"poetry, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for."

⋆✦⋆ ouat fanatic, askbox open :) ⋆✦⋆

[veevid]

intro —

vee — she/her, hopeless romantic, bisexual

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

masterlist —

Once Upon A Time

Miscellaneous

and many many more!

asks are always open 😁

[veevid]

warnings :- suggestive, slight angst, no real ending

pairings :- touya todoroki x keigo takami x reader

i think i misunderstood the term drabble...

writing for this prompt

"UNKNOWN" IS TYPING...

The cardboard box at your feet sits half-taped, forgotten the moment your thumb brushed against the thick, glossy edge of the film.

In the polaroid, the lighting is atrocious, washed out by the harsh flash, blurred at the edges because your hand was shaking from laughing so hard. Keigo’s wings are half-spread, spilling clumsily across your cramped bedroom, his red feathers catching the light like embers. One of his arms is slung over Touya's shoulders, a half-empty bottle dangling casually from his fingers. And Touya—usually so guarded, so sharp—is mid-stumble, a rare, lopsided grin tugging at the scarred skin of his jaw instead of his usual bitter smirk.

They were terrible dancers. Utterly rhythm-less, loud, and completely, blissfully out of their minds.

You sit back on the edge of your stripped mattress, the silence of your packing-disrupted room pressing heavily against your chest. Back then, there were no double motives. No Commission leashes, no grand villainous manifestos, no burning cities. It was just three people sitting on a floor surrounded by cheap takeout, pretending the rest of the world didn't exist for a few fleeting hours. You didn't even have a title for what the three of you were—just an anchor in the middle of a storm.

Now, the weight of your own uniform—or the badge sitting in the small velvet box on your desk—feels like a physical bruise.

Every day, you put on the armor of the system that helped turn Touya into a monster and used Keigo until he was transparent. You log your hours for the side that claims to be the light, all while knowing how dark its shadows really are. The hypocrisy tastes like ash in your mouth.

Your phone screen lights up in your palm, casting a pale glow over the polaroid.

You scroll past your recent calls, past the work notifications, straight to the bottom of your messages. The group.

[Last message: 384 days ago]

Toga’s periodic texts float in a separate thread on your phone—quick, chaotic updates sent from burner phones that disappear into thin air a day later. “Birdie's here today. He looks tired, but he’s staying.” “Dabi burned another warehouse. He asked if you were still in the city.”

You stare at the blank text box at the bottom of the dead group chat. The cursor blinks at you, steady and expectant.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. A hundred things rush to your throat—I’m moving. I hate it here. I miss the noise. I miss both of you. Please be safe.

You gently trace the edge of the polaroid, resting it against your chest right over the ache, and begin to type.

The first text is the hardest to send. Your thumb hovers over the screen for a long, suffocating minute, the silence of your half-packed room feeling heavier with every tick of the clock. Finally, you type four words into the dead chat, your pulse hammering in your throat:

“Found an old polaroid.”

You don't hit send right away. You sit there, watching the cursor blink, terrifyingly aware of what sending that message actually means. If the Hero Public Safety Commission knew you were keeping a line of communication open—even a dormant one—to the League of Villains, your career wouldn't just be over; you’d be thrown into a cell so deep you’d forget what daylight looked like.

And yet, looking down at the faded square of film, the fear feels distant. Secondary.

You breathe out, close your eyes, and press send.

The message sits there in the chat, a tiny grey bubble against a wall of year-old history. Sent. No delivery receipts. No typing bubbles. Just quiet.

You let out a bitter, shaky laugh, setting the phone down on the mattress beside you. Of course they wouldn't answer. They're likely on burner devices, constantly rotating signals, dodging satellite tracking and pro-hero patrols. Touya probably threw his phone into a river three months ago, and Keigo… god only knew what phone Keigo was allowed to keep while playing his game of double espionage.

You stand up, walking over to the window. The skyline of the city stretches out before you, gleaming, pristine, and fundamentally broken. From up here, the hero agencies look like pillars of justice. But you know what lies underneath. You’ve seen the backrooms, the classified casualty reports swept under the rug, the cold, calculated way young people are molded into weapons for the state.

You think of Touya—long before he was Dabi—discarded because he wasn't a perfect creation. You think of Keigo, stripped of a real childhood, turned into the ultimate, smiling operative whose wings are clipped a little more every single day.

They weren't born monsters. The world made them that way.

Buzz.

The vibration against the mattress makes you flinch. You spin around so fast your foot knocks against a half-taped cardboard box, sending a cascade of packing peanuts onto the hardwood floor.

You scramble back to the bed and pick up the phone.

It’s in the main group chat, but the number is unidentified.

You swipe it open.

[Unknown]: Which one?

Your breath hitches. Touya.

Before you can even begin to type a response, a second message pops up directly below it, coming from another scrambled number on the same secure relay.

[Unknown]: Tell me it isn't the one where he tried to do a spin and knocked over your lamp.

Keigo.

They’re both online. They’re both looking at their screens right now.

A lump forms in your throat so fast it actually aches. For a second, the years, the betrayal, and the side you chose melt away. You’re just three people in a tiny bedroom again, hiding from a world that wanted too much from all of you.

You: It is the lamp one. You both look ridiculous. Keigo, your wings were blocking half the frame.

A pause. Three dots appear on Touya's line, vanish, and then reappear.

[Unknown - Touya]: He was drunk. Couldn't hold his liquor then, can't hold it now. [Unknown - Keigo]: I was holding up your entire body weight, hotstuff. You were practically passed out on my shoulder. [Unknown - Touya]: I was trying to suffocate you, actually.

A soft, tearful laugh escapes your chest, echoing in the empty room. It’s so familiar—the sharp, defensive banter, the quiet affection buried under layers of sarcasm.

You: I miss you.

The chat goes still.

The banter stops instantly. The silence from the phone is deafening, heavier than the silence in the room. You hold your breath, staring at the screen, suddenly terrified that you’ve crossed an unspoken line—that reminding them of what used to be is a cruelty none of you can afford anymore.

Then, a text comes through from Keigo.

[Unknown - Keigo]: Are you safe?

It’s not a hero asking a citizen. It’s Keigo—just Keigo—asking the person who used to hold his hand when the wings hurt too much to preen.

You: I’m packing up the apartment. Moving across town. Staying out of the crossfire as much as I can. [Unknown - Touya]: Good. Get out of the central district. Don't be anywhere near the Commission headquarters next month.

Your heart drops into your stomach. It’s a warning. A direct, treasonous leak of villain strategy given to someone who technically answers to the hero network. Touya shouldn't have said it, and Keigo shouldn't be letting him say it—yet neither of them cares about the rules anymore.

You: Touya... [Unknown - Touya]: Don't call me that.

The text is sharp, but a second later, another message follows it.

[Unknown - Touya]: Don't lose the picture.

Keigo’s bubble pops up next, simple and quiet.

[Unknown - Keigo]: We miss you too. More than you know. Keep your head down. Don't let them make a soldier out of you.

A third prompt flashes briefly on the screen—a string of code automatically wiping the session relay.

[System]: Connection terminated by host.

You’re trapped. You can't fix it, you can't stop it, and you can't save them from the choices they've made. But as you slip the polaroid safely into the inner pocket of your jacket, right next to your heart, you know one thing for certain:

You pull the phone to your chest, leaning your head back against the wall. Tears spill over your eyelashes, hot and quiet, slipping down your cheeks. You look down at the polaroid in your lap—at Dabi’s lopsided smile and Keigo’s open wings.

No matter what badge you wear, you will never belong to the heroes. Your heart is still sitting on the floor of that tiny, messy room, dancing in the dark with two lost boys who had nowhere else to go.

fin-

first ever angst item how do we feel?

[anonomusreader]

Imagine in you were going though your things, getting ready for a move, and you found an old polaroid.

It was a picture of dabi and hawks dancing in your room. 

It was years ago, they were both hammered, drunk, but having a good time. 

It was before the world got complicated, you guys were just..friends. You sat on your bed, reminiscing on that night. 

You didn't realize how much you missed that. It was making you ache. 

Gosh, you missed both of them.

[veevid]

reallllyyyyy wanna write for this 🫪🫪🫪🫪🫪 (i will inevitably make it romantic tho i love my men)

[veevid]

So I wasn’t sure if this was a good one if its not just ignore I’m so sorry But maybe like a ouat one where like reader was like maybe Alice’s (Alice in wonderland) daughter and like Alice gives her to Jefferson who’s like father figure and maybe when the readers like fourteen or fifteen the curse happens and like jefferson is always secretly keeping an eye on her like protective stuff cause maybe she didn’t get out into a very nice family or smth idk if it’s a good idea sorry ahahha🤍🤍🤍

it's totally a good one! i just don't write for jefferson im so sorry 😓

[veevid]

i was reading ur “how they’d react to you asking them to step out while you change” fic, and i was wondering if you were british😭😭 the way you write is very proper. this is not hate btw, i was genuinely curious lol ✌︎('ω')✌︎

im actually indian would you believe it????

i just read a lot of fics :p

[bee2124]

How it genuinely feels to still be reading fan fictions from fandoms I’ve been in since I was 12

[veevid]

warnings :- izuku has ofa, suggestive pairings :- izuku midoriya, katsuki bakugo, shoto todoroki, hitoshi shinso, touya todoroki (dabi), shota aizawa, keigo takami (hawks) x reader (leaning slightly toward feminine characteristics). (SEPARATE; the students are all aged up)

I FALL IN LOVE, JUST LIKE A TUESDAY DRUNK

(how they react to you requesting them to step out so you can change; when in reality you're just messing with them.)

Izuku Midoriya

The afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the apartment you shared with Izuku, casting a warm, golden haze across the hardwood floors. It was one of those rare, blissful weekends where the universe decided society could survive a few hours without the number-one hero.

No alarms, no sudden villain alerts, no heavy gear clanking onto the floor at three in the morning. Just peace.

Izuku was currently sprawled across the center of your shared bed, a position he had claimed the moment he finished lunch. At twenty-four, he had filled out considerably from his high school days; his shoulders were broad, his frame thick with hard-earned muscle, and his legs seemed to stretch on forever.

Right now, he was wearing a pair of faded grey sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt that said, simply, T-SHIRT across the chest. He was propped up on his elbows, buried nose-deep in a thick notebook full of hero analysis, a stray pencil tucked behind his ear. His messy forest-green curls were completely uncombed, sticking up in every imaginable direction.

You walked out of the bathroom, a freshly laundered outfit draped over your arm. You had a casual dinner plan with some friends in an hour, and it was time to get ready.

You stopped at the edge of the bed, clearing your throat. "Hey, Izuku?"

"Hmm?" He didn't look up from his notebook, his pencil scratching furiously against the paper. "Yeah, honey? Did you find that leftover katsudon? Because if you did, I swear I didn't eat any—"

"I'm not looking for the katsudon," you laughed, tossing your fresh clothes onto the vanity chair. "I need to get changed. Can you step out for a few minutes?"

The scratching of the pencil abruptly stopped.

Slowly, Izuku lowered the notebook. His vibrant green eyes blinked once, twice, as if trying to process a foreign language. Then, a slow, incredibly amused grin began to tug at the corner of his lips. He rolled on his back, sitting up slightly, tossing the notebook onto the nightstand, and lacing his hands behind his head.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice dropping into a playfully smooth, slightly husky register. "Did you just ask me to leave our bedroom?"

"Yes," you said, hands on your hips. "I need to change."

Izuku let out a dramatic sigh, throwing one forearm over his eyes as if he were a Victorian maiden experiencing a sudden bout of the vapors. "The tragedy. Here I thought we were building a life together, sharing a home, and yet… I am banished to the hallway like a misbehaving puppy."

"You are not a puppy, you're a grown man," you said, trying and failing to suppress a smile. "And you're blocking the mirror."

He peeked out from under his arm, his eyes gleaming with sheer mischief. "I am the top pro hero in the country, you know. People pay good money just to see me at a press conference. And here you are, throwing me out of my own sanctuary. Where is the respect for the symbol of peace?"

"The symbol of peace needs to vacate the premises for five minutes," you countered, walking over to nudge his leg. "Come on, out. Shoo."

Instead of moving, Izuku seized the opportunity. With lightning-fast reflexes that came from years of combat training, his hand shot out and gripped your wrist. He didn't pull hard, just enough to throw you off balance, and in the next second, you found yourself tumbling onto the mattress right next to him. Before you could scramble away, his heavy arm wrapped around your waist, pinning you securely against his side.

"Izuku!" you gasped, though you were already laughing.

"Nope. Not moving," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His curls tickled your skin, and his breath was warm against your collarbone. "The bed has a gravitational pull today. It’s a new quirk. Very dangerous. If I get up, the whole apartment might collapse."

"You are so full of shit," you said, twisting around in his grip so you could look at him. His face was right there, close enough that you could count the familiar dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. "Seriously, why are you being so stubborn? I just want to put my clothes on."

Izuku raised an eyebrow, his expression turning decidedly smug. "That’s exactly my point. We’ve been dating for seven years. We’ve lived together for five. I have seen you in sickness, in health, in mud-splattered clothes after a rainy day, and in that one ridiculously oversized All Might onesie you stole from my closet that you think I don't notice is missing."

"It's comfortable!" you protested, flushing slightly.

"It looks better on you anyway," he conceded smoothly, a flash of genuine warmth softening his eyes before the sass returned. "But my point stands. What exactly are you hiding from me at this stage of the game? Is there a secret tattoo you haven't told me about?"

"No, I am a person who wants a modicum of privacy to change into a nice outfit without my boyfriend staring at me like I'm a piece of food," you huffed, though your hands had automatically found their way into his messy green hair, gently twirling the curls.

Izuku hummed, clearly enjoying the massage, but he didn't loosen his grip on your waist. "I don't stare like you're food. I stare like you're the most beautiful thing in the room. There’s a distinct difference there, I promise."

"Smooth. Very smooth. Did you practice that line in the mirror?"

"Maybe," he admitted without a shred of shame.

You stared down at him, trying to maintain your best serious face. The truth was, this entire interaction was born from a silly internet challenge you’d scrolled past earlier that morning: Ask your long-term partner to leave the room so you can change, and see how they react. Most of the videos showed boyfriends looking mildly confused before shuffling out, or maybe whining a little.

You hadn’t expected Izuku, the literal beacon of selflessness, to mount a full-scale tactical resistance.

"Izuku, seriously," you said, putting a hand against his broad chest, feeling the steady, calming thud of his heartbeat. "I am setting a boundary. A very temporary, five-minute boundary. Out of the room. Go look at the fridge. Go re-organize your hero figurine shelf in the living room."

"No," he said simply.

You blinked. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean no," Izuku repeated, his tone entirely casual, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with absolute delight. "I'm the Number One Hero, honey. I face down rogue giant villains, international threats, and Kacchan when he hasn't had his morning coffee. A minor zoning dispute over a bedroom mattress isn't going to intimidate me into moving."

"You're abusing your power," you accused, poking him in the chest. "This is a violation of my rights."

"I am currently off-duty," he retorted smoothly, shifting his weight so he could prop his head up on his hand, looking down at you with a thoroughly wicked smirk. "Which means I am just a citizen enjoying his weekend on his bed. If you want me gone, you're going to have to physically evict me. And let’s be honest, sweetheart..." He trailed his eyes down your frame and back up to your face, his grin widening. "...your capture stats aren't quite high enough to move me if I don't want to be moved."

The sheer, playful arrogance of it made your jaw drop. The stuttering, easily flustered teenager from UA had long since evolved into a man who knew exactly how attractive he was, and worse, he knew exactly how to use it to drive you crazy.

"You are unbelievable," you laughed, swatting at his shoulder. "Okay, fine! Look, it was a prank, alright? It was a joke!"

Izuku didn't look surprised at all. Instead, his smirk softened into a triumphant, knowing grin. He dropped his head back onto the pillow, pulling you a little closer against his side. "I knew it."

"You did not know it!" you protested, resting your chin on his chest.

"Oh, please. I've known you for nine years," he said, his fingers gently tracing patterns against the small of your back through your shirt. "Your voice pitched up like half an octave when you asked me to leave. Plus, you had that look in your eye."

"Am I really that predictable?" you mumbled, a little deflated but entirely warm inside.

"To me? Absolutely," Izuku murmured softly, his playful demeanor melting away into that fierce, unwavering devotion that always made your heart skip a beat. He reached up, his large, calloused hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. "But I have to admit, the thought of you wanting to hide from me after all this time? I couldn't let you get away with that. There's nowhere you could go that I wouldn't want to follow."

You melted against him, the initial joke completely forgotten as you leaned into his touch. "You're such a sap."

"Only for you," he whispered, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He tasted faint like the tea he’d had with lunch, and his lips were warm and familiar. When he pulled back, his green eyes were shining. "Now, are you actually going to get changed for dinner, or can I convince my beautiful partner to stay in bed for another hour?"

You glanced over at the outfit waiting on the chair, then back to Izuku.

"Dinner isn't for another hour," you reasoned, shifting to make yourself more comfortable against him. "We have time."

"Excellent decision," Izuku chuckled, reaching over to pull the duvet up over both of your shoulders, sealing out the rest of the world, if only for a little while longer.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Katsuki Bakugou

The digital clock on the nightstand clicked over to 11:14 PM, casting a faint, rhythmic green glow against the dark walls of the bedroom. Outside, the city of Musutafu was a low, distant hum.

