#guy with an irrational fear of being laughed at with a laugh trauma response >>>>>>>

[drawingwilsoneveryday]

Can we get more bonkers Wilson? Seeing him insane makes me want to cry but also observe him like a bug

day 83!

[mothinked]

Owen realized he had misspoken a bit too late. "Hey!" He was probably just going to end up putting his foot in his mouth now but he didn't want the misconstrued thought to occupy her mind for too long. "I meant excluding you. You have much better taste than that. Much better." He listened, smiling in amusement when she questioned Sasha's judgment. "Well, according to you, at least half a dozen women have poor judgment calls when it comes to asking me out." It was years of women showing interest in him. Some kissing here and there but never with Abby nearby.

Not that he felt guilty for giving in during weak moments... He was only human after all. It was the thought of hurting Abby that stopped him from ever pursuing another woman. Another reason he never let it get further than kissing because his heart just wasn't in it. A few only sought a friends-with-benefits sort of thing with him while other mentioned a future, possibly with kids. The mention of having children would leave him on the verge of a panic attack and he'd immediately quash the idea, said it wasn't for him. At least that reaction didn't send them running.

There were those who didn't want to bring kids into the world given its state then there were others who wanted the whole package in life. Catalina Island was a safe place to raise a family. A great place, in fact. Owen had gotten better with kids over the years, mentoring teenagers and taking the time to play with the younger population whenever he was having a rough day and needed a boost. One innocent smile or laugh was enough to chase his worries away for a while. Maybe it was contradictive—how he was good with kids and at the same time being utterly terrified of having one of his own.

Was it normal for guys to fly into a panic when a potential partner mentioned children? Deep down, Owen knew it was his trauma speaking. What he never wanted to face again. What he left buried six feet underground in Seattle just outside of the aquarium. Was it like Abby's irrational fear of heights...? he wondered at one point in time. Could he ever overcome his own fear without wanting to down a bottle of booze or self-destruct in some other way? Perhaps it was his punishment for how he'd treated Mel, especially during their last conversation...

His breath hitched as Abby practically nestled their hands against her body. Then he released it in a quiet sigh, a feeling of peace blanketing him moments later. It was very... comforting. It made him remember how he was the big spoon the last time they'd slept together and how she wordlessly pulled his arms around her, hand holding tight to the larger one that had found home on her hip. He'd been careful not to touch her wrists because of the rope burns.

He should have cherished that night more. Shouldn't have taken things for granted.

"I knew you were hungry but not that hungry," Owen joked weakly, more so to calm his nerves at the emotional response holding her hand brought on than finding humor in her comment.

It’s easy to tell there’s a storm going on in that head of his. It’s obvious in the way he carries himself. Whether they’re good or bad thoughts, she’s unsure of. But if she knows Owen, they’re not lacking in depth. He’s thoughtful, sometimes to his own detriment but it’s something that she would never, ever consider a negative about him. In fact, it’s one of the things she admires about him most. Whatever was on his mind, maybe they would talk about it later. Or maybe not. There was no guarantee that after a shower and a full belly she would be capable of anything more than the most basic of functions like keeping her eyes open to watch a movie without drifting off. Even that was questionable at this point but she would do her very best.

Her head lulls to the side and very matter of factly, she continues speaking “You’re right. Probably all of them.” Abby was a Firefly. And Abby was a female. That would put her in that category but there was no way she would ever have gone down that road which is why she felt comfortable enough to joke with him about it. Owen knew her better. It was the sort of familiarity that came from knowing someone almost as much as you knew yourself. The kind of familiarity that came with growing up with someone. And unfortunately the kind of familiarity that came from going through unimaginable trauma with them. Factor in they checked all 3 of those boxes and they were bonded for life.

There’s the slightest pang of jealousy that surges through Abby at the mention of Sasha but it quickly dissipates. She had no reason to be jealous. Not because she could anticipate what Owen’s response had been but because she had no right to be jealous. They weren’t together. He had every right to go out with whoever he wanted. Didn’t mean she had to like it. “Yeah? I take back what I said about her being capable, really going to have to question her judgment on that one.” And there was the normal Abby again, brushing off the thought of him actually being with someone else. You didn’t have to say no. It’s a fleeting thought but she quickly pushes it away.

