hyperfixation museum

MASTERLIST

(* indicates ns//fw)

Lore/Musings:

Ford and the portal reopening

Headcanons:

Spirits and Such office dog *Reigen (general) Reigen + final arc *Reigen + overstimming *trans Reigen Reigen + sg!Dimple fighting for your attention Serizawa (general) *Serizawa (nsfw edition) Serizawa + domestic late nights Serizawa + mornings *Serizawa + body worship *Serizawa + assorted nsfw *poly serirei (general)

Drabbles/Snippets:

*Osomatsu - "at last" *Ichimatsu - "give and take"

One Shots:

giving reigen a massage || tumblr // ao3 cooking one of reigen's family recipes || tumblr // ao3 *pining + first time with aspec reigen || tumblr // ao3 *aspec reigen pt 2 (jerking off edition) || tumblr // ao3 *aspec reigen pt 3 (hand kink edition) || tumblr // ao3 *aspec reigen pt 4 (hand job edition) || tumblr // ao3 *overstimming transmasc reigen || tumblr // ao3 comforting serizawa after an anxiety attack || tumblr // ao3 clothes shopping with serizawa || tumblr // ao3 pampering serizawa with a spa night || tumblr // ao3

Long Fics:

This time, Katsuya waits a few seconds after pushing the key into the lock to actually open the door. It hasn’t been that long since his first visit, but it’s long enough that he knows he’s running the risk of you forgetting again and thinking he’s somebody else. He’s not worried about the danger to himself, of course; it’s easy enough to catch a book even without his psychic safety net. He just doesn’t want to scare you again.

After he thinks enough seconds have passed, he twists the key and cracks the door open. Nothing comes flying at him, thankfully, but there are no other signs of life, either. He’s considering turning around and going home without ever actually stepping inside when he hears your covers rustling.

“Serizawa?” Your voice is rough with sleep and tense with something else he doesn’t have enough experience identifying. It’s not anxiety or fear, so the pause before he came in seems to still be paying off, but it’s definitely something negative. Worry, or maybe loss. He regrets waking you. He rubs at his neck and nods before realizing you can’t see him.

“Y-Yeah.”

“Mkay.”

“…Okay?”

“Yeah. S’okay.” He’s not sure what you really mean by that - or if you’re even fully awake - but he steps inside anyway. There’s some more rustling, and a light comes on; the lamp beside your bed fills the room with light that makes him squint. You’re doing the same, blinking slowly and with great effort as you sit up.

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

He’s always apologizing for one thing or another when he’s around you. He thought he broke the habit a while ago, but it lingers in moments like these where he’s not sure what the right thing to do is and all he knows is that he didn’t do it. “People get annoyed if you keep apologizing for the same thing over and over,” Reigen had told him, and Katsuya has experienced firsthand the truth of the statement. Not with you, though. You take his apologies for whatever he means them as at the time. A way to say he cares. A connection. A promise to do better. A regret too heavy to be voiced. Or, sometimes, just a way to fill the silence.

This apology is fear; he doesn’t want to lose the chance to do this again. The longer you take to respond, the more he wants to keep adding more on. But eventually, with a hand in your tousled hair and your eyes still drooping, you shake your head. “S’good. I was- Bad dream. Thanks. M’glad s’you.”

Something in Katsuya’s chest slams into his ribs and cuts off his air supply. He’s the one invading your space, the one waking you up at an ungodly hour, and here you are thanking him. Telling him you’re glad to see him.

“Um. Sure, I- Happy to help.”

You breathe out a laugh. The slight sound is music to his ears. “What time is it anyway?” Before he can answer, you’re fumbling for your phone and squinting at the screen. “Ugh, gross.”

“Yeah.” He knows the feeling. It’s late enough that going back to sleep is pointless, but early enough that your body isn’t going to be happy about it.

“Are- Did you sleep at all, or-?”

