hello! i love ur work and i was wondering if u could do some live action zuko angst (that makes ur heart sink) and then it progresses to fluff (that makes ur heart swell) please? HAHA idk if it makes sense but i rlly love ur work!! hope ure doing well n no pressure!!!
🐉・ HEARTBURN
summ. Fresh from his banishment, Zuko faces the aftermath of his punishment in both his dreams and his waking hours.
pairing. Zuko x f!reader (established relationship)
w.count. 1k.
a/n. A bit abstract on this one, but just typical dream logic. A glimpse at Zuko’s descent into madness, almost? Sorry anon if this is mostly angst than fluff! 🧎🏻♀️
Zuko’s dreams manifest at the scent of burnt flesh and the sound of his own screaming.
He feels the molten sting of a melting crown upon his skin and the fantastical beast that is his father; something monstrous— something scaled, fanged, clawed, and too large an appetite, with a touch and breath of fire that lights the skies in a blaze.
( He wakes up with his voice hoarse from screaming. The 41st Division will eventually learn early on not to mention it. They just leave a hot pot of tea ready for him come the mornings, by General Iroh's orders. )
Sometimes, it transgresses. Sometimes, it’s his mother who burns while he watches from the sidelines of the Agni Kai; Or Azula. Their shrieks mix with his when he wakes.
Sometimes, it’s Iroh who scalds him. Great Dragon of the West, jasmine-white with razor teeth and a flame that burns as hot as the sun; serpent eyes a shining gold and a sharper tongue that spoke of his disappointment for his nephew.
Sometimes, it begins with you.
Please, you beg, at the foot of a winged beast. It speaks in the voice of his father; damning, all-encompassing. It warns the Prince the price of compassion, of mercies, and of weaknesses. Eliminate her, or I will.
Rarely does Zuko ever move. He’d plead in your name, to spare your life. It never happens; he just wakes to the smell of smoke and the sound of your screaming.
( There are dreams he doesn’t speak at all to defend you. The shame devours him whole. )
“I’ve killed you over a hundred times, in my sleep.”
In the aftermath of another nightmare, you turn to face Zuko. You’re not quite sure what to say.
“Other nights, it’s the 41st, or Uncle,” he says, quietly. “Even mom, or Azula.”
You turn back to the small medical chest on the desk. The infirmary is quieter at times like these; the soldiers of the 41st know not to visit the usual haunts of their Prince. Tonight, Zuko will have to replace the bandages of his scar, and there are only two people on this ship he’d ever trust in his life to lay a hand on it.
You’re shifting towards where he’s sitting on one of the cots. “May I?”
( You ask. You always ask. Even when you’ve done this nearly fifty times, you ask. Zuko is glad; there’s a comfort in agency, especially when he’s gotten so used to losing it every time he sleeps. )
He nods, and you make quick work to unravel the bandages. When the layers come away, you observe the way his left eye shuts and opens as he blinks, remaining half-closed into a permanent expression of pain. He looks away, downcast.
The skin around is stretched taut, some areas rawer than others, marred with growing scar tissue that knots in twisting valleys. ( Zuko has only seen the scar once. He’s covered the mirrors in his room ever since; avoids glancing at his own passing reflections. )
The wound is still fresh; the memories fresher.
You don’t flinch at the sight or recoil like the other soldiers or dignitaries.
He finds… solace in that.
( Something roils in his mind. It uncurls and hisses and growls. )
“Tilt your head for me,” you say, ready to replace the cotton on his eye with a new one.
He stops your wrist just as you do.
Your heart jumps at the contact. His hands are warm.
“Why?” he blurts.
You blink in confusion.
“Why’d you come with me?”
The reply is instant, and unintentionally drowned in affection. “Where else would I have belonged?”
Zuko almost answers instinctively: With me. By my side. He shakes his head.
“You should have never come,” he says, instead. He’d grown fond of you over the years. Too fond; over some Firenation colonel’s daughter, a force to be reckoned with and yet a childhood friend who he’d played and studied and fought with countless times. Fond enough that he’d been foolish to let you step foot into the ship of the 41st Division the day he’d been banished; fond enough to be foolish enough to allow you to put yourself in harm’s way. “You could’ve had a better future back home.”
“But a miserable one,” you counter.
His nostrils flare as he sighs. You watch the way his brows weave to a frown, the way they always did whenever he’s tamping down his frustration. "Nothing is more miserable than being banished from home. Yet here you are walking away from it.”
“You and I both know the palace was never a home for me,” you say. “I’ve been by your side my entire life. I’m not about to break that streak over some punishment. You matter to me.”
Zuko’s heart stifles.