There’s no flinch or startle as their hands come together and her fingers curl to hold onto his hand with a firm but relaxed grip. “You’re lucky you’re you. And bold of you to give me your hand after I tell you how hungry I am,” she mumbled. Her actions don’t match her words as she moves to pull his hand closer to her in what’s almost a subconscious reflex. Admittedly she surprises herself a bit but she doesn’t second guess herself. Some people find comfort in places, in food. Abby finds comfort in Owen and the simple gesture is one that fills her with a calmness that has been severely lacking for such a long time.

[harmonictechnicality]

After their weekly performance at The Hideout, Eddie and his bandmates decide to hit up the County Fair.

He’s up for anything until they get to the fourth room of the funhouse. It’s a small, pitch-black space with flickering lights. The mirrors reveal reflections that are just blurred figures. If he squints, Eddie can see himself silhouetted by waves of dark hues.

It all becomes disorienting very fast. He’s spinning in circles, searching for his friends that are clearly not there anymore. The lights give him a killer headache and the ambience of circus music and screaming children is sending him into sensory overload. So instead of doing the Normal Person Thing of exiting the room, he huddles into the nearest corner. Trapped in his foggy mind.

Eddie has been muttering ‘shit shit goddamnit’ to himself for a few minutes now, when someone responds.

“You okay?” It’s a lower voice. He’s not entirely sure where it’s coming from either - maybe somewhere in the shadowy room or on the other side of the geometric mirror wall beside him.

“Um.” Eddie sniffles, unaware that he’d been crying. “Just overwhelmed, I guess.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah - where are you?”

“Flickering lights room.”

Footsteps get a little closer, stopping a few feet away. Eddie looks up but can’t see any details besides lightly colored clothes. The guy bends down next to Eddie and he is able to observe a few more features: young. Dark eyes. Definitely lots of hair.

“Mind if I join you down here?” The guy asks, voice subdued but speaking clearly over the noisy music.

Eddie shakes his head no, instantly realizing they probably can’t see his reaction. “I don’t mind.”

The two of them sit quietly in this bizarre space, but it’s better than being alone. They wait for a group of rowdy teenagers to pass before speaking to one another.

“Did you hear about that explosion over the summer - in Hawkins?”

“At the mall?” Of course Eddie heard about it. The whole thing was all over the news a few months ago. Lots of casualties.

“Yeah.” The guy pauses, clears his throat. “I was there that night.”

“I thought nobody survived?”

“Got out before everything…” his voice trails off, stuck in an unwanted memory. “Anyways, fireworks and loud crashing sounds really fuck me up these days.”

Eddie hums in response. There’s a lot of unspoken trauma from this kind stranger and a lot of unspoken irrational fears from Eddie. Both perspectives somehow able to connect in this moment. Melding into a chain on the floor of this sketchy carnival attraction.

There’s a cymbal crash in the blaring speakers above them. Both of them swearing ‘shit’ in unison.

“It appears that loud crashing sounds fuck me up too.” Eddie jokes nervously.

There’s enough dim lighting for Eddie to see the guy nod, laughing softly. “You live in Hawkins?”

“Unfortunately. You?”

“Yup.”

“Think we know each other?”

“It’s a small town.” The guy shifts his weight. Eddie watches him scoot closer, as if he’s trying to get a better look at Eddie’s face. “Is this okay?”

He’s clamors towards Eddie slowly, hovering a few inches away. Waiting for Eddie to say something. Anything.

“Uh huh.” Which is barely audible, but the guy moves in to examine Eddie.

As the stranger looks him up and down, Eddie also tries to inspect his face - getting more than a little distracted by this guy’s fucking cologne. He smells like amber incense. He smells rich.

There’s definitely familiarity in his movements. In his voice. In his smile.

There’s also tension between them now. The guy is almost over top of Eddie and no longer inspecting his facial features. Eyes dropping to Eddie’s lips. Staying there.

“Still hard to see you,” Eddie’s voice goes dry. Throat muscles tensing up at this change in atmosphere.

