꒰ 💌 mdni. kirishima won’t let his shy girl look away during missionary. . . ꒱ ⸝⸝ .ᐟ
kirishima won’t let you look away, tangled within his muscular frame, all sweaty limbs and breathless gasps wrapped up in pure ecstasy. his body hovers above yours, casting shadows in the dim light spilling through the loose curtains and cool evening air. the sweet smell of vanilla wafts through the room, soft ribbons of smoke curling lazily from the incense he had lit only moments prior.
kirishima always makes sure the moment is sensual, wrapped in a lovesick haze—he’s a very romantic man at heart. and he holds yours with large, calloused hands adorned with various scars that trail up his arms, across his back, and toward his chest like inked medals, tributes to his life as a hero—a man very much capable of violence, yet all soft lips and hushed reassurance when he’s buried beneath the covers with you. his favorite place, he thinks. tucked away with you, lapping at your spoils, while you squirm beneath him, all pretty whimpers and trembling limbs.
the head of his cock traces your slick folds slowly, your pussy aching for his girth to finally stuff your needy hole full. his voice is low, a rasp that settles warm against your skin. you’re feverish underneath him, body practically molded to his, the way he keeps you close. voice rough yet it holds a softness reserved only for you, he’s demanding too—every time you squirm or let your gaze drift to the ceiling, nerves curling tight in your chest during this intimate, overwhelming moment.
“look at me.” he says it like a mantra with such authority that it only makes the wetness between your thighs pool further, the ache inside you growing louder. you shake your head weakly, but his cock pushes through your entrance now, your hole greedily welcoming him, swallowing him down to the base. he’s warm inside you, full in a way that sends a rushing sensation rushing through your body. you need him to move, need him to fuck you dizzy.
“mphm, kiri i need you to mo—”
he thrusts once, rutting his hips into you slowly—just enough to graze your sweet spot, sending a rush of white-hot pleasure through your body, before stilling almost immediately.
“like that?” he asks, voice strained, and you can tell it’s taking everything in him not to keep going.
his grin is wild, sharp, shark-like teeth glinting as the edges of his lips curl cruelly. he waits, blood-red eyes fixed on you, and even through the haze of lust you can feel the weight of his stare.
he’s waiting for you to cave.
you know he won’t give in until you look at him.
despite the urge to curl away and hide, you slowly turn, your eyes catching the velvet softness hidden within his stare. your heart—the very organ tasked with keeping you alive—beats so rapidly you fear it may give one final pump and finally surrender as you weakly meet his devoted gaze.
his soul seems to brim in the irises of his eyes, to spill from the pads of his fingertips—the same ones that catch your jaw the moment you falter and turn away again, burying yourself in the plush pillow where the faint scent of lilies lingers in the fabric from the detergent you’d washed it with.
his touch is warm as he cups your jaw, fingers pressing gently into your skin, thumb tracing idly over the softness of your bottom lip.
“look at me, i wanna see that pretty face.”
your cheeks bloom a deep red under his honeyed words. “shut up, you’re so dumb,” you mutter, completely flustered, shoving his hand away—but it only makes him chuckle. his face drops into the crook of your shoulder, deep crimson locks spilling forward, bangs falling into his eyes before he brushes them aside. he looks slightly disheveled, completely open for you.
his thumb presses against your lips before slipping past them, kneading gently at your gums as a boyish grin spreads across his face. “you’re so cute. you have no reason to be shy, baby… just keep looking at me, hm?” he murmurs. when he pulls his thumb free, saliva glistens along the pad of it. you bite down lightly, leaving behind faint marks from your teeth.
“she bites,” he says, something wild flickering across his expression.
his hands find yours, fingers interlacing as he pins them above your head, hips rocking into you with a steady, building rhythm. your eyes stay locked on him, both of you slick with heat, the sounds of him filling you echoing in the tight space between you. his thrusts turn fast, erratic—until he slows just enough to drag against your g-spot, chasing the way your breath stutters at the curve of him.
his forehead falls against yours, maroon strands spilling around you both like a curtain shielding you from the world outside your windows. one hand slips free to cup your face, thumb tracing soft circles into your skin. kirishima’s lips find yours again, his tongue brushing along the seam of your mouth, asking—before taking. you melt into him, breaths tangled, shared, stolen, given back all at once, inhaling each other’s oxygen, greedily consuming it. a perfect depiction of love.
his other hand leaves yours, drifting lower, finding the swollen bud of your clit. he rubs slow, light circles—barely there—but paired with the heat of his mouth, the wet press of his tongue, and the steady thrust of his cock, it’s enough to make your thighs shake. he smells like warm cedarwood and clean soap, layered with something faintly musky and lived-in, like he’s just stepped out of training, and it clings to him in a way that’s completely intoxicating—you’re drunk off his scent.
his movements falter just slightly, hips stuttering as your body tightens around him, pulsing.
“fuck…” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. “she’s gripping me.”
his forehead presses harder to yours, almost too much. “you feel so good… look so pretty when you finish on my cock, my sweet baby,” he coos.
your nails dig into his broad back, crescent marks forming as you cling to him.
“gonna spill,” he mutters under his breath.
you wrap your legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, refusing to let go. he glances down at you, breath catching, a half-laugh breaking free.
“you’re sure you don’t want me to pu—”
you only tighten your hold, thighs squeezing his torso.
he laughs, breathless, grin sharp and besotted with fondness, “greedy girl.”
꒰ྀི১ ໒꒱ིྀ masterlist - kofi - emergency comm info!
@tokkushin pushing the shy!gf agenda (≧◡≦) ♡ !!
note : i may have went overboard with the detail but i really hope u guys can feel the intimacy i was trying to portray. . i listened to cinderella by mac miller while writing this and i love that song sigh. reblogs, likes and comments are so appreciated and make my day 🫶
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I love you MHA and I love you Katsuki and Izuku with all my heart. I hope you continue to be heroes and go on many adventures side by side for the rest of your lives.
˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ 𓏲 ˖. 💌 ⸝⸝. HOW THEY KISS YOU | bnha boys | minors dni
SYPNOSIS. These are the boys who've captured our hearts—each one different, each one perfect in their own way, each one ready to kiss you like you're their entire world.
Izuku kisses like he's been drowning and you're his first breath of air. There's always a moment of hesitation before his lips meet yours—a split second where his eyes search your face as if asking permission one last time, even when you've kissed a hundred times before. Then he closes the distance, and it's like watching him make the decision to jump off a building with nothing but faith that you'll catch him.
His lips are softer than they have any right to be, given how often he bites them when he's nervous or deep in thought. They're warm and slightly trembling at first, moving against yours with a reverence that makes your heart ache. Izuku kisses like you're something precious, something he's afraid might break or disappear if he's not careful enough.
But then something shifts. Always, without fail, something shifts.
His hands—those scarred, powerful hands that have saved countless lives—come up to cup your face with a gentleness that contradicts their strength. His fingers thread through your hair, and you feel the slight tremor in them, the barely restrained want. When you part your lips, he responds with a soft, broken sound that reverberates through your entire body, and suddenly the careful restraint shatters like glass.
His tongue sweeps into your mouth with an eagerness that borders on desperate, tasting and exploring like he's trying to memorize every detail. The analytical mind that catalogs hero techniques and battle strategies now turns its full attention to learning you—what makes you gasp, what makes you press closer, what makes your fingers dig into his shoulders and hold on like he's the only solid thing in your universe.
Izuku kisses like it's his hero work—giving it everything he has, holding nothing back. His tongue strokes against yours with increasing confidence, alternating between slow, deep glides that make your knees weak and quick, teasing flicks that have you chasing his mouth when he pulls back. He explores every inch of your mouth with thorough dedication, occasionally breaking away to press kisses along your jaw, your neck, before returning to your lips like he can't bear to be separated for long.
When he gets truly lost in it, he makes these small sounds—whimpers and gasps and broken murmurs of your name—that are so honest and unguarded they make your chest tight with emotion. His grip tightens in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss impossibly further, and you can feel the rapid thunder of his heartbeat where your chest presses against his.
He kisses you like you're the greatest quirk he's ever been gifted, like you're more powerful than One For All ever was, like you're the real miracle in his life. And when you finally break apart, both breathless and flushed, he looks at you with such raw adoration—eyes bright and lips swollen and that devastating smile breaking across his face—that you understand why he's a hero. Because he makes you feel like you're worth saving, like you're worth everything, like you're his whole world condensed into one person.
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖katsuki.bakugo 💥
Katsuki doesn't ask permission. He takes.
But here's the thing people don't understand about Bakugo Katsuki—when he takes, he gives everything in return. His kisses are intense, overwhelming, all-consuming. They're explosive in the same way his quirk is explosive: powerful, impossible to ignore, and devastatingly effective.
He kisses like he fights—with absolute confidence and total commitment. There's no hesitation, no uncertainty. When Katsuki decides he's going to kiss you, it's with the same decisive force he brings to battle. His hand comes up to grab the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair with just enough pressure to send shivers down your spine, and he pulls you to him like you're the only thing in the world worth having.
His lips crash against yours with bruising intensity. There's nothing soft or gentle about the initial contact—it's demanding, claiming, possessive. He kisses you like he's making a statement, like he's declaring ownership, like he's daring anyone or anything to try and take you away from him. His mouth moves against yours with expert precision, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't wonder where he learned to kiss like this, with such devastating skill.
When his tongue sweeps across your bottom lip, it's not a request—it's a command. Open for me. And when you do, the growl of satisfaction that rumbles from his chest is purely predatory. His tongue invades your mouth with aggressive confidence, stroking against yours in a rhythm that's almost combative at first, like he's challenging you to keep up, to match his intensity.
And the thing is, you do. Because Katsuki doesn't want someone who'll submit meekly to his dominance—he wants someone who'll fight back, who'll bite his bottom lip hard enough to make him groan, who'll tangle their tongue with his in a battle for control that neither of you really wants to win because the struggle is too damn good.
His free hand grips your waist, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to leave marks you'll find later, little reminders of this moment. He pulls you flush against him, and you can feel every hard plane of his body, every breath, every rapid beat of his heart that betrays how affected he is even as he maintains that aggressive control.
But here's the secret: underneath all that explosive intensity, there's surprising tenderness. It shows in moments—the way his thumb strokes the side of your neck even as his grip remains possessive, the way he swallows your gasps like they're precious, the way his kisses slow and deepen when you melt into him, becoming less frantic and more thorough, more devastating.
When Katsuki really gets into it, when the kiss goes from heated to absolutely scorching, his control starts to slip in the best ways. His breathing gets ragged, his movements less calculated and more instinctual. He'll break away from your lips to drag his mouth down your jaw, to bite and suck at your neck with enough force to definitely leave marks, to growl your name against your skin in a voice gone rough with want.
