#bnha reader insert

[platrom]

One Last Chance.

Midoriya x F! Reader, Bakugou x F! Reader (partially/eventually)

WORD COUNT: 20.7k words

NOTE: Here is the ending to OLT. What do you all think? Please leave me some comments!!

If you guys would like to see side stories to this or have some questions, please send some asks! My inbox is always open. And if you have any other story ideas, please request as well.

TW: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, flashback scenes, hospital setting, mentions of prior and current injuries, death, talk about perceptions of death, mentions of suicide attempt/suicide, fluff, therapy, Bakugou has undergone therapy, childhood best friends, toxic friendships, unrequited love, happy ending, the voice leaves, a new voice appears (is personified), reader has a panic attack in a fancy restaurant, reader and Shoto are friends, Bakugou has genuine friends, the reader is loved, kind of ambiguous parts in the ending (must read first part to understand it), reader confronts Midoriya, reader kisses Bakugou

THIS STORY MUST BE READ WITH THE FIRST PART— IT IS NOT A STAND ALONE.

PART 1 / PART 2 (HERE)/IMPORTANT ASK

BAKUGOU OBSERVED your shaken figure as it faded into the distance, head hung low and fists clenched in agony. When you first pulled away from him and continued onward, your feet tapped lightly against every slab of concrete you trekked on, until after a few yards your brisk walk bursted into a hurried sprint. Nobody nor anything was spared a second glance as you fled from his presence.

Candidly, he couldn’t blame you. Bakugou had overstepped your boundaries and attempted to plow through the brick walls you had built around yourself for the sake of your welfare. He understood how you felt and how overwhelming such an invasion of privacy was, notably with his straightforward approach. Bakugou was notorious for diving headfirst into situations, but that didn’t mean it was invariably appropriate.

For instance, now.

Howbeit, he didn’t know what else to do. Bakugou may have gone through years of therapy and anger management courses (thanks to that spiky-haired idiot), but that didn’t mean he knew how to confront everyone about their personal endeavors.

Tackling his own issues differed from helping others address theirs. He had friends, family, and a therapist to talk him through his problems and conjure solutions with. Even his fellow colleagues wouldn’t mind lending a comforting shoulder for Bakugou to lean on; the people around him had read countless books on how to support loved ones who were struggling.

Bakugou had a support system that took years to discover, expand, and wholeheartedly trust. With thousands of hours of therapy under his belt, he was blessed with tools to aid him in the gloomiest and sunniest of days, with or without his therapist by his side.

In comparison, you were not armed with the same lessons and techniques as he was.

Not yet, at least.

Bakugou wanted to change that.

For all of his years of friendship with you, he analyzed your growth and development as a person: how you went from an adorable and frivolous child who was insouciant to the prying eyes of others into a beauteous, percipient young lady who shied away from any unforgiving glares. He remembered how decades ago you, him, and Deku would tussle around in your childhood playground’s decrepit sandbox playing Heroes.

Bakugou had invented the game when you and Deku had been laying against one of the thick blue poles that held up a patent yellow slide incised by impetuous teenagers that lurked around the park at the perturbing time of midnight. To his dismay, despite being in front of you both, none of you batted an eyelash at him. He wasn’t even aware of what you two were discussing, but all he cognized was that the ongoing chatter between you and the freckled nerd was irritating him and he wanted your attention instanter.

Looking back, Bakugou could admit that it was an impulsive suggestion and injudicious decision. In contrast to what any other sensible child or person would have done, as soon as the words ‘Let’s play heroes, Deku and (Name)!’ escaped Bakugou’s lips, the green-haired idiot accepted the request instantly, so eager to please Katsuki. On the other hand, you simply watched in silence as Bakugou beamed in pride with his hands on his hips and Deku enthusiastically pumped his arms in the air, jumping and squealing in both anticipation and delight.

Years after, Bakugou eventually understood why you sat quietly that day and made no move to even consider rejecting the idea. Exactly like Midoriya, you shadowed Bakugou’s footsteps and obliged to his every whim. Yet, unlike Deku, you didn’t quite concur with his exclamations even inside your head and heart. Cleverly, you chose to keep your mouth shut and follow in step because it caused you less trouble than if you voiced your opinion.

That didn’t exactly mean you always emulated that similar action and thought process. There were at times you spoke against Bakugou when you knew you would be reprimanded the least or experience little to no consequences.

Bakugou couldn’t deny that he didn’t enjoy those quirks of yours: your fight, your spunk— your tactical and logical thinking. They all were your qualities that Bakugou internally commended you for.

As children, whenever you three played Heroes, Bakugou forced you to take the role of the damsel in distress. Due to your bestowed position as a distressed maiden, the ash blond referred to you as “Princess” often, both during and outside the game. With every fictional mission the two boys conjured, they intended to save you from villains (which happened to be figurines of heroes with a small piece of dark cloth draped over it).

When Bakugou wanted to impress you (and spite the green-haired bastard), after he and the nerd rescued you, he would hoist you off your feet and carry you bridal style, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. Boastfully and vaingloriously, he would exclaim to the other boy with a smug grin, “This is how a real princess should be treated, Deku!”

The young boy would stare in awe, analyzing how Bakugou kept a firm grip on you and refused to let you take a step on your own, despite your occasional protests.

And the times when a small giggle would be heard near Katsuki’s chest, widened vermillion eyes would snap to your face and watch as you grinned up at him, eyes sparkling, glowing, and filled with adoration. Your ridiculously sweet and unfaltering smile never failed to make his chest puff out in pride, cheeks warm in fluster, and heart pound faster.

Katsuki craved to see that expression on your face again.

He yearned to be the one who flipped your entire world upside down and set you anew. Like a festering disease, that ardent desire plagued his heart. It urged Bakugou to be the hero in your life and pillar of strength- the one you were able to lean on for stability when your walls of welfare began to crumble and crash.

When you were merely arm’s reach away, at times in that freckled-dork’s arms, an unremitting voice rung remorselessly in his ears, imploring for him to pull you into his chest and conceal you from the world, to cradle your supple face between his callused palms and tenderly stroke your cheek in hopes his actions could describe an ounce of his perennial love for you. The vexatious voice begged Bakugou to press his lips against yours to convey all the unspoken emotions he could not fathom formulating into lucid and complete sentences.

Katsuki wanted all of the pieces of you: brain, body, and soul.

In bed, during the hours of dusk until dawn, Bakugou’s mind conjured vivid imaginations of a domestic life with you. In many of the scenarios, Katsuki would already be at home in the spacious kitchen, preparing dinner for you both before you returned after a strenuous day at work. Whatever meal he was cooking didn’t matter; you would love his cooking anyway.

He would be so absorbed with cooking that he wouldn’t hear the sound of the door lock clicking open, or the rustling of your clothes as you stripped off your coat. Your lethargic steps would fall on deaf ears as you snuck behind Katsuki, the corner of your lips curling in satisfaction and glee at the aromatic fragrance wafting throughout the house and at the sight of him cooking, no less in the apron you had gifted him for Christmas at the start of his hero career. The apron was black and had the words “THE BOMB” splayed across his chest in thick, white cursive.

Without hesitation, you would pounce onto Bakugou and smush your face into his back, wrapping your arms around his waist. He would quietly hum as you sighed and relaxed into his cozy warmth, mumbling a word of greeting.

After, small bits of chatter would be exchanged between you two until your voices died down and a comforting silence would permeate your shared home.

Eventually, when Bakugou would feel your eyelashes flutter shut as you fruitlessly essayed to stay awake and on your toes, he would lightly smack the top of your head with a wooden spoon and chide you to get your oil-stained arms off his apron and shower before he finished dinner.

The dopey grin that would spread across your adorable face would leave butterflies flittering in his stomach and blood rushing to the tips of his ears. When you noticed his bashful expression, you would raise your calves and wrap your arms around Bakugou’s neck to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, before escaping his clutches as he processed your actions.

Irritatingly, he would wave a wooden spoon in the air menacingly at your retreating figure, screaming, “You shitty woman, if you’re going to kiss me, do it properly!”

Katsuki Bakugou was a selfish man; he knew that just as well as anybody else. All of his life, he took everything he could and prospered with whatever resources he had. Everything he did was done in his favor, to his advantage. The cost of his actions and behavior was never significant to him. Even presently, as a hero, he didn‘t bat an eye to his brash language on television or crass attitude. He never spared a second thought about what he did or was going to do.

Until now, when your life, your fate, was placed directly into the palm of his destructive, blood-shedding hands.

If he pursued the direction of which you ran and found you, what would happen to the two of you? To him? To you?

What were the rewards and the risks? Would possibly risking your life be worth it? If push came to shove and you threatened your life, could he save you?

His quirk wasn’t built for the typical rescue training; Bakugou was trained to ward off villains and allow the official rescue heroes do their work. He could handle the battle— the blood, the deafening blasts and shards of glass and slabs of concrete that would fly at him, the blazing ache in his muscles, the adrenaline from fighting and the reality of his eventual, impeding death.

Yet, he wasn’t created to dive into the murky and freezing cold water of the ocean and pull civilians from the bottom. Bakugou Katsuki, Dynamight, wasn’t the one who was meant to lift fissured buildings off of civilians to allow them to escape.

Of course, Bakugou could blow things up. Though, was it really the smartest for him to possibly detonate an already ticking time bomb?

Perhaps, he wasn’t the man for this rescue. But there was somebody else who he knew was.

Bakugou whipped out his phone, scrolling past hundreds of unobtrusive contacts, most lacking a personalized profile picture. Swipe after swipe, blurs of gray passed his vision before his eyes caught the name of a man he would never willingly speak to, not even for work.

You were an exception.

Always and forever.

Tapping the telephone icon with hasty fingers, Katsuki lifted the device up to his ear and began to trace your footsteps.

In his wildest dreams, never did he picture himself dialing one of his biggest rivals over a girl he loved for decades— over a girl they loved for decades— since as long as he could remember.

A confused voice answered on the other end. “Kacchan?”

“Deku,” Bakugou sighed, teeth gritting and fists clenched.

Hopefully, the world would reward him for not being selfish this once.

“I need your damn help.”

For the first time.

Contrary to popular belief, there were countless disparate ideas and thoughts of what death was like. For numerous individuals, it was foreseen as a riveting and transfixing experience. On the other hand, many voiced death to be an ongoing horror that terrorized them in the back of their minds. The twisted thoughts would trickle past the cracks of the mind, seeping into the limelight of their thoughts.

Certainly, there were opinions that fell between the lines and even strayed far from the common and classic perceptions of such an inevitable fate all would face.

Though, you had a rather specific conclusion about death.

Your declaration was that it was quite dull; banal even, considering everything to your vision (more so lack of it) was pitch black, akin to as if you had your eyelids shut— just permanently.

To be fair, you were dead. What did you expect? No one wanted to see the eyes of a rotting corpse, so it made sense that they would shut them.

You prayed your body was being prepared for your funeral. If they even found it, deep down below the surface of the ocean’s beguiling, glossy droplets of liquid transparency that lured innocent strangers to explore what was another’s liquid death.

Your death would also explain why you were frozen like a corpse. Your mouth remained clamp shut, your limbs stayed in place no matter how much you fruitlessly shrieked at your brain to move the lifeless limbs, and every inch of your body felt stone cold despite that if you were alive, warm blood would be flowing through your veins to keep you functioning.

However, there was one minor issue that made you question your predicament and if you were truly dead— you could still hear. What you were able to hear in the oblivion of black that surrounded you was debatable, but it vaguely reminded you of muffled chatter, similar to if cotton stuffed your ears.

Perhaps, if you focused enough you could distinguish the words, possibly even the syllables in hopes of discovering whether or not you had truly met death face-to-face.

All you had to do was listen- stay silent. Just like a dead person. You were dead. You could do just that with ease.

So, you let your conscious fade into the abyss of surrounding black, let the hold you had on the remnants of your soul slide lower and lower, the tight grip of your finger slipping so only the tips of them could reach the sole part of you that held you inside your body— your prison. You let the comfort of your humanity rest and the blaring silence of death deafen your ears.

Unexpectedly, the small, high-pitched voice of a child is what you hear first whose words die at the end of their sentence.

“If you need help, you can just ask for it.”

You want to ask who they are and what they’re talking about, and you try— you pull your dangling humanity closer and repeat the questions like a mantra until you’re screaming them, but they never exit your throat.

When your soul slips from your fingers again, the child remains quiet. Light footsteps begin to echo in the abyss of darkness, faintly reminding you of the days you used to spend in your room listening to rain splattering against your window, the atoms of hydrogen and oxygen splitting as they made contact with the clear surface.

This all seems like a sick, cruel joke from the universe.

Was this the voice messing with you?

Was the voice that haunted you still here with you, even in the after life?

But it didn’t sound the same.

That ominous voice in your head was your own voice. It had the exact same pitch, the same quirky pronunciations you had, even down to the accent. Possibly at first, it had been the voice of others and the words that were spat at you were theirs.

To begin, they were theirs; their crude thoughts, their deleterious words, their abhorrent statements and opinions.

Not yours, not at all.

Those noxious words laced with the deadliest of poisonous toxins gradually infiltrated your mind, the traces of their presence faint. As time passed, the once small stains became vast and covered the expanse of your once kind thoughts, turning each present one bitterer from the last. Once upon a time, the voice in your head was the voice of others.

Until it became yours.

In contrast, the speaker in the pit of eternal darkness had a voice of a naive young girl whose heart was just as pure and innocent as it was when the day she was born. It was filled with glee and utmost care, one that most lost to their greed for coin and success. Genuine people— those who constantly gave back and assisted others out of the goodness of their heart had long gone extinct, or were an endangered species. Those who got ahold of these rare beings either sunk their canines into their flesh for a finishing blow or kept them safe under their thumb, a primordial part of them vocalizing their need to keep someone so precious in the safety of their arms.

The girl moved closer to you.

“The attempt to escape pain is what creates more pain. At least, that’s what my parents tell me.”

That voice . . . It was once yours. The little girl who was speaking to you was you, or the shell of who you once were.

Although the memories of your childhood had lost their precision of detail overtime and existence as the years trudged by, you had always considered them the apex of the years you spent alive. The naivety of being a child and the blanket of being sheltered protected you from the corruption of the real world was a sensation you missed dearly.

“Instead of trying to avoid your troubles and problems, they say to resolve them so nobody gets hurt anymore!”

Your recollection of this particular encounter as a child was not the most prominent, as the once vivid and animated details of that day slowly evanesced from your brain with time.

The interaction had occurred nearly two decades ago in the commonly favored season of saccharine spring in Japan, when the sun’s rays gently kissed your skin and the soft gusts of wind weaved through your hair and brushed it back. You were there solely because the mothers in the city of Musutafu always met up during the spring to gossip about their husbands and children and revel in the scenery of blossoming Sakura flowers that swayed gingerly in the wind from their delicate stems that connected to the branches.

It hadn’t been the first time your mother had dragged you to an event like this with the enticing promise that you would be able to make new friends; that had been the deal-breaker for you. Hence, it had led you to the park funded by the richest of the local heroes and civilians.

The place could only be described in one word: perfect. Gossip from the mothers of the town declared it was kept in pristine condition by countless gardeners who would sweat over every blade of grass they sliced. The shrubbery was luscious, vibrant, and full of life. One would say it was just as youthful as the children that roamed every acre of the greenery.

The mothers had stationed themself near the entrance of the park, where the benches that were bolted into the ground to set down the dishes, snacks, and desserts they brought for everyone to snack on. Further in was the actual playground, which contained the children of the many attending mothers.

After kindly asking your mother for permission to go to the playground by yourself, you waltzed your way over.

That was where the interaction began.

You weren’t sure how you even noticed this peculiar person— nothing about them stood out. Not their hair, not their eyes, not their face.

Absolutely nothing differentiated from the rest.

That much you remembered.

Maybe it was a stroke of luck that brought you to them, that fate decided to pull your strings together and wrap a knot around you both for a moment.

They had been sobbing uncontrollably, their arms hugging their knees and small hiccups of desperate gulps of fresh air had reached your unsuspecting ears.

It was odd how out of all the children there, you were the only one who could hear their muffled cries of pain.

The background, your surroundings, the calls of the other children to return to their side as they watched you step towards the outcast was all a haze to you. You couldn’t recognize or process anything other than the child that sat alone in tears.

It was a complete blur from there.

“Forever doesn’t exist, that’s why you should apologize before it’s too late!”

Why am I remembering this now?

Tears fell that day.

When have they not?

Unspoken words lingered in the air, thick and heavy on your tongue.

How many days have been like that? How many days have I lived like them?

Your mind answers for itself.

In the past, you had labeled them minor inconveniences. They didn’t matter to you.

They were minor inconveniences, you tried to convince yourself like so many times before.

Were the tears you shed over so many lost ones just minor?

Would you just toss them away?

Would you belittle the memories of one of your former closest elementary friends, years of friendship washed away in the downpour due to a nasty little rumor spread about you? Erase the little drawings and cards they made for you, each one describing how you would be by each other’s side forever?

Would you forget about the best friend that got away, the one that was forced to move away at the end of your primary years? The walk around the field, the stories you both wrote together, the secrets you entrusted with one another— were you going to toss that all away?

Would you forget about the one who you worked vigorously to build a friendship with when everyone was forced to split ways in junior high? Did you really think so little of the late night conversations, the occasional but rather spontaneous (and sometimes one-sided) heart-to-hearts, the long hours spent chatting away, learning about a love that stemmed deeper than the plants whose roots dipped beneath the soil under your feet? What about when they had chosen to push you out of their lives— manipulating you to keep you attached?

Would you be willing to forget when the empire you had fought endlessly to build and protect collapsed on you after quakes so powerful the once granite walls fissured and crumbled right above your head when you were at your weakest?

Would the scars that remained from the knives that were stabbed into your back, your chest, your heart, finally heal? Would the nasty and discolored marks fade from your skin like water slipping down a drain?

Would you forget about your family? The ones who raised you, who were by your side, near your side, even when it felt like they were miles away?

Would you forget about those who loved you unconditionally— for every one of your flaws, mistakes, and imperfections? The loyal ones who stood close enough to catch you if you fell, even when you didn’t deserve it. Even when you took them for granted.

What about Izuku and Katsuki? The ones that at one point in your life or another, meant the world to you?

Could you erase the memory of Katsuki’s passionate carmine eyes, irises the colors of the ripest of strawberries in the patch, filled with unspoken emotions that only the most observant and attentive of people could detect? The number of fingers on your hands could not come close to totaling the indefinite amount of days you spent staring into his eyes, (e/c) piercing through the thin panes of glass behind his eyes that sheltered his heart and soul, learning lessons that words could not formulate, that he would never dare let leave his mouth.

Would those minuscule yet intimate moments with the blond escape you at last?

Ironically, your calmest and most content moments resided with the boy from your childhood who always claimed one day he would be the greatest hero in the world. These tranquil times didn’t stem from your days as kids in primary school or pre-teens in middle school, but rather when you both were studying at UA.

Unbeknownst to Midoriya and nearly the entirety of Class A, Bakugou would constantly sneak you into his room late at night when neither of you could sleep or only wanted to bask in the the other’s presence. He always grumbled and complained about the unruly times you chose to sneak out of your room and how dangerous it was for you to risk injuring yourself just to see him, but every time you countered his argument with a simple smile and a “I missed you” before proceeding to hug him tightly.

The first few times you told Bakugou this, audible explosions began to crackle from his palms and immediately he shoved you off of him (after wiping his sweaty hands on his pants) and barked curses at you. Eventually, he welcomed you silently with open arms.

During those quiet nights, you both would lay on his bed, limbs intertwined. At first, you and Katsuki sat at a distance, until he began to lay down on his bed and hissed at you to follow suit. Then, you made the first move to cuddle Bakugou after he called you over because of a nightmare— the rest was history from there.

Brushing fingertips was your first taste of intimacy with Bakugou, until he gained the courage to hold your hand. Afterwards came the long hugs. Then, those hugs transformed into Bakugou pulling your head to rest on his bicep. Next came intertwined legs and gentle caresses. And the cherry on top was when his walls finally came down and he allowed you to be his rock, the shoulder he cried on when his studies and hero work caught up to him and left him doubled over in hopelessness, desperate to put himself back together.

But what about Izuku?

What about the boy you spent practically every year of your life with, the man that plagued your mind in the early hours of dawn and the late hours of dusk?

Were you ready to remove him forever? Were you truly ready to give up on the one you loved fearlessly for all those years, even in the face of adversity?

For ages, Midoriya was your beacon of hope. When the world felt like it was caving in, when you shoved everyone out and suffered in solitude, he stood unwavering and unrelenting to listen to your command; he defied your expectations and exceeded them.

Though, good things cannot survive for eternities.

At one point Izuku Midoriya, the one who claimed your heart long ago, slowly began to fade right in front of your eyes. He prioritized his work— he made saving others the reason why he breathed.

When that realization dawned upon you and you understood that he would never fawn at you the same way you did with him, you drowned yourself.

It felt like death.

You didn’t want to think about this anymore.

I want the pain to finally end.

It was pointless to clutch onto the minuscule semblance of mortality you had left before you completely rested in the grave. If you accepted the hand the reaper held out to you, sleep would be eternal.

That’s what I always wanted, right? So take it. It’s not like I ever had anything to lose. Whatever I once owned will never be mine again.

Succumbing was always easy. Succumbing to desires always rewarded you, albeit only temporarily. It was simpler that way— to fall under the umbrella of constantly accepting demands.

“Let go.”

You did; you drank every night until you were blackout drunk.

“Hide.”

You did. You pushed everyone away and isolated yourself.

“Suffer.”

You did. You never sought out help when your thoughts became too grim and dreary to bare alone.

“End it.”

You did. You jumped off the cliff and into the ocean.

“Accept it.”

Slowly, you were.

Slowly, you let your thoughts disintegrate into the dark, emptying your mind of coherency. Of rationality, of humanity.

That lifeless feeling of iciness within you traveled across the expanse of your body until you wholeheartedly believed you had always been a glacier of ice and not once a living being.

Like a sinking boulder, you slipped from consciousness to never resurface.

And like a gentle kiss, a speck of warmth formed on your skin before disappearing.

“Please don’t leave me, (Name). I love you.”

“Don’t do that again, idiot.”

The voice is warm like apple cider on a winter day, mixed with a twinge of sweet, sugary cinnamon that permeates the expanse of your tongue. It feels so welcoming, so safe despite the harshness lingering in the undertones of the voice— akin to if a thick and heavy spoonful of honey coated your tongue like syrup flowing off a stack of fluffy and golden-brown pancakes. You craved to have the sugary sap reach the back of your mouth and slide down your throat before it saturated your system with the sticky sweetness.

A tepid and sweaty hand enveloped yours, coarse callouses sheltering the dry and peeling skin of your knuckles from the bitter cold breeze blown from the air conditioning.

More words fall deaf on your ears as the strings of consciousness tie themselves back together in effort to push you out of your drowning slumber. The soothing and homely voice continues to repeat broken and fractured phrases that you try to reach, pushing yourself out of the sinister hold of the tendrils.

Enraged by your defiant behavior, the obsidian tentacles wrap themselves around the tied strings and tug harshly in an attempt to tear you apart, to send you back to where the worst of your melancholy and despondent thoughts resided.

“Come back, don’t leave me here!” the voice cried. “You and I, we’re both the same. Wherever I go, you come with. We are one.”

Were you the same as that evil voice that had plagued your mind like a virus, worming its way into your bloodstream in hopes of controlling your body and fatally killing you?

Would you ever do that to someone?

You’d like to think not.

“You better not leave me behind. You need to be there when I become number one.”

There was that familiar voice again— it was so warm. It felt like hugging a toasty bag of freshly baked bread in the chilly morning, or sitting down on your couch with a steaming cup of hot cocoa on a rainy day, slowly sipping at the aromatic and creamy chocolate that made your stomach squeal in pleasure and delight.

You craved to feel like this forever.

With the threat of betrayal, the tendrils furiously tightened their bruising grip on your limbs, unwilling to part ways with you.

“I was there for you when nobody ever was! I stuck by your side when you isolated yourself and had nobody— when everyone ignored you!” the voice reminded you, enraged by your defiance.

Why couldn’t you just submit to it?

But weren’t you the one that caused it? If it wasn’t for you, would I really be here now?

The idea is a sudden one that sends you reeling, heart pumping and sweat beading at the top of your head. The once cozy heat that flooded your body boils, burning hotter than the fiery and explosive stars above. An audible sizzling sound can be heard where the tendrils meet your skin.

“You better fight back, damn nerd. Everyone’s been waiting for you out here— they dropped everything to come see you.”

Everyone? Your classmates and friends?

But weren’t they the ones who knew of your suffering and still refused to extend a helping hand to you?

“They all come and go, you know that. Why would you go back to them? Don’t go back on the promise you made. Just for Midoriya, remember?”

Promise? Midoriya?

Your mind was too muddled to comprehend the voice’s words.

“That dumb Deku is here too. He’s worried sick about you, wouldn’t stop blubbering like an idiot the minute he saw me.”

The sight of emerald eyes filled with tears flashes through the darkness of your mind, a blur of a murky white, lifeless black, and a faded green.

You should react— you should feel something. Anything.

But you don’t.

The imagery fades as fast as it arrives, leaving you to reside with the black of your mind. There’s no fluttering of butterflies or red rose petals swirling in the air out of the corner of your eyes. The thought of Midoriya doesn’t warm you further— it only leaves you colder than before.

In the pit of death, it’s just you and the last of your humanity.

“He never liked you anyway. You never mattered. You knew that, didn’t you?”

A meek part of you wants to disagree, argue that he had to have appreciated you at least in the slightest to have stuck around you for as long as he did. But the majority of you solemnly nods in agreement, aware of the countless times where you blindly reached out to Izuku Midoriya.

He simply tolerated you because you constantly suffocated him with your presence. Midoriya never had a mean bone in his body, he would never speak up if someone was a nuisance to him.

“Yes!” the voice hissed, delighted. Slowly but surely, you were falling prey to its hold; to the negativity it had spread wide throughout your mind.

It was only a matter of time before you succumbed.

“Wake up, (Name). Please.”

It isn’t worth it, is it?

“I know I haven’t been the best, but I’ll make it up to you. Promise. Just please, please don’t leave me.”

The warm voice cracks, its words quivering, and there’s a shaky intake of breath. It sounds pained.

“You caused that pain.”

You did, didn’t you?

“Just let it all go,” the voice sung. “Come with me and it’ll all go away. Everyone will be okay. You will be okay.”

You should.

You know you should.

You know you should finally let go. You’d lost everything. You’d lost your life and were trapped in this bottomless pit of black.

If you just let go, you could be free.

“Then do it. Stop listening. Ignore it all. Let me take over.”

There’s words that are being spoken to you from the voice beside you, some louder and intenser than the last, but you block them out. You ignore and let the ferocious tendrils wrap around you and pull you down.

The thin string that holds you together snaps.

And finally, finally, it all stops. The noise, the voices, the thoughts, the feelings, the aches and pains.

At last, it’s all over, you tell yourself.

But do you really believe it?

You would never know.

You don’t think you’ve seen this many people crowded into a single hospital room.

For you, no less.

All of the former Class A students from your years in high school have flooded your room, some of them even stuck in the doorway. From Grape Juice to Creati, the space is absolutely cramped.

Beside your bed are mountain-high piles of gifts and letters from your friends as well as others who could not attend in time for the visiting hours. Without a doubt, some of those presents contained articles of lavish and luxurious gifts you could only afford in the wildest of your dreams if you had the money of a top pro-hero. (Money that these heroes had, considering some had been born into wealthy families while others had become filthy rich after making bold headlines as heroes in the media.)

Not to mention, all their attention had been focused entirely on you since the moment you awoke.

Uraraka had been the first to pounce on you, spewing words that flew past her mouth with such vigor and rush that you could not keep up. Like a koala, she clung to you— arms wrapped around your neck in a vice and warm grip as she sobbed uncontrollably into your shoulder. Tsuyu had pried her off apologetically, but you merely continued to stare in a daze, the countless medications that they had pumped through your blood still in effect.

One by one, each visitor came up to your bedside and sat down beside you to speak while the others watched. Each interaction differed from the last.

Mina had buried your head into the crook of her necks as she brokenly whispered words of endearment and utmost adoration into your ear, rubbing your back softly as salty tears spilled from her eyes and onto the pillow behind you. Eventually, Mina clasped your face between her hands and grinned through tears at the sight of your face between her hands, further cementing the fact that you were alive and still with her.

After a couple more shared moments with some of the others, Todoroki had stepped up to you with an indecipherable expression painted onto his features before sitting down and opening his arms in a silent offer of a hug. You lifted yourself up and leaned into his hold and he held you delicately like glass, murmuring a gentle “I’m so sorry” and “Thank you for not leaving us.”

Once Todoroki left your side, Momo immediately took his place and buried your head into her chest. At that point, your eyes had begun to sting in response to the endless tears your friends had shed and you were sure they were just as red as Momo’s bloodshot ones.

After Yaomomo came Eijiro Kirishima, your personal golden retriever.

He had lunged at you, scooping you into his arms. Squeezing you tightly, Kirishima could not help but sob into the crook of your neck, shaking while doing so. Apologetic words were whispered brokenly, his voice cracking and changing pitch every syllable.

For someone so sturdy, so stable, you never thought the unbreakable Red Riot could crumble quite so easily.

At the hands of your own, no less.

Finally, the tears began to flow from your eyes, overpowering the dam that stubbornly refused to budge whenever it splintered. Wrapping your arms around Kirishima’s back, you clutch on for dear life, crying into his shoulder.

You almost died.

You did die.

The horror of your situation finally settles.

Your behavior and actions, it really did matter. It affected others, not only yourself. If these people were barely holding it together from seeing you now, alive and safe in a hospital, how would they have reacted if you did indeed die?

If the voice had truly beaten the odds, what would have happened to those around you?

You’re glad, you conclude, that you’ll never know and they’ll never really experience it either.

Death may conclude your story, but it doesn’t end theirs. You just close the book of their life and stop reading their story.

Glancing up from Kirishima’s quivering shoulders, you inspect the body language of everyone there. Some are hunched over, hands clasped over their mouths with tears staining their face. Others comfort each other, tenderly rubbing their backs.

However, there’s one person in particular that catches your eye.

He broods alone in the back, carmine eyes staring daggers into the ground. Dressed in his infamous black skull t-shirt and black sweatpants, his ash-blond hair stands out like a sore thumb.

You know that hunched figure like the back of your hand, even despite his immense growth over the years.

“Bakugou?”

It’s a quiet croak, a frightened whisper. But like the hawk he is, his head whips up, eyes widened in surprise.

And it is then, you see the true damage you’ve caused.

The rims of his eyes are a soft red, like the powdery light red of blush. Below his eyelashes lay streaks of fallen tears, their traces as evident as a bear’s footprints in still snow. His eyebrows are pulled together, wrinkling the space between his glassy eyes. It’s uncanny seeing Bakugou showing an emotion besides anger or neutrality, especially one akin to despair.

You’ve never seen such a hopeless expression visible on his face before.

You’re a monster.

For doing that to someone like him, you know you are.

Kirishima raises his head up and gives a small grin, glancing back at his companion. “Bakugou’s been here since you arrived at the hospital. He was the first person to contact us all about . . . this.”

You wince, pursing your lips at his not-so-subtle tiptoeing around your attempt. He means no harm, but the sting is just as intense at the reminder of your breakdown.

He moves off you and motions Katsuki to move towards your side, patting the blond on the back as he trudged over.

His steps are hesitant and slow— like a zookeeper approaching a wounded, rabid animal. Vermillion eyes inspect the tears that cling onto your eyelashes, the trembling at the corner of your lips, and the shallow intakes and exhales of breath from your throat.

The air between you is thick, but no matter how tense, you open your arms for Bakugou, staring at him teary eyed. He hovers above you, unsure of closing the distance between you both.

“Please?” Your arms tremble mid-air, and the tears on your face stream down faster. You don’t look decent— no one would look their best in such a weak, raw, and vulnerable moment, but you don’t care.

You don’t care because you know surviving is worth so much more than a presentable exterior.

Bakugou swallows thickly before moving into your embrace. His warmth contrasts the iciness in your bones and brings the blood rushing to the rest of your body. Your heart pounds rapidly and your lungs expand further and further, desperate to inhale all of Bakugou Katsuki in.

You stay like that for a few moments before he breaks the silence. “You idiot.”

Your breath hitches in your throat.

“If you need help, you better ask for it next time.”

And then, a small bit of warmth blossoms in your cheeks.

“Yeah, I know.”

MIDORIYA IS FRAGILE.

Midoriya is weak.

No matter how much time had passed and no matter how strong he became, he would always be that same helpless kid he once was. It was an innate part of him— Defenseless Deku would always be the child that existed in the corners of the Number One, Symbol of Peace Pro-Hero Deku’s mind.

Those thin, shaking arms and glassy, red-rimmed eyes all sewn onto a young boy would always be the reflection of Midoriya whenever he stared at the mirror.

Years of scars, fractured bones, and matured features would always fail at hiding the truth about the soul that lived within the body of the greatest hero in all of Japan’s history.

It’s something that lingered in his mind at the late hours of dusk and early hours of dawn— the harrowing truth about the Symbol of Peace.

How could one man be so strong, so powerful, yet be so weak, helpless, and vulnerable?

The thought bounced in his mind as he sat tiredly in the rickety chair of the hospital after receiving a panicked, cryptic worried message from Kacchan.

“‘She was tired. Bleak— dull. She wasn’t herself. She needs our help.’”

His words floated in Midoriya’s head, crashing into the sides of his mind once they resurfaced ashore, only to slip from the sandy outskirts of the beach and back into the rippling waves of the ocean.

“‘She needs you, Izuku.’”

(Name), his (Name), was in danger. You needed help- his help.

He wondered why Kacchan hadn’t just followed you himself. He had always loved you, long before Midoriya even did (or knew he did, for that matter). Midoriya had always known that.

Why didn’t he just play hero as he always would (just like when they were kids and Bakugou always wanted to be the one to only rescue you), and take all the glory for himself? It would end as it always did in those Hollywood films— the hero would save the girl and get her, and they would live happily ever after.

Isn’t that what Kacchan wanted? To live happily ever after with you?

At least, that’s what Midoriya had always concluded whenever his thoughts would trail back to the rather confusing relationship between you and his biggest rival.

Kacchan had always held a soft spot for you. Although the brashness of his actions and pointed words would’ve pierced anyone (like they soon did with him), those icicles simply melted before they could touch the surface of your skin.

And at first, that love was platonic (he believes, but Midoriya is unsure. He may have been able to read Kacchan like a book after years of knowing him, but he could never grasp his concept of romantic and platonic love. He didn’t know him like that.)

Gradually, however, it blossomed into something deeper than just a friendship. In the soil of his greatest rival’s heart, the roots of that love penetrated the layers of dirt before it overtook his heart and became something much stronger than either of them could have fathomed.

Kacchan would deny it all, though. Even to Midoriya.

Distinctly, Midoriya recalled watching Bakugou walk off to your dorm when you both were in your second year at U.A. He hadn’t thought much of it then (as it wasn’t until months afterwards did he begin to suspect Bakugou’s true feelings for you), but it became a frequent sight as the weeks passed.

In due time, Midoriya realized that Bakugou had been meeting up with you more than just those moments he saw Kacchan heading to your dorm room.

A polite voice snapped Midoriya from his spiraling thoughts.

“Mr. Midoriya, you are free to see (Last Name) (First Name).”

He gave a kind smile, bowing his head before he rose. Mindlessly, he walked down the hall until he found your room number the nurse gave.

Your room is secluded off into the end of the hall, beside nothing but a sterile white wall. It’s lonely out here— there are no people or gifts waiting outside the patient’s doors; just sterile, white walls and tiles.

You don’t belong here.

When Midoriya entered your room, the sight of your still body laying unceremoniously on the thin white bedding of the hospital greeted him. Not even a paper blanket had been thrown on you.

An IV drip is lodged into one of your arms, with wires of other sorts filling out the rest of the space on your forearms. Your hair is tangled and matted together by the salty water that once absorbed your body whole. There are fresh, pink cuts laying all over your body, no doubt sterilized by alcohol.

The scene reminded Midoriya of the many times he had landed himself in the hospital critically injured and on the verge of death.

You shouldn’t be in his place.

Never should you be in his place.

He loved you too much to stand seeing you so injured. You were a support hero— you stayed in the background to make the heroes of the public stronger. You belonged in an office where you would be safe and protected. Midoriya made sure of that when he requested you work for him.

But he let this happen.

It’s an unfortunate truth he doesn’t want to accept.

Midoriya knew about your feelings the whole time. He had seen the lovesick, dazed expressions you gave him. He saw the way you would grin happily after each passing interaction with him, how your eyes would light up whenever he stepped in the same room as you.