“Yeah.” The air between them heating up from their words. “I can see enough to know you’re cute though.”

The stranger lifts his finger into Eddie’s hair and twirls one strand around playfully. Eddie goes breathy at the contact. He’s not usually this shy, but it’s not everyday he gets seduced at a local fair either.

“Maybe it’s better if we don’t know each other.” Eddie finally leans in close enough to see the stranger has a few freckles scattered on his cheeks. He finds the courage to touch one of the freckles, skating his hand down the guy’s neck. “Maybe we can make a brief, but worthwhile memory out of our shitty circumstances.”

“Close your eyes,” the stranger whispers.

His breath is so warm and thick, surrounding Eddie’s mouth. Their lips graze for a fleeting second before someone starts yelling in the next room over.

“Steve!” The high-pitched voice yells again.

“Damnit.” He sighs deeply into the thin space between them. “It was really nice to meet you.” He squeezes Eddie’s hand before standing up. Swiftly exiting out of a nearby corridor.

“Steve, come on!” They call out again.

“Coming!” He shouts back.

And that’s when Eddie grasps the reality of what almost happened. Pastel clothes. Perfect hair. Rich boy cologne.

Eddie Munson almost kissed Steve Harrington in a funhouse full of mirrors.

The Steve Harrington.

None of the mirrors in this room are broken, but damn - it sure as hell feels like his world has been shattered into tiny shards of glass.

[ckcker]

Fell in Love with an Incel

Guy playing video game on his phone drops his phone on the floor, it makes four tight noises.  He says nothing and picks it up.  Eight minutes later he drops it again and picks it up, saying nothing again.  An amazing sequence of moves.  I say nothing as well and the day fills up and passes.  I want to move like a cockatiel tears apart a spool of yarn used to make a baby blanket.  The day sails by and passes, I laugh at least three times out loud.  A giant mirror falls off the wall and onto an older man at a venerated fifty+ year old upscale restaurant.  He is taken to the hospital I learn from a bystander, which I consider successful news, when you hear news directly from someone who observed something and without cameras.  The day passes and the wind is more frequent the next day.  I feel the sudden irrational fear that I will have to eat extremely greasy and nausea-inducing frozen mozzarella sticks.

One desires a revelation in its full maturity and turbo-waxed sanctity, desires the universal close up that shows them — no longer rendering their obsession with doubt onto every other eye that passes — in the act of realizing something with simplicity.  Yes, the desire for the heavy boundaries of clarity, simplicity, the close-up, very coherent and viewable.  Imagine on a screen: rectangle-filling face, alone, eyebrows pulled slightly back, glance all juiced up but still, as if, eyes focused horngrily on dust, nostrils communicating time signature in their expansion and retraction, mouth half-open and lower lip turned out with the throb of a restrained cowlick.  It is the face of someone really, really, really realizing something.

Consider the way you experience a massive traumatic event -- it is never old news, it feels like lost news. A co-dependent incomprehension that truly lasts, ack. “Lifelong” you sometimes think and when I think this, I speak in the voice of a window shattering back together.  For instance a window shattering back together is a sequence you might see in a movie montage in which time rewinds to the moment before a character has made a specific decision that they later discovered themselves losing to.  Life is short, life is good, such amputations are so crucial, and “enjoy it while it lasts” is another example. Bottomless chyrons of a larger revelation, a revelation that just might need to flirt with life-deactivating trauma to really come to life.  

“Lonely at night” is a vulgar summary, more accurate to say that I am alone and it is night.  Because I have so much: the waving branch of the tree outside, constantly interrupting and redirecting the light from the streets along different inches of my bedroom wall, the exhilarating yelp of the disturbed Pom next door, the fruit flies wandering over the drying remains of spilt grapefruit juice and gin, the oven clock flashing in its excitement, the lack of drapes on the windows.  The two bare bulb lamps on the floor on either side of the apartment and the sleeping pad on the floor, in between. It is with this love that I exit the house to try and find someone to touch me.  And on my front door I find a taped note on yellow legal paper that reads, “Please close your curtains & blinds when you’re naked. Thanks.”  The feeling of 300 drag queens laughing in a circle around a Great Dane unable to stop slipping on a wax floor surrounded by 100 teenagers having panic attacks engulfs my body.  The result is a brief burst of freedom. I work my way towards the bar. The solution to moods has always been a mystery to me.