Katsuki Bakugo was sprawled across the center of the bed, a massive, unyielding presence of heat and muscle. At twenty-six, the rough edges of his teenage years hadn't softened so much as they had settled into something sharper and more deliberate. He was wearing a pair of black sweatpants, his bare torso propped up against a mountain of pillows, and his eyes—sharp and perpetually calculating—were locked onto a tablet where he was reviewing Pro Hero agency incident reports. His thumb flicked across the screen, a tiny, rhythmic scritch-scratch that was the loudest sound in the room.

You stood by the closet, clutching a soft, oversized t-shirt and a pair of flannel shorts in your arms. The fabric felt cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the ambient heat Katsuki naturally radiated. You’d had a long day, the kind that settled into your bones and made your eyelids heavy, and all you wanted was to shed the restrictive, structured clothes of the outside world and crawl into bed.

You looked from the clothes in your hands to the man on the bed. He hadn't looked up, but the slight twitch of his jaw told you he knew exactly where you were standing.

"Hey, Katsuki?" you called out softly, your voice cutting through the silence.

"Mm." He didn't look up from the tablet. A line formed between his brow, his focus entirely consumed by whatever property damage report he was dissecting.

"Can you step out for a second? I need to change."

The flicking motion of his thumb stopped dead.

For a second, the room was entirely silent. Then, very slowly, Katsuki lowered the tablet, letting it rest against his chest. He didn't move an inch. He just tilted his head back against the pillows, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with a look that was a potent mix of sheer disbelief, heavy-lidded amusement, and a stubbornness that could rival a brick wall.

"The hell did you just say to me?" his voice was a low, gravelly rumble, rough around the edges from lack of use over the last few hours.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, tightening your grip on the pajamas. "I asked if you could step out of the room for a minute. Just so I can get changed."

A slow smirk began to pull at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't his old, explosive battlefield grin; it was the quiet, knowing smile he only kept for behind closed doors, the one that meant he found you completely ridiculous and entirely captivating. He let out a short, huffed laugh through his nose.

"You've gotta be shitting me," he muttered, shaking his head slightly so his messy, ash-blonde hair fell across his forehead. He made absolutely no move to shift his legs or swing them out of bed. In fact, he seemed to sink even deeper into the mattress, anchoring himself. "We’ve been living together for six goddamn years. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed every single night. I’ve seen you in every state of dress, undress, and whatever the hell is in between. And now you’re asking me to vacate my own damn room so you can put on a t-shirt?"

"I'm just tired, Katsuki," you said, though a small smile was already threatening to ruin your serious expression. It was impossible to stay completely stoic around him when he was like this—relaxed and arrogant. "Come on, just five minutes. Give me some privacy."

"No," he said flatly.

"Katsuki."

"No." He picked the tablet back up, holding it in front of his face again, though you could see the glint of his eyes over the top of the screen. "Not moving. Sit your ass down or change right there. I don't give a shit. But I'm not getting out of this bed because you suddenly remembered modesty exists."

"It's called privacy," you argued, taking a step closer to the edge of the mattress. "Sometimes a person just wants to change their clothes without their boyfriend staring a hole through them."

Katsuki lowered the tablet again, this time setting it completely flat on the nightstand. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by that heavy, intense focus he used when he wanted to make a point. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his broad shoulders shifting under the dim light. The movement highlighted the faint, silver scars tracing across his skin—remnants of a life spent on the front lines, a life he willingly left at the front door the moment he came home to you.

"First of all," he started, his voice dropping an octave, honey-rough and deliberate. "I don't stare. If I'm looking at you, it's because you're mine to look at. Second of all, if you think I'm walking out into that drafty-ass hallway in the middle of the night because you're feeling stubborn, you don't know me at all."

"You're the stubborn one," you pointed out, gesturing to his completely immobile posture. "You're like a boulder."

"Yeah? Well, this boulder pays half the rent, and his body hurts from chasing a high-tier villain across three districts today," he grunted, though there was no real heat in his words. He patted the empty space on the mattress right next to his hip. It was a rough command, disguised as an invitation. "Stop wasting time. It's late. Get over here."

You let out a breath, your shoulders finally dropping as the joke ran its course. The sheer weight of his logic, delivered with that immovable, unbothered arrogance, was too much to hold against. A tiny bubble of laughter escaped your throat, and before you could stop it, you buried your face in the soft pile of the t-shirt in your arms, your shoulders shaking.

Katsuki’s brow furrowed. He didn't look angry—but his jaw slacked just a fraction. He looked genuinely, profoundly baffled.

"What the hell are you giggling at?" he asked, his head tilting to the side as he tracked your sudden shift in mood.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you managed to say, stepping up to the side of the bed and tossing the flannel shorts onto the mattress. You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, still breathless from the absurdity of his deadpan refusal. "It was a joke."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Katsuki just stared at you. He didn't blink. The tough, unyielding Pro Hero Dynamight was completely paralyzed by a total lack of comprehension. His brain was visibly trying to process the concept of a "privacy prank" between two people who shared a lease and a bank account.

"A prank," he repeated. It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact that he found fundamentally defective.

"Yeah," you grinned, pulling the oversized t-shirt over your head and letting your heavy work clothes drop to the floor. "I wanted to see if you'd actually leave. You looked so serious reviewing those reports, I couldn't help myself."

"You think that's funny?" Katsuki’s voice was entirely flat, stripped of all its usual gravelly bite, leaving only pure, unadulterated bewilderment. He leaned back against the pillows again, but his arms remained crossed over his chest, his eyes wide and completely fixed on you as you slipped into the comfortable flannel shorts. "You stood there with a straight face and told me to get out of my own bedroom. For a joke."

"A little funny," you admitted, sliding under the heavy duvet and immediately seeking out the radiator-like warmth of his side of the bed. You tucked your cold toes against his calf, eliciting a involuntary twitch from him, though he still didn't break his stunned stare. "You should have seen your face."

"Because it doesn't make any goddamn sense!" Katsuki burst out, his voice rising just a fraction, though it lacked any real malice. He threw his hands up, gesturing to the entire perimeter of the dark room. "What part of your brain thought, 'Hey, let me ask the guy who knows exactly how many freckles are on my left shoulder blade to vacate the premises for a change of clothes'? I thought you’d finally lost your mind from overwork."

"I haven't lost my mind," you laughed, resting your chin on his bare shoulder, looking up at his profile. The green glow of the clock caught the sharp line of his jaw. "You're just too easy to rile up when you're in your zone."

"I wasn't riled up. I was confused," he corrected roughly, though one of his large, calloused hands found its way to the small of your back, his fingers automatically splaying out against the cotton of your shirt to pull you closer. His grip was firm, anchoring you against him as if to prove a point. "There’s no 'privacy' in this house. You took a shower with the door wide open this morning because you wanted to tell me about some dumb cat video you saw."

"That was different. That cat was adorable."

"It's the same damn thing," he muttered, though the tension was finally leaving his shoulders. He reached over with his free hand, grabbing the tablet from the nightstand and clicking it off, plunging the room back into the soft, dim ambiance of the night. He slid down the pillows until he was lying flat beside you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

Even in the dark, you could feel the lingering disbelief radiating off him. He let out another long, slow sigh through his nose, his fingers gently tracing small circles against your hip through the fabric of your shorts.

"A prank," he whispered to the ceiling, shaking his head against the mattress. "Stupid."

"Goodnight, Katsuki," you whispered back, smiling against the warm skin of his neck.

"Yeah, whatever," he grunted, shifting his weight to pull you entirely over his chest, effectively burying you in his warmth.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Shoto Todoroki

The quiet of the late afternoon always felt a little more profound in the apartment you shared with Shoto. Located on a high floor overlooking the bustling, ever-expanding skyline of Musutafu, the space was a carefully curated blend of modern simplicity and traditional comfort. It had taken months to find a place that felt right—somewhere that offered enough security for a rising top hero but still felt entirely detached from the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the Todoroki estate. Today, the setting sun was painting the tatami mats and low furniture in long, striking streaks of amber and violet, casting the living space in a warm, sleepy glow.

Shoto was currently occupying the center of your shared bed, entirely dead to the world of hero duties, agencies, and public relations. At twenty-four, the soft-spoken boy from UA had grown into a man of quiet, commanding presence. He was tall, his frame lean but packed with muscle forged through years of brutal training and high-stakes combat.

Right now, however, none of that formidable aura was on display. He was wearing a pair of loose blue lounge pants and a plain white t-shirt that clung to the broad expanse of his back. He was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, lazily scrolling through his phone, which was displaying a culinary blog about the best hidden soba shops in the prefecture.

You stepped out of the adjoining bathroom. A structured, freshly pressed outfit hung neatly over your forearm, pristine and wrinkle-free. You had a casual dinner reservation with some friends in less than an hour, and the clock was ticking down with unforgiving speed.

You stopped near the edge of the mattress, clearing your throat to break the comfortable silence. "Shoto?"

"Hmm?" He didn't look up from the screen, his thumb sliding across the glass with a methodical rhythm. "The place in western Tokyo just opened up, and its ratings are really good. We should go next Tuesday. I checked my schedule; I only have a minor patrol in the morning. I can be back by noon."

"That sounds amazing, and you know I will never turn down a noodle date," you smiled, walking over to set your jewelry down on the wooden dresser. The metallic clink of your watch and rings sounded loud in the quiet room. "But that's not what I'm talking about right now. I need to get changed for dinner. Do you mind stepping out into the living room for a few minutes?"

The scrolling stopped instantly.

Shoto slowly lowered the gadget to his lap, his head tilting slightly to the side in a manner that was deeply reminiscent of a confused puppy. His mismatched eyes—one a calm, deep grey, the other a sharp, brilliant turquoise—blinked at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated confusion. He didn't look annoyed or slighted; he looked like a scientist trying to solve an equation that defied the fundamental laws of logic.

He slid off his elbow, shifting his weight to sit up cross-legged on the mattress, resting his wrists on his knees. "You want me to leave the room?"

"Just for five minutes," you said, smoothing out the fabric of your clothes against your arm, trying to maintain an air of practical efficiency. "So I can change."

Shoto stared at you for a long, agonizingly quiet moment. His face was entirely deadpan, though a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away to anyone who knew how to read him. "I live here."

"I know you live here, Shoto."

"And we share this bed."

"We do. Every night."

"And I have seen you without clothes on," he stated. His voice was completely level, delivered with the casual, devastating frankness that only Shoto could manage—the kind of tone most people reserved for discussing the weather. "Multiple times. Last night, for instance."

A sudden, fierce wave of heat rushed straight to your face. You reached over, grabbing a discarded throw pillow from the armchair, and tossed it straight at his head. "Shoto! Don't just say things like that so casually!"

He caught the pillow effortlessly with his left hand without moving an inch. A small, rare smirk broke through his usual stoic expression, a flash of pure boyish mischief that made your stomach do a frantic flip. "I'm just stating a fact. I don't understand the sudden eviction notice. Is there a specific protocol I violated?"

"No, there's no protocol," you groaned, walking over to nudge his knee with yours, exasperated but completely charmed. "I'm just running late, and if you stay in here, you're going to distract me. Out. Go read about your noodles in the hallway or the kitchen."

You expected him to huff, press a quick, lazy kiss to your cheek, and finally wander out to the kitchen to wait for you. That was the standard trajectory of your playful bickering. But as the silence stretched across the sunlit bedroom, you realized the playful spark in his mismatched eyes had vanished, replaced by something heavier.

Shoto didn't move to get up. Instead, his posture stiffened. The thumb that had been loosely tracing the edge of the throw pillow went completely still. He set the pillow down beside him with agonizing slowness, his movements suddenly devoid of the relaxed, domestic warmth from just a moment prior.

When he looked back up at you, the faint trace of amusement was entirely gone. His gaze searched your face, intense and entirely unblinking, trying to read a subtext that wasn't actually there.

"Are you uncomfortable around me?" he asked softly.

The question hit the quiet room like a physical weight. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its teasing edge and returning to that quiet, fiercely guarded tone he used when he was distressed.

"What? No, Shoto, of course not—"

"Because if I have crossed a line, or if you feel like I have been overstepping your privacy, you can tell me," he interrupted gently, though his words carried a desperate undercurrent of self-reproach. He stood up from the bed. He didn't look angry; he looked profoundly unsettled. "I know I'm not always... perceptive. Fuyumi tells me that I can be dense about domestic matters. If my presence is bothering you while you get ready, I'll leave."

He took a step backward, away from you, toward the bedroom door.

You froze, the fabric of your dinner outfit suddenly feeling heavy in your hands. The prank—a silly little social media trend you’d seen earlier that week about treating your long-term partner like a complete stranger just to see their reaction—had backfired. You had anticipated a laugh, a stubborn refusal, or maybe even a playful eye-roll.

You had entirely forgotten that Shoto Todoroki, despite being a formidable pro hero who could level battlefields with a wave of his hand, still carried the fragile, hyper-vigilant heart of a boy who always assumed he was the one at fault. Because of his past, because of the rigid, clinical isolation of his upbringing, he took boundaries with an almost painful level of seriousness. If you asked for space, his default instinct wasn't to think you were joking; it was to worry that he had somehow caused you discomfort or distress.

"Shoto, wait," you said, reaching out a hand, but he was already stepping into the hallway.

He stopped just past the threshold, his hand resting on the frame of the sliding door. He looked back at you over his shoulder, his expression a mask of stoic compliance that broke your heart. He looked exactly like he did when he was suppressing his own feelings for the sake of someone else's comfort.

"I'll be in the living room," he said, his voice entirely too polite. "Take your time."

"Sho, stop," you pleaded, dropping your clothes onto the armchair and stepping quickly across the room.

He stayed perfectly still as you closed the distance between you, though his mismatched eyes flickered down to your bare feet, then back up to your face, filled with a quiet, anxious longing.

You reached out, wrapping your fingers around his left wrist—and gently tugged him back into the bedroom. He didn't resist, allowing himself to be pulled back into the space, but he kept a careful, tentative distance, as if waiting for permission to exist in your perimeter again.

"It was a joke," you confessed softly, looking up into his troubled eyes. "It was just a stupid prank, Shoto. I'm sorry."

He blinked, the rigid line of his jaw softening just a fraction. "A prank?"

"Yes. There’s this silly trend online where people ask their partners to leave the room to change, just to see how they react. I thought... I thought you’d just argue with me or tease me like you usually do. I didn't think you'd take it seriously." You let out a soft sigh, sliding your hand up from his wrist to cup his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your palm, and you felt the slight tension in his muscles begin to melt under your touch. "I am never uncomfortable around you. You could never overstep your bounds with me, Shoto. I love having you in here. I love sharing everything with you."

Shoto stared down at you, processing your words with the methodical deliberateness that defined him. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the distant hum of the Musutafu traffic far below.

Then, a deep, shuddering breath escaped his lips. The invisible armor he had put up in the hallway completely crumbled. He let his forehead drop forward, resting it against your shoulder with a soft thud. His broad shoulders slouched, all the tension bleeding out of his large frame at once as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

"Don't do that again," he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin.

You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him tightly against you. Even when he was relaxing his weight into you, he was careful not to crush you, balancing his strength with a practiced tenderness. "I won't. I'm so sorry, love. I didn't mean to make you think you did something wrong."

"I thought..." He paused, his breath warm against your collarbone, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. "I thought you were growing tired of me. Or that I had done something to make you want distance. I know I can be... overwhelming."

"You are perfect," you corrected fiercely, running your fingers through the soft, split-colored strands of his hair, untangling the messy fringe at the back of his neck. "You are the easiest, most comforting person to be around. I wanted to play a trick on you because you're usually so unbothered, but you just had to go and be the most adorable, sweet boyfriend on the planet and ruin my fun."

Shoto let out a low, vibrating sound that was half-sigh, half-chuckle. He slowly lifted his head, looking down at you from a mere breath away. The vulnerability in his eyes was staggering, but the anxious cloud had entirely lifted, replaced by a soft, melting warmth that made your chest ache with affection.

A genuine, beautiful smile had broken across his face—the kind of smile that didn't make it to the media cameras, reserved exclusively for the quiet confines of your shared apartment. He reached down, his hands anchoring firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest until there was absolutely no space left between you.

"If it was a prank," he whispered, his turquoise and grey eyes locked onto yours with a sudden, playful intensity, "then I don't have to leave."

"No, you don't," you laughed, resting your hands on his broad shoulders. "But I really do need to change, Shoto. I'm going to be late for dinner."

"Let them wait," he murmured, leaning down to press his lips to yours.

The kiss was slow, deep, and utterly possessive, a silent reassurance that whatever brief insecurity had sparked in his mind was entirely gone. His hands warmed against your back, his left side radiating a comforting heat that seeped into your skin, effectively erasing any lingering chill from your shower. When he finally pulled back, his thumb traced a gentle path across your lower lip, his gaze heavy and entirely devoted.

"I'll help you pick out your jewelry," Shoto offered as he finally let go of your waist, though he didn't move more than a step away. He walked over to the dresser, picking up the watch you had set down earlier, turning it over. "But no more pranks like that. My heart can't handle your internet trends."

"Deal," you smiled, walking over to retrieve your outfit from the armchair, completely basking in the warm, amber glow of the setting sun and the quiet, unbreakable comfort of the man who shared your life.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hitoshi Shinso

The bedroom door 'groaned on its hinges, a slow, agonizing protest that perfectly mirrored the posture of the man slumping through it.

Hitoshi Shinso looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backward, and then perhaps run over by a vehicle. His hero costume was half-undone—the heavy, specialized capture scarf already draped like a dead snake around his left forearm, his dark purple hair standing up in even more catastrophic, gravity-defying spikes than usual.