He knew because he would do all the same for you.

Every time he stepped into the office, his eyes would search for any semblance of you. It had always been like that.

He had always sought out for you, even as kids.

That’s why as he got older and realized the grasp you had on him, Midoriya attempted to flee his emotions. The longer he was around you, the deeper he spiraled in his endless pit of love for you. Butterflies would erupt every second he thought of you— they covered every inch of his being until he became a colorful mess of emotions.

And as he neared the number one spot, he realized the danger that came with such feelings. He would place a target on both your backs. Any villain looking for revenge against him would find you first as a means to get to him. And if they did— if they hurt you— he would have shattered

He would shatter.

That’s why he fled from your life: to protect you.

And himself.

Selfish Izuku.

But he failed to realize the affect it had on you. He never cared to look back and see how you took his sudden disappearance.

Look where that got you both, he tells himself.

You, in a hospital bed barely alive and him, guilty and torn apart at the seams.

Izuku Midoriya may be a hero, but he is a villain all the same.

Whether or not you’re aware of it, he is the villain in your story.

But he is— and that is enough to send the strongest man alive sprinting out of your hospital room and into the night, far away from you, his emotions, and the reality of your lives. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision as he soars in the air, pouncing from rooftop to rooftop.

The world will always remind Izuku Midoriya that while your worlds were meant to meet, they were meant to collide together and cause destruction.

He just never meant to damage yours as much as he did.

But Midoriya is weak. He is as fragile and helpless as they come, even if he is trapped in the body of the most powerful and capable being known to man.

The cruel universe continued to laugh at him, bathing gloriously in his misery.

Dumb little boy, it condescendingly cooed.

Helpless Izuku, it reminded him.

And he let it torment him, as he always had. Because while he may be the closest thing to God, even he cannot defy fate.

The world doesn’t welcome you with open arms after you’re discharged from the hospital.

When you step outside of the hospital doors, the weather isn’t warm and sunny with a gentle breeze that kisses your skin in those Hollywood movies. The ends of your clothes and hair don’t flutter majestically in the wind. Birds don’t swoop down and tweet enthusiastically at you, hopping to inch near you. There aren’t people happily chattering as they trek down the sidewalks and kids squealing as they sprint freely across the street.

Instead, it’s a sweltering kind of heat that causes sweat to form in every crevice of your body; it’s the kind that burns your skin the moment you step outside, tearing apart your dry, AC-adapted skin. Hair sticks to your face at unflattering angles and your wrinkled clothes are impossibly uncomfortable with every step you take. The polyester of your shirt rubs uncomfortably against the cuts and bruises located all around your body, making you wince. Animals and critters skitter away into the shade in hopes of cooling down. There are no pedestrians on the street or giddy kids. All you can see and hear are cars honking at each other, angry drivers, and speeding motorcycles.

Life is hideous, unfortunate, and cruel. Life is reality. Life is the truth and the truth was never meant to be kind or forgiving. It was meant to kick you off your high horse and humble yourself. It was meant to remind you no matter the strength you possessed, no matter how perfect you were perceived, you would always have to bow your head to the hand above. It was meant to teach you to never bite the hand that feeds you, or else dire consequences will come from those who are disobedient.

And you disobeyed it. You defied fate. You chose your own death, against the death the world had planned for you. You sunk your canines into the hand of life and tore its fingers off, letting the blood spurt over your face.

Now, you are paying for it by living through misery.

Before and after death.

Always and forever.

“Pathetic,” the voice whispered. “How pathetic, (Name). You can’t do anything right, can you?”

A sleek black cars rolls to the curb and a tinted window is rolled down. Ash-blond spikes stick out of the window and you are met with Bakugou’s gleaming eyes.

“You getting in, Princess?”

He sticks a thumb behind him, signaling for you to go to the back. Nodding your head, you step into the back of the vehicle and shut the door behind you, buckling your seatbelt.

You’re right, you agreed with the voice, I can’t do anything right.

Beside Bakugou in the driver’s seat is Todoroki, who sends you a charming smile when he looks back at you. Bakugou turns over as well.

“Hello, (Name).”

You softened at the sight of his body’s tension melting under your gaze. “Hi, Shoto. How are you?”

“Better now that you’re here.”

A bright laugh escapes you— it’s abrupt and loud— the kind that makes you roll around in your bed rethinking your every choice at the crack of dawn.

Yet, somehow for the first time in months, nearly years, you feel a little bit lighter.

The world seems a little brighter.

The voice boils in rage.

“Aren’t you just a charmer, Todoroki?” your hand waves teasingly as you press your head to the glass, swooning to the side. “I always knew your were my Prince Charming waiting to sweep me off my feet!”

Bakugou sucks air through his teeth, huffing loudly. Shoto’s eyes twinkle in amusement as he peers over at Katsuki, his eyes crinkling as his smile grows wider and the pearls of his teeth begin to show.

“If you have something to say Bakugou, you should communicate with us,” Todoroki stated matter-of-factly, glancing behind him before reversing out of his spot. “We’re friends, after all.”

Bakugou scowls, rolling his eyes before turning back and staring at you from the dash mirror. “You got all your stuff, (Name)?”

You nodded, watching as he turned to look off into the distance.

Bakugou had changed drastically from the teenager he once was in UA and even though you saw his development each year, never did you focus on each of his features as he matured.

Your mind wanders to the memories stored of the nights you continuously spent with Bakugou, drinking in his features. The images of the moonlight glowing on his skin like a gentle kiss from a loving mother. The slight curl of his eyelashes, always so long and full that the girls in middle school would jealously whisper over how pretty he was. The deep carmine of his eyes that resembled the reddest of apples, so shiny and perfectly polished that even the fruit trees strewn across Japan enviously would turn away, swaying their branches in the opposite direction just to look away from his breathtaking features.

Those features remained as an adult. Though, the only difference between younger Bakugou and your current one were their builds. Katsuki was taller, bulkier, and somehow even leaner to the point every angle of him appeared sharp. His jawline, the outline of his shoulders, his calf muscles, and everything inbetween. You had gotten accustomed to hearing the fangirls and fanboys of Dynamight ramble about his striking appearance, but you never noticed it properly until this moment.

He’s healthier.

Happier, too.

The once permanent scowl on his face has toned down to a stoic expression and his eyes seem purer than they ever had been before. His soul is kinder, his intentions are gentler. It’s evident with the way he interacts with the world around him, how his touch is less sudden and rough.

You’re glad to see him flourishing in life.

He deserves nothing but the best.

“You don’t,” the voice sneered.

A catchy tune permeates the air and you snap back to the present to find Shoto fiddling with the radio. Slender fingers twisted the black knob back and forth, lingering on each different station for only a moment before moving onto the next.

Shoto cleared his throat. “Are there any radio stations you both like?”

Bakugou shook his head. “I only listen to music from my phone.” He tilts his head back to look at you, cocking an eyebrow.

“Not really,” you tugged at your shirt, trying to distract yourself. “I’m kinda like Bakugou.”

Todoroki lets go of the knob and returns both hands to the steering wheel. “Well, I suggest one of you pull out your phone because we have a long way to go.”

His head bobs in Katsuki’s direction and Bakugou whips out his phone.

Quizzically, you peer at the two. Raising an eyebrow, you reiterate, “. . . A long way to go? My home isn’t that far from the general hospital. It’s not more than 10 minutes driving.”

Immediately, you look outside, reading the names of the streets that pass by. Street names you’ve never heard before pass by and you are met with unfamiliar roads and scenery. Instead of the usual shrubs you’re used to walking by, there are blossoming trees on every corner. This part of the city is far nicer than what you’re used to.

They aren’t taking you home.

“Hope you like animals, princess,” Bakugou chuckled, patting Shoto on the shoulder.

“Road-trip,” Shoto said in the most monotone voice possible.

You gulp.

Geez, maybe I shouldn’t have gotten in this car in the first place.

You grumble, pulling your legs to your chest.

Bakugou cackles loudly and Todoroki emits a small chuckle.

You crack a grin and close your eyes. The voice fumes.

Your smile brightens.

Life gradually begins to slow down as the months pass.

Time doesn’t go as fast, memories don’t escape your mind as much, and moments seem to last long enough to engrave themselves into you. No longer do you live life through your eyes as a spectator in your own body, but as an actual human being present in the moment.

In short, you’re recovering.

At least, that’s what your therapist says. Your friends too.

Not everyday is perfect. You’re not productive every morning, afternoon, or night. Sometimes, you can get out of bed with ease and settle into the little routine you’ve built for yourself. You can wake up, make your bed, change your clothes, wash your face, perform a skincare routine, make breakfast and commence with the day. You might be productive the whole days and run errands, make phone calls, book appointments, and catch up with friends and family. In other instances, your day is much more mundane. You lounge on the couch, hangout with friends, or treat yourself to some nice takeout or a nice walk to that local cafe or bakery. You end the day with a nice movie and popcorn, and even desert if you’re feeling something sweet. Then, you go to bed and the process repeats.

Other times, it feels impossible to even crack your eyes open. You can’t bring yourself to break through the state of slumber. All you can pray for are for those black tendrils to pull you back under into a dreamless world to distract you from reality. Getting out of bed is nearly impossible; it requires hours of coaxing yourself, frustrated tears, frantic thoughts, and maybe a pair of helping hands. The distance from your bed to your bathroom is infinite and the idea of even picking up your toothbrush has you collapsing on the spot. The tears bleed from your eyes and pile onto the sink and your pained sobs echo throughout the halls. The water of the shower is too much and you have to just sit there and wallow until a nagging feeling, a sliver of an authoritative voice reminds you there are bills to pay and there is a life to live. The day is filled with long hours of work and unrest and agony, but it only takes one text to guarantee a pair of warm arms will pick up the pieces of your pain when you get home.

Those days are the hardest, but you’ve survived each one. That in its own is a feat that you’re reminded of everyday you stare in the mirror. You imagine the faces of those who remain with you today whenever the thought dwells and you continue on.

Guilt sparks in your chest when you think of all of those who had suffered in the way you had but received no support and were left to suffer. Your heart cracks, but you know you must do this.

If not for you, for them. For those who were not as fortunate. You will live to tell the tale they could not.

You will remember them in life while they are remembered in death.

Your therapist says trial and error is how you succeed in life. Learning from mistakes is how you grow into someone greater than you were before.

To conclude each session, she reminds you consistency is key. Each time you tell her, “‘Frankly, that’s the hardest part about recovery.’”

It’s hard to be consistent because nothing is consistent in your life. Nothing is consistent in life. The world is ever-changing. Everyday, the Earth spins and something changes around you. A child grows a year older. A baby is born. A loved one is lost. Life dies. Life is reborn. Love blossoms and love dies. A new creation is discovered while another is destroyed. A heart is broken while another is mended.

Someone changes. And at one point in time, you were that person who changed.

Without a beat, she sends you that wistful smile of hers and that one sentence that leads you snorting out of her office.

“‘You like to surprise the world, (Name).’”

For the longest time you had thought she was going mad listening to you, but you eat your words now.

“Did you love him?”

A voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

Slender fingers wrap around the end of the teaspoon, digging the head into the cup of sugar. Another few reach for the China teacup placed in the middle of the table, gently moving it forward to meet the now full spoon of sugar. The grains of white tumble out of the rounded metal and into the warm water, sinking to the bottom until the same spoon hits the water and stirs them around, dissolving them.

The fresh cup of tea is handed to you.

“Who?” The ceramic’s temperature is a favorable kind of warm— the type that spreads from your fingertips into the rest of your body until you’ve melted in a comfortable pile of goo that brings a content feeling swelling in your chest.

The tea is even warmer, steam hitting your face as you go to sip it. The liquid slips past your lips and over your tongue, coating every crevice of your mouth. The hints of mint and Jasmine blend perfectly with each other, the sweet floral balances out the spice of the mentha.

It reminds you of him.

“Don’t be coy, (Name). You know who I’m talking about.” You want to decline her assertion— to argue that her generality is misleading and she should specify who the man she suspects you have fallen in love with is. But this lady is one you have known for your whole life, one who you believe may just know better than all the rest despite your drastic differences. She was always there to keep you in check between reality and fiction.

Finally, you look up.

Astute and inquisitive eyes the color of carmine align with yours. Mitsuki grins slyly, her eyes twinkling in amusement. “There’s those pretty eyes. Glad to see you’re still in tact, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not fragile, Mitsuki. And you’re starting to sound like Katsuki.”

The woman’s eyes soften at the sound of her son’s name and crinkle at the edges in thought. “He got his language from me, y’know. I was the one who called you all those sweet things when you were young. I mean, you were just the cutest little girl!” She wears an adoring smile on her face as she gazes at you with so much motherly love that you can only fidget under her gaze, lowering your eyes in embarrassment.

You never got used to the fireball known as Mitsuki Bakugou, nor her affections. From your earliest days, you could recall the way she would just coddle you. Whenever her son seemed to be talking your ear off or you were overwhelmed, she would simply pluck you out of Bakugou’s reach and walk away from his vicinity, cradling you in her arms cooing quietly at you. No matter how much he would protest, Mitsuki would be your getaway from any situation you couldn’t seem to defuse yourself.

On the weekends, she would take you out shopping with her as if you were her own kin, doting on you like a second mother. She would buy you clothes, books, get you icecream and take you out to eat. Your parents liked to joke that she was their own free babysitter, to which she would always exclaim that you would always be the daughter she never had.

As you got older, that powerful kind of love Mitsuki possessed was one you saw less and less of. That growing rift between you and her son was greater than ever, and the chances you had of seeing her was minimal, minus the outings she would frequently invite your folks to. Even then, she would always be mingling with the crowd.

Sometimes, you wondered if she was there with you through your hardest years would your life have turned out differently. It’s a thought to entertain, but the consequences of misery and despair flare at the idea.

You push the concept down whenever it pops up.

She continues.

“Katsuki simply followed suit. He’s my boy, after all.”

“Your own personal carbon copy,” you agree, stroking the intricately painted patterns of the fine China. The thought of Mitsuki’s question lingers in your head, prodding at a hidden part of your mind you had tucked away for ages now.

The topic of Izuku Midoriya was one you stopped entertaining after the night at the cliff. You had ripped it from the forefront of your mind, shoved it deep inside a metal vault, locked it shut, and tossed the key away.

The relationship between you both was messy— it was a lack of communication, a tangled mess of emotions and one-sided care. The bubble of your affections was filled with mistreatment, betrayal, selfishness, and greed. It was take, take, take from Midoriya and give, give, give from you. It wasn’t healthy for you nor Midoriya.

After you had opened the can of worms that was the man you once loved with your therapist, it wasn’t possible for you to ever see him in the same light. You could never stare at Midoriya with that blindly lovestruck gaze through those rose-tinted lenses. All that flashed before your eyes at the mere mention of him was the horror, sympathy, and guilt that swirled in her eyes as she listened to you. The shaky hug she had given you made you quiver in your shoes and the tears that fell from her eyes made your own slip past your hold.

That was the first time you had seen her professional facade break.

The thought that even the most experienced and knowledgeable of people in the world breaking at the seams from your supposed love story sickened you to your core.

“Was it that obvious?” Truthfully, you’re curious. Did everyone around you know how you used to feel about him? Were your affections for him that palpable?

“Very,” she nods, bringing the cup to her lips once again. “None of us saw it at first when you were kids. Not Inko, myself, or your family.”

Mitsuki sets the cup down, leaning her head on her hand. “But as you all grew up, we all realized that whenever you were with Izuku, you lit up in a way none of us had ever seen before. It was puppy love in our eyes, so we didn’t think much of it at first.”

A noncommittal hum leaves your throat and you inspect Mitsuki as she speaks.

“I mean, you were obvious. It was sweet,” Mitsuki laughs, the vermillion irises of her eyes shining in glee. Suddenly, she placed a finger to her cheek in thought. “Have you spoken to him as of late, (Name)?”

“Midoriya?” you blink, surprised. She doesn’t know, (Name). Stay calm.

You shake your head before going to down the rest of your tea. Mitsuki waved her hand in the air, her face morphing into an indecipherable expression.

“The brat told me about how worried the both of them were over you when you were still in the hospital,” she begins, and she looks down, lowering her voice. “He . . . He was scared.”

You still.

“Scared?” you parrot. “Why? He’s seen worse, hasn’t he?”

The eyebrows of Mitsuki’s face furrow and she sets her teacup down, clasping her hands together. It’s as if the air around you stills and time begins to freeze, pausing the orbiting of Earth itself.

Mitsuki hesitates. “He called me in tears when he was waiting for you to wake up— he was terrified. And when your heartbeat flatlined?” Mitsuki shakes her head. “He couldn’t hold himself together anymore. That Todoroki kid and Kirishima had to take him outside to console him.”

She stares at you, smiling sadly. “The last time he was that petrified was when he was a child, (Name).” A small exhale leaves her lips. “If he lost you that day, he would have lost everything.”

“Huh?” you sweat-drop. “Katsuki has a lot going for him in life, Mitsuki. I don’t think my . . . disappearance would be the end of him.”

Mitsuki shakes her head with a solemn smile, the low curl of her lips hinting at a secret unbeknownst to you. “You just don’t know how much you mean to my boy, (Name).”

She sighs. “I wish he would just tell you already. But I suppose now isn’t this time, is it?”

Mitsuki stands from her position, moving over to pat your head affectionally before leaving the kitchen.

A small part of you claws at your throat, screeching at you to stop her fading figure. It itches at you, desperate to scratch at the surface of your curiosity.

What does Katsuki need to tell me? And why won’t he?

“Curiosity killed the cat, (Name),” the voice giggles in glee. “You don’t want to meet that same end again, do you?”

A booming voice cuts through the clouds in the sky, sending you falling back to the ground.

“You ready to go?”

Leaning against the frame of the hall in all his glory is Katsuki Bakugou, dressed nicer than you’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing a fitted black polo from a brand far too expensive for you to name off the top of your head and a pair of tailored khaki pants. Placed on his right wrist is a black Vacheron Constantin watch with intricate carvings and stones within the clock that looks far too expensive for you to even fathom purchasing or even browsing through.

Like a moth to a flame, Mitsuki steps over to her son, fussing over him like a mother bird with her chick. She huffs as she adjusts the collar of his shirt accordingly, and he groans as his mother who was nearly a foot shorter than him pranced around and fixed his appearance.

The sight was heartwarming, sending a wave of nostalgia through you.

“You expect to go out with (Name) looking like that? I raised you better than this, Katsuki! You’re the son of a fashion designer!” Mitsuki scolds, combing out his hair.

He grumbles, swatting her hand away. “You hag—! I look fine!”

The bickering between the two continues, both of them going back and forth. She swats at his shoulder, even going as far to beat him with her slipper.

Bakugou takes each hit, not moving to fight back. You know he could stop her if he wanted. After all, he was the second strongest hero of Japan and pure muscle. No woman or man stood a chance against him.

Though, when you see Bakugou wince as his mom smacks him for the nth time, you’re left thinking that maybe Mitsuki might be the exception to the rule.

The thought bubbles a giggle in your throat that leaves you chortling to the point of tears. It’s a sound that hasn’t escaped you in ages.

Your chest feels full. Your body feels warm— not the restricting kind, but the comforting one.

They both turn to the sound, their expressions softening as you doubled over in joy. You look up and find Bakugou’s eyes swirling with an emotion that sends your heart fluttering and a brighter grin growing on your face against your will.

The expression reminds you of one you always stared at Midoriya with.

Could it be . . . ?

Heat spreads across your body and your heart skips a beat.

“No one could ever love you, (Name). No one ever will. You’re unlovable,” the voice smirked. “Foolish little (Name). Lovestruck already for another man you’ll never get? How humiliating.”

You recoil back into your timid shell, causing Mitsuki to give Katsuki a look.

The look.

It shouts at him, “Go comfort (Name)! How else are you going to win her heart?”

The one Katsuki returns barks, “What do you think I was going to do?! You’re bothering me, hag!”

Mitsuki rolls her eyes before slapping his shoulder with a huff. “Well, you better go now Romeo, or else I’ll whisk her away from you first!”

He breaks eye contact first, rolling his eyes as he nears towards your hunched figure. From the lowering of your head, he suspects your eyes are trained on the table in front of you. Though, his vision is obscured by the hair that falls in front of your eyes that he so desperately desires to tuck behind your ear.

Be selfish, his mind screamed. Take what you want the most.

But for you, he swore to never bite the hand you fed him from. He would always be grateful for the attention, affection, and care you gave him. You were always so generous with him and the twerp.

Perhaps this time, he would become the hand that did not feed you, but pampered you. Loved you. Took care of you. He would prove that he was not a man greater than the world when he was on his knees beside you. You were his equal, his other half.

He would treat you better than Midoriya ever did. While the Symbol of Peace was blessed with countless chances to end as yours, to take off running with you into a never-ending fairytale, he always left you to eat dust and dirt. Even when Bakugou sacrificed the one chance he had for Midoriya, he refused to atone for his sins. Instead, he only ran further.

This time, Bakugou would not wait for the world to give him a chance. He would create his one last chance with you.

He would love you right. Properly, fully, and unconditionally.

Unlike Midoriya.

A calloused hand gently pushes a few strands behind your ear before cupping the side of your face, bringing your eyes back into focus. Rough palms lovingly caress the apple of your cheeks and instinctively you lean into their hold.

From their touch alone, you know who this is.

Kneeling beside you is Katsuki Bakugou in all his glory, vermillion eyes and all trained on your face. Delicately, you move your hand to wrap around his wrist, giving him a small grin at his delicate behavior. It reminded you of the nights you spent back at UA together.

The syrupy feeling in your chest swirls faster.

A sudden flick smacks your forehead and instinctively you grab your head, face morphing into a glare. “You done prancing with your head in the clouds? We got a reservation to meet.”

You playfully scoff, standing up. “You can’t be nice for once, can you Katsuki?”

He laughed. “Never, Princess.”

The two of you head towards the front door, hugging Mitsuki as you leave. As you both enter Bakugou’s car, she waves you off with a “stay safe name! And protect her Katsuki!”

“We will, Mitsuki!” you shouted, waving. Bakugou grumbles and affectionately, you ruffle his hair. “He says he will, too!”

Mitsuki emits a hearty laugh as she walks back inside the comforts of her own home.

“So where are we headed to eat?” you trace the end of your dress, twirling the loose fabric. “You said to dress nicer than normal, but I’m not too sure what to expect with you pro-heroes.“

Bakugou snorts. “What makes you say that, sweetheart?”

You side-eye Bakugou, cocking an eyebrow. “Take a wild guess.”

“Half-N’-Half took you to one of those rich restaurants in Tokyo?” Bakugou doesn’t even glance over. He’s right and he knows it.

As always.

You grimace, melting into your seat. “I wish I could have evaporated into thin air the moment I stepped inside.”

The occurrence had happened not even a week ago. Only hours before you were meant to hangout with Todoroki, he had sent you an ominous text to simply dress well. When he picked you up, all he would tell you was that you both were attending somewhere nice to dine for the night. And as clueless as ever, you assumed it would be a slightly more upscale restaurant than you both typically frequented.

But boy, were you wrong.

The restaurant was at least fifteen stories tall with clear panes of glass covering every inch of each wall. Chandeliers covered each foot of the high rise ceilings and the floors were glassy, gargantuan tiles that were a pale color of hessonite. The furniture in the establishment were expensive— mulberry silk, plush cushions, bocote wood and all.

The patrons appeared to be just as wealthy, if not more. Dressed in the finest of suits and dresses, adorned with flashy and gauzy jewelry, each and every one of them burned brighter than last.

Shoto too, fit right in. Elegant and classy, they all gawked at the Number Three Pro-Hero.

And you, in comparison to them, stood out like a sore thumb. Meek, humble, and intimidated. You could hear their whispers about you, that night. But you chose to suck down your raging emotions to enjoy the night and tasty dishes.

Well, for as long as you could.

“Was the food good? Shit like that is either hit or miss,” Bakugou commented as he took a right turn, peeking at the GPS set up in the car. “We’re almost there.”

You nod, watching as the once filled roads of the highway cleared into empty streets of residential neighborhoods. “The food was fantastic, but the portions wouldn’t have even fed an infant. I don’t think I’d ever go back, though.”

“Why not?”

You blink, scratching at the skin of your arm to distract yourself from Bakugou’s question. Maybe, just maybe he would ignore your silence—

He repeats his question, opting to now stare at you. You shrink further back into your seat.

There’s no point in lying now, is there?

“I kind of freaked out,” you admit, leaning against the window. The glass is cool against your skin and you let your eyes close momentarily. “I was thrown into an unknown environment and I could feel all their eyes on me. They weren’t trying to hide the fact that they were talking about me.”

You kicked off your heels, sitting your legs up on the seat. “Halfway through, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I told Shoto I had a call to take and nearly sprinted outside to get some fresh air.” You open your eyes, looking at the dashboard in front of you. “It’s humiliating to think about it now, but I left for nearly an hour trying to calm myself down. I must’ve looked insane to anyone walking by.”

The imagery of you sitting on your bottom in front of a Michelin star restaurant with your head in your hands breathing erratically and on the verge of tears made you cringe at the idea. You definitely got some dirty looks, even if no one approached you.

Timidly, you peered at Bakugou. His expression was blank and his lips formed no response.

Your heart constricts itself in your chest.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut, you chastise, curling deeper into yourself. Dread filled your stomach. Why did I even open my mouth?

“Why did you?” the voice taunts. “Everything is easier when you just stay quiet.”

Tears bud at the corner of your eyes and you curl deeper into yourself, focusing on the scenery flying by outside.

Despite the two of you entering residential roads, the area looks familiar. The quiet streets eventually delve into a busy intersection filled with grocery stores and small businesses. The scene looks familiar, but you can’t quite place your finger on it.

“Stupid, little (Name),” the voice coos patronizingly. You grit your teeth. The dread that once resided in your stomach transforms into a festering anger that dribbles into your bloodstream, spreading like pure poison.

The voice beams, spinning circles around your mind eagerly. “Didn’t we go over this last time, (Name)? I’m always right. You’re always wrong. That’s just how it is. That’s life.”

That’s not true— you’re nothing but a filthy liar! you seeth, digging your nails into your skin. I believed you and look where I am—

The thought freezes you. As soon as it comes, it dies. You can hear the voice giggling in delight. Horror creeps into your chest. You tremble in return.

I thought I was getting better. That hopelessness you thought left your system months ago seeps into your bones, attempting to crack the wall of sanity you had spent months building. I thought I was supposed to be healing.

The mantra that rung repeatedly in your head that evening at your office plays again, mimicking that dull little tune. I can’t, I can’t, I—

“We’re here,” Bakugou turns off the ignition of the car. Swiveling your head, you are met with carmine irises and narrowed eyes inspecting your features.

You gulp.

Choke it down, (Name). You’re ruining it for him. Don’t cry, don’t cry. You’re okay. You’re fine. You’ll be okay. Just get out. Just leave. It’s only a few more hours and then you can kiss the bed goodnight and never wake up again.

Finally, when you turn to see where you arrived, your heart plummets.

To your side lay swaying blades of grass, swinging to the current of the evening breeze. They dance in the wind, luring the unknown to enter their arcane kingdom. In between the luscious planes of evergreen grass is a dirt road, soiled with muddy tracks from those who had come before you two.

The idea that some of those tracks could have been yours sends you reeling.

I can’t do this. This has to be some sick joke the universe is playing on me. A nightmare.

Suddenly, Bakugou is in front of your door, unlocking it for you. No words are said, except for the calloused hand he has laid out for you. You can’t see his eyes, but you’re sure he must think you’re insane.

If he didn’t before, he surely did now.

Just get the night over with, (Name). It can’t be that bad, right? You’re just overthinking it. It’s not that big of a deal.

“You’re too naive,” the voice sings. Slowly, the inky tendrils of despair emerged from the crevices of your mind, circling your brain. Latching onto any expanse of mind, they pulled and pushed. “You’re hopeless. Why do you even try? You failed once. You’re nothing. You’re worthless.”

I’m not worthless, you argue back, taking Bakugou’s hand. He’s saying something that you can’t pick up, but you don’t care enough to. Rage bubbled beneath your skin. I’ve made it this far. I survived. I can do this.

Storming off, you walk on the trail. Each step you take is filled with fury and steam, gallons upon gallons of boiling emotions that you can’t wait to scream into the night.

When you walk along the curves, twists, and turns of the trail, you don’t picture the nights you spent running up the path with Midoriya. You don’t envision locks of green rooted with black bouncing with each step, galaxies of freckles or the craters you call dimples. Those stupidly bright red shoes the color of maraschino cherries aren’t what form in your mind as you stare at the ground, watching one foot go in front of the other.

Instead, those memories are replaced with the days you spent drinking yourself into oblivion, desperate to drown your sorrows. Flashes and flickers of empty beer bottles strewn across patches of damp, crushed and curled grass play in your head. The sight of filthy and grimy white tiles and a pair of shoes dragging themselves repeat in your head like a broken tape, the beep of a scanner continuously breaks each train of coherent thought that attempts to enter your head.

“‘Would that be all?’”

Thousands of voices ask, some more feminine, some more masculine, some exactly in-between or strewn off into the left or right. Their faces are blurs and unrecognizable blends, obtuse and acute shapes. Their noses are thin, thick, long, short, stout, round, curved up or down, broken or centered perfectly. Their faces are long, round, slender, puffy, soft, rough, bony, or chubby. It’s angles and curves, proportions and disproportions. There’s marks— dots, lines, squiggles, blobs— imperfections in their eyes, but they’re just shapes in yours. Their strands of hair are slicked back, falling forward, parted down the middle, sides, sticking up, down, left and right, or to the side. Their eyes come in different shapes— circles, ovals, diamonds, almonds, pistachios. The outlines are round, big, small, sharp, soft, thin, delicate, tough.

There’s billions of them.

But you never cared enough to truly study their features, instead opting to let a hum and snatch the alcohol from the counter, disappearing in the night.

Now, you wonder if you had cared to stare them in the eyes for a moment longer, to peer past the veil of darkness before your eyes, would you have been saved? Would you have been stopped in your tracks, staring at glistening eyes filled with life, youth, and humanity, disturbed at your disgusting, reckless behavior?

“No one could have saved you,” the voice reminds. “No one can save you. No one will save you.”

Your blood boils and the sense of reconciliation shatters, leaving you sourer than before. Frustrated, you stomp faster, ignoring Bakugou.

The only thing audible is the blood pumping in your veins, the angered huffs from your mouths, and the stomping of your heels against the trail. Each step causes the ends of your shoes to stick further into the soil, making each motion more exerting than last. At the rate you storm up the path, sooner or later fate will bring you down on your knees to kiss the dirt.

With every few feet, the soil beneath your feet hardens. The layers become dryer, returning every step with enough abrupt force to keep you resurfaced. No longer do the pebbles littering the ground sink in; instead, they slide with the specks of dirt, tumbling up and down with the breeze of the wind. You ascend further and further, rise higher and higher. No longer do you fall to your surroundings.

Instead, you rise above them.

“Just like the waves,” the voice beams. “But this time, will you fall below them?”

Time seems to slow to a stop, and you are brought back to reality, frozen in your tracks.

The sea sings its song, the one it always has— the lullaby that sailors fall asleep to and creatures far below the surface awaken for. Each wave crashes against the rocks littered around the cliff wall, the impact of every hit resonating in the air. The droplets of salty water fly high into the air, dropping as fast as they bounced from the cold stone.

The once comforting noises of the deep blue haunt you, seeping into your ears and drowning your heart.

“Don’t step too close to the edge, or you’ll fall off, Princess.”

A sudden warmth blooms on your wrist and when you turn your head, your gaze meets Bakugou’s. Carmine meets (e/c), the two melting into the other.

He wears a cocky grin, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It looks forced, dare you say, nothing like the bright and deadly grin that adorns his face on the battlefield or when he jokes with friends.

You want to ask, “Are you okay?” But your mouth is glued shut and your body is too heavy to move, so you opt to stand in silence with your wrist in his rough palms, allowing the heat of him to bleed into the coldness of you.

“You’re missing the main attraction, sweetheart,” Bakugou nods his head to the side and your gaze follows suit.

Laying a few feet away from you is a picturesque picnic, straight out of any girl’s Pinterest board. There’s a large black blanket laid out with fairy lights spread all around it, lighting up a pathway for you to enter its soft kingdom. Plates of pastries, fruits, and different foods rest around each inch, goading you to come and take a bite. There’s a wooden basket woven to create the finest pattern, a heart, centered in the middle filled with ice and two bottles of what you believe are champagne and wine.

Your stomach lurches and the tea you had earlier churns in delight to make a reappearance from your gut. You swallow thickly.

“Wow,” is all you manage, but you see the corners of Bakugou’s lips turn just a little bit higher at the words. He doesn’t seem to notice your inner turmoil.

“Did you really think he would? After he hid the fact that he knew you were suffering all this time?”

You answer with memories of going out with friends, with him distracting you from your crumbling life after you escaped the hospital. The voice scoffs at each one and with every noise of disappointment, you hole yourself further and further into your mind.

Bakugou gently tugs you forward, leading you to the picnic. Moving to the side, he guides you to sit down, to which you curl your legs into your side. Carefully walking around the fairy lights, he takes a seat, crossing his legs.

The air between the two of you is tense, awkward. None of you make the first move to speak or eat. You just sit in silence with your hands in your lap, fiddling with your fingers. Never once do you dare to peer up and see how Bakugou reacts to the feel of the room.

Selfish.

He makes the move to pick up a piece of food, and you follow suit by grabbing some mochi. At least that would keep you busy.

Bits of conversation fall between you two, but no sparks fly. It’s lifeless and dull— the fireworks that once blew up beside you two now blew up between the two of you, creating a rift greater than the Nile River.

The mochi is soft as it is sticky, refusing to tear from its body. Though, when it finally breaks, it resists your teeth as you chew it slowly, fighting to keep itself whole. The doughy inside burst into your mouth, sweetening your tastebuds.

Though, the saccharine goodness does little to cancel out the bitterness in your heart and the sourness on your tongue.

“You should see the water. Looks gorgeous when you’re up close,” Bakugou sets down a piece of strawberry cake he had bitten through, nearly halfway done. Rising from his position, he extends a hand to you, goading you to follow in his steps. You mindlessly take the bait, allowing him to drag you like a little girl with her dolls.

Each step closer is painstaking. A nasty feeling latches itself onto your mind, eating through the walls of your sanity. Long, thick, silver drills press into the cement, chomping with all its might to destroy the structure.

“Isn’t it just nostalgic?” the voice prances, jumping back and forth in ecstasy. “You and me, just like from day one.”

You wonder if the glass shards from the broken beer bottles remained spread across the plains of grass, nestled deep between each patch of blades. Had others whom trekked these hills let the glass crunch beneath their feet, shattering the sticky, translucent material? Did they ever consider the story behind the pile of broken bottles, wondering if a soul was suffering the way you were? Or did they merely scoff at the sight, commenting about how reckless others were at the sight of haphazardly tossed glasses with the image of a group of teenagers drinking and giggling into the night?

Did they treat it kindly, lifting each individual piece and storing it to toss away? Or did they kick it to the side with a huff, stepping around any other messes nearby?

Would they have believed a soul if they told the story about a woman drowning in her own agony, her own lovesick foolery? Would they have empathized with the lost soul tethered together by a vile voice, haunting her every living moment?

Would they have listened to the soul beneath their shoes and the sky above their heads sing the tale of misery?

“Would you believe them?”

No, you answer, now peering at the water that soared to the edge of the cliff. I wouldn’t have even listened.

The salty liquid crashes against the boulders, flooding every crevice until the dips overflowed, spilling back into the ocean. Algae resurfaces with every wave, creeping further upon the cliff. Different creatures slip from the holes, desperate to escape the vicious cycle of life and Mother Nature.

Some drown, some drift off into the abyss of black, and others survive. It’s as beautiful as it’s painful and horrific.

Life is cruel. Life is unfair. Life is unforgiving.

Life is a rose— deceptively gorgeous with its bright lights, warm skies, cool breezes and pretty organisms. But with every creation comes its thorns— its threats and consequences for such beauty.

Life is you. You are life.

You are living.

Your throat constricts and your fists clench.

The sky is no longer a melting pot of warmth. There are no hues of burgundy, honey, or marmalade. All that lingers in its tracks are the sinister obsidian, with streaks of berry blue and a deep indigo that looks nearly the same as the vantablack that permeates the entirety of the atmosphere surrounding you. It is freezing cold and frigid.

The twinkles of fluorescence in the air are the only symbol of warmth left, but they are just as cold as the world around you is. They never lit up in the cozy tones of color. They were overshadowed, for they thawed under that gentle glow it emitted.

Static trickles into your ears, blocking out the noise of your surroundings. The control of your own body slips from between your fingertips, tipping into the ocean below. The sight of the world around you blurs and finally, you are rendered helpless.

