BCJBJEDKEKE DEKU VS CLASS 1A WAS SUCH A GOOD EPISODE AND BAKUGO??????? OH MY GOSH HIS CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT

ONLY FACTS WERE SPOKEN

bro can we talk about all the absolutely CRAZY shit that happens in dob and rtte??? like hiccup getting struck by fucking lightning??? snotlout getting struck like 50 billion times??? hiccup getting kidnapped, absolutely beat up by all the villains, almost drowning, astrid going blind, ALSO almost drowning- I could go ON-

and yet its all made light-hearted, turned into a joke or just not taken at its severity cuz its a show for like 8 year olds

like what the FUCK do you MEAN astrid almost DIES FROM POISION and its NEVER MENTIONED AGAIN?!?!?!

love in the margins | t. iida

a short, slow-burn library romance, ft. one blueberry muffin, exactly zero jokes, and a boy who takes flashcards way too seriously. (4597 words)

you meet tenya iida under circumstances that can only be described as tragically collegiate: a peer-led study group in the furthest, quietest corner of the campus library, surrounded by half-dead fluorescent bulbs and the palpable despair of students on the brink of burnout.

it's the third week of the semester, and you're already floundering.

you hadn't intended to be. in theory, you were going to stay on top of things—read the chapters early, color-code your notes, maybe even start a study group of your own. but somewhere between sleep deprivation, an avalanche of discussion posts, and the mysterious black hole that is the university's online portal, you fell behind. hard.

introduction to public policy has been your academic nemesis from the start. the textbook reads like legal jargon swallowed a thesaurus. the professor talks in dense, circular metaphors. every quiz is a minefield of trick questions and ambiguous phrasing. you are, in every sense of the word, academically drowning.

so when a brightly colored flyer promising a "collaborative review session" caught your eye on the bulletin board outside the lecture hall, you didn't think twice. you showed up. desperate. caffeinated. terminally underprepared.

and now you regret everything.

the room smells like dry-erase markers and nervous sweat. a whiteboard at the front is covered in illegible graphs. someone has already spilled a latte on the floor. the guy leading the group talks fast and loud, his explanations full of buzzwords and gestures but lacking anything remotely useful. you suspect he's just regurgitating the study guide at a slightly faster pace.

the other students seem to agree.

one by one, they start to trickle out. a girl leaves with the excuse of "office hours." a guy mutters something about dinner. another just quietly packs up and disappears, not even bothering with a pretense.

by the end of the hour, only two people remain: you, clinging to a futile hope of salvaging your gpa... and him.

he sits across from you with the kind of posture that makes your back ache just looking at him. tall, composed, and absurdly polished—like someone who writes essays three days early and carries a spare pen in case someone forgets theirs. his navy-blue sweater is wrinkle-free. his glasses catch the dim library light. his notes are not just color-coded—they're thematically organized, annotated with footnotes and marginalia in tiny, immaculate handwriting.

he hasn't spoken once. he hasn't needed to.

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

"you're still here?" you ask, more surprise than judgment.

the boy looks up, blinking as if surfacing from a well of deep concentration. he adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion.

"yes," he says, voice clipped and oddly formal. "you are as well."

you arch an eyebrow. "no offense, but... are you actually getting something out of this?"

his expression doesn't change, but he tilts his head slightly—almost like he's assessing you.

"of course," he replies. "engaging in structured group review enhances cognitive retention and contextual understanding. it's an effective method for consolidating knowledge prior to a high-stakes assessment."

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

you snort—audibly. it escapes before you can stop it. and to your surprise, a faint smile flickers across his mouth.

"i'm tenya iida," he says, extending a hand across the table with the kind of precision reserved for formal introductions at university mixers.

you stare at his hand for a moment, then take it. his grip is warm. steady. confident in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter.

"y/n," you say.

his smile grows just slightly. "it's a pleasure to meet you, y/n."

he releases your hand and immediately pulls out a second set of flashcards from his folder. of course he has a second set.

"would you like to quiz each other?" he asks, dead serious. "alternating questions could be a mutually beneficial method of review."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

something about him—the earnestness, the posture, the complete and utter lack of sarcasm—disarms you. it's like he's the living embodiment of academic sincerity. you're not sure whether to laugh or agree.

you do both.