Then he's back to your lips, kissing you deeper, harder, like he's trying to consume you entirely. His tongue strokes against yours with long, deliberate movements that make your toes curl, occasionally retreating to suck on your bottom lip, to bite it gently before soothing the sting with his tongue. It's overwhelming and intense and absolutely perfect.
When you finally break apart—because breathing is unfortunately still necessary—he doesn't let you go far. His forehead presses against yours, eyes still closed, breath coming in harsh pants that match your own. His hand in your hair loosens to something almost gentle, and when he opens his eyes, there's something vulnerable there that he'd never admit to. Something that says you undo me, you wreck me, you're mine and I'm yours and I don't know what to do with this feeling except kiss you until neither of us can think straight.
"Mine," he'll growl, and kiss you again, slower this time but no less intense. Because Katsuki Bakugo doesn't do anything halfway, and that includes falling in love with you.
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖shoto.todoroki 🧊🔥
Shoto kisses like he's discovering fire for the first time—with wonder, caution, and slowly building heat.
He's not practiced at this. Not like the others might be. Physical affection doesn't come naturally to someone who spent their childhood deprived of gentle touches, who learned that hands were for hurting, not for holding. So when Shoto kisses you, there's always an element of careful exploration, like he's still learning that this is allowed, that softness is permitted, that he's allowed to want something just for himself.
The first touch of his lips is feather-light, almost questioning. Are you sure? Is this okay? Can I have this? His heterochromatic eyes search yours for a long moment before he closes the distance completely, and even then, his movements are controlled, precise. He's terrified of doing it wrong, of being too much or not enough, of somehow ruining this perfect thing between you.
But you kiss him back, encourage him, and something in Shoto begins to thaw.
His hands come up to cup your face with infinite gentleness, and this is when you feel it—the temperature difference. His left palm is deliciously cool against your flushed cheek, while his right radiates warmth that seeps into your skin. The contrast is intoxicating, uniquely Shoto, a reminder of the power contained in his careful touch. He's so conscious of his quirk, so careful to keep the temperature comfortable, to make sure he doesn't accidentally freeze or burn you. It's heartbreakingly sweet, this vigilance.
When the kiss deepens, it's gradual. Shoto doesn't rush. He savors. His lips part slightly, and his tongue traces the seam of your mouth with delicate precision, a soft request rather than a demand. When you open for him, he makes a small sound—surprise and pleasure mixed—and carefully, slowly, touches his tongue to yours.
The kiss transforms. That carefully controlled exterior begins to crack, revealing the passion he keeps locked away beneath layers of composure. His tongue slides against yours with increasing confidence, each stroke more assured than the last. He's a quick study, attentive to every small reaction, learning what makes you sigh, what makes you press closer, what makes your fingers tighten in his hair.
And his hair—god, his hair is incredibly soft, the red and white strands slipping through your fingers like silk as you pull him closer. He shivers when you touch him there, a full-body tremor that you feel everywhere you're pressed together, and the ice-and-fire of his palms fluctuates slightly, his control wavering.
Shoto kisses with his whole body. He's taller than you, and he uses it, slowly walking you backward until your back meets a wall and he can cage you in with his arms. Not trapping—never trapping—but surrounding, sheltering, claiming this space as yours and his alone. His body presses against yours, and you can feel the lean muscle, the strength he usually keeps so carefully restrained, the rapid beat of his heart against your chest.
When he really loses himself in the kiss, the temperature control slips. His left side gets colder, frost forming on the wall beside your head, while his right side grows warmer, almost feverish. It's like being caught between winter and summer, ice and fire, and it's absolutely intoxicating. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his tongue delving deeper, stroking against yours with languid, thorough movements that make your knees weak.
He breaks from your lips to trail kisses along your jaw, down the column of your neck, and his breath is cool from his left side, warm from his right, sending conflicting shivers racing across your skin. When he finds a sensitive spot, he lingers there, learning it, his lips and tongue working until you're gasping his name, and then he returns to your mouth to kiss you deeper, slower, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second.
There's something almost desperate in the way Shoto kisses once he truly lets go. Like he's making up for lost time, for a childhood devoid of affection, for all the years he thought he'd never deserve something this good, this pure, this perfect. His fingers thread through your hair, and he tilts your head to exactly the angle he wants, kissing you with increasing fervor.
When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing carefully regulated despite the way his hands tremble slightly where they cup your face. When he opens his eyes, there's vulnerability there, raw and honest. "I love you," he says quietly, and then he's kissing you again, softer this time, sweeter, like a promise and a prayer all at once.
Shoto Todoroki kisses like he's found home in another person, like you're the warmth he's been seeking his whole life, like you're the one thing his father could never take from him. And you kiss him back like you'll spend forever showing him he deserves this—deserves softness, deserves love, deserves everything.
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖denki.kaminari ⚡️
Denki kisses like he's trying to fit an entire lifetime of affection into a single moment—enthusiastic, playful, and crackling with energy.
There's always a grin involved. Always. Even when he's trying to be smooth, trying to be cool and collected as he leans in, you can see the smile tugging at his lips, the pure joy he can't quite contain. Because Denki doesn't know how to hide his feelings, doesn't know how to be anything other than completely, openly, enthusiastically in love with you.
"C'mere," he'll say, and his voice has that slightly rough quality that makes your stomach flip, that hint of barely contained static that suggests his quirk is responding to his excitement. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your cheekbone, and there's a tiny spark—barely noticeable, just enough to make you gasp, to make your skin tingle pleasantly.
"Oops," he grins, not sorry at all. "Guess you make me a little electric."
And then he's kissing you, and it's like being struck by lightning in the best possible way.
Denki's kisses are playful, teasing. He'll catch your bottom lip between his teeth and tug gently, grinning against your mouth when you chase after him. He'll kiss the corner of your lips, your cheek, your nose, everywhere except where you actually want him, until you grab him by his shirt and pull him back to you properly. And when you do, his laugh vibrates against your lips, delighted and fond and so completely Denki that you can't help but smile too.
But underneath the playfulness, there's genuine skill. Denki might act like a goofball, but he knows what he's doing. When he finally stops teasing and really kisses you, it's devastating. His lips are soft and eager, moving against yours with enthusiastic precision. He kisses like he's having the time of his life, like this is the best thing that's ever happened to him, and his unabashed joy is infectious.
When his tongue slides against yours, there's the faintest tingle of electricity—never enough to hurt, always perfectly controlled—that makes every nerve ending light up with sensation. It's addictive, that slight buzz, the way it makes everything more intense, more vivid. His tongue strokes against yours with playful enthusiasm, exploring, tasting, occasionally doing this thing where he traces the roof of your mouth that makes your knees go weak.
Denki can't keep his hands still when he kisses you. They're everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, sliding down to your waist to pull you closer, then back up to frame your face again like he can't decide where he wants to touch you most. Every touch carries that faint electric tingle, raising goosebumps in their wake, making you shiver and press closer.
He makes the best sounds when he kisses. Little hums of pleasure, satisfied sighs, breathy laughs when you do something he particularly likes. And he talks—god, he talks even while kissing you. Breaks away just enough to murmur "you're so hot," or "I'm the luckiest guy alive," or "one more, just one more" before diving back in for another kiss, then another, then another, because one more is never enough.
When things get more heated, when the playfulness gives way to something more intense, Denki's quirk responds. You can feel it in the air around you, that charged feeling before a thunderstorm, making your hair stand on end in the best way. His kisses become more insistent, deeper, his tongue stroking against yours with increasing urgency. The electrical current running through him intensifies just slightly, enough that every touch makes you gasp, makes your skin hypersensitive, makes everything feel incredible.
"You're killing me," he'll groan against your lips, and you can hear the static in his voice, can feel it when he kisses down your neck, when his teeth graze your pulse point and that tiny spark makes you jerk against him. "So perfect. You're so perfect."
But even when he's desperate, even when his breathing has gone ragged and his hands are shaking with the effort of controlling his quirk, there's still that underlying joy. Denki loves kissing you. Loves the way you taste, the sounds you make, the way you fit perfectly against him. He kisses you like it's his favorite activity in the world, like he could spend hours just kissing you and never get bored.
When you finally break apart, he's grinning like an idiot, hair slightly more disheveled than usual, eyes bright with happiness and crackling with literal electricity. "Again?" he asks hopefully, already leaning back in, and you laugh and pull him close because how could you ever say no to that smile?
Denki Kaminari kisses like summer storms and sunshine, like lightning and laughter, like coming home to someone who makes every day an adventure. And you wouldn't have it any other way.
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ejiro.kirishima 🦈
Kirishima kisses like he does everything else—with wholehearted enthusiasm and unshakeable conviction.
There's nothing uncertain about the way Eijiro kisses. When he decides he's going to kiss you, he commits to it completely, the same way he commits to everything in his life. No half-measures, no holding back. Just pure, honest affection that he pours into every touch, every press of lips, every shared breath.
His hands are rough—calloused from training, from hardening his skin over and over, from pushing himself to be unbreakable. But they're so gentle when they touch you, sliding around your waist to pull you close, cradling your face like you're something precious. The contrast between the roughness of his palms and the tenderness of his touch makes your heart skip.
"Hey," he'll murmur, and his voice is warm like sunlight, affectionate and soft in a way he reserves just for you. His smile is bright enough to rival the sun, sharp teeth on full display, eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine joy. "You look beautiful."
And then he's kissing you, and it's like being wrapped in warmth and safety and home.
Kirishima's kisses are firm and sure, his lips pressing against yours with confident pressure. There's no tentativeness, no questioning—just honest affection and desire. He kisses you like he means it, like every press of his lips is a promise, a declaration, a vow. I'm here. I'm yours. I've got you.
When he deepens the kiss, his tongue slides against yours with slow, thorough strokes that make your toes curl. He's not rushing, not trying to devour you whole—he's savoring you, taking his time, making sure you feel every ounce of his affection. His tongue explores your mouth with deliberate attention, learning what makes you sigh, what makes you press closer, what makes your fingers tighten in his hair.
And his hair—it's surprisingly soft despite the gel, the bright red strands slipping between your fingers as you pull him closer. He makes this low, pleased sound when you touch him there, almost a purr, and his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel every hard plane of muscle, the solid strength of him, the way his heart pounds against your chest.
Kirishima is strong, and he uses that strength to hold you like you're weightless. He'll lift you without warning, hands gripping your thighs as he hoists you up, grinning against your lips at your surprised gasp. Now you're at eye level, and he takes full advantage, kissing you deeper, harder, one hand supporting your weight easily while the other cups the back of your head.
"Better," he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel his smile. "Want to be closer to you."