“A little. Close enough.” He tips his hand back and forth and averts his eyes. If pressed, he would describe his sleep as ‘a series of naps’ instead of anything actually restful, but he doesn’t want to worry you.

“Do you wanna just, um- Should I make coffee? Breakfast? I think I have some, uh- I maybe have stuff from the bakery? Or I can make something.”

“You don’t-” He stops himself. His instinct is to deny you, but something in your expression is hopeful. He always wants to make himself useful; maybe you offering this is your way of filling the same need. He doesn’t want to take that from you. “That… sounds nice.”

“Cool.” You yawn and stretch your arms far above your head. Your feet appear from under the covers, flung out to the side so momentum can carry you upright. Katsuya is unreasonably impressed that you only stumble a little bit on the way up; if he tried something like that without catching himself with his powers, he would have ended up with a table in the hip or the floor in his face.

You gesture for him to follow you into the kitchen, so he does. It’s not tiny, but it’s definitely close quarters - a narrow setup that means standing side by side is fine but moving past each other would require a very strategic placement of hands. He’s terrified of bumping into you.

You don’t seem to have the same reservations; you invade his space easily to reach into a cupboard. It’s only because he takes a step back that you manage to not bump into his shoulder. You hand him a mug, the same one as the last time, and pull two bags of coffee from a cupboard. He turns it over in his hands and resists the urge to think of it as his.

“Okay,” you sigh. “I have coffee that barely tastes like coffee but doesn’t work that well. And then I have coffee that tastes terrible but will probably keep you awake for the whole day. Which one do you want?”

He opens his mouth and reaches for the second bag before hesitating.

“I do have milk and sugar.”

He takes the second bag. You laugh - breathy and light and still raspy with sleep - and shove the first bag back in the cupboard. When you tell him he made the right choice, he feels a swell of pride that swirls in his chest and brings a shaky smile to his face.

You reach for a coffee filter. He plucks the stack gingerly from your hands and shoos you away. “I’ll make it.”

“Oh. Alright. A little pushy, but.” You let yourself be pushed toward the sink and get to work washing your hands.

“Sorry!” He sputters over another apology that dies when he sees you smiling. “It’s the only thing I can manage.”

“You can’t make rice?” There’s no judgement in your tone, just an honest desire to know. Katsuya flushes under the accusation anyway.

“Probably, but it’s- I’m not very good at cooking.”

“Well, I won’t make you. But I’ll let you put in your own egg, if you want to feel involved.”

He makes a questioning noise low in his throat. You must be cold, still half-asleep and missing your covers, because you shiver and pat at your cheeks like you’re trying to wake yourself up. He makes another noise of consideration, and suddenly you’re very focused on pouring the rice into the cooker.

“I shouldn’t,” he decides. “I always burn eggs.”

“Great news for you. We don’t have to cook them.”

“Hm?”

“You ever had egg rice?”

“I…” His memories are pretty fuzzy when he’s sleep deprived like this. One day fades into the next fades into the next into the next, and the specifics of meals, especially the ones his mother made, disappear under the hazy gauze of Back Then. He’s not in denial like he used to be, but he still doesn’t like to think about Back Then if he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to right now, so he stops trying. “I guess not.”

“It’s just an egg cracked into hot rice. And then, like, spices, but you can kinda get away with whatever. Fuck, that’s cold.” You yank your hand from the rice, shaking the water off it and swapping to your other arm so you can keep washing. Katsuya considers stepping in. He thinks about wrapping his arms around you to lift the pot out of your reach so he can be your knight in shining armor - or just your helper with hand in ice-cold water - but he stays put. He has coffee to make, after all.

The second cup of it finishes brewing right as you’re starting the rice cooker. He slides it your way with a hand over the top to keep it from spilling, and you pull milk from the fridge and sugar from a cupboard to put between the two cups. He takes both gratefully and stirs some of each into his coffee by swirling the drink with his powers. It’s bad enough that you’re cooking for him; he doesn’t need to dirty a spoon for you to wash later. With the milk mixed in, the coffee is cool enough for him to take a sip right away, so he does. He grimaces at it and mixes in some more sugar. You make a similar face at your own coffee.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “It’s cheap.”