He dropped his gear bag with a heavy, metallic thud that vibrated through the floorboards of your shared apartment, let out a sigh that sounded like a tire deflating, and face-planted directly into the mattress.

"Welcome home," you said, looking up from the dresser where you were currently rummaging through a stack of clean clothes.

A muffled groan was his only response. His voice came out thick, scratched raw from a night of shouting commands and baiting villains into talking. "If anyone asks, I died in the line of duty. Tell the agency to bury me in something soft."

"Rough patrol, huh?"

"A villain with a quirk that turns pavement into marshmallow fluff," Hitoshi muttered, rolling onto his side so he could blink up at you with one bleary, exhausted eye. "Do you know how hard it is to maintain a serious, intimidating hero presence when you’re actively sinking into strawberry-scented marshmallow? My boots are ruined. I need a shower, but moving requires muscles, and mine have gone on strike."

You chuckled, pulling a soft oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from the drawer. You held them against your chest and looked at him. "Well, you can hibernate in a minute. But first, do you mind stepping out for a second? I need to change."

Hitoshi didn’t move an inch. He just stared at you. The exhausted, dead-on-his-feet hero vanished, instantly replaced by the insufferable, sharp-tongued tease you had managed to fall in love with.

"I’m sorry," he muttered, his voice dropping into that low register that usually made villains freeze in terror but had a very different effect on you. "Did I walk into the wrong apartment? Because I could have sworn my name is on the lease, and that the person currently standing in front of me has been seen by me in far less than a pair of sweatpants."

"Hitoshi," you said, warningly, though a blush was already creeping up your neck. "Out. Just for two minutes."

He slowly raised his eyebrows, a deeply unimpressed, deadpan expression washing over his tired features. He didn't blink. He just let his head drop back onto the pillow, propping himself up slightly with one elbow as if he were settling in to watch a particularly unconvincing street performer.

"Two minutes," he repeated, flatly. "You’re kicking me out of my own bedroom—well, our bedroom—so you can change a shirt. A shirt that, if memory serves, is actually my shirt from when I was in UA."

"It's about privacy," you said, trying desperately to keep your face completely serious. You clutched the clothes tighter to your chest, leaning heavily into the bit. "Modesty is important, Shinso. We need boundaries in a healthy relationship. Now, please. Step into the hallway."

Hitoshi let out a short, breathy puff of laughter that was pure, unfiltered sarcasm. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, right where his voice changer usually pressed into his skin, leaving a faint red mark.

"Modesty," he muttered, the word tasting like a joke on his tongue. "Right. Because last weekend, when you accidentally locked yourself out of the bathroom while conditioning your hair, you definitely screamed for my help with the utmost modesty."

He leaned back further, a slow, knowing smirk finally breaking through his exhaustion. The shadows under his eyes didn't look quite as heavy now that his brain was actively engaged in picking apart your terrible execution of a prank.

"You’re doing a bit," he stated, his voice returning to its normal, casual drone. "You have that look on your face."

"I am completely serious," you insisted, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. "I just want some privacy. Is that so much to ask from my partner? A little respect for my personal space?"

Hitoshi sighed, a long, dramatic sound, and deliberately spread himself diagonally across the entire bed. He stretched his long legs out, utterly ruining your neat presentation of the duvet.

"If you wanted me out of the room, you should have just told me you ordered takeout and it's getting cold," he said, closing his eyes. "At least then I’d have an incentive to fight the gravity currently pinning me to this mattress. But this? Asking me to stand in the hallway like a punished schoolboy while you put on sweatpants? Please. I have a severe caffeine deficiency. I am legally exempt from participating in whatever Instagram trend you’re trying to replicate right now."

"It's not an Instagram trend!" you argued, though you were losing the battle against your own smile.

"Oh, really?" Hitoshi opened his eyes, fixing you with a piercing gaze. "Then what is it? A psychological experiment to see how fast you can induce an aneurysm in a tired pro hero? Because it’s working."

He shifted, propping his chin in his hand.

"Let's analyze the logic here," he continued, his tone dripping with that classic, dry wit that had once made his UA classmates want to shake him. "We have been dating for four years. We share a closet. The veil of mystery, my love, has not just been lifted—it has been shredded, burned, and the ashes were scattered over this very floor."

You crossed your arms, the clothes bunched up under your elbows. "You're a real drama queen, you know that?"

"I'm a realist," he corrected smoothly, a faint, genuine warmth softening the sharp edges of his smirk. "And realistically, I am too tired to stand up, let alone walk five feet to the door, turn the handle, stand in a drafty hallway, and wait for a cue that is inevitably going to end with you laughing at me."

He reached out, his long, pale fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, tugging just enough to make you shift your weight.

"Come here," he murmured, his voice losing some of its sarcastic bite, replaced by the deep, heavy drag of exhaustion. "Stop playing games and give me a reason to stay awake for another fifteen minutes. My brain is fried."

You finally let the serious facade drop, letting out a proper laugh as you tossed the clean clothes onto the desk chair. You stepped closer to the bed, looking down at the messy, crumpled form of your boyfriend. For all his sharp words and lazy deflections, the grip on your wrist was warm and grounding.

"Fine, you caught me," you admitted, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "It was a prank. I saw a video of someone doing it to their partner to see if they'd actually get offended or just confused."

"And what was the expected outcome?" Hitoshi asked, closing his eyes again as he dragged himself upward, shifting his body until his head was resting comfortably in your lap. He let out a contented hum, his sharp features relaxing completely as you automatically brought a hand up to weave your fingers through his messy, tangled purple hair. "Were you hoping I’d get all flustered and apologetic? 'Oh, I'm so sorry, let me give you your space!'" He mimicked a high-pitched, panicked voice that sounded absolutely nothing like him.

"Maybe a little," you teased, gently tugging at a particularly stubborn knot near the crown of his head. "A little chivalry wouldn't kill you."

"Chivalry died when I walked through this door," he muttered, leaning into the touch of your fingers. "Besides, you don't want chivalry. You want a reaction, and I am far too smart to fall for the oldest trick in the book."

"You're just lazy."

"I am strategically conserving my energy," he corrected, his voice growing fainter as the comfort of your lap and the rhythmic stroking of his hair began to take their toll. "There's a difference. Now... shut up and let me pretend the world doesn't exist for an hour."

You smiled down at him. "Okay, Nighthide. Sleep."

"Don't use my hero name to command me," he mumbled, his breathing already slowing down. "That's my gimmick..."

Within seconds, the deep, even rhythm of his chest told you he was out cold. You stayed right where you were, abandoning the clothes and the prank entirely, content to just be his soft place to land.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Touya Todoroki (Dabi)

The mattress dipped under a sudden, heavy weight that smelled distinctively of cheap tobacco and scorched leather.

Touya didn’t bother changing out of his clothes. He just dragged his long, lanky frame across the sheets, propping his back against the headboard with a rough, grating sigh. His dark coat was slung somewhere near the front door, leaving him in his fitted white tank top. The silver staples holding his jaw and collarbones together glinted under the dim, buzzing lightbulbs of the hideout’s bedroom. He looked thoroughly wrecked, a faint trail of grey ash still dusting the sharp line of his collarbone.

"You look like shit," you said, not turning around from the warped wooden dresser where you were pulling out a clean shirt.

"Feel like it too," Touya rasped. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration that always sounded like it was scraping against sandpaper. He dragged a scarred, patchwork hand down his face, the pale blue of his eyes peering out from between his fingers. "Some low-tier hero thought he could corner me in an alley. Had a water quirk. Kept dousing my sparks. Fucking irritating."

"Did you kill him?"

"Left him a little crispy around the edges," he muttered, a cruel, lazy smirk tugging at the staples around his mouth. "He won't be playing with hoses anytime soon."

You pulled a soft, oversized t-shirt and loose shorts from the drawer, turning around to face him. "Glad you made it back in one piece. Now, do me a favor and step out for a minute? I need to change."

Touya didn’t blink. He just stared at you, his heavy eyelids drooping as that lazy, wicked smirk widened into something altogether filthy. He didn't make a move to get up. Instead, he slid a bit further down the mattress, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're joking, right?" he grunted, a low chuckle rattling in his throat. "We’ve been sharing this cramped box of a room for six months, and suddenly you’re getting shy about a little skin?"

"I'm not getting shy," you sighed, shifting your weight. "I just want to change into my sleepwear without you staring holes through me with those creepy blue eyes."

"Creepy?" He let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. "Get real. You love these eyes. Especially when they're looking at you from a hell of a lot closer than this." He leaned his head back against the wall, his gaze dropping deliberately from your face, tracing the line of your throat, down to where your hands were clutching the fabric. "Besides, why the fuck should I leave? I'm exhausted. My legs feel like lead, and frankly, watching you strip down is the only decent entertainment I’m gonna get tonight."

"Touya, out," you said, your tone firming up, though the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you. "Two minutes. Go smoke a cigarette on the fire escape."

"Nah. It's raining," he said smoothly, not shifting an inch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack, flicking a tiny, bright blue flame alive with the tip of his thumb. He didn't light a cigarette; he just watched the flame dance along his fingers, reflecting in his pupils. "Tell you what. You want me gone, you’re gonna have to physically drag me out. And we both know how that ends. You get close enough to grab me, and I’m tearing those clothes off you myself."

"You're disgusting," you said, but there was a tremor of amusement in your voice.

"I’m a villain, sweetheart. Disgusting is in the job description," he muttered, letting the flame die. His voice dropped into a rough, intimate register that made your stomach do a sudden, sharp flip. "But if you're gonna stand there holding those clothes like a shield, you're just wasting time. Let me see what I’m working with tonight."

"You aren't 'working' with anything tonight, you're covered in soot and alleyway grime," you countered, taking a step back as he suddenly swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The boots hit the floorboards with a heavy thud. Touya stood up, his tall, dangerously thin frame uncoiling like a snake. He didn't walk so much as prowl, closing the distance between you before you could even register the shift in his energy. The heat radiating off him was immense—a constant, sweltering aura that always made the air in the room feel thick and suffocating.

He stopped right in front of you, the scent of burnt leather and smoke hitting you full force. He was filthy, his skin smudged with carbon, but his eyes were burning bright.

"Soot washes off," he murmured, his hand coming up to cup the side of your neck. His skin was rough, a mix of smooth, unburnt flesh and the rigid, gnarled texture of his purple scars. His thumb dragged lazily along your jawline, leaving a faint grey smudge on your skin. "And a little sweat never hurt anyone. In fact, I remember you screaming my name pretty loud the last time we got a little dirty in this bed."

The sheer intensity of his gaze was enough to melt whatever resolve you had left, but you bit the inside of your cheek, determined to keep the joke alive. You leaned back slightly against the edge of the dresser, your hands still holding the folded pile of clothes against your chest like a barricade.

"You're tracking ash all over the room, Touya," you muttered, looking down at his boots, then back up to his face. "And I'm serious. Go wait in the hallway. Just for a couple of minutes. I want some privacy."

Touya’s eyes narrowed, the lazy smirk fading just a fraction into an expression of sheer, unadulterated amusement. He didn't drop his hand from your neck; instead, his thumb continued its slow, rhythmic stroke against your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the raw, terrifying power humming just beneath his skin. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips.

He let out another low, rattling laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and directly into yours. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"

"I'm not lying," you insisted, though the proximity was making it incredibly hard to keep your voice steady. "I just... I want to change in peace. Is that so much to ask from my boyfriend?"

The word boyfriend usually made him scoff or roll his eyes—he preferred terms that were a little more dangerous, a little less domestic—but tonight, it only seemed to fuel his stubbornness. He tilted his head, his electric blue eyes boring straight into yours, stripping away every single layer of your defense. He knew you. He knew every twitch of your eyebrows, every shift in your posture, and the exact tone of your voice when you were actually upset versus when you were just trying to get a rise out of him.

"You're pulling something," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute certainty. "I don't know what kind of stupid game you're playing, but you picked the wrong night to try and trick me, sweetheart."

"It's not a game," you tried one last time, though the corners of your mouth were already betraying you, twitching upward.

"Yeah? Then why is your heart beating so fast?" Touya’s hand slid down from your jaw, his long, scarred fingers wrapping loosely around the side of your throat, feeling the rapid, telltale pulse. His grin turned triumphant, wicked, and entirely self-satisfied. "You're throwing a tantrum because I came home late, or you're just trying to see how long it takes for me to lose my mind. Which is it?"

You stared at him for a beat, realizing the jig was completely up. There was no out-smarting a guy who spent his entire life reading people's worst intentions in the shadows. With a defeated sigh, you let your shoulders drop and relaxed against the dresser, the fake sternness completely melting away.

"Fine. You caught me," you admitted, a genuine laugh finally breaking through. "It was a prank. I wanted to see if you'd actually leave or if you'd just get annoyed."

"A prank," Touya repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, mock-offended growl. He stepped even closer, his lanky frame effectively pinning you between his body and the heavy wooden dresser. The heat rolling off him was like standing next to an open furnace, making you dizzy in the best way possible. "You think it's funny to try and kick an exhausted, aching villain out of his own bed after he just spent the last three hours dealing with a glorified fire hydrant?"

"A little bit, yeah," you teased, tilting your chin up defiantly. "You're usually so dramatic, I thought you'd storm out and pout."

"I don't pout," he hissed, though there was no real heat behind the words. His blue eyes softened into something deeply possessive, his gaze dropping to your lips. "And I don't leave this room unless I'm taking you with me. You should know that by now."

"I do know," you whispered, the playful banter shifting into something much more intimate. You let go of the clothes in your hands, letting them drop carelessly onto the dresser behind you. You raised your arms, looping them around his neck, ignoring the faint scent of ash and the rough texture of the staples against your skin. "You're still filthy, though."

"I told you," Touya murmured, his hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity. He lifted you easily, setting you down on the edge of the dresser so you were at eye level with him. "Soot washes off. And right now, I have a much better idea of how we can both get clean."

He didn't wait for your response. His mouth slammed into yours with a rough, hungry desperation, his tongue sliding past your lips to claim you completely. The taste of him was always the same—bitter tobacco, and an underlying sweetness that belonged solely to you. He kissed you like he fought: aggressively, and leaving absolutely no room for escape.

Your fingers tangled in his stark white hair, pulling him closer as the heat in the room spiked, the ambient temperature rising with his mood. Touya groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding up under your shirt, his rough, scarred palms sending shivers straight down your spine as they pressed against your bare skin.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his breathing was ragged, his blue eyes dark and wild. He rested his forehead against yours, the slow smirk returning to his lips.

Without breaking eye contact, he slid his hands back down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the dresser. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, holding on as he carried you out of the bedroom and into the adjacent bathroom. He kicked the door shut behind him, the sound echoing in the space just before he shook off his boots and stepped into the spacious shower enclosure, reaching out blindly to twist the handle, clothes and all.

The blast of lukewarm water hit you both instantly, plastering his white hair to his forehead and drenching both of your clothes in seconds, but it did nothing to cool the sudden, fierce heat between you. Touya pressed your back against the tiled wall, the cool stone a sharp contrast to the blistering warmth of his body. He rasped, his thumb brushing against your wet lower lip, "I don't think you realise how much trouble you're in."

You leaned your head back against the tiles, a defiant, breathless smile touching your lips as the water streamed down your face. "Then stop talking and show me."

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Shota Aizawa

The yellow glow of the desk lamp was the only thing cutting through the heavy, quiet darkness of the bedroom. It illuminated a pile of student essays, a half-empty mug of black coffee that had gone cold hours ago, and Shota Aizawa.

He was slouched in his chair, his shoulders hunched in a way that would make a physical therapist weep. His capture scarf was draped over the back of the seat like an oversized, exhausted snake, and his signature black apparel was unzipped halfway down his chest, revealing the wrinkled grey t-shirt underneath. His long, black hair was tied back in a messy, haphazard bun, though several stray strands had escaped to frame his face.

The only sound in the room was the humming of the air conditioner and the rhythmic, dry scratch of his red pen against the paper.

You stepped out of the bathroom, a stack of clean pajamas held tightly against your chest. You looked at him, then at the bed, then back to his hunched form.

"Hey, Shota?" you said softly.

The pen didn't stop. "Mhm."

"Do you mind stepping out for a few minutes? I need to change."

The scratching of the pen paused. For a second, the room was completely silent. Then, Shota slowly tilted his head back, letting it rest against the top of his chair. He didn't turn around to look at you. He just stared at the ceiling, his eyes blinking slowly in the dim light.

"Say that again," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

"I asked if you could step out into the hallway," you repeated, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "Just for five minutes. I want to change into my pajamas."

Slowly, deliberately, Shota rotated his chair. He rested his elbows on his knees, intertwining his fingers, and fixed you with a flat, entirely unimpressed stare. His expression was completely blank—the face of a man who had faced down high-tier villains, survived near-fatal injuries, and dealt with a class of chaotic teenagers for nearly every year for the past decade, and yet found this specific request to be the most baffling thing he had encountered all his life.

"You want me," Shota said, gesturing vaguely to himself, "to leave my own bedroom. Where I am currently working on mid-term evaluations. So you can take off your clothes."

"Yes."

He stared at you for a long, agonizing beat. He didn't blink. "Why?"

"Because I want some privacy?" you offered, though it sounded weak even to your own ears.

Shota let out a long, slow breath through his nose—a sound that was half-sigh, half-scoff. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his dark eyes tracking the way you were clutching the pajamas like a shield.

"(f/n)," he sighed. "We have been living together for over nine years. We share a lease, a bed, and a cat that currently prefers sleeping on your chest over mine. I have seen you at your absolute worst and best."

