My Teeth Are Rotting Over How Sweet This Is Ugh. 💜

i know we all love toji being nasty, but i'd love to see a (slightly) sweeter side of him and the reader as mamaguro, if possible?? maybe featuring the reader in his lap, the first time toji's ever really wanted to really do right by his partner... the ability of a man like him to have a softer side has plagued me ever since akutami said he mellowed out with his wife 😭

saying the important things - toji x fem!reader (2.1k)

toji’s not the kind of man who wears his heart on his sleeve. but he’ll try, for you. 

warnings: none! reader is mamaguro and uses fem pronouns, pregnancy is briefly talked about. this is just soft honestly

[reblogs/comments appreciated! // my jjk masterlist]

Megumi is sleeping.

He lays in his crib, his chubby cheeks squished against the soft mattress, his hair dark and messy. At times like this, you can see so much of Toji in him, and it makes your heart ache. You can’t believe that you helped create something so perfect – from his tiny face, the tilt of his nose, the perfectly formed fingers and toes . . . You find it hard to believe that Megumi could really be yours.

“You’re starin’ at the kid again.”

Toji’s voice comes from behind you and startles you – you jump, guiltily turning to see your husband. His voice is dark and rough, but as you see him you realise that his face is anything but. Oh, sure – he has a scar bisecting the corner of his lip, muscles rippling out of a tight black shirt. But the look on his face is peaceful, and as he meets your eyes it just seems to fade into something even more so.

“You come stare at him,” you say, “you’ll understand why.”

He makes a little huff of amusement – but Toji Fushiguro is under your thumb, so he humours you by moving forward. Big arms wrap around your waist, making you feel safe and held in his embrace. His chin rests on your shoulder, sharp green eyes on the messy-haired bundle of wonder sleeping in the crib that you’d watched Toji build with a screwdriver clenched between his teeth.

(“How hard can it be?” He’d asked you. “S’flat pack, right? Guys who aren’t half as smart as me do it--”. In the end, it had taken six and a half hours and Toji had had to physically pick you up and sit you down on a chair because you couldn’t stop bending down to help. He’d placed his hands on his hips and pointed an accusing finger at you. “You’re gonna get yourself stressed, sweetheart, and it isn’t gonna do any good for the kid.” You hadn’t expected Toji Fushiguro to be the over-protective kind . . . but you’d be lying if you said that his pout and furrowed eyebrows weren’t adorable).

Megumi’s eyes had turned the same shade of green as Toji’s around the five month mark, for the record.

“We did a good job, huh?” There’s a hint of pride in Toji’s voice that he does his best to dampen down – he’s trying to be cool, even now. Your hands come to rest over his own, where they’re clasped onto your hips.

“I think we did a great job,” you tell him, and snorts out a little laugh against your neck that tickles, making you bend back into sub-consciously. “No, really. I think he’ll fetch a high price on the black market. Look at all of that hair.”

“Takes after me,” Toji tells you. “I think I’d fetch a high price too.”

“You know you’d fetch a high price,” you say, turning around to wrap your arms around his neck. You find yourself on your tip-toes just so you can feel a little closer to equal to him. “You’re a wanted man, Mr Fushiguro--”

“You’re a wanted woman, Mrs Fushiguro,” He says, bending his head – and his lips brush across yours, and you feel your entire body fill with the heady knowledge that he wants you. You know it – he makes it clear in the gentler way he holds you against him, his attempts to do chores around the house, the way his fingers entangle with yours when you’re out doing grocery shopping as a little family. But there’s something that you can’t quite express that feels all the more special about the embrace and the words when you two are on your own.

It hadn’t always been like this.

When you’d first met Toji, he’d been all dark flashing eyes and dangerous smile and tugging hands, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he flirted and charmed his way into your life. His voice had been dark and deep, he’d winked at you and made insinuations and insisted, occasionally, that this wasn’t a relationship so much as a mutually beneficial arrangement--

Until someone else had flirted with you in a club and Toji had grabbed your hand and pulled you into him, arm wrapping around your waist. Perhaps you’d been trying to make him jealous – you’d long ago accepted that your crush on Toji and desire to make him yours officially were going to come to a sticky end, seeing as he seemed to value his freedom so highly – but you hadn’t expected it to work.

