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@aeranic
You've arrived exactly when you need to!
hello and welcome, little wanderer.
This account holds comfort, quiet stories for tired hearts.
What to expect?
✧ updates are slow but sincere.
✧ stories are written with love, not deadlines.
✧ some endings heal, some hurt, and that's how life is.
you may also find me here:
X: aeracolee
discord: aeranicole
MASTERLIST
Author's Note: If one of my stories feels like a safe place, then I'm glad you find your way here. Thank you for reading. Thank you for staying.
EIJIRO KIRISHIMA | RED RIOT
Quiet Fire
Quiet Fire
pairings: Eijirou Kirishima
synopsis: as distance grows, unspoken longing turns into heartache, leaving two hearts aching in silence.
wc: 1.8k
warnings: emotional self-sabotage, jealousy, unrequited feelings (still thinking if I should leave the story like this), heartache, not proofead
main masterlist | kirishima's masterlist
Midnight always found you awake.
It was the time the world stopped asking you things. When no one needed you to be okay, to smile, or to act strong.
But it also the time, when your thoughts stopped obeying you, when your heart replayed moments you pretended didn’t matter.
It was like a punishment in disguise.
Not because of the nightmares, but because it was the only time you couldn’t lie to yourself. When the halls of the dorms of UA went quiet and the lights dimmed, when laughter faded and doors closed, the truth crept in slowly and settled deep in your chest.
And that truth has a name.
Eijirou Kirishima
You didn’t even notice when it started. The way your chest fluttered when he laughed, the way you found yourself leaning closer when he was near, the way your stomach dropped when Mina walked into the room.
Mina. Bright, confident, impossibly easy with him. You saw how natural it was, how effortless. And it crushed you.
At first, you tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter. That you were imagining it. That maybe you were being ridiculous.
But then you saw it.
Mina leaning into him, laughing at a joke only he could make. The way his arm brushed hers, just a little too long. The warmth in his smile when he looked at her.
After all, they both went to same middle school. And who knows they might have a history.
And you couldn't blame it.
So, you withdrew.
Slowly. Subtly. Carefully.
Every time you thought about Kirishima, it wasn’t just a flutter in your chest anymore, it was a sharp ache that wouldn’t fade. Every time Mina laughed near him, every time his shoulder brushed hers, every time he smiled too wide at something she said, it felt like someone was pressing down on your ribcage.
And yet, you couldn’t stay away.
You laughed less when he was around. You stopped sitting beside him in the common room. You didn’t linger when he looked at you. Your messages went unanswered for hours, sometimes the entire day.
You watched him from across the room sometimes, pretending to read, pretending not to notice. And you did notice, every little thing. The way he ran his hand through his hair absentmindedly. The way he squinted at something in thought. The way he laughed with that loud, unguarded warmth you craved more than you’d admit.
You wanted to reach for him, to tell him how wrong it was to feel so much for someone who didn’t even know it yet. But you were afraid. Afraid of ruining what little connection you had left. Afraid he’d see how badly you wanted him and back away.
So, you stayed quiet. You pulled back.
It was during training that it happened.
You were paired with someone else for exercises, watching Kirishima and Mina spar across the room. He laughed at something she said, his arm brushing hers, her grin so bright it made your stomach twist. You felt hot tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, pretending you weren’t watching.
And then he glanced in your direction.
Your heart stuttered. He frowned slightly, as if he could feel the tension radiating off you, and your chest squeezed painfully. You turned your head, pretending to stretch, but you couldn’t hide it.
After practice, he approached you. Not loud, not joking but serious. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been kind of distant lately.”
“I’m fine.” you said, too quick, too clipped.
“You don’t sound fine,” he said softly. His voice was gentle, patient. The way he said it made your heart break even more. “You can tell me. You know that, right?”
You swallowed hard, staring at your shoes. “I… I’m just tired. Training is… exhausting.”
He studied you. Something in his gaze lingered too long, like he wanted to reach out and pull the truth from you. But he didn’t.
And that hurt worse than anything.
Slowly, he nodded and walked away, leaving your heart hollow and burning in his absence.
That night, you lay awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling. The dorm was quiet, except for the faint hum of the heater. And in that silence, your thoughts ran wild, tearing themselves apart.
He cares… you admitted to yourself, though the words felt bitter. He cares enough to notice. He cares enough to worry. And yet…
Yet he didn’t love you. Not like that. Not like the way you’d been falling for him, slowly, painfully, until every glance and every laugh from him felt like a wound.
You thought about Mina again. Her effortless charm, the way she could laugh and lean into him like she had some unspoken right to his attention. Every little thing she did lodged itself in your chest like a spike. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop imagining them together.
Your hands clenched into fists at your sides.
I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t care so much. I shouldn’t want him like this.
But you did.
And the realization was like acid in your veins.
The following days were hell.
You avoided him more aggressively now, throwing yourself into training, into studying, into anything that could distract you from the ache of seeing him laugh with Mina, seeing his easy warmth spill over her and not you.
Yet every time he passed by, every time his shadow fell across your path, your heart betrayed you. It raced, skipped, thudded painfully, and your chest ached like it might break entirely.
One evening, you found yourself alone in the common room, sitting tensely with your notebook but not really reading. Your hands drummed against the page, your mind replaying the scene from training over and over.
And then he appeared.
“Kiri” you whispered, startled, quickly closing your notebook.
“Hey,” he said softly, sliding onto the couch beside you. “You’ve been… distant. I don’t understand it. Did I do something wrong?”
You shook your head, though the lie felt heavy on your tongue. “No… you didn’t.”
His gaze lingered on you, patient and unflinching, and it was unbearable. You wanted to look away, to run, to hide yourself somewhere he couldn’t see the broken pieces you were trying to hold together.
“I just… I don’t know what to do,” you admitted finally, voice breaking. “I… I can’t stop thinking about… you. About her.”
"Who?" he asked.
"Mina"
He froze. “Me… and Mina?”
You swallowed hard, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “I… I can’t help it. I hate myself for it. I hate that I feel like this. That every little thing between you two makes my chest hurt like it’s being ripped out.”
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched you, the quiet between you heavier than anything you’d ever felt.
“I… I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered, barely audible. “but I feel like I already have.”
And in that silence, the truth settled in. He knew. Somehow, he must have felt it all along. And the fact that he didn’t pull away, that he didn’t tell you to stop feeling it, made the ache in your chest twist even deeper.
He finally spoke, but his voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t rushed.
It was careful.
“Is that really what you think?” Kirishima asked softly. “That there’s something going on between me and Mina?”
You let out a weak, humorless laugh, wiping at your eyes with the heel of your hand. “How could I not? You’re always with her. You laugh with her like it’s easy. Like you don’t have to think. And I—” Your voice cracked. “I feel like I’m standing on the outside of something I was never invited into.”
He inhaled sharply.
“I grew up with Mina” he said slowly. “Yeah. Middle school. We’re close. But that’s all it is.”
The words should’ve relieved you.
Instead, they hurt more.
Because if that was true… then the problem wasn’t Mina.
It was you.
“Then why does it still hurt?” you whispered. “Why does it feel like I’m losing you anyway?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he was carrying something heavy. “Because you started pulling away,” he said, voice rougher now. “And I didn’t know why. I thought… maybe you didn’t want me around anymore.”
Your breath caught painfully.
“I wanted you,” you said, voice barely there. “That’s the problem. I wanted you too much.”
Silence fell between you, thick and suffocating. Night pressed against the windows, wrapping the dorm in shadows. This was the hour where truths slipped out whether you were ready or not.
“I noticed you first,” Kirishima admitted quietly. “Before you ever pulled away. Before all this.”
Your head snapped up.
“What?”
“You think I didn’t feel it?” he continued. “The way you’d look at me like you were holding something back. The way you’d sit closer than necessary, then pretend you didn’t. The way you’d go quiet when Mina walked in.”
His voice softened, almost breaking. “I didn’t know what it meant. I just knew it mattered.”
Tears spilled over before you could stop them.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, voice shaking. “Why did you let me believe I was imagining everything?”
“Because I was scared” he admitted. “Scared I’d say the wrong thing. Scared I’d assume something and lose you for real.”
You laughed weakly through tears. “Funny. That’s exactly what I was scared of too.”
The irony was cruel.