“No, no it’s-” The coffee doesn’t taste any better with the extra sugar in it. He doesn’t bother adding more. “You did try to warn me.”

You chuckle and get through another few sips before you pull the cup away from your lips. You keep it in your hands, though, looking over the rim of it with a glazed, far-off expression pointed somewhere toward his stomach. Katsuya looks down at himself, expecting to see something strange, but it’s just his body like always - in his comfiest pair of jeans and a nice sweater from a store that Shigeo recommended while Teru was conveniently nowhere to be found. When he looks back up to ask how tired you must still be that you’re spacing out so badly, you’ve already turned toward the sink.

“Are you gonna have time to get ready?” you ask. He tips his head in confusion. “It’s pretty late. I mean it’s early, but- You know what I mean. Or are you doing casual Fridays now?” Your nose scrunches up when you squint. You pat at your pockets, probably looking for your phone, but even Katsuya knows it’s still on the table beside your bed. “Is it Friday?”

“It’s not Friday.”

“Don’t you need time to change, then?”

He looks down at himself again. “Do I look that bad?”

“Definitely not.” You take a sip of your coffee. “I just mean- I thought you had to wear a suit for work.”

He thinks about it for a moment. Reigen has never officially said he needed to wear a suit, only that he should look presentable. Maybe he’ll push his luck in a few days and use Casual Friday as an excuse if there are any objections. “Actually, I’m not sure. This might be okay.”

You’re staring at him again. This time, he can tell you’re not really looking at him so much as toward him, trying and probably failing to form a thought. It’s adorable, but he feels another pang of regret that he woke you. Instead of apologizing again like he wants to, he explains, “I don’t work today. Shigeo does.”

“Oh.”

“I thought I might-” Katsuya wrings his hands together. He should really be using his day off to study or catch up on assignments, but his brain is fried and Reigen has never actually stopped him from doing work in the office anyway. He can focus on school later. Right now, all he wants is to relax - to shake the stifling feeling of being alone in his room - and the only place he can do that is here, with you. “Is it okay if I stay? After eating, I mean.”

“Of course. You’re gonna be overdressed, though. I’m not changing.”

He considers the way your pajamas pants sit low on your hips - the way your collar is stretched to reveal more of your neck - and swallows thickly. “That’s fine.”

“Cool. ‘Scuse me.” He flattens himself to the counter so that your hand doesn’t make contact with his side as you duck around him to leave the kitchen. He still feels the near-miss, a crackling along his skin pulling him toward you like a magnet even as he forces himself away.

“Wh-Where are you going?”

“Brush my teeth?” Recognition flashes across your face, and you send him another smile. “Don’t worry, it shuts off automatically. And I won’t take long.” You disappear behind the wall, and he hears the click of a door shutting.

He shuffles farther into the kitchen so you won’t have to move around him again when you come back. He’d rather be the one trapped than the one doing the trapping; he feels more comfortable in enclosed spaces, anyway.

You come back right as the rice finishes. You fumble for two bowls and pull the eggs from the fridge. Once you have the rice scooped, you reach for his elbow to pull him closer. He’s not quick enough to stop you like he was last time, and your touch sends a bolt of warmth up his arm. He hopes you don’t notice the way he shivers.

It happens again when you stop him from cracking the egg on the edge of his bowl. You’re explaining that hitting it on a flat surface like the counter makes the shell more cooperative, but he’s busy thinking about the lingering feeling of your fingers around his wrist. When he inevitably gets shell in his rice anyway, you scoop it out with a piece of your own more intact eggshell and beam up at him and pat his shoulder and tell him not to worry about something so easy to fix.

He tries to thank you - for fixing it, for explaining it, for having him here, for something - but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and he can’t get the words out. He watches your eyebrows pull together, your expression change from confusion to worry, and your fingers slide hastily away down his arm.

“Sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“No, you-!” He overcorrects and practically shouts at you. You blink a few times, but you freeze in place. He clears his throat and tries again. “You don’t have to stop.”

“I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable if-”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

Your gaze darts back and forth between his eyes, searching for something. He hopes you find it.

You give Serizawa a key to your place.

It makes sense in your head. He says something about never being able to sleep and you, the deranged insomniac you are, make an offer that sounds a lot more casual in your head than it does out loud: Come over for company any time, no questions asked. You’ve been carrying around two copies of your key for as long as you can remember - your landlord gave you a spare and you never bothered to disconnect the two - so you slip one off your key ring and press it into his shaking, outstretched hand along with a hastily scribbled copy of your address.

He seems grateful at the time, if a little confused. You are friends, after all, and Serizawa doesn’t have that much practice with the concept, so maybe he doesn’t realize how strange and obviously forward the offer is. Things stay the same; they don’t get tense, and they don’t get awkward. But weeks go by. He doesn’t visit, and he doesn’t text to ask if you’re awake, and he doesn’t mention any more sleepless nights no matter how dark the circles under his eyes get. You quietly pretend nothing has changed even as the worry that you've ruined everything gnaws at you from the inside out.

By the time you hear the pins of your lock tumbling into place one random 2AM, you’ve forgotten all about the separation of your keys. You’re convinced you’re about to be murdered.

The spread of dungeon maps and equipment lists scattered around you goes flying as you bolt from the couch, tossing the controller onto the cushion beside you and scrambling for something heavy you can use to defend yourself. The door is already open by the time you have a solid grip on your closest book, and the book is already flying through the air before you recognize the face it’s about to hit.

“Shit, sorry!”

Serizawa, unphased and already looking deeply apologetic despite being the one actually in danger of a broken nose, stops the book in mid-air. It floats effortlessly, surrounded by a faint purple glow, back to its place on your shelf. He rubs at his neck and glances behind him toward the street. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No! No, it’s- I just didn’t realize it was you, I forgot I- Here, get- Come in. Get in here.”

“I texted first.”

“My phone died. It’s still plugged in, I didn’t-” You gesture vaguely behind you to the small table beside your bed where your phone is currently resting under your lamp. “I wasn’t looking at it. I’m so sorry.”

In the absence of any movement from him, you walk over and reach for his elbow. He takes a halting step forward to avoid your touch, so you pull quickly back, but he pushes the door shut behind himself. He toes his shoes off and steps cautiously up into your living room. His eyes sweep across the room, taking in your cramped apartment for the first time, and you can only be relieved that you cleaned somewhat recently. His gaze doesn’t linger on any one thing for too long until he locks onto your TV. His eyebrows raise.

He shuffles over to your couch and gently pushes the sheets of paper around until he finds your page of handwritten scribbles - notes about when to swap characters, the order to visit towns and dungeons, and plenty of other small tips left by your past self during your first playthrough of the RPG currently waiting for you to take your turn in battle. Serizawa glances back up at the screen.

“You don’t use the thief?” he asks.

You blink. You’re not entirely surprised he recognizes the game - he’s talked enough about gaming’s ‘heyday’ for you to assume he likes things from this era - but you’re not sure if he’s being critical or not. You assume the best and try not to sound defensive when you say, “No, I, uh- I take Anna after I steal the phone.”

“Huh.” Serizawa moves as if in a trance, scooping up the controller and sitting down where it used to be. Since he clearly knows what he’s doing, you let him guide your party through the encounter and along the short path back to the nearest town.

“You want something?”

“Huh? Oh!” Serizawa drops the controller like it shocked him. It lands on his ankle, just above the cuff of his sweatpants. Your overworked and tired brain chugs along, working slowly toward the realization that this is the first time you’ve seen him without his usual suit. You get the sense - between his well-loved and very loose shirt with a graphic so faded you can’t make it out, his pilling sweatpants, his mismatched socks, the hair at the base of his neck curling up slightly and the sides of his face rough with stubble - that this is a version of himself he wouldn’t be very proud to present during the day. The rules of night have always been a bit looser, though, and you’re grateful the cover of darkness allows you to see him like this.

