MDNI. Puppy Hybrid! Leon was clingy, and hated being away from you. While you were showering, he decided he’d like to join you!
tags: fem reader, switch! leon, breeding kink, shower p in v, knotting, dirty talking, mentions of lactation kink.
The thing about Leon is that he was clingy. You could’ve sworn he had separation anxiety, or something that made him want to be up under you all the time. He would crawl into your bed, (even though he had his own.) Or lay in your lap while you tried to relax. At dinner, he’d be at your feet rather than the table.
One evening when you thought you were having some alone time in the shower, Leon would be entertaining himself one way or another while you bathed. On that particular day, he noticed you didn’t lock the door—and took advantage of that.
You didn’t even hear the door open, the water must have drowned it out. You were rinsing your hair when the curtain was carelessly pulled open. Fight or flight kicked in, until you realized who it was. Just Leon. Leon and his floppy puppy ears—a blush on his cheeks as he glanced down your bare body. Slowly to your breasts, then back to your face.
“Owner,” A whiny tone, “I didn’t know you were taking a shower.” He stood there with the curtain clutched in his other hand, looking a bit disheveled himself. Dirty blonde hair was all messy on his head. You assumed he’d been getting into God knows what.
“I am, and that means you should mind your own business, Leon.” You covered your chest, becoming shy by his staring. You watched the boyish look on his face become a pout. He knew how to play your emotions, even if he wasn’t trying to.
“Don’t be mad.” He whimpered, puppy dog eyes set on your face. Forgiveness was in his voice, even as his tail swayed behind him.
“I’m not mad. I’m just trying to take a shower. So..” You pointed out the obvious, trying to tell him to leave without being blunt. It was your vice, the fact you couldn’t say no to him. Rather than catching the hint, it gave Leon an idea of how to stay with you. Without a word, he was tugging his shirt over his head.
“Can I join you then?” He asked, already stripping his bottoms off. You looked away, (not before catching a glimpse.) You scolded yourself for wanting to see him like that.
“Leon! Wait, wait,” You attempted to stand up for yourself, but he was already stepping in and shutting the curtain behind him. Of course, listening was not his strong suit. He was quick to invade your personal space, getting his hair and fluffy ears all wet under the shower head.
“Gosh, you’re gonna be the death of me. Come here.” You said with a huff, turning him your direction. “You’re such a mess, Leon.” You fussed over him like a mother would, grabbing a bottle of shampoo and squirting it into your hand. When he realized what you were doing, he eagerly got even closer to you. Close enough to feel his body heat, your chest almost brushing against his.
“Thank you, Owner..” Leon nudged his head against your hands as they found his hair, his eyes fluttering closed. He melted into your touch, almost moaning when your nails ran behind his puppy ears. You felt a bit excited at such a needy noise, telling yourself he was just touch starved. A silly excuse for someone like him. He was given attention all the time! You’d never taken a shower with him before, but you were expecting him to behave himself.
“Y-You’re welcome.” You stammered out, continuing to wash his hair. You lathered it up nicely, running your fingers through it and being gentle with his ears. They were all floppy on his head, not all perked up like usual. He was relaxed. Or so you assumed, until he was moving in closer, his hands resting on your hips.
“Mm, Feels good.” Leon sighed happily, content with his hands on your wet skin. You felt warm, not just from the water. He was normally touchy, but that was over your clothes. When you were both bare, it felt much different. You did your best to focus on the task at hand rather than looking down.
“I’m glad you like it.” You smiled, stepping closer to him. You did your best to avoid getting any in his baby blues—which blinked open to look at you. Half-lidded and dazed, he looked at you differently than before.
“I do.” He whimpered, leaning in to lick at your cheek. “You always take such good care of me.” He tugged you closer, and you felt something stiff and warm brush against your inner thighs.
“Leon..” You lightly scolded, squirming when he nuzzled against you. It was nothing new, as you’d given him a hand a couple times before. If he was in some kinda of rut, you’d help him out. Until it seemed he just couldn’t stay away for more.
“Let’s uhm.. Get you rinsed off.” You redirected him to face the water. He whined in protest, but let you dote on him. Afterward, he was quick to turn back to face you instead. Needy thing, you were in over your head. “Probably the cleanest you’ve ever been.” You teased, pushing the hair that stuck to his forehead off his face. He leaned into your touch, close enough so his nose bumped yours.
“What about the rest?” His ears perked back up, his tail flicking water against the curtain. The rest? The thought of touching him so intimately was the opposite of behaving. You knew you ought not to give in and let Leon have his way, but you always did.
“You’re pushing it.” You tried to be stern, but he didn’t take it seriously. Quite the opposite, he pressed a sloppy kiss to your cheek, then to your lips.
“Nuh uh. It feels too good to have you touch me like that. Can’t you make it better?” He whined between wet kisses, his tongue in your mouth as soon as you tried protesting. Spit and drool, his hands were running up your stomach to your breasts.
“Wanna feel all of you.” He mumbled against your lips, squeezing the weight of your tits in his palms. He pulled away with a hot pant, leaning down to press kisses to your neck. You squirmed, feeling a heat between your thighs. His kisses trailed to your collar bones, until he ran his tongue to capture one of your buds.
“Leon!” You scolded, reaching to tug on his hair. But the feeling of his tongue lavishing your nipple was far too pleasurable. He looked up at you, big blue eyes that never left your face as he suckled at your sensitive skin. It was hot in the small space, the water becoming lukewarm as he took his time. He squished at your other breast, mouthing as if he could drink you up.
“Can’t wait any longer.” He straightened back up, leaving your skin wet with saliva. You shivered as your back hit the shower wall, but you made no effort to stop him.
“Owner,” Leon’s forehead bumped yours as he leaned in, breath warm on your lips. “Can you put your arms around my neck?” He asked in a breathy whine, as if he’d cry if you said no.
You obliged, doing just that. You parted your thighs, letting him crowd himself between them for access. With a huff of relief, he slid his hands beneath your ass, lifting you up with a grunt. You choked out a gasp, your arms tightening around the back of his neck.
“Don’t worry, ‘m not gonna drop you.” Leon smiled, ears all twitchy atop his head. He glanced down where your bodies met, whimpering as the tip of his drooling cock rubbed between your folds.
“Such a naughty puppy,” You squirmed, trying to coax him on. He whined at the contact, instinctively bucking his hips up to push an inch or two inside. His ears pinned flat on his head, shuddering as he tried to go slow.
“I know. I’m such a naughty puppy.” He growled as he said that, humping his hips up to fill you deeper. You mewled, holding onto him tighter as he stuffed you. He was thick and girthy, throbbing inside. “Using my owner to cum.” He captured your lips once more, moaning into your mouth as he rabbited his hips harder.
“Leon, slow, slow down,” You crossed your ankles around his hips for support, hearing the wet noises of your coupling accompanied by the shower. The water had ran cold, yet the pleasure was too strong to even notice. He shook his head no, leaning in to nuzzle your neck.
“Cant.” He gripped your ass to hold you steady, your back rubbed against the shower wall with every rough buck of his hips. “You feel s’ good, so tight and warm,” He licked a stripe up your neck to your ear. “And wet and pretty..” He babbled, pressing a kiss to your cheek. He was losing his rhythm, becoming sloppy and uncoordinated.
“Oh,” You panted, feeling your own release approach with each grind of his hips. “Are you getting close, puppy?” You tease, noticing how he wasn’t as composed.
“Mm,” Leon whined with frantic nods, ears wet and flat on his head. “Gonna fill you up, so much, s’ much.” He squeezed the fat of your ass, bouncing your body each time he fucked up into you. “Knot my owner, give her my puppies.” He glanced down to your breasts, “Hope you make lots of milk. Get your tits, ngh-“ He keened, close to the edge as he throbbed inside. “All swollen and leaky for me.” His words were sultry, excited at the thought.
His words sent you over the edge, gushing your slick over his fat puppy cock. You choked on a moan, hardly able to put a sentence together. You leaned your head back against the shower wall, squeezing him tighter as you reached your peak.
“Oh! Oh, god.” Leon keened, surprised he’d brought you to such a peak. “That’s it, squirt all over me.” He was whimpering, taken aback by the overwhelming pleasure of feeling you come undone. You were a mess yourself, feeling dizzy when you felt so much fuller.
He choked out a breathy moan, almost losing balance as he jerked his hips up one last time. You could’ve come a second time at the sheer feeling of him popping his knot—stuffing you full of sticky puppy cum.
“Owner, Mmfm. You’re s’ tight.” He babbled out, pulling you flush to his chest. He was panting, nuzzled against your neck as he caught his breath. He’d left drool on your skin, mumbling on about how much he loved you for doing such a thing.
“Thank you, thank you.” Leon pressed a kiss to your throat, keeping you held close. You paid no mind to the water you left running, or the fact you carelessly let your puppy-boy stuff you full. You petted his wet hair, getting a happy hum out of him. Giving into his whims wasn’t so bad after all.
katsuki Bakugo doesn't beg....but currently he is!
The rain is drumming a relentless, heavy beat against the window of his dorm room, but the only sound filling the space between you two is the ragged edge of his breathing.
Katsuki Bakugo doesn't beg. He commands. He demands. He takes what he wants by sheer force of will and explosive talent. Everyone knows this. You know this.
Which is exactly why the sight of him right now is completely short-circuiting your brain.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched forward, broad back curved in a rare show of defeat. His hands usually lethal, sparking, and steady are gripping his own knees so tightly his knuckles are stark white. He isn't looking at you. He’s staring at the floorboards, his ash-blonde hair falling forward to shadow his face.
"Just… shut up for a second and listen," he rasps. His voice is lower than usual, stripped of its normal explosive volume, leaving behind something raw and dangerously scraped thin.
"Katsuki, I should go," you say softly, taking a half-step back toward the door. You’re exhausted from the circular arguments, the miscommunications, the walls he keeps building up just to blast away.
He flinches. The movement is so fast, so uncharacteristic, it makes you freeze.
"I said listen," he snaps, but the usual venom isn't there. It’s panicked. His head snaps up, and when his crimson eyes lock onto yours, your breath hitches. They’re bloodshot, fierce, and terrifyingly glossy.
He shifts off the bed, his heavy boots hitting the floor, but he doesn't bridge the gap to crowd your space like he usually does. Instead, he drops his weight onto his knees right there on the floor. It’s not a clean, submissive kneel—it’s a desperate, heavy collapse. He hooks his fingers into the fabric of your jeans, his grip white-hot even through the denim.
"Don't walk out that fucking door," he breathes.
You stare down at him, completely paralyzed. The top hero prospect of UA, the guy who swore he'd surpass All Might, is grounded at your feet, looking up at you through his bangs.
"Katsuki… get up. What are you doing?"
"No." He buries his forehead against your knee, his shoulders trembling. It’s a microscopic movement, but to you, it feels like an earthquake. "If I get up, you’re gonna leave. You’ve got that look in your eyes. The one where you’ve already decided I’m too much of a monster to deal with."
"That's not—"
"I’m not finished!" he barks, a flash of his usual fire sparking, but it dies out instantly, swallowed by the sheer desperation in his voice. His hands slide up to your waist, clutching at your shirt, pulling you just an inch closer.
"I know I’m a loud, short-tempered bastard. I know I don't say the right shit. I know I ruin everything I touch because all I know how to do is blast it to pieces. But don't do this. Don't just give up on me."
He takes a sharp, shuddering breath against your clothes.
