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pumpkin-pi-e · 3 years

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Period fluff headcanons

A/N: Self-indulgent fluff. I'd love to be more inclusive with my works, so I've avoided using she/her. I did, however, slip and use nicknames such as mama, princess, etc. My writing is never coded; everyone is welcome. There were initially more characters, but I was afraid of hitting the limit, so I'll continue these in another post.

Where is my future wife when I need cuddles? ;v;

Characters: Erasermic, Dabi, Toga, Hawks, Shigaraki, and All For One.

Content warnings: Fluff! Slight NSFW on Toga’s part, though. Be warned, lovely reader! Mentions of ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’ nicknames, but not kink related.

Daddy made you some content, open wide.

Erasermic

Aizawa clears his schedule so he can be available for you. Your cramps are often debilitating, so he and Hizashi preemptively take the week off a few days before your cycle begins to help with any initial side effects. They won't touch their phones at all during that period. Their time is reserved just for you. In the days leading up to your cycle, you're coddled and swathed in all the creature comforts they know you like to self-soothe with. You’ll be bed-bound for the foreseeable future, and it’s imperative they’re home to care for you. Your headaches won’t allow you to do much besides toil in bed.

Physical touch is a must. Hizashi and Shouta resign themselves as your glorified body pillows; these pillows squeeze back, however! If you need them, they'll drop everything and cuddle with you on the couch or bed, your choice. They're cautious in avoiding your sensitive midsection. Hugs make the pain a little more bearable; your hubbies know how much solace they bring you, so they'll ask if you need one periodically. You're welcome to hold them for as long and as tightly as you need; you can even squeeze their hands if the discomfort becomes too much to take. They’ll encourage you to let them help you. It's okay to lean on them. Just grab their hand, okay?

Their hearts break for you. Aizawa monitors you with a worried pinch to his brow, and Zashi whines from sadness each time you squeeze him for consolation. It's hard on both of them to see you in such misery, but Hizashi always takes it personally. He suffers twice as much as you do.

They're overprotective, but please don't hold it against them. Your pain is visible in your expression, the way you tottle around the apartment, and how you've receded into yourself. Your limited activity worries them more than they let on. You're in incredible pain, so they let you snuggle them if it helps even the slightest amount. Shouta is good at sitting still for long spells, but Hizashi will get restless after a while. He takes short breaks to stretch his legs. Shouta fills in for him, settling you in his lap. You nestle in his chest as he cradles you, waiting for his husband to shake out his unrest and rejoin you. While waiting, he utilizes the time to inquire about your condition. How are you? Do you feel any better? Is there something he can get you? Could you rate your pain for him on a scale of one to ten?

Erasemic patiently deals with your hormones. They know you can't help your tears, but that doesn't stop them from drying your eyes. The heroes shush you gently, but they don't discourage you from crying. It's okay to weep. You're hurting, and it's a normal response to pain. You're most definitely entitled to a few tears from how miserable you are. You're allowed to grieve. They're here with you, going through it with you. You aren't going to suffer alone. Shouta clutches your hand, tracing the grooves of your knuckles; his support is silent: kissing the underside of your neck as he keeps you near his heart. The heating pad between your bodies mitigates the ache in your lower back. Zashi cups your face. He kisses those injured whimpers from your lips as if he could take the pain away. “It's gonna be alright, pookie. It'll get better. Just a few more days.”

“Zashi, it hurts.” You groan; the complaint entirely colored with agony. They hug you tighter. Hizashi bites the inside of his cheek, on the verge of a meltdown as he thinks of ways to make it better. His options are pretty limited since you won't accept any medication.

“Hizashi, would you mind running kitten a hot bath?” Shouta helpfully suggests. You might complain about the heat, but anything is better than watching you writhe in their arms. His husband was no doubt ignorant of the stressful whines he'd made. The task gives him something to occupy himself with so he doesn't stress his hair out. Ever the eager beaver to help his precious listener, he dashes to the bathroom. In the meantime, Aizawa repositions the heating pad to your misbehaving pelvis. He thinks you need it there most. “It isn't very nice to you, is it?”

Forlorn, you shake your head no. “Shou, I'm nauseous. I think I'm gonna be sick.”

He nods, glancing around for the bucket they kept nearby. “Do you think you can hold this for me?” He brings your hand over to where he’s resting against your stomach. “I'll grab your bucket, and you keep this pressed tight. Will that work?”

You nod tiredly back. Taking over for Aizawa, you hug the pad to your tummy. He pats the center of your back, helping the process along.

Hizashi scoops you into his arms, carrying you princess style to the bath that's calling your name. He dips down to kiss you each time you peer up at him. You're given kisses to your nose, lips, and smiling cheeks.

“Hizashi?” You call from the tub, halting their departure. You sink into the water; they watch you hide behind bubbles as you stammer after them. “Would the two of you maybe wanna...um..maybe...”

“Pumpkin? You're doin’ an awful lot of stutterin’. You don't hafta be shy around us. We’ll give you whatever ya want, sugar.”

“Tell us.” Shouta gently persuades.

“Ask us! Command us. Baby, we're your slaves.” Mic says, crouching in front of the tub.

“Doyoumaybewannatakeabath!?” You rush out. “...with me?” You tack on quietly, sinking further into the water. Only your eyes are visible as you quite literally hold your breath.

The heroes take a few seconds to fawn over the precious sight. “Babe, we'd love to!” The DJ quickly agrees.

“We’d love to, princess.” Shouta began, claiming the spot his husband forfeited while the latter stripped down to his boxers. “But I doubt we’ll both fit in your tub.” He watched disappointment momentarily dull your eyes. “Zashi can join you in your bath, and I’ll go get dinner ready. You'll have warm pajamas when you get out. How’s that sound?” Aizawa leans over the rim to peck your forehead. Your eyes light up at the promise of tasty food. The erasure hero smiles, standing to his full height.

“And by that, he means he's gonna order takeout.” The blonde not so stealthily whispers.

“Kitten needs to soak for at least fifteen minutes for the cramps to soften.” He places water bottles at the foot of the tub. “Don't be convinced by their grievances over the temperature. They'll manage.” He addresses his spouse, but his eyes cut over in your direction. It's for you as well. If you'd tolerate the medicine, you wouldn't have to soak as long. Hizashi went to utter an affirmative when Shouta cut him off with a warning. “And no water fights. Either one of you could slip and hurt yourself.” Your blonde lover pouts, petulant as he sinks in the heated spa of luxurious bubbles and aromatic salts. “Behave.” He stresses, pointedly glancing at Yamada.

“We will, dad.” Hizashi playfully rolls his eyes.

Unaffected, Shouta’s grin showcased his teeth. “That's daddy to you.”

“Y-you--?!” That grin thrives as he sputters. “In front of songbird??”

“In front of your salad?”

Hizashi moans, pained. He buries his red face in his hands, regretting ever showing him memes. “That doesn't even apply here.”

“Okay, millennial.”

Hizashi’s groan is loud and tortured. That's not how it works. It doesn't help that Shouta is also a fucking millennial, but that's not how the meme goes. That's not how any of this works.

You laugh at Shouta’s antics. Before Zashi can claw his eyes out, the ravenette leaves you two with an estimate on when dinner will arrive.

“Soo...” Hizashi draws, sitting adjacent from you in the tub. He doesn't wanna keep harpin’ on you over how you feel, but he kinda wants to ask.

“Would it be alright if I held you?” You venture softly.

His smile is just as soft. “Sure thing, mama.”

They'll help you to your destination if walking proves laborious for you. Erasermic are your chaperones.

