Can I get a an Aizawa scenario where he’s saved the reader once before (only because he stalks the shit out of them) and once reader finally starts going crazy feeling like they’re constantly being followed, they go to Aizawa for help? I hope that makes sense lmao it’s so late where I am
Did you know there are more requests in my inbox for Aizawa than there are for anyone else? He has probably five more requests than the next most-requested! And that’s your fun fact for today!
—
The world is spinning around you, too big and closing in too fast all at once. You stumble onto a bench and drop down, burying your face in your hands. A sigh shudders through you and you try to count the seconds, but you keep losing count and you can't shake this horrible, awful feeling that -
"-breathe. Can you do that? Breathe with me."
You focus on the words, wrapping your mind around each one and following them. A few more breaths and you finally lift your head a little.
"That's good, you're doing good." It's a man sitting next to you, breathing with you, helping you as everyone else around continues on like normal.
Another minute and it's getting easier to breathe and you can feel some of the fear uncoiling. "Thank you," you manage to say.
"You needed help," he shrugs a little, but he doesn't stop looking at you, maybe making sure you're not going to keel over onto the sidewalk. "Do you have those often?"
"Panic attacks?"
He nods, and you'd be uncomfortable telling a stranger about your mental health, but it's probably okay to tell him, he did just stay with you and help you through it. "It's become more recent, I guess. I think it's just stress." The stress of being followed, of being watched and stalked like some kind of animal, of your home being broken into... Yeah, you're pretty sure it's just stress.
"You should take better care of yourself," he says deadpan.
"Yeah, I guess. I just, I feel like I'm going insane." It must be some sort of insanity that you feel compelled to talk to him. "I think I'm being followed, but it's been weeks of feeling like this, so maybe it's just me?"
The man tenses a little. "Have you talked to anyone about it yet?"
"I don't know what good it would do, it's not like I have any proof."
"Still," he stands up. "You'd probably feel safer if you stayed elsewhere or had friends with you."
"W-wait!" You stand up after him and introduce yourself. "Thank you for your help, again, I don't know what I would've done..." You trail off, feeling awkward for taking up more of his time.
"It's fine, I'm glad you're feeling better." He gives you a small smile before walking away.
You are feeling a lot better. He's right, you probably should talk to someone - oh, you forgot to ask for his name!
---
It doesn't subside, it almost seems to get worse. You've been spending nights away from home, and the presence of another person does help, but you can't shake the feeling that it's still there, in the corner of your eye, right behind your shoulder, you just can't catch it.
There's a heaviness in the pit of your stomach when you finally have to go home. You've spent a night with everyone you can, and you don't want to infringe on their kindness more than you have to.
Nothing's happened, you remind yourself as you get ready for bed. You still feel sick, but nothing has happened. You'll wake up tomorrow feeling fine.
---
A voice cuts into your dreams, and it's so familiar, you can almost name it. You try to remember, but your eyes open in the dark room and the voice is still there.
You shoot upright, a strangled noise tries to leave your throat but then you can't say anything.
The man, the one from weeks ago, he's in your home. He's in your bedroom, right in front of you.
"See? Now that's disappointing. I've been here for," he checks his phone and the bright light illuminates him for a moment. "Ten minutes. And I've been talking the whole time." He sits on the edge of the bed next to you, and he doesn't try to reach for you when you flinch away. "For as scared as you seem, you sleep rather deeply." He turns towards you, his hands settling on either side of you. "You were even snoring."
He says it like a joke, like something you both can laugh about. You feel blood rushing to your face in embarrassment. "Get out." It's not forceful, it's weak and soft and you know as soon as you say it that you're fucked.
He leans closer. "I'm going to make things better, I promise." His hand ghosts over your cheek. "Once you get to know me, no more panic attacks, no more stress. Everything's going to be okay."