..........Two things for the price of one because I had to go and open your stuff and my brain got away from me because I've been imagining stuff.
One: Mirko getting her boyfriend to reattach Keigo's wings by pitching it as an unorthodox version of what he does with books and "Either you manage to put him back together again and become known as a mad genius or I go down for forcing the best boyfriend in the world to perform questionably legal surgery on my friend." "...I don't know if that's insane or really attractive." "It's both." "Yeah... It is. Fine, I'm in. Worst case scenario, we're making out over crappy fast food after busting out and going on the lamb." "You're so hot right now!" is a good summation of the situation.
Two: Midnight bringing her anxious boyfriend in to help Shoto get through his stuff while measuring their upper limits since she's curious and wants to try positive reinforcement from someone who's better than Enji.
Or if that doesn't work for you, the Wild Wild Pussycats and a werewolf Quirk reader. Yes, he turns into a werewolf at will and it's awkward because they could be doing an ordinary thing and suddenly, animal instincts kick in, he's reacting like a wolf or dog would. And it's a bit embarrassing since "I thought I was better than that." "Come on, it's cuuuute!"
...Yes, I may or may not have more ideas if you're down to keep receiving.
Fuck it, im opening my ask box again
Mirko dragged him into the room by the wrist like she was hauling in a reluctant consultant and not her boyfriend.
Keigo, pale and exhausted on the cot, lifted his head just enough to squint at the newcomer. “Why do I hear boss music?”
“Because,” Mirko said brightly, planting her hands on her hips, “I’ve brought in a miracle worker.”
Her boyfriend stopped short the second he saw the spread of medical supplies, half-sketched anatomical diagrams, and several pages of notes covered in aggressive handwriting and coffee rings.
“Why is there a spinal reference chart on the wall?”
“That is not what motivation means.”
She ignored him and jabbed a thumb toward Keigo. “Okay. So. You know how you restore old books?”
She continued anyway. “Fragile structures. Torn bindings. Damaged connections. Missing pieces. Delicate work. Basically the same thing.”
Keigo let out a weak laugh that ended in a wince. “I gotta say, man, if she convinced you my back is comparable to a first edition manuscript, I think you should leave while you still can.”
“I’m considering it,” he muttered, still staring at the notes. “Very strongly.”
Mirko stepped in front of him, grinning like a menace. “Counterpoint: either you manage to put him back together and become known as a mad genius, or I go down in history for forcing the best boyfriend in the world to perform questionably legal surgery on my friend.”
Then, helplessly: “…I don’t know if that’s insane or really attractive.”
“It’s both,” she said without missing a beat.
He looked at her for one long moment, then huffed a laugh and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Yeah. It is. Fine, I’m in.”
Keigo groaned. “That was way too easy.”
“Worst case scenario,” Mirko’s boyfriend went on, already rolling up his sleeves, “we’re making out over crappy fast food after busting out and going on the lam.”
Mirko slapped both hands onto his cheeks and kissed his forehead so hard it made him stumble back half a step.
“You’re so hot right now!”
“I hate that this works on me,” he said.
“You love that this works on you.”
Keigo looked at the ceiling. “I’m surrounded by lunatics.”
“Wrong,” Mirko said, grabbing gloves and tossing a pair to her boyfriend. “You’re surrounded by motivated lunatics.”
From there, the whole thing turned weirdly, frighteningly serious.
Because for all the flirting and bad jokes, Mirko’s boyfriend really did have the hands for it—steady, patient, careful in a way that made it obvious he understood delicate things. He spoke to Keigo before every adjustment, explained every tool, every stitch, every risk. No shouting. No ego. No barking orders like this was a battlefield instead of a body.
And Keigo, who was used to gritting his teeth through pain and pretending he was fine, found himself actually listening.
“Breathe,” the boyfriend said quietly, checking the alignment again. “Not for me. For you. If it hurts too much, say it.”
Mirko hovered like an attack dog trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t worried out of her mind.
“See?” she muttered to Keigo, arms crossed tight. “Told you he’s the best.”
“I can hear you,” her boyfriend said.
“That’s because I’m proud of you!”
Keigo glanced between them and managed the ghost of a grin. “You two are disgusting.”
“Thank you,” they both said at the same time.
By the end of it, hours later, everyone looked wrecked.
Mirko’s boyfriend slumped back in his chair, gloves off, shirt sticking to his back, eyes tired but sharp. Keigo was still breathing hard, but there was something new on his face now—something stunned and fragile and almost disbelieving.
Mirko looked at Keigo, then at her boyfriend, then launched herself at him so fast his chair nearly tipped.
“Oh my god, you actually did it.”
“I am aware,” he said weakly, one arm wrapping around her waist anyway.
Keigo watched them, exhausted but smiling despite himself. “You know, in another life, this is probably the weirdest date night in recorded history.”
Mirko beamed. “Who says it’s over? We still need the crappy fast food.”