No attitude worse than dream logic, it didn’t all happen for mysterious reasons and now I’m walking past an elderly couple sitting in the summer evening sun of the sidewalk with their cat next to them, unleashed.  Be watchful of that cat — anything abandoned on a city sidewalk can become a condo.  I don’t tell them this but continue walking, and as I approach a group of men bringing to mind overuse of the word “jocular,” blocking the sidewalk and engaged in unpredictable movements and air boxing, I think, what other proof do you need that climate change is real.  I maneuver around them with the grace of an early AI dog, though some sort of dream logic tells me that I may never evolve past this interim bot and into the polish of the uncanny valley.  Though the depiction of future almost always emphasizes technology in its perceived ideal aesthetic — interiors of all white, chrome or silver, pervasive LED cleanliness, slip-on clothes and “breathwear” shoes without strings, hovering semi-transparent interfaces with apex geometrical precision — it is likely my future will explore a more interesting color: bench-being-avoided-in-a-park-because-it-is-the-only-one-the-birds-want-to-shit-on (slate mahogany/rusted charcoal black/fog white/splash of army green).  I ask Mother Earth, 'please gently press the green back into my face so I may puke.'  And in this organic review of my stomach, throat and head, this exfoliating consecration that summons and cashes unspilt waste, teach me nothing more than how to redesign my system of disgust so that it cleans itself out daily, I'd rather not have the responsibility.  

[demyrie]

erasermight prompts you say? Here's one: Toshi is sick and Aizawa takes care of him (or vice versa)

Ohhhhh deviation, you got it. Guys I have a M I G H T Y love for a) 1-A babies caring so much and b) Recovery Girl calling Aizawa on his shit (in my hc for BnB they have an extraordinary bond so I might be playing on that heavily) and also pining and sick fics. I’m loving all these prompts, so great!!! You’re electrifying my day!

Something More (To Hope For)

“Aizawa-kun, please stop struggling! We're almost there and you're making this extraordinarily difficult!”

“Fuck you! Put me down, then!”

Toshinori rolled his eyes, or tried to, before he took an elbow to the back of the head. It was better, at least, than the attempted headlock of a few minutes earlier: It was amazing how much muscle memory Aizawa retained while delirious with fever, even thrown over the older hero's bony shoulder and clearly struggling for breath. Toshinori had maintained his hero form just long enough to get up to the fourth floor, but that was all he had in him, and this body wasn't exactly comfortable – to be in, or be on. He grimaced, tasting blood in his throat, but struggled onward, determined to deliver the angry man to the medical ward before he managed to knock both of them out.

“I apologize, I-I know you would rather Yamada-san or Kayama-san but – I told you they're out with the class --”

“It's not a matter of preference,” Aizawa slurred furiously, panting in exertion just to shove Toshinori's (proper, polite) stabilizing hands away from his legs and sides. “I don't want anybody. I don't want anything, what I want is to finish this damn lecture and --”

“You're ill,” Toshinori interruptedhim, using a bit of his natural strength to immobilize the youngerhero's lanky body as he jolted-jogged up the last of the steps to themedical ward, ducking to go through the door, half afraid Aizawawould try to grab the frame or knock himself out on it. Either seemedcharacteristic, at the moment, and it was perhaps his first hint thatAizawa had very serious control issues underneath his slobbish,muttering sleeping-bag persona. He was a curious creature, andcurrently rabid with ire, to boot.

“I'm not ill, you idiot! I'm fine!”

“See, I know you're ill, becauseyou're being irrational,” Toshinori scolded him through his teeth.“And yelling. You never yell.”

“You were the one who carried methrough the damn hallways when you could have just called the bots,”Aizawa countered in a furious growl, now digging his hands intoToshinori's back and shoulders like punishment for making an accuratestatement. Aizawa was surprisingly resistant to the truth when it wasinconvenient to him, it turned out.

