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Fan of Bakugo daddy kink... The ⛄🌛🌚🌝🌞

Call Me Daddy

Pairing: Dilf!Katsuki x Reader

Warnings: daddy kink, breeding, age gap, authority/power dynamics, praise with a dash of degradation, rough sex, mention of bruising, claiming, belly bulge, size difference, creampie 

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: Well. I don’t know what to say. I have been literally so god damn horny with thoughts of Dilf Bakugou today, so I said fuck it, let’s be bred. Special thanks to @whats-her-quirk​ for helping me brainstorm and thirst today, and to @mindninjax​ and @lookslikeleese​ for reading over it all and giving me the love and validation to know I did Katsuki right 💕

It’s a sweet surprise for Katsuki to find you sleeping on the couch when he returns home. An exhausting night of hero work has left him drained, sans for the adrenaline still snaking through his veins. The sight of you makes his heart hammer in the confines of his chest, his cock twitch against the spandex of his hero suit.

You’re not supposed to be here.

You should’ve been gone hours ago, should’ve taken your cute little sundresses in your overnight bag onto the train after his ex-wife came to collect the rowdy kids he pays you to watch over. Instead, you’ve rolled onto your stomach, throw pillow clutched underneath your face, hem of your dress hiked to where he can see the curve of your ass, the fat of your thighs.

The news is rolling on the flatscreen, accounts of his heroic deeds flashing across the pixels. Your dewy skin catches the colors, blues and yellows dancing across your shoulder blades and sinking between your spread legs.

Katsuki’s hands are itching to touch you. The spaces between his fingers feel empty, eager to touch soft skin and the cotton of your panties.

He debates waking you with a hand between your thighs.

You’ve tempted him long enough, spent nearly a year holding his babies in your arms and running around in your shirt and stupid little thongs in the morning to get them fed and dressed. You’re practically a live-in nanny, he might as well reward you with something special for all your overtime.

He removes his gauntlets and mask by the door before crouching down in front of your sleeping form. The way your lashes curl against your cheeks, how glossy and plump your lips are, how smooth your skin is—it all reminds him how fucking old he is. Grey peppers his temples, crows feet kiss his eyes, he’s got scars lining thick muscles.

How young you are just makes you more appetizing. He could teach you a few things, if you let him.

Keep reading

I've finished my Todoiida fic!!! It's 11k words, and one of my longest fics I've ever done in only like two weeks lol.

I adore these two so bad, and please, give me feedback on how it reads! I welcome it. :)

Update 2! I'm about 10k words into the fic, I've had a bit of a flare-up in my chronic pain, so I might be a bit slower than I anticipated

not that there's a lot of people waiting for my self-indulgent Todoiida fic lmao

Anywayyy, they mean so much to me <33

TODOIIDA FREAKOUT

currently working on a Todoiida fanfic called 'Summer Can't Compare To Him' because they've been taking up every thought in my mind since that one scene where shouto cries ice and tenya puts his arm around him

I CAN'T KEEP DOING THIS THEY'RE TOO PERFECT

2,200 words in, gonna keep trucking over the next few days too 🫡

Update! I'm about 6,600 words in now, it's taking me a good bit to get where I want with this fic, but we keep going!!

TODOIIDA FREAKOUT

currently working on a Todoiida fanfic called 'Summer Can't Compare To Him' because they've been taking up every thought in my mind since that one scene where shouto cries ice and tenya puts his arm around him

I CAN'T KEEP DOING THIS THEY'RE TOO PERFECT

2,200 words in, gonna keep trucking over the next few days too 🫡

TODOIIDA FREAKOUT

currently working on a Todoiida fanfic called 'Summer Can't Compare To Him' because they've been taking up every thought in my mind since that one scene where shouto cries ice and tenya puts his arm around him

I CAN'T KEEP DOING THIS THEY'RE TOO PERFECT

2,200 words in, gonna keep trucking over the next few days too 🫡

WARNING!

This fic is not suitable for minors. It contains sexual relationships, accidental pregnancy, substance abuse, withdrawal, and addiction. This is a sequel fic.

Chapter 11

No one mourns the wicked

Your belly has grown more to the point where it’s harder to hide. You bought some new maternity work clothes with some stretch to accompany your growing belly. However, if Mister was able to notice a change in your physical appearance, then soon, others will too, and more than just your coworkers, but the public as well.

Mister calls at least once a week to check in and you take the call every time, sometimes even excusing yourself during work hours to sneak away and chat. It’s a simple joy, but reconnecting with him helps you feel more normal. You avoid discussing work or anything serious, but simple chats about prison gossip from his end or keeping him updated on the drama you’re watching with Toshinori makes the whole ordeal seem normal. The reality is though, that the world keeps turning while he’s locked behind bars.

The bell to your gate buzzes, pulling your attention from the drama you’re watching with Toshinori. You check the front camera and see Hawks standing there. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask through the intercom.

“I just came to see how you’re handling everything since the Billboard Chart announcement,” he says.

“Fine, I’ll let you in.”

“Actually, I was wondering if we could go out. There’s something I want to show you.”

You hesitate for a moment. “Okay. Give me a minute.”

You grab your bag and slip on your shoes calling to Toshinori in English, “I’m going out. Should be back in a bit.”

“Who is it?” he asks.

“Just Hawks, no one special.”

He furrows his brow slightly. “Okay, just let me know when you’ll be back for dinner.”

You step out of the house, following the path down to the gate and opening it. Hawks stands there awkwardly. His hands are shoved into his pockets and he’s wearing normal clothes. His jeans are dark, and he wears a black leather jacket over his T-shirt. Despite his attempt to blend in with civilians, he wears a katana strapped to his back.

“What’s that for?” you ask.

“Can never be too safe. I have to make sure I can protect you if we’re out in public,” he says with a smile.

“Seems a bit dramatic.”

“Is it? I thought it looked cool with this outfit.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever, let’s just go.”

Hawks takes you to his ride, opening the passenger side door for you. It’s an all-black sports car, but you don’t recognize the brand name. He presses some buttons and the car hums as it comes to life.

“When did you get your driver’s license?” you ask.

“Few weeks ago. I figured it would be better than having to rely on Jeanist-san to drive me around. It’s also sexier than driving one of the cars from the Commission, don’t you think?” He smirks.

“A car is a car. I don’t find any sex appeal to them.”

His smile drops and he clears his throat. “Anyway, I want to show you something important.”

“Are you going to tell to me where we are going?”

He hums in thought. “Not yet. It’s a surprise.”

The drive isn’t too long and eventually the car rolls up to a cemetery. You step out of the vehicle, following Hawks to wherever he’s leading you. You walk quietly alongside him, unsure of what to say or how to make conversation. He doesn’t speak either, and it feels like the first time he hasn’t tried to force awkward quips and jokes to be lighthearted, which you’re grateful for.

Eventually he takes you to a plot that’s a bit more secluded than the others. It’s under a cherry blossom tree, the leaves a vibrant green from the end of summer.

“Bubaigawara Jin,” you read the name on the grave.

“I made sure his remains were handled properly since he didn’t have any family to do so,” Hawks says.

“Why?”

“I cleaned up his body to try to prevent Toga Himiko from getting access to his blood, but I guess I also had a lot of guilt. Someone had to do it, and I doubt any of the League of Villains would be going back to retrieve it. I wanted to be sure he at least had a proper burial.”