"I'll be quieter. I'll… I'll think before I opening my fucking mouth. Just tell me what you want me to do to make you stay, and I’ll do it. Anything.
Just don't leave me behind."
He’s never said those words to anyone. Don't leave me behind. It’s his ultimate fear, wrapped up in a confession he’d probably kill anyone else for hearing.
Slowly, you sink to your knees too, matching his level. The moment your knees hit the floor, Katsuki's hands fly to your face. His palms are warm, rough with calluses, and trembling as they cup your cheeks. He hovers close, his breath hot against your lips, completely unraveled.
"Look at me," he whispers, his voice cracking on the edge of a sob he refuses to let fall. "Please. Just look at me."
The word please tastes like ash in his mouth, but he swallows his pride anyway, offering it up to you like a sacrifice. His eyes are searching yours, pleading for a savior, begging you to tell him that his explosive, chaotic soul hasn't finally driven away the only thing he actually cares about keeping.
long distance relationship - suguru g. 18+ MDNI!!!
“i missed you so fucking much, suguru,” you throw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his neck. “gosh, it feels like it’s been centuries.”
“oh baby, i’ve missed you too,” he coos, pressing his lips to your hair. one of his arms envelop you, the other still holding the heavy duffel bag around his shoulder. “can i put down my stuff? or are you going to cling to me like a baby monkey?”
you whine something unintelligible into his skin, making him laugh. oh, how he’d missed you. rubbing your back in soothing circles with his thumb, he lowers his head closer to your ear. “just let me take my coat off and i’m all yours, okay? i’ll unpack later.”
you unlink your arms and take a step back, watching suguru shed his long coat, revealing a navy blue turtleneck sweater and black slacks. the apartment finally feels right with him filling the space again, carrying that familiar, comforting scent that you associate with home.
just a little longer of this, you remind yourself, and the next plane will be a one-way ticket.
“hey, something’s wrong?” suguru’s honeyed voice pulls you back from your thoughts, and you shake your head. “not at all. you’re here, how could anything be wrong?”
he smiles, then open his arms for you to throw yourself into them again, and he can finally hold you right. every inch of you molding perfectly to every inch of him, as if it was exactly where you belonged, all along. you breathe in the scent of his cologne, face smushed into his chest like you needed it to breathe.
his long fingers map out the outline of your waist, soothing in their trail, committing everything to memory even if he knows you better than he knows himself. “missed you so much, pretty girl,” suguru peppers light kisses over the crown of your head. “have you been good while i was gone?”
you look up at him with a grin. “mhm!” but once you meet his face, half-lidded eyes and the corner of his mouth curled up slightly with that smile. “yeah?” he hums. “want to show me?”
apparently your bedroom was too far for suguru’s liking, the couch a much more appropriate solution to have your pretty body folded in two, knees grazing just shy of your ears like he instructed your to hold them. his nose is pressing against your clit, puffy and sensitive after your orgasm, but his tongue is still deep in your hole, drawing out the lewdest squelches.
“s-suguuuu—” you sob, choking on your own breaths. “fuck, ngh— ‘s too much!” you wish you could card your fingers through his silky, raven hair, but he keeps it tied in a messy ponytail to keep it out of his face, the whole lower half glistening with your slick.
and you wouldn’t be able to move your hands even if you wanted, keeping them tightly wrapped around the underside of your knees. your hamstrings have been screaming in protest, but the way suguru’s greedy tongue is lapping at your soppy cunt overrides the pain.
“suguru,” you plead again, a salty tear trailing down your parted lips. “p-please…wan’ your cock now, please—”
“oh really?” he purrs, finally withdrawing, big hands are still cupping the globes of your ass. “you know i just wanted to make sure my pretty girl was ready to take me properly.”
your clothes - along with his - lie in a messy puddle on the floor, but suguru still has his boxers on, stretching across his throbbing erection when he stands back up on his feet. you’ll never get tired of this sight— all chiselled muscles, the fine work of art of some power up above, no doubt.
“—because there’s something i’ve been meaning to keep as a surprise, so i hope you’ll be able to forgive me,” his words pull you away from your daydreaming once more, brows furrowing in a questioning look. you finally relax your legs a bit, shifting from your cramped position.
“a surprise?” you tilt your head, eyes following suguru’s descending hand, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers before he tugs them down. “it’s…it’s still a bit sensitive, i honestly don’t know why i listened to satoru’s dumb idea but i thought—”
”oh. my. god.”
your jaw is positively unhinged, eyes wide and focused on the metal bars protruding from underneath the skin of the underside of suguru’s cock.
“you got a fucking jacob’s ladder!?”
his cheeks turn a pretty shade of dark pink, suddenly feeling too self-aware and flustered. “is it…is it bad? i didn’t really have any feedback on it since i got it other than watching myself in the mirror, it’s not like i was going to snap pictures and send them to satoru.”
“let’s be real, he would’ve done it,” you snort. suguru chuckles, “yeah, he would’ve.”
you sit up, face only inches away from his pierced shaft. “did it hurt when you got it?” you ask, fingers coming up but not quite touching just yet. “a bit…” he pauses. “a lot. but it’s fine now, it healed pretty well, you can touch it.”
your hand tentatively wraps around the base of suguru’s cock, the hiss he draws in between clenched teeth causing a wave of heat to rush deep in your belly. you angle it forwards, then lean over to press the lightest kiss to each piercing, smiling when he starts huffing n’ puffing.
“baby…” he whispers, hips jerking involuntarily, body craving more of your touch. your tongue rolls out, licking a looong stripe along his pretty flushed tip, collecting a salty bead of pre. your eyes gleam with something feral when you look up.
“i want it inside, suguru.”
he doesn’t waste a moment, shedding his boxers in record time before he’s manhandling you on all fours. the cushions force your back into an almost painful arch, cheek pressed into the leather of the backrest. you hear suguru spit once— twice, the first to coat his tip, the second right in your hole, still shiny from your earlier release.
“i have no idea how this might feel for either of us, so tell me if it hurts or if it’s uncomfortable, okay pretty? fuck…so pretty and wet for me.”
your answer slurs into a moan when the fat head of his cock presses against your cunt, velvety walls fluttering with hunger, already trying to suck him in. “oh fuck, suguru!” your hips move backwards, needing him to stuff you full, but he stops you with a large palm smacking! down on your ass.
“aht, aht,” he warns. “patience, my love. pussy’s been missing her sugu this much?”
but you can tell he’s holding back as well, allowing himself slow half-thrusts, easing into your drooling cunt little by little. you bite into your bottom lip with a whine, then comes the stretch.
”fuck!” you’re moaning out unanimously, the first pierced portion of his length slipping in. “did i hurt you?” he manages to ask. “n-no,” you shake your head. “feels a bit weird…g-good weird, though. does it hurt for you?”
“never felt…fucking…better.”
each word is followed by more of his cock filling you up until he’s fully sheathed inside. your walls clench against the textured ridges. “o-oh my god, suguru,” you gasp. “please fuck me or i think i’ll go insane.”
“yes ma’am,” he chuckles, both hands gripping your hips before he goes all in, setting a punishing pace. your hands hold on for dear life to the backrest of the couch, your shrills muffled by the thick leather, and you’re sure the crescent indents aren’t going to leave anytime soon.
the slap of skin against skin is lewd, your pussy gushing with each thrust and forming a frothy ring around the base of suguru’s cock. “so loud, baby…” he stutters between groans, hunching over until his chest is almost flush against your arched back. “don’t want the neighbors to make a noise complaint, now do we?”
one of his hands leave your hips, and soon two of his thick digits are filling your mouth. your lips close and start sucking shamelessly, coating his fingers in copious amounts of spit. “shit, haah— dirty girl,” suguru grunts, head falling on top of yours as he keeps drilling into you.
the piercings have made him way more sensitive, the coil of his orgasm dangerously tight. he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by cumming too soon, but when you’re so deliciously snug around him he can only resist for so long. “forgive me, my love, but i think i’m gonna—”
“please, please suguru!” you cry out, spluttering around his fingers. “please cum inside, i’m close too!”
you’ll be the death of him, he’s sure.
his body start convulsing, a loud groan of your name announcing his release, spurts of thick, white seed spilling deep inside, coating your gummy walls. you topple over alongside him, milking every last drop.
once you both manage to come back to your senses, suguru picks you up and walks you to the bathroom to draw a warm bath. when you’re both submerged in the bubbly water, he holds you tight to his chest, peppering the sides of your neck and shoulders with kisses as you update each other on your lives.
“you know, that was a very pleasant surprise. you should do it more often,” you say playfully, looking over your shoulder as he dutifully washes your hair. he mirrors your grin. “i’ll keep that in mind.”
now he’s worried the engagement ring in his suitcase will be anticlimactic.
┊┊a/n. i have no idea how i keep ending up with almost 2k words every time i want to write a quick drabble but oh well
your husband had many things about him that you found incredibly attractive. no matter how long you two have been together, you can never seem to get used to it. it's the way his shoulders stretched, broad and firm. it's the way his body always looks as if it's trying to break free from his clothes, no matter what he wears. it's the warm baritone way his voice comes out when he speaks, and how it slightly softens when he speaks to you.
you don't think you could list everything you find attractive about your husband, even if you had all the time in the world. but one thing always stuck out to you in particular.
his hands.
big and calloused and so, so sexy. you could stare at them for hours, and you have.
you came home later than usual. by this time you're normally there waiting to greet nanami when he returns from work, but today you got a little too sidetracked shopping with your friends and you came home to see him already sat on the couch.
legs spread, tie loosened, head thrown back, exhausted, sexy. just from looking at him you could tell he had a hard day. he doesn't notice you at first. you quietly put your things down near the door and walk over to him. you were so excited to show him all the new things you bought, but you had forgotten all about that once you saw him.
"...ken?" you broke through the silence, making yourself known. he sluggishly lifts his head to see you and his worn, irritated expression instantly softens. "my beautiful girl." his voice is low and he shifts in a way you know means he's telling you to come closer. you sit in his lap and for the first time that day, his body relaxes.
you stroke his hand sympathetically. your heart always tightens a little when you see him like this. "are you okay?" you ask. he doesn't answer your question and instead begins to stroke the side of your face and tuck your hair behind your ear. "you're so pretty," he hums appreciatively. he looks at you intently through his heavy lidded eyes, studying the way your expressions shift.
your face grows warm against his palm and you avoid his gaze. he lets out a breath which was more like a slight chuckle. he loves you like this, bashful and sweet. he decides he wants to see more.
he brushes his thumb over your lower lip and you instinctively shift in his lap. bad idea. you immediately feel him stiffen underneath you as he lets out a slight groan and grips your hip tight with his free hand. "fuck baby, don't do that." at this point you're no longer thinking clearly, you're not even sure if you've had a clear thought since you came home. all you can think about is the very sexy man in front of you, and the very sexy hands he has on you, and you begin to lose any self control you've ever had.
you shift in his lap more, and you both find yourselves in a steady rhythm. you're already soaked and he's already fully hard underneath you. you both can't look away from each other, the sounds of both of your breathing fills the room, too focused on the moment and on each other to speak.
but the longer he has his hands on you, the more your head spins. they're intoxicating, he's intoxicating, and before you can really even think it through, you hold the hand on your face and slip his index and middle finger into your mouth with a look of complete and utter desperation in your eyes.
he groans again, but it was different this time. it wasn't louder, per se, it was truer, animalistic. "fuck, good girl, sweetheart." his eyes are glued to the way your plush lips struggle to wrap around his big fingers. he attempts to push them further into your mouth and you let out a small gag. "cute," he thinks.