( Compassion, he hears the wings of the blood-red dragon in his dreams unfurl. Compassion is a sign of weakness. )
“It was a stupid move,” he blurts, letting go of you. He had wanted it to be emotionless, but it comes out as distinctively bitter: “Sooner or later you’ll come to regret your decision. Then, you’ll see I was right all along.”
“Maybe,” you say, just to appease him. “But I doubt it.”
( Lies, jeers the serpent. You have only yourself to rely on in this world, Zuko. )
For the sake of conversation, you don’t provoke him further. You continue, instead, with replacing the dressings around his eye. He’s angry enough as is with the world— with you. For being stubborn. And strong. And steadfast. And loyal. And—
Zuko glances at your face in focus, your hands so careful in binding the gauze it’s nearly featherlight. “Tell me if it hurts,” you say, with gentle authority.
The ire leaves his body. Zuko’s gaze softens at a realisation:
“Not once have you ever hurt me. Not even in my dreams.”
It’s a statement so frighteningly vulnerable that it has you stilling. Your breath staggers. Something swells in your chest. You let your hand rest on his cheek, thumb below his scar. The touch is reassuring. Zuko wants to lean into it.
“I don’t think I ever could,” you answer, honestly.
( She can, sings the beast. She will. And once she does, know that it will burn tenfold than what I've done. )
Zuko's hand settles on top of yours.
“You can hurt me,” he concedes, solemn, voice barely above a whisper. “You can if you must. I command it.”
( The dragon in his head hisses. For now, it retreats. )
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Crashed the wedding, Part 7
Eddie had no grand speech prepared, he had nothing, his whole job was to wing it, which was probably a good thing because anything he’d have prepared to say, would have flown right out of the metaphorical window when he saw Steve.
He’d only just managed that witty quip as he Aragon’d his way through those doors, all the breath just taken right out of him god he was still as beautiful as the day Eddie left, nine years hadn’t touched him at all. His hair still impossibly perfect, even though he’d clearly not put much effort into it for the day, his glasses still made him look like the cutest pre-school teacher ever, and the moles.
Lord have mercy on his poor soul, the moles. He was too gay for this. He just wanted to skip everything, get directly to wrapping Steve up in the cosiest of sweaters, and handing him the tastiest mug of hot cocoa like he deserved, and just cuddling him for the rest of his life.
“E-Excuse me sir, we hadn’t actually gotten to that part yet” The reverend’s voice hesitantly cut through the silence that seemed to carry on for way longer than intended. The man choosing not to mention that the senior Harringtons had instructed him to remove the offer to the guests to object from the ceremony speech citing that they wouldn’t need it.
“Yeah well, it’s not like I had a damn invitation to sit in and wait, did I?” Eddie snapped right back, shaking himself up. He had a job to do, a love of his life to rescue, and no goddamn idea as to how he was supposed to do that if Steve wasn’t reacting in any way other than just staring at him with wide-eyed, open-mouthed surprise.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Steve heard from his left, turning to find his father’s face had turned a curious shade of red in apparent anger. The man quickly turning his eye onto his son hissing “did you have something to do with this?” At him. God Steve wished. He’d have given anything to have had the courage to just pick up the damn phone and call Eddie before all this shit went down.
Nine goddamn years, he wished he’d have picked up the phone each and every single day, but he hadn’t, too many missed calls, too many excuses for him to keep trying, he’d been so sure that Eddie had just… moved on, convincing himself more and more with each failed attempt to stay in touch that maybe… maybe it was just for the best.
Eddie was famous, for something good… besides the shit that happened during Vecna’s little bitch fit, Eddie hadn’t stepped a toe out of line in nine whole years, no scandals, no drug addiction stories, no compromising paparazzi shots in the papers, he sang his songs, played his nerd games, he showed up as ‘Metal Santa’ at Children’s hospitals with the other bandmates dressed as goofy elves, giving out toys all out of his own pocket, he helped out at soup kitchens on the weekends when he wasn’t busy, did charity auctions of random shit for troubled youth charities, he was good. The only time he’d had an issue was early ’88 with a mild drinking problem but Dustin knocked some sense into him on that one and he’d cleaned up his act by September the same year.
He looked mean and scary sometimes, but nobody, not a single person could ever accuse him of being anything but good. Steve was just… Steve.
A man going nowhere, stuck in his hometown with nothing to offer him. It’d been so easy to convince himself to just stop trying. Eddie didn’t need him, Eddie probably didn’t want him, he could have anyone, why would he want him?
Steve didn’t answer his father, instead turned back to the intruder, a smile fighting at the corner of his lips as he witnessed the man telling one of the bride’s huffy aunts to pipe the fuck down. “Eddie? The hell are you doing here?” How could he let his mind force him to doubt when Eddie was right there as if he’d heard that one wish Steve had spoken only in his mind.