You stood abruptly, needing space, needing air. “I can’t do this,” you said, shaking your head. “I can’t keep feeling like this. Every day feels like I’m slowly breaking, and I don’t even have the right to be upset.”
“Hey—” he stood too, reaching for you instinctively, then stopping himself mid-motion. His hand hovered in the air, unsure. Afraid.
And that hesitation shattered you.
“See?” you whispered. “Even now.”
His hand fell back to his side.
“I care about you,” he said, voice raw. “More than I know how to say. But I don’t know how to fix this without hurting you more.”
Your chest ached so badly it felt hard to breathe.
“Then don’t” you said. “Don’t fix it. Just… let me go before I hurt myself worse.”
He looked like you’d struck him.
But he didn’t stop you when you walked away.
That night, midnight found you awake again.
But this time, it wasn’t just longing keeping you up.
It was grief.
Grief for something that almost was. For words said too late. For feelings buried too deep. For a love that grew in silence and learned how to hurt quietly.
Down the hall, Kirishima sat on his bed, staring at his hands, replaying everything over and over every moment he should’ve reached out sooner, every second he mistook your silence for strength.
Two hearts awake.
Two people hurting.
Separated by fear.
And midnight, cruel as ever, kept all their truths wide open.
hi! love your sero fic, but I’d recommend you put a read more in it! it’s over 7k words, so when it shows up on people’s dashboard, it’s kinda annoying to scroll down 😅
I'll be noting this, thank youuuu! (I'm sorry, first time using tumblr🥹)
Shape of Trust
pairing: sero hanta x reader
synopsis: trust shattered, heart on the line, and one Sero standing between her fear and love.
wc: 7.8k
warnings: father issues, trust issues, man hater, slight angst, slow burn, female reader, fear of intimacy, emotional betrayal, emotional abuse, identity theft, implied self-harm thoughts, very long intro, not proof-read
main masterlist | hanta's masterlist
You learned how to read rooms before you learned how to trust people.
Raised voices meant danger. Silence meant something worse was coming. Your father taught you that love could exist in the same space as fear, and that lesson carved itself deep into your bones. He wasn’t always cruel sometimes he laughed, sometimes he promised but inconsistency was its own kind of violence. You never knew which version of him you would get.
He is charming in public. The kind of man people trust easily. He smiles wide, laughs easily, places a hand on her shoulder like a proud parent. Strangers tell her she’s lucky. Family friends praise him for working so hard, for “doing his best.”
You learned very quickly that there is two version of your father.
The one that everyone sees. And the one that exist behind the doors.
At home, his love is conditional measured by grades, obedience, silence. Praise comes only when she performs correctly. Mistakes are met with disappointment sharp enough to cut. He never hits her. He doesn’t have to. His words do the job well enough.
“You’re too sensitive.”
“You always overreact.”
“I’m only hard on you because I care.”
Those sentences become a soundtrack. Repeated so often they stop sounding like lies.
When he promises things family outings, birthdays, apologies—she learns not to believe them. Promises are fragile things. They shatter easily and no one ever cleans up the pieces. Eventually, she stops asking. Stops expecting. Stops hoping.
Her mother tries, in her own quiet way. Tries to soften the edges, tries to fill the gaps he leaves behind. But love divided is still love stretched thin, and she grows up learning how to make herself smaller, so she doesn’t take up too much space.
So, she adapts.
She becomes observant. Careful. She reads moods the way others read weather forecasts. She learns when to speak, when to stay quiet, when to disappear into her room and pretend she doesn’t exist.
By the time she’s old enough to understand what love is supposed to be, she’s already learned what it actually looks like in practice.
Men were temporary.
Affection was conditional.
Trust was a trap.
She will never rely on love again.
She will never give someone the power to make her feel that small.
Trust becomes a currency she refuses to spend. Affection becomes something she observes from a distance, skeptical and unmoved. She grows into herself sharp-edged and self-sufficient, wearing independence like armor needed to wear foerever
People later mistake it for strength.
They don’t see the fear underneath.
They don’t see the way her chest tightens when someone raises their voice—even in laughter. The way compliments make her uneasy. The way the word love sounds hollow, like something rehearsed rather than real.
By the time she reaches U.A., Y/N has already accepted what she believes is an unchangeable truth:
Love is a lie people tell when they want you to stay.
And she refuses to be the kind of person who waits around to be left behind.
U.A. is loud in a way she used to. People are unapologetically themselves here. They laugh too loudly, argue openly, touch each other without flinching. Camaraderie comes easy to them, like something instinctual. Like it came natural to them.
You watch it all from the edges.
You blend in well enough. You keep your uniform neat. Keep your grades solid. Keep your quirk under control. Teachers praise your reliability. Classmates describe you as “cool,” “calm,” “independent.”
No one notices that those words are just nicer versions of unapproachable.
She has learned how to exist without needing anyone. Learned how to be pleasant without being close. Conversations with her are smooth but shallow, like water you can’t drown in. She laughs when appropriate, nods at the right moments, says just enough to avoid suspicion.
A friendship around her but never through her.
and that is exactly what she wants.
Men, especially, are something she keeps carefully compartmentalized. Not hated. Not feared openly. Just… distrusted. She treats them like she treats fire: useful from a distance, dangerous up close.
When male classmates flirt, she shuts it down with practiced ease. A polite smile. A neutral tone. A quick change of subject. When someone shows interest beyond that, her chest tightens and her instincts kick in.
Distance first. Explanation later. Disappearance if necessary.
She tells herself it’s logical. Efficient. Safe.
Love, after all, is not something she needs. She has watched what it does to people. Watched how it bends them into shapes they barely recognize. Watched her mother give and give until there was nothing left but exhaustion and quiet disappointment.
Y/N refuses to be that.
At night, alone in her dorm room, she lies awake longer than she should. The silence there is different from home cleaner, emptier. Sometimes it’s comforting. Sometimes it’s deafening.
She fills it with structure. Schedules. Training. Notes. Anything predictable.
Because unpredictability is where pain lives.
She avoids mirrors when she’s tired. Avoids thinking about the way her chest aches when she sees couples walking together, fingers intertwined, faces soft with something she refuses to name. She tells herself it’s curiosity, not longing.
Longing is dangerous.
Trust is worse.
So she builds walls not outwardly obvious ones, but internal barriers reinforced with logic and past experience. She convinces herself that independence is the highest form of freedom. That not needing anyone means never being hurt again.
And for a while, it works.
Until small things begin to challenge the narrative.
Like the fact that sometimes, when she’s overwhelmed, she wishes someone would notice without her having to say anything.
Like the way she catches herself listening a little too closely when people talk about home, about family, about love that doesn’t come with conditions.
Like the brief, unwanted thought that maybe just maybe not everyone leaves the same way her father did.
She shuts those thoughts down immediately.
Because hope is a habit she broke years ago.
She doesn’t know yet that all the walls she’s built every careful boundary, every emotional lock were never meant to keep people out forever.
They were only ever meant to protect a girl who learned too young that love and trust could disappear without warning.
And she definitely doesn’t know that soon, someone will walk into her life who doesn’t try to climb her walls.
Who doesn’t knock.
Who simply sits beside them, patient enough to wait.
Today is supposed to be one of those days.
The training gym smells like rubber mats and sweat, the air thick with noise and energy. Class 1-A is louder than usual, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls. Y/N takes her place near the back, stretching methodically, eyes focused on the floor rather than the people around her.
She doesn’t like crowded spaces. Too many emotions, too many variables. Too many chances for someone to get close without permission.
Aizawa explains the exercise. Paired drills, coordination based. She half-listens, already preparing herself mentally for the inevitable discomfort of working closely with someone else.
“Alright,” Aizawa says, tired eyes sweeping the class. “Pair up.”
Here it comes.
She expects the usual awkward hesitation. Someone glancing her way, then quickly looking elsewhere. Or worse, someone confident enough to approach her with a grin that suggests they think her boundaries are a challenge.
She keeps her posture neutral. Closed, but not hostile.
“Hey.”
The voice comes from her right.
She turns reluctantly.
Sero Hanta stands there, arms stretched casually behind his head, tape dispensers visible at his elbows. He looks relaxed too relaxed like this is just another day instead of a graded exercise.
“Looks like we’re up,” he says, tone easy, not invasive.
No flirtation. No teasing.
Just… information.
She blinks once, surprised despite herself. “Fine,” she replies, voice flat.