“So, you did it for yourself?”

“No. I’ve been too much of a coward to come here on my own. But I thought you should see it. I know you’re still mourning him, so you can come here to grieve if you need.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“I’ve hurt you a lot. I’ve betrayed your trust in many ways. I know this doesn’t make up for any of that, but we should move forward together. You’re my assistant, and the mother of my child. We need to start being a team.”

He’s right, and you know it. You’ve been trying to avoid him for too long in an effort to not confront your conflicting feelings. You bite your lip, staring at the grave in front of you. He doesn’t push for further conversation, letting you take your time to mull his words over. You’ve been too busy fighting your own feelings towards him to even consider simply being a team. Working together professionally is one thing—you can hide behind all of the semantics of business when you’re at work, but co-parenting is another ballgame in its entirety. It requires seeing him regularly outside of work to raise a real living baby together. To be honest, part of you fears the feelings it could stir inside of you. Could you end up liking him again, or even fall in love? Would that be the most utter betrayal to your dead friends—as if carrying his child isn’t enough betrayal already? Standing there now, you’re forced to face those fears head on, when you’ve pushed them to the side for months, replacing them with disdain in order to ignore them.

Grief is weird like that, you suppose. It really isn’t the monster under your bed, it’s the face of the person who stares back at you in the mirror every day—it’s the man standing next to you now.

After a while, you reach into your bag and pull out the ultrasound photo and hand it to him. “It’s a girl, by the way.”

“Wow, a little girl, huh?” he smiles softly, staring at the photo.

“You can see her toes and fingers forming there.” You point. “The doctor says in a few more weeks the webbing between them will fall off and she’ll have fully formed feet and hands. Even fingernails. Isn’t that crazy? Our baby has little fingernails.”

“Our baby,” he repeats. “Yeah, it is crazy.”

“If you want, you can keep that one. I have another at home. I just kept that one in my bag to show the boys whenever I see them next.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s technically her first picture.”

“She looks just like you,” he jokes.

You roll your eyes. “You’re really so not funny.”

“I mean she’s cute just like you.”

“Ha ha. She’s covered in poop and slime and she’s bald. She’s not cute yet. She’s like a little parasite in my body until she’s born.”

“I didn’t know you had such strong feelings about pregnancy.”

“Well, it’s true. A fetus sucks a lot of nutrients from the mother. That’s why mothers have to usually gain weight and eat more and eat lots of healthy foods. Not just for the baby’s health, but the mother’s too.”

“Wow, I never knew that.”

“First time getting someone pregnant?” You give him a little smirk.

“I try not to make a habit of it.” He smirks back.

You snort and chuckle at him.

“I thought I was ‘really so not funny’,” he quips.

“You’re not, but sometimes you say a funny thing.”

He looks over the photo as if it’s a delicate piece of art. “It’s weird. I don’t think my mom ever got an ultrasound when she was pregnant with me. I don’t have any childhood photos.”

“Well, then let’s make sure we take lots of pictures of her.”

“I’m going to take a million, you know? From the moment she’s born.” He laughs. 

“Please don’t turn her into an internet sensation. I’ll really kill you if you become one of those parent bloggers.”

“No, she’ll be just ours. I promise.” His eyes scan over your face. “Come on. I want to show you one more grave.”

He pockets the ultrasound carefully into his jacket before taking you down the path further into the cemetery. You walk quietly, curious about what other grave he wants to show you but allowing the anticipation to build. The path winds and curves slightly over the hills, but Hawks keeps his pace slow next to you. It’s easy to notice how he walks a little bit closer now, almost as if he’s silently trying to say, “I’m right here next to you, in more ways than one.”

Eventually, he brings you to a grave marked for none other than Himiko. An incense stick is lit and there are flowers lying beside the gravestone.

“I don’t understand. I thought Himiko’s parents hated her?” Your voice is quiet as you stare at the large stone.

“Since you announced her act of heroism, Toga Himiko’s parents put this grave up. I think they were ashamed before, but I think having it here means more to other people than them.”

“You mean me?”

“And Uraraka Ochako. You can show her, and maybe that will help her move on from whatever she’s feeling.”

Your eyes follow the trail of smoke as it curls into the air, the gentle breeze whisking it away. “I haven’t even talked to her. To be honest, I heard about it from Todoroki Shouto.”

“Then, this can be a good excuse. I mean, it was kind of my excuse, after all.”

“I knew you had selfish reasons for bringing me here!” You slap him teasingly on his stomach. 

He flexes instinctively and you feel his muscles through his T-shirt.

“Only partially selfish.” He laughs. “You’ve been avoiding talking to me, so I thought if I showed you this place maybe you’d hear me out.”

“It’s not easy, you know. You killed my friend and then went on TV to justify it. You told the whole world that your relationship with me was just to gather information. Then, I find out I’m pregnant with your child. And you pardon me for my villain crimes and hire me as your assistant. It’s so overwhelming. How can I feel grateful for your kindness when you’ve hurt me so much?”

“I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry for killing Bubaigawara. I’m sorry for not saying his name when I admitted it in front of the nation. I’m sorry that I said I was just trying to collect information.” His apology is genuine, and you can sense his own pain through his words. “It’s not even entirely true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was spending lots of time with you to try and collect information, but I also enjoyed being with you. You really were my first kiss, and I don’t regret anything else.”

You can see the honesty in his eyes. The scars on his face seem more prominent, and it ages him slightly. He’s not the same charismatic young hero who was stuck arguing with a security guard at the Paranormal Liberation Front hideout just to get into the cafeteria. The man before you now has stared death in the face more than once, and he’s trying to move forward the same way everyone else keeps urging you to.

“When I confronted him, I told Bubaigawara that I would help him start a new life after he paid for his crimes. He refused to abandon his friends, just like you. That’s why I pardoned you and hired you. So, you could start a new life, and raise our baby happily, whether or not I was actually in your life.”

“Then, why are you trying so hard to actually be in my life?”

“Because… I really care about you. I always have. Besides, I’m not going to be like my father and abandon his child. Like I said, I want us to work as a team.”

“I understand,” you reply.

“There’s one more thing,” he adds. “I supported you with your addition to the expanded Hero Billboard Chart, but it has shaken the public more than what was anticipated. A lot of reports are saying that the people demand an apology from you.”

“That’s crazy, what do I even need to apologize for?”

“It’s not about anything that you did. It’s just a chance to ease the minds of the public.”

“That’s so Japanese style.” You huff.

“Think about it some more. I can help you write the apology too.”

“People will still spread rumors. Even if I apologize, they will still demand that it’s not enough.”

“Perhaps, but it also gives you the chance to face them honestly. Think of it as another step forward,” he says.

You're quiet, thinking the whole thing over. He said he wants to be a team…

“If you want to be there, then I need you there entirely,” you tell him.

“What do you mean?”

“It means actually coparenting. Be here for me for the pregnancy. Be there when the baby is born. And don’t back out and abandon me like you did that day.”

“You have all of me. But you do know that women undergo labor alone, right?”

“What?”

“Typically, the baby’s father isn’t present during delivery. Not in Japan, at least.”

“Well, fuck your cultural customs this one time. You’re asking me to go on national television and issue an apology for—something, I don’t know—to do what is Japanese custom just to ease the minds of the public. After everything you put me through, your ass better be right next to me when I give birth, and you better be holding me hand the whole time.”

