9th year, let's go! i have been slowly getting back into art (joblessness lol) and managed to update some refs, looking forward to being more active this year (o˘◡˘o) happy artfight everyone!
content: gender neutral reader, things get worse before they get better but they DO get better, referenced/implied past abuse, fluff with some angst but it's comforting in the end, can be either platonic or romantic, oh my god they were neighbors....
When you catch him looking at you when you talk, you feel a thrill that you thought to be lost for years. He listens, genuinely interested, and it makes you think he truly likes spending time with you. It's overwhelming, because you've never been this happy before, to have someone you can call for help, someone who offers to take out your trash along with his, someone who buys you a novelty, ridiculously expensive mug just because you mentioned one time how cute it is.
You've never had a friend, never had anyone care like this before. Yet, you recognize it, even if you have not experienced it before; because the missing piece of a puzzle already tells you the shape it exists in, even if you haven't seen it.
You're petrified.
The night is dark and starless, and so very loud, filled with the noise of the city, with cars and people and a raging, thundering storm. The cloud above are angry, heavy like lead, a wild and untamed force of nature. Neon lights reflect along the sleek edges of many water-dipped buildings; magenta and teal and electric yellow, dancing together in an attempt to make the world look prettier than it is. It's all a lie.
Atop one of the highest such buildings in Musutafu, you stand right in the eye of the storm, because you are the source of it.
The wind blows your hair in every direction. It doesn't matter. Your fingers have grown numb from the biting cold rain. Soaked clothes make it difficult to move, dragging you down under the current, slowing your aching muscles and your troubled mind. An arc of lighting strikes across the sky. The light reflect in your eyes in a thousand of shimmering fragments. It hurts so much. It doesn't matter. You do not matter.
A voice screams over the intercom of a helicopter above you. Something about surrendering, but you cannot hear the words – it's not safe for it to get any closer, and your ears have been drowned in rumbles and static.
You're standing so very still, so afraid to move. If you do, it might all become real. If you don't move, they can't get closer, they can't grab you. You have nowhere left to go. A cornered animal, some stupid, pathetic dog, left alone because it was discarded by its master. It served no use anymore, so here it stands now, biting and clawing away at anyone that gets too close; because it is the only thing it can do in a pointless attempt to keep itself safe.
Lashing out has been instinctual. People are nice so they could hurt you. If you don't let them get close, they cannot hurt you again. If you strike first, they can't surprise you.
But in all this grand display of power and righteous vengeance, all that the animal feels is shame. You are guilty, because you've broken the one rule you had set for yourself in order to keep yourself safe: keep your heart closed, and don't let anyone in.
It's all his fault. You're hurting because of him. Fuck Aizawa Shouta, and his bleeding, tired heart.
The years had been passing by in a blur. You don't really know what you were doing, but maybe it's better that you don't. Life hadn't been good, but it wasn't until you were able to get out of that place that kept your childhood a prison, that you realized just how unfair it had been.
A prisoner in a cave, that didn't know it was trapped in a cave. A silly little animal that didn't know how to live with the sunny sky above its head. A wild, neglected storm, that never learned how to control their wrath until it had already harmed people the very same way it had been harmed, too.
Whatever. You were doing fine now. You're past that time; it can't catch up to you anymore. You got away, made so many mistakes, learned from a few and repeated others until you really started to understand just how bad you were doing. You can handle yourself now.
You go to your shitty job where you scan groceries and restock products all day. You clean your shitty apartment, and cook shitty pre-packaged food. You do shitty taxes, like a law-abiding citizen, and then watch shitty TV shows until your eyes start seeing shadow spiders or the hat man and then maybe you realize oh shit im exhausted and losing my grip on reality i really need to sleep. It doesn't matter. You function.
The catalyst for everything in this story is a shitty couch.
It all happens because one late night, you were struggling to move up a couch you'd just brought for really cheap off a marketplace; and like a functioning, sane human being, you'd climb three entire flights of stairs of the apartment complex, alone, holding the piece of furniture like Atlas holding the world. Brilliant decision, looking back.
"You're gonna break your back with that."
You're aware this person is speaking to you. The voice makes the man sound like he smokes four packs of cigarettes a day, and sleeps for even less hours in one. So, naturally, you expect more mockery or some flavor of harassing comments about your life choices; maybe a sigh of disappointment, if you're lucky.
The weight you carry eases, because the stranger grabs the other end of the couch and lifts it together with you. You don't look at him, don't make eye contact, don't acknowledge his presence, no matter how helpful it really is. You don't say a word, and neither does he, until the offending unit covered in faux leather and smelling vaguely like old basement is placed neatly in the empty space of your boring living room.
"Thanks," your tone is nearly as flat as the couch.
"Don't mention it."