Shouta’s eyes narrow on the hobbling form sighted from his peripheral vision. Peering over the top of his book, he caught you limping towards the bathroom, a hand cradling your stomach as though the supportive touch somehow lessened the pain. Your movements aspired stealth, but yielded clumsy shuffling and a zombie-like gait.

His demand is both incredulous and accusatory. “What are you doing?”

You aren't a ghost. Unfortunately for you, you're not invisible. His tone alerts Zashi, who pokes his head out of the kitchen arch.

“Hey! Hey, no!” His animated rebuke had one of their fluffy children pausing mid-grooming session, thinking the reproach was for them. The intended recipient, you hobble faster, causing The radio personality to squawk indignantly. “Songbird, no!”

Aizawa sighs, rising from the couch. He thwarts your underwhelming getaway, hoisting you by your arms as you're brought into his.

“I was walking. Do you mind?” Your huffy pout is more guilty than it is incensed.

Shouta draws you close to his stubble so he can peck your cheek. “And you didn't think to ask for help?” His smell instantly makes it better--his closeness and his warmth that you had to restrain yourself from cuddling into. Like a chastised child, you neglect his gaze. It earns you another kiss. “It's okay to ask us for help. That's why we're here. Please let us help you.” Zashi nuzzled your other cheek, simply offering affection. “Don't be afraid to ask if you need us.”

“Hizashi, help!” You cry, folding in on yourself and hugging your midsection. You hear a muffled thump from the other room.

“Sweet pea? Did something happen?”

“Zashi, I need you!” You whine, crumbling into a ball.

Your door flies open in seconds flat; he set a new record. “Princess, what's wrong?” His otherwise perfect hair is mused, suggesting he'd run the short distance to your room. He kneels beside your bed, worried eyes taking in the sight of your fetal position.

You look up at him with tear stained cheeks, and like a menace, make grabby motions for him. “Cutietoo, hold me.”

Hizashi releases the breath he held, running a hand through his hair. He picks you up, so he can join you on the bed. “Baby, you scared the hell outta me.” He whines, placing a hand over his heart as he positions you on top of him. Hugged to his chest, you can hear just how startled he’d been from his chaotic heartbeat. You sulk, blamable for his miserly groan and the panicked breaths he fought to control, squishing you tightly as he counts down from one hundred.

“‘m sorry, Hi-Fi. I just wanted cuddles.” You felt his little shakes, the adrenaline ebbing off as he came down from his alarm with some turbulence. He whines something incoherent, a noise that lets you know he forgave you.

Shouta peeks his head around the corner, checking in on you as well. He sees that you two are having a ‘moment’ and gives you privacy. “Let me know if you need your pills.” He offers from down the hall.

“‘m fine.” The DJ mumbles; his wearied inflection stabs you right through the heart. “Princess might need some tho.” He slurs, gazing up at you. Mic’s eyelids are heavy.

“Zashi, no.”

“Melody, yes.”

“Kitten, yes.” Aizawa seconds. The erasure hero returns with a glass of water and two of the most gigantic pills you've ever seen. Those better be for Hizashi. Shouta represses a sigh at the skeptical look you give him. “We’ll do them one at a time, okay?”

Now sitting up, Present Mic cuddles you as requested. You're snuggled nice and tight while Shouta administers your medicine. “We’ve got Midol and Tylenol.” He says, indicating at each capsule rolling on the plate before you. “I brought some bread to make it easier.”

“I don't want that.” Hizashi’s chest is unyielding as you scramble for distance. If anything, he pushes you closer.

“We know, but we’d prefer you hate us for a few hours than have you in a constant state of nausea.” He confessed.

“It's..” There's a pause while he carefully selects his terminology. “worrisome to see you like this. It's very stressful for us.”

Aizawa will never understand why you’d choose physical illness over a small capsule. You have your oddities, and they respect that, but do you have any clue how much they fret over you?

“How about one-third? Can you take a tiny piece for us?” Shouta chops the edge off, a mere morsel compared to the entire thing. “Even this much will help.”

“Maybe if you reward me.”

“As long as it's within reason.” He's not sure taking care of yourself necessitates a reward. Although, he recognizes the extent of your disdain. It would be an unpleasant ordeal for you. Likely, you'll spit everything up.

You make your price known, and Aizawa concedes when you ask for a kiss beforehand. That's not typically how such arrangements go, but he'll agree to anything if you take it. He leans in, connecting your lips for three moderate-length kisses, nothing you could complain against.

His lips return when you insistently breathe, ‘again.’ He'll never deny you his love--of your due affection. This time, you meet him in the middle, pulling him into you for a deep kiss that has Hizashi whistling over your shoulders. You do your best to keep him in that malesform of kisses, but Aizawa pulls away after he feels he made good on his end. It's time to make good on yours.

“Again?” You sheepishly propose.

“You're stalling.” You won't distract him with kisses, no matter how lovely they are.

Thanks to the wonders of home studios, Hizashi manages to catch his late-night radio show and still be available for you. You should be in bed, but you and his prince are stubborn about not missing a single one, even though he promised the archive would be available by next afternoon at the latest. Hizashi is a huge softie, and it honestly melts his heart. To show his gratitude for your commitment, he plays a special setlist just for you and Shouta. He gives you two a shout-out, saying how he wouldn't be able to do what he does without the support of his sweethearts--always cheering him on, his most dedicated listeners. You and Shouta lie close together in one of its booths, sleepily enjoying the mellow tunes resounding off his acoustic wall panels.

You confide in your husbands about feeling ‘frumpy,’ and Aizawa kisses your forehead. “You look beautiful; you always do.”

“I look like hell.”

“I agree,” He mutters around the straw of his jelly pouch.

Okay, that hurt. He wasn't supposed to agree with you.

“You look like hell; that would mean you’re hot as lava, right?”

Your jaw drops as his cheeks hollow, sucking the pouch empty, so it caved into itself.

Did the Aizawa Shouta call you ‘hot?’

“Don’t make me get Hizashi.” They'll tolerate a lot, but self-abasement isn't on that list.

“No need.” Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. You whip around like a startled anime protagonist to the spine-chilling sight of Hizashi tapping his foot. The look on his face spoke volumes. You know better than to talk that way around them. Those eyebrows are in his hairline.

You're in trouble.

(Spoiler: Hizashi sits you on his lap. He and Shouta tell you how beautiful you are; they show it. While they bombard you with kisses, they make you compliment yourself. Are you flustered from their praise, the undivided attention that's all for you? Cute. Extra kisses for cuteness. Now tell them more about how precious your hands are. You're getting praised right down to your toes.)

Dabi

“Alright, come here.” He gets fed up with your moping, pussyfooting around him when you so obviously wanted attention. He drags you towards his chest for those cuddles you tried to guilt-trip him into supplying. His arm secured you like a seatbelt to prevent any squirming (unnecessary since you don’t plan on going anywhere). His gaze rests somberly on his hand, concentrating his power to the center of his palm. It was like trying to fit a pencil through a straw. It took nothing at all for him to conjure flames of horrifying proportions, but it required painstaking effort to control its intensity. It was much easier letting the unruly fire of his quirk blaze than trying to bring it under subjection. Those ‘hell flames’ of his, as people from his youth often called them, would just rage even harder against shackles. With careful meditation, he had a dull flame with the warmth of a console that’s been running for a few hours. Toasty, but not hot. “Don’t squirm.” Dabi murmured lowly, pining you to his body as you fidgeted, wary of the engulfed hand threatening you with fire. “It won’t burn you. Don’t you trust me?” The question came off as exasperated boredom, but you caught the hurt beneath his indifferent tone. It idles near your stomach; he doesn't bring it any closer without your go-ahead.