She expects something anything that would confirm her assumptions.
It doesn’t come.
They take their positions. Sero listens when she explains her approach, nodding thoughtfully. When she finishes, he doesn’t interrupt or correct her. He just adjusts his stance to match hers.
“Got it,” he says. “I’ll cover left.”
That’s it.
No comment on her tone. No joke about her being serious. No attempt to fill the silence.
Then, drill starts.
They move well together. Better than she expects. Sero adapts quickly, adjusting his tape usage to complement her movements instead of overpowering them. When she changes pace, he follows without complaint.
It unsettles her.
She’s used to people trying to lead. Used to men assuming they know better. Used to being talked over, corrected, underestimated - or worse, treated like something delicate.
Sero does none of that.
When the drill ends, he steps back, offering a thumbs-up. “Nice work.”
She waits for the follow-up.
It never comes.
“Thanks,” she says, a beat slower than usual.
As they reset for the next round, she catches herself watching him from the corner of her eye. He jokes with Kaminari across the room, loud laughter bursting out of him like it has nowhere else to go. The contrast is jarring, how easily he switches from focused to carefree.
Men like him usually make her skin crawl. Too open. Too comfortable. Too confident in the assumption that people will like them.
And yet.
When he looks back at her, there’s no expectation in his expression. No hunger for approval. Just a relaxed smile, like he’s genuinely glad to be working with her.
It makes her uneasy.
After training, she leaves quickly, as she always does. She doesn’t linger. Doesn’t chat. Doesn’t give anyone a chance to follow.
She almost makes it to the hallway before she hears footsteps behind her.
“Hey—uh, Y/N, right?”
She stops.
Slowly, she turns.
Sero stands a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets—not blocking her path, not crowding her space. He looks… hesitant. And that’s new.
“Yeah,” she says.
He scratches the back of his neck. “You dropped this.”
He holds out a water bottle. Hers.
She hadn’t even noticed.
“Oh.” She takes it, fingers brushing his by accident. She pulls back immediately. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He smiles, then crucially steps back. Gives her space. “See you around.”
And then he leaves.
Just like that.
Y/N stands there longer than she means to, staring at the empty hallway. Her chest feels tight, though she can’t pinpoint why.
There was no pressure. No hidden intent. No moment where she felt cornered.
And somehow, that bothers her more than if there had been.
That night, lying in bed, she replays the interaction despite herself. The way he listened. The way he didn’t push. The way he walked away without trying to secure her attention.
Her mind supplies a warning she knows by heart.
Don’t overthink it.Men can be patient too.Patience doesn’t mean safety.
She turns onto her side, facing the wall.
Sero Hanta is nothing special, she tells herself.
Just another variable. Just another man.
And she definitely doesn’t notice the way her thoughts linger on him longer than they should.
You expect Sero Hanta to become a problem.
Not immediately. Not loudly. But inevitably.
That’s how it usually goes. People reveal themselves over time, wants creeping into conversations, expectations disguised as jokes, the subtle pressure to be more than she’s willing to offer. She’s learned to anticipate it the way one anticipates rain after heavy clouds. You don’t need proof. You just prepare to get wet.
So she watches him carefully.
Days pass. Classes blur together. Training continues. Missions are discussed and rescheduled. Sero remains present in her orbit, unavoidable in the way classmates are but he doesn’t close the distance between them the way she expects.
He greets her when they cross paths. Sometimes with a wave. Sometimes just a nod. Never offended when she doesn’t respond beyond that.
He sits near her during lectures when seats are limited but never close enough to invade her space. When group discussions happen, he includes her naturally “What do you think?” and accepts her answers without pushing for elaboration.
It’s subtle. Too subtle.
She waits for the moment he asks for something she doesn’t want to give.
But it never comes.
One evening, she’s in the common room later than usual, nursing a cup of tea she’s forgotten to drink. The room is quiet, just the hum of the lights and the muted sound of someone flipping channels on the TV.
She doesn’t notice Sero at first.
He’s sprawled on the opposite couch, upside down, feet hanging over the armrest, lazily scrolling through his phone. He glances up, notices her, and straightens slightly.
“Oh. Hey!” he says, not startled. Just acknowledging.
“Hey.” she replies automatically.
Silence settles again.
She braces herself. For small talk. For questions. For that inevitable so tell me about yourself that always feels like an interrogation.
Instead, Sero goes back to his phone.
Minutes pass.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable.
That bothers her more than it should.
Eventually, he speaks again not looking at her. “You don’t have to stay if you’re tired, by the way. I’m just killing time.”
It takes her a second to realize what he’s doing. He’s giving her an exit.
“I know,” she says.
And she stays.
They exist in the same space without interacting much after that. Occasionally, Sero laughs quietly at something on his screen. Once, he offers her the remote without comment when the TV freezes, then takes it back when she shakes her head.
No pressure. No offense.
Later, when she finally stands to leave, he glances up. “Night, Y/N.”
“Night.”
She walks back to her room with an unfamiliar tightness in her chest.
The thing about Sero is that he never tries to earn her trust.
He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t demand it. Doesn’t seem to notice that she’s withholding it at all.
It’s infuriating.
Men who want something from her usually make it obvious. They test boundaries to see how far they can go, how much they can take before she pushes back. When she doesn’t give them what they want, they grow distant or resentful or cruel.
Sero remains the same.
Friendly when she initiates. Quiet when she doesn’t. Present without expectation.
That consistency is unsettling.
During training, he adapts to her rhythm instead of forcing his own. When she’s sharp and focused, he matches it. When she’s withdrawn, he doesn’t comment on it. He never asks why she’s quiet. Never asks if she’s okay.
She realizes one afternoon, watching him joke with Kaminari while waiting for Aizawa, that Sero laughs differently around other people. Louder. Freer. Like he’s allowed to take up space with them.
With her, he’s… careful. Not cautious. Careful.
The distinction matters.
It suggests awareness. It suggests respect.
And that’s dangerous.
Because respect isn’t something she knows how to guard against.
One night, after a particularly exhausting day, she sits alone on the dorm steps, staring at the dark sky. The air is cool, sharp enough to keep her grounded.
She doesn’t hear Sero approach until he stops a few feet away.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks.
There it is. A request.
She studies him for a moment, searching for the catch.
"Go ahead” she says finally.
He sits beside her, leaving a deliberate gap between them.
They watch the sky in silence.
After a while, he speaks softly. “You don’t like people much.”
It’s not an accusation. Just an observation.
She stiffens. “I didn’t say that.”
“I know,” he says easily. “You don’t have to.”
She waits for the follow-up. It doesn’t come.
He doesn’t ask why.
Doesn’t try to psychoanalyze her.
Doesn’t reassure her she’s “not that bad.”
He just lets the statement exist.
That’s when it hits her, slow and unwelcome.
Sero never asks her to explain herself.
And somehow, that makes her feel more seen than any interrogation ever could.
When he stands to leave, he says, “See you tomorrow!” like it’s a given.
Like she’ll be there. Like he will too.
Y/N watches him walk away, her thoughts restless and sharp.
She doesn’t trust him. Not really.
But for the first time in a long time, she wonders what it would feel like to let someone stay without bracing for the moment they’d ask for more than she can give.
And that thought terrifies her. Because the moment she starts wondering...
Is the moment she’s already losing control.
For your, trust doesn’t arrive like a confession. It doesn’t announce itself or ask permission.
It slips in quietly through habits you don't remember agreeing to, through moments too small to register as dangerous until they stack up and become something else entirely.
It starts with seats.
She never chooses where to sit in class she takes whatever is left, whatever keeps her unnoticed. Somewhere near the back. Somewhere she can leave easily. But one morning, when she enters the classroom late, there’s an empty chair beside Sero.
He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t call out to her. Doesn’t make it obvious.
He just shifts his bag slightly, clearing the space.
She hesitates for half a second, long enough to feel ridiculous for hesitating at all, then sits.
Nothing happens. No comment. No grin. No “glad you’re here.”
They sit through the lecture in silence, shoulders not touching, not even close enough to brush. When class ends, he leaves first, as if the moment meant nothing.
She tells herself it didn’t.
Then it’s training.
During partner rotations, Sero starts ending up with her more often than not, not because he seeks her out, but because he doesn’t object when it happens. When someone suggests switching partners, he glances at her first, like he’s checking whether she’s okay with it.