And that's that. The man leaves without any other fuss, and you sneakily watch his figure retreat down the hall (while squinting really hard in the low light, since the lights on your floor have been broken for weeks and maintenance hasn't bothered to fix them yet), his dark hair and dark clothes blending together; making him look like he's part of the shadows. He goes in the apartment that's just two doors down your own, and you make a note to remember him.
Over the following month, you learn your neighbor is a peculiar man. You sometimes cross paths when you get home from work, exchanging a polite nod or even a plain 'hello' from time to time. His schedule, however, is simply bizarre – you've noticed how he leaves later in the evening, close to nighttime (because you run over to the door and look through the visor when you hear any doors creaking open, which is the totally and completely normal thing to do as a noisy neighbor, duh), and he doesn't return until very early in the morning. Then, he leaves even earlier than you, with a thermos of what you can only imagine being boiling, plain black coffee, and a tired scowl; ya know, the essentials.
So you simply presume he has a regular, normal day job, and shady, nightly hide hustle, or something like that. Well, whatever kind of work he's into, it's not any of your business, and you don't want to make it be, either.
You need to keep to yourself, anyway. You're done causing trouble, you've escaped that past. What matters now is the fake fantasy of a normal life. Working an honest, dead-end job with minimal benefits. Searching for the best deals and discounts on instant noodles and laundry detergent. Doing the dishes every day. Staring out your little balcony onto the city skyline, looking at those nice, pristine buildings, where good people get to have dreams come true.
"meow...?"
Hmm, weird. Cats aren't supposed to be part of your maladaptive daydream. Yet, there it is, a fluffy calico meowing up at you from behind a half-dead potted plant in the corner of your balcony.
You stare at the strange creature. It stares back. You find a great deal of intelligence in its eyes. Cute. Ah, but that's how they get you...
Through a miracle, the cat doesn't find you threatening, so it approaches. You move away from the balcony's ledge, and crouch down to its level with a hand out, talking in ridiculous chirps. The cat doesn't seem to understand you, so you try a different approach.
"Are you lost, little guy?"
The cat blinks slowly.
Yeah, you're not lonely at all, right? Just talking to random cats on a Friday night. It's the cat's meow, isn't it?
Well, at least the animal has a collar, so it probably belongs to one of the tenants. Cats probably can't climb up several floors on the side of a building, but it's likely it wandered from balcony to balcony. And there is the crucial hint – engraved on the side of the collar, 'Kiko', and a phone number.
The good thing is to return the lost cat to its owner. It's a no-brainer. It's also huge mistake number two of this story.
Because you end up calling the number, and a familiar voice picks up; of course, it's your weird neighbor whose dark circles try to rival the Marina Trench every other week.
"Yes?"
Shit. You need to say something smart and interesting. "Your cat is on my balcony." Riveting.
"Oh. I'll come pick her up."
You didn't even say your name. It's okay, that means you won't have to change it when you're forced to move to another city from sheer embarrassment and disappointment.
It's fine, really. The cat is cute, and while you've never had pets of your own, it feels nice when it jumps into your arms and wants to be carried around like a princess. You even scratch her under her chin, and she responds by nuzzling your hand. Dammit, do you really have to give her back now?
Yeah, you do, because the knock on your door tells you it's over. When you open it, he stands there in what you think to be old pajamas (complete with old cat fur on the shirt), blinking slowly, his hair a little messy; he looks like a cat that's been disturbed from its nap. It's weirdly, disturbingly cute.
When he sees the cat safely tucked in the nook of your arm, his gaze softens, and he sighs, relived. "Yeah, sorry for that. I forgot to lock the door and she likes to wander around," he says, polite and brief.
"Don't worry, it's fine. She just spooked me a bit, but I think we made friends." You lean forward to let him take the darling creature from you, and the swap is completed with success. "Isn't that right, your highness?"
She meows, pleased.
And standing in that narrow hallway with peeling wallpaper, one old, flickering light behind him and a sweet purring cat, you learn that Aizawa Shouta is a pretty decent man, actually.
Well, in truth, you decide that over a long time, but it's always the little moments that stay brightest in memory. One evening, you stress-bake enough sugar cookies to feed a whole small country, so you innocent drop a container with a good amount of them and a crinkly post-it note: 'for helping with the couch'. The next week, he texts you asking if you want to come over for a coffee, joking that your good friend Kiko misses you. It's a nice evening, and you actually feel like a normal human being who casually hangs around with people and has interesting conversations and plays with cute cats.
He tells you he's a teacher at a hero school, and his job keeps him away from home a lot. You were right – he drinks his coffee black – and his apartment is a mix of organized chaos among very simple, functioning appliances without much personal touch. He feels guilty for leaving the sweet cat so many hours alone, and you offer to watch her from time to time if he needs that. A tiny, tiny smile forms on his lips, and something weird squirms in your heart.