“I do. I trust you.” After a brief period of indecision, you guide him by his wrist, placing his hand on your abdomen. You steer clear of the flames, keeping him situated where you need him. Dabi heats himself to a comfortable temperature while you make yourself at home against his chest, melting into the donated warmth. “If you need it warmer, let me know.” You sigh a hum, nodding drowsily. Your muscles relax after about twenty minutes of the heat transfer, enough to where you're starting to doze from the soporific effect it has. Dabi gently prods you, noticing you begin to nod off. “Feelin’ better, princess?”

“Hm.” You hum an acknowledgment, slipping into the seduction of sleep.

His hand lingers, ensuring your nap is pain-free. He stares unblinking up at the ceiling, head rested on the couch cushion. Guess his hell flames could do some good after all.

Asleep, you miss the low humming from his diaphragm, the fingers in your hair. The silence is serene, tinged with melancholy.

Because of the love he has for his mother, Touya is soft and considerate of your monthly woes. From her, he's learned how to care for you. She’d often hold him during her menses--hugging him to her chest as she sought comfort his father was too busy or simply too calloused to provide. In his youth, he could tell his mother needed comfort, so he sat patiently and let himself be snuggled. Dabi on the other hand, doesn’t know if he’s emotionally capable of being held at present, so he holds you instead. He’ll indulge you if you insist, but only if you ask. He won’t offer. The last thing you need is him shivering in your arms, breaking down in tears because of painful memories resurfaced from his past. Not very soothing, he’ll bet. This is for the best anyhow. His heat will melt away those pains you’re experiencing in your lower back.

He prepares s’mores for the two of you--one of your guilty pleasures. Once you assemble them, extra marshmallows for you and double barks of chocolate for him, you place the sandwiches in Dabi’s palm and watch as those blue flames burst to life. Hibachi-style s’mores. They’re toasted to perfection; melted chocolate that sticks to your fingers and gooey strings of marshmallows that cling to the roof of your mouth. Honey Graham crackers tie it all together, culminating in the pinnacle of desserts. You hum around the sugary concoction coating your tongue.

Heh. He smells like hibachi.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, weirdo.” His eyes narrow on you as he throws his head back, popping one of the s’mores in his mouth. He eats it hole.

Shit. You said it out loud.

“It is.” You affirm, wrapping your arms around him. He hums against you. It could be confused for a dismissive sound, but you know it's a prompt to continue. “You smell smoky like charcoal and incense. You're cozy like a fireplace.” He carried all the smells of home--family barbecues and warm Christmas’s, things you're sadly confident he's never had.

“Cute.” He finally supplies, drawing you deeper in his chest as you burrow for more of that heat he generated. “If it's heat you need, I've got an endless supply.” His arms open for you, and you take it as a green light to curl right up in his lap.

It's adorable how he kept you away from the flame; he held it at a safe distance and stopped your wide-eyed wonderment from leading you too close. His hand acted as a safety rail. He doesn't get your attraction. It's just fire--hell flames, he reminds himself. “Stay back, you little pyromaniac.”

It's extremely taxing to control his quirk the way he is. He's whittling a power that could melt skin and disintegrate bone down to a low simmer. Dabi’s wiped out and more or less drained for the evening. He’s annoyed that he can't help you to the extent he'd planned. Moderating his temperature for you, he's rendered himself useless, unable to muster the energy to peel himself from the couch. You two sit in defeated silence for a time. He's too exhausted, and you're bound by pain.

“Dabi?” His eye cracks open a fraction; the chill of his blue irises gives rise to a shiver. You hesitate. He watches you pussyfoot around him again, wary of your words and steps as if he were some wild animal that would rip your throat out if you chose the wrong ones. He hates it. Dabi never minded the look on others, but he found he loathed it on you.

“You know you don't have to do this for me if it negatively impacts you, right?” You aren't sure what you're apprehensive about, but you are.

“Yes, I do.” There’s conviction behind those words, a heat that isn't directed at you. He'd be better than his old man even if it killed him. He sits up with a bit of difficulty. “I can handle it. That's what daddy's for, right?” He ruffles your hair like a big brother. “Thanks for the concern, mouse.”

He limits how many s’mores you eat. It's called comfort food for a reason, but he's not going to let you make yourself sick off them either. You'd scarf them down until you ran out of crackers, and then you'd place the marshmallows on top of the chocolate. He knows you. You're allowed about ten. You'll have to self-soothe through another avenue; he's blocking that particular one off. His arms, on the other hand, are open 24/7. It's all you can squeeze. Cuddles come free.

His arms are fastened around your waist wherever you go, chin tucked into the cavity between your shoulder and neck.

He's no stranger to pain. Some days, his scars itch and burn so terribly he wants to scream, scream for the constant agony he's in, the anguish he's been carrying all these years--wail his throat raw until he crumples to the ground in a trembling heap of gasps and broken croaks. The jarring pain tunnels so deep it's in his fucking bones. He swallowed them, just like every other bitter pill life forced down his throat. You don't want to take yours, and he won't make you. His voice won't be their vessel, but he channels those hellish screams of anger through his flames; he gives them a voice as he takes those of his victims. He exacts their wrath; the negative emotion fanned his flames; they burned just as hotly. Dabi let hatred consume him in a blaze of fire. The intensity of their hate was too much for him to wield at times, and he has the burns to show for it. Everyone would feel his pain, a lick of the torment he carried with him every damn day. Misery loved company. When they eventually devour him, he’s taking this world with him. From the dark scarring covering the majority of his body, he'd say they aren't too far off from eating him entirely.

That said, he isn't grouchy if you writhe. You can cry your agony to the sky. He's never been the best at pacifying, but you helped him tap into the softer side of himself he thought long dead. Dabi’s not sure how to help outside of offering heat, so he holds you fast like his mom used to do to him.

“You got this. It won't last forever.” He muttered, stifled in your neck. He promotes your frustrated groans, those weak sobs. Fuck that pain. Let it out. He promised to cook anyone and anything that gave you trouble. Those cramps aren't exempt.

Dabi isn't the type to make himself scarce when your periods hit; he's not one of those partners that prefer not to deal with the inconveniences and messy business of your period. Oh, darlin’, he's not afraid to get messy. He’ll make a mess of both of you if you ask. You need only say the word. While his visitations are sparse, considering his usual haunts with the League, you can always count on him sticking close during these times. He has a habit of turning up a day or two before they start, right out of the woodworks. It's like he had a weird sixth sense. The villain is seldom empty-handed, bearing gifts of chocolate and treats topped with an excessive amount of icing. He knows you're a sugar addict.

He is the heating pad. He'll spoon you, toasting your back, or let you clutch him while you sleep.

You're difficult, but he puts up with it. You just like to be fussed over, he knows. That's why you're daddy’s spoiled little princess. He doesn't mind having a brat.

“Noooo, not that one.” You complain, and he reaches for another snack in the bag he brought. You snub that one too. Impossible to please. He grabs the whole thing and walks it over to you, letting you pluck out your goodies for the horror marathon he started.

“Make room. Daddy’s gotta sit. Unless you want me to sit on your legs?” Dabi prods your calves, and you place them on the floor, but not without grumbling.

“Brat.” He comments, sitting beside you.

“Here.” You dig through the bag when he drops it in your lap. You hand him your selection, and he rips it open with his fingers. He breaks off small chunks and offers them throughout the movie.

Dabi keeps your bath water nice and hot. He battles pain himself, so he knows what to add to alleviate cramps. The oatmeal and cinnamon are for him and you both; his stitches have been irritating him lately.

You find it peculiar how he'll let you clean the tender region of his stitches; Dabi will even shiver when your fingers graze his skin, but you're forbidden to touch those tempting swoops of black curls. And it looks so soft. Oh, to feel that exquisite softness. Your hands itch to reach out and touch velvety paradise. It's unfair. His grubby little fingers wrap so sinfully in your hair, kneading your scalp as he lathers you in shampoo.

