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I am an adult—more specifically, a university student. If anyone needed to know!

Here are my previous BNHA lists from over the years. There were few writers and artists.

Fall-Winter of 2025 SFW BLOGS (NEW!!)

Fall-Winter of 2025 MATURE BLOGS (1/2) (NEW!!)

Fall-Winter of 2025 MATURE BLOGS (2/2) (NEW!!)

Fall-Winter of 2024 SFW BLOGS

Fall-Winter of 2024 MATURE BLOGS

Spring and Summer 2020 (Masterlist of all parts)

Summer of 2019 (Several parts but linked)

Winter of 2018-2019

Summer of 2018

This season may be my last time creating a list of creators for the fandom! If you have any writers that you believe to have shoutout! Please let me know through my askbox or DM. It's completely anonymous! Tags: (FOR ANYONE WHO WISHES TO BLOCK TAGS)

#bnha list 2025 (All of the writers that will be featured in the list of this season)

#bnha smut (For all smut pieces of 2024 and 2025) This is a new tagging system I am trying out. You may come across posts from previous years that weren’t tagged accordingly.

For Dark Content including Yandere and etc.

It will be under #tw mature content, For anyone who wishes to block the tag. Backup Account @shoutout-bnha AMOUNT OF WRITERS OFFICALLY ADDED TO THE LIST: 58 QUEUE IS UP TO June 30st?? (2x times a day and SHUFFLE MODE) Announcement Post

[tokkushin]

— BLACK WHIP !! katsuki bakugou x afab!f!reader

.✦ ݁˖ summary: you hate your boyfriend's new car, but katsuki thinks you just need to get to know each other a little more ... personally

+ hickeys, pet names, car sex, brief pussy slapping, cum eating, oral (f!receiving), pwp, katsuki refers to the porsche as his girl once... just trust me, implied kirimina (yeah boohoo)

The restaurant is loud, overlapping conversations, the sounds of cutlery clashing with stained porcelain — it's overwhelming. And so is the feeling of Katsuki fiddling with the hem of your dress.

In all honesty, you're finding it difficult to concentrate. Even as the couple in front of you poke and prod for details about your, not-so-personal lives, your mind can't help but wander to something else…

"So," the redhead starts, twirling pasta around his fork before glancing up at you, "do you like Bakugou's new car?"

Ah, yes — the Porsche.

The newest addition to the list of things Katsuki really didn't need, but bought anyway because he thought it was cool — second only to the five foot All Might figurine currently collecting dust in his office.

Your boyfriend first brought up the idea on a rainy Sunday in your shared home — limbs tangled together, skin stuck to one another as you melt into the rise and fall of his chest. It was a quiet morning — one filled with love making and breakfast in bed.

So, imagine your disdain when Katsuki ruined it with his stupid questions.

"I wanna buy a Porsche" he murmured, voice muffled against your hair, "you're cool with that, right?" 

No. No, you weren't. 

In fact, you expressed how "uncool" you were with it for two whole hours. Sharp words and even sharper glares thrown at the blonde in hopes it might change his mind. 

An argument you were confident he'd back down from when sense was spoken into him by the person he loves most.

"Katsuki, those cars are for players. They're for guys who only think with their dick, or who only want to fuck in said car after they practically bankrupt themselves for it" you huff, shoving open the bathroom with the blonde hot on your tail. "Besides, we don't need it."

"C'mon, princess. You know I'm not like that." he mutters, arms caging you in against the counter as he watches you through the mirror, eyes locked on yours.

A low laugh escapes your lips. 

"You're not gonna try to have sex with me in your car? At all?" you question.

There's a beat of silence as you wait for his answer, but the faint blush on his cheeks says enough. 

"If you hate it, we'll get rid of it. Just give it two weeks." 

You blink, "No sex?"

"… No sex in the car, won't even touch you when we get in there."

But that didn't happen — of course it didn't. In fact, he barely lasted three days before he was going back on his word. There was nothing Katsuki hated more than his two girls not getting along. 

So, he did what had to be done.

"'Suki, fuck. Hold on a second-" you whine, nails digging into the orange leather seat as your hips stutter against his tongue. The rough hands that trail over your waist are the only thing that ground you as Katsuki laps at your slit like a starved man.

Every flick of his tongue is addictive, the soaked muscle sucking at your clit before it pokes and prods at your weeping hole. Your moans swallowed by the walls of the Porsche, leaving each sound louder than it should be.

"Feels good, huh?" he asks, as if the tears in your eyes don't say enough. He pulls away from your heat, gracing you with a sharp spank to your clit — nipping at your thighs before peering up at you with a dazed look. 

Your jaw goes slack as he trails two fingers along your folds, toying with the slick before bringing it towards his lips. The tight space only makes him feel closer, his voice lower, heavier — as if Katsuki was everywhere at once.

Your hips buck helplessly as you search for the feeling of his fingers pressing inside you — but it never comes. Whining into the stifling heat of the car and fluttering your lashes to glance at the man between your thighs — windows fogging as you catch your breath.

"Kats, please" you grumble, giving light tugs to his hair as you try to guide his face back to your cunt. He only laughs at your feeble attempts, wrapping his, much larger hand around yours and bringing it to his lips.

"You still hate the car, Princess?" he questions, rushing the words out before he's pressing small kisses against your knuckles. Your skin sticks against the leather slightly, a constant reminder of where you were even when you try to ignore it. "Nothing's…changed your mind?"

A loud sigh escapes your lips, head lolling back before its met with the cool, tempered glass of the window.

Stupid fucking car.

"I'll move it to a strong dislike" you quip, shifting your gaze from his, suddenly, intimidating stare.

"You sure? Those nail marks in my seat say otherwise" he teases, trailing his fingers back along your slit before he's easing them inside you. You arch off the seat as much as the space of the car will allow, hips grinding against his tongue as he moves alongside the rhythmic thrusts of his fingers. "Wanna change your answer?"

And did you want to change your answer? Absolutely not. Then Katsuki and the car would win. But was the flick of his tongue making it harder to hold your own? Maybe a little bit.

"Mmm—fuckfuckfuck—yes, please. P-please, Katsuki." you gasp, his fingers only picking up in speed as he wipes his mouth with his free hand — you don't miss the knowing smirk on his face as he watches your body's reaction, the dim interior filled with short bursts of headlights through the tinted windows.

"There we go." he coos, moving up from his spot on the ground to hover over you, thick fingers continuing their assault on your sopping hole. 

He smiles against your lips, planting a chaste kiss to them. His fingers coaxing you through your climax, as he whispers against the shell of your ear, "Doesn't it feel good to be honest?" 

With the speed of his fingers, the humidity in the car and the way your mind can focus on nothing but him — you swear you see stars. Grinding against the padded leather as you ride out your high on the blonde's fingers. 

The soft buzz of his phone cuts through the heated air, the brightness of the screen sending a brief ache to your irises.

He reads the message before he pockets it, already searching for where he discarded your panties not too long ago.

"What's it say?" you question, though it all comes out breathless.

A smirk ghosts on his lips before he speaks, "Eij and Raccoon Eyes will be there in 20" he says, guiding the lace onto your ankles before trailing it up to snap against your thighs. "We better get going"

…

"Hey, did you hear me? I asked what you thought about Bakugou's new whip" Eijiro smiles, giving a quick nudge to his girlfriend before finishing his sentence with a roll of bread between his teeth. 

You try to ignore the flurries that creep up your body as Katsuki's fingers trail up your thighs, rubbing soothing circles on the bites he left on your skin mere minutes ago.

"Yeah," you smile, clearing your throat and bringing your glass to your lips. "...I love it."

BONUS!

kirishima: dude, you GOTTA tell me what you did.

kirishima: saw this sweeeet looking red subaru impreza the other day

kirishima: mina is NOT having it...

kirishima: any tips on how you got her to switch up like that?

bakugou: Yeah.

bakugou: Let her help you break it in.

© tokkushin — all rights reserved. all works belong to me .ᐟ pls do not repost/copy, or feed into ai.

a/n: i really wanted to give the porsche a name, but i couldn't think of anything ... thank you @kamislop for beta reading for me, i owe you my left labia <3 and thanks @izutwos for helping me with kiri's car 🙂‍↕️ also this is no shade to the porsche community here // yoohoo @lonelyfooryouonly & @satiiv-a comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! MWAH 💋

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied nsfw, implied noncon/dubcon, poly yanderes, sprained ankle, captive reader, apocolypse au, talk of fertility, murder of unnamed characters, mentions of potentially killing reader

♡ FEM reader

♡ P2: Staying

Just thinking about the apocalypse, the two army men who’ve long survived it in their shelter with barely any trouble, and then you, a poor girl trying hard to outrun your last captives only to run into them.  

You didn’t realize back then that it was like trading piranhas for sharks, too caught up in begging for their aid to think better of it. You should have just kept running, but your ankle was sprained badly, maybe even broken, and you were wearing so little you would most likely have died from the cold during the night if they hadn’t taken you in.

It seems unfair of them to have kept the giant bunker all to themselves, only the two of them, but you don’t judge. You would likely have kept it all to yourself as well.

This new world has bred new humans, and they’re all monsters. It’s honestly quite surprising they’d even let you in, given this is what they’re protecting, this sanctuary from the past, a comfort most people would kill their closest friend in exchange for.

Trust is all but dead, and so is honor or any other morality—you would know, you’ve lived out there for it all, only having survived by spreading your legs at the right moments. It’s a shameful tactic, and many times, you’ve wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to spare yourself and just die. What was the purpose?

This—you think. This must be it. They have showers and working hot water.

You don’t know how it’s possible—the original owners of the shelter must have been some type of millionaire. You haven’t had a warm shower since the world went to shit—years ago. It’s been a choice of waiting for rain or finding a lake, hoping it wasn’t rancid. Meanwhile, they have soap—scented soap, the lush kind you’d forgotten existed. It feels so nice you have to cry—rejoice—sobbing while lathering yourself, watching all the filth go down the drain, leaving you smooth-skinned once again for the first time in forever. You can’t remember having ever been so clean before, feeling reborn.

They have fresh clothes for you too—new socks and underwear, all clean fabrics, so much more than what you wore—pants, a shirt, and a sweater to keep warm. You didn’t know there still existed people who lived like the old days—you’d thought it was long gone, a bittersweet dream you sometimes have the pleasure of at night instead of the usual nightmares. Never had you thought you’d experience anything even remotely similar, but here you are—looking yourself in the mirror after so long, surprised to see a human looking back at you.

And they feed you. Not scraps, not leftovers, not rot, or days-old flesh from the last successful hunt—but freshly baked bread, vegetables, fruit—for fuck’s sake, they even have juice. You cry again while eating, and then you find yourself begging them again, “Please, let me stay—please, I’ll do anything. I can cook, clean, work—anything at all, I can do it, just please let me stay…”

You’re on your knees, forehead pressed to the heated metal floors—toasty and comforting, you think you could sleep better than ever right there.

“We’ll think about it,” one of them mutters as he gathers the plates. His voice was so harsh he might as well have said, not a chance. It’s clear by his frown that he’d rather send you right out again, leave you to the monsters.

“We’ll at least let you stay until your ankle heals, so don’t worry.” The other is more sympathetic, helping you up. “For now, let’s get you to bed. You must be exhausted.”

It hadn’t crossed your mind that they’d have beds—actual real soft downy mattresses and duvets and pillows. The two of you help make it together. It feels so foreign that you wonder if you might have died earlier. Some years back, you wouldn’t have thought heaven would resemble a prison cell, but now it only made sense—safe metal walls and a bed. What more could one possibly want in the world?

“I’ll wrap your leg for you if you sit.” He holds out a bandage roll, gesturing to your ankle.

Blinking, you can’t even register what he’d just offered until he’s getting down on his knees before you.

You panic, then. Bandages are hard to come by—it hardly seems worth it. “There’s no blood, you shouldn’t waste it—”

“It’ll heal better and faster this way,” he adds reassuringly. His voice is so soft and compelling that you find yourself sitting down without further quarrel, even when it makes you feel spoiled.

He’s gentle with you—holding you steady while wrapping it just tightly enough to be supportive. There hasn’t been a man who’s touched you like it.

“Does that feel okay?”

You can barely tell he’s talking to you. It’s all so lost on you that you can only wordlessly nod your head.

He fastens it just as carefully before standing. “Is there anything else you might need?”

You shake your head just as wordlessly. You can’t believe how nice he’s being. It makes no sense at all. Not in this world. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to lock the door,” he apologizes with a sheepish look once standing on the threshold.

You’d been stuck thinking about how warm the room was, trying to remember a single time you hadn’t been freezing during the night. “That’s okay, I understand,” you say. After all, what’s a locked door in comparison?

“Good,” he smiles—it’s likely the kindest smile you’ve ever seen. “Alright then, good night.”

Once again, you’re left stunned. The last time you’d heard those words spoken must have been from a loved one long since dead. It makes your lip wobble again as you say it back, “Good night.”

It's strange—they could have left you for dead but didn’t. They don’t seem gullible—they can’t be if they’ve managed to protect this place for so long—but you suppose there still exist men who have a soft spot in their hearts for helpless damsels in distress.

As you sink into the comfort, draping your duvet atop your battered body, you don’t even care about the camera in the ceiling—blinking red while watching you.

“Did you have to bandage her up?” he grumbles as the other walks into the bedroom after having said his goodnights to you. 

He’s already in bed, observing through the cameras on a tablet—you were currently curling into the duvet, wrapping it around you close for comfort. You’d likely not slept on anything so soft in a while—it wouldn’t surprise him if you preferred the floor. But no, you drift asleep quite quickly.

“You know how badly things can heal without proper support,” the other answers, regarding it as no big deal. “And besides, it’s not like we often need it—we have plenty to spare.”

He removes his clothes and crawls onto the bed as well, lifting the covers to slot himself right next to the other man, who still has a scowl on his face.

“Oh, come on…” he drawls. “She’s exactly what we’ve been talking about, isn’t she?”

The grump doesn’t answer, still with keen eyes watching you, even as you’ve fallen asleep—as if waiting for you to do something befitting a wild animal in a cage. The other’s eyes fall to the screen as well, but he only awes in delight.

“Look at her, already fast asleep,” he purrs while zooming in on your face. “I mean, did you see how she was begging earlier, what she said? I’d do anything,” he continues, almost whining. “So cute, I could have fucked her right then and there.”

The other man sets the tablet aside with a disagreeing sigh. “We’ll wait at least a week for her system to detoxify from the wasteland,” he says strictly. “I’m not touching her before then, and neither are you unless you want to sleep alone.”

The other groans then, flopping down on his back. “Yeah, yeah, you and your safety protocols,” he dismisses before a smirk creeps up his face, glee twinkling in his eyes as he looks up at his grouchy counterpart. “But then we keep her, right?”

“Tch—we don’t even know if she’s fertile. The wasteland could have made her barren as long as she’s been out there,” the other shuffles down into the sheets as well, turning to look at his partner and the awfully keen look on his face.

“So we test her. Give her a medical check,” he says, again as if it’s not a problem, even when it very well could turn out to be.

They’ve already broken quarantine rules by letting you in here—and who knows what your real objectives truly are.

“I don’t trust her,” he states.

The other pouts. “I don’t see what one little lady can do—she’s hardly a threat. And we already purged the group that was following her. I doubt any of them made it out alive.”

True, he had gone out and sent several gas grenades into the settlement. Surely, none of them managed to escape, but then again—

“Pest control only works when you kill them all, and we’ve just let one inside our own house,” he grumbles.

The other one sighs. “Okay, so if it turns out she isn’t as cute as she looks, we’ll deal with her like the rest. But if I’m right, and she really is just a harmless little thing, we keep her, and I get to have the first go.”

Suppose there isn’t anything better to do aside from killing you straight away, which would only have been a waste of food, water, clothes, and bandages. 

“Fine.”

The other grins at the agreeance, humming, “I guess until then, we’ll just have to make do with each other—I've been hard since we watched her shower.” He leans forward for contact but is shut down as his bedmate rolls around with his back turned to him.

“Tch—take care of it yourself.” Tonight has been too stressful to tug each other’s dicks. 

He can hear him whine behind him, but he settles down soon enough.

Suppose it would be nice fucking a woman again. It’s been so many years he figured he wouldn’t need it anymore. They’ve made do with each other so far. But even he can’t deny, once you’d washed all the blood and muck off, once he saw the dewy hue of your soft skin and the silk of your hair, all those plush curves, and not to mention that awfully sweet look on your face—he felt the tug in his pants too.

He'll do a medical check on you tomorrow. He hopes you’re fertile. But even if you’re not, he might give in to the other’s wishes and keep you anyway. After all, they might have many luxuries, but the comfort of pussy is one they haven’t had in a long, long, long time.

♡ P2: Staying

♡ BNHA – KiriBaku, BakuDeku, ShinKami, DabiHawks, EndHawks, ErasurMic ♡ JJK – SatoSugu, ItaFushi, SukuIta, ♡ HQ – Miya twins, KageHina, BokuAka, ♡ CSM – AkiDen, YoshiDen ♡ BLLK – NagiReo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[nitroheart]

“I really want fries.”

Bakugo pauses, turning to face you on the couch with an offended glare. “Hah?”

You don’t look over at him while you pull out your phone, opening the delivery app you’ve been glued to recently. He sees your screen and snatches your phone from your hands.

“Hey!” You pout. “C’mon. I just want—”

“We just bought $200 worth of groceries,” he argues and tosses your phone back to you, letting it land on the couch cushion next to your hip. “Go get somethin’ from the free kitchen.”

A sigh escapes you, turning to finally face him with puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

Bakugo almost gives in — almost.

“Nuh uh. No ‘please’ bullshit. Lemme make you something instead.” He stands from the couch and starts to head into the kitchen. “Don’t be stubborn and follow me, woman.”

“Don’t woman me!” You argue back with no malice, getting up to follow him into the kitchen. When you peek through the doorway, he’s opening the freezer and tossing a bag of something onto the counter. That’s when you realize what they are…

Smiley fries.

“Did you get those just for me?” You ask, surprised. “How’d you sneak those into the—”

“You’ve been addicted to those damn fries from the fast food place down the street. Easier for me to just bake them for ya here, save you $20 or whatever. I looked up the seasoning they use, too.” Bakugo cocks his head, waiting for your answer. “Well? You want ‘em or not?”

All you do is smirk back at him, thinking about how lucky you are to have someone spoil you like he does.

[tokkushin]

HEADCANONS — AFTER THE RING!

pairings: husband!katsuki bakugou x f!reader

summary: a peak into domestic life with husband!katsuki :)

warnings: none! except brief mentions of periods

includes: the honeymoon, lazy sundays, first arguments and quiet intimacy!

#┆THE HONEYMOON .ᐟ ⌖

— marriage with katsuki is ... quiet

— he'd rent out the largest house he can find in the quietest places around

— i think for honeymoon's he'd obviously go wherever you want, but i also think he'd really appreciate a place that's culture heavy since the guy loves to cook 🙂‍↕️

— somewhere like greece or turkey? anywhere he'd be exposed to different spices, ingredients and like new cooking methods

— he really likes sight seeing with you! dressing up in coordinated outfits and taking candid shots when he thinks you aren't paying attention 

— i can't imagine him enjoying swimming that much… especially not with the effort it takes to do his hair. but i also can't picture him sitting in one spot under the sun either

— you have to negotiate with him and promise that if he joins you can't get his hair wet

— he wants to be your personal tour gide. he will NOT trust tour guides. he's confident he knows the best places for the two of you to go to

— but he's also taking you around with an hour worth of research and a map he printed at home!

— he hates airports. not the flying, but definitely the lines and the sheer amount of people around the two of you. every ten seconds you see him biting his tongue trying not to tell someone off for standing a little too close to the two of you

#┆LAZY SUNDAY'S .ᐟ ⌖

— sunday's are never lazy, i lied

— he uses them as reset days, the house gets cleaned, vegetables get chopped and groceries get done!

— he has a list (paper only) and he only buys from specific brands. he'd rather go to a different store than buy from some other company that he knows (thinks) would mess up his food

— he doesn't like to separate in the store either…. and when you suggest it he looks at you like you just asked for a divorce. 

— like he'll be inspecting a vegetable and brainstorming different recipes, and you're standing behind him with nothing to do...

"'suki pass me the list"

he pauses, "why?"

"well i figured we'd be able to go faster if we split it up" you mutter, already reaching for it before he's lifting it just out of your reach.

"just wait for me. i'm almost done"

he's not. he just doesn't want you to leave.

— when you come back from shopping, katsuki's antsy to get into the kitchen. it's when he feels most in his element, and you love to watch him be so passionate about it

— you are his designated sous-chef. he doesn't really like it when other people cook with him, but for you he'll make an exception

— that being said HE'S BOSSY.. its the one time you somewhat allow him to be (not without some pushback though)

— dinners are eaten at the table, katsuki would rather be caught dead then find crumbs on the expensive couch you begged him to get because it matched the living room

— he has to sit next to you. a bunch of empty seats surround the two of you but he'll always pick the chair right by your side

— he washes dishes while you sit on the counter, and when he's done he keeps you between his arms and expects kisses as payment — which are given with no hesitation

#┆FIRST ARGUMENTS .ᐟ ⌖

— first arguments after marriage i think hit him a little harder than when you were dating

— because now instead of ignoring him, which was already hard enough in the first place, he's deprived of the small things that remind him that you're married

— he's very routine oriented. he's used to seeing things on the daily that make him feel like everything's in place. so when the two of you go through this dry spell he notices the absence immediately

— he doesn't get to see you sip from the custom 'Mrs. Bakugou' mug in the morning, you don't ask him to come join you in the shower, and most noticeably, he misses the ring on your finger

— and it's not that you never see him, you'll still talk because that's still your husband, but he can tell your words lack their usual warmth that he's so used to getting

— he isn't the best at communicating, so he'll try and get your attention in the little ways. 

— brushing against your pinky, staring at you just a little too long, and asking questions he already knows the answer to just to hear your voice :(

— and when the build up is finally too much, when you're half an inch further than how close you usually sit he decides enough is enough

he grabs the phone out of your hand and put it in his pocket. his body fully facing yours as crimson eyes watch you impatiently.

you blink.

"yes, katsuki?" you ask, trying to hide the smile that dares to creep ont your cheeks.

"stop ignoring me"

"katsuki, i'm not ignoring you"

he squints, hesitant touches left against your fingers as if he's unsure of what to do. ruby eyes flick to yours, the tension in his body only seen behind his irises.

he's nervous.

"so we're done with this weird shit, then?" he asks, eyes moving away from yours as he speaks.

it's only when you run a soothing hand on his jawline, thumbing the peach fuzz barely present on his cheek that you can see the tensions fade, just slightly. his shoulders softening just a little as you press a small kiss to the side of his face.

and he knows its your way of telling him you're not mad at him and you'll get through this.

"we still have to talk about it…"

he'll groan, and, and maybe pout, but you know that it's just his way of saying he's listening.

#┆QUIET INTIMACY .ᐟ ⌖

— he shows his love in the subtle ways

— to him, it really is just the two of you in your own little world. no one else holds a space in his heart the way that you do.

— he's not into pda. but he's the type to guide you through places with his hand in the small of your back.

— and it's not out of possession, per se, i think he'd do it as a way of reassurance, a way of saying 'i'm here' when people feel like too much for the both of you

— i think he's also the type to learn your schedules, and notice the little things you might not have caught onto yourself?

— he keeps a period tracker on his phone, for sureee, just to make sure you guys… plan accordingly tehehe

— he memorizes all your orders, might even have them in a note on his phone

— he knows when things are wrong, and he fixes them without question. if something's bothering you, he's on it. he picks up the subtle signs and tries to fix it before you even have to say anything — it's almost like habit.

— it's done out of the pure care of his heart. because that's just what loving you means to him.

© tokkushin — all rights reserved. all works belong to me .ᐟ pls do not repost/copy, or feed into ai.

a/n: domestic life with katsuki... need more hcs with this guy, we all deserve domestic suki! did i make this cause i'm sad right now? well yes! @dhyuns it's here 😻 what do you guys think? is there something you wanna add or maybe you think about differently? albeit it's just my interpretation, but i'd love to know your thoughts 🙂‍↕️ LMK IN MY INBOX OR WHEREVER!!

[these-written-reveries]

Dissimulate My Love

‣ Pairing: Touya Todoroki (Dabi) x GN!Reader

‣ Summary: Touya is in love with you. Despite his best attempts to keep his feelings hidden, Toga has caught on. She insists she is an expert on the subject of love and decides to help him, one way or another...

‣ Genre: Fluff

‣ Warnings: none

‣ Word Count: 1,949

‣ A/N: I wrote this on a whim tonight! I'm thinking this story is in need of a part two, what do you think? 🤔🤭

The incessant chatter of the league members quickly turned into muffled background noise as Touya zoned out. He stared down at a random spot in front of where he sat at the end of the bar, his chin propped up on his palm with his elbow resting on the bartop. He had grown bored of hearing everyone debating what to do about the newest problem on their agenda. Tensions were beginning to rise over the subject at hand as they individually tried to convince their boss to go with their idea, all the while bickering back and forth with one another. It was entertaining at first, but Touya quickly found his thoughts being drawn to something else. Or rather, someone else.

You weren’t at the meeting with everyone else. At first, this concerned Touya, until he heard from Shigaraki that he had sent you off on a brief mission to collect information that would help them determine what to do about their current predicament. This only relaxed his nerves a little bit. He wished Shigaraki had sent him off with you as backup. He understood that the point of the mission was to be undetected in more of a public setting—which was definitely not his strong suit, due to his struggle to blend in with any “normal” backdrop—but the thought of you getting hurt without him around to protect you…

It scared him.

But he would never let you or anyone know that. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to think that he was soft.

He was. Big time. For you.

Unfortunately, Toga seemed to be onto him lately. How did he know?

She kept sending him teasing smiles and winks from across the room whenever you and him were interacting. On top of that, she wouldn’t stop giggling at the two of you and bringing you up at the most random of times—often when you were around to hear. He even overheard her bringing him up to you a few times.

“Isn’t Y/N looking extra pretty today?”

“Oh, Y/N! You should sit next to Dabi! He looks lonely over there, doesn’t he?”

“Dabi, Y/N said they’re cold. Just so you know…Well? Aren’t you gonna do something about it?”

Whether she was trying to play the role of “matchmaker”, or she simply got a kick out of embarrassing the hell out of him, he wasn’t quite sure yet. Either way, he was so close to teaching that brat a lesson of “minding her damn business”.

Admittedly, he did enjoy seeing you get flustered every time she put either of you on the spot. The way you shifted uncomfortably, barely able to bring your eyes to meet his as you looked everywhere else but him, the way you chewed at your lower lip and fiddled with whatever was in your hands. Normally, you were so composed, even intimidating, when you wanted to be. But in moments like those, he really loved to see that mask drop as you squirmed under his gaze.

God, you were too fucking cute.

“What are you smilin’ about?”

Touya was snapped out of his thoughts by a familiar voice. A frown quickly overtook his features as he sighed exasperatedly.

“You don’t have to answer that. I already know,” Toga said, smirking teasingly as she positioned her forearms on the opposite end of the bartop.

Touya almost growled at her. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but it better stop, brat.”

Toga’s face morphed into an innocent expression, though a devilish gleam remained in her eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m just trying to help, is all.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Well, I don’t need your help.”

“I think you do. It’s pretty obvious. Well, actually, I’m the only one who’s caught on so far, but that could change…”

Touya’s jaw clenched at the sound of her subtle threat. He let out an irritated breath through his nose, nostrils flaring as the two of them partook in a silent staring contest until he finally spoke.

“What the fuck do you want?”

She giggled. “I just wanna see true love thrive! It’s rare to find on our side of the world, ya know?”

“Pass.”

“Hm…Wrong answer.”

“What the hell makes you think I’m in love?” he said under his breath, leaning in slightly as he spoke. He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening in on them.

Everyone was still debating and deliberating. Shigaraki was scratching at his neck as he pulled out his handheld game console, trying to tune everyone out. He had clearly given up on trying to shut everyone up. Thankfully, this worked in Touya’s favor.

“I don’t think, Dabi. I know,” Toga answered seriously.

Touya scoffed, rolling his eyes. “What? Are you an expert or something?”

She looked slightly offended for a moment, putting a hand to her chest dramatically as she spoke. “I have been in love more times than you ever will be, Dabi. I know love when I see it.”

Damn. Why did that sting a bit?

“It doesn’t matter. Even if I was, I’m not the relationship type. Not that they’d even want anything to do with me, anyway.”

Touya raised two fingers at Kurogiri, who was pouring a glass for himself behind the bar. Kurogiri nodded at him, taking the glass that Touya slid his way and filling the glass with his usual before sliding it back to him. Touya gave him a nod of appreciation as he took it and brought it to his lips.

If he was going to continue this conversation, he needed a drink.

“Are you kidding me?! Have you seen the way they look at you?! They are obsessed with you!” Toga argued.

He rolled his eyes again, taking another generous sip of his drink.

“Like I said, not the relationship type.”

“Oh, come onnn! You’re just gonna let love pass you by like that? What’s wrong with you?”

A self-deprecating chuckle fell from his lips. “Lots’a things. Nothin’ I wanna burden someone like them with.”

Toga groaned. “But you haven’t even asked them! Maybe they’d be cool with all your…things. That’s what love is all about!”

“Can we end this conversation, already?”

He watched as her eyes narrowed at him.

“Not if you want to keep your little crush a secret.”

Touya felt a growl brewing in the back of his throat, about to throw out his own devious threat until he was interrupted by the sound of someone calling your name.

“Y/N! You’re back!”

He turned around in his seat, feeling his heart rate increase at the sight of you.

“Chill the fuck out,” he told his heart, suddenly finding it hard to breathe properly.

He downed the rest of his drink as his eyes followed you all the way to Shigaraki, where you handed him a thin manilla folder. You were wearing a normal “civilian” looking outfit. Your hair was styled slightly differently than usual.

You looked hot. Or beautiful, or whatever. Touya never really could describe you properly. He wasn’t the best with words. All he knew was that the way you looked in that moment made his stomach do flips and his temperature grow hotter. His hands were starting to sweat as your eyes scanned the room, eventually landing on him.

Oh, shit. You were walking straight towards him.

Touya made sure to disguise his internal chaos, keeping up his usual stoic, aloof mask as you took the seat beside him.

Fuck, you smelled so good.

You smiled as you met his eyes. “Hey, Dabi.”

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

A brief moment after, he asked, “How’d the mission go?”

“Good! Almost got caught at one point, but I managed to get out unscathed!” you explained.

His heart clenched at the thought. “Should’a brought me. I’m good for backup.”

“I asked Shigaraki, actually. He said no.”

That stupid crusty fuck.

You must have noticed a slight crack in his detached façade, because you were quick to speak again.

“But I can handle myself! I’m fine. That’s all that matters, right?”

He grunted in response, sending a sharp glare Shigaraki’s way, who caught his eyes and narrowed his own in return. Scoffing, he looked away, his attention landing on you again.

“Next time, tell me first.”

A small smirk grew on your face. “Are you worried about me, Dabi?”

“Shut up,” he snapped, with no real harshness to his tone. “Just stupid to go on your own, is all.”

“You don’t think I can handle myself?” you probed, looking at him, offended.

“Course’ you can. That’s not what I mean-”

“That’s what it sounds like to me,” you interrupted.

“It’s not-”

He stopped. Your inability to hide your little snicker tipped him off to your antics.

You were fucking with him. Somehow, you managed to get stoic, aloof Dabi semi-visibly worked up.

What the hell was he going to do with you?

“You’re such a little brat, you know that? You’re worse than Toga,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips as he looked at you, unable to disguise the fondness in his tone as said it.

You burst into a fit of giggles, and he couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle himself as he admired the scene before him. The way your eyes crinkled around the edges as you laughed, your perfect smile, the precious sound of your laughter filling his ears and soothing his burned and battered soul.

A girly giggle from further down the bar pulled him out of his trance. His eyes followed the sound, only to find Toga a few feet away, leaning against the bartop with her face resting in her palms and a dreamy smile on her face as she stared at the two of you.

Touya quickly shut down his smile, covering up his feelings that had managed to peek through. When he looked back to you, you were still smiling at him, your eyes soft as your laughter settled. You opened your mouth to speak, but Shigaraki beat you to it.

“Pay attention! I have a plan.”

Sighing, Touya only partially listened as he kept his eyes on you while you weren’t looking. His heart was still racing and his hands were still clammy, but he was now filled with an almost foreign sense of happiness that he’d rarely ever felt before, except with you. You made him feel…good.

Maybe Toga was right. Maybe this was love that he was feeling?

Even admitting it to himself made him feel sick. Dabi didn’t love.

But Touya did.

He nearly jumped when he heard a “psst” coming from behind him. He looked back to find Toga, again. This time, she was hunched behind him, reminding him of a little angel, or devil, on his shoulder as she whispered to him.

“You sure you don’t want my help?”

This time, Touya considered it. He didn’t have much of a choice. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he declined her offer to help, he would walk into a league meeting the next day to find everyone giving him teasing looks and relentlessly making fun of him. Even worse, you’d find out through the twisted tongues of others how he felt about you.

No. If you were going to find out about his feelings for you, it’d be from him.

You probably wouldn't find out anyway, so long as he could figure out some way to get Toga to back off and keep her trap shut. All he needed was some time.

Stealing one last glance at you, he sighed.

“Fine.”

(Part 2 here)

Touya/Dabi Masterlist Main Masterlist

‣ Taglist: @jslittlebirdie @xkatsukizukux

‣ If you’d like to join the taglist for Touya/Dabi, let me know by sending me an ask/message, or comment on this post!

[cinna-creme]

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts forever 😖

dkbk x reader

for the past hour izuku has watched katsuki drool over you while you talk to your friends and sway to the music. he’s tried to brush it off and try to turn katsuki’s attention anywhere else but he won’t budge.

“stop staring at her like that.” izuku mumbles into his cup.

“like what?” katsuki glides his eyes back over to izuku.

“like you wanna fuck her.” he glares at him over the lip of the cup.

“maybe i do.” katsuki grins.

“she’s my girlfriend.” izuku sets the cup down, ignoring the party going on around them.

“so? can’t share, deku?” katsuki grins, leaving his side and sauntering over to you.

izuku stares daggers into katsuki’s back, watching him stand beside you and wrap an arm around your waist. his jaw clicks when katsuki pulls you closer, hand sliding down the curve of your ass. his chest is heaving watching the way you shift on your feet and the way you jolt when katsuki squeezes the plush of your ass.

katsuki turns to him with a grin before dipping down and whispering into your ear. you turn your head and look back at izuku with round eyes and then back to katsuki. izuku can’t take his eyes off you, nostrils flaring and jaw set. he walks over to you and watches you shrink.

“izu.” you blink up at him.

“told her you wanted the three of us to get a room.” katsuki tilts his head.

“that what you want, angel?” izuku steps closer to you, trailing a finger along your jaw.

“i..” you look between them. “i dunno.” you feel heat rush to your cheeks.

“no?” izuku tilts his head. “want me to show katsuki how you like to be treated? he thinks he knows what you like better.” his thumb brushes against your lower lip, dipping down to whisper in your ear. “we can make him watch.” he grins when you clutch onto his shirt.

“mhm.” you nod, body heating instantly at the thought.

he grabs your hand and leads you down the hall, nodding at katsuki to follow you both. katsuki is a step behind you and is the one to click the door shut and turn the lock.

“go sit down.” izuku turns to katsuki.

“tch, whatever.” katsuki rolls his eyes, sinking into the desk chair.

izuku circles you, tracing his fingers up your arms, brushing your hair off your neck when he comes to stand behind you. he presses soft kisses all over your exposed skin, hands trailing over your sides and slipping under your shirt.

“see katsuki.. my sweet girl here isn’t like the girls you fuck.” izuku glances at him. “she likes when your take your time, coaxing the pleasure out, not forcing..” he brushes his thumbs over your nipples and you push back into him eyes fluttering shut.

“maybe she wants to know what it’s like to be told when and how much to cum.” katsuki sits forward.

“how many times do you cum when we’re together?” izuku kisses at your jaw.

“a lot.” you whimper when he pinches your nipples before retracting his hands. “izu.”

