#djsouled

Shouta's dragging fatigue twists to a flash of fury at the indignation at being shoved out of his relatively nice dark room into light that makes his headache rear. He knows better, but he's tired and everything hurts down to the bone and he just wants to hit something. Hard. He's not opposed to losing a few strands or dislocating a shoulder to vent that anger. A punch is too short range for the situation. His foot connects solidly with Garaki's back, making a satisfying thud of boot on bone.

The fact that he falls sputtering on his face is just extra. In Shouta's sleep deprived state, it's hilarious. Even if he can't laugh, the painful rasping sound just doesn't have the same effect, he can grin. A moment of successful autonomy is worth being held up by his hair as legs cave to what very well could be molten steel in his veins. How that little trick is pulled off, whether it's quirk or remote activated, he doesn't know. It doesn't matter.

Breath wheezes out of his lungs as nomu hauls him down the hall, too many nerves and muscles misfiring to coordinate body enough to trudge under his own power. Humiliating but still not the worst. No worse than feeling eyes that were not his own open to send heroes crashing to the ground or spending days bound to a table trying to fight off invading genes like an infection.

His eyes - the real ones the real ones the real

Don't open don't open keep them closed they're not his none of this is his him anymore

His eyes, only two, still burn too much to open yet all of them squeeze shut. If it was a job he would’ve been given the details before which means it’s something else. Maybe he’s displeased the master again and they’d had this conversation before so clearly Shouta hadn’t been paying enough attention the first time. He never was a great student.

A door shuts, when did they get to another room where is he, and an eye on his hand catches a glimpse of a chair and table. Both are standard metal, bolted to the floor. He doesn’t have time to process more before large arm finally lets go of his hair in favor of firmly planting him in the seat. It rams his forehead into the table, which he now notices is slightly lower than normal and makes his neck bend uncomfortably, but the message is clear. Don’t move.

Heart pounds so loud in his ears he almost misses the nomu leaving. But it’s not a normal set up, there aren’t even any restraints and the doctor is tying his hair up with the hands of a man who’s never even done a ponytail. If he wanted, there’s an eye on shoulder blade that would have a clear view with how loose black fabric pools around hunched shoulders. He’s never wanted to see Garaki work and knowing what was coming wouldn’t change anything.

For all his nerves, Shouta doesn’t flinch at cool alcohol at the junction where neck becomes back. He doesn’t flinch at the sharp jab of a needle or excruciatingly slow scalpel through skin muscle no fat to bone. His hands shake and he blames it on the chill in his veins. Sensation pricks painfully like pins around the open wound but there’s no rush of blood. His infuriatingly sluggish brain takes several moments to connect the dots. There’s no way in hell they trust him enough to remove the implant in his spine serving as a bean sized shock collar. Replacement maybe or upgrade.

The table is blissfully cold on his rapidly overheating skin. It would be better if he just passed out now but he’s never been that lucky. He forces an unsteady breath in through his nose and clamps jaw against rising anxious nausea. One set of footsteps is replaced with another this one heavier like someone wearing those dumb thick platform boots. Eye on his wrist peeks at leather pants. He wishes he could hide face under mountains of dark hair for some semblance of anonymity. Not exposed pulled open under harsh fluorescents. The tie snaps to unseen pressure and black falls over his head. If only he could telekinetically fling the stranger into the wall.

"I can't really say I'm colored surprised."

The thin bed is cold and damp on his back, a far cry from warm sheets with even warmer company. Shouta's done over a dozen undercover ops yet he still feels naked without normal gear. Knives cling to his legs, chain whip courtesy of several brush up sessions with Nemuri replaces weight of belt. His hair is still plaited to the scalp no matter how much he wants to rip out all the ties so it stops giving him a headache. Playing a low life might be near second nature by now but doing his hair that fancy isn't. Every few days he tries to fix it before it unravels entirely and ruins the persona.

Live Hizashi is almost as affective as his migraine meds - equally as likely to put him to sleep. Much quieter and more soothing than his show voice. It would be perfect if there wasn't a phone or several miles between them. Shouta hums, digging the back of his head into pillow. "Yeah. Last I checked, Ravenpaw is fine." He checks the room daily for bugs but that didn't mean a quirk wasn't listening in, even if no one in his files had any enhanced hearing abilities. Experience taught any good pro, especially underground, not to make assumptions. Better to be safe and not say anything incriminating than be dead.

It's unfortunate this time he's running quirkless, a desperate man trying to pay off debt by delivering stolen jewelry to various high list clients - or at least those that worked for them that brought in mail. People in dire need of money didn't have nice apartments, this one no worse than any he'd had in the past. Better than camping out on the street with no other place to go. The agency and precinct that had called him plus a few of their own heroes at least covered all undercover costs. One of the benefits of being excellent at his job, they had to pay for it compared to all coming out of his own bank if he'd added himself to the job.

@djsouled is bein' fokin gay.

A fist rubbed at his one tired eye as he approached the fallen stuffie. He let out a soft chuckle as he peeled the sticky note from the counter, bringing it closer to his face to give it a proper read. The music room, huh?

@dhampiravidi is asking all of the real questions.

Canonly? Unfortunately, never. But that's what RP and fanfics are for tbh. I mean, we don't even know about either of their living situations really.

I don't really have a main verse as I've explained before that I never know if RPers want to be pulled into the shenanigans I have going on with other writers. Buuut, @djsouled and I have been plotting & writing Erasermic stuffs. We have written them as being roommates on and off throughout their adulthood. One can never really be too far from the other.

Shota isn't the type to admit anything and also can be quite selfish and incredibly stupid when it comes to romance, particularly how much Hizashi is in love with him. So this bitch doesn't say anything for 15 years and it takes them both nearly dying and losing Midnight for Yamada to finally confess his feelings.