His kisses become more intense, more passionate. His tongue strokes against yours with increasing fervor, and you can feel the barely restrained power in him, the strength he's always so careful to control around you. When you bite his bottom lip, he groans—a deep, rumbling sound that you feel vibrate through your entire body—and his grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make you feel secure and desired and completely his.
There's something incredibly manly about the way Kirishima kisses, but not in the toxic way. He's confident without being domineering, strong without being forceful, passionate without being overwhelming. He makes you feel protected and cherished, like you're the most important person in his world, like he'd move mountains for you if you asked.
When he breaks from your lips to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, his teeth graze your skin gently—a reminder of their sharpness, but never biting down, never hurting. Just teasing, playing, worshipping every inch of skin he can reach. "You're amazing," he'll mumble against your throat, pressing kisses between words. "So amazing. How did I get so lucky?"
And the thing is, he means it. Every word. There's no insincerity in Kirishima, no pretense. When he tells you you're amazing while kissing down your neck, when he says he loves you against your lips, when he holds you like you're precious—he means all of it with every fiber of his being.
When he returns to your lips, the kiss is slower, deeper, more intimate. His tongue slides against yours in long, sensual strokes that make your head spin, make you forget everything except the taste of him, the feel of him, the overwhelming presence of Eijiro Kirishima holding you like you're his entire world.
Eventually, he sets you down gently, carefully, making sure you're steady before loosening his hold. But he doesn't let go completely—never completely. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing only slightly elevated despite the intensity of the kiss, and he's smiling. Always smiling.
"I love you," he says, simple and honest and true. And then he kisses you again, soft and sweet, like a promise he intends to keep for the rest of his life.
Eijiro Kirishima kisses like he's found his reason for being unbreakable—because someone this precious needs protecting, needs loving, needs someone who'll be their rock no matter what. And he'll be that for you, today and always.
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖hitoshi.shinso 🐈⬛
Shinso kisses like he's stealing moments from a world that hasn't always been kind to him—slowly, thoroughly, and with quiet intensity.
There's always a pause before Hitoshi kisses you. A moment where his purple eyes search yours, heavy-lidded and intense, looking for any sign of hesitation. He's so used to people being wary of him, of his quirk, of the implications of his power. So he waits, gives you every chance to pull away, to change your mind. Even now, even after you've kissed a hundred times, he waits.
When you lean in first, or squeeze his hand in permission, something shifts in his expression. The tension in his shoulders eases, and a small, genuine smile tugs at his lips—not the cocky smirk he uses to deflect, but something softer, more vulnerable. Something reserved only for you.
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone with deliberate slowness. His touch is gentle but firm, assured in the way of someone who knows exactly what he wants and isn't afraid to take it, as long as you're willing to give. Then he leans in, and his lips brush against yours with devastating softness.
Hitoshi doesn't rush. He can't. He's learned that good things are fleeting, that moments of genuine connection are rare and precious, so when he has you like this, he savors it. His lips move against yours with languid precision, kissing you deeply but slowly, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second.
When his tongue slides against your bottom lip, it's a request, not a demand. Patient. Waiting. And when you part for him, the soft sound he makes—satisfaction mixed with something almost like relief—makes your heart clench. His tongue slides against yours in slow, measured strokes, exploring thoroughly, learning the taste and texture of your mouth like he's committing it to memory.
There's something hypnotic about the way Shinso kisses. The slow, deliberate pace, the focused intensity, the way his eyes drift closed as he loses himself in the sensation. His free hand finds your waist, fingers pressing against your hip with just enough pressure to be felt, grounding you both in this moment.
He kisses like he's trying to communicate something he can't quite put into words. Like every slow stroke of his tongue, every gentle press of his lips, is saying I see you, I want you, I'm grateful for you in ways his voice—that voice people fear, that voice he's learned to weaponize—never could.
When things deepen, when the kiss becomes more heated, Hitoshi's control is exquisite. His breathing gets heavier, his grip tightens slightly, but his movements remain measured, deliberate. He angles your head exactly where he wants it, deepening the kiss with calculated precision. His tongue strokes against yours with increasing pressure, the pace quickening but never frantic, never desperate—just intense, focused, consuming.
His other hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands to cradle the back of your head, and he uses the leverage to kiss you deeper still. The control, the quiet dominance in the way he guides the kiss, is intoxicating. He's not forceful, but he's absolutely in command, and the confidence in his touch makes your knees weak.
Shinso makes these quiet sounds when he kisses—soft hums of pleasure, barely audible exhales, the occasional quiet groan when you do something he particularly likes. They're intimate sounds, private, meant only for you. When you run your fingers through his perpetually messy hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, he sighs into your mouth and pulls you impossibly closer.
He'll break away from your lips to kiss along your jaw, to find that sensitive spot below your ear, and his breath is warm against your skin as he murmurs, "You have no idea what you do to me." His voice is low, rough with want, but still controlled. Always controlled. "Drive me crazy."
Then he's back to your lips, kissing you with renewed intensity. His tongue delves deeper, strokes longer, and you can feel the leashed power in him, the desire he keeps so carefully restrained. When you press closer, when you make those breathy sounds he loves, his control slips just slightly—his kiss becomes more insistent, more demanding, his hands gripping you tighter.
But even then, even when he's clearly affected, clearly desperate for more, there's that underlying gentleness. The way his thumb strokes your cheek even as he kisses you breathless, the way he holds you like you're something precious even as his tongue tangles with yours with increasing urgency.
When you finally part, he doesn't immediately let go. His forehead rests against yours, eyes still closed, breathing carefully controlled despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest. When he opens his eyes, they're dark with want but soft with affection.
"Come here," he murmurs, and kisses you again, slower this time, sweeter. A series of gentle kisses that gradually soften until he's just pressing his lips to yours, to your cheeks, your forehead, like he can't quite bear to stop touching you yet.
Hitoshi Shinso kisses like he's found something worth fighting for, something worth being gentle with, something worth keeping. And in a world that's tried to make him hard and cynical, that's everything.
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖tamaki.amajiki 🐙
Tamaki kisses like he's terrified and exhilarated in equal measure—nervously, sweetly, and with overwhelming tenderness.
Getting Tamaki to the point of kissing is an journey in itself. He overthinks everything, convinced he'll somehow mess it up, that he's not good enough, that you deserve someone more confident, more skilled, more everything. His face burns red at just the thought of kissing you, and he can barely maintain eye contact, much less make the first move.
So you usually have to initiate, closing the distance while he stands frozen, eyes wide, cheeks flushed dark red, trembling slightly with nervous energy. "I-is this okay?" you ask, giving him every chance to back out, and he nods so quickly you're worried he might hurt his neck, unable to form words.
The first touch of his lips is feather-light, almost hesitant, like he's afraid you might disappear if he presses too firmly. His eyes flutter closed, dark lashes resting against his flushed cheeks, and his hands hover uncertainly at his sides, not quite sure where to put them. You have to take them, guide them to your waist, and even then he holds you like you're made of glass.
"You're doing great," you murmur against his lips, and you feel him shiver, feel some of the tension ease from his shoulders.
When Tamaki starts to relax into the kiss, something beautiful happens. All that nervous energy transforms into focused attention. He might not be confident, but he's observant, paying careful attention to every small reaction. When you sigh softly, he does that again—whatever made you sigh. When you press closer, he holds you a little tighter. He's learning you, studying you with the same intense focus he brings to mastering his quirk.
His lips are incredibly soft, moving against yours with increasing confidence. Each kiss is gentle, sweet, reverent. He kisses like you're a miracle he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch, like he's grateful for every second you're willing to spend with him like this.
When his tongue first brushes against your lips, it's tentative, questioning, and when you part for him, the small sound he makes—surprise and pleasure and overwhelming emotion—is heartbreakingly sweet. His tongue slides against yours carefully, exploratory, and you can practically feel him cataloging every detail, every sensation.
But here's the secret about Tamaki: underneath all that anxiety, all that self-doubt, there's passion. Deep, intense passion that he usually keeps locked away because he's terrified of being too much, of overwhelming you. But when he gets lost in kissing you, when his nerves quiet enough for him to just feel, that passion emerges.
His kisses become deeper, more sure. His tongue strokes against yours with increasing confidence, the movements less hesitant, more purposeful. His hands, which started so uncertain at your waist, begin to move—sliding up your back, into your hair, pulling you closer with a need that seems to surprise even him.
When you run your fingers through his indigo hair, gently scratching your nails against his scalp, Tamaki makes the most beautiful sound—a shaky exhale that's almost a whimper, and he presses impossibly closer, kissing you deeper. His pointed elf-like ears are incredibly sensitive, and if you trail your fingers along them, he actually trembles, breaking the kiss to hide his burning face against your neck.
"S-sorry," he stammers, even though he has nothing to apologize for. "I just... you make me feel..."
"Don't apologize," you whisper, and guide his face back to yours. "Show me. Show me how I make you feel."
And he does. Tamaki might not be good with words, but he can communicate through touch, through kiss. He pours everything into it—all his affection, all his desire, all those feelings he's too nervous to voice. His kisses become almost desperate, like he's trying to show you how much you mean to him, how much he needs you, how grateful he is that you chose him despite his anxiety, despite his insecurities.
His tongue delves deeper, stroking against yours with long, thorough movements that make your head spin. When you grip his shoulders, he makes these quiet, breathy sounds against your mouth that send shivers down your spine. His usual nervousness hasn't completely disappeared—his hands still tremble slightly where they cup your face, his breathing is uneven—but there's determination there now too. Determination to show you, to make you feel good, to be worthy of your affection.
Tamaki kisses like he's trying to memorize you, like he's terrified this might be the last time (even though you've assured him it won't be), like he needs to make the most of every second. And when things get really intense, when you're both breathing hard and clinging to each other, he'll suddenly pull back, eyes wide and dark with want, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.
"I love you," he'll whisper, voice shaking but sincere. "I love you so much I don't know what to do with it."
And then he's kissing you again, pouring all that overwhelming love into every press of his lips, every stroke of his tongue, every tender touch. When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours, still trembling slightly, still blushing, but smiling—really, truly smiling—because with you, he feels brave. With you, he feels like maybe, just maybe, he's enough.
Tamaki Amajiki kisses like you're the one thing in his life he's absolutely certain about, even when he's uncertain about everything else. And that kind of devotion is absolutely devastating in the best possible way.
A/N: So, I was thinking about the boys and how they'd kiss...and then this happened! I wanted to write my own interpretations. I know it's not all of them, but I couldn't resist writing these down. I might do a part two if enough people ask for it, or if I just get inspired again! Let me know who your favorite was, or who you'd want to see in a part two!
