I’m surprised at the lack of pro-hero Shinso Hitoshi fanfics where he’s using his mind control on you to make you cum over and over again until you are crying 😔
how some of your faves would act if they were fans of you
includes: denki, shinso
18+ mdni
Denki
You’ve been his fave since high school. He mostly liked your character for their looks at first but once he took a “which character would date you” quiz and got you as a result, you were his special little blorbo ever since
He’s been attached to you so long you became his comfort character. Still carries around a little keychain figure of you he bought years ago.
Definitely a tumblr user, started as a joke in high school but once he got his first taste of reader insert content he was hooked.
Picky about the content he reads for you, has spent many late nights on ao3 only to be sluggish on patrol the next day.
Everybody thinks he’s on regular social media or something whenever he’s on his phone- no, he’s reading the filthiest of content about you with a straight face.
Reads all kinds of kinks and AUs about you- if the writing is good he’ll read almost anything
Smut connoisseur but also really enjoys reading little headcanons about you or fluffy content. Makes you that much more real and relatable to him.
Thinks about how cool you would think he is if you knew he was a pro-hero, regularly fantasizes about saving you and the two of you living happily ever after
Agonizes over if he could actually pull you in real life, cannot read angst because he already feels like he could barely pull you in the first place
Definitely has a playlist inspired by you
Thinks about how you would comfort him/encourage him whenever he messes up, especially on rough patrol days.
Surprisingly insightful about your character, and has written and posted a few things about you himself. They were short, but ended up being popular.
spends more time than he likes to admit cultivating his selfship story in his head
Not the non-sharing type! Though he does get a little jealous if somebody seems to be a bigger fan of you than he is (impossible)
May or may not have commissioned a few art pieces of the two of you
Doesn’t really create often but is very active in fandom, interacting with creators, reblogging stuff and making memes , has the most outrageous username like “y/nsusedbathwater”
Doesn’t hide that he’s a fan of you on his public social media. Keychains, posters, or t-shirts have been seen in the backgrounds of his pictures
I could see him going to cons or cosplaying as your canon love interest/ as you if he could pull it off
Shinso
-Closet fan, would rather die than admit he reads reader insert fanfiction. He has an image to uphold, after all
-Yet, he fires up his tumblr app in public with the brightness down low. Also like Denki, will read the raunchiest posts with a straight face.
-Has been on tumblr for years,and searched your name as soon as he saw your character. Saw you first, then watched/read the media you were in. Has specific blogs he visits everyday to read about you because they write you the most in character
-Follows your media’s official page/ the creator’s fanpage to catch any extra info and art about you he can find. Knows your birthday, favorite food, and would be the type to anonymously ask the creator about your type in partners (ignores the answer if he doesn’t like it)
-Very picky when it comes to content about you, likes when people write about you as close to canon as possible, especially when it comes to reader inserts because it feels the most authentic and like he’s actually close to you.
-Sends requests to blogs asking for a fic/headcanons with a hyperspecific OC (almost carbon copy of him)
-Likes to think that he would be able to pull you in real life, regularly daydreams about scenarios where you fall madly in love with his sleepy eyes, dry humor, and aloof demeanor. You’re intrigued by how mysterious he is- who is this guy? Why doesn’t he cling to you and vy for your attention like everyone else? Likes to think that you would be attracted to his introversion rather than put off like other people are
-Enjoys fics where he’s the one making you flustered and rizzing you up, and ones where you’re actively pining after him. Fics with a lot of dom/sub elements and you’re in a more submissive role, especially if you have a bold or feisty personality in the canon material.
-Likes reading AU’s like enemies to lovers, roommate AU, coffee shop AU, “there was only one bed”, and you two being stuck together somewhere
-His favorite kind of fics are the multi-chapter fics with plenty of drama and smut, likes exploring the depth of your character and feels like he would understand you so well in real life- unlike all these other fake fans who only like you cause you’re hot
-Likes to imagine you doing mundane things with him, like riding the train or shopping, the thought of holding hands with you or going out late at night for some snacks is so intimate it makes him blush.
-Names his cat after you, the one outward indicator that he’s a fan of you- otherwise, no one would ever know
“that’s not the-” you couldn’t see it through the walls of the dressing room but Shinso’s stretching smile was palpable as your voice trailed off.