Her boyfriend, eyes closing for one blissful second, mumbled, “Please tell me we’re getting fries.”
“You save one bird man and suddenly you’re high maintenance.”
“I just performed nightmare surgery for your friend.”
“And you looked hot doing it.”
Keigo made a face. “I’m begging you both to stop.”
“Nope,” Mirko said, already hauling her boyfriend back upright by the hand. “C’mon, genius. You earned burgers.”
He let her drag him, smiling in spite of himself.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Keigo watched them go and thought maybe being put back together wasn’t completely impossible after all.
2) Wild Wild Pussycats + werewolf Quirk reader
This one is adorable. I love the “trying to act normal and then suddenly dog software activates” angle.
The first time it happened in front of the Pussycats, he nearly died of embarrassment.
It wasn’t even during anything dramatic.
There was no villain attack. No rescue mission. No life-or-death situation where his Quirk made him look intimidating and cool and useful.
They were grocery shopping.
Mandalay was comparing brands, Pixie-Bob had somehow acquired three different bags of snacks she absolutely did not need, and Tiger was trying to keep everyone on task while Ragdoll wandered off to look at novelty cat mugs.
It was normal. Completely ordinary.
Then a child in the next aisle dropped a bag of jerky.
His head snapped around before his brain caught up.
Pixie-Bob slowly lowered her sunglasses. “…Did you just—”
“I’m fine,” he said immediately, too fast, far too stiff.
Tiger looked deeply unconvinced.
A second later, the smell hit him properly—smoky, salty, rich—and he had to physically lock his knees to stop himself from drifting toward it like some kind of possessed tracking hound.
“Oh no,” Mandalay said, catching on instantly.
“It’s under control,” he ground out.
The tip of his nose twitched.
Ragdoll gasped with delight. “That is SO cute!”
He covered his face with one hand. “Please don’t say that.”
“You literally sniffed the air,” Pixie-Bob said, already losing the battle against laughter.
Tiger raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely did.”
He stood there, mortified, ears half-formed from the strain of suppressing the shift, and muttered, “I thought I was better than that.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Pixie-Bob threw an arm around his shoulders and declared, “Come on, it’s cuuuute!”
He made a strangled noise that was probably meant to be dignified and failed completely.
Unfortunately, it only got worse from there.
Because once the Pussycats noticed the instinctive stuff, they noticed all of it.
The way his leg started bouncing when he heard a high-pitched whistle outside.
The way he perked up at the crinkle of food packaging from three rooms away.
The way he reflexively leaned into head scratches once and then looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
It happened at the lodge after a long patrol. He was half-asleep on the couch, worn out enough that his control got fuzzy around the edges. Tiger passed behind him, absently ran a hand over his hair in a brief affectionate ruffle—
He leaned hard, eyes closing for half a second with a soft, traitorous rumble in his chest.
The entire room went silent.
He realized what he’d done.
And slowly, painfully, lifted his head.
Ragdoll had both hands over her mouth. Mandalay looked like she was trying to preserve group dignity and failing. Pixie-Bob was vibrating with the effort not to scream.
Tiger, to his credit, just blinked once and said, very carefully, “You good?”
He stood up so fast he nearly knocked the coffee table over. “I’m going outside.”
“You liked it!” Pixie-Bob yelled after him.
Mandalay’s voice floated out after him, maddeningly calm. “That sounded less like a denial and more like panic.”
Ten seconds later, it creaked back open and he reached in just enough to grab the bag of chips he’d left behind before vanishing again.
That was somehow even worse.
After that, the teasing became relentless—but never mean.
When he paced, they made space for him.
When loud noises set him on edge, they grounded him instead of staring.
When full moon nights made him restless and twitchy and too aware of every scent and sound around him, they sat with him on the porch until sunrise and acted like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And slowly, piece by piece, the embarrassment stopped feeling so sharp.
One evening, after a rough mission, he came back tense and rattled, trying to hide it behind crossed arms and a flat expression.
Pixie-Bob took one look at him and opened her arms.
He frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I am not a pack animal.”
Mandalay, from the kitchen: “That is objectively false.”
Ragdoll patted the spot next to her on the couch. “C’mon. You’re stressed.”
Tiger added, “Nobody’s making fun of you.”
That was all the opening Pixie-Bob needed to grab his wrist and yank him down between them.
It should have been humiliating.
Instead, with warmth on either side of him and the familiar noise of their voices filling the room, it felt… safe.
His shoulders loosened by degrees.
Someone scratched lightly behind one pointed ear before he could stop them.
He made the mistake of not moving away.
He sighed into his hands. “I hate all of you.”
“No you don’t,” Mandalay said.
“…No,” he admitted quietly. “I really don’t.”
Pixie-Bob grinned and squeezed him tighter. “See? Cute.”
He groaned, but there was no heat in it this time.
And when Tiger passed by a minute later and casually scratched his head again, he leaned into it for just a second before realizing—
which, naturally, made the whole room explode.
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