He paused, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, a dry, deadpan edge cutting through his voice. "More importantly, I have seen every single square inch of your body. Multiple times. In varying degrees of lighting. There is absolutely nothing hiding under those clothes that is a mystery to me. So, logically speaking, making me get up, walk out into a cold hallway, and stand there like a stranger while you put on a t-shirt is a massive waste of energy."

"It's modesty thing," you argued, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks despite yourself. "Can't I change without you staring for once?"

"I'm not staring. I am grading. If I wanted to look at you, I would. But right now, Bakugo’s complete disregard for property damage is taking priority. You changing in the corner is not going to distract me."

"So you won't look?"

"I didn't say that," Shota murmured, his hand dropping back down. A tiny, almost imperceptible quirk appeared at the corner of his chapped lips—the closest he ever came to a smirk when he was this exhausted. "If you're going to stand there and make a production out of it, I might glance over. It’s a habit. Hero training. I'm conditioned to notice sudden movements in my peripheral vision."

You bit your lip, trying desperately to keep your face straight. The prank was supposed to evoke some sort of dramatic sigh before he begrudgingly dragged himself out of the room. Instead, you were getting a full-blown, deeply logical lecture on the mechanics of his peripheral vision and the sheer inefficiency of walking ten feet to the hallway.

"So you're absolutely refusing to give me privacy?" you asked, taking a step forward and puffing out your chest in mock offense. "Shota, I am shocked. Truly. Where is your chivalry?"

Shota’s gaze drifted from your face down to the stack of clothes you were holding like armor, then back up. He didn't look flustered in the slightest. If anything, the slight marks under his eyes seemed to heavy further with profound exhaustion.

"My chivalry quota went down when I agreed to let you take over three-quarters of the closet," he said smoothly, picking his red pen back up and twirling it between his calloused fingers.

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours with terrifying intensity. "If you're trying to prove a point, you're failing. Logically, what is your end goal here?"

"I just think a gentleman would respect my boundaries," you huffed, trying to suppress the giggle threatening to bubble up in your throat.

He let out a low, gravelly chuckle—a sound that vibrated straight through your chest. "Boundaries. Right. The same boundaries that involve you kicking me in your sleep to steal the blankets? Or the boundaries where you regularly use my lap as a footrest without asking while I'm trying to review case files?"

"Those are different," you said quickly. "Those are... relationship perks."

"And standing out in a freezing hallway while my coffee dies a second death is a relationship penalty," Shota countered, his voice dropping into that smooth, commanding tone he used when he was shutting down a class argument. "I’m not moving. If it bothers you that much, change in the bathroom. The light is already on, and it requires zero expenditure of my energy."

You groaned softly, realizing that breaking his stubborn logic was going to take a bit more effort. "But the bathroom floor is cold, Shota! And I want to change here. Why are you being so difficult?"

"I am the definition of low-maintenance," he muttered, turning his chair a fraction of an inch back toward his desk, though his eyes remained fixed on you. "You're the one initiating a logistical nightmare for a five-minute task. Change, don't change, or sleep in what you have on. But do it quietly. I have ten more essays to get through before I can even consider closing my eyes."

You stood there for a moment, watching him. The dim yellow light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the faint, pale scar beneath his right eye. He looked entirely immovable, a solid anchor of sheer apathy against your antics. It was maddening how well he knew you, and even more maddening how utterly immune he was to being rattled in his own space.

"Fine," you sighed, letting your shoulders drop as you took a couple of steps toward the edge of the bed. "But if I catch you peeking, I'm not getting you coffee tomorrow."

"A risk I'm willing to take," Shota murmured, already lowering his pen back to the margins of a terribly formatted essay.

You turned your back to him, unbuttoning your shirt slowly, deliberately creating rustling fabric sounds to see if he'd actually look. In the quiet of the room, every slide of cloth felt magnified. You glanced over your shoulder.

Shota hadn't moved an inch. His red pen was moving in sharp, decisive strokes, slashing through a particularly horrifying sentence. He was completely dialed in, his focus terrifyingly absolute.

With a small smile, you finally let the act drop, slipping into your soft pajamas and letting out a contented sigh as the warmth settled in. You tossed your discarded clothes into the hamper by the door and padded softly across the carpet, stopping right behind his chair.

Without a word, you leaned down, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck and resting your chin on his shoulder. He smelled like old paper, bitter coffee, and the faint, comforting scent of mint.

Shota didn't flinch. He just leaned back slightly into your touch, his head tilting back just enough to press against your cheek. The tense line of his shoulders softened, just a fraction, under the weight of your embrace.

"Done with your performance?" he asked, his voice low and private in the dark room.

"Yeah. You're no fun to prank."

"Good. Pranks are irrational," he said, though his free hand reached up to gently clasp your forearm, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle against your skin. "Now let me finish this."

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Keigo Takami

The late-evening sun was dipping just below the horizon, painting the sky outside the high-rise apartment in bruised shades of purple and gold. Inside the bedroom, the atmosphere was soft, quiet, and warm.

Keigo Takami—known to the rest of the world as the razor-sharp, perpetually moving Number Two Hero, Hawks—was currently reduced to a heap of golden-blonde hair and oversized crimson wings on the center of your shared bed. His heavy, fur-lined hero jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, leaving him in just his tight black undershirt and baggy cargo pants. He was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, lazily scrolling through his agency phone with one hand. His massive red wings were half-unfurled, spilling off the mattress like a plush, feathered comforter, a few loose primaries twitching rhythmically.

The soft click of the bathroom door opening drew his attention.

You stepped out into the bedroom, clutching a folded pile of oversized pajamas tightly against your chest like a shield. You paused by the edge of the dresser, looking at him, then down at your feet, trying your absolute best to channel a sudden, intense wave of bashful modesty.

"Hey, Keigo?" you called out softly, keeping your voice just hesitant enough to pique his interest.

Keigo didn't even look up from his phone screen, a lazy, habitual grin already tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, gorgeous? What's up?"

"Do you mind... stepping out into the hallway for a few minutes?" you asked, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "I need to change into my pajamas."

The silence that followed was immediate, but it wasn't a shocked silence. It was the heavy, loaded silence of a predator watching a particularly amusing prey animal walk directly into a trap.

The scrolling motion of his thumb stopped. Slowly, Keigo rolled over onto his back, burying his head into the plush pillows while his enormous wings flared outward, spanning nearly the entire width of the king-sized bed. He tucked his hands behind his head, his golden-blonde hair flaring out in messy, sleep-tousled spikes. When he finally looked at you, his amber eyes were bright, narrowed, and absolutely gleaming with a dangerous, playful mischief.

"Step out?" Keigo repeated, his voice dropping into a low, honeyed purr that sent a compulsory shiver down your spine. He tilted his head, his sharp, bird-like gaze tracking the way you were white-knuckling your pajamas. "Into the hallway? Of our own apartment?"

"Yes," you said, trying to maintain a straight face. "Just for five minutes. Please?"

Keigo let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his wings puffing up with pure amusement. He didn't look flustered; he looked like Christmas had come early, and you had just handed him the wrapping paper.

"Babe, I say this with all the love in my heart, but you've got to be kidding me," he chuckled, rolling effortlessly off the bed. He drifted over to you, his movements terrifyingly fluid, his bare feet making absolutely no sound against the hardwood floor. Before you could even blink, he was standing directly in your space, close enough that you could feel the radiating heat of his wings.

He leaned down, bringing his face level with yours, those dark, dramatic markings around his eyes crinkling as he grinned. "You want me to leave? Now, why would I do a silly thing like that when the view in here is about to get so much better?"

"Keigo, come on," you whined, taking a half-step back, though your back immediately hit the solid wood of the dresser. "I’m being serious. I want some privacy."

"Privacy?" He echoed the word like it was a foreign concept, a soft, teasing lilt in his tone. He reached out, a single, warm index finger hooking under your chin to gently tilt your face upward. He didn't press, but the sheer weight of his presence was overwhelming. "Sweetheart, we’ve been dating for years. I’ve literally carried you out of the shower when you were too tired to walk. There isn't a single part of you that I don't know by heart."

He stepped even closer, his chest nearly brushing against the pajamas you were holding. His crimson wings curved forward, wrapping around the two of you like a plush, secluded tent, effectively cutting off the rest of the bedroom and trapping you in a cocoon of soft feathers and amber warmth.

"In fact," Keigo whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips for a lingering, agonizing second before darting back to yours, "if you're feeling a little shy tonight, I can think of a dozen ways to help you get those clothes off. And none of them involve me standing out in a drafty hallway like a rejected puppy."

Your heart gave a violent, traitorous thud against your ribs. This was the problem with trying to prank a man who lived and breathed shameless confidence. You had expected a whine, or maybe a dramatic complain about how unfair you were being. Instead, he had turned the tables so fast you had whiplash, turning a simple request into an open invitation for a masterclass in flirting.

"It's a modesty thing," you tried to argue, your voice wavering slightly as the blush you had been trying to fake suddenly became very, very real. "Can't I just change without you staring?"

"Who said anything about staring?" Keigo hummed, his free hand sliding down to rest against the dresser right next to your hip, effectively pinning you in place. "Staring is for strangers. I prefer appreciating. There’s a distinct artistic value to it, you know? And besides, as a pro hero, it's my civic duty to remain vigilant and observant of my surroundings at all times."

"I am not a villain, Hawks," you grumbled, using his hero name to try to inject some authority into your voice.

It backfired immediately. Hearing his hero name only made his grin widen, his eyes darkening with a sudden, wicked heat.

"No, you're much worse," he murmured, leaning in until his lips were just brushing against the shell of your ear, his warm breath hitching your pulse. "You're a distraction. A highly dangerous, devastatingly beautiful distraction. And right now, my situational awareness is telling me that you are wearing far too many layers."

His hand shifted from the dresser, his long, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the edge of the pajamas you were clutching. He didn't pull, but the subtle, teasing tension was there. "Come on. Let me help. I can have you out of those clothes in fifteen seconds flat. Five seconds, if I use the feathers, but I think a personal touch is much more romantic, don't you?"

The sheer, unfiltered audacity of him was too much. The heat in your cheeks was reaching a boiling point, and the tight, suffocating grip you had on your pajamas was slipping because your hands were starting to sweat. You could feel the vibrant energy radiating off him, the absolute certainty that he had won this little psychological warfare.

You broke.

"Okay, okay! Stop! It’s a prank," you burst out, your shoulders slumping as you let out a loud, defeated groan. You pushed your hands against his chest, trying to create some distance, though it felt like trying to move a mountain draped in feathers. "It was just a joke."

Keigo froze. For a split second, his brilliant, fast-processing mind actually sputtered to a halt. Then, slowly, his head tilted to the side as his eyes searched your face, looking for the punchline.

"A... prank?" he repeated.

"Yes! A prank!" you huffed, hiding your flaming face behind the stack of pajamas. "I saw this thing online where people ask their partners to leave the room so they can change, just to see if they get flustered or upset. You were supposed to complain, or look confused, or at least feel a little awkward! You weren't supposed to... overwhelm me!"

The silence returned, but this time, it lasted for only three seconds before Keigo completely lost it.

His entire body shook with mirth, his massive crimson wings flaring outward and ruffling in his amusement, sending a small gale of wind through the room that stirred the curtains. He leaned his forehead against your shoulder, his golden hair tickling your collarbone as he laughed so hard his chest heaved against yours.

"Oh my god," he gasped, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he finally looked up, his face flushed with genuine delight. "You were trying to fluster me? Sweetheart, love of my life... I am a public figure who gets hit on by reporters for a living. You're going to have to do a lot better than asking for a little privacy if you want to rattle my cage."

"I see that now," you muttered into your pajamas, feeling incredibly foolish but unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. "You're shameless."

"Guilty as charged," Keigo beamed, finally stepping back just enough to give you some breathing room, though his wings remained curved around you like a protective barrier. He reached out, gently tugging the pajamas down from your face so he could look into your eyes. His expression had softened, the teasing glint melting into something incredibly warm, fond, and deeply devoted.

"But hey, for the record?" he murmured, his thumb reaching up to gently wipe a stray strand of hair away from your forehead. "I highly appreciate the effort. Even if it completely backfired."

"Shut up," you laughed softly, leaning your head against his chest.

Keigo wrapped his arms fully around you now, burying his face into your hair and inhaling deeply. His feathers settled, wrapping tightly around the two of you, shutting out the rest of the world until it was just the two of you in your own little crimson universe.

"Next time, just ask me to help you change," he whispered roguishly against your ear, unable to help himself. "I promise I'll be much more cooperative."

"Don't push your luck, bird-brain."

fin-

(i needed to make one of my own fics based on this prompt lowk)

[veevid]

warnings :- izuku has ofa, suggestive, mdni pairings :- izuku midoriya, katsuki bakugo, shoto todoroki, hitoshi shinso, touya todoroki (dabi), shota aizawa, keigo takami (hawks) x reader. (SEPARATE; the students are all aged up)

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART (YOU) IS

(what is their favorite body part of you?)

Izuku Midoriya

Izuku Midoriya is a man whose entire life is defined by observation, analysis, and an almost overwhelming reverence for the details other people breeze right past. His notebooks are proof of it, crammed with meticulous scribbles on hero support gear, quirk activation variables, and tactical footwork.

But when it comes to you, his analytical brain completely short-circuits, replaced by a quiet, consuming devotion. And out of everything that makes you who you are, it is your hands that hold an absolute, irreplaceable grasp over his heart.

To anyone else, hands are just tools for navigating the physical world. To Izuku, your hands are an anchor, a sanctuary, and the ultimate tangible proof that he is allowed to love and be loved in return.

Izuku’s own hands tell a story of immense pain, sacrifice, and brutal survival. They are heavily scarred, the skin permanently altered by the explosive force of One For All. His fingers are slightly crooked, his knuckles thickened, and the reminders of his past recklessness are etched into his flesh.

Because of this, he views your hands as a stark, beautiful contrast to his own. Whether they are soft and unblemished, calloused from your own training, or covered in ink stains and tiny scars, he sees them as utterly perfect. He finds himself tracking their movements when you speak, mesmerized by the way you gesture to emphasize a point, or how you absentmindedly tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

Holding hands with Izuku is never just a casual gesture; it is an entire love language. In public, he is still the same easily flustered boy he has always been, blushing a furious crimson whenever you reach out for him. Yet, no matter how bright his face burns, his fingers will instinctively find yours. He loves the sensation of your palm pressing against his, the way your fingers effortlessly lace through his scarred ones, filling the gaps perfectly. When he is anxious, which is often, given the weight of the world on his shoulders, you only need to squeeze his hand to bring him back to earth. He will trace the lines of your palm with his thumb, memorizing the shape of your knuckles and the warmth of your skin, using the physical sensation to ground himself against the chaotic noise of his own mind.

When you are alone, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the world, his adoration for your hands shifts from sweet into something much more intimate and reverent. He will pull you into his lap and simply hold your hands in both of his, lifting them to his face to press soft, lingering kisses against your knuckles. He treats them like something fragile and precious, even if you are a fierce powerhouse on the battlefield.

As the night deepens and the innocence of the day melts into the quiet privacy of his bedroom, that reverence takes on a distinctly breathless edge.

Izuku is a hero with immense, world-shaking power, but the moment your hands slide over his skin, he is entirely at your mercy. He becomes utterly intoxicated by the sensation of your hands moving over him, tracing the broad line of his collarbones, smoothing over the tight muscles of his shoulders, and gripping his waist to pull him closer. The feeling of your fingers anchoring into his messy, green curls as you pull him down for a deep, bruising kiss sends a jolt of pure adrenaline straight down his spine.

Even in the height of passion, he refuses to let go. He needs to feel your fingers raking down his back, your nails digging into his skin, leaving marks that will remind him of this exact, breathless moment tomorrow. In the dark, tangled in the sheets, your hands are the center of his universe, guiding him, holding him, and driving him absolutely wild.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Katsuki Bakugou

Katsuki Bakugou is not a man who does anything halfway, and that includes the way he perceives the world. As a top pro hero, his instincts are razor-sharp, trained to read a room, a villain, or a battlefield in a fraction of a second. He prides himself on seeing through bullshit, on knowing exactly what people are thinking before they even have the guts to say it.

But when it comes to you, that hyper-fixation narrows down to a single, devastatingly beautiful canvas: your face. Katsuki is an explicitly loud, explosive person, but his devotion to your expressiveness is a quiet, consuming secret. He knows every single micro-expression you are capable of making, from the subtle twitch of your eyebrow when you are annoyed to the specific, brilliant way your eyes light up when you are genuinely happy. To a guy who spent his whole life putting up walls, your utter transparency is the most intoxicating thing he has ever encountered.

He pretends to be annoyed by it, of course. In front of the rest of the agency or his old classmates, he will scoff and tell you to fix your face when you give him a look, but it is nothing more than a defensive smokescreen. The truth is, Katsuki is utterly mesmerized by how incapable you are of hiding your feelings from him. Your face is an open book, and he is a man obsessed with reading every line.

He loves the fiery spark in your eyes when you argue with him, the defiant tilt of your chin that proves you aren’t intimidated by his explosive temper in the slightest. Even better is the soft, completely relaxed expression you wear when you think he isn't looking, the gentle curve of your lips, the sleepy, heavy-lidded gaze you give him on a quiet Sunday morning. It gives him a profound sense of possessive pride to know that he is the only one who gets to see the raw, unfiltered spectrum of your emotions up close.