Bile comes up instantly.

The world seems to nearly tip over as you hurl, coughing up all the liquids and food that had once churned within your stomach. Thick, corded arms wrap around your waist, stabilizing you and soothing your pained body.

Choked coughs escape your throat as you are forced to expel all the contents of your stomach, burning your throat. A tang of bitterness is heavy on your tongue and your mouth is impossibly dry. Grabbing at your throat, you perform a poor hand motion of drinking and instantly Bakugou hands you a glass.

It’s clear— it looks close enough to water. You down it.

It’s sweet, bubbly, and nothing like water. Once again, you vomit. It rushes back through your nose and out of your mouth, leaving you shuddering in place. A surprised “Shit!” leaves Bakugou’s mouth and he tugs you to him, rubbing your back with those large calloused palms of his.

You cough, inhaling every bit of air. “You— god— you gave me champagne?”

Bakugou hissed. “I didn’t realize that we didn’t have water— I was trying to help!”

It burns, stings. Your throat is on fire, your chest is constricting on itself and your heart is pounding. The heat of Bakugou only adds to the coldness of your skin, the iciness that seeped from your insides to your skin. Your eyes demand to fall shut, the lids drooping with every breath. The world feels dead around you, your head is heavy, and you are limp.

You are dead. You are a dead man trapped in a living body.

Bakugou shifts. “Are you . . . okay? Fuck— that’s a dumb question but—”

The thumping of Bakugou’s heart brings your eyes to shut. “I thought I was. Yanno, I thought I was recovering and all that. I was making progress. That’s what everyone said.”

A warm finger slides under your eye, brushing the puffy skin gently. “But?”

“I guess I didn’t. Or I did and I fell backwards. Took one step forward and six steps back.” You push your head further into his chest in a poor attempt to allow the exhaustion of your body to seep into the heat and disappear. “Lately, it feels like I’m back to before the hospital. I don’t reach for the beer like I did before, but that misery and hopelessness still lingers within me.”

Does it ever go away? you want to ask. Do I ever heal?

Nobody can answer. Time can only tell. Life can only smile.

You glance up at Bakugou and watch as his face contorts into a confused expression, lost at your words. A sad smile graces your lips. “You know, it was here where it all happened. I don’t think you even knew— I don’t even know how you knew about this spot— but I guess that’s what I get. I mean, it’s what I get for not telling you the entire truth, I guess. The world likes to make people pay for their actions, huh?”

Bakugou remains silent.

“I hate this place. It reminds me of him.” You both are aware of who you’re referring to. “We found it together. When we were kids in UA. Maybe even before, I don’t really remember.”

Bakugou shifts the two of you so you’re both laying down, inching away from the cliff and back to the cloth. He brings his hand to your back, rubbing soft circles and figure eights. You bury your head into his chest, words muffled by his shirt.

“There’s so many memories here. Good and bad. And I kept coming back all this time to relieve them because of him. But he never cared. It’s stupid now— I can’t believe I never saw it. I was holding onto something that had died long ago and I was dying because of it. I think I’m dead now, anyway. I don’t feel alive.”

You choke on your words. “I want it to all go away, Katsuki,” you say plaintively like a child, clutching his shirt. “Please.”

The waves smash against the cliff and you curl closer to him. He’s warm, so impossibly warm, but you can’t seem to seek equilibrium and match temperatures.

The noise won’t be drowned out.

Stop, please. Stop, stop, stop.

“I can’t save you,” he begins.

Your heart falters in your chest. The dam in your eyes splinters, the wood that held the water behind your eyes begging to flood.

“‘M a hero, but some battles aren’t meant to be fought by all.”

You whimper.

“I can try to help you, (Name), but no one can save you. You have to want to get better to heal. It’s not going to be easy and you won’t be alone, but you have to be willing to hold yourself together. We can only support you, but you have to be the change you want to happen.”

He tilts your head to him, pointer finger under your chin. The soft carmine bleeds into the blurry (e/c). “I know you can do it. You’re strong and you flourish even when everyone around you tells you you can’t. You’ve outdone the best of the best in your fields.”

You sniffle. “That was once. Hatsume just made a dumb mistake.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re capable, (Name). But you need to trust and believe in yourself. It’s hard; I know. But you’ve gotta if you want to move on.”

Your lip quivers. “Did— did you know?”

His eyebrow raises.

“About Midoriya?”

His face falls into a neutral expression and you swallow thickly. He nods.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“If I did, would you have listened? I think you knew but refused to accept it.”

You sigh, wiping your eyes. “I guess that’s true.”

Silence settles before he breaks it.

“(Name).”

You look at him and watch as he hesitates, looking away from your eyes before speaking.

“I—”

The words fade into the steady sloshing of the water, drowning into the night.

“Don’t give me that look.”

Kind, cerulean eyes follow the twitch of your fingers as you twirl the ends of your hair between your fingertips, until you let it fall back to its original spot.

She lets out an amused hum, spinning her machina fountain pen between the area where her thumb and pointer finger connected. The expensive pen had a pointed tip with edges sharper than the tip of a freshly-shaven knife, curving beautifully into a fine line. The body of it was a gooey, deep decadent chocolate brown mixed with a tint of crimson and carmine that left a particular shine when placed into the light. Thin strips of white and a blush, baby pink spilled onto the body, twisting and curving until it wrapped around the top of the pen.

Wealthy people, you shiver.

“If you continue to burn holes into the pen, it might as well explode.” She tosses the pen up for good measure, showcasing a number of spins before it slips right between her middle and index finger, securely settling it in a perfect pencil hold. “My late husband bought it for me.“

Your heart twists. “Oh.”

She chuckles, lowering her gaze to the pen held in her right hand. “He always spoiled me with lavish gifts. I was so frugal and stingy when I was younger, but he wanted nothing but the greatest for me. Everything I own now is all from him.”

A thin glaze coats her eyes, the pale sapphire flooding into a deep, engulfing azul. The flecks of silver seem to brighten against the cerulean tint, the blacks of her pupils tracing the intricate lines carefully. Long sections of white hair fall around her face, covering nothing more than the corners of her eyes and the highest end of her cheekbones.

“Is that your quirk?” The question jolts her out of her mind, eyebrows furrowing at your directness. You swallow, peeking at the window to protect your mind from her piercing eyes. “You’re young— or at least you look like it. Your husband passed away. Your quirk must stop you from aging, right? Because you don’t look older than 26 at most.”

There’s shifting in front of you, but your eyes refuse to look back ahead. Embarrassment burns in your cheeks and the fear of overstepping swirls within your gut.

“You should have stayed quiet,” the voice reprimands. “You’re so dumb, (Name).”

I was so dumb, why did I say that? She probably hates me now. She’s going to kick me out and I’m going to be stuck here forever and it won’t stop and—

“You’re more observant than you let on. But you also like to avoid confrontation, don’t you?” It’s not condescending or patronizing; it’s a factual statement— the truth. There’s no tone other than neutrality and genuinity. “That’s why you’re here today. A bit earlier than I expected you to come around, but you did nevertheless.”

Your lips purse. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She picks up the clipboard, flipping through some pages. “You weren’t completely honest about your past when we first began chatting, were you?”

The silence that lingers answers her question.

“Why not?”

You sigh. She smiles.

“I just . . . didn’t want to.”

“You’re not a burden, (Name),” her hand grabs the delicate pen and begins to trace unintelligible shapes onto the paper. “I understand why you closed yourself off. I read your file, you know. Spoke to Dynamight and Deku about you.”

You still.

What?

The knife of dread, fear, and panic slices it’s way into your heart, carefully tracing the outline of your aorta, atriums, and ventricles. The pointed tips glides over each ridge, caressing the soft tissue and flirting with the idea of piercing its way inside, only to send blood spurting everywhere and leave you cold inside out, once again.

She continues. “They both care for you a lot, in their own ways of course. Deku is much more vocal about his concern, but Dynamight is the silent, brooding type. He expresses his concern through his actions and behavior.”

She spoke to them? To him? Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?

Why didn’t Bakugou tell me?

“Yeah,” you breathe out, averting your eyes to the window outside. Your heart palpitates inside your chest. “That, uhm, really sounds like them.”

The sky is a bright blue today, with not a single cloud in sight. Buildings decorate the slopes of blue, with light shades of gray and dark shades of a hybrid of obsidian black and white.

“What a shame,” the voice pouts. “The view is obstructed. Wasn’t it just so lovely?”

The collar of your shirt is suddenly a tad bit too high, too tight, and suffocating. It clings to your throat, wrapping its fuzzy tendrils around the base, before slowly gliding across the expanse of your skin.

“Doesn’t it just remind you of those beautiful waters? The one near the cliffs, you know. Don’t you just want to go for a swim?” the voice purrs. “I, for one, think it sounds refreshing.”

The tentacles speed their movements, rushing their efforts to close their tendrils around your throat. The inky black swallows your throat, leaking into your lungs. Faster, they move. Tighter, they squeeze. Together, they suffocate you.

“It’s not fun when you’ve gone right back, y’know. Takes the fun out of your misery. Now, you’re all lifeless like a doll. You have no hero to save you. Just what will you do, (Name)?”

The sight in front of your eyes fades from a lovely sky and high rise buildings to a murky, endless bank of water screaming at you to fall below. Like a siren’s call, the kelp sings to you by teasingly waving its green body, luring you down below.

Sweat pools on your forehead, threatening to drip down your neck and onto your shirt. You can see it all now.

You remember it all now— vividly.

The beer. The cliff. The staff worker. The evening sky, the water, the spray of the salty sea, the stabs of the grass. The incessant nagging of the voice— the reminder of him, everything about him and how little you meant to him.

It all washes over you like a tide, overflowing with the means of drowning you to snap you back to reality.

“‘Wake up!’” it screams.

“—(Name)?”

Virdescent eyes bore into yours, pupils dilating as they continue to hold your gaze. The flecks of obsidian and rim of a deep, mysterious amethyst capture your attention.

The kelp twirls.

“(Name)?” A gentle, unnatural hand places itself upon your shoulder. The aroma of distilled rose water permeates your nostrils. “(Name), are you okay?”

The toxic green melts, burning through to reveal a set of pure, bright ruby red eyes.

The sky glimmers.

You blink.

She grins.

He doesn’t react.

You don’t know if that’s good or bad, really.

But the words continue to tumble.

“I— I loved him. That’s what hurts, Katsuki. I loved this man who returned an unobtainable love and I was too blind to see it.”

How foolish am I? How stupid do I have to be to not have seen this further?

“How stupid are you, (Name)?” the voice parrots.

It hurts. You’re tired. Everything is dark. The sky, the grass, your vision, your mind, your thoughts.

The stars in the sky are so faint, so dull. You miss their shine.

You miss the bright lens that were placed above your eyes, lighting up the sky.

Slowly, your world crumbled. Now, it was tumbling, shattering into millions of pieces.

Your chest tightens, and it feels as if you are back in the office, curled into a ball on the verge of suffocation.

You can remember the warm traces of tears spilling from your eyes, trickling down your cheeks. If you close your eyes, it feels as if you’re there, in those stuffy office clothes with the haphazardly thrown stacks of papers and splayed out tools, shattered pieces of glass, and a throbbing heart.

You’re dying. Lifeless. Hopeless.

I just want it all to end, please, please, please—

Warm hands snap you out of your thoughts. Large, calloused hands cup your face, tracing the dull tips of its fingers along the outline of your jaw, thumbs circling comfortingly under the bags of your eyes.

It’s cozy and loving, like warm cider on a chilly autumn day. Your heart pounds in your chest in excitement. Goosebumps erupt on your skin, and an older, kinder voice whispers at you to simply open your eyes.

When you feel the tickling of hair against your head, your eyes flutter open. A warm head bumps against yours, resting itself in the very center of your forehead, as if it fit there. The remedial hands of warmth continue their trek of tracing the outline of your features, encapturing your face in their hold.

Boring into your eyes are Katsuki’s, in all their cherry red glory.

“Bakugou . . . ?”

A hint of doubt flickers across his features. The corners of his eyes crease, and the middle of his brows furrow.

“You’re a cruel monster, (Name).”

“Always hated when you called me that, y’know,” is all he replies with.

He’s close.

“Too close,” the voice reiterates.

Despite the warmth radiating from Katsuki, goosebumps erupt on your skin like a volcano’s molten lava bursting through the surface to cover the earth’s surface in its flames.

Is it from the cold?

“No,” a foreign voice answers.

Red eyes flit to your lips and a shaky exhale leaves your nose.

Is it anticipation?

“Yes,” it responds again.

“Lean in,” it goads. “Give in. Don’t hold back.”

“You’ll hurt him, just like you hurt yourself,” the voice chimes. Your heart plunges into your stomach

The quiet lull of the other voice drowns out the terrors of the voice. “Be his. Just for tonight, let him have you.”

“Okay,” you breathe. The doubt and hesistance leaves you.

He press his lips against yours.

The kiss is a warm caress, one that lets warmth blossom on your own. It’s soft but so sweet, so gooey like maple syrup dripping down your throat. A tinge of cinnamon bleeds into your mouth and the smell of caramel floods your nose.

You pull away first, but Bakugou’s hand keeps your head touching his, staring into the other’s eyes.

Am I going to hurt him? Is this fair to him? Am I using him?

“You’re a horrible person, (Name),” the voice says. You want to agree.

The foreign voice speaks up. “Listen, (Name). Stay quiet and listen, please.”

“I know you still love him.”

His voice breaks and you feel your heart follow.

No, I don’t. You want to answer.

“But how much of that is true?”

You’re not sure.

“I know how much he matters to you. Izuku matters to me too.”

You want to cry.

“But I won’t give up on you. I never have and never will. Not— not unles you want me to. I won’t chase you if you don’t want me to. But if you’re willing to have me, even just for a bit to let me love you whole, I’ll stay.”

“Katsuki,” your voice breaks. The tears flow. Calloused fingers rub off the tears.

“He may have been your first love, but I intend to be your last.”

You panic. “But what if it takes too long? What if I take too long to lose feelings and you have to try again to make me fall in love with you?”

A warmth envelops you. “As long as you want me, I’ll work as hard for as long as I have in this life to be your final love.”

The heat is familiar and gentle; it doesn’t set your skin aflame, but instead adds a slight increase with every second, adjusting you.

It’s accommodating and loving.

It feels like home.

“It’s him, isn’t it? It always was.”

I was just too blind to see it.

The new voice whispers, “He could never hold it against you; he would always forgive you. All he wants and needs is you. Remember what Mitsuki said? You’re his everything.”

And he is the same to me.

——————————-——————————————

Midoriya is kind.

“Are you sure that’s all you want to order?” A large, scarred hand settles itself upon your smaller one, rubbing the area of your wrist with slow, gentle strokes.

Midoriya is kind in the way that he would help an elderly lady cross the street with her hand wrapped around his arm, guiding her safely to the other side. He is kind that when a child cried in the middle of the sidewalk all alone, he would approach them with nothing but a gentle smile on his face and kneel down to their height, offering his help.

Midoriya Izuku is a good man with a big heart and a bright smile. He is the sickly saccharine type of person— a man who despite being made of hard muscle, is truly all marshmallow and gumdrops.

He is a glorious man who chose to devote his life to saving the world— but that in itself is what made him so utterly selfish.

“He loves you, (Name).” the soft voice whispers. “Do you know that?”

His love is not enough for me to stay any longer.

“I ordered a whole bowl of pasta, Midoriya. I think that’s more than enough,” you grin, sliding your arm out of his grasp. He pouts like a kicked puppy who was just scolded by their own for eating one too many dog treats.

Maybe long ago, your heart would have squeezed at the expression. Now, no butterflies erupt in your stomach. No heat spreads to your neck and to the tips of your cheeks. All that churns in your stomach is the acidic sips of a mocktail you had and the glass of water you downed before going to meet Midoriya.

“You know, you can still call me Izuku,” Midoriya begins, retracting his hand from your side of the table. You dig your fork into the pasta, swirling it around in the plate. “I’m still your Izuku, right?”

What am I supposed to say to that?

You peer up, watching as his emerald irises swim with a fondness and intimacy you could only picture thousands of women would die to see Izuku Midoriya, Japan’s greatest hero, to gaze at them with.

But to you, it is meaningless.

“Do you pity him?” the gentle voice asks. “Do you pity yourself for how blindly you behaved as him, too?”

In front of you, you hear a group of girls squeal, “Oh my gosh, it’s Pro-Hero Deku!”

A big bite of pasta with a pointed smile is all you offer Midoriya as he turns to face the approaching group of gals murmuring in excitement, asking to take photos.

At least the pasta is good.

——————————-——————————————

“Say it,” the voice utters.

The city lights at the ripe time of midnight are a beautiful sight, filling the world with a plethora of icy and earthy tones. Giggly couples stumble down the street, hand in hand, high off of joy and young love. Teenagers skate down the sidewalks, hollering profanities and excited cheers into the night sky.

The whole world is bright and alive around you, despite the pit of black surrounding it.

“Will you let this moment slip? After all you’ve gone through?”

Midoriya’s hand once again reaches for yours, scarred fingers entangling themselves with yours. The pupils in the greens of his eyes seem to shrink as your palms make contact, and a faint blush sprouts on his cheeks.

In the moonlight, Midoriya Izuku is alive.

He is glowing brightly in the light of the city, with his unruly mess of curls draping over the tops of his eyes.

But beside him, you stand in the darkness of his shadows. In the presence of the Symbol of Peace, Izuku Midoriya, you are nothing more than the spirit that he is championed to destroy.

Once again, you are nothing more than a lost soul falling into the hands of death.

“Is that all you will ever be? Will you let all of your hard work dwindle to waste? Will you fall back into his arms only to repeat this same miserable cycle?”

Tips of blurry blonde spikes materialize in the depths of your mind. The crashing of waves against rocks bleeds into your ears and the pricks of blades of grass send tingles exploding across your skin.

“How much will it take until you truly break, (Name)?”

A pair of loving carmine eyes stare back at you, a bright twinkle in the corners of its pupils. They are a reminder of the gentle kiss and the tender love you had experienced only days before.

‘I want you, Katsuki.’

He had cried, when he heard those words.

‘Please, will you let me love you the way you loved me?’

You never thought you could reduce a man as powerful as Bakugou into a mess of joyous tears. But life has a habit of surprising people in the most unexpected ways.

I’m sorry, Midoriya, you long to say. I’m sorry you are slipping down the path you forced me to tumble down. But I’ll save you in the way you failed to save me in before. I’ll right your wrongs.

Not for you, but for me.

“I can’t do this,” you rip your hand out of his grasp, stepping back. “I can’t do this to you, Midoriya.”

He jumps, startled by your abrupt movements. He opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt.

“I can’t live with you in my life— not anymore.”

“(Name), what? What are you saying right now?” Midoriya reaches his hand out to anchor you— or himself— but you widen the gap between you two.

“I’m talking about you— I’m talking about us,” you gasp. The waves slosh in the bottomless pit of the sea. “You can’t tell me you didn’t see it like everyone else did. You can’t lie to me and say what you did wasn’t purposeful!”

Boots smush into the wet mud, slipping off the bottom of your foot. “_____________!” Midoriya exclaims.

The beating of your heart smashes against your ribcage and blood rushes to your face. “You were given so many chances, Izuku,” you cry as the tears finally slip. The bottle fissures and the dam explodes; the beast is unleashed. “You gave up. You gave up on yourself, you gave up on me, you gave up on us. You always have— you always will. You never took a single chance because you never cared enough!”

There are tears streaming down his own face, distorting the sight of those freckles you once adored so much. You had once believed them to be kisses from the gods themselves. Now, they seemed nothing more than a painter’s deception of beauty.

Midoriya weeps. “________________!”

No longer do you crumble under the weight of Midoriya’s tears. You stand proudly under the pour of your own.

“You’re forgetting someone, aren’t you, (Name)?” the voice curls around you, peering at you gleefully. She giggles. “You should go and surprise him, (Name).”

Katsuki. Your heart shines, despite the pain of the tears.

You turn away from Midoriya, sparing nothing more than a turn if your head. “Thank you for giving me the story of a lifetime, but this is the end of us. Our chapter closes today, Izuku.”

Around you, the city blurs. “The story of us wasn’t meant to last a lifetime. It was meant to be for only a moment.“

And slowly, so does Midoriya. You laugh, “But it is one I’ll never forget.”

Stuffing your hands into your coat, you move away, preparing to cross the street. But you pause before your foot meets the pavement.

“Midoriya,” you murmur, glancing side-to-side as the cars fly by, before looking back at him.

He stares at you, petrified, as if you were a ghost of his past.

Maybe, you are.

Maybe, you have truly become another ghost in his world.

“Do you remember me?”

The Symbol of Peace stares at you like a deer in headlights, frozen and lost. For the first of many times, Izuku Midoriya is clueless.

A smile plays on your lips.

“Who knew you could bring the most powerful man to his knees?” she pinches your cheek affectionately.

Fractured excuses and phrases of rambles slip past his lips, sending circles spinning upon circles.

You know the truth.

So does he.

“Don’t think about it too hard, Izuku.”

As you step onto the street, the moonlight falls upon you, covering Midoriya in its pit of dark.

Finally, you burn brighter than the stars above.

——————————-——————————————

The clock reads 2:37 AM.

You remember this road and the corner where Bakugou caught your arm.

You remember running and running until you got to the convenience store, pouring liquor while sitting on the hill. Downing bottle after bottle, bleeding away into a pool of water.

You remember the lights flashing, the salty spray of sea against your skin.

But you don’t remember the feeling or the pain of your broken heart.

It’s all gone.

It’s over.

The memories remain, the sleepless nights, the sober-less dreams.

But the pain does not.

For the first time, it’s gone; the wound has healed. The rift in your heart has shut.

“Call him.”

Frozen fingers reach into the depths of your purse, unlatching the metal clip to reach your phone as you trek down the street. With a few swipes, you press the call button.

Two rings pass before you hear a click and a groggy, gruff voice. A warm grin plays upon your lips.

“Hi, Katsuki.”

You chatter into the night, walking with a pep in your step. Muffled groans can be heard on the other side.

The voice sighs wistfully, resting her head on your shoulder. “Young love,” she twirls her hair around her finger, lips curling into a pleased smile. “How romantic it is, to be so young and utterly in love.”

Unwrapping her limbs from yours, she slips away into the dark, melting into the shadows of the moon. The wisps of her hair fade into a glimmer that twinkles in the streams of light and her body blows away with the breeze of the night.

You check the time in your phone.

2:37 AM, the clock reads.

The edges of your eyes crinkle.

He knew.

——————————-——————————————

#© platrom, plot / writing / banners & headers. do not repost, reblogs are appreciated! please consider leaving a comment and a heart! <3

#izuku midoriya x reader #x reader #bnha x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #deku x reader #bnha angst #bnha reader insert #katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #midoriya x y/n #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katuski x reader #mha x reader #mha x female reader #bakugou fluff #izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x you #bnha x you #deku x fem!reader #deku x you

[nendo-kyotei]

incognithot (aizawa x student! reader)

♥ pairing: aizawa x fem!reader

♥ wc: 1,448

♥ synopsis: You're Aizawa's problem student. During Halloween, you dress up in a costume that hides your identity and get fucked by him.

tw: teacher-student relationship, age gap, reader is 18, daddy kink, choking, unsafe sex, alcohol, dubious consent (alcohol involved), fingering

Just the thought of going out with your girls to celebrate Halloween and getting fucked by your teacher, Aizawa, in the restroom of some bar while you're wearing a costume and he's too drunk to notice it's you.

It's Halloween, and you use the occasion as a chance to dress up as a slut, of course, opting for a tight, black tube dress and high heels that are definitely brought together by the cheap cat ears you stole from your bestie and the shitty nose and whiskers your friend drew on you while half-drunk. You slap on a venetian-styled mask, hoping to maybe elevate your trashy couture a little bit. It doesn't, but it at least hides your identity pretty efficiently when aided by the mirage of night time.

He is the last person you expect to see in the bar, dressed up as Dracula too, and you're glad that your girlfriends aren't part of the hero course, because it would be pretty embarrassing to confess how horny you are for your teacher, and have been for a long time. Usually, you wouldn't even bother saying hi to him in public, already knowing that he would probably just choose to ignore you or just sigh at you for daring to bother him outside of class.

But tonight, you're brave, sexy and most of all, drunk as hell, so you don't think twice of approaching him and hitting him with some random joke about vampires, probably an awful one considering how unimpressed he looks, but it's enough to distract him from the group of people he was hanging out with. You are glad you don't recognize any of them, so you can embarrass yourself with a little bit more freedom. You expect him to sigh when he realizes who you are, maybe entertain your bullshit a little bit and then tell you to go do your homework, but he doesn't. You quickly realize why: He doesn't recognize you. Holy shit.

You don't quite remember what the hell you blab about, and he probably doesn't either, because he spends most of the conversation just looking you up and down, which makes you nervous, as it could either mean that, option A, he is starting to realize who you are, or option B, he is checking you out. You don't know which one makes you dizzier.

You get your answer when he wraps his arm around your waist at some point, pulling you closer, his intoxicating cologne now invading all your senses, as he pretends to laugh at some dumb joke you spouted. He is pretending to laugh. He is pretending, so he can get on your good side. So he can fuck you. It makes electricity go right into your clit, your pussy throbbing around nothing. You look up at him, starry-eyed, absolutely enamored with your handsome teacher, too drunk to realize what you're getting yourself into.

He whispers something in your ear, about wanting to get some privacy with you, talk more quietly. You agree enthusiastically, but are surprised when instead of leading you outside, he drags you into the restroom.

It happens.

Him pinning you against the wall and kissing you desperately, probably thinking you're just some hot slut he picked up at a bar rather than one of his students. You roll your eyes back at feeling of his tongue in your mouth, the taste of whiskey and nicotine quickly flooding your senses as you remember the fact that this is the same man who scolded you for smoking during breaks, who scrunched his nose and told you this was a disappointment coming from you. The same man who grabbed your wrist and made you drop the cigarette when you refused to do so.

The same strong hands now groping you desperately, slapping your ass and making it jiggle. You hug his neck with your arms, standing in your tippy toes as he has fun squeezing you, pinching you, abusing you as much as he wants, because in his mind, you're some whore who is going to let him do whatever he wants.

Him sliding a finger into you and loving the way you arch your back and moan at the intrusion, both in pain and pleasure, a smug smirk trailing on his lips as he sees you struggle to even take a mere finger. Making a nasty comment about how you feel like a virgin, about how he's going to wreck you and stretch you out real good, about how pretty sluts like you are begging for it. It makes your stomach flip, both from shock and arousal, as your mind struggles to process this side of him. You almost feel attacked at the rough treatment, wondering what you did to turn the barely interested man back in the bar into this mean, obscene version of himself, but then you realize it's because you look so fucking hot he can't stop himself. In his eyes, you're some dumb, young bitch he's going to use tonight.

He kisses your neck while he fingers your pussy, struggling to even get halfway in there, having to use the full strength of his arm to bury knuckle deep into you. Your eyes roll back into your head as your lips part open, breathless. He plants wet, sloppy kisses on your neck, and the prickling of his beard against his neck reminds you that you're being fingered by your goddamn teacher, who always refuses to give you the 10% in your final grade because of your "rebellious" behavior. You bite your lip, heart beating wildly, tangling your fingers in his long hair as he sucks a hickey into your throat, and wonder what the fuck is wrong with you.

You know he is very much drunk when he doesn't bother with protection, instead choosing to turn you around, pin you against the wall and bully his raw cock into your tight pussy. You want to object at this, but he slaps a hand on your mouth, and for the first time in the night, you feel a twinge of fear run down your spine. Would it be a bad time to make a joke about how you're disappointed in him? Before you can make the decision, you squeal at the sensation of his fat cock head stretching you painfully, bigger than anything you ever had before. He grunts, frustrated at the tight fit, as he forces the entirety of his thick cock inside you, inch by excruciating inch as you do your best to accommodate your dear teacher. You always imagined him to be big when he would star in your wet dreams, but you never imagined him to be this...overwhelming.

He fucks you slowly at first, enjoying the way your plump ass jiggles when he thrusts into you. You moan sweetly, hypnotized by the way the pain slowly becomes sticky pleasure, as you push your hips back, meeting his thrusts rhythmically, and you realize this is probably the first time you two have ever agreed on anything. He is always too busy scolding you for shit, acting like a disapproving dad. You giggle dumbly, as the words escape your lips before you can calculate them, "Nngh, harder, daddy."

Everything suddenly stops.

You blink, slightly sobered now, wondering if you freaked him out, or even worse, made him realize who you really are. What an unfortunate epiphany to have while being balls deep inside you. You slightly turn around, concerned, but a hand on your head forcefully pins you against the wall again.

Out of nowhere, he picks up the pace, it's brutal enough to make the cubicle shake. His hand viciously wraps around your throat, pressing down on your windpipe hard enough to take away any oxygen going into your lungs. Your eyes widen as he starts fucking you at a brutal pace, shifting your body so he can put your leg on his shoulder and fuck you even deeper. Your other leg dangles on the air, as he now effortlessly uses you as a little sex doll, and the mere thought of you is enough to push you into the hot, white edge. You moan a loud, obscene "Oh fuck, dadddyyyyyy~" as you cum, the waves of pleasure hitting you like a truck.

Your walls flutter and squeeze around his cock, pushing him into his own orgasm, as he finishes with a brutal thrust, and a broken grunt. You feel yourself being filled up your teacher's hot, warm cum, shot inside you one, two, three times, painting your insides white. You almost cum again at the exquisite feeling and the thought of being accidentally knocked up by Aizawa.

Drunk in the post-orgasm haze, and still as stupid as ever, you wonder if this will finally force him to give you that extra 10%.

#aizawa smut #aizawa x y/n #aizawa x reader #bnha smut #bnha reader insert #bnha thirst #fem reader #tw age gap #tw dubious consent

[keulixeutin]

Hard, Harder, Hardest

a/n: hi.

summary: during a hero panel, bakugou thinks about how he can’t help but orbit you and obey.  bakugou x fem!reader.  

cw: suggestive. 18+.  no pronouns used, but fem!reader in mind while writing + mention of female anatomy; also, reader wears lots and lots of pencil skirts.  bakugou pining after you and imagining the nasty.  sub!bakugou and dom!reader vibes (at least, i tried anyways lmao).  reader wears glasses.

word count: 2,183.

Despite the nonchalant way Bakugou was leaning back in the chair, anyone could see he was stiff and irritable: he was scowling and rigid, the curve of his back not quite following the curve of his seat.

He couldn’t help it though.  He was supremely uncomfortable.  He hated this shit, hated being on the stage, following some stupid itinerary, dealing with stupid activities and games to get people to see the “softer” side of him.  What the hell did people need that for?  Wasn’t it enough for him to do his job, protect the city, beat down the shitty villains, and be the fucking best?  Number two hero or not, he didn’t sign up for this stupid celebrity shit.  They could write a slew of articles complaining and criticizing him, but he hated sitting around in the spotlight.

You, his personal assistant, fucking knew this, yet you still, behind his fucking back, worked with his PR team (and that fucking Shitty Hair Hero) to accept the Hero Convention invite and add it onto his schedule (his schedule that you knew he didn’t look at because he trusted you to be good at your job)—and then to not even to tell him until ten minutes before he was supposed to get ready for it?  He had been fuming.

Bakugou’s leg shook underneath the table impatiently and irritably.  A woman dressed in a maid outfit with home-made Hawks wings stepped to the microphone and asked Round Cheeks about her martial arts usage in battles.  The next fan, someone with blue scales scattering across their face and arms, asked a question to a sidekick three seats away whose name Bakugou didn’t know and didn’t care to know.  Internally, he was pleased with this current line of questioning.  As long as no one addressed him, he could sit and pass the time with an annoyed glare until this whole thing was fucking done.

But, obviously, the universe loved dashing his hopes.  The next person that stepped up to the microphone was cosplaying an older version of the Dynamight costume, which was ego-boosting and cool to see, of course, but that itself wasn’t enough to make any of this entertaining or interesting.

“This question is for Dynamight,” the fan began.  “What would you consider your hardest battle?  Also, I’m your, um, number one fan…!”

It was an easy question.

People wanted to know battle specifics, but his hardest fight?  To date?  Currently?  

Controlling his fucking raging hard-on whenever you with your stupid perfume and your mean laugh entered the room.

Bakugou hadn’t wanted a personal assistant.  Shitty Hair and Raccoon Eyes stubbornly pushed their agenda onto him whenever they noticed at the beginning of the year that he had been swiftly losing control over his wildly hectic schedule.  Between the patrol, the agency work, the hero work, and the unending meetings—all just the tip of the iceberg—he had been struggling to find any time for himself, personally and professionally.  Despite his violent vehemence, Shitty Hair and Raccoon Eyes still strong-armed him by nagging him until they were red in the face and accepting applications on his behalf, narrowing it down to a set of five that he was to choose from.

He had picked you because you looked meek in your photo and you were soft-spoken in the interview; he figured that you’d run off after being on the end of his short fuse for a week straight.

But, by the end of that week, with him having just yelled about the type of tupperware his food was packed in, you had very softly and very firmly told him to watch his fucking tone, or you’d make sure that the only time he sat down for the next six months was on stage in front of an interviewer and audience with a fiercely binding contract that ensured he couldn’t skip without heavy monetary punishment.

(“I have my ex-lawyer-boyfriend wrapped around my finger,” you had said, your voice deadly calm as though you were telling him you had started a new hobby and not threatening your boss, the number two hero.  “I will make sure there is so little wiggle room in that contract—every single Hero Convention from here to goddamn China will have you by the balls for the next six months in the strictest legalese.  Do you understand me?”

He couldn’t lie—he was shocked into silence by how fucking hot that was, how fucking hot you were, wearing the tightest pencil skirt, shifting your metal glasses while you threatened him.

“Now eat your rice.  The leeks, too, please.”)

He couldn’t explain it.  Ever since then, things were—different.  He was hyper aware of you, of how far away or how close you stood near him, of how you were usually in some sort of skirt; his eyes were glued to your backside, to the sneak peek of upper thigh every time you shifted in your seat, mind wandering to how it’d feel to have that thigh pressed against his neck and his face. He was suddenly obsessed with how you spoke, realizing he had mistaken your quiet for meekness, for submission. You were soft-spoken, yes, but there was a weight to your words, one that required obedience from those you were speaking to.  Now he could see that your smile sometimes curled at the corners into a sneer, and that your eyes were sharp, narrowing with a finality he found himself unable to ignore.

Fuck, he was even aware of how you smelled.  He often caught himself inhaling deeply as you passed by, trying to preserve the smell of your shampoo inside his chest.  Whenever you leaned over to show him something on his calendar, he had to fight the urge to press his nose into your hair, to bury his face into your neck where your veins pulsed with perfume. Once, you had left your jacket at his place after a long night of explaining and rearranging the weekend itinerary to ensure nothing would be amiss while you were out of town. He had fallen asleep with his face pressed into the fabric the entire weekend, your scent lulling him into the most comfortable and serene sleep of his life.

Things got even harder when you caught on.  Quick, too, two months in.  The skirts got shorter; your shirts were unbuttoned enough for a heated glance of cleavage; and he frequently found you in compromising positions, bending over his table to grab something instead of walking around, or dropping things at his feet requiring you to lean over to pick up.  It was hardest when you used this newfound power of yours to get him to do things he didn’t want to do—like attend interviews or take off-days.  In his frustration and confusion in the early days, he had once furiously asked if you had a quirk he didn’t know about, to which you laughed wildly in your eyes but coolly said no.

“Dynamight?”  The host pulled him from the memory that had began to take over Bakugou’s attention—the one where, after getting caught in a heavy downpour, you had graciously changed in front of him and cruelly wouldn’t let him touch.

Bakugou was about to respond that nothing had been hard because he was too fucking strong, but he made the mistake of glancing to you, standing off to the side with your phone against your ear.  You were good enough at your job that you were able to efficiently multitask, paying attention to both the conversation on the phone and the Hero Panel.  As if you could feel his intent, you gave him a hard stare, your fine eyebrow raising expectantly at him, almost daring him to put one toe out of line in this nationally broadcasted panel.

The look boiled his blood—and the heat went straight down south.

Yes, things had gotten extremely bad when you had realized your effect on him.  

He was grateful for the table.

Bakugou gave an answer about a villain whose name he couldn’t remember but whose shadow soldier-producing quirk had irritated him the entire fight, and then he ended the response with a muttered thanks to the fan.

He glanced back to you, another mistake—“Good boy,” you mouthed.

Fuck.  He bit back a groan.

There was a mean glint in your eye as you held his stare; it wasn’t a long one, but it was enough to create a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach; it was enough to make his heart stutter and jump.  You turned away first, breaking the eye contact to finish the conversation on the phone, yet it felt like he was the one who had caved.

