Hi! I saw a certain someone’s post about you working on a Catzawa fic and I’m dying to know more b/c Catzawa makes for the most fun reads. Are we talking Catzawa from the get go or is Aizawa transformed into Catzawa?
Aizawa is transformed into Catzawa!! Just who did the transforming is going to be revealed later, BUT here! Have a brief little sneaky peaky!!
The villain’s quirk activated. Aizawa felt it in his bones, in his blood, in his tissue and flesh and breath. It felt like fire sliding beneath his skin and into his veins, lancing like needles through his chest, spearing his lungs and heart before crackling like electricity into his brain. His entire body went rigid, back arched, head thrown back, mouth opening in a silent scream.
Joints cracked. Bones snapped. Muscles tore. Ligaments ripped. His flesh boiled and bubbled, rippled across his reshaping skeleton. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see or smell or taste anything but red, red, red in his eyes and in his nose and in his mouth—could do nothing but feel, and remember…
Bones splintering in his arms and in his face, the nomu’s grip lead around his wrists and shoulders and elbows. Blood in his eyes; blood streaming down his cheeks and dripping from his chin; blood soaking his hero’s costume to his bruised and abraded skin.
Asui, Midoriya, Mineta watching him scream, hearing him scream—seeing him die.
Shigaraki’s hand stretching out for Asui’s face…
Aizawa dragged in a shuddering breath, regaining consciousness with the jolt of a boot against his side. He felt the air open around him, whistle against his body, tousle his hair. Then a dark shadow reared up in front of him, and before he could react, Aizawa slammed into the building wall. He crashed to the ground with a whimper, a soft mewl tearing free of his throat before he could swallow it.
Except the sound wasn’t his. It was smaller than his voice, higher-pitched, sweet where his was usually gruff and low. More than that, though, he would have grunted at the impact not—not mewled.
He picked himself up, wobbling as he gathered his fumbling feet under him—and then realized, with a jolt of terror and confusion that he was standing on three feet, not four. And then more fear, more confusion, as his thoughts caught up to his mind and he realized he was on all fours, and that his prosthetic was gone, vanished, leaving him unbalanced and swaying.
His body was still slow and sluggish, the drugs they had used to sedate him pounding through his veins in time with his heart and breath. He blinked, dragged in a shuddering breath, looked up—and froze.
Something—no, everything—was wrong.