She always nods. She doesn’t know when she started doing that.
They don’t talk much during drills. Just short exchanges. Hand signals. Shared understanding. They move well together, in sync in a way that feels earned rather than forced.
Once, she stumbles just slightly, enough to throw her balance off. Sero reacts instantly, tape snapping out to steady her wrist before she can fall.
His grip is firm but brief. He lets go immediately.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says, sharper than intended.
He nods. No apology. No lingering concern.
That night, alone in her room, she finds herself replaying the moment not the stumble, but the way he let go as soon as he knew she was steady.
Next day, she’s in the common room again, notes spread across the table, mind unfocused. She doesn’t notice Sero until he sets down a can of juice beside her notebook.
She looks up, startled.
“You looked like you forgot to eat,” he says simply.
“I didn’t ask for—”
“I know,” he replies, already stepping back. “You don’t have to drink it.”
She stares at the can.
He returns to the couch, flipping on the TV. No expectation. No waiting.
After a minute, she opens it anyway.
It tastes like citrus and something warm settles in her chest that has nothing to do with sugar.
She hates that.
The worst part is how normal it all feels.
How her body stops tensing when she hears his footsteps behind her.
How she doesn’t flinch when he says her name.
How she starts looking for him in a room without meaning to.
She tells herself it’s convenience. Familiarity. Shared schedules.
She ignores the way her shoulders loosen when he’s nearby.
She ignores the fact that she laughs more around him—not loudly, not freely, but genuinely. Small smiles. Soft huffs of amusement she doesn’t bother hiding.
One afternoon, they’re walking back from training together, the sun low and warm against their backs.
Sero breaks the silence. “You know, you don’t owe people explanations for being the way you are.”
She stops walking.
He stops too, immediately turning toward her but not stepping closer.
“I wasn’t—” she starts, then stops.
He raises his hands slightly, palms open. “Not trying to say anything. Just… figured you might need to hear it.”
She studies his face, searching for something familiar and ugly beneath the kindness.
There’s nothing there. Her chest tightens.
“…Thanks,” she says, barely audible.
He smiles not wide, not triumphant. Just gentle. “Anytime.”
They continue walking.
That night, lying in bed, Y/N stares at the ceiling, heart restless.
She thinks about how trust didn’t arrive all at once.
It arrived in empty seats. In brief touches. In questions not asked. In kindness without strings.
She doesn’t like how easy it’s becoming to accept. Because trust, once given, can be taken away.
And she has already learned what it feels like to watch something good turn into something that hurts. Still against her better judgment she doesn’t push him away.
Not yet.
And that, more than anything else, feels like the beginning of something she doesn’t know how to survive.
It happens on an ordinary night. That’s what unsettles her the most.
No mission. No adrenaline. No heightened emotions to excuse a lapse in control. Just the common room after curfew hours, lights dimmed low enough to soften the edges of everything. A few people linger voices hushed, movements lazy with exhaustion.
You sit on the floor with your back against the couch, knees pulled close to your chest, textbook open but unread. Your mind has been drifting for the past ten minutes, thoughts slipping away the moment she tries to hold onto them.
She doesn’t realize Sero is there until he drops onto the couch behind her, careful not to jostle her.
“Wow,” he says quietly. “You look like someone who’s thinking too hard.”
She exhales through her nose. “I always think too hard.”
“Fair,” he replies. “That tracks.”
She glances back at him, expecting the grin. The teasing.
Instead, he’s looking at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, expression calm. Comfortable. Like he’s not performing for anyone.
She turns back to her book.
They sit like that for a while no talking, no pressure. Just the sound of Kaminari arguing with the TV across the room, the hum of electricity in the walls.
Then Sero speaks again.
“You know,” he says, tone thoughtful, “I once taped myself to a ceiling fan by accident.”
She blinks. “…What?”
He grins now, sheepish. “Training mishap. Don’t ask.”
Despite herself, she asks. “How?”
“Overconfidence,” he says immediately. “And bad math.”
She snorts before she can stop herself.
The sound is quiet. Barely there.
But it’s real.
The realization hits her a second later sharp and disorienting.
She laughed.
Not a polite sound. Not a controlled response. Not something measured or practiced.
An instinctive reaction. Her body goes tense, like she’s waiting for consequences.
Sero freezes behind her.
Slowly, carefully, he sits up. Not abruptly. Not like he’s afraid he’ll scare the moment away but like he’s making sure he doesn’t crowd it.
He doesn’t say anything at first. When she risks a glance back at him, she sees it.
The look on his face isn’t smug. It isn’t triumphant. It’s… soft.
Like he’s just witnessed something fragile and doesn’t want to move too quickly in case it disappears. Her chest tightens and immediately looks away immediately.
“Don’t read into it,” she says, too fast. “Wasn’t planning to,” he replies easily.
The tension eases just enough for her to breathe again.
They lapse back into silence, but it’s different now. Charged. Like something unspoken has shifted its weight between them.
Minutes later, Sero starts telling another story this one about Kaminari nearly short-circuiting a vending machine. He exaggerates wildly, gestures animated, voice dropping into mock seriousness at all the wrong moments.
Y/N tries not to react. She really does.
But then he says something so ridiculous so earnest in its stupidity that laughter bursts out of her chest before she can cage it.
This time, it’s louder. Clearer. Unmistakable.
The room seems to pause around them.
Her own laughter surprises her enough that she clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
Sero stares at her.
Then he laughs too not loud, not obnoxious. Just warm. Like her reaction gave him permission.
For a moment, she forgets everything.
The walls. The rules. The careful distance she maintains from everyone.
There’s just the sound of laughter hers and his braided together in a way that feels dangerously natural.
When it fades, she feels exposed.
She stands abruptly. “I should go.”
Sero nods immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”
No protest. No disappointment. No attempt to prolong the moment.
She pauses at the doorway, fingers tightening around her book.
"Good night.” she says.
“Night, Y/N.”
She doesn’t look back.
In her room, the quiet presses in on her harder than usual.
She sits on her bed, heart racing, replaying the moment over and over. The laugh. The look on his face. The absence of fear in her chest during those brief seconds.
That’s what terrifies her. Not that she laughed. But that she didn’t think first.
Her father’s voice echoes faintly in her memory disapproval wrapped in concern, affection sharpened into expectation.
Careful.Don’t get carried away.People notice when you let your guard down.
She curls in on herself, fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves.
Sero didn’t ask for that moment.
Didn’t demand it. Didn’t take advantage of it. Didn’t try to turn it into something more.
He just… let it be what it was. And somehow, that makes it harder to dismiss.
Y/N lies back and stares at the ceiling, heart still unsteady.
She knows better than to believe this means anything.
She knows laughter isn’t trust. But it is a crack.
And for the first time since she learned how to protect herself, she isn’t sure she wants to seal it shut.
After that night, Y/N becomes careful again.
Not distant she knows how that looks, how sudden withdrawal raises questions, but careful in a quieter way. She watches herself more closely. Measures her reactions. Counts her steps around Sero like she’s navigating a room full of glass.
She still sits near him in class. Still works well with him during training. Still accepts his presence the way she always has.
But she stops laughing without thinking.
She notices it the third time she almost does.
Sero says something offhand something stupid and earnest and so him and she feels it rise in her chest, that familiar warmth, that dangerous looseness. She catches it just in time, biting down on the sound before it can escape.
Sero notices. He doesn’t say anything.
That somehow makes it worse. The almost-confession doesn’t happen all at once.
It builds over days.
In glances held a second too long. In silences that feel heavier than words.
In the way Sero’s voice softens when he says her name, like he’s handling something fragile without admitting it out loud.
Y/N feels it coming before she understands what it is.
She starts waking up earlier, heart restless. Starts feeling unsettled when she doesn’t see him all day. Starts noticing how her body reacts before her mind has time to intervene.
That’s when fear sets in.
Not panic she’s past that.
This is colder. Sharper. More deliberate.
Because she recognizes this feeling. It’s the moment right before you lose something you didn’t realize you were holding.
The night it almost happens, the dorms are quieter than usual.
Rain taps against the windows, soft and steady, muting the world outside. The common room is mostly empty just a few scattered lights, the TV on low volume.
Y/N sits curled into one end of the couch, knees pulled close, staring at nothing.
Sero enters without fanfare, shaking rain from his jacket. He spots her and pauses.
“You mind?” he asks, gesturing to the other end.