And in Toshinori's opinion, it wasAizawa's fault for waking up mid-rescue and proceeding to resist withevery limb available to him, perhaps believing in a fever state thathe was being kidnapped. It was a humorous thought if no one lookedtoo closely, as was usual with their profession, but Aizawa alsohadn't seen scene Toshinori – All Might – had walked in on.

The hallway had been pulsing with a redstrobe light, alarms screeching nonstop and calling handfuls ofstudents to peer fretfully out of their classrooms. In the middle ofit all, young Kirishima and Shouji were puffing and hustling forwardsingle-mindedly with their teacher's slack weight suspended betweentheir shoulders. The sheer panic on the young boys' faces wasn't easyto forget, or the relief once they saw All Might. The fact that theyhad rushed out so unprepared, failing to make use of Uraraka'slevitation Quirk or Sato's strength, spoke to tumult that hadpreceded the rescue effort. The only thing to do was grin and takehim off their hands and promise everything would be okay.

Couldn't Aizawa just cooperate, foronce, so he could fulfill that simple promise? He really didn't wantto disappoint the children, or add to the head trauma that Aizawa hadlikely sustained in collapsing against his desk.

“I didn't have time to think aboutthe bots. The children pushed the panic button, for gods sake,” hesaid instead, grunting with effort of opening the medical ward doorwith one hand and balancing an angry, wiggling, scratching badger manwith the other.

“And they shouldn't have,” he gritout. “It's for emergencies only. They shouldn't be treating it likea fucking toy, not since the villain attacks.”

“It was clearly an emergency tothem.”

“Then they're all grounded!” Aizawabarked, using exactly the wrong word and slurring it, and it was atthat moment that Toshinori managed to tip him over and drop him intoan open medical cot. Aizawa hit  flat on his back and grunted,erupting into the same wet, booming coughs as the ones thatpunctuated his initial waking.

It also offered Toshinori his firstopportunity to look into his co-teacher's face and actually keep hisattention.

“You pushed yourself too far and youpassed out cold in front of the class,” he said tensely, bitingevery word, and from the way Aizawa's unnaturally glossy eyes seemedto focus and refocus, it was the first thing he heard through theirentire trek up the hallway.

Even from just speaking up, Toshinoriwas somehow out of breath, or maybe it was the walk to get here. Heswallowed, put a hand to his chest and steadied himself even as hisvoice shook.

“Don't you ... think they're worriedabout you? Don't you want to be well for them? You, who are soinsistent that everyone care for their bodies … How does this look,on you? Not ideal, my friend.”

Aizawa's overdue response was to make atsking noise and look away, but at least he wasn't strugglingto escape the cot. For a moment, all was quiet.

Toshinori exhaled slowly, forcefully,and, feeling a concentrated shake in his knees, opted to sit down andrest a moment, as well. The effort of battling him seemed to becatching up with Aizawa as well, whose breath came more and more wetand crackling as he lay on his back. Worryingly so, and Toshinoriknew what misplaced fluid sounded like.

“Aizawa-san,” Toshinori said inwarning.

“The hell. Why are you still --”

But the homeroom teacher couldn'tfinish, collapsing into coughs and then clearly choking. Before hecould really realize what he was doing, Toshinori had reached forwardand hauled the younger man's body sideways, firmly whacking his backto help with the expectoration. As Aizawa hacked into his fist, themalevolent heat of his body leeched relentlessly through his simpleblack clothes, which were already damp with sweat. Toshinori's worstfears were confirmed: he really was terribly sick, and yet he had hadto be dragged into the medical ward.

The fit wound down in bits and pieces.Aizawa's free hand, which had begun by trying to throw him off, waslatched onto his own, fingers tangled, and the exhausted man simplyshook and shook as he worked through whatever was in his throat. Thenit was over, except for the younger hero's fitful, rasping breaths.In the silence, Aizawa stared over at him, dark eyes wide and blank,face white as a ghost.

He wasn't exactly alert enough to beasking for an explanation but Toshinori, consumed with sudden shynessat yet one more physical broach of the man's personal space, felt theneed to give one anyway.