“Stop pouting.”

You pout harder. He'll feel the wrath of your sulking. You only want to touch it--just one strand between your fingertips. Those bone-thin fingers massage that grumpy attitude from you, melting you into goop without the use of his quirk. They scatter your brain with their rigorous massaging, disorganized your thoughts so they focused solely on how masterful those spindly digits are at what they do. It’s villainous. You often pondered how they maintained their skeletal physique, given how much the villain ate daily. He’ll raid your fridge and bellyache about how his stomach is in his back after he's cleared it out of everything except the vegetables.

“It’s prohibited; daddy ordains it.” His dry voice would suggest that's he's poking fun at you, but you know he's playing with you.

“I wanna wash your hair too.” You huff, puffing out your cheeks.

Touya dips, kissing one of them. “I’ll let you put ointment on my scars. Fair?” For some bizarre reason, you like to pamper him. Washing him, covering him head-totoe in lotion, holding him when you think he looks sad and even feeding him. It confuses him. What do you get out of that? Dabi prefers to think of it as a charity; you think he's a basket-case.

“Tilt your head back. I'm gonna rinse it out.” Deep down, he knows you do it because you love him. You shouldn't. It's too reminiscent of his mother, so he inclines toward the first option. It's easier; he doesn't want to accept that you could love him so unconditionally. Even his mother's love had a limit. And that was anything that resembled his father. Guess who's quirk he inherited? He wonders some nights if there will come a day you can't stand the sight of him either, whether it's something of his own doing or something external.

“Ah! Dabi, you got it in my eye!”

“Let me see.”

He can't tell if you're being genuine or being a terror. He leans into your face, where your hands are covering your eyes and viciously rubbing. “Quit. You'll make it worse.”

You wait for him to get close enough. When you have him where you want him, you remove your blindfold and kiss him on the mouth. “Hehe, got you.” You grin up at him.

“I’d say I've got you.” His arms cage you in. You squeak reflexively, eyeing them with alarm as you try to back away from his warm chest, a not-so-unpleasant juxtaposition from the cold silver pierced through his nipples. “No squeaking.” He chastised, biting your shoulder. Of course, you repeat the sound from shock. “If you wanted a kiss, little mouse, you should’ve asked.” You stare owlishly, looking for mercy. “We don't take things from daddy without giving something back, do we?”

Extra: You grumble that you're gross and bloated. You feel all bleh. Everything is wrong; your hair is a mess, and your beauty marks are suddenly unsightly. You scrub as though you could wipe them off. You'll literally cry if you look in a mirror. Dabi gapes incredulously. You've never seen his eyes so wide. There must be something wrong with his hearing because there's no way in hell you just said that shit to him. You didn't dare fix your mouth to form the deprecating words he heard. You recognize your offense seeing his expression go stone-cold. His mouth flatlines into a grim deadpan. He loses all animation, his face going slack, an eerie phenomenon considering he'd just displayed more reaction than you've seen from him in an entire year.

Toga

Precious blood you're letting go to waste. So wasteful, Himiko complains--soaking up all that yummy blood with paper when she could lick it clean for you. She’ll be the perfect maid, willing to spend the next seven days between your thighs, slurping your mess. But noooo. You don't even let her suck the tampons. You throw them away! Again, wasteful.

The scent of your blood switched her from love-drunk to bloodlust. Her behavior has been...strange. She blushes as if tipsy, panting excitedly over your prone body. Himiko’s intoxicated breaths puff warmly against your cheek. Her tongue slides suggestively over her upper lip. She licks them as if she could taste the copper in the air. Her grin tightens, stretching her mouth abnormally wide, showcasing the little fangs she had. Himiko’s tongue shoves up against the right one, needing a hit of sanguine to subdue the cravings for yours, the one that ran between your legs.

You whine, receding into your bed, uncomfortable with having her so close and pressed so intimately against you. When did she even get in here? How many times are you going to wake up to find her kneeling over you?

Toga giggles at the noise as if there was amusement to be found in your discomfort. It's secretive, that chortle knew something you didn't.

“You're bleeding.” The farther back her lips pulled, the more her eyes slanted. You lean backwards when she leans forward. You clutch your comforter as if it would protect you from the glint in her eyes. Toga sniffs you, dissolving into manic giggles afterwards.

And this is how you discovered your period had come two days early.

As someone who also experienced cramps, she understood your pain. However, she could lessen them for you. Her methods aren't your preferred way of dealing with cramps. It's unhygienic. “Mommy will make it all better.” Himiko soothed, blonde head disappearing between your thighs. She kissed down their length and pulled your panties aside, diving in so she could finally have that coveted red on her palette. She stayed beneath your nightgown all twilight and didn't come up for air until mid-afternoon.

You wake to one of Himiko’s bright smiles, the lull of her eyes hinted at a deep-seated hunger that's been sated, sleepiness that came with overindulgence. You know precisely what she fed on. Your insides tingle, the pleasant hum that came after a good orgasm. Her pink tongue darts across her lip as if tasting the remnants. Toga’s gaze, the one that permanently possessed a predatory edge, warned that she could indulge a little further despite her fullness. She can always make room for you. Her stare was still famished behind that content. You know it's temporary.

“How did you sleep?” Bare legs kick merrily behind her without a care in the world. She cups her face with sweater paws, deep blush raging past its ordinary maxima. A manicured finger with baby pink nails pokes your nose. “From those adorable moans, I’d say you slept pretty well.” She purred in that childish lilt of hers. You stare up at her, wary as she goes on to tell you about her night unprompted. “I had the yummiest midnight snack.” The flush of her cheeks heightens, angry like a fever while she reminisced on the cosmic taste. You can't hold back your timid whine as she gushes about your blood, the tang of your ‘cute little kitty.’ She equates the flavor to sour candy. Her tangent cuts out as quickly as it started, her attention presently fixated on your lips. You can taste the hunger rolling off her.

She pounces when you find the resolve to backpedal, crushing your lips together to share the intoxicating mix of spices, forcing you to savor yourself. Her tongue invades your mouth, curling around yours as they rub sensually together. The flavors it kneaded into your dubious tongue infest your taste buds. Himiko moans softly, sliding your sexes against one another as she lightly humps you. You reply with a sound of your own, but for different reasons. You whine helplessly into her mouth as your arms are pinned to your sides, dull nails scratching identical lines down your skin. Drool runs from the corner of your lip, her tongue all but thrusting into you again and again in a crude imitation of a phallus. She gives a little grunt, frustrated that you aren't grinding back. You aren't aware of your freedom until you feel the cold, menacing press of a knife at your stomach. It tightens under threat. Your hips reluctantly rise to meet her, and she immediately drives them back down, whimpering little songs of pleasure. Toga raises her skirt so that she can feel the soft friction of your fatty vulva on her clit. She grinds them together until you both cry, but her hips keep moving long after yours stop, robbing the orgasm for all it has. Her knife drags shallowly down the line of your tummy, just the way you like. You arch into her, hugging her close as you hump just as desperately at her soaked cunt. She pants above you like a puppy. Himiko falls forward, catching herself on her palms. Her hums are delighted as she nuzzled her face in your chest. Cuddling your bodies together, she weakly moves against you, making the tiniest noises from the aftershocks.

“How did it taste? Yummy, right?!” She asks with explosive energy. The question comes after she’d bullied your core out of another orgasm. Insatiable, her thrusts had quickly regained their momentum. She'd purred about how soft and perfect you felt pressed against her. Your sweet pussy nudged so tightly with hers had her head spinning. It was addictive, and she needed more of it. Tweaking her nipples, Toga panted down at you that she could grind you until you were mere bones.