She shakes her head. He sits. Leaves space. Always leaves space.
They sit like that for a long time, rain filling the silence for them. The kind of quiet that feels intentional instead of awkward.
Finally, Sero exhales slowly. “You okay?”
The question is gentle. Careful. Not prying. Your chest tightens.
She considers lying. She’s good at that.
“I’m fine,” she says automatically.
Sero nods but something in his expression changes. Not disappointment. Understanding.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You usually are.”
That lands harder than it should. She looks at him then. Really looks.
His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are focused on her not intense, not demanding. Just present. Like he’s listening even when she isn’t speaking.
Something in her fractures.
“I don’t trust people.” she says suddenly.
The words hang between them, fragile and irreversible.
Sero doesn’t move.
“Okay,” he says.
Not why. Not you should. Just acceptance.
She swallows. Her hands tighten in her sleeves. “Especially men.”
“I figured" he replies quietly.
She lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t believe in love.”
This time, he hesitates but only for a second.
“That’s okay too.”
Her chest burns. That’s not how this is supposed to go.
She was braced for convincing. For reassurance. For contradiction. For him to argue her out of it, to insist she’s wrong, to promise her something she knows better than to believe.
Instead, he lets her have it.
And that feels more dangerous than anything else.
“I’m not good at this,” she continues, voice low. “Whatever this is. I don’t—” She stops herself before she can say need. Before she can say want.
Sero shifts slightly, turning toward her but still not closer.
“I’m not either,” he admits. “But… I’m not asking you to be.”
Her heart stutters.
There it is. The opening. The moment where something could change.
She feels it right there, on the edge of her tongue. A confession not fully formed but aching to exist.
I trust you. I feel safe with you. I think I’m falling and I don’t know how to stop.
Her father’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
Careful. People leave. Don’t say things you can’t take back.
Her throat closes.
She stands abruptly, the movement too sharp, breaking the fragile quiet between them.
“I should go,” she says, already turning away.
Sero rises immediately but stops himself after one step.
“Hey,” he says softly. She pauses.
He doesn’t reach for her. Doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t try to hold her in place.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “Not explanations. Not feelings. Not answers.”
Her back is still to him, shoulders rigid. “I know,” she whispers.
“And,” he adds gently, “I’m not going anywhere.”
That’s the moment it almost slips out. The words tremble in her chest, desperate and terrified. She could say it now, she could turn around and let him see her really see her.
Instead, she opens the door and leaves.
In her room, she presses her forehead to the door, breath unsteady.
Her hands are shaking. Not because she’s afraid of him. But because she’s afraid of how much she wanted to stay.
She slides down until she’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight, heart racing. She didn’t confess. But she came closer than she ever has before.
And she knows deep down, with a clarity that scares her.
If she stays this close to Sero much longer, she won’t be able to stop herself next time.
And once she says it—
Once she trusts him with something real—
There will be no taking it back.
It isn’t sudden.
Not a flash of revelation, not a dramatic speech.
It’s quieter than that. Almost unnoticeable if you’re not paying attention.
You notice first in the way your mornings begin to feel different. You arrived at training slightly earlier not because you're eager, not because you want to be noticed but because a small part of her wants to see him. Just see him, quietly, before the chaos of the day swallows everything.
Sero notices too, of course. But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t ask why she’s there. Doesn’t make it awkward. He just smiles soft, unassuming, patient. And that smile is enough to make her chest tighten, though she refuses to name why.
It’s during a late training session when it happens for the first time.
The class is paired for partner drills again. You were tense, as usual. Your hands tremble slightly when you tape your quirk’s equipment in place. Her chest feels tight, her mind alert for any sign that something might go wrong.
Sero approaches, calm as ever.
“Hey,” he says quietly, careful not to startle her. “Want me on your side today?”
It’s not a question. It’s not an insistence. It’s an offer.
Something inside her relaxes. Tentatively, she nods.
They move through the drills together, their motions almost instinctive after weeks of pairing. There’s no teasing, no jokes, no commentary just presence.
But when she stumbles slightly miscalculating the distance of a jump, Sero reacts immediately. His tape shoots out, wrapping around her arm to steady her, his grip firm but gentle. She freezes for a heartbeat, realizing she could have fallen if not for him.
And for the first time, she doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t tense. She simply lets him hold her steady.
Her heart pounds, but she doesn’t overthink it. She doesn’t analyze it. She doesn’t hide it. She just… allows it.
Later, after training, they walk back to the dorms together. The air is crisp, carrying the smell of wet earth from an earlier rain. Streetlights glow faintly, illuminating the quiet paths between buildings.
“I didn’t expect you to let me catch you like that,” Sero says lightly, though she hears the warmth in his tone.
“I didn’t expect to stumble,” she replies, voice neutral. But she doesn’t move away from him as she usually would.
He glances at her, eyes curious but patient. “You’re… different around me.”
She swallows. Almost reflexively, she wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s nothing. But the truth sits heavy in her chest.
“I’m… not used to someone not pushing me away,” she admits quietly.
Sero stops walking for a moment. Looks at her with that calm, soft patience he’s always had, the one that’s slowly chipped away at her walls.
“You don’t have to get used to it alone,” he says.
Her breath catches. Something fierce and fragile stirs in her chest.
She almost doesn’t respond. Almost retreats into herself like she always does. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she takes a small step closer.
Not physically, not fully but emotionally.
She lets herself lean slightly on him not for support, exactly, but for… presence. For connection.
It’s terrifying. Terrifying in the way that falling in love quietly is terrifying the slow recognition that your defenses are no longer enough to keep someone out.
“You… don’t scare me.” she says, barely above a whisper.
Sero’s smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time, Y/N believes it.
She allows herself to feel it. Not all at once, not fully but enough to know she’s no longer alone in this.
Trust isn’t complete. Love isn’t complete. The walls aren’t fully gone.
But they’ve started to crumble.
And that’s enough...for now.
The night is unusually still.
The kind of quiet that presses against the walls and seeps through the windows, reminding Y/N how much space there is to fill, how much air there is to breathe.
She’s in the common room, curled into a chair near the window, textbook forgotten on her lap. Rain drums lightly against the glass, a soft, steady rhythm that keeps time with her heartbeat.
Sero enters without a sound no grand entrance, no attention-grabbing gesture. Just his quiet presence filling the doorway.
“Hey." he says softly.
She starts slightly, then shakes her head. “Hey...” she replies, voice low.
He glances at the empty chair across from her, hesitates, and sits anyway, leaving the gap she’s come to rely on.
For a long moment, they say nothing. The only sounds are the tapping rain and the occasional creak of the dorm building settling.
Y/N stares at her hands. She’s spent months building this armor walls behind walls, reminding herself that trusting anyone, especially a man, is dangerous. That letting someone in will only end in loss.
But tonight… tonight she’s tired. Tired of holding herself so tightly. Tired of pretending she can handle everything alone.
Sero doesn’t push. He doesn’t prod. He doesn’t even try to start a conversation. He just sits there, letting her fill the silence or not.
Her throat tightens. She knows what she wants. She knows the risk. And she knows she has the choice to stop herself.
Instead, she leans slightly toward him.
Not all the way. Not fully. But far enough that her shoulder brushes against his. Enough that he notices, enough that she notices herself noticing him.
“You… don’t make this hard...” she whispers, voice trembling just slightly.
Sero glances at her, surprised, but his expression softens. “I’m not trying to.”
Her chest aches. Her mind screams at her to pull back, to retreat into the safety of her walls. But part of her, the part that’s been starved of trust and connection for so long, refuses to listen.
“I… I don’t know how to do this.” she admits, voice barely audible.
“Neither do I,” he says. “But we can try together.”
The words, simple as they are, hit her like a tidal wave. She’s not used to someone offering patience without expectation. Offering presence without demanding something in return.
Her hand shakes as it reaches tentatively toward his. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move away. He lets her take it.
And in that small, fragile gesture, Y/N feels a crack in the walls she’s built so carefully. One small crack that she can’t, and doesn’t want to, repair.
She doesn’t confess love, not yet. She doesn’t speak the words that have been hovering on the edge of her tongue for weeks. But she lets herself try.
And for her, tonight, that is everything. The rain continues to fall. The room is quiet. And Y/N finally allows herself to breathe.
Because for the first time in a long time, she is not alone.
And she decides… she doesn’t mind letting someone in.
