Mha X Reader - Blog Posts

BAKUSQAUD TRANS HEADCANONS :3

Bakugo: Bakugo came out as trans when he was young, most likely in middle school, because he’s confident and direct about who he is. Kirishima was the first person in Class 1-A he came out to. Kirishima immediately declared Bakugo manlier than anyone. Bakugo channels any dysphoric feelings into his training. Explosions? Perfect for letting out frustration. He has days when he struggles silently with dysphoria but doesn’t talk about it much. Instead he relies on subtle gestures of support from those close to him. Like a pat on the shoulder from Kirishima or a knowing nod from Aizawa.

Denki: Denki realized he was trans in his early teens, but it took him a while to come out because he didn’t know how people would react. He had moments of dysphoria related to feeling like he didn’t fit with the confident and laid-back persona he wanted to show. Kaminari came out in a joking way to his close friends, probably saying something like, Hey, just so you know, I’m Denki 2.0 new and improved! Kaminari uses humor and his love of music to cope with dysphoria. He’ll make light-hearted jokes about his struggles but secretly appreciates it when his friends check in on him. Shinsou Hitoshi became a trusted alley later. They bond over feelings of not fitting into societal expectations and help each other grow stronger.

Sero: Sero realized he was trans in late elementary or early middle school. It was a quiet understanding he just knew and decided to work towards living as himself without making a big fuss about it. Sero came out to his friends with a calm and collected attitude. He didn’t want it to be a big deal, so he probably said something casual like, Oh yeah, by the way, I’m trans. Cool, right? Sero has a very chill demeanor, but he sometimes uses humor or distractions to cope with dysphoria. He’s not the type to wallow he’ll go skateboarding or practice new tape tricks instead.

Kirishima: Kirishima realized he was trans in middle school when he became drawn to ideals of manliness and heroism. He struggled with insecurity and selfdoubt, feeling he couldn’t embody the kind of manliness he admired in heroes like Crimson Riot. Watching Crimson Riot’s interviews and learning that manliness is about spirit, not appearance helped solidify his identity. He told Bakugo first in Class 1-A, and Bakugo responded with something like, Why the hell would I care? You’re still you. Kirishima has days where he feels insecure, especially early in his journey. He tends to hide behind humor or train excessively to distract himself. Physical training plays a big role in combating dysphoria he associates strength and endurance with feeling more at home in his body.

Mina: Mina realized she was trans when she was very young. She always felt more comfortable expressing herself in a vibrant, energetic, and feminine way. She didn’t think much of it at first, it just felt natural to her to be herself and break the mold. Mina came out in the most Mina way possible: confidently and with a touch of flair. She likely said something like, Hey, guess what? I’m a girl and an awesome one at that! Kirishima and Sero probably responded with enthusiastic high-fives, and Kaminari said, We knew, you’re literally the coolest! Mina fights dysphoria with self-love and action. She hypes herself up in the mirror, saying things like, You’re a queen, and no one can tell you otherwise! Dance and physical activity are her outlets. Whether it’s practicing her moves or blasting music to let loose, staying active helps her feel strong and confident in her body. On rough days, she leans on her friends, who are always there to remind her of how amazing she is. Kirishima is her ultimate hype man. He’s always ready to remind her of her bravery and how much she inspires others.

ᯓ★ suddenly, i had a valentine

shoto x gn!reader

based on valentine by laufey

a/n: for valentine's day bc i'm the L in lgbtq (loser) 😔

mha m.list | gen m.list

shoto's always rejected affection.

from childhood, he'd been estranged from his siblings, being raised to become the new #1 hero. he could barely remember his mother's touch, his siblings' punches. he could only remember the feeling of tatami under his palms when he fell during training. he'd never really had friends his age either, due to spending all day inside with endeavor.

that all changed when he went to ua.

suddenly, he was known as the "handsome guy from class 1-a". there were people, boys and girls alike, who would ask him out. there was even that third-year girl who found the courage to ask him, a first-year, on a date.

he turned them all down every time. it almost became a reflex for him.

until you.

for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to say no. you'd brought him a box of chocolates for valentine's day, and he found his heart melting.

to his surprise, he found himself enjoying your company.

to your surprise, he asked you to be his a month later.

and here you are.

a year later, he asks you out for valentine's day with a box of chocolates.

it's sweet, you think. shoto's taken you to the fair that just opened, one that you'd mentioned wanting to go to. he almost looks ethereal in the soft sunset glow, with his hair falling in front of his eyes and the tiny smile adorning his features.

"you're so pretty, shoto."

you don't mean to say it, but when you see a faint blush dusting his cheeks, you find that you're glad you did.

there's a flicker of surprise, then hesitation, like he doesn't know what to say.

"you- you're pretty too, y/n."

and it's that moment when you realise that this is his first time. that this — what you're experiencing now — is the first time he's ever opened his arms to affection.

it's barely an i love you. but it's so incredibly shoto that you can't help but have your breath taken away.

and suddenly, it all feels so surreal.

it's like you blinked, and suddenly you had a valentine.

Tamaki es un personaje mal entendido por el fandom.

La timidez es su principal característica, así que con esta cualidad se debe el gran malentendido. Que Tamaki sea una persona tímida no significa que sea totalmente inocente que nunca pensaría nada impuro. Es un adolescente mayor, sabe lo que es el sexo.

De hecho, sería preocupante el hecho de tener una mala educación sexual para su edad.

"Él no se atrevería a dar el primer beso".

"Tamaki jamás pensaría cosas picantes sobre ti, es muy tímido ante esos pensamientos".

En el anime se encontraba en su último año, tiene 17 años, ya está acostumbrado a ver parejas de adolescentes.

Claro, todo ello no significa que sea un pervertido de clóset, pero no podemos atribuirle toda la pureza e inocencia del mundo.

Sería algo gratificante ver más contenido de él siendo un adolescente con curiosidad sexual, que es COMPLETAMENTE NORMAL a su edad.

Esto también se refuerza con la escena en que habla por primera vez con Nejire, si el desea es totalmente capaz de comunicarse con nuevas personas.

Otro de los temas que también me inquietan es la típica idea de que tartamudea en cada palabra que dice.

Claro, en ocasiones Tamaki podría tartamudear pero sólo cuando se siente ansioso, incómodo o asustado.

A mí percepción, Amajiki es un chico con su timidez característica y grandes inseguridades, que le impiden una correcta comunicación con sus compañeros, pero si en algún momento es necesario, es completamente capaz de hablar con extraños.

Pero bueno, es mi opinión.

¿Cómo tratarían a su pareja? pt1

Personajes: Kirishima, Bakugo, Denki.

(Lector neutro).

Advertencias : Ninguna (Hágame saber si debo incluir alguna).

(Discúlpeme si existen fallas gramaticales o de redacción, intento mejorar).

NO AUTORIZO LA TRADUCCIÓN DE MIS OBRAS.

Kirishima:

Es un romántico empedernido, trataría a su pareja con máximo cuidado, especialmente porque no quisiera lastimarte con su Quirk.

Al igual que es romántico, también es apasionado. Le gusta mantener cierta cercanía con su pareja.

Mantiene una rutina de ejercicio rigurosa, se hidrata correctamente.

Admite que en más de una ocasión le ha pedido consejos a las chicas para organizar sus encuentros contigo, ya sea para la ubicación o los detalles en sí.

Muy nervioso a la hora de darte regalos.

Definitivamente es el tipo de novio que se ofrece a llevar tu mochila.

Demasiado respetuoso en cuanto a tus límites físicos.

Su autoestima mejoró en contraste a como se encontraba en la secundaria.

Bastante leal, una vez que se encuentra en una relación no se muestra atraído en otra persona que no sea su propia pareja.

Detesta las peleas de pareja, intenta arreglar el problema lo más pronto posible, llegando a un acuerdo a través de la comunicación.

A pesar de que odia tener desacuerdos con su pareja, entiende que en ocasiones son necesarios para mejorar la convivencia.

Bakugo:

Un completo cascarrabias, pero tolerable una vez que lo conoces mejor.

A pesar de su característico trato a sus compañeros, se mostraría considerablemente más blando con su pareja.

Tiene un mayor nivel de tolerancia con su pareja. Durante los estudios te explicaría de manera en que puedas entender los temas/conceptos fácilmente.

Te ayudaría a limpiar y organizar tu habitación.

Un poco dramático, se toma a pecho cualquier broma que le realices.

Muy puntual para irse a descansar, durante el día toma 2 descansos cortos de 15-20 minutos, en ellos tiene la expectativa que estés acompañándolo.

Te insta a que mejores tus hábitos de descanso.

Es una persona rutinaria, aunque no lo suficiente como para considerarse monótono. Le gusta mantener su vida con cierto orden.