"relax your throat, baby... little more.. goooodd girl.. fuck." he continues to mumble more nonsensical things of that nature in between grunts and groans until your eyes begin to water and you're drooling over his fingers and down your own chin.
you look up at him and and attempt to say "please," but with the fingers in your mouth and the desire taking over your brain it came out more like a weak whine than anything else.
a split second later you find yourself thrown over nanami's shoulder and carried into your shared bedroom because despite your very vague request, nanami knew exactly what you wanted.
and he was going to give it to you.
my first post and my first time writing anything like this.. please be nice and kind advice is appreciated ♪( ´▽`)
Tenya is reprimanding you for the umpteenth time this week.
You're in the agency hallway, just after the team meeting. He stands straight, arms crossed, his gaze stern behind his impeccable glasses.
"Your outfit isn't appropriate, Y/N," he says in a firm, clear voice, loud enough for the few colleagues still present to hear.
Your heart races. Three buttons of your white shirt are undone, revealing the lace of your bra. Your pencil skirt is riding up a little too high on your hips, and the thin black thong you're wearing is clearly visible against your skin.
You know perfectly well that he chose this outfit this morning, in the privacy of his apartment, whispering in your ear how much he wanted you to look "inappropriate" today.
You lift your chin, a small, provocative smile playing on your lips. "So what?" you reply in a light, almost mocking voice. “Are you going to punish me, Tenya?”
An awkward silence falls among the colleagues still lingering in the hallway. Some look away, uncomfortable. Tenya, however, remains outwardly impassive.
Only you and he know the truth: behind that rigid facade, he loves it. He loves to humiliate you publicly, to make you feel embarrassed in front of others, and he knows you love it just the same.
He takes a step closer, lowering his voice slightly so only you can hear him: “I could…”
Those two words, whispered softly, are enough to make you lose your composure. A liquid heat immediately spreads between your thighs. You can’t help but discreetly rub your legs together, seeking a little friction to soothe the rising excitement.
Tenya notices your gesture. A dark glint crosses his eyes. He leans in even closer, his voice low and dangerously calm: "Have you lost your tongue, baby?"
You swallow hard. Your face burns. In front of the others, you come across as the slightly rebellious employee who's getting reprimanded again by the strict Iida. But between you, that simple word, "baby," spoken so softly, so possessively, makes you instantly wet.
"I... um..." you stammer, your voice suddenly smaller, almost submissive.
Tenya gives a very slight smile, almost imperceptible to the others. He adjusts his glasses with a precise gesture, then continues in a louder voice: "I'll be expecting you in my office in five minutes. We'll sort this out properly."
"Yes, sir," you reply, looking at him and anticipating what will happen in his office.
Tenya has you with your legs spread wide, his large hands firmly anchored on your hips to keep you in place. His fingers dig into your flesh with just enough force for you to feel his control.
His tongue explores every inch of your pussy with an almost desperate hunger. He licks your entire soaked slit with a slow, heavy stroke, then turns sharp and insistent, swirling rapidly around your swollen, hypersensitive clit before diving deep inside you, probing your inner walls.
“Tenya… I feel like I have to pee!” you suddenly blurt out in a trembling, panicked voice, your body wracked with shivers.
Tenya growls against your hot, wet flesh without stopping for even a second. The vibrations of his deep voice travel straight to your clit.
“Mhh… let it go, it’s a good sign,” he murmurs against you, his mouth full of your taste.
“Are you sure?? I really have to go, Tenya!” you moan, almost whining, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable. A burning pressure building relentlessly in your lower belly.
He lifts his head slightly, chin and lips glistening with your juices, and thrusts two thick, long fingers into you in one go. He immediately curls them to massage your g-spot with perfect precision.
“I saw in a video that when that urgent need hits… it means you’re about to squirt,” he explains in his serious voice, even though his eyes are burning with pure lust behind his slightly fogged-up glasses.
You can’t help but let out a weak laugh despite your state, breathless. “You watch videos like that?”
“That’s not the point! Focus,” he replies in a firm tone, almost an order, before diving back between your legs with even more fervor.
His tongue attacks your clit with fast, circular movements while his thick fingers continue mercilessly massaging your G-spot. The pressure in your lower belly becomes enormous, burning, almost painful.
You writhe violently on the bed, grinding your soaked pussy against his face, your hips moving uncontrollably. “Ten-! Ahh ugh! It’s too much! I’m gonna… imgonna-”
Your orgasm hits you like a violent tidal wave. Your entire body tenses, your thighs clamping around Tenya’s head like a vice as a long, high-pitched cry escapes your throat. A powerful clear jet bursts out of you in several intense, successive waves.
You squirt abundantly, soaking his face, his chin, and a large part of the sheets under your ass. The pleasure is so strong that your eyes roll back, your toes curl, and your body is shaken by uncontrollable spasms for long seconds, wave after wave.
When the final tremors finally subside, you lie there completely breathless, body limp, trembling, and hypersensitive.
You look down and see the extent of the mess: the sheets are completely soaked beneath you. An intense wave of embarrassment immediately washes over you.
“Oh no… I soaked the sheets…” you murmur, red with shame, hiding your face in your hands.
But when you peek through your fingers, you see Tenya. His face is covered in your glistening juices. He looks… satisfied. Almost proud. His eyes shine with a possessive and admiring glint. You can’t help but burst out laughing despite your embarrassment.
Tenya lifts his head and laughs softly with you, a warm, rare laugh that vibrates through his chest. He slowly crawls back up your body, towering over you with his imposing, athletic frame. He kisses you tenderly, sliding his tongue into your mouth so you can taste your own sweet-salty flavor.
“You’re so beautiful when you squirt like that,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice hoarse. “Don’t be embarrassed. I personally loved every second of it.”
He pulls back slightly to look at you better. In one smooth motion, he grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it off, revealing his muscular, perfectly sculpted chest glistening with your squirt from years of training.
Your gaze drifts lower… and you immediately notice the massive bulge straining violently against his pants. His dick is visibly rock hard, almost painfully so against the fabric. A large wet patch spreads across the front of his gray pants, betraying just how turned on he got from your orgasm and squirt.
You bite your lip, both embarrassed and terribly aroused by the sight. Tenya follows your gaze and smiles, a little embarrassed himself, but mostly proud and full of desire.
“See what you do to me?” he says, slowly running a hand over his cock through the fabric. “I’m completely soaked because of you.”
He places a knee on the bed and leans over you again, his gaze burning behind his glasses. “And I’m not done with you yet, baby.”
cw: smut, surferboy!kiri, praise, fingering, public sex, slightly nerdy kiri, biting, fluff, overstim, orgasm denial, cockwarming, slight somnophilia, cunnilingus, lmk if i missed anything >_<
a/n: finally home for the summer so I’ll have time to write again, send recs!!!
Surfer!Kirishima who’s always at the beach before sunrise, chasing waves with you on his mind. He’ll spend hours combing the shore afterward, pocketing smooth shells and pretty rocks he thinks you’ll like, already imagining the way your face will light up when he presses them into your palm later.
Surfer!Kirishima who tries to teach you how to ride his board but can’t stop laughing when you immediately tip over. “Baby, you’re supposed to stand on it, not wrestle it,” he teases, hauling you back up by the waist. He’s merciless about it, calling you his “little sea turtle” every time you wipe out, but he always kisses the salt off your lips afterward.
Surfer!Kirishima who pretends to hate it when you tease him about his sun-bleached ends, grumbling under his breath—until you’re carding your fingers through his hair for hours while he melts into your touch, eyes half-lidded and content.
Surfer!Kirishima who gets relentlessly teased by you for being a “shark boy.” You’ll poke at his sharp teeth and call him Jaws whenever he grins too wide, and he always retaliates by chasing you into the water, growling, “Keep talking and I’ll show you how much of a shark I can be.”
Surfer!Kirishima who gets so excited showing you the tide pools, pointing out every colorful fish and rambling about how great whites are actually “the biggest misunderstood sweethearts of the ocean.” His voice goes soft when he talks about them, like he’s trying to make you love them as much as he does.
Surfer!Kirishima who has your name written in small, neat letters on the bottom of his surfboard. He did it one night when he couldn’t sleep, carving it carefully near the tail. He never tells you, but every time he paddles out, he glances down and smiles to himself, like having your name there keeps you with him even when you’re not.
Surfer!Kirishima who pulls you onto his board at sunset, letting the two of you drift farther out while his fingers slip beneath your swimsuit. He works you open slow and deep, murmuring praise against your ear the whole time. “That’s it, sunshine… just like that. Such a good girl for me.” He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking and cumming around his fingers, then kisses your temple like you didn’t just fall apart in the middle of the ocean.
Surfer!Kirishima who grinds against you in the water when his friends are only a few feet away, voice low and teasing. “Quiet, baby. Don’t want them to hear how pretty you sound when I’m inside you, right?” His hand stays firm on your hip, keeping you close while he rocks into you beneath the surface.
Surfer!Kirishima who drags you back to his little beach house after a long day, too tired to do anything but strip you both down and slide into you from behind. He falls asleep like that, buried deep, one arm slung over your waist, the sound of the waves drifting in through the open windows.
Surfer!Kirishima who eats you out so slow and thorough that you’re half-asleep by the time you cum, the ocean breeze cooling your skin while he licks you through it. He loves the way you go boneless under his mouth, murmuring, “Love tasting you like this… all relaxed for me.”
Surfer!Kirishima who invites his friends over for a late-night swim but spends the whole time behind you in the water, two fingers buried deep while he whispers against your neck. “Don’t cum, baby… be good for me.” He sounds so sweet about it, but the second you break and cum anyway, he’s praising you in that low, rough voice. “Fuck—there you go. Couldn’t help yourself, huh? My needy girl.”
Surfer!Kirishima who has a habit of leaving bite marks all over your thighs. He loves spreading you open on the beach towel after a surf session, sinking his teeth into the soft skin just hard enough to leave pretty red crescents. He’ll soothe each mark with his tongue afterward, murmuring against your thighs, “Can’t help it, sunshine… you taste too good. Everyone’s gonna know you’re mine when they see these.”
Surfer!Kirishima who waits until the beach is empty at dusk before dragging his board higher up the sand. He lays you out on it, the wax still warm from the day, and fucks you slow and deep while the waves crash a few feet away. One of his hands stays wrapped around your throat, the other pinning your thigh open as he groans against your ear, “Fuck, you look so pretty like this… all spread out on my board.” He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking and crying out his name, the sound nearly drowned out by the ocean.
sukuna's voice was unfairly sexy. and when i say unfairly i mean it's really unfair to sound so hot when asking or saying something that should be normal. he doesn't really understand where you're coming from — but you swear his voice lowers anytime he's serious, with that sharp edge and yet trying to sound gentle at the same time.
his voice usually sounds the hottest when you're injured — doesn't really matter if it's because you fell on your own or someone else hurt you. when you're alone with him for no one else to see he sits you on the couch and knees infront of you — something he would never openly do infront of anyone but his wife — taking your injured ankle in his hand, analysing the severity of it while literally talking you through it — asking questions almost tenderly.
you're sitting there silent, appreciating the situation even while being hurt — it's not everyday he's so compassionate. the man inbetween your legs is gently touching the wound, thumb brushing where it looks the worst. and then like always, his voice dips deeper like he's more bothered — maybe even worried, about you being in pain than yourself "does it hurt here?" his fingers thighten just enough for you to feel the pressure, making you nod with a frown on your face.