“Rescuing you, sweetheart, can’t say I’m the most impressive of cavalry but at least I look good, which is more than I can say for your bride, yikes ma’am you just faceplant into a cake made up entirely of makeup this morning? Not a good look, I can see where the foundation meets the rest of your neck. One word, blend.” Liar, she looked flawless, but the outraged gasp of an offended bride was worth it. The shit stirring little fucker. “It will change your life.”
“Steven—” Harriet huffed, turning to her groom expectantly “aren’t you even going to—”
“No.” Steve immediately cut her off with a short, snort of a laugh, eyes still on Eddie as the man approached, his bride immediately turning to her parents to loudly complain about the interruption, Steve tuned her out completely, he’d tuned everything out, focusing entirely on Eddie “you could have worn a shirt, man.”
“And miss the warm Indiana breeze on my nip? I think not Steven.” Steve scrunched up his nose in distaste “Stevie? Steve-o, Ooh, ooh… Estebe?”
“That means Stebe and you know it means Stebe.”
“I know but you always thought it was cute.” He was within reaching distance now, so close he could touch him, could touch him to ensure he was real, that he hadn’t just hallucinated his way through his forced vows.
“I only thought it was cute cause you actually thought it meant Steve.” He reached, Eddie’s smile widening, only for it to drop, his eyes sharpening in barely concealed rage as Harrington Sr. grabbed the arm reaching out toward Eddie.
“Don’t even think about it, Steven. You will inform your brief, and unfortunate lapse in judgement that you were mistaken, that it meant nothing, and you’re marrying Miss Reid, do not make me remind you—”
“Sit the fuck down Harrington, nobody pulled your string.” Eddie snarled leaning in close enough for the man to release his grip in surprise.
“Eddie… he’s right, I—I have to.”
“No, no you don’t, I see nobody we know here Steve, your friends, your family they’re not here… why? Why aren’t they here Steve… on what should be the happiest day of your life, why did Nancy have to shoot a security guard in the arm just to get me in?”
“Nance did what?” Was that what that noise was?
“Surprised you didn’t hear the gunshot. Karen wheeler practically shoved this monkey suit on me and shoved me out the damn door in hopes I could get you out of this, the only reason the others aren’t here is because these assholes did well enough to have it clash with everything going on in their lives.” Not him though, Eddie would have abandoned a whole damn tour, he’d have cancelled mid-gig, if necessary, Steve needed him. He needed them. “What’s stopping you from walking out of that door right now, baby? What’s doing that?”
He saw that crack in Steve’s already crumbling resolve at the soft use of an old pet name, such a simple, generic little name but it always made Steve just a little weak hearing it from Eddie. “Eddie—Eddie I’m… I can’t…”
There were whispers, people had stood up to get a closer look, nobody in that church recognised Eddie, as famous as he was, he wasn’t their kind of famous. Eddie paid them no mind, taking those last few steps, using what little courage he had left to reach up and skim his calloused fingers along that perfect jawline, thumb caressing the soft cushion of his cheek just below where his glasses perched. “You can, baby boy… my sweet little prince, you can walk right out of here with me… whatever it is Steve, we can deal with it, money? Baby I have more in pocket change than your family’s entire net worth combined, including the shit in those offshore accounts ol John here doesn’t think anyone knows about it.” Steve’s father leaned a fraction backwards in surprise, how the fuck did Munson know about that? He could move all he wanted, Eddie wasn’t paying attention to him, his soft eyes were on Steve, watching as the man let his own drift shut, leaning into the palm cupping his cheek. “Hawkins? Sweetheart… I got here in a day, I flew first class, very fancy, if anything happens, we’ve got it, we can be back here so fast whatever that freaky-ass place throws at us, we’ll be ready for it same as always… so what is it, big boy, what’s stopping you?”
Steve let his eyes open halfway, taking in the man in front of him “I’m not worth it Eddie… just… just go, it’s okay… I’ll be fine, m’always fine” so why did that smile look so sad “…I’m not worth what you’d lose if I were to leave.”