He laughs despite your harshness. “Okay, okay. That’s fair. I’ll help you with your apology speech, and I’ll be there to hold your hand when you go into labor.”

You huff again. “Good.”

“Alright. Now, let me get you home. It’s too hot for you to be outside for so long.”

Shouto waits for you outside of Central Hospital. He stands next to Endeavor and a tall woman with white hair who you assume to be his mother. It’s weird seeing Endeavor wearing normal clothes—comfortable ones too. It doesn’t suit him at all. When he sees you, he waves politely for you to come over.

“This is my mom,” he introduces.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Yagi Asuka.” You bow politely as you introduce yourself. It’s still weird for you to say, but you hope it will grow on you more over time.

“It’s good to meet a friend of my sons’. I’ve heard a lot about you from Shouto,” his mom says.

You feel your face heat up slightly and you press your hand to your cheek. “I didn’t know he talked about me.”

“Just good things.” Shouto smiles softly.

“Uh, hi, Endeavor-san,” you greet him awkwardly, forcing yourself to bow politely to him as well.

Endeavor greets you back with the same discomfort. Despite being a man with a fire quirk, his demeanor is cold and stern.

“Are you ready?” Shouto asks.

“No, but to be honest I don’t think I ever will be,” you tell him.

“We won’t have long, so I’ll let you talk to him the whole time.”

“Are you sure? I know it’s important for you and your family to talk to him too.”

“Dad keeps his promise to come every day, but we agreed that it’s important for you to speak with Touya-nii too.”

“Thanks,” you say awkwardly to Endeavor. You turn to Shouto and whisper to him, “Are they going in with us?”

“I thought it would be best for you to go in alone, if you want,” he says. “We’re going to wait outside the room.”

Your heart races at the thought. Endeavor checks in with the front staff and they guide everyone down to where Dabi is being held. Every step feels like you’re walking a mile. You can hear every footstep echoing off of the sterile tile under your feet. It rings in your ears as your heart races with adrenaline. It feels like an hour until you finally get to the secure room where he’s been hidden away from the world.

“A word of warning, he doesn’t look like how you remember him,” Endeavor says.

“I figured—”

“You can’t even imagine it. So just drop all of your expectations.”

You don’t even know if you have any expectations. You’ve tried to prepare yourself for the worst, but you can’t even begin to imagine what the worst could be. Your stomach drops even further in anticipation. The hospital staff presses some code into a screen on a panel outside of the room. When the doors open, you turn to Shouto who gives you a reassuring nod before you step inside.

Seeing Dabi makes you sick to your stomach. He’s stationed upright in some high-tech cylinder. Various tubes run in and out of his body—a machine beeping, keeping him just barely alive. He’s wrapped head to toe in gauze, and the few places where his skin is exposed looks fully charred—if it even is his skin. He’s caged in a metal contraption preventing him from moving or attempting to use his quirk. It seems redundant, considering he’s hardly even alive in this state. Metal rods pierce his scalp and around different points on his face, holding him together like a science experiment. His hair is completely gone, as is the skin around his mouth, exposing his teeth completely. His right arm is entirely gone as well, and you wonder how he managed to sustain that wound—the rest of his body seems explainable.

The guard in the room speaks to you, “He usually wakes up around the same time each day, but you could end up waiting for a while.”

“It’s okay. I’ll wait as long as I need,” you tell him.

He gets you a chair to sit in, which you’re grateful for. You would think that with each passing minute your nerves would calm down, but your heart still beats heavily in your chest. Your mind races as you scramble to figure out what to say. You know that when he wakes up, you’ll have only a few minutes to talk to him. 

What if I freeze and nothing comes out? What if I forget how to speak Japanese? What if only Korean or something comes out? Or worse…what if his condition is so bad he doesn’t even recognize me anymore? I’ve changed so much, what if I’m just a stranger to him now?

You wait in the room for nearly forty minutes until he wakes up. He groans as he regains consciousness, but a chuckle befalls his lips when he notices you.

 “I’m surprised,” he croaks. His voice is hoarse and barely audible.

“Da—Touya…” You manage to swallow the lump in your throat. “I have a lot to tell you.”

“I… Don’t have… time.”

“I’m pregnant.” It seems like that’s the best place to start. 

He wheezes as a soft laugh escapes him. “How?”

“Well, I-I did what you said a-and tried to trust me. I mean, get Hawks to trust me. I tried to get Hawks to trust me. I wanted to trust him too. Back then.”

“You—” The machine tracking his heart rate beats a little faster.

The guard begins to scold you. “Don’t rile him up, or else I’ll have to escort you out.”

“Touya, calm down. It was a while ago. Before the raid on our headquarters.”

It takes a minute, but the machine slows to its regular rhythm, and he mutters, “You… seeing him?”

“Seeing him? You mean meeting with him? Not romantically, if that’s what you’re asking. He gave me a job, but I’ve kept a firm distance with him.” 

At least until today… you think as an afterthought.

“Good… traitor.”

You’re not sure if he’s referring to Hawks, or if he’s calling you a traitor. It makes your heart sink. “I’m sorry. I have to work hard to give my baby a good life. I want to be a good mother.”

“You… will…” His voice trails off.

You continue to fill the space, just trying to talk to him as much as you can. “Did you know, there’s an old belief that being pregnant with a girl will steal the mother’s beauty.” You force an awkward laugh, trying to ease the pain that radiates from your heart throughout the rest of your body.

“Not true.”

His response catches you by surprise. You were expecting him to swear at you or call you an idiot for letting another idiot knock you up, but he doesn’t. He seems genuine, and serious, this response much calmer than his others.

“I don’t know how much I can tell you without causing an emotional response. It’s all kind of crazy.”

He hums softly, indicating that he’s listening.

“All For One kidnapped me and gave me a quirk. So, if you thought I wasn’t quirkless, then you were right.”

“Knew… it.”

“It’s a really crazy story. I’ll have to explain it all later.”

If you can make it that long…

“All Might adopted me, and Hawks gave me a job working for the Public Safety Commission. I know I’m a traitor, but I’m hoping that with money and resources I can try to do something to make a positive change.”

“What… plan?”

“To be honest, I don’t have one yet. But as soon as I figure it out, I’ll come right back here and tell you.”

He hums again, his eyes fluttering as he fights to stay awake.

You continue, “I know we don’t have much time, but please keep fighting for your life. I want you to meet my daughter someday. So please, if there’s any spite left in you, keep living. I want you to see the world I will create. I want you to be there with me!”

You’re unsure if your words even reach his ears as his eyes fall closed once again.

“That’s enough,” the attending guard says. “Let his family know they can come back tomorrow.”

You're quickly ushered out as the hospital staff tend to him. Shouto and his parents are waiting idly outside of the room, just as Shouto said they would be. A sudden wave of exhaustion hits you, and you want to scream about how unfair everything is. You want to break down and bawl—to run back into that room and cry at the helm of Touya’s living coffin and demand answers for why he would do that to himself. 

“Are you okay?” Shouto places his hand on your back, and it snaps you back to the present.

“Huh?”

“How did it go? What did you say to him?”

“I don’t know.”

You’re not lying. It all happened so fast—seeing him was so shocking—it’s like your brain didn’t even register what was happening until it was over. 

And now it’s over.

And you haven’t even had a moment to really calm down and collect your thoughts.