“shh, i know.” he starts to lift up your shirt.

katsuki watches the way you squeeze your thighs together and tremble under izuku’s touch. when he gets the first glance at your bare chest he leans forward, tongue running across his lower lip. izuku locks eyes with him as he kneads into your chest and you tip your head back to rest on his shoulder.

“izuku.” you whine.

one of his hands slips past the waist band of your skirt and you gasp. he trails one finger up your covered slit over and over until you’re thighs are clamped tight around his hand. he presses against your clit and slowly circles his fingers over the damp fabric, kissing your neck and shoulder as he works you up.

“sit back down.” your eyes snap open at izuku’s voice and see katsuki standing with raised brows before sinking back to the char. “s’okay.” he whispers to you, pressing kisses all over your neck.

his fingers move faster and your whimpers spill out of your mouth, hips desperately grinding against him begging for that release that’s so close. he doesn’t make you chase it, he offers it freely and when you soak your panties he floods you with praise and kisses until you’re almost falling to your knees.

“that’s my good girl.” he slowly slips his hand out from under you skirt. “why don’t we sit back on the bed and give katsuki a better view?” he hum.

“mhm.” you nod, eyes heavy with pleasure.

katsuki watches with dark eyes as izuku helps you out of your skirt, showing off your cute cotton panties. izuku scoots back on the bed and has you sit between his thighs with your legs on either side of his. katsuki watches as he teases you over your panties still, the way your hips jerk, how soaked they are giving him a clear outline.

“see how wet she is? don’t even have her panties off yet.” izuku grins.

“please.” you push back into him when he presses his fingers over your covered entrance. “zuku please.”

“shhhh angel. i got you.” he presses a kiss to your neck while he slowly peels your panties off.

he fists the wet cotton and locks eyes with katsuki before tossing them over to him. your knees shake when you watch katsuki shove them up to his nose and groan. you jolt when izuku’s fingers slide through your folds, pushing his middle finger into your gummy walls while grinding his palm against your clit.

“gonna jerk off with those?” izuku sneers.

“gonna whine about it if i do?” katsuki raises a brow and starts to undo his pants.

“what do you think?” izuku nudges his chin against your head as he slips a second finger in.

“yes! yeah- nghh! anything.” you nod quickly.

katsuki pulls himself out and wraps your panties around his cock and starts to stroke himself slowly. you’re trying to so hard to focus on him but your eyes flutter shut when izuku curls his fingers and grinds harder into your clit. he slowly starts to finger you faster and you’re bucking in his arms chasing after your pleasure and when you burst again katsuki groans at the mess you make all over the bed.

“that’s my good girl.” izuku peppers kisses all over your neck.

izuku scoots to the edge of the bed and sets you next to him while he pushes his pants down enough to pulls his cock out. you whine when he gabs you again and sets you back in his lap facing katsuki, he lifts your legs up to your chest, toes curling when he locks an arm behind your knees and lines himself up.

“mmmnghhh!” your head falls back as he slowly splits you open.

“deku filling you up real good?” katsuki groans from the chair.

“mmmhmm.” you nod your head before letting it fall back against izuku’s shoulder again.

he starts fucking up into you and you can’t hold back the sounds that are pulled from your chest. you’re leaking and leaving a creamy ring around izuku’s base that katsuki can’t take his eyes off of. izuku’s other hand finds your clit and you fall apart immediately, jerking in his arms as he keeps fucking into you.

“lemme fuck her.” katsuki pants.

“no.” izuku grunts.

“lemme lick her clit.” he grins when he sees izuku considering.

“want that angel?” izuku pants, fingers digging into your thigh.

“yes.” you squeeze around him.

“c’mon.” izuku nods his head at katsuki.

katsuki is on his knees between izuku’s thighs, still fisting his own cock as he leans into to suck your clit into his mouth. izuku groans when you clamp down around him, little gasps spilling from your parted lips with each flick of his tongue.

katsuki licks down around your stretched hole and izuku lets out a broken moan as katsuki’s tongue grazes against his cock. he licks your mess off of izuku, groaning at the taste and pumping himself faster. he licks back up to your clit at the same time he cups izuku’s balls with his other hand and the three of you cum all at once, a panting and sweaty mess.

“lemme fuck her.” katsuki looks up at the both of you.

“no.” izuku shakes his head with a heaving chest.

“lemme fuck you.” katsuki tilts his head.

“let me fuck you.” izuku buries his free hand in katsuki’s hair.

“as long as she sits her pretty pussy on my mouth at the same time.” katsuki grins.

[yeontsuki]

ducks in the snow

❆ summary: you drag bakugo out to play in the snow the moment winter arrives. ❆ pairing: bakugo x reader (both are U.A students) ❆ wc: 2.6k | ❆ tags: fluff, established rs, reader has a snow related quirk

You're out of bed before Bakugo can even stir, already scrambling towards the window where the first snowfall descends upon the earth. The tiniest snowflakes drift past the window of his dorm room as if bidding you hello, the dorm grounds blanketed in a fresh sheet of pure white snow that piled up overnight. Your happiness is unbridled as you squeal joyfully before leaping onto Bakugo's bed, jumping up and down with little bunny hops and watching him flail about helplessly like a fish out of water as he grumbles something that vaguely resembles a harmless insult before he peeks open one unfocused eye at you. "Stop jumpin' before I physically pin you onto the bed." 

You grin enthusiastically before you fall onto your knees beside Bakugo, shaking his warm body endlessly. "Kats, Kats, it's snowing." You giggle as Bakugo attempts to flip over onto his other side with a grunt, but your grip is that of a gorilla as you grab his wrist and crawl onto him. Bakugo squawks, startled by your sudden advance yet his arms wrap around you without a second to waste in fear of you potentially falling off the bed as he glares at you. 

"And?" Bakugo deadpans with a snort, his gaze shifting towards the clock on his nightstand. "It's winter vacation, dumbass. Coulda let me sleep in." 

"Nooooo." You bemoan, dragging the single syllable as you squish his cheeks with a pout. "It's snowing. I wanna play in the snow!" 

Bakugo groans exasperatedly, staring at you like you're an annoying fly he can't smack dead though his crimson eyes are full of fondness at your excitement. Unlike his quirk which revolves around blazing heat and indomitable strength, your quirk is aligned with grace of frost, hence winter happens to be your favourite season and snow is your favourite weather phenomenon while Bakugo absolutely abhors both. 

"Lemme sleep for a little bit more." Bakugo mutters as he flops over to his side this time while hugging you tightly like you are his pillow, draping one leg over your knee and locking you down with him. You yelp before you smack his arm and pinch his cheeks, attempting to escape from his grasp. Bakugo merely grabs your thrashing wrist and forces you into stillness without even opening his eyes. But you're a rebel, undeterred by Bakugo's domination that cannot compare to your puny strength and you continue wiggling in his grasp, whining about the snow. With a thundering sigh, Bakugo finally lets go of you and you're quick to scramble to your feet again. 

"Don't go back to sleep." You warn, but Bakugo turns away from you and buries his face into his pillow, snuggling into his bedsheets with a content sigh. You gasp, offended, before you slap his arm again and start tugging on his clothes. "Kats!" 

"Go play by yourself." Bakugo mutters, scrunching up his face in distaste. "I ain't going anywhere near the damned snow. It's lame and wet and it gets everywhere." 

"We have to go together, fatass." You argue back, wondering why the hell does Bakugo weigh so much when you do not make any progress from pulling on his clothes. You resort to lying down on Bakugo's back instead and peppering him with kisses while begging him in the cutest voice you can muster. "Katchuki~" You sing the nickname that has a 100% success rate of swaying Katsuki Bakugo's stubborn heart devoid of any whimsy. "Let's go play in the snow~"

Much to your delight, Bakugo finally budges with a defeated sigh. He pushes himself off his bed, grumbling again as you latch onto his back with a grin. Bakugo slips one hand underneath your butt to support you as he piggybacks you across the dorm which remains notably silent at this hour of the day since it's winter vacation and everyone else is taking the chance to sleep in. 

"Fuckin' menace. You owe me a lifetime's supply of cuddles for this." Bakugo grumbles as he storms across the dorm towards your room while you sway your legs back and forth excitedly.

"Aye aye." You say with a mock salute before pointing in the direction of your dorm room like Bakugo doesn't know where it is, the other hand on his shoulder as you plant your chin onto his ruffled blonde hair. "Onwards, my noble steed!" 

Bakugo swears faintly under his breath before the two of you finally reach your dorm room and he lets you down onto the ground. "Dress warmly." Bakugo wags a firm finger at you with a pointed look much to your chagrin. 

"Huh? But I don't wanna." You sulk, already dreading the thought of putting on multiple thick and heavy layers that will surely weigh you down. 

"Don't care." Bakugo gazes at you sternly, a hand on his hips like he is your mother or something. He pats your head roughly with a sigh, expression suddenly softening. "I don't want to see you freezing over again." 

You zip your lips shut, falling silent at the mention of that incident where a combination of an abrupt and fierce snowstorm, you walking around bare bones and a villain causing your quirk to spiral out of complete control resulted in you freezing over, thick chunks of ice consuming you whole like Todoroki's over usage of his ice powers but much worse. Even now you can still imagine the unfathomable pain that swallowed you alive, phantom traces of the pain never leaving your system and you rub your arms subconsciously. It took both Todoroki and Bakugo to melt the crystalline ice chunks embedded in you and to stabilise your body temperature with their fire. The rest of class 1A wrapped thick layers of blankets around your shivering body, thoroughly concerned about your state and Bakugo had never held you so tight that night, the fear haunting his crimson eyes because he nearly lost you that day. 

You nod your head, blinking at Bakugo. "Okay." 

"Good." Bakugo's lips curve into the faintest of a relieved smile before he turns around, gaze lingering on you for a few seconds longer. "I'll meet you downstairs." 

You grin, watching as Bakugo leaves you to return to his own dorm room. You spin around and dart into your bathroom, doing your daily routine before changing into thick winter clothing that covers you from head to toe. You hum excitedly to yourself, bobbing your head back and forth as you pull out all of your plastic tools for snow making and bundle down the stairs to the first floor of the dorm where Bakugo is already waiting for you, dressed in layers just as thick as yours. 

"Ready?" You hop in your spot, one hand wrapped around the doorknob of the dorm's entrance doors, your enthusiasm more than infectious as Bakugo nods his head with a soft smile. With excited tippy-taps, you turn the doorknob and fling the door wide open, inviting a sudden string of uninvited guests as the winter wind floods the dorm immediately. Bakugo winces, burying his hands even deeper into his pockets, yet he doesn't back away as he follows you out onto dorm grounds and closes the door behind him. He barely gets another step in when he sees you practically throwing yourself off the small flight of stairs that leads to the dorm's entrance and falling face-first into the blanket of snow. 

"Y/N!" Bakugo shouts, the sudden panic flooding his voice as he runs over to your side. You lift your head with a cheery grin, patting the snow like it's your first newborn while Bakugo's shock morphs into a tight scowl. "Seriously, don't do that… nearly gave me a fuckin' heart attack."

"Sorry Kats." You haul yourself off the ground and sit on your ankles, touching the snow with a light hand. "It's really fresh, I couldn't help myself!" 

Bakugo shoots you a pointed look before he rolls his eyes, backtracking and plopping onto the flight of stairs with his hands still tucked in his pockets. He huddles deeper into his winter coat, muttering faintly under his breath about how much the snow stinks and the winter wind sucks. The falling snow ruffles his hair and kisses his cheek as he continues to keep a close eye on you, watching the happiness on your face with a small smile gradually growing on his lips. 

"Kats, I wanna build a snowman." You call out to him, already scooping up a handful of snow. Bakugo raises his eyebrow in response, wondering what does he have anything to do with a snowman and you beckon to him furiously. "Come and help me!"

Bakugo groans loudly at your demand. He starts grumbling under his breath again as he stands up unwillingly and you call him an old man with a giggle. He responds by flicking some snow at you with a frown, forcing a yelp out of you before you huff and resist the urge to dunk him in snow for the sake of world peace. 

The two of you start building the snowman together, piling the snow into one circular lump. You're too focused on constructing the most perfect snowman humanity has ever witnessed, tongue sticking out from raw concentration to notice the way Bakugo stares at you, his gaze impossibly soft and a fond smile on his lips. The snowman starts to take shape, the lower half of its body now completed before you move onto building the upper half. With Bakugo's help, you plop the snowman's upper half onto its lower half and step back to admire your handiwork with a proud grin while Bakugo stares at it. 

"It's pretty!" You declare, patting your hands together. 

"It doesn't have a face." Bakugo mutters, staring at the blank canvas of a face and he almost feels sorry for the inanimate object. 

"We'll just make one." You shrug your shoulders before you lean in and stick your finger into the snowman's blank face. You draw two stick eyes and a wobbly smile before straightening your back, studying the snowman carefully. It's missing something, perhaps lacking some whimsy like Bakugo's barren heart and so you extend your palm towards the snowman and gently blow your quirk onto it. The surface of the snowman starts glistening with a radiant shine like ice crystals and you're more than pleased with how it turned out. "Tadah~" You sing as you turn towards Bakugo, showing him your work. He merely nods his head in approval before returning to the flight of stairs to sit down. 

You return to playing in the snow. You stick a finger into the blanket of snow and write all kind of nonsensical messages like Kats doesn't know joy and draw bizarre portraits of Bakugo that would make Leonardo da Vinci cry. The snow is soft to the touch unlike Bakugo's skin and it fills you up with so much joy you plop onto the snow and start rolling around, squealing to yourself. Bakugo snorts from his spot on the stairs as he watches you, chewing on a piece of bread he swiped from the pantry with dozens more in his winter coat pocket just in case you're hungry. 

You pick up your snow maker tool next with a mischievous grin, piling a handful of snow into the mould and squeezing it as Bakugo watches you, confused about the device you hold in your hands. 

"What the hell is that?" He asks with a frown, fingers idly skimming over the pile of snow that has gathered by his boots. 

"Just watch." You reply, pouring your fullest concentration into the snow maker. You lower the device onto the snow's surface, gently pulling the moulds apart and a snow duck pops out, seemingly winking at you. You gasp, startled by how perfect it is before you gently hoist it up into the air with both hands like it is a trophy. "Ducky!"

Bakugo stifles a snicker as he props his head up on one hand, watching as you create more and more snow ducks to build an army that you will command in your quest for complete world domination. You grin giddily to yourself as you craft your army, unaware of your sole opponent who is watching your every move from the stairs, having crafted a snowball of his own. With a lazy grin and the itch to douse you in more snow, Bakugo lifts his hand and hurls the snowball at you. It soars through the air in a perfect arch before hitting the back of your head with an impact soft enough to rattle your bones slightly. You yelp before you whip your head towards Bakugo immediately who whistles idly, gaze flitting everywhere but you. 

"Did you just throw a snowball at me?" You sulk, shaking a fist at Bakugo as your plans for world domination come to a temporary halt. 

"Nah. Must have been the wind." Bakugo shrugs his shoulders albeit too nonchalantly. You huff at him before you go back to building up your army, but you don't get to make another snow duck when you feel the same exact impact on the back of your head again and you turn around to see Bakugo now off the stairs and sitting on the ground, a handful of circular pure white snow in his hands. 

"You are throwing snowballs at me!" You shout as you point an accusatory finger at Bakugo who gasps in faux hurt, clutching his chest dramatically like you just accused him of first-degree murder. His demeanour changes a split second later as an irritating grin creeps up his lips and he's hurling the snowball directly at you. With a shriek and your well-trained reflexes, you dodge out of harm's way as Bakugo's snowball flies past you, but your army is not granted any mercy as Bakugo's snowball crushes one of your snow ducks into nothingness. 

"Oh, fuck." Bakugo breathes as he raises a hand to cover his mouth in fear of the atrocity he has just committed, crimson eyes growing wide. You stare at the mush, inwardly grieving the loss of one of your finest soldiers before you swivel around to glare at Bakugo with fiery eyes that sends a chill rippling down his spine. 

"This means war." You growl, already scooping a lump of snow into your hands and pressuring it into a snowball. 

"Wait, wait, I can explain—" Bakugo stammers as he raises both hands in a sign of surrender but you don't give him any chance to explain himself, pelting him with a furious rain of snowballs. Bakugo squawks as he scrambles to his feet, desperately fleeing from your onslaught as he runs round and round on the snowy ground. You must have flung at least a hundred snowballs at Bakugo before he dashes towards you and tackles you onto the snow.

You blink up at him, now lying back first on the snow. He stares back at you, cheeks flushed red and breaths growing heavy from all the running. The two of you stare at each other for a few seconds of silence before you burst into laughter, clutching your sides. Bakugo smiles tiredly before he lowers his head and kisses your cheek softly. 

"Love you, sweets." He murmurs before casting your snow duck army an apologetic glance in an attempt to make peace. "Sorry about your ducky though." 

"It's okay." You cup Bakugo's cheeks with your mittens, smiling up at him. "Make peace, not war. Thanks for accompanying me even when you hate the cold."

"I'd do it over again if it means I get to see you this happy." Bakugo breathes before crashing his lips onto yours. Your eyes flutter shut as you pull him closer, heart bursting from this kind of raw happiness that is so rare and special, a kind of happiness only Katsuki Bakugo can provide. 

a/n: consider this my atonement for yesterday's angst. i do want to write the converse where it is summer and their positions are flipped.

© yeontsuki. do not steal, copy or use any of my work for ai. do not copy, modify or repost.

[wadigrove]

✦ rootbound — midoriya izuku

[ nsfw ] — smut (18+) ; midoriya izuku x reader

word count: 29,260 — read on ao3

tags: yandere!midoriya izuku, obsessive midoriya, delusional midoriya, worshipping, rape/noncon, dubious consent, coercion, somnophilia, forced orgasms, explicit language & sexual content, smut, squirting, vaginal sex, oral sex, fear, stockholm syndrome, abuse, bruises, chains (restraints), gaslighting, emotional dependency, hurt/comfort, loneliness, dark romance, kidnapping, unhealthy relationships, captivity, forced intimacy, imprisonment, not beta read, mdni!

summary:

Maybe it was only a matter of time before freedom stopped looking like sunlight and started looking like him. Or, what blooms in captivity still blooms.

notes:

i was feeling very deku pilled and this came out of nowhere lol. please, heed the warnings! it’s also my first time writing noncon/and also the first time writing for deku. especially yandere deku, so i hope i did him justice! (i recommend reading this on ao3.) enjoy! :)

You think it has been forty-five hours since you last saw the sun.

Forty-five hours, maybe more. The number drifts in your head like something half-drowned, swollen and unreliable, bumping softly against the walls of your mind every time you try to hold it still.

It feels longer than that.

It feels like days have been folded into each other until time has become damp and airless, stripped of shape, stripped of color, until there is nothing left of it but the ache of waiting.

You try to remember the sensation of sunlight on your skin and nearly start crying from that alone. Not even the sight of it—just the warmth. Just that first soft touch of gold over your face, your shoulders, your hands. You think, absurdly, helplessly, about how good it would feel to stand outside and let the sky swallow you whole. To breathe real air. To float in that vast blue openness like a body returning to water.

The thought is so tender it hurts. It has happened before—this counting, this trying to measure your captivity by the absence of light, by the silence under the door, by the way your body begins to crave the outside with the desperation of an animal.

It has happened enough times that it no longer startles you. That's the worst part. Not the fear. Not even the pain. It's the routine of it. The way this horror has grown familiar enough to fit itself around your days like a ritual. A cycle. Something you know too well. Something you have come to anticipate with a kind of nauseated dread, because it is easier to survive when you can recognize the pattern of the storm before it breaks.

And the cruelest thing of all is that, in some awful way, you have helped build the pattern yourself.

Not because you want this. Not because you asked for it. But because survival is an ugly kind of participation. Because every time you learn what makes him gentler, what makes him smile, what makes the sharp edge in him ease for an hour instead of an evening, you hand the routine more bones to stand on.

You learn how to read the shifts in Izuku the way sailors must once have learned to read the sea—watching the surface, listening for the groan beneath it, trying to guess which current will carry you and which one will pull you under. He's never simple. That's what makes him so frightening. He is not cruel in the easy way, not in the way of men who enjoy being monsters.

That would be easier to hate. Easier to reject. Easier to survive.

No, Izuku is worse because he loves you with the full, devastating sincerity of someone who has never learned how to love halfway. He wraps every unforgivable thing in tenderness. He explains himself with that soft, earnest voice, as though if he can only make you understand the shape of his devotion, you will stop trembling under it.

He looks at you as if you are holy. As if your pain wounds him too. As if every chain, every locked door, every stolen choice is an act of tragic necessity rather than the violence it is. He worships and imprisons in the same breath. Kisses your forehead like prayer. Cups your face like you are breakable glass. Murmurs apologies with tears caught in his lashes while still refusing to open the door.

And that is what makes your skin crawl the most—that dissonance, that terrible softness. The way he can kneel in front of you, green eyes wide and wet and aching, whispering your name like it is something precious, while his hands hold you in place with a strength you cannot fight. The way your pushes and shoves mean nothing against him once he decides they mean nothing.

Izuku is strong in the way natural disasters are strong—so immense that resistance becomes a kind of grief. There is no arrogance in it, no swagger, no delight. Only certainty. Pure muscle moving under skin like the sea under moonlight, beautiful and terrible and impossible to command.

He ebbs and flows. That is the only way to think of him.

Some days he is soft enough to break your heart all over again: hovering around you with that familiar nervous sweetness still tangled through his movements, asking if you have eaten, if you are cold, if your wrists still hurt, if the blanket is too heavy, if the lamp is bothering your eyes.

Those days, he still resembles the man people trust. The man people call kind. The man whose gentleness once made you lower your guard without even noticing.

And then it shifts.

Not all at once. It steels. It hardens. His voice drops. His shoulders square. His patience thins into something more commanding, more frightening because it is so controlled. The more you cry, the more you beg, the more you pull away and tell him no, the more some other current rises in him—something possessive, something absolute. Not rage, not exactly. Something colder. A conviction so deep it has gone beyond emotion.

He watches you cry with his jaw tight, eyes shining with hurt and determination, and when you beg him to let you go, he does not yell. He does not threaten. He only strokes your face, presses his forehead to yours, and says in that low, shaking voice, “Baby, I already told you. That’s not an option.” Like he is the one being forced to endure this. Like the tragedy here is not your captivity, but your refusal to accept the shape of his love.

The memory of how he chained you makes tears sting your eyes before you can stop them. Your body remembers before your mind does. Your ankles ache with it—the old bruises half-yellowed, the newer ones dark and tender, your skin scuffed raw where metal kissed bone too hard.

Your legs still carry that deep soreness, the kind that settles in the muscles after too much struggling, too much fear, too much time spent fighting a force that cannot be moved. Your wrists hurt too. They always hurt. Even when he tries to pad the cuffs. Even when he checks them afterward with trembling fingers and a face gone pale with guilt. Even when he apologizes into your skin, over and over, voice cracking at the edges as though he cannot bear the evidence of what he has done.

This time he spares your neck, and you hate that your first thought afterward is relief. Relief that there is one place on you he has left untouched by restraint. Relief that you do not have to feel cold metal there, around your throat, turning every swallow into a reminder of ownership.

The bar for mercy has sunk so low it terrifies you.

It hurts. Everything hurts. But Izuku always has something to say about that too. He always does. His love may hurt a little, he tells you in that careful murmur, the one he uses when he thinks honesty will soothe you. As if pain can be made gentler by being admitted. As if naming the wound changes what made it.

You hate him.

You think you do. You must.

The thought arrives sharp and quick, like a match struck in darkness. You clutch it because you need to. Because hatred is clean in a way nothing else here is clean. Hatred gives shape to things. Hatred reminds you that something wrong is happening, that no matter how softly he speaks, no matter how delicately he touches you, no matter how often he looks at you like you are the center of his ruined little universe, this is still wrong.

He is still wrong.

He has taken your life and folded it into his hands and decided that devotion excuses theft. You hate him for the locked doors. For the chains. For the way your world has shrunk to the size of his footsteps outside the room. For the way your body flinches at tenderness now because tenderness has become the wrapping paper around terror. You hate him for making kindness feel dangerous. You hate him for every time he says your name like a promise and makes it sound like a sentence.

But hatred does not stay clean for long in a place like this.

Because the truth is uglier, softer, more humiliating than that. Because your mind has been living too long under his weather. Because he is careful in ways that make cruelty difficult to isolate. Because there are moments—small, poisoned things—when he brushes your hair back from your face with such aching reverence that your chest tightens for reasons you do not want to examine.

Moments when he notices you are shivering before you even fully feel the cold yourself. Moments when he kneels by the bed, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep, and asks if your ankles are throbbing again, and there is such genuine distress in him that it makes you feel sick.

Izuku remembers every little thing about you.

He notices every tremor in your breathing, every shift in your expression, every silence that means one thing and every silence that means another. He is observant to the point of obsession, analytical even now, always tracking, always noticing, always trying to understand the people he loves down to the smallest fracture line.

Only this love has gone rotten from being held too tightly.

It has become warped by fear of losing, by the desperate conviction that saving and keeping are the same thing. He reacts to your tears like they physically hurt him; you see it every time. His whole face crumples with helpless anguish. His hands shake. His voice turns small and pleading.

Yet even then—even with his own heart plainly breaking in front of you—he does not let go. That's what undoes you. Not that he feels nothing, but that he feels everything and still chooses this.

The room is quiet now except for the faint mechanical hum buried in the walls and the soft rustle of sheets when you shift. It is always too quiet after he leaves. Quiet in a way that feels curated, controlled, deliberate. Like even silence belongs to him here.

You stare at the ceiling until the pale blur of it wavers with unshed tears. Your body feels heavy, used up by fear and anger and the exhausting labor of resistance. The cuffs at your wrists drag when you move. Metal whispers against itself.

You close your eyes and instantly see sunlight again—not real sunlight, but memory-sunlight. The kind that lives behind your eyelids when you are desperate enough.

You imagine standing beneath it.

You imagine your skin warming, your lungs filling, your shadow stretching long and ordinary across a sidewalk somewhere. Ordinary.

The word nearly breaks you.

Once, your life had been full of ordinary things so small you never thought to worship them: standing by a window, choosing when to eat, stepping outside just because you wanted to, silence that was truly yours. Now even memory has started to feel dangerous, because it makes the room smaller every time you compare.

You hear him before you see him.

Footsteps beyond the door. A pause. The small metallic sound of the lock turning.

Your whole body goes taut on instinct. It happens before thought. Before reason. Before you can stop it, your pulse is already hammering, your breath gone shallow, every muscle in you pulled tight as wire.

Fear blooms fast and hot, but tangled inside it is something even worse: recognition. Because you know the cadence of his steps now. Know when he is tired by the drag of one foot. Know when he is trying to seem calm by how carefully he exhales before opening the door. Know how long he stands outside when he is working up the courage to come in after one of your fights.

That knowledge humiliates you. It feels like contamination. But it's there.

The door opens slowly.

Izuku steps inside as if entering a chapel.

That is the only way your mind knows how to frame it.

Your stomach tightens the moment your eyes land on him. It is an instinctive thing now, cruelly automatic, as natural and immediate as flinching from fire. You hate that most of all—the reflex of it, the way your body knows him before your mind can dress the feeling in prettier lies.

It is hard to keep your breathing even. Hard to make yourself look at him without looking afraid. Harder still to pretend that he has not already gotten inside you in all the worst ways—not like love, not like comfort, but like roots. Like something invasive and patient, threading itself beneath bone, around organs, through the fragile architecture of your body until he feels less like a person standing in front of you and more like a presence woven under your skin.

Something that has learned the map of you too well. Something that lives there now, in the hidden places, and makes even your own fear feel inhabited.

He watches you for a long moment without speaking.

Of course he does.

Izuku has always been good at watching. Good at noticing. That has been one of the truest things about him from the beginning, long before all of this, long before locked doors and chains and the terrible distortion of devotion into possession.

He learned early how to study people—not just as a hero in training, not just as someone who built himself through observation and analysis, but as someone who pays attention with his whole soul. It is in his nature to notice the smallest shift and treat it like important data. The way someone favors one side when they are injured. The way a smile changes when it is forced. The way fear sits in the shoulders, the jaw, the breath.

With you, that instinct has only sharpened into something feverishly intimate. He remembers the way you used to laugh before your laughter became something rarer, brittle and careful. He remembers which subjects made your voice soften, which foods you would pick around on a plate before eating the parts you actually liked, the exact tilt of your head when you were tired but trying not to admit it.

He has catalogued all of it so thoroughly that being seen by him no longer feels like being looked at. It feels like being read. Opened. Sorted through page by page until there is nothing private left.

His gaze moves over you now with that same terrible attentiveness. He sees your shallow breathing, the way your fingers tense against the sheets, the way your eyes flick once toward the chain before sliding away again. He takes all of it in. You know he does. And because he knows what fear looks like on you—because he has memorized it—his face softens with something that might almost resemble pain.

Then he steps closer.

You tense immediately, and the chain gives a small, humiliating clatter when you instinctively draw back. The sound is sharp in the quiet room. Metal against metal. A little cry of helplessness that does not even have the dignity of language. Your body tries to retreat before you can stop it, trying to pull away from him, from his hands, from whatever version of tenderness he has brought in with him this time.

But there is nowhere to go.

There is only the bed, the chain, the room, and Izuku crossing the distance between you with maddening gentleness.

And then he kneels.

It would be almost laughable if it did not make your throat ache.

He kneels at your feet as though you are royalty and he is something lesser, something devoted, something humble enough to live only in service. The posture is all wrong for what he is doing to you.

That is part of what makes him so unbearable.

He has the instincts of a worshipper and the hands of a jailer. He lowers himself before you like a servant attending a queen, green eyes lifted with that reverent softness that always makes your stomach twist, and slowly—so slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal—he reaches for the chain. His fingers are careful. Deliberate. He loosens it with an ease that makes the muscles in your legs jump.

The relief is immediate and terrible, because your body betrays you by wanting that relief no matter who gives it. Before you can pull your legs up and away from him, before you can recover enough to hide the vulnerable line of your ankles, his hands are there.

Warm, steady, and impossible to ignore.

He cups one ankle like it is something delicate despite the bruises blossoming there in ugly shades beneath his fingertips. Then, before you can even brace yourself for what comes next, he bows his head and presses a kiss against the darkened skin.

The breath leaves you.

Not because it is gentle. Not because it is kind. But because it's wrong in such a soft way that your body does not know how to hold it. His mouth brushes the bruises he made as though they are sacred marks, as though the pain on your skin is something to be honored rather than undone.

The contrast is enough to make nausea coil under your ribs.

“I bought your favorite ointment,” he murmurs against your skin.

He says it like prayer. Like an offering. Like this tiny act of thoughtfulness is evidence of a love so pure it should absolve him. And the worst part is the precision of it. The way he says favorite, as if the ointment is your favorite because it brings comfort, because he knows you, because he cares.

Not because it happens to be the one that works best with your skin, the one that reduces swelling fastest, the one that helps the bruising fade quicker.

He makes preference out of practicality. Intimacy out of observation. Devotion out of research.

But that's what he always does, doesn't he? He takes the things he has learned about you and folds them back into his love until they sound romantic, until they sound chosen, until they sound like proof that he understands you better than anyone else ever could.

You want to tell him you don't want anything from him.

You want to say it sharply, clearly, with all the venom you still have left. You want to tell him you would rather ache. Rather bleed. Rather lie awake all night under the bite of the chains than take one soft thing from his hands and let him mistake your need for gratitude. You want to tell him you would rather die than let him turn care into another collar around your throat.

But your body is tired.

You are hurt, and exhausted, and the metal has already worn your skin raw enough that the thought of sleeping with it still biting into you makes your eyes sting. Your pride and your anger are alive and furious, but your flesh is only flesh. It throbs. It begs for relief in ways that humiliate you.

Survival is never noble. It is only practical. Ugly. Necessary.

So you let him.

You let him smooth the salve over your skin while you stare somewhere over his shoulder and try not to look directly at him. You let him lift your foot a little more carefully than he needs to, supporting your calf in one hand as if even your weight is precious to him. You let him rub the ointment into the bruised skin with slow circles of his thumb, and when he presses a little too hard over one of the darker marks you cannot help the small flinch that runs through you.

Izuku freezes instantly.

His whole face changes. Concern flashes across it so nakedly it might have been drawn there in ink. “Did I hurt you?” he asks in a hush, already easing up, already adjusting. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to—was that too much pressure? I-I can be gentler.”

That is another terrible thing about him: how quickly he corrects. How sincerely. He is never careless with your pain once he notices it. He notices everything. He sees the wince, hears the hitch in your breath, and reorganizes himself around it immediately. Like your comfort is the center of his world.

Except, of course, when your comfort requires freedom.

You say nothing.

Your silence doesn't stop him. It never does. But it changes him. He grows quieter beneath it, more careful, as if silence itself is a mood he has learned to navigate. He presses another kiss to the side of your ankle, then another, feather-light and apologetic, murmuring sorry into your skin like the word can seep through pores and heal what he has done.

His thumb moves over the bruise absentmindedly afterward, a slow circling touch that might have been soothing in any other life. Here it feels unbearable. Intimate in the wrong direction. Tenderness used as a tool to sand down the edges of violence.

And then, because he cannot help himself, because Izuku has always verbalized feeling when it overflows him, he starts speaking softly into the hush—how pretty you look; how good you are for him right now; how proud he is that you are letting him help; how much he loves you.

The words fall one by one and each of them lands with the weight of something heavier beneath it. He sounds sincere because he is sincere. That is what makes it so awful. There is no mockery in him. No game. He is not trying to taunt you. He means every word with the full force of his heart, and that sincerity makes the whole thing more frightening than cruelty ever could.

Cruelty can be rejected cleanly. This cannot. This slides into every crack.

He strokes your bruised skin and praises you for enduring him. He kisses the damage and calls it beautiful because it is part of you, because he has touched it, because in his warped little cosmos even your suffering becomes another proof of connection.

You let him.

You let him hold your ankle like something cherished. You let him rub the salve in until the worst of the heat begins to dull. You let his apologies settle in the air between you without answering them; you hate how your body reacts to him the way leaves react to light—automatic, instinctive, betraying.

In some sick way this feels like accepting his apology.

Not in your heart. Not where it matters. But in practice. In action. In the brutal language of survival. You do not slap his hand away. You do not spit in his face. You do not tell him no, not this time. You sit there and let him tend to what he ruined, and that allowance becomes its own kind of message whether you mean it to or not.

It's a message he will read; a message he will treasure—a message he will misunderstand.

It frightens you.

Because with Izuku, every little permission grows teeth. Every compromise becomes evidence. Every moment you are too exhausted to fight becomes, in his mind, a step toward trust. Toward healing. Toward the future he keeps trying to build out of your captivity.

He is always collecting signs, always searching your face for proof that you are softening, that you understand him a little more today than you did yesterday. That one day you will stop looking at the locked door and start looking only at him.

When you glance down at him now, just for a second, you see it there already.

Hope.

It glows in him so quietly you almost miss it. In the softened line of his mouth. In the way his shoulders loosen just slightly when you do not pull away from the next touch. In the care with which he wipes the extra ointment from his fingers before moving to your other ankle, as though he has been entrusted with something fragile and miraculous. He looks at you like you have given him a gift.

The sight makes your stomach turn.

You haven't forgiven him. You haven't forgiven anything.

You are simply tired. Simply hurting. Simply human enough to take relief where it is offered, even from the hands that caused the pain.

But Izuku has always been a man who believes in meaning. In signs. In small things that reveal larger truths. Of course he would see this moment and cradle it like something precious. Of course he would build a fragile little shelter out of it and crawl inside, telling himself that maybe this means you still trust him somewhere deep down. Maybe this means you know he only wants to care for you. Maybe this means he has not lost you entirely.

You look away from him quickly, jaw tightening, throat burning with a grief too shapeless to name. Outside this room there is still a world turning under the sun. Somewhere light is touching windows and pavement and the tops of trees. Somewhere people are walking freely through the day without knowing how holy freedom is.

And here, in this dim hush, Izuku kneels at your feet, devoted and monstrous in equal measure, tending your wounds with the same hands that made them.

You let him.

And the whole room fills with the terrible silence of what that will cost.

────────────────────────

He makes you come with his fingers that night.

