thank you @diekolat for the idea tehe. 18+
feat. katsuki bakugo , shoto todoroki , dabi/toya todoroki
❛ prince!shoto todoroki x princess!reader ❜
he’s sooo hopeless at courtly affection. the first time you try to slip your hand into his, he freezes, startled, then blushes so hard his ears turn the color of his scar. but he doesn’t let go. instead, his thumb rubs shy, reassuring circles over your knuckles, clinging to you. when really you’re the one whose reassuring him. you giggle every time he does it and you end up grasping his hands and taking the lead sometimes.
some nights, when the world is quiet and only the moon peeks in your window, he sneaks to your chambers to talk. he admits his fears—never surpassing his father, failing as a prince, not being enough for you. you comfort him with gentle words and soft kisses, and he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him on earth. he loves you so much oh myg god
he isn’t great with grand declarations, but when you’re alone, he looks at you like you’re the whole sky. sometimes he stumbles over the words—“i… you… mean a lot to me”—but you know what he means, every time he leans his forehead against yours and breathes you in. he’s yours.
he promises you his chastity
one night, you steal a kiss in your sitting room—slow, lingering, and just a little clumsy as you both learn each other’s rhythm. when things get a little heated, shoto gently pulls back, breathless and a bit apologetic. “i want to wait until we’re truly wed,” he whispers, thumb tracing your cheek, and the tenderness in his eyes makes your heart ache in the sweetest way.
the morning of your wedding dawns, soft light through gauzy curtains, painting the whole room in gentle amber. attendants bustle around you, fussing with the pearl buttons on your gown, smoothing your hair, tucking fresh flowers behind your ear—every gesture meant to make you into something flawless. you let them, nodding and smiling when you must, but your heart is a fluttering thing, wild and uncertain.
outside, the palace gardens are dusted in late spring petals, and from your window you spot shoto, standing at the edge of the pond. he’s in formal robes, navy blue, looking somehow both princely and fragile, like something carved from ice just beginning to thaw. he’s practicing his breathing, the way you’ve seen him do before every council meeting—steadying himself, eyes closed, shoulders straight. he looks up, and even from this far you feel it, the invisible thread that tugs you closer to him.
the ceremony is grand, of course—palace halls echoing with music, guests dressed in colors bright enough to dazzle, your parents proud and anxious at your side. king enji todoroki presides with an iron voice, but even he can’t dim the light in shoto’s eyes as you walk down the aisle, every step carrying you away from the cold stories you were raised on, and toward something new.
when you reach him, shoto bows his head, his hand trembling just enough for only you to notice as he takes yours.
“you look beautiful,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath.
“so do you,” you whisper back, the corners of your mouth lifting, nerves melting away. he smiles—small, shy, utterly real.
the vows are soft and earnest. shoto stumbles over a word, then laughs, and the guests laugh too, the tension breaking like glass. when you recite your promise, his eyes shine, and his thumb find its circular rhythm against your knuckles, grounding you.
the kiss—your first as husband and wife—is soft, tentative, and sweet. his hands are gentle on your waist, and you linger, neither of you rushing, the applause swelling all around. for a moment, it’s just you and him, the scent of flowers and the warmth of sunlight, the promise of new beginnings blooming in your chest.
the rest of the day is a blur of dances and toasts and smiles, but the best moments are the stolen ones:
— when shoto squeezes your hand under the banquet table, his voice low and private, “are you happy?”