Part 9
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Rugged
Aizawa Shouta x GN!reader
warnings: quirk-induced amnesia, canon minor character death (major in my heart tho), spoilers for... season 5 and forth? to be safe
wordcount: 4.9k
content: confessions, first kiss, fluff, sfw, no use of y/n, pro hero reader but quirk is unspecified, canon compliant, genderneutral reader, poc!friendly reader, body positive reader, hurt/comfort in like the mildest sense, soft love, amnesia situation, friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, started as a meme turned into something serious, something about cats, unbeta'd, flashbacks to high school days
notes: this is so embarassing to admit but i only came up with this story bcos of that tiktok/insta reel (link is a tiktok as thats where i could find the source material) about having a type that's 'rugged'. it was supposed to just turn into a little joke on that and... uh, ykno suddenly i was almost 5k deep into a childhood friends to lovers, ..ya my brain had a VISION alrighty!!!!! please enjoy a one-eyed kitty, one-eyed aizawa and interrupted confessions!
Aizawa’s leaning forward on the desk, meticulously writing down an exact copy of your notes from English Literature that he missed yesterday due to being in the infirmary… again. He’s always known that becoming a Pro Hero with a non-physical quirk would be tough, but he didn’t imagine landing himself in a hospital bed as often as he does. He’s bulking up nicely, but he feels beaten black and blue every other day and it’s… exhausting.
Rewarding, but exhausting nonetheless. He’s momentarily disturbed as a chair is being dragged across the floor, screeching away before haphazardly thrown next to the desk, wrong side facing it, and Yamada throwing himself onto it, arms leaning on the backrest. He says your name in a sing-song voice – your given name, has he no shame? - and steals a peek of you from over the rim of his glasses. You rest your head in your palm and smile at him, “what’s up?” you ask, and he hums as if he’s thinking deeply about something. Aizawa’s got a bad feeling about whatever subject he’s about to bring up; ever since he appointed himself Aizawa’s wing man, the pestering’s both been non-stop and non-discreet.
Aizawa keeps his face buried in the notes, purposefully removing himself from the conversation.
“What’s your type?” Yamada asks and Aizawa has to hold back a facepalm. You simply giggle and play with the zipper from your pencil case before you answer, “hmm, I’m not sure. But with all due respect, I know it’s not you,” you tease him and he straightens his back in mock-surprise, the conversation’s one you’ve had before. He takes a hand to his chest, “what? Not me? Well you’re not my type either!” the shriek in which he yells is a little too loud, his quirk still a little too unmanageable when he gets excited – he winces as the rest of the class turn their heads. You simply laugh and bite your lower lip. Aizawa steals a look at you through his bangs, admiring the glimmer in your eyes.
“Yeah, I’m sorry ‘Zashi, I truly am, but… you’re just not… rugged enough.”
“What? I’m so rugged. I can be rugged!”
“Look at you, you’re not rugged,” you laugh as you gesture vaguely to… all of him. He takes offense as he puffs up his chest, “how am I not rugged? Because I’m not wearing a flannel in 80 degree weather?”
You hide your face in your hand as you try to contain your laughter, “yeah, sure, whatever… but look at you now. You fly off the handle like that, you’re too angry.”
“That’s a very rugged thing to do!”
“No, it’s really not.”
Aizawa has been saddled with the two of you for almost two semesters now, and he’s still not entirely used to the way you joke around. In the beginning he was always worried about you fighting and not getting along and he’d stare at you both with wide eyes like a startled cat and hope you’d settle down soon. You always did, laughing like the greatest joke was just told.
You lean forward on the table to bark out a laughter deep from your stomach, momentarily blocking the view of your notes that Aizawa’s copying. He lets out a soundless grunt at you being so close and pulls away in surprise when he accidentally smell your shampoo. He wants to lean forward again, to commit the scent to memory, but you’re already straightened back up, wiping an imaginary tear from your eye, “you don’t even want me, Hizashi, why is this always so important to you?”
This makes Aizawa freeze, terrified that Yamada will accidentally tell his secret to you. But Yamada simply crosses his arms, puffs up his cheeks and nods, “you’re right, I don’t. But I want you to want me. I’m the entire package.”
You laugh and shake your head, letting your arm fall onto the desk in defeat. “Sure then, ‘Zashi. I want you. Badly. More than anything. Please go out with me.” your face is as flat as Aizawa’s can be, and Yamada smiles proudly, “no thank you.”
Aizawa’s startled out of grading papers when his personal phone starts ringing next to him on the desk, the screen much too bright for the darkened room he’s situated in. It’s an unknown caller, which makes him hesitant at first but since it’s well past office hours, he knows it won’t be a salesman of any sort.
He bites his lower lip before he picks up.
“Aizawa speaking.”
“Ah, good evening. I apologize for contacting you at this hour, however, you are written down as the emergency contact for…” he apologetically butchers the pronunciation of your name, but gets your hero name correctly, “this is Aizawa Shouta, right?” the person on the other end confirms, and Aizawa nods before he verbally comes up with an answer.
