— preference | fluff, slice of life | fem!reader
— ft. k.bakugo, s.todoroki, e.kirishima, i.tenya, t.amajiki
— file brief : You try to cook. They try to survive. Love wins.
— content log : post timeskip, pure fluff
— author’s note : written for all of us who try to show love through food and end up committing mild culinary crimes. we’re doing our best.
You tried, really. He knew you did.
And he also knew why you insisted so much on taking over the kitchen.
Since you moved in together, if he didn’t cook, you both survived on takeout. Everyone at U.A. had already known you couldn’t cook to save your life—he’d seen the microwave incidents.
Burned cookies. Deflated cakes. Mysterious jelly that had once wiggled off the plate and haunted his dreams.
But this. This was a crime.
You’d spent three hours in the kitchen. Your left cheek was smeared with rice. There was something unidentifiable in your hair. Your hands were still sticky. Your face held a terrified, hopeful almost-smile.
Your boyfriend stared silently at the dish in front of him.
A very deformed, weird-textured, slightly off-color onigiri.
The nori was barely hanging on. It leaned like it wanted to escape.
He poked it with a chopstick. It jiggled.
Onigiri wasn’t supposed to jiggle.
Why were you asking him? You made it.
He narrowed his eyes at it. Like it had personally offended him.
Then slowly—reluctantly—he picked it up and took a bite.
“I panicked! I remembered you love spicy food!”
“…You put chili oil in rice?”
“I was trying to be thoughtful!”
He paused. Blinked. Stared into the void for a moment.
Then set the blob back down with the silent precision of a man who had faced war—and somehow found this worse.
“You are never allowed in my kitchen again.”
You gasped. “That’s not fair!”
He walked toward you, cupped your rice-covered face in his hands, and sighed like a man far older than his years.
“No, what’s not fair is what you just tried to feed me.”
“But I did it with love…”
“You tried to assassinate me with love.”
And yet—despite it all—he took another bite.
“Still tastes like shit,” he muttered.
The next day, just to spite you, he made criminally perfect onigiris.
You weren’t sure whether to be offended or grateful.
The first time you saw your Shoto’s face light up while eating Zaru Soba, you knew you wanted to make it for him. Just the two of you, a quiet little date in the garden near your apartment.
The execution… well, you tried.
“They’re just noodles, right? And a dipping sauce. How hard could it be?”
You kept repeating that to yourself like a mantra, but calling your cooking skills lacking was being generous.
Your mother used to tell you that you needed to learn how to cook—that no one would marry someone who didn’t even know how to keep themselves alive.
Well. You proved her wrong when, after the war, Shoto proposed to you.
Your beautiful, quiet, wonderful fiancé didn’t mind that if it weren’t for him, you’d be living off takeout and absurdly easy, child-friendly meals.
But now? It started to bother you.
So you got determined. You spent hours and hours in the kitchen.
Finally, he came back from patrol to find you nervous-smiling, a basket in your hand as you immediately dragged him outside and toward the park.
The walk was short, but your thoughts were anything but.
What if the noodles were too soggy?
What if the sauce was too salty?
What if this was the day he realized he deserved someone who could cook real food, not just semi-functional carbohydrate attempts?
“Are you okay?” he asked softly, fingers brushing yours. “You’re quiet.”
You forced a smile. “Just hungry.”
At the park, you sat beneath the same tree where he’d first told you he loved you. You laid out the blanket, opened the basket, and presented the boxed meal like it was the finest bento in all of Japan.
“Yes!” you chirped. “I made it myself. For you.”
He looked at you. Then the noodles. Then back at you.
“I’m honored,” he said. And he meant it.
With his usual calm, he picked up the chopsticks and dipped the noodles into the tsuyu. You held your breath.
“…Did you… put sugar in the sauce?”
Your eyes widened. “Was I not supposed to?! I saw a recipe online that said sweetness brings out—”
“No, no,” he interrupted gently, a soft smile on his lips. “It’s… different. Unexpected.”
He studied you for a long moment. And then, sincerely:
“It’s the best thing I’ve eaten today.”
Your heart melted just a little.
“…It’s only three in the afternoon,” you mumbled.
“Exactly,” he said, taking another bite. “Plenty of time for you to top it again.”
You bit your lip to stop the grin forming as he kept eating without a single complaint—his quiet way of loving you, even in your culinary catastrophes.
Later that night, while he ate the takeout you’d guiltily ordered (despite his protests), he kissed your temple and whispered:
“Next time, let’s cook together.”
And maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t commit crimes against soba again.
Kirishima wasn’t a picky eater. He’d eat anything.
You once caught him snacking on slightly burned popcorn and calling it, “Kinda smoky, y’know? Cool.”