You had just returned from training, exhausted in the way only a long, physically demanding day could make her. Your bag slipped off yourvshoulder, landing softly on the floor beside the couch. You kicked off your shoes and rubbed at your temples, thinking you might finally be able to rest.
And then you heard it.
“Rough day?”
The voice made her freeze.
She looked up. Sero, was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, that same easy smile on his lips.
Yes, you gave your extra key to your dorm.
You blinked, her chest tightening. “Yeah… a little,” she said softly, her voice tentative.
He stepped closer, slow, careful, giving her space without making her feel exposed. “I figured. You’ve been pushing yourself a lot lately.”
She hesitated. No one had ever noticed the small details about her. Not like this. Not with such quiet attention.
“I—” she began, then stopped. Something about his tone, the gentle way he spoke, made her shoulders relax despite the lingering tension. She wasn’t supposed to trust anyone so quickly, but she did.
He smiled softly. “Just… be here with me. That’s enough.”
She laughed softly at something he said, a quiet sound that surprised even her. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel so relaxed around anyone in years. Not even Sero had coaxed her this far not yet.
“You’re not like anyone else,” she admitted, voice trembling slightly.
He leaned back, eyes gentle. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want to be.”
It felt natural. Safe. She didn’t question it. She didn’t notice how every word was perfectly chosen, perfectly timed to make her lower her walls.
Her trust, fragile and new, had found a foothold.
And she didn’t see the danger standing right there, right across from her the other Sero, who had just walked in the door, stopping in his tracks.
His eyes froze on the scene, you are laughing softly, leaning slightly forward, completely unaware of the subtle differences in the man across from her.
The Sero knew exactly what to say. He knew how to sound like comfort. He knew how to sound like the person she had begun to trust. And right now, he was winning.
Y/N smiled, completely unsuspecting.
She didn’t know her trust was being tested. She didn’t know that the man in front of her wasn’t who she thought he was.
All she knew was that she felt… safe.
And that, she thought, was enough.
Sero Hanta stood in the doorway, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, eyes dark with something she didn’t recognize at first anger? Hurt? Confusion? All of it at once.
The door clicked as it closes. You looked back, shocked forms in your face.
"Se-" before you could even finish call his name out, you look at the Sero you were talking to earlier.
But the Sero she had trusted tonight the one sitting across from her, smiling softly, leaning just close enough to seem familiar was not him.
It was not Sero, it was a different guy.
And now he was here, in the doorway, seeing it all. The real almighty Sero Hanta. The real one.
Her body stiffened. She realized, too late, how close she had let him get. How much she had trusted.
Sero’s eyes flicked between her and the other man who pretended to be him, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “Y/N…” his voice cracked, low and tense. “What… what’s going on here?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Words didn’t come. Her chest burned. Her hands trembled.
The other man smiled, too casual, too perfect. “Hey,” he said lightly. “Relax. I’m just… keeping her company.”
Sero stepped fully into the room, the hurt in his eyes now sharpened into something harder. “Keeping her company?” His voice was flat, dangerous. “Do you think I don’t see what’s happening?”
Your head spun. She looked from one to the other, heart pounding, mind scrambling to understand. “I… I—”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Sero said, taking a step closer.
Then he looked at you, hurt. “I trusted you. I thought—” His voice broke, and for a moment, the room felt impossibly heavy. "I waited, i patiently waited for you. And then, this happens..."
“I—Sero, I swear, I didn’t—” Y/N tried, but her words sounded weak, even to her own ears.
The other man stood, smiling faintly, hands raised like he was doing nothing wrong. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t freak out. I’m just—”
“Get out.” Sero said, and it was quiet, but it hit like a whip.
The stranger smile faltered ever so slightly, but he didn’t argue. He backed toward the door, still keeping a careful, mocking calm. “Alright… alright. I’ll leave.”
The click of the door closing left an echo in the room that felt louder than anything Y/N had ever heard.
She sank into the couch, hands covering her face, trembling. Her chest heaved. She could barely breathe.
“I—” she whispered. “I didn’t—”
Sero knelt beside her before she could even finish. His hand hovered for a second, then rested lightly on her shoulder.
“You didn’t what?” he asked, voice quiet but tense.
“I… I thought it was you…” she said, voice cracking. “I—”
His grip tightened slightly not in anger, but in frustration, in hurt. “Y/N…”
“I trusted him,” she admitted, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I trusted him because… because I thought… I thought it was you! He- He.. I think he has a quirk that let's him shapeshift. I.. I swear.” You are shaking at this time.
Sero’s jaw tightened. He pulled her gently into a hug not roughly, but with all the tension he’d been holding back for weeks.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you did. And that’s why it hurts even more.”
Y/N clung to him, shaking, ashamed. Her trust something, she had built so carefully had been manipulated in an instant.
“And I…” Sero’s voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know how to fix this yet. But… I’m not leaving. Not you. Not like this.”
For the first time in hours, maybe days, Y/N allowed herself to lean fully into him. To cry. To feel everything the betrayal, the fear, the hurt, the relief that the Sero was still here. The Sero you knew.
But even as she clung to him, she knew one thing:
Her walls, fragile as they were, had shattered.
And rebuilding trust real trust would be harder than she had ever imagined.
The room feels smaller somehow.
You sit on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched, hands gripping your knees. The weight of what just happened presses down on your chest like a physical force. You tried to speak, to explain herself, to say something anything but the words won’t come.
Your throat feels tight, constricted. Every time you open your mouth, only a faint rasp escapes, barely audible even to yourself. You tried again. Nothing.
Sero sits across from you, his expression careful, restrained, almost painfully controlled. He’s tense, yes, but not angry. Not really. Hurt, yes but the kind of hurt that comes from seeing someone you care about misled, manipulated, and left vulnerable.
“Y/N…” he starts, voice soft, measured. “It’s okay. You… you don’t have to say anything right now.”
She shakes her head slightly, trying to make the rasp louder, trying to force words out. A strangled sound comes, and she feels a sting behind her eyes. Tears threaten to spill, but she swallows them back.
“I… I…” she croaks finally, but it’s barely there.
Sero leans forward, reaching slowly to place a hand over hers. Warm. Steady. Real. Not fake. Not manipulative. Just him.
“You don’t need to explain,” he whispers. “You trusted someone. You were hurt. That’s… that’s normal. It doesn’t make you weak.”
She wants to believe him. She wants to speak, to tell him everything she’s feeling the fear, the shame, the betrayal but her voice has betrayed her first. She feels powerless in a way she hasn’t in years, and it terrifies her.
Tears finally escape, running freely down her cheeks. Sero doesn’t move. He doesn’t rush her. He simply lets her cry, letting the quiet fill the room with the steady rhythm of comfort.
Hours feel like minutes. The rain outside has slowed, leaving the apartment in a soft, damp silence. She rests her head in her hands, shaky, exhausted, and suddenly, she realizes something.
Even without words, she’s not alone.
Sero’s hand stays over hers. His presence is enough. More than enough.
And though her voice is lost again, she can still feel the truth of what’s being communicated. She is safe. She is seen. And, slowly, painfully, she begins to believe maybe trust isn’t gone forever.
Her walls have cracked again. But for the first time since the incident, she realizes. Maybe she doesn’t have to be rebuilt alone.
cooking some sero x reader fic right now 🤺
Hi!!! Love your sero fanfic, he deserves more recognition 😭💕 but just letting you know the link for part one in your last post leads to another fic!
Hi, THANK YOUUU! I didn't even notice it 😭
Between Orders And Heartbeat [2]
pairing: sero x reader
synopsis: You never planned to linger at the cafe, but Sero made it impossible to leave and one question changes everything. Two hearts trapped by timing and fear, lingering in glances and half-spoken words.
warning: slowwwburn, emotional wreck, kiss kiss kiss, not proofread
A/N: this is the continuation of BOAH pt 1 link is right here ↙
main masterlist | hanta's masterlist | part one
>
There’s a strange cruelty in knowing someone wants you almost as much as you want them and believing, for all the wrong reasons.
After he asks you out, nothing changes.
No questions. No follow ups. No clarifications.
Just a one hopeful question that made you panicked. Half-formed answer that sounded far too much like not now.
You replayed endlessly.
Maybe someday.
I don’t know.
Things are complicated.
You meant you're sacred.