“Well, it’s just that…” he explains your situation precariously, advising Aizawa to just come down to the station if he’s able, since someone will need to escort you home. He makes sure to remind Aizawa that you have two more emergency contacts on file in case he’s not available, but after getting the location, he’s already up from the chair before he’s hung up with the poor officer dealing with you.
From the call he knows you’re neither mortally wounded or in any kind of distress. You were on patrol when you encountered two villains. One of them turned out to have an amnesia quirk, and now you were stuck at the precinct, not entirely sure where your apartment is located. The officer informed Aizawa that you seemed calm and collected but that the last date you remember was well over 10 years ago even if you haven’t age-regressed in any way.
When he arrives, the officer leads him to one of the offices, profusely apologizing and thanking him at the same time. He’ll never really get used to the way newly appointed officers act around Pro Heroes.
Even if all facts and rationale tells Aizawa that you’re fine, he still grips the door handle way too tight, throwing open the door and evidently scaring the shit out of you, sprawled out on the couch with an ice bag on your knee. You spew out some profanities as you sit up. Aizawa immediately calms down as he sees you alive and well. He thanks the officer and agrees with the officer to sit down and talk with you before taking you home. He bows before he closes the door and looks back at you.
“I already gave a statement – was anything missing?” you ask, resting your hands neatly on your thighs. Aizawa shakes his head, “I came to pick you up – they informed you about which of the emergency contacts to call, right?”
Realization seems to travel across your features as Aizawa masks the sting he feels. Instinctively you reach out, but ultimately pull your hands back, “Aizawa?”
For a split second he lets his emotion show on his face – the way you say his last name instead of his given name, but he’s quick to hide it again. He nods and sits down on one of the chairs on the other side of the coffee table, “I was informed that your memory’s been wiped.”
You nod and look at the floor, “yeah. They took in the villains and interrogated them. It seems it’ll wear off in five to seven hours, but until then I’m stuck with my first work study as my most recent memory. I don’t feel like high school me, though, it’s just like there’s an empty gap in my timeline and not an age-related kind of thing. I can’t remember what has happened since then, but cognitively speaking, I’m still myself.”
Aizawa breathes in sharply, “well, that’s a relief. I have enough students to take care of,” he dryly jokes and the way your eyes widen make him self-conscious. He shouldn’t have made the joke he thinks as he shrinks in on himself.
“You’re a teacher?”
The way you ask betrays your emotions all too clearly and Aizawa holds back a snort. If the last of his personality you remember is high school, he gets why you struggle with the image of him taking care of the budding youth.
“A homeroom teacher, actually.”
Whatever preconceptions you had initially seems to dissipate and you smile proudly, “that’s amazing.”
You haven’t commented on his appearance; besides the moment where you didn’t recognize him, you don’t seem all too taken aback by his lack of eye and prosthetic leg. He’s relieved.
“You ready to go?” he asks, patting his lap with his palms before bracing himself to get up. You get up too and stretch your arms over your head, waiting for that satisfying pop, but it never comes. Annoyed, you let your arms falls and Aizawa smiles at you.
He leads you out of the room and as you put on the jacket he came with, he thanks the officers for their work with some polite back and forth and a bow.
The trip back is quiet as you seem to just take in your surroundings. You stop by your Agency to grab your personal items and civilian clothes that you left behind before your patrol. Luckily the offices are mostly cleared out, so you don’t have to ‘meet’ everyone and Aizawa gets out of explaining everything to everyone.
“Do you want me to escort you to your place? Or do you want to come to mine?”
The question is straight-forward and innocent; you sleep over so often that Aizawa’s spare futon has simply been dubbed your futon, but you seem taken aback, eyes wide and mouth agape. For a moment Aizawa’s blind to the confusion before he remembers.
“Sorry, you sleep over at my place a lot since it’s close to your work. I thought you might also like to see Benben.”
Your eyes that had seemed so tired ever since he arrived, lights up in recollection and excitement, “Benben’s alive and well?” you ask, absentmindedly leaning into Aizawa’s space in your joy. He struggles not to lean back reflectively.
“Yeah, she’s living with me now. She’s becoming old, though. But you’re still her favorite human, so she’d be happy to see you too.”
You giggle into your palm, clearly trying to picture Benben. She was a stray that you and Aizawa started to feed your leftover lunches to back during your first year at U.A. She was also one of the reasons you even started bonding with the stoic classmate. When you talk about the name Benben, a very bad nickname based off of bento, you always laugh and tease Aizawa about his cat-naming skills. While he defends himself in front of Yamada – the man with a habit of getting out his childish side – he never once argues against you on that subject.