“. . hol’ on, what’s that supposed to mean?”
the top isn’t even special. soft yet firm fabric that curves off the shoulders and dips into thick bell sleeves, which sit a bit too loose on the wrist; small straps lining the open back, a deep cut that shows far too much back for your liking.
“rarely do you just make a decision— and you ask for my opinion any other time, so I don’t get why this would be different?” his voice, velvet undertones and all, sounds soft behind the locked door. “plus, you’re not what I’d call a “fashionista”.”
“and you are, mister just-put-a-silver-chain-on—?“
you refuse to acknowledge the jolt that ran through your body at the sudden thud against the door. though you chortle at the small show of anger.
“jus’— let me in before I make a scene.”
“you are the scene, you sun-fried tulip,” falls off the tongue naturally. “why you wanna see it so bad, anyway? it ain’t even your style.”
he doesn’t answer this time.
of course.
you roll your eyes, looking into the mirror a final time, ultimately deciding it goes in the “no” pile.
the front falls in your hands right as your ears perk at the sound of the door handle jiggling.
the store attendants would knock or announce themselves before trying to gain entry, and you know it’s not a stranger— not with that lofty, broad-shouldered panther prowling at the door.
if those guns weren’t enough of a deterrent, that mug certainly is.
you look on through the mirror for what feels like forever, chest cinching with every turn, and in that moment you think back; unsure if you’d actually locked it or not.
you call out to him anyway. “Hitoshi?”
“I’m coming in.”
“the hell you are, nig—“ you catch yourself, sputtering at his audacity. “boy, i am changing!”
“happy for you.” light bounces off the glass and on your face once the door finally gives way to the purple haired menace.
you don’t miss the ends of his hair brushing the head of the door.
“it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” oh, you could punch him.
“that was one time, years ago and you weren’t even supposed to be there,” you whisper yell, clutching the top to your chest, close to showing your teeth. “you know how bad this looks? what about your image?”
you can already feel your brain swell, going mad as it calculates the hundreds of ways this could backfire go for either of you should someone want to get trigger happy with their camera.
the door shuts behind him with a deafening silence and unconsciously, you start to edge over to one of the more darker corners.
“you think I don’t know how to check for—“
you know your body’s changed a lot since middle school. both in ways you enjoyed and ways you haven’t. you grew to like the fat in your cheeks, the roundness of your stomach, how soft you felt.
but, brief as it was, you could say with confidence it has never received a look like that—
not from him.
“put it on.”
your nails dig into the cotton as he takes a step closer.
then another.
and another.
and another, until he stands a few inches away.
bemused with your back to the wall, you blink up at him, hyper-cognizant of the energy sparking between you.
how big he must be to block most of the light with his frame alone-
“go on,” he tilts his head as if he needs more leverage to stare you down, and it takes a great deal of restraint to steel your nerves when you see the glint in his eyes shine tenfold. “i’ll help you.”
Shinsō’s expression isn’t quite angry or happy. Not a smile or frown in sight, the closest thing being a brief twitch of the lips, perhaps a muddied mess of the two.
“my hero . . .”
you shuffle a little, snark coming out floatier than you wanted.
like starting an old car, even though it’s mere feet away, it takes awhile to reach the mirror.
your eyes can’t help but draw back to him, presence almost foreboding in the reflective glass.
there’s a nervousness to your movements, heart going close to a mile a minute, staving off the quakes as best as you could.
cat-scratched hands smooth up your arms with a purpose it seems, laboriously slow in their movements as they take in your shakiness until your wrists are fully embraced.
they pull forward, carefully revealing the bandeau you’d put on before you left the house.
opening your eyes (when had they closed?) you startle to see he’s looking dead at you, absolutely shameless in his visual exploration even as he takes the top out your grasp.