Warnings: Angst to Fluff, Canon Divergence (College/University AU), Temporary Character Death (Implied/Feared), Severe Motor Vehicle Accident (Off-screen/On News), Detailed Descriptions of Injuries (Road Rash, Dislocation, Concussion), Hospitalization & Medical Sedation, Emotional Breakdown/Panic, Mutual Confessions, and Hurt/Comfort.
A/N: hehe >:3 kicking my feet and crying rn. guysguys- I made (y/n) mixed because I recently met a Japanese Filipina that made me short circuit. The vision was right there in front of me
The neon sign of the campus diner buzzed with a low, irritating hum that Katsuki Bakugo could feel right in the marrow of his teeth. It was a Tuesday afternoon, the worst kind of day—sandwiched between the weekend's lingering exhaustion and the impending dread of late-week midterms. He was aggressively stabbing a fry into a puddle of ketchup, his jaw locked in its usual state of perpetual agitation, while the rest of the table dissolved into their typical chaotic chatter.
They were all there, crowding into a vinyl booth that was technically meant for four people but currently held five, with Katsuki shoved into the corner against the cold glass of the window. Kirishima was actively trying to steal Mina's onion rings, which resulted in a minor skirmish involving plastic forks, while Sero lounged across the back of the seat, his eyes glued to his phone. Next to him, Jiro was nursing a iced coffee, one of her wired earbuds hooked and dangling on her ear while the other remained firmly wedged in her ear to block out Kaminari’s loud, animated retelling of a video game tournament he’d lost the night before.
It was loud. It was annoying. It was exactly how their college days had played out since they all moved from the strict, suffocating structure of their academy days into the lawless expanse of university life as juniors.
But there was a glaring, empty space at the end of the booth. An open spot where a helmet usually sat, its dark visor reflecting the greasy lights of the diner, right next to a black leather jacket smelling faintly of expensive vanilla perfume, asphalt, and the sharp, minty tang of a vape.
"She’s late," Katsuki growled, his voice a gravelly snap that immediately cut through Denki’s rambling. He didn't need to specify who she was. Everyone at the table knew exactly who his internal radar was always tracking.
"When is she not?" Mina laughed, finally abandoning her defense of the onion rings to swipe a lock of pink-dyed hair out of her eyes. "Relax, Baku-bro. You know how she is. She probably slept through her 11:00 AM lecture, which means she's currently doing sixty down the interstate to make it here."
"She didn't sleep through it," Jiro chimed in, not looking up from her phone. "She texted me at 10:00 AM. She was already out. Said she was going to clear her head before she had to sit through three hours of macroeconomics. Though, knowing her, she probably aced the pre-quiz without even looking at the textbook."
Katsuki let out a sharp, derisive snort, turning his gaze out the window to watch the gray campus quad. It irritated him to his core—how easily you moved through life, how effortlessly you managed to break every single rule of a conventional "good student" while still pulling a GPA that rivaled his own. You were, by all traditional standards, a terrible influence. You were the girl his mother would have warned him about if Mitsuki hadn't already met you years ago and instantly adopted you into her heart because you were the only person who could match Katsuki’s temper with a lazy, unbothered smirk.
You didn't go to half the classes. You spent your nights at crowded, sweaty house parties, a cigarette tucked behind your ear or a vape cloud trailing behind you as you laughed with people you barely knew yet got along with swell. You had a reputation that preceded you—the girl with the striking, intricate Japanese arm sleeve that paid fierce, beautiful homage to your roots, stretching down to your wrist in bold black and gray ink, and the sharp, geometric Filipino sun tattooed across your shoulder blades, a proud marker of your heritage that peeked out whenever you wore backless tops to the clubs.
You were a walking contradiction. An untamed force that rode a heavy, dark sports bike, making a name for yourself on an Instagram account where you posted aesthetic helmet content—tucking your dark hair into the padding, looking effortlessly lethal and intoxicatingly hot as you cruised down the freeway. You never rode like a maniac; you were actually careful, maintaining moderate, safe speeds that contrasted entirely with your rebel image, but the mere sight of you on that machine was enough to make Katsuki’s chest tighten with a toxic mix of fury, anxiety, and something heavy and aching that he didn't know how to name.
He’d had a crush on you since their second year at the academy. It was a pathetic, lingering thing that had grown from a stubborn spark into a roaring, suffocating fire over the years.
He hated it.
He hated how his eyes automatically tracked you when you walked into a room. He hated how he knew the exact sound of your bike’s engine long before you even turned into the parking lot. He hated that you were his best friend, the one person who could shove him back, call him out on his bullshit, and then offer him a drag of your vape with a crooked, teasing smile that made his heart do stupid flips.
"Dude, look at this," Sero said, shoving his phone in front of Kirishima’s face. "She posted a story an hour ago. She’ll probably be here soon"
"She better be," Katsuki muttered, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "If she misses the study session because she was busy taking videos for her stupid followers, I’m going to throw her helmet into the campus pond."
"You wouldn't dare," Denki snickered, leaning back against the vinyl. "That helmet probably cost more than my entire computer setup. Plus, she’d actually kill you. Like, buried under the football stadium, no one finds the body."
You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. You were never this late when you promised to buy him a coffee to make up for stealing his notes the day before.
Above the greasy smell of burgers and the low hum of student gossip, the diner’s multiple television screens—mounted in the corners of the ceiling, usually tuned to sports or mindless talk shows—suddenly flickered. A bright, obnoxious red banner flashed across the bottom of the screens: BREAKING NEWS.
Katsuki didn't pay attention at first. He was too busy staring at the door every time the little bell jingled, hoping to see your leather jacket slide through the entrance.
But then, Denki stopped talking mid-sentence.
The silence that fell over the blonde boy was so abrupt, so entirely uncharacteristic, that Kirishima actually paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Denki? What’s wrong, man? You look like you saw a ghost."
Denki didn't answer. He was staring straight up at the monitor mounted above the cash register. His mouth was slightly open, his face rapidly draining of whatever color it usually had. "Guys...Look at the screen."
Something in Denki’s voice—a sharp, trembling note of sheer terror—made Katsuki’s head snap up instantly. His eyes locked onto the glowing television.
A local news anchor was speaking, her voice muted, but the images on the screen were loud enough to deafen the entire room. It was an aerial shot from a helicopter, looking down at a stretch of the interstate—the very same interstate you used to get to campus from your apartment. The traffic was backed up for miles, a sea of red brake lights, but the focus of the camera was on a horrific, multi-vehicle pileup. Two sedans were crushed like aluminum cans against the concrete divider, and a massive semi-truck was jackknifed across three lanes.
The text scrolling across the bottom read: MASSIVE MULTI-VEHICLE ACCIDENT ON I-95. 3 CONFIRMED DEAD. 4 SEVERELY INJURED. HIGHWAY CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
A collective murmur of shock and sympathy rippled through the other students in the diner. People shook their heads, whispering about how awful it was, how dangerous that stretch of road could be when the afternoon semi-trucks started rolling in.
But Katsuki couldn't breathe. His lungs felt like they had been suddenly filled with wet cement.
The camera on the screen zoomed in closer as emergency responders worked to clear the debris. The paramedics were wheeling a stretcher toward an ambulance, the bright red and blue lights flashing violently against the gray pavement. And there, lying crushed beneath the crumpled bumper of the jackknifed semi, was a mangled frame of metal and plastic.
It was a Honda CBR600RR. The frame was twisted at a grotesque, unnatural angle. The dark, glossy paint was scraped raw, covered in soot and white foam from a fire extinguisher. The front wheel was entirely missing, sheared off by the force of the impact, and the custom decals on the side—the distinct, minimal design that you had meticulously applied yourself—were torn to shreds.
It was your bike.
There wasn't a single doubt in Katsuki’s mind. He had spent hours helping you tune that exact machine. He knew every scratch, every bolt, every single inch of that metal. He had sat behind you on it, his hands locked around your waist, cursing at you to slow down while his heart hammered against his ribs from the sheer thrill of being that close to you.
"No," Mina whispered. The onion ring slipped from her fingers, landing with a dull thud on the table. Her eyes were wide, filling with immediate, hot tears. "No, no, no. That’s... guys, that’s her bike. That’s her."
"Are you sure?" Kirishima’s voice cracked, his usual steady, boisterous demeanor instantly shattering into panic. He slammed his hands onto the table, leaning forward as if getting closer to the screen would change what he was seeing. "There are thousands of bikes like that, right? It could be anyone’s. It’s just a coincidence."
"It’s not," Sero said, his voice entirely hollow. He pointed a trembling finger at the screen. The camera had panned slightly, catching a glimpse of a shattered, dark-visaged helmet rolling across the asphalt into a puddle of oil. "Look at the sticker on the back of the helmet. The silver sun. That’s hers."
The diner around them seemed to fade into a dull, white noise. Several students from their lectures, who knew you from your social media or just from seeing you park outside the engineering building every day, turned around in their seats. They looked at the Bakusquad’s booth, their expressions a mix of horror, pity, and sudden, grim realization. They all recognized the bike. They all knew who it belonged to.
Katsuki couldn't move. He was paralyzed, his eyes locked onto the flashing red lights of the ambulance on the screen.
3 dead. 4 severely injured.
The words repeated in his head like a demonic chant.
3 dead. 3 dead. 3 dead.
Which category were you in? Were you one of the bodies wrapped in a white sheet behind the barrier, or were you one of the broken, bleeding shapes being rushed into the back of a siren-wailing truck?
His chest heaved, but no air came in. His hands, resting on the table, began to shake from sheer, unadulterated panic, burning the cheap laminate of the table. He didn't care. He couldn't feel it. The world was spinning, collapsing in on itself, leaving nothing but the image of your shattered motorcycle on a dirty highway.
BZZZZZZ.
The sudden, harsh vibration of a phone against the tabletop sounded like a gunshot in the silent booth.
Everyone jumped. Katsuki’s head snapped down. It wasn't his phone. It was Jiro’s.
The screen lit up with an unknown number, the location showing the city’s central hospital. Jiro’s hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped the device as she swiped the screen and pressed it to her ear. You had put her down as one of your primary emergency contacts a year ago, laughing over drinks about how your parents were halfway across the world and wouldn't be able to fly in if you ever got into trouble. 'If I ever break a bone or get arrested for public disturbance, you’re the one getting the call, Kyouka,' you had teased.
Nobody breathed. Mina was gripping Kirishima’s arm so tightly her nails were digging through his shirt. Katsuki’s eyes were boring into Jiro’s face, watching every single micro-expression, looking for a death sentence.
"H-hello?" Jiro’s voice was barely a squeak.
She listened. For three agonizing seconds, she just listened, her face pale, her lips trembling. Katsuki felt a cold, primal rage building in his chest—a desperate, terrifying need to grab the phone, to scream into it, to demand answers from whoever was on the other end.
He couldn't lose you.
He hadn't told you.
