”

remembering him when you'd first met him compared to now was always a trip. he was so starkly different now. although always kind, always a gentleman, the kirishima you knew at the start was a different soul. back then he was so much louder, a splash of color in your world of greys. it was hard to have a soft, quiet nights with him, like the ones you had now. 

in your thoughts, you were brought back to reality with a kiss on the bridge of your nose. you blinked at him, took in the painting of his silhouette and the rest of his magnificence. 

“what’s on your mind?” he asked. 

a smile played at your lips. “you.”

you saw his mouth open, just to then shut a split second later. his brows knit gently, barely enough to be noticed. you tilted your head. 

“what is it?”

kirishima’s gaze turned upward, and you followed. 

spots of cold wetness met your cheek, landed softly and continuously. you blinked up at the sky and watched- watched as specks of white seemed to drift so freely to surround your huddled bodies before sinking to the earth. the wind ceased, and time seemed to remind you to take in this very, very special moment. 

kirishimas hands were warm, you could still feel his kiss on your cold nose. he was silent in awe, taking in the serenity of being so lucky as to be blessed with the gentle kisses of the winters first snow. 

the streetlamp poured brazen golds over the pair of you, melded in the with the red of his eyes and shimmered yellow into his hair. illuminated under the spotlight of a manmade halo, you took in the sight of kirishima pulling his gloves off his hands. he watched the white flakes melt against his palm. 

“wow,” he whispered.

your lips upturned when he softened, smiled. you knew that in the days to come, the winter would not be so sweet- but in that moment, it was. it was all that and more. 

the world, for the moment, was pure. shimmering diamonds and clusters of flakes dancing into the night, laying rest upon the pavement and dusting it with softness.

kirishima was nothing short of wonderstruck, and that was a gorgeous sight, indeed.

[fictional-scenarios]

Hi! Totally chill if you don't, but do you still do naruto requests?? I sent one in a long time ago and I never see any naruto in your blog anymore. It's totally chill if you don't, I'm simply wondering!

this is so old but yes i do! what was your request?

[fictional-scenarios]

Are you possibly know of the moomins ? If so would you ever be open to writing some things for them ??

i actually knew very, very little about the moomins :( sowwy

[fictional-scenarios]

Hello, could I request a Mirio x Fem! S/O where they are training or something and suddenly his S/O sprains their ankle like really badly, and they can’t really walk, so Mirio just kinda gives them a piggyback home? If it’s okay, please and thank you!

im trying to get back into the swing of things so this is gonna be pretty short! real sorry abt that one but i hope u like anyways hehe

as always reblogs and replies are super motivating!

The hand that helps

Well into the hours of the late afternoon, where often you’d find yourself lounging in your room after a day of classes, you instead stood in the center of an open field. The sun was high, the breeze was light. You’d have enjoyed it if you weren’t so entirely focused on something else, waiting silent and unmoving for your signal to break. 

In the peace, you heard it. The slightest rustle of grass behind you, the barely audible breath leaving a pair of lungs. Your eyes shot open, your hands tightened into ready fists. A sharp turn, a quick dodge- Mirio launched right past you, barely missing the collision of what would have been your bodies slamming into one another. Or, surely, his hitting yours, sending you hurdling to the ground like a rock. He was so much larger than you. 

Larger than life is seemed, sometimes.

From the very instant you pivoted and turned quick enough to face him, he was already onto his next move. He sank back into the grass with your eyes only catching him in the corners, afraid to look dead on due to the… bare consequence of his quirk. When he was gone, there was silence again. 

It was hard to fight him as a friend rather than a foe. Highstakes, life on the line, of course you’d have looked him dead on and set that nakedness of his to side, but it was difficult to at that moment. He was your friend.

Unfortunate, just your friend, even despite how much you longed to have him be more.

Sadly, he was a shooting star centered and aimed towards his goals. Though it hurt your heart to never even try, you knew he had no time for you romantically. But it was okay. You’d decided long ago that if you could not have him as a lover, you’d gladly take to being his friend instead. Enjoying his company was worth far more than a rejection to you, even if it meant hiding your feelings until you saw the time fit. 

Feet stilled over the grass. You swallowed, shut your eyes, and listened, and remembered what he had told you. 

In battle your opponent just might have the upper hand, he’d told you, like a teacher onto his student.  So, Wait for the perfect moment, when you can sense them there. Wait until you can sense me there. 

Wait until the perfect moment. Right. 

The softest of breaths left your parted lips when suddenly, within the second, the very instant, you felt him. 

Behind you. 

Left- Right again, you dodged and he shot past you like a bullet. He was gone before you could even turn to find his landing point, hidden beneath the ground. The next time he shot up you saw him in the corner of your eye and dodged one more time, expecting him to sink into the earth for a third attempt. But, you were wrong. His heels met the harsh earth and he jumped right back at you. 