Si algún día se siente particularmente romántico te cocinará algo personalmente (cabe recalcar que todo lo que cocina es extremadamente variado y saludable, con un pequeño toque de picante).

Es el tipo de persona que lleva un batido de proteínas para su rutina de ejercicio.

Te enseñará a realizar los estiramientos correctamente, tiene temor de que sufras alguna lesión durante o después del entrenamiento.

Es un novio atento, notaria cualquier cambio que te hayas realizado, ya sea alguna prenda nueva o un sutil corte de cabello.

Denki:

En más de una ocasión te pediría ayuda con respecto a los temas académicos.

Si ambos son igual de malos académicamente, tendrán que recurrir al intelecto de Katsuki para aprobar los exámenes.

Serías la primera persona en la que pensaría para los proyectos en equipo.

Siempre termina completamente agotado en los entrenamientos físicos, en el instante en que estén juntos se dejará caer sobre ti.

Regularmente se encuentra en busca de contacto físico, por lo que habitualmente estará rondando por tu espacio personal.

Parlanchín, durante la hora del almuerzo constantemente lo encontrarás divagando sobre cualquier tema para pronto desplazarse a otro totalmente aleatorio.

Aunque hable mucho y sea bastante sociable, sólo le muestra esa faceta y cercanía a su pareja o amigos más cercanos.

Si te encuentras en un estado de ánimo decaído, Denki sería una gran auxiliar para alegrarte el día.

Su horario de sueño es un completo revoltijo, solamente se va a descansar cuando está realmente cansado o en el momento en que recuerda que debería dormir adecuadamente.

Headcanons Toya Setsuno

(Lector neutro)

Advertencias : Apego emocional, relación inestable, baja autoestima, autodesprecio.

(Avíseme si falta alguno por incluir)

NO AUTORIZO LA TRADUCCIÓN DE MIS OBRAS

(Disculpe si existen faltas ortográficas, gramaticales o de redacción, intento mejorar).

Toya intentaba desesperadamente olvidar su pasado en el cuál fue totalmente traicionado por su antigua pareja, a la cuál amó tanto y le entregó un cariño inacabable, apoyándola en todo lo que pudiera, cumpliendo cada una de sus exigencias con la intención de evitar que la relación termine. Las cosas empezaron a empeorar y terminó por contraer una deuda monetaria altamente elevada a causa de su ex y siendo abandonado a su suerte.

Toya en un inicio no acepto sus sentimientos por ti, no quiere ser vulnerable y que te aproveches de él.

Durante sus primeras conversaciones contigo sería evasivo y se encontraría a la defensiva, esto se debe a que tiene el temor de volver a ser traicionado.

Mientras se conocían actuaría de forma inaccesible, debido a su doloroso pasado le era complicado volver a confiar.

Debido a la mala convivencia en la que se acostumbro un poco de amabilidad es suficiente para llamar su atención, cualquier gesto amable es significativo.

Ninguna persona que no fueran sus propios compañeros/socios de "trabajo" le había mostrado algún tipo de amabilidad con él.

Por lo que deberías iniciar con pequeños toques mientras te aseguras de no sobrepasar algún límite o incomodarlo, una vez que se familiarize a tu tacto se encontraría deseándolo constantemente.

Una vez que se acostumbra a tu afecto no podrás separarlo de ti, es muy apegado y recibirá gustoso cualquier caricia tuya.

Tendrás que tener en consideración que Toya podría desarrollar dependencia por ti, si no deseas ese resultado debes marcar tus límites desde el comienzo de la relación.

Para comenzar una relación con Toya necesitarás MUCHA paciencia para poder sobrellevar su inestabilidad mental y emocional.

Tiene la idea errónea de que las peleas de pareja sólo conducen a la ruptura de la relación, haciendo que evite lo más posible cualquier desacuerdo contigo, lo cual podría ser más perjudicial para su relación.

Necesitaría palabras de consuelo, afirmaciones de que no lo dejarás, necesita aferrarse a tus palabras para apaciguar sus temores.

Tendrías que asegurarle que lo amas en constantes ocasiones lo cual podría ser demasiado tedioso.

Una cualidad representativa de Setsuno es su gran susceptibilidad y sentimentalismo.

Está aterrorizado con el pensamiento de que le seas infiel o que disfrutes más de la compañía de alguien más.

Necesita desesperadamente la aprobación y el cariño de su pareja para sentirse amado.

En los momentos donde no se puedan ver te enviaría mensajes recurrentemente, la mayoría de los textos consistirían en decirte el cuánto te ama y lo agradecido que está de tenerte a su lado. Ten en cuenta que si le respondes de manera menos afectuosa a lo habitual su estado de ánimo decaería.

Toya está increíblemente agradecido de conocerte, antes de su primer encuentro sentía que su vida carecía de propósito, por esa razón se había encomendado tanto a su trabajo, sabiendo perfectamente que en el momento en que dejara de ser de utilidad sería totalmente desechado.

Se encuentra constantemente sobrepensando razones por las que no mereces salir con alguien como él, siente un gran autodesprecio por sí mismo, carece de confianza y siente que no tiene valor.

Tiene una gran necesidad de satisfacer a su pareja. Anhela grandemente ser un "buen novio".

Setsuno tiene el mal hábito de compararse con otros chicos, especialmente en el físico, afectando a su ya dañada autoestima.

Cree que comportándose de manera servicial y obediente podría compensar sus "defectos físicos" (los cuales no existen).

N/A : (Ampliaré los hcn en otra parte)

love in the margins | t. iida

a short, slow-burn library romance, ft. one blueberry muffin, exactly zero jokes, and a boy who takes flashcards way too seriously. (4597 words)

you meet tenya iida under circumstances that can only be described as tragically collegiate: a peer-led study group in the furthest, quietest corner of the campus library, surrounded by half-dead fluorescent bulbs and the palpable despair of students on the brink of burnout.

it's the third week of the semester, and you're already floundering.

you hadn't intended to be. in theory, you were going to stay on top of things—read the chapters early, color-code your notes, maybe even start a study group of your own. but somewhere between sleep deprivation, an avalanche of discussion posts, and the mysterious black hole that is the university's online portal, you fell behind. hard.

introduction to public policy has been your academic nemesis from the start. the textbook reads like legal jargon swallowed a thesaurus. the professor talks in dense, circular metaphors. every quiz is a minefield of trick questions and ambiguous phrasing. you are, in every sense of the word, academically drowning.

so when a brightly colored flyer promising a "collaborative review session" caught your eye on the bulletin board outside the lecture hall, you didn't think twice. you showed up. desperate. caffeinated. terminally underprepared.

and now you regret everything.

the room smells like dry-erase markers and nervous sweat. a whiteboard at the front is covered in illegible graphs. someone has already spilled a latte on the floor. the guy leading the group talks fast and loud, his explanations full of buzzwords and gestures but lacking anything remotely useful. you suspect he's just regurgitating the study guide at a slightly faster pace.

the other students seem to agree.

one by one, they start to trickle out. a girl leaves with the excuse of "office hours." a guy mutters something about dinner. another just quietly packs up and disappears, not even bothering with a pretense.

by the end of the hour, only two people remain: you, clinging to a futile hope of salvaging your gpa... and him.

he sits across from you with the kind of posture that makes your back ache just looking at him. tall, composed, and absurdly polished—like someone who writes essays three days early and carries a spare pen in case someone forgets theirs. his navy-blue sweater is wrinkle-free. his glasses catch the dim library light. his notes are not just color-coded—they're thematically organized, annotated with footnotes and marginalia in tiny, immaculate handwriting.

he hasn't spoken once. he hasn't needed to.

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

"you're still here?" you ask, more surprise than judgment.

the boy looks up, blinking as if surfacing from a well of deep concentration. he adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion.

"yes," he says, voice clipped and oddly formal. "you are as well."

you arch an eyebrow. "no offense, but... are you actually getting something out of this?"

his expression doesn't change, but he tilts his head slightly—almost like he's assessing you.

"of course," he replies. "engaging in structured group review enhances cognitive retention and contextual understanding. it's an effective method for consolidating knowledge prior to a high-stakes assessment."

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

you snort—audibly. it escapes before you can stop it. and to your surprise, a faint smile flickers across his mouth.

"i'm tenya iida," he says, extending a hand across the table with the kind of precision reserved for formal introductions at university mixers.

you stare at his hand for a moment, then take it. his grip is warm. steady. confident in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter.

"y/n," you say.

his smile grows just slightly. "it's a pleasure to meet you, y/n."

he releases your hand and immediately pulls out a second set of flashcards from his folder. of course he has a second set.