Next to Aizawa, you clear your throat right as he’s about to unlock his front door. He’s been polite enough to not comment on the level of staring you’ve done ever since he picked you up, but it seems to be getting too much for yourself. He smiles at you gently, like he’s communicating with a lost child, and the smile makes you act before you can think too long about the action. Aizawa’s breath hitches and whole body freezes when your cold fingertips reach the skin of his cheeks. Your eyes look at him like they’re searching for something, and shortly after your palms make contact, your thumbs start traveling around his face, from his eyebrows to the slope of his nose and then a finger is being traced over the scar under his right eye. He can see all the questions fly through your head, the way you hold back from tracing the eye patch but stare at it like it’s not supposed to be there. He’s about to clear his throat when a thumb starts tracing his chapped lips before continuing down to his jawline, tickling his 5 o’clock shadow. As he tries to smile patiently at you, you mumble something under your breath that makes Aizawa’s heart stop for just a moment too long before racing at the same speeds as Yamada’s car when he’s late.
“It really is you… you’re just so…” you pause for a moment to swallow thickly and lick your lips, “…rugged.”
Not until you’ve had your (in Aizawa’s terms) grabby little fingers on every part of his face and given his heart an aneurysm with your words, does realization hit you. You seem to shrink and pull away to bow half-way a few times at him. Aizawa grumbles out a weak complaint about personal space and jingle the keys again to find the right one. No matter how advanced his work place is in terms of security and technology, he finds it unbelievable how many different types of keys he is expected carry for the school grounds alone. Logically, he’s aware that he’s fumbling due to your innocent advances but his brain’s not exactly acting calm and rational, so he furrows his brows and as he puts in the correct key, takes in a deep, calming breath.
When he motions for you to enter the apartment, he can’t help but observe you as you curiously peek around while you enter. You don’t toe off your shoes or step up from the genkan until the door behind him is locked and he gestures to the left pair of slippers in front of you. You let out a breath as you mumble, “sorry for intruding…” as if this isn’t your home away from home.
As Aizawa toes off his own shoes, he takes notice of your searching eyes. He jerks his head towards the living room, “she’s probably sleeping on the couch. She can’t hear very well anymore, so she doesn’t greet by the door.”
There’s a clear sort of heartbreak in your eyes that Aizawa recognizes, before you nod and walk in the direction of the living room. While your memory might be gone for the moment, it seems there’s muscle memory still intact as you purposefully step over the loose floorboard he always warns guests about. He smiles at that. Benben seems to spot you from her pillow on the couch because no sooner than you enter the room, he starts hearing the hoarse bleating of the senior kitty in there. She must’ve stayed up when Aizawa suddenly left, since it’s out of routine. She’s never been able to meow properly, which enchanted you since she first bleated at you for a bite of your convenience store-bought onigiri back when the two of you met her for the first time.
He hears you coo at her and can only imagine you both before he turns the other corner for his office to shut down the computer for the night. He quickly rejoins you and finds you with Benben on your lap, purring and headbutting your hands to her heart’s contents. When his eye travel higher to meet yours, he’s taken aback momentarily at the strained smile and wet eyes.
“She looks so loved.” you try to explain, and Aizawa can’t hold back the blush from the compliment. She does look loved now, a little on the fuller side (not by a lot, as her physical health is very important to Aizawa), her coat is shiny despite the coarseness that age brings, and she no longer has that stubborn eye infection it took Aizawa several years to treat out of her; she’s missing an eye now as a result, but she’s healthy.
You look around his living room, smiling and heaving in breaths at all the external proofs for her love; she has a pet staircase to both the windowsill, couch and the dining chair next to his; there are three different cat towers and several cat shelves for her to perch on although they’ve rarely been used for several years now. Aizawa can’t bear to take them down – what if she wants to go on one last adventure to the shelf highway he built for her close to the ceiling? It obviously wouldn’t be safe for her to do so, but robbing her of the options feels cruel to his heart.
When you pet her behind her ear and Aizawa situates himself on the floor pillow, you giggle, “you match.”
You’re referring to the missing eyes and while Aizawa takes no offense from the comment, he can’t help but snort at the straightforward observation. It’s very like you.
“How did you lose it?”
You don’t remove your eyes from Benben as you ask and from the shaky lilt to your voice, he knows you’re afraid of the answer. He’s afraid of telling you, too.
So much bad has happened during those years – you were there during his low points after, and asking that question is like removing the experiences you’ve shared. The grief you’ve suffered.
But he knows you want to know. Before he can answer, you continue, “can you tell me everything? About you… Oboro and Hizashi, too. I was informed it was only you, Hizashi and my mom on my emergency contact list. I know it’s not supposed to be miles long but… yeah…” you trail off and Aizawa’s grateful that you’re not looking at him. He’s not sure he’s able to control his face right now; and the emotion he’s showing wouldn’t be remotely close to soothing for you.