“the hell would you do without me?” it hardly comes out, it’s so low and warm.
you just stare, afraid of what’ll slip should you attempt to speak.
he slips your arms in with a delicacy you rarely see him offer to humans— a true cat person at heart— you feel like a cherished doll.
he moves from your face to your back, thankfully saying nothing about the way your spine straightens under his gaze.
you try not to dawdle on how or why he’s able to lace it up as quick as he does, a pretty easy feat once he finishes up, patting the middle of your back in an assuring manner.
still staring ahead, you watch in silence as he rests his chin on your crown.
watch him watch you.
mooring his eyes to your soul, those sturdy fingers snake from your lumbar to the fat of your waist, calluses catching every jitter. heavy breaths massage the curve of your spine and you feel blood rushing to your skull when the other set sits just below your ribs.
it’s too much.
“‘toshi?”
his nose flares, like he’s restraining himself; a hypothesis that proves true as his hands begin to knead sporadically.
your neck grows heavier and heavier, eyelids eventually following suit, until you’re falling into his chest.
“I was wrong,” you can’t tell if he’s murmuring to you or himself.
the declaration weighs heavy in the confined space, and for a moment, you wonder how none of the associates have noticed his absence.
secondhand embarrassment, tooth rotting fluff, google translated korean, cultural sacrilege in the form of disrespecting your elders probably
Aizawa Shōta believes he maintains his boundaries better than most.
He’d learned a long time ago the importance of the self, how “fragile” he was to others and their actions. And if it leaned more into isolationist territory, that was no one’s business but his own.
It was more of a coping mechanism, if nothing else.
Peace hardly comes easy to heroes like him— the ones who didn’t require a crowd to get shit done. Those ready and willing to get their hands dirty, who shiver in disgust at the blood beneath their nails but scrape it out all the same, if only to keep civilians unsullied from the grime of the earth as they guided them across a street.
So whenever it was within reach, a bonfire in a flurry of snow, he sought to cherish it with broad, frostbitten palms.
Even if it happened to be a group of children that seemed hell bent on sending him to an early grave.
“Everything packed?”
“Sensei, I’m a junior now,” the familiar whine in his protégés voice had grown weaker over the semester. This time sounding more chiding than petulant, “think you can let up on the micromanaging, yeah?”
Briefly closing his eyes, he ducks his head, amused breaths pushing a few flyaways out of his face. Too quiet for the phone to pick up.
“Sure, kid.”
When you stop calling me Sensei.
He’s come a long way. Watching the boy’s progress in real time had him sifting through a rather complex series of emotions that he still, to this day, a year after the war; wrangled with.
It was a struggle, but what else was new?
Least this one was actually welcome.
“I don’t know how Eri puts up with it. The hovering, the demands—“
The call should have ended ten minutes ago.
Normally, he’d be crouched over his laptop looking over a mountain of schoolwork, brain running on fumes as he graded and graded and graded. The kid held an “almost eerie” resemblance to him, as Hizashi loved to remind him, including his disdain for needless chitchat.
Now that he’s part of his class, the demand for individual training went down significantly, taking to “after school lessons”.
Yet here he was, almost half an hour in, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, consciously glancing at the framed photo above his hallway dresser— twenty precious grins staring back at him. Reflecting a certain softness in his beady eyes.
He huffs softly through his nose. “Not as much as you’d think.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Through his subsequent mumbled remarks, honed ears catch an uplift of noise in the background. Clicking, a bit of shuffling, as if someone just walked in on their conversation.
But the kid— junior year doesn’t sound annoyed at all. In fact, he gets louder, practically throwing his voice around without a care in the world.
So Shōta knew exactly who it was.
Thank god he had the sense to move his phone away.
Afternoon or not, it was too damn early for that level of noise.
“Ito-ya!”
Biting back a groan, Shinsō steps back from the dresser housing his phone, tossing his freshly folded hoodie into the suitcase strewn across his bed with an ignorable strength.
Prepping for the new semester was more of a hassle than he expected.
He’d been busy all week. What with hero studies, volunteering occasionally at the local animal clinic, and the frustrating practice of cultivating his time-management skills; half of his “off-time” was spent in bed or working out. Sleeping off the stress of the day, just to re-accumulate it by the end of the night. None too satisfied with his sleep, the undersides of his eyelids still dark despite his hours averaging at six.
It sucked, to put it bluntly. For a multitude of reasons he’d care not to share.
An adjustment for sure, but a necessary one so he falls back on old habits— biting his tongue, leaving his complaints to rot at the bottom of his throat. God forbid he fuck up his dream because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
Whether or not that’s actually possible is uncertain, what with him being a second year and all. To him, it didn’t matter.