You were unprepared. 

“Expect the unexpected!” He shouted, coming fast. You were too slow. 

Though it was without any real force, his knuckles met your shoulder. You tried to escape it, but failed to. Rather than turn away and let him fly past as he had the first two times, your ankle gave way under the weight of your body and you flailed to the dirt gracelessly. 

“Ouch!” You howled, feeling a sharp pain shoot up your leg. “What did I just do?!”

“Woah, one sec,” Concerned now, Mirio quickly clothed himself while you took to sitting on your behind, right leg outstretched while the your hands clasped the joint of your other foot. Adorned in his shirt and pants, he crouched down beside you. “What happened?”

“I think,” A dull laugh left you. “I think I twisted my ankle.”

“Twisted? Let me see-” Mirio’s large hands replaced yours, and you wished you hadn’t started feeling your face light up with blush. He was so gentle with you, putting his palm to your skin without applying any pressure to hurt you. “I don’t think you just twisted it.”

“No?” You frowned. “What happened?”

Mirio leaned back on his heels, sighing. “I think you might have sprained it.”

“Oh no,” You whined. “I don’t wanna have to see Recovery Girl again… She always scolds me.”

“Hah, you and me both.” He chuckled, and the sound always made you want to shiver in delight. “Well, let’s get you up and going!”

Wincing in pain, you began to move to bring yourself up to stand, but he quickly stopped you. 

“Wait just a minute, let me help you!”

“No, it’s okay-”

Before you knew it, Mirio had turned his back on you, grinning at you over his shoulder. With two thumbs, he pointed to his shoulders, and you instantly shook your head. 

“No way, I can walk, seriously.”

“Come on!” He cheered.

“Mirio-”

“Really, it’s okay! Climb up!”

You felt like you were going to catch on fire as you gave in, swallowing thickly and shakily reaching out. He sat like a boulder, unmoving as you grasped the broadness of his shoulders. You slung your arms around his neck, cheek pressed to the back of his neck. He stood, reached back and caught underneath your knees in the crooks of his elbows. He really did bring you up with him, smiling like a beacon the entirety of the way.

“Are you sure about this…?” You asked, flushing. Luckily he couldn’t see your face. “I can walk…”

“It’s perfectly fine! You’re really easy to carry.”

A soft laugh leaves you, eyes softening. “Everything’s easy to carry to you.”

“You’re right!”

Letting your head fall, you once more rest your cheek against him. You can feel his muscles through his shirt, and while you’d normally feel like you’re about to die with such closeness, for some reason the most overpowering emotion that reels you in is a sense of safety. You breathe out, shut your eyes, and he keeps you hoisted against him. 

The suns only just begun to set, the sky a soft blue layered above the yellows. 

“Thank you,” you mumble, eyes cracking open to admire the beauty. 

“No need to thank me.” His voice is softer, gentler. “You did good today.”

The corners of your lips upturn. “Yeah?”

“Of course. You always do good.”

“Says you.”

You can hear the smile in his voice, when he says, “Say’s me.”

“Thanks for training with me today,” you say, elated. “I think I did learn a lot.”

“You get better and better every time!” He cheers, that same energy returning to him. “After you see Recovery Girl, I’ll take you home for a good night’s rest and tomorrow we can try twice as hard!”

“T-Tomorrow?” You stammer. “You wanna train more with me?”

“Of course! So after I carry you back home, make sure you sleep good.”

You laugh. “Carry me home? I’ll be okay after Recovery Girl see’s me.”

“Hmm, true, but,” He lets out what you can only realize is a shaky breath. “I kinda like this, you know?” 

“Y-You-” Eyes wide open now, you giggle nervously. “You like this…?”

“Yep!” 

For just a moment, you wonder. 

The notion that he may never have time for you romantically is, for a quick second, pushed away to the sidelines of your mind. You tease the idea- the thought that perhaps, if things are this way, he may just have space for you in that bullet train he calls a mind. 

Maybe, just maybe, he isn’t so one tracked as you initially believed him to be. 

You tighten your grip slightly, enjoying it just as much as he seemed to. “I’m… Glad. For that. Thank you.”

“Anytime. Tomorrow we’ll get twice as much done.”

“Right, tomorrow.” You can’t help but grin, feeling butterflies in your stomach. You smile into the muscles of his back. Giddiness makes you feel like a butterfly, yourself. 

His shoes kick small pebbles of gravel under each step. 

Tomorrow. 