The rest of the panel continued with Bakugou scowling at a spot on the table or the wall behind the audience, but he participated more than he had originally decided to.  He answered the questions directed at him and remarked offhandedly on other people’s answers whenever he felt like it, eliciting laughter from the fans and eye-rolls and playful arm smacks from Round Cheeks. 

At the end of the panel, the heroes had twenty minutes to decompress before the meet-and-greet. Bakugou and the others were ushered off the stage and back into the make-up room to relax.  After the make-up artist checked that nothing needed to be reapplied, you appeared with a phone against your ear still and a tote bag over your shoulder.

“I’ll check his calendar and get back to you,” you said.  “By the end of tomorrow at the latest.  He’s currently doing the Hero Panel, but if I can find a moment to check and confirm, I’ll let you know earlier.”  

You paused, listening to the person on the other side.  Bakugou took the moment to rake his eyes over your form.  Your pencil skirt stopped inches above your ankle, but there was a slit over your left leg that traveled up—up, up, and up—to your tantalizing thigh.  Your skin was creamy and smooth with lotion or oil.  Whenever you shifted your weight in irritation at something that was said, the fat of your thighs rippled in a way that had his mouth watering.

 “…As I said,” you continued, “Dynamight is currently occupied with the Hero Panel.  If I can grab a moment, I will check with him and his calendar, but I’ll be sure to give you an answer by the end of tomorrow.  Yes, of course.  Yes, you, too.”

Your voice was light and polite, but dry and firm.  You hung up, and then your attention was fucking finally on him.  

You pulled several plastic containers out of your tote bag and set it on the table in front of him.

“Don’t scarf it all down,” you advised.  “But eat a little.  Regain your energy and pick up your mood so you can meet the fans.”

“Not hungry,” he grumbled, wondering if he could convince you to let him rip the slit a little higher.

“Eat the fruits at least,” you said, moving the containers around until the smallest one was on top and opened, revealing grapes and cut apples and mangos. 

“You eaten yet?” he asked.

“No, but I’m fine,” you said, but you picked out a grape anyway.  His eyes honed in on the way your fingers push the fruit past your plump lips.

Bakugou swallowed, neck tense, heart hammering in his chest.  He didn’t know when the leash had tightened so heavily.

“What?” you asked, noticing his gaze.

“Nothing.”  He averted his eyes.

“Oh, I see,” you said, amused, and he found that he hated your tone and simultaneously ached for it.  “You want a reward for earlier, hm?”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to.  Despite his attempt at disgruntled nonchalance, his body was obedient to your voice in a way he couldn’t physically deny or control, no matter how much he dug his nails into his palms or ground his teeth.  There was always a twitch and shift in your direction; there was always a fiery red on his cheeks; there was always the need to orbit and obey.

“You don’t get anything for properly answering a question the way you’re supposed to, Katsuki,” you remarked.  

“Tch.  Whatever,” he grunted, suppressing the involuntary shudder at his name on your lips.

“But if you do well today”—you plucked another grape and then pressed it against his mouth—“maybe you can get a reward later.”

You slid the grape into his mouth, fingers lingering at his lips in a scandalous way that journalists would kill to capture.

His body was buzzing at your words.  He couldn’t help but hoarsely ask, “What’s the reward?” 

“Whatever you want it to be,” you answered, smug as if you could read his thoughts, as if you knew he was imagining you suffocating him with your cunt and thighs, as if you knew that he hadn’t been able to help himself on stage, looking to you as though he would’ve said anything to hear good boy again.

#╰【 FILED UNDER … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ novae writes 」 #╰【 FILED UNDER … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ 18+ 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ reader「 no pronouns used 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ reader「 she/her 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ fandom「 bnha 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ character「 bakugou 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ titled「 hard + harder + hardest 」 #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #dynamight x reader #bnha reader insert #bnha fanfic #bakugou fanfic

[namjoon-koya]

Hello how are you? can i ask you for an imagine or headcanons please with Aizawa and Hawks if you don't mind where his girlfriend Y/N who is a pro hero (top 10 and with a strong quirk) got in the way during the fight with Stain and the students of UA and was found injured

Aizawa and Hawks finding you injured.

Warning: mentions of panic attacks in Aizawa’s hcs.

Hawks and you were patrolling different areas that night, usually the both of you would share coms so you two could continue to speak with each other. It wasn’t supposed to be different, it was supposed to be the two of you talking about what to do once you guys got back home. He thought to himself as he raced to go find you, the last thing he heard was a muffling sound before you completely cut off.

That’s when he got an alert, for pro-heroes to stay on high alert for a villain killing pro-heroes. Hawks felt a lump in his throat as he rushed to find you, and once he did he almost wanted to cry. Thankfully you were surrounded by other pro-heroes, but he could see the slashes on your arms and few faint ones on your cheek.

He landed quickly a few pro-heroes tried to stop him, but he pushed them aside. Not caring if a few even glared at him for that, he noticed Endeavor was next to you his large hand gently holding onto your wrist almost like if he was trying to find a pulse, he felt his heart sink fuck please no. “She’ll be okay.” Endeavor spoke up “we need to get her to the hospital.” Once endeavor got up away from you, he noticed hawks “you shouldn’t underestimate her, without her the u.a students would’ve gotten hurt.”

Relief settled into him when he realized that you were just exhausted, but still he didn’t like seeing you like this. Endeavor was able to fill hawks in with a few details about the battle, stating Stain’s quirk is able to make people paralyzed temporarily. He stayed with you at the hospital, even if his agency told him he needed to do a task for them he ignored their texts and calls.

Shit do they not understand that YOU got attacked? Hell he’s not leaving your side until you wake up, and once you did Hawks would gently hold onto your hand. Squeezing it a few times and would relax when you would squeeze his back, it was a reassurance to him.

Stain is going to get FUCKED UP, not only for harming his students, but for also harming you. He’s lucky Aizawa wasn’t there to deliver a blow to his face like he did with dabi, Aizawa has always been the type to never show much of his emotions. The only time he did is when he was around you, you could literally kiss the scar on his face and he’d automatically melt into you.

So it was definitely a scary event to the person who had to break the news to Aizawa of you being near the area, in which stain was attacking pro-heroes. Aizawa didn’t hesitate to quickly jump into action and go find you, if you got angry at him then he could handle it. He’d rather not sit there and grade papers knowing you’re somewhere not safe, or probably getting attacked by stain.

Yet once he did find you, his stomach sank. He could see the blood oozing from your arms as you had your back against a brick wall, a few pro-heroes surrounded you as some of them tried to stop the bleeding. Aizawa felt like he failed you, he wasn’t fast enough if he was here sooner he wouldn’t have to see the scene in front of him unfolding. He pushed by and kneeled beside you, he hand gently brushing against your forehead. You only shifted, but didn’t open your eyes.

He felt like he’s going to have a panic attack, how long did it take the ambulance to come?! Once they did arrive and took you to the hospital he didn’t leave your side once, even while he had to be grading school work he waited in the lobby. Until the nurses told him where your room number was, he stayed at your bedside. Only leaving to get coffee from the cafeteria and occasionally food, he didn’t want to leave your side for too long in case you woke up.

When you did wake up, Aizawa would press so many kisses against your face even while you complained about his stubble scratching your face. He was just happy to have you back.

#mha requests #bnha requests #bnha reader insert #mha reader insert #mha headcanons #bnha headcanons #hawks headcanons #aizawa headcanons #aizawa x you #aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #aizawa fluff #hawks x you #hawks x y/n #hawks x reader #hawks fluff #hawks angst #aizawa angst #mha fluff #bnha fluff #mha angst #bnha angst

[yaimlight]

Pairing: pro hero Bakugou Katsuki x gender neutral reader

Warnings: like 3 swear words and the briefest most vague hint of sex might of happened at some point

One thing Katsuki hates is people being all up in his business. Now that he’s number two people seem to think they have some sort of right to him, like he doesn’t get to have a private life now that he’s finally made it to the top. Well, the top bar one but Katsuki had given up thinking he would ever make it to the number one spot a long time ago. Deku was too much like All Might for that to happen. The point is that it pisses Katsuki off. He’s a private person by nature and he can’t stand those nosy extras trying to force their way into his life when they had no right to be there.

That’s why you decide to keep whatever it is going on between the two of you quiet, at least whilst it’s still new anyway. He doesn’t want you getting hounded by the press and his crazy ass fans and you don’t want to deal with the inevitable gossip and hostility your relationship would bring. His fans really were crazy and you had seen before how vicious they could be when it came to the people Katsuki dated, deeming them unworthy of his attention and making sure they knew it too.

Katsuki doesn’t even tell his friends, often making up lies and excuses about staying late at work when in reality he was halfway across the city, hood up and face mask on whilst he snuck into your apartment building. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them, it's just easier this way. The less people that know the less likely it is that it will get out about your relationship. Plus Katsuki kind of enjoys it, having you all to himself. It’s stupid and selfish, he knows that but he likes knowing this is something just for him, for the two of you to enjoy without all the stress going public would bring.

The problem is though, as the months go by and your relationship starts to get serious Katsuki finds that he doesn’t want to hide it any more. He spends more nights at yours now then he does his own apartment, half your closet and draw space now full of his clothes. He even keeps a spare set of his hero uniform at yours in case of an emergency. It’s all sickeningly domestic. Katsuki actually likes listening to you talk about your day whilst he makes dinner, looks forward to cuddling up on the couch whilst you watch trash tv of a night and he definitely enjoys sharing a bed with you, feeling you curled up against his side as he drapes himself over you. He enjoys the other stuff you get up to in bed as well but there’s something strangely pleasing about waking up with you in his arms.

So yeah, Katsuki’s at the point now where he wants to stop hiding, wants to proudly show you off to the world and maybe move all his stuff into your apartment. Katsuki had never been good with feelings and talking about things though so he has no clue how to approach the topic let alone ask for more from you. He doesn’t even know how you feel about going public, you never having mentioned anything about wanting to stop sneaking around and take the next step in your relationship. Katsuki doesn’t want to ruin things between the two of you, doesn’t want you to feel pressured into doing something you don’t want to so he keeps his mouth shut, letting the feeling stew as he tries to work out how invested in this, in him, you are.

The two of you worked well together, better than Katsuki had gotten along with any of his previous partners. It’s why he felt so comfortable around you, why he had let things get so far with you when normally he would have called it quits months ago. Sure the two of you argued every now and then, every couple did and though you came across as calm and mild mannered you could give as good as you got, your temper burning just as bright as Katsuki’s. It’s one of the things he liked about you, the fact that you didn’t back down and stood your ground, even if it did frustrate the hell out of him sometimes.

You were good together and Katsuki was pretty sure that if he asked you about making things official you would say yes but there’s that little bit of uncertainty that keeps him from just blurting it out over dinner. He almost brought it up a couple of times, had come close to asking you to some agency event or charity thing but he had chickened out at the last moment. Something he had berated himself for as soon as he was alone.

Maybe it would be best to introduce you to his friends first, Eijiro first perhaps. Ease you in before he lets the idiot squad loose on you. At least the red head wouldn’t freak out and start shrieking at you like the others would, demanding to know things that Katsuki would rather they not and telling stories that were sure to embarrass him. He would still rather take that over the vultures that were the media and general public. At least with that lot he knew it was just because they were excited and happy for him, everyone else would just want to know for the sake of it, uncaring of whatever damage they might cause in their search for information.

In the end though Katsuki doesn’t get the chance to introduce you to Eijiro, to any one actually because the choice gets taken away from and it’s all his fault.

Katsuki had been tired, having been on shift for almost twelve hours and having dealt with one annoying criminal after another. It had been late, well on its way towards 3am and all Katsuki had wanted was to crawl into bed and wrap himself around you. He should go back to his own place, shouldn’t wake you up when you had work in a couple of hours but he’s selfish and unwilling to go a whole night without seeing you. He doesn’t bother going back to the agency to change, just uses his quirk to get up onto the rooftops and starts making his way towards your apartment building.

He’s not quiet. Doesn’t even think about it as he moves across the rooftops. He’s too tired to care, to even notice that he’s causing a disturbance and drawing attention to himself. He does try and tone it down though when he gets closer to your place, his tired and aching body protesting the continued use of his quirk. He still has to use his quirk though, his explosions seeming even louder in the early morning quiet.

When he finally makes it to your building he doesn’t expect to find you still awake let alone up and about. Yet there are you, dressed in your pyjamas and lent against the railing of your balcony, staring out across the sleeping city with a steaming mug of something in your hand. He doesn’t hesitate to jump from the roof, the boom of his quirk loud and echoing as he uses it to make it safely across the gap. You don’t even flinch as he lands next to you, staying in the exact same position and waiting for him to come to you. Katsuki’s feet had barely touched the balcony before he was moving, taking a few short steps to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his face into the curve of your neck. He relaxes instantly, letting the tension fall away from him at the familiar comfort of your body.

He lingers there for a moment, just a moment but it’s long enough to seal both your fates.

You sigh softly at the contact, sinking back into his body briefly before you’re turning in his arms and forcing him to take a slight step backwards. He grunts in displeasure at being moved from his comfortable spot but his annoyance is quickly forgotten when you lean up and press a quick and soft kiss to his lips. When you pull away you move back into your apartment, taking Katsuki’s hand and pulling him along behind you. He goes willingly, making sure to slide the balcony doors closed behind him and shutting out the rest of the world. It’s dark in your apartment without any lights on and it takes his eyes a few seconds to adjust, until he’s able to make out the shape of you in front of him.

You’re the one who strips off his uniform, deft fingers making quick work of all his buttons and buckles. His boots are left next to the couch and his gauntlets placed on the dining table whilst his clothes end up thrown over the back of the arm chair. You coax him into a warm shower, stripping off your own clothes and sliding in behind him. He lets you scrub the dirt off his body and rub shampoo into his hair, your fingers massaging at his scalp and leaving him groaning at the feeling.

He’s slow and sluggish when you get out, half asleep and only just able to keep his eyes open as you rub his hair dry. You get him into bed first, Katsuki’s eyes closing almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. He stirs a little when you get in next to him, Katsuki blindly reaching out for you and pulling you closer against his side so he can press his face into your neck once more. He falls asleep quickly, exhaustion finally taking hold of him and the familiar smell of your shampoo and body wash lulling him into a dreamless sleep.

He’s rudely awoken a few hours later to the insistent buzzing of his phone. Groaning he had blindly reached for it, hanging up on whoever was stupid enough to call him on his day off without even looking. Still grumbling he had rolled over, expecting to be able to wrap his arm around you and go back to sleep. His searching hand comes up empty though and that’s what really wakes him up, Katsuki lifting his head with a scowl like he could will you back into the bed. He can hear you though, the low murmur of your voice floating in through the open bedroom door so at least he knew you hadn’t slipped off to work without saying goodbye again.

He’s reluctant to get out of bed, sleep already calling him but Katsuki doesn’t want to miss the opportunity to see you, if only briefly, before you leave for the day. His phone was still buzzing and Katsuki made sure to grab it off the side as he pushed himself from the bed and made his way out into the hall. There’s a load of messages and notifications along with what feels like a hundred miss calls from not only his agency but Eijiro as well as Mina. There’s even a couple from the old hag. That twigs Katsuki on to the fact something must be going on. His mother didn’t call him for anything other than an emergency and paired that with the fact it looked like everyone he knew had tried to get a hold of him in the last couple of hours it didn’t bode well. His phone starts to vibrate again, Eijiro’s name flashing across the screen. Katsuki was going to answer but then he walks into the living room and finds you pacing whilst whispering agitatedly into your phone and any thought of answering his own phone disappears.

You’re already dressed for work, your briefcase sitting abandoned on the couch next to his now folded uniform. You jackets tossed across the back of the chair, your keys sat atop it giving Katsuki the impression you had been on your way out when whoever was on the phone had stopped you in your tracks. You don’t look happy, eyebrows furrowed and lips turned down in a frown as you continue to argue with whoever’s on the phone. You look worried and that’s not something Katsuki’s used to. He doesn’t like it, chucking his phone on the couch and stalking towards you so he can find out what the hell is going on.

The movement catches your attention and before Katsuki can even make it across the room you’ve hung up the phone, spinning round to look at Katsuki with a strained smile and tears in your eyes. Something bad has had to have happened, a sense of dread filling him as the worse case scenarios race through his mind. When he asks you what’s wrong he gets an apology, a torrent or words falling from your lips so quickly that you could give Deku a run for his money.

He can hardly understand what you’re saying, especially when the tears that had been clinging to your lashes start to fall. He tries to calm you down, wipes away your tears as he tries to get out of you what the hell had happened without showing his own growing panic. In the end you don’t tell him what’s wrong, you just hand over your phone with one of the local newspapers' web pages opened and Katsuki finally finds out why his phone had been going off so much.

It’s a photo, dark and grainy but Katsuki can make out the familiar silhouette he casts against the dull light shining through your balcony doors. It doesn’t need the rather large headline of ‘Heroes Secret Midnight Rendezvous’ to make it clear what’s going on, your shadowy figure leaning in towards Katsuki and head angled up towards him for a kiss. Dread fills him as he shakily scrolls down looking at the other photos that show the two of you kissing and then you leading him into your apartment by the hand. It’s obvious what people will think is going on, what the newspaper has presented it as and the thought of people talking about you like that sends a stab of anger and worry through Katsuki’s heart.

You're still babbling, what Katsuki thinks could be apologies or excuses about the images but he’s not really listening. Instead he’s paying more attention to what’s on your phone than what you're saying to him. A mistake on his part because he knows how his silence could be taken but he’s too busy trying not to get angry and lash out at you. This isn’t your fault and you don’t deserve to be the one dealing with the fallout. Not from him and not from the stupid extras whose attention you now have.

The article itself is rubbish, just describing the images and speculating about who you are and how serious things could be between the two of you considering the time he had turned up at the apartment and how there had been no hint of him having been in a relationship beforehand. There’s nothing in it that identifies you, nothing that could even hint at giving you away but it’s only a matter of time now until someone finds out who you are. It will be almost like a witch hunt, everyone sticking their noses into Katsuki’s business and digging around until they find that one little bit of information that will lead them right back to you.

Shit.

This wasn’t how he had wanted things to go. Yeah he wanted to go public, wanted to finally be able to take you out to all the best restaurants and away on romantic getaways but this was never how he wanted it to come out. He had never gotten the chance to ask you what it was you wanted, if you even wanted this thing between the two of you to be something more than a fling. What if, now that it was all out in the open you decided that this wasn’t what you wanted. That it had been fun and all but you weren’t actually interested in anything more with him? Katsuki couldn’t say he would blame you if you did, not with how his previous partners had been treated but he wouldn’t let you go without a fight. He was pretty sure he loved you and he would be willing to do a lot to keep you in his life, including going back to only seeing you once every week or so and not staying the night. It would kill him but if it was only he could have you in his life then he would take it.

It’s then, as he’s trying to figure out a way to keep you with him, that Katsuki actually registers what you’re saying and he comes to realise just how big a pair of idiots the two of you have been.

Frowning, he finally looks up from your phone only to find you sitting on the chair, head buried in your hands and completely unaware that you have given Katsuki the best news he’s had in a while.

He was right, you were apologising but not for the reasons he thought you would be. Whilst Katsuki had been panicking that you were going to leave him, you had come to the conclusion that he was going to do the same to you. You were taking the blame for the photos, apologising for having been out on the balcony when he turned up when you knew you shouldn’t have been but you had seen how tired he had looked on the news and you had been worried about what kind of state he would be in when he got there. Katsuki would have called you an idiot because it had clearly been his loud ass that had drawn people's attention to him but what comes out of your mouth next has his brain short circuiting and any form of rebuttal dying on his lips.

You tell him that you would understand if he wants to call it quits, that you knew he hadn’t wanted people to know he had been seeing you and now that it was all over the press you fully expected him to pack his stuff and head back home, never to look your way again. You’re not crying any more but it’s a close thing and you’re just kind of babbling nonsense but it’s everything Katsuki has wanted to hear because the next thing you say is that you’re sorry. You’re sorry because you didn’t mean to be so emotional, you're sorry because you had known that this wouldn’t last but you had wanted to have as long as you could with him. Because you enjoyed spending time with him but more importantly because you were pretty sure you were in love with him.

It’s an accident. Well Katsuki thinks it is anyway because you don’t even seem to register what you have just told him. Katsuki though can’t stop replaying the words in his head, over and over again on a loop that has his heart beating like a drum and a wide smile curling up the corners on his mouth. He feels like an idiot, standing there grinning like a madman to the point his cheeks are starting to hurt, not to mention that he probably looks a little psychotic right now but he can’t really bring himself to care. He had all the answers he needed now, knew exactly where he stood with you and he wasn’t going to let a single second go past without doing what he had wanted to do for weeks now.

He chucks your phone onto the couch in the vague direction of your stuff before stalking across the small room in a couple of strides. When he’s standing before you Katsuki drops to his knees between your legs, taking your hands in his and gently pulling them away from your face. Your eyes are red rimmed and a little puffy when you look up at, resignation in your eyes that quickly turns to confusion when you see him smiling at you. Your brows furrowed even more when he asks you out on a date and he has to repeat himself twice more before you actually seem to understand what he means when he barks out that he wants to date you like a fucking normal couple.

Now he knows how you feel he expects you to say yes to his proposal. What he doesn’t expect is for you to scream yes at him before lunging at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and causing him to tumble backwards onto the floor. His phone is still buzzing away on the couch and yours is making that annoying dinging noise he hates so much but Katsuki doesn’t care. He doesn’t think he’s ever been quite as happy as he is now, rolling around on the floor with you in his arms, exchanging kisses between laughter.

This wasn’t how he had wanted people to find out about the two of you and he really wasn’t looking forward to having to explain himself to the PR department or the grilling he’s going to get from the idiot squad but he can’t find it in himself to be to angry about the invasion of his privacy. He’s finally gotten what he wants and he’s damned well not going to regret a single moment of how he got here.

Now, how long after your first public date would be considered too soon to ask you to move in with him because he sure as hell ain’t going to wait that long again.

#mha #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #bakugou katsuki #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo #soft bakugou #soft bakugo katsuki #bakugo #bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha reader insert #reader insert #you #y/n #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou x you #bakugo x you #bakugou katsuki x you #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugou x gn!reader #bakugo x gn reader #bakugo x gender neutral reader #bakugou x gender neutral reader #pro hero katsuki x reader #pro hero bakugou

[acerathia]

Summary:

While spending the summer at your grandparent's place, an accident leads to a fateful encounter with Izuku. Yet you reject this first meeting, seeking to craft a proper first impression.

Pairing:

Midoriya Izuku / Reader

Wordcount: 11.3k

Read it on AO3

Tags/CW:

Love at first sight, slightly idiots in love (if you squint), Aged-up characters, vague description of a panic attack, slight miscommunication (I hate it as much as you do), Reader is gn but there is 'girl' as a term of endearment,

Note:

This work is part of the 'Meet Fruit Collab' by willow's house! Go check the other works!!

The sun caresses your cheeks and makes you close your eyes, allowing the warmth to seep into your bones. There is only a slight breeze, cooling your skin with each whisper. The weather seemingly fits your current tranquility. 

It’s summer. And similar to every summer you had experienced before, you’re visiting your grandparents at their small cottage in the south of the country. The warmth practically radiating from the edges of the village. You love it here, despite the long trip, carrying you over borders and through mountains. But in the end, it’s always worth it, the weather and the comfort of the people forming the valley of your dreams. No wonder you had planned on staying for the duration of the summer, nothing better than to spend your vacation with your family and their well-loved apple trees. 

You had arrived a couple of days ago, the train finally coming to a halt after hours of driving through the darkness of the tunnel, emerging into another world, wildly different from the other side of the mountain range. And as much as you love riding the train for long distances, it had exhausted you quite a bit, you almost had no choice but to rest for a couple of days. These last days had consisted of you catching up with your grandparents, and of course, enjoying the apple pie of your dear grandpa. 

That is until they had kicked you out of the door with some silly task. Well, getting kicked out is a strong word, rather they had sent you on an errand because according to your grandma, you had gotten ‘the zoomies’, whatever that means. 

So there you are, in the middle of a meadow, trying to walk towards the apple trees of your family without stomping on the flowers. And as much as you hate to admit it, you aren’t successful with your current endeavor, and you hope to at least save the apples from their dooming demise. That’s why you had to pick them directly from the trees, these delicious, fresh apples should not, under any circumstance, fall onto the ground and rot away, turning into sad mush. You shall not allow them to suffer such fate! 

But even if you are to pick every single apple from the trees, you wonder where your grandparents store all these apples, before you remember the morning market. The people around here open their stalls in the morning to sell their homemade products and to converse with each other, taking that chance to simply catch up with each other without any reason to do so. And of course, your grandparents go there, they have many friends in the village and how else are they supposed to get their gossip from? And soon you are going to be part of that gossip because while you had missed the market due to your inability to wake up early in the morning, they definitely are going to drag you along with them as soon as possible. 

With a sigh, signifying your surrender to your upcoming fate, you arrive at the base of the first tree. You are only supposed to fill the basket you are carrying, so there is no need for you to visit more than one tree today. You set the basket between the roots of the tree to put your hands on your hips. With a scrutinizing gaze, you inspect the stem and its bark, judging how well you would be able to climb it. And it seems like a challenge for your climbing skills, but it definitely isn’t something you can’t handle. 

Rolling your imaginary sleeves up to gather some strength, you begin feeling the bark with both your palms and fingertips, looking for grooves and furrows to hold onto. Once you discover some proper places to hold onto, you manage to get a good grasp around the trunk, hauling yourself with one push and jump. Your feet push the ground away before they step onto the bark. Holding your grasp for a moment, your hand grabs the next branch to finally pull your whole body upwards, your body sprawling across the branch. With a swing you manage to get your legs up, getting yourself into a sitting position on the thicker branch. And despite its thickness, you remain close to the trunk as a safety measure. 

With your body secure and safe, you start grabbing the apples, picking the ones closest to you to let them fall to the ground. You try your best to soften the fall by stretching your body towards the ground, or by trying to get them into your basket in one shot. That way you clear the surrounding space, before you begin to move upwards, standing on the branch to reach higher. Methodically you move from branch to branch, reaching as far as you possibly could without endangering yourself. 

Reaching higher and higher, you continue to let the apples drop, until you hear a small shout of surprise. You gasp silently and peer down to look for the source of that sound, staying hidden behind the leaves and branches. 

Down below standing at the base of the tree is a boy your age, his hand rubbing against the top of his head with a slight wince. You bite your bottom lip to swallow a curse, lest he sees you between the branches of the tree. Because it seems like you were the cause of his pain, as you accidentally let an apple fall on top of his head. And you probably should get down and apologize, maybe gift him some apples to soothe the pain. But before you decide on your next move, he looks up and you freeze. You can’t do anything but stare at his beautiful face; and you think, you must have fallen and broken your neck because you have never seen such mesmerizing features before. His green eyes make you step into a deep, refreshing forest, full of secrets you can discover if you step closer; yet welcoming and beautiful, soothing your mind with ease. Strands of hair framed those gleaming eyes, soft; and you wondered how it would feel to drive your fingers through them while counting the small galaxy of freckles emphasizing his features. You wonder how many little stars he owns. 

There is no way you can simply jump down and meet him like that, not after that accident with the apple. That would be a bad first impression and you have no idea how you currently look, the leaves probably sitting on top of your head. The peak of bad impressions. ‘Hey, I hit you with an apple, but you’re cute, so forget about it.’ You can’t just do that! For some reason you need that first impression to be good, no, perfect. So you clasp your free hand against your mouth and hold still, trying to make the least amount of noise possible. He should not catch you under any circumstance, especially after you refuse to go down after hitting him. That only would worsen his possible first impression of you. 

‘Please leave, please leave,’ you try to persuade him with your telepathic skills. You hope you have these skills, or else he might not leave soon. But lucky you, your persuasion skills seem to work, as he picks an apple off the ground to roll it between his palms, scarred palms. And you wonder how that rough skin would feel against your own pair of hands before you notice him turning and finally leaving. 

You almost cheer, thanking your merciful luck, hoping it doesn’t deplete with that simple graciousness. Still, you don’t risk anything and wait for some time, making sure nobody is truly left, before you jump down, starting to pick the apples off the ground in a hurry, collecting the fruits in your basket. 

With a last glance in every possible direction, you make your way back to the cottage, arms and doubts heavy. And as much as you want to enjoy the beautiful sun on your skin, your gaze has locked itself onto the grassy ground, watching the blades dance with the silent brise. You just can’t help but think that you might have burst your only chance with that boy, just because of your cowardice. What if you never saw him again? Then what? Are you just going to lament over that non-existent loss, maybe cry every time you spot some green apples, because he reminds you of these green Pound Sweet apples? Probably. But right now all you want to do is to kick yourself back in time, maybe take another way of action. But no, your head had been empty and your thoughts didn’t carry any semblance of common sense. You never make the right decisions in the nick of time, and you always end up regretting it, like right now. You lost him, forever!

Maybe you are acting a tad dramatic, but you think you deserve a little drama, as a treat to distract yourself from your lost chance to meet the embodiment of the perfect person. 

Your grandma immediately notices your little pout upon your entrance, and just doesn’t allow you to enter the cottage. She had taken the basket out of your hands before pulling you into her little vegetable garden in the back. Apparently, she needs help with getting rid of the weed. And even if you know she doesn’t need help and that she holds too much strength in her frame, you oblige to her pushing you into this task. You doubt you would be able to get rid of a single weed, and you spend the rest of the day in a brawl, fighting those scratching plants with all your might and still losing, too many times to count. And maybe that is the plan of your grandma, to distract you from whatever is bothering you and to tire you out like a little child throwing a tantrum. You don’t care though, that is her way of caring for you after all.  

***

The next morning doesn’t start like you wanted it to. You are deep in your dreams and your pillows, hugging your blanket close to your face when a spray of water hits your face with its startling coldness. A groan escapes you and you try to swat at the source of your bother but without any success. The attacks continue without mercy, soaking even your pillow. Hesitantly you open your eyes, hoping to avoid getting sprayed into them, before seeing a familiar figure standing beside your bed. 

“Wake up, you lazy thing, we’re going to the market!” your grandma proclaims, waving the spray bottle in front of your face as a threat. 

You grunt some curse words under your breath, making an effort in sitting up. “Okay, okay… Man, a warning would be nice…”

The only response to your mumbled complaint is another spray into your face before she leaves you to change into some proper outerwear. And you are almost inclined to leave the house in your pajamas if only to embarrass her a bit. But if you are honest with yourself, you will end up regretting that choice more than her non-existent embarrassment will be worth it. You will wind up being the embarrassed one, she will be nonchalant about the whole thing, shrugging your audacity off like nothing. So you almost have no choice but to change into some proper summer wear, yearning for your hoodies, but you would rather not fry in this weather, as beautiful as it is. 

Dragging your feet, sleep still hanging onto your ankles, you join your grandparents in the kitchen. They are preparing for the morning market, and they expect your help if the basket squeezed into your hands is any indication. It is filled to the brim with green apples, Beauty of Bath, the ones you had picked from the tree just yesterday. You sneak a hand into the basket to grab one for yourself, but your grandma seems to have a telepathy or a sense of premonition because she’s already slapping your hand away, tutting at your allegedly bad behavior. 

“Aw, c’mon, I didn’t get to eat anything yet…”, you grumble, still eyeing the green, fresh apples hanging off the crook of your arm. 

“Stop makin’ eyes at them apples girl, shoulda woken up earlier,” she reprimands you, and you feel like you're being punished for something. Is she mad about how much of a loser you are in weeding out the garden? Did you step on a tomato while brawling those stubborn plants? Is she getting sick of you being a failure in her favorite hobby? 

And maybe you’re being dramatic again, making a big deal out of her response, when you’re well aware of her ways of communication. 

Still, this knowledge doesn’t stop you from pouting slightly, reacting appropriately. But you can’t help but light up when your grandpa goes up to you and hands you a piece of the pie. With a broad smile and a thank you, you ravish that piece, enjoying the way the apples and cream melt on your tongue, leaving a sour and sweet taste behind. Licking the rest off your fingertips, you both giggle about that secret exchange, while your grandma has her back turned on you. 

Despite her obliviousness, she must have noticed something going on, as she begins to push the both of you out of the door, arms heavy with product, apples, pies and tarts. With your packed load, you begin to walk down the path to the village. Luckily, the cottage is stationed on a hill, so you only have to walk down with all that stuff, rather than dying from the slope. And despite the village sitting at the base of the hill, the distance between the cottage and the center is quite short. There is no need for any of you to use the car at all, even if carrying everything slowly turns out to be exhausting. 

By the time you finally arrive at the closed stall, you’re barely feeling your arms anymore, the basket cutting your blood circulation off. With a grateful sigh, you manage to put everything down safely, before shaking your arms to get them back to work, wincing at the pins and needles appearing in your veins. Once you think you can use them again, you start helping your grandparents with opening up the stall and sorting the products into their respective spaces, checking if everything has survived the travels. 

Everything is at its proper place the moment people start wandering into the market, the noise level immediately rising. The growing crowd carries their conversation with itself, the words traveling from stall to stall with people catching up with each other. The bargaining accompanies the chattering, the people trying to get their grocery shopping as cheap as possible. 

Even you can’t escape the talking. You’re acquainted with some of your grandparents’ friends, so you have no choice but to greet them, which ends in you trying to dodge every question coming your way. Their questions and calculating gazes dig quite deep and if you don’t know any better, they seem like they’re analyzing your body language for any possible reaction. But that’s not possible, right? They’re just retired folk, they surely aren’t putting that much effort into their gossip, right?

You even start busying yourself with stocking the stall up, making sure there is always enough stuff from everything on the table, just to escape the awkwardness of the digging elderly. 

“Oh, these look delicious, what kind of apples are these?” a voice asks you while you’re straightening the rows of green apples. 

Oh, this is a rather easy question, so you grin and look up to answer, only to meet green eyes, soft curls framing them with the slight breeze and a shining smile. Your brain short-circuits and you can’t help but be mesmerized by him, the name you had given him in your head slipping out: “Uh, Pound Sweet?”

Immediately your grandma's elbow digs itself deep between your ribs, the pain pulling you back into reality. “What are ya blabbing? Those are-”

“Beauty of Bath apples, I know… Excuse my mistake…” you apologize to the boy in front of you, bowing to avoid making eye contact with him and falling into that trance again. 

You can see how he hurriedly waves his free hand around. “Uh! No-No need to bow, everything is fine”, he insists and lets his hand rub the back of his neck, still giving you that brilliant smile. 

And even after you straighten up, you actively avoid making eye contact with him. You’re sure you won’t escape those beautiful eyes of his if you get caught in them again. Instead, you let your eyes roam over his galaxy of freckles dusting his soft-looking cheeks, which mold with his bright smile; over his swaying, green curls moving around his ears, brushing the edges of his eyes, getting stuck in his long lashes. 

Even his face sends you into a stupor and you don’t notice your staring until your grandma has rammed into you once again. Embarrassed, you let your hands wander over the apples, rambling about this sort of apples and their acidic sweet taste, while picking the number of apples he desires, You try to put your whole focus on the packaging of the apples and the piece of pie you decide to sneak into his order, catching your wandering gaze before you can even begin to stare again. Still, how are you supposed to prepare for the scars on his hands or the accidental touch of his rough hands as you handed him his package. The slight brush of his fingers against yours as he received his order sends you into another turmoil of thoughts and you hastily pull your hand away. 

“Thankyoubye,” you blurt hurriedly, feeling embarrassed at your reactions to every single thing about him. For some reason everything about him makes you run on a higher sensitivity level leading to you slightly overreacting, probably. 

Still, you feel bad for letting him experience these reactions at such a close range, so you look up and give him a crooked smile, a shy one, mirroring your current feelings. You feel the need to hide under his gaze and you scratch your nose to hide your face a tiny bit. 

In return, you receive a bright smile with a thank you. You physically feel your heart stop, before you start choking on your own spit from the shock, resulting in a coughing fit. A curse tumbles with a cough and you have to turn away, propping yourself on your knees. 

Well, there goes your good first impression, well done, you had ruined it, and this time you can’t just hide or run away. You can’t do anything but cough your lungs out, your throat getting raw; and if the tears in your eyes are due to your disappointment and shame, and not because your body is trying to eject your esophagus, nobody but you has to know. 

After hacking a couple more times, your body finally allows you to catch your breath, as you hold yourself steady with a hand on the edge of the table. Your swipe at the beads of tears in the corners of your eyes, faintly feeling a hand between your shoulder blades. At first, you think it’s your grandpa, but the size of the palm feels too big to be actually his. And while the realization slowly creeps into your mind, the touch sears itself onto your skin, every skin ridge etching itself into your bones. 

You swallow, trying to avoid the repeat of earlier, before finally raising your gaze and seeing Pound Sweet right in front of you. His brows are furrowed in some kind of worry, and you wonder why he would worry about you in the first place. You, nothing more than a stranger, as much as you want to change that. 