"would you like to quiz each other?" he asks, dead serious. "alternating questions could be a mutually beneficial method of review."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

something about him—the earnestness, the posture, the complete and utter lack of sarcasm—disarms you. it's like he's the living embodiment of academic sincerity. you're not sure whether to laugh or agree.

you do both.

"...sure."

you don't know it yet, but that's the beginning.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

it's not personal. it's just that study groups are the social equivalent of jury duty—temporary, miserable, and best forgotten. you assume tenya iida is one of those hyper-dedicated overachievers who only exist within the academic ecosystem. he probably recedes into a cloud of flashcards and moral fiber as soon as the library closes.

you are, however, proven categorically wrong the following wednesday at exactly 8:03 a.m.

you enter the campus café half-awake, mildly hostile, and fully dependent on the idea of caffeine as a substitute for sleep. the plan is simple: grab something with enough espresso to make your eye twitch, stare blankly at your phone for fifteen minutes, and pretend the crushing weight of institutional learning isn't slowly hollowing you out from the inside.

but fate—or perhaps syllabus-based divine intervention—has other plans.

because when you step inside, there he is.

same posture. same glasses. same stupidly crisp button-down like it didn't just come out of someone's laundry but graduated magna cum laude from it. he's seated at a table by the window, surrounded by highlighters arranged like soldiers, reading the textbook that has been your personal tormentor since week one.

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

you hesitate, caught in that weird space where it's too late to pretend you didn't see him, but also too awkward to walk past without acknowledging him.

before you can make a decision, he looks up—and smiles.

not just a polite, "ah yes, i recognize you" smile.

a real smile. brief, but sincere. like he's actually glad you're here.

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

"didn't expect to see you here," you say as you slide into the seat across from him, instantly aware of how tired you look in comparison to his perfectly combed hair and terrifying punctuality.

"i study here most mornings," he replies. "the ambient noise level is consistent, and the natural lighting is optimal for focus."

you blink. "that is... alarmingly specific."

he inclines his head. "i find that consistency breeds productivity."

you want to tease him, but the truth is, it's kind of admirable. alarming. but admirable.

he gestures to the pastry between you.

"would you like half?" he asks. "it's fresh. and i believe we have, at this point, established a cordial enough rapport to justify the sharing of breakfast items."

you stare at him.

"do you always offer muffins to people you've only studied with once?"

he doesn't even flinch. "only when they look tired enough to deserve one."

your mouth twitches.

"you've been saving that line, haven't you."

he looks mildly offended. "no. though i could annotate it in my planner if you'd like."

you laugh—genuinely this time—and accept the muffin. it's warm, sweet, and annoyingly perfect. just like him.

you don't pull out your flashcards. not immediately. you sit there in companionable silence, splitting the muffin and sipping your drinks like it's something you've always done. like this is normal.

you tell yourself this isn't a date. obviously.

it's too early in the day for romance. you're both clutching textbooks like weapons. he hasn't even made a single joke. (you're not sure he knows how.)

and yet—

when he leans in to show you a section he highlighted—carefully annotated with footnotes and marginal notes that are somehow neater than your typed essays—your shoulders brush. you don't pull away.

he doesn't, either.

later, you realize that you don't even remember what chapter you reviewed.

but you remember the sound of his voice as he quietly explained it. the way he passed you the last bite of muffin without saying anything. the way his fingers curled ever so slightly when he set his pen down between you.

you remember thinking, with a strange flutter in your chest: this could be something.

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

you repeat it like a mantra as you meet him at the library every tuesday and thursday without fail, settling into your now-permanent seats by the windows like assigned partners in some ongoing group project that no one else remembers being assigned to. his bag always lands on the table first, followed by a reusable water bottle the size of your emotional baggage. he brings extra highlighters now — plural — and starts leaving a green one near your elbow like he’s not even thinking about it.

you, in turn, stop pretending to study anywhere else.

because the truth is, you don’t concentrate better when he’s around — not even a little. he’s distracting in the worst possible way: tall and tidy and terminally composed, with a voice like a podcast host and a smile that you pretend not to notice every time he glances over at you with something like pride in his eyes.

and the worst part?

it’s working.

your grades are going up. you understand policy terminology now. you caught yourself referencing a case study unprompted in another class, and the look your professor gave you made it feel like you’d just been knighted.

you’d thank him for it — sincerely — if he didn’t look so smug every time you nailed a quiz.

“you’ve clearly been applying yourself,” he says one evening, looking over your annotated notes like they’re some kind of sacred text.

“i’ve been applying your study methods,” you reply, then instantly regret it, because the smile he gives you in return is devastating.

and that would be fine — annoying, but fine — if it weren’t for the fact that he’s started sitting closer.

not drastically. not inappropriately. just... close.

close enough that when you both lean in to look at something on the same page, your shoulders brush. your knees knock. his hand lingers near yours when he passes you a pen, and he doesn’t move away quickly. sometimes — and this is particularly evil — his thigh rests against yours under the table for minutes at a time, and you’re too proud (and too panicked) to say anything.

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

but something is happening. you just don’t know what to call it.

one thursday afternoon, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain. the windows in the library fog up slightly, making the whole room feel smaller, softer, somehow more intimate. your shoes are damp. your brain is fried. you’re barely holding onto your focus.

but he’s already there, sitting at your usual table with a mug from the downstairs café and a folder labeled “legislation review: week 5.” there’s a muffin. of course there’s a muffin.

he looks up as you approach. smiles. “you’re early.”

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

he hesitates, like he’s genuinely considering it. “it means i enjoy this.”

your heart does something stupid.

you take your seat before your face can give you away.

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

you’re trying to focus. really, you are. but his leg is pressed against yours and you swear it’s getting closer every time he shifts. it’s not even the contact itself that’s distracting — it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice. like it’s just normal. like this is how he always studies with people.

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

“y/n?” he says, and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“hm?”

“i asked if you’d like to walk through the case brief again. you seem... distant.”

you clear your throat and try not to sound like someone whose brain has just been wiped by a thigh. “yeah, no, i’m fine. just tired.”

he nods solemnly. “understandable. your coursework has been particularly intensive.”

he says it like he knows your schedule better than you do — which he might. you’ve seen his planner. you’re pretty sure he’s memorized the entire academic calendar, national holidays included.

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

“okay,” you say. “i need to ask you something.”

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

you glance around — no one’s within earshot — and lean in slightly.

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

“no. i mean yes, but no.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “this. the muffins. the flashcards. the... sitting so close i can smell your laundry detergent.”

he goes still.

“i’m just trying to understand if we’re, like...” you hesitate. “is this just a really intense academic friendship or are we... flirting?”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

then, carefully: “i hadn’t realized my proximity was making you uncomfortable.”

“it’s not!” you say, too quickly. “it’s just... confusing.”

“confusing how?”

you fidget with the cap of your pen. “because we do things that feel... date-adjacent. and i don’t know if that’s just how you are with people or if i’m—” you stop yourself before you can say not imagining it.

his brows draw together, faintly perplexed. “i apologize. i didn’t mean to cause confusion.”

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

his ears go pink. just slightly. “i wouldn’t define it as flirting. but i do enjoy spending time with you.”

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

he hesitates. then, quieter: “it’s not.”

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

and then — like the universe can’t stand unresolved tension — your knees bump again.

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

not even in your head, really — not technically. because you’re not dating. you haven’t kissed. there’s been no confession. there’s been no moment of clarity where either of you has stood dramatically in the rain and said i think about you all the time, which, honestly, is a bit disappointing.

but you still change your outfit three times before meeting him for coffee on saturday.

you still hesitate in front of the mirror, adjusting your sleeves and second-guessing your hair, muttering get a grip under your breath like it’s a prayer.

you still pause at the door to the café, one hand on the handle, and remind yourself — again — that this isn’t a date.

you’re just meeting up. casually. like friends.

friends who sometimes sit with their knees touching under library tables. friends who share muffins and steal glances and somehow always find reasons to linger a little too long in doorways.

friends who, if they weren’t so emotionally constipated, might’ve figured this out already.

but you push the door open anyway, and the little bell overhead chimes bright and familiar.

he’s already there.

of course he is.

tenya iida is punctual to the point of pathology. if you told him to meet you in the afterlife at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d be there early, holding a clipboard and a fully prepared powerpoint.

he’s sitting near the window, back straight, hands folded politely in his lap. his hair is a little messy from the wind outside. his sweater is navy — clean, simple, a little oversized in a way that makes you stare longer than you should.

he sees you and stands immediately, which is both adorable and completely unnecessary.

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

he doesn’t reply, but the smile he gives you is soft around the edges.

you order something with too much caffeine and not enough nutritional value. he offers to pay, like he always does. you decline, like you always do. it’s a silent tradition now, a ritual of stubbornness. he lets it go with a quiet nod, but not without giving you that look — the one that says i was raised right and this physically pains me.

you find a booth in the corner, a little more secluded than the rest. the sun spills in through the window in soft golden streaks, and for a moment, it feels like you’re somewhere outside of time.