The room is still thick with the scent of ointment and the faint metallic tang of the chain when Izuku’s hand slips between your thighs again. His calloused pads find your puffy clit almost immediately, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that make your breath hitch despite every ounce of resistance left in your exhausted body.

You try to scoot away, legs trembling, voice cracking as you whisper, “Izuku… no. Please stop.” The words fall soft and useless into the quiet. He doesn’t listen. He never does when the hunger has already settled behind his eyes, glassy and soft and aching with that terrible sincerity.

You don’t want it. Not the warmth pooling low in your belly, not the way your hips twitch when he presses just a little firmer, not the soft whimper that escapes anyway.

But Izuku believes—deep in that warped, devoted heart of his—that if he can just make your body feel good, everything else will follow. That pleasure is the bridge back to the version of you he keeps locked inside his head: willing, soft, safe in his arms.

So he keeps going, fingers slick and steady, circling your swollen clit with careful precision.

Your hands push weakly at his arm, nails scraping over his skin, but his free arm only wraps tighter around your waist, anchoring you against him.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs against your temple, voice low and trembling with guilt and hunger braided together so tightly you can’t tell them apart. “I’ve got you, baby. Let me show you how much I love you.”

The pressure builds anyway. Slow. Unwanted. Inevitable. Your clit throbs under the relentless, calloused drag of his fingertips, each stroke pulling another reluctant spark through nerves that have learned his rhythm too well.

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to hold back the sounds crawling up your throat. But then his fingers shift—just the right angle, just the right pressure—and a broken whimper tears free.

“'Zuku…”

It’s not exactly surrender. It’s exhaustion. It’s the body betraying the mind because fighting has become too heavy, too endless.

He hears it like gospel. His breath catches, green eyes fluttering half-shut. “That’s it… just like that, baby,” he whispers, voice cracking with something dangerously close to awe. “You’re so perfect. So good for me. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, but you feel so good.”

He doesn’t speed up. He stays slow, almost worshipful, rubbing tight little circles over your puffy clit until your thighs start to shake and your breathing fractures into shallow, desperate gasps. His thumb replaces his fingers so they can slide lower, pressing inside your cunt with gentle insistence, curling just enough to stroke that spot that makes white heat flash behind your eyes.

Your back arches against your will, a sob catching in your chest as the coil tightens and tightens and finally snaps.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves—unwanted, overwhelming, leaving you trembling and gasping in his arms. Your walls flutter around his fingers, clit pulsing under his thumb, and for a few cruel seconds the pleasure blots out everything else: the chains, the bruises, the locked door, the sun you haven’t seen in days.

All that exists is the shuddering release and the soft, sacred way he keeps touching you through it, drawing every last tremor from your body like he’s collecting proof that you still belong to him.

When the peak finally ebbs, shame floods in immediately. You didn’t want this, yet here you are, limp and warm and leaking against his hand while he cradles you closer, pressing kisses to your damp forehead, your wet cheeks, the corner of your trembling mouth.

“See?” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion, fingers still buried deep inside you as if he can’t bear to let the connection break. “It feels better now, doesn’t it? Your body knows… it knows how safe you are with me. How much I love you.” He nuzzles into your neck, breath ragged, hips rocking subtly against your thigh where you can feel him hard and aching, yet he makes no move to take more.

Not tonight.

Tonight is about this—about making you come, about holding you while you’re soft and pliant, about pretending the arms locked around you are something you chose.

He keeps you there for a long time afterward, whispering soft praises and gentle apologies into your hair, fingers occasionally stroking lazy circles over your oversensitive clit just to feel you twitch.

Even now, something in you leans—just slightly—toward him, like a stem straining toward a window.

(The room stays dim and quiet except for the low hum of the walls and the occasional clink of the chain when you shift.

“Is there something you want to eat tomorrow?” he asks quietly into the hush, his voice soft from disuse, from emotion, from the strange fragile peace he always seems to mistake for tenderness after nights like this. “Anything you’re craving for dinner?”

Normally, you do not answer him.

Normally, you keep your silence wrapped tightly around yourself like the only thing in this room that still belongs to you. Silence is safer. Silence does not soften him. Silence does not give him little pieces of you to cradle in his hands and call trust. It is one of the last ways you know how to resist him—small, quiet, unimpressive perhaps, but yours.

Izuku has learned that too. He has learned the shape of your quiet, the weight of it, the difference between the silences that mean anger and the silences that mean exhaustion. He never stops trying to reach through them anyway.

But tonight, for some reason, you answer.

Maybe it is because you are tired down to the marrow, too worn thin to keep every wall standing. Maybe it is because the question catches you off guard in its terrible, awful normalcy, sounding for one fleeting second like something from another life—something domestic, something ordinary, something that belongs in kitchens and evening light instead of this dim locked room.

Or maybe it is simply because it rises into your mind so suddenly, so vividly, that the word slips out before you can stop it. Warm, peppery, crisp skin. Sticky fingers. The sharp, nostalgic ache of craving something so human and uncomplicated.

“Tebasaki,” you whisper.

The word leaves you in such a soft hush it barely feels real. It hangs there between you, light as breath.

When you glance back at him, Izuku looks as though he has just seen heaven.

The brightness breaks open across his face, so sudden and so unguarded it almost startles you. His whole expression changes. His eyes go wide first, green and luminous and disbelieving, and then his mouth parts in that small, stunned way he gets when something catches him somewhere deep in the chest.

It's not triumph, not exactly. Not smugness.

It's something more earnest than that, which somehow makes it worse. He looks happy in a way that is almost boyish, almost painfully pure, as though you have handed him something precious instead of something accidental. Something he can hold. Something he can keep.

“Tebasaki?” he repeats, softly, like he wants to make sure he heard you right, like the word itself is delicate. Then his face breaks into a smile so bright it nearly hurts to look at. “Okay. Yeah—yeah, I’ll get you the best tebasaki in the whole world.” His voice warms with sudden purpose, his mind already moving the way it always does, quick and attentive and all-consuming.

The conviction in the way he says it makes your throat tighten.

Because he means it. Izuku has never known how to do anything halfway, and that has always been the most dangerous thing about him. Once he latches onto something—an idea, a goal, a person he loves—it ceases to be small. It becomes a mission. A vow. A thread he will follow with his whole heart wrapped around it.

He is already building the answer in his head with the meticulous devotion of someone preparing to save the world, when all you did was whisper the name of a food you missed.

You turn your face away, but his warmth finds you anyway—persistent, invasive, patient as morning.

You ignore the way your heart gives a small, shameful flutter in your chest.

It angers you the second you feel it—that soft involuntary movement, that traitorous little stutter under your ribs. Not because you are touched, you tell yourself. Not because he is sweet. But because you remember, all at once, what it feels like to be listened to. To say you want something and have someone respond like your wanting matters.

The feeling is so ordinary it becomes devastating here. It should not mean anything. It should not reach you at all. But captivity distorts hunger into gratitude, and loneliness makes even scraps of attentiveness feel warm if you are starved enough.

And that tiny flutter disgusts you because it feels too close to something soft.)

────────────────────────

You see the sun again today.

It feels almost unreal at first.

After days and days of rain, of low gray skies pressing themselves against the city like damp wool, the light returns so suddenly it almost startles you. It spills through the windows in long pale bands, soft at first, then brighter as the morning stretches, until the whole apartment seems touched by something warmer, gentler, more alive.

You stand there for a while just looking at it. Not even doing anything, really. Just looking. Just watching how the gold settles over the floorboards, how it catches in the edges of furniture, how it turns the dust in the air into something delicate and floating.

It reminds you that the world is still out there. That somewhere beyond these walls the sky has opened again. That the sun has continued to rise even while your life has narrowed into rooms, routines, and the quiet violence of being kept.

You imagine what it would feel like if you could step out onto the balcony.

The thought comes gently, not in the sharp desperate way it used to. You imagine sliding the door open and being greeted by the cool edge of city air. Imagine the faint noise of traffic far below, the distant hum of people living their lives, the scent of concrete warming under sunlight, maybe something green if the wind happens to catch a tree somewhere nearby.

You imagine the rays landing full on your skin, not filtered through glass, but real and living and warm. You imagine tilting your face upward and letting the day touch you. The image rises in your mind so clearly that for a moment it almost feels like memory instead of fantasy.

For some reason, imagining it feels like enough; you take what light you’re given.

There was a time when imagining something would have made the wanting sharper. It would have made you feel sick with it; it would have driven the absence into you like a blade.

But now the longing comes wrapped in something softer, more manageable, as though your mind has learned to sand down its own edges for the sake of survival.

The sunlight through the window becomes a substitute. A stand-in. A small mercy.

You accept it with a calm that would have horrified you weeks ago.

It's okay, you tell yourself. It's okay that you are not chained right now.

(That thought comes just as softly, and that one is worse.)

You can move around the apartment again.

Your ankles have healed enough that the bruises are only faint shadows now, old stains under the skin instead of open tenderness. Your wrists no longer sting every time you turn them. The sharpest aches have faded into memory. There is no chain at your leg today, no metal dragging behind you when you shift from one room to another, no cold reminder biting into your skin.

You are free to move through the space as long as the space remains what it is: bounded, watched, his.

It has begun to feel less like a miracle and more like routine.

It's not exactly freedom, not really. It only looks like freedom if you squint. It only resembles choice if you stop tracing the outline of the cage.

Still, your body responds to it anyway.

Your shoulders are less tense than they once were. You sleep a little deeper on nights when there are no restraints. You have learned the dimensions of the apartment the way captive animals learn enclosures, making little pathways out of repetition. Kitchen. Couch. Window. Bathroom. Bed.

The geography of permitted movement. The architecture of a life that pretends not to be stolen because it has been made comfortable enough to inhabit.

You tell yourself you are not softening, only surviving—but survival, it seems, has roots.

By the time Izuku comes back, the sunlight has shifted lower.

You hear him before you see him, and that old instinctive tension still flickers through you—quick, automatic, impossible to fully kill—but it doesn't spike as sharply as it used to.

His absence has stretched over several days this time. Days of quiet. Days where his presence lingers only in traces: folded laundry, stocked groceries, the messages he has left, the care arranged around you like offerings in a shrine. And then suddenly he is here again, unlocking the door, stepping inside with the weariness of someone returning from a long mission and carrying the outside world on his clothes.

He looks tired.

Not broken, not injured—not in any obvious way—but worn around the edges. There is a heaviness in the set of his shoulders, in the slight drag of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Hero work always leaves something on him. You see it immediately, because of course you do. Because noticing him has become as involuntary as him noticing you.

He has one bag in his hand, and when his eyes find you standing by the window, something in his face softens so fast it almost hurts to witness. Relief first. Then warmth. Then that quiet, terrible devotion that always lives underneath everything else.

“I’m home,” he says softly.

The words land strangely domestic. It sounds ordinary, but it feels wrong.

You do not answer right away. You never quite know what to do with phrases like that from him, with all the soft little things he says that belong in another kind of life. But he does not seem to mind. He slips off his shoes, steps further inside, and then holds out the small package in his hand almost shyly.

“I brought you something.”

Your eyes drop to it.

Momiji manjū.

For a second you just stare, surprised by the shape of it, the neat wrapping, the unmistakable little confection nestled inside. The maple leaf pattern is familiar enough to make something old and faint stir in you. Sweet bean filling. Soft cake. A treat that feels oddly specific, oddly thoughtful, in a way that immediately puts you on guard and softens you at the same time.

He notices your recognition instantly. Of course he does.

“I got it in Hiroshima,” he says, and there is that careful note in his voice, the one he uses when he is offering something he hopes will matter. “After the mission.” He pauses, just long enough for his gaze to flick toward the window where the sunlight still spills in. “It reminded me of the leaves from the maple trees where I met you the first time.”

The words do something quiet to your chest.

You hate that they do.

The memory rises before you can stop it. Not even the whole day—just pieces. Light through leaves. A season turning. Some earlier version of him before all this, when his attention still felt flattering instead of frightening, when his earnestness still passed for safety, when being remembered by him had not yet become another form of being possessed.

He says it so simply, like he is handing you not just a sweet but a memory preserved inside sugar and flour. Like he traveled far away, completed some dangerous mission, and still came back carrying something small because it made him think of you.

For some reason, despite yourself, it makes you smile.

It's not a big smile. Not radiant, not unguarded. Just something faint that lifts at your mouth before you can stop it, soft and almost fragile with surprise. A little reflex of warmth that escapes your control.

His whole face changes when he sees it.

Izuku doesn't beam—not the bright overwhelming grin he used to wear more easily in older days, in easier times. This is smaller. Quieter. More careful than that. But it is warm in a way that feels almost unbearable. It spreads slowly over his features like sunlight crossing water, gentle and glowing and full of a kind of wonder he cannot quite hide.

He looks at you as though your smile is not just something pretty, but something sacred. Something given. Something earned only through patience and luck and reverence.

And because the moment has already become too soft, too human, too dangerously close to tenderness, you whisper, “Thank you.”

The words come out quieter than you mean them to.

They are almost lost in the room, almost swallowed by the hush of late afternoon. But he hears them. Of course he hears them. Izuku has always heard even the smallest things when they come from you.

His smile deepens just slightly, though it never becomes too much. He seems to know instinctively that too much joy might frighten the moment away. “You’re welcome,” he says, just as softly.

The gentleness of it settles over the room.

For a few seconds, nothing else happens. No reaching. No coaxing. No sharpened edge beneath the softness. He just stands there with the light catching on the tired line of his face, looking at you with that impossible warmth, and you stand by the window holding a sweet from Hiroshima while the sun touches the floor between you both.

The city beyond the glass is alive in ways you cannot hear clearly from here. Somewhere cars are moving. Somewhere strangers are walking under the same sky. Somewhere the day goes on, vast and ordinary and untouched by the little world the two of you have built out of devotion and fear.

You think of the sun after rain. The sweet brought back from far away. A remembered detail. A soft thank you. A softer you’re welcome. The awful, aching normalcy of it. The way he can stand there looking tired and sincere and gentle and make the whole thing feel, for one trembling moment, like a life instead of a theft.

You lower your eyes to the momiji manjū in your hand.

Its little maple shape is delicate, almost pretty enough to hurt.

Somewhere deep in your chest, where anger and grief and exhaustion have all been living together for too long, something small and quiet stirs—something you do not want to name, because naming it would make it real.

Outside, the sun continues to shine.

Inside, Izuku watches you with that same warm, careful expression, as though this tiny moment is enough to sustain him.

You fall asleep in his arms that night without any ceremony to mark it.

One moment you are lying there in the soft dimness of evening with distance still stretched between your bodies like a fragile line, and the next that distance is gone, dissolved somewhere in the hush, until you are tucked against him as though this, too, has become part of the routine.

Maybe it is because he has been gone for days.

Maybe it is because loneliness is a physical thing now, something that lives in the body like cold lives in the body, creeping into the spaces between your ribs, settling in your hands and your throat and the places no blanket can really reach.

The apartment always feels larger when he is gone, and emptier in ways that make no sense because his absence should feel like relief. Sometimes it does. Sometimes the quiet is a mercy.

But sometimes the quiet grows too wide and strange, and the rooms begin to feel less like refuge and more like abandonment. You hate that you can tell the difference now. Hate that his presence has shaped the space enough for you to feel when it is missing.

Maybe it is because you are cold.

That one is simpler. Easier. Something you can almost forgive in yourself. The night air has a faint chill to it, the kind that slips under fabric and lingers at the edges of sleep. Even with the blanket pulled up, warmth feels incomplete until it is shared, and his body has always run warm—it's steady and solid, heat banked deep beneath skin and muscle.

It would be easy, almost reasonable, to blame it on that.

(Maybe it's because you missed him.)

You freeze the instant the possibility crosses your mind.

Not outwardly, not enough for him to notice at first. But something in you goes still and sharp, as if your own body has betrayed you with a language you do not want to understand. Missed him. The words feel wrong in your head, swollen and feverish, impossible to hold without disgust.

Because what would that mean? That absence has started to hurt in the shape of him? That your days are beginning to organize themselves around the gravity of his presence and the lack of it? That captivity has become familiar enough for the captor’s absence to register as an ache?

The thought makes your stomach twist.

And yet you are already here.

Already tucked into the curve of him, already half-hidden against the breadth of his chest and shoulder, already close enough to hear the deep, even rhythm of his breathing beneath everything else. When he wraps an arm around you, it's not sudden. He does it with that same maddening care he does everything with, slowly enough that you could move away if you wanted to.

Or maybe that is the illusion he offers—space to retreat, knowing how tired you are, how heavy your body feels, how much easier it is tonight not to fight every small thing.

At first, you cannot help the stiffness that runs through you.

It's instinctive. Your whole body catches on itself for a second, muscles tightening under the memory of all the other times he has held you in ways that meant control instead of comfort. Your spine goes rigid. Your breath pauses.

He notices immediately; of course he does. Izuku always notices. His arm stills around you at once, not withdrawing, but not tightening either. He waits there in the quiet, his restraint so palpable it almost becomes another touch.

You can feel the effort of it in the way his breathing changes ever so slightly, as if he is talking himself through stillness, reminding himself not to rush the moment, not to spook you, not to break whatever fragile permission has been placed in his hands.

“It’s okay,” he whispers after a moment, and his voice is so low it barely disturbs the dark.

And slowly, you begin to loosen in his arms.

Your shoulders unhook from around your ears. Your jaw unclenches. The tight line of your spine softens by degrees until the bed catches your weight properly again. You manage to bury your cheek against the firm warmth of his bicep beneath your head, the muscle solid and familiar in a way that makes something in your chest ache. He is so impossibly warm.

It shouldn't matter how warm he is. It shouldn't matter how easy it is, physically at least, to fit there against him.

But the body is a simple creature when it is tired enough. It knows warmth. It knows the relief of being held without immediate struggle. It knows the shape of a place where it can, for one moment, stop bracing.

His presence settles over you like warmth through glass—filtered, controlled, but enough. Always enough. You are still confused, still afraid—yet something in you drinks him in like light.

Izuku lets out the smallest breath when he feels you settle.

His hand, resting at first with deliberate stillness against your middle, begins to move only when he is certain you are not pulling away. He strokes your belly in slow, absent lines, not possessive exactly, though the intimacy of it makes your skin prickle. More like he is soothing himself through the contact. Like he needs to feel the reality of you there beneath his palm.

The gesture is almost petlike in its repetition—gentle, rhythmic, tender in a way that threatens to become demeaning if you look at it too hard.

And maybe it is demeaning.

Maybe that is part of why your throat tightens. Because he touches you with such careful affection, like something precious he has soothed by patience, and some terrible part of your body responds to the steadiness of it despite everything your mind knows.

He kisses your cheek.

Then again, softer.

He breathes in near your temple, slow and deep, as if your scent is something grounding to him, something he has gone too long without and is quietly starving for now that he has it back. The closeness of it turns your insides strange.

You feel him pressing his face briefly to your hair, to your skin, to the place where your body yields against his, and there is such aching reverence in the way he does it that it becomes difficult to separate devotion from need.

“I love you, baby,” he murmurs into the darkness.

The words come out unguarded, worn soft by exhaustion and feeling. Not performative. Not calculated. He says them the way people pray half-asleep, the way some truths seem to slip more easily from the body when it is too tired to hide them behind shame.

His hand keeps moving over your stomach in those slow strokes. “I love you. I missed you so much.” A pause, and his mouth brushes your cheek again, barely there. “I love you so much.”

Each repetition lands differently.

Not lighter for being repeated, but heavier. As though he cannot stop saying it because saying it is the only way he knows how to contain the force of it.

He feels with his whole body. His whole heart. He overthinks, over-notices, over-cares. Love in him has always had the quality of flooding—earnest and overwhelming and impossible to hold halfway. Here, now, with you in his arms and sleep tugging at the edges of the room, that part of him is painfully visible.

He sounds wrecked by tenderness. Grateful for your nearness in a way that makes your chest hurt.

The tears that gather in the corners of your eyes don't feel like sadness.

That would almost be easier.

Sadness would have a name, a shape, a clean direction to move in. But this feeling is stranger than that. Sicker. It rises in you like warm water around a wound, confusing and shameful and impossible to fully understand. Your eyes sting, and yet what fills them is not grief exactly. Not relief either.

It's something more twisted than either of those.

Something born from the unbearable tenderness of a moment that should not exist under these circumstances and yet does. The warmth of him. The safety of being held by the very person you should not be safe with. The softness of his voice. The ache of being missed. The horrifying human comfort of having your coldness noticed and remedied by the body beside you.

It makes something deep in you recoil.

And something else—something weaker, more tired, more frighteningly human—leans toward it.

That's the part you cannot comprehend yet. Or maybe you can, and comprehension is exactly what you are trying to avoid. Because if you name it too clearly, it might become real: the possibility that need and fear can grow roots in the same soil. That loneliness can make even poisoned tenderness feel warm when it wraps around you in the dark. That your body, traitorous thing, can relax where your mind still screams.

So you don't answer him with words.

Words would make too much of it. Words would require intention. Meaning. But your body offers something anyway, small and quiet and impossible to take back once given: the soft nuzzle of your cheek against his bicep. Barely a movement. Just enough to settle closer, to acknowledge the warmth there, to let your face rest more fully against him.

Izuku goes completely still.

For one suspended second, the whole room seems to stop with him.

Then you feel the way his arm tightens around you—not enough to trap, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold as if he has been pierced straight through by that tiny, unconscious gesture. His breath catches hard against your hair. When he speaks again, his voice is even softer than before, frayed at the edges with emotion he is trying and failing to contain.

“Sweet girl,” he whispers, almost to himself.

The words are full of awe. Of relief. Of some fragile happiness so immense it has to make itself small to survive.

He presses another kiss to your cheek, then to your temple and his hand resumes its slow path over your belly as though soothing you, soothing himself, soothing the whole trembling thing that has opened up inside his chest. You keep your eyes closed after that. The tears stay where they are, shining but unshed, cooling slowly at the corners of your lashes.

By the time sleep finally comes for you, it does not feel like surrender.

It feels so much worse.

(You wake with a sudden jolt.

A warm, wet pressure blooms between your thighs and a deep, insistent ache low in your belly pulls you from the heavy fog of sleep.

A soft, warbled moan slips from your lips before you can catch it, your thighs trembling involuntarily as the sensation coils tighter, unfamiliar yet already familiar in the worst possible way.

Your eyelids feel leaden, heavy with the remnants of dreams you can no longer remember, and for a hazy moment everything is blurred—the warmth, the wetness, the slow drag of something hot and deliberate against your cunt.

You blink once, trying to orient yourself. Then again, but each flutter of your lashes only sharpens the feeling, turning it from a distant haze into something immediate and undeniable.

When your gaze finally drops downward, the sight steals the breath from your lungs.

Izuku is there, nestled between your spread legs like a devotee at a forbidden altar, his green eyes closed as if the world beyond your body has ceased to exist. His hands are curled firmly around the back of your knees, holding them open with a strength that brooks no resistance, ensuring you cannot close yourself to him even half asleep.

His face is buried into your cunt, tongue warm and heavy, slick with abundant spit that glistens on your folds and drips down to soak the sheets beneath you. He licks a long, slow strip from your entrance upward, savoring every inch as though mapping a sacred path, the flat of his tongue broad and unhurried, before circling the tight little nub of your clit with deliberate, worshipful strokes.

Then he slurps it gently into his mouth, sucking with a soft, wet pull that sends sparks of unwanted pleasure shooting through your still-drowsy nerves.

He eats your pussy like it's his favorite meal in all the world, like he has waited lifetimes for this exact taste and texture, like he would gladly die right here between your trembling thighs if the universe demanded it.

There is no rush in his movements, no frantic desperation—only a profound patience, as though this is his last meal before some inevitable execution, and your body is the heavenly offering that will carry him into whatever comes after.

His tongue presses deeper, lapping at your entrance with slow, thorough strokes, gathering the slick evidence of your body’s reluctant response before returning to your clit, swirling and sucking with a gentleness that makes the pleasure feel like betrayal wrapped in silk.

Another moan escapes you, louder this time, raw and involuntary, dragging you further into wakefulness as heat floods your cheeks and shame twists sharp in your chest. Your hand shakes as you reach down, fingers tangling weakly in his messy green curls, trying to push his head away even as your thighs quiver around him.

“Izuku…” you manage, voice thick with sleep and protest, but he only hums softly against your mound, the vibration sending another unwelcome ripple through you.

He interprets the push as something tender—perhaps a pat, perhaps encouragement—because his eyes flutter open just enough to meet yours, glassy with that familiar mix of guilt and starving adoration, lashes damp with unshed tears or perhaps the sheer intensity of his focus.

His grip on your knees tightens ever so slightly, not bruising, never bruising in these moments when he is trying so hard to be good, but firm enough to remind you of the unyielding strength beneath his gentle exterior.

He doesn't stop.

Of course not. Izuku has never known how to abandon something he believes will make you feel loved, even when that belief warps into something possessive and suffocating.

His tongue continues its slow, devoted worship, licking broad stripes that coat you in warmth and spit, then focusing on your clit with precise, circling sucks that build the pressure in your lower belly like a tide rising against your will.

You feel every detail: the rough texture of his tongue contrasting with the slick heat, the way his lips seal around your nub and pull with just enough suction to make your back arch off the bed, the soft, wet sounds of his feasting filling the quiet room like a profane lullaby.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming dissonance of it all, the way your body responds with fluttering pulses and growing wetness even as your mind screams that this is wrong, that you did not ask for this, that the sunlight streaming through the window should not witness something so intimate and stolen.

Izuku’s cheeks are flushed a deep pink as he glances up, green eyes wide and shimmering with that heartbreaking sincerity.

“I—I missed you. I missed your taste… you taste so good,” he murmurs against your folds, voice muffled and reverent, breath hot and ragged. “Even in the morning… like you were made for me. I’m sorry if I startled you, baby, but I woke up and you were right here, so warm and perfect… and I couldn’t help it. I—I just wanted to make you feel good! I wanted to show you how much I love every part of you.”

The words are raw devotion, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, soft and golden and laced with the guilt that always shadows his hunger.

He presses a gentle kiss to your clit, almost apologetic, before diving back in, tongue delving deeper into your entrance as if he can drink away your protests, as if pleasure is the language he uses to translate his endless, overwhelming love into something you might one day accept.

Your hand remains in his hair, shaking, pushing half-heartedly while your hips betray you with tiny, involuntary rolls against his mouth.

The pleasure builds in waves—slow and poetic in its cruelty—like dawn creeping over a horizon you never chose to face. Shame burns hot under your skin, mingling with the unwanted heat coiling tighter and tighter in your core, because every lap of his tongue, every suck on your swollen clit, reminds you how deeply he has mapped you, how attentively he has studied your body the way he once studied hero notebooks, turning knowledge into this tender, terrifying possession.

He moans softly into you, the sound vibrating through your nerves, his own arousal evident in the way his hips subtly grind against the mattress, yet he remains focused solely on you, selfless in his obsession, giving without taking in return because making you come is how he convinces himself this is care, not theft.

The sunlight continues to spill across the bed, warming the sheets and illuminating the scene in soft, unforgiving light—the contrast of golden morning against the intimate shadows between your bodies making everything feel both sacred and profane.

Because warmth is warmth, even if it burns.

You are caught in the current of it, half-asleep mind warring with awakening senses, body trembling under the weight of his unhurried feast, while Izuku holds you open with those strong, gentle hands and devours you like a man savoring his final, heavenly meal before the executioner calls.

You feel the familiar fracture: the disgust, the exhaustion, the tiny, traitorous spark of physical relief that his devotion forces upon you, all wrapped in the poetic tragedy of a love so vast it has learned to bloom even in captivity.

In the golden hush of the morning, the only sound that fills the room is the soft, wet worship of his mouth and the broken, unwilling moan that slips from your lips.

It's a prayer you never meant to offer.)

“Izuku?”

You say his name softly, almost without meaning to. It slips out of you the way steam slips from the pot on the stove—quiet, warm, gone the moment it appears. He answers immediately, of course he does.

“Yes, baby?”

His voice is gentle in that way of his, instinctively attentive, the kind of softness that always feels too quick, too practiced, too natural on him. As if he has tuned his whole body to the frequency of you. As if no matter what he is doing, some part of him is always listening for your voice beneath everything else.

The kitchen is full of the smell of sukiyaki.

It bubbles away on the stove, rich and sweet and savory all at once, the scent of soy and broth and simmering vegetables wrapping itself around the room until the whole place feels warm with it. The air is soft with steam. It fogs the edges of the window a little. It settles against your skin.

Meals are not really meals anymore—not in the normal sense. Most of the time you pick at food or avoid it altogether, and when he notices, you end up swallowing under the weight of his fingers in your mouth as he feeds you like a child. Most of the time eating feels less like hunger and more like surrender to another one of his routines, another proof that he knows what your body needs better than you do.

But today, for some reason, you do eat.

Maybe that is why you came into the kitchen at all—drawn by the smell, by the warmth, by the domestic shape of something so ordinary it almost feels unreal. The sight of him there at the stove should not unsettle you the way it does.

And yet it does.

There is something so disarming about Izuku in moments like this, when he looks less like the center of your captivity and more like a man making dinner for someone he loves.

His sleeves are pushed up. His shoulders are broad beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. The scarred line of his hands moves with careful precision as he stirs the broth, adjusts the heat, checks the meat, all of it done with that same earnest concentration he gives to everything. Even cooking. Even this.

His hand finds your back when you drift close enough.

Big. Warm. Steady.

It spreads over you with easy familiarity and gently pulls you nearer, guiding rather than forcing, but impossible to ignore all the same. He touches you and something quiet inside you unfurls, slow and shameful as a leaf opening at dawn.

He tips his head down to look at you better, green eyes soft and immediately searching, as if he is trying to read the reason for your voice from your face before you even speak.

That is the thing about him. It has always been the thing about him.

He does not just look—he studies. He notices. He tracks every shift in expression, every pause, every silence that might mean something. There is no casual attention in him. Only totality.

Your eyes catch on the scar beneath his right eye.

They follow it before you can stop yourself—the pale line that cuts down his cheek and reaches toward his chin, a mark that somehow makes his face look both gentler and harder at once.

It's an old habit now, letting your gaze drift over the small map of damage on him, the evidence of battles and strain and all the ways he has broken himself over the years. The scar pulls your attention in the same way his hands do, the same way the tired line of his shoulders does.

You hate that you notice these things. Hate that your mind still catalogs pieces of him at all.

(The awareness of him being handsome arrives so suddenly it makes your stomach turn.)

It catches in your throat like something swallowed wrong. You nearly feel ill from it—not because the thought itself is shocking, but because of what it means to have it at all.

To stand here, in this kitchen, in this life you did not choose, and find your gaze tracing the line of his face with anything even remotely adjacent to admiration feels grotesque. Like betrayal. Like rot beginning somewhere deep and private.

He is handsome, devastatingly so in a worn, scarred, earnest kind of way, and the recognition of it makes heat crawl up your neck so fast you want to peel your own skin off.

You blink and shake your head slightly, trying to clear it.

You had wanted to ask him something.

You know you did. The feeling of the question is still there, lingering just behind your tongue, but the actual words are gone now, dissolved somewhere between the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of dinner, and the unbearable closeness of him looking down at you like that.

You forget it so completely it makes embarrassment rise in you all at once—small, humiliating, absurd. Like some silly schoolgirl losing her train of thought because a boy is too close and too pretty and too attentive. The realization sends a soft flush creeping over your face, and you drop your gaze quickly before he can catch it.

Of course he catches it anyway.

Maybe not the reason. Maybe not the full shape of it. But he sees enough. He always does.

Your attention falls to his hands instead.

They are both heavily scarred, broad and rough and marked all over with old damage, each line and patch of uneven skin a record of everything he has survived, everything he has thrown himself into, everything he has sacrificed.

A hero’s hands. Working hands.

Hands that have held too hard and held too gently. Hands that have hurt you and cared for you in equal measure. Without really thinking, you reach for one of them.

Your fingers trace the path of the scars lightly.

That too, has become a routine, somehow.

Your fingertips drift over the textured lines with absent care, following the ridges and softened edges as if reading something written there. His skin is warm. Calloused. Solid beneath your touch. Big enough to make your own hand feel slight.

You think, distantly and with a strange pang, that his hands are rough but they are his.

The thought comes uninvited, and you almost recoil from it—not from the contact, but from the way your mind frames it. Possessive in reverse. Intimate in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

You swallow.

“Nothing,” you say at last.

The word comes out quieter than you intend. Almost shy. Almost petulant. Almost embarrassed.

He doesn't answer right away.

Instead, he lets out a warm little chuckle under his breath, the sound low and fond and immediately wrapped in that unbearable softness of his.

When you finally risk looking up at him again, there is a smile at the corner of his mouth—small, knowing, so tender it nearly makes you angry. Not mocking, just affectionate in that way he gets when he thinks your quietness is cute, when he thinks he has glimpsed something vulnerable and precious and has decided to cradle it rather than call it out.

Then his fingers slip beneath your chin.

He tips your face up with infuriating gentleness, green eyes lingering on you for one brief charged second before he leans down and kisses you.

He kisses you a little hard and a little deep, like warmth edged with want, like fondness tipped into possession at the last second. It steals your breath more from surprise than anything else. His mouth is warm, insistent in that familiar way of his, and for one suspended moment the whole kitchen seems to narrow to the press of his lips, the hand at your chin, the smell of sukiyaki still simmering behind him as if the world has not tilted at all.

Then he pulls away before the moment can settle fully into something larger.

His hand squeezes your ass. “You’re so cute, baby,” he coos softly, the words full of easy affection, as though this is all simple. As though your flustered silence is merely something sweet to tease you for. As though the way your pulse is jumping has only one meaning.

Then he turns back to the food.

Just like that.

That might be the strangest thing of all—that he can do something that intimate, that destabilizing, and then return to the stove with such domestic ease. Stirring the broth. Checking the heat. Moving around the kitchen like a man making dinner for someone beloved, as if he has not just left your mouth tingling and your thoughts in disarray.

You stand there for a second longer, saying nothing.

The kitchen is still warm. The sukiyaki still bubbles. He is still there, broad and scarred and careful, back turned for now as he hums softly to himself and tends the meal.

You ignore the lump in your throat.

(And you ignore the flutter in your chest too. )

────────────────────────

You try again today.

The room is dark except for the thin wash of city light slipping through the curtains, enough to silver the edges of his face when you tilt your head up from where it rests against his bicep.

His skin is warm beneath your cheek. His body is half-loose with sleep and half-attentive in the way it always is around you, like even in rest some part of him stays awake to listen for every shift in your breathing, every rustle of the sheets, every word you might offer him in the dark. His fingers had been tracing slow thoughtless paths around your thighs and lower belly, not pushing for anything, just touching the way he does when he wants to soothe himself with your nearness.

The gesture is lazy, intimate, almost tender enough to be mistaken for normal in the dark.

“I want to go outside,” you whisper.

The words are small, but they cut through the room cleanly.

Izuku stills immediately.

His fingers lift from your skin at once, hovering for just a second before retreating entirely, and when he blinks down at you there is a softness in his face that makes your chest tighten for all the wrong reasons. He looks tired. Gentle. Caught off guard. Like he already knows exactly where this is going and hates that he knows.

His curls fall into his eyes a little, shadowing that open green gaze. “You know the answer already, baby,” he mumbles, voice rough with the hour and threaded through with careful patience. “But I promise that soon I’ll ta—”

“You always say that.”

You cut across him before you can stop yourself. The words come sharper than you mean them to, sharpened by repetition, by disappointment worn thin so many times it has become raw. For a second the dark seems to hold its breath around the two of you.

He sighs.

Not annoyed, not exactly. It's worse than that. The sound is heavy with sadness, with that familiar vulnerability he wears so easily whenever you push against the shape of the life he has built around you, like he is the one trying to hold something fragile together while you keep forcing cracks into it.

“I just want to—” he begins, and the ache in his voice is immediate, as though he is already preparing another careful explanation, another promise with no date attached to it, another soft refusal dressed up as concern.

Something in you snaps before he can finish.

You sit up in a jolt, the blanket twisting around your legs, your body moving faster than your thoughts. For one hot reckless second you have to physically stop yourself from saying the thing clawing at the back of your throat—the crueler thing, the sharper thing, the thing that would make the whole room change.