It's almost too nice at first. Making a new friend at this age is weird and hard and really annoying because it feels like it requires so much work, and commitment, and time adults don't really have to invest in other people anymore. Somehow, your ever-tired (yet secretly a big softly) neighbor makes time for it; he makes time for you.
You have takeout dinners together many times, doesn't matter if it's your place or his. Well, mostly his, because cat, yeah. But he brings her over a few times, too, and vacuuming all that cat hair is worth it, because watching her play around in your shitty apartment makes you feel good about yourself. You both avoid talking about your pasts, and instead focus on gentle, mundane subjects: what new shows you've enjoyed lately, a pasta recipe you've been meaning to try for a while, some crazy celebrity drama that is just too entertaining not to follow, crazy customer stories from your job or silly stories about his students.
(When you catch him looking at you when you talk, you feel a thrill that you thought to be lost for years. He listens, genuinely interested, and it makes you think he truly likes spending time with you. It's overwhelming, because you've never been this happy before, to have someone you can call for help, someone who offers to take out your trash along with his, someone who buys you a novelty, ridiculously expensive mug just because you mentioned one time how cute it is.
You've never had a friend, never had anyone care like this before. Yet, you recognize it, even if you have not experienced it before; because the missing piece of a puzzle already tells you the shape it exists in, even if you haven't seen it.)
It's... incredible. A dog that was told its whole life it was broken and unlovable, having found a home for the first time. It feels like your own special little secret, where you get to pretend to be the version you've always dreamt of being, acting like it's okay for you to be a real, living person. You're afraid to put a name on the feelings that develop for him, because that would mean changing the comfortable back-and-forth you've both been building together for months.
This nice, casual routine is ripped apart when feral hounds come nipping at your heels, grab you by the neck and drag you back into that ugly, cold past.
They need you for a job again. You don't know how they found you. You were so careful disappearing this time. You can't disappear again. The dog needs to return to its masters, and do the tricks it was trained to do; its obedience has been long trained deep into its bones, and it cannot deny its instincts.
The orders remain the same: you are destruction. Feral, unleashed, a savage force they have always molded in the shape they wanted.
That's all your quirk has even been good for, anyway. It was stupid to think you could be anything else. Your blood is lightning, your screams are thunder, your flesh is raging winds and unforgiving clouds. You do not matter. No one has ever noticed, because you were so good at keeping it chained together. But it's too late now, isn't it?
Because a tool gets discarded when it's no longer useful.
That's how you ended up running for your life across half the city, declared a deadly-level villain, chased and surrounded by police force and heroes that all shout over each other and hold nothing but burning malice in their eyes when they look at you.
You want to turn into dust and get blown away by the winds. Maybe then, finally, you'll be free. Maybe then, the guilt will stop consuming your every waking moment; because the biggest regret you have, after everything, is that you made an innocent life care for, grow to like you more than simple neighbors like each other, carved a little of your existence into his own believing it would be okay. And now, you will cause him so much pain, because you've betrayed everything he stands for as a hero.
The wind is howling so hard. One voice cuts through the shadows, because it is that same warm, patient voice that cradled you in the long nights when you wanted to pretend the world outside was just you and him; Aizawa and you.
"Stop, please... just listen!" the words are strained, spoken through heavy breaths. Has he been running a long time after you?
Somewhere along the edge of the building, your body merges with the storm. It is part of you, just like you are part of it. Maybe finally accepting that will make you stop feeling like you're choking with lungs full of lead. (It doesn't. It hurts. But it doesn't matter.)
Shouldn't he apprehend you already? You are a bad person. You're terrible, you ruin everything you touch. He needs to stop you. He's a hero, he keeps this city safe. You've been made to destroy for so long, it's the only thing you are good at.
He steps closer. Goggles over his eyes, inky hair being spun in all directions. His attack weapon reaches blindly into the heavy clouds, but he's always been good at shots in the dark; it grabs your arm. "You can do this. You're – gh, stronger than you think!" he nearly gets pushed back from the sheer force of the unruly storm that keeps growing and growing around you. "I know you don't want this. You're not stupid. Stop now, and we'll get through it together."
You've always listened when he talks with a fascinating curiosity, hanging onto his words, because they were so sparse, each one was so important. Your own little treasures to cherish.
He's right: you can't do this anymore. You're hurting him. You're hurting him. You love him, and you're hurting him. All of your mistakes, gathered like storm clouds, now rain down on him. The dog did the only thing it knew, lashing out to protect itself. It didn't see that now, there were other people willing to help, willing to protect it, too. You don't want to be that stupid dog anymore.
It's okay. You can stop now. You've done enough. Let yourself breathe freely. He will catch you when you fall.
One by one, clouds disperse like dried leaves drifting away. Under the dark and starless sky, only your human silhouette remains, framed by bright neons and blinking lights. A tether connects you to reality; a white, unbreakable scarf that guides you, a lost ship consumed by the shame, back to the safety of the lighthouse on the merciful shore.