“i’ve never seen you wear that color,” he says as you sit down.

you glance at your shirt. “yeah? too much?”

he shakes his head immediately. “no. it suits you.”

your mouth goes a little dry.

you recover quickly, leaning back and sipping your drink like it doesn’t mean anything. like the warmth crawling up your neck is from the coffee and not the compliment.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “what’s on the agenda for today? rigorous academic analysis? philosophical debates about economic ethics? impromptu pop quizzes?”

he tilts his head. “i thought we might take the day off.”

you blink. “from... studying?”

“from everything.” he shrugs, a little sheepishly. “i realized we’ve never spent time together without a textbook between us.”

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

he hesitates. just barely. “yes. like friends.”

the words hang in the air between you — awkward, uncertain, but not unkind.

you nod, slowly. “okay. yeah. we can do that.”

and you do.

you talk. not about school, not about deadlines or group projects or the upcoming midterm. you talk about dumb childhood stories and weird food preferences and the fact that he once tried to start a recycling initiative in his middle school and was very upset when no one followed the sorting chart correctly.

you tell him about your obsession with terrible reality TV. he listens with the seriousness of a man taking notes for a thesis.

he tells you about his older brother, and how much he looks up to him. you tell him about the stray cat that used to follow you home in high school, even though you never fed it.

he laughs — really laughs — when you tell him about the time you broke your nose in gym class trying to dodge a volleyball and ran straight into a bleacher.

“i’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “i don’t mean to laugh at your pain.”

“no, you do,” you say, grinning. “and it’s okay. i would too.”

at one point, your knees bump under the table again. this time, neither of you pulls away.

it’s later than you mean it to be when you finally leave the café. the sun is dipping low, the sky tinged with lavender and orange. the street is quiet, and the wind bites just enough to make you zip your jacket up.

you walk together. not toward the library, not toward another class — just aimlessly. like people who have nowhere else to be.

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

you’re not talking. not really. the silence between you is comfortable now, lived-in. every so often your hands brush, and you wonder — wildly, stupidly — what would happen if you just reached out.

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

“this was nice,” you say, when you finally reach the crosswalk where you’ll part ways.

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“we should do it again,” you say. casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

but he looks at you like it does.

“i’d like that,” he says. and then — “you’re very easy to be around.”

your breath catches.

you want to say something. you’re easy to be around too. i think about you when we’re not together. i don’t know if i’m imagining this but i hope i’m not.

instead, you say, “you’re weirdly charming, you know that?”

he blinks. “i— thank you?”

you grin. “it’s a compliment. mostly.”

he laughs. soft. pleased. “i’ll take it.”

he takes a small step back, like he’s about to leave — but then pauses.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“if this had been a date...” he clears his throat. “would that have been... agreeable to you?”

you stare at him.

then, slowly — carefully — you nod.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it would’ve been.”

he smiles. it’s small. tentative. but it lights up his whole face.

“then maybe next time, we won’t pretend.”

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

he nods once. then, with a strange, lingering sort of hesitation — like he’s not ready to go yet — he turns to leave.

you watch him go.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel... hopeful.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

when he texts you the next morning — same time tuesday? not for studying this time. if you're free. — you stare at it for a good ten minutes before responding. not because you’re unsure of your answer (you’re not), but because the implication hits like a freight train.

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

this time, he’s calling it what it is.

you don’t overthink your reply (for once). you just type yeah. i’m free and throw your phone face-down before your heart can beat out of your chest.

and when tuesday rolls around, you are twenty minutes early.

you tell yourself it’s because the weather’s nice and the walk was shorter than usual and you didn’t want to cut it close. but the truth is, you’ve been ready since noon.

you’re wearing the sweater he said he liked once, months ago, after a study session where he handed you a highlighter and your fingers brushed and you both paused like the world might end. it’s not even your warmest or your nicest sweater. it’s just... the one he looked at a little too long.

you don’t want to admit what that means.

you sit in your usual seat by the window. a small table, worn edges. your coffee in hand. no textbooks. no flashcards. just the sound of the café around you and the low simmer of anticipation in your chest.

he walks in three minutes early, which is basically scandalous by iida standards.

you glance up, and the second your eyes meet, he smiles.

it’s not his usual polite, committee-appropriate smile.

it’s something else.

something softer.

he sits down across from you like he’s been doing it his whole life.

you stare at him for a second too long.

“you’re early,” he says, like it’s a fact worth noting. his voice is gentler than usual.

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

he laughs — quietly, warmly. “i thought you might say that.”

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

you sip your drink and hope your heart doesn’t explode.

twenty minutes in, you realize you’ve forgotten what time it is.

again.

you’re talking about something stupid — a professor you both silently hate but never speak ill of in class — and he’s mimicking their voice in a whisper, hand shielding his mouth, and you’re laughing.

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

like you don’t have a hundred things weighing you down.

he always does that. makes everything feel easier. lighter.

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

you haven’t said it. not out loud. not even to yourself.

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

because tenya iida has the power to wreck you in a way no one else ever has.

not because he’s dramatic. not because he’s charming (though he is, in that annoying, understated, golden-retriever-with-a-perfect-credit-score kind of way).

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

because when he looks at you, it’s like you’re someone worth understanding.

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

neither of you mentions how long you stayed. it’s dark out, but neither of you cares.

you walk close, side by side. your hands brush once, then again. his fingers twitch toward yours, and you pretend not to notice — not because you don’t want it, but because you’re not sure what happens if you reach back.

you talk about nothing. and everything.

he tells you about the time his older brother accidentally dyed his hair blue with a shampoo prank and how no one in their house was allowed to mention it for an entire year.

you tell him about the time you accidentally set off a fire alarm trying to microwave leftover curry in a dorm that very explicitly prohibited strong-smelling food.

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

you bump your shoulder into his. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he glances at you. “i didn’t say that.”

you both stop at the crosswalk — the same one where you stood days ago.

the same one where he asked if this had been a date...

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

you just look at him, the wind brushing through your sleeves, your fingers cold where they’re shoved into your pockets.

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

and then — quietly — he says, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “of course.”

his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. careful.

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

“why... this?” he gestures gently between you. “i know i’m not the most exciting person. i’m not particularly funny or... spontaneous.”

you frown. “iida.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” he says. “why you keep showing up.”

you want to say because i like the way you talk when you’re tired, or because your laugh makes me want to listen to every dumb story you’ve ever told.

you want to say because i’ve never felt so calm next to another person in my entire life.

instead, you say, “because when i’m with you, i don’t feel like i have to be anyone else.”

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

“i don’t want to mess this up,” he says.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

you exhale, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “you’re not.”

his hand lifts, hesitates — then lands gently against your cheek.

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

it’s patient. reverent. like he’s memorizing the feeling. like he’s been waiting for the right moment and this, finally, is it.

his lips press softly against yours, and your hands lift automatically to his jacket, holding on, grounding yourself.

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

then he says, “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

he laughs, arms sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this is still new,” he says. “i know that.”

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

he pauses. “and i’d like to take you to dinner. an actual dinner. with reservations and menus and probably overpriced appetizers.”

you grin. “are you asking me on a real date?”

he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

“then yes,” you reply. “i’m saying yes.”

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once — finally — that feels like enough.

young shoji and reader hcs from when they were raised in the village? i can almost imagine a bambi and faline scenario 🥺

(OMG yes, you mean the scene with them in the reeds right? Always loved that sequence, so cute! (Unfortunately, this quickly devolved past HCs...))

Fireflies

When Shoji meets his only childhood friend again after a decade apart, the reunion brings a flood of memories with it.