You groan and smother your face with a pillow.

She tugs you toward the bathroom, ungodly eager for the time of day. Your legs wobble from her care the other night. They buckle beneath you the second she pulls you off the mattress. Concern made her smile slip into a frown. “Are you okay?” She kneels beside you, hanging onto your sleeve. “Did I go too far?” Himiko looks uncertain, a strange emotion swirling in her chest, remorse a foreign concept she encountered so seldom she can't recognize it for what it is.

“I’m okay, Himi.” You assure your worried girlfriend. At least, you think you are. You don't believe it warrants a check-up with your physician, at least. “I'll be fine. I probably need water.” You soothe, letting her cling to you, supportively patting her thigh.

You invite her into your arms. When she gave herself over to stress, she tended to go overboard. Her fretting is on par with her possessiveness, which rivals her clingy personality.

Himiko snuggles up in your chest, pushing insistently as if she craved the kind of closeness that would meld your bodies. It was like she wanted inside so she could share your skin. “I um, I might need to sit here for a bit.”

She nods, resting her head on your shoulder. Toga hugs you, waiting on the carpeted floor while you recover your strength. Her angry tears are hidden, upset with herself for pushing you too far. Her guilt is known only to the shirt you wore, the moisture absorbed in its fibers. She was wetting them with regret.

“How are you? Are you okay?” Your query is met with a shake of her head.

“I’m alright if you're alright.” Before you can investigate further, she pulls back to touch noses with you. Your chest clenches at the watery smile plastered on her face. Pecking your lips, she stood with a flourish, anxiously rubbing her sleeves together. Her foot toyed with its adjacent ankle, a nervous tick of hers. She eyed your sprawled form while gnawing her lip. Himiko claps her hands together, startling you before she spins on her heel. “I’ll be back, little blade.” She announces, skipping out of the room.

She returns to see you putting pressure on your leg, testing its mobility. Her frown resurfaces. You're ushered to the floor again and chewed out. “Naughty. Stay here. D’you wanna fall again?”

“Himi, I feel like I can stand now-”

“Not until you've had these.” She objects. It's then that you notice the see-through tumbler filled with water and a bag of chips cradled in her arm.

After you finished your refreshments--the ones she was adamant about hand-feeding you, she went right back to pilot you to the bathroom. Sweater-eaten hands cover your eyes as you step over the threshold and onto the shaggy rug, signaling your arrival. It's a tad unnecessary; you’ve seen the inside of this bathroom a million times. You could count its tiles like you could count the creases on the back of your hand. You entertained her whims, nevertheless, recalling how playful she can be.

“Close your eyes for the surprise!” She sang, waiting for your say-so.

“Ta-da!” The woosh of air following her hand's removal caused them to open. You can see why she was so persistent. Bubbles overrun the small room, spawning from her bubble machine situated on the counter. From there, they rapidly filled the atmosphere in a torrent of endless opalescent orbs, shimmering with infinite joyful colors. Pure unadulterated joy breaks out on your face; the emotion permeates the entire room. Bubbles are innocent and playful by their very definition. You've never seen so many in one place! They reign in the air just as they dominate the bathtub. You pick up its sweet smell from where you stand at the entrance—the water is an eye-catching shade of sunset orange, the heat vapors rising from its surface inviting. The floral scent is so potent; you're convinced she used the whole container of bath-soak.

“‘C’mon!” Excited, Toga drags you deeper into the washroom before you can digest everything. Stumbling after her, you notice candles burning, spy the tray of food waiting on the portable caddy.

“Did you do all this for me?” Your tone is breathless, incredulous. Tears sting the corner of your eyes, the familiar tickle of emotion in your throat. You're usually the one doing selfless acts for others. Himiko flushes under the awe-struck look you throw her, scratching nervously at her arm. The mood takes a sentimental turn, something she’s ill-equipped to deal with. It isn't romantic or the overly dramatic love confessions better suited to her forte. It's something weakly emotional. She blurts a neurotic giggle, unaware of how to handle the situation—incapable of doing so.

“Mhmm!” Her head bobs forward. Himiko does her best to hide behind her bangs, catching her index finger between her fang as she studies her socks.

“Thank you, baby shark.” You wrap her in an embrace she hums into. You nuzzle her head, begging her to show you those pretty cat eyes of hers. Toga glances at you with a hesitant quirk on her lip.

“Come on,” You lovingly goad. “show me those cute fangies.”

You get a peek of one when you plant a kiss on her cheek. She flashes the other after you pepper her with appreciation--a thank you for her nose and one on her lips. It breaks out like the sun emerging from the clouds, bursting at the seams. Her broad smile cuts into her eyes—ate half her face. Toga’s blush returned full force.

“So pretty.” You praise, causing it to ignite—your compliments kerosene on the fire in her cheeks.

Lacing your fingers together, you lift her hand to your neck. You gave her something familiar to ground herself with. She flexed her fingers, testing the grip. It tightened in seconds, yellow slits narrowing in familiar territory. Your vulnerable neck in her grasp, your life in her hands, she became Himiko again. The more force she applied, the better she felt in her skin.

“Take my breath away, my love.” You grin, goofy and lightheaded.

Too immersed in her power trip, she hasn't noticed she'd backed you into a wall.

Toga scoffs, her face wrinkling as if she smelled something unsavory, releasing you as if you'd singed her. She understood the reference, and her stink-eye indicated how much she enjoyed it.

“Stupid emo wannabe bad boy.”

No more movie nights with the League. You aren’t allowed to hang out with Dabi anymore.

After she shook off her revulsion and could look you in the eye once more, she removed her clothing. Himiko peeled her sticky panties from her skin, pulled them down, and stepped out of them. They're kicked off to the side callously. She smirked as you glanced away when she lifted her shirt for removal. You're still so shy; it's cute enough to make her crave you. Her teeth bite into the soft flesh of her lips, supplanting their need to sink into yours.

You're still over-sensitive, after all.

She undresses that shyness, popping the buttons on your shirt in her haste to rip it off you. You squeak, covering your chest, but the tatters are already on the floor. You pout, lamenting over your ruined shirt. You liked that one.

Toga reaches for your hand again, ready to frolic in those bubbles. She's confused when you shy away from her grab.

“Um, Himi--I need these.” You murmur in a small voice, staring at the wall.

She analyzed your form, putting two and two together.

The sound you made was curious and anxious when she squatted on her knees.

“Oh...” You shakily breathe, strangely flustered as she kissed your arms and the unguarded portion of your chest.

“Bathe with me?” Her voice is the calmest you've ever heard it.

“O-okay.” You let her pull your hands away, and she kisses both of your nipples twice. Your legs buckle under you but thankfully didn't give out.

“Pretty.” She hums, praising you as you'd done her not moments before.

Himiko grabs your hands, gently leading you into the tub. She eases you down with her and attaches to your side like a barnacle.

You lead her in the heart of your chest, hugging her waist as she pushes around yellow rubber duckies. You sing soft melodies, aiding both of you in your recoveries from your emotional shake-ups. Afterward, you recount one of her favorite stories, stroking her loose hair as the two of you share breakfast.

Spa Week! Himiko’s solution to your PMS anxiety is pampering. She snagged Twice’s bank card and purchased salon-grade beauty supplies: diamond foot files, expensive mud masks, softening wax, etc. You name it; she bought it. Toga is dead-set on painting your nails to match her pastels. It's a week of junk food and indulgence. A bit of a kleptomaniac, she swiped one of Shigaraki’s game systems, an old Nintendo 64, so you could play Mario. Himiko may or may not have borrowed one of Dabi’s heated blankets to wrap you in. Despite having a fire quirk, he ran cold like a viper.

