Aizawa living in my head, rent-free.
YOU ARE THE REASON

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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Origami Around


roma★

izzy's playlists!
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@hanluciel
Aizawa living in my head, rent-free.

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I would like to additionally point out a discovery that I made just now; not only does his hair, body, form, and weights change, but also the SPEED of the pushups increase which further emphasizes how much time he’s been training to get to where he is in the present. He’s acquired so much skill to the point that he can do pushups with TWO fingers, one hand, and ONE foot with such efficiency that he seems accustomed to it (just straight aura farming atp).
i miss aizawa
I need more fluff fanfics im loosing it
When u highkey want to read some good ol' pure tooth rotting fluff no smut, no angst of a specific character but theres genuinely so little that you've read all 3 of them in a single night in the span of 3 hours all on AO3, Tumblr and Wattpad so you kinda just daydream and make ur own scenarios in ur head to make up for it
wanted them so bad and realized that they're not real so i almost threw up on my floor #goodmorning

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a little something from a suicide note i wrote in 2024
“I hate the change. Its a pretty selfish and childish thing to say but its the truth. The house doesn’t feel like mine anymore. The house I grew up in feels cold. The people have changed, the memories are lost, the times have changed, the scenery is gone, the trees are gone, the love is gone, the colors are gone.”
BNHA Memes #11
The best Throuple in anime...
This is another little thought vent. Im not a writer and i am bad at communicating my emotions. But sometimes the dissociation fades and we are left with our pure raw emotions.
Its hard for me to put it into words so i hope you can somehow try to solve the puzzle that is my undeveloped troubled mind. The last 1.5 years we were together was a big emotional rollercoaster. I dont know what happened. The start seemed perfect; from my side looking in. The longer we went on the more my admiration for your charming and caring persona shifted into an admiration for your manipulation and obsession. I say admiration because i had to at one point sit back and soak in the reality of how easily you ruined me. I had my life figured out, my aspirations set in place when we started walking, but as we started running you were a mile ahead of me while i was still somewhere at the beginning. Tripped and sprayed my ankle. You never looked back to help me make it to the finish line together. You waited there angrily for me to catch up to you and when i did all you did was criticize my speed, completely ignoring my swollen ankle. The more i think back on everything the more i start to forget. I remember you. I remember the good and the bad times. But it feels like i told myself that story through my friends. Through their reactions. Through their comfort and empathy. I randomly get flashbacks of you, of the good and bad times we had. And then just like that, its gone. I try to remember you. I just saw you last month, but it feels like it was all a dream. Someone told me you were there this whole time. My friends told me what kind of person you were and how you always made me cry. The mind is a mystery, because why can i not believe that you are real and you happened to me?
Oberflächliche insults dont sting as much after you grow older. Someone calling you Ugly wont affect you much after some time had passed. Insults that arent directly meant as insults but as observations that touch on your inner core are the ones that no matter how long time passes will always manage to find their way to the surface. No matter how far down you push them and how many times you lock them away in your mind, when you are laying there in bed staring up at the dark canvas that is your ceiling, your mind paints a picture on its own. And no matter how hard you try to stop it, the mind wanders to the deepest parts of your brain, reaching for those comments made towards you that you so hard tried to go against. The mind paints the memory in the dark and pries at all the times that those comments were served justice. You try your hardest to tell yourself you changed you arent like that anymore. But its useless. No one apologized for it. And they didnt hesitate to repeat it. Which has to mean its true? That IS in fact who you are? You pick apart your every action, every tick of anger - to find a glimpse of those words, “You have your father’s temperament”.
⚡️🎉✨💛