In public, Katsuki deliberately keeps the world at arm's length. Yet, his eyes will always find a way back to your face. If you are across a crowded room at a hero gala or walking down a busy street, he is constantly tracking you, reading your comfort levels through the tension in your jaw or the forced brightness of your smile.

The moment he detects a hint of exhaustion or discomfort in the tightness around your eyes, his protective instincts flare. He will bridge the distance between you, pulling you against his side with a heavy, unyielding arm around your waist. He loves the immediate, visible relief that washes over your features the second he arrives, the way your shoulders drop, your eyes soften, and you look at him like he is the only safe place in a chaotic world. That look alone makes him feel completely invincible.

When the heavy doors of his apartment finally close, locking out the noise of the media and the demands of being a top hero, his fixation becomes intensely focused. Katsuki doesn't just want to look at you; he needs to touch. He will grab your jaw with his large, rough hand, his thumb resting firmly against your cheekbone, forcing you to look straight at him. His grip isn't painful, but it is commanding, demanding your absolute attention. He wants to see exactly what he does to you, and he refuses to let you hide a single sensation.

He traps you beneath him on the mattress, his body pinning yours, his hands coming up to frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair to lock you in place. As his lips crash onto yours in a breathtaking kiss, he pulls back just enough to watch your eyes flutter open, dark with want and beautifully dazed.

The control he fights so hard to maintain daily completely disintegrates the more expressive you become beneath him. He intentionally slows his pace, torturing you both, just to watch the desperate, agonizing pleasure twist across your features. He leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your jawline, listening to the high, broken sound that tears from your throat.

When he looks up, his own breath is ragged, his eyes blazing as he takes in the sight of you, your cheeks flushed, your brow furrowed with overwhelming pleasure, and your gaze completely locked onto his, entirely consumed by him. Your face is his ultimate victory, a beautiful, vulnerable testament to the fact that you belong entirely to him.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Shoto Todoroki

Shoto Todoroki is a man who understands the profound weight of a touch. Having grown up in a household where physical contact was almost always associated with violence, training, or clinical assessment, the quiet intimacy of a soft, domestic relationship is something he treats with a level of reverence that borders on religious.

To Shoto, your back represents a beautiful paradox of vulnerability and strength. It is a part of you that you cannot see yourself, a blind spot that you unconditionally entrust to him, and he takes that responsibility with a quiet, consuming seriousness. Whether you are walking ahead of him in a crowded room or curled against his chest in the dark, his hand is almost always anchored there, a steady, protective weight reminding you both that he has your back in every literal and figurative sense.

This fixation manifests most prominently in a domestic ritual that has become entirely his domain. Whenever you wear a dress, a top, or a hero suit that zippers or buttons up the spine, Shoto will appear out of nowhere, his presence a calm, unyielding shadow behind you. He has silently forbidden anyone else, and certainly you yourself, from doing the task.

There is a slow, methodical sensuality to the way he handles it. He will gently sweep your hair over one shoulder, exposing the bare expanse of your skin to the cool room air, before his fingers find the zipper. He never rushes. Instead, he will deliberately press the pads of his fingers against your lower back, using his left hand to send a soothing, subtle warmth into your skin, or his right hand to offer a refreshing, crisp chill if the day has been stiflingly hot. As he slowly pulls the zipper upward, his eyes are locked on the line of your spine, completely mesmerized by the smooth curve of your muscles and the way your skin goosebumps at his temperature-shifting touch.

Once the clothing is secured, the ritual is never truly complete without his signature sign-off. Shoto will lean in close, as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to the very top of your spine, right at the base of your neck. It is a grounding, possessive gesture that never fails to send a shiver straight down to your toes. In public settings, like hero galas or formal agency events where he is required to wear a suffocating suit and put on a stoic face for the media, this silent understanding remains his anchor.

He will guide you through the crowds with his palm resting flat against the small of your back, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles through the fabric of your clothes. To the paparazzi and the public, he looks like the picture of elite, composed professionalism, but you can feel the possessive signal radiating from his hand, a private sign that he is counting down the exact minutes until he can get you away from the flashing cameras.

When the night finally clears and you are safe within the privacy of his bedroom, his adoration for your back transforms into something deeply intimate and mesmerizing. Shoto loves nothing more than when you lie on your stomach, completely relaxed against the sheets, allowing him to sit beside you and trace intricate, invisible patterns across your skin. His calloused fingertips will wander aimlessly, drawing lines along your shoulder blades, tracing the delicate valleys between your ribs, and mapping out the elegant ridge of your spine.

Sometimes he traces the characters of your name; other times, he simply follows the natural contours of your body, completely lost in the sensation. It is a quiet, meditative space for him, a way to wash away the violence and chaos of his pro hero duties by focusing entirely on the soft, breathing reality of the person he loves.

As the quiet hours stretch on and the peaceful atmosphere inevitably thickens with a heavy, electric tension, those gentle tracings turn into something far more demanding and breathless. The slow, sweeping motions of his hands sharpen, his grip tightening as desire takes hold. He handles your body with a fierce, quiet hunger, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling your lower body tightly against his as he rains a trail of biting, wet kisses from your shoulder blades all the way up to the sensitive nape of your neck.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged as his fingers dig into your skin, leaving fleeting, flushed marks that trace the path of his desire. He refuses to break the contact, needing to feel the frantic beat of your pulse and the shuddering arches of your spine as the friction between your bodies reaches a fever pitch.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hitoshi Shinso

Hitoshi Shinso has spent his entire life acutely aware of the power of perception. Because of a quirk that makes people inherently wary, he grew up watching how others looked at him, the quick dart of their eyes, the sudden narrowing of their gaze, the defensive walls sliding up the second he opened his mouth.

He became an expert at reading micro-expressions, a master of observing human behavior from the shadows. But when it comes to you, his analytical nature completely melts into a deep, consuming fascination, narrowing down to one specific, hypnotic feature: your eyes. To Hitoshi, your eyes are a direct, unfiltered window into your soul, completely devoid of the prejudice he used to face.

They are the only place in the world where he feels entirely seen, accepted, and wanted. Whether they are flashing with fierce determination, softening with affection, or sparkling with amusement, he is utterly powerless against them, completely hooked on the way they reflect every single emotion you possess.

Because of this obsession, Hitoshi has developed a playfully wicked habit of using his quirk just to see how you react. He doesn’t do it maliciously; it is a private, teasing game reserved only for the two of you, a way to test his precision while indulging his possessive streak.

He will throw out a mundane, harmless question while you are making coffee or reading a book, waiting for that split-second lapse in your focus. The moment your voice sounds in response, the brainwashing takes hold, and he watches with absolute rapture as your eyes instantly glaze over, shifting into that familiar, milky, vacant stare. He will give you a completely ridiculous, random command, like spinning in a slow circle, balancing a throw pillow on your head, or walking over just to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. As soon as he releases the hold, he loves to watch the sudden, sharp clarity snap back into your pupils, followed immediately by a fond, exasperated glare that makes his heart race.

Even in public, when he is operating as a brooding underground hero or walking alongside you through a crowded city street, his attention is constantly anchored to your gaze. Hitoshi is not a man for grand, flashy displays of affection; his love is quiet, observant, and fiercely protective. If you are caught in a dull conversation at a hero gathering or feeling overwhelmed by a crowd, you only need to look across the room to find his heavy, indigo eyes already locked onto yours.

He can communicate an entire sentence with just a slight tilt of his head or a subtle raise of an eyebrow, sharing a private joke or offering a grounding sense of comfort through a single, unbroken look. The way your eyes instantly soften the moment you make contact with him gives him a profound sense of pride, a quiet reassurance that, despite his 'villain-coded' abilities, he is the one who holds your absolute trust.

When the sun goes down, and the heavy curtains of his bedroom are drawn, locking out the rest of the world, that visual fixation intensifies greatly. Hitoshi wants to see exactly how much pleasure he can make you feel, and he refuses to let you look away.

He pins your hands above your head, his chest pressing flush against yours as his movements become heavy, slow, and deliberately torturous. He watches your face with an almost predatory focus, drinking in the way your gaze grows hazy and dazed under the weight of his touch, struggling to stay open as the overwhelming sensation threatens to pull you under.

He leans down, his voice a low whisper that commands your body without even needing to activate his quirk. As he drives you over the edge, he pulls back just enough to watch your eyes completely roll back, your lids fluttering shut as a broken, breathless whimper tears from your throat. The sight of you completely undone, lost to pure bliss and entirely consumed by the pleasure he is giving you, sends a jolt of pure adrenaline straight down his spine.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Touya Todoroki (Dabi)

Touya Todoroki is a man defined by destruction, a walking ghost whose very existence is a testament to what happens when flesh is pushed past its absolute breaking point. His own body is a patchwork of nightmares, gnarled, purple, scarred skin held together by crude surgical staples, permanently smelling of smoke.

Because his own flesh is a constant, agonizing reminder of his father’s cruelty and his own consuming hatred, he looks at your skin with a fixation that borders on a religious mania. To Touya, your skin is the ultimate luxury, an irreplaceable canvas of warmth, softness, and life that contrasts sharply against his own ruined, unfeeling body.

He is completely obsessed with the texture of it, with the way it yields beneath his rough, stapled hands, and the way it registers every single degree of his blistering heat. He treats your skin as his most prized possession, a fragile, beautiful thing that belongs exclusively to him in a world he otherwise wants to burn to the ground.

Given the chaotic, violent nature of life as a villain, your skin often bears the battle scars of the underground. Whenever you return to the hideout covered in the grim leftovers of a skirmish, splatters of blood that aren't yours, thick layers of grey soot, and dark battlefield grime, Touya’s protective instincts flare into an intense, quiet focus.

He hates the idea of anything else contaminating what is his. Without a word, he will take it upon himself to run a bath, filling the tub with water that runs dangerously hot, just the way he likes it, though he tempers it just enough so it won't burn you.

He will gently strip you down, his mismatched eyes tracking every streak of dirt on your body with a dark, burning intensity. Bathing you is a slow, surprisingly tender ritual; he will use a soft cloth to wipe away the soot, watching with absolute fascination as your clean, radiant skin is revealed beneath the grime, his rough thumbs tracing the curves of your shoulders as you sigh into the warmth of the water.

Once you are clean and wrapped in the quiet privacy of his shadowed room, that obsession with your skin shifts from protective care into something deeply hungry. Touya doesn't know how to love softly; his affection is a wildfire, demanding and consuming. He will pull you onto the mattress, his heavy, scarred body hovering over yours as he maps out every inch of your flesh with his hands. He loves to press his cold, deadened skin against your vibrant warmth, closing his eyes just to feel the stark contrast of your texture against his purple scars. He will use his teeth to bite gently at the column of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, and the soft flesh of your thigh, deliberately leaving dark, bruised marks that stand out vividly against your skin. It gives him a sick sense of accomplishment to see his ownership written directly onto your body.

Touya is a creature of impulse, and the sight of your skin flushed a deep, pretty colour from the heat of his presence drives him absolutely wild. He becomes utterly obsessed with the way your skin reacts to his touch, the immediate, shivering goosebumps that rise when his cool, stapled fingers trail down your stomach, followed by the breathless arch of your spine when he lets his quirk spark just enough to send a wave of blistering heat rolling directly into your flesh. He drinks in your reactions like a dying man in a desert.

In the aftermath of that blinding, breathless heat, when the room is quiet save for your ragged breaths and the scent of smoke, his possessive rituals take an even more carnal turn. As you lie beneath him, trembling and slick with a mixture of sweat and exertion, Touya will lean down to trace the marks he left on you. He will use his tongue to lazily lick your skin clean, soothing the sharp bites and dragging his damp heat over the flushed, sensitive planes of your collarbones and throat. He loves the way you shudder under this specific, raw display of affection, your fingers tangling desperately in his white hair as your skin twitches beneath his mouth.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Shota Aizawa

Shota Aizawa is a man who operates entirely on logic, efficiency, and a deep-seated need for grounding. As an underground hero, his life is a blur of captures, rooftop chases, and exhausting nighttime patrols that leave his body achy and his mind wired.

He has zero time for frivolity or superficiality, which makes his quiet, absolute obsession with your legs, specifically your thighs, all the more consuming. To Shota, your thighs represent a perfect blend of comfort and strength.

They are a physical anchor in a world that constantly demands him to be afloat. Whether you are a hero yourself with muscle-toned legs from rigorous training or someone with softer, plush curves, he views them as his ultimate sanctuary. After a grueling shift, his favorite way to decompress isn’t sleeping in a traditional bed; it is burying his face against the warm, solid expanse of your thighs, letting the scent of your skin wash away the grit of the city streets.

Because he is a creature of comfort who literally hoards energy wherever he can find it, this fixation manifests heavily in your domestic downtime. Whenever you are sitting on the couch watching television or reading, Shota will inevitably drift over, his capture scarf discarded on the floor as he stretches out and claims your lap as his personal pillow. He will turn his face inward, pressing his cheek right against the softest part of your inner thigh, letting out a low sigh of pure relief.

His calloused hands, rough from years of hero work, will subconsciously map the length of your legs. He loves to slowly stroke the line of your calves, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the flesh of your thighs, occasionally squeezing the muscle just to remind himself of your reality.

In the moments you are out together in a semi-public setting, away from the students and the prying eyes of the media, his possessiveness remains entirely low-key but intensely focused. Aizawa isn’t one for loud, flashy displays of affection, but he is incredibly territorial in a silent way. If you are sitting next to him at a quiet izakaya or a booth in a dimly lit diner, his hand will inevitably find its place on your thigh beneath the table.

His palm will rest heavily just above your knee, his fingers casually digging into your skin through your clothes. He will stroke the fabric absentmindedly while conversing, but the sheer heat of his hand and the firm, unyielding pressure of his grip serve as a constant, private reminder of exactly where his attention lies. He loves the way your breath hitches slightly when he squeezes a bit higher up your thigh, taking a quiet satisfaction in knowing he can fluster you without changing his deadpan expression.

Aizawa is an easy man to tire out, but when it comes to you, he pours every ounce of his energy into worshipping the flesh he is so obsessed with. He will pull you to the edge of the mattress, dropping to his knees on the floor between your legs as he drapes your calves over his broad shoulders. He looks up at you through a messy curtain of dark hair, his tired, dark eyes intense and entirely unblinking. He will rain slow, biting kisses along the inside of your knees, his stubble scraping delightfully against your sensitive skin as his hands slide up to grip the undersides of your thighs, parting you fully for his mouth.

He loves to feel the sudden, involuntary tremor that ripples through you at the first touch of his mouth. He intentionally pushes you past your limit just to feel your thighs tighten desperately around his head, trapping him against your core. The feeling of being completely locked in by your strength, your thighs clamping down around his neck and ears as you tremble and whimper into the quiet room, sends a jolt of primal adrenaline straight down his spine. He welcomes the tight, suffocating pressure, digging his fingers firmly into your hips to hold you flush against him as you ride out the wave.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Keigo Takami

Keigo Takami is a man who experiences the world on a completely different frequency than everyone else. His avian quirk doesn’t just give him a magnificent pair of scarlet wings; it floods his daily life with an overwhelming barrage of sensory data.

His vision can spot a civilian in distress from miles in the air, his hearing can pick up the micro-vibrations blocks away, and his sense of smell is profoundly sharp, tuned to the subtle shifts in pheromones and body chemistry.

Because his public life as Hawks is a chaotic whirlwind of media cameras, flashing lights, and the heavy scent of mist, his quiet life with you is his only true sanctuary. And within that sanctuary, his absolute favorite place in the world is the delicate pulse point on your neck.

His obsession is heavily driven by his heightened, animalistic senses, particularly his sense of smell. He doesn't just look at you; he breathes you in. Long before he even reaches for you, he is tracking the scent of your skin, an intoxicating blend of your natural warmth, your favorite soap, and the sweet, comforting aroma of home.

Whenever he returns from a grueling patrol, exhausted and mentally frayed from hours of putting on a cheerful show for the public, he will immediately bypass everything else to bury his face in the crook of your neck. It is a deeply instinctual, 'nesting' behavior; he will nuzzle his face against your skin, his soft, dirty-blond hair tickling your jawline as he lets out a long, shuddering sigh of pure relief, instantly calmed by the steady, rhythmic thump-thump of your blood beneath his lips.

Because he is a creature of flight and constant motion, Keigo loves to use his feathers to indulge this specific fixation even when he can’t physically touch you. If you are sitting across the room working or cooking, one of his detached primary feathers will often drift over, lazily brushing against the sensitive skin of your throat. But when he is close, his touch is entirely possessive.

He loves to approach you from behind, wrapping his large wings around you like a heavy, protective cocoon that shuts out the rest of the universe. He will press his chest against your back, his hands coming up to cradle your jaw and tilt your head back, exposing the elegant line of your throat to his view. He will trace the path of your jugular with his thumb, completely mesmerized by how a single touch from him can cause that tiny pulse to instantly skip a beat and quicken, a vivid confirmation of how much power he holds over you.

Keigo is a naturally playful, flirtatious person, but the moment he traps you beneath him on the mattress, his demeanor shifts into something far more intense and predatory. The ambient heat radiating from his wings fills the room, creating a stifling, sweet atmosphere as he hovers over you. He will use his hands to pin you down, but his real focus is entirely on your throat. He loves the way your skin flushes a deep, pretty pink under his intense gaze, your pheromones shifting into a sweet, heavy scent of desire.