The League is convinced some vengeful spirit is stealing their belongings.

“Fucking gremlins.” Dabi spits, eyeing the empty spot where his expensive skin cream once sat.

“Gremlins? Are you mental? Has all that smoke gone to your brain?” Shigaraki glared, the members all converging in the foyer to discuss their missing possessions. “They can't even use the damn controller. Have you seen those things?”

“Yeah? Well, how would you explain it, crust-face?” He challenged, using the height difference to look down his nose at their ‘supposed’ leader. Oh, Tomura didn't like that one bit.

The inquiring voice of Mr. Compress cuts through the tension.

“Have either of you gentlemen seen my top hat? I seem to have misplaced it.”

Toga stole it for a fashion show. He has so many fancy suits and trimmings.

Extra: You admit you don't feel attractive. She giggles and tells you to stop joking. You're fishing for compliments, aren't you? If you carry on, trying to persuade her that you're serious, she'll get deathly grave. Toga drops her smile, and your heart sinks to the floor.

Stop. Joking.

Hawks

Keigo has a nest even outside of spring. It's very comfortable! A creature of comfort in his own right, he's drawn to homey nooks--a byproduct of his genetics. His year-round nest is perfect for decompressing after patrols. It's littered with familiar objects. His nest brings him such relief, so why wouldn't it do the same for you?

He stuffs you in his nest of blankets, a mountain of miscellaneous comfort items.

Keigo’s safe space is a perfect mess; it looks as if he’d thrown in everything that gave him the slightest solace. It's overrun with his merchandise. He's a prideful bird.

He shoves one of the plushies in your arms, giving you a mini version of himself to hold. He can't be here with you, and he's eternally apologetic. His agency rejected his request for off-time even though he put it in weeks in advance.

Nervous chirps follow his frenetic questions. Are you comfy? Can he make you comfier?

He goes back to resituate you because you don't look cozy enough.

Kei whines about how he doesn't want to leave you.

He needs you safe and tightly nested in his nest.

You have to promise him you're going to be okay before he considers leaving. He steals so many hugs and kisses from you; he's in danger of running late.

“Kei,” You gently summon, cupping his handsome albeit goofy face. Those gorgeous eyes of molten honey lock on you. His left wing flutters as he leans into the soft touch. They zero in on your lips.

From how he falls forward as if in a trance, you suspect your pretty bird is scavenging for more kisses. The finger against his lip stills his descent, removing him from that dreamy haze.

“You're going to be late, my love.”

Takami’s brow furrows. You can see him mentally debating the pros and cons of giving his agency the metaphorical finger and staying home to snuggle you--the minor consequence of leaving now or getting one last heart-stopping kiss.

“Hm-!” Suddenly, his lips are on yours; he kisses with a fury, desperately trying to convey his regret and the never-ending love he has for you. With each passionate, angry kiss, he's saying he's sorry. He's so sad he can't be with you; please forgive him, baby bird.

He kisses himself light-headed.

He makes himself late because he staggers back on wobbly legs for an extra kiss.

Keigo is a kicked puppy as he slumps to the door. The drag of his feet is evidence of his reluctance.

His protective instincts are giving him hell. It's a battle to step foot out that door. His wings are weighed with remorse during his patrol; he sheds feathers from stress.

Fretful, Keigo stops by to check on you frequently. Your phone buzzes non-stop while he's out, offering to swing over to the convenience store if you want him to.

He asks for pictures of you nestled in his stuffies. Kei needs the reassurance that you're as soothed comfortable as you can be.

He returns with a massive bag of piping hot Chinese takeout, and it's all for you. He sits across from you and watches you eat it. His hawk-like stare is off-putting, but it's out of his control. His instincts need you fed and happy. He glances from the fork to your face, prompting you to start eating.

Kei works up the courage to ask if he can feed you. Sure, you've done it for him on occasion, (usually when he's trembling in his nest during punishing heats), but he's never quite managed to push his apprehension aside to do the same. You're both very affectionate with one another, constant cuddles and baby talk, but he's been apprehensive for some reason. He finally gives in to his urges to pamper you.

His mate is going to be so spoiled!

“Pretty (girl, boy), can I feed you?”

Cheerful cheeps escape him whenever the fork disappears past your lips, the cutest little carol as he unwittingly serenades you through your meal. It's the happy music of birds celebrating their food, but he hums it for you. Each piece of chicken is cut in half before he serves it to you. Pleased, his wings shuffle periodically; when the fork leaves, he's eager to return it with an offer of more nourishment.

His chorus is too adorable for you not to comment on it. Keigo is an honest-to-god songbird. “Your songs are so lovely, pretty birdie.” You cooed, effervescing right along with him.

His eyes narrow on you. You know full well he can't control it. “Eat.”

You drink two of the three water bottles he'd brought, yet he still tries to persuade you to finish the last one. You're losing liquids, right? It would help if you replenished them. Keigo begs, nuzzling his face against your arm; to sweeten the deal, he hits you with his perfected puppy eyes.

You agree to finish half if he drinks the rest. He's been an angel caring for you, but he hadn't thought of himself once. He didn't order a single item for himself.

The number two hero backtracked frantically when he responded that he didn't matter, to which your face dropped. No, no! Please, baby! Please don't be upset; he can't deal with that right now. He'll eat some of your food if you want him to. Only a little, though. It's for you.

Keigo trills when you put him in the nest, envelop him in fresh linens, and feed him. You stab whole bits of sesame chicken, blowing the steam away before giving him the marinated meat. His excited chirps are even louder now that he's the one experiencing the bold flavors. You hardly have time to cool it off before he snatches it from the fork with his teeth.

He moans about not wanting to go back on patrol. You've made him all comfy. Takami fights out of the satiny fibers of his comforter, battles the call of his bed and plushies--the home he'd made in your arms.

“Babe, how we feelin’? Any better?” Kei makes sure you have everything you need, shoving his phone in his pocket as he prepares to leave for his last round of patrols. If you pout, he’ll rush you in a blur of red feathers that shut the world out, enfolding you, so it's just you and him. His lips promise his return, driving the point home with as many kisses as it takes. Please don't give him those sad tweets. His poor heart can't do that. His eyes solidify that promise as they hold yours. “Baby bird, I'll always come home to you. I won't stay away too long.” He clasps your hands in his, joining your noses for encouraging nuzzles.

Heartbroken, he’ll whine after you if you tell him you're having cramps and bad headaches, tentatively asking him to pick up painkillers on his way home.

“Baby bird, why didn't you tell me?” He isn't leaving. The poor secretary on the other side of the call is interrupted by the rude click of Keigo ending the conversation. The battery is removed from his phone before he lodges it over the couch.

“No distractions.” He answers at the startled expression you wore. You nod slowly, eyeing the direction his battery landed. You've seen how they blew up his phone with notifications. You're surprised he hasn't done it sooner.

His bird-like additions cause him to do some eye-raising stuff. Keigo’s instincts scream at him to make you comfortable; they tell him to keep you swaddled in the nest and convince him you're vulnerable somehow. You need to be warm. Cozy mate equals happy mate.

You two huddle in his nest. The original lovebirds, kissing in a tree. The hero hauled you toward his bedding for cuddles. Those darling noises prevail even as you're nestled near his heart. You giggle as his nose burrows in your neck, scenting you. It's a bad habit of his. He does it while relaxing with you and has been known to partake in the activity when bored. Less commonly, he’ll hug you and anxiously rub his scent into you as a nervous habit, just like he's doing right now.

“Baby, please, please take your meds,” he sounds wretched, overwrought.