One by one, tears fall down your cheeks. Each glimmer makes his heart squeeze itself a little tighter. "I'm sorry, Shouta. I'm so – so sorry. I don't know how to do this," you whisper into the night, a secret you've been guarding so fiercely. It's so easy to admit all your flaws to him. There is so much, it's all so loud still, overwhelming pressure in your head and static that numbs your limbs, a weight so heavy in your chest it's threatening to drag you under, again.
(There is so much he doesn't actually know, so much he's gambling away. He didn't expect this, didn't foresee the way you'd betray and lie to him; but deeper down, he knows you. The facts are laid bare for all to see, but he doesn't accept it that way. He's come to know, and he trusts there is so much more he cannot see. He's a hero, he needs to save you. You're dangerous, unpredictable, holding a power so dangerous it could rip him to pieces. He doesn't use his quirk to stop it, because he knows this is something you must do on your own.)
He steps closer, and the firm hold of his weapon is replaced by the gentle hold of his hand around your wrist. He can feel your pulse where his fingers rest over your freezing skin. "I've got you. It wasn't your fault, I believe you. But you have to trust me, too."
Anguished, stormy eyes meet focused, smoky ones. Within them, you find absolute resolve and steady, patient determination. He's your friend, the one person that's been there for months, reaching out and holding out his hand to you, wanting to help you move forward.
"Okay."
You take his hand, and step into the future together.
The road to make it stop hurting is not easy, but nothing worthwhile in life ever is.
The weeks that follow are a bit blurry, but it feels lighter than before. Shouta is by your side as much as he can be, especially during the police questioning and other boring, legal things heroes need to do. Any villain charges, any connections to crime gangs, anyone who tries to take you down along with them – it all turns out fine. He makes it turn out fine.
(In that moment on the rooftop, when you were breaking down in his arms, soaking his water-logged scarf with even more tears, he thought you were beautiful, he's never seen you stronger. You opened up about all those wretches parts of your past, and he understood just how brave you were every day, for having the courage to keep existing.)
You still go to work, still do the dishes, still water your withering plants in hope they'll bloom again. It's crazy how much the routine stays so much the same. The most important thing that changes is how you start looking forward to every next day – what new dish you'll learn to make, what new book you'll get to read for the first time, what new toy you'll buy for Kiko and spend another afternoon playing with her.
Every so often, when you're walking the same streets back home, the golden hour sun disperses through the leaves on a tree in such a pretty, indescribable way, it makes you stop and admire it for a bit. There is so much beauty in the world, and it's hard finding the strength to recognize, but it's worth it.
You function, much better than before, but you understand you can't be fine all the time; you don't need to pretend anymore. You have someone that loves and supports you on the good days and the bad days alike.
"So then, that cool old grandpa comes in and buys, like, at least twelve cabbages. He had a giant bag ready and everything, it looked handmade. And he left me an old-person candy when I gave him his change! Isn't that adorable?" you ramble on about your day while stirring vegetables in a pan. "Aw, but definitely no more adorable than you, my precious little angel," you baby-talk Kiko, leaning down to give her a little pat on her adorable head.
"You're spoiling her again," Shouta comments without looking up from the stack of tests he's still struggling to grade. You think you saw one written with pink, glittery gel pen.
"I'm spoiling you, too."
He grins softly. "Yes, you are. Thank you for cooking, dear."
After the meal, he kisses your cheek with fondness, and it's hard not to melt on the spot. You're still not used to this, still a little clumsy and aloof, but you're not scared anymore. He makes it so easy to want to try to change. If you can be even a spark of the hero he is, you'll be so happy, because you know you've made it. You can breathe freely now, and you can live without being afraid of it.
(You pretend not to stare when he's tidying up the kitchen, because his hands are pretty to look at, his hair is tied up in a bun again, yet with many messy strands that cascade over his forehead. Ugh, this man and his bizarre ability to look effortlessly hot even while doing absolutely nothing.)
You both moved your couch into his apartment. It's an integral part of your lives, ever since you've been sharing the space so domestically. This goddamn, shitty couch, that you now use to rest together after the long day, with one lovely feline curled comfortably in your lap while the TV plays in the background. It was never about the couch, but it's funny to pretend it is.
It was really all about love, as most stories are. The storm isn't gone, nor will it ever be, because it's part of you. But the love will always be stronger, and it will be enough to ground you back down to earth; back into the guarding arms of one scruffy man you trust to keep you safe.
welcome to the "this hobo man has been plaguing my mind ever since middle school, and i am now a grown adult with a job and a degree, thanks for getting me through the years sensei, plus ultra and what the actual fuck" club.
this was based on a one-shot i originally wrote in 2019, so it was a fun writing exercise to get it back from the dusty archives and try to reimagine it from my current self :3 (because, as much as i wanted to write compelling, cool adults doing regular adult things when i was a teenager, i just simply didn't know how shit worked, lol)
content: gender neutral reader, non-sexual nudity, soft intimacy, fluff and comfort, coworkers to friends to idiots in love basically, character study
He wouldn't mind if your hands tore open his chest and explored what had been left to rot there. Because you'd see a seed, stubborn and maybe a little crooked, but you'd dig your fingers inside and nurture it with thoughtful words and patient smiles and loving embraces.