He hadn't told you that he loved you, that he’d loved you for years, that every single angry outburst and stubborn argument was just him trying to keep you close because he was too much of a coward to say it out loud.
Then, Jiro let out a long, ragged breath that sounded like a sob, her shoulders dropping.
"Yes. Yes, I'm her friend," Jiro choked out, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Is she... is she alive? Please tell me she's alive."
Another pause. The longest second of Katsuki’s life.
"Okay. Okay, thank God. We’re coming. We’re on our way right now. Which room? ICU or emergency? Okay. Thank you."
Jiro hung up the phone and looked up at the table. Before she could even open her mouth, Katsuki was already out of the booth, floor as he grabbed her by the front of her jacket.
"Speak!" he roared, his voice cracking with a raw, terrifying desperation that none of them had ever heard from him before. His eyes were bloodshot, wide with a frantic, unhinged terror. "Is she alive? Tell me she's fucking alive, Jiro, or I will lose my mind!"
"She's alive!" Jiro shouted back, tears finally spilling over her cheeks. "She’s alive, Bakugo! She’s in the emergency room at General. They’re moving her to a room soon. She’s hurt bad, but she’s stable. She’s alive."
The relief that washed over him was so violent it made him almost collapse. He let go of Jiro’s jacket, stumbling back a step, pressing his palm against his forehead. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven gasps. She was alive. You were alive.
"What are we waiting for?" Kirishima said, his face fierce with determination as he grabbed his keys from the table. "Let’s go. Now."
Nobody talked on the drive to the hospital. Kirishima drove his car like a man possessed, weaving through the city traffic with a grim, silent focus that left no room for Denki’s usual commentary or Mina’s anxious shifting. In the passenger seat, Katsuki sat staring straight ahead, his fists clenched so tightly in his lap that his knuckles were stark white, the skin stretched to its absolute limit.
His mind was a toxic wasteland of worst-case scenarios.
Hurt bad but stable.
What did that mean? Did you lose a leg? Was your face scarred? Were you in a coma? He remembered the image of the bike, crushed under the semi-truck, and a sick, acidic wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. You were so small compared to that massive machine, despite your tough exterior, your sharp wit, and your effortless confidence. You were just flesh and bone.
By the time the car screeched to a halt in the hospital’s emergency parking lot, Katsuki was out of the car before the engine had even fully died. He sprinted through the sliding glass doors of the emergency lobby, the sterile, bleached smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol hitting him like a physical blow.
The rest of the group burst in right behind him, but Katsuki was already at the front desk, slamming his palms down onto the counter. The receptionist, a tired-looking woman with a headset, jumped back in surprise at the sheer intensity of the blonde towering over her desk.
"[Last Name], [First Name]. Where is she?" Katsuki demanded, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble that commanded immediate attention. "Brought in from the I-95 pileup. Motorcycle accident. Where is her room?"
"Sir, you need to calm down," the receptionist started, reaching for her computer mouse. "Only immediate family is allowed in the emergency wing—"
"I don't give a shit about your rules!" Katsuki snarled, leaning over the desk, his eyes blazing with a terrifying fire. "Tell me where she is right now or I will walk through every single door in this fucking building until I find her!"
"Bakugo, step back," Kirishima said firmly, placing a heavy, grounding hand on Katsuki’s shoulder and pulling him back. He looked at the receptionist with an expression of pure, desperate pleading. "Please, ma'am. Her parents are out of the country. We're all she has here. She’s our best friend. Please just tell us if she's okay and where we can see her."
The woman looked at Kirishima’s tear-stained face, then at Mina who was practically vibrating with anxiety, and finally back to Katsuki, whose anger was rapidly crumbling into a raw, hollow look of sheer panic. She sighed, her expression softening slightly as she typed rapidly into her keyboard.
"She was just moved out of trauma bay three to a private room in the secondary recovery wing. Room 412," the receptionist said quietly. "She’s stable, but she’s heavily medicated. Only a few of you at a time, please."
Katsuki didn't even wait for her to finish. He turned on his heel and bolted down the hallway, following the overhead signs for the recovery wing. His boots squeaked loudly against the linoleum floors, the sound echoing off the white walls. The rest of the squad struggled to keep up with his frantic pace as he tore through the corridors, turning corners sharply until he reached the fourth floor.
410. 411. 412.
He stopped dead outside the door. His hand hovered over the silver handle, suddenly trembling. For all his bravado, for all his screaming and his desperate need to get here, a paralyzing fear seized him.
What was he going to see when he opened that door?
Kirishima and the others caught up, breathless, stopping right behind him. Mina reached out, gently placing her hand over Katsuki’s trembling fingers, giving him a small, supportive nod.
Katsuki took a deep, shaky breath, closed his eyes for a split second, and pushed the door open.
The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic, steady beep of a heart monitor. The curtains were drawn, casting the room in a dim, soft shadow. And there, in the center of the raised hospital bed, surrounded by tangled IV lines and plastic tubes, lay you.
Katsuki’s heart stopped.
You looked like you had been put through a meat grinder. The left side of your face was heavily bruised, a deep, nasty shade of purple and blue swelling around your cheekbone and jawline, with a white butterfly bandage sealing a neat laceration over your eyebrow. Your left shoulder was heavily bandaged, strapped securely to your chest in a thick, restrictive immobilizing sling to keep it completely still after being popped back into its socket.
But worst of all was the road rash. The gorgeous, intricate Japanese sleeve on your right arm was partially obscured by raw, angry red scrapes where the asphalt had chewed through your leather jacket, the dark ink of your tattoo disrupted by patches of medical ointment and gauze.
You looked incredibly small beneath the heavy white hospital blankets.
Mina let out a muffled sob, covering her mouth with both hands as she rushed to the right side of the bed, careful not to touch any of the wires. "Oh my god... oh my god, [Y/N]?"
The sound of Mina’s voice seemed to stir you. The steady beep of the heart monitor spiked slightly, quickening in tempo. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy and sluggish, struggling against the sheer weight of the heavy narcotics pumping through your system.
Slowly, your eyes cracked open. They were glassy, completely unfocused, swimming in a haze of high-grade hospital painkillers. You blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog, your head rolling lazily on the pillow toward the sound of the voices.
You looked at Mina, then at Kirishima, Sero, and Jiro, your expression blank for a moment before a slow, incredibly goofy, loopsided smile began to spread across your bruised lips. The sheer absurdity of the smile on your battered face was jarring.
You looked past them, your glassy gaze finally landing on Katsuki, who was standing at the foot of the bed like a rigid, terrified statue, unable to move a single muscle.
You let out a low, raspy chuckle that turned into a small wince as your cracked ribs protested the movement. You swallowed hard, your voice slurred and thick with heavy sedation as you gave a weak, lazy wave with your uninjured right hand.
"Hey..." you slurred, your voice dropping into a sing-song, entirely unbothered tone. "Hey~"
Katsuki’s jaw dropped. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the situation hit him like a physical slap. He had spent the last hour convinced you were dead, his chest practically imploding from grief and terror, and here you were, high as a kite, greeting them like you had just bumped into them at a grocery store.
"Hey?" Katsuki repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, incredulous register. He marched around the bed, shoving past Denki until he was standing right over you, his hands gripping the metal guardrail of the bed. "That’s all you have to say for yourself? Hey? You stupid, reckless, irresponsible piece of shit!"
"Whoa," you muttered, your eyes widening in slow-motion wonder as you stared up at his angry, flushed face. "Baku... Bakugo. You’re... you’re really loud. Your hair looks like an explosion. Like... a really angry dandelion."
"Don't joke around, you idiot!" Katsuki yelled, though the volume was choked by the sudden tightness in his throat. Tears—hot, angry, frustrated tears—were finally blurring his vision, and he hated it, but he couldn't stop them. "We saw your bike on the news! It was crushed under a fucking semi! We thought you were dead! Do you have any idea what you put us through?!"
"My bike?" you asked, your brow furrowing in a slow, confused effort to process the words. "Oh... yeah. A big truck went... skrrrrt. And then I went whoosh. It was like a movie. Am I an action star now? Mina... tell me I looked cool."
"You did not look cool!" Mina cried, half-laughing and half-sobbing as she gently squeezed your uninjured hand. "You almost died! You have a broken rib and your shoulder was dislocated!"
"Oh, that’s why my chest feels like Kirishima stepped on it," you murmured, letting your head sink back into the pillow with a lazy sigh. You looked up at the ceiling, a dreamy, entirely detached smile on your face. "The doctors gave me the good stuff. I feel like... I’m floating on a cloud. A cloud made of cotton candy and... and vanilla."
"You're high out of your mind," Jiro said, letting out a weak, relieved laugh as she rubbed her temples. "The nurse said you’re on heavy painkillers. You probably can't even feel your own legs right now."
"I have legs?" you joked, giggling weakly before another sharp wince cut through the laughter. "Ow. Okay, laughing is a bad idea. No more jokes."
"Good, because nothing about this is fucking funny," Katsuki snapped, his voice trembling violently. He was looking at your right arm, at the raw, bleeding patches of skin cutting through the tattoo you were so proud of. It broke something inside him. The anger that had been keeping him upright suddenly began to drain away, leaving behind a hollow, aching void of unadulterated terror. He looked so pale, so entirely shattered, that Kirishima quietly stepped forward, placing a hand on Sero and Denki’s shoulders.
"Hey, guys," Kirishima said softly, his eyes lingering on Katsuki’s rigid form before looking back at you. "Let’s... let’s go find the doctor and get an official update on her chart. Give her some room to breathe. She needs to rest anyway."
"Yeah," Sero agreed quickly, picking up on the heavy, suffocating tension vibrating between Katsuki and you. "Let’s go see if we can get some water or something."
Mina leaned down, gently kissing your uninjured cheek, careful to avoid the bruises. "We’ll be right outside, okay? Don't move too much."
"Can't move anyway," you slurred, your eyes already drifting shut as the sedation pulled at you. "Bye, guys..."
The door clicked shut as the five of them quietly filed out of the room, leaving nothing but the steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the monitor and the heavy silence that settled over the space.
Katsuki didn't move from his spot by the guardrail of the bed. He stood there, staring down at your pale, bruised face, his chest tightening, his hands clenched into fists against the metal bar. The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache that made it hard to breathe.
You were right here.
You were alive.
But the image of your mangled bike wouldn't leave his mind.
You opened your eyes again, just a fraction, sensing that he hadn't left. You looked at him through a heavy, drug-induced haze, your expression softening slightly as you noticed the tears still tracks down his cheeks.
"Katsuki," you muttered, your voice losing some of its playful, slurred edge, dropping into something softer, more vulnerable. "Why are you... why are you crying? Angry dandelions shouldn't cry."