You know him well enough now to recognize the edge of danger even in the dark. To know which words make his face go still. Which ones make his gentleness harden into something unmovable.

So instead you say the truth.

“Izuku, please.” Your voice breaks almost immediately, the plea splitting open before you can make it steadier. “I’m so sick of being here. I want to leave. I want to go outside. I want to go home.”

Home.

It tears out of you raw and desperate, and by the time it lands you are already crying, the sob catching hard in your throat as if the word itself has a blade inside it.

Home. Not this room, not this apartment, not these careful routines and soft little domestic gestures that keep trying to imitate a life.

Home as in yours. Home as in the place that existed before all this. Home as in choice, sunlight, ordinary loneliness, your own bed, your own door, your own self. The grief of it hits all at once.

Izuku’s face breaks the second he hears you cry.

It's immediate, devastating, completely sincere. Something flashes over him so openly it makes him look younger for a second, like that earnest boy who used to carry everyone else’s hurt in both hands is still inside him somewhere, still panicking at the sight of tears.

“Baby, please, don’t cry—” he says quickly, pushing himself up too, his voice fraying at the edges. But even as he speaks, his pupils blow wide and his breath catches, like something dark and hungry is waking up inside him.

“I want to go home,” you repeat, softer this time, but crying harder.

The words are quieter now. Broken. Childlike in their grief. That only makes them more unbearable.

Something shifts in his face.

It's subtle at first. A tiny change around the mouth. Around the eyes. The guilt is still there, the pain still there, but something underneath it firms. Settles.

His expression loses some of its softness, not into anger exactly but into something steadier and more dangerous than anger: certainty. The conviction that has always been the most frightening thing about him. He looks at you the way he does when he thinks you are spiraling into something he has to manage, something he has to protect you from even if you hate him for it.

“You are home, baby,” he says.

His voice is still soft. That is what makes it horrible.

Izuku shifts on the bed, letting his hand settle on—on his fucking bulge.

The sick fuck is getting hard.

It isn’t the first time your tears have done this to him, but the sight still floods you with disgust—and fear.

Your breath hitches. You try to swallow down the lump in your throat, try not to show what he does to you, try not to let the fear show on your face. You blink hard, forcing bravado into your voice even as your hands tremble.

“No.” The word comes out instantly. Sharper now, desperate enough to shake. “No, I’m not.” You wipe at your face with shaking hands, breath hitching, and something wild takes hold of you in the space his softness opens up. “And i-if you—if you aren’t going to let me go, I will leave myself.”

You barely get the words out before you move.

It is not even a real attempt, not really. Not planned. Not practical. Just instinct. Just grief turning into motion. You shove at the sheets and try to scramble away from the bed, away from him, away from the room before you can think about how impossible it is.

He catches your wrist instantly, grip locking around you like iron.

The force of it stops you so hard it sends a shock through your whole arm. You gasp and twist, trying to wrench free, but he is already sitting up fully now, already awake in that terrifying way of his, body moving with fast automatic precision.

In an instant he is all muscle and control and awful gentle efficiency. His fingers wrap fully around your wrist, firm enough that you know immediately you are not getting loose.

When you look at his face, your stomach drops.

There is something dangerous there.

Not rage. Not the loud kind. Izuku is not loud when he is like this. That would almost be easier. No, this is quieter than that. His jaw is tight. His eyes are darkened, not empty but intensely focused, like all the softness in him has been pulled inward and compressed into a single unshakable point.

He looks hurt. He looks scared. He looks like someone holding himself back with both hands.

“Let me go!” you cry, twisting against him, panic flaring so hot it makes your whole body shake. You tug again, harder this time, and his grip only tightens in response. “Izuku, you—you’re hurting me—”

The words hit him. You see them hit.

His expression flickers, guilt flashing again, but it doesn't loosen his hand. If anything, the pain on his face only deepens the terrible resolve in him. He sits up straighter, still holding your wrist, and the mattress dips under the shift of his weight.

“You know I can’t let you leave,” he murmurs.

His voice is low, controlled, and that makes it worse. He is trying so hard to sound calm. Reassuring. Like he is talking you down from a ledge instead of pinning you in place.

“But it’s okay, baby. This is just a little hiccup.” His thumb presses once against the inside of your wrist, a gesture that could almost be soothing if not for the force of his hold. “You’ll soon realize this is for your own good.”

Cold sweeps through you.

You do not like the sound of that. Not at all.

There is a tone he gets sometimes when he has decided something. A tone that says the argument is already over in his head, that whatever happens next is not something you will be allowed to change. You hear it now, soft as velvet and just as suffocating.

Then you hear the chains.

The sound is unmistakable.

Metal dragging against the floor. A low, ugly scrape from beneath the bed, followed by the clinking spill of links being drawn out into the dark. For a second your mind refuses to process it. It feels too immediate, too cruel, too predictable in the exact way you had been trying not to expect. Then you look down and see them in his other hand, the cold glint of metal catching what little light there is.

Your whole body goes numb with dread.

No.

The word doesn’t even feel big enough for what rushes through you. Fear hits first, then shame, then that awful helplessness you have come to know too well—the sensation of the room shrinking, of consequence arriving with the slow certainty of weather.

You had wanted outside. Sun. Air. Sky. Home.

Instead you have walked yourself straight back into punishment.

“No—Izuku, no, please, no!”

Your voice cracks apart on the plea.

(But it's already too late.)

────────────────────────

You avoid him for the next few days.

Or at least you try to.

There is only so much avoiding a person can do in a space like this, where the walls are finite and his presence fills every room whether he is physically in it or not. Even when he is gone, traces of him remain everywhere—his folded clothes, the groceries he brings back, the low hum of routines built around your needs, the evidence of a life he keeps trying to make feel gentle enough to live inside.

But when he is here, when he moves through the apartment with that careful quietness of his, you make yourself into something turned away. Something closed. You don't look at him if you can help it. You don't answer unless you absolutely have to. The only language you offer him is distance.

Your neck hurts the worst.

That surprises you, even though it shouldn't. Your wrists ache, your ankles too—those are old pains by now, familiar in the ugliest way, mapped into your body by repetition.

But it has been a while since it was your neck, and that difference matters.

It's not just pain. It's the location of it. The vulnerability of it. The way it changes everything. Every swallow feels wrong. Every turn of your head pulls at something sore and tight and bruised beneath the skin.

It's too tight for the first day, too present, too impossible to ignore. It keeps you from sleeping properly. Keeps you hovering in that miserable place between waking and exhaustion where every movement reminds you of the metal there and every stillness is its own kind of discomfort.

The first twenty-four hours are the worst.

You cry.

You don't mean to cry as much as you do, but pain has a way of stripping you down to something more raw and frightened than pride can manage.

You claw at it until your nails ache, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the thing around your throat, trying to wedge space where there is none, trying to tear yourself free through sheer panic and desperation. It's ugly. Frantic. Humiliating. Your breaths come too fast. Your eyes blur. Your hands shake. You pull until your skin burns and your muscles seize and nothing changes.

Nothing ever changes.

That's the most devastating part.

Because afterward—after the crying, after the clawing, after your body gives out before the metal does—something in you goes flat. Not calm, not exactly. Just spent. Burned through.

You sit there with bloodshot eyes and a throat gone raw from breathing around fear and come face-to-face with the same old truth again: how useless it was. How useless it always is. How this keeps happening and still, some miserable animal part of you keeps trying to fight it like the ending might be different this time.

It never is.

And eventually even the panic exhausts itself.

What comes after is a kind of dissonance you have started to know too well. A hollowed-out quiet. You stare at nothing for long stretches of time. You stop yanking at it. Stop wasting energy on futile little acts of resistance that only leave your skin more tender than it already is.

Your thoughts move slower. Heavier. As if the mind, when pressed hard enough against the fact of its own powerlessness, begins to dim for its own protection. It's not acceptance. You refuse to call it that. But it is some adjacent and uglier thing. A temporary truce between your body and the reality it cannot change.

By the second day the skin has started to turn.

Purple fading into yellow at the edges. Bruises blooming and softening all at once, ugly little constellations forming beneath the surface.

The skin there feels scuffed and raw, tender in a way that never lets you forget it, every brush of fabric a reminder, every shift of your chin an irritation. Even once the worst of the pressure dulls, the ache remains. Low, stubborn, humiliatingly intimate. The kind of ache that becomes part of your posture, part of the way you hold your head, part of the way you move through the room as if some invisible hand is always still there.

Izuku notices all of it.

It's the curse of him—that there is no wound on you he does not register, no change in your face he does not catalogue, no silence he does not feel the texture of. He still holds you. Still apologizes in that soft, cooing voice that sounds so genuine it makes your stomach twist. Still strokes your hair with warm fingers and presses kisses to your temple, your cheek, the edges of your pain as though tenderness can somehow unmake the fact of what caused it.

He pulls you close with that same aching reverence, tells you he loves you, tells you he is sorry, tells you he wishes you would not make things harder like this, as though the tragedy lies in your resistance rather than his restraint.

You don't answer him.

Not with words, at least.

The only reply you give him is the soft clink of metal when you turn away.

It becomes its own kind of statement after a while. The sound of refusal. The sound of your body choosing distance in the only direction it still can. When he gathers you in, you let yourself go heavy and unresponsive. When he whispers apologies into your hair, you stare past him. When he asks quiet little questions about how much it hurts, if the collar is rubbing, if you need anything, you offer him your shoulder, your silence, the chain shifting when you roll away from the warmth of his chest.

It's a small punishment, maybe. A small resistance. But he feels it. You know he does. Every time the links clink when you turn from him, there is the faintest pause in his breathing. The tiniest ache in the way he says your name.

So you count instead.

Days. Hours. Anything measurable.

Five days and seven hours.

You count them the way prisoners must count light through bars, the way sailors lost at sea must count rations, the way anyone trapped learns to make structure out of what little can still be tracked. Five days and seven hours until he finally removes them. Five days and seven hours of soreness, silence, and his soft guilt circling around you like an animal that does not know it is the one that bit.

And when the moment comes, it's the same as it always is.

Routine.

That is how horror survives longest, you think. Not as an explosion. As repetition.

He kneels in front of you with those careful hands of his. Unfastens the metal with maddening gentleness, as if tenderness in the process changes the nature of the thing. The second it comes away, the skin beneath it throbs with sudden sensitivity, cool air touching places kept sore for too long. He kisses the bruises immediately, like he cannot bear not to. His mouth brushes the marks with the same warmth he gives everything wounded on you.

Then comes the ointment, smoothed over the darkened skin with slow, apologetic fingers. He rubs it in carefully, checking your face every few seconds for the slightest sign of pain, adjusting pressure the moment you flinch. He tells you how pretty you look. How much he loves you. How good you are for him.

The words make something ugly move under your ribs.

Because the whole thing is so practiced now. So horribly familiar. His care arrives in the exact shape of the wound. His remorse always follows his control. He tends what he has damaged with the concentration of a man handling something precious, and all the while speaks to you in that low, warm murmur that might have been comforting in any other life.

(Like a pet.)

There is something in the structure of it, in the praise threaded through correction, in the way he rewards your stillness with softness, in the way his voice gentles when you stop fighting and let him care for you. Something about the way he strokes you after, soothes you after, murmurs what a good girl you are for him after the damage is done. The affection is real. That is what makes it unbearable. It's not mockery. It's adoration filtered through ownership.

You are tired, though.

That is the truth that wins in the end more often than anything else.

Tired in the body, tired in the mind, tired in that deep marrow way that makes every reaction feel like lifting stone.

So when he pulls you against him afterward, once the ointment is spread and the marks are kissed and the chains are gone, you let him. When his hand slides into your hair and smooths it back from your face, you let him. When he presses his cheek to your forehead and wraps his arms around you with a grateful sort of tenderness, you let that happen too.

Not because you forgive him. Not because you want this.

But because sometimes resistance costs more than stillness, and your body has become very good at calculating which pain is survivable in the moment.

So you let him touch you. You let him hold you.

And let him love you in his sick, twisted way.

────────────────────────

There is a bouquet on the bed today.

For a second, when you first see it, you just stand there.

It looks almost unreal in the soft light—too vivid, too carefully chosen, too beautiful for this room that has held so many ugly things.

It's not the kind of bouquet you might expect from someone trying to ask forgiveness in the simplest, most obvious way. There are no roses. No pale peonies. No safe, predictable chrysanthemums arranged into something polite and easy to understand.

No—this is something… stranger.

More specific. Red tulips, their petals smooth and rich like lacquer. Heliotropes with their dusky little clusters, delicate and velvety. Sunflowers bright and open-faced, almost painfully alive. Bluebells, soft as rain. Bleeding hearts, those fragile little blossoms that look exactly like their name, like tiny pink-red hearts split open and hanging from a stem.

They're beautiful.

Really beautiful.

So beautiful that for one disorienting moment you cannot do anything but stare at them.

The arrangement feels less like a gift and more like something out of a story—something a prince would carry through a shadowed forest to lay at the feet of a creature he has wounded and hopes to enchant again. It makes you think of old fairy tales in the worst way. Of girls lured by sweetness. Of fae bargains. Of peace offerings left on mossy stones by those who have already trespassed too far.

The flowers seem almost enchanted in their own right, vivid enough to make the whole bed look softer, stranger, touched by a different world.

Beside them are other things.

A nightgown.

Your favorite perfume.

And otoshibumi.

The sight of that small confection catches in your chest almost as much as the flowers do. It's green like a leaf. Like spring. Like his eyes in certain light when they soften and lose some of their danger. Its shape is delicate and precise, the rolled leaf form of nerikiri crafted so carefully it almost looks too pretty to eat.

You know immediately that it will be sweet and soft and almost melt on the tongue.

It looks mouthwateringly good. That kind of good that aches a little when you are tired, when you have been hungry in more ways than one, when something beautiful and gentle placed in front of you feels almost unbearable.

Your neck still throbs.

That is the first thing you feel when you swallow the lump in your throat.

The pain is duller than it was, but still there. Still persistent. Your wrists and ankles ache too, like little pockets of soreness left behind like old weather. The body remembers what the mind tries to move around. Even standing there taking in the sight of the bed and its offerings, you can feel all the places that still hurt. The tenderness beneath the skin. The bruises not quite gone. The heaviness of your own exhaustion sitting low in your bones.

And beside the bed stands Izuku.

He isn't touching anything.

He is just there, close enough to feel like presence, far enough to look almost uncertain. There is a tension in him that immediately gives him away. His shoulders are too careful. His hands hang strangely still at his sides.

He looks like he is waiting for a verdict. Waiting for your face to change. Waiting, maybe, for forgiveness, or for a glance, or for anything at all that proves he has not ruined the possibility of reaching you entirely.

You do look.

For some tired reason, you do.

Maybe because the flowers are so beautiful. Maybe because he looks so painfully hopeful standing there. Maybe because exhaustion makes people softer around the edges, even when they do not want to be. Your eyes lift to him, slow and worn-out, and he catches the look like someone catching breath after being underwater too long.

A soft, hoarse thank you leaves you before you can stop it.

The words scrape a little on the way out. Your throat is still not fully right. It makes the gratitude sound smaller. More fragile. And the instant he hears it, something in him lights up.

He beams.

Not in that bright, unguarded way he might have once, long before everything got so twisted. This is warmer than that. More contained, but no less real. Relief moves through him first, then happiness, then that same reverent softness that always makes your chest feel too tight.

“You’re welcome, baby,” he says quickly, and the tenderness in his voice is immediate, almost boyishly eager despite how careful he is trying to be. “Do you—do you like it?”

The question catches you a little.

He sounds nervous.

It gets under your skin. Not because it changes anything, but because it makes him seem so earnest, so heartbreakingly sincere in the way he always is when he wants your approval. As though he has spent all this time thinking about what to choose and now stands in the aftermath of that effort suddenly unsure whether he got it right.

You blink once, then nod.

“Yeah.”

It's only one word.

But it's enough to undo him just a little.

His whole face softens. The tension he was holding in his body eases by a fraction, and with a gentleness so careful it almost hurts to witness, he reaches for the bouquet. He lifts it from the bed and places it in your arms as though handing you something sacred. Something living.

The stems are cool in your hands. The flowers are heavier than you expected. Their scent rises immediately—green and sweet and bright and soft all at once. You can smell the sunflowers first, then the tulips, then something deeper and more floral underneath. They smell good. They look beautiful. The colors against each other are so vivid they almost dazzle.

Your heart does something strange.

A weird, unsteady movement in your chest, like something old and fragile is trying to wake up where it should not. It makes you feel off-balance. Makes you tighten your hold on the bouquet without really meaning to. The flowers brush against your wrists, your forearms, your chest. Their softness against skin that has known only ache these last days feels almost cruel in its tenderness.

You look back up at him with tired eyes.

And he is looking at you like you are the most beautiful thing in the room.

That gaze of his has always been part of the problem. The way it lands too fully. Too devotedly. He never looks at you in passing. Never with anything less than all of himself. Even now, even after everything, even with the bruises he knows are still healing and the tension that still lives in your body, he looks at you as though the sight of you standing there holding those flowers is enough to split him open with feeling.

When he leans in to kiss you, it's slow; slow enough for you to turn away, slow enough for you to stop him.

You don’t.

You kiss him back.

The realization is immediate and terrible.

Not because the kiss is forceful. It isn’t. He kisses you with astonishing gentleness, like he is afraid to startle you, like he is aware of how fragile the moment is and knows it could vanish if he presses too hard. His lips are warm. Careful. Lingering. It is not a hungry kiss. Not demanding. Just soft and full of that unbearable, aching gratitude that seems to pour out of him whenever you give him even the smallest thing.

Your mouth answers his before your mind can rise up and stop it. Maybe it's exhaustion. Maybe it is the flowers in your arms, their scent wrapping around you both. Maybe it's the way he asked do you like it with such naked hope in his voice. Maybe it's that you are tired—tired in the body, tired in the heart, tired enough that your resistance has grown thin in places you cannot always protect.

Whatever the reason, the kiss becomes mutual for one suspended moment.

When he finally pulls away, he does it reluctantly, like the distance costs him.

The warmth of the kiss stays with you.

It lingers on your mouth. In your face. In your chest in a place too close to the strange ache already there. You hold the bouquet closer without thinking, as though the flowers can steady you, as though you can hide inside their scent and softness from the fact of what just happened.

Izuku doesn't speak right away.

For a second, he simply looks at you, and his expression is devastating. Not smug. Not triumphant. Something quieter. Something more fragile. He looks like a man who has just been handed a miracle too delicate to celebrate out loud; he looks at you like you are something he has grown himself, and the worst part is how you begin to feel like it.

Then, very softly, “You look so pretty holding them.”

The words sink into the hush between you.

You lower your eyes to the bouquet again, suddenly unable to bear the full weight of his gaze. Red tulips. Bluebells. Bleeding hearts. Your favorite perfume waiting beside the nightgown. The little green otoshibumi like a rolled leaf from some gentler world. Everything arranged so carefully. Everything chosen with intent.

You stand in a room that has held your grief, your fear, your anger, and now this too—this terrible, quiet moment that feels almost sweet if you let yourself stop looking directly at its edges.

It frightens you the most.

Not that he can hurt you or hold you, but that he can fill a bed with flowers and confection and softness, kiss you like you are something precious, and leave your heart feeling strange and unsteady all the same.

You cradle the bouquet tighter.

The petals brush your skin like a blessing; like a warning.

Like both.

This time, when he initiates it, you do not recoil.

You don't turn your face away like you always have before, chin tilting sharply toward the wall or shoulder curling inward to create even an inch of distance. Instead, you stay still—tired, worn thin, hollowed out by the weight of endless resistance that has only ever led back to the same soft chains.

Something twisted and aching inside you needs this tonight. Needs the distraction. Needs the momentary erasure of thought. Needs the way his touch can flood your body with sensation so overwhelming it drowns the sharper griefs, if only for a little while.

Izuku senses the shift immediately, of course he does.

He has always been attuned to the smallest changes—the flicker of an expression, the hitch in breath, the way a shoulder relaxes by a fraction—and with you that attentiveness has sharpened into something almost painful in its devotion.

His scarred hand rises slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind, before his palm cups your cheek with heartbreaking gentleness, thumb brushing just beneath the fading bruise on your neck as though he can erase it through touch alone.

You let him kiss you.

His mouth meets yours with the same careful warmth as before, but deeper now, slower, laced with that sincere hunger he can never quite hide. His lips are soft yet insistent, moving against yours like a question he has asked a thousand times and still fears the answer to.

You answer it tonight—not with passion, but with quiet acceptance, your own mouth softening under his, parting just enough to let the kiss settle into something mutual and heavy. The taste of him is familiar: faintly sweet from the otoshibumi he must have sampled earlier, warm with the lingering broth from dinner, and underneath it all that clean, green scent that clings to his skin like spring after rain.

When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you do not pull away; you let it slip inside, let the slow slide of it coax a faint shiver from your body. Izuku groans softly into the kiss, the sound vibrating through you—raw, grateful, almost pained in its sincerity.

His free hand settles at your waist, fingers splaying wide over the fabric of your clothes, not gripping hard but holding you steady as though you are something precious that might slip away if he is not careful enough.

He guides you back onto the bed without breaking the kiss, movements fluid and reverent, the mattress dipping under your combined weight as the bouquet shifts slightly beside you, petals whispering against the sheets like secrets.

You let him.

You let his hands slide down your sides, let him peel away your panties, the silk whispering over your skin like a promise he is desperate to keep.

He spreads your legs apart with those strong, gentle hands—scarred palms warm against the insides of your thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles into the skin as he settles between them. You let him do that too. Your thighs part wider under his touch, knees falling open in quiet invitation born of exhaustion and need, the cool air of the room brushing against your already damp folds.

Izuku’s breath hitches audibly at the sight, his shoulders trembling with restraint as he lowers himself, green curls brushing your inner thighs.

His mouth finds you first.

Warm. Wet. Devoted.

He laps at your folds with long, slow stripes of his tongue, savoring the taste of you like a man who has been starving for salvation. Spit gathers quickly, slick and abundant, coating your pussy as he licks from your entrance up to your clit, circling the swollen nub with deliberate, warm strokes before sucking it gently into his mouth.

The sensation is overwhelming in its tenderness—hot pressure mixed with the soft drag of his tongue, the wet sounds of his feasting filling the quiet room like a private hymn.

You bury your face into the pillow, muffling the soft whines and moans that rise unbidden from your throat, the fabric cool against your flushed cheeks. Your thighs shake around his head, toes curling tightly into the sheets, yet you spread your legs even wider, hips tilting up in silent plea, opening yourself further so he can slot in deeper, so the pleasure can reach further, so it can make everything feel better, even if only for these stolen moments.

He always makes it feel better, in that twisted, aching way that leaves shame blooming hot in your chest afterward.

Izuku moans against you, the vibration traveling straight through your core as his pointer and middle fingers join his mouth. They slide in knuckle-deep with effortless ease, your walls already slick and welcoming despite everything, curling slowly inside you to stroke that sensitive spot with precise, twisting motions.

His wrist turns gently, fingers pumping in and out in a steady, unhurried rhythm that matches the licks and sucks on your clit—coordinated, attentive, utterly focused on unraveling you. Each thrust of his fingers is accompanied by a swirl of his tongue, the dual sensation building pressure low in your belly like a tide rising under moonlight.

Your moans grow softer, more muddled, lost in the pillow as your body betrays you with trembling waves of pleasure, hips rocking weakly against his face in search of more.

He reacts with pure, devastating sincerity—tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he glances up at you between your thighs, green gaze glassy with awe and guilt and love so vast it seems to swallow the room.

“That’s it… let me hear you, baby,” he whispers against your clit, voice hoarse and trembling, breath hot against your sensitive flesh. “You’re doing so good… so good for me. I-I love you like this—open for me, letting me take care of you. I’m sorry for everything… but I’ll make it all feel right. I promise.”

His fingers curl deeper, twisting just so, while his lips seal around your clit again, sucking with tender insistence as his tongue flicks rapidly over the nub. The combination pulls another broken whine from you, thighs quivering violently as the coil tightens, your body chasing the release he offers like a lifeline in the dark.

The flowers watch from the edge of the bed, their petals soft and vivid in the low light, a silent audience to the intimate scene—beauty laid beside bruises, sweetness beside surrender. Izuku’s free hand strokes your thigh soothingly, scarred fingers tracing gentle patterns as if to remind you that even in this, he is gentle, he is careful, he is only loving you the only way he knows how.

Your face stays buried in the pillow, soft moans spilling out in fragmented gasps, body arching and trembling under the relentless, worshipful assault of his mouth and fingers. The pleasure builds in long waves—warm and golden and edged with shame—until it crests, crashing through you in shuddering pulses that leave you gasping, walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers as your clit throbs against his tongue.

He stays with you through every tremor, licking and stroking you through the aftershocks with the same devoted patience, murmuring soft praises against your skin. “So perfect… my good girl… I’ve got you.” When the waves finally ebb, leaving you limp and trembling, he presses one last reverent kiss to your oversensitive clit before crawling up your body, gathering you into his arms with trembling care.

His heart hammers against your chest, fast and earnest, as he nuzzles into your neck—careful of the bruises—and whispers endless apologies and declarations of love into your hair, voice thick with emotion.

You lie there in the aftermath, bouquet petals brushing your arm, body still humming with unwanted warmth, the ache between your legs now mixed with the deeper ache in your chest. The surrender feels like both relief and defeat, a fracture where exhaustion has carved space for his devotion to settle.

Izuku holds you tighter, scarred hands stroking your back in slow, soothing circles, his green eyes shining with quiet, hopeful tears as he presses soft kisses to your temple, convinced once more that this closeness, this pleasure, this moment of you not pulling away is proof that his love is healing what he has broken.

(And maybe he's right.)

In the quiet glow of the room, with flowers and confection and the heavy warmth of his body surrounding you, you feel the terrible, unsteady shift in your heart; that something small and fragile is stirring again, like petals unfurling in the dark, beautiful and dangerous all at once.

────────────────────────

For some reason, after that, you start gravitating toward him more.

Not in a way that is easy to name. Not in a way that feels intentional enough to confess, even to yourself. It happens in small, humiliating increments—in the quiet little shifts of habit that would look like nothing to anyone else and yet feel enormous inside your own body.

When he is home and sitting on the couch, broad shoulders sunk into the cushions after work or patrol, you find yourself drifting there too. You sit beside him without waiting for him to ask, without waiting for the familiar gesture of his arm opening for you first. Sometimes you leave a little space between you. Sometimes hardly any at all.

The worst part is how natural it starts to feel, as if your body is learning his orbit without your permission, as if some silent thread has begun tugging you in his direction every time he is near.

You hate that you do it.

You hate it even more because it does not feel dramatic. There is no grand surrender to point to, no sharp moment where you can say this is where I changed. It's subtler than that. More frightening.

You just… start appearing near him.

You start choosing rooms where he already is. Start lingering instead of retreating the second he comes home. There are evenings where he is reading through some report or half-watching something on the television, and you come sit beside him with a book or nothing at all, only to realize ten minutes later that you have been listening to the sound of him breathing more than anything else.

As though presence itself has become a kind of narcotic. As though your loneliness, starved thing that it is, has begun learning the shape of relief in the outline of him.

And then there are the mornings in the bathroom.

He stands at the sink brushing his teeth or washing his face or tugging a shirt over his shoulders, and somehow you end up leaning in the doorway watching him. Not entering fully. Not speaking much. Just there, hovering at the edge of the room while the mirror catches him in pieces—his broad back, the strong line of his neck, the wet green curls pushed away from his forehead, the scar beneath his eye standing out pale in the wash of morning light.

There is something intimate about those moments in a way that disturbs you. Something so ordinary it becomes almost sacred. He is simply existing. Sleep-roughened, quiet and tired in small human ways.

And you stand there looking at him as if the sight alone has become something you need.

You don't think he notices. Or maybe you do think he notices, and the lie is easier to live with.

Because Izuku notices everything.

That has always been true of him—before this, during this, probably after this too if there ever is an after. He notices the things most people miss because noticing is how he loves, how he protects, how he understands. He notices which side you curl toward when you sleep, the exact cadence of your footsteps when you are upset, the way your voice changes when you are lying versus when you are simply tired.

So of course he notices when you sit near him before he reaches for you. Of course he notices when you appear in the bathroom doorway and linger there longer than necessary. Of course he notices your gaze resting on him in those quiet domestic moments when you think he is too busy to feel it.

But if he does, he doesn't mention it.

You take what he gives the way roots take water: quietly, desperately, and without asking where it comes from.

And you feel weird.

So weird.

There is no cleaner word for it. You feel off-balance inside your own skin, like the ground of you has tilted by some imperceptible degree and now every feeling slides in directions it should not. Because his kisses are soft. His laugh is warm. He is beautiful in that tired, scarred, earnest way of his.

He makes you feel safe.

Safe.

You don't want it. You don't trust it. The idea itself makes your stomach twist, because what could be more twisted than finding safety in the same hands that took so much from you?

And yet the feeling comes anyway in flashes too brief to catch and too real to deny: in the warmth of his palm at your back when you are half-asleep and cold, in the steadiness of his breathing when the apartment feels too quiet, in the way he checks the lock twice at night not to keep you in, your mind whispers traitorously, but because some part of him is always trying to keep the rest of the world out.

Safety becomes ugly when it grows in captivity. It becomes confused with predictability, with routine, with the simple relief of knowing exactly where the danger is and how gently it will speak to you tonight.

And still your body responds to it.

That is the horror. That is the shame.

There are evenings when he leans in to kiss you and you do not tense until after. Times when his mouth moves against yours slow and deep, patient enough to feel almost reverent, and you let yourself sink into it for one impossible second before your mind catches up and fills with static. He kisses like he is trying to tell you something beyond words, like every soft press of his lips is another page from the same aching confession: I love you, I love you, I love you.

It should be easier to resist than it is.

Easier to keep your face turned away, your mouth closed, your body locked in its old refusals. But something about the warmth of him, the consistency of him, the way he always seems to meet you with more tenderness than triumph when you soften, begins to wear at your edges.

One night he kisses you and when he pulls away he stays close enough that his breath still warms your lips. His hand is cradling your face, thumb resting along your cheekbone, the roughness of his scarred skin so gentle against you it almost hurts.

His eyes are half-lidded when he looks at you, green darkened by softness, mouth still slightly parted from the kiss. “My pretty baby,” he murmurs.

The words are quiet. Full of fondness. Full of that same aching awe he always seems to carry for you, as though even now, even after everything, he cannot quite believe he is allowed to touch you at all.

And your heart—your stupid, traitorous heart—does a small helpless flip in your chest.

It is such a tiny thing physically, no more than a flutter really, but it feels catastrophic. You feel it everywhere at once: in the heat that creeps up your throat, in the sudden weakness in your knees, in the way your breath catches and then softens on the way out. It embarrasses you so quickly and so completely that you cannot even look at him for another second.

Instead you bury your cheek deeper into the hand holding your face, eyes slipping closed like that will hide you from the feeling, from his gaze, from yourself.

Because that is what these moments are, aren’t they? Scraps. A seat beside him on the couch. Your silent presence in the bathroom doorway. The way you let your face rest in his hand instead of turning away. Small things. Accidental things. Exhausted things. And yet he receives them like offerings. Like petals laid carefully into his palms. Like proof that something soft is growing where once there was only resistance.

Maybe something is growing.

You do not want to examine that too closely.

It is easier to focus on the little details instead. The warmth of his laugh when he catches you already settled beside him on the couch and says nothing, only drapes an arm over the back cushion so the space beside him feels more like somewhere meant for you. The way he glances toward the doorway mirror when you linger there and offers you that soft little smile that says he knew you were there all along. The way his kisses never start rough, never assume, always arrive like questions even when he is trembling with the hope of the answer. All of it gathers into something heavier than the sum of its parts.

A life.

Not a real one. Not an honest one. But the outline of one.

You begin to understand how people stay in enchantments. Not because they do not know they are trapped, but because the trap learns how to mimic warmth. How to offer tenderness at exactly the moment loneliness has made tenderness feel holy. He has made a world around you that is both cage and comfort, and your exhausted heart, the poor stupid thing, has started responding to comfort even while your mind still sees the bars.

There is no sun here, not really. Only him—and somehow your body has learned the difference doesn’t matter.

He leans in then and presses another kiss to the corner of your closed eye. Light as breath. His hand remains cupping your face as though he cannot bear to let go yet, as though your cheek fitting so trustingly into his palm has unmade something inside him.

You keep your eyes shut.

Because if you open them, you might have to look directly at what this is becoming.

(Your moan breaks out as a choked sob, raw and trembling, the sound fracturing in the quiet room as he bounces you on his cock like some ragdoll, your nightgown rucked up beneath your breasts, the thin fabric bunched like surrendered silk while Izuku holds you there with his stron hands wrapped around your waist.

His cock is thick and throbbing inside you, stretching you open with that familiar, overwhelming fullness that has always bordered on too much. It has always been like this—too long, too girthy, pressing against every sensitive ridge and spot until your walls flutter helplessly around him.

His thighs beneath you are powerful, heavily muscled, (the same thighs that have dragged you along their firm length countless times until you shattered against them) slick and shaking. Now they flex with each upward thrust, lifting you only to drop you back down, the wet slap of skin meeting skin echoing softly alongside your broken sounds.

You are not moving on your own. You are being used—lifted and lowered with his strength alone—yet every ounce of pleasure is focused on you, centered on the way your overstimulated cunt creams around his length, coating him in glistening slick and white.

You've already come three times tonight.

Your thighs tremble violently against his hips, muscles twitching with exhaustion and overstimulation, every nerve raw and sparking. The nightgown clings damply to your skin where it has been pushed aside, exposing your breasts to his hungry mouth. Izuku mouths at them with desperate reverence, lips closing around one nipple to suck and lick while his tongue swirls in slow, worshipful circles.

A low, rougher moan escapes him—deeper than usual, edged with strain—as if the taste of you is unraveling him thread by thread. He looks beautifully disheveled: green curls messy and falling into his eyes, tie half-loosened around his neck, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the expanse of his chest, trousers shoved down only far enough to free his cock. His green eyes are lidded and warm, glowing like polished tourmaline caught in soft lamplight.

The resistance that once burned so fiercely has dulled into weary acceptance, your body too spent from the accumulating weight of these shifting habits to push him away with any real force. Now your hands rest weakly on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without strength, more anchor than protest.

“I-Izuku… ‘Zuku, please—” The plea slips out in a fractured whimper, voice thick with overstimulation and embarrassment, but he doesn't listen. He never does when he believes this is what you need, when his love has twisted into the conviction that pleasure will mend every fracture he has caused.

His grip tightens just enough on your waist and he bounces you harder, hips snapping upward with controlled power, driving his thick cock deeper with every drop. At the same time, his thumb finds your swollen clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that send white-hot sparks racing through your oversensitive nerves. The dual assault is merciless in its tenderness: his cock stretching and filling you, his thumb stroking with precise, devoted attention.

Your whines turn into squeals, high and desperate, body shaking uncontrollably as you try to push at his chest with trembling hands. The pressure builds too fast, too intensely, your cunt clenching and fluttering around his throbbing cock until it becomes unbearable.

A second later you squirt.

The release is sudden and humiliating—hot fluid soaking his cock, his lap, the front of his trousers in messy, glistening waves. You slip off his length with a wet sound, thighs quaking, chest heaving as the orgasm rips through you like a storm breaking over still water.

Izuku’s reaction is immediate and pure. His mouth parts on a deep, reverent moan, green eyes widening with starry wonder as he watches the sight unfold—your body arching, your release coating him, the way your face twists in overwhelmed pleasure. He doesn't look disgusted or triumphant; he looks awed, like you have offered him something sacred.

His thumb keeps rubbing your clit through it all, gentler now but insistent, drawing out every last pulse until you are whimpering and spent. Only then does he nudge the blunt head of his still-hard cock back against your entrance, sliding back inside with a filthy, squelching sound that makes fresh heat flood your cheeks. He continues bouncing you slowly, savoring the slick mess, hips rolling in deep, measured thrusts that keep the overstimulation alive without pushing you past endurance.

It's a mercy and a curse at once.