"what about here? it hurts, yeah?" he's applying the same pressure and it stings way worse than the other point — you wince, leg flinching slightly at the feeling — it's not a obvious movement but he notices anyway. "mhmm i see. my poor wife. i will get uraume to tend to your injury. after you're done i excpect you to come find me and tell me how you're feeling."
there it is — his voice sounding strangely comforting for such a scary man — but there's nothing scary about the way he gets on his knees to tend to your injury, or his almost soft voice distracing you from the pain. and somehow, your cheeks getting warm from the intensity of it — the tone he's using usually reserved for the bedroom and yet — it has the same heat.
you just nod — barely listening to what he's actually saying — wanting nothing more for him to keep babying you like he always does no matter the seriousness of the injury. maybe you should start saying it hurts between your legs...
The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside rain tapped lightly against the windows, streaking the glass with silver lines while the clock on the microwave blinked 2:13 AM in dull green numbers.
You sat curled on the kitchen floor in one of Sukuna’s hoodies, knees against your chest, staring blankly at nothing and still you hadn’t turned the lights on.
Hadn’t answered your phone.
Hadn’t moved for almost an hour.
And when the front door finally unlocked, you didn’t even look up.
Heavy footsteps paused immediately.
Then—
“Baby?”
His voice changed instantly.
Not the rough, cocky tone he used with everyone else. Soft. Careful. Like he was approaching something fragile.
Sukuna dropped his gym bag by the door and crossed the apartment fast, crouching in front of you.
“Hey,” he murmured. “What’re you doin’ down here in the dark?”
You shrugged weakly.
He looked at your face for a long moment, red eyes scanning every little thing—the exhaustion under your eyes, the untouched tea beside you gone cold, the way your fingers trembled inside his sleeves.
And his entire expression softened.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The nickname nearly broke you.
Your lips pressed together hard as tears burned suddenly behind your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered automatically.
His brows pulled together immediately. “Why the hell are you apologizing?”
“I dunno… I just—” Your voice cracked. “I can’t stop feeling like this.”
Sukuna exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was physically forcing himself to stay gentle.
Then he reached out carefully, sliding both hands under your arms.
Before you could protest again, he lifted you effortlessly into his lap and sat against the kitchen cabinets with you tucked against his chest.
Warm and safe.
One large hand rubbed slowly up and down your back.
“Have you eaten today?”
“…No.” A tiny shake of your head.
He sighed quietly and pressed his lips to your temple.
You hated how pathetic you felt. Hated how dependent this moment made you seem.
“I’m ruining your night,” you mumbled.
That made him pull back immediately.
His hand came up to cradle your jaw firmly, forcing you to look at him.
“Don’t say shit like that.”
“But—”
“You think I care about anything else when you’re hurting?”
Your throat tightened.
Sukuna wasn’t good at pretty speeches. He wasn’t poetic. Wasn’t the type to sugarcoat things.
But he loved hard.
Completely.
“You don’t gotta pretend around me,” he said quietly. “If getting through the day is hard right now, then it’s hard. Doesn’t make you annoying.”
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.
He wiped it away with his thumb instantly.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
And there was nothing cruel in his face. Nothing impatient.
Just worry.
“You stay alive long enough for me to love you through this, aight?”
That did break you.
A sob escaped your chest before you could hide it, and Sukuna immediately pulled you fully against him, wrapping his arms around you tightly.
“I got you,” he whispered into your hair. “I got you, baby.”
No rushing.
Just his warm hands rubbing your back, fingers threading through your hair, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.
Eventually, when your breathing calmed a little, he shifted enough to stand—still carrying you.
“Kuna—”
“Nope. You’re not walking.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped you.
“There she is,” he murmured with a faint smile.
He carried you to the couch, wrapped you in blankets, then disappeared briefly into the kitchen.
You heard cabinets opening.
The microwave humming.
A minute later he returned with instant ramen, cut fruit, and water balanced carefully in his tattooed hands.
“You’re gonna eat a little,” he said. “And then I’m putting on that stupid baking show you like.”
“You hate that show.”
“Yeah,” he said flatly, handing you the bowl. “But you smile at the old lady with the cupcakes, so now I’m emotionally attached to Brenda.”
You laughed again—small and watery.
Sukuna pretended not to notice the way your hands shook when you reached for the chopsticks.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because he knew you hated being watched when things got bad.
So instead, he leaned back into the couch beside you, one arm stretched across the cushions behind your head while the baking show played quietly on the TV.
Some overly cheerful woman was crying over sponge cake.
You sniffled. “She dropped it for like… three seconds. Why’s she acting like someone died?”
“She’s weak,” Sukuna said immediately.
A tiny smile tugged at your mouth.
There it is.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Sukuna always noticed.
You managed a few bites before your appetite disappeared again, and when you started absentmindedly stirring the noodles instead of eating, his eyes flicked over.
“That all you can do?”
You nodded guiltily.
“Okay.”
No disappointment.
He took the bowl from your hands and set it aside before tugging you closer until your legs rested over his lap.
Sukuna’s fingers kept tracing slow patterns against your calf through the blanket.
Your head eventually tipped against his shoulder, exhaustion dragging at you now that the worst of the crying had passed.
Quietly, you whispered, “Do you ever get tired of me?”
The room seemed to still.
Sukuna looked down at you slowly.
“Tired of you?”
You instantly regretted saying it.
“It’s stupid, forget it—”
“No.” His hand slid up to the back of your neck gently. Don’t ask me something and then take it back.”
Your chest tightened.
He studied your face for a second before speaking.
“I get tired of the way you talk about yourself.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“I get tired of seeing you hurt,” he continued quietly. “I get tired of watching you apologize for existing.” His thumb brushed your skin softly. “But you?” He shook his head once. “Never.”
The sincerity in his voice hurt worse than anything else.
Because part of you still didn’t understand how someone like him could say things like that and mean them.
“I’m hard to love,” you whispered.
Sukuna actually frowned.
Like the statement irritated him.
“Says who?”
“…Me.”
“Well, your brain’s a liar sometimes.”
You stared at him.
And he looked so genuinely certain.
Like loving you was the easiest thing he’d ever done.
“You know what you do when I come home?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
“You peek through the blinds when you hear my bike outside.”
Heat crept into your face immediately. “I do not.”
“You do,” he said smugly. “Every damn time.”
“That’s creepy. Why are you watching me watch you?”
“Because you’re cute.”
You groaned softly and hid your face against his shoulder.
He chuckled under his breath, deep and warm, pressing a kiss into your hair.
“And every morning,” he continued, quieter now, “you make coffee and forget your own cup because you’re busy making mine exactly how I like it.”
Your throat tightened again.
“And when you think I’m asleep, you fix the blanket on me.” Another kiss against your forehead. “You remember what days are hard for me without me saying anything. You leave little notes in my lunch even though your handwriting sucks.”
A weak offended noise left you.
“There she is again,” he murmured softly, smiling.
Then his expression gentled.
“So don’t sit here and tell me you’re hard to love.”
Your eyes burned all over again.
Sukuna noticed immediately and sighed dramatically.
“Ah, shit. C’mere.”
He pulled you fully into his chest before the tears could fall again, wrapping both arms around you and laying back against the couch with you on top of him.
You listened to his heartbeat while his hand stroked slowly through your hair.
Steady.
Patient.
Safe.
After a long silence, you mumbled against his shirt, “You’re too good to me.”
“Nah,” he said easily. “Just good to the right person.”
And for the first time in weeks— the heaviness in your chest didn’t feel quite so unbearable anymore.
By the third episode of the baking show, you were practically glued to him.
Not that Sukuna seemed to mind.
One of your legs was tangled with his, your face buried in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around his waist beneath his hoodie like you were afraid he might disappear if you let go for even a second.
Every time he shifted even slightly, your grip tightened again.
He noticed.
But instead of teasing you immediately, he just rested his chin on top of your head and kept rubbing slow circles into your back.
“Tired?” he murmured.
You shook your head against him.
(what a lie)
He could feel it in the way your body melted heavier into his every minute.
Still, you clung tighter.
Sukuna glanced down finally, amused warmth flickering in his eyes.
“You tryin’ to crawl inside my ribcage or what?”
“Maybe.”
Your voice came out muffled against his throat.
A quiet laugh rumbled in his chest.
“Dramatic.”
But his arms wrapped around you even tighter anyway.
You inhaled slowly, comforted by everything about him—the smell of his cologne and rain, the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
It made your chest ache.
Because lately everything in your mind felt exhausting and heavy and loud— except him.
With him, things went quiet.
“You’re comfy,” you mumbled sleepily.
“I better be. You use me as a damn weighted blanket every day.”
“…You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
You lifted your head just enough to squint at him.
He was already smirking.
Liar.
Your expression softened before you could stop it.
God, you loved him.
Loved him so much it scared you sometimes.
Sukuna noticed the look immediately.
His brows lifted slightly. “What?”
“Nothin’.”
“Bullshit.”
You hid your face again.
He snorted softly. “Baby.”
One hand slid under your jaw, gently forcing your face back up toward him.
His expression shifted the second he really looked at you.
Not teasing anymore.
Just soft.
“What’s goin’ on in that head?”
You stared at him for a second too long before the words slipped out quietly.
“I really love you.”
The room went still.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Heavy with something warm and overwhelming.
Sukuna’s entire face softened in a way almost nobody else ever got to see.
His thumb brushed slowly over your cheek.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
You nodded, eyes already getting shiny again from how intensely you felt everything tonight.
“So much,” you whispered. “Like… too much.”
A tiny crease appeared between his brows immediately.
“There’s no such thing.”
Before you could respond, he leaned down and kissed you.
Slow. Careful.
You melted instantly, hands grabbing the front of his shirt while he held your face so gently it made your chest hurt.
When he pulled back, he stayed close enough for his forehead to rest against yours.
“I love you more than anything,” he said quietly.
And Sukuna almost never sounded vulnerable.
But he did now.
Raw and certain.
“You hear me?” he murmured. “More than anything.”
Your eyes filled completely this time.
“Oh, c’mon,” he sighed softly, smiling a little as he wiped beneath your eyes. “Why’re you cryin’ again?”
“You’re just…” You laughed shakily. “Too sweet.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not.”
“Hm.” He kissed the tip of your nose. “Good. ‘Cause you’re stuck with me.”
You smiled for real then. Small.
Beautiful enough to make his chest ache.
There it is.
Sukuna stared at you for a moment like he wanted to memorize the sight.
Then you suddenly climbed fully into his lap without warning, wrapping yourself around him again.
He blinked once.
“…Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You cling harder than a haunted doll.”
But his hands were already settling securely on your waist.
You tucked your face into his chest with a content little sigh.
“I just wanna be close to you.”
The honesty of it nearly killed him.
Sukuna leaned back into the couch, one hand smoothing through your hair over and over.
“Then stay close,” he whispered.
So you did.
And sometime later, long after the baking show ended, Sukuna looked down to find you fast asleep on top of him— still holding onto his shirt tightly even in your dreams.
He smiled so softly no one else would’ve believed it.
Then he pulled the blanket higher around you and kissed your forehead carefully.