[fictional-scenarios]

can I get some angsty sero x reader fic?

vacancy

pairing: sero hanta // reader

a/n: this became sort of a vent but it be like that!!!

warnings: none

He’s trying and he’s reaching with two shaking hands but, as always, you are too far away. Familiar fingers swipe at your arms, at the fabric of your shirt. He misses by inches and you carry on without a sound. You don’t even look back at him, falling to the floor just as quietly as your footsteps fading. His entire life feels like a corridor with you consistently just barely out of reach. It feels like years since he’s last caught you, held you in his arms, shushed the aches and the cries that spill from your cracked lips.

You’ve become so far away from him that he’s not even sure if what he is seeing is you anymore. A mirage, an image. A memory that he clings to for the sake of his own heart. 

Through school, through weather for better or worse, only for a short time did he have you. The ring on his finger feels like lead. A two story house can feel as cramped as a cave when the walls close in. 

Sero feels like he’s smothering every single time you leave his arm. The shell of your image cracks and bursts at the seams just a little more every time you refuse to meet his gaze. The oasis he chases may just be the part of him that refuses to let go. He isn’t even sure what would happen should he finally reach you, stand before you and drag all the emptiness from the core of your body. He wants to rebuild you from the ground up- your foundations are still there but he can see the exhaustion in your eyes. Even though he understands, frustration erodes what little remains. 

All he wants is to feel it again. To feel you again. 

Sero sits at an empty dinner table underneath a dim light stuck fast to the ceiling. You’re working late again. Your job was a difficult one and he knew that well before he’d married you. Really, the neediness of your job used to be his crutch. What better reason to explain your absence than duty?

But eventually, even that too fell apart. The distance between your bodies carried on even as you lugged yourself home. You still hug him, wrap your arms around the form of his body and maybe for a moment he can feel you try to ignore but just as fast as it arrives, it’s… gone. The warmth of your body leaves him even colder than he had been before. Your head hangs, and you can’t look at him.

There’s a million miles in between two people sharing a single couch, and the heaviness in his chest makes him wonder when he’d swallowed concrete. It weighs and it weighs and it weighs and yet when you finally look at him he fucking smiles like it’s an invitation. Like you’re going to finally heave and combust into a million pieces for him to put back together. From one end of the couch to the other, a fleeting moment passes where both minds consider. 

One craves to break. The other, to assist.

He can’t read your mind but he knows you well enough that there’s something holding your jaw shut tight. In the few times he see’s into the pools of your eyes you have to look away before you start to tear up, afraid that if you start, you will not be able to stop.

God, he wishes he could tell you that it’s alright. 

“I’m fine”, you assure him with a wavering smile.

You don’t have to be, he pleads. You almost shatter as his hands find your cheeks. He does not smile. 

The corridor spreads miles downwards despite the way he tries to see an uphill climb. He tells him that you will come around, that one day, you will find solace within the void and you’ll finally, finally let your walls come down. He doesn’t need a show- he just needs an answer. Even as you sleep beside him he needs an answer, and more often than not, he watches you in the darkness. Tries to find the evidence in the fluttering of your eyelashes, the unconscious grimaces and the tense shoulders. He’d asked you what you’d dreamt about more times than he can count, your response always the same.

Don’t worry about it.

How can he not?

Everyday the space grows further. You become the ghost he has to search for. Imagine that- living in a home so desolate. 

In his bitterness, at the very bottom of the well he’s tumbled down, he once spoke within the confines of his mind. Your text read, ‘working late again, sorry’. He dropped the fork onto his plate and felt his lower lip catch between his teeth. He blurted words before they even had time to process. 

“You may as well be nonexistent.” 

It had been so quiet. So far under his breath that not even a mouse could hear, but he’d heard himself anyways. Every single part of him stopped in utter, utter disgust of himself. 

He texts back slowly with heavy fingers. 

okay, stay safe. i love you.

Sero sit’s at an empty table yet again. Gets up, rinses his plate, and feels tears prick his eyes. 

You don’t come home until well after he’s asleep. 

[chthonicillness]

how to dress so girls and crows will notice me but security cameras won’t

[thyrell]

plague doctor

[fictional-scenarios]

@queenie-of-the-roaches

[wrongnote]

The floor is unconditionally loving your family

[speedlimit15]

me: im gonna go to bed early and get a good nights sleep netflix: here’s a bunch of 45 minute documentaries on the wildlife inhabiting coastal islands me: hhhdbhnnnnnnnnnnddndkkj coconut crab

[fictional-scenarios]

@queenie-of-the-roaches @queenie-of-the-roaches @queenie-of-the-roaches

[fictional-scenarios]

could you write a small dapple about Aizawa with a female S/O that has self-harm scars? Like, she's really ashamed of them and always wears a jacket to cover them? If you're not comfortable writing about this topic, I understand (:

want you to know 

paring: aizawa shouta // reader

a/n: HERE YOU GO!!!!! i made it from his perspective

warnings!: self harm! 