“I warned you,” Endeavor says. “There’s nothing you could’ve done to mentally or emotionally prepare for it. That’s why I face him every day. So, I can truly understand the consequences of my actions.”

The urge to spit on him overwhelms you. You want to curse him out for being such a bastard of a father to drive his son to that madness. You couldn’t imagine it before you were pregnant, but now the feeling really sinks in. Part of you even understands Hawks’s desire to be in the picture and help you raise the baby. Without thinking, you place your hand on your stomach.

However, Shouto notices. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I want to go home,” you tell him.

Endeavor eyes you. “This must be extremely distressing for you. It’s important for you to rest.”

It’s obvious how he chooses his words that makes part of you wonder if Hawks did eventually tell him about the baby.

“Yeah,” you agree. “It’s been quite emotionally distressing. You know, after being bombarded with news about how great it is that my friends are dead and the heroes who killed them saved the day. Seeing one of the few remaining friends I have left on his deathbed is pretty emotionally exhausting.”

Your words bite, and you can see how they sting Shouto a little. You regret it instantly, but Endeavor looks away. 

“I know it’s hard for you. So, if you ever want to come talk to Touya, it’s okay,” he says.

Endeavor has given up fighting. He’s traded heroics for a false sense of fatherhood, but it’s too late. He knows this. Everyone in the room knows it. Yet, he doesn’t give up trying to right a wrong he should’ve never created in the first place.

“I’m not going to thank you,” you tell him.

“I know. I’m not looking for gratitude. You deserve to see him. I’ll notify the hospital staff as well, so you can come and go freely.”

You nod as Shouto’s hand finally leaves your back.

“Let’s go,” he says.

The walk out of the hospital is even quieter and more awkward than walking through the cemetery with Hawks. Death lingers in each place—one where your friends wait for their passing, and the other where they’re already gone. Home is the only place where you can safely mourn without disturbance. It’s the only place where you are free to really process it all—behind the quiet walls of your bedroom with your door shut, or alone in the shower with steaming hot water to cloud any semblance of tears. In that place, you’re safe to explore the memories of those you love without the lingering eyes or judgement of anyone else.

And that’s what you need—home.

Tag list: @janex12 @xxjesshuxx @evalineplayz19 @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @failuredecore @rwura @nyxnightshade7656 @OFriskBitzO

Chapter 10 ⬅️🐦➡️ Chapter 12

Chapter m.list

This work is copyright ©️ 2024 chaos-night. Do not re-upload!

needle & nerve | e. kirishima

he came in for a piercing. what he didn’t expect was the artist behind the gloves—sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and maybe his new favorite reason to come back. (987 words)

your shop sat just off the main street—half tattoo studio, half piercing parlor, with walls that held a little bit of grit and a whole lot of story. incense burned low in the corner, masking the sharp scent of disinfectant, and the constant hum of fluorescent lights buzzed beneath the soft thud of bass-heavy music filtering in from the back room. framed flash sheets covered the walls, inked with dragons, snakes, roses, and teeth. some were faded from sun, some fresh, some yours. all of them meant something to someone.

you leaned over the front desk, chin in your palm, scrolling idly through a list of upcoming appointments when the door chimed. you didn't look up right away—it wasn't rare to get walk-ins—but something about the shift in the room made your hand pause over the mouse.

he stepped inside like he wasn’t sure how loud to be. tall, square-shouldered, all muscle and nervous momentum. red hair pulled back in a headband that didn’t quite tame it, and eyes—bright, dark-lashed, darting around the space like they were trying to memorize it before it could change.

"uh—hi," he said. his voice cracked slightly on the first syllable, too loud for the low hum of the shop. "i’ve got an appointment?"

you looked up and found a boy who seemed more like a mountain in training. his cheeks flushed deeper when your gaze caught him.

"eyebrow at three?"

"yeah." he nodded, breath like it had been held since the sidewalk. "that’s me."

"cool. i’m your piercer today," you said, stepping out from behind the desk and gesturing toward the back. "i’m y/n."

he blinked, then smiled like he hadn’t expected introductions to be part of this. "eijiro. kirishima eijiro."

you gave him a nod and a smirk. "nice to meet you, eijiro. let’s make you bleed a little."

he trailed behind as you led him through the studio, past tattoo chairs draped in black leather and chrome trays lined with freshly sterilized tools. his eyes lingered on the art pinned above each station, pausing longer at a piece you'd done last week—three snakes coiled through the jaw of a skull.

"first piercing?" you asked, tugging on gloves.

"yeah." he scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "figured it was time. always thought about it but... i dunno. guess i needed a push."

"it’s a good pick," you said, voice easy, hands already arranging your tray. "subtle. sharp. very you."

he blinked, then smiled. "you don’t even know me."

"don’t need to. i read people."

he laughed, louder this time. "and what do i read like?"

"someone who talks a big game and still gets nervous walking into places like this."

he opened his mouth, then closed it with a grin. "fair enough."

you motioned to the chair. "you’ll feel a quick pinch and then a little pressure. it’s not that bad. just don’t flinch."

"i won’t. promise." he slid into the chair like it was a test. his hands settled in his lap, though you could see the way he kept flexing his fingers.

you moved around him with steady precision. sterilized clamp. single-use needle in its packaging. mirror nearby. you sprayed his brow with antiseptic and caught his flinch out of the corner of your eye—not from pain, but from cold.

he glanced at you. "you do tattoos too?"

"yep. mostly blackwork. fine line, sometimes flash. i draw all my own sheets."

"that snake piece on the way in—that was yours?"

you nodded. "you've got a good eye."

he flushed again, red creeping across his ears now. "guess i’m just a fan of good linework."

you leaned in close, brushing his hair from his temple. his skin was warm under your gloves. close like this, he smelled like clean laundry and just a little sweat, like maybe he’d psyched himself up before walking through the door.

"keep your head still. i’m gonna mark you."

you felt his breath hitch as you pressed the pen lightly to his skin. you could feel the tension in his shoulders—not fear, exactly. more like anticipation wound tight beneath muscle.

"you alright?"

he nodded. "just thinking."

"about what?"

"if this actually makes me cooler or if i’ll just look like i lost a bet."

you smiled. "only one way to find out."

you lined the clamp up gently. "deep breath in."

he inhaled, and you pierced through his skin.

a second passed. then two.

you pulled the needle through, swapped it for the jewelry, and clipped the hoop into place. he didn’t move, not even when you wiped away the smallest dot of blood.

"that’s it?" he blinked at you, like he expected to be bleeding out.

"that’s it."

he touched the edge of the new ring, careful, like it might still sting.

"damn. kinda expected to cry or something."

"give it five hours. you might regret it."

he laughed and stood, slowly, adjusting to the sudden lightness in his posture.

you peeled your gloves off with a soft snap, tossed them in the bin, and reached for the aftercare sheet. when you turned back around, he was holding something in his hand.

a post-it. yellow. handwriting a little slanted, a little rushed.

he stuck it to the counter next to the tip jar. his number written in black ink on the paper.

"in case i want the other side done," he said casually. "or, you know, maybe a snake tattoo. or maybe coffee."

you tilted your head, one eyebrow raised. "you just hand out your number to everyone you meet under bright lights and sharp metal?"

he grinned, sheepish and bold all at once. "only when they’re the prettiest person i’ve ever met."

he waved over his shoulder, and the bell above the door chimed as he left, hair catching the light like a flame, and you were still staring at the post-it note—still smiling—when the door eased shut behind him.