"...sure."

you don't know it yet, but that's the beginning.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

it's not personal. it's just that study groups are the social equivalent of jury duty—temporary, miserable, and best forgotten. you assume tenya iida is one of those hyper-dedicated overachievers who only exist within the academic ecosystem. he probably recedes into a cloud of flashcards and moral fiber as soon as the library closes.

you are, however, proven categorically wrong the following wednesday at exactly 8:03 a.m.

you enter the campus café half-awake, mildly hostile, and fully dependent on the idea of caffeine as a substitute for sleep. the plan is simple: grab something with enough espresso to make your eye twitch, stare blankly at your phone for fifteen minutes, and pretend the crushing weight of institutional learning isn't slowly hollowing you out from the inside.

but fate—or perhaps syllabus-based divine intervention—has other plans.

because when you step inside, there he is.

same posture. same glasses. same stupidly crisp button-down like it didn't just come out of someone's laundry but graduated magna cum laude from it. he's seated at a table by the window, surrounded by highlighters arranged like soldiers, reading the textbook that has been your personal tormentor since week one.

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

you hesitate, caught in that weird space where it's too late to pretend you didn't see him, but also too awkward to walk past without acknowledging him.

before you can make a decision, he looks up—and smiles.

not just a polite, "ah yes, i recognize you" smile.

a real smile. brief, but sincere. like he's actually glad you're here.

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

"didn't expect to see you here," you say as you slide into the seat across from him, instantly aware of how tired you look in comparison to his perfectly combed hair and terrifying punctuality.

"i study here most mornings," he replies. "the ambient noise level is consistent, and the natural lighting is optimal for focus."

you blink. "that is... alarmingly specific."

he inclines his head. "i find that consistency breeds productivity."

you want to tease him, but the truth is, it's kind of admirable. alarming. but admirable.

he gestures to the pastry between you.

"would you like half?" he asks. "it's fresh. and i believe we have, at this point, established a cordial enough rapport to justify the sharing of breakfast items."

you stare at him.

"do you always offer muffins to people you've only studied with once?"

he doesn't even flinch. "only when they look tired enough to deserve one."

your mouth twitches.

"you've been saving that line, haven't you."

he looks mildly offended. "no. though i could annotate it in my planner if you'd like."

you laugh—genuinely this time—and accept the muffin. it's warm, sweet, and annoyingly perfect. just like him.

you don't pull out your flashcards. not immediately. you sit there in companionable silence, splitting the muffin and sipping your drinks like it's something you've always done. like this is normal.

you tell yourself this isn't a date. obviously.

it's too early in the day for romance. you're both clutching textbooks like weapons. he hasn't even made a single joke. (you're not sure he knows how.)

and yet—

when he leans in to show you a section he highlighted—carefully annotated with footnotes and marginal notes that are somehow neater than your typed essays—your shoulders brush. you don't pull away.

he doesn't, either.

later, you realize that you don't even remember what chapter you reviewed.

but you remember the sound of his voice as he quietly explained it. the way he passed you the last bite of muffin without saying anything. the way his fingers curled ever so slightly when he set his pen down between you.

you remember thinking, with a strange flutter in your chest: this could be something.

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

you repeat it like a mantra as you meet him at the library every tuesday and thursday without fail, settling into your now-permanent seats by the windows like assigned partners in some ongoing group project that no one else remembers being assigned to. his bag always lands on the table first, followed by a reusable water bottle the size of your emotional baggage. he brings extra highlighters now — plural — and starts leaving a green one near your elbow like he’s not even thinking about it.

you, in turn, stop pretending to study anywhere else.

because the truth is, you don’t concentrate better when he’s around — not even a little. he’s distracting in the worst possible way: tall and tidy and terminally composed, with a voice like a podcast host and a smile that you pretend not to notice every time he glances over at you with something like pride in his eyes.

and the worst part?

it’s working.

your grades are going up. you understand policy terminology now. you caught yourself referencing a case study unprompted in another class, and the look your professor gave you made it feel like you’d just been knighted.

you’d thank him for it — sincerely — if he didn’t look so smug every time you nailed a quiz.

“you’ve clearly been applying yourself,” he says one evening, looking over your annotated notes like they’re some kind of sacred text.

“i’ve been applying your study methods,” you reply, then instantly regret it, because the smile he gives you in return is devastating.

and that would be fine — annoying, but fine — if it weren’t for the fact that he’s started sitting closer.

not drastically. not inappropriately. just... close.

close enough that when you both lean in to look at something on the same page, your shoulders brush. your knees knock. his hand lingers near yours when he passes you a pen, and he doesn’t move away quickly. sometimes — and this is particularly evil — his thigh rests against yours under the table for minutes at a time, and you’re too proud (and too panicked) to say anything.