The playful hero completely vanishes as he drops his head to your neck, his sharp, predatory instincts taking full control. Keigo doesn’t just kiss your throat; he ravishes it, delivering a slow, agonizingly slick sequence of open-mouthed kisses right over your pulse, sucking on the soft skin until he leaves a dark, prominent mark right where your heartbeat is strongest, claiming you in the most primal way he knows how. He loves the broken, breathless whimpers that tear from your lips when he does this, the sound vibrating directly against his chest as his tongue traces over the bruise he just made.

fin-

[veevid]

warnings :- suggestive, izuku kept ofa(sniffle), mdni pairings :- izuku midoriya, katsuki bakugo, shoto todoroki, hitoshi shinso x reader. (SEPARATE; the students are all aged up)

KEEP EM' ON EDGE

(how they react to a risky selfie)

Izuku Midoriya

Izuku Midoriya (now a Pro Hero and a foundational teacher at U.A. High) is standing before his very own Class 1-A. He’s in the middle of a passionate, slightly rambling lecture on hero ethics and situational awareness.

His phone, resting on the table, buzzed. Usually, he’d ignore it until the end of the period, but he has a specific bypass alert set for you just in case of an emergency.

He didn't expect this kind of emergency.

Izuku stops mid-sentence, his chalk hovering an inch away from the blackboard. His eyes lock onto the preview on his screen. It’s definitely not a villain report. It’s you, looking absolutely incredible.

For a solid three seconds, his brain completely short-circuits. All those years of analyzing quirks and strategy do absolutely nothing to prepare him for this midday tactical strike from you.

The immediate physical reaction is violent and uncontrollable. A sudden, involuntary spike of lightning crackles across his skin, sparks off his shoulders, and snaps against the chalkboard, leaving a tiny, charred static mark.

“Uh, Midoriya-Sensei? Are you okay? You don't look too well.”

“I-I’m fine! Just… a sudden realization about… something. Carry on with your reading!”

---

He waits until the students are quietly working on an assignment, hiding his phone behind his open lesson-plan binder. His fingers are shaking so badly he typos three times before sending it.

Izuku: [1:42 PM]

I almost DIED 😓 mY students think i'm having a medical emergency!!

Izuku: [1:44 PM]

Don't delete that. But also PLEASE don't send anything else until 4:00 PM because I can't think straight and I WILL make a mistake while teaching.

Izuku: [1:45 PM]

I’m rushing home the second the bell rings. You are so mean for this. (But you look beautiful. ❤️)

For the rest of the afternoon, Izuku is uncharacteristically distracted. He keeps his phone firmly face down, and every time it vibrates, he flinches lightly. The students definitely know something is up, becuase he dismissed them exactly five minutes early, packed his briefcase at an incredible speed, and muttered something about a "highly time-sensitive patrol" before speedwalking out of his class.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Katsuki Bakugou

The atmosphere in the tactical briefing room is heavy with the scent of ozone and strong black coffee. Pro Hero Dynamight, Katsuki Bakugo to the public, is sitting with his boots unceremoniously propped up on the corner of a sleek, mahogany conference table.

To his left, Best Jeanist is smoothly pacing, adjusting his denim collar while dissecting the structural failures of a recent raid. To his right, Edgeshot sits perfectly upright, arms crossed, analyzing a map of routes with razor-sharp focus.

Katsuki isn't paying attention. He knows his part of the mission went flawlessly; he doesn't need to hear the lecture about "collateral fiber damage." He’s idly spinning his phone on the table when it buzzes.

It’s you.

Fully expecting a text telling him to pick up groceries on his way back to the apartment, he grabs the phone, unlocks it with a quick swipe of his thumb, and glances at the screen.

Katsuki's eyes narrow, then widen by a fraction of a millimeter. His pupils dilate instantly.

On the screen is a photo that has absolutely nothing to do with groceries. Katsuki's palms flare up, releasing a sharp, violent pop-crack of sparks that scorches a tiny black circle into the armrest of his leather chair.

His jaw clamps shut so hard his teeth click. Without blinking an eye, he violently slams the phone face-down onto the table. The impact makes Jeanist’s coffee cup rattle in its saucer.

Jeanist stops pacing. He turns a slow, critical eye toward Bakugo, noticing the faint wisp of smoke curling off the younger hero’s palms.

"Bakugo," Jeanist sighs, his voice smooth and disapproving. "We are discussing the fiber-density of the perimeter restraints. If your explosive temper cannot handle a standard tactical review-"

"Shut up," Katsuki snaps. He clears his throat roughly, staring fixedly at a spot on the wall behind Edgeshot’s head. "The review is fine. Keep talking. I'm listening."

Edgeshot glances from the scorched armrest to the phone, then to the uncharacteristic shade of pink painting Bakugo’s face. He raises an eyebrow.

"I said I'm fine!" Katsuki growls, seeing the older hero's expression. "Just read the damn report so I can get out of here!"

---

He glares at the back of his phone as if he could melt the casing with his eyes. His mind takes a treacherous detour, replaying the exact details of the photo. He aggressively grabs his phone, hitting the screen so hard it’s a miracle the glass doesn't shatter.

Bakugo [3:18 PM]:

Are you fucking INSANE?? I’m in a room with Jeanist and Edgeshot right now. If either of them had looked over my shoulder I would have had to murder them.

Bakugo [3:19 PM]:

Delete that off your phone right now. Stop looking like that when I'm not there to do anything about it.

Bakugo [3:19 PM]:

Jeanist has five minutes left of this bullshit brief. You started this, so you better be ready when I get back.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Shoto Todoroki

The atmosphere in the private dining room of a high-end, traditional Japanese restaurant is surprisingly peaceful. Enji is tucked away at a hero convention in Tokyo, leaving the Todoroki siblings to enjoy a rare, stress-free dinner together.

Fuyumi is happily chatting about a new recipe, Natsuo is loudly recounting a chaotic story from his college residency, and Shoto is sitting cross-legged on his tatami mat, quietly sipping his miso soup.

His phone sits face-up beside his knee. It lets out a soft, polite chirp.

Knowing his agency usually radios him for emergencies, Shoto casually sets his soup bowl down and picks up the device. He expects a patrol schedule update or a message from Midoriya about an upcoming training session.

Instead, his screen lights up with a picture of you that defies all laws of his orderly universe.

Shoto freezes entirely. Because his emotions are tied directly to his Quirk factors, his internal thermostat goes haywire. The right side of his body experiences a sudden, icy drop, causing a thin layer of frost to instantly coat his water glass. Meanwhile, his left side experiences a massive spike in heat.

He doesn't slam the phone down. Instead, he slowly, methodically places the phone face down on the tatami mat, staring at it as if it were an unexploded bomb.

Shoto thinks he is being incredibly subtle. He is wrong. Natsuo and Fuyumi have spent a lifetime reading the micro-expressions of their youngest brother, and a sudden thermal event at the dinner table is hard to miss.

Natsuo stops mid-sentence, his chopsticks hovering in the air. He looks at Shoto’s frost-covered water glass, then at the steam curling off his left shoulder. A massive grin spreads across his face.

"Whoa, hold on," Natsuo leans over the low table, poking Shoto’s right arm, which is literally radiating cold air. "What just happened?" "Natsuo, leave him alone," Fuyumi chides, though her eyes are sparkling with intense curiosity. "Shoto, are you okay?" "I am perfectly functional," Shoto says, his voice a flat monotone that fools absolutely no one. Natsuo scoffs, lunging across the table to snatch the face-down phone. Shoto’s reflexes are hero-level; he quite literally freezes it to the floor. "Oh man, it's definitely (f/n)!" Natsuo laughs boisterously, pointing at Shoto’s burning red face. "Look at him! He’s about to experience a full core meltdown!" "Natsuo!" Fuyumi gasps, swatting her brother's shoulder, though she looks highly amused. "Leave him alone!" "I'm just saying! Our little masterpiece brother just got short-circuited by a single text. It's beautiful."

---

Later, Shoto carefully melts his phone out of the ice, slides it beneath the edge of the table away from Natsuo’s prying eyes, and begins to type with his thumb.

Shoto [7:22 PM]:

That image is highly unsafe for where I am right now. Natsuo noticed my temperature fluctuation and attempted to steal my phone. I had to freeze it to the floor to protect your privacy. He is currently making uneducated guesses about what you are wearing. He is incorrect, but his guesses are making my left side difficult to control.

Shoto [7:24 PM]:

You look very beautiful. The garment fits you well, though it looks functionally inefficient for keeping you warm.

Shoto [7:25 PM]:

Fuyumi is currently paying the bill. I am going to excuse myself from dessert. I will be home in twelve minutes. Please do not put on any more clothes before I arrive.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hitoshi Shinso

The afternoon is quiet and overcast, the perfect weather for a day out. Hitoshi Shinso, now a licensed underground hero operating in the same sleek, capture-scarf-clad style as his mentor, is sitting at a small outdoor table just a few blocks from the U.A. campus.

Across from him sits Shota Aizawa, looking as perpetually exhausted as ever, nursing a cup of black coffee. Between them is Eri, happily swinging her legs in her chair, entirely engrossed in a massive strawberry parfait and a sleepy calico cat that has curled up in her lap.

Shinso is idly stirring his iced coffee, listening to Aizawa give a dry, analytical breakdown of a local smuggling ring they’ve been tracking.

Then, his phone buzzes in the palm of his hand.

Assuming it’s an alert from the underground information network, Shinso glances down at the screen. His thumb unlocks it automatically.

It is not a villain tip. It is a photo.

Shinso’s signature deadpan, completely unbothered expression shatters into a million pieces. His training prevents overt flinching, but his breath hitches audibly. His fingers tighten on his iced coffee glass with enough force that the ice cubes clink violently against the glass.

Shinso instantly shoves the phone screen down onto his thigh under the table, staring fixedly at his coffee as if he could pretend he hadn't just seen the most scandalous thing in his life.

Eri looks up from her parfait, her wide eyes blinking innocently at him. "Hitoshi-san? Your face is really pink. Are you catching a fever?"

"No, Eri," Shinso mutters, his voice a strained, slightly choked rasp. He clears his throat, desperately trying to summon his usual cool demeanor. "Just... swallowed a piece of ice wrong. It's fine."

Aizawa doesn't even look up from his coffee, but his sharp, dark eyes take in the entire scene instantly. He’s spent a decade managing young adults and dealing with the chaotic personal lives of heroes; he knows exactly what that specific shade of panicked red means.

He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, a faint, wry smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"A ice cube, Hitoshi?" Aizawa says, his tone dripping with dry, monotone amusement. "Impressive. I didn't know ice cubes caused a visible spike in your resting heart rate."

Shinso stiffens, refusing to look his mentor in the eye. "It was a very sharp piece of ice, Aizawa-sensei."

"Right," Aizawa murmurs, leaning back in his chair. He glances at the hand Shinso still has clamped over his phone beneath the table. "Well, whatever 'intel' you just received, make sure you don't use your Quirk out of sheer panic. I'd hate to have to explain to the support department why you brainwashed a random citizen because your partner knows how to use a camera."

Shinso feels the blush burn even hotter, reaching the back of his neck.

"Eri," Aizawa says smoothly, tapping the table. "Eat your parfait a little faster. It seems Hitoshi has a sudden, urgent 'underground investigation' he needs to conduct back at his apartment."

---

Keeping his phone firmly out of Eri's line of sight, Shinso uses his thumb to type a quick, frantic, yet characteristically intense response.

Shinso [4:18 PM]:

You are such a piece of shit. You know that, right?

Shinso [4:19 PM]:

I am sitting at a cat café with Eri and Aizawa. Aizawa literally just mocked me because my face turned red. He knows. He definitely knows and I am never going to live this down.

Shinso [4:21 PM]:

Wrapping up the bill right now. I’m taking a shortcut over the roofs. Don’t you dare move.

fin-

[veevid]

MISCELLANEOUS

DC

obscene obsessions (Jason Ripper)

My Hero Academia

keep em' on edge (how they'd react to a risky selfie; student ver.)

home is where the heart you is (what is their favorite body part of you?)

i fall in love, just like a tuesday drunk (how they react to you requesting them to step out so you can change; when in reality you're just messing with them)

"unkown" is typing...(dabihawks x reader)

[b44byfr0g]

“Owww, kinktober is over 😔😔😔”

AS IF YOU DIDN’T READ SMUT ALL YEAR ROUND, YOU WHOREEEEEE

[veevid]

warnings :- suggestive, i digress way too much, mdni pairings :- killian jones, rumplestiltskin, robin hood, peter pan, david nolan x reader. (SEPARATE)

HICKEYS; HOW THEY'D GIVE AND RECEIVE

Killian Jones

Oh, you better BELIEVE that this man is going to leave his mark—and he’s not doing it gently. Losing a hand didn't make him less dangerous; it just forced him to adapt. Killian bites slow, deliberate, and agonizingly deep. He takes a twisted kind of pride in mapping out his lover’s skin with his teeth, treating their body like a canvas for his possessive streaks. By the time he’s satisfied, they look less like they’ve been loved and more like they’ve survived a genuine battlefield, painted in a mosaic of bruises.

And god forbid something makes him jealous. If he catches another person looking for too long, the subsequent marking becomes a territorial claim. He will deliberately ruin them for anyone else, focusing on the most public, high-visibility areas—the stark line of the collarbone, the dip of the throat, and the soft skin right beneath the jawline. It’s an unspoken rule: after a night fueled by his envy, leaving the house requires at least two or three heavy layers just to look respectable.

Does his partner mind? Absolutely not. There’s a thrill in carrying his weight around all day.

Flip the script, though, and Killian’s tough exterior fractures in the best way. On the receiving end of things, he becomes an entirely different creature—impatient, restless, and delightfully whiny. He hates the vulnerability of being serviced, his hand twitching for control he can’t quite grasp. But the second his partner's teeth touch his own skin? The complaints completely die in his throat. He’ll take every single mark given to him, sinking into the mattress and wearing those bruises like a badge of honor.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Rumplestiltskin

This man may be well over five hundred years old, but time has only sharpened him into a master of precision. He is no blunt instrument; when it comes to marking his lover, Mr. Gold doesn’t just leave a bruise—he burns himself into their very being.

Because of his cane and the slight physical limitations, he relies heavily on leverage, pinning his partner down with an unexpected, deceptive strength while his hands—accustomed to the delicate precision of spinning gold—hold them fast. His favorite marks are the ones hidden from the eyes of Storybrooke but agonizingly loud to the wearer. The tender skin of the inner thighs, the abdomen, or the vulnerable flesh right along the ribcage. These are strategic placements; they ache with every single breath, stride, or shift in a chair throughout the work day. It is a constant, throbbing, tactile reminder of exactly who owns them.

Jealousy, however, coaxes out the volatile nature of the Dark One. He has learned to control the violent impulses—after all, it isn't his darling’s fault that the world stares at what is beautiful. When his deep-seated insecurities are triggered by a lingering look from a stranger, his retaliation is quiet, methodical, and devastating. He will deliberately mark his partner's pulse point of the throat or the nape of the neck—high-visibility zones that demand a high collar or a heavy scarf to conceal. Each bite is a slow, deliberate brand, a silent declaration to the opposer: Look at what is mine, and despair.

On the receiving end, however, Rumple completely unravels. Decades of being unloved and feared make him incredibly touch-starved, yet intensely defensive. Give him service, and he goes absolutely still—tense, quiet, and hyper-aware of his own vulnerability. He won't whine. Instead, he chokes on his own breath, completely overwhelmed. If his partner leaves a mark on him? It shatters his control. Feeling teeth sink into his skin reassures his darkest insecurities, proving someone actually wants to leave an indelible scar on the Dark One.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Robin Hood

Robin might be a rogue and an outlaw, but when it comes to his lover, he’s a man defined by a fierce devotion. He marks his partner out of an overwhelming, breathless need to cherish. His touch is a contradiction of a thief's lethal precision and a gentleman's profound reverence.

Because he is a man of the woods—accustomed to tracking, survival, and the raw elements—his style is deeply tactile and grounded. His marks are dark bruises left by a mouth that lingers too long because he simply cannot bring himself to pull away. He favors the spots that evoke comfort and closeness: the slope of the shoulder where they rest their head, the crook of the neck, or the sternum. They are meant to feel like a warm, protective brand that pulses with his heartbeat.

Jealousy turns Robin into a protective wall. If someone dares to eye his partner, he doesn't scheme in the dark—he stakes his claim out in the open. His reaction is to pull his lover into his side, his hand gripping their hip right where everyone can see. That night, his marks will crawl up the throat and right along the jawline. He wants the world to see the shadow of his mouth on their skin the very next morning. It’s an archer’s arrow shot straight into the ground: This territory is occupied.

When the tables are turned and Robin is the one receiving, the bold, confident leader entirely melts away.

Robin thrives on the vulnerability. He is a provider by nature, constantly looking out for everyone else, so being taken care of makes him sigh into the mattress with a heavy relief. He is incredibly vocal—not whiny, but breathless. He whispers praise, mumbles half-formed words of devotion into the pillows, and chuckles softly at the sheer bliss of it, his fingers tangling tightly in his partner's hair. If you bite him, Robin absolutely unravels. To an outlaw who owns nothing, those marks are the only wealth that matters—proof that he belongs to someone, and that he finally has a home worth fighting for.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Peter Pan

This little shit is a creature of pure, unfiltered malice and eternal youth. He isn’t looking to romance his partner; he wants to consume them. When it comes to marking his lover, Peter doesn’t do it out of passion or insecurity—he does it for the sheer, sadistic thrill of dominance. He treats their body like a territory conquered, and he wants them to remember exactly who their king is.