The pleasure borders on pain, your body hypersensitive and trembling, every drag of his thick cock sending sparks that make you feel filthy, embarrassed, and utterly exposed. Humiliation burns hot under your skin—the way you have soaked him, the wet sounds, the way your body keeps responding even when your mind screams for it to stop.

Yet Izuku keeps looking at you with stars in his eyes, that earnest, boyish devotion shining through the lust, his scarred hands stroking your sides soothingly even as he moves you on his cock.

“Again,” he murmurs, voice rough and trembling with emotion, lips brushing your collarbone. “C’mon, princess… again. You’re so beautiful like this. Give it to me again, please.”

And maybe you must be beautiful to him—flushed and shaking and ruined in his lap, nightgown askew, breasts marked with the faint traces of his mouth, thighs glistening with your own cum. His gaze never wavers, never darkens with anything cruel; it stays soft and reverent, glassy with tears of overwhelming love as he watches you unravel again.

You wonder, briefly, if this is how gardens feel—beautiful, contained, unable to leave.

His thumb circles your clit with renewed care, slower now, coaxing rather than demanding, while his cock fills you completely, thick and pulsing, hips rocking in that steady, devoted rhythm that says he could do this forever if it meant seeing you come apart in his arms.

Your moan breaks into another choked sob as the next wave begins to crest, body arching against him, hands clutching weakly at his half-unbuttoned shirt.

The overstimulation turns every sensation into poetry and torment—pleasure sharp as shattered glass, warmth blooming like dawn after endless night, shame twisting through it all like ivy over ruins. Izuku holds you through it, murmuring soft praises against your skin—“That’s it… s-so good for me… my perfect girl… I love you, I-I love you so much,”—his voice cracking, convincing you that this closeness, this forced ecstasy, is love.

When you finally tip over the edge again, squirting around his cock again in trembling pulses, he groans low and deep, holding you down on his cock to feel every flutter, every clench, every exhausted shudder.

His arms wrap around you afterward, pulling you against his chest where his heart hammers wildly, green curls damp against your temple as he presses kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your parted lips. He stays buried inside you, not chasing his own release yet, content simply to hold the trembling mess of you while whispering endless apologies and declarations, as if the pleasure he wrung from your body could somehow rewrite every bruise, every chain, every locked door.

You lie limp in his embrace, body sticky and spent, the humiliating wetness between you a constant, filthy reminder.

Yet his eyes—those warm, starry green eyes—never lose their awe, never judge, only adore.

His cock is still nestled deep inside you; his arms are locked around you like the safest cage in the world, and the truth settles over you like soft petals: maybe, in his eyes, you truly are beautiful.)

It feels good to be looked after.

It arrives like warmth settling into cold hands. Like the first deep breath after crying too long. Like something your body understands before your pride can rise up and reject it.

With Izuku, there are moments—dangerous, soft-edged moments—where you don't have to think. You don't have to decide what to eat, or when to sleep, or how to keep the lights on, or whether the rent is due, or which message still needs answering, or what task has been forgotten and will punish you for being human later.

Around him, everything narrows.

The world becomes smaller, but also strangely quieter. He notices before you ask. He brings things to you without being told. He remembers what you like, what hurts, what soothes, what makes your shoulders loosen by a fraction.

He takes care of you with the same total, meticulous devotion he brings to everything he loves, and some exhausted part of you—some very tired, very overworked, very lonely part—melts under the weight of that attention before you can stop it.

It's what makes it so terrifying.

Because it is not as though you needed this before, is it?

You were surviving. You had a life. Chaotic, yes. Messy, absolutely. There were days that passed in a blur of work and noise and obligation, days where everything seemed to stack itself on your back all at once until you couldn't tell where your own thoughts ended and the demands of your life began.

You remember what it felt like to be drowning in it—emails, errands, unfinished things, bills, meals half-thought about and eaten too late or not at all, exhaustion tucked so deeply into your bones it became your normal. You remember how often you moved through your own days like someone chasing herself from room to room, never quite catching up.

There had not been much time for softness back then. Not much time to sit still and let someone else notice that you were tired. Not much time to be cherished. You had belonged to your own chaos, and even that kind of freedom had its teeth.

So when the question comes, it comes with teeth too.

Do you not want to leave? Do you not want to have time that is truly yours, alone and untouched and self-owned?

A part of you asks it sharply, desperately, as if trying to shake you awake before something inside you settles too far. And you do want it. God, you do. You want open air and your own choices and a silence that belongs only to you. You want mornings that are yours from start to finish. You want to unlock your own door. You want to lie in your own bed without feeling watched over by devotion so heavy it presses like weather.

You want to leave.

But then another thought comes creeping quietly behind it, sick and soft and impossible to ignore.

Would anyone ever love you the way Izuku does?

The thought makes your throat tighten at once. Not because it is beautiful. Because it's awful. Because it's the kind of question captivity plants like a seed and waters with tenderness until it starts sounding like truth.

And yet it doesn't feel entirely false when it rises. That's what makes it so dangerous.

Who else would notice every little shift in your face? Who else would cross cities, finish missions, come home tired and still remember the exact sweet you liked, the exact ointment your skin responds to best, the exact flowers that would make your breath catch? Who else would hold your heart—your fear, your silence, your softness, your ugliness, all of it—with such total, trembling sincerity? Who else would build his whole world around the orbit of you?

The answer your loneliness gives is immediate.

No one.

Your mind fights it, but your loneliness says it anyway.

Still, another practical horror follows after it: if you were alone again, would you have to think about everything all over again? Food. Bills. Work. The long, endless labor of taking care of yourself when no one else is there to carry part of the weight. The exhaustion of being responsible for every inch of your own life. The ache of wondering, at the end of a long day, whether anyone will notice you are tired. Whether anyone will care. Whether anyone will love you enough to make the world smaller around your needs.

The thought doesn't comfort you.

It humiliates you.

Because it reveals something raw and ugly and human: how easy it is, when you are exhausted enough, to confuse being cared for with being loved well. To confuse being relieved of responsibility with being safe. To let tenderness blur the outline of the cage.

Izuku has made himself indispensable in all the quiet ways that matter most. He remembers, provides, notices, soothes. He takes your life into his hands and tends it so carefully that sometimes, in your weakest moments, the theft begins to resemble devotion more than loss.

The truth is not that you have stopped wanting freedom.

It's that freedom has begun to look heavier than it used to. Lonelier. Less certain.

You can still remember what it means, but you can also remember the ache of carrying everything alone, and now that ache has something to compare itself to. Someone to compare himself to. Someone warm and attentive and ruinously devoted who looks at you as if your existence is the most sacred thing he has ever been entrusted with.

Even twisted love can become a kind of shelter when the storm before it was real enough.

You hate that thought.

You hate it so much it almost makes you cry.

Because somewhere in the quiet, in the soft domestic rituals and the way he keeps the world from reaching you, in the way he says your name when you are half-asleep and brushes your hair back from your face as though it is prayer, some treacherous little part of you has started asking not only what you have lost—but what you would lose by leaving him too.

It's not that he has convinced you love looks like this; it's that he has made being unloved by anyone else feel unimaginable.

────────────────────────

You have noticed something lately.

At first it is only a small thing. The kind of thing you almost miss because your mind has learned, by necessity, to stop hoping too quickly. But then you notice it again. And again.

The little red glow on the alarm system by the door—always so watchful, always so ready to flare to life the second you came too close—doesn’t come on anymore. It used to hum with quiet threat. Used to sit there like another set of eyes, red and patient and cruelly alert.

If you hovered too near, if you tugged at the lock too long, if you tested the boundaries in even the smallest way, it would punish you for it. A shock sharp enough to make you gasp. An alarm that would go straight to Izuku. Immediate. Efficient. A reminder that even your hope had consequences here.

You remember all the times you tried anyway.

Picking at locks with shaking fingers. Testing seams and weak spots. Watching the patterns of light and shadow near the entryway the way a prisoner watches guards pacing past a cell.

You remember the frantic pulse of escape in your throat each time, the way your whole body would flood with desperate purpose for those few stolen moments before the system screamed and reality slammed back down over your head. You remember how badly you wanted out then. How clearly. How fiercely. Back when wanting felt simple.

Now the system doesn't work.

You know it with the certainty of someone who has had nothing but time to become an expert in her own cage. You have memorized every aspect of this place. Every crevice. Every warped floorboard. Every sound the plumbing makes in the walls. Every cabinet hinge, every window latch, every hidden place where dust gathers, every angle of light that changes by the hour.

You know this apartment the way people know their childhood homes—intimately, resentfully, by instinct. There is nowhere your eyes have not wandered, nowhere your hands have not learned. So when something changes, you know.

The alarm system is dead.

The realization sits with you for hours before it becomes real.

You test it only once, careful, silent, heart pounding so hard it feels like someone knocking from inside your ribs. You move too close to the door and wait for the red light.

Nothing.

No hum. No flash. No warning.

You take another step and the old dread rises automatically, your body braced for pain before your mind has even caught up.

Still nothing.

And suddenly the whole room feels different.

Not bigger. That would be too kind. But thinner, maybe. Less sealed. As though the world on the other side of that door has stopped being a myth and become a physical possibility again. As though the line between captivity and escape has narrowed to the width of a hallway, the turn of a knob, the simple act of walking.

You can escape.

The thought is immediate and electric.

It shoots through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy. You stand there staring at the door, breath gone shallow, every muscle in your body taut with old instincts waking all at once.

The sun is somewhere outside. You know it is. The city too. The smell of pavement. The weight of air on skin. Noise. Motion. Choice. Everything you have ached for. Everything you have told yourself still matters.

You could leave. You could walk out freely. No shock. No alarm. No chain tightening around your future before you even cross the threshold.

And for one suspended, terrible moment, you almost do.

You cross the room like someone in a dream. Quietly. Carefully. The way prey might approach an opening it does not trust. Your hand lifts toward the knob, fingers trembling before they even reach it. It is so close. So stupidly close. A little piece of metal between you and the rest of the world. Freedom reduced to something almost laughably ordinary.

Your fingertips hover just above it.

You imagine the next second.

The cool touch of the handle in your palm. The turn. The click. The door opening. Hallway light. Air that is not his. You imagine your legs carrying you forward before fear can catch up. You imagine the elevator, the stairs, the lobby, the street. The sun hitting your face so suddenly it hurts. You imagine not stopping. Not looking back. The world rushing around you huge and loud and indifferent and yours.

And for some reason you don’t.

Your hand simply drops. Just like that. A slow surrender of fingers that had almost curled around salvation. Your arm falls back to your side. You stand there for one more second, staring at the knob as though it has betrayed you by remaining only a knob, only a doorway, only a chance you cannot seem to take.

Then you turn away.

You move back into the apartment as if nothing has happened. As if you have not just stood at the mouth of your own escape and chosen not to step through it. As if your body is not ringing with the aftermath of a decision you do not even know how to name.

You do like you don’t know anything.

Like the system still works.

Like the door is still impossible.

Like you have not just learned something terrible about yourself.

Because in a way, that is what this is, isn’t it? Not just discovery, but revelation. A small private unveiling of something you would rather never have seen.

You can tell yourself it was caution. That maybe he would notice. Maybe there are cameras. Maybe he is testing you. Maybe there is some other lock, some other failsafe, some other consequence waiting just out of sight. And maybe some of that is true. Maybe it isn’t. But beneath all of those excuses, beneath all the practical little reasons your mind scrambles to stack into a shelter, something quieter remains.

You could have tried.

You didn’t.

But what does it mean?

That you are afraid? Of course you are. That you are tired? Obviously. That the world beyond him has started to feel too large, too bright, too uncertain after so long inside the boundaries of his care?

That is harder to admit.

That maybe freedom has become abstract enough to frighten you more than routine does. That maybe the idea of leaving now no longer means only escape, but also loss. Loss of the terrible steadiness of him. Loss of the hands that hurt and heal in the same breath. Loss of the life that is not yours and yet has wrapped itself around your body so tightly that part of you no longer knows where to put all its need without it.

(You are not sure when you stopped starving for the outside world and started feeding on him instead.)

The thought makes you feel sick.

Not because it is entirely false.

But because it might be a little true.

You move through the rest of the day with that knowledge sitting behind your ribs like a bruise. You do the little things you always do. You look out the window. You touch things absently as you pass them. You let time move. But everything feels altered now.

The apartment is no longer only a cage. It is also the place you stayed when the cage door loosened.

And in a way, that is answer enough from you.

────────────────────────

In the quiet, heavy, golden way evenings sometimes become, a hush trails in afterward; the kind that feels almost sacred once the long day has finally exhaled its last light.

You lie on the bed, completely bare, skin glowing warm under the low lamplight like melted candle wax poured slow and golden across the sheets. Heat pools low in your belly and spreads outward, a soft, treacherous flame that licks through every limb until even your fingertips feel flushed.

Your hands fist the crisp white sheets, knuckles pale against the fabric, as you watch Izuku kneel at the edge of the bed. He is fully clothed still—shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal his strong forearms, tie long discarded somewhere on the floor—but his green eyes are fixed on you.

He studies you the way he once studied hero notebooks and journals: every detail catalogued, every breath and tremble noted with reverent precision, as though your body is the most important text he will ever read.

You are belly-up in complete surrender, legs parted, knees fallen open without resistance, exposing every vulnerable inch of yourself to his gaze. Your breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths, nipples tightened by the cool air and the weight of his stare. Your cunt is already slick and glistening, flushed and swollen from his earlier teasing, the evidence of your arousal shining on your inner thighs like dew on morning petals.

How did you get here again?

The question drifts through your mind like smoke, hazy and half-formed. You don't remember the exact steps that led from the living room to this moment—only that the need for him has rooted itself deep in your blood now, a quiet ache that blooms hotter every time he is near. Wanting him has become as natural and painful as breathing after too long underwater. It frightens you, this shift, yet your body has already decided for you, arching subtly toward him in silent invitation.

Izuku’s cheeks are flushed a soft pink and his eyes widen in a familiar mix of awe and overwhelming love. He doesn't lunge or take greedily. Instead he stays kneeling, hands resting lightly on your knees, thumbs stroking slow, soothing circles into your skin as though he is afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice low and cracking with sincerity, green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “All open for me… trusting me. I—I’ll take such good care of you. I promise!" The words are soft, laced with the same trembling devotion he once used to inspire others, now poured entirely into you like a prayer offered at an altar he built himself.

You let him touch you.

His palms slide up your thighs with careful worship, calloused fingertips tracing the sensitive skin as if memorizing every curve and dip. When his hands reach your hips, he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your lower belly, then another higher, lips warm and lingering.

You reach for him in return—because that's what lovers do, isn’t it? And tonight the question feels dangerously close to truth.

Your fingers thread through his messy green curls, tugging lightly as you pull him up toward you. He comes willingly, breath hitching, and when your mouths meet it is soft at first, almost hesitant on your side, then deepening as you moan quietly into the kiss.

He moans back, lower and rougher, the sound vibrating against your lips like distant thunder wrapped in velvet. Your tongues slide together, slow and exploratory, tasting the faint sweetness of the tea he drank earlier and the salt of shared breath.

Is this what love looks like? Feels like?

The thought flickers through the haze of warmth as your hands roam over his shoulders, pushing his shirt open further so you can feel the scarred expanse of his chest beneath your palms. His skin is hot, heart hammering wildly under your touch—the same heart that once broke for strangers and now beats only for you in this small, sealed world.

You kiss him harder, moaning softly when his hand cups your breast, thumb brushing over the peaked nipple. His other hand slips between your legs, fingers gliding through your slick folds before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that make your hips twitch upward.

You touch him too—palms sliding down his torso, fingers tracing old scars like reading braille written by heroism and pain, then lower, wrapping around the thick, heavy length of his cock where it strains against his trousers. He groans into your mouth at the contact, hips jerking forward instinctively, yet he still holds back, letting you set the pace even as his body trembles with restraint.

Has his touch always felt this good?

The question drifts like petals on still water as his fingers press inside you—two at first, curling gently to stroke that sensitive spot while his thumb keeps rubbing tight circles over your clit. Pleasure blooms warm and golden, spreading through your veins like molten wax, every slow thrust of his fingers coaxing another soft moan from your throat.

You stroke him in return, hand moving with growing confidence along his thick shaft, feeling it twitch and throb under your touch. He breaks the kiss only to bury his face against your neck, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to your pulse point while he whispers, “I love you… I love you so much. Y-You feel perfect… so warm an—and wet for me! Let me make you feel good. Let me take care of everything.”

Has the look in his eyes always felt this warm?

When he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, those green eyes are half-lidded and shining like polished tourmaline lit from within. There is no cruelty there, no smug possession—only that devastating sincerity, that boyish awe that makes your chest tighten. He looks at you as though you are the center of his entire universe, as though every moan you give him is a gift he is unworthy of but will cherish forever. The warmth in that gaze sinks into you deeper than any touch, melting something frozen you did not even know was still there.

(You used to dream of escape. Now you dream of warmth; his warmth. You don’t know when that changed.)

He pulls back just long enough to shed his clothes, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound besides the quickened rhythm of your breathing. Shirt slides from broad, scarred shoulders, trousers and boxers pushed down in one impatient motion, revealing the powerful lines of his body—muscle earned through years of relentless training, skin mapped with old battles, cock heavy and flushed, already glistening at the tip from how long he has been holding himself back for you.

The moment the last piece of clothing hits the floor, he is back, crawling over you, green eyes dark and luminous in the low light.

You are already reaching for him.

Your hands are greedy, desperate, fingers sliding over the warm, scarred plane of his chest, tracing the raised lines of old wounds as if they are familiar roads leading home. One palm presses flat over his racing heart while the other curls around the back of his neck, tugging him down.

Plants do not choose their sunlight; they simply grow toward it. That is what this feels like—instinctive, helpless, inevitable. Your body arches up to meet him before your mind can catch its breath, skin seeking skin, warmth seeking warmth.

Has his kisses always felt so soft?

He kisses you again, mouth slanting over yours. His lips are warm and plush, moving against yours like a promise whispered in the dark, tongue sliding in to taste you with gentle hunger. You moan softly into the kiss, the sound swallowed by him as your fingers thread tighter into his messy green curls. He answers with a low, broken groan of his own, the vibration traveling straight through your chest and settling low in your belly.

While he kisses you, his hand curls around the thick base of his cock, giving it one firm, slow stroke that makes his hips twitch. The blunt head nudges through your slick folds, sliding up and down your slit with deliberate care, coating himself in your arousal until every inch glistens. He breaks the kiss only enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath ragged and warm against your lips, green eyes half-lidded and shining with glassy, worshipful intensity.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and trembling with devotion. “Just breathe for me, baby… let me in. Let me love you like this.”

Then he pushes forward.

The thick head of his cock parts your entrance slowly, stretching you open with that familiar, overwhelming fullness that always borders on too much. Inch by inch he sinks inside, until he is buried to the hilt and your hips are flush against his.

A broken whine tears from your throat the moment he bottoms out, the sound cracking open into a gasp as your walls flutter and clench around the heavy intrusion. He is so deep, so thick, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you at once, the stretch burning sweetly and turning quickly into liquid heat.

Izuku moans with you—low, rough, almost pained—as he feels you take every inch. His forehead stays pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut for a heartbeat as if the sensation is almost too much even for him. “God… you feel perfect,” he breathes, voice cracking. “So warm… so tight around me. Like you were made for this. M-Made for me.”

He pulls his hips back slowly, dragging his cock almost all the way out until only the head remains inside, then rolls forward again in one smooth, deep thrust that seats him fully once more. The wet, filthy sound of your bodies meeting fills the quiet room, slick and intimate. He sets a slow, rolling rhythm—pulling back with aching patience, then sliding home again, hips flush against yours every time, grinding just enough at the end to press against your clit and send sparks racing up your spine.

Your hands clutch at his back, nails digging into skin as another whimper escapes you. Every thrust pushes the air from your lungs in soft, broken sounds. Every retreat leaves you aching and empty for only a heartbeat before he fills you again, deeper, steadier, more deliberate.

The pleasure is thick and golden, melting through your limbs like warm wax, turning your bones soft and your thoughts hazy.

Izuku’s eyes never leave your face. Even when his rhythm begins to deepen, even when his breathing grows ragged, he watches you with that obsessive, attentive devotion—cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, every tiny twitch of your hips as you start to meet his thrusts.

Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, not from strain but from the sheer overwhelming emotion of being allowed this closeness, of feeling you open and welcoming beneath him after so long of resistance.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmurs between kisses, lips brushing yours, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Taking me so beautifully… moaning so sweetly. I love you. I love you more than anything. Let me make you feel everything, baby. Let me take care of you completely.”

His pace remains steady but grows heavier, each thrust rocking your body against the mattress, the wet slap of skin on skin mingling with your shared moans and the creak of the bed beneath you. You are wrapped around him—legs hooked loosely around his waist, arms clinging to his shoulders—as if your body has decided for you that this is where it belongs.

The warmth inside you builds like a slow-burning flame, every deep stroke stoking it higher, every grind against your clit sending sparks dancing behind your eyelids.

He does not rush you toward release; he savors it, drawing it out with meticulous care, whispering endless praises against your lips.

For some reason, you wonder if this is what it means to be kept alive instead of set free.

The warmth inside you builds like a candle flame growing brighter, wax pooling and spilling until it feels like your entire body is glowing from within. You are bare and open and vulnerable beneath him, yet for this suspended moment it does not feel like captivity—it feels like surrender wrapped in silk, like need answered with devotion so total it blurs every line.

Your fingers tighten in his hair as the pleasure crests, a soft cry escaping you while your walls flutter and clench around his cock, release washing over you in slow, golden waves that leave you trembling and breathless; it feels almost like sunlight you cannot help but reach for.

Izuku stays with you through every pulse, murmuring soft, loving words, green eyes never leaving your face as he drinks in your expression with that same obsessive tenderness. When the aftershocks finally ebb, he presses gentle kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your forehead. “You’re everything to me,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion, tears slipping free to trace down his scarred cheek.

You lie there in the warm glow, skin still flushed and glistening, heart beating too fast against his chest as he gathers you close. The question lingers in the quiet like smoke after a flame: is this what love feels like? Has it always been this warm, this soft, this consuming?

Izuku has made himself your climate—your warmth, your rain, your light.

And you… you have taken root.

(“I love you,” Izuku whispers in the dark afterward, voice soft and roughened by emotion, by exhaustion, by whatever fragile happiness is still trembling through him.

He noses gently at your nose, an almost boyish little gesture, so tender it would be easy to mistake it for innocence if not for everything that came before it. You are already half-melted into him, body lax and warm and heavy in the cradle of his arms, and he does not seem to notice the way you tilt toward him now with less hesitation than before.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe that is why he smiles like that.

In the dark, with the room gone still around you and the last of your shared warmth lingering between your bodies, that smile looks almost unbearably tender. The kind of expression people wear when they are holding something breakable in both hands and can hardly believe it has not vanished yet.

You blink up at him.

Your fingers lift before you really think about it, moving with a strange, sleepy certainty until they find the scar beneath his eye. You trace it lightly, the pad of your finger following the pale line down his cheek.

It has become such a familiar path now, hasn’t it? One your hands seem to know almost instinctively. The gesture feels quiet. Intimate. Like reading something written into him long before you arrived, something pain left behind and time never quite erased. He goes so still under your touch that for a second you wonder if even breathing has become too much for him.

Then, in a voice so soft it nearly disappears into the dark, you whisper, “I love you too.”

The words settle between you like falling petals.

For one suspended, breathless moment, Izuku doesn't move at all.

He stills as if the whole world has halted inside his chest. His eyes widen just a fraction, green irises catching what little light there is, and all at once the expression on his face empties out into something naked and stunned and almost childlike in its wonder.

And then his face breaks.

A tearful smile curls slowly on his lips, trembling there as if it can barely hold itself together under the weight of what you have given him. His lashes glisten. His breath catches sharply, shaking on the way out. He looks at you like he has just been handed something holy. Something impossible. Something he has prayed for in silence so many nights that now, faced with its reality, he can only stare as if afraid one blink might take it back.

“You…” he starts, then stops, voice failing him entirely.

It's one of the only times you have ever seen him at a loss.

Izuku—who always has words, who always tries to explain and soothe and confess and make meaning out of every feeling—can only look at you with tears slipping free now, his whole face open in a way that almost hurts to witness.

He brings his hand up to cup your cheek with a trembling gentleness that feels like awe made physical. His thumb strokes once beneath your eye, almost absentmindedly, like he needs the contact to ground himself, to confirm that you are really here and that those words really came from your mouth.

The smile he gives you then is so warm it feels almost golden.

And maybe that is the cruelest truth of all.

Because yes—yes, you love him too.

The realization no longer arrives like panic. Not this time. It comes quieter. Heavier. Like something that has been growing in the dark for a long time finally pressing up through the soil and into light whether you wanted it to or not.

You love him in the same twisted, aching way vines love the walls they have no choice but to climb. In the same way roots love the earth that holds them, even when it has become impossible to tell where nourishment ends and entrapment begins.

Somewhere along the way, your roots have grown into him. Curled there. Taken hold.

And Izuku—warm, radiant, ever-watchful Izuku—has become sunlight to the parts of you that no longer know how to bloom without him.

The thought should horrify you.

Maybe it still does, somewhere.

But here in the dark, with his tears damp on his lashes and his smile shining like dawn after endless rain, it feels less like horror and more like a quiet surrender to the truth of what you have become. Plants do not argue with the sun. They bend toward it. Reach for it. Open under it even when the reaching hurts.

And Izuku has made himself into your climate so completely that now your heart knows his warmth before your mind can name the danger.

“I love you,” he says again, but this time the words are broken open by emotion, raw and disbelieving and full of a gratitude so deep it almost sounds like prayer. He presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly through the tears in a way that makes his voice shake. “Gods… I love you. I love you so much.”

His kisses come after that in a rush of trembling tenderness—your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth, your nose again, each one holy and almost frantic in its softness, like he cannot stop touching the miracle of you now that you have finally spoken back to him in the language he has been starving for.

His whole body curls around yours as if instinct has taken over, as if every part of him is trying to shelter this moment from the rest of the world.

And you let him.

More than that—you lean into him.

It's small. Maybe small enough that someone else would miss it. But he feels it immediately. The way your body fits closer. The way your cheek settles more fully against his chest. The way your hand lingers at his face instead of falling away. Every tiny motion is received by him with the same aching intensity as your confession, as though even the softest answer from you is something he must hold carefully and forever.

Outside, the night deepens beyond the windows.

Inside, he wraps himself around you like warmth around a shivering thing, and you lie there listening to the wild, relieved beat of his heart beneath your ear. It sounds almost disbelieving. Almost young. As if some long-wounded part of him has finally been given permission to rest.

Your roots have grown into him.

And Izuku, smiling through tears in the dark, is sunlight enough to make them grow deeper still.)

────────────────────────

You think it has been forty-five hours since you last saw the sun.

Maybe more.

Time has become soft at the edges here, swollen and indistinct, like paper left too long in water. The days no longer arrive cleanly, one after the other, but drift into each other until morning and evening feel less like separate things and more like different shades of the same captivity.

You lose hours. Sometimes whole afternoons. You blink and the light in the window has changed; you close your eyes and wake with his hand still warm at your waist, and suddenly another piece of the day is gone. It should frighten you, but in the places where fear once lived brightest, something else has begun to grow.

Something softer. Something warmer. Something that glows.

In the hours or minutes you have lost, you have found something else instead—something brighter.

Your person.

The one who has slowly, terribly come to feel like sunlight on your skin. The one who looks at you as though you have been touched by light itself, as though something golden lives beneath your ribs and he is lucky just to witness it.

Izuku with his careful hands and tired smile. Izuku who crouches in front of you to tie the ribbons of a nightgown you did not put on by yourself. Izuku who tucks blankets around you as if cold is a personal insult to him. Izuku who stills when you enter a room like his whole body has recognized home before his mind can say your name.

Pure, your mind thinks sometimes when you look at him too long. Pure in the way gold is pure when held to flame. Not untouched by fire, but made brighter by it.

There is something haloed about him in certain lights—when the sun through the window catches in his hair and turns the green dark-soft at the edges, when evening spills amber across his cheek and makes the scar beneath his eye look almost holy, like some old saint’s wound painted by a devoted hand.

He looks at you with devastating sincerity, and it feels for one impossible second like being blessed and ruined by the same thing.

Maybe you don’t need the sun every day.

Because the sun is warmth, isn’t it? It's steadiness. It is light arriving without asking anything of you. It is the soft touch across your face in the morning, the glow on your skin, the reassurance that something bright still exists beyond the dark.

And lately, your Izuku has become all of that in ways your body understands before your pride can reject them.

When you wake from uneasy sleep with your throat tight from some half-remembered dream, it's his palm that smooths over your hair until your breathing slows again. When the apartment feels too quiet, too dim, too much like a sealed box drifting beyond the reach of the world, it's his voice that fills the corners and makes the stillness softer. When you grow cold, it's his body that curls around yours at night until the shivering leaves your bones. When you do not eat, he notices. When your eyes are red, he notices that too.

He notices everything.

The smallest shifts. The things you try to hide. The moments you sit by the window longer than usual, looking at the pale patch of sky between buildings like you might still be able to climb into it.

And more and more, before he even speaks, you feel him.

Like warmth before sunrise.

There are evenings when he comes home exhausted, tie loosened, shoulders heavy with the weight of being needed by too many people, and the second he steps inside and sees you, something in him melts.

Every time.

As if whatever he has carried all day becomes lighter just because you are there. He says your name softly, almost disbelievingly, like he still cannot quite believe he gets to come home to you. Then he moves toward you with that same careful devotion, setting his things aside, washing his hands, always washing his hands before he touches you, as if even the world’s dust has no right to reach you before he does.

Sometimes he brings things.

A confection wrapped neatly in paper because it reminded him of your mouth. A ribbon in your favorite color. A little glass bottle of perfume. A sunflower from a market stall, already beginning to droop a little at the edges, which he puts in water with such tender seriousness you almost laugh.

“I know it’s silly,” he says, cheeks pink, rubbing the back of his neck in that old familiar way, “I just thought you might like it.”

And you do.

You like all of it.

The things are small, but the noticing behind them is enormous. He moves through the world collecting fragments of you and brings them home like offerings. The exact tea you prefer when your head aches. The ointment that works best on your skin. The sweets shaped like leaves because they remind him of the first time he saw you standing under trees.

Nothing escapes him. Nothing. To be loved by Izuku is to be studied down to the smallest tenderness and then cared for accordingly. It's unbearable. It's intoxicating. It's the kind of attention lonely people could starve on.

There are quieter moments too.

Like when you're on the couch.

At first you only sat at the other end, posture stiff, attention elsewhere. Then closer. Then close enough that your knees nearly brushed.

Now there are evenings where you drift there without thinking, carrying a blanket or your book or simply your tiredness, and settle at his side before he has to ask. He never comments on it. Never startles the moment by naming it. He just shifts slightly, lifting an arm to the back of the couch, making room with the silent ease of someone who has been hoping for exactly this and is trying very hard not to frighten it away.

And you simply grow toward him, like a plant choosing sunlight.

A shoulder against his arm. Your temple against the solid warmth of him when the show he has put on blurs into background noise. His hand finding your calf beneath the blanket and rubbing there in absent-minded strokes. His fingers carding through your hair while he reads something on his phone, looking so ordinary doing it that the whole thing begins to feel like a memory borrowed from another life.

One night you fall asleep there.

You don't mean to. You mean only to rest your eyes for a second. But the room is dim, and he is warm, and his heartbeat beneath your cheek is so steady that it pulls you under before you can fight it.

When you wake later, you are in bed. Freshly tucked in. Blanket to your chin. Glass of water on the bedside table. And Izuku is there, watching you wake with that expression he gets when he is trying to hide how much he loves you and failing terribly.

“You were tired,” he says, almost apologetic.

As if carrying you to bed was some small thing. As if tenderness like that can still be spoken of gently after everything else.

There are mornings when you find yourself standing in the bathroom doorway again, watching him brush his teeth, watching him rake wet fingers through his curls, watching him yawn with his whole face screwed up like he has forgotten how beautiful he is in his tiredness.

The mirror catches you both at once—him at the sink, you in the frame of the door—and suddenly it looks domestic in a way that unsettles you all over again. Like two people sharing a life. Like something normal. Like something earned rather than stolen.

He catches your eye in the mirror and smiles around the toothbrush foam, and something in your chest tips over itself.

Later, he wipes a bit of toothpaste from the corner of your mouth with his thumb after you use the sink, and the gesture is so absent, so intimate, so thoughtlessly caring that you stand there for a second afterward with your whole body gone strange around the edges.

And in your bed, in the darkened room, he has begun to fold around you at night as if your body has finally relearned its shape against his.

Sometimes you wake before him and just look.

At the line of his mouth relaxed in sleep. The lashes resting against his cheeks. The scar under his eye pale in dawn light. The softness that only really appears when he does not know he is being watched.

One of his hands always ends up seeking you out even asleep—at your waist, your belly, your thigh—as though some part of him is too afraid of an empty space beside him to ever fully let go. When you shift, even slightly, he murmurs and follows. A plant turning toward warmth in the dark. A body seeking its sun.

He is still the kind of person who looks at your face as if every emotion there matters. Still the kind of person whose smile breaks open when you say something as simple as “thank you.” Still the kind of person who lights up if you tell him what you want for dinner, then goes out of his way to make it perfect, like feeding you is some sacred responsibility he has been blessed with.

Sometimes he makes tea for you and waits for it to cool just enough before handing it over because he knows you always burn your tongue when you are distracted. Sometimes he kneels at your feet to rub lotion into your ankles and talks softly about his day, about some child he rescued who reminded him of you because she had the same stubborn little frown.

Sometimes he comes home and just stares at you for a second from the doorway—grocery bag in hand, fatigue still clinging to him, afternoon gold behind his shoulders—and says, so quietly you almost miss it, “I missed you.”

As if missing you is not a constant state of his being. As if he has not built a whole private universe from the shape of your absence and presence.

The days still blend.

You still lose hours.

Sometimes you look out the window and think of the sky. Of open air. Of the sound the city must make this time of day.

But the longing does not slice as cleanly anymore.

It spreads and softens and tangles itself in other things. In the way he laughs when you say something dry under your breath. In the way he kisses your temple when he thinks you are drifting to sleep. In the way his hand always reaches for yours under blankets, in kitchens, in doorways, on the couch—as if touch is how he confirms that you are still real.

And the worst, most wonderful, most terrifying thing is more and more often, you reach first. For his sleeve. His hand. His warmth. Small things. A brush of fingers against his wrist when he passes. Your head finding his shoulder before he can pull you in. Your body curving toward his in the night of its own accord.

He always notices. His whole face softens every time, like some hidden sun rising under his skin.

Maybe you don’t need the sun every day.

Maybe not when you have someone who wakes before you and closes the curtains a little so the morning light does not hit your eyes too harshly. Maybe not when you have someone who warms your side of the bed with his own body before pulling you close.

Maybe not when you have someone whose voice can soften the edges of a bad dream, whose fingers trace circles into your skin until you stop shaking, whose gaze lands on you with such steady adoration that it begins to feel like standing in light.

Maybe not when you have Izuku.

Izuku, who feels like warmth on your skin. Izuku, who looks at you as though you have been touched by something holy. Izuku, with his halo of green-gold devotion, his careful hands, his sacred mouth, his endless noticing. Izuku, who has become sunrise in the sealed little world he built around you.

And maybe that is the answer, isn’t it?

Not a loud one. Not a noble one. Just a quiet, awful truth blooming somewhere beneath your ribs: you have started measuring brightness differently.

Not by sky. Not by sunlight on the floor. But by the way he looks at you when you first wake. By the warmth of his body around yours in the dark. By the golden hush that settles over the room when he smiles because you have said his name.

You think it has been forty-five hours since you last saw the sun.

But when he comes to bed that night and gathers you into him with a tired sigh, kissing once between your brows before his arm tightens around your waist, you close your eyes and let yourself sink into the heat of him.

Maybe you do not need the sun every day.

You have Izuku.

[hawks-flat-ass]

Author note: This is now being expanded into a full ecosystem for minimalist bureaucratic horror. You are welcome to use For the Safety of the Public entries as a resource for your fics. I just ask that you please link back to the document and credit. This will go up on AO3 eventually. And, of course, thank you to @autumnmobile12, who sparked the process with her own brilliance.

