for your fictional needs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

itachi sleeping headcanons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━ kirishima / reader

━ fluff, oneshot

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

song 

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

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

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

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

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

somehow, you still found beauty in it.

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

as always reblogs and replies are super motivating!

The hand that helps

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

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

Larger than life is seemed, sometimes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait until the perfect moment. Right. 

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

Behind you. 

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

You were unprepared. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?” You frowned. “What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it’s okay-”

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

“No way, I can walk, seriously.”

“Come on!” He cheered.

“Mirio-”

“Really, it’s okay! Climb up!”

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

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

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

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

“You’re right!”

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

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

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

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

The corners of your lips upturn. “Yeah?”

“Of course. You always do good.”

“Says you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep!” 

For just a moment, you wonder. 

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

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

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

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

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

His shoes kick small pebbles of gravel under each step. 

vacancy

pairing: sero hanta // reader

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

warnings: none

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One craves to break. The other, to assist.

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t worry about it.

How can he not?

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

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

“You may as well be nonexistent.” 

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

He texts back slowly with heavy fingers. 

okay, stay safe. i love you.

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

want you to know 

paring: aizawa shouta // reader

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

warnings!: self harm! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk to me.

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

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