HII!!!

i loveloveLOVE ur smau’s, could u do one for katsuki bakugo? enemies to lovers ?? the storyline and stuff can be anything u want.

pls feel free to add any details u want 😭😭

and no pressure !!!

technical foul | k. bakugo

you're vice captain to his captain on the soccer team. working together was never the problem. staying out of each other's way was.

aizawa with a pro hero that always get paired up together (did i mention they hate eachother to the point they cant stand eachother)

standard procedure | s. aizawa

you and aizawa constantly get partnered for fieldwork. the job is clean. the dynamic, not so much.

Please bakugo friends to lover! User and him started texting bc of a group project then it goes from there when he texts them constantly if they are missing class or didn’t show up to school at all

standard deviation | k. bakugo

the plan was to finish the slides and turn in your project. not get used to talking every night.

hi cool person!!! i was wondering if you could do texting iida? like any context, but just make it iida as our bf or friends to lovers or something. thankss

manual override | t. iida

dating tenya iida is like loving a perfectly alphabetized fire drill—structured, intense, and somehow exactly what you needed.

MORE TOMU SMAUS PLEASEEEE 😼

temporary housing | t. shigaraki

you let him crash for a week. it's been three months and you're starting to miss him when he's not on the couch.

OBVIOUSLY NOT FORCING BUT MORE SERO HANTA SMAUS PLEASE YOU SMAUS ARE SO GOOD I NEED MORE AND SERO IS HUZZ😔🤍

low dose | h. sero

in which you didn't expect to like your dealer, but he keeps replying to your overly enthusiastic texts like it's normal.

DEKU ACADEMIC RIVALS TO LOVERS WITH READER🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏PLSOLSOKS

ctrl + alt + detest | i. midoriya

you're tied at the top of the class, stuck in a group project, and ignoring the fact that midoriya looks really good in library lighting.

Hiii so I was wondering if MAYBE you could do a smau with Denki abt reader being jealous of Jiro (Denki x reader/friend to lovers ?) (Pls pls pls)

off the clock | d. kaminari

you and denki are coworkers, best friends, and almost something more—until he starts spending all his time with jirou. now you're just trying your best to not care.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ON MY KNEES FOR AN IZUKU SMAU WITH HIM AND MC CRUSHING ON EACH OTHER SOOO BAD BUT THEY'RE TWO IDIOTS WHO GO: "oh they wanna hang out one on one? Damn we're such good friends"

just us? | i. midoriya

just two best friends hanging out one-on-one every weekend, doing couple things, and totally not dating (yet)

ur so funny pls😭😭😭 plsplsplspls more shiggy and tamaki BLESS UP

chaotic neutral | t. shigaraki

you work the graveyard shift at a 24/7 convenience store. unfortunately, so does he.

alley rose | k. takami

you know he's not yours, but you'd still pick him in every lifetime. the worst part? he'd let you. (2785 words)

you never meant to fall into it.

and maybe that's the problem.

because things that fall tend to break, and you? you've never been particularly good at knowing when to catch yourself.

it starts with nothing. not even a spark, not a clear moment. no dramatic beginning. no pivotal shift in atmosphere. he just... shows up one night. stands in the doorway of your apartment with wind in his hair and fatigue under his eyes and a grin that looks like it's trying to apologize for both.

you don't remember who invited him. maybe he just appeared. you wouldn't put it past him.

you only remember letting him in.

he takes up space easily. like he's always belonged there. like the couch remembers his weight. like your walls never had a choice in loving the sound of his voice.

he doesn't say much. he never really has to.

he leans against the kitchen counter while you make tea, not even asking what kind, just accepting the mug with his usual crooked smile and a quiet, "you're a saint."

he doesn't drink it.

he just holds it between his hands, steam rising between his fingers like an offering he doesn't quite believe he deserves.

you sit in silence for a while. the kind of silence that feels earned. he doesn't fill it with nonsense. he lets it exist between you, thick and soft and settled like dust on a bookshelf no one has the heart to clean.

"you don't sleep much, huh?" he says eventually, with the kind of voice that makes the night lean in to listen.

you shrug. "not when the world's this loud."

he nods like he understands. like he feels it too. maybe he does.

he spends the night—not in your bed, never in your bed—but on the couch. boots off, one arm lazily thrown over his eyes like the darkness is too much. there's tension in his shoulders even when he sleeps.

you watch him from the doorway longer than you should. tell yourself it's because he's in your home. that you're being cautious.

it's not that.

it's never that.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

he returns three nights later.

you don't ask why.

he starts showing up regularly. not every night, but often enough that you start leaving the door unlocked out of habit. he never uses a key. he always knocks, even when it's past midnight, even when you're both pretending he hasn't been there three times this week.

he doesn't talk about work. never talks about heroes or headlines or what happens after he walks out of your door and lets the world chew him up again.

you don't ask.

you offer him a space. warmth. the silence he pretends not to need.

he offers... something else. something half-shaped. a hand on your back when you pass each other in the kitchen. a smirk when you call him out on it. snacks left on the counter. a blanket draped over your shoulders when you fall asleep on the couch, though he'll swear it wasn't him.

and one night, when you're both sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with half a bottle of something nameless between you, he leans in and kisses you.

it's not hungry. not sharp. not even all that deep.

it's lazy. gentle. like he forgot himself and remembered you in the same breath.

when he pulls back, he just grins. "nice lips," he murmurs. "don't let anyone tell you different."

and then he's gone.

you press your fingers to your mouth and pretend it didn't mean anything. pretend it was just a drunk impulse. a thing he does. a fluke.

you tell yourself it won't happen again.

it does.

not the kiss—but the weight of it. the imprint.

the moments start to blur together. late night dinners. half-slept mornings. you learn the exact sound his jacket makes when it hits your couch. the rhythm of his breath when he falls asleep sitting up. the way his voice drops when he's tired, softening like he's forgotten he's not supposed to be real around you.

you learn how to love him without touching him.

he makes it easy.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

you don't talk about what this is.

not once.

not when he brings you takeout and eats with you in silence. not when he falls asleep with his head on your shoulder. not when he disappears for four days and comes back without a word and looks at you like he never left.

you tell yourself it doesn't matter.

because he's not cruel.

he never leads you on—not really. never calls you his. never asks you to stay. never says he loves you.

he just makes it feel like he does.

and maybe that's worse.

maybe if he'd been colder, you would've walked away by now. maybe if he'd kissed you like he didn't mean it, you wouldn't still taste him in your coffee. maybe if he didn't smile like you were the only person in the room—maybe then you'd be able to sleep at night without checking your phone for his name.

but he does. and you can't.

you try to pretend it's fine.

you're adults. capable of detachment. you know how this goes. some people just need somewhere to land. someone who doesn't ask questions. someone who lets them rest.

you can be that.

and for a while, you convince yourself you're okay with it.

because sometimes he looks at you and you think—maybe.

maybe this could be something.

maybe he just needs time.

maybe you're the only one who sees him like this—tired and soft and human.

maybe that matters.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

one night, he cooks for you.

it's a disaster. the pasta overboils, the sauce burns, and he sets off your smoke alarm because he forgets how sensitive it is.

you sit on the floor with him, coughing and laughing, fanning smoke with a magazine while he yells at your ceiling.

when it finally clears, he sits beside you. knees touching. arms brushing. smelling like burnt garlic and relief.

he doesn't kiss you that night.

but he falls asleep in your lap, and you thread your fingers through his hair and pretend he's yours.

he's not.

but he lets you pretend.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

"you're good at this," he says once, curled up in your blanket, the ends of his hair brushing your collarbone.