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

but something is happening. you just don’t know what to call it.

one thursday afternoon, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain. the windows in the library fog up slightly, making the whole room feel smaller, softer, somehow more intimate. your shoes are damp. your brain is fried. you’re barely holding onto your focus.

but he’s already there, sitting at your usual table with a mug from the downstairs café and a folder labeled “legislation review: week 5.” there’s a muffin. of course there’s a muffin.

he looks up as you approach. smiles. “you’re early.”

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

he hesitates, like he’s genuinely considering it. “it means i enjoy this.”

your heart does something stupid.

you take your seat before your face can give you away.

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

you’re trying to focus. really, you are. but his leg is pressed against yours and you swear it’s getting closer every time he shifts. it’s not even the contact itself that’s distracting — it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice. like it’s just normal. like this is how he always studies with people.

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

“y/n?” he says, and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“hm?”

“i asked if you’d like to walk through the case brief again. you seem... distant.”

you clear your throat and try not to sound like someone whose brain has just been wiped by a thigh. “yeah, no, i’m fine. just tired.”

he nods solemnly. “understandable. your coursework has been particularly intensive.”

he says it like he knows your schedule better than you do — which he might. you’ve seen his planner. you’re pretty sure he’s memorized the entire academic calendar, national holidays included.

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

“okay,” you say. “i need to ask you something.”

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

you glance around — no one’s within earshot — and lean in slightly.

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

“no. i mean yes, but no.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “this. the muffins. the flashcards. the... sitting so close i can smell your laundry detergent.”

he goes still.

“i’m just trying to understand if we’re, like...” you hesitate. “is this just a really intense academic friendship or are we... flirting?”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

then, carefully: “i hadn’t realized my proximity was making you uncomfortable.”

“it’s not!” you say, too quickly. “it’s just... confusing.”

“confusing how?”

you fidget with the cap of your pen. “because we do things that feel... date-adjacent. and i don’t know if that’s just how you are with people or if i’m—” you stop yourself before you can say not imagining it.

his brows draw together, faintly perplexed. “i apologize. i didn’t mean to cause confusion.”

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

his ears go pink. just slightly. “i wouldn’t define it as flirting. but i do enjoy spending time with you.”

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

he hesitates. then, quieter: “it’s not.”

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

and then — like the universe can’t stand unresolved tension — your knees bump again.

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

not even in your head, really — not technically. because you’re not dating. you haven’t kissed. there’s been no confession. there’s been no moment of clarity where either of you has stood dramatically in the rain and said i think about you all the time, which, honestly, is a bit disappointing.

but you still change your outfit three times before meeting him for coffee on saturday.

you still hesitate in front of the mirror, adjusting your sleeves and second-guessing your hair, muttering get a grip under your breath like it’s a prayer.

you still pause at the door to the café, one hand on the handle, and remind yourself — again — that this isn’t a date.

you’re just meeting up. casually. like friends.

friends who sometimes sit with their knees touching under library tables. friends who share muffins and steal glances and somehow always find reasons to linger a little too long in doorways.

friends who, if they weren’t so emotionally constipated, might’ve figured this out already.

but you push the door open anyway, and the little bell overhead chimes bright and familiar.

he’s already there.

of course he is.

tenya iida is punctual to the point of pathology. if you told him to meet you in the afterlife at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d be there early, holding a clipboard and a fully prepared powerpoint.

he’s sitting near the window, back straight, hands folded politely in his lap. his hair is a little messy from the wind outside. his sweater is navy — clean, simple, a little oversized in a way that makes you stare longer than you should.

he sees you and stands immediately, which is both adorable and completely unnecessary.

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

he doesn’t reply, but the smile he gives you is soft around the edges.

you order something with too much caffeine and not enough nutritional value. he offers to pay, like he always does. you decline, like you always do. it’s a silent tradition now, a ritual of stubbornness. he lets it go with a quiet nod, but not without giving you that look — the one that says i was raised right and this physically pains me.

you find a booth in the corner, a little more secluded than the rest. the sun spills in through the window in soft golden streaks, and for a moment, it feels like you’re somewhere outside of time.