“I know it's nasty, I know pretty baby, but ya gotta take it.” He’ll lose feathers if he has to listen to your pained moans another minute. He parrots them, returning your woeful warbles like a parakeet. You consent to take them. It's equally challenging for you to see him stress his feathers out, groaning as he endures mental suffering from his instincts. They can't bear to see you in pain. “Thank you, baby bee.” Keigo squishes you against him, kissing your cheek as you squirm in his arms to escape them. You love him, your precious baby boy, but you're drowning, you're drowning in kisses. He's giving you too many.

Unwilling to leave you, he orders takeout from his phone. Keigo lets you select what you want. You're settled in his lap, and his wings do their usual flutter as you scroll through promising restaurants.

“Do you want anything, Kei?” You question, glancing over your shoulder where he's perched.

“Usual.” He mutters, eyeing your cart. He's interested in the quantity rather than the price.

Accepting the phone from your hands, he puts in his order, adding to yours like always.

Because of his bird-like qualities, he likes to stockpile. Keigo’s the type to buy in bulk and squirrel things away for later use. He's ready to ram his head into the nearest wall, frustrated with himself for letting you run out of supplies. His agitated pacing burns a hole through the carpet; he sheds feathers left and right. You watch him tug cruelly at his hair, unkind hands scratching furiously at his scalp, mussing his stylized hair.

“Keigo, honey, it's okay. Please be kind to yourself.” He needs to walk out his agitation; you understand. Still, you can't tolerate his self-punishment. He takes such good care of you, and he doesn't deserve that.

“Please, come here?” You take his hands away, and he lets you tuck him in your bosom. He nestles deeper, a natural reaction as you pet his hair.

“‘m sorry, babe. It won't happen again.” His murmur refers to the missing essentials, not the harsh way he'd dealt with himself. Your chest burns, sorrowful.

“Kei. Listen to me, pretty bird.” Your hands remedy the harsh treatment he'd given his hair. You undo that meanness with soft caresses, love carded through his locks with every stroke—his shiver races through your fingertips. Self-damnation is answered with forgiveness. Takami immediately gazes up at you. You dip down to kiss his nose that wrinkles at the contact.

“Don't treat yourself that way. You do so much for me; you've done so much for me, not just today, but every day. I love you; I don't want to see you deal so harshly with yourself. Be nice to my birdie. He's sensitive, sweet, and fragile. He deserves kindness.” Keigo’s eyes are wide on yours, blown from his astonishment. They're wide and innocent, asking if you truly meant it.

“I'm comfortable,” You confirm, brushing his bangs aside so that you can see those beautiful puddles of amber uninhibited. His wings extend, figurative tail starting a hesitant wag.

“content,” He held his breath.

“and happy. You make me so happy, Kei.”

Keigo’s wings quaver behind him, betraying his emotions. He lets your words sink in for a full minute. He replays them in his mind, loving the sound as he shares his ecstasy via a cloudburst of excited, desperate kisses. His words are practically whined between feverish presses.

“Baby bird,” kiss

“--love you” kiss

“so much.” kiss kiss

He gives you one of his feathers. “Squeeze this whenever you miss me. I'll feel it, and I'll get a move on.” He places the red feather in your palm, closing your fist.

Testing it, you gently skim the delicate hairs with your index finger.

A full-body shudder travels through him. His hand rests at his heart as if you were caressing his very soul. Keigo’s ears are tinted red when he tells you, “Babe, I'm not gone yet.”

Your touch was so light it tickled and teased. He felt the love behind it. You massaged his heart with that experimental caress. It elicits an odd warmth within him, a welcome one. His feathers are intimately linked with himself. They're more or less detachable limbs; he can experience the world around him vicariously, he can feel through them. You're essentially petting him.

More of those lovable satisfied peeps sing from his spirit. You’re enclosed in a tight hug before he takes off.

King of cozy alcoves. Keigo knows a thing or two about creating comfy spaces. You two spend the night making the most epic pillow fort known to man. It becomes a contest somewhere along the way. The original project is ditched as you both scramble to outdo one another--stealing pillows from each other’s pile and playfully wrestling over fairy lights like two rabid shoppers on Black Friday. Keigo lets you win, perfect gentlemen. However, his wing ‘accidentally’ knocks over your masterpiece. “Oops. Nervous wings.” Not so gentlemanly.

He keeps you toasty and comfy with cuddles in his your nest, plural.

You'll split his heart in two if you whisper your discontent regarding your appearance. Keigo’s sadness extends to his eyes. His countenance crumpled in the wake of his distraught heart. The hero’s anguish burrows into his soul. The wings behind him droop sadly. “Feather, what do you mean? You're so pretty.” He urges desperately, hurt that you can't see it.

Shigaraki

It's the launch day of one of the year's most heavily anticipated games, and Shiggy is dutifully searching for his player two, controller in hand. He potters around the base like a child who lost their parent in a grocery store, growing more desperate and distraught the longer he couldn't find you. His mind is in decay, anxious thoughts a cyclone of what-ifs: what if those heroes kidnapped you from your home, from the people that love you? Tomura’s stomach twisted in knots, imagining how terrified you'd be. He kicks in every door, unconcerned of the indignant squalls that follow. Are you playing a game with him? A form of hide and seek? A frustrated groan tempts his throat. He doesn't like this game. He's a breath away from screaming your name when the last door he stormed reveals your huddled figure. He could whine from relief. Shigaraki stops short, paying heed to how miserable you appear, bowed into yourself while Big Sis Magne pets your hair, calling you poor dear. The release date overshadowed your monthly cycle; the days coincided with one another. He’d been so excited to play your favorite series together that he'd overlooked it--just as he was oblivious of the pile of disintegrated ash at his feet, the residues of your controller.

Tomura has come a long way from his initial ignorance, the first time he encountered your fetal position. He’ll be hard-pressed to admit how panicked he was when you complained of stomach aches. He paled when you explained you were bleeding, hoping to calm his rising hysteria, but it soared to new heights. Comically, he thought your bleeding was internal, hellbent on delivering you to his master. Master had an abundance of acquired quirks; perhaps there was one in there that could cure you. You pumped his breaks before those frantic hands could snatch you from your comfy nest. Shigaraki almost didn't allow you to explain. You can't leave him; you can’t! You won't die in his arms. If he lost you, his mind would fragment, and he'd lose himself too. You sat him down and watched his ears burn brighter and brighter as you corrected his false assumption. The leader looked askance, scowling off the side to save face, preserving what little dignity he had left considering his flaming face. Bashful, he'd all but demanded you tell him how to help you. If you wouldn't, he'd ask Kurogiri. It isn't hard to fluster Tomura, yet you soften every time you achieve that adorable furrow in his brow. You told him heat was your best friend; it made your muscles hate you less. With a touch of shyness, you mentioned how physical affection helped too. Shigaraki poutingly held you like a stingy child cleaved to a beloved toy, barring the rest of the league from any contact with you. These days, he’s better prepared and much more knowledgeable. Additionally, he's also more inclined to share, a testament to his character growth.

“I know a hack.” He said, jumping from the couch as you mourned your defective heating pad that refused to get warm. He respawned with bottled water, and you regarded him as if he’d grown a second head.

“Iggy, that's very thoughtful, but what am I supposed to do with-”

“Here, take it.” He deposits the bottle in your hand.

Ooooh, that's nice. You dissolve into the couch, audibly sighing from the delicious heat.

From somewhere at the bar, Dabi calls out a ‘you're welcome.’

“Thank you, Dabi!” You return over the commotion of the boys--Dabi, Twice, and Spinner playing cards.

“Don't mention it.”

You sit thigh-to-thigh with Shigaraki on the floor, warmed water bottle nestled in the fold of your midsection as you hunch forward towards the screen, mashing the buttons of your borrowed controller into submission as you race the tracks of Mario Kart. Members of the League crowd behind you on the couch, waiting for their turn after the tournament finishes.