His coworkers are right: he's down bad.
Sonar totally has it figured out: chicks dig a good redemption arc, right?
Don't get him wrong, his recent career change has been very beneficial, for many different reasons. One, he has an actual, paying job, with benefits (minimal as they are, it's still something) – including dental, too! Man, it's always been a nightmare finding a dentist who could actually take care of his teeth, but the SDN does know how to take care of its employees. Sure, there are risks, like how they're putting their lives on the line every day, but it's nice to know someone in the corporate ladder gives a shit.
Two, said job has opened up his social life to a whole new level. His coworkers are nice, fun to be around and banter on the job and in the break room. Getting to hang out with Malevola is, like, one of the best things ever, so he doesn't complain about having to do actual work while on the clock. And on top of it all, it's a great conversation started with anyone new: Oh, me? I'm a hero, ya know, saving people and shit. Yeah, it's no big deal. (But he knows it is totally big deal, so he plays it so cool. Yeah, he's nonchalant like that.)
Three – well, it could technically be two-point-five, but whatever; he's feeling better about himself in general! Who would have guessed being a nice person and doing actual good things would make him feel great, in turn? It sounds like something stupid and completely obvious those self-help books try to sell to the masses, but maybe in all the bullshit, there was a seed of truth.
The point is, the whole bad-guy-turned-good thing he has going on right now? Super hot and irresistible to the right kind of niche.
And man, he rides that high for some good weeks. There's the occasional cocaine high, too, oops…? But the approval and praise he gets from strangers he makes small talk with in pubs and bars? Fuck, man… it's been amazing. People like him! They listen when he talks, they ask him about juicy details and hero gossip, and then come back to his place for hot and meaningless sex! What could he want more?
See, that's the source of his newest problem.
He's feeling better than he has in years. He's gotten so many things he used to only dream about, and, and, and… well. Something's still missing. Something still doesn't feel right, and it's been making him lose his fucking mind over it.
If he thinks about it a little better, the problem might be… well, you – super cool, super smart, super sweet, and super hot (and so many other attributes he keeps a mental list of, for no reason in particular). Whenever you talk to him, his heart starts beating out of control, he sweats like a lame teenager, and he cannot take his eyes off of you.
It's just normal, he rationalized at first. Literally everyone around the office must have a small crush on the reliable, ever-patient IT Specialist, right? You give your help and expertise no matter the problem, maintain all the equipment so it's up to standard, repair or replace every broken computer or pairs of headphones – hell, you're the god-sent that fixes the internet whenever a hero's power's accidentally mess with it!
(His crypto talks don't impress you, unfortunately. Which is fine! He's a Harvard graduate. He can appreciate a different point of view, even if it conflicts with his own. The fact that you stand your ground and meet him beat-for-beat in any intellectually-challenging conversation makes you hotter, he won't lie.)
But the conversations you both share, either at lunch, or during those much-needed afternoon coffee breaks, are easily the highlight of his day.
You seem genuinely interested in him. Genuinely! You ask about his weekend plans, offer him the last cookie in your pack, drop a glass of water by his desk to remind him that, yeah, running solely on caffeine is terrible for his stomach, and even check out his favorite band just because he once mentioned he liked it. You come up with fun conversations topics, obvious set-up for jokes, and he gets all giddy when he smoothly continues the banter, bouncing the teasing remarks like you're playing a perfect game of ping-pong.
It's been amazing. And he's fucking terrified by it all.
Because it's all so… easy. He's not pursuing you or leading you on for shits and giggles; no, he's not like that. He's never been good with serious commitments, so he's never really done serious relationships. He's been responsible about that, at least.
But maybe he wants to change that, because lately, he thinks so much about you, all the time. It's new to him. It's insane how you make it all feel so natural, so carefree. Like every single smile you give him that lights up his day, comes right from your heart, without fear. It's like there are no ghosts following, looking down over your shoulder, terrifying you to put on a mask and be someone people want to be around. You live unafraid, being wholly yourself – genuine, silly, caring, responsible – and whoever decides to stick by your side, you accept them fully. You just are, and it's all such a wild concept to him. It's all Sonar wants to have by his side, if you'll have him.
He's been wanting to ask you to dinner for a while. Just you and him, some good food, maybe a nice bottle of wine he'd order just to impress you with it. The lighting would be warm and cozy, and he's sure you'd look so relaxed and comfortable, it'd make his heart swoon whenever you laugh at his corny jokes, again and again. It wouldn't even matter that he definitely overspent his budget for the week, because he'd get to give you the wonderful, romantic night you deserve.