(ANGST/comfort, feat. fluff; tw: blood, heavy angst, Shoji's childhood in general))

~~~

Few would consider themselves fortunate to find themselves next to a collapsing building. Villain attacks like this were becoming fewer and farther between. Random outbursts and pale League imitators, like the aftershocks of the great earthquake that had been All For One.

Tentacole was just about to finish up his patrol when it happened. Lucky he was there, he thought, as he and a handful of other nearby heroes went in without hesitation. It seemed Grand was dealing with the culprit, his vibration quirk perfectly suited to cancelling out the villain's ability to generate localized tremors.

For the best, Shoji thought, pouring all of his energy to removing civilians from the wreck, and administering first aid until paramedics made it on scene. His quirk was brilliant for this sort of work, easily detecting those who needed help and communicating with other heroes, while also being able to lift immense weight to free those trapped beneath the rubble. No wonder he was slated to become one of the youngest heroes to break the top ten.

Carefully moving aside rebar and chunks of concrete, he pulled another from the crumbling carcass of the building. The young woman looked to be near his age, silent and trembling from the shock. Of greater concern was a head injury. Small, but, could never be too careful with these things. He spoke gently in hope of easing her shredded nerves.

"Hey there, you're safe now." Shoji saw her eyes go impossibly wide when she looked at him, heard a startled gasp, but focused on the cut just above her right eyebrow. "I'm going to help you, okay? You're bleeding, but it doesn't look serious."

She neither answered nor pulled away, continuing to stare like a deer in the headlights as the hero pulled a sterile gauze pad from his med kit.

"How do you feel? Can you speak?" As one hand lightly held the pad against the cut, another gently lifted her brows to check pupil dilation. It was then, staring into her eyes, that the sense of familiarity began to set in.

The look was familiar enough. Fear, to be expected from someone who had nearly been crushed by a building. He noticed the personal element too, possibly from being alarmed by his appearance. Again, familiar. It wasn't until he recognized the look of guilt that he realized it.

By what twist of fate could it possibly be you? It couldn't, he tried to tell himself at first. But the longer he stared, the more his hope became undeniable truth.

"...is that really you, ___?"

~~~

He first met you in late spring, shortly before the rainy season hit Fukuoka.

Knowing today could be one of the last pleasant days before the summer rains made the river swollen and violent, Shoji went there to catch catfish. He had no gear for proper fishing. Rather, he would lay on the bank, hanging an arm in the water close to shore, and simply wait for a fish to mistake his fingers for prey.

At the first nibble, he would move suddenly, usually successful in grabbing the slippery creature without cutting himself on the sharp fins. He was proud to return home with a catch. A bucketful of tasty fish was one of the few things that earned him praise for using his quirk.

Sometimes he caught nothing, but even those days were pleasant enough. He could spend all afternoon like that, rotating which arm he used as they went numb from the cool water. Peaceful (boring). Unbothered (lonely).

This proved to be a rare day. When Mezo felt the first nibbling sensation, he lunged two more hands in to help grab, all for nought. The fish slipped away, breaking the surface, splashing dramatically before making its final exit.

Shoji huffed, wiping some water out of his face, absentmindedly watching as his reflection danced on the disturbed water in a distorted blob. As he peered into the water, a second blob began to take form. And as the water settled, it became a face.

"Hi there!"

Mezo jumped, turning over to stare wide eyed at the newcomer. A child, probably close to his own age, who he had never seen before. Not that he knew the other village children very well, but, he was quite certain he would recognize them if they were standing half a meter away.

Your expression was an unfamilar one. An eager smile which barely faltered as you crouched closer, earnestly repeating,"I said 'hello'!"

"...h'lo," he mumbled, hardly audible against the brook babbling in the background. Still, it proved to be more than enough encouragement for this stranger.

"What's your name? I'm-"

~~~

"You don't have to hang around, Mezo." You readjusted the ice pack against your forehead. "Orrr am I supposed to call you 'Tentacole' while you're in uniform?"

He was still in costume. There was no time to change; he hadn't left your side the whole way to the hospital. Besides, it was a good excuse to keep his mask on. No need to compound your guilt.

"No, you can just call me by my name-" I missed how it sounds in your voice- "And it's fine, really, that was my final patrol," he excused. It was true that he had nowhere to be anyway. And honestly, he may have dropped any prior commitments anyway, if it meant holding on to your presence a little longer.

~~~

"-so yeah, that's why I'm living with my aunt and uncle here for a while."

Shoji watched over his shoulder curiously as you followed him like a baby duck, holding a too-big umbrella aloft in a failing effort to shield both of you from the persistent drizzle that had fallen on the town. You kept finding him, talking to him like it was normal. You didn't seem to understand that you really weren't supposed to talk to him.

"You don't talk much. Are you shy?"

"No, just, not used to people talking to me I guess," he mumbled, hardly convincing you that he wasn't shy.

"Oh? Me neither. The other kids around here are jerks! I don't think they like out of town folks. Plus I'm quirkless."

"...yeah, they have a problem with anybody different."

"Whatever, it's boring being the same! Way cooler to be a lone wolf. We should be lone wolves together Mezo-kun!" He flinched when you excitedly patted his back. But there was no pain. And your tone immediately shifted to concern. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Do you have sunburn or something?"

"No, you just-" shouldn't touch me, we'll both get in trouble, "-startled me."

"Hehe sorry, didn't mean to scare you! I'm sneaky when I wanna be! Oh my gosh this one time, I-"

A little smile finally tugged at the corners of his lips. He decided he liked that you were so chatty.

~~~

You were so, so quiet. Maybe he'd made a mistake, accidentally pressured you into this. Although you sat just across from him in the booth, you looked far away as you prodded at your meal.

"So, uh, are you seeing anyone?" He could have kicked himself for that.

"Nah."

Before he could think better of it, the words tumbled out. "Why not?"

You smiled a twisted, bitter smile. "Dunno. Probably has to do with getting nervous about physical affection, yanno?" You laughed with no humor, only nerves. God you were so different.

~~~

The rainy season came and went, leaving the earth and air damp, and the river all abuzz with new life. Shoji stood, staring out over the vibrant green of the growing reeds, waving with the wind. Accustomed to being alone, he found comfort in this peaceful observation of nature.

Distracted by the hovering dance of several dragonflies, he didn't notice as his recent acquaintance approached. Until-

"HI MEZO!"

Startled by the sudden greeting, Mezo turned too fast, slipping down the slight embankment and disappearing into the tall reeds. There was a splash as he landed hard on his rear end, and he grimaced at the soggy sensation seeping into his ratty clothes.

As he tried to find his bearings, the first haunting giggle sounded somewhere to his left. He looked that way, but before he could stand, the sound returned on the right, and he lost his footing again.

So it went for a while, his head whipping around, trying to follow the giggles, not knowing whether the rustling of the reeds came from you or some animal or the wind. Once he thought he had you, turning to look back, only to feel a cheeky little kiss on the side of his face.

Narrowing his eyes, Shoji took a deep breath, focused all of his senses, and waited. The next time you poked your head out, you found yourself face to face with a single huge eye, courtesy of his quirk. You gasped.

"Got you!" Mezo roared as he finally found his feet, launching after you. It was easier to follow you now, the constant shrieks of delight as you raced through the tall grasses. He tore after you, grinning madly as the unfamiliar sound of his own laughter rang out.

~~~

You were more relaxed at his apartment. Without the public eye potentially glaring at your rekindling friendship, it seemed you could finally breathe, as the two of you sat side by side on his sofa.

"I'm honestly surprised you turned out so altruistic," you mused. "I mean, you were always kind, I just...I was afraid that-"

"That the world would make me mean?"

"I don't mean that as a dig against you."

"Hey, it's okay. That happens to a lot of people." Memories of the fight outside the hospital flooded his mind, until Shoji shook his head. "But saving people, making use of my gifts, makes me feel grateful for this form."

"I always was pretty jealous of your quirk." Your smile was softer now, as you fidgeted with a loose thread in your shirt.

It almost made him regret wanting to tell you why he chose to become a hero. But, it was something you should know. You of all people. "...Do you remember the river, near the village?"

~~~

The trees provided a natural barrier between the river and the village. A veil to hide the two of you, letting you play freely. Two pairs of sandals sat on the riverbank, baking in the summer sun while their owners waded in the stream.

Hardly a day went by that the two of you didn't meet here, making a game of catch and releasing the local wildlife. You had started the sport, as usual, recruiting Shoji to help you capture some frogs. Soon salamanders and crayfish were added to the lineup, and a points system invented. One for frogs, three for crayfish, five for the elusive salamanders and newts.

That is, until the day Mezo wrangled a giant salamander the size of his torso, sparking a fierce debate on whether that constituted five points or fifty. All the while, the slippery beast wriggled and fought against the six armed prison it had found itself in.

After that, the game lost its competitive element, returning to the pure, peaceful practice of simply admiring the creatures before returning them to nature.

It was why, when the other children captured fireflies to stick in paper lanterns on clear summer nights, the two of you simply caught them in your hands, giggling at the ticklish feeling of six tiny feet creeping along a finger before taking off again. It wouldn't be fair to interrupt their lives like that. They'd just die in the lanterns, and too soon.

It was better, you mutually decided, to simply admire their glow. To catch a handful, releasing them into the sky or, if you were feeling playful, onto one another's hair. Shoji was especially good at this, filling six hands with insects, then opening his palms so they could burst free all at once like a solar flare.

~~~

"I'm so sorry."

He knew you would say that. "It's alright, it's not like it was your fault."

"It is my fault, though," you insisted, voice cracking. "I tried to tell someone what happened after I got away from there, anyone. Family. People at school. Most of them acted like I was embellishing a story. Or they did believe, and still brushed it off like oh how terrible, well that's just how it is in some places."

"That was out of your control, though."

"Yeah but what happened before that wasn't!" Your hands dragged down your face, leaving an angry flush. "It was, looking back, ugh, I was just so stupid and careless and naive-"

"We were supposed to be naive! We were ten! We were supposed to play and be stupid and not worry about those things." Mezo's gaze fell. "It's something we were supposed to outgrow slowly, not have it taken away all of a sudden. Not like that."