So when you told him you wanted to cook him dinner—a real meal, no microwaves involved—he immediately said yes, gave you a high five, and started setting the table.
The problem was… you hadn’t exactly figured out how to cook that real meal yet.
Cut to three hours later: the apartment smells like something vaguely edible, your shirt has… oil stains? (one can only hope it was oil), and you’re standing in front of him holding two bowls of very, very, very questionable gyudon. (If you could even call it that.)
He looked at it with wide eyes and the biggest smile, bless his heart.
“Whoa! Did you make this all by yourself, my love?”
“…I did,” you said, with a nervous laugh. “I think I might’ve burned the onions. And the beef. And maybe the rice.”
He grabbed his chopsticks like it was the most gourmet thing he’d ever been served.
“Baby, this is amazing!” he said, the big, loving smile still on his face.
You blinked. “The rice is crunchy.”
“Chips are crunchy too! It’s fine!”
He took a huge bite. Chewed. Chewed some more.
He gave you a thumbs-up with both hands.
“Amazing! I’ve never had crunchy gyudon before.”
“Because it’s not supposed to be crunchy, Kiri!”
“And yet,” he said dramatically, “I love it. And I love you. So it works out.”
He meant every word—and later that night, while you cuddled under a blanket watching your favorite movie for the hundredth time and eating actual ramen, he whispered:
“You’re already perfect, but next time… let’s cook together, yeah, baby?”
He grinned, nudging your shoulder.
“At least you didn’t burn the house down. That’s a win in my book, love.”
From the moment you told your fiancé that you wanted to prepare him a homemade meal, he assumed you must be planning something special.
Maybe a celebration. Maybe a grand romantic gesture.
What he didn’t assume was that you’d end up personally battling the recipe… and losing.
You spent the entire day in the kitchen while he was out fighting actual villains.
You chopped vegetables with total, surgical concentration—and absolutely zero technique.
You memorized every step like you were defending your thesis.
And despite your best efforts, by the time he got home, the kitchen looked like a post-battle disaster zone.
“Gourmet tragedy,” you answered with an apologetic smile, guiding him toward the table you’d beautifully set. Fresh flowers, a handwritten card, the shiniest utensils you owned—all in place.
He glanced at the bowl in front of him. It sort of resembled ramen.
He pulled out a chair so you could sit—bless his big, gentleman heart—and then took the seat across from you.
He straightened his glasses.
“Did you follow the instructions step by step?”
“Yeah. Well. More or less.”
He made that face. The one he made when mediating conflict at the agency or trying to solve a national-level disaster.
Then, with reverence, he picked up his chopsticks and took a bite.
“…A curious texture. Bold seasoning. I must commend your initiative.”
“Tenya… does it taste like ramen?”
“…It tastes like effort. Which I greatly admire.”
He kissed your hands gently, a soft and loving smile on his face. He kept eating. You nearly cried.
He was way too nice about this culinary failure.
Later, while the two of you cleaned the battlefield (the kitchen), Iida admitted he was deeply moved that you’d done all of this for him.
He promised to teach you how to make his favorite dish.
Step by step. With diagrams. Color-coded notes. A three-part binder. You’ll love it.
He planned the whole day himself.
And that weekend was filled with kisses, laughter, and a perfectly decent beef stew.
Which, to be fair, was a huge win—for both of you.
The kind of day that left him even quieter than usual, hood drawn over his face, head low as he walked through the door.
So, as the ever-loving girlfriend you were, you wanted to cheer him up.
Now… was it a complicated dish?
Should that have stopped you?
By the time he woke up from a nap and came out of the bath, your kitchen was a scene of chaos.
Steam clouded the air. Flour dusted the counters.
There was… something in your hair. You weren’t entirely sure what.
“Hi, sunshine!” you chirped, trying not to panic.
“I made you takoyaki! …Sort of.”
You presented him with a plate of misshapen, slightly charred takoyaki.
Still, he sat down and picked one up like it was made of glass.
“Darling… is it that bad?”
“No. It’s… chewy. And tasty, my love. A heroic effort.”
You bit your lip. “You don’t have to finish it if you hate it.”
He looked at you—quiet, nervous, soft.
“You made it. For me. That’s… really nice. No one’s ever done that.”
And that night, he ate every last deformed takoyaki. No complaints.
Later, while you cuddled in bed watching some sappy movie, you whispered:
“Next time, I’ll order sushi. That way our kitchen survives.”
A sheepish smile tugged at your lips—
Which he quickly erased with a kiss.
“Next time, we’ll cook together, my love.”
unmanly behavior detected. stealing is not plus ultra. - kirishima (probably)
© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ be kind, be cool. (do not copy, translate or feed to AI).