[NPSC ARCHIVE]

FILE ID: Y23-MHRA-001

CLEARANCE: INTERNAL COUNCIL ONLY

DATE: June 15, Y.23

Act on the Rights and Regulation of Meta-Humans [Act No. 42 of June 12, Y.23 — 23 years after Glowing Baby]

CHAPTER I GENERAL PROVISIONS

§ Article 1 (Purpose) The purpose of this Act is to establish the legal status, rights, and obligations of individuals possessing meta-abilities (herinafter referred to as “Quirks”), and to ensure public safety and the promotion of public welfare by establishing necessary regulations regarding Quirk-Related manifestations and oversight.

§ Article 2 (Definitions) In this Act, the meanings of the terms set forth in the following items shall be prescribed in each of those items:

“Baseline Human” (hereinafter referred to as ‘Baseline’): Individuals exhibiting no morphological or biological deviation from pre-Manifestation genetic norms;

“Meta-Human”: Any individual exhibiting a capability or a physiological trait categorized as non-Baseline;

“Quirk”: Any inheritable or spontaneously manifested meta-ability, including but not limited to: • Emitter-type Abilities: abilities that produce, manipulate, or project energy, matter, or force; • Transformation-Type Abilities: abilities that temporarily alter the user’s physical form; • Heteromorphic Mutations: permanent or semi-permanent morphological deviations from Baseline human anatomy;

“Quirk Manifestation”: The initial presentation of a meta-ability, whether voluntary or involuntary;

“Quirk Use”: Any action, expression, or deployment of a Quirk, including passive biological functions that may impact the surrounding environment.

“Public Safety Risk”: Any circumstance, perceived or actual, in which Quirk Use or the presence of a Meta-Human Condition may disrupt public order or safety;

“Suppression Measures”: Medical, technological, or pharmacological intervention utilized to inhibit Quirk expression for the purposes of Social Integration;

“Authorized Personnel”: Agents of the National Public Safety Council (hereinafter referred to as the “NPSC”) or the National Police Agency (“NPA”) granted plenary authority to evaluate Public Safety Risk or administer Suppression Measures.

§ Article 3 (Classifications)

The NPSC shall classify Meta-Humans into the following conditions based on clinical evaluation:

Standard Condition: Meta-abilities that do not result in permanent morphological deviation and are deemed manageable;

Heteromorphic Condition: Individuals exhibiting permanent morphological deviations (hereinafter referred to as “Structural Anomalies”);

High-Risk Condition: Abilities that present substantial Public Safety Risk due to volatility or scale;

Restricted Condition: Individuals whose Quirk Use is subject to legal limitation or State-Sanctioned Procurement for the purpose of public service.

CHAPTER II - RIGHTS AND OBLIGATIONS

§ Article 4 (Recognition of Rights)

Meta-Humans shall be recognized as persons under the law; provided, however, that their civil liberties may be curtailed to the extent necessary to ensure the safety of the Baseline Population.

The government shall endeavor to promote fair treatment of individuals with morphological variations; provided, however, that such measures are economically feasible and consistent with Public Safety.

Discrimination is discouraged; provided, however, that this shall not apply where Quirk Type constitutes a bona fide public fear or regulatory conflict.

Nothing in this Act shall limit the authority of the NPSC to enact Emergency Asset Seizure of High-Risk individuals in the interest of Public Safety.

Nothing in this Act shall be construed to limit the authority of the NPA to establish guidance for educational bodies managing Quirk Manifestations.

§ Article 5 (Obligations of Meta-Humans)

A guardian of a Meta-Human shall report the Quirk Manifestation to the appropriate municipal authority within thirty (30) days of said manifestation.

Individuals shall submit to psycho-social and biological testing by Authorized Personnel upon demand.

The NPSC may enact Emergency Asset Seizure of High-Risk individuals when deemed in the interest of Public Safety.

§ Article 6 (Liability)

A Meta-Human shall be strictly liable for all damages caused by their Quirk, regardless of intent, involuntary manifestation, or third-party provocation.

CHAPTER III - INSTITUTIONAL RESPONSIBILITIES

§ Article 7 (Education)

Educational institutions may segregate students by Classification to prevent environmental contamination or manifestation of trauma among Baseline students.

§ Article 8 (Employment)

Employers may mandate the use of Suppression Measures as a condition of employment for individuals of non-standard classifications.

§ Article 9 (Medical)

Hospitals are granted Limited Immunity for injuries sustained by Meta-Humans during the administration of mandatory Suppression Measures.

CHAPTER IV - SUPPLEMENTARY PROVISIONS

§ Article 10 (International Recognition)

Equivalent regulatory bodies in allied nations shall be recognized as competent authorities for the purpose of information sharing, extradition, and cross-border enforcement.

The NPSC may enter into cooperative agreements with foreign agencies to ensure global standards for Quirk regulation and Public Safety.

§ Article 11 (Scope of Authority)

The NPSC is the primary regulatory authority.

§ Article 12 (Judicial Exception)

Actions taken by NPSC Authorized Personnel in the performance of their duties under this Act shall be exempt from standard civil review. Adjudication of such matters shall be the sole jurisdiction of the NPSC Oversight Council.

[hawks-flat-ass]

[INTERNAL MEMORANDUM: NPSC-EXEC-23-01]

DATE: June 16, Y.23

FROM: Office of Administrative Oversight, NPSC Headquarters

TO: All Internal Bureau Chiefs; Regional Liaison Officers

SUBJECT: Circulation Status of Act No. 42 (MHRA

REVISION STATUS The attached draft reflects Revision 3.2. Personnel are advised that while the core framework is finalized, Articles 4 (Recognition of Rights) and 7 (Education) remain under Active Review by the Oversight Council. These sections have been intentionally drafted with “Flexibility Interpretation Clauses” to allow for rapid municipal adaptation.

TERMINOLOGY STANDARDIZATION Staff are reminded that the Linguistic Rebranding Packet is now mandatory. ● All external communications must utilize the term “Quirk” (Kosei) as defined in Article 2. ● References to “Meta-Human Potential” or “Inherent Rights” is strickly prohibited in public-facing summaries.

CONFIDENTIALITY DIRECTIVE Under the authority of Article 11 (Scope of Authority), any distribution of unofficial commentary, internal impact assessments, or "Baseline Risk" projections to external agencies or the press is a Class-A violation of the Secrecy Protocol.

[OFFICIAL SEAL ATTACHED] OFFICE OF LEGISLATIVE HARMONIZATION NATIONAL PUBLIC SAFETY COUNCIL (NPSC) “Order through Clarity. Safety through Oversight.”

[syrecjh]

──★˙💋 ̟ !!Prescription: One Kiss, Daily

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x healer! reader, pure fluff

The nurse’s office in UA had always been a kind of quiet sanctuary, if one could call the scent of antiseptic, the buzz of fluorescent lights, and the echo of groans a sanctuary at all. Yet ever since you started working beside Recovery Girl quirk healing, hands gentle, kisses brief but potent, it had turned into something else. Something softer. A place with laughter tucked between bandages. Warmth humming just under the beep of monitors. The older students began calling you the kiss of life, and though you’d always shoo their teasing away with a laugh, the name lingered like perfume.

You were, in many ways, Recovery Girl’s shadow but younger, brighter, and still training to harness the limits of your quirk. Your healing came in contact: a kiss to the temple, cheek, knuckles, shoulder or wherever needed. Necessary. But that didn’t stop rumors from spreading through the halls like wildfire. Especially among the boys of Class 1-A.

Midoriya had been your unofficial patient zero back in their first year with his bruised wrists and fractured fingers becoming almost routine. He had grown accustomed to the press of your lips to his forehead after every reckless feat, cheeks red but accepting, until it became no more embarrassing than a vitamin. Still, he talked about you. A lot. Maybe too much.

So when Bakugo Katsuki, the human embodiment of temper and combustion, first stormed into the nurse’s office with a bloodied brow, only to freeze at the sight of you, it was a miracle the place didn’t explode.

He blinked. You blinked. Recovery Girl smirked behind her clipboard.

“You’re not some extra, right?” he asked gruffly, arms crossed, gaze sharp.

“I work here,” you replied, a little surprised he didn’t already know.

He scoffed. “Tch. Figures they’d hire a pretty face to patch us up.”

And then he started showing up. Often.

By the time third year rolled in, it wasn’t Midoriya who was the permanent fixture in the nurse’s ward. It was Bakugo. Bruised knuckles, singed forearms, sore shoulders. Sometimes a split lip. Sometimes no visible wounds at all.

“I just feel off,” he’d mutter.

“You want a kiss on the ego, Bakugo?” you’d tease.

“No. My ribs. Definitely my ribs,” he’d grunt, already lifting his shirt.

And Class 3-A noticed.

“Oh, it’s a love injury again, huh?” Kaminari would whisper loudly, nudging Sero.

“Right to the heart,” Kirishima added with a mock gasp.

“You know you could just ask her out instead of purposely diving into every fight,” Mina chimed in.

Bakugo barked at all of them. Threatened to break noses. But he never stopped showing up.

And today? Today was peak chaos.

A joint combat simulation with Class B had left half the class bruised and limping. The nurse’s office became a battlefield of its own, Recovery Girl muttering about “teenage boneheads,” while you juggled ice packs and salves, moving from one student to the next.

Class 3-A had stormed with their scuffed uniforms, scraped elbows, and dramatic retellings of how they'd heroically face-planted during training. The teasing had already begun, loud and merciless, especially when Bakugo stormed in last, grumbling like thunder in a tank top.

“So, who’s getting the royal kiss first?” Kaminari asked, pointing dramatically.

“Don’t be jealous if it’s not you,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

Even Aizawa, deadpan from the doorway, raised a brow. “Don’t take too long with Bakugo. He likes to hoard her attention.”

Gasps. Actual gasps.

“Sir?” you gawked.

“Just an observation,” Aizawa replied,

“Bet he threw himself into the fight just so she’d kiss his forehead,” Kaminari whispered way too loudly.

“You think that’s why he’s been reckless lately?” Sero added, eyes gleaming. “He’s on that ‘medical affection’ grind.”

Bakugo’s face was pure murder. “Shut it before I blast your teeth into alphabetical order.”

You were about to gently remind them to sit still for bandaging when the room fell eerily quiet, too quiet.

And then—

Minoru Mineta, of course.

Perched smugly on his cot, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, he raised a hand like he was asking a question in class.

“Hypothetically…” he began, voice syrupy with faux innocence, “if someone were injured in their, uh, thingy... would your quirk require a kiss there, too?” he eyed his uhm, you know what.

A full second of stunned silence.Then chaos.

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” Yaoyorozu shouted, appalled.

“I’M GONNA BURN MY EARS,” Kaminari howled, covering them like a toddler.

"MINETA YOU’RE A DAMN MENACE!” Jirou smacked him upside the head with her headphone jack.

Even Aizawa, who had mastered the art of emotional detachment after years with Class A, pinched the bridge of his nose like the universe had betrayed him. “Mineta,” he deadpanned, “you need therapy.”

Bakugo stood up so fast his chair squeaked. “You wanna test that theory with a concussion, you grape-headed freak?”

You, meanwhile, were frozen, eyes wide, face red, somewhere between mortification and laughter. But you handled it like a professional, after all, Recovery Girl had trained you for chaos.

"I only treat actual injuries,” you said sweetly, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves with dangerous poise. “And even then… location matters. So unless you want to find out how I sterilize paper cuts—”

Mineta shrieked.

Bakugo grinned.

Aizawa muttered something about needing coffee and left the room.And somewhere in the corner, Kirishima whispered to Kaminari, “Bro… she’s perfect for him.”

When Bakugo’s turn came, he strode in with his usual scowl and blood running down his forearm, barking, “Not you, old hag. I want her.”

Recovery Girl didn’t even flinch. “Fine. She’s better at putting up with your drama anyway.”

He grabbed the edge of the curtain and pulled it sharply, letting it slide closed around the bed like a shield. Only the hush of the outside room, muffled laughter, and the rustle of medical gauze remained.

“You’re bleeding again,” you said, dipping cotton in antiseptic. “You know this is the third time this week?”

“Coincidence,” he muttered.

“Are you going to fight a dragon next?”

He didn’t answer, but his smirk told you he might.

You wrapped his arm, fingers careful, lingering at his wrist just a beat too long. The air between you tightened, something unspoken slipping between breath and glance.

“You’re all done,” you said quietly, reaching to press a quick healing kiss to his temple, the kind you’d given a hundred times. Platonic and necessary and not charged with anything.

And then he said it.

Low. Grumbly.

“...My lips are hurtin’ too.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said,” he leaned in, “my lips. Might be cracked. Real bad.

You flushed from your chest to your scalp.

“You want me to call Recovery Girl back in?”

He scoffed. “Only if you want me to explode.”

Outside the curtain, you could already hear Mina whispering, “Why is it so quiet in there?”

You cleared your throat. “They’re all going to think I’m—”

“They already think it,” he said with a shrug. “Might as well make it true.”

You stared at him. He stared at you.

And then he leaned closer, eyes narrowed, voice soft.

“Next time I come in,” he said, “just kiss me first. Save us the small talk.”

[cozmowrites]

Reincarnated - Masterlist

This is on ao3 and wattpad! all parts will be here and tiktok :) // masterlist 𓆩♡𓆪

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completed!

𓆩♡𓆪

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Twenty Seven

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Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

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Forty One

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Fifty

[tivrkn]

along the shore | implied fem reader ﹒

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 - warm grains beneath your bare soles ﹒

“look—look, sho! this shape is so pretty!”

it’s been a custom of yours, from the start of your relationship, to drag shoto to the beach anytime the weather is just right, a gentle tug of his sleeve the moment sunlight spills over you, bright enough to make your eyes squint as you both head halfway out the door, with him glancing only at you once before falling into step at your side.

with the sun sat high enough to let warmth drip onto your skin, and the breeze brushing through your locks just enough to keep you cool, your fingers brush through countless grains, sifting for treasure beneath a thin layer of sand.

every so often, you brush along something free, fingers snagging on something smooth.

you dig a bit deeper with a pale curve peeking through the sand.

you call shoto alone with a wave of your hand.

“sho, c’mere.”

and he follows in a heartbeat, with the quiet crunch of sand under his feet as he makes his way over.

“what’d you find this time?” he asks, head tilting slightly, gaze already fixed to your hands.

you carefully grab his hand and press a small collection of mismatched seashells into his palm as a response, enclosing his fingers around them.

“wait—hold still for a sec..” you mumble.

“i am holding still.”

“yeah, but more.”

“..i don’t think that’s something i can control separately.”

you huff a quiet laugh at that, and he feels it more across his palm than hears it, your breath ghosting across his knuckles as you fuss again with his hand.

some are smooth and pale, others worn down by time and tide, ridged.

they rest awkwardly in his palm, edges denting lightly into his skin, one almost slipping against another until he has to curl his fingers tighter to keep them from shifting.

more are ridged and spiralled, others slightly chipped along the edges, their colours uneven, from silky creams, dusty pinks, muted browns, leaving shallow indents where they rest.

you hand him a few more shells to clutch onto, all still differing in colour and shape and size.

they don’t quite sit right together, wedging clumsily into his skin, edges dimpling faintly against his palm as you close his fingers around them.

you adjust them, shifting his fingers slightly.

“no, no—like this.” you curl his fingers shut around them, adding just a bit more pressure. “tighter. or you’ll drop them.”

“i wasn’t,” he says, though he lets you adjust his hand however you want.

“okay.. there.” you exhale, satisfied.

you press one last shell into his hand for good measure, before you tell him to “hold onto them, please!” and sprint off again, with sand clinging stubbornly to the soles of your feet as you crouch back down in search of more.

when you come back, a little breathless, you reach for him again, fingers brushing aimlessly until they catch his fist.

“your phone—please, i need some pictures.”

he hands it over without question, although his brows tug slightly.

you crouch again, arranging a few shells in the sand with meticulous focus.

one gets turned slightly to the left. another is nudged closer. then further away. then swapped completely.

he watches in silence for a moment longer.

“…what are you doing?”

your finger taps the shutter, once, then keeps going, the sound repeating in quick bursts.

“..you already took a picture,” he points out.

“i need options.”

“you have options. i counted at least six.”

he deadpans at the shells, then back at you.

“..they looked the same in my hand.”

your mouth parts in disbelief, head whirling towards him like he’s just said something criminal.

“no they didn’t! they were all jumbled up!”

shoto gestures lightly toward the arrangement. “they’re the same shells. and i don’t see a meaningful difference.”

“sho,” you huff, lips twitching despite yourself as you glance at him. “it’s about the aesthetic.”

“what is that?” he questions, leaning the slightest bit closer.

“never mind..”

“that doesn’t answer the question.”

you snap another picture out of spite.

“i have to show my fans! duh.” you add, flashing a grin, lifting the phone slightly as proof.

“and who are they?”

your jaw slackens, lips parting with words tumbling out before they form. your boyfriend’s remarks are always deeply blunt, often without any harm. but this time you’ll going to need a minute or five.

“are you joking?” you question as you try to cling to your last specks of ego.

“i don’t joke often.”

“the point is that people will see this and go—” you gesture dramatically, “—‘wow, so pretty!’” you beam, as if you can already hear applause.

“it was also pretty in my hand.”

“yeah, but it’s not the same!”

“..is there different kinds?”

“not necessarily, sho..”

the conversation wilts with a lull, your toe tracing lazy circles in the damp sand, with a narrow rim of water creeping forward, swallowing the marks piece by piece, smoothing everything back into nothing.

the waves hum behind you, its hush steady as the breeze slips under your sleeves and lifting the few stray strands of his hair before letting them fall back against his face.

shoto lets himself whump into the sand, letting himself flop straight back with a soft thud, arms and legs slightly spread as he lands.

it gives beneath him, shifting and molding to his weight, the outline of his body pressed cleanly into the surface.

he stares blankly at the sunset, one arm settling over his eyes to dull the low sun.

you snort at his attempt to create a man-sized fossil of himself, then shift onto your side, propping your head up with your hand so you can see him better.

a few grains of sand cling stubbornly to his hair, caught right where the colors meet.

“keep still for a second..” you murmur.

“i’m not moving—”

you’re busy shaking the sand free, thumb sweeping, fingers combing, coaxing grains loose with small, careful movements.

his strands slip easily between your fingers, soft, warmer than the breeze.

“perfect!” you chirp.

“the sand’s warm.” he blurts.

“it is.” you hum softly in agreement.

the sun presses warm against your skin, the breeze cooler now that you’re still, the sound of the ocean louder when you’re not moving around in it.

thank you for reading, please like and reblog (๑>◡<๑)ྀིྀི.

© tivrkn , 2026.

back to bnha m.list…

[sincerely-star]

⋮ 𓏲ּ𝄢 ┆ a charming and ever-present hawks slowly becomes the only constant in your life, quietly pulling every string until there’s nothing left but him.

⧼ 🚨 ⧽ ∿ pairings 。 ⸝⸝ hawks x fem!reader 𓄲 genre ⨾ tropes 。 alternative universe (au: yandere pro hero), yandere themes, dark romamce, mature themes, explicit sexual scenes, pwp, dub-con 𓏲 contains 。 ᵎᵎ nsfw, 18+ only mdni, language, yandere!hawks, naive!reader, verbal abuse, toxic relationship (?), daddy issues, mommy issues (?), drunken pervs, psychological & emotional manipulation, obsession & possession, power imbalance, jealousy, stalking, threats, lies, smut, dub-con, dry humping, dirty talks, softdom!hawks, sub!reader, oral (f receiving), first time, unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasm, possession kink, missionary, pet names (baby, dove, dovey, little birdie, good girl) ꩜ ⋆.˚ word count 。 13.6k ꔛ

꒰ star speaks ꒱ ✮ another smut?! i’m sorry i’ve been too freaked out recently and hawks has been in my mind for weeks now. . . also, there is not that much yandere hawks content out there and for some reason ( in my opinion ) he is one of the characters in mha that gives off yandere vibes lowkey 👀 this is also a long one! the longest piece i’ve written in this blog so far, so enjoy! ( p.s. and yes hawks get to keep his quirk after the war because i said so and that is how it should have ended #hawksdeservestofly )

﹙m.list﹚ ﹙nav﹚

naive.

that was what they called you.

it followed you everywhere, settled into your bones before you even understood what it meant, repeated so often that it stopped sounding like an insult and started sounding like a fact.

it came from your mother’s mouth most of all, sharp and certain, like she was reminding you of something you should already know.

you were born into a household that did not want you.

it was a truth you grew up around, something that lived quietly in the walls of your home. it was obvious just by way your name was said, in the way your presence was tolerated rather than welcomed.

you learned early on not to expect too much. it made things easier.

still, when you were younger, there had been a part of you that hoped.

maybe they will, eventually.

it had been a small thought, fragile and hopeful in a way that children tend to be.

your mother made sure to correct that.

“it’s naive of you to think we would care for you,” she told you more than once, her voice cold and steady as if she was stating something obvious. “after everything you did.”

you had not understood that at first. you had not understood how you could have done anything at all. but she always said it with such certainty that you believed her.

your family had been happy once.

you knew that because they never let you forget it. they had been complete when it was just the three of them. your father, your mother, and your older sister.

your sister was everything a first daughter should be. she was smart in a way that drew praise without effort, talented in ways that people noticed immediately, and sweet enough to charm anyone she met. she was the kind of child people pointed at and admired.

your parents had loved her openly.

when your mother became pregnant again a few years later, they had been excited. your mother would tell that story often, though never kindly. she would talk about how happy they had been, how hopeful, how everything felt right.

for some reason, all three of them had wanted a boy.

your father had wanted a son, your mother had wanted to give him one, while your sister had wanted a little brother to dote on.

it had been something they agreed on completely.

your mother’s first pregnancy had been easy. she would say that with a kind of fondness that never extended to you. she had glowed, she said. she had been healthy, beautiful, admired. everything had gone smoothly.

with you, it had been different.

you grew up hearing every complaint.

your mother had been sick constantly. she had been weaker, more tired than she had ever been before. she would press a hand to her stomach when she spoke about it, her expression twisting in remembered irritation.

“you were unbearable,” she would say. “you kicked too much. you made everything harder.”

she said she had no glow that time. she said she looked awful, that her skin dulled, that her body felt like it was failing her. she said people noticed.

she said your father notice and then she would look at you as she recalled the story.

“he didn’t find me attractive anymore,” she told you once, years later, her voice cutting you sharply that it made you go still. “men don’t stay with women they don’t want.”

you remember standing there, small and quiet, trying to understand.

“i-i don’t… i thought—” you started, uncertain, your voice soft.

she didn’t let you finish.

“don’t be stupid,” she snapped. “it’s naive and stupid of you to think a man would want an ugly woman!”

the words settled somewhere deep in your chest.

naive and stupid.

they always seemed to come together when it came to you. one followed the other so naturally that you stopped separating them.

your mother stayed with your father during the pregnancy even though she knew he was cheating. she knew and she stayed, and yet somehow, you were still the one she called naive and stupid.

you never questioned it out loud, you learned not to.

the final disappointment came when you were born.

you were not the boy they had wanted.

you were another girl.

your mother would not say much about that day without bitterness. she would mention the silence in the room, the way expectations had collapsed in an instant. she would talk about how things could have been different if only things had gone the way they were supposed to.

they could have tried again. that was something she said too. but your birth had made that nearly impossible.

her body had struggled with the pregnancy. the delivery had been worse. she would tell you that she almost died bringing you into the world, her tone sharp, like it was something you should feel responsible for.

after that, she could not carry another child.

she could not give your father the son he wanted.

so he left.

it did not happen immediately, but it happened soon enough that the connection was easy to make. at least for her.

“you drove him away!” your mother told you.

it was said so simply.

you were the reason she was no longer attractive enough for him. you were the reason she could not give him more children. you were the reason he was gone.

you accepted it since you did not know what else to do.

your sister accepted it too, though in a different way. she had lost something she valued, and you had been there when it happened. you had been the cause, at least in her eyes.

she had been a daddy’s girl.

she never let you forget that either.

your life, for the most part, was okay.

you had a home, you were fed, you were clothed, even if most of what you wore had belonged to your sister first. her old clothes, her old toys, things that had already served their purpose before they reached you. she always got the new ones.

you went to school, you had an education.

you told yourself that it was enough.

there are people who have it worse.

that thought came easily. it made everything simpler to accept.

aside from the occasional harsh words, aside from the way your presence seemed to irritate more than comfort, everything was manageable.

you believed the only reason your mother kept you was because you looked like him.

you had heard it before, from others who had seen you, from passing comments that were not meant to hurt.

you were your father’s image.

you thought, for a while, that it might make your mother treat you better. she had loved him, even after everything. she had stayed and she had endured.

you thought maybe seeing him in you would soften something in her.

it didn’t.

if anything, it made things worse.

you started to understand that love and hate were closer than you thought. they sat beside each other, easily confused, easily mixed. maybe that was why she looked at you the way she did. maybe she saw him, and everything he had done, and she needed somewhere to put that anger… she needed someone to blame.

you were there… you were always there.

things only got worse when you turned five. that was the age when quirks usually began to show.

you waited for it. you thought maybe, just maybe, something would happen that would change the way they looked at you.

it didn’t.

days passed. then weeks. then months.

nothing.

your mother noticed. “of course,” she said one day, her voice filled with a cruel kind of satisfaction. “the gods are good for punishing you.”

you stood there, small and silent, not fully understanding what punishment she meant, but knowing it was something you had earned in her eyes.

your sister, who had already begun developing her own quirk a few years ago, was less subtle.

your sister had something beautiful, something admired, and something she would go on to brag about often.

she looked at you like you were a disappointment. “it’s naive of you to think someone like you would get a quirk. of course your didn’t!” she said, her tone light, almost amused.

you remember that moment clearly. you remember the certainty in her voice, you remember how it felt like the truth.

you could hear how much she despised you. their words did not feel like guesses or opinions. they felt loud and right.

that was what made them hurt.

your mother did not take you to a doctor. she did not question it your lack of quirk and she did not try to find an answer. she accepted it immediately.

you were useless.

from that point on, they stopped trying with you.

your mother rarely spoke to you unless she had to. your sister treated you like something beneath her attention. you became background, something that existed but did not matter.

you were pulled out of school not long after. your mother said it was easier that way. tutors were brought in instead.

if it had been entirely up to her, you would not have had that either. but she still saw use in you, even if it was not immediate. you needed to be educated enough to serve whatever purpose she had in mind for you later in the future.

so you stayed at home.

always at home.

your world became smaller without you fully realizing it at first. rooms you knew too well, routines that repeated endlessly, days that blended into each other without anything new to mark them.

your mother took you out occasionally, usually when she went somewhere with your sister. she did not like leaving you alone too much. she did not trust you enough for that, though you never gave her a reason not to.

and yet, you followed quietly, never complaining, never asking for more.

over time, it became clear.

the doors of your cage had closed and they had no intention of opening again.

… or so you thought.

you are older when it finally happens. you had finally graduated in high school with quiet grades and quiet applause because you very much homeschooled, so your graduation consisted of your teacher congratulating you and leaving you alone at home. then, when you found a decent job it feels less like a victory and more like a door cracking open just enough for you to slip through without anyone noticing.

that was the one and only time your cage opened.

you remember the weight of your first paycheck in your hands, the paper thin slip that somehow felt heavier than anything you had ever held before, and you remember staring at it for a long time as if it might disappear if you blinked, because this is yours, and that thought alone feels strange in your chest.

after getting your first pay check you got your own apartment.

it was small and plain and far from anything remarkable, but it was yours, and when you stepped inside for the first time with your key in your hand and no one watching you, no one telling you where to stand or how to breathe, you stood in the middle of the empty room and felt something unfamiliar settle in your chest.

you were shocked your mom even allowed you to move in the first place.

you expected resistance, expected sharp words and tighter chains, but instead she had only looked at you once and said nothing more than a dismissive hum, and later you would realize that it made sense, because she probably wanted to get rid of you for a while now.

finally you were free… until you realized you were not.

naive, you thought.

because after a few weeks after moving, after you had started to get used to the silence of your apartment and the absence of footsteps outside your door, your phone rang, and the name on the screen was one you could never ignore.

your mother called you for dinner and ordered you to be there.

there was no invitation in her tone, no softness, just expectation, and you followed orders easily as if it was written into you somewhere deep, something ingrained so thoroughly that you did not even think to refuse.

you showed up at your childhood home on time, shoes quiet against the familiar floor, and the shock was immediate when you stepped inside and saw a man sitting at the table next to your older sister.

your father.

this was the first time you had ever seen him in person.

you had grown up with pictures, with fragments of a man who existed only in frames and stories that never included you, and now he was here, real and breathing and laughing softly at something your sister said.

your mother was happy.

they were all happy.

you could see it clearly in their faces, in the way their expressions softened and their shoulders relaxed, and there was something else beneath it, something you could not quite name but could feel pressing against your thoughts like a whisper just out of reach.

then they turned to you and the mood went down.

their faces changed quick and obvious, smiles fading just enough, eyes sharpening just slightly, and you stood there at the edge of it all like something that did not belong.

your mother spoke first, her voice flat and cold as if she was reciting something unimportant.

“your sister saved your father during a patrol,” she said, not even looking at you properly, “he was laid off from his job and had nowhere to stay, and he said he misses me and your sister, so he is here to stay.”

naive, you thought. stupid.

you nodded as if that was enough, as if that explanation filled the space that had opened in your chest, and you took your seat quietly while the three of them continued talking like nothing had changed.

you pretty much dissociated through the entire dinner while they caught up.

their voices blurred together into something distant, laughter rising and falling while you picked at your food and stared at nothing, and you could see how everything looked normal between the three of them, how easy it was, how natural, and it was clear they left you out on purpose.

why did they even invite me? you thought.

after a couple of hours, you were free once more.

you stood up when it felt appropriate, said your quiet goodbyes that were barely acknowledged, and stepped out into the night with the door closing behind you like it always had.

you headed home… your home.

mine.

it was dark and cold out. it settles into your skin and lingers. the sun had long since set, leaving the sky stretched out above you in deep shades that felt too wide and too empty.

your head snapped upwards to the sky without thinking, your eyes tracing something unseen, something that tugged at your attention just for a second before it slipped away, and then you started walking again.

it was just your luck that you had to pass an alleyway in the dark to get across to your apartment.

you clutched your jacket closer to your body as you sped up your pace, footsteps quick and quiet against the ground, your eyes fixed ahead as if that alone would get you through faster.

then you heard it, a drunken slur from behind you, voice thick and careless.

“hey… pretty thing…”

your steps faltered and before you could move away, before you could even think, you were surrounded.

three men, all reeking of alcohol and something worse, closing in around you with grins that made your stomach twist.

“where you goin’ all alone, huh?” one of them laughed, stepping too close.

“don’t be shy,” another added, his voice low and mocking, “we just wanna talk.”

one was twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers, the touch making your skin crawl, while another leaned too close to your neck, breath hot and disgusting, and the third stood behind you, blocking any escape.

“soft,” the one at your hair murmured, “real soft…”

“bet she sounds real pretty too,” the one near your neck added with a laugh.

your voice came out small, shaking despite your attempt to steady it. “please… stop. just let me go… i’m just heading home.”

they only laughed.

“aw, don’t be like that,” one of them said, his hand brushing your arm, “we’re just getting started.”

you squeezed your eyes shut.

then suddenly, swoosh.

the hands on you vanished.

you opened your eyes slowly, confusion cutting through your fear, and what you saw did not make sense at first.

the three men were no longer around you.

they were across the alley, pinned to the wall opposite you, yelling and grunting as they struggled against something that held them in place.

crimson feathers. multiple of them, sharp and precise, pinning their clothes and limbs to the wall like they were nothing.

then you heard it, a charming drawl from above you, light and almost amused.

“now, now… harassing a lady,” the voice said lazily, “that’s pretty low, even for you guys.”

you gasped as you heard a rush of air, a soft but powerful whoosh before someone landed behind you.

you turned and there he was.

a man with big, beautiful red wings that spread slightly behind him, feathers catching the dim light as they shifted, and your eyes lifted to meet sharp, bird-like golden brown eyes that were already looking at you.

his blonde hair was messy in a way that looked intentional, there was also something effortless about the way he stood there, like the entire situation was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

he smiled down at you.

“hey there, little birdie,” he said, voice warm and teasing, “you okay? what are you doing wandering around a place like this? hm?”

you just stared at him, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, and it took a second before recognition hit you.

you knew him.

number three pro hero hawks.

you did not know much about heroes, not really, but your sister never stopped talking about him ever since he made his debut, and the memories came back all at once.

her voice, excited and loud. “we live in kyushu and i still haven’t him around patrolling, can you believe that? i swear if i see him one day, i might die!”

and then at one point when she graduated u.a. and became a pro.

“can you believe it?! i mean, what do you mean he doesn’t take sidekicks? i didn’t even get to speak to him, his assistant just told me he’s not accepting anyone right now!”

your sister had never taken no for an answer before. you remembered how she threw a tantrum that day.

and now here he was.

and you were the one seeing him first.

your thoughts were cut off when he spoke again, tilting his head slightly as he studied your expression.

“wow,” he hummed lightly, “did i break you, or am i just that attractive?”

your face warmed instantly. “i… um… thank you,” you said softly, your voice barely steady, “for… helping me…”

hawks chuckled at that, the sound light in your ears. “of course,” he replied, his tone softer now, “everything’s fine now. you don’t have to worry, i’ve taken care of everything. you’re safe.”

only then did you notice the police arriving behind you, moving quickly to take the three men from the wall, their voices sharp as they handled the situation, but your attention stayed on him.

his eyes did not leave you.

“so,” he said, gaze steady as he spoke, “where are you headed? i can take you there safely.”

you hesitated for a second before answering.

“i… i’m just going home,” you said, pointing slightly across the street, “that apartment building… over there.”

hawks followed your gesture, then nodded once. “got it,” he said easily, “come on, wrap your arms around my neck.”

you blinked, confused, but you did it anyway.

your arms lifted slowly, settling around his neck as instructed, and before you could question it further, he moved.

he scooped you up effortlessly, holding you close.

“good girl,” he murmured, almost under his breath.

your heart stuttered.

“don’t be scared,” he continued, his voice low and reassuring, “just look at me, you’ll be fine.”

you followed his words without thinking, your gaze lifting to meet his again, and he hummed softly, something pleased in the sound.

then suddenly, air rushed against your face.

you gasped, your grip tightening instinctively as the ground disappeared beneath you, and when you glanced behind you, you saw it.

his wings.

moving, powerful and controlled, feathers shifting with precision as he carried you through the air like it was nothing.

it was unreal.

“first time flying?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“uhm, y-yes…” you admitted quietly.

“you’re doing great,” he said, smiling slightly, “not even screaming. i’m impressed.”

you looked back at him, still holding on. “it’s… nice,” you said, your voice soft with wonder.

freeing.

hawks chuckled. “yeah,” he replied, “it has its perks.”

it did not take long before the building you pointed out came into view, and he slowed as he hovered near it.

“what floor?” he asked.

“seventeenth,” you answered.

“alright,” he said, nodding, “go ahead and head up.”

you blinked in confusion as he lowered you to the ground near the entrance, but before you could ask anything, he was already moving.

you watched as he flew upward, wings carrying him effortlessly until he reached the balcony of the seventeenth floor, landing lightly on the railing.

he looked down at you. “well?” he called out, voice carrying easily, “get your pretty little behind up here so i can make sure you get in safely.”

you nodded quickly and headed inside.

when you finally step back into your apartment building, your shoes sound too loud against the polished floor.

you make your way to the elevator, pressing the button with careful fingers, and when the doors slide open you step inside and press the number seventeen. the ride up is slow, and your reflection in the mirrored walls stares back at you with wide eyes that still have not settled from everything that just happened. your chest rises and falls unevenly, and you bring a hand up to it without thinking, as if you can steady your heart by holding it in place.

naive, you think again.

the word comes easily now, almost like a reflex.

when the elevator doors open, you step out into the quiet hallway and walk toward your apartment. the key trembles slightly between your fingers as you unlock the door, and when you finally step inside, the silence wraps around you in a way that feels both comforting and heavy.

you move quickly, your steps light as you cross the apartment and push open the sliding glass door that leads to your balcony. the cool night air greets you, brushing against your skin as you step outside.

and there he is.

hawks is perched casually on the railing as if he belongs there, as if seventeen floors above the ground is nothing more than a comfortable seat. his wings shift slightly behind him, the crimson feathers catching the faint glow of the city lights, and his sharp golden-brown eyes are already on you.

watching.

they move over you slowly, taking you in from head to toe in a way that makes your breath hitch before you even realize it.

you step closer, stopping just in front of him, and your hands come together in front of you as you look up at him.