After he heard a no (or more like not now) answer from you. Everything in the cafe still stays the same, or at least it pretends to?
You still come in. He still makes your drink exactly right. Extra foam, less syrup, the mug warmed first. He still smiles when he sees you, still remembers details you mentioned weeks ago. But the warmth is… contained now. Measured. Like he’s holding something fragile behind his ribs.
There’s a pause every time your eyes meet. Not anticipation more like hesitation.
It feels like arriving too late to a place that’s still open. He’s there. You’re there. But the moment has passed, and you both pretend not to notice the ache of what almost was.
You tell yourself he’s just being respectful. He tells himself he crossed a line once and won’t do it again, never.
Some nights the cafe is loud and crowded, and you watch him move easily through it. Laughing, charming, effortless. You hate how natural it looks, how easily he belongs to everyone else.
One night, a girl leans over the counter, brushing his wrist when she laughs. Clearly flirting with Sero, and what makes it worst is he doesn't pull away. He smiles politely.
Your chest tightens, but it shouldn't matter anyway right?
You told him not now. You forfeited to ache like this.
But the ache stayed anyway.
Quiet, persistent, settling into the spaces you thought discipline could seal shut. It shows up in the empty chair across from you, in the words you don’t send, in the way your chest tightens whenever his name drifts too close to your thoughts. You chose restraint. And still, your heart keeps tally, counting all the moments that might have been yours if timing had been kinder or if you had been braver.
Still, you leave without saying goodbye. And he notices.
The next time you come in, he hesitates before greeting you.
“You, okay?” he asks, quieter than usual.
You nod too fast. "Yeah. Why?"
“You’ve been… distant.”
You almost laugh. Distant? As if you aren’t orbiting him constantly.
“Just busy,” you say.
He accepts it because he thinks he has to. Because he thinks asking again would be selfish.
Later, when he brings your drink to your table, something he stopped doing as often. He pauses like he’s reconsidering, then sets it down anyway.
“You don’t have to come here if it’s hard” he says gently.
Your fingers curl around the mug. “Hard?”
He shrugs. “If I make things uncomfortable.”
The words land wrong. Sharp. Deep.
“You don’t,” you say too quickly. “You never did.”
He smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Good” he says. "I'm glad"
But you can tell, he doesn’t believe you.
Mutual pining is a quiet kind of suffering.
It’s sitting across from him during his break, knees close but never touching anymore, and wondering when the space appeared. It’s noticing he doesn’t linger the way he used t, except when you look especially tired.
It’s you memorizing the way his voice softens when he asks if you’ve eaten.
It’s him staying late when you linger, telling himself it’s just good customer service.
It’s both of you pretending the ache isn’t mutual.
The worst night arrives without warning.
It’s raining hard, the kind that soaks you through and makes the world feel heavier than usual. You duck into the cafe just before closing, breath uneven, eyes burning.
He looks up sharply. “Hey, what happened?”
You shake your head. He locks the door.
Not because he’s crossing a boundary, but because he can’t stand the thought of you leaving like this.
The cafe is dim now. Chairs stacked. The rain pounds against the windows.
“Sit,” he says, softer than you’ve heard him in weeks.
You try to talk around it about work, about pressure, about feeling like you’re always behind everyone else. He listens, hands folded, eyes steady.
Then your voice breaks.
“I’m tired,” you whisper. “Of guessing. Of holding things in. Of feeling like I messed something up and not knowing how to fix it.”
His jaw tightens.
“Is this… about that?” he asks carefully.
You swallow. “About you.” Finally
Silence.
He leans back, like the words knocked the air from his chest.
“I thought I was clear,” he says quietly. “After you said you weren’t ready.”
Your heart stutters. “I never said I didn’t want you.”
He looks at you then - really looks at you.
“I asked you out,” he says, voice strained. “And you looked like you were bracing for impact.”
Tears spill over.
“I was scared,” you admit. “I didn’t think you meant it. I thought I was just… convenient.”
His breath catches. “I stopped because I thought you needed space.”
“I stopped because I thought you didn’t care enough to try again.”
The truth settles between you - heavy, devastating.
“So this whole time,” he murmurs, “we were protecting each other from the wrong thing.”
You nod.
He moves closer, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. When you don’t, he kneels in front of you, careful hands resting near your knees but not touching.
“You don’t have to be strong with me,” he says. “You never did.”
Your forehead falls against his shoulder.
“I’ve been staying,” you whisper. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”
His arms come around you then - gentle, grounding.
“I would’ve waited,” he says softly. “I just needed to know I wasn’t alone in it.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“You’re not.” they you kissed him.
The kiss isn’t rushed.
It’s hesitant. Emotional. Like both of you are still unlearning the distance you built.
Still warm.
Still careful.
Still real.
And when you leave together the rain lighter now, fingers laced, you realize some love stories don’t start with certainty.
They start with longing, miscommunication, patience…
and the courage to finally stop assuming the worst.
>
A/N: I'm so sorry if it looks like it was rushed writing, my head just got blank suddenly.
requests are open
HANTA SERO | CELLOPHANE
Between Orders and Heartbeats [2]
Shape of Trust
Between Orders and Heartbeats
pairing: sero x reader
synopsis: You never planned to linger at the cafe, but Sero made it impossible to leave and one question changes everything.
warning: light swear words, slowburn I think that's it
A/N: more love for my lovey Sero <33
main masterlist | hanta's masterlist
>
You don’t remember the first time you walked into the cafe because it never felt like a first time. You were not the type of person to go to cafe's not until you entered college or perhaps became more addicted eversince you got a job or addicted to someone. It felt like a continuation like the place had always existed somewhere in your routine, waiting for you to notice it.
The bell above the door gives a soft chime when you push the door, the sound swallowed almost immediately by low music and the hum of conversation of the people around you. The café smells like roasted coffee beans and something sweet like cinnamon, or maybe vanilla. It’s warm in here in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
You come here after work. Always after work. You tell yourself it’s because it’s on the way home, because the coffee is good, because the tables by the window are usually empty around this time.
But you knew you're lying to yourself.
And there he was.
Sero
He’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, dark apron dusted lightly with coffee grounds, name on his nameplate left side of his chest. He’s focused on the espresso machine, brow slightly furrowed, movements practiced and calm. There’s something grounding about watching him work like everything makes sense when he’s doing it.
You linger near the menu longer than necessary.
He looks up.
And smiles.
That freaking smile that always gets me, ugh. Why you have to be so damn handsome, Sero.
“Hey,” he says, voice easy, like he’s known you longer than he actually has. “Same as usual?”
Your heart stutters, just a little.
“Yeah,” you reply, trying not to sound too pleased that he remembers. “Same as usual."
He nods, already turning back to the machine. You watch the way he moves - efficient, unhurried. Like he knows there’s no need to rush. Like the world can wait.
You pay, step aside, and pretend to scroll on your phone while you wait. You don’t actually read anything. Your attention keeps drifting back to him - the way he taps the portafilter twice against the counter, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he concentrates.
He sets your cup down gently, writing your name on it in neat, careful letters.
“Careful,” he says as he slides it toward you. “It’s still warm.”
Your fingers brush his when you take it.
It’s brief. Barely anything.
It lingers anyway.
You start coming more often after that. Way often
Not every day, you’re not that obvious. But enough that he notices it. Enough that he greets you by name now, not just by your order. Enough that he asks how your day was and actually waits for the answer.
Some days you tell him the truth.
Some days you don’t.
“How was work?” he asks one evening, leaning casually against the counter while the café empties out around you. Just you and him.
You shrug. “Long.”
He hums in understanding. “Those are the worst kind.”
You smile into your cup. “You ever get tired of this?”
He glances around the cafe, at the mismatched chairs, the chalkboard menu, the soft lights. “Sometimes,” he admits. “But then someone comes in looking like they really need a quiet place to breathe.”
You look up at him.
“And that makes it worth it?” you ask, sipping your coffee.
His eyes meet yours.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “It does.”
You don’t know why your chest tightens at that. And it's making you crazy.
Weeks pass like this.
Conversations grow longer. Silences grow easier.
You learn small things about him. He prefers oat milk over regular, but only in lattes. He hates rainy mornings but loves rainy evenings.
He once dropped an entire tray of cups on his first day and considered quitting on the spot. Which makes you chuckles every time you remember it
He learns things about you too. That you drink coffee more for comfort than caffeine. That you like sitting by the window because it feels less lonely. That you always hesitate before leaving, like you’re not quite ready to go back out there. Specifically, to your tiring job.