~~~

"Omochio Tsukimasho Omochio Tsukimasho

Petanko, Petanko, Petan Petan Petanko

Konete Konete Konete Konete Konete

Ton Ton Ton Ton Ton Ton..."

No one had played the clapping game with him before. It was almost a shame that none of the other kids from the village would join the two of you. It might have been fun, he thought, to try to play against two or more partners.

You at least made a valiant effort to keep up with all six of his hands. It started with just two, of course, until he added another pair. Just as a joke, at first, but then you played along. And now you were both giggling, mimicking the motions of mochi making and trying not to smack each other's arms too much.

"How do you keep track of so many hands?!" You tried to sound exasperated, but couldn't stop laughing as you were tripped up by the extra limbs once again.

Mezo couldn't hold in his laughter either. "How can you not keep track of only two?" he jabbed, prompting a gasp from you.

"Gah! You're so mean to me!" you cackled, giving up on the game entirely in favor of grabbing for his many hands. The scuffle was rather one-sided, with the much taller boy ruffling your hair and poking your sides and easily keeping his hands well out of reach.

Finally, you managed to jump up and get hold of one of the duplicate hands. He didn't resist, still chuckling as you laced your fingers with his, beaming up at him with a triumphant smile. "Got you!"

"Mm-hm." No one had ever held his hand, either, much less one made with his quirk. His gross, monstrous quirk. But you didn't think so. Even when you finally let your tired arm fall, your hand remained clasped with his.

There, as he held your hand, Mezo's young heart was alight with affection. You two could grow up together and he would be your dearest friend, until he was your boyfriend, until he was your husband, until you both passed on. He'd be your friend in the next life too, he thought, let's be fireflies and find one another's light and spend that life together too.

Anywhere else, it might have happened like that.

Anywhere else, you might have been childhood sweethearts. The adults would have found your puppy love adorable. Old ladies would pinch your cheeks and joke about living to see the wedding. The other kids would wail about you sharing cooties. Your families would tease you about your little friend, but be welcoming and happy for you both.

Anywhere else, it may have been different. But they were here. And a sudden sharp voice shattered that pristine fantasy

"Hey! What do you think you're doing to her, monster?"

~~~

Of all the things Midoriya had asked about his quirk, Shoji was grateful that his inquisitive friend never questioned how he was so certain that his severed limbs would grow back.

It wasn't a memory so much, at least, not a coherent one. He knew there was a wood chopping block, but he couldn't remember how his hand looked on it, held fast by a much bigger hand around his wrist. Nor the pain of the severing. It was like his brain censored the worst bits, trying to protect him like no one else would.

He remembered how light he felt. How loud his blood, pounding in his ears. Even louder were your panicked, shrieking protests. Your face, your eyes, so wide, crying, tears and snot and drool. He saw your teeth dig into the arm of your aunt when she tried restraining you.

He heard later that that's why you were sent away, for biting your guardian. You weren't the one to tell him. In the time between the incident and your leaving, you didn't speak to him at all. You didn't even look at him.

~~~

"I don't blame you for any of that, but, I'm not not upset," he tried to explain, pinching the center of his brow. "I wish...I wish you'd talked to me after. Or kept in touch somehow! You could have messaged me, we could have stayed friends!"

"You still...wanted to be friends?" Your voice was crumbling with caution as you stared at him in stark disbelief.

As if it could hold you together, Shoji took your hands in his. "Yes! I still want us to be friends now! Or, something, whatever you want to be!" Another hand cupped your cheek. "I've missed you."

You were staring at your joined hands, and he could feel them trembling. "-even after what I did?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," he insisted in a soft but stern tone, brushing away a stray tear with his thumb. "You were my friend, that's what I remember best. What they did to me, to us, wasn't our fault."

"What do you mean to 'us'? You're the one who got hurt, I just watched, I didn't-" a high gasp escaped you as Mezo pulled you into his secure embrace.

"It's so much harder to explain scars when they're inside," he murmured, his voice soft against your skin.

"...All I wanted, was to keep being close. But I thought that would be selfish, to put you at risk like that. Even now, just this, it feels like we're doing something wrong, and if someone saw, it could happen all over again."

"Shhh, it can't, it won't," Mezo promised.

You were still, malleable as he moved to lay on his side with you still cocooned in his arms, your back pressed flush to his chest. The tears flowed freely now, as you shivered and clutched at his forearms tight enough to leave marks.

"Nothing's going to hurt me. Nothing's going to hurt you. We're safe. We're together." He could feel your breath even out as he murmured that mantra against your ear.

"O-okay. Okay." Your grip loosened, but you didn't let go. Instead your fingers unfurled and swirled and fidgeted, gently stroking his sun kissed skin in a way that made him relax, too.

"Can you say it back? I...I need to hear it, too," Shoji added truthfully. You nodded.

"We're safe. No one's going to punish either of us for this. That's gone. You're here now. I'm here." Your arms curled up around his. "...I missed you so much."

"I missed you too," he sighed, burying his face into the back of your neck.

You kissed the palm of his hand, the same one you'd seen taken all those years ago. By the time you went to kiss it again, the hand had morphed into a pair of lips.

~

(I'm so sorry I was going to just do fluffy HCs but then I was possessed by Satan and it turned into a series of drabbles about childhood trauma please forgive)

Im a sucker for angsty fwb Bakugo and messy feelings.

!! Major spoilers for the manga btw !!

The two of you almost never meet like that. It’s almost pushing it to ten times a year in a never ending circle of non commitment and broken promises, words that are only exchanged during intimacy that none of you can’t help but utter and trutfully tonight shouldn’t have been different.

But he agreed to let you stay at his place for the night—you think it’s because he doesn’t want to drive you home and you settle on the couch, in a corner, not even wanting to wrap yourself up in a blanket. He takes none of it, preaching about how he’s not going to let you crash on the couch, that you can sleep with him in his bed.

As you’re given a change of clothes to sleep in and a toothbrush, you avoid looking right into his face. 

You know better than anyone why he doesn’t want to commit to you, he doesn’t want you to really see him, he’d rather shut himself away from you. You’re not someone he considers an equal, you’ll never even be close to leveling up with him. You know he hates that about you. That you’re weak. That you gave up on being a hero after the war because of everything that happened.

“Bathe and we can sleep” he says and he gives you a towel and a pair of his boxers.

He already had his shower, he already smells like that orange blossom shower gel and bitter almond shampoo that he has, he already smells like clean laundry and you reek of sinful non committal, casual sex.

You enter the shower and the water running is so hot that it could scorch your skin. You like it that way, feeling the water pierce like fire needles through your skin, stripping away everything in its collision with flesh. 

You try not to burst into tears— he’d think it’s bad manners, lecture you for it and you’re not in the mood for any of it. It’s overwhelming  and self distracting to think of him that way— your therapist says that you should make an effort to understand him and you really do, you do understand why he acts like he does but it doesn’t leave you with anything to do about it. 

You just want to go home, in your clothes, in your bed. The feeling in your heart is unbearable.

But your therapist has repeatedly told you not to sweep the problem under the rug; just talk to him. Don’t just sit in the comfort of the scent of his shower gel and his clothes. Confront him. Tell him you love him and that you’ll stick by his side no matter what.

And it all sounds perfect in theory. Really, it does. Except for the part where you can’t even look at him.

When you look at him, even almost ten years later all you can see is his lifeless fucking body laying under Best Jeanists hands.

So Katsuki knows better than anyone why you can’t accept him, why you can’t commit to him and it drives him absolutely insane.

He is always clothed around you, during sex, during coffee dates to catch up; he puts in the most exquisite effort to avoid showing you his scars. 

And when he can’t just hide the one on his face, you respond by not even looking him in the eye. That, as a fact, pains him more than anything. 

Frankly, he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to bear it.

But tonight— tonight he’s gonna do it — he’s gonna tell you that he loves you. And then his own feelings will be your problem.

When he hears the shower stop running, he sits on the edge of his bed, one leg bouncing in anticipation; is tonight the right time? Should he do it? And if not now then when? Can he really just let you slip away, or will his confession make you force yourself to be with someone you can’t even look at.

Why are the two of you even involved at all if you think he is so repulsive?