“When you have fluid in your lungs oryour throat,” he began awkwardly, gesturing with his long fingersand half-ducking his head, “You want to be on your side. That way,you can cough it out. And not choke.”

At length, Aizawa groaned and closedhis eyes, just focusing on breathing. In and out. Good. Or justdoable. Doable was good.

Toshinori sighed, pushed the callbutton on the bedside monitor and sat back. Recovery girl would bethere soon. Everything would be okay. It was an ordinary sickness,made extraordinary by one man's relentlessly heroic attitude. MaybePlus Ultra wasn't all it was cracked up to be, here.

Still tense with worry, the older heroallowed himself one last thing: he gingerly placed his hand overAizawa's forehead, which was glistening with sweat.

“You're very feverish,” he saidmeekly, mostly to himself. “I'm glad we got you up here.”

Aizawa's only response was anothergrunt. Before he could stop himself, Toshinori reverently pulled thestray hairs from the younger hero's face and tucked them behind hisear with the very tips of his fingers, then sat back in a rush, facestupidly hot. Not proper.

“You better stop touching me. You'llget sick. Apparently.”

Toshinori laughed, startled. It was anexhausted sound but genuine, and a relief.

“Then I'm in the perfect place forit. It'll save me a trip.”

“Then you better leave,” Aizawasaid dully, delirious. “Otherwise I'll say something I'll regret.Something that'll make you sick.”

“I've been interfering with yourclass from day one and you never needed an excuse to use stronglanguage. I don't think you could throw anything at me I haven'theard before,” Toshinori assured him with a strained grin, shakinghis head. But a few feet away, Aizawa was quiet. Too quiet, his facecarefully blank.

“Aizawa-san …?” he said softlyafter a moment, brow furrowing as his coworker rigidly rolled over inthe cot to face away from him, shoulders up to his ears. He lookedtense enough that a solid blow would crack him in two. Was heshaking? “Are you ... alright, my friend?”

“Please leave, All Might.” Hisvoice was uncharacteristically thick in a way that had nothing to dowith illness. “Now.”

“Please,” Toshinori protested,distressed. “You know I've asked you to call me --”

“You heard the poor man,Toshinori-kun. You know the rules. No visitors unless the patient isfeeling up for it.”

“A-ah! Miss Chiyo!” Toshinorihopped up and gave a hurried bow, his bangs flopping forward as hehalved his intimidating height to give due deference to the doll of awoman who was standing officiously in her spotless white lab-coat,chin high. “I apologize, I was just waiting for you, and --”

“And I am here,” she saidwith a wink, mimicking his famous phrase. Toshinori wilted and put abig hand to his neck, instantly reddening. “So off you go. You'vedone your part, now let me handle the rest. You know you'll just getin the way.”

Toshinori thanked her formally andasked her to take good care of Aizawa, etc. She shooed him off, whichleft the two in the otherwise empty ward.

“He's gone,” she said curtly whenthe coast was clear, eyeing one of her favorite and most reliablystupid students with clear irritation.

“Miss Chiyo,” Aizawa rasped,rolling over with difficulty. He closed his eyes and finally saggedinto the bed. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she said in heavytones, mouth set in a deep frown. It was more than just the state ofhim, though she never liked seeing her students – previous andpresent alike -- this sick. She busily settled herself next to him ona high chair and rapped the edge of his bed with her cane. “Irescued you this time, but no more, sweet boy. I'm not in thebusiness of saving people anymore and you know that.”

“You save us every day,” came themutter from the sheets but Recovery girl shook her head hard, wispsof grey hair escaping her immaculate bun. She pursed her lips, butnot for a kiss.

“No sweet talk, Shouta-kun, itdoesn't suit you.” she said firmly, reaching over and brushing theremainder of the hair away from his damp face. Aizawa grunted andleaned into the cool touch, clearing his throat.

“Maybe I'm sick,” he murmured, lidsfluttering. “Maybe.”

But Recovery Girl had known him toolong to not recognize the ploy: for the strong-headed man to admitweakness was only to distract from a greater one.