“i’ve never seen you wear that color,” he says as you sit down.

you glance at your shirt. “yeah? too much?”

he shakes his head immediately. “no. it suits you.”

your mouth goes a little dry.

you recover quickly, leaning back and sipping your drink like it doesn’t mean anything. like the warmth crawling up your neck is from the coffee and not the compliment.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “what’s on the agenda for today? rigorous academic analysis? philosophical debates about economic ethics? impromptu pop quizzes?”

he tilts his head. “i thought we might take the day off.”

you blink. “from... studying?”

“from everything.” he shrugs, a little sheepishly. “i realized we’ve never spent time together without a textbook between us.”

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

he hesitates. just barely. “yes. like friends.”

the words hang in the air between you — awkward, uncertain, but not unkind.

you nod, slowly. “okay. yeah. we can do that.”

and you do.

you talk. not about school, not about deadlines or group projects or the upcoming midterm. you talk about dumb childhood stories and weird food preferences and the fact that he once tried to start a recycling initiative in his middle school and was very upset when no one followed the sorting chart correctly.

you tell him about your obsession with terrible reality TV. he listens with the seriousness of a man taking notes for a thesis.

he tells you about his older brother, and how much he looks up to him. you tell him about the stray cat that used to follow you home in high school, even though you never fed it.

he laughs — really laughs — when you tell him about the time you broke your nose in gym class trying to dodge a volleyball and ran straight into a bleacher.

“i’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “i don’t mean to laugh at your pain.”

“no, you do,” you say, grinning. “and it’s okay. i would too.”

at one point, your knees bump under the table again. this time, neither of you pulls away.

it’s later than you mean it to be when you finally leave the café. the sun is dipping low, the sky tinged with lavender and orange. the street is quiet, and the wind bites just enough to make you zip your jacket up.

you walk together. not toward the library, not toward another class — just aimlessly. like people who have nowhere else to be.

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

you’re not talking. not really. the silence between you is comfortable now, lived-in. every so often your hands brush, and you wonder — wildly, stupidly — what would happen if you just reached out.

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

“this was nice,” you say, when you finally reach the crosswalk where you’ll part ways.

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“we should do it again,” you say. casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

but he looks at you like it does.

“i’d like that,” he says. and then — “you’re very easy to be around.”

your breath catches.

you want to say something. you’re easy to be around too. i think about you when we’re not together. i don’t know if i’m imagining this but i hope i’m not.

instead, you say, “you’re weirdly charming, you know that?”

he blinks. “i— thank you?”

you grin. “it’s a compliment. mostly.”

he laughs. soft. pleased. “i’ll take it.”

he takes a small step back, like he’s about to leave — but then pauses.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“if this had been a date...” he clears his throat. “would that have been... agreeable to you?”

you stare at him.

then, slowly — carefully — you nod.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it would’ve been.”

he smiles. it’s small. tentative. but it lights up his whole face.

“then maybe next time, we won’t pretend.”

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

he nods once. then, with a strange, lingering sort of hesitation — like he’s not ready to go yet — he turns to leave.

you watch him go.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel... hopeful.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

when he texts you the next morning — same time tuesday? not for studying this time. if you're free. — you stare at it for a good ten minutes before responding. not because you’re unsure of your answer (you’re not), but because the implication hits like a freight train.

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

this time, he’s calling it what it is.

you don’t overthink your reply (for once). you just type yeah. i’m free and throw your phone face-down before your heart can beat out of your chest.

and when tuesday rolls around, you are twenty minutes early.

you tell yourself it’s because the weather’s nice and the walk was shorter than usual and you didn’t want to cut it close. but the truth is, you’ve been ready since noon.

you’re wearing the sweater he said he liked once, months ago, after a study session where he handed you a highlighter and your fingers brushed and you both paused like the world might end. it’s not even your warmest or your nicest sweater. it’s just... the one he looked at a little too long.

you don’t want to admit what that means.

you sit in your usual seat by the window. a small table, worn edges. your coffee in hand. no textbooks. no flashcards. just the sound of the café around you and the low simmer of anticipation in your chest.

he walks in three minutes early, which is basically scandalous by iida standards.

you glance up, and the second your eyes meet, he smiles.

it’s not his usual polite, committee-appropriate smile.

it’s something else.

something softer.

he sits down across from you like he’s been doing it his whole life.

you stare at him for a second too long.