Your eyes meet his, green and flashing, holding all these secrets, filled with a whirlwind of emotion you cannot decipher. You don’t register his question until after he repeats himself. 

“Is everything okay?” he asks with a professional tone, and how can someone ask such a question in a professional tone anyway? Is he some sort of EMT and is used to people choking on their own spit, embarrassing themselves in front of him? 

With a blink of your eyes, you realize he’s waiting for any kind of response, so you nod slowly. 

“Uh, yeah, sorry. ‘Twas weird…” you murmur, as if your nod needs some boost in its credibility, lowering your gaze to avoid looking at him as mortification slowly fills your veins, hot and teary, crawling and ripping at your insides. 

Instead of replying he just put a cup filled with juice, the smell of berries emanating from its edges. You recognize the barely touched juice from another stall close by, a couple of people had been holding the same kind of cup in their hands, savoring the taste with each sip. And with a small thanks, you decide to do the same thing, letting the sip on your tongue distract you for even a little moment. 

You can’t help but take a second sip, as the cool liquid soothes your throat. But after that, you hesitantly return the cup to its owner, regret already pooling in your stomach like a heavy stone. Why did you take a sip? Maybe he wanted you to reject his offer, to keep his juice to himself. He probably just feels pity for your tiny miserable figure.

“Uh, thank you for that… Do- Do you mind me paying you back in some way?”, you ask with your raw voice, rasping each syllable. 

You feel your insides knot with rising nervousness. You don’t know what compelled you to be so upfront, especially after your hiding, and your embarrassment, but you do owe him for that drink and his attention to you. And maybe you’re hoping to get to know him a little bit more, and nobody is to judge you for that. 

 “You’re welcome! And uh, it’s totally fine…”, he waves to refuse your offer so easily, while still keeping his brilliant smile, and you don’t quite feel like you just got rejected.

He rejected you and you have no choice but to accept it. That’s what any sane person would do in your situation. But to your misery, you don’t have enough sanity to make such wise decisions (later you would put the blame on the lack of oxygen, or just because his beauty crashed your brain). So for whatever reason you only shake your head at his answer and reach for some crumpled piece of paper. Snatching a pen from under the table, you jot your phone number onto the cracks of paper. Folding the ink and handing it to him you simply said: “Here, my number. Uh, I’m here for the summer, so maybe? I don’t know, text me, if you want to, I guess?”

You bite the insides of your cheek to stop yourself from babbling any nonsense that is crawling up your throat and clogging your brain from thinking straight forward. This day has filled you with enough embarrassment to last you a decade, you probably won’t ever forget this day, the memories haunting you for the rest of your life whenever you want to go to sleep. 

He seems surprised, holding your number delicately between his fingers, and maybe you’re imagining things, but to you, it looks like his neck is slightly redder than it used to be just a moment ago. His mouth opens and closes with no words actually leaving him before he finally pockets the paper with no arguments. He agrees on texting you, before straightening to leave the stall with a small wave. 

You wave back, hesitance creeping into your actions. The whole thing slowly starts to register in your brain and you want to crawl under the table of the stall and let the darkness swallow you. What did you do? What just happened? You don’t even have his name, he doesn’t know yours. That’s crazy of you, he probably thinks you’re some kind of weirdo… How did you ruin a first meeting in multiple ways? 

With a sigh you turn around, only to make eye contact with your grandma, a sly grin adorning her face. And this is how things could in fact get worse. She won’t ever let this up, pestering you about it for probably the rest of your life, no matter how this whole thing turns out. You really don’t want to hear her so-called ‘advice’ or whatever has been cooking up inside her brain. So you immediately turn right back to continue whatever you have been doing before he showed up. Filling the gaps between the products, serving whoever decides to take a peek at your stall, and most importantly, relentlessly ignoring any upcoming conversation about Pound Sweet, no matter how much your grandparents try. No matter how bad you feel for ignoring your grandpa, but regardless of how tame he might look, he is married to his wife. And they both are borderline vicious about this sort of stuff. The elderly still love to gossip, and you’d rather not give them any ammunition about yourself. 

The rest of the morning market finished without any hiccups, just with you averting their trials at interrogation in any possible way. And once you’re packing up and on the way home, their questions stopped, and you start to see the end of the tu-

And you had started hoping way too soon, as they corner you once you finally arrive at home. Trapped in a tight spot in the kitchen you have no way to escape the imposing figure of your grandma, especially with your grandpa guarding the door in case you miraculously manage to run away. 

“So, you an’ the Midoriya-boy?” she asks with a raised eyebrow, almost like she already knows the answer to that question and you don’t. 

“Who?”

You’re aware of the implication. She assumes something is going on with Pound Sweet, but because you don’t know his name, you choose the easiest thing to do and to act ignorant. Name-dropping only works if you know their name after all. 

She grunts with annoyance at your shenanigans, waving a hand like she’s trying to get rid of something bothering her. “Dun’ play tha’ game with me, girl. Ya for sure have some stupid apple name for’im. Now, what was happenin’?”

Ow, bullseye. How does she even know that? You bite the insides of your cheek and avoid eye contact with her, trying to come up with some way out, but apparently, you hadn’t responded fast enough. 

Her face scrunches up at your little wince before her facial expressions change from her usual scowl to unbelief, shock, triumph. You don’t even have the chance to retort anything, she already has her own conclusion made up in her mind. Still, you feel the need to say something, but nothing comes out of your mouth, leaving you to look like a fish on dry land. All wide eyes and open mouth. 

With mirth finally placed on her face, she pushes your chin up to help you close your mouth. 

“Imma leave ya to it. Should tell ya to be responsible, but I dun’ care,”, she shrugs and finally releases you from her entrapment. 

You almost stumble over your own feet as you hurry with your escape, her snickers following you into your bedroom. 

With a groan you let yourself fall onto your bed, burying your shame in your pillows. She won’t ever let you live this down, and every time you go out, she will be teasing you about him, even if you would only be accompanying them. There is no way you will be meeting him in the near future, not after your pushiness earlier. 

You’re wailing in your conundrum when your phone suddenly vibrates. You stop your dramatic antics to furrow your eyebrows. Who could be messaging you? You barely text with your friends, and you’re supposed to be on vacation, so your workplace can’t be bothering you. 

You stretch your arm to reach your phone on the commode, barely getting a hold of it. Once your phone is secure in your hand and not about to slip from your fingertips, you open your messenger to look at the received message. Unknown number. 

And the moment you open the message you almost fling your phone across the room. The message isn’t long, it only consists of a greeting with his name, but that’s already longer than you had anticipated. Which is nothing. 

But now you’re standing in front of the next hurdle. How are you supposed to answer? He doesn’t know your name, but to start with that would be weird, wouldn’t it? Could you use the spelling of your name as an excuse to still tell him what you’re called, or should you leave it to the future? 

You scrunch your nose and stare at your unmoving phone, expecting an answer to jump out of it and tell you what to do. After just glaring at it you pick your phone up again, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, dancing a little over the letters. Writing and deleting. Writing and deleting. Nothing sounds right, no matter what you say. So in the end you just send some basic text, at least you hope it is. After your pushiness earlier, you tell yourself to allow him to choose what to do, that is the main reason you gave him your number after all. 

And this time your poor phone didn’t get thrown away, but rather imprisoned into your commode. That way you aren’t able to see or hear any notifications. At least that’s the plan, but you had forgotten how your nervousness makes you check your phone every five minutes, hoping for any kind of answer, and then of course getting disappointed by the radio silence. And you immediately respond to every text, too excited to hold back and wait for a while. 

Still, this leads to you regularly texting with Izuku, as it turns out you both are on vacation in this little idle village. None of you really disclosed your work, but his seems to be putting some strain on him, especially after he expressed his relief about this time-out. 

So you’re nothing but eager to allow him to experience this village to its fullest potential, leading to your meet-up today. You both are going to visit the summer festival taking place. 

You’re already buzzing with excitement. Even if it isn’t a proper date (as much as you want to go on a date with him), it’s finally your chance to act like a normal human being in his presence. Comfortably texting doesn’t mean he would actually enjoy your company, considering how awkward the first time had been. This thought puts an undercurrent of nervousness beneath your excitement, but you’re confident that everything will go well. You’ve come so far, you won’t easily give this up, not now. 

After rummaging through your closet you finally discover something fitting for the weather of late summer, while being a tiny bit appealing to the eye. You’re not expecting anything, really, but it can’t hurt to feel good in your own skin when meeting him. Nothing but a meet-up between friends. With a final look in the mirror to make sure everything is in its place, you grab your bag with your necessities and leave the cottage with a simple call-out to your grandparents. 

The weather outside is beautiful, just warm enough to not bother anyone, with a brise cooling your skin with its soft touch. You can’t help yourself looking up to watch the clouds slowly passing by. They look so calm and cozy, and for a moment they made you feel at peace. So you keep walking with your face raised towards the sky to let your gaze roam over the speckles of white and blue, the warmth comfortably laying on your face. 

Your phone vibrates, ripping you out of your current trance of enjoyment. With a sigh, you sift through your bag to grab your device to look at the new message you just got. The moment you open your messages, a picture of your figure with your nose high in the sky greets you. You furrow your eyebrows, wondering how the sender, Izuku, even got this picture in the first place. You start looking around until you make eye contact with him. A grin already sitting on his face, lighting something inside of you on fire before you reciprocate with a grin of your own. With a wave, you speed up until you could stop in front of him. 

You both exchanged a simple greeting, before starting to wander between the stalls and activities. There is quite a collection of stuff to do, ranging from a tombola, to shooting games, and different types of competition. A lot of things seem popular among the locals and the tourists, but nothing really spoke to you, so you aren’t sure what to do. That is until you spot a particular game you’ve always wanted to play: Apple bobbing. 

Without thinking you just nudge Izuku to point towards the stall with the tubs propped in front of it. “Hey, that looks fun? Should we try it?” you ask, even if you’d like to just tug him along to play it with you. 

Luckily he easily complies with your hidden demand, following you to the desk to pay for two people, before kneeling in front of a basin. His gaze already zeroed on the floating apples. You want to join him by getting onto the ground, but for some reason, he looks up to you, and your brain stops working for a second. He just looks so ethereal in the afternoon sun. His eyes focused on you, shining with the rays of the sun and his hair slightly tousled with the fresh breeze. His hands are simply relaxing on his thighs. He just contemplates you before cocking his head, seemingly noticing your hesitance. 

And you almost choke on your own spit, again. But you manage to get your bearings before that happens, shaking your head to get back to your senses. 

Carefully you take your place in front of the metal tub. You keep your arms behind your back to avoid using them in any way or form. Widening your stance a bit to fix your balance, before you shoot a look at Izuku, and you both exchange a giddy grin.

The person responsible for this game starts counting down until they give you the start sign. You immediately plunge your face into the filled tub, trying to grasp an apple with your teeth. You have been targeting a specific fruit, but it always manages to escape you just before you could take a proper hold onto it. And you probably had swallowed more water than it would have been healthy. You begin to grow frustrated at your evasive opponent, but before you could just throw the towel, you finally grasp the flesh of the apple between your teeth. Making sure you have a proper bite you finally straighten up. A grin hides behind the fruit and with your emergence, you feel the water coating your skin, cooling with the oncoming breeze, drying with no trace under the sun. 

With your prize, you turn to see how the game had been for Izuku and you catch him already looking your way. His hair framing his face a shade darker and dripping. His head resting on his palm, arm propped up on the edge of the basin and a shining red apple in his other hand. He grins at you and you remember the apple still stuck in your mouth. In your haste to get rid of it, you almost let it drop onto the ground, but you catch it before anything happens. 

“Uh, I guess you won?” you say with a crooked smile, shifting your weight from one knee to the other, and wondering how long he had been watching you struggle with that single apple. 

At least you hadn’t let anything slip, like him being pretty, or how badly you want to brush the strands away from his face. 

“Mhm! That was fun,” he smiles broadly, running his fingers through his wet hair, slightly slicking it back. 

You blink a couple of times, stunned. Then with a breath, you stand up, taking a bite out of your hard-won apple. The slight acidity runs over your tongue, distracting you from the mesmerizing sight just beside you. You doubt it’s healthy for you to even look at him for such extended time, so you let your gaze sweep over the open field, looking for the next possible activity. 

There isn’t anything really catching your interest, but you do discover a stall selling candied apples. And despite the one already sitting in your hand, you have a craving for one of these. Candied apples use a different type of apples after all. 

“Oh! Do you wanna get some candied apples?” you ask Izuku, who has gotten up and has been letting his gaze wander over the place. 

“Hm, didn’t we just get some apples?” he wonders and puts his hand to his face in a contemplating gesture. 

“That’s true, but these are Red Delicious Apples, which often lack proper taste, and candied apples use these Gala Apples. They have a much sweeter flavor!” you try to explain to him without going on a tangent about the different sorts of apples, again.

He giggles at your so-called restraint, already aware of the struggle. “I don’t mind trying them.”

A grin spreads over your face with satisfaction and you march to that specific stall to buy two candied apples. They immediately hand you two sticks, from which one you pass along to Izuku. Turning to your own apple, you take a crunching bite out of it and savor the sweetness melting over your tongue. A content sigh escapes you. 

Suddenly a hand materializes in front of you, gingerly wiping the corner of your mouth. Your wide eyes you follow the source of that hand, only to make eye contact with a stuttering Izuku. His face seems to get redder by the second, his hands already frantically waving in front of him. 

“Oh, uh, sorry… you just, uh, there was some candy on your face…” he mutters, his free hand already placed on his reddening neck, avoiding your gaze with slightly hunched shoulders.

You’re glad you don’t have a full mouth because it would have been a waste to spit it out. 

You waved a hand, trying to finish this topic before it could escalate in any way; your heart already lives in your throat. “No! Uh, I mean, thank you, I’d rather not walk with candy sticking all over me…”

This stopped the conversation, but now you both are silent, rocking on your feet, or shifting your weight. Doing your best to avoid making any sort of eye contact, as you don’t know what to say, you spot something you hadn’t expected at all. A Ferris wheel. You immediately whip around and point at it, already wordlessly pleading with Izuku to get on it. 

For some reason, he looks like he already had expected it, and easily agrees; glad to get rid of that earlier tension. 

That’s how you both end up last in the current queue, awkwardness already warded off by the quick walk from the stall, from which you almost dragged him behind you. So time goes by faster, you both start talking, picking up topics almost like you have been acquainted for some time (even if you technically have been knowing each other for some time, it’s still different to talk face to face). The conversation flows easily, both of you getting properly engaged in whatever forms the main point of your talking. You’re only focused on him, and that’s how you’re able to notice so many of his tiny quirks. The way he just dives into his explanations and analysis, getting excited about his favorite topics and research. His scarred, calloused hands move in sync with his talking, almost like they’re supporting him in his current endeavor. His stream of thoughts doesn’t mean he’s ignoring your own, but rather the opposite; he’s listening and considering them, leading to an in-depth conversation. You never had the possibility to dive that deep into certain topics, and you appreciate his seemingly vast knowledge in your own interests. 

While enjoying this talk, the guilt begins to resurface, blubbering and hot, steaming its way up your throat. The accident wafts in your head, penetrating your nose like the smell of bad eggs. You couldn’t ignore the pressure, the urge to confess everything to him, as if you have committed a grave sin. And maybe you would, if you allow the both of you to explore this any further, without being in the open about anything. You should tell him before it’s too late and you lose yourself completely. 

So you take a breath, trying to get rid of the steam clogging your lungs. “Uhm, I’m sorry for interrupting you. But, uh, I need to tell you something… I’ve met you before? I mean before that day at the market… Even, uh, even if it wasn't really… meeting, more like… How do I say that… Didn’t an apple fall onto your head, or something?” you stutter, realizing you don’t have a proper plan for this. 

This is going to suck.

He slowly nods, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows and his bottom lip slightly juts out. You err for a moment, getting distracted, but you shake your head to get yourself out of that daze and to continue talking. 

“Yes! Uh, the apple was me. No, I mean, uh, I let the apple fall and didn’t see you. Sorry… And… and I didn’t tell you earlier because I- uh, I wanted you to like me? I mean, I wanted a good first impression, I guess?”

You pull your shoulders up and avoid looking at his face, waiting for the inevitable. He’s going to get mad, just walk away. At least the outfall can happen before you completely are gone for him. 

You wait for any kind of reaction from him, but all you can hear is his phone ringing. He just sighs before turning around to accept the call. And the moment he starts talking, you realize he’s speaking a language you aren’t understanding at all, and you wish you had learned more languages. 

He put the phone away with a furrow between his eyebrows, driving his hand through his hair, letting strands stand slightly and frizzing his curls. 

“I’m sorry, but, uh, there has been an emergency, and… and I have to go…” he simply explains with a smile. But this smile doesn’t shine like his usual ones, regret almost seeping through the gaps of his teeth; and you wonder if it’s your fault. 

“O-Oh! That’s fine, yeah. Maybe, uh, maybe we could finish another time?” You have to ask, this isn’t the last time you’re seeing him, is it? Maybe… Maybe you still can see each other, right?

Wrong. His mouth pulls down and the furrow seems to deepen. “I- I’m sorry. I have to return to my home, to my country…”

That makes sense. It’s an emergency, he has no other choice. And you understand, you really do. That doesn’t make it hurt less though. He could at least respond to whatever you had said earlier, but he seems to be in a rush, giving you a simple goodbye before walking away, leaving you at the other end of the queue. And for some reason, you feel like he’s running away, like everything is your fault. 

You end up getting onto the Ferris wheel. All alone. And despite the sun warming the wagon, it feels cold, empty, soaking. Getting off you only carry a swollen waterline and a burning nose, only to immediately go home without even looking at the rest of the festival. 

It hurts more than you thought it would; it feels like rejection. Even if nothing has been going on in the first place. And you have no choice but to bury these feelings deep in the waters of your insides, drowning them in the cold soaking after the steam had left, and to go on with your life. Spending time with your grandparents, surrounded by apples, despite never picking them yourself anymore. 

And before you know it (that’s a lie, you’re so well aware how much time passed), summer is over and you’re already boarding the train to return to the city, to your tiny, homey space and your distracting work. 

And work is distracting but also exciting. The company you’re working for is planning a collaboration with another one in Japan, and as it’s your job, you will be the one to lead the negotiations. After preparing with enough language and culture classes to get around, a few weeks after returning, you have to leave again, boarding a plane and making yourself comfortable for the upcoming hours. But you don’t mind the lost time, rather enjoying the flight and the food. 

Doesn’t stop you from feeling groggy when you finally arrive in Japan, the sleep you managed to get doesn’t satiate your body. The haze lays heavy on your mind, making navigating through the busy streets more difficult than it’s supposed to be. And despite your language courses, you struggle to read the street signs, regretting not learning the language earlier. The language barrier hadn’t budged even with your basis of talk. You hope to strengthen your skills with your stay. 

But that’s for future you, because the moment you finally step into the apartment you just want to collapse on the bed and sleep for an unreasonable amount of time. As much as you desire sleep, you have to check for any bugs. This complex is supposedly one of the most secure places in Musutafu, specifically made for important people such as politicians and these heroes. 

And you don’t belong in any of these categories of important people, but your company had taken care of the lodging, and you just assume it’s simply because of the documents and knowledge you carry. They can’t afford to lose them on such short notice, but that also means you’re accustomed to some heavy stuff, like the search for espionage in your living places. That doesn’t make you a hero though. 

And you can’t help but wonder why these exist. You’re aware how several countries have laws to allow them, training children and turn them into their heroes (which in your opinion is already an iffy subject). But you’re not a lawyer either, so you don’t think it’s your position to complain about it. As long as they keep everyone safe, they can keep their jumpsuits for all you care. 

After looking under everything and into every lamp, checking the mirror for anything, you finally get ready to go to bed. You have a couple of days to properly adjust to the time, fixing your current jet lag as soon as possible. But you also plan on walking around the neighborhood, at least getting to know where all the important shops lie. 

With that in mind, you fall asleep. And lucky you, you don’t immediately forget about your plans, even though you usually forget things easily. That leads to you leaving the apartment to look for the closest bakery to get yourself a treat for breakfast. 

You walk around with leisure and lightness in your step, gazing around and memorizing every little detail you could possibly ever need later on. That is until you finally stumble across a bakery, which you enter with a wide grin. The smell immediately welcomes you with a hug, leading you deeper inside. With a little giddiness, you step close to the counter to properly look at the different loaves of bread and pastries. It takes you some time to decipher the names of the pieces to order in your broken, basic Japanese. Despite your difficulty communicating the clerk still understands you and even helps you in bits and pieces, especially with your pronunciation of certain vowels, and you thank them for it. 

They’re in the middle of handing you your package full of tasty food when the glass front shatters with a dazing sound. A surprised scream escapes you before the cashier can pull you behind the desk with them. 

Ducking into a corner, panic begins to fill your senses, the smell of spoiling and rotting filling your nose, ants crawling all over your skin, ears rumbling with fallen rocks. You don’t understand what’s going on, but the person in front of you seems accustomed to such situations for some reason and begins helping you to calm down, your hand pressed between hers. 

You both stay kneeling like that until a voice calls into the store. And it seems like it’s not the one responsible for this, as the person immediately stands up to join the green-clad person, who seems to be a hero, according to his jumpsuit, and the familiarity and trust of the clerk with him. By the time you join them, they’re in the middle of a conversation, but you can’t keep up with the fast pace, barely understanding any sentences as a whole. Despite this barrier, you manage to bow and to give him your thanks.

But you don’t leave immediately after, rather you begin helping the cashier with the glass and whatever had been thrown around when the whole place exploded. That hero, ‘Deku’ as the clerk called him earlier, tries to help with the work, handling some of the stuff a tiny bit clumsier than you have expected of a so-called hero. And he doesn’t seem to only be a hero, but a rather popular one, as the clerk had recognized him despite his face being covered with a mouth guard and some sort of hood. 

And for some reason, you have a weird feeling about him, not a bad one. He feels familiar for some reason, but you’ve never been to Japan before and you’ve never taken an interest in these heroes, so why do you keep looking at him, your gaze just drawn to his moving silhouette. You just shake your head, trying to focus on the work ahead of you (and you think it’s maybe the green of his suit, the one so similar to the warmth of last summer; and maybe it’s the little mannerisms, the moving hands and the palm in neck).

He doesn’t stay for long though, being called by the other heroes to help with another part of the street, which seems to have gotten the worst part of the fight. 

After helping with the best of your abilities, you grab your once-forgotten package, not minding how the pastries inside probably don’t look as nice as they used to, but you don’t mind. Who are you to expect them to make you new ones to substitute for them. It isn’t the fault of this place, but rather of those ‘villains’. You’re not going to make a big deal out of it, because it simply isn’t. 

You leave the bakery and register how bad the situation has gotten. The rest of the street was torn apart, the mud shining through the chunks of heavy concrete, The other buildings barely stand on their own, their insides already crawling towards the sun, and you have to look back to realize how lucky you have been. If you didn’t enter this almost unscathed place, you might as well be dead. You would be nothing but a colored speck in the cracks of the cement. 

The whole concept of heroes and villains is still bizarre to you, but you start to understand the necessity of these people in their silly jumpsuits (even if it still kind of looks like adults playing like children, only with much higher damage potential). And you’re glad these heroes exist, they did save your life today and they deserve the respect. 

That doesn’t mean you don’t want to avoid such situations at all cost. So you just make your way back, this time without getting distracted, which is partly due to that incident, but also because you’re getting famished and these pastries are waiting for you, their smell already clinging to you. 

And despite your attempts of avoiding villains and the fights they seem to carry with them, it appears that these kinds of situations are a normal occurrence, simply unavoidable, unless you barricade yourself somewhere, and even then there’s a chance of getting in the middle of any attack. 

You curse your company and their horrible choices, after being in another attack once again. But you’re in luck, as that one hero, ‘Deku’, has helped with the situation; and diffused it with the help of another, more brash one. The explosive hero had gotten angry with you, for some reason, but you hadn’t understood him well, but his attitude made you want to punch him. And you would have if you were on vacation. You would have at least left a proper bruise before they led you away, but you can’t tarnish the company’s image solely because he’s annoying. 

On the brighter side, you interacted a bit more with the green hero, just a few pleasantries, but those made you decide to finally dive into the whole hero business and learn more about them (even if just to discover if all heroes fumble around, are a bit clumsy, or just have a mean streak).

So after finally getting home after that particular fight, you start researching the whole topic of heroes. You slowly learn everything about this hero-culture, and you realize how much it resembles the celebrity culture in the early 21st century in the US. Polls, merch, websites and awards. You even stumble across fanfiction of these celebrities (and you have to admit to reading and enjoying them quite a bit).

And then you come across the current number one hero, Deku; having browsed through numerous footage, interviews and gala pictures. With a face to put behind the mask, you finally realize why you had been drawn to him. But you can’t help but wonder why he didn’t tell you anything about it. On the other hand, he did tell you about how stressful his work is, and with this new information, it all makes much more sense. 

For some reason, you don’t want to wait for him to tell you, so you just download a picture of him in his hero costume, and send it to him, accompanied with several question marks. You cringe a little at this action because you both hadn’t talked much lately, both of you busy, but also the whole confession and then runaway thing has been heavy on your mind. That’s why you have been hesitant to text him first. 

To your surprise, he immediately responds. A simple sentence. 

“Can we talk?”

And usually, this phrase would inject the anxiety straight into your bloodstream, but this time you had initiated the conversation, so you kind of are expecting the topic. So you agree to meet him at a local park the very next day. 

Despite the meeting park being local, you struggle quite a bit to find it, almost just going in circles, before you manage to discover the little bridge you both had agreed on meeting on. 

You lean against the railing to look into the softly streaming water, watching the colored fish idly swim with the movements, and you regret not getting them any proper food. Still, you enjoy just watching the calming water, slightly leaning forward to get a better view of the underwater world. 

“Be careful!” a voice behind you chimes and a hand lands on your shoulder to carefully pull you away. “You could easily slip and fall.”

You glance to the side and recognize Izuku, so you fully turn around to face him, this time leaning your back against the railing. 

“Oh, thank you, I didn’t know that…”

After your response you both look at each other, silence stretching between you, one waiting for the other to say something. And because you can’t stand this thickness between you, you clear your throat, trying to prepare to say something. 

“Uhm, listen, I understand why you didn’t tell me. The whole ‘my work is dangerous or needs a big amount of secrecy’ isn’t a new concept to me. I just wonder… Uhm, well, I just wonder if you’re hesitant to tell me because of your work ethic, or, uhm, the whole apple accident, and me practically lying to you?” Well done, for some reason you just start talking about that past, not being able to just forget about it. Your peace of mind kind of relies on his answer right now. And you didn’t lie, you’re not mad at him for not telling you, just confused, because he did encounter you twice. 

His hands already wave these thoughts away. “No! Well, the thing is just, I was on leave when we met, and uh, I didn’t want you to get hurt because you’re seen with me. And… and I wasn’t sure how your perception of me would change. I liked just being a normal person around you… It definitely wasn’t because of that apple… Uhm, it’s because I already knew when you told me. The leaves didn’t hide you very well, and I kind of got curious about you…”

You don’t say anything and just gape at him, unbelief evident in your speechlessness. It only takes a moment for the embarrassment to truly sink its teeth as you realize how both your alleged first meetings have been a full-on defeat. 

With a silent groan, you bury your face in your hands, the realization being uncomfortable and yet gratifying. 

“Honestly? This doesn’t make it better…” you grumble but slightly perk up when you hear his soft giggle ring, and you can’t help yourself but peak at his bright, smiling face. 

After that you both spend the rest of the time until his patrol simply talking; you answering his inquiry why you’re in Japan with a simple ‘work’ and a grin, as you both cannot disclose details of your occupations. 

Once he has to leave for work, he promises to meet you again, or at least to call you; to simply do his best to meet you in the middle this time. And you take his word to heart, but also promising to work with him, meet him in the middle. 

This leads to him calling you daily, until you memorize his patrol schedule to call him at the right time to hold a small conversation, avoiding all topics about work and instead indulging in the many interests you both share. And if he doesn’t call, he still sends you a quick text in his break, to just simply let you know that he’s safe and thinking of you. And despite your meetings never happening due to clashing schedules, you’re content with the moments you still get with him, staying on the phone for hours until one of you falls asleep (or has to leave), playing mini-games, or simply sending pictures of cats and whatever has caught your eye. 

To your regrets, you never manage to see him face-to-face again before the negotiations have been successful and your work in Japan is officially over. You have to return to your country, as much as you learned to love this country, and as much as you desire to stay. Your work is expecting you to just come back, it’s the only constant in your life in the city. If you decide to throw it all away, who would you be? What were you supposed to do with yourself, without backup, without something else to hold onto?

So you book your return flight, giving yourself a couple of days to pack up and to properly say goodbye to this town. Of course, you told Izuku, and he wants to see you before you go, but his work is using up all his time, he barely has any to even send you a goodnight text. You understand the pressure he’s under, and there’s no way you want to put more weight onto his shoulders. 

After spending your last days just enjoying the place, you take a cab to the airport, and for the first time in your stay, you almost wish for a villain attack, if only to see him briefly. But nothing happened. The whole way has been peaceful and nothing happened, not when it finally would have been convenient for you. 

With a last look at the skyline of the city, you enter the airport. Inside you start looking for the check-in but stop in your tracks when you hear someone calling your name. Did you mishear, and it’s just another person with a similar name? Despite this possibility, you look around until you hear the same shout once again. 

And then you spot it, a green head of hair above everyone else. 

Izuku seems to have noticed you at the same time, making eye contact with you before breaking into a big smile, at least his eyes do, as the rest of his face is covered by a medical mask. He begins hurrying towards you, avoiding any collision with the people around you to the best of his abilities. 

After a short moment, he finally stops in front of you, hand already scratching the back of his neck. “I’m glad I still caught you! Uhm, here.”

A colorful speck appears in front of you, a small bouquet of flowers, and you gasp slightly, eyes widening at the sight of them. 

“Izuku, what, what are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy, but your work…” you ask, voice slightly wavering with confusion, but also accepting the handful of flowers with a giddiness. 

The tips of his ears turn red, indicating his flushed face. “Uh, I wanted to ask you out… on, uh, a date, but you know. We barely saw each other and.. and I thought I still had some time. But then you told me, you were leaving and I had to do something! I mean, I’m not asking you to stay, I would love for you to stay, but uh, I know you can’t, but maybe you could visit sometimes? Or- or I could visit? Maybe? I honestly didn’t think this through…” he rambles, trying to explain his thought process with a strained voice and a hand in front of his mouth, muffling his mumbles. 

You’re at a loss for words (which seems to be a recurring theme with Izuku), and your heart feels like it’s sitting in your neck, daring you to do something. And you do, once you process his words, a smile spreads over your face, before you carefully take his scarred hand into yours, letting your thumb softly caress his callouses. 

“Izuku, I would love to go out with you,” you answer in a light voice, in a voice full of the warmth of last summer and the flow of the water; simply watching as his forest green eyes accept your offerings, lighting up, tearing up. 

His fingers press against yours, caressing your knuckles and squeezing his palm against yours. 

And you wish this moment would never end. But you have a flight to catch, and he’s supposed to be at work. Yet this isn’t a goodbye, even if you’re leaving. Reluctant to let go, he presses his forehead against yours in a silent goodbye, none of you wanting to say the words outright, trying to let any kind of illusion live longer. 

But eventually, you have to break those connections to him, the loss making your skin yearn and long for the warmth of him. With small steps, you force yourself to retreat, to only glance at him occasionally until his figure has been concealed by the sheer amount of people. And your insides hurt, trying to convince you to go back, to just stay here with him, but you continue to step further, to catch your flight, to persist through these endless hours up in the sky, and to arrive in your town. In your home. But for some reason, you feel estranged, almost like you’ve never truly belonged to this place. And this thought only pushes you further, your plan slowly clicking into place like Tetris. And you're going to clear it, to win. 

You punch through whatever obstacle lies ahead of you: the jetlag, the needed signatures for the forms, the time it took you to finish different courses and meetings. Whatever must be done, you will do it. 

Throughout the whole ordeal, Izuku and you stay in contact as much as possible, even with the time difference, and your difficult schedules; enjoying the late-night calls while he prepares to go on patrol. And not once had you slipped, allowing him to be unaware of your workings behind the scenes. 

You didn’t want to tell him until you finally arrived in Japan until all your work finally paid off. You have managed to convince your workplace to permanently relocate you to Musutafu with the agreement to travel to whatever place whenever they need you. Considering you often have to comply with these rules anyway, this was a striking deal in your favor. 

So there you are. Stepping into the airport, immediately trying to pull your phone out to call Izuku and to surprise him. But before you even have the chance to dial his number, you once again spot a mop of green hair. You doubt your senses, doubt if it’s even him in the first place until the tell-tale green continues to move closer to you. 

And then he steps out of the crowd, hair slightly tousled, medical mask pulled down to reveal a bright, slightly mischievous grin, and his focussed gaze, looking you up and down, filled with wonder and curiosity. 

For a moment you both just stand there, looking at each other, trying to assess if this situation is real before you just let go of your baggage to jump at him, to wrap his huge frame with your own arms if only to feel his very real warmth and heartbeat. Too immersed in the moment and spurred by his own arms slightly crushing you into him, you put your hands on his face, appreciating every little detail, his freckles, his forest green eyes only looking at you, and his plush lips. And you wonder how they would feel on your own before they just meet yours. You don’t know if you’re the one who moved, or if he seemingly reacted to your thoughts, but it doesn’t matter. Only he matters, only the way his lips caress yours matters. 

After barely a breath you both split, only leaving the least amount of space between you, forehead on forehead, nose touching nose, breath mingling like dancers. And your grins mirroring. 

“So, whatcha say? Wanna let me take you out?” you ask with a slight tease, anticipation filling the little room between you. 

He accepts. His smile warming your ribcage, and the smell of apple pies seems to linger between you. 

And you wonder if the next time you climb on a tree, someone would be waiting on the ground and catching the sweet fruits for you.

#izuku midoriya x reader #midoriya x you #midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya izuku x you #bnha reader insert #meet fruit collab #midoriya x reader #izuku x reader #izuku x you #izuku midoriya x you #deku x reader #deku x you #mha reader insert

[shig-a-shig-ah]

everything i’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it

Before the League of Villains, Tomura took you. Before the final war, he let you go. Still, moving on proves difficult for you both.

» pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x afab!reader » word count: 4.2 » notes: Idk what this is, really. Divorce Ghuleh was in some kind of mood. » contains: gn!pronouns, post-canon, angst, exes (kinda), unrequited love (kinda), soft Shigaraki, ostensibly yandere Shigaraki, referenced kidnapping, oral sex (f!receiving). 18+, minors DNI. » ao3 mirror

"You got a new place."

Anyone else might be alarmed by that casual interjection when you were, until a moment ago, alone in your apartment, no company save for the pile of moving boxes beside you and no sound except the patter of rain against the roof. But you? You don't so much as flinch at the sudden appearance of that raspy voice. You only continue placing books neatly on the shelf before you as you reply, "And you found it."

"I always do, don't I?"

There's a shrug in Tomura's voice, the words spoken as a simple matter of course. It's followed by footsteps reverberating across the hardwood, and even without turning around you can picture the scene perfectly in your mind: him pacing behind you, head cocked and hands shoved lazily in his pockets as he surveys your fourth apartment in fifteen months.

"Why'd you move?" His question is followed by the telltale creak of a cabinet opening. "I thought you liked your last place."

"I did, but they raised the rent."

The cabinet, empty, thuds shut. There's a weight to the brief silence that follows, and when it's broken it's by the drag of fingernails raking over papery skin. Then, "You know you don't have to worry about that."

It's true, and it isn't. You could afford any place you wanted with the money Tomura insists on putting in your name—money that you refuse to touch. On principle, you tell yourself, though you often wonder the difference between that and spite.

You don't argue, though. Only deflect. "It wasn't worth what they were asking. And I like this place, too."

You're not lying. The unit is smaller, admittedly, and further from the city center, or what passes for one these days when so much is still in ruin. But it's also quiet. Quaint. There's a picture window that looks out over the shared courtyard, and rows of built-ins lining the walls. More built-ins than you could possibly need, really, for the meager possessions you've accumulated over the last year and some, but you tell yourself that's a good thing. That you'll grow into the space in a way you never managed at your last apartments.

Not that this is a promising start.

You wipe your dusty hands on your jeans and finally stand, sighing as you turn to face Tomura. "You said you were going to stop coming by like this."

He looks as you'd expected, on first glance—loose black clothes and slouched posture, carmine eyes watchful behind the spill of white hair that hangs longer every time you see him. But you also catch the subtle shift your words bring—the brief press of his mouth into a tight line, the quick drop of his gaze.