“Uh,” he jerks and clears his throat several times to stall, “when did you say your memory would be back?” he asks instead even if he’s aware of the answer.
You look up and hum thoughtfully, “they said five to seven hours around … two hours ago? So…” you count on your fingers and despite everything, Aizawa huffs out a soundless laugh, “three to five hours? Give or take.”
He inhales sharply. He can’t drive you off for that long, even if he used going to bed as an excuse. You’d just toss and turn in fear of what you’d come to remember.
So he tells you. He retells every painful memory with clear objectivity, pausing to let you process each one, seeing the light slowly dissipate in your eyes for every terrible incident. When he reaches present day, he inhales slowly and holds his breath for a moment to control his own emotions.
You’ve stopped petting Benben who’s sound asleep on your lap now, your hands hanging like lifeless limbs by your side. Aizawa then clears his throat, “you were scouted. In third year. ‘Zashi opened a radio station shortly after graduation. Oboro’s mom still invites us for hotpot for his birthday every year despite the mismatch in dish and weather,” you both laugh at that one – of course she insists on his favorite dish on such an important day. An image of the four of you huddled around, sweating over a pot of delicious food has you throwing your head back in sincere laughter, “you have a prodigy; you inspired me to take a pupil on as well, and he’s graduating this spring… I, uh… I use eye drops now.”
The last tidbit of information makes you turn your head so fast you almost get whiplash. Then, your expression turns stern, “didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I tell you to be careful!” you reprimand and he almost rolls his eye at you. Almost.
You shake your head at him and focus back on Benben, a little more color on you again as the mood has successfully shifted. He’s unsure if you’re pretending to be fine for his sake or if he actually succeeded in making you feel better, but he can’t stifle the yawn that comes out of him as soon as he feels relief.
You look up apologetically, “oh my God I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you up haven’t I? Please, you can just go to bed, I’ll be okay!”
Aizawa wants to argue but he also can’t fight the creaky ache he feels in his bones. He went straight from a night shift to school, napped in the teacher’s lounge and then home to grade papers. He’s dead-tired.
He gets up to carry his futon into the living room and set yours up in his bedroom. Usually, you sleep in the same, bare room as him and Benben, but he feels it might be too much for you without your memories, even if you sleep on separate futons with space in between. You make a joke about the futons but then, in a soft voice admit, “I think it’s nice you sleep on something accessible for Benben…” there’s a warm tone to your voice that makes him blush heavily before he pushes you out of his living room.
“I’ll sleep out here, you take the bedroom.”
You meekly argue about taking his bedroom, but he shuts you down in the same way he’s always done, and urges you to carry Benben in with you. You agree to have the door ajar in case Benben wants to walk around, and you bow your head when you bid him goodnight. Aizawa lets the light in the hallway stay on.
////
You wake up with a hitched breath and sweat on your brow, unsure when you managed to fall asleep. Disoriented, you take in Aizawa’s bedroom; you were supposed to sleep home tonight after your shift though, not to mention that Aizawa’s futon isn’t laid out next to yours. It takes you a moment to gather your bearings until it all comes back to you. You’d lost your memory.
You’d lost yourself. You hug your arms around you as the feeling of being lost still sits heavy in your body and makes you shiver. Seeing Aizawa was terrifying; you’d no idea of the obvious horrors he’d had to endure. You didn’t remember your best friend’s death.
For a moment you control your breathing, making yourself calm down as best as you’re able. It makes sense why Aizawa decided to sleep in the living room, if the last memory of him was a pimple-y teenager and not the gruff man he is today. You close your eyes and think back to right before you entered the apartment.
You roll onto your stomach and hide your face in your hands, letting out a drawn-out flustered groan. Without thinking, you kick your legs on the bedding to alleviate the embarrassment that’s coursing through you at your own actions. You’d just went all up in his face! The sensation of his stubble underneath your fingertips, his warm breath and his chapped but so, so kissable lips.
No!
You groan again, drowning in your one-sided misery of a crush. Your honed Pro Hero senses are completely dulled by your pining, so when Aizawa suddenly throws open the door and asks if you are alright, you screech as you lift your head from the pillow, “Shouta!”
“Shit, sorry, I heard you moving around so I thought you might have a nightmare,” he hurries to explain, secretly relieved to hear you say his given name again. He frowns when he can’t see your face with your back turned to him. Still frozen, you barely breathe before he continues, “...you are alright, right?”