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA
He watched you long before you knew his name. Now, he's your professor.
A hero. A liar. A predator. And maybe... your salvation.
Y/N is a brilliant but haunted college student working on her senior thesis: Applied Ethics & Heroic Society Studies. She doesn't believe in heroes anymore-not after what Keigo Takami did to her. She's focused, closed off, and determined to expose the moral rot behind the mask of heroism.
Then comes Professor Aizawa. Sharp-tongued. Cold-eyed. Obsessive. The kind of man who reads your silence better than your essays. The kind who lingers too long after office hours.
What starts as mentorship turns into something darker-something twisted and dangerously intimate. Because Shouta Aizawa doesn't just want to help Y/N write her thesis. He wants to unravel her. Own her. Protect her... from everyone, including herself.
And when her past comes knocking-feathered, smiling, and deadly-Y/N is forced to confront a truth more terrifying than desire:
Some heroes aren't meant to save you.
They're meant to destroy everything that ever hurt you.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
im in love with this
Chapter 1- Curiosity Killed The Cat
You don't even know I'm watching you.
It's ironic, really. A room full of future investigative journalists, psychologists, and policy researchers—and not one of you realizes I'm not supposed to be here yet.
I was scheduled to arrive fifteen minutes from now. Last-minute keynote, a favor for Nezu. He always says I have a "perspective the students need." That's code for: "Say the shit no one else will."
But I'm already here.
Third row from the back. Hood up. Scarf wrapped high on my jawline. Black boots still wet from the rain. My hair's a tangled mess under the hood, eyes shaded by sleep-deprivation and shadows. I'm practically invisible.
No one notices me.
Except you.
You look up. Not at me—just in my direction. You squint. Tilt your head. A flicker of interest flashes across your face before you go back to scribbling in that battered black notebook.
You don't know I've read it.
Not yours specifically, no. But I know the type. Spiral-bound, corners chewed, the spine cracked from flipping too fast. I bet there are little tabs marking your favorite sources. You look like the type who color codes citations and dreams in footnotes.
You're exactly the kind of student I used to roll my eyes at.
So why can't I stop watching you? Why have you captured my attention? What is this unfamiliar itch crawling under my skin?
The symposium host finishes their overly cheerful opening remarks. It's the same recycled speech I've heard at every academic event for the past five years. "Welcome, rising leaders of our generation, future heroes of truth, blah blah blah."
My eyes narrow.
You don't clap. Interesting.
Most students applaud on autopilot. You just flip the page, expression unreadable. You look tired—but focused. Detached—but present. What brings you here? Are you here for me?
The panel begins. Three heroes in stiff suits—two of them clearly haven't seen real combat in years. One's a Commission puppet with veneers too white to trust. I stop listening after he says "brand synergy" for the second time.
Then it's my turn.
I walk down the aisle slowly. Controlled. Silent. The crowd shifts as I pass, eyes on me. I don't smile. I never do. But I can feel yours.
Your eyes follow me—not with admiration, but with curiosity. Dissection. Like you're trying to decode me. Like I'm the puzzle instead of the prize.
Good luck.
Curiosity killed the cat.
I drop into my seat with calculated apathy, stretch my legs a little too far, lean back just enough to appear uninterested. But my eyes find you the second I lift my head.
Second row. Left side.
You're wearing a coffee-stained hoodie layered under a navy blue blazer. Your hair's pulled into a haphazard bun, strands falling around your face in intentional chaos. It's as if you want people to think you don't care—when really, you've curated every inch of yourself to look effortless.
And it works.
I answer three questions. Two are useless. One is vaguely thoughtful. Then your hand goes up.
Something shifts in my chest.
I shouldn't care. I've answered thousands of student questions in my career. But yours?
Yours makes my heart beat too loud in my ears.
"Erasure Hero Aizawa," you say. Your voice is calm but sharp. There's an edge in it—one that cuts through the theater like a scalpel. "In your years underground, how many decisions did you make that violated the Hero Code? And how many of them did you consider necessary?"
Silence.
I blink slowly. The air thickens. I could lie. That's what most heroes do. Say something safe. Say "none." Say "only when lives were at stake."
But you wouldn't respect a lie.
And I've already decided I want your respect. You earned it the moment you didn't look away.
"One," I answer, voice low. Calm. Steady. "And I'm still deciding."
The audience murmurs. Nervous laughter spreads like a virus.
But not from you.
You don't laugh.
You stare at me like you're writing the answer on my skin. Your pen is still. You've stopped taking notes.
I shift—not out of discomfort. Out of calculation.
I want to see how long you'll keep looking.
You don't disappoint.
Hours later, I linger behind.
I decline the photos. Brush off the shallow praise. Heroes are swarming the crowd like they're in a damn talent show. I keep my eyes on the exits.
There you are.
You're walking toward the far door, a tote bag slung lazily over one shoulder. Your notebook clutched to your chest. The sound of your boots—black combat style, slightly worn—hits the marble floor rhythmically. I watch the sway of your hips, the stiffness in your posture.
Even from behind, your presence is unmistakable.
Then you pause. Glance over your shoulder.
It's not at me. You're just thoughtful like that. Always thinking. Always searching. Turning things over twice in your head before letting them go.
You step outside and disappear into the misty late afternoon.
I don't follow.
Not yet.
Instead, I go to the student registry office with a falsified clearance form. I tell them I'm working with Professor Mikado on thesis consulting. They don't even check. Just hand me the list.
And there you are.
[Last Name], [First Name]
Major: Applied Ethics & Heroic Society Studies
Research Title: "Between Code and Carnage: Moral Thresholds in Underground Hero Work."
Advisor: Professor Mikado
Graduation Track: Spring Term
You're practically gift-wrapped.
I dig deeper. Grades. Transcripts. You're top three in your class. You've published two academic articles, earned a scholarship for fieldwork in Hosu. You were there after the Nomu incident. You've seen blood. Real hero blood.
No wonder you asked that question.
You've seen the rot beneath the hero shine—and you're still curious.
It's dangerous to be curious.
But it's more dangerous to be interesting.
And you... are very interesting.
At 2:11 AM, I read your blog.
Not the school-sanctioned one. The hidden one. You thought you were clever with your VPN routing and anonymous URL.
You weren't.
Your latest post is a scathing critique of hero overreach during the quirk regulation protests. You name names. Agencies. You quote court documents and archived interviews that were supposed to be scrubbed.
You've made enemies.
And you're walking around like no one's watching you.
A sigh escapes my lips. I pull the newspaper from the counter and try to read, but the words blur. My fingers loosen. The paper slips, lands across my face. My eyes shut.
And your face—your eyes, your voice—flashes behind my eyelids.
A quiet laugh curls from my chest. No. A full, throaty, breathless laugh rips out of me.
A grin spreads across my face.
I've found my new toy.
Y/N... I'm going to ruin you.
You should be more careful.
I could help you be more careful.
I close the laptop slowly. Consider my next move.
A knock on the window pulls my attention. Just the wind.
Still, I stand. Walk toward the glass. It's raining. Hard. The glow from your apartment window softens against the downpour.
The street below is quiet. Empty.
Except for me.
DAY 10
I'm beginning to - oops! My mom’s calling me for dinner. I’ll have to get back to this tomorrow. 🏠 🖍️

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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well-
When there isn’t 20 new fics for me to read after refreshing the tag (I just finished reading everything and have absolutely no patience)