“You can't hide from him forever,”she said after a moment, sighing. She pillowed her cheek on her hand,looking over the man who had grown from a surly, introverted bratthat was was more or less constantly in her beds. Now, it was like aliving memory, and not entirely pleasant. She tapped his hand. “Hedeserves to know how you feel.”

“I'll fucking die first,” hesnorted, rooting into the pillow.

“I can arrange that,” Recovery girlsnapped back, clipped. Though he couldn't see it, she leveled herworst glare at him, wagging a finger. “You watch it, boy. You're inmy house, now, and I decide who gets kissed. Also, language.”

“Sorry, Miss Chiyo.”

It was little more than a moan, faintand pathetic, and Recovery Girl's heart, small and wiry though itwas, utterly liquified. She had been with this particular boy far toolong not to remember him, half his current size, curled up feverishin the old blue sheets she used to keep on the beds. Somehow, out ofhis entire class, he always took the worst of the damage. It was justwho he was, how he fought with so little regard for himself. At leastnow she didn't have to beat Hizashi and Nemuri out with a broom tolet him rest, although she was sure they wouldn't be long inarriving.

“One of these days,” she sighed atlast, when she couldn't come up with an excuse not to. She summonedher Quirk with a deep breath and pressed a quick kiss to his hotforehead. It sparked and Aizawa exhaled, slow and steady, fingerstwitching on the sheets. He slept.

It meant so many things, really: one ofthese days, she would be able to stand her ground even against theseblatant misuses of her abilities when a little more personalresponsibility would have sufficed.  One of these days, Aizawa wouldunderstand that he was so much more than what he could offer to thosein need, an automaton obsessed with efficacy to the exclusion of hisown health. One of these days, he would understand that noteverything that happened to his students was his fault, and neithercould he stop those things from happening by overworking himself.

One of these days, most of all, Aizawawould realize that he had suffered enough, or that he deservedwonderful things ... and one of those wonderful things could be YagiToshinori, who already, secretly shook with feeling every time he wasnear.

It didn't take a mind-reading Quirk tosee the two were stubbornly dancing around each other, reaching overtheir shared custody of a group of children who got into spectacularamounts of trouble by just existing. That kind of trouble could bondpeople, it was true – but this was something more. And above all,Chiyo wanted something more for Aizawa.

For all Eraserhead's keen eyes saw, hewas surprisingly blind when it came to anything that had thepossibility of making him happy, but that was an ailment for anothertime. For now, today, Aizawa, 1-A homeroom teacher and professionalmartyr, slept and healed. When he woke, it was to twenty fidgeting,shuffling, shiny-eyed children peering into his bed and clutchingeverything from flower bouquets to hot tea to boxes of candy and itwas clearly only for effect that he groaned loudly and pretended togo back to sleep. Underneath his hand, as the children erupted in howls and upset and concern, she saw his tiny, honest smile.

This year was different. This year, andeverything and everyone that came with it, would heal them allsomehow. This year, Chiyo had hope.

[ekletia]

Everyone is afraid of something and has a social fear. You have to be able to talk about these, because this is the disease of the modern age that came with the Internet. I don't mean to offend you, but what would you be looking at? @thekaoticfoxi23

That because of the world and the people, he can't bear his life so much that he laughs in agony? These people laugh so much because they are already suffering so much that they don’t know what to do. And all you ever hear are the inside sentences about what the fuck other people are gonna think about you. It's just sad. (Yeah, I got a little upset when I saw this.)

A message to people with Wilson-like problems:

Don’t care what anyone thinks of you. Be the way you are. Life is too wonderful to deal with too many negative things. Do what you want and don't care if you're laughed at or not, if what you're doing makes you happy, it's enough. I've been on the verge of death too many times to know how much I have to value life. Yes, I can parody a lot of drug user, and in reality, they're very scary, and I'm telling you from experience. (I've never touched drugs, but there are people in the family who are addicted to them.) Everyone is traumatized and afraid, but you have to know how to move on. (And some people need a little help to move on.)

Everyone has problems and I do a lot of parody, but it's because I'm hoping that I can make someone's fucked-up day and there's a moment in their day where they can smile.

Can we get more bonkers Wilson? Seeing him insane makes me want to cry but also observe him like a bug

day 83!