Because Peter thrives on torment, he doesn’t leave marks where they can easily be shown off. No, Peter leaves his marks in the most agonizingly frustrating, high-friction places possible: the lower abdomen, the center of the sternum, and the sensitive skin curving along the side of the ribs. Every time his partner bends over, laughs, breathes deeply, or pulls his clothes on, the fabric rubs directly against those raw, stinging crescents. It is a constant, physical reminder of his teeth, keeping them trapped in his orbit even when he isn’t in the room.

Jealousy doesn't make Peter volatile; it makes him incredibly petty and wicked. If he senses another's eyes on his sweetheart, he will pin them down with a terrifying, ancient strength that belies his youthful appearance. He will deliberately cage them beneath him, sinking his teeth into those exact, agonizing spots on their ribs and abdomen until they are breathless and sobbing from the sheer sensory overload.

When the tables are turned, the dynamic becomes a high-stakes psychological game. On the receiving end, Peter Pan refuses to yield an inch of his power. Peter absolutely refuses to let his partner leave a mark on him. To him, a mark is a sign of ownership, and the king of Neverland belongs to absolutely no one.

There is only one single loophole to this rule: if he has genuinely angered his lover. If Peter has pushed them too far, played one too many cruel games, and sparked a real, blinding rage in them, he will allow it.

He would rather jump off the highest cliff in Neverland than admit it out loud, but seeing the dark, angry bruises and teeth marks his partner leaves on his pale skin turns him on immensely. Seeing the marks on him is the ultimate proof that he managed to evoke a passion so intense it became violent.

Yet, beneath the mind games lies a terrifyingly soft truth: his partner is the only person he has ever confessed his love to. Peter is a romantic in his own twisted, dark way. During every single one of their trysts, amid the heavy breathing and the biting, he will lean down and whisper those three words over and over like a mantra. He reminds his sweetheart of his devotion with a desperate, almost fierce urgency, ensuring that while their body belongs to his games, his blackened, immortal heart belongs entirely to them.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

David Nolan

David Nolan is a prince, and his approach to intimacy is different. David is a man of duty, honor, and deep, overwhelming passion. When he marks his lover, it is an act of pure, unadulterated adoration—heavy, breathless, and incredibly possessive in a deeply traditional way.

Because of his background as a shepherd, David possesses a rugged, physical strength that he usually keeps carefully checked. But behind closed doors, that restraint snaps. He uses his broad frame to completely engulf his partner, pinning their wrists above their head with one large hand or anchoring their hips flat against the mattress. David marks with a deep, aching slowness, favoring the places that feel the most romantic: the muscle where the neck meets the shoulder, the soft underside of the jaw, and the inner curve of the wrists. His marks aren't sharp or cruel; they are deep, blooming bruises that look like flush, sun-warmed branding. It’s his way of anchoring them to him, leaving a physical testament to a love that survived curses and time itself.

Jealousy turns David quietly protective. If a stranger stares too long, his jaw tightens, and his hand immediately finds the small of his partner's back, a quiet, reassuring gesture. That night, his marking becomes an urgent, almost desperate reclamation. He will focus heavily on the collarbones and the high slope of the chest, areas that sit right at the edge of a shirt collar. He wants his beloved to look in the mirror the next morning and see the unmistakable shadow of his devotion, a silent warning to the rest of the world that they are entirely spoken for.

On the receiving end, the man who carries the weight of the entire town on his shoulders completely dissolves. David spends his whole life being the protector, the savior, and the leader, so being the one completely taken care of utterly unmans him. When given service, David loses all of his rigid, military alertness. He goes entirely melty and heavy against the sheets, his chest heaving as he surrenders control to his lover. He doesn't play games or hide his emotions; if his partner makes him feel good, he will look them dead in the eye, his gaze intensely soft, and tell them exactly how much he loves them, his voice thick with emotion.

fin-

[veevid]

warnings :- fever, clingy!killian, a lot of coughing, established relationship. pairing :- killian jones x fem!reader (takes place in storybrooke, killian has a fever :( and our reader takes care of him, aww. i read a fic like this somewhere and wanted to recreate it, can u blame me-)

SAFE HARBOUR

Killian lay paralyzed, pinned to the mattress by an invisible weight that felt like iron. Every muscle in his body didn't just ache; they thrummed with a deep, rhythmic agony that synchronized with the frantic pulse behind his eyes.

His head was a forge, an anvil being struck by a relentless hammer, while his throat felt as though he had been forced to swallow a handful of rusted needles and thorns. His tongue, dry and leaden, felt too large for his mouth, and his lips were so parched they threatened to split at the slightest twitch.

His body was a furnace, radiating a heat that turned his nightshirt into a damp, suffocating second skin, yet a primal, bone-deep chill made him shudder so violently his teeth rattled. The thought of moving to reach for a glass of water, let alone food, felt like a feat reserved for gods or madmen.

On the bedside table, his phone—a device he still regarded with the cautious suspicion—screamed with insistent, discordant digital chirps. Each vibration was a physical blow to his senses. He wanted to hurl it into the ocean outside, but he lacked the strength to even lift his hand. The heavy velvet drapes in his room were drawn tight against the world, he couldn't tell if the sun was high or if the moon was silvering the waves outside.

He was drifting back into a feverish, uneasy stupor when the heavy silence of the cabin was shattered. A frantic, rhythmic pounding echoed off the mahogany door, followed by a voice that managed to pierce through the fog of his delirium.

"Killian! Open this door right now!"

He let out a fractured sigh, his eyes remaining stubbornly shut. "Who is it...?" he groaned, the words barely more than a dry rasp that tore at his throat.

"It's me. I'm coming in."

(first name) didn't wait for permission. She turned the brass handle and stepped into the dim, stifling room.

"Killian Jones, for the love of all that is holy, I have called you around fifty times—" She stopped mid-sentence, the sharp edge of her frustration dissolving into a cold pool of dread as she approached the bed.

The man before her was a ghost of his usual swaggering self. His rugged features were pale, his skin took on a sickly, translucent sheen, and his raven hair was matted with sweat.

"Love," he murmured, his voice a ghost of a sound. He tried to offer a rakish smirk, but it came out as a pained grimace. "I’m... sorry. I’ve been somewhat... inconvenienced... since the sun rose. Or perhaps before. It’s hard to say."

He squeezed his eyes shut as a fresh wave of vertigo washed over him, his breath hitching in a way that bordered on a sob. The indignity of being brought low by a mere fever grated against his pride almost as much as the pain.

"Hey, hey... look at me," (first name) whispered, her voice softening instantly. She moved to the edge of the bed, her hand reaching out to brush against his forehead. She gasped, pulling back for a second as if scorched. "Killian, you're burning up."

"I am usually... much more resilient," he managed to choke out, his chest heaving. "A pirate’s constitution... usually scoffs at... such—"

A violent volley of coughs cut him off, racking his frame and forcing him to curl into himself. Each shuddering breath seemed to ignite the fire in his lungs and sharpen the knives in his throat.

"Stop talking, you stubborn man," (first name) chided, though her eyes were bright with worry. She went to work with practiced efficiency. She clicked on the ceiling fan, its blades beginning to stir the heavy air, and hurried to the washroom. She returned with a basin of ice-cold water and a soft linen cloth.

As she pressed the freezing compress to his brow, Killian let out a long, shuddering moan of relief. The contrast was divine. He leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering as he tried to anchor himself to her presence. While he lay there, she worked to untangle the damp, knotted heap of blankets, smoothing them over his shivering form to provide some semblance of organized warmth.

"You are a vision, love," he muttered, his voice thick. He reached out, his hand trembling as he caught her fingers, anchoring her to the bedside.

"And you," she replied, her voice a mix of tenderness and exasperation as she brushed a stray dark lock from his temple, "are entirely too careless. You've been lying here for hours, haven't you? Dehydrating and suffering in silence because you’re too proud to ask for help."

She looked down at him, and for a moment, the guard he usually kept up was completely gone. His cerulean eyes, usually so sharp and full of fire, were glassy and vulnerable, searching hers with a raw, desperate adoration.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispered, her heart aching. "You’re not out of the woods yet. You need fluids, and you need something to eat before I give you any medicine."

"I suppose... you’re right," he relented. With a herculean effort that drained what little color was left in his face, he hauled himself into a seated position. He swayed dangerously, the room spinning like a carousel, and he immediately began to shiver again now that he was out from under the heavy covers.

"I'll be right back." (first name) murmured, leaning forward to press a lingering, worried kiss to his flushed cheek. She started to stand, intent on heading to the galley, but her sleeve was caught in his firm, if shaky, grip.

"Stay," he pleaded. The word was small, devoid of the bravado he usually wore like armor. He looked up at her, his pride having evaporated the moment she walked through the door. "Please. Just... stay a moment longer."

"Killian, I have to get you water. You’re parched, I can hear it in your voice."

"I am perfectly fine," he lied, his voice cracking even as he said it. He laced his fingers with hers, holding on as if she were the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the dark. "I feel better already, and I'd much rather have the company of the woman I love than a glass of water."

"Flattery won't lower your temperature," she teased gently, though she didn't pull away. She saw the way his eyes struggled to stay focused, the way his chest labored with every breath. He looked smaller like this—not the indomitable pirate, but a man who was simply exhausted.

"It isn't flattery if it’s the truth," he whispered, his grip tightening ever so slightly. He pulled her hand toward him, pressing a dry, feverish kiss to her knuckles. "The water can wait. Just... five minutes. Let the fever claim me if it must, so long as you’re the last thing I see."

"Don't say things like that," she said, her voice trembling. She sat back down on the edge of the bed, realizing that his physical thirst was currently rivaled by a desperate need for comfort. She pulled the duvet up higher around his shoulders, tucking it in to trap the heat he so desperately needed to break the fever, while keeping the cool cloth pressed to his forehead.

Killian let out a long, jagged breath and slumped forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder. He was heavy, his body radiating heat like a dying star, but he let out a sound of pure contentment that broke her heart.

"There," she whispered, wrapping an arm around him to steady his swaying frame. "Five minutes. But then I'm bringing the strongest broth and the coldest water this ship has to offer. Understand?"

"Aye, Captain," he murmured against her neck, his eyes finally closing in a sleep that looked a little less like suffering and a little more like rest.

---

The five minutes stretched into ten, then twenty, as Killian’s breathing shifted from the jagged rasps of a man in pain to the heavy, rhythmic thrum of sleep. Slowly, she slipped out from under his weight and eased his head back onto the pillows.

The galley was a stark contrast to the stifling, heavy atmosphere of the captain's quarters. It was cool, smelling of salt air and seasoned wood. (first name) moved with frantic efficiency, filling a tall glass with water from the chilled pitcher kept on one of the shelves, dropping in a pinch of sea salt and a squeeze of lemon—an old sailor’s trick for dehydration that Killian himself had once taught her.

Next, she set a small pot over the stove. She didn't reach for anything heavy. Instead, she prepared a clear, chicken soup, seasoned with ginger to settle his nausea and a heavy hand of garlic for its medicinal bite. After half an hour of cooking, she balanced a wooden tray carefully as she navigated the swaying corridors back to his cabin.

"Killian," she whispered, setting the tray on the nightstand. She replaced the now-lukewarm cloth on his head with a fresh, freezing one. He jolted at the touch, his eyes snapping open, though they were unfocused and wild.

"Easy, sailor. It’s just me."

He blinked, the glassy sheen of his eyes clearing just enough to recognize her. He leaned his head against her shoulder, his body trembling so hard she could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Water," he wheezed.

She held the glass to his cracked lips. He drank greedily, the cool liquid spilling down his chin and wetting his nightshirt, but she didn't care. He finished half the glass in one go before sighing with relief.

"Slowly. You'll make yourself sick," she murmured, wiping his chin with her thumb.

Next came the broth. She blew on a spoonful, testing the temperature before offering it to him. He looked at the spoon with a flash of his old disdain, his pride flickering back to life for a brief second.

"I can... manage a spoon, (first name)."

"You can barely manage to keep your head upright," she countered gently, pressing the spoon to his lips. "Humor me. I've spent the last hour thinking I was going to have to bury you at sea. Let me play nurse for one night."

He relented, his eyes closing as the warm, savory liquid hit his scorched throat. The ginger took the edge off the burning, and the heat of the broth seemed to soothe the tremors deep in his marrow. One spoonful became ten, then twenty, until the small bowl was nearly empty.

"There," she said, setting the tray aside. She reached for a small vial of medicine she’d taken from the infirmary—something to break the fire raging in his blood. "One last thing, then you can go back to sleep."

He took the medicine without protest, his strength spent. As she lowered him back onto the damp sheets, he reached out blindly, finding her hand once more. This time, he didn't try to pull her down; he simply held on, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over her knuckles.

"Don't... the drapes," he whispered, his voice fading. "Open them... just a crack. I want to know when the light comes."

(first name) nodded, her heart swelling. She stood and moved to the heavy velvet curtains, pulling them back just enough to reveal a sliver of the midnight sky. A single star hung over the horizon, reflecting in the black glass of the ocean.

When she turned back, Killian was watching her, the fire in his eyes dimmed but no longer desperate.

"The star," he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his chapped lips. "It looks like you."

"You’re definitely delirious," she whispered, walking back to sit in the armchair she’d dragged to his bedside. She tucked her feet under her, prepared for a long night of changing compresses and monitoring his breath. "Go to sleep, Killian. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"On my life."

He exhaled a long, shaky breath, his features finally softening into a true rest. (first name) watched him for a long moment, her heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She reached out, checking the damp cloth on his forehead; it was already warm from the heat of his skin. She refreshed it yet again, and took out her phone. She stepped toward the far corner of the room, keeping her voice a mere shadow of a whisper as she dialed.

"Mary Margaret? It’s me."

A frantic gasp came through the receiver. "Oh, thank god! We’ve been calling for hours. Is he... is he alright? What happened?"

(first name) looked back at the bed, where the dim light of the lantern traced the now peaceful silhouette. "He’s fine," she breathed, though her voice caught slightly. "He’s got a fever—a bad one. I think it’s a mix of exhaustion and some nasty bug he picked up at the docks. He’s sleeping now. I’ve managed to give him some water, soup and medicine."

"Do you need anything? We could call Dr. Whale—"

"No," (first name) said, her gaze softening as Killian let out a low, peaceful sigh in his sleep. "No, he just needs rest. I’ve got him. Tell the others not to worry."

After she hung up, she moved back to the bedside, pulling a heavy armchair close to his pillows. She didn't want to leave him, even for the comfort of a proper bed. She watched the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

The ship felt different when its Captain was down. It felt hushed, as if the vessel itself were holding its breath.

As the hours ticked toward the deepest part of the night, (first name) found herself mesmerized by the small details of his face.

She reached out, gently lacing her fingers with his. In the stillness, she leaned her head back against the chair, her eyes never leaving his face. She would be there when the sun finally broke through the drapes, and she would be there when the fire returned to his eyes. She would be tired in the morning, her own bones would likely ache from the position she was curled up in, but as she sat there, staring at the man she loved, she knew she wouldn't have been anywhere else in the world.

fin-

masterlist

[isteelthestarsfromthenight]

reblog to erase 1 ICE agent <3

/nf!!

[veevid]

soo i've been thinking about this one scene from pennyworth for way too long

freddy carter the man that you are 😩😩 so here's a oneshot for you all <3 (i might continue it, sorry for the lenght T-T i just wanted to deepen the stalker ish vibes)

warnings :- sexual implications, dark themes pairing :- jason ripper x fem!reader

OBSCENE OBSESSIONS

(first name) was Sandra Onslow's colleague—her shadow in the cramped, dimly lit world of The Severed Arms. Both young women worked long hours behind the sticky bar, their days measured in pints pulled, coins counted, and the shifting moods of the patrons who drifted in and out like bad weather.

The bar squatted on a narrow London street, its windows permanently clouded with grime and smoke, its sign creaking ominously whenever the wind picked up.

A grotesque name, but it held true for the cut-throat people who came in there for drinks. Men with scarred knuckles and sharper tempers, women with hard eyes and harder laughter—people who carried trouble in their coats and spilled it freely along with their ale. The walls seemed to sweat old violence, soaked into the wood over decades of broken bottles and broken noses.

For some weird reason, (first name) was terribly popular with every person who came in the bar. It didn’t matter how foul the crowd was or how sour the night turned—eyes followed her. Maybe it was her personality, the way she listened just enough to make people feel important. Or maybe it was her looks, soft where the world around her was jagged. She didn’t know. What she did know was that she wore the pretty smile on her face like armor, polished and ready, to gain publicity in the bar, just like one must do to earn. Smiling meant tips. Smiling meant fewer problems. Smiling meant survival.

Until one day, a man called Jason Ripper strutted into the bar asking for Sandra. His reputation arrived before he did, whispered like a warning that never quite reached the ears of those who needed it most. (first name) had been the one to put him in his place, completely unbeknownst of his murderous title, her spine straight and her voice firm when others shrank away. Unfortunately, it turned his obsession to her instead of Sandra.

She’d spoken without fear that day—sharp, witty, dismissive. The sort of tone men like him weren’t used to. The sort that hooked them deep.

The younger girl was forever grateful to (first name), of course—grateful and relieved—but gratitude curdled into fear when Jason’s attention lingered.

Now, (first name) had an unwanted, murderous admirer tailing her all the time, his presence pressing into her life like a blade against skin. And the sore problem was, despite all her furious attempts to avoid him, she enjoyed the attention.

It made her feel seen in a way that frightened her. Desired in a way that scraped against something dark and hungry inside her. Every glance from him was a promise and a threat all at once.

On one such day, a loud bang sounded in the bar when Jason and a few of his men stalked in.

