[ Ch'yeah, right. Nobody expects to be coddled, that's the last thing he believes about anyone from the get-go. There's always a limit someone will reach, and instead of pushing through, seeking more, hungering for a new upper limit, they just sort of settle on their heels and accept where they've ended up. Ask for things like partners and teammates to offset what they're no longer capable of. Not him, he's not like that.
What he is like, is one of those explosions that Noctis thinks of -- it's a vibrant enough thought that even Bakugo snags at it. It's him after all. Ka-boom -- ! He's a warhead, capable of going nuclear with enough practice and precision. The image draws him back to the question at hand, "like a superhero"? Even below his layers of veil and glittering coppers, he visibly straightens up. Things go tight, like he's just drawn himself together and picked his chin up. Pride, and painful amounts of it. Confidence, because without it he'll likely break. ]
Exactly.
[ With the word, comes a flurry of images. The broad shoulders, arms akimbo - the strong line of an unbreakable spine, a powerful, boisterous voice that calls out across the ages and strikes terror into the tiny, pathetic hearts and minds of villains everywhere. All Might, his voice-within calls out, unbidden and unnoticed. It doesn't sound like his voice at all, but the voice of an impressionable child who dreams every night about becoming that indomitable figure, who aspires for such unparalleled power. Strong. Unstoppable. A golden, unreachable force of nature --
A burst of agonizing, unwarranted guilt. He bleeds it, from his core and his heart. Blood in the mouth, helplessness. The strong shoulders weakening, the iconic suit ill-fitted and tattered. And then -- like an old television set, it clicks off. A quick burst of static and the sensation of someone ripping an image to pieces - to defend it: this memory. ]
no subject
What he is like, is one of those explosions that Noctis thinks of -- it's a vibrant enough thought that even Bakugo snags at it. It's him after all. Ka-boom -- ! He's a warhead, capable of going nuclear with enough practice and precision. The image draws him back to the question at hand, "like a superhero"? Even below his layers of veil and glittering coppers, he visibly straightens up. Things go tight, like he's just drawn himself together and picked his chin up. Pride, and painful amounts of it. Confidence, because without it he'll likely break. ]
Exactly.
[ With the word, comes a flurry of images. The broad shoulders, arms akimbo - the strong line of an unbreakable spine, a powerful, boisterous voice that calls out across the ages and strikes terror into the tiny, pathetic hearts and minds of villains everywhere. All Might, his voice-within calls out, unbidden and unnoticed. It doesn't sound like his voice at all, but the voice of an impressionable child who dreams every night about becoming that indomitable figure, who aspires for such unparalleled power. Strong. Unstoppable. A golden, unreachable force of nature --
A burst of agonizing, unwarranted guilt. He bleeds it, from his core and his heart. Blood in the mouth, helplessness. The strong shoulders weakening, the iconic suit ill-fitted and tattered. And then -- like an old television set, it clicks off. A quick burst of static and the sensation of someone ripping an image to pieces - to defend it: this memory. ]
That's what I am - a superhero.
[ He recovers himself, as quickly as he can. ]