Long before you even had the thought to admit it, Aizawa had known. Everything about him relies in the eyes, in the perception. All it took for him to connect the regretful dots was the quick tugging of the sleeves, the aversion of eyes towards anyone who could have seen what lies beneath the fabric, rests just atop the supple flesh of your wrists. 

If he was a poet, he’d describe the lines upon your arms as paint strokes on a broken canvas, but he is not a poet, so he doesn’t. He just feels anger. Or, perhaps, he feels pity. He feels something in his chest caught between the two or possibly even a mix- whatever that stirring is, it’s not right. It doesn’t settle contently between the dips of his ribcage. 

A long while ago he had the idea to ask you about the marks directly. To look you in the eyes and say, “why”, but he decides against it purely based on your acidic reactions towards eyes even lingering a moment too long on the affected area. If there’s a part of you that wants to discuss it, you hide that piece very well, choke it and snuff it under your boot. There isn’t a single reason for him to believe you’d welcome the conversation. And yet, it ruptures within him. Spreads into his bloodstream and makes him feel heavier with each time you fuss to keep your jacket unfurled all the way to the knuckles, sometimes. Anything to hide or redirect attention to. The smile on your face does everything to keep the questions at bay.

Aizawa cannot understand it, why the ghost of your past would ever want to harm your own body. Why you would drag a blade or a burn over your flesh and welcome the feeling on more than one occasion. As you sleep beside him, knocked out cold from the busy day as he grades papers from his students, he sneaks glimpses at your arms. When you’re unaware that you’re exposed from the elbow down are the only times he can really take a look, and while he feels the guilt prying his eyes away, he can’t help himself. He subconsciously shakes his head before writing another grade, another note and critique. 

Above the entire world, you reside within the confines of his mind. He truly believes to the very core of his heart that if there is a soul within existence that deserves nothing but happiness, it’s you. Perhaps it’s precisely why he can’t understand. The thought of you harming yourself, tearing away at the body he favors more than anything else, makes him feel sick at times. Never explosively- always internally. Questions, concerns. All he wants to ask is if you still feel the day you did back when you took the time to hurt intentionally. But then again, he isn’t sure how he’d feel if you told him yes. He isn’t even sure how he’d react if you told him you didn’t want to speak about it. A scenario like this is foreign- he isn’t sure what he’s to do. Pry? He understands talking about the things that hurt are the only way to move on properly, but then again, your trust that he won’t cross any lines buries itself under your skin. Aizawa can’t imagine digging it back up and throwing it back in your face.

Though there are times when the unknown eats him alive silently, there isn’t a single piece of him that wishes to live in ignorance. To never have seen the scars. Even if you’re not ready, even if you carry them like weights on your shoulders, as long as he’s aware then he can prepare himself. It doesn’t change how he feels, however. No amount of preparation can prepare him for the way it feels in his chest when he can feel the shame radiating off you. When you  disregard a dress with sleeves that don’t fall to the palms of your hands, or the way you refuse to be seen without a jacket or something to hide, hide, hide. The scars are ever-existent. Unmoving, always appearing. An eternity of hiding. He can’t stand the thought of you despising your history for so long. 

He thinks of you like a wanderer finding peace. Always there, giving and taking. Aizawa doesn’t consider himself a man of too much emotion but there are times when you’d advert your eyes and he wants to catch your cheeks in his hands, remind you that there isn’t a single thing under the sun that could ever make him think lesser of you. 

Just talk to me, he wants to say. Tell me why you did it, tell me if you’d do it again. 

He looks at you from the corners of his eyes and sees that your night shirt has ridden up once more. Scars stick out and mound over your skin, hidden in plain sight. Staring at them, he feels the discontent settle in his gut. He’s a hypocrite and he knows it- he’s never liked talking about his flaws either. It’s not fun to be in the spotlight only to tear yourself to pieces. 

Eyes travel down your skin and stories. It’s not ugliness he recognizes, but pain. He makes a noise in the back of his throat out of dismay.

Talk to me.

But, it is not time. You are asleep and wistfully unaware, and he has a mountain of paper to scrutinize atop his lap.

Even though he gags down the words like acid from a vial, he still has to grit his teeth and bear the sting. It burns- it rages and scratches him from the inside out in a strange way that cannot be seen from the outside. Aizawa’s learned early on how to hide the snarls of his lips or the shaking of his hands. Instead of balling fingers tight into solid fists, he reaches out, brushes the the hair from atop your nose behind your ear. It falls back into place anyways. 

He tugs the blanket up to your shoulder, sighs, and stares back down at the papers, oddly melancholic. With a roll of his shoulders, his pen meets paper.