"what?"

"letting me stay."

you don't answer.

he doesn't expect you to.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you kiss again, weeks later.

it's different.

it's not light or easy or careless. it's slow. warm. aching.

he holds your face like it's glass. kisses you like he's afraid to stop. touches you like he's saying something he doesn't have the words for.

and afterward, he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs, "you always feel like home."

and you wonder if maybe this is something.

maybe this is real.

but then he gets up. leaves without looking back. and you stay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what you did wrong.

˚⊹ ᰔ

your friends start to notice.

"you've been distracted," one of them says.

"i'm fine," you lie.

they don't press. but they look at you like they know.

you delete the messages you want to send him. never hit call. never ask where he is when he disappears for days, weeks, reappears with new bruises and an easy smile and nothing in his eyes.

you pretend not to care.

but your hands shake when you wash his mug.

˚⊹ ᰔ

he shows up again.

you open the door. he looks tired.

you don't ask why.

he leans against the frame like he belongs there. like he knows you'll let him in.

and you do.

he doesn't kiss you this time. doesn't speak.

he just lays beside you on the couch. not touching. not sleeping. just breathing.

you turn your head.

he doesn't look at you.

you wonder if he's already left.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you don't remember the last time he said your name.

you don't remember the last time you said no.

˚⊹ ᰔ

there's no end. not yet.

there's just the quiet stretch of something wearing thin. the slow suffocation of wanting too much from someone who never offered you anything in the first place.

you tell yourself it's fine.

you knew what this was.

he never said it would be more.

but you wish—god, you wish—he hadn't made it feel so much like love.

because now, you don't know how to unfeel it.

you don't know how to stop opening the door when he knocks. how to stop hearing your name in the silence between his sentences. how to stop hoping.

and worst of all?

you don't want to.

not yet.

maybe not ever.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you don't talk about it.

the situation. the dynamic. the... thing between you.

there's no language for it. not really.

it's not a relationship. not a friendship. not even a fling.

but it's something. it has weight. it has presence. it takes up room in your life and your chest and your plans and your future in the way real things are supposed to. only it doesn't behave like something real. it behaves like a ghost with too much nerve. a shadow that leaves fingerprints on your heart but disappears when the light comes on.

you try to explain it to a friend once. someone who notices the way you pause when your phone buzzes. the way your smile flickers when it doesn't.

"is it serious?" they ask.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

because how do you explain it? how do you articulate the emotional toll of being almost loved?

so you shrug. "it's nothing."

you lie.

but you shouldn't have to.

˚⊹ ᰔ

hawks—no, keigo, because he insists you call him that when you're alone, like that somehow makes him more honest—isn't cruel.

that's what you keep coming back to.

he never promises you anything. never strings you along with declarations or dates or matching mugs in the cupboard. he doesn't label this. doesn't even try.

but he lets you sit close. lets you hold his wrist when he's pacing and won't tell you what's wrong. lets you run your fingers through his hair when he comes back with blood under his nails.

he lets you treat him like someone you love.

and in return?

he lets you pretend he loves you back.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you try to find clarity in the small things.

like in the way he leans toward you in crowds. the way his eyes soften when he hands you a drink. the way he listens when you talk about things that don't matter.

but the truth is, affection doesn't equal intention.

and you're tired of translating his silence into possibility.

˚⊹ ᰔ

he disappears for two weeks.

no warning. no explanation. just gone.

the first few days you check your phone constantly. reread old messages. try to remember if you said something wrong. if you asked for too much. if he finally got bored of the emotional middle ground you let him live in.

the silence grows louder.

by the time the seventh day passes, it becomes a roar in your head.

you don't call. you don't text.

you tell yourself it's a boundary.

it's not. it's fear.

because if you reach out first, you won't like the answer.

˚⊹ ᰔ

he shows up on a tuesday.

doesn't knock. just opens your door like nothing's happened. like it hasn't been days since he last looked at you. like he didn't vanish into the wind and leave you to rot in your own expectations.

he drops his bag by the couch. throws himself down and stretches like a cat, muscles flexing under his shirt, wings shifting slightly.

"miss me?" he says with a grin.

your heart cracks. so quietly, so precisely, you barely feel it.

you sit beside him. don't say anything.

he throws an arm around your shoulder like this is normal. like you're normal.

"sorry," he says casually. "work stuff."

you nod.

he doesn't elaborate.

you don't ask.

and the silence between you stops being safe. it becomes suffocating.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you start pulling away in increments.

you don't make him tea anymore when he shows up. you don't wait for him to call. you stop folding his jacket when he leaves it draped over your chair. you stop making room in your drawer for the little things he forgets behind.

and he notices. of course he does.

he notices the tension in your jaw when he touches you. the fact that you turn your face away when he leans in like he might kiss you. the way you no longer meet his eyes when you say goodnight.

he doesn't say anything.

but one night, when you're both watching some movie neither of you are paying attention to, he speaks into the dark.

"you okay?"

you hesitate.

then: "i'm tired."

he hums. "long day?"

you don't answer, and he doesn't ask again.

˚⊹ ᰔ

your friends start asking questions. real ones.

"is this working for you?" "what do you want out of this?" "are you happy?"

you laugh them off.

but the ache in your chest lingers.

because no. you're not happy. not really.

you're in love with someone who only shows up when it's convenient. who never shares the parts of himself that matter. who touches you with familiar hands but guards his heart like it's state property.

and you? you've built a home out of his shadows. you've memorized a version of him that doesn't even belong to you.

you don't want to do this anymore.

˚⊹ ᰔ

but you still do.

because it's better than nothing.

because the alternative is letting him go.

and that feels like losing something you never got to keep in the first place.

˚⊹ ᰔ

then one night, it changes.

not loudly. not dramatically.

just... changes.

you're sitting on the floor again, legs stretched in front of you, a blanket around your shoulders and the tv on low. keigo's beside you, but not touching. for once, there's real distance.

you glance at him.

he's staring at the screen, eyes unfocused.

you don't recognize his expression.

you whisper, "why do you keep coming here?"

he blinks. looks at you. "what do you mean?"

you shrug. "i mean... you never talk. you disappear. you show up without warning. and i let you. every time. i don't ask for anything, and you know that."

he stays quiet.

"so why do you keep coming back?"

the silence stretches. you think maybe he won't answer.

then he says, soft: "because you're the only place i don't have to lie."

your stomach twists.

because that should mean something. it almost does.

but then you realize—

he's not saying he wants you. he's saying he likes what you give him.

peace. comfort. quiet.

you're not a person to him. you're a haven.

and he never had any intention of staying.

you breathe in, slowly, and nod.

"okay."

he looks at you, confused. "okay?"

you stand. your knees ache. your chest does too.