“thank you. you really didn’t have to wait for me here,” you say softly, your voice gentle as you meet his gaze.

he lets out a quiet chuckle as he tilts his head slightly. “hey, no need to thank me to much,” he replies, his tone light and smooth. “it’s kind of my job, you know.”

you nod quickly, as if that makes sense, even though it still feels like more than that.

“i still want to,” you murmur, your fingers tightening together. “you saved me back there and here you are making sure i get home safe. i don’t think all heroes would do that… take me home, i mean.”

his eyes soften just a fraction, and then that familiar teasing smile returns to his lips as he leans forward slightly. “careful, little birdie,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make your chest tighten. “if you keep looking at me like that, i might start thinking you like me or something.”

you blink at him, tilting your head slightly in confusion. “like… you?” you repeat, your voice uncertain.

hawks pauses for a second, then lets out a quiet laugh, clearly amused. “yeah,” he says, waving a hand lightly as if brushing it off. “don’t worry your pretty little head about it. i’m just messing with you.”

you nod again, accepting that answer easily.

“i’m just glad you’re okay and nothing bad happened to you back there,” he continues, his tone softer now as his gaze lingers on your face. “you shouldn’t be walking through places like that alone, especially this late.”

“i didn’t mean to,” you reply quietly. “it was just the fastest way home.”

he hums at that, his wings shifting slightly behind him. “still,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “try to avoid dark alleyways from now on, alright?”

“i will,” you say immediately, nodding.

you eyes drift again, almost without thinking, drawn back to his wings. up close, they look even more unreal than you imagined. the feathers catch the light in a way that makes them seem almost too perfect, and you find yourself staring.

hawks notices.

of course he does.

a small hum leaves him, and his smile turns just a little more knowing. “you wanna touch them?” he asks casually, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

your head snaps back up to look at him, your eyes widening slightly. “i can?” you ask, your voice soft but hopeful despite the hesitation.

he chuckles again, clearly entertained by your reaction. “go ahead,” he says, shifting slightly to give you better access. “they won’t bite… i don’t either.”

you step closer, moving between his legs as he remains perched on the railing. his eyes never leave you, watching every small movement you make as if he finds it all interesting.

you hesitate for a moment, your hands hovering just inches away from the feathers as you glance up at him again, almost like you reading his mind and asking for permission one more time.

hawks nods, his voice dropping to something softer, coaxing. “it’s okay,” he murmurs. “you can touch.”

slowly, carefully, your fingers make contact with the red feathers.

the softness surprises you immediately. your breath catches as your fingers sink slightly into the feathers, and you gently run your hand along them, your movements light and curious.

“they’re really soft,” you say quietly, your voice filled with genuine wonder. “and… really beautiful.”

a low sound escapes him, almost like a purr, and you feel the subtle shift of his wings beneath your touch as he shivers slightly.

“yeah?” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “you think so?”

your nod, still focused on the feathers. “they’re the prettiest wings i’ve ever seen,” you add, your tone completely sincere.

hawks lets out a soft laugh, clearly pleased. “careful,” he says lightly. “keep talking like that and i might keep you for myself.”

you glance up at him again, confusion flickering across your face. “keep me?” you repeat.

he meets your gaze, his eyes sharp with amusement before he shakes his head slightly. “you’re something else,” he mutters under his breath, though there is no real insult behind it.

you tilt your head again, unsure what he means.

he watches you for a moment longer before letting out a quiet sigh, though his smile never fades. “i’d stay longer,” he says, his tone shifting slightly as he straightens up. “but I’ve still got work to do.”

you pull your hands back slowly, your fingers lingering in the air for a moment before dropping to your sides.

“oh,” you say softly. “okay.”

there is a small pause, and then you look up at him again.

“will i… see you again?” you ask, your voice hesitant.

hawks’ sharp eyes narrow slightly in a teasing way, and he leans forward just a bit. “oh? what’s this?” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “already getting attached to me?”

your eyes widen immediately, and you shake your head quickly. “no, i just…” you start, your words stumbling over each other. “i mean, i’m just thankful, and… i don’t really talk to people much, so…”

your voice trails off, and you look down slightly.

he watches you closely, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before it softens.

he stands, stepping closer to you, and the space between you disappears easily. “do you want me to visit you again? is that it?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost gentle as he reaches up and tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

you nod without hesitation. “yes, please,” you say softly.

his smile widens just a little. “so polite,” he replies. “alright. anything you want.”

your chest tightens at those words, something warm blooming inside you in a way you do not fully understand. your fingers curl slightly at your sides as you look at him, that feeling settling deep in your chest.

anything you want.

you have never heard that before.

he notices the way your expression shifts, the way you hold onto those words, and something in his gaze sharpens just slightly.

then, without warning, one of his feathers loosens from his wing. it drifts down slowly, swaying gently in the air before landing in your open palm.

you stare at it, your brows furrowing slightly in confusion as you look back up at him.

“that’s for you,” he says, his tone soft but deliberate. “a promise.”

“a promise?” you repeat quietly.

hawks nods. “that i’ll come back,” he explains, his eyes locking onto yours. “so you better keep it safe for me, alright? keep it with you at all times. can you do that for me?”

you nod immediately. “i will,” you say, your voice certain. “i promise.”

he watches you for a moment longer before continuing, his tone still light but carrying something underneath it. “i might not be able to visit as often as i want,” he says. “being a hero keeps me busy. gotta chase bad guys and all that.”

you nod again, listening carefully.

“but i’m working on making a world where heroes got more time on their hands,” he adds, a small smile forming. “maybe then i can come see you whenever you want.”

you look down at the feather in your hand, your fingers gently closing around it. “okay,” you say softly. “i understand. thank you.”

“just stay safe,” he tells you, his voice firm again. “and be careful, alright?”

“i will,” you reply. “you be safe too.”

that earns you another quiet chuckle.

“you’re the sweetest little thing i’ve ever met,” he says, his tone warm. “don’t worry about me. i’ll be just fine.”

hawks steps back slightly, his wings shifting as he prepares to leave. “see you around, little birdie,” he adds, his voice dipping back into that teasing tone of his.

“goodbye,” you say, lifting your hand slightly in a small wave.

he winks at you, and then he drops from the balcony, and for a brief second your heart jumps into your throat before you rush forward, gripping the railing as you look down.

you catch sight of him immediately.

his wings spread wide, catching the air as he rises effortlessly into the night sky.

you watch him go, your eyes following his figure as it grows smaller and smaller against the darkness.

your hand tightens around the feather, pressing it gently against your chest as your other hand comes up to stroke along its soft surface without thinking. you do not notice the way your movements are slow and absentminded, your fingers tracing the feather over and over again.

high above, too far for you to see clearly, hawks slows and his wings falter for just a moment. a sharp breath leaves him, and a smirk pulls at his lips as a shiver runs through his entire body at the sensation of your touch.

his eyes half-lid, his expression darkening with quiet satisfaction. “sweet dove,” he murmurs under his breath.

and then he keeps flying.

hawks became a permanent part of your life from then on out… keigo, you mean.

he told you to call him by his real name.

about a week later after your initial first meeting, just like he said, he came back.

you had been sitting on your couch, the quiet of your apartment wrapping around you like it always did, when a soft knock came from your balcony door, and when you turned, he was already there, crouched casually on the railing like he belonged there.

your face lit up before you could stop it. “hawks!”

“miss me?” he asked, grinning.

“…you came back,” you said, your voice soft with something close to relief.

he stepped inside like it was natural, like your space had already become his. “promise you i would, didn’t i?” he replied easily. then he tilted his head slightly, studying you. “and hey,” he added after a moment, his tone shifting just enough to catch your attention, “drop the hawksthing, yeah?”

you blinked. “…what? is that not you name?”

he smiled, something a little more deliberate now. “call me keigo,” he said, his voice low, almost coaxing, “not a lot of people get to do that.”

you hesitated. “is that… okay?” you asked quietly.

his gaze softened and it made your chest feel warm.

“you’re special, birdie,” he said simply, like it was obvious, “so yeah, it’s more than okay.”

special.

the word settled into you too easily.

“…keigo,” you repeated softly, testing it.

his wings shifted behind him, feathers rustling faintly.

“there you go,” he murmured, pleased.

from that moment on, he stopped being just a hero who saved you in an alley, he became your saving grace.

keigo visited often, as often as his schedule allowed, sometimes dropping by late at night with tired eyes and messy hair, sometimes in the middle of the day with that same easy smile, always finding his way back to your balcony like it was second nature. and every time he came, he brought something with him.

he’d bring you food you had never tried before, neatly packed and still warm.

“you don’t eat enough,” he would say, setting it down in front of you, “gotta take care of you, alright?”

you would look at it, then at him. “…you didn’t have to,” you would reply softly.

he would shrug like it was nothing. “wanted to feed you,” he’d say, then glance at you with a small smile, “just eat for me, okay?”

and you always did.

he spoiled you in ways you did not even recognize at first.

new clothes appearing in your closet after you mentioned once that you did not have much.

“saw these and thought of you,” he would say casually, leaning against your wall as you held the fabric in your hands.

“…they look expensive, keigo,” you would murmur.

he would huff a quiet laugh. “don’t worry about that,” he’d reply, his eyes on you, “just wanna see you wear them.”

“…for you?” you would ask, genuinely confused.

his smile would tilt slightly. “yeah,” he’d say softly, “for me.”

you would nod like that made perfect sense.

keigo took care of you in ways that felt natural, slipping into your routine without asking.

he would fix things around your apartment without you noticing until it was done.

“your window was loose,” he’d say, brushing it off, “didn’t like that, so i fixed it for you.”

you would blink. “…i didn’t even notice.”

“i did,” he’d reply simply.

of course he did.

there were moments where his protectiveness showed more clearly.

it was subtle at first.

he would ask about your job, about your coworkers, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

“anyone bothering you there?” he’d ask, leaning back as if it did not matter.

“no, not really,” you would answer honestly.

he would watch you for a second longer than necessary. “good,” he’d say quietly.

then sometimes it would less subtle.

one evening, when you mentioned a coworker who walked you home once, his expression shifted just slightly.

“he what?” keigo asked, his voice still calm but lower now.

“…he just walked me home,” you said, unsure why it mattered, “it was late…”

keigo’s sharp golden brown eyes stayed on you. “you don’t need that,” he said, a little firmer, “i’ll take you.”

“but you’re busy and i don’t want to bother you,” you replied.

he stepped closer. “i’ll make time for you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, “don’t trust just anyone, okay? don’t want you getting in trouble again.”

you nodded, his explanation making your heart flutter. “okay. i’m sorry, kei. i promise not to trust anyone that easily again.”

no one in your entire existence in this world has been worried for you than keigo. no one took care of you like he did. he had your best interest at heart. he always did.

keigo also praised you often, his words soft and warm, wrapping around you in a way that felt unfamiliar but comforting.

“you’re so good for me,” he would murmur when you listened to him without question.

your cheeks would warm. “really? i am?” you would ask.

he would smile. “yeah,” he’d say, his voice gentle, “exactly how i like you.”

you never questioned what that meant.

there were moments where something in him slipped.

small at first.

his eyes lingering too long. his smile stretching just a little too wide when you said something that aligned with what he wanted.

then moments that were harder to ignore.

one night, you heard the key jiggled in the lock, followed by a heavy, weary sigh you’d learned to recognize from down the hall. you were already at the door of your small apartment, a smile on your face, before keigo even pushed it open.

he leaned against the frame, his usually pristine hero costume rumpled, a smudge of soot on his cheek, his wings drooping slightly, a dramatic show of exhaustion he only ever displayed for you. his golden brown eyes, however, were sharp and warm as they landed on you.

“long day?” you asked softly, your heart doing its familiar, happy flip at the sight of him.

“the longest, dove,” he groaned, pushing off the frame and stepping inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. he stretched his arms over his head with a wince, his wings flexing. “chased a speed-type villain across three prefectures. my feathers are screaming. my everything is screaming.”

you clicked your tongue sympathetically, already moving to the kitchen. “i made tea. and there’s that salve for your wing joints you like.”

you’d spent half your allowance on it, wanting to have it ready for him.

before you could take two steps, his arms were around you from behind. he buried his face in the crook of your neck with a contented hum.

“you’re too good to me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “taking such good care of me. no one’s ever looked after me like this.”

your cheeks flushed with pleasure. no one had ever said things like that to you before keigo.

your family had made it clear you were a burden, an afterthought.

but hawks… keigo saw you.

he praised you. he brought you gifts, took you to nice places, told you how special you were, told you how good you were. he’d saved you from that alleyway a few months ago now, and ever since, he’d woven himself into the fabric of your life, becoming your entire world.

“it’s nothing,” you whispered, leaning back into his solid warmth.

“it’s everything to me,” he corrected, his voice soft but firm. then, in one smooth motion, he turned you in his arms and lifted you.

you let out a small squeak of surprise, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck. he carried you effortlessly into the living area, not towards the couch, but just holding you, swaying slightly.

keigo’s hands began to roam, caressing your back through your thin sweater, sliding down to squeeze your thighs where they hugged him.

it was more intimate than usual, but everything with keigo felt intense.

he nuzzled your cheek, then placed a soft kiss there. then another on your jaw. then his lips found the sensitive spot below your ear, and instead of a kiss, you felt the gentle scrape of his teeth, followed by the warm, wet suction of his mouth.

a jolt, strange and electric, shot down your spine. “k-keigo?” you stammered, confusion lacing your voice.

“hmm?” he hummed against your skin, not stopping. his kisses trailed down your neck, each one punctuated by a soft bite or a lingering suck.

a heat was pooling low in your belly, unfamiliar and confusing.

“s-should we— is… is this okay?” you asked, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his hero suit at his shoulders.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his sharp eyes glowing with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “of course it’s okay, dove,” he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. “friends do this. close friends who care about each other. don’t yours?”

the question, asked so innocently, felt like a punch to the gut.

you looked down, shame heating your face. “y-you know that i… i don’t have any other friends,” you admitted in a small voice.

keigo’s expression softened into something heartbreakingly sympathetic. he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “that’s okay,” he whispered, his voice a velvet-coated promise. “you don’t need anyone else. you have me. i’ll always be here for you. i’ll take care of you.”

the words sank into you, warm in your chest.

of course, he was teaching you. showing you how friends acted. how could you doubt him?

reassured, you relaxed in his hold and he took that as permission to continue.

keigo carried you towards your bedroom, your legs still locked around him. he didn’t put you down on the bed. instead, he sat on the edge, keeping you straddling his lap.

you could feel the hard planes body through his hero suit against your core, a persistent and strange pressure.

“tell me about your day, birdie. what did you do today?” he prompted, his hands sliding under your sweater to splay against the bare skin of your back.

“o-oh, it was fine,” you said, trying to focus as he began to kiss along your collarbone, his lips leaving faint, stinging marks. “i finished that book you gave me. the one about the stars.”

“yeah? did you like it?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled against your skin. his hips shifted subtly beneath you, creating a slow, grinding friction that made you gasp.

“y-yes,” you breathed, the word ending in a sigh as he found a particularly sensitive spot on your neck and sucked hard.

the pressure between your legs was building, a weird, tight, tingly feeling. “it was… beautiful. k-kei… i feel… weird.”

“how do you feel, little bird?” he coaxed, one hand leaving your back to cradle your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. his other arm held you firmly against him, controlling the slow, rocking motion of your bodies.

“tingly and hot,” you confessed, squirming slightly in his lap, which only intensified the maddening friction.

a dark, pleased smile touched his lips. “that’s a good thing,” he assured you, his voice a low purr right by your ear. “it means you feel safe with me. it means your body trusts me. just relax for me and let me take care of you. friends help each other feel good, don’t they?”

you nodded, dazed by the sensation and his hypnotic voice. “they do?”

“of course they do,” he said, his rhythm becoming more deliberate now. the hard length of him, confined by his pants, rubbed insistently against the seam of your own, stoking the confusing fire inside you. “you make me feel so good, taking care of me. let me make you feel good too. just do what feels natural. move with me.”

you obeyed without question, trusting him completely. you let your head fall back as he kissed and bit his way across your throat, leaving a trail of blooming marks. you tentatively rocked your hips against his, following his lead.

“that’s it,” he praised, his breath coming faster. “you’re so perfect. so good for me. my sweet, perfect little bird.”

keigo's words fed the strange, coiling tension in your core. the tingles became sparks, the heat a low burn. you whined, a high, confused sound. “kei… it’s… i don’t understand…”

“shhh,” he soothed, capturing your lips in a deep, claiming kiss that stole the rest of your words. his tongue swept into your mouth, and you moaned into him, the sensation overwhelming. “don’t think too much, just feel. let go for me, dove.”

the combination of his commanding praise, the relentless friction, and the dizzying intimacy was too much. the coil snapped and a wave of pure, shocking pleasure crashed through you, stealing your breath and your vision. you cried out against his mouth, your body seizing, trembling violently in his arms as unfamiliar convulsions of ecstasy rippled through you.

he held you through it, his own movements slowing to gentle rocks, coaxing you through every last pulse. he kissed your temple, your closed eyelids, whispering praises. “good girl, so perfect. see? i told you it was okay. you did so well for me.”

as the aftershocks subsided, you lay boneless against him, utterly spent and extremely confused. you felt spent, wrung out, and yet… wonderful.

keigo had made you feel good. he was right.

you felt him shift beneath you, a low, groan escaping him. you blinked open heavy-lidded eyes. “are… are you okay?” you asked softly, concerned. “did i… help you feel better too?”

his smile was bright and full of fond warmth. he brushed your sweaty hair from your forehead. “more than you know, sweetheart,” he said, his voice thick with something you couldn’t name. “you help me more than anyone ever has.” he said.

yet after all of that, you still feel the tingly feeling, and a flush crept up your neck at the feeling. you shifted slightly on his lap, and the ghost of that feeling sparked again, making you gasp softly.

keigo's eyes sharpened, missing nothing. his hand, which had been stroking your arm, stilled. “what is it?” he asked, his tone gentle but probing.

“i-it's nothing,” you sighed as you hid your face in the crook of his neck.

he tutted before he gently pulled your head from it's hiding space in his neck. “look at me when i speak to you, dove. you can tell me anything, you know that. no secrets between us, remember?”

you bit your lip, looking away from him.

it felt silly, childish what you are feeling.

he’d said it was normal, that friends did that and took care of each other. but it didn’t feel like just friendship. It felt… huge, like it's a bigger deal. and it hadn’t really gone away.

“i… i still feel… funny, kei,” you admitted in a small voice, unable to meet his gaze. “hot and tingly. down here.” you gestured vaguely toward your lower stomach.

instead of laughing or dismissing you, keigo's expression softened into one of profound understanding. he cupped your cheek, turning your face back to his. “oh, my poor dovey,” he said, his thumb stroking your skin. “that’s okay. that just means your body liked it. it means you trust me. and like i said, best friends help each other with everything. even things that feel confusing. do you want me to help you with it? hm?”

the offer was wrapped in such tenderness, such unwavering support and understanding that it didn't help your case as you squirmed even more on his lap.

this was hawks. your keigo. your hero. your savior. the only person who had ever looked at you and seen something worth cherishing. how could you doubt his help?

you nodded, a hesitant, tiny movement. “yes, please.”

his smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. “such a sweet girl” he praised, and the words sent a fresh shiver through you. “just relax, okay? let me take care of you. you don’t have to do anything. you’re so good for me just by being here.”

he scooped you up and properly sat you on his lap so you were nestled in the circle of his arms. he began with soft kisses pressed against your forehead, your temples, the bridge of your nose. each one was a promise. his hands roamed over your sweater, not demanding, but re-mapping the territory he’d already claimed earlier.

“can I take this off?” he asked against your lips, his fingers toying with the hem of your sweater. “i want to see you... all of you. is that okay? can you that for me?”

you nodded again, wordless. the trust was a physical thing, a lump in your throat.

keigo lifted the soft fabric over your head, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of your bare chest and you instinctively crossed your arms, a lifetime of being told you were nothing special growing up.

“none of that,” he chided softly, gently prying your arms away. “you’re breathtaking. perfect.” He leaned down and took one peaked bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it.

you cried out, arching into the shocking, wet heat. the tingles intensified, focusing into a sharp point of desperate need.

he focused his attention on your breasts, kissing, sucking, nipping gently until you were writhing and whining, your fingers tangled in his hair. “kei… please…”

“please what, little bird?” he murmured, switching to the other breast, his hand cupping and kneading the damp flesh he’d just abandoned. “tell me what you need. i’ll give you everything.”

“i don’t… i don’t know,” you sobbed, overwhelmed by the sensations. “ngh... it’s too much…”

“it’s not enough,” he corrected, his voice a low thrum of desire. he kissed his way down your trembling stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your sleep shorts and panties. “not nearly enough. let me show you, dove.”

without asking, he stripped the last of your clothing away, leaving you completely bare and exposed on the bed.

you expected to feel shame. instead, under his worshipful gaze, you felt… precious, cared for, and admired.

keigo shed his own clothes with efficient grace, and then he was there, gloriously naked, kneeling between your spread legs. he was beautiful, all lean muscle, golden skin, beautiful bright red wings behind him, and the sight of his arousal, thick and heavy, made that needy heat between your legs clench with something deeper than confusion.

he didn’t move to enter you, instead, he lowered his head.

his mouth on your core was an earth-shattering feeling. where the feeling you had earlier when he was rocking you on his lap had been friction and confusing pressure, this was heavenly... mothing like you've ever felt before.

his tongue was a wicked, clever thing, licking broad, slow stripes through your folds before zeroing in on the bundle of nerves that was the source of all the aching tension.

you screamed, your hands flying back to grip the sheets. “oh! ngh— wh-what are you— fuck?!”

keigo pulled back, his chin glistening accompanied by the grin on his face. “i'm helping you, baby,” he said simply, his eyes burning into yours. “this is how close friends make each other feel really good. do you want me to stop?”

stop?

the thought was incomprehensible.

“n-no! please don't stop,” you shook your head wildly, your hips lifting off the bed in a silent plea.

he gave you a smile that was both tender and predatory, and dove back in. this time, he was relentless. he licked and sucked at your clit, then speared his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in a shallow, maddening rhythm.

“shit... ngh! keigo. feels s-so good!” you raked your fingers through his messy blonde hair, your hips grinding up his face on its own making you throw your head back in bliss.

he then started using his fingers too. one, then two, curling them upwards inside you, searching until he found a spot that made you see stars.

“kei! yes, right there!”

“i’ve got you,” he groaned against your flesh, the vibration pushing you higher. “come on, little bird, let go for me. cum on my tongue. show me how good i make you feel.”

his words, the filthy, wet sounds, the impossible skill of his mouth—it shattered you.

your second orgasm with him was infinitely more powerful than the first. it ripped through you like a typhoon, a tidal wave of pure, screaming pleasure that left you convulsing, your voice raw from crying out his name.

you were sobbing with the intensity of it when he finally moved up your body, covering you with his own. he was heavy, anchoring you back to earth. he kissed the tears from your cheeks. “so beautiful, so good for me,” he whispered, over and over. “my perfect girl. all mine.”

you were still pulsing with aftershocks when you felt the blunt, hot head of his cock nudge against your soaked entrance.

a flicker of fear, of sheer size, cut through the haze.

he saw it. he always saw everything. “look at me, dovey,” he commanded softly.

you dragged your eyes open to meet his.

“this is the last part... the best part even,” he explained, his voice a hypnotic murmur. “the closest two friends can be. i’ll be inside you. we’ll be one. and i will take care of you forever. you’ll never be alone, never be unloved, never be unwanted again. you want that, right? you just have to trust me. do you trust me, baby?”

“i do trust you, kei.” you said, fiddling with your fingers.

“i know it's hard for you to trust people after what those terrible did to you. i know, baby. but, it's me. i will never hurt you the way they did. i will never leave you like your father. i will never criticize you like your mother did, and i will never make you feel lesser like you sister did.” keigo hummed as kissed all over your face, his praise making you shiver in pleasure as you closed your eyes. “i'll take such good care of my pretty little bird, i always do.”

he words were like honey, woven into promises that spoke directly to the hollow places in your soul—the daddy who left you, the mother who ignored you, and the sister who despised you. the family that made you feel like a ghost in your own home.

keigo offered belonging and wholeness. he was the only one. he was the only one who saved you, the only one who made you laugh and smile, the only one who comforted and reassured you when you were sad, the only one who gave you anything and everything you wanted. he was the only one who took care of you. keigo takami was the only person you trusted.

“yes,” you breathed, the word a vow. “i trust you. only you, keigo. please take me, make me feel good again.”

“such a good girl. i'll give you everything you want,” he praised, kissing you deeply.

as his tongue swept into your mouth, he pressed forward, slowly entering you. there was a sharp sting, a burn of intrusion, and you whimpered into the kiss.

keigo broke it, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged puffs. “shhh, i know, i know,” he soothed, not moving, letting your body adjust to the incredible, stretching fullness. “it’s okay, just a little strech. just breathe with me. you’re taking me so well. so perfect for me, biride.”

soon the pain slowly subsided, replaced by that overwhelming sense of fullness, of being claimed. he began to move, slow, shallow thrusts that made you gasp.

“keigo!”

“you feel…” he choked out, his composure cracking for the first time. “god, you feel like heaven. tight and hot and mine. all mine.”

he built the pace with agonizing patience, each stroke going deeper than the last. the initial discomfort melted away, replaced by a building friction that sparked the embers of pleasure back into flame.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting more. “oh god, yes!” you cried out, your nails digging into keigo's back. “harder... ngh! please, kei! harder!”

keigo chuckled as he happily obliged, thrusting up into you with force.

“that’s it,” he encouraged, his thrusts getting harder each time. “hold onto me. you’re mine now. every part of you. your smiles are mine. your tears are mine. this perfect, tight pussy is mine. say it for me, dovey.”

“fuck... y-yours!” you cried out, the possession in his words fueling your own need. “all yours, keigo!”

the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with your moans and his grunts. you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer as your tongues tangled together, fighting for dominance as you lost yourself in the pleasure.

“fuck. you feel so fucking good f’me, dove,” keigo's hands roamed your body, squeezing your thighs and leaving bruises in their wake.

you moaned into keigo's mouth, the praise only spurring you on. you threw your head against your pillow, your back arching as you fuck up into him harder.

“fuck, your pussy is so tight,” keigo groaned, his fingers digging into your hips. “i can feel you squeezing me. you gonna cum on my cock again, huh, baby?”

“mhm— f-fuck, yes,” you nodded breathlessly, your body trembling with need.

he groaned, a sound of pure triumph, and captured your lips again. his rhythm became relentless, powerful, the bedframe knocking a steady beat against the wall. the sounds were obscene—skin slapping, your combined moans, his guttural praises.

“you don’t need anyone else anymore,” he panted into your ear, his wings flaring out around you both like a crimson cage. “not your family. not anyone. just me. i’ll spoil you, love you, fuck you… take care of you forever. you’re my little bird. my everything.”

his words intertwined with the sensations, weaving a cage of bliss and dependency around your heart.

you were so close again, the coil winding impossibly tight. “i’m… keigo, i feel… i’m gonna…”

“come for me,” he ordered, his voice raw with his own impending release. “come on my cock and let me feel you. show me you’re mine.”

it was the final permission you needed.

your third orgasm exploded through you, a cataclysm that locked your body around his, milking him violently. with a shout of your name that was both prayer and victory cry, he followed you over, his own release flooding into you, hot and claiming.

keigo collapsed atop you, shuddering, and for a few minutes, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the distant city hum. slowly, he rolled, taking you with him so you lay on his chest, still intimately joined. his wings were folded around you snugly as his hand traced idle patterns on your back.

you felt… different.

changed.

claimed in a way that went deeper than skin.

keigo kissed the top of your head. “see?” he whispered, his voice saturated with a love that felt terrifying in its intensity. “you're mine now, dovey. always and forever. no one will hurt you anymore now that you're mine. no one will make you cry anymore. no one will take you from me, okay? because i want you to be taken care off and only i can do that. you understand?”

“don't want you to ever leave me, kei. i want only you.” you said as nuzzled into him, the last of your resistance melting away in the afterglow of pleasure and profound belonging.

he was right after all.

you had him and you didn’t need anyone else.

and he would never, ever let you go.

everything was loud in your head.

it had always been loud, but when you look back, you realize it truly began when you were five, when the world around you stopped being just what you could see and became something you could hear without anyone opening their mouths, something that pressed into your skull from all directions until you thought your head might split from the noise.

at first, it was confusing, overwhelming in a way that a child could not name, because the voices did not come with faces, and they did not wait for permission, they simply existed, overlapping and crowding, spilling into you whether you wanted them or not.

she’s useless…

why does she even exist…

if only she wasn’t born…

those were the first ones you recognized, not because you understood what they meant, but because you knew the rhythm of them, the familiarity of your mother’s tone even when her lips were not moving, the sharpness of your sister’s voice even when she was not in the room.

you remember standing in the hallway, small hands gripping the edge of the wall as your ears rang, your eyes darting around as if you could find where it was coming from, as if there was someone whispering behind you, in front of you, somewhere you could point to and say stop.

but there was no one.

only your mother in the kitchen, humming softly.

only your sister in the living room, flipping through a book.

and yet—

she’s so pathetic.

quirkless… how embarrassing.

you did not understand it then, not fully, but you understood enough to know that it was not supposed to happen, that voices were not supposed to exist without sound, that thoughts were not supposed to reach you like that, pressing against you from inside your own head.

that night, you buried yourself under your blanket, your hands pressed tightly over your ears as if that would help, as if blocking out the world physically would silence what was already inside you, your small body trembling as you squeezed your eyes shut.

it did not stop.

it never stopped.

the voices slipped through everything, through walls, through distance, through the thin barrier of your own understanding.

did he burn the rice again?

that girl looks familiar…

we should move soon. maybe somewhere tropical!

neighbors, strangers, passing thoughts that had nothing to do with you, all of them spilling in, all of them layering over each other until it became a constant hum that you could not escape.

so you learned.

you learned slowly, quietly, because you had no choice, because no one was going to explain it to you, because you understood very early that telling anyone would only make things worse.

you learned how to push it back, how to let it fade into the background, how to focus on one voice at a time or none at all, how to exist with it instead of against it.

you learned control.

and as you grew older, the noise became manageable, not gone, never gone, but something you could live with, something you could pretend was normal.

by the time you moved out of that house, by the time you finally stepped into a space that belonged to you, the first thing that crossed your mind was finding someone who could tell you what you were, what this was, whether it had a name.

a quirk doctor.

the thought lingered for days, sitting quietly at the back of your mind as you went through the motions of your new life, as you arranged your small apartment, as you adjusted to the silence that came with distance from your mother and your sister.

but you never went.

because the moment you imagined sitting in front of someone, explaining what you could do, you also imagined the way people would look at you, the way they would question you, the way your life would no longer be yours…. especially if your mother found out.

people were better off believing you were quirkless.

it was easier that way.

safer.

so you kept quiet, you always did.

and then that night happened.

the night your mother called you back, the night you saw your father for the first time, the night everything shifted in a way you could not ignore.

it was dark and cold out. the kind of cold that settles into your skin and stays there, that makes your breath visible in the air as you walk, that makes the world feel quieter than it actually is.

the sky stretched above you, wide and empty, painted in deep shades that felt endless, like something you could get lost in if you stared too long.

and for a moment, you did.

because that was when you heard it.

pretty… what a precious little birdie…

your head snapped up before you could stop yourself, your eyes searching the sky as if you could find the source, as if there was something there, someone there, watching.

but there was nothing. only the vast dark above you.

the feeling lingered though, a pull you could not explain, something that brushed against your awareness before slipping away just as quickly, leaving you standing there for a second longer than necessary before you forced yourself to keep walking.

you did not think much of it then.

not until later. not until the alley. not until him. not until keigo.

because when he saved you, when those crimson feathers pinned those men against the wall, when you turned and saw him standing there with those wings spread behind him, you already knew who he was.

your sister had made sure of that. you had heard enough of her thoughts, enough of her endless admiration, enough of her obsession to recognize him instantly.

and you could not blame her.

because standing there, face to face with him, you understood.

he looked unreal, like something carefully crafted, every detail placed with intention, from the sharp line of his gaze to the effortless curve of his smile, from the way his wings moved behind him to the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing in front of him.

and then there were his thoughts.

she’s even prettier up close…

soft… easy… mine, if i play this right…

heat rushed to your face before you could stop it, your heart stuttering in your chest as you stared at him, because his words were gentle, his tone light and teasing, but what you heard underneath it all was something else entirely.

something deeper and something darker.

and as you got closer to him, as he became a part of your life, as keigo slipped into your days and your nights so easily that it felt natural, you started to understand just how different those two sides of him were.

because what he said and what he thought never quite matched.

“you’re safe with me, little bird,” he would murmur, his voice soft, reassuring, his smile warm as he brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

no one gets close to you unless i allow it…

“you don’t have to worry about anything when i’m around,” he would add, his wings shifting slightly as if to shield you.

i’ll make sure of that. i’ll make sure you never leave me…

when someone stood too close to you, when a stranger’s attention lingered for even a second too long, his thoughts sharpened in a way his expression never did.

look at him… disgusting…

one move and i’ll break his arm.

she’s mine.

it was not the kind of thoughts a hero should have. it was not the kind of thoughts someone like him should even entertain. and yet, they were there, constant and clear, slipping into your mind every time he looked at you, every time he touched you, every time he smiled.

you understood him in a way no one else did.

you saw the cracks beneath the surface, the control he craved, the way he viewed the world in terms of what he could hold and what he could keep, the way he looked at you as something delicate, something worth protecting, something worth possessing.

and you did not fight it, you did not pull away. instead, you leaned into it. because playing the part came naturally to you.

being soft, being quiet, being someone who needed him, someone who depended on him, someone who looked at him with wide eyes and trust that never wavered.

it was easy.

it was what you had been doing your entire life and this time, it gave you something in return.

you liked the way keigo took care of you. you liked the way he watched over you. you liked the way his attention never left you, the way his presence filled every empty space you had grown used to.

it filled something inside you, something that had been empty for so long that you had stopped noticing it.

a quiet hunger.

a need to be chosen, to be wanted, to be kept. and keigo gave you that. completely.

she listens so well, such a good girl for me.

perfect.

you wanted him to succeed. you wanted him to rise to the top and spoil you even more.

you let him believe it was his doing. that he was the one guiding things, shaping things, pulling you closer without resistance.

so when you spoke about your family, when you mentioned things in passing, when you let certain details slip in a way that sounded careless, harmless, almost meaningless, you knew exactly what you were doing.

“i think the only reason my family ask me to come over every other week is so that they can brag about how happy they are together,” you had said one evening, your voice soft as you traced the rim of your cup, your gaze unfocused as if you were not paying much attention. “last week my mom wont stop bragging about busy my sister sister is. she talks about her work a lot… something about a group she agrees with… liberation front or whatever. she says they’re misunderstood and that people should sympathize with them more.”

keigo had stilled for a fraction of a second.

yet you heard it.

paranormal liberation front…?

you tilted your head slightly, as if trying to recall the time you read your sisters mind. “i don’t really understand it,” you added with a small, uncertain smile. “but she gets so passionate about it… my parents too, sometimes. they sound the same when they talk about it. they always leave me out of it though, said i was ‘too stupid to understand.’”

you did not need to say more. you did not need to spell it out.

keigo understood. of course he did.

it was not a coincidence.

none of it was.

and when the raid happened, when your family was taken, when everything collapsed around them in a way that seemed sudden to everyone else, you knew.

you had always known because you had heard it first.

we need to be careful.

the commission and those heroes are watching!

it will be worth it…

it had never been a secret to you, just something you chose to keep.

and later after the war, standing in that visiting room, the cold barrier of glass separating you from them, keigo’s arm wrapped securely around your waist, you listened again.

look at her… dressed like that.

fucking disgusting…

she thinks she’s better than us now!

your mother’s thoughts dripped with disdain, your father’s with anger, your sister’s with something sharper, something that twisted when her gaze landed on the ring on your finger.

that should be me! why her?!

you lowered your head slightly, your shoulders trembling as you let out a soft, broken sound, your voice shaking as you spoke.