“you’re early,” he says, like it’s a fact worth noting. his voice is gentler than usual.

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

he laughs — quietly, warmly. “i thought you might say that.”

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

you sip your drink and hope your heart doesn’t explode.

twenty minutes in, you realize you’ve forgotten what time it is.

again.

you’re talking about something stupid — a professor you both silently hate but never speak ill of in class — and he’s mimicking their voice in a whisper, hand shielding his mouth, and you’re laughing.

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

like you don’t have a hundred things weighing you down.

he always does that. makes everything feel easier. lighter.

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

you haven’t said it. not out loud. not even to yourself.

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

because tenya iida has the power to wreck you in a way no one else ever has.

not because he’s dramatic. not because he’s charming (though he is, in that annoying, understated, golden-retriever-with-a-perfect-credit-score kind of way).

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

because when he looks at you, it’s like you’re someone worth understanding.

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

neither of you mentions how long you stayed. it’s dark out, but neither of you cares.

you walk close, side by side. your hands brush once, then again. his fingers twitch toward yours, and you pretend not to notice — not because you don’t want it, but because you’re not sure what happens if you reach back.

you talk about nothing. and everything.

he tells you about the time his older brother accidentally dyed his hair blue with a shampoo prank and how no one in their house was allowed to mention it for an entire year.

you tell him about the time you accidentally set off a fire alarm trying to microwave leftover curry in a dorm that very explicitly prohibited strong-smelling food.

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

you bump your shoulder into his. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he glances at you. “i didn’t say that.”

you both stop at the crosswalk — the same one where you stood days ago.

the same one where he asked if this had been a date...

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

you just look at him, the wind brushing through your sleeves, your fingers cold where they’re shoved into your pockets.

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

and then — quietly — he says, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “of course.”

his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. careful.

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

“why... this?” he gestures gently between you. “i know i’m not the most exciting person. i’m not particularly funny or... spontaneous.”

you frown. “iida.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” he says. “why you keep showing up.”

you want to say because i like the way you talk when you’re tired, or because your laugh makes me want to listen to every dumb story you’ve ever told.

you want to say because i’ve never felt so calm next to another person in my entire life.

instead, you say, “because when i’m with you, i don’t feel like i have to be anyone else.”

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

“i don’t want to mess this up,” he says.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

you exhale, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “you’re not.”

his hand lifts, hesitates — then lands gently against your cheek.

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

it’s patient. reverent. like he’s memorizing the feeling. like he’s been waiting for the right moment and this, finally, is it.

his lips press softly against yours, and your hands lift automatically to his jacket, holding on, grounding yourself.

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

then he says, “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

he laughs, arms sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this is still new,” he says. “i know that.”

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

he pauses. “and i’d like to take you to dinner. an actual dinner. with reservations and menus and probably overpriced appetizers.”

you grin. “are you asking me on a real date?”

he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

“then yes,” you reply. “i’m saying yes.”

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once — finally — that feels like enough.

i love him thank you

the other day at work i saw someone with platform uggs. just thought you might enjoy that

Thats it. Thats the comic. Im using that horror movie technique where its scarier if you don't see the monster.

anyways this is such a throwback. you always send me the shit that somehow makes me laugh, I am remembering a specific one that I swear was ten years ago. anyways

Cat Noir fanart cuz he's cool like that

(YES THOSE ARE LIL FANGSSSSS)

It happened spontaneously, but I love AU. So… Avatar Hiccup. Hiccup considered himself an ordinary person before meeting Toothless. (Dragons can be equated to spirits, i mean relationships between people and them). Then he discovered his talent as an airbender and Toothless became his teacher. Later, other talents were discovered, which made it clear that Hiccup was an avatar.

Astrid became his waterbender teacher. Snotlout was an adept of firebender, but he sincerely did not understand how to teach, because he himself used magic on a subconscious level. Fishlegs is an earthbender, but he did not go beyond the amateur level and could not become a teacher. The twins are always on their own wave. Ruffnut is a master in airbending and can perform techniques with clouds of gas, while Tuffnut is not a master, but is ready to set fire to the gas with his sparks at any moment. The twins always come in a set.

Brothers Grimborn! Lord of Fire Viggo. The aesthetics of blue flame and lightning were created for him. So I couldn't resist. The hottest flame and deadly techniques of lightningbending made him the most terrible opponent for the young avatar, but in the future, he will become the teacher of fire magic for Hiccup. I endowed Riker with explosion magic, as for me, it suits him perfectly. An explosive mixture of rage and bloodlust.

