Chapter 03
He has quite the rough hands.
She's not saying that he handles things roughly (well, he is); the texture of his hands, especially his palms, is rough.
She felt it once, in a large-scale battle that both of them participated in. A shockwave caught her off guard and she was sent flying. Before she could get her bearings, Eraserhead rescued her before she hit the ground. And she felt his hands on her arms.
It was brief, and they were in the middle of a battle, yet she couldn't keep it out of her mind.
Thick, like leather. Yet rough, like sandpaper.
They were the hands of someone with great intimacy with touch.
And she knows exactly one thing that those hands touched and worked the most.
That scarf of his is… something. It moves according to his will. One would think he controls it with a Quirk, but she knows better. She witnesses his control over it front and center.
Throw it like a frisbee and the scarf beelines in a straight line. Throw it the same way but lift his elbow just a touch and the scarf would arch either to the left or right (she still has yet to distinct which way he throws left or right). Throw it like those low angle baseball pitchers and the scarf would rise up.
Just throwing the scarf out feels like art, but it is the control after the throw when things get… beautiful in a sense of subtlety.
It feels like slow motion. With the scarf weaved through his fingers he can manipulate it like it is alive. Pull his middle finger down and somehow the scarf would pull to the left. Pull down his right finger and the scarf would pull to the right. Alternating the fingers and the scarf would weave left and right while going in a straight line. Twist his hand while pulling down his thumb and the scarf would make a U-turn.
She has no idea how he does it. It's pure magic, except magic is bullshit and doesn't exist in the real world. This is all experience and effort.
With that kind of control with his hands, she knows he has the hands of intimacy. And he has the proof to back up that claim, a rough but intimate proof nonetheless.
She might say he has the magic hands.
"Ready to go?"
His voice snaps her out from her thoughts.
Returning back to the present moment, Eraserhead is finishing typing up the Villain they had apprehended together. She watches as he tightens up the bind around said Villain before he pulls out the blade from the sheath tied at his back. With one swift move, he slices his scarf to separate himself from the bound Villain.
She sees it happening. It all happens in a split second.
He still has a hand on the scarf connected to him when he cut it. To any normal eyes, it looks like he just lets go of his scarf. But as soon as the scarf is cut, he very slightly twists his wrist and flicks his thumb as he lowers his hand. A combination of all those movements are enough for the scarf to wind itself around his neck. And then he sheaths his blade with a resounding click.
Meanwhile, the scarf end that connects with the bound Villain just limply falls down onto the ground. This further proved that it is his direct connection, his control, that made the scarf move the way it is.
Yeah those are magic hands, alright.
She wonders what else he can do with those hands?
Is that who she thinks that is?
She stops in her track and gazes down the sidewalk across the street. Walking in the opposite direction of hers on the other side is none other than her boyfriend. It's not hard to spot him; there's practically no crowd on this fine evening, and that scarf of his is hard to miss.
Her mischief bone is tickling her spine.
She suppresses the urge to cackle.
Then, she leaps over the road, safely avoiding the traffic. She makes sure that she lands further away from him, just to be sure. Now that she is on the same walk with him, she carefully tiptoes to him from behind. She doesn't have to sneak very fast; he's walking at quite the leisurely pace. She quickly but quietly catches up to him, watching keenly as his figure grows closer while silently hoping he will not turn around. The closer she is to him, the wider her grin stretches up, and she stifles the urge to cackle.
Finally, she is within striking distance. Her hands rise up, ready to strike.
Then, her hands shoot out.
They barely brush against his shoulders.
Before she can even think of uttering a word, it happens within a blink of an eye.
The next thing she sees are his red glowing eyes.
The next thing she feels is his hand suddenly slams into her neck and begins to squeeze.
Her airflow is cut off. She chokes at the strength of his grip. Her hands, once reached out towards him, now claws at his fists.
"Argh-Wargh!"
He stiffens.
His wide frantic eyes gain focus and they zero in on her.
"Usagiyama?"
"It's me," she says, voice strained from the hand around her neck. Realizing this, his hand quickly loosens and retracts, as if he touched something burning. She reaches up, feeling the spot where Aizawa squeezed.
It'll leave a mark for sure.
"Sorry," she hears Aizawa say. She returns her attention back to him and notices he has taken a few steps away from her. The hand that was around her throat a moment ago is now clenched into a tight fist over his chest, noticing them shaking.
"No, I should be the one sayin' sorry," she retorts, voice still a little strained as she lowers her hand.
He's not looking at her, keeping his gaze at the boots he is wearing.
'Shit.'
She really fucked up big time.
That was not a normal reaction.
That was not something he would normally do, not how he would usually react.
"I shouldn't've surprised ya like that."
He nods his head.
Then he turns around and walks away, towards wherever he was heading before.