"Shut up," he choked out, his voice cracking. He couldn't hold it back anymore. The dam broke. He let go of the guardrail and sank into the hard plastic chair beside the bed, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as a low, ragged sob tore from his throat. "Just shut the fuck up."
You blinked, the fog in your brain clearing just enough for a wave of genuine worry to hit your chest. You had never seen Katsuki Bakugo cry like this. Not during their grueling exams at the academy, not when he failed a project, not when he was at his absolute worst. He was always the pillar of explosive, unyielding strength. Seeing him completely broken down in a hospital chair was more terrifying than the semi-truck sliding toward your lane.
Slowly, painfully, you dragged your right hand across the white blanket, the movement making your broken rib throb with a dull, distant ache despite the heavy narcotics. You reached out until your fingers brushed against his wrist, gently tapping the back of his hand.
"Hey," you said softly, your voice cracking with a sudden rush of emotion. "Hey. Look at me. I'm okay. I'm right here."
Katsuki pulled his hands away from his face, his eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot, and wide with a raw, agonizing vulnerability. He didn't pull away from your touch. Instead, his large, rough hand shot out, wrapping gently but firmly around your fingers, squeezing them as if he was terrified you would vanish into thin air if he let go.
"You're an idiot," he whispered, his voice trembling with a desperate intensity. "You're a stupid, reckless, irresponsible idiot. You don't care about anything. You skip class, you stay out late, you ride that stupid fucking bike down the highway like you're invincible. You think everything is a joke."
"Katsuki—"
"No, listen to me!" he snapped, his voice dropping into a choked-up growl as he leaned closer to the bed, his eyes burning into yours. "You don't get to talk. I sat in that fucking diner and watched your crushed bike be shown on screen. I sat there for three minutes not knowing if you were a corpse on the way to the morgue or if you were dying in the back of the ambulance that brought you here. Do you have any fucking idea what that did to me?"
You stared at him, the heavy fog of the painkillers suddenly feeling like a distant background noise compared to the raw, suffocating gravity of his words. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the monitor spiking its tempo into a fast, frantic rhythm. Beep-beep-beep-beep.
"I was terrified," Katsuki confessed, a hot tear slipping down his cheek and landing on your intertwined fingers. His grip tightened, his knuckles shaking. "I have never been so fucking scared in my entire life. Because the second I saw your bike, the only thing I could think about was that I never told you."
You swallowed hard, your throat dry, your chest tightening with something that had nothing to do with your broken ribs. "Tell me what?"
"That I love you, you stupid ass!" Katsuki burst out, the confession tearing out of his chest like a violent, agonizing scream that he had been holding in for years. It was angry, it was raw, it was completely devoid of any romance or gentleness, but it was the truest thing he had ever said. "I’ve loved you since our fucking academy days! I’ve loved you through every single stupid argument, every single time you stole my notes, every single night you went to some trash party and I sat by my phone waiting for you to text me that you got home safe!"
You froze, your breath catching in your throat. You stared at him, your glassy eyes widening in complete, utter shock. The words hung in the sterile hospital air, heavy and undeniable, shifting the entire foundation of your world in a single second.
"Katsuki..." you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.
"I hate how you ride that bike," he continued, the words pouring out of him like an unstoppable flood, his voice cracking with a deep, angsty desperation. "I hate how you vape that sweet, chemical shit. I hate how you don't take anything seriously. But I love you so fucking much it makes me sick. I love your stupid tattoos, I love your stupid laugh, and I love how you’re the only person who doesn't back down when I start screaming. And the thought of you dying on that highway... the thought of living in a world where I don't get to see your stupid, smug face every day... it fucking destroyed me, okay? It completely destroyed me."
He dropped his forehead against the edge of the mattress, his grip on your hand so tight it was almost bruising, his shoulders heaving as he let out a long, ragged, exhausted breath. He had laid his entire soul bare on a hospital floor, stripped of all his pride, all his anger, all his armor, leaving nothing but a boy who was desperately, helplessly in love with his best friend.
The room was silent except for the frantic, fast-paced beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, betraying exactly how much his words had shattered your calm, drug-induced state.
You stared down at his blonde, spiky hair resting against the white sheets. The shock was still buzzing in your veins, but beneath the haze of the narcotics, a deep, warm, ache was blooming in your chest. You had known Katsuki was protective. You had known he was stubborn. But you had never, not even in your wildest dreams, realized the depth of the fire burning inside him for you. You had spent years keeping him at arm's length, hiding your own lingering feelings behind a mask of bad-influence rebellion, smoking and partying and riding fast just to feel something that could distract you from the terrifying intensity of the explosive boy who always sat next to you in those lecture halls.
Slowly, you used your thumb to stroke the rough, calloused skin of his hand, your heart swelling until it felt like it would burst right through your broken ribs.
"Katsuki," you said softly, your voice thicker now, tears finally pricking the corners of your own eyes, cutting through the chemical numbness.
He didn't move. He kept his face buried in the sheets, his voice muffled and stubborn. "What? Go ahead. Tell me I’m a dumbass. Tell me the drugs are making you hallucinate this shit."
"Look at me," you pleaded gently, tugging on his hand. "Please. Look at me."
Slowly, reluctantly, Katsuki lifted his head. His face was a mess—flushed, tear-streaked, his eyes wide and bracing himself for a rejection, for a joke, for you to laugh it off with another high-grade narcotic quip.
But you weren't smiling. Your expression was incredibly soft, vulnerable, and completely clear despite the drugs.
"I'm not going to laugh at you," you whispered, a single tear slipping down your bruised cheek, tracing the line of your jaw. "And I'm not hallucinating."
You squeezed his hand back, using every ounce of strength you had in your fingers. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I scared you so bad. I'm sorry I almost made you think I was gone."
You paused, swallowing hard, your eyes locking onto his brilliant, fiery red irises with an intensity that made his breath catch. "But you're a total idiot if you think you're the only one. I’ve been hiding behind this stupid, reckless persona for years because I was too terrified to admit that the only person I ever wanted to look at me was you. I ride that bike because it’s the only thing that moves fast enough to keep up with how crazy you make me feel. I love you too, Katsuki. I’ve loved you for a really, really long time."
Katsuki froze. He stared at you, his mind entirely blanking out as your words sank in, processing the information with a slow, stunned disbelief. "You... what?"
"I love you," you repeated, a tiny, genuine, emotional smile breaking through the bruises on your face. "You angry dandelion."
Katsuki let out a sharp, breathless sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He stood up from the plastic chair, leaning over the bed, his face just inches from yours. He looked at your bruised lips, then at the bandage on your forehead, his eyes wild with a sudden, overwhelming rush of pure affection and relief.
He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to kiss you so badly it was an physical ache in his jaw, but he looked at your dislocated shoulder, your broken rib, and your raw, scraped skin, and he hesitated, his hands hovering over your face, terrified of hurting you.
"Can I..." he whispered, a rare note of tentative gentleness in his voice. "Can I kiss you, or will your stupid face break?"
"Shut up and kiss me, Bakugo," you breathed, a lazy, drug-addled smirk returning to your lips for just a fraction of a second. "Just be careful with the ribs."
He leaned down, closing the distance between you with an agonizing, beautiful slowness. When his lips finally met yours, it wasn't explosive or angry like his usual personality. It was incredibly soft, and tender—a quiet, desperate sealing of a promise that had been years in the making. He tasted like the salty tang of his tears and the familiar, warm heat of his skin. You tasted like the faint, artificial vanilla of your vape and the bitter copper of the hospital room.
It was perfect. It was everything you had ever wanted, everything he had ever fought against admitting, a quiet anchor in the middle of a chaotic, broken day.
The heart monitor was practically screaming now, a rapid, frantic rhythm that echoed off the white walls, but neither of you cared.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours, his hot breath fanning across your skin. His large hand was gently cupping the unbruised side of your jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear.
"The second they let you out of this prison," Katsuki muttered, his voice dropping back into its familiar, possessive rumble, though the warmth in his eyes was undeniable. "I am selling what’s left salvageable of that fucking bike. You are never riding one again. You’re riding with me from now on. In a car. With airbags."
You let out a soft, wheezing laugh, your eyes drifting shut as the heavy wave of the painkillers finally began to drag you back down into a deep, healing sleep. "Okay... whatever you say, chief. Just... don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere, you idiot," Katsuki whispered, his fingers tangling into your dark hair, smoothing it back against the pillow as your breathing slowed into a steady, deep rhythm. He slid back into the plastic chair, never once letting go of your hand, his red eyes fixed entirely on your sleeping face.
The door to the room cracked open slightly, and Kirishima peeked his head in, his eyes widening as he saw the peaceful, quiet atmosphere and the way Katsuki was holding your hand like it was the most precious thing in the world. Kirishima gave a soft smile, nodding to the rest of the squad waiting in the hallway, letting them know that for the first time all day, everything was going to be exactly where it belonged.
scarecrow! denki kaminari x cowardly lion! ejirou kirishima x tinman! hanta sero x dorothy! reader; theatre au
🌷: you guys should tell me if you like this and i’ll post the endings i have for each of the boys
denki ending sero ending kirishima ending
the new girl was illusive, and mysterious. she was a brand new transfer student, and she was already getting a lead, she didn’t even come to callbacks. people were saying she was actually on broadway.
you were the new girl, and none of that was true.
theatre programs, especially high school ones, were like their own reality tv show. dramatic, ridiculous, and hilariously entertaining.
from closing night the year before, thespians gossip and create stories about what the show will be, and who will get the roles. it’s a natural part of the process.
when everyone saw your name at the top of the cast list, all hell broke loose.
“who is y/n l/n?! is this a joke?!”
“i can’t believe this— i’m going to the director, this is ridiculous!”
“i’m gonna be sick, this can’t be real.”
yeah, dramatic.
especially the three leads, kaminari, kirishima, and sero. they went straight up to their good friend, director actually, and all asked the same question.
“who the hell is y/n?”
mrs. kayama looked up from her desk, already trying to sneak out of school from these exact type of questions. she moved her glasses up to her forehead, “i told you guys, there’s a new girl coming here after break, she reached out in advance to audition.”
“she wasn’t at callbacks, you never give anyone a role without callbacks.” kaminari started.
“well, she’s really good.” mrs. kayama shrugged, “and she’s nice, you’ll like working with her.”
and the conversation ended at that, the director getting up and leaving.
the first rehearsal was a read through of the script, right before winter break started. conversation buzzed from all the eager participants, including the leads.
but no one saw the new girl, which was the topic of their conversation to be honest, and since kaminari was always one to stir the pot, he raised his hand just as mrs. kayama was about to get started.
“hey, where’s our dorothy?” he asked loudly, looking around the theatre as well to be dramatic.
mrs. kayama adjusted her script on her lap, “she’s gonna be a little late, she’s still in school right now, i’ll read through her lines until she gets here.”