“why would you do that?” you asked, your words fragile, cracking at the edges as tears filled your eyes. “why would you join a group that would hurt innocent people?”

your mother’s lips curled as she leaned forward. “don’t act like you care, brat!” she snapped, her voice cold. “you’ve always been fake.”

your sister scoffed, her eyes narrowing. “of course she is,” she added bitterly. “she’s always been pathetic… look at her now, acting like she’s some kind of saint. stop with the fucking act!”

you flinched, your breath hitching as you shook your head, your fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your dress. “i just… i didn’t think you would go this far,” you whispered, your voice small. “you’ve always been hard on me, and i thought maybe i deserved that, but this… i can’t understand this…”

keigo’s hand moved against your back, slow and steady, his touch grounding, his presence solid behind you.

they don’t deserve to even look at you. say the word and i’ll make them regret it, little birdie.

mine.

it sent a quiet thrill through you, something warm and sharp settling deep in your chest as you took a shaky breath.

“maybe this is my reward,” you murmured softly, your voice trembling as you lifted your gaze, tears clinging to your lashes. “for everything, for all the cruelty i’ve endured… maybe this is why things turned out like this… because now i have everything i could ever want.”

your fingers brushed against the ring unconsciously. “keigo got us a house after he became president of the hpsc,” you continued, your tone almost dazed, like you could not quite believe it yourself. “it’s beautiful… and we’re getting married soon.”

your sister’s face twisted. “you! y-you don’t deserve that! none of it!” she spat, her voice sharp with fury. “you don’t deserve him, you don’t deserve anything you have! nothing! you’re nothing but a worthless piece of shit! scum!”

you pressed your lips together, your shoulders shaking as you turned slightly, burying your face against keigo’s chest.

keigo moved instantly. his arm tightened around you, pulling you closer, his presence shifting in a way that was no longer soft, no longer gentle.

it was sharp and dangerous.

“that’s enough,” he said, his voice low, firm, carrying a weight that silenced the room for a moment. his gaze locked onto them, cold and unyielding. “you should be thanking her,” he continued, his tone even, but there was something underneath it, something that pressed down like a warning. “because of her, you’re here and not somewhere much worse.”

his fingers pressed lightly against your side, a silent reassurance that contrasted sharply with the look in his eyes.

“you were supposed to be in tartarus,” he added calmly. “consider this a kindness.”

the air shifted.

your family fell quiet, their anger simmering beneath the surface, their eyes burning with resentment, but they said nothing more.

and you stayed there, tucked against keigo, your tears soft and quiet, your expression hidden from view. because they could not hear what you heard.

no one touches what’s mine. no one hurts what’s mine. no one can take her from me.

and deep down, where no one could see, where no one could hear, you smiled.

after a beat of silence, keigo decided he has had enough. his hand never left you as he finally guided you away from the glass, his touch firm against your back as if he was already pulling you out of their reach long before you fully turned your body away from them, his presence surrounding you in a way that felt entirely his.

you let him lead.

of course you did.

your steps were slow at first, almost reluctant, as if the weight of the moment was still clinging to you, as if your body had not yet caught up to the fact that it was over, that the conversation had ended, that there was nothing more to say to the people behind that glass.

their voices still rang faintly in your ears, not the words they spoke out loud, but the ones that never left their minds.

that bitch faking it! i raised her for years. she’s faking it!

look at her crying. pathetic child.

why does she get everything?

your grip on keigo’s sleeve tightened just slightly, subtle enough that anyone watching would assume it was nothing more than lingering emotion, nothing more than a fragile girl seeking comfort from the man beside her.

he noticed and his arm shifted, pulling you closer into his side, his thumb brushing lightly against your arm in a slow, soothing motion that looked gentle to anyone else.

don’t listen to them. they don’t matter. only i matter. you’re mine, dove.

you leaned into him just enough to make it convincing, your head dipping slightly as if you were trying to hide your face, as if you were still holding yourself together.

the guard by the door opened it for you, the heavy sound of it echoing softly in the quiet hallway outside, and keigo guided you through without hesitation, his presence commanding even in silence.

but just before you fully crossed the threshold, just before the door could close behind you and seal them away again, you stopped.

a fraction of a second where your body resisted just enough.

keigo’s hand stilled on your back. “you okay, my heart?” he asked quietly, his voice softer now, meant only for you.

you nodded faintly, your fingers loosening slightly against his sleeve. “i just…” your voice trembled, soft and fragile, just enough to sound real, just enough to make him lean closer. “i want to look at them one more time.”

he hesitated for a second. you felt it in the way his hand tightened ever so slightly.

they don’t deserve it. they don’t deserve you looking at them like that…

but then—

“alright,” he said, his tone gentler now, indulgent in a way that always came so easily when it came to you. “just for a second, baby.”

you turned, your gaze lifted, settling on them through the glass once more, taking them in as they stood there, your mother stiff with barely contained resentment, your father’s jaw tight with anger, your sister’s eyes burning with something ugly and sharp.

you could hear them again.

she thinks she won.

disgusting.

he’ll leave her too… just like her father once did.

your eyes moved over each of them, lingering just long enough to take it all in, to let the noise settle and then quiet again, to let their thoughts pass through you without sticking.

your face still held that soft, shaken look, your eyes still slightly glassy, your lips parted just enough to seem like you were holding back words you would never say.

you turned back to keigo after that, your hand slipping into his as if you needed the contact, as if you needed the reassurance, and he responded instantly, his fingers curling around yours, firm and warm.

“let’s go,” he murmured, his voice low, guiding you forward again without another glance back.

you followed.

of course you did.

the door closed behind you with a final, heavy sound, sealing them away from you completely this time, cutting off their voices, their thoughts, their presence.

and as you walked down the hallway with keigo at your side, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles, his wings shifting slightly behind him, you let your head rest gently against his shoulder.

your eyes softened as your lips curved, just barely. small enough that no one would notice and soft enough that it could be mistaken for relief.

but it was not relief, it was satisfaction.

how naive, you thought.

༘⋆ 🏷 @contently-cringe @stanfordswifey @phiastarss @prettysweet02

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© 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘-𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 (　　𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽　　) all rights reserved. do not copy, repost, rewrite, or feed my work to ai. translations and inspirations are allowed only with prior permission and proper credit afterwards.

[these-written-reveries]

Crushed Hopes & Broken Promises

‣ Pairing: Keigo Takami (Hawks) x GN!Reader

‣ Summary: All hopes for your special dinner date with Keigo are crushed the moment he breaks his promise to you in favor of his workaholic tendencies.

‣ Genre: Flangst, Hurt/Comfort

‣ Warnings: Angst, crying, broken hearts, getting ditched during your date, Keigo is a workaholic, Keigo being a bit of an asshole, some mild references to spicy things.

‣ Word Count: 5,988

‣ A/N: I was prompted to write this after thinking about Keigo and how he'd likely struggle at times to be a great partner in a romantic relationship, due to his inexperience, trauma, and demanding job. The start of the relationship would be bumpy, for sure. But he'd always work hard to be better for his s/o, and that's what truly matters! Hope ya'll enjoy this piece!

Main Masterlist

A whistle carried through the grand living space of Hawk’s penthouse as you stepped into his line of sight. Leaning against a nearby wall with his hands in his pockets, he suddenly straightened his spine at the sight of you, his feathers twitching in excitement. His eyes scanned every inch of you, pleased at the sight of such a masterpiece walking his way.

“Baby bird…You look stunning.”

He could barely control the way his voice nearly bordered on a moan as he looked you up and down. You looked simply ravishing. How did he get so goddamn lucky?

“Are you tonight’s meal?”

You were certain you couldn’t be any more flustered as you shook your head. The way he was devouring you with his eyes, licking his lips like a starved animal, had your heart racing faster in your chest. He stalked towards you like you were his prey. The intensity in his eyes made you look away, only for him to firmly lift your chin up to meet his golden gaze once more.

“Would you like to be?”

His sultry tone, paired with the lustful look in his eyes made your knees wobble slightly. You could feel yourself nearly giving in, before you finally broke free from his trance, lightly smacking his hand away.

“Stop trying to seduce me right now, you siren!”

Keigo laughed, and your heart skipped a beat. “Can’t help it when you look so good, pretty bird. You sure you’re not the one trying to seduce me?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “No…At least not yet.”

You smiled teasingly at him before pressing a kiss on his cheek. You were about to walk away when Keigo grabbed your wrist and pulled you back towards him.

“Uh-uh, baby bird. I’m not done with you yet.” He smirked before pulling you in for a kiss. It was passionate at first, but tapered into a tender finale before he pulled away, leaving you both a little breathless. He pressed his forehead against yours, staring into your eyes for a moment, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I’m such a lucky bastard.”

This made you scoff slightly, causing Keigo’s brow to furrow a bit as he pulled back to look at you properly. “What?”

“You’re not the lucky one, Kei. I am,” you spoke with certainty. “That’s why I wanted to create this nice evening for you. To show you how grateful I am for you.”

Now it was Keigo’s turn to scoff. “First of all, you’re wrong. Second of all, you don’t have to do all of this just for that. You don’t owe me anything, baby.”

“It’s not just for that reason! It’s also because I lo- care about you so much and I want you to feel as special as you make me feel. I may not have the same means to be able to spoil you like you do me, but I can at least give you a nice homemade dinner and romantic evening!”

You seemed nervous as you spoke, causing Keigo to reach for your hand and bring it to his lips. A soft show of affection and reassurance as he smiled at you.

“The evening already couldn’t get any better. I’ve got my baby bird in my arms and a delicious smelling dinner awaiting us at the table. Can’t think of a better way to spend the evening.”

He always knew exactly what to say to set your nerves at ease. You had put a lot of effort into tonight, trying to make everything perfect for him. He had mentioned previously how he’d never had anyone else cook for him before, so you decided to put your all into making him the best homemade meal for tonight’s date. You weren’t the greatest cook, so you spent the last week testing out the recipes for each part of the special dinner at your place, tweaking things as you went so that you wouldn’t mess things up tonight. Somewhat conveniently, Keigo had been gone on a mission all week, so it gave you plenty of uninterrupted time alone to prepare, without running the risk of him sneaking in through your balcony, like he so loved to do, and ruining the surprise.

Both of you had been looking forward to tonight’s date all week. Keigo seemed even more giddy than you were, knowing that he’d left the plans to his dove this time, upon your insistence. When he realized what you had planned for him, his heart nearly burst with pure adoration for you. He knew you weren’t the best cook, so the act in and of itself was enough to make him want to shower you with kisses. He almost did just that, until you reminded him that the food would get cold if you both didn’t quickly change for dinner.

It took all his self-control not to race to his bedroom like an eager child, just so he could hurry back to you. Even still, he was out of his hero costume and into his outfit, that you so lovingly picked out for him, in record time. A simple white button-down with a sleek black blazer, slacks, and matching loafers. You even laid out some accessories for him too, such as one of his gold watches and a matching gold necklace with a low-hanging pendant. Were you hinting at him to wear his shirt partially unbuttoned? How cute.

Keigo beamed as you led him over to the dinner table, admiring the way you had carefully set the table. A vase of red roses, guarded by a few burning candles, sat just far enough aside that the two of you would still be able to clearly see one another from your seats across the table. Sparkling, gold-rimmed white china plates sat beside red cloth serviettes atop the silky white tablecloth. He watched as you took the pre-opened bottle of red wine and poured some into his crystal glass.

“Sit, angel. I’ve been keeping the food warm in the oven. I’ll be right back,” you said, giving him a peck on the cheek before heading to the kitchen.

He sat down with a sigh, smiling at the beautiful presentation that you clearly put so much effort into. Not even a single piece of silverware out of place.

When you came back, you filled his plate for him, followed by yours. You refused to let him lift a finger, raising a brow at him when he reached out in an attempt to help you place one of the bowls of food onto the table. He couldn’t help but smile at you as you sat down across from him, his eyes so full of soft gooey adoration for you, you couldn’t help but feel heat rush to your cheeks as you broke free from his gaze, opting to change the subject before he flustered you even further. The man had a talent for making you look like a head over heels fool, just from a single word or look from those pretty golden eyes. You were certain he already knew the full extent of how you felt about him. You simply couldn’t hide it from him, no matter how hard you tried.

So why were you still so nervous about confessing your love to him tonight?

“I hope the food is good. Worst case, I have the number for our favorite takeout place ready to go,” you said, looking at the food on your plate.

“Honestly, dove, I can already tell it’s going to taste amazing, simply by how good it looks and smells. I’m genuinely impressed. You did all this yourself?”

You nodded, once again feeling heat rise to your cheeks as you picked up your fork and motioned towards his plate of steaming food. “Don’t hype me up too much, you haven’t even tried it yet.”

Watching with bated breath as Keigo took the first bite, you found yourself simultaneously relieved and pleased at the moan he let out, closing his eyes as he chewed the food carefully, making sure to savor every molecule of flavor. When he swallowed, he opened his eyes to find you staring back at him, a small smirk on your face.

“That was either an Oscar-worthy performance, or you truly like the food. Can’t quite tell which it is right now,” you joked.

Keigo chuckled, a big smile taking over his face as he reached for your hand across the table. “I may be a great actor, but that was all authentic, baby bird. Truly, this is the most amazing meal I’ve ever had!”

“Okay, now you’re definitely lying-”

“Am not! I’m not even surprised. This was made by my amazing, incredible, gorgeous baby bird, after all.” He raised his other hand, pressing the tips of his fingers to his lips in a silly “chef’s kiss”, making you giggle. “And you dare say I’m not the lucky one, huh?”

He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, eyes locked with yours, until he caught something else in his periphery. He must’ve been too enamored by everything else before to notice the small square gift box sitting at the corner of the table.

“And what is that?” he asked, curiously, nodding towards the thin white and gold box.

You followed his eyes, and he felt your hand tighten it’s grip a little on his.

“That’s for after dinner,” you said, watching him lift a brow at you inquisitively.

“You didn’t spend a pretty penny on me, did you birdie?”

You shook your head. “It wasn’t too much, promise. More time and effort spent than anything else.”

His eyes softened once more. “I truly am getting spoiled tonight, aren’t I?”

Giggling, you brought his hand to your lips, causing pink to spread across his cheeks. “You deserve it, baby. Now, eat up!”

Just as the two of you began to dive into your meal, the familiar ring of Keigo’s phone interrupted the peaceful ambiance of the room. You instantly grew tense, as did Keigo. He had promised you that he wouldn’t be on call for hero work during your time together for the next few days. Not only had you missed each other dearly and were very much in need of some quality time together, but Keigo more than needed the rest after the strenuous mission he had just completed.

You silently hoped it was a spam caller or wrong number as Keigo pulled his phone out of his pocket. But your hopes were crushed when he gave you an apologetic glance, stepping out of the room to answer the call.

Sitting at your place in the dining room, you left your food untouched as you waited patiently for his return. Perhaps he was simply getting a call to report some new important information to him, potentially about the mission he just completed. Even if they were trying to call him to the front lines, you were certain he’d decline and refer some of his other employees to cover for his absence.

But as the minutes ticked by, you began to grow more worried. What was going on? Was there some kind of grand emergency that couldn’t be solved without his specific order? The silence of the room was starting to eat away at you and put you on edge. You glanced back towards the hallway leading to the bedroom, hoping that he’d walk back out with a smile on his face, the kind that always set you at ease, and take up his seat across from you once more to continue your long-awaited romantic evening together.

Just as you were about to stand up to check on him, the bedroom door opened, encouraging you to stay in your place as you waited for him to walk back into the room. You smiled as you heard his footsteps, only for your smile to instantly falter at the sight of him in his hero costume instead of his date attire. He didn’t have the comforting smile on his face you were expecting, but instead, the stoic look of Hawks as he walked past you to grab the coat he’d left draped over the couch earlier and put it on.

You stood and made your way over to him, the lump growing in your throat that you tried your best to mask as you spoke to him.

“What’s going on?”

“Some villain attack on a nearby building. Got a pesky quirk and I’m the closest, so they called me,” he explained, like he was giving a fellow employee the rundown, rather than his partner, who he was about to ditch at any moment.

“W-What about dinner?” was all you could say. Your eyes were starting to burn with tears now as he quickly moved towards the balcony door, you following behind him like a sad puppy.

“Save it as leftovers! I’ll finish it later,” he said, putting on his visor as he reached for the door handle. You reached for him.

“Kei-”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can!” he called out as he swiftly moved past the doorway. You opened your mouth to speak, but you were cut off by the whoosh of his wings lifting him off the ground and into the air. Wind blew your hair around as you stared at the sky, watching him quickly become smaller and smaller until he was out of sight.

You stood there in shock for a moment. You were somewhat used to Keigo leaving on a whim after being together for so many months, but you truly were not expecting him to leave tonight, nor were you expecting him to act so…distant. He didn’t even kiss you goodbye or apologize for leaving. You suddenly found yourself questioning whether Keigo was even enjoying the evening before he got the call. He certainly didn’t waste any time in leaving.

You shook these thoughts out of your head. He was simply doing his job. And that meant switching into his “hero headspace”. That was all it was. He was focused on the job, like usual. That’s what made him a great hero.

That’s also what makes him a not-so-great partner, you thought.

Cursing yourself for even thinking such a thing about him, you stormed off and sat at the dinner table once more. Keigo didn’t deserve to be thought of in such a way. He had been an absolute angel to you since the two of you met. While you had only been dating for just over four months, you had both grown so close already. Even despite the fact that things were a bit more complicated due to his work, you were truly happy with him. You wouldn’t trade him for the world.

You loved him. That’s what you were planning to tell him tonight.

That’s why your nerves had been all over the place all evening. You were ready to take things up a notch with him, starting with your confession and a special gift to show him what he means to you. It was a daunting thing for you, considering he hadn’t said those three words first. He was usually the one to take the initiative with most things, tell you what he wants, ask you on dates, say what he really thinks about you, spoil you to high heaven simply because he wanted to. Even when you tried to do the same, he always seemed to be a step ahead of you.

But this time, you were determined to be one step ahead of him. You had worked so hard to make every detail of this date perfect for him, to make him feel even an ounce of the way he made you feel every single day you spent together. You wanted to surprise him, in more ways than one. That’s why you bought the most gorgeous outfit you could find, styled yourself to perfection, spent all week preparing to make the best homemade meal you could muster, and spent weeks beforehand crafting a heartfelt gift for him to go along with your confession.

You just hoped you wouldn’t surprise him too much with the confession itself.

Once again, you hoped. Hoped that he would come home soon, so that you could resume your evening together. Hoped that he would kiss you and smile and reassure you that everything is fine and that he wouldn’t dare miss another second of this wonderful time with you. Hoped that once you told him how you really felt about him, he would return your feelings. Or, at the very least, not reject them and run away. Hoped that he would love your gift to him. That he’d cherish it forever, along with you by his side.

The hours ticked by, your food still untouched as you hoped.

By the time the third hour grew near, you stood from your sprawled out position on the couch, breaking your gaze away from the time shown on the lockscreen of your phone. The food had been put away, the dishes cleaned. You couldn’t bring yourself to clean up the rest of the décor on the dining table, in hopes that he might come back home and still wish to eat with you at the table.

By the fourth hour and no text back from Keigo, your hopes were completely crushed, along with the special evening you’d put so much effort into.

You trudged your way towards the dining table, lip quivering as you took off the necklace Keigo gave to you not long ago, made with one of his feathers so that he could always track you and keep an eye on you for safety purposes. Though, it was quite clear that the other predominant reason was that he wanted to feel close to you, even when you were apart. You loved the necklace, but you also knew that he could sense your crying if he were to tune in enough to hear it, and the last thing you wanted was to distract him during his work. Knowing that the dam behind your eyes was going to break at any moment now, you gently set the feather on the table, next to your unopened gift to him, and walked to his bedroom.

It was too late now, and you’d had a few glasses of wine, so there was no point leaving his place to head back to yours, especially since he was expecting you when he got back. You’d promised to spend the next few days with him, after all.

Your phone dinged. A text message from Keigo showed on your lockscreen. Sighing, you bit back your tears, hoping he’d tell you he was on his way home. At least then you could at least enjoy a little bit of time together before you went to bed that night. Get him some food. You were sure he was starving by now. You would be too, if you weren’t so sick with sadness and disappointment and the lack of him.

Birb Man❤️: Won’t be home till later, baby bird. Don’t wait up.

Maybe you wouldn’t wait up. Maybe you’d leave and go back to your place. Sleep in your own bed. You weren’t all that pleased with the idea of sleeping with him anyway after the way things turned out tonight.

That was a lie. You wanted nothing more than to feel the weight of his arms and wings wrapped around you, shielding you from the rest of the world and making you feel safe. While you were disappointed and upset with him, you were too weak to reject such a pleasure; something you had been missing for over a week now.

Even so, perhaps it would be best if you left?

No.

You’d stick to your promise, at least. Even if he didn’t stick to his.

You took one last look at yourself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom before finally bursting into a fit of tears. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you covered your face as you sobbed.

Eventually, you managed to get yourself to take apart the masterpiece that you had made yourself into for the night. Your hands trembled slightly as you took off your beautiful outfit, thinking about how you were previously looking forward to him being the one to get you out of these clothes. You took your jewelry off, tossing it onto the dresser without caring about how it all messily scattered across the polished wood.

Once you were out of your own clothes, you dug around for something to wear to bed, settling on one of Keigo’s t-shirts. You almost whimpered at the comforting smell of him filling your nose, that only seemed to upset you more, before making your way to the bathroom.

You could barely see yourself in the mirror through your blurry, tear-filled vision as you washed your face and sloppily brushed your teeth between sobs, not paying much attention to the accuracy of your brushing.

All you could think about was him, and how selfish you were for wanting him to yourself. But could you really be blamed for this? The outside world got more time with your boyfriend than you did. You were always so understanding of his job, his responsibilities, his goals. You supported him, endlessly. Even when it left you feeling unfulfilled and lonely. He always made up for it, of course. He spoiled you non-stop with his affection and luxurious dates and gifts when he did have time to spend with you. And you were grateful. So incredibly grateful for his efforts. You knew he was trying his best and that’s what made all of it worth it.

But this time was different. You made him explicitly promise you that he’d be all yours for the next few days, and he agreed. A few days, and he couldn’t even follow through with this one humble request.

Keigo was a workaholic. You knew this. But you had hoped he’d at least understand how important these few days were for you and your relationship, especially since you hadn’t seen much of each other lately.

Of course, you knew he didn’t mean to hurt you. You just wished he could be as committed to saving your heart from such a demise as he was the rest of the world.

Keigo had two talents. Taking your heart to new, brilliant heights and leaving your heart crushed on the ground after it slipped out of his overburdened hands.

But just like your hopes, you knew exactly where your wishes would end up tonight.

Splattered on the cold hard ground alongside you.

Keigo could barely hold the weight of his wings any longer as he entered through the balcony door of his penthouse, wings drooping behind him. He let out a sigh, relieved to finally be home. His mind instantly went to you, wondering if you had already gone to bed or not.

His feet began leading him to you before he could even tell them to move. His feathers were exhausted, just like the rest of him, yet somehow the thought of you filled him with enough energy to leave them slightly twitching with excitement. They always had a mind of their own when it came to you.

Except, instead of the bedroom, his feet stopped at the dining room table. Confused, he was about to turn around, blame it all on his heavy exhaustion, until he caught the red feather necklace in the corner of his eye. He reached for it, taking it in his hand as he felt a pang of anxiousness run through him. Normally, you only took it off for brief moments, such as to bathe. Did you forget to put it back on? Did something bad happen?

He instantly rushed towards the bedroom, feathers already slipping underneath the crack of the door and surrounding areas to proactively inspect the rooms for anything suspicious ahead of his arrival. He could immediately sense your presence. The steady sound of your heartbeat and breathing instantly setting him at ease. He called his feathers back to him as he reached for the handle of the bedroom door.

He smiled softly at the sight of you curled up in bed, your back facing the door. He carefully walked over to your side of the bed, willing his feathers to stop their excited rustling, so as not to wake you, as he knelt down to your level.

The smile on his face quickly fell as soon as he registered your puffy eyes and tear-stained pillow. His heart dropped just as suddenly, the ache in his chest spreading.

Reaching out his hand, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing against your cheek and causing you to stir slightly in your sleep. His mind was racing as he tried to piece together why you had been crying. To his knowledge, there was nothing that would have made you this upset. Nothing, except…

Him.

A flashback of Keigo dedicating these days off to you, sealing the promise with a loving kiss, played in his mind. The way your eyes lit up with excitement made him feel so full of love for you. He silently swore to himself in that moment that he’d do anything to keep you this happy all the time.

Turns out, he couldn’t even keep his own promises to himself.

Keigo buried his face in his hands, his eyes burning as he suddenly felt the urge to burst into tears. He was so tired after the week’s mission. He wanted nothing more than to spend the next few days with you. You always helped him recharge and get back on his feet before his next inevitably exhausting shift or mission.

He was even more thrilled that you were so adamant on being in charge of the date this time around. He had been looking forward to it all week long. Being away from you was torture. All he wanted was to be with you again.

Now, the consequences of his actions were really setting in. You had put so much work into this evening. You probably thought he was a complete and utter asshole. The worst partner in the universe. He wouldn’t disagree with you on that.

Keigo was not the best at relationships. He barely had real friends, never mind any romantic partners, before you. He knew he had a tendency to put hero work above all else. You had pointed it out before but was always quick to drop the subject once he casually explained that it’s just part of his job. He assumed you understood. This was what life was like with him. He was the number two hero. Everyone expected so much out of him. And he had big goals. To create a society where heroes could rest easy. You seemed to be supportive of this.

Perhaps too supportive…

Keigo left the room, wings drooping even more than before as he trudged down the hallway. He regretted ever answering that call, for taking the job when he knew he’d much rather be with you, enjoying the perfect evening you put together for him. Everything was perfect. You were perfect. Everything he had ever dreamed of and more.

God, he didn’t deserve you.

As he stared down at the little square gift box in his hands, he felt thoroughly and utterly ashamed. He didn’t even think about his promise to you when he agreed to the job, about how much work you put into the evening, for him. He just shut down, switched into autopilot, into hero-mode. He was in such a rush to get it over with so he could come back home to you that he didn’t even kiss you goodbye. Not even a simple apology left his lips.

He’d really fucked up, big time.

He didn’t deserve you, nor did he deserve your gift, but he couldn’t help himself as he sat down on the couch and lifted the lid on the box to reveal its contents. There was a note obscuring the gift beneath it, his name sprawled across the paper in your pretty handwriting. He opened it, his eyes scanning over the inky text.

“Keigo,

I wanted to give you something special; to show you how much you mean to me. I know this isn’t enough to do just that. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to truly express to you how much I love you. But I hope you’ll like it anyway. Let it serve as a reminder that however near or far, you’ll always have my heart.

Love, Y/N”

You woke up after hearing the bedroom door click shut, your eyes starting to flutter open. Sleep still clouding your vision, you tried to scan the room, looking after your shoulder to find the room dark and empty. The bedside lamp had been turned off. Looking to Keigo’s side of the bed, you saw the feather necklace resting in his place.

Keigo must be home, you thought.

At first you were excited by this thought, until you remembered that you had just cried yourself to sleep because of him not too long ago. The emotional wound was still bleeding as you tried to pull yourself together enough to face him. You had to at least check to see if he was in one piece after tonight’s events.

Bare feet quietly padding on the heated hardwood floors, you made your way into the living area, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you looked around for any sign of the red-winged birdie.

A sniffle led you right to him. You froze, taking in the scene before you.

Keigo was sat on the couch, hunched forward as he looked at something in his trembling hands. Upon further inspection, you recognized it was the note and the necklace you made for him. Your gift to him.

“Do you like it?” you spoke quietly, though the silence of the room was so thick, it sounded louder than you had intended.

Keigo jumped slightly, turning his head to meet your eyes. How he didn’t hear you coming from a mile away was beyond you. You were never able to successfully sneak up on him. If the room wasn’t filled with so much emotional tension, you’d laugh and tease him about it.

Keigo looked back down at his hands, thumb running over the gold chain, though his eyes remained glued to the note itself. Three words stuck out to him, simultaneously making his heart race and filling him with a deep sadness. You noticed the object of his gaze, stepping closer as you nervously spoke.

“I wanted to tell you in person…Maybe it’s best that I didn’t." You whispered the last part to yourself, but of course, Keigo heard it too.

“What?” He glanced up at you, confused.

“Your crying Kei. You’re upset. You don’t like it, or you don’t share my feelings, or both. What is it?”

Keigo wiped his tears with the back of his hand, looking down in what appeared to be shame.

“It’s nothing like that, Y/N,” he spoke, barely above a whisper.

Your heart dropped. He never called you by your first name unless it was really serious. You began to fear the worst as he continued to speak.

“This is…you said you didn’t spend a lot.”

Oh. Is that why he was upset? More confused than ever, you decided to answer him, hoping he’d give you more information.

“I didn’t. A friend owed me a favor. They helped me make this for you at a low cost. It’s all real, though. The gemstones and everything.”

Keigo was quiet for a moment, looking at the intertwined heart pendants at the end of the necklace. You almost spoke again, just to break the silence, until he beat you to it.

“These are the color of your eyes,” he whispered, a small hint of a smile tugging at his lips that you didn't seem to catch as he lifted up the heart that was meant to represent you, admiring the gemstones embedded around it.

“Kei?”

“Hm?”

“Do you hate it?”

Keigo’s eyes snapped up to yours. Shaking his head aggressively, he reached out to you. The moment you latched onto his hand, he pulled you to sit beside him. Not letting go of your hand, he set the necklace down, along with the rest of the gift before turning to face you better.

“I love it. And I love you, baby bird. So much,” he said, voice wavering slightly as he seemed to become overcome with emotion again. Except this time, you could recognize it mostly as pure love and adoration for you, mixed with a sense of…sadness.

“Really?” you asked, a sense of relief washing over you, despite the overall uneasiness you still felt in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t used to seeing him so emotional. At least, not like this.

He nodded, placing his hands on either side of your face. “So fucking much. You have no idea. All of this…you…it’s everything I’ve always wanted and more.”

You looked at him warily. “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

“There’s no ‘but’. But there is a ‘sorry’. I’m so sorry, dove. I’m an asshole and an idiot and a terrible mate. I-”

“You’re none of those things, Kei.” You may have still been hurt by what he did, but you weren’t going to stand for him talking down on himself like that.

“Yes, I am. I stormed out of here so fast after getting that call; a call I never should’ve taken. I left behind the most amazing mate in the world, dressed to the nines, a delicious homemade dinner, and one of the most special gifts in the world. You, being the most special gift of all. I took you and all of this for granted and I'm so sorry.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead before meeting your eyes again.

“I promise I'll do everything in my power to make sure it doesn't happen again. I know my promises don’t mean much after what I did tonight, but I am fully willing to accept the consequences if I fail you again, Y/N."

You didn’t realize you were crying until Keigo gently wiped away a few rogue tears with his thumbs. He was staring at you so intensely, so full of love and determination, devotion, for you. Your heart could barely take it.

“All is forgiven, so long as you stop calling me that,” you finally spoke, semi-lightheartedly, causing his brows to furrow, until he finally understood what you meant.

His signature smirk replaced his serious frown, though his glossy eyes remained soft as he leaned in closer until his lips were inches away from yours.

“What should I call you, then? Baby bird? Dove? Sweetheart? Lovebird?” he teased, knowing that the new nickname would get you all flustered and smiling again. He needed to see that smile again, more than anything. He needed to see his baby bird happy, because of him. No more tears, just smiles.

Thank goodness, it worked. He practically beamed at the sight of it, his feathers perking up and twitching with excitement once more. He couldn’t help himself as he dove in for a kiss, giving you all the passion his tired soul could muster in the moment. You deserved every ounce of love he could possibly give. Now that you seemed to have forgiven him, he was determined to set things right again.

This time, he wouldn’t let you fall and hit the ground. He’d save you, along with your hopes and dreams and promises. While he wasn’t the perfect partner, he would never stop striving to be everything you deserve and more.

His only hope was that you’d continue to allow him to fly you and your heart to even greater heights.

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[cogentsummoner]

museums & metamorphosis: chapter four

pairing: all might/reader rating: teen tags: nomu toshinori yagi, past torture, underground hero toshinori yagi, neighbor au word count: 4.1k summary:

You’re just a humble curator at the Museum of Quirk History and Science, working on the latest exhibit, when you find yourself with a new neighbor. He’s sweet, and funny, and- of all things- a Hero… albeit, an underground one. Still, there’s something strange about your new neighbor, and you can’t help but think it might have something to do with the subject of your upcoming exhibit- All Might.

chapter summary:

Toshinori goes on a fairly boring patrol, and considers how his life as a Hero has changed.

read on ao3 here!

banner by the incredible @kyucipher!

taglist: @duckywithahat, @actuallysaiyan, @silvershadow1711, @like-a-clock, @crimsonflameproxy, @kennys-partner, @andriannag, @chaoticnebu, @lets-zofifi-stuff

[grenadehearts]

thinking about timeskip eijiro kirishima tying his hair into a messy man bun before eating you out

kirishima’s hair has gotten long, crimson strands now falling past his broad shoulders. you’re laid bare and pliant beneath him, his body hovering over your thighs, spread wide with one large, calloused hand. his grip is firm, fingers pressing into soft flesh, squeezing just enough to pull a reaction from you.

every mark he’s left on your skin burns with an aching need. his head dips lower into your heat, soft, intricate kisses teasing your inner thighs like whispered love confessions.  sharp, fleeting bites follow, blooming into tender, tooth-marked impressions. your hands are buried in his velvet red locks, fingers scratching tenderly against his scalp. the soft wet sound of him sucking at the plush flesh of your thigh fills the room. your heart rattles violently against your chest, so rapid you swear it might give out.

the muscles along his back flex with each movement—sharp, defined lines shifting beneath your gaze. you remember countless nights tracing those same muscles, leaving scratches born from pure ecstasy, softer kisses scattered during gentler nights, devotion pressed into his skin under moonlight.

and the scar on his shoulder—you kiss it every night he comes home safe, back where he belongs, wrapped in your arms and your sheets.

he buries his face deeper between your thighs, red strands brushing and tickling your skin as they fall, wisping softly over your body.

a quiet irritation flickers across his expression when his hair slips forward again. he pulls back slightly, resting on his forearms as he tugs the black hair tie from his wrist. it snaps softly against his palm. you watch the subtle flex of his hand as he gathers his hair into a loose tie, a few strands escaping to fall across the scar at his brow.

then he lowers himself back down, breath warm against your slick heat. his pupils are blown wide with want and adoration, red-tinged irises darkened with need. his brows knit slightly in concentration—on you, on your pleasure. love is written across every feature of his face, paired with that sharp, charismatic grin.

your lips part at the sight of him. crimson strands frame his tan, scarred skin, loose pieces catching the light, his hair pulled back, his features softened—completely undone by you. your breath hitches at the realization, lungs filling with air as you sit there, watching him take you in just as you do him—both completely enamored with each other.

your hands lift to his face, cradling his jaw, thumbs brushing slow circles into warm skin. he leans into it instantly, melting beneath your touch.

“you’re so handsome… my gorgeous boy.”

color blooms across his face, deep red spreading down his neck. he drops his forehead lightly against your knee, breath spilling out in a rough, husky rasp that settles deep in your chest.

“you’re so beautiful, my sweet baby… sorry i had to stop for a second—”

his lips trail down your thighs again, slow and reverent as he continues,

“really gotta do something about this hair… was taking my attention away from my baby.”

his words melt into a grin as he presses a soft kiss against your pussy, following it with teasing kitten licks to your clit. his lips close around your sensitive, swollen bud, sucking gently, and it pulls a sharp mewl from your throat as you cry out—your hips lifting to meet his face, chasing the feeling as you grind your heat against him. he holds you there, steady, as your body moves against his mouth and he coats himself in your arousal, burying himself deeper into you.

⊹₊ masterlist - kofi - emergency comms

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