The door slammed hard enough to rattle the bottles behind the bar. His presence pressed down on the room, thick and heavy, like storm air before lightning. His men fanned out, watchful, possessive of space that didn’t belong to them, making the bar go silent for a moment before the people resumed their talking in hushed tones, slightly more aware now.

The landlord, Sandra's father, was managing the front of the bar. His shoulders stiffened as he looked up.

"All right, Jason? Usual?"

He asked, his voice a little cautious, the way a man speaks when he knows exactly who he’s dealing with.

"Where's my girl? (first name)?"

Jason asked, completely ignoring the man as his sharp eyes did a quick swivel of the bar, scanning faces, corners, shadows.

"Oh, she's about. Pint of best?"

The landlord asked, trying to deviate his attention, but without avail.

"I'll wait for (first name). She pulls a better pint. Know what I mean?"

Jason raised an eyebrow, a smirk growing on his lips, thick with filthy implication.

"Yeah. (first name)!"

The landlord called, voice raising. (first name) stepped out, Sandra following close behind her. The minute (first name) locked eyes with Jason, her stare hardened. Her smile vanished, replaced by something colder. Sandra began serving the other people in the bar, her gaze kept low, hands trembling just slightly as she worked.

"Pint of best, please, (first name). Pulled nice and slow... so I can watch you."

Jason's voice lowered, tilting his head to meet her gaze. (first name's) jaw set at the clearly sexual implication as she poured the drink into the glass, the amber liquid foaming as she pulled the lever to the one containers kept on the counter. Her hands were steady, though her pulse wasn’t. The amber liquid filled the glass, foam cresting just right. She focused on the mechanics of it, anything but the way his eyes traced her fingers.

Hearing those words come out of Jason's mouth, the landlord dropped a glass, the sharp crack echoing through the bar. The sound startled (first name) greatly as she inhaled sharply, her hands freezing for a heartbeat before she forced herself to continue.

"Sorry, Jason. I'm all fingers today. Don't know what's come over me."

The landlord kept his gaze low, apologizing immediately to the man, already stooping to clean the mess as if making himself smaller might help.

"Are you sad? Has someone made you sad?"

Jason asked suddenly, seeing (first name's) lowered gaze, mistaking her restraint for weakness.

"No."

She shook her head, a frown on her face, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"If someone made you sad, (first name), I'd go mental."

Jason said, gazing intensely at her as his voice turned slightly breathless, reverent in its madness.

"I'm fine, Jason."

(first name) snapped. She was the only one who ever dared to. The room seemed to hold its breath.

"You've got romantic trouble. Aye?"

Jason realised with a scoff, the playful smirk on his face turning dark, something ugly flickering behind his eyes.

"Come on, who is he? I will cut him open."

He threatened, a murderous glare in his eyes, as if it were the most natural promise in the world.

"Honestly, Jason, I'm not sad."

(first name) scoffed, forcing a careless tone she did not feel.

"Come closer. Come on. Come on. Come... closer."

Jason gestured with two of his fingers, making (first name) comply with a sharp sigh. She knew better than to refuse him outright—not here, not with witnesses who would look away the moment things turned ugly.

"Everyone thinks you're a good girl. But I know what you are."

Jason whispered, leaning in closer to her face. His breath brushed her cheek, hot and invasive. Her face burned, unwanted heat pooling low in her stomach as memories invaded her mind—his hands gripping, roaming, his mouth tracing her skin like devotion twisted into hunger. No one but the two of them knew. No one else ever would.

"I'll see you soon... my love."

He grinned cruelly, taking her jaw in his index and thumb, pressing down on her bottom lip and deliberately smudging the rouge on her lips before turning around to walk out of the bar. His men followed, laughter low and knowing.

(first name's) face burned as she stepped into the back rooms, fixing her makeup with shaking hands. Her reflection stared back at her, flushed and furious and alive. And knowing, deep in her heart, that yes—despite everything—she would see him soon.

---

The door swung shut behind Jason with a finality that seemed to seal the bar itself, trapping his presence inside even after he was gone. The noise level rose again—forced laughter, clinking glasses, a pretence of normalcy—but it all sounded distant to (first name), muffled as if she were underwater.

She didn’t trust her legs to hold her.

The back room smelled of damp wood and stale spirits, a cramped space cluttered with crates and spare barrels. She braced herself against the counter, fingers digging into the edge until her knuckles whitened. Her reflection in the small, spotted mirror looked wrong—too flushed, eyes too bright, lips still swollen despite her efforts to fix the smudged rouge. She dabbed at it again, harder this time, as if she could erase his touch by force alone.

Her pulse refused to slow.

She hated herself for it.

Out front, she could hear Sandra’s soft voice serving customers, deliberately steady. Sandra wouldn’t come back here unless she had to. They both knew better. The unspoken rule between them was simple: survive the shift first, unravel later.

(first name) inhaled deeply, straightened her shoulders, and stepped back into the bar.

Life went on. It always did.

Hours dragged by in a haze of work. Pints poured, coins exchanged hands, laughter spiked and fell. Men watched her, as they always had, but now their gazes felt dull, harmless—nothing compared to the weight Jason left behind. Every time the door creaked open, her heart leapt before she could stop it. Every shadow seemed sharper, every movement too deliberate.

When the rush finally thinned and the lamps dimmed, the landlord locked the front door with an audible sigh of relief. He said nothing to (first name), but his eyes lingered on her face for a fraction too long. There was worry there. Fear. And something else—guilt, perhaps, that his bar had become a hunting ground.

Sandra joined her behind the counter, shoulders slumped.

“You all right?” she asked quietly.

(first name) nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

Sandra didn’t push. She never did. Instead, she reached out and squeezed her hand once, briefly, before turning away to stack glasses. It was the kindest thing she could have done.

When they finally stepped outside into the cold London night, the street was slick with rain, the lamps casting long, distorted reflections across the pavement. The city hummed softly around them—carriages rattling, distant voices, the ever-present breath of something watching.

They parted ways at the corner, since the girl had walked her to the second last street. Sandra lingered, as if she wanted to say more, then thought better of it.

(first name) walked alone.

Every step felt measured. Every sound behind her made her spine tense. She told herself she was imagining things, that Jason had gone wherever men like him went when they were satisfied. And yet—there it was. The unmistakable sense of being followed. Not footsteps exactly. Just awareness. A pressure between her shoulder blades.

She didn’t turn around.

She never did anymore.

Her room was small, sparsely furnished, tucked above a tailor’s shop that smelled perpetually of steam and cloth. She locked the door the moment she was inside, sliding the bolt home with shaking hands. Only then did she allow herself to sag against it, breath hitching as the night finally caught up with her.

Jason’s voice echoed in her mind, soft and certain. My love.

She pressed her palms to her face, trying to banish the heat that rose unbidden beneath her skin. She told herself she despised him. That she feared him. Both were true.

So was the rest.

Later, lying awake in the dark, she stared at the ceiling as moonlight crept through the thin curtains.

Sleep came in fragments, jagged and shallow. When it did, it brought him with it.

(first name) dreamed of the bar—always the bar. The lamps burned too low, casting warped shadows that crawled along the walls. Glasses shattered without sound. Jason stood at the end of the counter, smiling patiently, as if he had all the time in the world. In the dream, she couldn’t move. Her feet were rooted to the floor, her body heavy, unresponsive, while he simply watched her struggle against herself.

She woke with a sharp inhale, fingers clawing at the sheets.

For a long moment, she lay perfectly still, listening. The building creaked softly, settling with age. Somewhere below, a cart rattled past on the street. Nothing else. No footsteps. No voices. And yet the feeling lingered—that familiar sense of being observed, of attention stretched thin and deliberate across the dark.

She sat up and lit the small oil lamp beside her bed. The light chased away the worst of the shadows, but not the unease pooling in her chest. Her eyes drifted, unwillingly, to the window.

The curtain stirred.

Her breath caught before she could stop it.

Slowly—so slowly it hurt—she stood and crossed the room. Each step felt too loud. She reached out and pulled the curtain aside just enough to peer down into the street.

Empty.

Rain-dark stone, glistening under a single lamp. No figures lurking in doorways. No familiar silhouette leaning casually where it didn’t belong.

Relief washed through her, sharp and disorienting. She let the curtain fall back into place and pressed her forehead against the cool glass.

“Get a grip,” she whispered to herself.

But even as she said it, doubt gnawed at her. Jason never rushed. He never needed to be seen to be present. That was his talent—existing just beyond certainty, letting anticipation do the work for him.

The following days only made it worse.

At the bar, his absence was louder than his presence had ever been. Patrons whispered his name in low tones, eyes flicking toward the door as though expecting him to materialize at any second. The landlord jumped at every sudden sound. Sandra moved like a ghost, quiet and careful.

And (first name)—she felt stretched thin, like a wire pulled too tight.

She caught herself looking for him. Watching the door. Wondering when.

That realization sickened her more than fear ever could.

On the third evening, just as dusk bled into night, she found something waiting for her behind the bar.

A single white paper, neatly folded, rested atop the counter where she always stood.

Her stomach dropped.

No one else seemed to notice. The bar buzzed on, blissfully ignorant. Her fingers hovered over the paper, dread prickling her skin. Slowly, she picked it up. It was clean. Immaculate.

No signature. No threats. Just three words, written with deliberate care.

Soon. Be ready.

Her chest tightened as if something invisible had wrapped itself around her ribs.

She crumpled the note in her fist and slipped the glove into her apron before anyone could see. Her hands shook as she poured the next pint, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

That night, she didn’t walk home alone.

She asked one of the regulars—a broad, kind-faced man who smelled of tobacco and ale—to escort her partway. He agreed readily, chatting about nothing of consequence, unaware of the service he was providing.

The pressure eased slightly while he was there.

But the moment they parted ways, it returned tenfold.

She reached her door to find it unlocked.

Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. She froze, every instinct screaming at her to run—to scream—to do anything other than step inside.

Instead, she did what she always seemed to do with Jason Ripper looming at the edges of her life.

She went in.

The room was exactly as she’d left it. Lamp extinguished. Bed untouched. Nothing disturbed.

Almost.

On her bedside table lay a single red rose, its stem trimmed cleanly, thorns carefully removed. Beneath it sat her missing glove—the one she’d worn the night he’d first taken interest in her. She hadn’t even known it was gone.

Her knees nearly buckled.

He had been here.

He knew where she lived.

Her breath came fast and shallow as she backed away, pulse roaring in her ears. Fear finally surged free, raw and undeniable. This wasn’t the bar anymore. This wasn’t public. This was hers—and he had crossed into it without resistance.

And yet, beneath the terror, something else stirred.

Anticipation.

She hated herself for it even as it curled deep in her chest, dark and treacherous. Jason wasn’t forcing his way into her life. He was weaving himself into it, thread by thread, until she couldn’t tell where her own will ended and his began.

She sank onto the edge of her bed, staring at the rose until her vision blurred.

Soon.

The word echoed in her mind, heavy with promise and threat alike.

Whatever Jason Ripper had planned, it was no longer a question of if.

It was only a matter of when.

fin-

[veevid]

Love, love, love your Killian Jones fics! 💖💖💖 If it's cool with you, I have another idea to offer: the reader/oc is Emma's twin sister who has feelings for Hook. Eventually she confides in Emma and Snow about it, and they encourage her to follow her heart because she deserves a happy ending.

Thank you so much 🫶🏻 I've only been on Tumblr for about a week now and I love all the fics I've posted 🫶🏻

And I'll see how soon I can post this one, thank you so much for the idea

[veevid]

last part let's go

warnings :- none pairing :- rumplestiltskin x fem!reader

TRUE LOVE

"You've earned him." The King said, a grudging respect in his tone as he beckoned Prince Henry to come closer.

The throne room buzzed with muted whispers, silk brushing stone, candlelight flickering against gold-trimmed pillars. Nobles leaned forward in their seats, hungry for spectacle, for a fairy-tale ending they could gossip about for years to come.

The Prince kneeled down and kissed (first name's) hand, his lips warm against her skin, reverent and hopeful. The court sighed as one, seeing devotion, seeing destiny.

But all she could think about was the dark sorcerer who had helped her.

"(first name). If you will do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage." He said, hope glimmering in his eyes.

She felt the weight of a thousand expectations press against her chest. Her smile came easily enough — she had learned long ago how to wear one like armor — but her pulse betrayed her, thudding loud in her ears.

(first name) hesitated for a moment, her eyes quickly flickering to the crowd where Rumplestiltskin stood, half-hidden in shadow, his knowing gaze locked onto hers. There was no jealousy in his eyes. Only certainty. Possession. Trust.

But ultimately she said;

"Yes." with an emotionless look on her face, knowing where her heart truly lay.

The room erupted into applause. Bells rang. Cheers echoed. And yet, inside her, everything was quiet.

---

(first name) adjusted her satin gloves, looking at herself in the mirror; her frame clad with the beautiful ivory wedding dress as she threw back her veil.

The gown was exquisite — delicate embroidery, pearls sewn into the bodice, fabric soft enough to feel like clouds against her skin. This was the dress girls dreamed of. This was the moment songs were written about.

And still, it felt like a costume.

"Enjoying the view as much as I am?"

(first name) whipped around, her breath catching — then steadying — as her beating heart calmed down at the sight of him.

"Rumple." She smiled as the imp like man giggled, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing her.

His magic hummed beneath her skin when he touched her, dark and alive, as familiar as her own blood.

"How dare you. I'm a married woman." She teased, lightly pushing him back as he replied, pulling her closer.

"Not yet. Wedding's tomorrow." He grinned slyly, kissing her again as she hummed in approval, laughing against his lips.

"Well then it's alright." She whispered, deepening the kiss.

The world narrowed to breath and heat and stolen seconds. When he finally pulled back after a moment, her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright.

"Love the dress."

She smiled, looking at herself in the mirror again, seeing not a bride — but a woman standing on the edge of choice.

"Thank you. Though my heart's not really in this whole marriage thing."

She sighed as he sat on the chair behind her, watching her like she was the only thing that mattered.

"You know, I thought I wanted this. White and bright, all the admiration. Then I look at it. Doesn't have that much appeal if I'm being honest." She shrugged, walking over to him.

"Compared to what you could give me." She said with a smile.

"I can give you nothing, but darkness and isolation." He replied, looking slightly regretful, as if afraid that truth might drive her away.

"And love." She finished for him.

"Yeah. And love." He looked disbelieving, as if nobody had every truly loved him before.

"Then that's all I need." She said, holding his hands in hers, grounding him.

"What if I uh...what If I amended our contract, hm? Instead of you owing me some random first born child-" he said with another flourish of his hands.

"-you owe me...my child." He said, with a somewhat gentle expression.

(first name's) face flushed slightly as she nodded, the weight of the promise settling between them — dangerous, binding, eternal.

"I can make that deal."

"As can I." He muttered, pulling her to him as she spoke again.

"Rumple. Can we truly do this? Can we really have this?" She asked, vulnerability cracking through her resolve.

"If you truly wish it." He replied, a hopeful smile on his face.

"...There is one-"

"What?" He asked.

"The King. He humiliated me. He made me feel the way you've shown me, I never have to feel. I want him dead. I want to take his heart, and crush it so he can see what I'm doing when he dies." She said, the anger burning anew, sharp and righteous.

"And that is why I love you." He grinned cruelly.

"Show me." She said, placing a hand on his heart.

"I will show you everything." He replied, placing a hand over hers.

"Then I'll do it tonight. Tonight, the king dies." She whispered.

"Let's seal that promise." He said, his voice low as he kissed her, making her feel weak in the knees.

---

Rumplestiltskin stood under a tree in the dead of night, moonlight spilling through twisted branches, shadows curling at his feet like loyal beasts. He saw a serene looking figure approaching, calm and purposeful, dress dark against the forest gloom.

"I was starting to grow concerned."

He said, with a smirk, walking up to her and kissing her.

"Well, here I am. With the King's heart."

She smiled triumphantly, holding it aloft — still warm, still faintly pulsing under her control.

(flashback)

(first name) walked up the stairs to the King's treasury, each step echoing like a countdown.

"They told me I'd find you counting your treasure."

"Well, you've made us a rich kingdom again. How can I help you?" The King asked., writing down something on a scroll.

"I don't love your son." She said, her voice hardened.

"I didn't expect you to." He replied, not looking up.

"Not much there to love, frankly. But this is not about love. It's about alliances." He said, standing up and taking her hands in his, an action that thoroughly creeped her out.

"Love, is weakness." He said, "It isn't for hard women like you. That, should make your choice easier."

"My choice?" She pretended not to know what he was talking about.

"Run off with the evil imp you think no one knows about in the name of love or stand next to my son with crown on your head and citizens at your feet."

"You're wrong. Love isn't weakness. It's power. To those who use its potential to the fullest and besides. If the choice is love or power, then even having a heart is a liability isn't that right?" She asked, placing a hand over where his heart should be.

Before even giving the King a moment to think about what she said, she plunged her hand into his chest and ripped his heart out.

"Follow me and forget about everything that just happened." She whispered into the heart as she lead him to the forest where her true love was waiting for her.

(present time)

"Would you like to do the honours?" She asked, tilting her head towards Rumplestiltskin.

"No. You do it." He replied as (first name) turned to King Xavier.

"Long live the King." She said as she crushed his heart, the man falling dead at her feet.

The forest went silent.

And in that silence, a crown fell — not onto a throne — but into darkness, love, and power earned the hard way.

fin-

AN :- WEEE WE'RE DONE

DISCLAIMER :- almost all script credits go to abc productions and ouat 🫶🏻