“seems she’s not very dedicated.” kaminari joked, leaning back into his seat.
the read through was smooth until you came walking in, you silently picked up the vibes of the theatre, taking a seat on the stage next to, who you assumed, were leads.
you took your script out and seamlessly picked up to the scene. it was just the wicked witch speaking, who was played by a girl with dark purple hair and thick eyeliner, she seemed sweet.
you looked next to you at the three boys next to you. the farthest one from you had shaggy black hair, that looked ruffed but purposefully done. he had dark eyes, that you couldn’t tell what the color in them was, it changed in the lighting.
he had multiple piercings, lip, eyebrow, and all the way along his earlobes. the jewelry was mismatched and a little odd, but they fit his vibe in a way. he had a lazy smile on his lips, his body language was languid and sleepy almost.
the boy next to him, closer to you, had yellow blondish hair with a black patch in the front. he had piercings too, but only along his ears, none on his face. compared to his friend next to him, he had an electric energy to him, strumming his hand on his thigh constantly.
the last boy, the one right next to you, was a healthy balance between the two, from what you could tell. he has one ear pierced and his septum pierced. his hair was a vibrant red and was gelled straight up to the sky. he had a friendly disposition, with a sweet smile.
he leaned down to your ear, his voice low, “hey, you’re y/n right? i’m assuming since you have all the dorothy lines highlighted in your book.” he joked, pointing down to your script, which had all your lines highlighted in pink.
his joke elicited a small laugh from you, “yeah, yeah, i’m y/n. it’s nice to meet you… um…”
“kirishima.” he flashed a friendly smile, “it’s nice to meet you, everyone’s been waiting to meet you, since you haven’t transferred yet—“
“kirishima, i love that you’re welcoming the new girl, but not right now.” mrs. kayama interrupted, adjusted the bright red glasses on her nose.
“yes ma’am!” “sorry!” the both of you spoke at the same time, he looked over at you with the same smile. he hit your knee with his knuckle and turned back to the person reciting their lines.
now that he mentioned it, you did feel kinda gawked at. you knew people would be curious about who you were, you felt like you were on display. when you walked in, people stared and whispered, and people were still looking at you.
yeah, theatre kids are really dramatic.
once the read through was finished, you felt swarmed. it was like a circle formed around you, all saying something different to you, but in reality, it was five people and only one was talking. what was really overwhelming you was their stares.
“so you’re y/n? oh my gosh— it’s so nice to meet you, when i saw your name on the cast list i was like woah, who is this? and then i found your instagram and i was like, woah she’s hot!” a pink haired girls came up to you, her bright eyes stared directly at you, and her words never paused until she got all of her thoughts out. she was already leaning on your shoulder, arm slung around you.
you laughed quietly, “yeah… you followed me, mina, right?” you asked, “i don’t think i could forget that pink hair.”
“yo, i like your voice, it’s like, smooth, i don’t know.” the yellow blonde guy complimented, “denki kaminari, scarecrow.”
you nodded slowly, returning the smile, just not nearly as bright. his eyes crinkle as his smile gets wider, like he truly was excited to meet you, “thank you… i like your hair, it’s fun.” your comment boosted his ego, lifting his chin up a little higher at your words.
the boy with shaggy hair interjected into the conversation, “hanta sero, tinman, nice meeting you new girl.”
“she has a name!” mina hit the taller boy’s arm, “stop with the stupid nicknames. anyways, i’m gonna add you to this group chat with all the leads since most of our rehearsals overlap. it’s me, momo, who’s playing the wicked witch, denki, sero, and kiri. so let me get your number.”
winter break was filled with impending doom and anxiety for switching schools. things weren’t good at your old school, but things could easily be worse at a new school. the leads group chat had been sending a lot of tiktoks, but you didn’t talk so it’s not like you could rely on them to help you.
on your first day, you didn’t know anyone in your classes, and most of them didn’t make the effort to talk to you. so the pit of anxiety got worse, increasing as lunch came closer and closer.
you didn’t even want to step into that lunch room. you remember mrs. kayama telling you that you could always ask her any questions when she was talking to you in the hallway earlier… but you weren’t sure if that extended to eating lunch in her room. regardless, it’s your only option, so that’s where you were heading right now.
you peaked your head into the classroom, seeing an empty classroom besides the back corner. mrs. kayama was sitting at her desk, grading, while kirishima, denki, and sero were chatting around her desk.
of course, they were probably asking for help or something, you should leave. you turned to leave, but mrs. kayama is all seeing apparently.
“y/n! did you need something?” she called out from her desk. you froze, wishing people weren’t so observant, before turning back around.
“it’s nothing… i don’t need anything.” you said with a smile, you did not want to admit you needed a place to eat lunch.
“what class are you in?” kirishima asked.
“lunch.” you shrugged, slowly trying to move out of the room.
“oh! me too!” denki called out, walking over to you, “we were talking about rehearsal today.” he dragged you over to the teacher’s desk.
“i’ve been waiting to start rehearsing all break, i’m so excited.” kirishima started.
“yeah, he’s always the first to learn his lines, he gets a bit eager.” sero informed you, with a smug smirk on his face.
“and you’re too relaxed, you never know your lines until tech week— if at all!” kirishima argued.
their friendly bickering made you smile. you never had friends, that’s why you moved schools, but you always wanted friends. good friends, that would laugh with you and not at you.
“you’re pretty spacey, huh?” denki commented, bumping your shoulder. you looked over at him and shrugged, “just, not a big talker.” you lied.
he looked at the lunch box your were holding, it had a floral design on it, something a mom would buy. “you need someone to eat lunch with?” he asked, taking the bag from you as the other two continued to bicker.
your heart sank, then bounced back and started rapidly beating. all the nerves in your body jolted, embarrassment did that to you a lot.
“oh— um… no—“
“you can sit with me, those two can as well.” the blonde smiled, not noticing your current emotions, “they don’t have lunch, they have study hall, but they always skip.” he looked through your bag, checking what you had packed.
you rubbed your arms and shook your head, “you really don’t have to.” you muttered. you hated being pitied, and you didn’t want to be an intruder in their friendship.
“no, seriously,” denki smiled, almost like it was his default expression, “sero! kirishima! you want y/n to sit with us during lunch?”
“yeah!”
“sounds good!”
denki turned back to you, “so it’s settled, you’ll like us, i promise.” he put an arm around you.
in all honesty, it made you a bit uncomfortable, but you could never get friends if you didn’t accept the offers people presented you, so you silently agreed, not know what you just got yourself into.
it’s been three weeks now, filled with rehearsal and school, and it’s been the weirdest three weeks of your life. you thought going to a new school was gonna be a disaster, but people were actually talking to you.
maybe being dorothy gave you more clout and everyone thought they could talk to you. you weren’t complaining, it was nice having somewhat friends.
like right now, you were walking with sero to his locker after school before you two went to rehearsal. you did this almost everyday, with sero catching you walking out of ap euro.
“do you have the notes from yesterday for the cold war? his notes confuse me.” you asked, eyes focused on your ipad as you walked, trying to decipher the odd guided notes.
“yeah, i’ll send them over to you—“
as you two walked, someone flung open the classroom door you two were walking by, almost slamming you in the face, if sero hadn’t grabbed the door, “watch where you’re going dude!” the tall boy called out, “seriously, are people that inconsiderate?” he turned to you, letting the door go and continued walking.
“you’d be surprised how little people care when they don’t know your name.” you shrugged, closing up your ipad, “thanks for that though.”
he let out a annoyed huff as they got to his locker, “what do you know about people not caring, you’re super well liked.”
you let out a dry laugh as he fumbled with his lock, “you sure about that?”
“yeah! i don’t want to hear you be self loathing right now.” he smiled over at you, pulling the lock down and opening up his locker.
you let out a deep breath and leaned onto the wall, “do you even know why i switched schools?” you asked slowly, already feeling you heart rate speed up from the idea of telling him.
he just shook his head and shrugged, “you gonna tell me?” he didn’t think much of this conversation, he was relaxed in his posture, focused more on what books he needed instead of the conversation.
you hesitated, silently wondering if you should tell him. he probably doesn’t care, but i didn’t want to admit that you were so lonely it made you move schools. you looked over at him, his expression chilled and soft. you only made friends through honesty… right?
“well… i was super lonely, like i had not friends.” you admitted, speaking quickly, purposefully scuffing your shoes so you could look down.
you could tell he stopped moving, but you didn’t want to peek at his expression. you heard him drop his back pack and grab your forearm, “seriously?” his eyebrows furrowed as you looked up at him.
“yeah—“
“that can’t be true.” he said quickly.
“well… i lived it, so yeah, it is.” you laughed, but it came out more bitter than intended.
he was quiet for a moment, before smiling at you, “then… for the record, i think you are a lovely person and an amazing friend, they’re missing out.”
his words filled warmth in your heart, and the overwhelming feeling you usually get either anxiety was replaced with peace. he moved on quickly after that, ushering you to rehearsal, but his words meant a lot, and you were hung up on them the rest of the day.
“okay, now, y/n, i kinda want you to be following him around, since he’s flying all over the stage, i kinda have to run after him.” mrs. kayama explained.
the choreography for if i only had a brain was already finished, but apparently mrs. kayama often changed most of the number after choreography was finished. so now your part is extremely different.
you just nodded and smiled, trying to think through the whole number with your new blocking. “…. the rest of the choreo can be the same, i just don’t want dorothy dancing with the crows and everything.” she explained, biting the arm of her glasses.
“okay, start the song from the beginning, and denki. sing.”
“yes ma’am!” he responded with a smile.
he really was a good scarecrow, his voice was smooth and charming, adding a nice southern tone to the character. he shined on stage as well, always having a bright smile on his face, or an over dramatic expression when dancing.
you loved watching him tap dance, apparently he had done it since he was a kid, so he was able to balance the dancing, singing, and acting to make one coherent number.
“if i had an ounce of common sense~”
“what would you do scarecrow?” you recited your line, leaning in a little bit to denki. then he gave you that stupid goofy grin, it was contagious.
he started singing again, and this is when you started following him around the stage. he moved around stage, flinging him limbs around like a good scarecrow does.
“oh i, could tell you why~”
he took your hand and spun you once, eliciting a giggle out of you.
“the ocean’s near the shore~”
you both turned out to the audience, sliding your leg out in a circle around you.
“you could think of things you never thought before~” you sang, leaning in towards him, “and then i’d sit—“
he lightly pushed you to the ground in a teasing matter, “and think some more~”
you quickly got up when the focus was on him and his singing in the following lines, before stepping into the same light as him.