Berserkers! Remembering Viggo's words about how the berserkers in ancient times lured the Skrills with metal, I thought about a tribe practicing metalbending. Dagur discovered his talent for earth magic much later, including metal. I like to think that Dagur could be a threat to the avatar even as an ordinary person, relying on his ingenuity and physical strength. Heather is a master of earth and metal magic, she could well become Hiccup's teacher in this matter.

Kintsugi

Shoji x reader, meet-cute feat. angst

(warnings: harassment, heteromorph discrimination, past abuse)

The station was nearly empty. It wasn't unusual, out in the boonies of Fukuoka. But after living in the city for so long, the quiet had become unfamiliar.

Anywhere else, Shoji would have found the fresh air and birdsong peaceful. But out here, it just felt like waiting for something bad to happen.

He didn't even tell his closest friends the real reason for this trip home. If he did, they'd insist on supporting him. They would mean well, but it was easier this way, not having to look out for anyone else. Who knows how the villagers would react if he came back with more freaks.

And, it's not like Mezo really needed his friends there to share in his grief. This was more for closure. When he cried at his grandfather's funeral, the tears were borne of relief, much to his shame.

The wounds on Mezo's face still ached when he moved his mouth to talk or chew. So, he learned how to make more parts with his quirk. Instead of just making mouths for fun or company as he had when he was very little, he added vocal cords, then a rudimentary esophagus. It was difficult, a lot of trial and error. But the payoff proved it had been a worthwhile use of his time.

Mezo sat at the dinner table with his family. The mask his parents had given him covered the more substantial bandages. He resented knowing that it was there so no one had to look at those reminders of his torn visage. At the same time, there was an undeniable comfort to wearing the thing. A shield between himself and the hateful world.

The stitches pulled when he smiled under the mask, but he couldn't help the feeling of elation at eating solid food without pain for the first time in weeks. Unfortunately, the sight of his new, unorthodox method of mastication had mixed reactions.

Mom pointedly ignored it, ever reluctant to disturb the peace. Grandpa was quietly side-eyeing the display, giving a difficult to read scoff and turning back to his plate with a smirk when Mezo nervously glanced over. Dad took the longest to notice, pinching the bridge of his nose when he did. "Geez, Mezo."

"Sorry. Hurts less," he explained, hoping that would be the end of it.

Surprisingly, it was Grandpa who jumped to his defense. "Let him eat that way son, I think it's great!"

Mezo looked at his grandfather with utter shock. That cheerful statement was easily the kindest thing he had ever said about his grandson, whose birth had been a curse upon the family. Mezo had half a mind to thank him for standing up for him, until the old man spoke again.

"I can almost look at him while eating, now that the face is covered up. Can't you get the lil monster to wear sleeves, too?"

"...M'not a monster, o-jiisan."

It was the first time he'd spoken up like that. The adults all looked shocked by Mezo's soft utterance of self defense. Until shock twisted into anger on the old man's face, and then-

Shoji's hand subconsciously went to his side, remembering the welt from the cane, the scolding from his mom not to backtalk grandpa. She always did that, always tried to appease him, to make him forget his suspicion that the dirty blood came from his daughter in law straying, even though his own quirk was extending arms.

Trapped deep in thought, Mezo didn't notice anyone sneaking up behind him until it was too late. Two boys, mid teens by the look of it, ran past suddenly, bumping into him on both sides, whooping excitedly. There was a tearing sound as Shoji's mask was suddenly ripped down. "OOPS!"

His heart was racing instantly, the pounding of blood in his ears making the laughter and comments sound eerily distant. "Ho-o-oly shit what's wrong with your face?!"

He froze. Shoji's legs felt glued in place, and for a moment he suspected the use of a quirk. Until he realized, it was just his own mind forcing a panic response.

Any other day, any other place, Mezo was sure he could have reacted more heroically. Calm, cool, collected. Perhaps spoken to them, or at the very least, gathered himself and remained dignified. But all of his emotions were already so raw, a feeling like rope burn from old memories binding in this place. This was just salt in the wound.

Finally, he forced an arm to move, shoving the mask back up. The second he let go, it started slipping again. His fingers brushed a huge tear in the fabric. Did he have a spare? He had to have a spare, it was probably in his bag, was he going to tear through his luggage right here and now, they were still talking, why couldn't he move?