But, uhhh… shit got a bit hectic around the office, to put it lightly. Your schedules just couldn't sync up. Abnormal villain activity making him work overtime several evenings. You mentioned how you'd have to leave early to drive a friend to the airport one day. There's a Z-Team hangout right after work, and Prism and Flambae drag him away before he can stop by your office and invite you, too.
"Damn, you're down bad, buddy," Punch Up teases when he keeps cheeking his phone obsessively for any story updates on your social media (you posted a picture of the sunset, perfectly golden and hazy, with a really good song in the background). He doesn't retort, because Robert and Invisigal have already made fun of his 'heart eyes' after he downed his third drink of the night, and asked the group if they noticed if you did anything different with your hair that day – What, it looked even nicer than usual…!
You do manage to have a few casual dates outside work, some really good ones, actually. Trying out a local bakery you've been gushing about went amazing – the way your eyes sparkled when you tried that overly-sugary pastry he insisted he pay for is ingrained in his memory, because part of that admiration was directed at him. He thinks your smile is sweeter than anything; he might get cavities from it one day (thank god for dental). He doesn't mind if he does.
Another weekend, you invited him to a local fair, because one of your friends had a booth selling his hand-knitted plushies. The place was alright, lots of cool stuff around, and he even brought an art print of a show he likes. His feet hurt by the end because of how much you both walked around the open space, but it was worth it in the end when you insisted you have to get matching keychains of little cartoon bats; one gray, and one black. He kept grinning like an idiot the whole way home, looking back at the silly trinket that connect him to you.
Then there was that late night walk in the park. Getting off work late, but not in the mood to go home yet, and since he hasn't invited you to come over yet, third locations have been the safe bet to hang out. It was the kind of time spent together with another person he'd imagined since high school: alone in the night, laughing like nerds at nothing and everything, playing on the swings while you both shared parts of yourselves you're usually terrified to tell another soul.
When he talked about his time in jail, or some of the worst days coming off too many drugs, you stayed silent and listened. When he felt like a man on death row, defeated and ready for judgment, when he finally accepted he is inherently broken and unlovable, he looked up at you to get his final answer (because, at least, he'd not be a coward this time).
And you looked at him like he hung the fucking moon.
No stars could reflect in your eyes, because the L.A. sky will forever remain light-polluted, but he swore he could see them; you were glowing. You told him how strong you think he is, how kindness is so difficult, yet he's still fighting to be good, to do good. You didn't look down on him, judge him for the man he was, didn't pity the sob story or the unfortunate victim. He felt like you were staring right into his heart, and terrifying as it was, to be so wholly open and perceived, it made him want to show you more.
He wouldn't mind if your hands tore open his chest and explored what had been left to rot there. Because you'd see a seed, stubborn and maybe a little crooked, but you'd dig your fingers inside and nurture it with thoughtful words and patient smiles and loving embraces.
His coworkers are right: he's down bad.
Right, back to the plan – romantic dinner, flowers and wine, the whole shebang. When he's sure he finally has the perfect opportunity to drop his brilliant plan, your work phone interrupts his hilarious story. You groan, giving him an apologetic smile and a friendly pat on his shoulder, promising you'll continue this later – but, later doesn't come that day, to his misfortune. Some stupid servers went down, and since you were the only one capable enough to fix them, it took you the rest of the day to sort it out with the other departments.
(He thinks, many, many, times, about the way your hand touched his shoulder, the skin underneath his suit burning at the memory. He's been holding back on physical touch in general, not wanting to scare you or make you uncomfortable. Past experiences have made him be careful with that sort of thing. But you've already reached out first. You've broken down barriers he was terrified of even approaching, all with a glimmer in your pretty eyes that made him shiver in a way that's completely foreign to him.)
Any semblance of a plan gets turned around unexpectedly, but maybe that's just a pattern when it comes to you.
He was in a particularly shitty mood that Saturday, partly because he doesn't get to see you, and partly because he had to do actual adult tasks he'd been putting away for a while. Standard, boring, time-consuming things: deep clean the bathroom, vacuum everywhere, dust off his collection of Funko Pops, get some actual groceries for the week (in an attempt to meal-prep for real this time; because the idea of eating the same high-protein burritos for every meal for the next seven days is just so appealing).
Still, somehow, by the time he leaves the store with his semi-fresh produce stacked neatly in his fashionable, Vanderstenk-branded tote bag, it's way later than he expected. And he means late late, like, oh shit it was day when I went in the store, and now it's completely fucking dark out jesus chirst what is this world coming to.
Ok, maybe he spent a little too much time comparing avocados for one that would be perfectly ripe in exactly two days; and maybe, he spent an exorbitant fifteen minutes smelling all the different types of laundry detergent and fabric softener, just so he could choose the optimal combination of layered scents. It's a little later than he planned, but it's fine. His made-up mental schedule isn't ruined at all.