There's a long silence as you stare at him and he stares at the floor.

When he starts pacing again, the echo of his footsteps hangs heavier this time.

"It's hard," he says, chewing at his cheek. "Everyone else has moved on. Toga has her girlfriend, Dabi's with his family. Spinner's turned the Liberation Front into some heteromorph rights movement, if you can believe it." He lets out an incredulous laugh, as though he can't. "Even Kurogiri is busy. Figuring out his old friends, his old life."

"Kurogiri left?" You try to force aside the unwanted tightness that revelation spurs in your chest. "I thought he'd stay with you."

"He offered. Would have if I'd asked, but it's not like I need him. I'm just..."

"Lonely?"

"No." And then, with mirthless huff, "Maybe."

That admission hangs in the air longer than you intend to let it—long enough for your memory to take you back to places you'd rather not be. To waking, years ago, in a strange bedroom in a strange apartment. To long night after long night with Tomura curled against your side and your own mind refusing sleep, preoccupied as it was with the question of why.

The answer, it turned out, was deceptively simple.

There's a pile of takeout menus on your coffee table—ones that were waiting in your mailbox when you moved in. You sigh as you reach for them, already knowing he'll stay for dinner if you offer.

And already knowing you'll offer.

"Well," you say, not missing how Tomura's eyes darken guiltily at the trace bitterness you can't quite keep from your voice, "it's not like it would be the first time."

"You go out now."

Tomura's words have you pausing with a piece of katsu lifted halfway to your mouth. The two of you have been silent the last ten minutes; were mostly silent before that, too, as you waited out the vast-seeming span of time between the placing of your takeout order and the reprieve of the delivery person's arrival. But now he's looking at you from behind his hair as he scoops up threads of soba.

You finish taking your bite. Swallow. "What?"

"I came by your old place a few days ago and you weren't there." He says it reluctantly, like he's ashamed despite the current circumstance. "Last month, too. That never used to happen."

Of course it didn't: you barely left your old apartments in the weeks and months after Tomura let you go, though you've been trying to remedy that as of late. Two years sequestered from normal life left you overwhelmed in public, oddly claustrophobic any time you found yourself in a crowd. And even once that tendency towards panic abated, there was hardly anywhere to go outside of earning your meager living. No family to miss you, and certainly no friends to reconnect with. Much like Tomura now, everyone you knew seemed to have moved on.

Not that you hadn't, because whoever you were before Tomura, it's not who you were after. And you know the same is true of him—that he's not the person he was when he took you. An incontrovertible truth, if only because you're sitting here. Free.

More or less, anyway.

You take another bite of katsu. Chew carefully before saying, "I was on a date, actually."

The way Tomura stiffens slightly at your answer sparks a vindictive stab of satisfaction in you. It only grows when he asks, with forced casualness, "What kind of date?"

"A first date."

A good date, too, by objective standards. One where your suitor did all the right things, and where that effort seemed genuine. They didn't even try to come up at the end of the night—only kissed you on the cheek and said they would call.

"Is there—" Tomura wavers, for a moment. Lifts one hand towards his neck only to drop it just as quickly, and then slurps down a hasty spoonful of broth instead. When he swallows, it's harder than seems necessary. "Is there going to be a second one?"

You think again about the end of that latest attempt at romantic connection. About the blank indifference you felt as your date stood there smiling, and about the memory of crimson eyes that haunted you in that moment, the same way it had in the few attempts before. About the voicemail your suitor left the next day. The one that still sits on your phone, unplayed.

Whatever petty satisfaction you felt a moment ago slips away.

"No," you say flatly before lapsing back into silence.

There never is.

"Do you ever regret it?"

It's a question that again comes after lengthy quiet, though this time you're the one to speak first. Dinner is long over, takeout containers and disposable chopsticks left in a pile on your scuffed kitchen table, and you've spent the last couple hours in silence on your sofa. You're in one corner and Tomura's in the other, his foot propped up on a couple moving boxes as a sitcom neither of you are really watching plays out on screen. He frowns at the abrupt inquiry.

"The war?"

It's telling, you think, that that's the first place his mind goes. To that final confrontation with the heroes, and a battle he'd more or less won. But it's not what you meant.

"Letting me go." After a moment's consideration, you add, "Or taking me in the first place."

That question has festered in the back of your mind since the day Tomura chose power over the dwindling comfort of your presence, and you couldn't say why you ask it now. Couldn't say, either, why it was left unspoken for so long, save that some discomfort always stopped you. A fear, you suppose, that whatever response he gave would reveal as much about you as him. That you'd realize too late there was some specific answer you wanted.

Even now, your eyes stay fixed uneasily on the television as you await a response that takes several long moments to come. In the interim the quiet is filled with nothing but grating laugh tracks and the telltale rustle of nails scraping over Tomura's throat. You wonder when he resumed that anxious tick. Wonder, too, how bad it's gotten. If you brushed back those tangled locks, would you find mere reddened skin, or deep scores?

You distract yourself with that wondering, and eventually Tomura gives his answer.

"Sometimes," he admits.

"Sometimes for which one?"

The subsequent silence is longer this time. Then the sound of scratching abates, and from the corner of your eye you see his hand drop.

He leans forward for the television remote. Turns the volume up a couple notches.

"Both."

"Are you asleep?"

"No."

Tomura's answer is the one you expected. You've spent the last who-knows-how-long doing nothing more than staring at the dim black of the ceiling above your bed and somehow, despite the dark and the polite distance left between you, you knew he was doing the exact same thing.

He doesn't stay over, usually. Doesn't come by that often at all, truth be told, though every time he does it feels like an inevitability. Like there could never be any world where the two of you part for good.

On your good days, you know why that is. Understand the technicalities of trauma bonding or Stockholm syndrome or whatever one wants to call it. You know, too, that you're lucky in some ways. That this thin attachment you can't shake could be far stronger after two years of forced proximity.

On your bad days, though? On days like today, when his presence reminds you that there was something almost comfortable about this, once?

On those days, you can't help thinking that sense of inevitability might mean something.

You shift. Roll onto your side to look at him, and preoccupy yourself studying the outline of his silhouette, so different now from when he first stole you into his bed. He looked so young, then, with his owlishly wide eyes and that shaggy mop of dirty white hanging chaotically over his features. Now, his stark hair falls heavy back from his face, and his cheeks have lost some of their surprising roundness. Those more chiseled angles match the cut of meaty shoulders, and the swell of a chest that wasn't always so broad.

Several long moments pass, and then Tomura turns to face you.

"Why?" he asks. His brow is knit slightly, the rest of his face placid. It's a look you used to find strange—too dispassionate and untroubled for someone whose blood so often ran hot. But even in the earliest days he rarely turned those mercurial moods towards you.

No, with you he was always calm, or calm enough anyway—no demands or expectations beyond your stolen company and the tug of your head to his chest so his face could bury into your hair. It's that weight of expectation that makes it so different with everyone else, you think. Every job you take, every date you make, comes with the realization that something is wanted of you. Then, and always.

It had seemed intolerable when you were living it, but those long years with Tomura were still the only time in your life you were allowed to simply be.

And whether you want to or not, sometimes...

Sometimes you miss it.

You scoot closer to him. Ignore the way he stiffens in surprise and lean in, pressing your mouth to his.

It's not love. It never was, you're certain of that—not for you and not for him, either, even if it took so much time and growth for him to realize it. But it is familiar in a way that nothing else is, and tonight you don't much mind that when he feels like home it's in the exact wrong ways, like a place to which you would never want to return for good but that you might sometimes long to visit, if only because nothing else will ever be yours in quite the same way.

And because you'll never belong to anything else in quite the same way, either.

Tomura's arm extends to settle around your waist, tugging you closer. The gesture is far more practiced than the clumsy movements of his lips, but it's no surprise to you that he's more well-versed in the mundane affections. They were a constant in the hundreds of nights you once spent close against him, his hands in careful fists and his body curled into your side, each passing minute proving that he wasn't lying when he whispered what you thought were reassuring falsehoods. That he just wanted to be close to you.

It was hard to believe at first that he held little interest in carnal endeavors, at least beyond what they might represent when given willingly. But in the end you were convinced of it.

And in the end, when some combination of conscience and necessity finally led to your parting, you gave it willingly.

Now here you are. Again.

You deepen the kiss. Let your tongue trace over Tomura's scarred lower lip and sigh when his arms tighten around you. There's not passion in it, not exactly, but he's steady against you. Warm. Easy. And whether it's him you want or merely a familiar body touching you, that's enough to have a faint spark of heat stirring between your thighs.

Tomura doesn't protest when you pull back to tug him atop you, your hands already pressing at his shoulders to guide him where you want him, settled between your thighs. In the dim light you can just make out the stigmata-like scars that mar his palms as he shoves your shirt up, and you find yourself contemplating those pale, shiny marks. They're two among many, those hints of old wounds serving as counterparts to all the strength and muscle that lingered even after All for One left him.

It must be unsettling, you think, to inhabit a body so different from the one he started with—to wear the evidence of his ascent to godhood even after all that power was stripped away, sacrificed in the name of something as basic as self-preservation.

You think, too, that in the wake of all that it's no wonder he's lonely.

And then Tomura plants an open-mouthed kiss against your clothed mound, and you can't think of much except the desire blooming in you. His fingertips hook under the band of your underwear, tugging them down over your hips so his thumb can tease at your exposed sex, and the delicate touch has a faint gasp slipping past your lips. Tomura's cheek comes to rest against your bare thigh, his hot breath tickling flushed skin.

For a long moment he simply stares up at you from that prone position, gaze intent and eyes heavy-lidded with a want that seems deeper than mere lust. When your hips buck impatiently, however, he's quick to answer; a shuddering exhale slips past his lips and he drags his tongue over the length of your cunt.

His mouth is warm, the velvety pressure enough to have you lifting a hand to tangle in his hair. He groans in response, tipping his head to nuzzle briefly into that touch before he resumes his work, one finger tracing again over your entrance. It tests your wetness and then slips inside you, pressing and curling experimentally until it earns the delicate whimper he was seeking.

He repeats the motion, his tongue continuing to lap at your sensitive apex all the while, and you whine again, throaty and frustrated this time as the heat that's been building levels off. As good as it feels, it's not enough, the soft strokes of his tongue too gentle to approximate what you're accustomed to—the buzz of toys or the firm press of your own fingers, but never someone else's touch. Your grip on his hair tightens as you grind yourself against him.

"More," you gasp. He's quick to respond, another finger slipping inside you and the flat of his tongue dragging more firmly over your clit. Your back arches in response, your eyes fluttering closed. "Mmhmm," you gasp. "Like that."

Even with your own eyes closed, you can feel Tomura's unfaltering gaze, can sense him watching raptly as you respond to every persistent touch. Your head is starting to go fuzzy, everything beyond the friction between your thighs receding into a haze. When Tomura's lips latch around you, sucking lightly, your free hand clutches at the blankets as your legs start to tremble.

Tomura stops his efforts just as quickly, planting a kiss against your inner thigh as you let out another choked noise of dismay.

"Say my name," he pants. Those words are accompanied by the faint rustle of the sheets beneath him, and when your eyes blink open you can just make out his hips rutting against the mattress, some reflexive bid for friction. His voice is thick as he repeats his request. "Say it, when you—"

You're already nodding, clutching at him again as you guide him back to where you want him. Where you need him. There's a pleasant ache at your center, throbbing as you hover on the edge of release, and you whimper when Tomura's lips close obediently around you.

"Fuck," you swear as the flat of his tongue starts to work in tandem with that suction, the sensation heightened by each rhythmic stroke of his fingers. "Fuck, 'm close."

He speeds up his movements, tongue working more eagerly against you, and you can feel yourself beginning to tense, your hands and your hips conspiring to shove Tomura's face more firmly against your cunt. It's a heady sensation, to be touched at all and especially to be touched like this after so long without. When those waves of pleasure finally crest it's almost overwhelming, some strange melancholy swelling in your chest even as your whole body goes taut and a cry rises in your throat. It nearly sticks, lodged behind the unwanted lump that's formed there; in the wash of your tumultuous orgasm you barely manage to give him the one thing he asked for in exchange for that peak.

The words come out a hoarse, broken whisper. "C-coming, Tomura."

He groans gratefully, coaxing you through your release and not stopping until you force him away, overstimulated. Even then he only turns his head to mouth at your thigh, his hips continuing to grind against your mattress as his breathing grows more ragged. His lips work fervently over you as he does, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses punctuated by strained exhales. Then he's stuttering and shuddering, letting out one last desperate gasp against your skin as he comes.

He claws his way back up beside you almost immediately, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, uncertain in a way that contrasts sharply with his usual demeanor these days. It has you reminded once again of early on in all of this, when he was so different. When you both were.

That uncanny nostalgia only intensifies when he asks, hesitantly, "Can I...?"

You nod. You know what he's asking for—the only thing he's ever really wanted when crawling into bed beside you. The moment you acknowledge his plea, he's pressing himself into your side, arms wrapping tightly around you and his face burying in the crook of your neck.

Tomura doesn't move after that. Only relaxes into you slowly as you stare again the ceiling, willing yourself to feel some shame or guilt for inviting him into your bed. Not because of what it might mean to him, after all this time, but because of what it might mean to you. What it might mean for you.

In the end, though, you fail to summon that remorse. Another part of the inevitability, perhaps, because what is there to be ashamed of when it feels like things could never have been any different?

So, you only lay there listening as Tomura's breathing evens into the telltale rhythm of sleep, and sometime in the hours after you doze away too.

Tomura wakes to the warmth of your skin against his, and for a moment it's as if all the months since your parting have been erased. He blinks his eyes open expecting to find himself in his room at the bar, and to rise and make you tea under Kurogiri's watchful eye the same way he did so many times before. It isn't until he's met with the sight of bare walls and morning light streaming through the window that he orients himself.

Muscle memory still carries him to your kitchen after he slips from beneath your sheets; it's only when he finds coffee instead of tea among your sparse pantry items that he pauses. Remembers that he's well past such persistent efforts to win you over. All he's doing now is acting out a script for a performance that's long since ended.

He leaves the stove unlit. Puts your kettle, half-filled, back where he found it, and stands uncertainly in your kitchen, surveying the stacks of half-emptied moving boxes that surround him.

It doesn't mean anything, he knows. That you asked him to touch you, or that you asked him to stay at all, those casual invitations thrown out not with reluctance, exactly, but with resignation: Why don't you stay for dinner? And then, when you'd retreated to bed, the simplest, Are you coming? And even if it did mean something, it would be nothing more than what it always means when you fail to turn him away. That the consequences of his early thievery extend far beyond what his younger self could have imagined. That what he's done he can never take back or undo, no matter what paltry efforts he makes to set things right.

There is no right, here. Not for the two of you.

Tomura's halfway through slipping on his shoes when your voice interrupts him.

"You're leaving."

He turns to find you standing in your bedroom doorway, your face still bleary with sleep and your expression otherwise indifferent. The skin at his throat prickles, the way it seems to do so often lately.

He was. Leaving. Had been intent on slipping out the door before you rose, and before he had to wonder if you would ask him to stay.

You don't ask him to stay.

"It's funny," you say instead, and with no real amusement, "I woke up at some point last night, and for a second I thought..."

That sentence hangs in the air, half-finished, but Tomura knows what you thought. He thought it himself, after all, when he first stirred to the rise and fall of your chest under his cheek and was transported back to a time when things felt far simpler. A time when after was a problem for others to contend with, so abstract and disconnected from his goals that it seemed the future couldn't touch him.

Tomura finishes tying his shoes. Straightens up to look you in the eye—a feat that seems to grow harder every time he sees you. Fingertips lift to rub at his neck as clears his throat.

"I won't bother you again," he says.

He means it, but then he always does. Always tells himself this time is the last time, and believes the lie until the moment that unshakable pull has him slipping through whatever unlocked door or window he can find.

You spare him the indignity of skepticism, though. Only nod and move to open the front door, watching silently as he accepts that unambiguous disinvitation. He takes two steps out into the hall before pausing, a question he doesn't want to ask hovering on the tip of his tongue.

He asks it anyway.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You asked me if I regret it," he says. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the carpet in front of him. "Do you?"

The question is met with silence at first. When Tomura finally turns to face you, you're staring at him with your brow slightly knit, your mouth twisted into something a little too wry to be called a smile.

After another moment, you sigh. Your gaze drops, briefly, and then rises again to meet his stare.

"Goodbye, Tomura," you say, almost gently.

You shut the door.

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#shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki x you #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x you #shigaraki x y/n #tomura shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki tomura x y/n #shigaraki fanfic #shigaraki fanfiction #shigaraki smut #bnha reader smut #bnha reader insert #nsft #ghuleh.writes

[stellar-imagines]

AIZAWA SHOUTA MASTERLIST

Links will redirect to posts. This post will constantly update. Main Masterlist | Rules | Ask

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ♤ [SFW] ❝Mineta’s harrassment.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝Aizawa defending his adopted daughter from Mineta.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝S/O with an otter quirk.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝Light hearted.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝Scents Aizawa likes.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝Aizawa with S/O who has keratosis❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝Crush who likes playing music all the time.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝Just anemic.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝S/O with Railgun quirk.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝S/O with Meltdowner quirk, artificial arm, and eye.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝S/O with emotion-related quirk.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝S/O with teleporting quirk.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝S/O with singing quirk.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝Hopeless romantic S/O.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝Photographer S/O.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝Aizawa with powerful S/O who has migraines.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝S/O who’s insecure of their laughter.❞ ♤ [SFW] ❝S/O with powers of Ope Ope no Mi.❞

#stellar-imagines #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha #bnha #aizawa masterlist #aizawa shota x reader #bnha reader insert #boku no hero academia x reader #my hero academia x reader

[tobegiggledat]

To Live at Her Alter

18+ CONTENT AHEAD MINORS DNI

✦pairing: Midnight x Villain!Reader

✦word count: 2.5k

✦warnings: BDSM, reader has a pussy, service sub!reader, orgasm control, body writing, oral sex, pussywarming? kinda, degradation, humiliation, suffocating/choking (non-sexual), self-harm, attempted suicide, implied enemies to lovers

✦a/n: when the ovulation hits and and

“To live by my Mistress is to serve her with every breath.” Utterance of the mantra webs tingles across your lips, the warmth clinging to your cheeks, then your sternum and chest as it snaps beneath your skin.

“To cherish her presence with my undeserving body”, you add while displayed before the woman you worship. Your torso is a stiff perpendicular plane to your folded knees. Your walls flex subtlety around the grooves of the toy you've been ordered to warm with your cunt, making squelchy whispers in a wet plea for respite. “And to uphold her values as a vessel of her will.”

A well-manicured hand is held to your lips and as your mouth relishes the brief taste of her skin you feel fortunate to be graced with the opportunity to give it—her your praises.

What led to your current circumstances was nothing short of several strings of miraculous events. Your quirk is a much deadlier version of hers, and with less shortcomings, so why is it you submit despite the upper hand you hold?

The answer is simple. In the tides of battle, she prevailed over you like an ice cube somehow withstanding the flames of a gas fire. Even then, her victory was no stroke of luck, you’re sure of it.

She’s your superior in every way, and as her palm closed around your throat amidst her triumph, you could only gape while wrestling away your thoughts of admiration. You'll always be glad she was able to make use of someone like you.

“Delicious”, Nemuri purrs. You think she says it with a smile as your gaze remains planted beneath her, where it should always remain. “And what of my other orders, pet.” The tip of her maroon high heel burrows between your legs to slightly part them. “Show me how well you follow instructions.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

Your thighs peel like damp tape, a turbulent shiver striking your veins as the cool air mingles with the dampness clinging to your flesh. Throbbing and inflamed, your poor clit nearly seeks her touch for stimulation but your conscious mind fights against it.

“My, I do love it when you make a mess.” One of her delicate giggles makes its way into the air. “Your body's begging for release but I'm sure you can hold out for a little longer. Isn't that right?”

“As long as you wish, Mistress.”

“Good because I heard some news about you today that really soured my desire for generosity”, she says with a curtness. You're tempted to risk her scolding just to catch a brief glimpse of the expression that accompanies her words. “You've earned yourself another badge. Show me your neck.”

You slip your head upward baring your skin yet closing your eyes so as not to insult her. A faint shuffling sound comes from above you before a cool pointed tip glides along your skin, forming arches and lines that resemble letters. Your breathing fails to flow properly throughout the course of her penmanship which seems to stretch on agonizingly.

“Open”, she demands while handing you her compact mirror and your throat stings at what's written;

IDIOT, carved below your chin in bold, ragged letters with a black tattoo marker. The ink won't wash away for days but it's part of what you usually enjoy about it especially when Nemuri would graffiti your body in syrup-sweet nicknames with curly, elegant letters and silly little hearts. On those days you wish it were ingrained in your cells, but today you want to scrape at your neck until it's raw.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry for being an idiot, Miss”, your voice is watery as gulp back tears.

“You’re more than an idiot. You're lucky all the words I have for you can't fit on your neck.”

She finally sways away from the door she’s entered, discarding her hero attire each step of the way to her chambers. You clumsily crawl after her as if a hastily built table granted the ability to move, swiping at each article of clothing to toss them in their proper bin.

It takes everything in you not to shriek your next words. “What is it that you heard—”

She jerks toward you, stopping in her tracks then sighing. “I’ll get to that eventually”, she answers, wrapping ribbons of her violet strands into a sloppy bun then stepping into her garage-sized bathroom. “But first…” She gestures expectantly toward a tray of amenities on a concrete, raised slab beside her shower—a tray you organize for her daily.

“Thank you, Miss”, you reply although your gratefulness to attend to her body is tainted by the sinking horror of what awaits you once the task is complete. You begin to gnaw your bottom lip to a bleeding meaty sliver as your stomach shuffles its contents.

As she hovers idly, skin illuminating under the harsh glow of the fancy lamplights, you run the water until it reaches her desired temperature then lather a few pumps of body wash on a rag. The sweet cherry taffy aroma wafting through the damp air is so thick you salivate. Her body is already soaked and glistening by the time you’re finished savoring the candy scented soap.

“May I?”, you ask, bringing the well-coated cloth near her flesh in anticipation.

“You may.”

You begin your ministrations at her feet, slowly working your way up her legs and thoroughly massaging the slippery fluid into her pores and making sure not to miss spots.

Such a small element of routine allows your worries about your future punishment to temporarily drift away from the forefront of your mind. It's best to focus on the task at hand or else you'll only create a deeper pit for yourself, you think. Dread continues to linger in the hidden crevices of your heart yet your thoughts of it flux with the strokes of the cloth, becoming distant as you move downward and returning to your conscience as you creep near her lower lips. The sight of her alluring slit has always been grounding for you.

It's only when Nemuri huffs that you realize you’ve been sweeping along the same leg for a while.

“Someones working extra hard to make up for things”, her voice laces with the steam, a hint of mischief etching its way into her tone. “I’m sure that area’s clean enough already.”

“It's not like that, Mistress. I’m merely doing what I’m meant to.”

When you reach her sex, she dismisses you to take over the scrubbing herself as reaching the rest of her would require you to relinquish your kneeling position. Well-trained property is never to be above or beside their betters unless given explicit permission so you crawl to fetch her towel and wait outside the foggy glass doors until she finishes up.

Once she’s done drying, she paces to her closet then embellishes her body in a black, lacy babydoll dress, the ruffles parting alongside her legs as she perches on the edge of her bed in a welcoming position.

“Come, your mouth will do nicely.” She shuffles her hips to beckon you.

“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Mistress”, you eagerly whimper before slipping between her like a puzzle piece and humming more thanks into her warmth as if giving prayer to your deity before your meal.

You leave a path of suckling kisses along the expanse of her sex, making slow and appreciative work of your lips as the feel of her slick, warm folds clouds you with crazed desire. You don’t mean to be a tease but it’s hard not to take your time with the delectable display presented to you, your unworthiness makes it all the more forbidden fruit.

When her rich, addicting flavor hits your tongue, your palette seizes with delight, taking in the earthy tones that envelope your senses with the zeal of a starved beast. Dark, glossy nails prick your scalp, scraping for balance while your nose meshes with the trail of curls poking around her clenching cavern.

A sharp pain goes through the top of your head and you hiss. “No licking, dear”, she eases her nails out of your flesh. “I only want your mouth there, nothing else.”

Her request is like asking a cheetah not to pick at fresh meat. Despite your wishes to indulge the gorging your soul craves, your mouth stills the instant she orders it to.

She acts as if you aren't gathered by her knees as she scratches and scribbles in the journal on her nightstand—the contents of which you've always longed to peer into.

You cling your lips to her as if she's what is needed to pump your lungs to life. Her thighs tenderly embrace your cheeks, squeezing softly in tandem with the strokes of her pen and the brush of your breaths across her cunt. Your own hole feels neglected compared to the lavishing you thrust upon her opening.

Muffled gasps crawl up your throat as you shift to ease the tickling in your core, eyelids shuttering with intense need yet frustration.

“Look at you, so ready and willing”, Nemuri coos, taking in the view of your drooling lips and glazed-over eyes. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

You nod amidst the mindless, obedient haze that washes over you whenever you serve her, but she pinches your ear to get you to use your words. “Yes, Mistress.”

“That's too bad”, she mocks. “I'm afraid this is all you’ll get for now.” She shoves you away and you look as if you were a kicked puppy.

She merely chuckles at that, making you jolt at the vibrations of the boisterous noise before her energy resets to normal. “Enough of that, about the news I mentioned earlier…” She folds one of her knees beside her and clenches her fingers tightly around it. “The hero you and your cronies captured wasn’t at the location you gave me. Your men must’ve gotten word of your survival and made a run for it, what a hassle.”

“I’m deeply sorry for that, Mistress.” You swiftly place your head against the floor in a deep bow. “Please punish me for their transgressions. They’re foolish, but I’m even more so for ever being with them.”

The silence that instills is cold, much like the coolness of the tile pressing against your forehead.

“Your enthusiasm is enough, I’ve no need to punish you.” She pushes lightly at your shoulder with the tip of her nylon-clad foot, bringing you to raise.

“What does it mean to belong to me?” You feel a weight on your shoulder in more ways than one as her heel rests beside your neck.

“To live by my Mistress is to—” Her toes mash with your lips.

“No memorized platitudes, I want it straight…” Her foot slides to your chest. “from the heart.” She presses there harder with each word for emphasis.

“I’ll do anything for you—you know that, miss.”

“Oh, I believe it. We’re talking about me after all.” Her stockings rub along your slit and you moan, long and loud. “You'll take whatever I give you, won’t you? You're always so whiny and desperate, scrambling for scraps of my affection. I’d say it’s pathetic, but it’s even more sad it took you so long to realize this is your rightful place when you could've saved yourself the effort.” She nearly stomps on your cunt, yet hot shame fills you as you unconsciously thrust to meet her rough touch. “All villains fall to their knees for the heroes eventually.

Like a shriveled sponge, you absorb her merciless words as truth, for they are nothing less than the truth.

“You saved me”, you say sheepishly. “I’m grateful for you.”

“That I did, it’s good of you to notice.”

Your face warms with delight.

“Here’s the deal”, she continues. “In exchange for the hero’s safe return, your ex-allies want proof of your death. They're clearly out for vengeance now that their leader’s dipped to join the enemy and left them with the clean up. So what will you do?”

It's a test. She's unsure whether you'd betray her at the drop of hat. How could she not, considering the state you abandoned your old allies in?

The only way out of this is for you to die.

Your resolve hardens. You activate your quirk and a translucent bubble surrounds your head, allowing no air to enter nor exit. It’s a volatile ability. By focusing hard enough, you can create a bubble that fills with a clear gas that can stop a person from breathing. The bubble’s surface is sticky and difficult to penetrate or tear, while the gas inside it destabilizes the instant it leaves the bubble, therefore losing its effects.

You’ve casted domes as large as two story buildings, but the one you summon now exists only for you—only for your mouth, your nose and your lungs. It fits snugly around your skull, and despite the small size, your concentration wavers while maintaining it as lethargy seeps into your brain and your chest constricts with an ache for oxygen. You tumble to your back, clawing frantically at the base of the bubble with your right hand as if you weren't the cause of your own suffering.

How many seconds have passed? 10? 15?

No matter, the gas’ effects will take at least two times longer to take hold of you given your own innate immunity to it.

Your vision clouds with nonexistent shapes while your muscles feel as though they're brimming with ice. Nemuri’s figure appears over you as blotchy and shadow-like, but even in your near-death hallucinations she still exudes a presence much like a dark goddess, looming with a natural yet mesmerizing grandiosity.

A weight you recognize to be Nemuri, settles on your midriff, clasping around the sides of your waist and dampening your stomach with her bare arousal. A different touch, featherlight and fleeting, swipes down your thighs to massage the throbbing crevice between them.

It goes across your clit in abstract swirls and circles, dwindling your already weak concentration to almost nothing. Coupled with the sensitivity of your stuffed walls, it only takes a few sweeps over your nub before your arching into the feeling, limbs curling into your middle like a crumpled leaf and shivering violently.

Sharp, excruciating bliss consumes you, afflicting your nerves with raw and unfiltered sensations, but is swiftly torn away when you notice the bubble has burst.

You gasp, vacuuming every bit of surrounding air into your unoccupied lungs until you're dizzy—dizzy with nausea or satisfaction you're uncertain.

“I’m sssorryyy”, you sob. “I'll try again—”, a cough hacks its way up your throat.

Her fingers shove their way into your mouth and you taste your own fluids. “And risk losing my favorite pervert? That won’t do, I still have my uses for you.”

Teary-eyed and trembling, you meet Nemuri’s gaze despite your better judgment and remember why it was considered a privilege to look upon her.

“Thank you”, you whimper, softening at the impish curve of her full lips. “Thank you for saving me once more.”

She hums with a soft smile. “Now, for cumming without my permission…”

#midnight x reader #midnight smut #midnight imagines #nemuri kayama smut #nemuri kayama x reader #midnight mha #midnight bnha #nemuri kayama #bnha midnight #mha midnight #bnha smut #bnha reader insert #mha smut

[platrom]

Red, Red Wine.

VILLAIN! YANDERE! DEKU X READER

NOTE: The second part of “One Last Time” is in the works. However, there is no set time when it will be released. Thank you for your patience, understanding, and endless kindness. :)

WORD COUNT: 4,655+

WARNINGS: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, intense yandere themes, severely unhealthy and toxic relationship dynamic between reader and Midoriya, intimacy is used as a way to assert power, predator/prey dynamics, dominant/submissive dynamics (like the abusive and non consensual kind), vague description of dead bodies (hinting of dismemberment of heads that are familiar faces), constant on edge behavior, there are frequent signs and mentions of domestic abuse behavior, Midoriya is a top villain, reader was once a civilian, Stockholm syndrome (sort of), reader is appeasing to midoriya in order to survive, condescending and patronizing pet names (doll, darling, etc.), a huge plot twist, they are on the top of a building, Midoriya physically abuses reader, description of blood, not a happy ending

THIS TYPE OF RELATIONSHIP IS NOT HEALTHY. IF YOU OR A LOVED ONE ARE STRUGGLING, PLEASE GET HELP. THIS BEHAVIOR SHOULD NOT BE CONDONED. PROCEED READING WITH CAUTION.

“Izuku, where are we?” Your dainty hands clasp onto his scarred forearms, fingertips squeezing helplessly against his bulging muscles. Gently, Izuku pulls your body closer to his, your lower back pressing against his abdomen. Your feet are sectioned in between his, and he places his chin on your shoulder before leaning into the crook of your neck.

Your lover’s coarse palms cover your eyes, preventing you from seeing this “surprise” he had planned. Despite the loss of one of your senses and the feeling of your husband’s astonishingly and worryingly warm body around yours, your ears still pick up the distinct whirring of cars speeding in the distance, couples giggling, and kids shrieking. The world around you sounds alive— free. It’s the first time such typical yet genuine sounds have reached your harking ears and your shoulders relax at what you could only describe as mellifluous noises.

A gentle breeze kisses your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that sends goosebumps down your arms. Instinctively, your shoulders droop as you lower your hands to rub your biceps to produce warmth for your chilled skin, mentally chastising yourself for wearing a dress for this occasion. That little voice that had possessed you, chanting at you to wear a dress for one of the sporadic times you were allowed to leave the penthouse with Izuku was a devious runt, considering it was still fall season and the beginning of winter had begun to mark its incoming presence.

Though, Izuku had told you that this was an extremely special occasion and wanted you to style yourself appropriately. You couldn’t just disappoint your Izuku, could you?

No, you couldn’t.

“Darling,” he coos, “I need you to keep your eyes closed for me, okay?”

Obediently, you nod your head and breathe out a small word of confirmation. Smirking into your skin, Izuku lifts his head from your shoulder and firmly grips your chin between his forefinger and thumb, leaning the back of your head into his chest. His hold is a warning— one you know all too well. If you do something he doesn’t like, it’s off with your head.

Time after time, Izuku would effortlessly place you in such subtlety compromising positions that most would brush aside for simply loving touches like the protective hand on the waist, the classic intertwining of fingers, or even the casual arm slung around one’s shoulders. And one way or another, each one would leave you vulnerable to his wrath. They all were positions of impeding submission- just as if with a predator and its prey. It was like the game of cat and mouse: the cat allowed the mouse to run to provide it a false sense of security and a chance to “hide,” but the cat was always one step ahead of the mouse. It knew the critter better than itself.

Presently, if he as so much desired to inflict the smallest ounce of pain upon you, he could tighten his grip on your chin, using nothing but the mere strength of his fingers to inflict severe and intense pain upon you. No arm or quirk required. And if he truly wanted, he could snap your neck without a moment’s notice and you wouldn’t even be able to feel it.

In short, you were inferior to Izuku Midoriya in every single way and he had no problem reminding you of your place that was tropic levels below him.

His fingers tilt your jaw upwards and that familar feeling of dread and panic begins to well in the pit of your stomach like a parasite festering. Dim memories resurface in your mind, reminding you of the reality that Izuku was a calculating man that always planned miles ahead. He analyzed his enemies and allies like a scientist studying its confined and captured test subjects, jotting down and mentally noting every minuscule detail about them. Every reaction, every action, every quality and characteristic.

Whatever your partner was planning, it frightened you to no end.

“Izuku?”

Behind you, your husband’s chest puffs in pride at the overly saccharine tone of your voice. He had taught you to habitually direct nothing but sugary sweetness towards him when even daring to garble out his hallowed name. Like a compliant little puppy, one that had been punished for their bad behavior as well as rewarded for their obedient behavior, you had begun to accommodate and form yourself to his liking.

For ages, you called him by his surname and work title (as well as a few other names) until eventually, he had broken your resolve and forced you to call him by his forename. Now, whenever he heard you say “Izuku” oh-so-sweetly in that voice of yours that left him spiraling in a flurry of jubilation, his heart would explode in his chest like thousands of fireworks lighting up the starry night sky.

Alas, you only knew this information because of the countless times your inamorato had gushed like a lovestruck puppy over how elated and enraptured he was by your voice that called to him like a siren luring their victims into a pool of water. He never failed to make it known just how he worshipped you.

“Don’t fret, my love,” Izuku coos, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “If you fall, I’ll catch you. Do you remember the vows we exchanged at our wedding?”

Don’t screw this up.

It’s a mantra that repeats in your head incessantly like a wailing baby pleading for its mother to pay attention to them. It was the same phrase that rung in your ears at your “wedding” with Izuku, cautioning you to step on your toes so you didn’t slice your heels on glass. It reminded you that the shards littering the floor with their serrated edges were not from the barriers you shattered, but from the ones you prompted him to explode into smithereens.

How could you forget that traumatic day? How could you forget the blood that spilled out of the young man’s chest, the only one who tried to free you from the suffocating clutches of the world’s deadliest villain?

On that fateful day, countless of Japan’s greatest heroes stood beside you, surrounding you like a wild pack of blood thirsty coyotes. Their eyes glistened with that exact unhinged glint that sparkled in the viridian irises of Izuku’s, the crazed faces that spoke miles about the demented thoughts that were conjured in their minds.

You wouldn’t put it past them to have given this same fate to some innocent civilian like you once were.

“How could I?” you respond serenely, forcing your lips to pull into a reminiscing smile. You’re sure that if you could see Izuku’s face, he would be grinning like a dork with a faint blush on his cheeks. Some things never changed with him.

The bulky man behind you mumbles something unintelligible and releases your face from his hold before taking a grand step back and clasping your hand in his and twirling you. The ends of your dress glide up and away from the skin of your legs, the smooth satin flowing like a rose finally budding its luscious petals.

In the care of his hands, you move effortlessly, like a professional figure skater performing on ice. The moment your chest presses against his, Izuku’s arms wrap around you, securing you to him completely and preventing all possibilities of escaping. His grip on you reminds you vaguely of a viper squeezing its prey to suffocation, watching as its victim’s eyes bulged out and jaw gaped like a fish out of water in a vain attempt to save itself from the claws of a reaper, to ignore the sound of death knocking on its door.