Then a new voice chimed in, one that held no laughter as it barked, "HEY!" Still giggling, the pranksters skittered off before the risk of consequence could catch up. Firm footsteps drew closer, before finally stopping beside Shoji. "Little jackasses...hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, fine." He barely glanced at the woman who had jogged over to check on him, too embarrassed by the need for a rescue. Taking a deep breath to ground himself, he tried to put on a stoic mask. "Sorry for troubling you."

You scoffed. "You didn't do anything." His eyes finally found yours. Anticipation roiled in his belly as you curiously looked at his face, at his hand pulling the blue fabric tight over his skin to keep the halves together. "Did they do that?"

You thought a moment, then hesitantly spoke. "...I've got a sewing kit in my bag. You can sit with me during the ride."

"The mask, yeah. It's fine, it's just a thing. I have another." Yet, when he took his bag over to a bench to dig through its contents, the spare was nowhere to be found. It was probably sitting somewhere in his parents' house. Well, might as well consider that one lost forever. "Damnit... Nevermind, this is my only one."

It took a moment for Shoji to recognize the offer for what it was. "...oh! I don't want to impose."

You shrugged. "It's kind of a long trip, this'll give me something to do."

~~~

Mezo waited until the two of you were situated on the train to give up on the vain effort to hold his mask together. Pulling the torn garment over his head, he meekly passed it to you.

Your eyes briefly lingered on the scars, but Shoji was grateful when no questions followed the look. Instead, you focused on looking the fabric over to determine what exactly needed to be done. "...It looks worse that it is, I'll be able to tack it no problem. It's a clean tear, just in a bad spot. Want me to try and match the color and hide it, or you want it to pop?"

"Pop?"

"Yeah, like, make it a decoration, like a kintsugi thing. Use a bright color to make a line of stitches. It's gonna be a few hours, I could even try a little embroidery."

"You don't have to go through all that trouble, really, as long as I can wear it again that's enough." He felt bad enough, that you were fixing the consequence of him not paying attention. He felt strangely worse when he noticed the slightly disappointed look in your eyes as you selected a matching thread to hide the wound in his mask.

Silence found the two of you as you began the delicate operation. Uncomfortable silence, from Shoji's perspective.

"...what's kintsugi?"

"Hm?" You acknowledged without pausing your work.

"Kintsugi. You said it before."

"Oh! It's a ceramic technique where you use a gold paste to repair broken pieces. Instead of trying to hide the cracks, it draws attention to them, emphasizing them as something beautiful."

Shoji felt himself smile as he half joked, "if only that worked with real scars." His own words instantly made his stomach sour. Why would he say something like that to a near stranger? It was unbecoming to act so vulnerable. Couldn't he just keep that self pity inside, where it belongs.

Only, you didn't seem bothered by his spontaneous vulnerability. "I dunno. It's like body hair and birthmarks and cellulite, if you forget what you've been told about what's supposed to be attractive, then they're objectively very beautiful." As he considered the implications of your words, you went on. "Scars are really wonderful if you think about it. They're how your body shows its love for you, building you back stronger if you get hurt. Like, 'hey we're not done, let's get back out there!' I think that's lovely."

"It is, isn't it?" His eyes fell to the hidden repair on his mask. "...think you could do an octopus?"

You looked up at him then, excitement quickly overtaking your features. "I can try. And if it turns out looking godawful you only have to deal with it for a little while."

It didn't matter if it turned out poorly, he thought, nodding. He had already decided two things. One was that he'd wear it anyway, and keep it like a scar. So that when his friends asked how his trip went, he could show it to them and tell them about how he met someone so kind on the ride home.

The second was, when the time came to disembark, he would ask for your number.

~~~

Ultimate fantasy of being emotionally supportive to the blorbo go!

THIS IS SO COOL

The Ghost of Halloween Night

hiccstrid redraw :)

tysm for 200 followers!!

I have this headcannon that like Marinette has a BeReal account for Ladybug so whenever she's on patrol she'll take a BeReal of the sunset or smthn and once when she's on patrol with Chat Noir she takes a BeReal with him so then he gets it too

And like they are friends on BeReal and then Alya is also friends with them so she can post the BeReals on the Ladyblog

Then at one point LB just makes her account public so all of paris can see them without Alya having to post them

Tikki doesn't approve of any of it

you know shits getting real when the ending credit colours are dull