— when you find him in the garden as dusk falls, both of you kicking off your shoes and sinking into the soft grass, sharing secrets under the falling petals
— when he pulls you away from the noise, just for a breath of quiet, resting his forehead to yours and whispering, “i want you to know…i choose you. not just today. but every day.”
you brush your lips against his, sealing the promise with another kiss, as gentle and certain as spring after a long, cold winter. the future is a soft, bright thing, and for once you’re not afraid. you’re home.
night falls gentle over the palace, the distant revelry fading to a hush beyond thick walls and closed doors. your chambers glow soft with candlelight, floral lingering in the air, silk sheets turned down by careful hands. you sit at the edge of your wedding bed, still in the white and silver of your gown, the day’s joy shimmering faintly in your skin.
shoto knocks once before slipping in, shutting the door behind him with trembling fingers. he’s changed from his princely robes to a loose white shirt and dark trousers, hair still perfectly parted, but his cheeks are pink, his eyes luminous and nervous in the golden light.
he crosses the room as if moving through a dream, and you both laugh quietly at the awkwardness, nerves fluttering between you like moths. he kneels beside the bed, taking your hands into his, “do you want this?” he asks, his voice low and careful, searching your eyes for hesitation.
you nod, breath catching. “i want you.”
he smiles, slow and relieved, and leans in to kiss you—soft and patient at first. your hands slide up into his hair, tugging him closer, until you’re both breathless, the world outside fading to nothing.
his fingers tremble as he unlaces your gown, kind and unhurried. every brush of his hand sends warmth fluttering through you, the silk sliding from your shoulders in a quiet whisper. he kisses every patch of new skin exposed, murmuring how beautiful you are, his voice growing steadier with each word.
“you’re perfect,” he says, and you believe him, because in this moment, with his hands and mouth trailing love over you, there’s no room for doubt.
you help him with his shirt, fingers brushing the cool plane of his chest, tracing the line where fire and ice meet on his skin. shoto shivers beneath your touch, his own hands hesitant but eager as he explores every inch of you, committing it to memory.
when he finally eases you back onto the bed, he pauses, searching your eyes again, asking for silent permission. you guide him to you, legs parting, hearts pounding.
his first thrust is slow and cautious, his hand slipping into yours, holding tight as you gasp at the stretch. he murmurs your name, over and over, like a plea, pressing kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your neck.
the rhythm you find together is gentle and sweet, more laughter than moans at first, all inexperience and devotion. shoto’s touches grow surer, kisses deepening, your bodies learning one another with every shaky breath. the pleasure blooms slow, a warmth that builds and builds until you’re arching into him, crying out his name as you shatter, his own release not far behind, a quiet, broken sound buried in your hair.
after, he gathers you close, tucking your head under his chin, arms wrapped around you as if he could hold the world at bay.
“thank you,” he whispers, soft and earnest, as if this is a gift you’ve given him. you kiss his jaw, hearts still racing, the two of you tangled beneath the moonlight, soft and shining, the rest of your lives just beginning.
❛ knight!katsuki bakugo x princess!reader ❜
he calls you “princess” like it’s an inside joke, but sometimes, when you’re alone, his voice goes softer—“my princess,” just for you. you tease him back, calling him “sir kaachan(from his best friend)” or “my knight,” and he huffs, red-faced, but his eyes are fond.
gentle hands, battle scars
he lets you fuss over his wounds, even though he claims he doesn’t need it. you dab salve onto his knuckles, tracing old scars, and he lets you—head bowed, cheeks pink. sometimes you kiss a scar, and he grumbles,
“that’s embarrassing, princess,” but he never pulls away.
during the annual summer festival, bakugo enters the joust, not just for glory, but because he wants you to see him win. he rides out in gleaming armor, your favor tied boldly to his lance. every time he unseats another knight, he glances your way, smirking just for you. when he’s crowned champion, he dismounts and sweeps you up in a spinning embrace right in front of the roaring crowd, his laughter rough and triumphant as he presses his forehead to yours and declares, “all for you, princess.”
when you got married bakugo makes it a habit to match the main color of your outfit every single day—if you wear lavender, he’ll have a sash or jacket to match. if you’re in royal blue, his doublet will have blue embroidery or buttons. he even gets his armor customized with tiny colored accents, just for you.
your esteemed knight has a voice kink for you
your knight lives for the sounds you make—moans, cries, the sweet way you gasp his name. sometimes he covers your mouth with his hand just so he can feel it, groaning, “that’s it, princess, let ‘em hear you. let the whole damn castle know who’s fucking you this good.”