If death was embodied by any person, it would be Izuku Midoriya.

“You can open your eyes now, darling.”

Years ago, when you watched Pro Hero Deku speak in interviews, you thought that his emerald eyes were surely jewels crafted by only the finest, most nubile and skilled hands. That some deity who roamed the Mountains of Olympus had plowed through the toughest of mines and destroyed millions of geodes with a strength that only myths could describe to give him irises so exquisite and unparalleled.

Now, when you stare into the eyes of the former Symbol of Peace of Japan known as Deku and now the recorded worst villain worldwide, you are greeted by a glowing, radioactive green that bubbles with the promise of acid-burning flesh and scars to last a lifetime.

The memory of the eyes of a genuine hero is a dim one and in its place are the eyes of a bloodthirsty villain. How could such a person change in only a couple of years?

Because of you.

He sighs fondly, eyelids drooping and shoulders relaxing at the sight of your sinless eyes staring widely in puzzlement at his.

Play dumb, you remind yourself. It’ll all be over soon.

He adored whenever you let him take the reins to pamper you and would condescendingly coo at you whenever you succumbed to his overbearing behavior, too tuckered out to resist the absolute hulking mass of a man that claimed to belong to you entirely, body and soul.

Being obedient and compliant always came out with a better outcome for you both. After all, he was the apex predator and you were nothing more than his pet. Another mere prey in the food chain, caught up with an animal greater than it could ever be.

Against Izuku, you were weak. But you had claws too. Maybe not as sharp, but you could fight back too. And if not physical, then you could outsmart him. Be conniving. Sly, slick, quick.

All you had to do was play your pieces correctly. Stalemate or checkmate, you would get there eventually. You just had to be patient.

Delicately, Izuku taps your chin with the tip of his fingers, the gentle motion so foreign it successfully snaps you out of your thoughts and redirects your full attention on him.

“Darling, I know the sight is one you can’t beat, but I didn’t bring you out here to just stare at me,” Izuku teases, patting your head lightly. The remark is one so casual and so normal that it sends you reeling in shock and face exploding in warmth, forcing your eyes to shut in embarrassment and your lips to purse to stop a squeak from escaping your throat. Your arms move to wrap themselves around your face to conceal your flustered expression.

“If you really wanted to just stare at me, we could have stayed home. I don’t mind the attention, either— it’s not everyday I get to spend time with a pretty lady like you.”

The sound of Izuku’s hearty chuckling echoes into the night, increasing the heat that crawls onto your neck. Without a doubt, you’re smudging your makeup in a poor attempt to conceal your face from his prying eyes, but the act of lighthearted, innocent embarrassment is one you haven’t experienced in eons and you choose to only tighten your grip on yourself in a futile attempt to linger in the warmth and refreshment of the feeling. Izuku’s guffaws sound so casual and free— unlike the menacing and maniacal laughs you had grown accustomed to as his prisoner.

Hesitantly, you sneak a peek from the shelter of your limbs and watch as the hulking mass known as the world’s deadliest, most dangerous villain chuckled until tears began to form in his eyes.

“Don’t laugh at me,” your arms fall to your side and you lower your head, falling into a dejected stance. “I was just spacing out.”

Deku grins giddily, his normally dull jade eyes lightening up in fondness. Dramatically, he lifts a scarred hand to his face and another to his chest, leaning back to imitate a distressed and offended damsel. “Oh, I would never, my love!”

Rolling your eyes, you slap Izuku’s shoulder with an annoyed huff. Without a doubt, your poor efforts to inflict the smallest amount of pain on Izuku must have felt like nothing to the man who experienced years of strenuous and grueling training to strengthen his body to accommodate one of the world’s most puissant quirks that made him firmer than the mantle of the Earth itself. So much so, that even All Might could not defeat him— his own successor had surpassed Japan’s greatest hero and arguably the world’s best hero internationally. Izuku Midoriya, Deku, was a force to be reckoned with.

His name was whispered like a curse on the streets, and the heroes of today didn’t dare to even say his name.

Though, this villain was once a hero. You just don’t know where it all went wrong, when the world lost its privilege to scream out for their favorite hero to save them and instead gave you the role of being the lady in distress.

But you do, don’t you?

“Why are we out here anyway? It’s freezing, Izuku,” you trail off, making a show of rubbing your arms vigorously to further accentuate your point. Glancing above you, the stars of the night twinkle above you in mockery, their sparkles brightening despite your current misery.

A small murmur of apology slips past his lips, his hands reaching to cup your cheeks and stroke your face lovingly with the pads of his thumbs. “Today’s Halloween,” Izuku begins, and that familiar glint of adoration forms in his eyes as he watches your eyes widen in giddiness at the sound of your favorite holiday. Slowly, he leans forward until your foreheads touch, green curls tickling your scalp, and he moves his fingers to slip under the neckline of your clothes before rubbing tender circles on your neck, calloused thumb caressing the salubrious and unadulterated skin in contrast to his tainted and sullied skin. “I know how much you love the holiday, so I wanted to take you out to watch it happen in live action.”

The gesture is sweet, you can admit. He never took you out, considering the circumstances of your situation. It was thoughtful of him to remember that when you were younger, dressing up and collecting candy had been an absolute must for you every year. Who could pass up free candy?

Certainly, you couldn’t. Before and presently.

Hesitantly, you lift your hands to hold onto Izuku’s, (e/c) eyes gazing back into besotted basil ones. Having Midoriya in such close proximity was making your head spin— the savory scent of his cologne blended in with his skin so well, so much so that even with all this time spent together, you could never get used to the combination.

How could you?

Like the trained pet you were, you lift Midoriya’s hand to your lips and press a chaste kiss on a scar that ran all the way down to his forearm, eyes fluttering shut in hopes of appeasing your husband, the world’s deadliest villain.

Be obedient, you reminded yourself. Just do as he desires and you’ll survive.

“Always so appreciative, my love,” Izuku hums contently, pleased with your submissive behavior. “I taught you so well, didn’t I?”

A small smile breaks out on your face, akin to the mischievous grin of a Cheshire cat. The pawns on the chess board were falling into place, in your favor.

Check.

Breaking away from him, you cautiously inch towards the edge of the building, peering past the short concrete wall that prevented people from tipping off the rooftop. In the distance, you see people of various ages dressed up for Halloween. Little children skip down the street with their parents in step, dressed in frumpy little pumpkin costumes, sparkling princess dresses, and simple prince-like tunics. Teenagers huff as they chase their younger siblings down— scolding and chastising the children as they tiredly wipe at their eyes, smearing the heavy and dark lines of eyeliner they had spent countless hours applying.

Others drunkenly stumble down the sidewalk with their arms linked together, giggling like gossiping girls. The clicking of their heels meeting the rough surface of the pavement fills the silence of the night, along with the joyous and festive behavior from the neighborhood.

Brightly illuminated inflatable pumpkins fill the lawns of residential homes, childishly frightening faces painted onto the translucent orange tarps. Plastic bones crookedly stick out of the dirt and faux skulls litter the gardens located on the block. Styrofoam graves are splayed methodically on the ground, followed by hollow coffins occasionally stuffed with skeletons.

Halloween reminded you of the life you once had; it brought the innocence and kindness that laid deep within individuals to bubble up and explode. It showed a sweeter side to the world, one that allowed children to waddle around excitedly, shriek in joy, and chortle in pure jubilation at the immense happiness such thoughtful and caring behavior brought.

If only the world was still kind to you.

“That’s not the only surprise I have prepared for you, darling.” There’s a playful lilt in his voice that you haven’t heard in ages, a memoir of an era where nothing but sunshine, starlight, and moonlight flowed through a hero’s veins. A period where the sky was sincerely never the limit, where the world and its residents had begun to find tranquility, where crime rates that had previously skyrocketed has dipped to an all time low.

“Look behind you, darling.”

Obey him and you’ll survive.

Swiveling your head to side, you peer over your shoulder and past Izuku, only to be met by the sight of the classic Hollywood round table with a long white cloth draped over it.

Long, thin candles are placed in the center of the spectacle, their warm glow inviting you to sit down at the table. In contrast to the darkness of the night, the scenery looks absolutely breathtaking, as if it were straight out of a fairytale. Where a prince would free an enslaved princess and love her unconditionally until the end of time. Where two souls would travel the world hand-in-hand, safe in each other’s presence.

But not every story is the same; not every princess gets a happy ending.

On each side of the table are the standard silverware laid out, containing the elegant and ever-so-classic salad forks, fish forks, dinner forks, and more. Large, white plates rest in between the utensils, plated with katsudon on both your plates— Izuku’s favorite dish.

Two elegant, wooden seats are placed on opposite sides. The embroidery on the wood is done to a level beyond pure excellence— the carvings are delicate, thin, and flawless. Swirls and spirals decorate the deep mahogany wood, and laid atop the seats are thick, velvet cushions. Without a doubt, the pillow is sturdy yet so utterly soft and delightful.

“It’s all yours, my love.” His hands envelop your lower back, gently nudging you to inch towards the setup.

His heavy footsteps follow yours, the pounding of his black oxford’s meeting the floor below ringing through your ears.

It reminds you of the countless times you’ve heard Izuku’s footsteps late at night after he had come home from a long shift, or the days you spent in solitude, locked in a basement and chained to the walls of the cold, pitch black room.

He pulls out chair for you, before pushing it back in once you’ve securely seated yourself. Returning to his side of the table, he sits down and lifts a bottle of wine from under the table, popping out the cork.

“Care for a glass?” He’s nearly done pouring himself a hefty helping of liquor before tipping an empty glass in your direction and grinning.

If all went to hell, at least you would be buzzed enough to forget about it all.

You nod your head.

After pouring you a glass, you both proceed to eat. The meat is tender, savory, and flavorful. Once the noodles meet your tongue, they practically melt like a popsicle on a hot day. There’s the perfect amount of seasoning and chives that can be found in each bite, sending you reeling for seconds.

Minutes pass and the night continues to darken as you both feast on the meals in front of you, downing each bite with a sip of the sweet wine poured for you both. By the time you’re done chewing on your last bite, you’re a few glasses in and drunk.

Setting the cutlery down, you rest your chin on your palm, quietly gazing at Izuku’s massive figure. The angered thoughts that you had buried deep inside your mind creeps out of its closings, slipping to the front of your brain. Its claws push past the protective barriers that grew with time and experience, the survival tactics that you had to develop in order to adapt to an entirely new universe.

Maybe, it’s the liquor thrumming in your veins that pushes you to open your mouth clumsily and let words slip from your lips that you knew would have you punished.

"Do you regret it?”

Izuku’s fork stills, his head remaining downwards towards his meal. The air between you both stills, the candles that once radiated a tranquil warmth now becomes one that burns within your skin like a raging fire and raises the hair on your arms.

“Don’t go further,” the embers whisper. They flicker as the pace of the wind picks up, sending wisps of your hair flying. “Don’t play with fire when you know you can’t quell the flames away.”

“Don’t fall for the same trap you did years ago, (Name).”

But you were never one to listen to warning signs, were you?

“You had it all, Midoriya,” the words gush out of your mouth like a flood filling a building, no force able to prevent the inevitable from occurring. “You surpassed All Might— the greatest hero to have ever existed in history since the beginning of quirks; everyone adored you and villains fell at your heels. You even managed to eventually defeat All for One. Wealth encompassed you and you could have had any person you wanted as your partner.”

The red liquid in your cup captures your attention, twinkling in the moonlight. “Yet, you threw it all away. Why? Anyone would have died to be in your position.”

Izuku remains unmoving, almost refusing to react. It’s like when a predator and it’s prey meet eye to eye, each one staring the other to make the first move. To attack or flee. But in this case, you were already cornered.

Helpless, weak, defenseless. Those were the words you would use to describe yourself. But your inferiority only spurs you on, feeding into the ignited flames.

“You took everything I had, even when you had to all.” Tears well up in your eyes, hands moving to fist at your dress. It’s overwhelming— the intensity of your emotions that now settle upon you. The liquid courage that once flowed through your veins seeps out of your system, leaking from your eyes. The edges of your vision fade away into a blurry mess, impairing you. Softly, you weep, “Why can’t I win, just once?”

The tears spill from eyes like a dam cracking from the pressure of the water. The trickle is slow, light, but as each tear falls the intensity increases until they stream down your face. Shallow breaths are taken with each sob, each exhale a painful heave that leaves your shoulders rattling. Loose limbs freeze in place like stone, muscles tending to the point of violent shaking.

Your sobs are obnoxiously loud, disruptive, and foreign with the beauty of the night, but you can’t stop. You set a foot into the rabbit hole and now you’ve fallen into it with no escape.

A gentle scraping of wood against tile is drowned out by your desperate breaths, until you feel warm hands clasp your own and hug you tightly. Small murmurs leave his lips as he tenderly rubs your skin, the heroic instincts he once had kicking in.

Truly, there were some parts that you could not entirely remove from a person no matter how drastically they changed.

Eventually, the tears run out and you are left motionless in Izuku’s hold, eyes stuck in a blank stare. You’re nothing but a mere doll, lifeless and pliable. Izuku coos at you as he shifts you in his arms, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Stand up, love” he whispers, shifting his hold onto your elbows to raise you from your chair. “I have one final surprise for you.”

You comply, leaning into Izuku’s hulking figure. Tuckered out from your wracking sobs, all ideas you held about refusing to succumb to his touch escape your mind.

“Look at the ground, darling.”

And you do as you’re told.

At first, there’s nothing but the tile of the building under you. It’s dark outside, but it looks solid in color. It would be rough against your skin if you fell on it. Probably cold too, like the feeling of thousands of needles piercing through your skin.

Then, a slight heat begins to emit from beneath you, warming your footwear. The plain color of cement fades away into a light gray and eventually, into an ivory. There’s sudden clicks from below you and instinctively you clutch onto Izuku’s arm, mind alert. You don’t have the energy to panic, but you know that something isn’t right.

The ivory fades away to form a translucent tile, but there are undefined shapes below you.

The clicks continue, but with each one it sounds closer and sections of the building under you light up, the brightness seeping through the cracks.

“Izuku, what’s this?” Your voice quivers, knees trembling in place.

He grins maniacally, verdant irises gleaming in glee. “Just wait and see,” he responds.

The clicking comes closer and closer, and with each light that switches on you can begin to make out certain shapes.

Familiar faces.

Once the final light turns on, you’re in tears all over again, in a state of shock. The bloodied faces of your former classmates, friends, and coworkers stare back at you, their own eyes lifeless. It’s disgusting, the blood that covers the building below you.

You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. You can only stare in horror as you watch the people of your past look back up at you, long gone from the world.

“Isn’t it just extraordinary?” He squeezes your shoulders enthusiastically, beaming from one ear to the other. “You get to see all the low-lives of your past dead, in front of your very own eyes. Everyone who made you suffer is finally gone. Isn’t that just wonderful?”

The sight makes you want to vomit the katsudon and wine back up again.

“Can’t you see how much I love you, darling? I killed everyone who hurt you to make you happy!” He twists your face to meet his, moving to press a kiss to your lips.

And you don’t stop him.

You can’t.

You never could.

You should have listened when you were told to run, just like you were so many years ago. You should have listened to others, too blinded by ignorance.

This time, you were blinded by fear.

And now, you were stuck forever.

Closing your eyes once your lips meet his, you accept your reality.

You were stuck forever with Izuku, married to the world’s worst villain.

You fell for his trap and now had you in his grasps forever, just like he planned. You could never outsmart the puppeteer; this was his world. Not yours. It never was and it would never be.

And you had finally accepted the inevitable.

“No one is coming back for you, you know? You’re mine forever.”

You would never win against Izuku Midoriya. No one ever could.

It was best to accept the truth sooner than later.

#© platrom, plot / writing / banners & headers. do not repost, reblogs are appreciated! please consider leaving a comment and a heart! <3

#deku x reader #mha x reader #yandere midoriya #yandere deku x reader #yandere midoriya x reader #villain deku x reader #midoriya x reader #yandere izuku x reader #yandere izuku #izuku midoriya x reader #dead dove do not eat #midoriya izuku #x reader #bnha reader insert #deku x you #izuku x you #midoriya x you

[redpandaramblings]

Like Caramel For Chocolate- An Omega Bakugou x Alpha f!Reader fic. Part 11

Part 1 Here

Masterlist Here

Content Warning: Negative headspace, omegaverse, self deprecation, depressive thoughts, pushy parental figures, ambiguous omegaverse reproduction, non traditional A/B/O dynamics, unhealthy relationships, relationship that could be easily fixed if idiots would use their words and communicate, Shinso/Denki side relationship, Bakugou is a dumbass but so is y/n

Where we left off-

“Denki Kaminari. You are an absolutely amazing omega, and my very dear friend. I think we could have been good together. But what I want the most is for you to be happy with the alpha that makes you happy. You deserve the world, Denks.”

“Well, so do you.”

You smiled at each other, still holding hands and just basking in the comfort of each other’s presence. That is until a pair of fists slammed down onto the table with enough force to upset the cups sitting there. You jolted in shock as you looked up to meet a pair of angry, ruby red eyes.

You and Denki watched the liquid running off the table with wide eyes, before turning your gazes back to the enraged man before you.  His tall, bulky frame blocked you from the rest of the restaurant, leaving you feeling trapped and vulnerable.  His shoulders heaved as he took deep breath, trying and only partially succeeding in calming himself.

“What the FUCK do you two thing you’re doing?”

You swallowed, unable to speak as two ruby eyes seemed to sear their way into your soul.

“It….”  Denki stuttered, nervously shrinking into his chair.  “It isn’t what it looks like?”

“And what exactly do you think, I think this looks like?  Because to me, it looks like you two are slinking around in dark little coffee shops getting cozy while my best friend is curled up at home is his nest, practically catatonic from your shit!”

It was hard to maintain eye contact with the redhead, but you felt you had to.

“What Bakugou does isn’t my concern anymore.”  You spoke lowly, an eerie calm to your voice.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?!?!  And you, don’t think you’re going anyway, either!”  Denki sunk back into his seat, his escape attempt thwarted.  Kiri’s raised voice was drawing a few glances and murmurs.

“Look,” you sigh as you catch the looks coming your way “can we do this somewhere else?  Anywhere else?”

Kiri looked around, his cheeks tinged pink as he caught on to the attention focused your way.  He nodded once.  “Agency.  Now.”

You shared a glance with Denki and nodded.  It took a few moments to gather your things and settle your bill.  Kiri glowered from the door when he noticed you paid for both yourself and Denki.  The walk to the agency Kiri worked at seemed longer than it was due to the heavy silence.  Denki wrung his hands, trying to catch your eye, but you keep your stare straight ahead, not really focusing on anything.  Your brain picking at the bits of information Kiri had inadvertently thrown your way.  Bakugou wasn’t doing well?  He was nesting outside of his heat, which was unusual.  Or was it?  The dark hurt part of your brain whispered to you that you didn’t know because you’d never been allowed to see any nest.  Kirishima was actually visibly pissed, so it had to be serious…  Or maybe this was just what the first part of What Kiri and Katsuki getting together would look like.  Katsuki actually letting someone in.  Kiri being allowed to show the protective alpha side you had always been forced to repress.  Half felt like this is exactly how things were supposed to be.

But if that was the case, why did it hurt so much?

You continued to brood as the looming building of Kirishima and Bakugou’s agency got closer with every step.  Knowing that this would be the first time you were going to be allowed in didn’t help your mood in the slightest.  Kirishima led you and Denki down a side alley and through an unassuming back door.  A few turns down a hallway, and you were in a small workout room, by the look of it.  Kirishima locked the door behind you before whirling towards you and Denki, eyes blazing.

“Now, you two are going to tell me exactly what the FUCK is going on here!”

Denki cringed, half hiding behind you.  Your own nose crinkled from the strong angry scent pouring off of Kirishima.  And frankly?  It was starting to piss you off.

“Well you see,” you drawled as you glared right back at Kirishima, “my friend and I were enjoying a nice peaceful afternoon snack, when suddenly a huge stinking pheremoned out alpha came, knocked over our drinks, and started yelling at us.”  Your own scent was turning burnt and acrid as your volume increased.

“Jesus Christ, y/n…”  Denki threw up his hands, and backed away from you.  He could see where this was going, and he made sure to put some of the weight lifting machines between himself and the two angry alphas in the room.  Kirishima took a small step back, momentarily startled by your reaction before rage filled him stronger than before.  So you wanted a fight, huh?  Well, good.

“You know what I mean!  You go off in the middle of Bakugou’s heat.  Then a few weeks later, he’s damn near working himself to death, and when he’s not working, he’s curled up in his nest, refusing to talk to anybody!  And you’re nowhere!!!  Your omega is in pain, and you’re nowhere!”

The two of you had begun to circle each other slowly, glaring at each other.  The burnt smell of your combined anger was clogging the air.  Denki was covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve to keep himself from gagging.  You weren’t going to back down, though.  Why was this red headed rock sticking his nose into your business?  Hadn’t he got what he wanted?  Hadn’t Bakugou gotten what he wanted?  You were so tired of people telling you what to do, what’s best for you.  You were tired of being viewed as nothing but docile, someone who would just take what was given and not complain.  Well, you still were an alpha.  And you had had enough.  You could feel your fangs dropping down, the sharp tips nicking your lip.

“He’s not my omega anymore!”  You hissed at Kirishima.

“Why not?  So you can run around behind his back with his fucking pack mate?!?”  Kirishima roared back at you, inching closer with his teeth bared.

You laughed mirthlessly.  “Oh, please.  I just gave him and you exactly what you wanted.”

Kirshima shook his head, momentarily confused.  “Wait, what?  What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

As Eijiro’s anger cooled, yours only burned hotter.

“You heard me!”  You snarled, stepping closer until you were right in Kiri’s face.  “I.  Just.  Gave.  Him.  What.  He.  Wanted.  And he doesn’t want me.  Hasn’t for years.  All yours now!  Take him!  You were always going to anyway!”

Kirishima stared wide eyed, confusion having replaced all of his anger.  “y/n, what are you talking about?”

Maybe it was that your mood was running hot.  Maybe it was the stress.  Maybe it was because you had chemically suppressed your ruts for the last decade.  Maybe it was because you had been suppressing your alpha instincts for just as long.  It could have been any combination of those things.  But for whatever reason, that question from Kirishima was the thing to snap your teetering control.  With a frustrated scream of alpha rage, you swung, aiming at Eijiro’s jaw.  Your fist connected.  Unfortunately for your hand, years of hero training meant that Kirishima had hardened the area out of instinct.

“Fuck!” You yelped as you felt the bones in your fingers crunch.  The pain mostly brought you back to your senses.  You took a few steps back, sinking to the ground and clutching your injured hand to your chest.  Denki hurried up behind you, hovering and worriedly asking you questions that you didn’t really hear, let alone respond to.  Kirishima hesitated a moment before kneeling in front of you, his worry evident.  When he went to take your hand to look it over, you let him, the fight draining out of you.  He gently poked and prodded, as your breath hitched from pain.  Denki rubbed your back trying to sooth you.  After a moment, Kirishima spoke.

“Well, you broke it.”

You nodded with a snort.  “Figured.”

“Feel better now?”

You gave a sad half smile.  “I mean, my hand is killing me, but yeah.  Sorry about that.”

“Well, sorry my face broke your hand.  But seriously.  Just… What is going on, Y/N?  Because right now I’m really lost.  You and Bakubro love each other.  I know you two do.  But now he isn’t talking and what you’re saying is making exactly zero sense.  So can you please just walk me through it from the beginning?  I promise to hear you out.”

“God,” you sigh, tilting your head back.  “I don’t even know where the beginning is…  This whole shit show has been a long time coming.  I guess the most important thing is Bakugou and I broke up.  He’s very obviously wanted to for a while.  So he’s finally free to date you.  Then Denki and I were engaged though that was mostly our family’s fault for setting us up on a marriage date.  Then Denki got bonded, but not to me.  And then you showed up and I punched you in the face.”

You blinked up at Kiri as if that explained everything.  Kirishima looked at Denki with hopeless confusion.  Denki sighed.

“Come on.  Let’s get her hand looked at and then go to your office.  I’ll tell you as mush of everything as I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were sitting on the couch, nursing your bandaged hand as Denki was wrapping up.

“... And then Shinso and I ended up bonding after the hospital let me go home.  Y/N was just taking me out for a celebration lunch when you showed up.”

Kiri leaned back in his seat, letting out a long breath.  “Okay.  Right.”  He said.  “That explains a lot.  Not everything, but a lot.”  He sat up again and looked directly at you.  “Though I want to know where the heck you got the idea that I want Bakubro as an omega.”

You couldn’t quite meet Kirishima’s gaze as you replied.  “It’s not a stupid idea.  He’s comfortable around you.  Much more comfortable around you than he’s ever been around me.  He lets you scent him.  He calls you his pack.  He not only lets you see his nests, he lets you into them sometimes.  I barely am allowed in his apartment, let alone being able to see his nest.  We haven’t scented each other with any regularity since high school.  You see him so much more than I do, and you understand him and his job in a way that I’ll never be able to.  You look good together.  He doesn’t mind when you act like an alpha with him.”

Kirishima blew out a breath.  “Okay… Okay, I can see what you’re getting at.  But seriously.  Bakubro is a bro.  I’ve never thought of him like that.”

You nodded, looking at the floor.  “Okay.  If you say so, I’ll believe you.  But it doesn’t change the fact that Bakugou has wanted out of the relationship for a while.”

“And did he tell you that?  Like actually tell you that?”  Kiri asked.

“He didn’t have to.  He made himself very clear.”

“And when was the last time you two sat down and seriously talked?”

You didn’t have a reply.  Kirishima sighed and rubbed his eyes.  “I don’t get paid enough for this.” he mumbled to himself.  “Alright!”  He said, clapping his hands together and standing up.  “You!” he said, pointing to you.  “You’re coming with me.”  And you!” he pointed to Denki, “You’re coming with too to make sure she doesn’t try to get out of this.”

You and Denki looked at each other in confusion, as you both stood up slowly.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Denki asked as he followed after you and Kirishima.

“To do something I should have done a long time ago, but I thought the two knuckleheads would be able to sort things out for themselves, without outside interference.  Guess I was wrong in that regard.”

He ushered you and Denki into the back of an agency car, before getting into the driver’s seat.  You questioned where he was taking you, but Kirishima just shook his head and kept driving.  It was a surprise when you ended up in the parking garage of your apartment.  Kiri got out, and opened up the door to the backseat.  “Out!”  He said.  You only hesitated a moment before you slide yourself out the the car, Denki following close behind.  Understanding was starting to creep across Denki’s expression.  

“Eiji, what?” your question was cut short with a yelp as Kirishima threw you over his shoulder.  He strode quickly to the elevator, Denki following close behind.  You beat your good hand against Kiri’s back as you tried to squirm your way out of his grasp.  Denki hit the elevator buttons, knowing what to do without being told.

“Eijiro Kirishima, you put me down!  What the hell?!”

Kirishima shook his head.  “Nope.  Not til we get where we’re going.  Consider this payback for the punch.”

The elevator dinged, and Kiri was off once again.  He fished in his pocket and handed a set of keys to Denki.  Denki run ahead and began unlocking a door.  Seconds later, you were landing on your butt, having just been unceremoniously chucked through the doorway.

Kirishima stood blocking the doorway.  “I’m not going to let you leave until the two of you actually talk.  I’m not letting anyone in my pack ruin their lives because they can’t put on adult pants and have a proper conversation.  And for the record, y/n?  You’ve always been pack.  You always will be.  Now go talk to your damn omega!”

And with that, Kirishima slammed the door shut, leaving you sitting wide eyed and shellshocked on the floor of Bakugou’s apartment.

Hello everyone! I'm well aware that It's been a while. Very sorry for the delay. Lot of life stuff. I hope that this in small part makes up for it. Ended up having to radically change my plans for this bit, but I'm pretty sure I like how it came out. Enjoy!

TAGLIST- @yzviea, @not-a-pushover, @thelilypieforever, @kumihayu, @aomi04, @ladybakugouu, @luajosephdun-blog, @hakunamatatayqueen, @my-thoughts-are-weird, @left-alone-yuki, @officialtrashbusiness, @lonelyheart-clubband, @katsuki-cait, @moonwritters26, @animexholic, @kyrah-williams, @emilymikado, @wolvesblaxe360, @ficklemcselfish, @helena-way07, @fandomsaremylifesposts, @baby-bakuhoe, @sukeraa, l@ucypevensie11, @idk-sam, @katsuki-cait, @weirdestlove, @sasa-slayer, @anime-for-live, @kaidousimp, @bluesdustyflames, @vitheria, @milktea0208, @maristaymulti, @whatdidshesayyy, @memesbyeloise , @fandomsgotmefucked, @killmehe, @shy-panda02 , @skylan666, @missmolliemoo, @misssugarless, @arcticsakura, @queenondeezmatatas, @lordmypantsaresocool, @bluesdustyflames, @am-198, @hornelittleweeblet2, @joonie-centric, @sunascrew, @etainstreams, @shadoweepingscream, @midostinny, @superblyspeedydragon, @lostinbooksblog, @moonroyalt, @superladypeach, @bandaged-despair, @shslcheshirecat, @idkdude44, @the-shota-king-masayuki,

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Just a reminder, if you want tagged make sure you have the ability to be tagged turned on; and I’d have to be informed if your blog name changes! Cheers, Darlings!

#reader insert #bnha reader insert #bakugou x fem!reader #bakugou angst #bakugou x reader #reader insert angst #bakugou katsuki #katsuki x reader #omegaverse #omega bakugou #alpha reader #multi part fic #denki #fake dating #fake engagement #like caramel for chocolate #part 11

[gigglingcloud]

*y/n describing dabi after he attacked them*

Y/n: hes was insane...

Izuku concerned : it's okey y/n please you're safe now he_

Y/n : HE turned me on then left just like that dammit!

Y/n: i couldn't take his number it's not okey!

#mha incorrect quotes #bnha incorrect quotes #Mha y/n #mha x reader #mha x y/n #Bnha x reader #Bnha x y/n #Gender neutral #Bnha imagines #Mha imagines #Mha seader insert #Bnha reader insert

[namjoon-koya]

Thank you for taking my request? It was beautifully written.

I was wondering if I can another Headcannon of Aizawa, FatGum and Hawks seeing their s/o coming back a long mission and were about to greet them but Eri runs over to them first, their s/o kneels down arms open and gives Eri great big hug?

Just something sweet and adorable.

Thank you and take your time writing it.

a/n: sorry I’m late on this again😭 but I hope you enjoy it! This was a really cute request! Also I only wrote for Aizawa and Hawks just because I was struggling a little bit to figure out what to write for Fatgum, but I hope you enjoy it!

Aizawa:

People usually never saw Aizawa smile or at least act happy, he was always sleeping in his sleeping bag or just had a plain look on his face, but not this time. You were gone for a few weeks for a mission and it required you to be away from home, Aizawa wasn’t happy to hear you say you were leaving; but he understood that it was part of being a hero. Even while a few of his coworkers didn’t notice the glee in his eyes it was Toshinori and Hizashi who did notice.

“Are you excited that they’re finally coming back?” Eri asked as she continued to draw onto a piece of paper, he wanted to say hell yeah; but instead settled on saying yes to her question. He knows you wouldn’t appreciate hearing Eri say hell yes, if you asked her if she wanted pancakes for breakfast. “Done! Do you think they’ll like it?” Eri asked showing Aizawa the drawing she was working on, it could make out a family on the drawing.

It was Eri, you and him together holding hands, in the background it read “WELCOME BACK!” He knew anything Eri gave you, you would love it. “They definitely will” he said gently smiling at Eri. He heard the door click open and that’s when he saw you walk through the door, he wanted to run over to you and hold you in his arms. Even while it was just a few weeks of you being away, it almost felt like you were gone for a year.

Aizawa was getting ready to walk over to you, but that’s when he saw small flash run right past him. Eri beat him to you first, she was quick to open her arms wide open and you were quick to catch her in yours. You picked her up and gently spun her around “Eri! I missed you so much!” You said happily, “I missed you too! I’m happy you’re back home”

You looked over at Aizawa and saw a warm pleasant smile on his face, you knew he was taking in the scene in front of him. “Aren’t you going to say you missed me?” You asked him, Aizawa gave you a teasing look “course I didn’t miss you, it was quiet without you.” “Liar! You told me you didn’t like the house being quiet since they weren’t home” Eri that little traitor, but she was right. It was too quiet without you and he disliked it, he walks over to you and gently plants a soft kiss on your lips.

“Welcome back”

Hawks:

Hawks was excited to see you again, both of you did hero work. Yet most of the time it was you who had to leave on a mission trip, mostly because the hero commission told him he has to stay behind while you had to go. He didn’t like it, but he knew you wouldn’t argue against it. Aizawa, All Might and Eri were waiting for your arrival at the airport, while hawks never really formed a bond with Eri. You did you were there when they rescued Eri from overhaul and were there when she was recovering in the hospital, Hawks saw how gentle you were towards her which made his heart explode.

He felt a nudge against his shoulder, it was All Might getting his attention “here they come” he said winking at Hawks, shit if only he could fly towards you already and hold you in his arms. He missed you a lot, more than you could even imagine. At nights without you next to him he felt restless it was too cold without you next to him, when hawks saw you he felt his feathers fluff up at the sight of you. (His feathers did the same thing when he first noticed you during a meeting and of course it’s noticeable and he was EMBARRASSED because endeavor asked him about it)

When you got a bit closer Hawks was getting ready to run up to you until he saw someone else had beat him to you first, it was Eri she had his arms wide open and you were quick to drop your things and give her a hug back. Hawks was a bit jealous just because he wanted to give you a hug first, but seeing how happy you made Eri made him happy as well. You told him the things she went through when you and the others saved her, it was obvious you being there made her feel safe. “sorry I couldn’t hold her back, Eri was really just excited to see them again” Aizawa said as he walked over to Hawks, “don’t apologize it’s fine”

Once the both of you locked eyes onto each other that’s when he walked over to you, “hey there dove, it’s nice to see you again” he said planting a kiss on your forehead “what no kiss on the lips?” “Hey there’s a kid right in front of us” you rolled your eyes at him, “I really did miss you” he said again “so did I”

#bnha x reader #bnha x y/n #bnha x you #mha x y/n #mha x you #mha x reader #bnha requests #mha requests #mha headcanons #hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #hawks x you #aizawa x reader #aizawa x you #aizawa x y/n #mha fluff #bnha fluff #bnha headcannons #mha reader insert #bnha reader insert #aizawa fluff #hawks fluff #aizawa shota x reader #keigo x reader #keigo fluff #keigo x y/n #keigo x you #eraserhead x reader #eraserhead x you #eraserhead x y/n

[yaimlight]

A continuation of this.

The second time you meet Katsuki it’s because of work. Yours and his, though it’s not the kind of work he’s used to.

It’s been a couple of months since your first meeting and with the new rankings and increase in villain attacks you had been too busy to really spare the incident with the blonde hero more than a passing thought. It had been all feature length articles and one off spotlight pieces that had kept you away from the top five heroes and focused on the newer and more unique ones stumbling onto the scene. This was supposed to be a break from all that, a little bit of fun so you didn’t go mad with all the serious stuff. You were glad for the chance to get out of your stuffy office but you really wished you had paid more attention when your boss had been rattling off what heroes would be present so you could at least have prepared yourself, not that you were sure that would even have helped.

For all intents and purposes you were crashing a photo shoot with a whole host of heroes from multiple different agencies. It was a charity thing, all of them coming together to make a calendar to raise much needed funds and you were the lucky reporter who had gotten the pleasure of going round and interviewing each and every hero present to find out why they were doing it. It should have been easy and for the most part it was, everyone friendly and welcoming as you made your way from one hero to the next. Well, all bar one that is.

You weren’t expecting to see Dynamite. This wasn’t the kind of thing the pro hero would do, not unless he was under duress and considering the way he was scowling at Red Riot it wouldn’t be that much of a surprise if that was exactly what had happened. It’s a bit embarrassing but as soon as you see him, only half in his hero costume and ranting like a mad man your struck dumb. You completely tune out the assistant escorting you, coming to a stop and just staring wide eyed at the blonde like he was a ghost.

It’s rude, unprofessional as well and you had been in this business long enough to know you shouldn’t get all fangirl on the heroes. They were people too, granted they were very brave and powerful people but still people all the same and treating them as such had gotten you the inside scoop more than once or twice. That being said, this was Dynamite, untouchable and commanding without even really trying and just like the last time you can’t help but fixate on him. It didn’t matter that you still felt embarrassed about how you had acted last time and how idiotic you have been trying to come up with some grand and convoluted explanation on why he had been so nice. You were captivated by him, fascinated even and at this rate it was going to get you in trouble. With him and your boss if you were super unlucky.