"you can go now."

he rises slowly, uncertainty flickering across his face for the first time. "what?"

you repeat it. "you can go."

he studies you. then smiles, like it's a joke. "don't be dramatic."

you stare at him. "i'm not."

something in his expression falters. "look," he says. "i didn't mean to—"

"i know," you say. "that's the problem."

he goes quiet again.

you continue, softer now. "you didn't mean to kiss me. or stay. or sleep here. or come back. or look at me like that. or make me feel like you wanted something real. and you think that's enough. that because you never said you cared, you didn't have to."

his mouth opens, then closes.

you're tired. so, so tired.

"you never had to lie to hurt me, keigo," you whisper. "you just had to let me believe you wanted me here."

he doesn't argue. he doesn't reach for you. he just stands there.

quiet.

just like always.

you don't ask him again to leave.

he just does. eventually.

without slamming the door. without saying goodbye.

and maybe that's what breaks you.

because there's nothing dramatic to hold on to. no final fight. no angry words. no declarations.

just absence.

and that hurts more than anything else.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you sit in the quiet after he's gone. your blanket falls off your shoulders and you don't pick it up. you sit there until the sun starts to rise.

and when your phone buzzes hours later, you don't check it.

because you already know—

it's not him.

it never really was.

hiii! dk if ur taking requests or not buttt i have to ask could u mayhaps do a kiri smau!! likeeee kiri x shy reader who's alternative, mayb like he thinks she's so cool and wants to get to know her more but she comes off as kinda odd or what not (weird girl) type thing and they eventually get tg (sorry if this is 2 many details or what not) BUTTT JUS KINDA DO IT HOWEVER U WANT !!!

mismatched | e. kirishima

kirishima finds himself drawn to your mildly peculiar personality and style, but it works for you.

a/n: for some reason i struggled with this one a little bit. i tried to get alternative right without being to stereotypically cliche with it. i hope it serves well oomf!

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.

Anyone by @gentrychild

Imagine a world where your quirk determines your path and your worth. A world that has no place for a quirkless boy.

Despite that, Izuku is determined to become a hero. Until he realizes no one will let him.

So he accidentally creates a helpful (criminal) organization.

And he (not so) accidentally steals One for All.

May contain Izuku technically becoming a villain but still helping people, All Might running around like a headless chicken to find his stolen quirk, and All for One refusing to just go away.

the full version of my animatic for gentry’s fic

yandere shigaraki with a pregnant s/o pls. thank you so much!!

It’s no problem!! You know I’m always looking for an excuse to write for this man 🥰

TW: ACCIDENTAL PREGNANCY, ABORTION MENTION, SELF HARM, ABUSE.

MAJOR BNHA MANGA SPOILERS AHEAD.

READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.

Yandere Shigaraki with a pregnant s/o:

Honestly with Shigaraki’s end goal being the destruction of literally everything, coupled with the fact that his childhood was very tragic, I can imagine him being very distressed by the news of your pregnancy. He’d probably get really still and quiet for a while until he lifts a shaking hand to his neck and starts to rip at his own skin with eyes bulging out of his head.

“And what do you expect me to do about that, huh? You expect me to turn over a new leaf? You want me to build you a fucking crib? Give me a fucking break.” 

After the arrest of AFO, he didn’t speak to you like that much anymore so this would be unexpected. He’d be very frustrated at you for “causing” something that may ruin his plans. You being supportive of his goals (whether you’re being truthful or not) is very important to him and he never expected you to cause a hinderance. Not to say that he was a fan of condoms. He never got the “If you have sex, you’ll get pregnant and die” talk so while he knows about the birds in the bees, it never properly registered with him that an accidental pregnancy might actually happen to him. He never thought he’d ever have someone to do that stuff with, so he was never concerned about it. All in all, this was a huge shock to him.

He didn’t like the sharp pang of guilt in his chest as he watched your face flush and your eyes fill with tears. He’d angrily scoff and slam the door in your face, his neck forming red dots of blood inside an angry splotch of pink. He needs to destroy something and he knows just the right crowded building for the job.

After you both calm down and he has some more time to process what has happened, he pulls you aside with a solemn expression. After a few second, he breaks the silence between you when he asks “Do you want it?”.

He’s come to the conclusion that he cares very deeply about your happiness and he wouldn’t make you get rid of the baby if you wanted to carry his child. He’s always loved your motherly nature and he’s indulged in the thought of you “round with his seed” once or twice... or a few times. Not to mention the huge ego boost it would give him, especially knowing that you’re willingly doing this.

He would come to realize that this is a chance to spit on his father’s ashes by raising his kid correctly.

Once you start showing, he’ll literally lock you in a room and not let you out until the child is born. He can’t risk anyone trying to hurt you since he’s already lost his family once.

Instead of seeing the child as a hinderance, he begins to see it as not only his future apprentice, but as something he needs to protect. What better way to do that than getting rid of everything that could hurt them?

BNHA Rarepair Horror Fest #1!

~~~~~~~~~~

This event was organized by: @bnhararepairhub

~~~~~~~~~~

Rarepair - Izuku Midoriya x Melissa Shield (DekuLissa/DekuMeli)

Prompt/Title - Japanese Horror Movies

Cold autumn wind whistled outside Midoriya’s apartment. It was October 31st - so what better to do than to cuddle with your girlfriend and watch classic American horror movies?

“What do you want to watch now?” Melissa held the TV remote in her hands, waiting for her boyfriend to fire a suggestion.

“What have we watched so far?”

“Too much to count,” Melissa didn’t want to think about the incredulous amount of time they had spent watching movies.

Midoriya thought for a moment as he stretched the hours of binge watching out of him. “As much as I love your American movies, why don’t we watch some of mine?”

“You have horror movies?”

“Not just any horror movies - the scariest Japanese horror movies of all time!!”

Melissa laughed, “Okay, let’s see if they’re as scary as you say they are.”

Midoriya shuffled through his collection of DVDs and shoved one in the DVD player.

“Prepare yourself…” he chuckled.

—LATER—

The living room was dark, which was good, because then Midoriya couldn’t see Melissa’s petrified face. But it also didn’t matter, because she clung to him like Velcro anyway.

Midoriya held back a laugh, “are you scared?”

“Maybe…” admitted Melissa. “I hate this movie…”

Midoriya pet the back of her hair, “Ju-On is a classic.”

She scoffed, “so is IT.”

He laughed at her quip and pulled her close. “Don’t worry, it’s all fiction anyway.”

As the movie moved to its credits, bold, white words stood out from the dark background:

BASED ON A TRUE STORY

~~~~~~~~~~

DekuShield Week Day 5, 6 and 7!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[A/N]

I have high expectations for myself, but I don’t set them very firm because I know I’m likely to fail them.

Well, without further ado, day five, six and seven of DekuShield Week! Hope you enjoy and feedback is very much appreciated!

Also, sorry for not posting lately, there’s just been a lot going on with school and all so I couldn’t find the time. Anyway, I promise to make it up to you all!

Requests are open and... yeah. Enough of me talking.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prompt 5- Family

“Oh my goodness! You must be Melissa!” Inko hurried over to Melissa and shook her hand, over-the-world about seeing her son’s lover for the first time. “Izuku has spoken so much about you!”

Melissa grinned and returned the handshake. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Midoriya.”

“Please, call me Inko.”

Inko lead Izuku and Melissa into to the kitchen, there was a banquet of food on their dinner table.

“I spent all day cooking; I was just so excited to meet you!”

“It looks amazing Inko, it smells good too!” Melissa sat down, along with Izuku, Inko scattered to bring them all drinks.

“Mom, let me help-”

“Don’t worry, Izuku. I’ve got it covered.”

She sat down. Izuku raised his glass, “to a so-far successful relationship!”

Melissa and Inko raises their glasses also. “Don’t jinx it,” warned Melissa, as the three of them clinked glasses.

“To a successful relationship!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[A/N]

Apologies, all. I had severe fanfictioner’s block, so I had to “improvise” and cut it short.

Also, I figured I wouldn’t write about David (Melissa’s dad), because Deku already met him in the movie and what-not.

Anyway, on with prompt six!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prompt 6- Crossover (With Toradora)

Izuku sighed, fiddling with his bangs. It wasn’t even the first day of school, yet he felt so uptight as if it was. Murmurs echoed up and down the hall as he dragged his feet to homeroom.

Mph.

He stopped dead in his tracks. What was that? He thought, he observed his surroundings from left to right.

He looked downward and saw a petite blond rubbing her forehead. There were even more murmurs from the other students around them. Some gasped in shock.

“The Plam-Top Tiger!”

“How do you think it’s gonna go down?”

“What’s gonna happen?”

“That’s the Palm-Top Tiger, idiot! She’s super dangerous!”

Izuku glanced at all the students, then back down and “Palm-Top Tiger.”

“Palm-Top Tiger, huh?” He said, she growled in annoyance. “Oh, I get it! It’s because you’re shor-”

Wham!

Izuku flew to the ground, pain throbbing in his face.

Yep, he thought, accepting his fate as he hit the floor with a thud and watched Palm-Top Tiger walk past him. Little did I know, this would be the start of just the beginning.

He watched her turn the corner.

The beginning of a lifetime.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[A/N]

Fight me.

Prompt seven!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prompt 7- Free Day and/or Halloween (I chose Free Day)

“Melissa!”

Melissa glanced up from her laptop. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“Happy birthday!”

“Aw, Deku, you’re so sweet!” Izuku took a seat next to her and planted a light kiss on her cheek, a hint of blush dusted his face.

“You really didn’t have to,” she smiled.

“Melissa, you’re crazy. Of course, I do.”

Izuku held out his hand, inching it closer to Melissa.

“What are you doing, Deku?”

“Giving you your birthday present.”

“And what’s that?” Asked Melissa, placing her hand in his. Izuku smiled, then leaned in so his mouth was next to her ear.

“My hand in marriage.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[A/N]

I know, I know, I know, I know.

Oh, wait!

I know.

One, that was very short (I know-), and

Two, I already did a prompt with marriage in it, but I had no other ideas. I’ve lost all my sparkles and glitter so I need something to bring back my passion!

...

Okay. I am so sorry.

It sounded so cool in my head, but when I read it, it sounded so wrong.

Anyway, hope you guys liked these and I’ll see you guys in my next post.

Love you all!

DekuShield Week Day 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[A/N]

So, like, nothing today, folks. I’m dead tired, but that’s pretty much it.

Anyway, as always, hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prompt 4- Injurues

Melissa took in a deep breath; walk in, and don’t say anything, you’re just going to make Deku worry.

She opened the front door and took a st-

“Melissa!” Izuku rushed over to her, examining her visible injuries. “What happened?!”

“Just an experiment gone wrong, no biggie,” she assured. Izuku gave her an unsatisfied look. She wanted to avoid the fact of how reckless he was whilst preparing for her experiment, shame and embarrassment folding over her neighboring emotions.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” Izuku gently took Melissa by the hand and took her to the bathroom.

“Deku, honestly- it’s okay-”

“No, it isn’t, Melissa. If it was, I would’ve let you take care of this on your own!” He growled.

Melissa nodded glumly. He was right. She was being foolish. She took a seat on a stool as Izuku rummaged though drawers.

“Hey.”

Izuku cupped his hand under Melissa’s chin and raised her head, he smiled softly. “Listen, it’s okay to get hurt sometimes; mistakes happen. But it’s not okay to reserve yourself from getting the help you need.” He pulled out disinfectant from one of the drawers.

Melissa winced as he dabbed some onto her cuts, the sharp stinging pulsating where they were located. He rested his hand on top of her head.

“Don’t come home and give me a heart attack like that.”

Melissa tried to smile, “I’ll try not to,” she began, placing her hand on top of his. “No guarantees.”

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[A/N]

As you can see, I probably got the whole prompt wrong and did what I wasn’t supposed to do, but that’s okay. I should warn you that you should always expect those type of things from me.

Anyway...

I kept it short for today, because I had no other ideas for “injuries,” so I used 100% of my brain power of the last remaining brain cell in my head to try and come up with something decent.

Love all of you, have a great day/night! Till next time!

DekuShield Week Day 3!

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[A/N]

Hello everyone!

Oh, how I remember the good ol’ days when I first saw the DekuShield Week post, and I followed the DekuShield Week Tumblr.

Now look where we are; day three- his/her heartbeat.

So anyways, ignoring my strangeness, hope you enjoy!

(Also, I didn’t quite know what this prompt was supposed to be, so I just pulled a le-ootaku and wrote the first things that came to mind)

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Prompt 3- His/Her Heartbeat

Ba-dum! Ba-dum! Ba-dum!

Izuku trembled beneath his skin. He would make this the best day of her life, he was adamant about that.

Ba-dum! Ba-dum! Ba-dum!

Even the encouragement and support of Iida, Uraraka, and the rest of his classmates couldn’t help his sensation of... adrenaline? Sweat dotted his forehead, but he wiped it off with his sleeve.

Don’t look so unprofessional! He cursed, you’re going to look stupid!

Ba-dum! Ba-dum! Ba...

And there she was, in all her glory.

Drop-dead; stunning.

Melissa walked towards Izuku, a smile on her face- oh, goodness. How he adored that smile.

“Ready?”

Izuku grinned, “always.”

He took her by the hand and walked with her down the sidewalk. He knew just the spot, but he wouldn’t tell Melissa- Heavens no.

Minutes later, and this was the spot.

“Deku, why’d you bring me here?” Wondered Melissa, Izuku merely smiled.

“This was where we first met,” he explained, gazing at the roses and greenery neatly done around them. A grand elevation of steps was placed in front of them. “When I came here with All Might, you were on your pogo stick and leaped into his arms.”

“Oh! I remember that!” Beamed Melissa, her eyes sparkling. “But...”

Izuku glanced at her. “But?”

“But why come here now?”

Izuku smiled.

“Melissa Shield.”

He got down on one knee and pulled out a small, black box. Melissa visibly froze. This was the day he would make his goal come true.

Ba-dum! Ba-dum! Ba-dum!

“Will you marry me?”

Ba...

Dum...

Ba...

Dum...

Ba...

Dum...

“Izuku Midoriya.” Began Melissa, her voice trembling.

“This is the best day of my life...”

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[A/N]

Did she say yes? Did she say no? Yes, obviously!

So, I probably didn’t do what I was supposed to do (as in, the fanfic prompt), but I’m honestly too tired to try any harder at this point.

But honestly? I actually kinda liked writing this one, it was pretty fun! I could just imagine Deku being all flustered and just... being a Deku...

Well, that was that for today! Hope you guys liked it!

Also, remember to give feedback (if there’s any needed), because I want to make my writing go beyond Plus Ultra for all of you!

Okay, enough of me, have a great day, everyone!