“Love you too, clingy girl.”
hai! Ive been so busy this month, i wrote this after several episodes in which i felt 100% like reader and I thought it was a good idea to write something, so as not to make other people feel alone.
original work, do not stole, copy, plagiarize my work - sturduststrails
HOW TO SEDUCE YOUR ACADEMIC RIVAL, AN ESSAY BY IZUKU MIDORIYA.
❤︎ SYNOPSIS: you and izuku are academic rivals. he as a plan—a semi-stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless—a plan to make you fail your last final of the semester. he just has to figure out how to seduce somebody, first.
❤︎ CONTENT: f!reader, college!au, enemies to lovers, crack treated seriously, know it all!izu vs know it all!reader, battle of the know it alls, glasses!izu, eventual smut, big bakusquad cameo bc fuck it we ball, i said izu is a babbler so i made him babble, dacryphilia, blowjobs, doll!pet name…18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.
❤︎ XOXO, PUMA: inspired by @/dyhun’s academic rival fic, but they deactivated, so i can’t link it :((. if they still exist somewhere else, pls let me know! somebody! also, i know nothing abt debate. or smart ppl stuff. I WRITE IN MY ROOM ALL DAY, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME I—
♫ NOW PLAYING: she did it again, tyla ft. zara larsson.
read on ao3 | 8.4k words | masterlist.
YOUR MAJOR doesn’t have that many students. Apparently, those interested in the overlap between Philosophy and Classics at Yuuei are about twenty a year.
The first semester of college is easy, as expected. You’re the top of your classes, also as expected, and comfortable. Whether graduating summa cum laude matters to collegiate professors is beyond you, but it mattered to you in high school, and it matters to you now—being the best. And, you thrive behind books instead of the fields, so academic prowess it is.
Your second semester is a little different.
A guy with forest green hair transfers into your Advanced Philosophy Seminar period (and, you later realize, he moved around to fit Debate Club into his packed schedule—your Debate Club). You didn’t think anything of it, until you did.
Anytime you present a thought you’re proud of, his voice from across the room squeaks an ‘um, actually’ with a smile, before he’s flipping to precise page that proves you wrong. Naturally, you ‘um, actually’ him back, without a smile, and before long, you’re both send hostile glares across the room. (His, hidden beneath a veil of civility, which makes him annoying. Especially in Debate.)
Competition begins to exist outside the classroom—you both search for it. Occasionally, you’ll get a text, accompanied by a picture and a red 100% marked across a piece of paper. And, a middle finger emoji. Occasionally, you send one back. You begin to hate Debate Club—that’s the only reason he got your number in the first place. All because of that stupid group chat.
That led to texting the evidence of every test, every final. Now, it’s tradition. Rubbing a win in the others’ face.
Izuku Midoriya’s ability to absolutely undermine your every exhale makes you want to grab him by the neck, and throttle him.
But, right now? Right now, he’s acting…weird.
It’s the look of vague constipation that catches your attention, initially.
Izuku finds you in the library. He finds you in the library, on your third cup of coffee at eleven in the morning, hunched over a book and a pile of highlighters, pens and sticky notes for annotations. You aren’t exactly sure why, you don’t see him outside of class, unless required (Debate). When you do, it quickly devolves into an argument the moment he corrects something unnecessary, and you snap. He does it on purpose—you know he does.
So, when you see forest green hair at the entrance, you just sigh, redirect your attention, and wait for him to find you. Silently hoping you won’t get exiled from the library, again.
You get distracted with what you’re doing, and forget about him entirely.
“Hey.”
You jump.
“Jesus—Izuku, you scared the shit out of me,” you huff with hand over your heart, but then you take in his face—his vaguely constipated face. Why.
He places hands on the long desk and leans forward with painful determination, but doesn’t say anything. He wavers, like when your roommate got her ears pierced and you didn’t notice for a week. You blink. And then, against your better judgement:
“Are you…okay?”
The spell shatters. His face goes red, and Izuku returns to himself. You wish you could say that you’re less confused.
“I—Yes, obviously. I just, um, had a question, but I answered it, so never mind.”
With bending eyebrows, and you faintly point to yourself. “You had a question…for me?”
“Not anymore,” he grins, before peering at the book you’re hunched over like a live grenade. “What’cha reading?”
With a growl, you pull the book away from him. Far, far away from him. “Why do you care.”
“Curious,” he shrugs, but it’s with a smile that hints he’s only talking to piss you off. At least, he stands up, up and away, and where you can’t smell him anymore. Good riddance.
“Tolstoy.”
Izuku hums with a nod, and squints his nose beneath round glasses. “Mm, yeah…he’s a little pedantic. You should try Dostoevsky.”
The highlighter you hold creaks under your fingers.
Your teeth grit into a smile, and you pray you don’t explode—one more citation from the librarian, and you’re banned for the semester. And, thanks to your roommate, you really, really can’t afford to be banned for the semester.
“I don’t like Dostoevsky.”
“Oh,” Izuku makes a face of light disgust, like he caught a whiff of something sour, and then it’s gone. You blink rapidly—angrily. He scoffs, and runs a disbelieving hand over his mouth. “Wow, um. Okay.”
You scowl.
“Why are you still here.”
“Honestly, great question,” Izuku nods, and you thank your lucky stars when his feet start moving. “I will, um, see you in Debate.”
“Looking forward to it,” you grin. It’s much more of a wince, and it’s to his back, so he doesn’t see. Then, under your breath, out of earshot, you mutter: “Loser.”
“Oi—Deku. The hell was that?”
“She pisses me off so much, Kacchan.”
Izuku hates the way he goes storming a few rows over and where he’s supposed to meet his friend. His face is hot, probably a little pink because he’s sweating, sweating from the angry little fire brewing in his belly. He hates you—God, he hates you so much—you’re rude, and dismissive, and need to get off your high horse and understand that you don’t know it all, that you’re not some cosmic architect with the secrets to the universe, that you’re just as human as everyone else at this school.
Izuku swears he isn’t normally like his—he’s a nice guy, really. He helps old ladies across the street, takes bugs outside the apartment instead of stomping them to nothing, fucking recycles—but, there’s something about you specifically that burrows under his skin, and makes it crawl.
He sits down in a stiff wooden chair, and kicks the empty one beside him until it topples. Katsuki snorts.
“Yeah, I know,” he nods, chucking a thumb over his shoulder, “I mean—why the fuck did you roll up on her like that.”
“Oh! Um, I have a plan,” Izuku slams a determined fist into an open palm, and turns to the blond. “But, it needs…workshopping.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “And, your plan is to what? Seduce her from her schoolwork?”
Katsuki says the last half as a joke, but Izuku goes silent. Katsuki looks away from his laptop to glower properly.
“Deadass.”
“It sounds worse when you say it out loud,” Izuku whines, crossing his arms on the table to he can tuck his head in between them.
“The hell am I gonna do with you,” Katsuki sighs. Izuku doesn’t lift his head.
“Put me out to pasture.”
“Tempting,” Katsuki grunts, and when Izuku looks, it seems like he’s mulling over something. His thumb rubs at his bottom lip with furrowed brows, eyes distant and thinking. Until they are no longer, and they snap to his face.
“Come with me.”
katsuki [11:15 am]
Code Green.
short circuit [11:15 am]
FUCK YEAH
eijiro [11:15]
holy shit deadass
okok lock in boys, get in positions
hanta [11:16]
,,,we’re in the same room ,,,,
Katsuki leads him to a private study room.
It’s dark, and Izuku doesn’t think much of it, assuming his friend will handle the lights. Instead, a heavy hand guides him into a chair by his shoulder, an articulated lamp clicks on. It’s blinding.
“Um…hello?”
Katsuki has disappeared into the darkness. Now, it’s just Izuku, and a lamp. Alone.
“Kacchan?”
“So. You like a girl.”
Not alone.
The voice is definitely not Katsuki’s—predictable gruff is replaced with something boyish, something mischievous, a voice Izuku recognizes as…
“Denki? And—wait a minute, I don’t like a girl.”
There’s a clearing of a throat, and Denki tries again.
“So. You love a girl.”
“Can someone turn the lights on?” Izuku presses against the chair to look behind him, but can’t see much, thanks to the blinding lamp. “This is weird.”
“That’s what I said,” Katsuki huffs, and flicks them on. The yellow canned lighting reveals Izuku at the head of a conference table, with Katsuki’s friends all gathered with hands steepled in front of their faces. Izuku knows them well, knows them enough, but not well enough for…whatever this is.
“What is this?”
“So. You love a—”
Hanta slaps Denki upside the head to avoid making everyone suffer for a third time. The electric blond whines.
Eijirō looks to Katsuki for an explanation, and Izuku’s dear childhood friend snorts as he settles in the open chair beside him.
“Apparently, we’re out here seducing academic rivals.”
“For distraction!” Izuku adds, wholly unsure as to why his business must be aired, and why Katsuki’s friends seem so invested. He sees them sometimes—at the big stuff, a few times a year—but couldn’t say any time he’s talked to them one on one. Eijirō, maybe.
But, Izuku finds himself divulging to the friends that are not his friends regardless. For research.
“I was, um,” Izuku fiddles with the hands in his lap, because, yeah, he sounds a little insane when said aloud. “I tried to…girls like forearms, right? So I like, flexed them on the table, and gave her, like, a look, but um, it…didn’t quite…work.”
There’s a shared look between the semi-strangers in the room, possibly an inside joke, a train of thought he didn’t buy a ticket for, something he lacks the context to understand. Eijirō gives a thoughtful hum, before turning to him.
“And, the problem is…what. She doesn’t like you like that?”
“No,” Katsuki chuckles. “The problem is that he’s bad at it.”
“Kacchan!” Izuku hisses. He’s not necessarily wrong, though. And, this—his friends could help, probably, but like—
“We got’chu,” Denki insists with confidence, mouth finally free from Hanta’s clutches. “We’re all very hot guys with an equal amount of pull.”
The room sighs, and something tells Izuku that is not the case.
But, Izuku is desperate. Folding is easy.
“…What would you have me do?”
Denki pushes away from the conference table, rolling in his chair for a moment, before strutting to a whiteboard in the front of the room. He pops the cap of an EXPO marker off with his teeth, writes in a faded yellow that’s almost too light to read, and talks into the plastic laminate.
“You my friend, need to—”
TIP 1 — DENKI’S IDEA — PLAY HOT TO GET. (LOSE A DEBATE.)
“…Hot to Get…” Katsuki mutters, reading what Denki wrote aloud, before shoving his face into palms and pulling. “Who let him go first.”
“Shut—“ Denki taps the whiteboard with the opposite end of his marker, “the fuck up, Kacchan, and let me lay down the law.”
Katsuki bristles. “I will blow your face off. Don’t you fuckin’ call me—”
“With what? Your hands?”
Katsuki grumbles something under his breath that Izuku can’t quite hear, and Eijirō groans to the ceiling.
“Guys.”
“He distracted me,” Denki defends, before turning to Izuku with a glint in his eyes, like he’s the next test subject in the lab. He points at the greenette, marker in hand, “Now. You.”
“Me,” Izuku straightens.
“You will send,” then, Denki turns back to the board, lower body bowing as he rests a forearm to write in slanted and uneven lettering. He speaks as he writes, and that just makes things messier. “M—i—xed si—gnals, right? Hot and Cold, you’re there, and you’re not.”