You have no idea how many times the assistant had to call your name before you actually heard them, blinking rapidly and turning back to them with a hum. They don’t look impressed, making a dig about you being here for a reason and it wasn’t to ogle the heroes. That had you flushing, both embarrassed and angry because that wasn’t what you had been doing. Yes he was attractive and yeah you had definitely made eyes at him once or twice in the past but this wasn’t that. You were just surprised to see him, that was all. It is a bit of a reality check though, reminding you why you were here in the first place. So you make a conscious effort to pay attention, keeping your back to the blonde to avoid the temptation to stare a hole through his head.

Work is the perfect distraction and soon enough you find yourself getting sucked in and actually doing your job. There’s twelve heroes, all male and all in various stages of undress. The room you're in is acting as a dressing room, dozens of staff rushing around as they try and get the heroes ready before the illusive photographer summoned them to whatever corner of the large estate they were going to be photographed in. It’s chaotic and you have to quickly duck and weave around haggard looking makeup artists and wardrobe assistants as you make your way from one hero to another. The assistant who had been acting as your chaperone had ditched you a while ago to go deal with some emergency or another, giving you a firm instruction to stay put. And you had, at least to start with.

You start with the ones you had interviewed before, getting the easy ones over and done with, so to speak. Suneater had been the first hero you had approached, the quiet and shy man stammering and fumbling through every answer and desperately trying not to look at you. It was cute and you had told him as much when he apologised like he always does, waving and winking at him as you moved onto the next hero. Next was Mind Jack, the perpetually tired mind controller seemingly falling asleep halfway through your conversation. That doesn’t bother you like it probably would other journalists and a quick flick of his ear had the man jerking back awake quickly enough, apologising for always dozing off on you and swearing it’s not your fault.

From there it was onto Grand, though you didn’t spend long with him before moving onto Gale Force. The vibrating hero creeped you out and though GaleFore could be loud you preferred his booming voice to the other heroes' false kindness and friendly demeanour. Chargebolt was as excitable as ever, barely able to stay still as he recounted you with one of his many stores but you had interviewed him enough by now to know when to duck to avoid a flailing arm. On and on it went, you moving from one hero to the next and asking the same questions again and again. It was monotonous, the whole thing only keeping your interest because of the actual heroes you were talking to. Their personalities more than made up for the repetitiveness.

From then you moved onto the ones you hadn’t interviewed before. Real Steel and Vantablack were next on your agenda, the latter seeming bored with the whole affair whilst the former appeared to be having a great time. Deku was a little sweetheart, polite and smiling as he rambled about the charity they were all there to raise money for and Icy Hot was frustrating with his simple and monotone answers, though that was somehow strangely endearing.

It had taken you just over an hour to get through the nine heroes, your notepad over half full and bursting with stories and notes that probably wouldn’t make it into the finished article. You had three left to go and two of them were directly in your path though you weren’t sure you wanted to go over there just yet.

Dynamite was scowling angrily at Red Riot as he batted off the rather insistent makeup artist who seemed determined to give him panda eyes if the size of the eyeliner pen was anything to go by. You had done a good job of avoiding him so far, having purposely kept your back to him as you moved around the room. Thankfully it had been so loud in there that you hadn’t been able to hear him either so you had done a pretty good job of pretending he wasn’t even there. That wasn’t an option any more though and with a heavy sigh you had made your way towards the two heroes, already giving yourself a pep talk in hopes you wouldn’t embarrass yourself again.

The anticipation and nerves you felt at approaching him were honestly quite ridiculous. He probably wouldn’t even remember you and even if he did it would only be as the idiot who had almost gotten mugged because you hadn’t been paying any attention to your surroundings. Much like you weren’t doing now. Having a crush on a pro hero wasn’t something new, everyone had their favourites who they made heart eyes at and gushed over and though Dynamite was your favourite, your celebrity crush, you had always done a good job of keeping that to yourself. He was unattainable, out of your league and completely and utterly married to his job. You knew without a doubt that he would be an unattainable fantasy for as long as he remained in the spotlight but then you had gone and met him and everything had gone up in flames.

Ahead of you Red Riot nudged Dynamite in the side, gesturing your way and whispering something that had the blonde's head snapping in your direction, those deep red eyes focusing in on you instantly. You hadn’t noticed last time how intense they were, the dim light on the street lights not doing him justice. Now though in the bright light of day you could make out how sharp his cheekbones were, the black of his eye makeup and mask making his eyes seem more vibrant and hypnotic. You felt like prey, frozen under the predator's sharp and cunning gaze, knowing you were caught and waiting for it to strike. You didn’t think you would care that much if he did.

You hadn’t even noticed you had come to a complete stop, the two of you staring at one another and completely oblivious to the rest of the world around you. That was until someone slammed into sending you stumbling forward as they breezed past, yelling at you for being in the way. You hadn’t been able to right yourself, losing your footing and hurting towards the floor. In front of you Dynamite seemed to snap out of his weird stupor, pushing people out his way as he marched towards you.

He didn’t make it, two strong arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you back onto your feet before he could even make it half way towards you. You only just caught a glimpse of Dynamiter, hands balled into fists at his side, his jaw checked and red eyes dark with anger. Before you could even begin to wonder what was wrong you were being spun round and looking up at golden eyes and a charming smile.

You had met Hawks before, having had the pleasure of interviewing him a couple of times before and on one memorable occasion having helped sneak him out of a rather boring and tedious press conference. Because of this you had a familiarity with him that allowed for you to be a little more relaxed around the man, a feeling he seemed to share because no sooner were you facing him was the number two hero throwing his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in close to his side whilst loudly asking where his postcard was after your little trip. That seemed to get people attention, heroes and staff alike turning their attention towards the two of you and murmuring under their breath. Used to his antics by now though you just rolled your eyes and told him it’s in the post.

That gets you a laugh and the tension in the room eases a little, everyone going back to what they were doing beforehand. You can feel it though, someone’s eyes boring into the back of your head and you desperately want to turn round and see if it’s Dynamite but you don’t get the chance, Hawks nudging you forward and keeping you pinned to his side as he heads towards the room's exit. You don’t really know what you would have done if you had been able to look back, no clue what it would have meant if you had found those red eyes still staring at you.

It’s easy to talk to Hawks, more like a catch up with an old friend than an interview. You talk about his ranking, about the charity and why he wanted to take part but you also talk about his cat, his latest attempt at making Tonkatsu and the latest trashy reality show that everyone was watching. It distracts you and you barely even notice how much time has passed as you follow him around the large house to the room he’s in for his shoot. You stay for the first ten minutes or so, watching him go from one pose to the next and trying not to laugh when he rolls his eyes and pulls faces when he’s asked to steadily ditch items of clothing. You fail miserably and eventually the photographer dismisses you with an insistent snapping of their fingers and a shooing motion. You take the hint, waving goodbye to Hawks as you go. It isn’t until you're out in the corridor with the door firmly shut behind you that you realise you have no clue where in the big house you are or even how to get back to the heroes dressing room.

Instead of going back in and risking getting a camera thrown at you, you instead began to aimlessly roam the hallways, not in any rush to get back and finish off your assignment. Part of it is that you're enjoying yourself, the calm and friendly atmosphere helping with that. A bigger part of it though was that you knew what was waiting for you once you got back to where you were supposed to be and honestly you didn’t know if you would be able to handle talking to Dynamite, even if you were only asking simple and predictable questions. You weren’t scared of him, you were just unsure of what the hell was even happening and you hated how unpredictable that made things.

As you passed by a seemingly empty room a dull thud and shuffling had you stoping, eyes narrowing as you looked in through the open doorway. The worst thing about being a journalist was that you were curious by nature and a seemingly empty room with strange noises coming from within was a curiosity you were willing to indulge. It was most likely something stupid like a bird or rate but you still stepped into the room, flicking the light on as you went to make it easier to see within the darkened room. It was neither of those things that you found hiding amongst the darkness.

As soon as the light came on Dynamite snapped his head round, brows already furrowed in a scowl and red eyes full of anger. You froze, one hand curled around the handle and the other still outstretched towards the light switch. You're just kind of stuck there, staring at each other and neither of you making even the slightest attempt to say something.

It felt as awkward as that night in the alleyway except this was ten times worse somehow. Was it the fact you had admitted to liking him, something you hadn’t done since high school or maybe it was the fact you had acted like an incapable idiot in front of the hero? Whatever it was they were your excuses not his so why was he acting just as weird as you if not more so considering he hadn’t started yelling at you yet whilst letting off tiny threatening explosions?

Now that the thought had entered your mind you couldn’t shake it. You could blame your idiocies on being start struck, an embarrassing thing for you to admit considering you were around heroes all the time but still a reasonable explanation for being struck dumb. Him though, not so much. You were a nobody, just a random extra as he would say and yet here he was looking at you like he was as shocked to see you as you were him. Which, ok, yeah, to start with you could understand that. He didn’t know who you were and to suddenly see you here must have been a little weird but that had been a couple of hours ago now so it wasn’t like he didn’t know you were wandering around. It was weird and the more you thought about it the more you wanted to find out what was going on.

You don’t get the chance to ask him, the blonde seeming to snap out of his sudden stupor as suddenly as it had set in. He’s a scowling, huffing mess, stalking towards you with a quick few strides whilst demanding to know why you were there. You were a little taken aback by the suddenness of it but you had dealt with agitated heroes before. This was familiar, easy even and it gave you a confidence that you probably wouldn’t have had if he had stayed silent.

Your all easy smiles and calm words, admitting you had gotten a little lost after getting kicked out of Hawks shoot. That got you a huff and a scowl, the blondes eyes darkening with anger at the mention of the other man’s name. You don’t press the matter regardless of how interested you are in that reaction. You don’t do gossip, it’s not in your wheelhouse and whatever has Dynamite angry at the number two hero you don’t want to make it worse by drawing attention to it. Instead you're quick to ask why he’s hiding. That gets the reaction you thought it would, the blonde angrily declaring that he’s not hiding, that he doesn’t hide from anything. You could have sworn he blushed when you said you knew that, that he was reliable and fearless and that was why people liked him so much.

It was a bit telling, how complementary you’re being with him but it was the truth. He may have a rather prickly personality but he alway achieved whatever he set out to accomplish, alway standing tall in the face of adversity even if he was hurt and bleeding. It’s one of the reasons you liked him so much, that and his determination, intelligence and loyalty to those closest to him, as well as his more obvious assets. He really did have some amazing arms that you wouldn’t mind feeling wrapped around you but that really wasn’t the sort of thing you should be thinking about right now, not when you were supposed to be working anyway.

Before he can say anything that would have you blushing and trying to hide like Suneater you start talking, asking him why he was even there and pointing out that it wasn’t something you thought he would ever do. He takes the bait and from then on it’s surprisingly easy to talk to him, the hero answering your questions seemingly honestly even if he was being sarcastic and a little rude. For all intents and purposes you conduct the interview you were meant to though never have you been slowly circling a room whilst the person you're interviewing does the same opposite you, the two of you curling one another like you were getting ready to fight.

It’s strangely easy to talk to him, to get sidetracked by things that he probably shouldn’t be talking to someone like you about. Like his dislike of journalists and the media in general. He calls a few of your colleagues out, huffing and puffing about how insistent and intrusive they can be. You think for a moment that he might be including you in that, after all you had disterbed his solitude as soon as you had walked through the door but he doesn’t ask you to leave, doesn’t call you out for it so you carry on, a weird fluttering in your chest that you're not really sure what to make of. He outright laughs at you when you tell him it doesn’t hurt to have a friend in your line of work, the sound loud and booming just like his quirk. It makes you feel warm, a wide smile spreading across your cheeks and making them hurt. You let out your own low chuckle when he claims he doesn’t do friends, a statement that you're quick to rebuff with a promise to let Red Riot know when you see him next.

You're not sure how long you stay in that room, circling one another and talking about everything from his ranking to society's expectations of heroes but eventually it comes to an end and you're left feeling disappointed that it couldn’t have gone on just that little bit longer. It’s Deku that comes looking for him, his head popping around the door with wide eyes and a blush on his cheeks. He apologises of all things, for getting in the way but Dynamite is needed for his shoot and the photographer is getting annoyed with having to wait.

The easy relaxed feeling disappears quickly, Dynamite's face hardening back into his usual cowl as he rolls his shoulders back and stands up straighter. He’s gone within seconds, striding across the room and barely looking back at you, though he does yell back at you to stay out of trouble. When you tell him it was nice to meet him the hero does actually stop, one hand curled around the door frame and head turned to the side slightly so he could see you out of the corner of his eye. There’s a long few seconds of nothing before he grunts out an indifferent whatever and carries on his way, disappearing down the corridor with Deku in tow.

The room was horribly silent and still afterwards, almost like everything had dulled now Dynamite was gone. An impossible thing but whilst he had been with you everything had seemed so much brighter and sharper but then all your attention had been focused on him and now he was gone the rest of the world had come back into focus, reminding you that though you had been enjoying yourself you were still here to do a job, you both were and making moon eyes at the pro heroes wasn’t what you were being paid for.

Sighing you made your own way out of the room, quickly finding your way back down to the hustle and bustle of the main area. You found the assistant who was supposed to have been watching you with little to no effort, cutting off their rant about wandering off before they could get too far into it. You said your thanks and your goodbyes in the same sentence, insisting you had everything you needed when they had looked at you a little funny. They didn’t stop you though when you left, no one did, both heroes and staff were too busy to notice you silently weaving your way through the crowded hallway and out the front door.

The walk back to the station is short and yet your mind races like a bullet train without breaks. You can’t get Dynamite out of your head and how easily he had opened up to you despite being notorious for being uncooperative with the press. Was this just another way for him to get the public to see him in a positive light? Normally he wouldn’t give journalists the light of day but with you he had taken the time to give you actual structured answers instead of the clipped one word answers that frustrated people so much. His relationship with the media was one of the biggest issues with his image. If he improved that, let it be known that he was actually playing nice with the press instead of threatening to blow them up then he would be one step closer to becoming one of the top ranked heroes.

Though Dynamite was currently ranked third Deku was close behind him and early opinion polls showed that the greenett was likely to overtake him and push the blonde down a rank or two at the next ceremony and a lot of that was down to how the public perceived them. There was no arguing with the fact that Deku was an amazing hero, always willing to go the extra mile and put his life on the line but it wasn’t just that that was boosting his numbers. The public absolutely adored him, with his cute looks and sweet personality, not to mention how polite he was along with the fact that he always had time for his fans and the general public. Dynamite wasn’t as welcoming as the other hero, often refusing to stop for photos and autographs and completely ignoring people when they asked him a question, something that had gotten him in trouble more than once.

That excited and bubbly feeling you had felt almost the entire time you had been talking to the hero was gone now, instead replaced with disappointment and resignation. This was just like last time all over again, your emotions getting the better of you whilst your mind sped ahead before logic could set in. Well you were thinking logically now and you really didn’t like what you were seeing. To him you were just a pawn, a means to an end and the sooner you realised that the better off you would be. You weren’t in high school any more, all crushes got you these days were bruised egos and a broken heart, two things you could very well live without.

It’s not till you're halfway home that your Dynamite obsessed brain finally takes a breather and you realise you never actually spoke to Red Riot. Groaning you sink back into your chair and make a mental note to call his office the next day and arrange a brief telephone interview. This had to stop, Dynamite was just another story waiting to be written and if you were going to be the one to do it you needed to get passed whatever idiotic and childish feelings you had and start acting like the serious journalist you were.

Easy.

If only you could forget those too intense eyes and that deep rumbling laugh then you would be fine. Maybe you should ask for a transfer to Osaka. That would probably be easier.

You really were an idiot.

Part 3 ->

@reyathens @antiwhores @trash-heichou-kacchan @phrogfungi

#mha #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugou #fem!reader #you #reader insert #bnha reader insert #aged up characters #pro hero bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugou x fem!reader #bakugou x you #pro hero katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou x f!reader #bakugo x female reader #bakugou x female reader #bakugou katsuki x fem!reader #katsuki bakugou x you

[acerathia]

The Apple of my Eye - Behind the Scenes

Summary:

While spending the summer at your grandparent’s place, an accident leads to a fateful encounter with Izuku. Yet you reject this first meeting, seeking to craft a proper first impression. Yes, but what happened behind the scenes of the making of this piece?

Pairing:

Midoriya Izuku / Reader (in the OG)

Wordcount: 2.9k

Read it on AO3 / The Apple of my Eye (OG)

Note:

I just thought it might be fun to write some outtakes and compile the scenes, which didn't make the final cut to the fic, enjoy <3 (also, would be so cool if u checked the OG fic lol)

Outtakes

“Ow, are these apples real?” his voice sounds and you look down at him, a pained expression on his face.

“Oh, no, did I actually hit you?” you clamper down, a giggle evident in your voice.

He supports you as you take a small leap onto the ground. “I thought it was supposed to? I just thought the apples weren’t real…” he answers, his hand rubbing against the tender spot.

You laugh as you carefully pat his hand on that spot. “Izuku, of course it’s going to be a real apple, this is a real tree. Why else would we be doing this outside?”

He simply shrugs with a small pout.

“C’mon, we gotta start over,” you pat his cheek softly, an encouraging smile on your lips, before you look into his eyes and press your lips together to avoid bursting into laughter again.

He puts his tongue out to you, before he begins walking away.

***

“Great take! The choking looked really good, we can move onto the next scene,” you hear the director as you croak one last cough.

“Thanks, but I actually choked,” you mumble, making eye contact with Izuku before bursting into laughter together.

While you both are recovering, still giggling here and there, an assistant hands you some water and asks you if you’re good.

“Yeah, I’m good. At least the realism of this scene cannot be refuted,” you grin as you sip from your water. “Izuku actually noticed and immediately switched up on me.”

“Hey, I was worried for you, but sure, make fun of the poor hero,” he grumbles, but there is a wobble in his voice that betrays his amusement.

Your grin only widens. “I mean, your acting is weak as it is, the realistic situation seemed to help, didn't it?”

He gapes at you, bumping his shoulder into yours. “Now you’re kicking a man already onto the ground.”

You take another sip of water and shove him with a giggle.

***

“Cut!”

You take a deep breath. “Fucking hell, Izuku, you’re going to kill me,” you whine and throw your head back.

“So, you think I should change my hairstyle?

“Shut up!”

***

“Look! It’s beautiful up there, I took pictures!” you wave your phone the moment you step out of the wheel.

“Aren’t you supposed to come out all sad?”

“Oh, fu–”

Deleted Scenes

“Hello! Should we go in?”, he asked and held the door open.

You nodded and went inside, asking him what kind of smoothie he’d like. With his preferred beverage, you went to the cashier to order your drinks, while he found you a place to sit outside. You thought you were going to sit inside, but maybe he noticed you enjoying the weather. You had to giggle at his thoughtfulness.

After the drinks were ready, you grabbed them and went looking for him. He was already sitting under a parasol, waving at you to get your attention. You immediately joined him, putting the drinks on the table before sitting down.

“Here we go. I’m glad you could make it.”, you said with a slight smile, trying not to get distracted by his brilliant and dazzling eyes and smile. It was difficult, especially considering that you didn’t meet since that event, but rather texted. You felt quite shy, almost like he was another person.

“Yeah, me too. To be honest I was quite nervous.”, he answered with a shy giggle, rubbing his neck and you had to control yourself not to squeal.

After some exchanged words you both started talking like you had been acquainted for some time. Even if you technically knew each other, it was different to talk in person. You noticed so many quirks about him, which made you like him more, not that you were ever going to tell him anyway. But you enjoyed his explanations, his analysis of whatever topic he started talking about. You just liked to listen to him being excited about his favorite things and you decided to do some research about the topics, making mental notes. And you couldn’t help but like the way he moved his scarred, calloused hands, almost like they were helping him with his explanations. Sometimes you would also tlak about your interests, and he always listened, never interrupted, even if he had something to say. Exchanging these topics you began to discuss different things at such a depth, you never had the same possibility with anyone else. He seemed to hold so much knowledge and you admired that a lot. He even knew about your major in university, almost as good as you did.

While enjoying this talk, you couldn’t help but feel guilty about the first time you saw him. The accident about the apple. You had the urge to tell him about your involvement, before you both got too deep into this. And with that before you got too deep into this between you. You could escape a crush, but even a tiny step more towards love? You would be heartbroken for the rest of your life.

So you took a deep breath. “Midoriya-kun, I need to tell you something… I’ve met you before that event at the stall… Even if it wasn’t really… meeting, more like… Uh… The day before, didn’t an apple fall onto your head?”, you stuttered, not having planned this at all. You then continued speaking when he slowly nodded, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. His bottom lip slightly jutting out and you erred for a moment, getting distracted.

You shook your head to get yourself out of your daze. “Yes! Uhm, that was me… Sorry! I didn’t see you and… and just let the apple fall… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”, you apologized, bowing your head. “And… and I didn’t tell you earlier, because I- uh, I wanted you to like me, is that weird?”

A breath escaped you and you stared at the table in front of you. At least he could get mad and it was over, before you completely lost yourself. But he didn’t raise his voice or leave, no, rather he started giggling.

“Hm, I knew it was you. I looked up, you weren’t hidden that well. And, well, I approached you the day after with purpose too, so I guess we’re even?”, he smiled and cocked his head.

Your head snapped up and you looked at him, mouth opening and closing, before deciding on a ‘what?’.

“You were interesting, and I wanted to get to know you”, he shrugged and leaned back, his giggles directed at your shocked face.

You leaned forward and slapped his arm slightly. “That’s so mean! Do you know how much I thought about that?”, you pouted while softly slapping him over and over again.

He just gave you a broad grin and took your hand into his. “Yeah? You already paid for that smoothie. How about I compensate you? Join me for the summer festival.”

His suggestion felt like a punch to the face, to the gut, a punch in general. He was a boxer and you were nothing but that training equipment he regularly beat. And for some reason you didn’t mind, as long as he gave you that brilliant, beautiful smile, you would agree with anything he said. So you nodded, feeling his thumb rubbing against your skin.

And suddenly the warmth was gone and he was clapping his hands together. “Awesome!”

After that he acted like he didn’t just manipulate you into agreeing (who were you kidding, you would have agreed even if he hated you guts). You both deviated into other topics, finishing your drinks. And even if your glasses were finished, you both remained at your seats, increasing the word count with every minute.

You both only noticed the time passing when the shopkeeper had to remind you of their closing time in fifteen minutes. You both immediately apologized, leaving the table and bringing the glasses back to the front desk.

Looking at the time you decided to go home, not wanting to say goodbye but having to. It seemed like he didn’t want the day to be over just yet, as he suggested walking you home. It was getting dark and there were no lamps on the streets, couldn’t have you walking on your own. And you agreed, excited to talk to him some more.

And maybe you took the long way back and maybe he knew, and maybe you both walked as slow as possible, but none of you spoke about it and none of you cared. So you let the evening welcome the night and before you knew it, you were looking at the clear sky with him at your side. He seemed to know a lot about constellations too, so he started showing them to you, sometimes stepping closer to make it more accurate. And you liked his warmth by your side and the brushes of your hands, and your heart was beating inside you, you were afraid he could hear it, if he stepped any closer.

You almost cursed the moment the cottage came into your sight, but you reminded yourself to maybe ask him on any star seeing soon. After your date at the summer festival maybe. You thought he would like that. Maybe. And maybe you were thinking too much and getting too much into it.

You bid him goodbye, wanting to hug him, but realizing that you both weren’t at that stage yet. So you just waved and waited until the night swallowed him to go inside.

***

And despite your attempts of avoiding villains and fights, it seemed like such situations were a normal occurrence, and unavoidable. You cursed your company and their choices. But with every fight you learned more about this hero-culture, and it resembled the celebrity culture in the early 21st century in the US. With polls, merch and websites. You even stumbled across fanfiction, and you had to admit, these were quite enjoyable.

You also discovered who that Deku was. The current number one hero. Which was weird, because every time you encountered him when in crossfire, he seemed to fumble a lot. Were all heroes like this? You had wondered. But no, the other heroes seemed more confident, one even yelled at you. Despite your lack in the language, you could recognize the signs of curses, and you were about to deck him, but you weren’t there on vacation. If you were, he would at least have a bruise somewhere before they could put you in a police car. But alas, you needed to keep the company image intact.

So you minded your own business. Or at least you tried to. This place seemed to hate you, because how else were you supposed to explain your current situation?

You just were craving some kind of chocolate, and decided to leave the house to go to the next convenience store. And you found the exact stuff you needed to settle in front of your laptop with a good movie, and maybe you bought more than just chocolate, but nobody had to know. And you were so excited for your relaxed night, you didn’t notice the people sneaking up behind you, or they used some kind of quirk, you weren’t quite sure. The thing was, you fainted, for some reason, effectively losing your food to the harsh ground. And you only realized your loss after you woke up in a dark space, tied to a chair. You immediately cursed through the tissue inside of your mouth. You spent money on your food, and now the rats were having a feast. Were there any rats in this place? You weren’t sure, but someone else was enjoying your food, and you disliked the thought.

You started thrashing, trying to get whoever did this to you to notice you. And a person with some weird mask approached you, and assuming you did get kidnapped, he probably was a villain. He started talking to you, monologuing like an old school villain. How many movies do these people watch? This was getting ridiculous. After he finished, he pulled the knot out of your mouth, expecting some kind of coherent answer, something like ‘you won’t get away with this’ or ‘a hero will help me’. But you didn’t know what exactly he said in the first place, so you opened your mouth. And started to talk incoherently, just blurting all of your thoughts out, in every possible language you knew. And he didn’t seem to know any of them.

“No! Why… My food… I’m so hungry! Did I leave the stove on? Do I have a stove? I don’t remember… Uhhh, the company is at fault, shoulda gotten myself any kind of insurance, this sucks…”, you just said, and you didn’t stop talking, until he put the tissue back into your mouth, trying to choke your voice out, but you continued talking, or just making random noises, just to mess with him.

You started to think he was regretting this, and you hoped he would just let you go, when he left the room again. You got silent the moment the door closed behind him. There was no reason for you to look around and look for any possible exits, your joints were practically glued to the chair and you doubted you could free yourself without breaking some bones. And that would make you incapable of running. So the ideal case would be a hero arriving, the less ideal case would be you tricking him, in any possible way. And honestly, you wanted to avoid that, because if captured, it could mean a worse experience in this place.

And annoying him might just work well enough. But apparently not good enough, as he came back and began to build something in front of you, some kind of tripod and a camera- oh. He was holding you hostage, but you didn’t even know for what or why. There was no reason for anyone to hold you hostage, unless they were from another pharma company, but they shouldn’t even be aware of the current negotiations. You really hoped it wasn’t due to your carelessness, because the company will blame you and not help you in any case. Which sucked. But you had no other choice but to pull through. Somebody would do anything, at least your country, because you were a citizen.

Still didn’t make the situation better, especially when he turned the camera on and grabbed your head to pull it up, for some reason. You already were looking straight up, but you supposed he wanted some kind of power feeling or whatever.

He was monologuing again, this time into the camera. You just rolled your eyes and leaned back into your chair, staring at the ceiling and zoning out. How many times had you been kidnapped already? Too many times for sure, but usually it was connected to your work and usually the kidnapper was the concurrence, not some kind of villain.

He didn’t like the outcome or your reaction, why else would he punch your face? You bit on your tongue and you wanted to spit onto his shoes, but he still had you gagged. So you just gave him a disappointed stare, and he just went and turned the camera off. Maybe he was beginning to realize that you didn’t understand him, because he didn’t even address you anymore. He just left.

You were alone in a dimmed room. There was nothing for you to do but to make up some scenarios in your head, these fanfictions you read really influenced you. You would love to sleep, but you would rather not get a kink in your neck. That would be really uncomfortable when you would start working later on. Even if it would probably take awhile for someone to actually get you.

Or so you thought. Because it probably only took a couple of hours for someone to sneak through the door. You had to blink a couple of times, because the number one hero was in front of you, and it was ridiculous, it was nothing but a kidnapping, they didn’t have to get someone like him involved. Unless the company demanded that, maybe they did. Well, no matter how it happened, he was releasing you from the ropes. You rubbed your joints to get some circulation back and immediately walked to the door, telling the hero you were ready to go. He probably hadn’t expected anyone to adjust like that, but time wasn’t on your side and you would rather be gone before the villain notices.

Outtakes of deleted scenes

“Yes! Uhm, that was me… Sorry! I didn’t see you and… and just let the apple fall… I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “That’s a lie, you saw me! And you didn’t tell me it was a real apple!” he raises his voice with accusation.

“I cannot believe you would blame me for your own incompetence! Who would go to an apple tree and NOT expect real apples?” you counter immediately.

For a moment you both just glare at each other before bursting into laughter.

“Why did you go off script?” you ask with a sigh, yet the corners of your lips still wobble dangerously.

“I need to tell the truth, everyone needs to know what kind of person you are!”

***

“No! Why… My food… I’m so hungry! Did I leave the stove on? Do I have a stove? I don’t remember–,” you burst out laughing before you could finish your little monologue. “Sorry! Sorry! Why am I talking about stoves in the first place?”

The person in front of you doubles over and you can hear laughter from their direction too.

“I am hungry though, can someone feed me? I’m kind of in a situation right now, you know?”

You grin as more laughter sounds, looking around with expectation in your eyes.

#izuku midoriya x reader #midoriya x you #midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya izuku x you #bnha reader insert #meet fruit collab #midoriya x reader #izuku x reader #izuku x you #izuku midoriya x you #deku x reader #deku x you #mha reader insert #outtakes and deleted scenes

[shig-a-shig-ah]

TO CREATE IS DIVINE

You tell Tomura you want another baby, and his reaction is entirely unexpected.

» pairing: shigaraki tomura x fem!reader » word count: 1.5k » notes: I don’t have a breeding kink but I do have a ‘cranky Tomura  going feral and begrudgingly caving to base desires he’s conflicted about’ kink. Blame @lorlocks for this quick and dirty smut. » contains: established relationship, tiny bit of roughness, breeding, creampie. 18+, minors DNI. » ao3 mirror

"What?"

Tomura's voice is the flattest you've ever heard it as he stares at you from across the scuffed kitchen table. His tight jaw and unblinking gaze does nothing to quell the anxious knot in your stomach, but you still repeat the words you'd uttered two seconds ago—the same ones that had him looking so suddenly tense.

"I want another baby."

It's a bold request, you know. Tomura had been lukewarm about the accident that led to your son, even if he has settled into fatherhood surprisingly well in the subsequent few years. But neither of you have ever discussed having more children, let alone intentionally.

And now he's sitting still as a statue, watching you with an intent look that's hard to read but that almost certainly signals nothing good.

You fidget a little. "Or, I was hoping we could at least talk about it."

Tomura doesn't say anything, but you see the way the rise and fall of his chest grows more rapid, and his hands curl into tight fists. Then his chair is scraping against the hardwood as he pushes back from the table and rises abruptly.

"Fuck," he mutters, and that reaction isn't wholly unexpected, but the sudden grip of four calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist is. You're jerked to your feet before you can think about it, caught so off-guard and thrown so off-balance by the way he's suddenly dragging you down the hall that you barely notice where he's leading you. When he shoulders the bedroom door open and shoves you inside, that confusion only worsens.

"Tomura, what are you—" His mouth covers yours before you can finish the question, his tongue already lapping out to taste your own and his hands tearing at your shirt to peel it over your head as he drives you backwards. The back of your knees hit the mattress and then he’s pinning you against the blankets, his hot mouth working over your jaw, teeth nipping at your earlobe.

"What's it look like I’m doing?" His free hand is already sliding beneath the waistband of your pants, slipping between your thighs to probe roughly at the growing wetness there. "You want me to fuck a baby into you, I'll fuck a baby into you."

A second later one of those long digits is plunging past your folds, and you're hands are gripping tightly at his shirt, your back arching into that touch even as your brow furrows.

"You don't want"—you're briefly interrupted when he shoves another finger inside you—"you don't want to talk about it? Really?"

"Really," he hisses, irritation clear in his voice and an embarrassed flush on his cheeks even as his face stays tight. The mismatch between his tone and what he's saying and doing sends your brow furrowing, even as you gasp when he curls his fingers just right inside you. "Been driving myself insane thinking about this for months, barely manage to make myself pull out every time we fuck, and now here you are asking me to knock you up. So hell no, I don't want to talk about it."

He punctuates that statement with the bite of his teeth against your throat, his fingers pumping faster in and out of your cunt. A minute later he's withdrawing, wrapping them tight around the waistband of your pants and sending them to dust. He fumbles with the button his own jeans and then shoves them down under the jut of his hips, swollen cock springing free. He strokes himself a couple times, and then positions himself between your thighs.

"Fuck," he swears again, staring down at your sex as he ruts his length against your slit. "I know they're a pain in the ass but I can't stop picturing it—you with your tits all swollen, your belly huge with my kid. And then holding some tiny brat we made. 'S fucking infuriating." Tomura's tip nudges at your entrance, and then he seems to change his mind, pulling back and hooking one hand behind your thigh so he can shove your knee to your chest. He hooks his arm under your hips, angling them slightly and pulling you closer, grunting in satisfaction once he has you positioned just how he wants you.

He cock once again pushes at your opening, teasing you. Crimson eyes lock onto yours as he says, in a tone that sounds unmistakably like an order, "A girl this time."

"Tomura, I don't think it works like—" That, you were going to say, but he drives himself into you abruptly and the sudden sparks of heat at your center have the air rushing from your lungs, a lewd moan slipping past your lips. Tomura's intent expression barely budges, but you see the corner of his mouth curve up into the faintest of smirks.

"Want it that bad too, huh?" he mocks. When you nod, he rolls his hips harder, leaning down to kiss you hard.

Your only response is a whine and the wrapping of your arms around his neck. “Fuck, 's so good," you whimper against his lips, and Tomura groans, kissing his way down to where your shoulder meets your throat.

"Real good." His teeth nip at the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet, his breath hot against your skin. "Tell me," he pants, that faint edge entering his voice again. "Tell me what you—ngh—what you made me want."

"Want a baby," you manage, though it's getting harder to speak with every one of this thrusts, and with his arm wrapping tighter under your hips as though he can't get you close enough. "Your baby. Wanna keep a part of you in—a-ah—inside me long as I can."

Tomura swears at that, hips moving faster and thrusts managing to reach deeper, his pelvis grinding against your clit every time he bottoms out. The combination is dizzying, each stroke and rhythmic bit of pressure sending your walls tightening. It's almost too much, this abrupt rutting and the strange swell of emotions that comes with it. You'd agonized for months over this proposition, steeling yourself for rejection, and even though his ambivalence and begrudging tolerance of his own desire is a far cry from raw acceptance, it's better than you ever thought you'd get. Has you unexpectedly heated.

"Tomu, 'm close already." Your body rocks to meet his movements, sharp whines rising from deep in your throat. 

"Good," he growls, his pace increasing as he moves to let his forehead rest against yours, his eyes bright as he watches you with a rapt expression. "Gonna—hng—gonna come with you. Make sure you suck up every fucking drop."

The moan that promise draws from you is embarrassingly loud, one hand slapping reflexively over your mouth, but Tomura's quick to intervene, gathering both your wrists in one large palm and pinning them above your head as he slots his body every closer to yours. His movements are feverish now, a flush of exertion creeping down below his collar, but all those efforts are paying off, tension mounting in your core.

A few more well-placed thrusts and that tension is swelling, snapping, your walls clenching tight around Tomura as you come. He lets out a sharp hiss of breath, and a second later his own hips are stuttering.

"Ngh, that's a good girl," he groans, and then he's driving himself as deep as he can. "Gonna make you even more mine." He shudders, grinding himself against you, and you can feel his cock twitch as he hisses, "Take it all, fuck."

You do your best to obey—didn't even need the order when your greedy hips are angling already, instinctively working to capture every bit of cum as he spills over. With your walls still fluttering, you're hyperaware of that warmth flooding your insides, of the pleasant slickness pooling deep inside. The thought of it there, taking hold, sends a shiver up your spine, one last exquisite bit of tension before you go limp beneath him.

When Tomura finally withdraws, he's gentler than usual. Slips a pillow under your hips too before he settles himself between your thighs, eyes fixed on the sight of your puffy slit. His finger traces your folds, collecting what little bit of cum he'd let escape from your spent cunt.

His eyes flick to yours. "How long will it take to know?"

"Hmm?" You start to sit up, then think better of it and tug your knees tighter to your chest instead. "A few weeks, maybe?"

Tomura frowns, clearly displeased with that information as he flops down beside you on the mattress. His palm comes to rest on your lower belly, fingers tracing over that soft skin.  A moment later he’s rolling onto his side to look at you.

"That’s okay," he says, once again wearing that intent expression. Then he’s pinning you back against the mattress. "Until then we can just keep trying."

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