bakugo’s got a filthy mouth and loves using it. he drags you onto his lap after a ball, tossing your legs over his broad shoulders, feasting on you like a man starved. he holds you down, moaning into your pussy, sucking and licking until you’re crying out, thighs trembling, fingers tangled in his hair as he makes a mess of your royal composure.
late at night, you’re working at your desk when he finds you—always brooding, always overthinking. he shoves your papers aside, lifts you up, and lays you out flat. he fucks you right there, rough and relentless, your hands gripping the edges as he whispers every filthy thing he’s wanted to do to you all day. when you cum, he kisses your throat, low and hungry—“you drive me insane, you know that?”
for all his roughness, bakugo’s hands turn gentle after. he wipes you down with a damp cloth, murmuring, “you alright, princess?” before curling around you in bed, tucking you under his chin. sometimes he teases, sometimes he’s quiet, but he always holds you close, thumb stroking your skin as you drift to sleep
the evening air inside the great hall is unusually soft— light catching on banners, the murmur of the court like distant thunder. you’re sitting beside your father at the high table, fidgeting with the edge of your goblet, while bakugo stands rigid at his post near the doors, every inch the loyal knight, even as his gaze flickers to you with longing, hope, something wild barely leashed.
your father stands, quiets the hall with a raised hand, and clears his throat. “it has come to my attention,” he announces, voice heavy with authority, “that there is no knight in this kingdom more loyal, more brave, or more deserving of honor than sir katsuki bakugo.” a murmur of surprise ripples through the court. bakugo straightens, eyes wide, jaw set.
“for his years of service, his valor, and…his heart,” your father says, gaze lingering on you with the faintest smile, “i raise him to the station of lord, and grant him the right to take my daughter’s hand in marriage.”
the room bursts into stunned applause—some out of shock, others with true joy. you don’t hear any of it, because your heart is leaping, your hands pressed to your lips in disbelief. bakugo stands there, stunned, then grins—a real, wide, dazzling grin that cracks through every wall you’ve ever seen him build.
he barely waits for permission. you’re halfway across the hall before you even realize you’ve moved, and then you’re in his arms, spun around in a circle, your laughter bright and unrestrained. bakugo buries his face in your neck, voice thick with awe and relief.
“told you, princess,” he mutters, grinning against your skin, “wasn’t gonna let anybody else have you.”
the court watches, a mix of delight and disbelief, as you both hold each other a little too long for decorum. he sets you down gently, hands still on your waist, eyes fierce and soft all at once.
“we did it,” you whisper, tears sparkling in your eyes.
“yeah,” he says, brushing your cheek with calloused fingers, “we did. and i’m never lettin’ you go.”
your father laughs, shaking his head at your joy, and the music swells. bakugo tugs you in for another kiss—public, shameless, triumphant—and you let yourself melt into him, all nerves and hope and sweet, uncontained happiness. tonight, the future is yours, and nothing in the kingdom could keep you apart.
the chapel is full to bursting—sunlight streaming through stained glass, painting every pew in colors so vividly. the air smells of the flowers and clean, sweet hay from the meadows beyond the castle. your family sits in the front row, regal and misty-eyed, while half the kingdom gathers behind, whispering and sighing, unable to hide their excitement.
you stand at the end of the aisle, heart drumming wild beneath your wedding finery. bakugo waits for you at the altar, resplendent in deep crimson and silver, armor polished and ceremonial sword at his hip. his usual bravado is nowhere to be found—just awe, soft and stunned, flickering in his eyes as he catches sight of you.
you start your walk, each step slow and cherishing, and his lips part like he can’t believe this is real. by the time you reach him, bakugo’s jaw is clenched, his eyes rimmed red. he’s blinking, fighting it, but as you take his hands—steady and warm in yours—he lets out a shaky breath, and tears spill, silent and unashamed, tracking down his cheeks.