Izuku frowns, struggling to understand how he would even apply such a vague concept. Denki whirls back to the whiteboard, clumsily writing a 1. smushed in the left corner, before starting a second row below it, this time, labeled properly. 2.
“Are these…do they go in any particular order, or are these just general pointers?”
“Pointers,” Denki huffs over his shoulder, still writing furiously, before he pivots. The back of his marker taps the board again with a soft clink. “Look hot. You, my friend, have got to sell the Izuku Midoriya brand, and right now, this ain’t it.”
Denki forms a circle with the marker in the air in reference to Izuku’s…entire self. He looks down at his green zip up and frowns.
“…What’s wrong with my…brand?”
“Ugh, everything,” Denki scowls like it’s been bothering him for a while, Izuku’s ‘brand,’ then turns back to the board. “Send me your closet.”
“Like…a picture?” Izuku asks, because, he kind of needs his clothes, and that sounds awfully expensive to be taken literally. He looks at Katsuki—not exactly sure what he’s trying to find, and the ash blond, who doesn’t seem to either, just shrugs back.
“You dress like a nerd, Nerd—I don’t fuckin’ know.”
Denki, who is now writing 3. on the board, shouts straight into it in hopes the words ricochet enough for them to hear—they do. “Kat, you’d wear a garbage bag if it was socially acceptable!”
Katsuki snorts, chucking a thumb at Denki’s back. “Dumbass is just mad that I’d look good in a garbage bag.”
“Three!” Denki hollers, turning back to the room now, with a huff that has Hanta snorting. “There will be a moment. A Mo—ment, okay?”
He turns his upper body to put stars around the word ‘moment,’ which is already underlined multiple times, circled, and somehow, bolded. Izuku nods.
“Moment.”
“Yes,” Denki nods, pointing the marker at him, before he motioning wild enough that Izuku worries the marker will going to go flying and hit Kacchan in the head, or something, and then they’ll really have a problem. “You’ll feel it—the heat in the air, the glimmer in her eyes. And then, you attack.”
“I just want to distract her,” Izuku pouts, crossing his arms on the table. “Not…attack.”
“Not attack-attack, like—“
“God, I hope not.”
“Quiet, Kacchan, I’m in the fucking zone,” the crosshairs of the marker redirect to his heckler, who bristles until Eijirō places a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Attack as in that’s when you go in. That’s when you seduce.”
Izuku blinks slow.
“But…how do I…seduce?”
“That, my friend,” Denki moves to a different area on the whiteboard, where more words sit, circled and underlined, just like ‘moment,’ “is when your natural instincts come in. Now—”
He pops the cap off the marker again.
“Are you a top or a bottom?”
Is this the moment Denki was talking about?
Where it feel like time could stop and there’s a heat in your eye—is this it?
Izuku didn’t even think you’d agree, if he’s being honest.
The cafe part was Denki’s idea—the study part, his. Denki picked out his outfit, thankfully not too uncomfortable or out of character. (He was a little fearful about getting shoved in skinny jeans, and as great as Denki looks in them, Izuku feels like they may choke his knees.) They worked with what he owned until he was left wearing something a slight league ahead what he normally would, and either you don’t notice, or don’t care. But, that’s—
“Thanks,” you mutter, and take the drink he passes after freezing for a beat too long, eyes flicking back to your textbook.
—That’s something, right?
Despite all the effort he put into this, you wear what you always do, literally—there isn’t much in your closet under than high school mathlete t-shirts and college sweatshirts. He knows, because that’s all he sees you in. Meanwhile, Izuku’s eyes still burn from the twenty minutes it took to put contacts in.
He slides into the horseshoe booth, settling himself a little closer than necessary. Five pm sunlight cuts through the window and into the side of your face, and Izuku wavers, before realizing, no, this is tension, and Denki told him to cut the tension with a bold move. Bold move, um—
Deciding to forgo the recommended yawn, Izuku just stretches his arm along the booth behind your head. You don’t say anything about it.
“We got the topic early, this time,” he adjusts in his seat, returning to the reason you’re both here in the first place. Well. The fake reason.
You hum, nodding the head resting in your hand. “‘Perception and truth are fundamentally distinct’—pretty straight forward.”
“Yeah,” Izuku snorts. “Good luck to the Opposition.”
You pop the cap off a highlighter to run it across the sentence. For some reason, you insist on printing everything—something about a sheet of paper being easier to read, to annotate. But, all Izuku hears is the death of a forest and you struggling. “Why?”
“Because, we obviously have the right answer.”
“It’s a debate,” you huff, looking at him with the intensity of a college professor discussing their field. “There is no right answer.”
Izuku whines in consideration, teetering his head as he watches a mother and daughter cross the street. “Eh. There is, sometimes.”
“Well, I think it’s the opposite.”
“No, you don’t,” Izuku shakes his head, positive that you just said it to spite him. His urge to correct your spite and/or stupidity burns, and then, he has to say something, right? He leans his elbow on the table and speaks through a sardonic but polite smile. “Perception is subjective, and truth is objective—fundamentally, they’re distinct.”
“Fundamentally, you’re a pain in the ass,” you hiss, before fixing your face into something palatable again. “You can argue just as easy that perception is truth, because we understand truth through perception.”
And then, beautifully tacked on, the fin of your argument under your breath: “Dipshit.”
Izuku’s smile cracks.
“Does that not negate the literal definition of truth?”
With a yawn, you pull your phone up to glossed lips. The glare you wear so proud never falters. “Hey Siri—definition of truth.”
Siri bah-leep’s to life, and for some reason, yours is a grown man with an Australian accent.
“Truth is the property of being in accord with fact, reality, or actuality, or fidelity to an original, or to a standard, or ideal.”
“See?” Izuku gestures to the phone with an open hand. “Fact.”
You roll your eyes and set the phone down a little harder than necessary. “Fact is literally—it was a fact that the sun revolved around the earth in the 16th century!”
“Holy shit,” Izuku groans into his hands, completely flabbergasted by your idiocy. “Yes, but we have modern technology, now. Technology, that—“
“That we think is right, but who really knows? Also—get your arm off the back of my seat, you creep.”
“Gladly,” he huffs, and does exactly that.
You end it there, snatching the drink off the table to take a long, sugar-fueled sip. Your lips wrap tight around a plastic straw and your glower never ceases, looking through his eyes and into the back of his skull, and Izuku…Izuku—
What was he going to say?
What was he going to say, because he can’t think of anything other than how pretty those lips would look wrapped around something else, something like his—
IZUKU: 0. YOU: 1.
He hates you.
TIP 2 — EIJIRŌ’S IDEA — LOVE LANGUAGES. (ACT LIKE YOU THINK SHE’S SMART. YOU DON’T.)
“Riddle me this, Midoriya—What’s her love language?”
Izuku groans. What the hell is a love language?
Eijirō is perched at the opposite head of table, the one closest to the whiteboard, tossing a marker in his hand without a second glance. The confusion on Izuku’s face seems to explain everything to the football captain, as he starts to prattle on about something that is definitely not a science.
“‘Kay! So, there’s five, right?” He gestures to the board, to something written in red and done before Izuku’s arrival today. “Words of affirmation, physical touch, receiving gifts, quality time, acts of service, good deal?”
Izuku frowns—his head hurts from school already, and you, and now, this. Rubbing a knuckle into his temple, he says, “…I feel like I should be writing this down.”
“Yeah, probably,” Eijirō says over his shoulder without a second thought. Izuku has to shift around him to see the whiteboard better. “Now—looking at the board, do you think you could figure out which one is her love language?”
Izuku bites the inside of his cheek, adjusts thick rimmed glasses, and reads as well as he can between squinted eyes. That, and respectfully, Eijirō’s hand writing isn’t any better than Denki’s—just, somehow, more crooked. At least it’s missing the internet slang.
“Mm…” he hums, and mulls it over, and over, and over again, until he realizes, “no.”
Eijirō deflates a little.
“That’s…fine, let’s just, um,” he looks forward again, tapping the marker on his chin. The cap is still on, but he smears a line of red across his chin, regardless. “Well, quality time isn’t an issue…maybe, like, buy her coffee before class, or something? And compliments—maybe tell her she’s smart?”
Izuku bristles.
“She’s not smart.”
“Oh, but I thought you—”
“So, compliment her and buy her stuff,” Hanta shrugs at the board, before turning to Izuku with a grin, and ultimately saving both him and Eijirō from further embarrassment. “Seems pretty straightforward.”
“Yeah, say she has pretty eyes,” Denki chirps, drumming his fingers against the table. “Girls love that!”
Izuku groans, stuffs a hand into his hair, and hides behind his forearm. There’s no way he’s going to be able to do this. He should give up.
“Too late for that,” Katsuki grunts, reading his mind. “You already got those fuckers involved.”
“I didn’t get them involved!” Izuku says with a shrill whisper, lifting his head to accuse his friend with eyebrows in his hairline. “You did!”
Katsuki shoots him a quick and fake smile, one that reads ‘I know,’ before it drops. His jaw pops under the gum between his teeth, and he moves on, looking towards the front of the room again.
“And, y’know,” Eijirō adds with a shrug, “Maybe, like, a hug, or something—”
“I’m not touching her.”
“O-kay,” Eijirō nods slow, wary. “Well, I think those two things are good to focus on, either way. Oh! And, be manly—open doors, pull out her chair, etcetera etcetera.”
Izuku thinks those are all horrible things to focus on. Compliments? Chivalry? Are you fucking kidding me?
“…Guys, I think he’s gonna combust,” Denki says, eyeing his face. It’s probably red as hell, literally—he probably looks like a strawberry, he can’t help it, he’s pissed.
“I’m…fine,” Izuku whimpers. Though, he imagines the satisfying look of defeat on your face when you score lower than him on your last final of the year, and yeah, no, he’s totally fine.
He’s going to be the reason you fail, and it’s going to feel so good.
“You look good today.”
“I look good everyday, what’s your point?”
The grip Izuku has on the coffee he bought tightens, along with his smile. He places it on your desk.
“Got you coffee.”
Now, you frown, blinking up warily, “…It’s poisoned.”
“N—“ he lets out a sharp exhale, hands lifting and falling at his sides. No matter what he does, he literally can’t win. Just take the damn coffee and be flattered. “Do I look like Maleficent to you?”
You give him a good look. Up and down, studying him like you would a textbook, and it makes his skin crawl.
“Honestly? A little.”
He gives up.
“Whatever,” Izuku says, chucking a hand over his shoulder as he pivots. Luckily, his seat in Advanced Philosophy Seminar is far away from yours—the exact opposite side of the room, in fact. You sit on the left side towards the back, him the right side towards the front. It’s nice to not have to look at your face, but he still has to hear your voice, and that’s enough to enrage. Class begins, and you take all of the participation points. You raise your hand and answer without being called on, like an overactive teacher‘s pet. This is college.
“St. Thomas Aquinas outlined four distinct types of law in his Summa Theologiae, what are—”
“Eternal, Natural, Divine, and Human Law!”
“—and, what’s the definition of Eternal l—”
“Eternal law is God’s rational plan and purpose for all of creation, existing from eternity.”
“Thank you, Ms. L/N. Now—Natural law i—”
“Is the rational creature’s participation in the Eternal Law. It’s the moral code discovered through human reason and examining human nature.”
“Okay, Ms. L/N, thank you, but I would like to hear from your classmates as well.”
The class snickers. You huff, but don’t say anything else. Izuku catches your eye from across the room, mouths the word ‘embarrassing,’ and you flip him off behind your laptop screen.