He wasn’t born yesterday. Having observed the institutions of power since the moment his quirk had manifested, and it wasn’t a factor he was willing to chance.
Call him a cynic— you won’t dare call him wrong, as somehow, someway, should “they” want to, they’d surely find a way.
All they needed was a reason.
Striding over and twisting the gilded knob, he pokes his head out, ”어?”
”내— 야! 입 조심해 꼬맹이! 내 손녀가 여기 있어!”
Ashen purple looks ahead at wall, unamused. All too acquainted with his grandmother’s lack of filter and not-at-all-hidden penchant for (teasing) pissing him off.
He rolls his eyes, ”집어치워!”
She’s already yelling some choice words by the time he turns back inside, not that he’s listening.
God’s sake, she must love the sound of her own voice— that’s the most logical line of reasoning he can come up with as to why the woman nags so much. Worse than-
”Is that my cue?” Sensei’s droll timbre intones.
The teen lets out a disgusted noise. Mischief suddenly tugging at his lips as he dropped onto the edge of the mattress, next to the dwindling pile of clothes. ”I know you’re ancient but isn’t she a little old for you?”
A choked sort of noise cuts through the quiet ambiance and his grin splits his face in two.
Gross as it was, he found his grandma’s supposed “crush” on the man downright hilarious. Largely due in part to the man’s initial reaction.
Or lack thereof.
One evening the rain had grown so intensive that training was next to impossible, which typically wouldn’t be enough for Sensei to cancel. Hell, knowing him, he’d take advantage of it for another “teachable moment”.
Except with fall leering around the corner, he wouldn’t risk falling even further behind in his education all because he got the sniffles.
“Self-care” and all that.
Being in the bathroom, he wasn’t there to witness the moment personally, instead having to gather context clues based on the sight of her fanning herself on the couch, murmuring to herself in a hushed manner, his car long gone. The silence that lingered. As well as the awkward, almost shy demeanor from his teacher on the rare occasion when he dropped him off on his porch, like he didn’t know how to react.
Petty, yes, but the humiliation made his sting a bit less.
Actually shocked the hell out of him, for the simple fact that Shinsō could recall with just one hand, the amount of men he’d seen at her side— that being himself and his grandpa.
Before she divorced him anyways.
Shinsō looks toward the ceiling and sighs, eyes crinkling at the edges as he says, ”I mean, gross, but s’whatever. You’re both consenting adults, who am I to get in the way of true-“
”Pushing it.”
His smirk wanes when he hears the soft pad of feet outside. Fast and steady— on a mission.
Honest to God, that woman was stubborn as stubborn could get. Couldn’t let go of a grudge to save her life, lungs for days; he wouldn’t be shocked if she’d lied on her drivers license because her quirk couldn’t possibly be anything other than “Mule”.
Grabbing another undershirt, his back to the cracked door, years-old retorts begin shaping his tongue. More than prepared to re-engage with this foolish game of intergenerational cat-and-mouse.
He was a man of logic. Truthfully, he was.
Not strictly, though his mom didn’t have many complaints.
Age be damned, a common criticism he used to receive from teachers was in regards to his supposed “lack of interest” in the curriculum, or, more commonly, “misbehavior”.
A whole lot of words to say they couldn’t read him like most kids (more likely, they couldn’t be assed to) and he wouldn’t put up with their showboating, adultist crap quietly.
She never bought any of it. Her, nor her mother— not her boy.
Her “brilliant little iris” who, up until his first year of preschool, wouldn’t even speak to anyone unless she did it first. Tiny fists tucked into the back of her leg, scared yet curious of the unknown around him.
Yet, somehow, with family, that flies out the window and just like that, he’s ten again. Exchanging barbs with his classmates, bullies and otherwise.
The grey square is placed into the suitcase and he’s reaching for the pile again when he’s greeted with what feels like a slap to the face.
“How’s my baby~?”
That voice. All warm and sweet.
He could drown in it.
Did she mess with the thermostat? is all there is to think because, yes, Hyun Hitoshi has and absolutely would take it there, but where did this heat come from? His ears, hands, cheeks, chest, his everything; feels like he’s standing in front of an open oven.