Oh, and now it's storming, too, because fuck him, right?
Dark gray clouds loom above, and the rumble of far-off thunder booms among the sky. It's pouring decently hard, but he does have an umbrella, because he's cool and prepared like that. His place isn't far, so at least his shoulder won't cramp too bad from holding the groceries and umbrella high enough not to hit his ears; it's still annoying and inconvenient.
So as he walks down the street, eyes on the sidewalk as to not splash into any puddles, his quiet grumbles stop the instant he picks up the sound of a distinct voice. His whole body freezes, ear twitching out to the side. Slowly, he looks up, and across the street, it's you, completely soaked and shivering a little, hiding away under the awning of a bakery, cursing your phone as your cold fingers tap the water-sprinkled surface of the screen.
But it's you! Wow, he's suddenly decided he's having a great day.
"Hey!" he exclaims, before trying to sound more composed. "I mean, hi, 'sup?" His steps bring him right next to you, underneath the tiny patch of safety. (He wants to ask you if you are okay, if he can do anything to make you feel better, but it dies in his throat because he's terrified of ruining everything.)
Everything else stops when your gaze meets his. Something weird twists in his gut when your frown eases the instant you realize he's there. "Sonar!" And his name sounds so sweet when you say it like that. "Ugh, I could do worse, I guess. But I'm better, now that you're here." The sweetness in your words makes his heart flutter.
"Shit, the rain got you good," he mutters, awkwardly leaving the umbrella down and taking off his jacket (he's not wearing his work clothes on the days he's not working, obviously, but a funky jacket is always essential) while balancing his bag in one hand. He puts the jacket over your shoulders, and while the size difference is adorable, his mind is more focused on thinking about a dozen other things to actually help make sure you don't catch a cold.
"Oh…!" His action catches you off guard, but it's so thoughtful of him. You don't even remember why you were mad anymore, and his hand rubs over your back in an attempt to warm you up. "Thanks, babe. I could totally pull off your style, right?"
Cute nickname, genuine gratitude, teasing little joke. God, the combo might kill him on the spot. Unfortunately, he's got more important things to do right now – explicitly, you sneeze suddenly, and shake with a full-body shiver, so any comeback he has turns into worry.
"You know I love your optimism and all, but let's get somewhere dry first, yeah? Don't want you missing work 'cause of a little rain." He secures his bag on one shoulder, his large umbrella held firmly in one hand, while the other is gently draped over your upper back, guiding you along and keeping you close; you feel safe, protected.
He tells you his place is just down the block. You agree to come over without any complaint. It's a short walk, and the silence gets drowned by the patter of raindrops cascading from above. He's suddenly a man on a mission, and he needs to stay focused on making sure you will be okay.
Never has he been as grateful to his past self for actually taking the time to clean earlier that day. Thirty-two years on this planet, and it's finally the moment when he can impress someone and pretend to be a put-together, responsible adult, that totally has the will and energy to keep everything nice and clean all the time. Totally.
(But he also finds he isn't as scared as he thought he would be. He's always been one about appearances, about putting on his nice suit and fancy tie and casual attitude, and pretending to be someone cool. Pretending like it's all so easy for it, so effortless, that nothing ever gets to him. The world cannot control him. He's the one to decide what the world sees, what the world thinks of him.
You see him for who he really is underneath all that. Completely bare, and you find him beautiful.)
"Well, bathroom's down that way, " he points out, putting his keys on a hook, and leaving the groceries by the door. "I'll grab you some towels. And a change of clothes would be smart. Think you need anything else..?"
You leave your shoes by the door, trying to limit the space you drip water on the floor. His jackets comes off next, and you give him an inquisitive look, pretending to be deep in thought. "Actually, yes."
"Oh. What is it?" he tilts his head to the side. He's so adorable.
Your hands grab onto his. "While a nice, hot shower sounds just about divine right now," you take a step backwards, and he follows instantly. "I'd like it more with you."
You're dragging him towards the bathroom with sure steps and a smile. His mind goes blank.
(Because he's imagined many, many moments with you. He's fantasied about the first time he'd take you to his bedroom, how he'd be so suave and sexy and prepared. How he'd have all the right things to say, how he'd smoothly swipe your hair behind your ear and you'd look at him so lovingly; then he'd lean in, close his eyes, and everything would be just perfect for a moment.
He's thought about how your body looks like without the work uniform, how you'd sound when he'd playfully bite at your neck, how your curves and muscles would look when he drags his hands over every part, how he'd kiss and caress and tease and make you want to want him more and more and more –)
You're getting naked. You're both standing inside his cramped, shitty bathroom, and you're casually pulling off your pants and socks and shirt. The wet clothes get pushed to the side, and then you look at him fully, eyes locked into his. He swears he's going to have a fucking aneurysm, because you're in your underwear, and every patch of skin revealed is setting his heart ablaze.