Sometimes, when the cafe is slow, he’ll bring your drink to your table instead of calling your name.
Sometimes he stays a little longer than necessary, wiping the same clean spot on the table while you talk.
Sometimes your knees brush under the table.
Neither of you ever comments on it.
One evening, you come in later than usual. Not that he's waiting for you.
The cafe is nearly empty. Chairs are stacked. Lights are dimmed. He’s wiping down the counter when he looks up, surprise flickering across his face before melting into relief.
“Thought you weren’t coming today,” he says.
“Almost didn’t,” you admit. “Rough day.”
He studies you for a moment. “Sit. I’ll make you something.”
“It’s okay, I-”
“I know,” he interrupts gently. “But I want to.”
So, you sit. Too tired to argue.
He doesn’t ask for your order. He just makes something careful, thoughtful, like he’s translating your mood into a cup. When he sets it down in front of you, there’s a small heart in the foam.
You stare at it longer than you should.
“Thank you,” you whisper. You took a picture just for remembrance.
He shrugs, suddenly shy. “Anytime.”
The silence between you is different tonight. Heavier. Charged.
“You ever think,” you say slowly, “about how some places start to feel like home?” swirling your coffee.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“And sometimes,” you continue, barely breathing, “it’s not the place. It’s the person.” you gaze at him.
His gaze lifts to yours.
The moment stretches. Neither of both are moving, too busy admiring each other.
The bell above the door rings as someone leaves, and the spell breaks, but not entirely.
It takes months before either of you does anything about it.
Months of lingering glances. Of hands almost touching. Of feelings carefully tucked away behind smiles and routine.
Not until one night, as you’re leaving.
He calls you. "Y/N" So soft you wanted to hear it again.
You turn.
Rubbing the back of his neck. “I was wondering… maybe when I’m not wearing an apron, and you’re not holding a takeaway cup… would you want to get coffee with me?" Sero looks away, feeling shy. "Somewhere else, not here"
Your heart hammers in your chest, and you open your mouth to say something anything but the words were glued to your tongue.
part 2?
request are open
SHOUTA AIZAWA | ERASERHEAD
The Weight Of What He Doesn't Know
MHA CHARACTERS
credit to @azumxne for the GIF
Eijirou Kirishima
Hanta Sero
Shouta Aizawa
The Weight Of What He Doesn't Know
pairing: shouta aizawa x reader
synopsis: during a dangerous mission, Aizawa notices unusual hesitation in Y/N's actions, something he can’t ignore.
warning: not proofread, grammatical errors, spelling errors, emotional conflict, includes themes that may be sensitive to some readers. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK
main masterlist | shouta's masterlist |
>
Aizawa has learned to read people in any fragments. A hitch in their voice, a pause way too long before answering, the way someone acts when they're hiding something.
He has always been good separating his emotions during duty.
Yet here he was failing, failing because of you. You make him uneasy to the point he's willing to abandon the mission right now.
There's something he can't pinpoint what's going on with you. Well, you're doing everything right - staying in your formation, following the plan. But there's something that always restraint you that he fully knows wasn't there before. Your movements are more careful like you're dodging possible risk.
Normally, he ignores it.
But tonight, his instinct just won't let it go.
"Stay close." he said flatly. Not in demand. Not in question. Their team moves through the underground station.
"I am" you answer immediately. Too immediate.
The air hums with residual of quirk energy. Broken lights flicker can be heard, tons of damage everywhere. Aizawa keeps his capture weapon loose. eyes attentive, quirk activated erasing the quirk of the villains as they retreat deeper in the tunnels.
Then a sudden blast hits.
It wasn't massive. But it is enough to send shockwave that ripples through the floor, knocking you off balance. Aizawa turn just in time to see your eyes widen before you stumble.
He grabs you, pulling you into him as the ground shakes. He swaps both of you taking the impact as you both hit the floor. His capture weapon securing you, immediately hovering over you to shield you from the falling debris.
Everything was loud. Falling debris, the grunts of your fellow heroes. Then it became quiet.
Aizawa pushes himself up immediately, scanning the area, his hair on the air, red eyes glowing as he shuts down any remaining threats. When he cleared the area, he looks back at you.
Pale. Eyes widen. Breath uneven.
He kneeled in front of you. "Talk to me," scanning your face, your arms. "Are you hurt?"
You hesitated. And it's killing him.
"No." you finally said it "Just shaken, yeah just... shaken."
He doesn't like the pause - bit there's no time to push. Backups already arrived, a lot of villains have scattered the area, and the situation stabilizes.
Still, Aizawa doesn't move far away from you for the rest of the mission. Not once.
By the time the medics have arrived, they treated all the injured heroes and give you an all-clear. Your hands are still trembling - you try to brush it off, you try to ignore it. But when you stand up, your legs didn't cooperate. And legit in front of Aizawa.
He catches you before you fall.
"Okay, that's it." he said "You're done for tonight" caressing your head. He was afraid if something bad happen to you. He doesn't want to repeat want happened back then. On what happened to his friend. His friend, Oboro.
"I still can keep goi-" he cuts you off.
"No," he replies, firm but not unkind. "You won't."
He guides you away from the scene, keeping his hands on your waist until you're seated in the car to transport both of you to your shared apartment.
The apartment is dim and quiet when you go home. The stillness makes everything catch up to you all at once. You sit on the couch, shoulder easing as the fear you've been holding back finally surfaces.
Aizawa eyed you. Arms crossed, eyes thoughtful. "You've been off lately"
"Just... tired." you looked away from him.
He stayed silent for a while, debating to ask you something.
"You scared me back there" he replies.
"I did?"
"You hesitated back there," he says "That's very unlike you."
Aizawa has known you being a fierce and strong hero - but tonight your actions faltered. He knows it's not from the fear of enemy before her.
What he said press against something fragile inside you.
"I... I didn't mean to." you said softly
"I know" he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face - trying to calm his nerves.
The silent stretches, then you press a hand over your abdomen, breath hitching as the reality of what could happened back there resurfaces to your mind.
And he noticed it.
"Y/N, are you in pain?" his postures straighten.
You shake your head quickly "No, just... overwhelmed"
He kneels in front of you "Baby, you don't have to minimize it. Fear counts too you know"
He was caressing your hair as if you're the most fragile vase that needed to be take care of properly. And that's what breaks you.
"Shouu..." tears started slipping from your tear duct before you can stop them. You hid your face from his neck, embarrassed, but Aizawa gently guides your face just so you can look at him. You we're so stubborn you didn't look at him even though he's already holding your face.
"Hey," he says carefully, caressing your cheeks. "Look at me."
Then you do look at him.
"You're safe now," he says "Nothing happened. You did everything you could"
You nod, finally able to breath properly. "I have to tell you something" you whispered.
His breath hitch, wow how the tables have turned.
So, he was right all along something is going on with you that he didn't know.
"Okay," he says carefully. "I'm listening"
Fingers are knotted, heart pounding so hard you we're sure he could hear it. The words are too heavy to leave in your mouth, like once you said it to him, everything could change. You we're terrified of his reaction, of the future.
You take a breath. Then another.
Here goes nothing.
"I didn't hesitate because I was tired," you say. "I hesitated because I was scared - for a reason. I didn't know how to explain it."
His brows furrows, he's getting concern but also getting impatient.
"I found out recently," you continue. "I wasn't planning on telling anyone yet. I didn't want it to change how you looked at me."
Your hands tremble. He holds your hands giving it a squeeze.
"I'm pregnant."
The words hung between them, fragile and heavy. He blinked, then slowly smiled, a mixture of awe and tenderness in his eyes. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her, and for the first time, she felt the weight of fear lift, replaced by something like hope.
"You shouldn't have gone on that mission," he replied though he was not accusing you, just being honest with you.
"Shouu, I know," you whispered "I just don't want to be seen as a weak hero."
"That was never going to happen," he says "Not for this" he slowly caresses your belly.
Your eyes start to sting again. "I was scared back there."
His voices soften.
"I was too, at first I didn't even know why but now." he admits "But now, I know why."
He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.
"Next time," he says quietly "you tell me. I can't protect what I don't know something."
"Yes, Shou. Promise" you replied and he smiled softly.
request are open
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My Hero Academia | MHA