“You’re fine,” you laugh. You point behind you to the kitchen. “I meant, like, tea. Water. Snacks.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I’m making myself tea.”

“Um.” He swallows and looks past you. “O-Okay. I’ll take some, too. Thanks.”

You spin into the kitchen. Once the kettle is filled and the heat is on, you turn your attention back to him and lean against the wall. He’s frozen in place; his hands hover above the abandoned controller as he stares down at it. “You wanna fight some monsters for me? If I have to deal with another amoeba, I’m gonna lose my damn mind.”

He picks the controller back up. It takes him a moment, but he makes his way back out of town and heads toward the nearest dungeon. He doesn’t even glance at the map as he navigates up a set of stairs and through a complicated series of dead ends. You’re only slightly embarrassed by how attractive you find the confidence in his movements; the source is… unique, sure, but the focused set of his jaw would be alluring under any circumstances.

Inevitably, he gets interrupted by an random encounter. You pour the tea as he makes quick work of the monsters. By the time you’re setting the cups down on the table and settling in next to him, he’s already almost done with another battle. You bring your cup to your lips and blow across the surface. It’s far too hot to drink, but the warmth is soothing in your hands for the brief moment you can hold it without getting burned.

“Do you already have the phone?” he asks.

“I told you, it’s- Oh, you mean the game phone. Yeah.” He nods once and clicks hastily through the battle report. He saves in a new slot and holds the controller out to you when the game asks if he’d like to keep playing. You shake your head and push it gently back toward him. “I’ve been at it for hours. If you want it, go for it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very. Do you even need these?” You gesture to the sprawl of maps.

He shakes his head. A blush tints the tip of his nose. “I don’t think so.”

“Mkay. Watch out.” He straightens up as you lean around him to grab the papers on the other side of him and gather everything into one stack that you toss onto your coffee table. With the mess out of the way, you pull your legs up onto the couch and lean sideways against the back of it. “Is your memory that good or do you play this a lot?”

“Both, I guess.” He glances over at you and pulls his own legs up to fold them together. He rests his hands on his ankles and relaxes subtly. You hide a smile by reaching for your tea again. “It’s been a while, but this was my favorite. I, um… It got played a lot.”

You hum in acknowledgment. You’re not in a hurry to change the topic, exactly, but something tells you that you shouldn’t linger either. Serizawa changes it for you. “I really am sorry I scared you. I didn’t think you were awake.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I threw a book at you.”

He breathes out through his nose - a laugh not given enough force. “I get it.”

The room grows quiet except for the occasional battle music and the clacking of the controller. The silence isn’t tense, but it isn’t quite comfortable either. You reach for your tea again. When you blow across it and the steam billows into your face, it’s cool enough that you risk taking a sip. The warmth of it travels down to your stomach, and you suddenly feel a lot sleepier. The yawn trying to escape you gets shoved down as you shift again. Your cheek hits the back of the couch. Your toes brush against Serizawa’s knee when you stretch out and flex your ankles, and he jumps at the contact. You murmur an apology that goes ignored and sweep your legs off to the side.

“Am I keeping you awake?” Serizawa’s voice is quieter now, a volume that wouldn’t wake you if you were already asleep. It warbles around a rough edge just above a rasp. Thankfully, the pleased hum you let slip at the sound of it is easily disguised as a noise of contemplation.

“Nah. I’m not ready to sleep yet.”

He stares at you for an awkward moment of eye contact. He must decide against saying whatever he was thinking, though, because he turns back to the screen and goes back to wandering back and forth down a long hallway.