"Let me help you?" you ask gently, with that same tone you use especially for him; natural, loving, unafraid. He nods, because he'd agree to anything you could ever ask of him.
Steady hands open the buttons of his shirt, exposing the patches of fur that travel down this chest and shoulders. Then, his belt, his pants, carefully folded and laid down, and he stands, in the same state as you. He's frozen in place. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do.
You start the shower, testing the temperature, letting the water warm up. Your underwear joins the pile with the rest of your clothes. He's stuck between wanting to remain respectful, and really wanting to look down, away from your face that's still smiling without a worry.
Then you're both naked, facing each other as the shower rains a gentle spray across his back. You're so beautiful.
Warm hands lather shampoo over his fur. Of course, you don't cringe when you see the specific, animal-specific shampoo he needs to use. You simply drag your nails over his fur and skin, making sure the suds take shape under gentle ministrations. Steam begins to build up within the space between shower curtain and wall. You begin to hum a song, a slow rumble in your throat, and he recognizes instantly, because it's one he showed you this same week.
For the love of all fuck, you're standing in a steamy shower, bare naked, lathering his three-in-one shower gel over his arms. You haven't really put a name to what's going on between you, but he's aware you both like each other. A lot.
This is supposed to be sexual, right? You'be both supposed to be all over each other, dripping with passion and desire. That is all he's ever known about any situation following these same parameters. That's the easy, safe way, because it's one he could navigate easily.
Instead, it's a simple shower. Domestic, unhurried, full of unspoken tenderness in every touch your fingers leave lingering electricity across his skin; in every giggle you give when he tickles your ribs with gentle hands. You've always made it seem so easy: to smile and laugh with him, to listen to his fears, to love him without asking anything in return.
(A memory of reading something similar to this, many years ago, from one of those inspirational pages that would post deep quotes and whatever bullshit – You can fuck anyone, but with whom can you sit in water? He thought it stupid when he read it. He understands it now.)
He's completely bare, and you find him beautiful.
"You're really adorable when your ears twitch like that." His ears twitch like that at your words, and also because you're petting the space behind one of them. "Your heart is beating so fast. Are you okay? I'm not gonna scare you into a coma, am I?"
He laughs, and you feel rewarded by the sound. It shakes him from his doubt. "Yeah, I'm good. A little new at this, so I'm sorry if I'm doing it wrong."
"New at showering…?"
He flicks your nose. "Being open and genuine. Learning to trust. You know, all that sappy stuff."
"You haven't run away, so I say you're doing a pretty good job, Victor." Oh, you're an absolute menace, saying his name so sweetly. It makes him melt. It makes all of his bones feel like goop, like his body has turned into clay that can be easily molded by your hands.
Maybe he's been the idiot all along. He was so sure it was supposed to be a hard battle, something to struggle through. Life is hard, relationships are hard, and it's been fucking harder for him, for many, many reasons. He's always had something to prove; except with you.
He's really been taking his rehabilitation to heart. You've noticed; you've noticed so many other things about him, too. It hasn't been easy, nor has it been linear. Maybe it won't be. Maybe we'll fuck up eventually, if things get bad again. Maybe he'll wake up one day and realize how he doesn't deserve all the good things he's been getting. There are many fears and doubts that plague his mind, because he's always thinking about the future, what tomorrow can hold.
"I love you," he whispers, pressing his snout to the top of your head.
Fuck all that ironic, nihilistic bullshit. Every intrusive thought melts away, carried down the drain with soap bubbles and warm water. All of those possibilities seem so small, so worthless, when you're standing right here with him, treating him like he's the only thing that matters right now. He wants to be genuine with you, because you've been that way with him. He knows it'll be worth it, because it's you; because it's always been so easy and soft and tender with you.
"I love you too, ya dork."
"Your dork."
"Always."
You both get dry, using the fluffiest towels he has. He gives you comfortable clothes that fit you well enough, and he's the one helping you get dressed in them; mirroring your earlier actions. The covers of his bed get pulled aside, and you both get cozy underneath them.
He's never felt this light before. Even if he's flown above the city skyline so many times before, his heart is souring, so gently, like he's drifting away on a cloud. He doesn't want to be afraid anymore, not when he knows how strong you have been, to have so much faith in him and his feelings.
The night grows dark, but no more shadows haunt him. He holds onto you, and you hold onto him, and the rhythm of your hearts and the sound of your breaths become one.
hiii it feels kinda weird posting my writing on this blog, but i decided i might as well use it an archieve for the things i create, even if it's not just fanart anymore :) so yeah this game has taken over my brain and it was really fun to write, hopefully i'll feel comfortable sharing some of my longer fics soon <3 take care y'all, and thanks for reading!
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