The next time you raise your hand, you wait to be called on.
“Yes, Ms. L/N?”
“I think St. Aquinas’ biggest fault was associating reason with the church,” you say, wide mouthed and factual, hand still half-hung in the air. It’s kind of cute. “While it makes sense for the time, obviously, most Philosophy was, this risks turning philosophy into a tool for defending pre-set conclusions rather than questioning them.”
And now, Izuku must do the thing he’s been preparing for the entire class. Has to hype himself up for it, actually. His teeth grit, the bitter taste in his mouth already present despite the words still sticking to his throat, and he really doesn’t want to do this.
But also, he really wants to watch you flounder. So.
“I agree with Y/N on that one,” Izuku says, forcing it past his lips in and into actuality. Ew. “He builds a system where reason is expected to say inside a theological boundary. I think that boundary changes the definition of ‘free thinking’.”
Someone else has a rebuttal to that opinion, but Izuku isn’t paying it much mind. He finds you across the room, lips parted and eyes wide, hands tucked in soft balls on both sides of your laptop, bracing for something that never came. Izuku shoots you a smug smile.
Gotcha.
IZUKU: 1. YOU: 1.
You’re kind of cute, though. He’ll give you that.
TIP 3 — HANTA’S IDEA — A VERY PERSONAL, VERY PRIVATE ‘NOT DATE.’ (SWAP SPIT—NOT LIKE THAT.)
Hanta doesn’t even write anything on the board. Just stays where he is, spinning to face Izuku in his chair.
“Okay. We’re gonna pick up where Denki left off with the whole branding thing,” Hanta says with a snap and a point. Denki brings a fist in tight with a small and celebratory ‘yes.’ “What’s something you use everyday that’s, like, physical? Like a sweatshirt, or rings, or…”
“Um,” Izuku goes digging in his bag, hissing when poked by something, before he finds a small and oblong bag full of matching, “No. 2 Pencils?”
Katsuki sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose. “…This is depressing.”
“Hey,” Izuku pouts, and Katsuki gawks, pulling out a hand beneath folded arms to gesture to the pencil pouch like it’s a proper defense. It is not.
“How the hell are we supposed to woo a bitch with a pencil?”
“Easy,” Hanta shrugs, leaning into his chair. “You leave it.”
Izuku nearly gasps, clumsily pressing the pouch close to his heart. “But—”
“Nerd,” Katsuki begins carefully, like he’s coercing something feral out of its corner. “There’s a whole pack in there. You can donate one. To fail. Again.”
Izuku groans to the ceiling, and has to remember why he’s doing this.
“Fine,” Izuku exhales through a tight jaw, because he’s only human, and humans have their boiling points—and his, for some reason, is having to deal with you for more than five minutes, and losing one of his lucky pencils in the process. Looking back at Hanta, he loosens his clutch on the pouch. “So, what—leave a pencil, and then what? That’s it?”
Hanta hesitates, lifting a hand for a breath, before pointing at him with two fingers, “Yes and no. I have another thing—they’re two separate entities.”
Izuku sighs. “Okay.”
“Second thing,” the finger guns flip upward and split until they make a two. “Can you get her alone?”
“Uh,” Izuku almost snorts. Why does this feel like an sting operation? Operation it is, but sting it is not. “…How…alone…?”
Hanta looks up and into nothing in contemplation, and only for a moment.
“Like, a date, alone.”
Izuku snorts, chortles, guffaws, and all the other ugly noises that have weird names to match their weird sounds. Shaking his head, he insists, definitively, “I’m not asking her on a date.”
“I didn’t say ask her on a date. I said get her alone.”
Izuku groans in defeat, and now it’s his turn to pinch the bridge of his nose. There is a Debate this weekend out of town, meaning… “Yeah, maybe.”
“Okay,” Hanta snaps, “Do that—take her on a ‘not-date,’ but not like the one before. Make it private, make it personal. Like, at night.”
“Ooh, night time is so romantic,” Eijirō adds with wide eyes, and Izuku wants to do violent things.
“I feel like that’s going to waste both of our time, not just hers,” he mutters, and Hanta leans forwards on both forearms, squinting his eyes.
“Do you like this woman, Midoriya?”
This feels like a trick question.
“…No?”
“Is two hours of your time not a worthy sacrifice to get her to think about you twenty-four seven,” Hanta asks, with a lift of one eyebrow. Izuku’s head teeters in consideration. Then, he remembers—that face. Failure.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” and Hanta slaps a big hand on the table so hard it jolts Izuku’s soul right out of his skin. “Then it’s settled. Now, we gotta teach you how to talk.”
“I talk…fine?”
“Hey, um—I think I left my pencil.”
This is stupid. This is so stupid it hurts.
You look over your shoulder to the No. 2 Pencil that is, in fact, still lying on the hotel desk he left it on. Today’s half of the debate went well, and tomorrow is shaping to be even better—and the whole team crammed inside your hotel room to make sure of it.
But, it’s late, and everyone’s retired to their own rooms by now. As did Izuku—and, he thinks he’s supposed to leave the pencil for longer, probably overnight, but he cannot, in good consciousness, let his lucky pencil rot outside of its lucky pencil case for too long. So. Thirty minutes it is.
“Oh,” you notice, before you walk there and back, pencil in hand. Izuku twitches, thinking don’t touch it, don’t touch it, don’t touch it, but the circumstances are, seemingly, out of his control. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” He wants to pick it up by the eraser, but doesn’t. Is it possible to wash a pencil? He tucks it and his hands into the leather jacket he got while thrifting with Denki, and sucks at his teeth. Now, for the hard part. The other hard part.
“I was…um, thinking of going for a walk, actually.”
You scoff, crossing your arms and tossing a shoulder. “Okay.”
“And, uh, was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
Your sour face curdles.
“…Why.”
“Well, you know,” Izuku laughs it off, taking a sweaty hand out of his pocket to gesture between the two of you. Honestly, his plans were to, like, invite you over for a movie, or something, but he’s sharing room with Shōto, and can’t exactly invite himself into to your room, can he? His mouth positions itself to spew a load of bull, throat tight because he really doesn’t want to do this. “Because, y’know, we gotta build camaraderie between Captain and Co-Captai—”
“There is no Co-Captain.”
“Right,” Izuku lets out a shaky exhale, one filled with rage, because how dare you undermine his role like that, literally everyone knows he’s a spiritual co-captain. “Well. Thought I’d extend the invite, either way.”
You waver, biting the inside of your cheek. That’s when he realizes, holy shit, you’re actually considering—
“Give me five,” you grunt, and slam the door behind you, leaving Izuku and his lucky pencil in the hallway.
Okay. Okay, cool.
You took ten minutes to what—put on a jacket?
Izuku tries to keep his cool on the walk, but it’s hard. It’s hard, when he points out a streetlamp and says he likes the design of the victorian ones, just for you to say they’re flawed because ‘sewer gas destructor lamps’ burned flammable methane and hydrogen sulfide fumes from sewers. He turns to you with a frown.
“You’re really depressing, you know that?”
“Thanks,” you beam. It’s fake, but it makes him feel weird, regardless. “It’s a part of my charm.”
Izuku snorts. Stupid.
So, when you pass a river with quacking ducks by it’s edge, and coo, saying ‘awh, i wish i had bread,’ he makes sure to pop your bubble right then and there.
“Actually, you shouldn’t encourage that because they won’t be able to survive on their own, otherwise—they’ll just live in the pond, probably die from malnutrition, diseases, or bad water quality.”
You blink at him with the most appalled look he’s ever seen. You’re…smiling, though, which is a weird on you. It’s weird, all around.
“And you say I’m depressing?”
“Mm,” Izuku taps his chin and hums like he’s thinking about it. He’s not. “Yes.”
Eventually, you two stumble across an ice cream shop. They close in five minutes, and he doesn’t even like ice cream, but you still in your tracks and stare at the place with stars in your eyes. A disgruntled worker behind the counter sighs, and puts their gloves back on.
Izuku buys your ice cream—and gets himself a cone, too.
He doesn’t know why. He likes sweets enough, and definitely isn’t in the mood for them right now. But, here is, with a waffle cone of mint chocolate chip dripping through the grated slats of a metal table. What a mess.
“Oh my God—it’s so good,” you moan past a spoonful of your own, before scooping another and shoving it under his nose. “Try it.”
Izuku doesn’t give himself much time to think—he’s tired, his brain hurts, mint melts over his knuckles, and he doesn’t know if he has enough napkins. With a distracted hum, he takes the spoonful into his mouth, with no consideration of the fact that it was just in yours.
It’s not until he’s pulling back, spoon halfway out of his mouth, that you also seem to realize your mistake. It’s your small squeak that gets his attention, as he looks at your wide eyes, and he—oh. Oh.
Izuku recoils so quick.
“That’s, um,” he remembers there’s ice cream in his mouth, remembers to swallow, forgets to breathe. “That’s not bad.”
“Uh…yeah,” you agree, also a bit breathless.
You avoid his eyes when you take the next bite, same spoon.
IZUKU: 1. YOU: 2?
Ah, shit.
TIP 4 — KATSUKI’S IDEA — GO GHOST. (MISS YOU, OR SOMETHING.)
“Saved the best for last,” Katsuki tosses up a marker and catches it, walking before the whiteboard in a half-hearted pace. Hanta rolls his eyes and Denki groans, but Eijirō just fist pumps the air.
“Hell yeah, Bro!”
“My pointer?” Katsuki punctuates his words with a heavy tap to the board, to what he wrote in bright orange. “Do fuckin’ nuthin’.”
Izuku sighs. He wants to go home.
Luckily, he’s not the only lost boy, as Eijirō narrows his eyes at the board, leaning forward like Katsuki wrote anything other than ‘FUCKING NOTHING.’ “…But—”
“You’ve done the groundwork,” Katsuki points at Izuku, wholly steamrolling his friend. “Now, you disappear. Should be easy if you don’t like her, right?”
Izuku swallows, nods. His hands lift to the sides of his face, and he’s prepared to drag them down at the slightest inconvenience. “Right.”
He hopes he doesn’t feel as unsteady as he sounds.
“So—go ghost,” Katsuki taps the whiteboard with a knuckle this time, before his pacing restarts. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or some shit—make her realize she misses you.”
“Maybe leave another pencil, give her something to reminisce over,” Hanta waves, absentminded, and Izuku can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He’s not leaving another pencil.
“…Okay,” he shifts with caution, eyes moving from the very determined pencil thief to his childhood best friend. “But, I still have to see her though, like, for debate and stuff.”
“That’s fine,” Katsuki shrugs, “the most important part is to go back to how things were.”
“Y’know, Kat, this explains a lot about you,” Eijirō hums with a hand on his chin and a vaguely distant gaze. He looks like some red bastardization of the Thinker. Katsuki whirls around with a look Izuku doesn’t understand.
“Watch it, Shitty Hair.”
Eijirō giggles, but leaves it alone.
“…Okay. Then what?”
“Then, you’re done,” Katsuki says like it’s obvious, and it is, it should be, but— “She fails, too busy missing you to study, and you win.”
He wins. Right.
“Um, are you sure?”
There’s a fist in his lap that tightens when a word flashes through his mind. Excuses. Why is he making excuses? He wants this to be over—he hates you.
Katsuki snorts, and gives him a knowing glance. Izuku is just confused as to what he knows.
“Yep.”