“woah! why, if our scarecrow back in kansas could do that— the crows’d be scared to pieces!” you exclaimed, wide eyed and dramatic.
“they would?” denki replied, his expression just as exaggerated.
“well of course!” you laughed, denki walked to the other side of you, “where’s kansas?”
“that’s where i live! and i want to get back there so badly,” you furrowed your eyebrows and shook your head, “i’m going all the way to the emerald city to get the wizard of oz to help me!”
“your gonna see a wizard?” denki grabbed your shoulders and peaked over to lock eyes with you. “mhm.”
“do you think if i went with you, this wizard would give me some brains?” he asked, coasting his hand out in front of your face, like he was imagining his future.
“i couldn’t say…” you pouted, and denki let go of your shoulders, looking dejected.
you then turned to him and grabbed his forearms, “but even if he didn’t, you’d be no worse off than you are now.” you shrugged.
denki laughed a little bit, tilting his head, “yeah, that’s true.” he admitted, before going back into singing.
the song ended with denki out of breath, along with the tap dancing crows. you felt fine, your choreography was mostly just following them around.
“i loved that.” mrs. kayama started, “just needs to be cleaned up.”
“and denki, i loved the way you interacted with y/n, it felt very natural and curious, so keep making those eyes are her and everything, got it?”
you furrowed your eyebrows, those eyes? what does that mean? he couldn’t seriously be making eyes at you during rehearsal, that’d be stupid.
as you two left the rehearsal, walking to your cars, you looked over at him, “hey, what did she mean eyes? i’m a little confused.”
denki shrugged as he unlocked his car, “it’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”
you shook your head and laughed, “are you making eyes at me scarecrow?” you teased, shoving his shoulder.
he laughed as well, but something about his gaze at you felt longing instead of joking. “of course— no one can resist your charm!” he fell on top of you, which made you squeal.
he seemed to play stupid a lot, especially when people brought up his peculiar actions. he shamelessly flirted with every girl he came across, but you, it was odd. it would hurt you, but it didn’t feel like he thought you were ugly or lesser than, more like a boundary he didn’t want to cross for some odd reason. you felt respected around him, in a weird way.
it was four weeks to show week, which seemed like a long time, but to you, it felt like impending doom. you always felt behind and late, crawling to catch up when there was nothing to do.
you were walking to the performing arts room because there was a ensemble rehearsal you offered to help with. the stared at the floor of the hallway as you moved, until you saw black sneakers start walking next to you.
“kiri?” you looked up, seeing the vibrant red hair before seeing the friendly smile underneath, “what are you doing here?” you smiled, happy to have a friend to walk with.
he looked forward and shrugged, “i don’t have anything to do, and your hair was hypnotizing me from down the hallway.”
you laughed and gave him a look, “hypnotized? really?”
“yeah!” he exclaimed, like it was obvious. “it looks really good today.” his red eyes sparkled as he reached out to smooth it.
“thank you! i tried something new.” you explained, straightening your shoulders in confidence.
silence came over you two for a moment, before his words came out panicked, “i-i mean— you look good everyday! you look great everyday actually! if anything— this look is like— below average for how you usually look—“ he rambled, trying to correct his statement, despite the fact that there was no reason to.
if this was a test, the answer would be ‘leave the sentence as is.’
“i look… below average?” you asked slowly, trying to understand his fumbled words.
“no! that’s not what i meant like at all— oh my gosh—“ he put his face in his hands, groaning like it was a pillow.
he took a deep breath and locked eyes with you once again, “how you usually look is so amazing that today is like— okay! i’m trying to make a point about how you’re pretty all the time!” he finally yelled out as you two approached the door to the theatre room.
you burst into laughter, lowering down to the ground while holding your stomach, “y-yeah— i think i picked that up—“
you heard kirishima huff, before starting to laugh as well, “sorry, sorry—“ you giggled as you straightened yourself out.
you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, “i’m helping mrs. kayama with the poppy song… if you wanted to help as well.” you offered.
he smiled and opened up the door, “of course i will.” he held the door by the top of it and pulled it open for you, his bicep flexing softly.
he stepped into the room after you, “the melodies are super difficult so she wanted help with—“
“y/n! over here— we’ve got your costume!”
your shoulders drop in a deep huff, “i never get a break.” you muttered, “well, you are dorothy.” kiri teased, before walking to where the singing was coming from, and you walked towards the costume designer.
“go put this on and show it to mrs. kayama.” the costume director shoved the blue dress into your hands, then straightening his jean jacket.
the baby blue gingham on the dress was iconic, with gems being placed sparingly along the design. the neck line has lace hand sewed to the edges, same with the white puffy sleeves. it was a little short, but had a slightly longer white skirt layered under it.
you walked away to change, muttered about how dramatic the costume designer much better to bedazzle a dorothy costume.
you shuffled through the hallways awkwardly, trying not to let anyone see you in your costume, any straggling students who didn’t leave till late. sliding into the theatre, you awkwardly walked through the blocking the poppies were doing.
“sorry— excuse me— my bad—“
you walked out to the front of the stage, trying to find mrs. kayama, but you heard her before you saw her.
“oh my gosh!” her voice boomed through out the theatre, “your costume looks perfect— i love it, he did amazing with that.” she approached you from across the stage, running her hands across the dress.
she started asking you questions about the fit, if it was comfortable, “i need a second opinion, kirishima!”
you looked over to the boy, who had a star strucken look. his mouth was open, like there were words on the tip of his tongue he wanted to say, but nothing was coming out.
he got up from his seat in the audience and walked up, “s-she looks amazing.” he muttered quietly, almost like he was scared to admit it.
“not below average?” you teased, sporting a pout on your face.
he got all red, blending in with his hair, “you know what i meant!” he yelled, earning a giggle from you.
“does it really look good? like the jewels aren’t overkill?” you lifted up the skirt to look at the subtle bedazzling.
“no, no, it looks really good… the gems sparkle on stage with the lights… and it matches your eyes.” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
mrs. kayama got distracted by a freshmen asking a unneeded question at the moment, which always annoyed her. so you two stood there quietly for a moment.
all you could think about was kirishima’s comments recently. he was always complimenting you, and maybe it was normal cause he always made sure all his friends felt loved, but it felt different with you. he paid more attention, checked up when you got quiet, and went out of his way to find you instead of expecting you to come to him.
it made you feel worthy, and beautiful, in a way you never felt before.
“you… really think i’m pretty, huh?” you commented quietly.
he adjusted your puffy sleeve, all attention on you in those red eyes, “yeah, thought it was obvious.”
rehearsal’s with full run throughs were your favorite. the bustling energy and full cast made you excited for show days, but today you were stressed out.
just earlier that day, during lunch, the three boys decided to casually mention that they were getting an actual dog for todo.
“wait— what did you just say?” you asked quickly, setting your lunch down.
sero looked at you with a furrowed brow, his piercing glistening slightly, “yeah… my dog’s gonna be todo, she’s really sweet, do not be afraid.” he smiled.
you shook your head, “i like dogs, that’s not my issue, why am i just hearing about this?”
denki and kirishima were silently, trying to focus on their food. all three of the boys had learned that you don’t take well to random changes without being informed. you could deal with choreography changes quickly, or blocking changes, but drastic changes made you anxious and worried.
sero stole one of the berries in your lunch and shrugged, “it’ll all be fine.” he gave you a smirk, making eye contact with your worried features.
“sero—“
“seriously sweetheart.” he grinned, moving your hair, “i’ll introduce her to you and everything, and you’re like, the smartest girl i know, you can pick up dealing with the dog quickly, stop doubting yourself.”
he said it like it was nothing, like it was a no brainer to believe in you. it calmed you, settled your nerves and let you walk in to rehearsal with a slightly new perspective, still anxious though.
everyone in the cast was excited to meet the puppy, but you stayed on the stage, pacing back and forth. you were already feeling anxious about costume changes, and you didn’t want to look stupid with the dog.
you heard the squeals of cast members, as sero carried in the puppy. many tried to reach out to her, but sero kept walking until he was all the way up to the stage, next to you.
“her name is donut.” sero introduced, slowly passing the puppy to you. she was a cavalier and incredibly tiny. her brown and white for was exceptionally soft, the yellow collar jingling,
“you… named her donut?” you tilted your head, while sero’s eyes settled some of the anxiety inside of you.
he laughed and pulled an arm around you, “nah, my sister, we got her two months ago.” he pet the fluffy dog before cooing, “and she’s just the sweetest isn’t she?”
you giggled and nudged his shoulder, “cut it with the baby talk.”
he just pouted to you, “why not?” he kept the childlike voice, before bursting into laughter with you.
“yeah.” he shrugged, “but a lot of act two we won’t need her.”
you nodded slowly, as donut nuzzled her face into your hand with her wet nose. the cuteness of her made you giggle, “see, she likes you, you don’t gotta worry about anything.” sero reassured, rubbing your back.
his touch jolted you and comforted you at the same time. you always felt so… normal around him. he didn’t make your differences your personality, he just helped you through them. that’s something you always wanted, craved even.
“we don’t have a lot of time today— so if you are not in costume yet— go!” mrs. kayama yelled out to the whole cast.
which, meant that you were starting, like now. that made anxiety flood through you again, but one look at sero, and his lazy smile calmed everything in you.
when you first transferred, you thought it was gonna be exactly like your old school. no friends, spiked anxiety, and the joy of every moment sucked out of you,
but thanks to those three boys, and the whole theatre program honestly, you became a new version of yourself, someone who was happy.
you were thinking a lot about this, as opening night rapidly approached. you were writing letters to your closest friends in the cast, it only felt right considering they’d done so much for you.
opening night was never usually fun for you, despite being leads in the past, no one really came to see you. you would walk out to the lobby, just to stand aimlessly, ‘congratulations’ and ‘good job’ ringing in your ears. but you didn’t take pictures, didn’t get hug, you left every show empty handed with no flowers.
that was all you wanted, a bouquet of flowers, tulips preferably, but you would be grateful for anything. but that was how your life was out your old school.
you had finally finished all the letters, laying them out in front of you. the notes hidden inside green envelopes, with a wizard of oz sticker placed on the seal.
double checking to make sure you made me for everyone, you stared at three in particular.
denki. sero. kirishima.
the names stared back at you under your desk lamp, the only thing illuminated your room.
you never liked to admit to showmance, but you knew you liked them. all three. each one helped you become more comfortable at school.
denki made you feel beautiful. your insecure thoughts zeroed when you were around him.
kirishima made you feel worthy. you didn’t have to prove anything to him, he just cared for you how you are.
sero made you feel normal. he never made your insecurities and overwhelming emotions a spectacle, he treated you like he would treat anyone else.
opening night was as stressful as is, but with the added complication of crushes that won’t leave your head, you knew it was gonna be bad.