"Can I come with you?" she quickly asks before he can go further. He stops in his tracks but he doesn't answer for quite a while.
"Just… not behind," he finally answers, quieter than his usual tone, before he continues on his walk.
She follows his words and instantly goes to his side.
There is silence between them, a common occurrence she had learned not too long ago, except this time the silence is… heavy, and uncomfortable.
The event earlier is still fresh on her mind, and also definitely his as well. She doesn't know what to do right now. Should she bring it up or let it slide and wait for him?
Fortunately for her, she doesn't have to do anything.
"The last time someone grabbed me from behind, I ended up waking up behind a dumpster."
She stops dead in her tracks.
Ah.
'Fuck.'
"I'm sorry."
Her words feel so airy when they leave her lips.
Aizawa stops and turns towards her, finally making eye contact after the incident.
"It's fine."
"It's not."
"You didn't know. And you couldn't have known. So it's fine, and you are forgiven."
She doesn't know how to feel after that.
"I'll be more careful next time."
She needs to be more careful with her hands from now on.
"I like the part where Tsu went "It's Froppin' Time" and then she Froppin' all over them. Right, Sho? Sho? Babe?"
She turns her head towards her husband, who is sitting on the floor in front of the low table.
He's not paying attention to her words. He's not even paying attention to the papers scattered all over the table that he is supposed to be working on right now. Instead, he's looking at her, but he's not looking up at her. No, he's looking at something else, lower than her eyes.
She releases a sigh while rolling her eyes.
She knows what he is looking at.
"Alright, come on."
Without hesitation, he gets up from the floor and walks around the table, making his way to her. She quickly lies down into a comfortable position on the couch she was sitting on. And then, carefully yet impatiently, Sho lies on top of her. Almost instantly, he lets out a huge sigh as she runs a hand through his hair while the other over his back.
"Feelin' quite needy ain't ya today?"
"Only for you."
"Sap."
Her man is not only deceptively wide, he is also quite heavy. He is dense, not in the romcom male lead kind, but in body density. She can feel his weight pressing down on her but she's not complaining. In fact, she finds his weight kind of reassuring.
As she massages his scalp, she feels his head resting on her chest, cushioned by her breasts.
As she runs her hand over his back under his shirt, she feels his deep and slow breathing, his puffs of air brushing against her skin.
She still remembers.
She still remembers just how sensitive he is when it came to personal touch, how it had haunted him for a long time, how it made him difficult to connect.
She still remembers just how quickly uncomfortable he got when she accidentally touched him.
She still very vividly remembers the day when he asked for her touch, when he gave her the most vulnerable look she had ever seen coming from him, and quietly uttered, almost whispering, "You are safe, I trust you." And she knows just how much that meant to him.
And look at him now, getting spoiled.
He wants her touch, actively seeks it out without saying it out loud. He loves her touch, loves just how much comfort her hands can give. He never tells her that directly, but she can tell just by looking at his expression.
A deep frown and squinty eyes caused by migraine? Run her fingers through his hair and the frown is gone and the pain significantly reduced.
His brows furrow from too much worry? She cups his cheek and his brows relax and his worry melts away.
A look so blank that not even her can decipher? Dip her hands under his shirt and those sharp eyes turn half-lidded.
Intimate touch means a lot to him.
And when he seeks out her touch himself instead of her initiating? Those moments are special to him. Those are the moments where he wants her.
And she loves that.
If she listens very carefully, whenever they are in this position, he would make a sound akin to a cat's purr.
She bites her lips.
Her mischief bone is tickling her spine.
She very slowly begins to slow down her hands, carefully trying to make it as inconspicuous as possible.
Finally her hands stop.
She tries not to hold her breath, keeping her breathing as normal as possible, while at the same time trying to cackle.
Then, her husband grumbles, almost whines, as he shakes his head in displeasure, his beard tickles her skin under her singlet. When he tilts his head up slightly to glare at her, that is when she can't hold back the cackle from escaping her lungs anymore.
"Stop teasing me," he mumbles into her skin, his head bouncing up and down from her mirth.
"You're just so cute, babe!" she says between cackles with a big grin on her face. "I just can't help myself!" He groans as he buries his face back into her breasts.
"Yeah yeah, now stop playing around." She cackles even harder before she mercifully follows his command. Her hands return to their action. She runs her fingers through his hair while rubbing circles over his back with the other hand. Immediately, she feels him melting again.
It's unfortunate he's laying lower. She wants to kiss his forehead for just how cute he is.
So instead, she starts pulling up her singlet, wiggling it off from where his head is laying, until she feels the familiar skin touching her breasts. Almost immediately after, before she can even throw the top off her head, one of his hands shoots up and cups her bosom.
She shivers.
This is the man who was haunted by intimacy.
Now he is her husband who wants her touch.