Izuku nods. “Okay.”
Okay. He can do this. It’s not like he’ll miss you, or anything.
He misses you—or something.
Or something, probably, because he still hates your guts. You still piss him off in Debate, in class, undermining anything interesting he has to say. So, vice versa—you say one thing and he says another, and that’s that.
Things have gone back to the exact way they were. Almost.
They did. But—
Izuku (11:34 pm)
hey, wyd?
It was a lapse in judgment. And, a lapse in alcohol. You don’t even respond.
Izuku wakes the next morning, sweaty with a unpleasant taste in his dry mouth. He groans, pulling at the knots in his hair, because fuck, Kacchan said no contact, and now it looks like he’s thinking about you. Which he’s not—and when he does, he gets mad. Because, he hates you.
Finals roll around, and he can’t fucking focus.
Not because of you—never because of you. But, because he feels like he hasn’t done his job thorough enough, and while he’s confident, if you get anything above a 50%, he will be a little annoyed. Maybe, he’s setting himself up on that one.
The morning of his Philosophy final, he gets a text.
You (7:45 am)
dont fail too hard
Izuku snorts, rolling onto his back in his bed, and stifles a yawn.
Izuku (9:05 am)
Oh, I’m passing with flying colors
YOU on the other hand…
Then, it’s 9:45, and he’s sat at his desk with his laptop open and ready, watching the minutes count down until 9:50. In that time, he triple checks his notifications, but isn’t quite sure what he’s looking for.
Izuku feels fine when it’s done. Apparently, the LMS has other ideas.
45%
“Forty-five?!”
Izuku groans, sinks deeper into his chair and drags a hand over his face, sending his glasses askew. He’s never scored 45% in his life, in anything. Social skills in middle school, maybe, but that was situational more than anything else.
45%
How did this go so wrong? And, yes, there’s still a writing portion to be graded by human hands, that should bump him up a little, but not nearly enough. Maybe, the teacher will let him re-do it—this is out of character for him. Maybe, he can feign a family emergency, or cite his mental health, or…or…
Izuku tries to pinpoint the exact reason, the exact moment he lost his grip on reality, when—
Ding!
He sighs, opening the messages on his laptop.
You (12:05)
READ IT AND WEEP BITCH
[attached photo]
It’s a picture of you in front of your desktop, with a thumbs up and a grin. Izuku has to zoom to properly see the score—100%, and wants to throw something. It’s when he doesn’t care all that much, stupidly grinning at the picture along with you, that he realizes—
Oh.
“Fuck!”
He slams his head into the desk. It hurts.
This is embarrassing.
TIP 5 — IZUKU’S IDEA — FOLD LIKE A LAWN CHAIR. (A LAPSE IN JUDGEMENT.)
The debate team goes out for drinks at the end of the school semester. As is tradition.
What isn’t tradition, is Izuku actually attending—normally, he sits it out, choosing to stay in with a movie and take-out to recover his poor battered brain. He teeters in the an entrance of a bar he’s never attended, and severe regrets passing on Tenya’s offer to carpool, as he’s left to fend for himself in a sea of people who know exactly where to go.
“Izuku—Hey!”
Oh, thank God.
“Ochako!” He nearly sighs at the sight of a familiar face, and gives her a half-hug in the threshold. “Oh great, I did not want to go in alone.”
She frowns, pointing at the sign, “You’ve never been here?”
Izuku shakes his head. Maybe this place is popular among the students, or something.
He’s proven correct as he steps in, and it’s packed.
Mainly, he assumes, with students fresh out of finals, just like them—dead and trying to resuscitate, with alcohol and weed and whatever other substance will put a pep in their step. The music is loud enough for him to feel the bass in his feet, for glasses rattle on their shelves. He can’t help but wonder if this is a bar, or a club masquerading as one. Wonders how much business they lose during finals season.
Eventually, they weave through the crowd and to a booth. You’re not here, yet—not that he’s looking for you, it’s just that he noticed—and he slides into the booth along with his friend, texts the group chat, waiting for others to arrive.
“So,” Ochako wiggles brunette eyebrows at him, “you and Y/N, huh?”
“Um,” Izuku frowns. “No?”
She giggles, quirking her head. “Was that a question?”
“No,” Izuku clears his throat, “Um—no, we are not…whatever you’re implying.”
“I could’ve been implying that you’re both excellent Co-Captains,” she shrugs, but Izuku narrows his eyes.
“Were you?”
“No,” she snorts, shaking her head, before pointing towards the bar—or, pointing towards a group of people that look like they’re surrounding a bar. “Want a drink?”
He waves a passive hand. “I’m good—want me to get it?”
“No. Just watch the stuff,” she says, already sliding away. “If anyone else comes and they want something—text me!”
He gives a stiff salute, watching her disappear between shoulders and into nothing. (Or—everything?) Izuku gets a little restless, after that. Nightlife isn’t really his thing. He likes hanging out with people, hell, he doesn’t mind a party as long as it doesn’t get too crowded and he can comfortably perceive an exit—but, the issue with college is, everything is crowded.
“Oh—it’s you.”
Izuku lifts his head off the booth to the apathetic voice, and—oh. It’s you, too.
And, you’re not in a mathletes shirt.
No, you’re actually in a dress—a form-fitting one, one that makes him wonder what you look like with it off, and that’s not a very good thought to have about your Arch-Nemesis For All Time.
“It’s me,” he drums his fingers on the table and he forces his eyes at your face, which doesn’t help as much as he thought it would. “Ochako went to go get a drink, if you want something.”
“Nah,” you huff, sliding into the opposite side. You take your jacket off, which is worse, actually, because now he can see shoulders and collarbones, and Izuku understands why the Amish cover their ankles now.
But, it’s okay—all you have to do is open your mouth, and say something that’ll probably piss him off, and the spell will be broken. Yeah, you’re pretty, so what—so are lots of other people.
“Ugh, I want to go home already,” you mutter under your breath. Izuku snorts.
“You just got here.”
“So?” You turn to him, and he can’t tell if the look of pure disgust is because of him, or the environment—probably both. “And I want to go home.”
“Well. I think you need to get out more,” he decides aloud, which is, albeit, a little hypocritical, but you don’t need to know that. He hopes it’ll rile you up, get you normal again, c’mon, look ugly—
“I don’t care what you think,” you growl, resting forearms on the table. Izuku hates the fact that it makes him lean a little closer. The fire in his belly burns just the same—but, different, this time. Sweeter.
“You should,” Izuku clicks his tongue and pouts in faux pity. “I’m, like, really smart.”
The Final stays between him and his laptop. It was a fluke. A fluke!
He hums, settling his chin on a hand, and watches you take the bait. (Except, the fish he catches isn’t quite the fish he expects—the fish he catches is a lot prettier, and he kind of wants to fuck the fish?)
You groan with your head to the ceiling before rolling your head right. Your hands on the table ball into fists, and your tone turns mocking. (Not that his wasn’t.) “You’re, like, really not. You like Dostoevsky.”
His frown borders on appalled, but there’s a smile threatening the edges. “You like Tolstoy.”
“Because Tolstoy creates a whole world, it’s interesting.”
“It’s pedantic.”
“Your pedantic.”
“Your mom’s pedantic.”
You snort, and narrow your eyes, but it’s not a glare—it lacks the heat. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
“No, that’s the best you could come up with, actually,” he points, and you huff when you realize he’s right. Izuku finally lets the smile slip.
“See? Smart.”
“You piss me off,” you spit, and Izuku shrugs.
“Feeling’s mutual.”
“And I hate you.”
“Likewise, Doll,” Izuku says with a polite smile. To be honest, the pet name just sort of slipped, but comes out relatively condescending, so he’s not too mad about it.
(Why aren’t you ugly yet?)
You falter. Well, not falter, per-se, but you look at him to ensure he knows what he just said. For a moment, he thinks he sees a glint, until disgust covers that sparkle in your eye.
“Never call me Doll again. That was disgusting.”
“Mm,” Izuku hums, because now, he has a theory to test. “Is Baby better, then?”
“None of them are.”
“Okay,” Izuku nods, just enough for you to relax a little, before, “Doll.”
You scowl and kick him under the table.
Okay, now—is it a lapse in judgement that he’s here? Or is it a lapse in judgement that he wants to be, in the first place?
“Okay, okay—f-fuck—okay.”
The genkan bench is not comfortable to sit on for longer than five seconds. Noted.
“Oh my—fuck, Doll, that’s so good, you’re so good, jus—”
You pull your mouth off of him while rolling your eyes, but not the good kind. Not the sex kind.
“Shut up, you’re embarrassing yourself,” you huff, hand working on his cock as methodically as it writes your essays. Izuku likes you better when your mouth is full, he realizes.
“You’re on your knees for me, and I’m embarrassing?” He chuckles, cradling the back of your head. “Right.”
That gets him what he wants—you hiss, and put him back into your mouth with a purpose. The issue is that the purpose has his toes curling, and the back of his head knocks into the wall. If he didn’t have that drink, this would feel much worse, he thinks.
You laughs at him around his dick, which has to be on a whole different level of disrespect, but it only makes the coil in his belly grow tighter. There’s a new determination in there, when he realizes there’s new environment to remind you of your place in.
This might work.
He forces your head further down, far enough that it wipes that gloating look from your eyes and replaces it with something else entirely, as you choke and splutter but don’t push at his hips. He lets go after that, and you pull off with a snarl and a cough.
“What the fuck was th—”
He snatches the back of your head again and forces it down with little resistance. You choke initially, but he lets you pull back to where you’re comfortable. Once you get too comfortable, he shoves you south again.
“Awh, look at you,” he coos, grabbing both sides of your face to move you, and yeah, this is nice, “Chok—fuck—Choking on me like a fucking slut, huh? Is this how you let the football team do you? No wonder you’re so good at this.”
But, you can’t even respond, because there’s a dick in your mouth—his dick—and that makes him giddy in the way cutting you off in class just can’t, building bubbles in his blood and depriving his oxygen. Izuku feels great—on top of the world, even—until you pinch his inner thigh, and he makes a sound wholly unlike himself. Anymore.
His stomach tightens tenfold.
“What—h-hey—”
You pick up the calm, peaceful rhythm that he set for himself—a rhythm he was relaxing into, thank you very much. It’s not his fault. It’s his arms fault, actually. Or, his hands…they frame your face too well, and when you look up at him, he realizes he’s a little too close for his liking. A little.
“Okay, okay, let—let’s slow down,” Izuku huffs a laugh, and thinks he might be drooling—that inhale was a little wet, “Let’s, um—oh shit—”
You choke on him, willingly, and hard enough to spring tears from your eyes. Izuku does not watch the mascara starts to run at the edges, does not watch the way your lips stretch around him, does not look down your dress and into your chest. Nope. Does not.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no—hey,” he coaxes, practically pleading, and massages corners of your eyes. Bad, stupid, dumb idea—wet mascara smudges under this thumb when it slides, and, you look—you look—
“Shi—it,” Izuku drones, slamming his head into the wall (didn’t he already do that?) as his thighs lock, and he spills down your throat. You cough and splutter, and pull off halfway through, and God, you look—
“The hell, Asshole?” You huff, wiping at the corners of your lips with a sour look on your face. “Warn a girl, fuck.”
—fucking stunning.
“Hey, Nerd—”
“Get out, Kacchan!”
“Yeah, no sh—wait, what the fuck—you didn’t tell me she was hot—”