Black sweatpants sprawl across the floor, the space between his curled fingers now glaringly empty— wide eyes boring into the comforter.
The sound of creaking wood falls deaf as that was . . new.
Stupid of him to think he’d heard it all— Toto, “Big Head”, Fivehead, Dickhead, (it’s not that big, dammit) Wise-ass, sir—
Fuck, you drove him crazy with that—
His spine twitches, a feeble attempt from his spiraling nervous system, offering just enough steam for him to try and regulate it himself.
Pushing a silent breath through his nose, he peers over his shoulder.
”What does it look like-?”
Knelt near his bed, right inside his blind spot, you burrow your smile in soft, silken patchwork— cradling the little shit that had vanished underneath his bed a few hours prior, the calico’s engine running full throttle in your lap. Propped up on your chest, bunting your face with hers and whatever quip he was about to say evaporates on the spot.
You draw back, wooden beads and golden hoops clattering in the air, staring into what feels like his soul. All he can do is watch the gears turn through the micro-expressions shuffling around your face.
Tsk.
The smack of your lips is an omen. Deafening in the sense of an impending danger, making his skin hum with anxiety.
“. . now you know good and well,”
His ears burn at your tone. The one mostly reserved for his more . . . rash escapades. Getting ahead of himself and burning through his internal reserves, allowing his ego to get the better of him. When he’d show up at your door with an awkward edge to his saunter, wincing from your touch as it agitated his bruises.
”Yo’ daddy get on my nerves, you know that?” you murmur cutely to the little traitor, all curled up in your arms like you’d never left. Her second home. “Just wanna grab’m and-“
His eye twitches. ”In my defense, she was not there before.”
”Really?” you say, huffing through your nose, “She came out to greet me.”
He blinks, ”’cause you spoil her.”
”As I should!” you proclaim, outraged at the implication. Pouting up at him with those lips, rubbing your cheek against Anko’s head. “Old baby deserves to be spoiled. Ain’t that right, babygirl?
She smothers you back with gusto while you coo, “poor lady- can’t even live out your days in peace ‘cause your daddy’s a hater-“
Even with his body threatening to overheat, a hint of a smile manages to slip through the cracks. Bashful. Enjoying the view.
Picking up his sweats, he turns his head a ways, looking at the blank space ahead as he folds and tosses it inside the suitcase.
”Whatever.”
Your voice becomes the perfect backdrop for his ears, asphyxiating his wandering thoughts. His shoulders quake silently as your rants encompass the room, as if it’s always been there.
His second home.
”Ain’t no “whatever”, I thought respecting the elderly was a key component of y’alls culture…”
It’s true that time tends to pass by faster when you’re having fun.
However, it doesn’t register just how much time has passed until you get up to use the restroom, leaving him in the wake of your presence.
Without the constant stimuli that is you, boredom quickly sets in, prompting him to look at his phone. The boy temporally looking around in confusion when his pockets turn up empty.
“The hell is— oh.”
Eyes landing on the dresser, he slides off the bed, grabbing it and turning the screen face-up— his expression coming to a halt as his brain registers the thin red bar in the corner of the call screen.
”. . . shit.”
A deep chuckle crackles through the receiver and he runs a hand across his face, groaning under his breath.
“Just shut it, alright?”
this is a part of my childhood best friend!shinsō series, so, if you’ve already seen this, no you haven’t 🚶🏽♀️
i have an issue with how little shinso fics there are so im starting a series with bnha boys to 2000’s and other childhood songs if anyone wants to request anything
Okay soooooo, does Shinso use his teeth to open the condom orrrr ?
I honestly think he DOESNT (at least , at first).
He’s over there by the dresser fiddling with the condom, in his tented boxer briefs, kinda getting frustrated with it since it’s delaying the whole process.
And you’re just like, can you use your teeth for godssake or SOMETHING, and lo and behold, two rounds later he’s already mastered it without tearing the latex open😗😌
(Three or so weeks later you find out he’s been putting condoms in his pockets regularly just so the struggle of finding one never happens again…even if the way you find out is in the washroom at work the one time he came to have lunch with you and you were kissing in the bathroom.
He’s like, “well, you see, I wasn’t planning on doing it here—“)