The bedroom door creaks open before he has time to actually process a sequence of words to tell you— and you step out, your hair damp, clinging to your neck in heavy strands. His shirt swallows you whole, draping over your frame, and his boxers sit awkwardly on your hips, a poor attempt at comfort that neither of you will acknowledge. You still don’t look at him.

Of course, you fucking don’t.

Katsuki clenches his jaw. His leg keeps bouncing—until he forces it still, pressing his palm hard against his knee. He’s getting sick of this. Sick of watching you shrink into yourself, sick of the way you refuse to meet his gaze, sick of the ghosts that sit between you, molding the shape of your relationship into something that barely resembles one.

You tug at the seams of his T-shirt to hide the scars on your neck and the ones on your stomach and torso sit hidden, snuggly, underneath the cloth of it.

He knows what you’re doing because unlike you, he is looking at you.

“…Come here,” he mutters, voice gruff, barely above a whisper.

You hesitate. You fucking hesitate. But he wants to kiss you. He wants to sit you on his lap and kiss your lips, your neck, your chest. He wants to kiss your scars, no matter the fact that they’re spread all over your body.

This is the first and most major difference between the two of you and that’s what pisses him off the most. He accepts parts of you you don’t accept about yourself or him.

But eventually, you move, each step slow, reluctant, as if walking toward him is some great act of suffering. You sit on the bed—on the very edge of it, like you’re prepared to run, not on his lap like he wants.

You play out of the premeditated scenario he’s crafted in his head for this moment.

Katsuki feels something inside him snap.

His fingers twitch, nails digging into his palm, the words crawling up his throat like acid, burning to be let out.

You won’t even look at him.

And yet—you still come back to him, time and time again, you come back.

“Sit on my lap” he says, patting on his thighs with one hand, coaxing yours with his other. “Want you close so we can talk”

You don’t answer. You can’t answer, just follow his lead and hover your legs over his, as you crawl your way onto his lap.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he asks, his voice quiet, sharp and cutting through the thick silence between you. 

“M not doing anything” you mutter in response.

“That’s the problem”

Yet, he cradles you, the problem, into his arms, big, strong biceps pressing you close to him, holding your head right into his chest. 

His heartbeat is loud— too loud for someone who once died, too real. Technically there’s nothing you should be scared of, he’s here with you, holding you and all you want to do is run away. Something inside you screams at you to run home, that this isn’t real. That he died and wasn’t saved, that you’re imagining all this.

But right underneath his shirt is his scar. And the ones on his forearm are visible now that he’s wearing a T-shirt.

“Should I go ahead and laser remove the scars?” Katsuki asks while the two of snuggle against each other.

“Huh? Why?”

“Cause ya don’t like looking at em, I’ve noticed. So would you look at me then?!”

Your stomach twists at the mention of the words, even if they’re so soft spoken and without thinking, your eyes dart down—just for a second—before flicking away again. Just the thought of it, the way the skin is raised and uneven, makes your throat tighten.

You swallow hard, fingers gripping the edge of his shirt. His fingers trace circles on the skin over the band of your -his- boxers.

“That’s not—” You take a slow breath, trying to steady yourself. “I just…”

“You just think im ugly and you’d rather leave, that’s what you want to say isn’t it?”

“I don’t handle… that kind of stuff well.” You don’t say the word. You don’t want to. Just thinking about it makes your skin crawl. “It makes me feel sick to my stomach. And thinking about how you got them—” Your voice catches, and you look down again “It’s too much.”

Silence.

Then, Katsuki scoffs, but it’s weak. “Figures.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“Real fuckin’ great, huh?” He curses “I wanna tell you that I fucking love you and you’re here telling me I make you sick— what the fuck is wrong with me?”

You break free from his bear-like hug, only to stare at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering. You hate seeing him like this—hunched slightly, fists clenched, looking at his reflection in your eyes like it’s something disgusting. Like he’s something disgusting.

He isn’t though, he’s strong, he’s beautiful, he’s anything and everything you can’t lose. Nobody ever tells him, you don’t either, you just act like he’s made of glass and then leave as if he can’t or won’t shutter.

He just told you he loves you.

You love him too. You’re in love with him. 

Does he even want to hear it after the shit you just spurt at him?

You grab at his face like it's instinct and press your nose to his, locking your eyes into his, breath hitched in the back of your throat. You avoid making any noise, scared that you’re going to ruin this by just existing. 

If it’s been so many years and he’s still alive, you shouldn’t patronise his feelings because of your own trauma.

He’s here. He’s alive and he loves you and the pad of your thumb brushes over the scar on his cheek.

Your stomach still churns at the thought of his injury, but you force yourself to step forward, reaching out carefully. “Katsuki.”

Silence. 

It’s just like he wanted. His love for you is your own problem now. He can only beat and scar himself further over the fact that he said ‘I love you’ like a curse. 

Your stomach twists for a completely different reason now. “Katsuki, I love you too.”

Your lips brush against his, softly. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even stop you. 

He wants to kiss you. Lips, skin, soul. Everything that is yours he wants to put his lips on.

And he does. 

His mind goes blank the moment your lips touch his. It’s like a surge of electricity floods his body, short-circuiting everything logical, everything that was screaming at him to hold back, to keep his mouth shut, to not want this more than he already does.

But he does want this. He always has.

Your lips move against his—hesitant at first, unsure, like you’re still trying to convince yourself this is okay. That he’s okay. And that hesitation guts him. It rips through his chest in ways that no explosion ever could, because it reminds him of the truth:

You love him. 

You’re not afraid to keep your eyes open and he isn’t afraid to keep his eyes open too.

The two of you probably look like lunatics, kissing with your eyes open, but it’s only because you can’t get enough, it’s never enough, even when you kiss just to have sex it’s not enough.

Katsuki wants to melt into you, he wants to disintegrate into one person with you. He feels like his heart will combust— no, he fears that his heart will combust and he’ll leave you scarred forever.

But he’s done that once already.

His fingers tighten their grip on your waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground himself. You’re warm. Real. Sitting right here, on his lap, wrapped up in his clothes, wrapped up in him. It’s a fucking miracle.

He kisses you deeper, almost desperately, parting his lips to taste more, feel more, take more. Your hands are still on his face, trembling slightly, but you don’t pull away. Not yet. And he clings to that like a dying man, pouring everything he can’t say into the way he mouths at you, the way his tongue flicks against yours, the way he tilts his head just right to fit against you perfectly.

His heart is pounding—too fast, too loud. He wonders if you can feel it, if you notice just how much he’s shaking. Because Katsuki does not tremble. Never. He does not doubt himself. He does not need.

Except with you.

With you, he’s terrified.

He’s scared you’ll push him away after this, that you’ll realize just how broken he really is, that loving him is more trouble than it’s worth. He’s scared you’ll come to your senses and run.

Because deep inside he’s convinced himself you’ve been keeping your distance because you think he’s ugly. Disgusting. A byproduct of a rotten hero society.

So he kisses you like he can keep you here. Right in his arms. Like he can erase all your doubts, all your hesitations, all your pain. He kisses you like an apology, a plea, a confession—because maybe it is all of those things. 

Maybe it’s all of these things.

And when you don’t stop him,when your hands slide into his hair, pulling him closer, keeping him right here in your arms, he swears he could cry like a newborn.

“I know it’s stupid,” you say, breaking the kiss, only for him to whine against your lips, “but I can’t stop feeling like if I look too long, if I think too hard about it, it’ll happen again. I— I get panic attacks for hours when I remember the way you laid there, lifeless. Katsuki I don’t ever want to see that again. Im scared.” 

You don’t have to pull away to continue, you need him as much as he needs you. And so you speak against his lips. “But that doesn’t mean I hate you. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to look at you. I'm scared that if I look at you for too long you’ll stop being real. I wanna be with you always, I want you to be here so bad. All the time.”

Katsuki is silent, staring at you like he doesn’t know what to say. His fingers twitch again before he finally, finally moves, cupping the back of your neck and tugging you against him, sealing your lips in another kiss.

You let out a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut as you press your face into him.

His grip is tight, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away from his lap. “I’m here,” he mutters into you, voice soft. You’re not to be fooled with that patchy ass voice he pulls for everyone else “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“But I still hate this scar,” he continues, whispering “Hate what it reminds me of. But if it means I get to stand here with you, get to hold you” He swallows thickly. “Then I’ll keep it.”

Your heart lurches.

A shaky breath leaves your lips, and without thinking, you reach up, gripping his face between your hands again. His skin is warm, slightly rough, chapped by the sudden change of weather, but real.

You don’t look at the scar this time. You don’t have to. Instead, you look at him as a whole; his furrowed brows, his slightly downturned lips, his tired, burning eyes, his blond lashes that you used to make fun of in high school.

It all makes sense now.