you squeeze his fingers, brushing your thumb over his. “hey,” you whisper, a soft laugh bubbling up, “don’t cry, katsuki.”
he laughs, but it cracks, and his voice trembles as he mutters, “shut up. i can’t help it. you look—” he shakes his head, cheeks wet, eyes never leaving yours, “didn’t think i’d get this lucky, princess. i don’t ever wanna forget this.”
the officiant’s words blur at the edges, and bakugo just stares at you like the world’s stopped spinning. when it’s time for your vows, his are rough and halting, choked with feeling:
“i swear—” he starts, then falters, breath hitching, “—i swear i’m gonna love you. forever. protect you, make you laugh, drive you crazy—all of it. you’re my everything.”
you’re both grinning and weeping by the end, the whole court swept up in the warmth of it. and when you’re told to seal it with a kiss, bakugo dips you a little, holding you like you’re precious and unbreakable, his mouth finding yours in a kiss full of tears and joy and every bit of raw hope he’s ever held back.
when you part, you see his eyes still shining, his thumb brushing away your own tears, and you know, as surely as the bells ring and the crowd erupts in cheers, that this moment—this boy—will always be your greatest adventure.
❛ jester!dabi x princess!reader ❜ (despair)
he writes letters laced with longing
the letters he sends are always riddles and riddled with innuendo—“meet me in the north tower, and wear red. i want to see you blush for me.” he tucks them in the spines of your favorite books, pressed between petals and silk, and by the time you find him, you’re already melting for him.
he loves good balcony games
he dares you to slip away during a particularly dull court event, leading you to a high balcony overlooking the kingdom. with the revelers’ music drifting up from below, he presses you against the railing, kisses you slow and sweet, then nips at your ear and whispers, “imagine if they saw us now, princess.”
court is in full session, nobles droning on about treaties and taxes. dabi stands at your side, performing some outrageous pantomime for the amusement of the children. his fingers, though, slide slowly up the back of your chair, barely brushing your neck, then slip beneath the collar of your dress, tracing lazy patterns until you’re biting your tongue to keep quiet.
you’re venting about the prince who tried to woo you with poetry so terrible it made your eyes water. you’re halfway through mimicking his fake-deep voice when dabi places your leg over his shoulder and buries his face in you, tongue pushing deep. you keep ranting because he likes it, his fingers digging into your thighs every time your voice gets louder.
“and then he said i was like a rose,” you groan as his mouth closes around you, “a rose. i hate roses.”
dabi mumbles into your folds, “i hate anyone who thinks they get to talk to you.”
at the last midsummer festival before your engagement, he pulls you into a hidden alcove and kisses you like it’s the first time and the last all at once. the fireworks crackle above, the colors reflected in his eyes.
“when you think of me,” he whispers against your lips, “i hope you remember laughing.” i hope you remember smiling
the day you’re arrangement is announced:
the throne room is choked with too much gold and too many eyes, the scent of candlewax and perfume clinging to every inch of you. nobles in brocades whisper behind gloved hands, waiting for the grand reveal. you stand at your father’s right side, chin high and hands folded in your lap so tightly you fear you’ll draw blood. a hush falls, the kind that leaves your ears ringing.
they read his name—your intended, your future—and the crowd applauds. your mother dabs her eyes. the prince bows, handsome and dull, everything a kingdom could want. but none of it means anything because your eyes are searching the sea of faces, searching for a single flash of blue flame, a crooked grin behind the mask of a jester.
dabi’s there, leaning against a marble pillar, half-shadowed by heavy velvet drapes. he’s not wearing his usual cap—he’s left that at the door, today he’s only himself, all wild energy pressed into a body that looks almost calm. you meet his gaze and the whole world shrinks, the murmurs and music muffled beneath the rush of your heartbeat. there’s a smile at the corner of his mouth, small and sad, burning with secrets only you understand.