Making a grimace and with no interest in facing him right now, you choke out “mhmyepdefinitelyeverythingsperfect!” in one single breath before you’re forced to inhale deeply. You hear Aizawa’s metallic foot as he walks towards your futon and hear the rustling of his clothes as he bends down in a squat next to you, “you don’t sound perfectly fine to me, though. Do you have a fever? Is it an aftershock from getting your memories back?”
Being the perfectly rational man that he is, he oversteps any boundaries to quickly check your temperature with his palm. Embarrassment can come after he’s made sure you’re okay.
You push his hand away weakly, still looking pointedly at the wall in front of you, letting out a strained laugh, “heehee, I’m just… you’re right, it must be an aftershock, right? Nothing else!”
He lets you swat his hand away without much resistance but stays where he is, letting the silence hang over you both for a minute. Suddenly, he croaks out all hoarse and desperate, “Just tell me if there’s anything, please.”
Your shoulders fall at the voice. Aizawa’s the opposite of having a heart on a sleeve, but you’ve been with him through enough tragedies to know he must be scared shitless right now. Whenever you or Yamada is even remotely bruised, he fusses over you in his own, annoyed way, until he finds you sufficiently healed. You sigh before you let your head fall back onto your pillow, a short moment to gather your thoughts and feelings before having to face him.
It must’ve been a lot for him, when you asked him to recount the years you’d momentarily lost. It would’ve been better to let it be, but he knew you so well and knew you wouldn’t let it go. Curiosity kills the cat, right?
With heavy and slow movement, you turn around so that you’re facing him, hoping your expression won’t betray your real emotions. You sigh and reach out for his hand. It’s shaking but as soon as your warm fingers make contact, he flinches before he relaxes.
Then, he grunts like he’s annoyed and chastises you for worrying him. You giggle, “I’m sorry, you’re tired, right?” you ask, knowing his schedule this week is packed. He usually leaves little wiggle room for emergencies, however many he encounters.
Before he can reply, you pull at his hand and he topples over, half on the futon and half on the floor, on his knees. You laugh and pull him even closer to you, hoping your beating heart isn’t as loud as it feels.
You and Aizawa have cuddled before; loneliness and grief has made you carve out comfort in each other, but nothing else have ever been spoken aloud. No kissing, no romantic notions to trace back to. Having a one-sided crush since high school feels deafening right now, when all the years travel back to you after what only amounts to a moment without them.
You want to tell him how you feel; losing your memories made you realize how much you’d like for him to comfort you with kisses if anything should ever happen; how you’d like for him to hold you without holding back.
He grumbles where his head is rested in your neck after he’s settled, but he makes no effort to move. You nuzzle into the mane of hair and breathe in his scent; it’s a lavender-scented shampoo that Yamada insists on buying for him. He never accepts it without complaining, but he also never showers without using it. There’s a spare in your bathroom, at the Agency’s bathroom and at his teacher’s dorm at U.A.
“Y’know, I was really surprised for a moment that you became a teacher.”
He makes no movement, but you know he’s listening.
“But as soon as I thought about it, it made perfect sense. You care so much it sometimes hurts to watch…”
You feel his fist tighten around your bedding, but he stays otherwise quiet still.
“You hurt watching me, too, right? How we both have a habit of bending over backwards for what we perceive is right.”
You start dragging your hands through his hair, letting out a sigh.
“I like that we know each other so well. I like how after so many years, you’re still right here in my arms…”
You pause as his upper arm snakes around you, a sharp exhale against your neck.
“You’ve never dated anyone. At least, not anyone you’d tell me about, so I have no idea where this will lead me to but,”
You take a moment to gather your nerves. There’s really no backing down now. Even if you regret it, your words have already given your feelings away; there’s nothing you can take back.
There’s nothing you want to take back.
You’re about to continue your confession when Aizawa pushes against your neck, his warm lips, soft despite the dryness, presses against your pulse point. You can hear your heartbeat so loud in your ear that the rustling of the sheets from Benben is indistinguishable to you, the only sensation you’re able to take in being Aizawa’s lips as they briefly pull away from your neck, only to push back higher up, closer to your jaw.
You whine and pout, but it’s shaky and without much force. You want to protest, scold him for interrupting you but suddenly he lifts his head to face you, and you’re faced with wide eyes and blown pupils. He steals a glance at your lips before he licks his own, pink tongue peeking out. You feel like a cornered prey, one that’s about to be devoured by a beast. When he hovers mere millimeters above your lips he pauses as if to ask for permission and the sigh you let out makes him know that everything’s okay. That everything he’s ever wanted, wished for, dreamed of, is real.
That losing your memory for a second made you desperate to make more meaningful ones.
And you kiss.
While curiosity did kill the cat, satisfaction definitely brought it back.
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