His breath stutters. His hands slide down to your waist, gripping you tightly, and before you can say anything else, he crashes his lips onto yours again.

It’s desperate. A little too messy. Like he’s trying to pour every ounce of regret and relief and love into it all at once. You gasp softly against his mouth, your hands tightening around him, and he groans low in his throat, pulling you impossibly closer.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. And you kiss him back just as fiercely, because you need to remind yourself that he is real. He’s not going anywhere but here.

Katsuki’s breath is heavy against your skin, his forehead still pressed to yours, his fingers still gripping you tight. But something shifts. It’s something sharp, electric, crackling in the space between you.

He’s teetering on the edge of restraint.

Your own breath shudders as he exhales, hot and uneven. You’re still pressed against his chest, against the scar that used to make your stomach twist, but right now, all you can feel is him.

And then, he moves.

In a blur of motion, Katsuki grabs your thighs and yanks you, throwing you and himself into the bed before you can even process it. You gasp, hands flying up to steady yourself against his shoulders, but he doesn’t give you a second to think.

His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, nothing like before. The trembling kisses from earlier can’t even compare to this one. This one is feral.

Like he’s been waiting for this moment to break and go berserk.

A muffled sound escapes you as his hands roam, gripping, squeezing, pulling you closer like there’s still too much distance between you. His fingers dig into your thighs, sliding up under your shirt, palms rough and searing against your skin.

You barely have time to process before he’s tilting his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue swiping against yours in a way that makes your stomach twist and turn.

He groans, low and hungry, and the sound sends a sharp, molten heat straight through you. Katsuki has always been intense, but this—this is something else.

This is unrestrained.

This is him. Losing control. And you’re the cause.

His hands move again, gripping the hem of your shirt and tugging it upward, fingers brushing over your ribs. His lips break from yours just long enough to drag hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—teeth scraping, tongue soothing, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, breathless, gasping, barely able to keep up with the way he’s touching you like a starved man.

He doesn’t just kiss you any more. He’s devouring you whole.

His breathing is ragged, his pupils blown wide, his lips red and swollen. His hands are still on you, still gripping you tight, but he doesn’t move or push any further. He just looks at you, like he could burn you, melt you into goo with his gaze.

And then he pleads, “Say it again?”

Tell me you want me. Tell me you love me and it’ll all stop being an amalgamation of emotions.

The unspoken words hang between you and all you can do is lay there, on your side, and watch him watch you like you’re a rough diamond in the making.

You don’t deny him of anything. You speak the words as if your life depends on them.

“I'm in love with you”

He tightens his arms around you, pressing you so close that it’s almost suffocating but he can’t help it. He needs you like this, needs to feel the warmth of your body, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the proof that you’re being for real as it’s written on your palpitating heart. That this isn’t some cruel dream that’ll slip between his fingers the second he wakes up.

His lips ghost over yours again, desperate, frantic. His breath is ragged, shaky, and his hands roam—your back, your sides, the dip of your waist—like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, burn the shape of you into his palms.

“Say it again,” he hears himself crack as he speaks, and he hates how wrecked his voice sounds, how utterly pathetic he must seem right now. But he doesn’t care. He needs to hear it.

You hesitate, and that hesitation guts him. But then your fingers tighten in his hair, your lips brush against his cheek, over the scar he thought you couldn’t bear to look at.

You do something he never, not in a million years, could even allow himself to imagine. You kiss his scar.

And right now he doesn’t even think he can see anymore.

“I love you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His heart is a fucking mess, erratic, wild. His grip on you tightens, like if he just holds on hard enough, he can keep you here forever.

Katsuki has never begged for anything in his life, but if you tried to leave now, he thinks he would. He knows he would. On his knees, sprawled all over the floor if he had to.

“Again” he exhales, sharply through his nose “I swear,” he breathes, voice rough and full of desperation “I’ll die if you don’t”

Your breath catches, and he feels it, the way you go still in his arms.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

He presses his lips to your temple, your cheek, your jaw. It’s feverish, aching, his heart is going to give up, caught between his greediness and insecurity. “I don’t wanna live in a world where you don’t love me back, so just say it”

It’s pathetic. Weak. Not the kind of thing he would ever say out loud. 

“I love you I love you I love you”

The moment the words leave your lips, the second you tell him you love him again, something in him absolutely breaks. He grabs your face with both hands, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs tracing over the curves of your jaw like he’s holding something fragile. Something irreplaceable.

Then he ruins you.

His lips crash into yours again, rough, needy, swallowing every breath, every little sound you make. But it isn’t enough. It’s never going to be enough.

He kisses your lips, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your jaw. He presses frantic, open-mouthed kisses down your face like he’s starving—like he’s been denied of you for too long and now he’ll die if he doesn’t get to taste all of you.

“Love you,” he mutters between kisses, like the words are spilling out of him against his will. His lips drag over your nose, down your chin, along the curve of your cheekbone. “Love you, fuck—love you so much—”

He’s shaking. He can feel it in his hands, in the way his breath stutters against your skin. His lips find your temple, pressing there like a prayer, like if he kisses hard enough, you’ll understand—really understand—just how much he needs you.

He can’t stop.

He kisses the embers of the scar on your neck, then your forehead, then both of your eyelids like he’s blessing you. Then again, your cheekbones, your jaw, the corner of your mouth again—over and over, like he’s worshiping every single inch of you.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair, holding you onto him for dear life.

When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his breath ragged. “Tell me you’re mine,” he rasps, voice thick with something desperate, something wrecked. “We’re together after this, right? No more fucking sex on the low and then I don’t get to see you for god knows how long”

"Say you're stayin’," he mutters, voice raw. His fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you’re wearing, pressing against your bare waist. His lips move to your ear, voice nothing more than a plea. "Tell me you’re not leavin’ me, baby."

Your heart clenches at the way his voice wavers, the way he sounds like he's afraid—like the very idea of you leaving is enough to unravel him completely.

“I’m staying,” you breathe, and before you can even finish saying it, his lips crash into yours again, cutting off whatever air was left in your lungs.

His eyes rake over you, wild and dark and fiery red and shaky, lips swollen and shiny from kissing you too hard. His hands are shaking as they run down your sides, like he’s never touched you before. 

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if he’s finally letting himself believe it. His hands slide under your shirt, palms pressing flat against your stomach, up your ribs, his thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts. He swallows hard. “Mine.”

His kiss is messy, desperate, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you. Like he wants to crawl inside your skin and live there. And maybe he does. Maybe that’s the only way he’ll ever feel close enough to you.

“Katsuki” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his lips, slow and sweet.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked, breath hot. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your head is spinning, body burning beneath his touch, every nerve alight. “Then take it,” you whisper, nails digging into his shoulders.

His breath stutters and he hisses.

A growl rumbles in his chest as he flips you, pressing you into the mattress before climbing over you, caging you in with his body. His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, sliding up your waist, pinning you in place like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He dips down, biting at your collarbone, at the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, dragging his teeth over your pulse before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. A reminder. A claim. One he wasn’t allowed to make until seconds earlier.

You’re his to have.

You gasp, arching into him, and he groans at the way you react, at the way you’re coming undone beneath him.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters against your skin, lips trailing lower. “All mine.”

His words send a sharp, electric jolt through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Your hands roam his body in return, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, feeling the way he shudders beneath your touch. When your fingers ghost over the scar on his chest, he stiffens for just a moment—then exhales shakily, like he’s letting you in.

He wants you to touch it. To feel that he’s here. That he’s alive. This is a reminder too.

You press your palm flat against it, right over his heart, and his breath shudders. His gaze snaps up to yours, pupils blown, expression dark and desperate.

Katsuki is fire—hot and consuming, searing through every inch of you, making it impossible to think of anything but him. And he’s explosion too, nuclear and annihilating, swiping away every ember of fear you could feel at this moment.

And right now, you’re ready to burn and get blown into teeny tiny pieces.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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Help!! For my OC should I make her quirk sunlight (like creating rays of sunlight) or elementals (manipulating/creating earth, fire, water, wind)

Idk which one to choose bc I like the sunlight quirk but I also like the elementals quirk and I feel like they’re both super cool but idk which one to choose!!

Hey! You can call me Lucid. I write fan fiction on Ao3 and I’m multifandom, but write for the My Hero Academia, but will be exploring writing for others in future.

My current works are: This is Our Burden which will be an on going series and I am about to rerelease It's Always a Competition, both of these are self insert fics (Bakugou x Kirishima x Reader & Bakugou x Reader).

My page is currently going through and upgrade hasn't bee updated in a while but that is all about to change with the new year. I will be continuing current fics, releasing new and now have pages where I can share visuals for my fics.

I am a chronic fan fic reader so I have many suggestions, which you can find in my bookmarks on my account.