Between sips of your tea, you alternate between watching the screen and watching him. It’s strangely satisfying to see him play; his smooth and efficient navigation reminds you of the demos that play on the menu before you hit Start - perfect gameplay by a perfect player. It’s also a good way to keep yourself from staring, but you don’t resist the urge to sneak a peek every so often. You trace the lines of his arms, usually hidden by a dress shirt, with your eyes. You track the way he shifts every few minutes, swapping which leg is on top, pressing his feet together, rolling his ankles or his shoulders or his neck to incrementally relax himself into a posture that looks less like he’s getting ready to be scolded and more like he’s actually enjoying himself.

Mostly, you watch his hands. Every time a battle starts, he clicks through the setup quicker than you can follow before he sets the controller down on his ankle to wait for things to play out. Sometimes he cracks his wrist, flexing his fingers and pressing against the sharp line of his knuckles, and sometimes he just waits, wrapping his hand around his calf and squeezing. On the rare occasions he has to change things mid-battle to keep somebody from dying, he drums his fingers on his knee and pokes at the buttons without actually picking the controller up.

Slowly, like a scared cat venturing out of its carrier at the promise of a treat, Serizawa uncoils and finally reaches for his tea. He takes a tentative first sip and then, apparently realizing it’s plenty cool by now, takes another, then another. Greedily, you watch his throat bob.

Once his mug is safely back on the table, much emptier than it started, he throws an arm over the back of the couch. The next time he glances over and finally notices how close he is to your face, you can see him reconsider - his shoulder tenses up and it drags his hand along the seam at the top of the cushion - but he doesn’t pull away. You try to distract him before he reconsiders again.

“So, what’s on your shirt? Or, was on it, I guess.”

He glances down. Pink colors the bridge of his nose. “It’s a dating sim. The shirt was a gift. F-From my mom.”

“Do you actually like the game? Or was it one of those gifts where she was doing her best but didn’t really know what you were into?”

He laughs. “Both. I played it after I got the shirt.” The buttons on the controller click loudly as he mashes to stop the turn cycle. Once your party is safe again, he continues. “The shirt’s better than the game was, though.”

“That’s a pretty low bar.”

“It’s a really good shirt.” You raise an eyebrow, and he smiles sheepishly. “It’s soft.”

You extend a hand above his arm, lingering over his bicep on the back of your couch. “May I?”

He nods, and you let a finger slip under the cuff to pinch the fabric. The shirt is soft, surprisingly so, but you’re more focused on the way the muscles of his arm tense when your fingernail drags lightly across his skin. You let your hand fall back into your lap. He pulls in a deep breath.

“You’re right,” you concede. “That is a really good shirt.”

Apparently tired of glancing at you sideways, Serizawa pulls his legs up onto the couch again so he can turn - not quite facing you, but not straight toward the TV anymore either. His head tips to the side to rest on his shoulder, and the controller slips onto the cushion between you. He has to reach across his lap to press the buttons now, but he leaves the other arm - the arm that would be more convenient to use - slung over the back.

“Did you ever get gifts like that?” he asks. “W-Where it was only close to the right thing?”

“Oh, sure, all the time. People tell me I’m pretty hard to shop for.”

His nose crinkles up at that; his eyebrows draw together in annoyed confusion. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“No?”

“No.” His refusal is forceful, just on the right side of offended - not by you, but for you. “I see a lot of things I think you’d like.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess you must think of me a lot, then.” You aren’t sure why you say it. Maybe sleep deprivation has loosened your tongue, or maybe even a wiser, more rested version of yourself would have risked the flirty remark for the lovely blush that stretches out across his cheeks. It contrasts the dark circles under his eyes; each one makes the other more beautiful.

“I guess I do,” he says. His arm slides again, letting his elbow fall behind the couch so he can pull his hand in line with your face. He looks over at you - not a glance, but a steady moment of eye contact - and smiles a fragile, hopeful sort of smile.