“There's a four-player limit.” Shigaraki hisses as terror twins Dabi and Himiko pester him.

Toga hums, disappointed. She flops onto the couch, folding her arms. Dabi passes a water bottle between his hands while he bides the time. Your official heat supply, he warmed them up for you. As soon as one lost its warmness, he handed you another one.

Thankfully, they turned their sights away from Shigaraki and annihilated the pizza boxes Twice brandished instead.

Big sis isn't a huge game buff, so she lays at your feet, content in massaging their soreness away, delighting in the lively chatter of her found family. Kurogiri does the same, polishing glasses at the bar.

Okay, so this is all lighthearted, but I could see Dabi walking you into a corner, pining you with an arm to the side of your head. “You wanna ditch crusty and shack up with me? I can keep you warm tonight.” The deep curl of his voice almost made you believe he was serious, although you know this is a game he likes to play to piss off the group’s leader. He winks, letting you know it's all in fun.

“I'll snap your dick off if you don't put it away.” Shigaraki comments without glancing from the screen.

“Ew, incest.” Toga scowled at him, sticking her tongue out.

Dabi sighs, “They aren't my biological (sister, brother).”

“Doesn't matter. We're a family; stop being weird.”

He worries more than you think. Tomura doesn't like the idea of you in pain. Pain is annoying, infuriating, and persistent like the itch in his skin. It pisses him off. You're frustrated, right? Here, you'll feel better after you throw some darts at All Might’s head. (A picture of it anyway) Take out your frustration. Blame all your miseries on All Might. He's everything wrong with this world.

Baking with the league! Big sis suggested some sugary confectionery to put a smile on everyone's faces. Toga squeals, clapping excitedly, already drooling over the heap of chocolate she's going to decorate with. Twice has a love-hate relationship with the notion; one side of him cheers along with her, the other makes gagging noises. Dabi plays his delight off with an air of indifference, throwing his shoulders back. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he slinks to the kitchen without any prompting. He wants first dibs. Knowing Toga, she’ll eat the icing out of the jar before anyone can use it, batter included. Not that he won't do the same, but at least he isn't as audacious. Shigaraki doesn't have an opinion one way or another. He could take it or leave it. Big sis and Spinner are patient instructors, guiding the band of Japan's worst bakers through the baking process. Twice fights with himself over the right amount of sprinkles for the batter. He wants to add two tablespoons, and his other wants to dump in a whole cup (the entire shaker).

“That’s pretty excessive, don't ya think?” He says, attempting to help his other see reason.

“No, yes!” They contradict. “You're a spoilsport. You're no fun!”

Twice plays tug of war with himself, as if both he and his other controlled an arm and were wrestling for rights.

“Oh, goddamnit!” He yelled, the whole packet falling into the bowl, much to his double’s delight.

“Yay, sprinkles!” Toga gushed, batter coating her face. It was splattered just about everywhere. She sucked it from her fingers, humming happily with a pleased blush to match. She danced in place, lost in her own little world.

Dabi is making culinary masterpieces. His cupcakes are already in the oven. With a spoon, he pours cake batter into his hand. He dashes it with a pinch of sprinkles before he sets it alight. His flames burst to life; the leftovers are used to make something akin to fried cookies. He throws them back with speed, rivaling Himiko, who's doing a disappearing act of her own with the batter. Eat your heart out, Compress. Said magician offers you one of his finished desserts. “For you, my dear.” He tips his hat to you, bowing.

You return his bow, throwing in a curtsy. “Thank you. I appreciate your generosity.” You give him one of your creations, returning his kindness.

Shiggy may not be crazy about them, but he's sorta jealous. Where are his cupcakes? He's the one in charge here. If anyone should get cupcakes, it should be him. How dare you give another man your food? How dare you share your love language? What, do you love that hack magician? No. You can't love anyone but him. The league can survive one less member-oh. You offered him one too. He's going to accept this, but he's highly offended by it.

“Dabi, slow down. You're going to burn your tongue. Himi, you're going to get a stomach ache after all that pizza.” You caution, helping Kurogiri straighten up. Honestly, they're like children.

“No stranger to burns, doll.” He drawls, sounding indolent and sluggish, almost drugged. He indicates toward his body, and your eyes quickly hone on the staples and blackened skin.

“Still.” You defended, worry clouding your tone.

“If emo boy wants a rubbery tongue, let him have one.” Shigaraki sassed. You shouldn't concern yourself over anyone but him. Your irritating maternal fussing is all his.

“All the smoother to lick things with. My gain, their pleasure.” The dirtiest grin cracks his face like fractured glass.

“Ugh.” Tomura scrunched his nose, disgusted.

All For One

AFO tolerates your mourning to an extent. Your body is grieving, saying goodbye to the dead. It's a painful process, and you're afforded your tears. Nonetheless, he won't abide hollow words, disingenuous things you don't mean. You aren't ‘dying,’ and he won't give ear to such claims. You're rebuked harshly. It's salt in an old wound, and Shigaraki refuses to entertain the thought of losing you. As he sits, warming the plush leather beneath him, borrowing your weight as you tuck into his chest as if seeking refuge, he listens to those grievances of yours.

“Don't you have a healing quirk in there or something?” With all of those quirks, there's gotta be one that could help.

“I do.” He replies with a smile. In his search for a quirk that could have restored his brother, he's come across many healing-type abilities.

Oh, thank God-

“Unfortunately, my dear, they are self-regenerating quirks. I regret to inform you that I hold no cure to your ailment.”

He chuckles, a sound deep and husky that tickles a specific part of your brain--amused by your theatrics as you visibly deflate. If you weren't in such pain, that gorgeous laugh would melt you into putty.

“At least, not in my arsenal of acquired talents.”

“However,” His baritone purrs with something expensive that teased mischief. “Your cure might be found in my fingertips, perhaps in my tongue if you'd care for my services.”

“Don't be gross.” You playfully shove his chest with your shoulder.

You should have known his quirks are self-serving.

He settles into the chair with a shrug, relieving the tension in his back. An air of dispassion surrounded him, signifying he was unbothered by the refused offer.

His foot danced to a ballad that eluded you. Wine swirled precariously close to the rim of the wine glass containing it as he rotated his wrist. “Could I interest you in a simple massage then?”

Shigaraki’s question hung in the air; it held no trace of obligation to accept and came without burden. There was, however, a strange heaviness in the atmosphere, a peculiar do or die that was par for the course when dealing with someone of his status. When he spoke, reality bowed before him and reshaped itself to suit his whims.

You study his larger-than-life hands, the quiet power they harbored. A shiver heightened your senses at the thought of them manipulating your flesh. You swallow, taming the excited albeit nervous shake in your voice. “Okay.”

You're warmed from the inside out, relishing the hot chamomile tea courtesy of the doctor (who honestly thought the act was beneath him); he isn't a servant, but anything for master Shigaraki. It's his pleasure to be of assistance. Shigaraki only employed those who would open a vein at his decree. The heat settling in your belly unlocked conctracting muscles, and AFO gave it a run for its money. Your body relaxes into itself, dissolving in the leather seat as you become one with its glossy makeup. You joy under his touch like a cat receiving pets, nuzzling at his kneading fingers with the side of your head. You must have moaned gratitude because he answers you.

“Anytime, my dear.”

He's infinitely amused that you, an innocent little rabbit, sought shelter in the arms of a beast such as he. Instead of swallowing you whole, quirk and all, he dismissed his famine for power and gave the warmth you yearned for.

#keigo x reader #keigo fluff #erasermic x reader #toga x reader #dabi fluff #dabi x reader #hawks x reader #shigaraki x reader #all for one x reader #cw: periods

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