for a moment you’re both children again, sneaking pastries in the garden, giggling behind hedges. hugging each other and promising each other far fetched dreams, then reality surges back, sharp as glass, and you realize this is the last time you’ll ever be just his.
you turn away first, cheeks burning. your father squeezes your arm and the court drones on about alliances and honor. you nod when expected, smile when necessary, and all the while his eyes cling to yours, telling you a thousand things he’ll never say aloud.
when the speeches are over and the crowd disperses to drink and toast your happiness, you slip away into the corridors—silent, trembling, heels echoing down marble halls. you find him in the shadows, waiting where the torchlight can’t reach.
he drags you into a forgotten alley before you can speak. his hands shake as they frame your face, then tangle in your hair, his breath hot at your ear.
“say the word, princess,” he rasps, voice raw, with pain and pleas he’d never admit, “and i’ll set the whole damn palace on fire. we’ll run. you and me.”
your laugh breaks on a sob, desperate and soft. “i can’t. you know i can’t.”
he kisses you like he’s starving, lips bruising, teeth biting. your back slams against the stone, fingers clawing at the laces of his shirt. he lifts you up, legs wrapping around his waist as he pins you there, his mouth hot on your neck.
you gasp, threading your fingers in his hair. “dabi, please—”
he mutters against your skin, “give me everything, just once more. give me all of you, tonight.”
so you do. you kiss him like you’ll never kiss again. you fuck him like you want to die remembering the shape of him inside you. you cling to him, both of you shaking, mouths full of each other’s names and all the words you never had the courage to say.
he fills you so deep you swear you’ll never be empty again. he buries his face in your shoulder, groans out a broken “my princess,” and you shatter for him, nails leaving half moons in his back. in the darkness, with your gown hiked to your hips and his pants undone, you belong to no one else.
when it’s over, he holds you there, breathless and tangled, foreheads pressed together in the dark.
“they can have your hand,” he whispers, rough and trembling, “but they’ll never have your heart.”
the torch sputters, the world outside clamors on, but here, just for a moment, you are still his.
the day of your wedding comes gray and sullen, the palace alive with trumpets and velvet and the sort of brittle joy that cracks if you press too hard. you’re a vision, every inch of you wrapped in silk and pearls, the crown heavy on your head. outside, banners snap in the wind. inside, the air tastes like the inside of a locked jewelry box—stale, expensive, suffocating.
dabi stands among the crowd, jester’s mask fixed in place, a painted smile that fools everyone but you. his eyes never leave you, not once. not when you kneel, not when you promise to honor a man you barely know, not even when your lips brush your new husband’s cheek, cold as winter glass.
he laughs in all the right places, flourishes his cap, performs his little tricks for the children huddled near the back of the hall. but every so often, when he thinks no one’s looking, his gaze flicks up, dark and simmering, watching the way your hands tremble, the way you almost flinch at the crowd’s applause. he wonders if anyone else notices the sorrow in your smile, the ghost of last night lingering at the edge of your eyes.
inside his own head, the mask slips. bitterness claws at his chest, something ugly and sharp and grief-ridden. it’s not fair—not for you, not for him, not for both of your childish dreams, not for the version of you that existed when the world was only gardens and stolen laughter and the promise of one more midnight.
dabi taps his foot on the ground, a nervous habit he’s never outgrown, and in his mind a plan unfurls—a dangerous, desperate little seed. maybe he could steal you away, just once, just to remind the world that not everything precious has to be given up. maybe he’ll set fire to the sky, break the rules, make them all pay for what they’re taking from you.
but for now, he stands in his fool’s motley and watches you walk away from him, letting the world believe he’s just another performer, when in truth he’s the only one left who knows how to make you smile.
as the ceremony ends, and you disappear behind heavy doors with your new husband, dabi claps with the rest of them—loud, raucous, overdone. but his heart aches for something wilder, something unfinished, and you can feel his eyes on you, quietly promising you that this story isn’t quite over.
these are left open ended cuz im planning on writing a story for them me thinks