You return the smile, but you can’t hold his gaze. You stare down at the controller and try not to think about how close his pinky is to your knee. “Me, too. A-About you, I mean. Lots of things remind me of you.” You nuzzle your cheek into the fabric of the couch so you can point toward the TV with your eyes. “This will, too, now.”

Serizawa hums, but he doesn’t say anything else. His hand starts moving on the controller again. Your eyelids start to droop. You swear you feel the ghost of fingers through your hair.

have i talked about touch-starved seri yet? i can’t believe i haven’t talked about touch-starved seri yet bc this man is touch! starved! early on in your relationship he pops a boner at the lightest and most casual of touches and it’s SO obvious (big dick seri truther, but also he’s very awkward and stammer-y about it) that you have to get very good at finding places to safely sneak off for a quickie. at least, you think they’ll be quick, except his stamina is actually pretty good despite how overwhelmed touching seems to make him, and if you get even a little bit undressed then he wants to drag things out. sooooo you swap to just sucking him off. he “apologizes for the unfairness” when you get home.

at first you’re disappointed that he doesn’t fall completely apart bc you kinda wanna take advantage of his extra sensitivity but it truly is the best of both worlds bc he reacts SO strongly to every touch but you get to keep touching without having to worry about him coming too quickly. you’re not even trying to tease him most of the time he’s just… like that.

serizawa absolutely can NOT handle sustained eye contact at the best of times. he also likes, at least a little bit, to be embarrassed. combine these. force him to make eye contact with you, especially if you're on top of him. it’s the closest he ever gets to coming in his fucking pants. he can’t even get mad about how flustered it makes him bc he does want to be able to watch you and he’s happy to get the push he needs to do it. buuuut he also thinks he might die if you make him do it for too long so maybe save it for when he’s already close. he pulls you down for a kiss immediately after he comes so he can redirect your staring before he starts thinking too hard, which is a fun bonus.

he keeps his eyes closed most of the rest of the time but never suggests a blindfold for himself and knows you like seeing him too much to suggest you wear one. if you tell him you want to, though, he’s all over it because it’s the only time he gets to stare as much as you do without having to worry about accidentally meeting your eyes. everything else that comes with it - you jolting in surprise because his touches are so light and all over the place, the desperate way you grab for his shoulders to anchor yourself, the extra talking you do when you can’t figure out where he is because he's too quiet, the last bit of your reserve falling away once you feel good enough to forget he can see you even though you can't see him - are also all very, very compelling reasons for him to like using it.

if you’re sleeping in the same bed as him and he’s awake late at night sometimes he just… forgets to check if you’re actually asleep before he starts jerking off. if you’re a REALLY light sleeper he might figure it out but not before his hand ends up in his pants on instinct. it’s not like he did it all the time even when he was a shut-in, but it was a fairly common tactic for him to try to relax and he doesn’t really think about the fact that nowadays you’re Right There. he’s pretty quiet when it’s “just him” so sometimes you don’t wake up, but sometimes you do and sometimes you weren’t asleep in the first place and it always startles him a little if he finally realizes and looks over to find you watching him. doesn't stop him, though.

(he starts getting a little louder on purpose at the beginning to test if you’re up. if you don’t stir he quiets back down and does his own thing, but he knows you like hearing him so he pushes his luck hoping you’ll fling a hand his way or scoot closer to help him out. he’s unwilling to outright wake you but he can justify the noise tactic with only a little bit of mental gymnastics so that’s what he sticks with.)

i know the trope is to have stuff start floating as he gets more into sex bc he’s not paying enough attention or whatever, but i think he’s very aware of his powers the whole time precisely bc he’s so worried about them doing something stupid the second he looses focus. this leads to some… interesting results. a little bit of a crackling where his hands trail down your body because he’s focusing his powers into his fingertips. the bed not making a sound no matter how forcefully he slams his hips into yours because he’s using it as a conduit to send extra energy into the ground. thrusting at an angle that shouldn’t be Quite So Targeted because he can move you around and hold you steady with precision that muscles can’t match.