He’d murmured into your neck that night that you were his, forever, and he never wanted to see someone else’s hands on you again--

“Does this mean I can call you my boyfriend, finally, then?” You’d asked, a hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing the scar on his lip. Toji had grinned at you, dark and deep and dangerous but warmer than you’d ever seen it. He’d held you that night like he’d just realised how precious you were.

“Sweetheart,” he’d said to you in response. “Hell. Y’can call me your husband if you want.”

You had laughed and thought he was joking.

“Maybe I’ll try that after a proper proposal,” you’d said, tapping his nose. You’d expected him to grab your hand before you could make contact and pin you underneath him, tell you off for being so cheeky – but instead, the pad of your finger had made contact with it and you swore you’d seen a dark flush dust his high cheekbones.

You’d figured that was the end of it, until two weeks later he’d pulled out an expensive-looking ring whilst the two of you watched a movie.

“Well?” He’d asked you, looking almost uncomfortable – almost afraid that you might say ‘no’. “Whaddya say, angel? Gonna try callin’ me husband now?”

And you had.

He’d confessed everything to you before he’d asked about taking your name. His exact line of work, why he wanted to leave his old surname behind – and though you know you shouldn’t have, you’d simply taken it in stride. If this was what it took to have him, you would accept it; it had been too long, and you loved him too much, to simply walk away. You’d found out you were expecting Megumi six weeks before the small wedding and had told Toji immediately.

He’d seemed scared, but he’d seemed excited to – whirling you around like you weighed nothing before he anxiously put you back down and stepped back.

“That’s fine, right?” He’d asked. “I dunno much about kids. I haven’t hurt ‘em or anything, have I?”

He’d made a real effort around the house whilst you were incapacitated by your pregnancy, too – sometimes too much of one, as he batted away your attempts at cooking or cleaning with an insistent ‘I can do it, sweetheart!”. You’d let him make mistakes – honestly, a couple of disasters notwithstanding he’d made a decent effort.

You’re not afraid to leave Megumi alone with him, though Toji still hasn’t quite mastered the life skill of ‘talking to my baby as if he is my child and not simply a friend who I want to slightly intimidate’.

Sometimes you see Toji sat in an armchair with Megumi in his arms, a tiny hand wrapped around Toji’s massive thumb, and you think you could die from how much you love them both.

“C’mon,” Toji murmurs, breaking the kiss. “He’s fast asleep.”

You let yourself be dragged over to said armchair in the corner of the room, next to the little case of children’s books you and Toji had chosen for him

Megumi likes dogs; he claps his pudgy little hands together whenever one is introduced in the bright colours and flat pages. At nine and a half months, he had furrowed his little face and pronounced; “Gog. Goggy.”. Toji had grabbed the cheap camcorder that he’d been recording as many milestones as possible on and tried to bully Megumi into saying it again, but all of the footage he’d actually gotten was you laughing in the background as Megumi attempted to cross his chubby little arms and look at his father in disapproval. He had not said ‘goggy’ again until you had thoughtlessly picked up a little pair of black and white stuffed dogs whilst in a toy-shop with him to show him. Toji had had to go back to the shop ten minutes before closing to purchase them, and even now Megumi tucks them under his arms when you take him out in his pushchair.

You let yourself, too, be pulled into Toji’s lap as your husband gets comfortable, readjusting your body so he can wrap his arms around you and you can bury your face into his neck.

He smells like cigarettes and your laundry powder, familiar and comforting.

He takes a deep, pleased breath that makes the muscles in his throat ripple – you bring up a hand and trace them, fingertip lodging in the hollow of his throat for a moment before your hand moves down to rest over his clavicle, and then where his heart is beating steadily under his clothes and skin.

“You feelin’ me up, baby?” He asks with a smirk. “Y’can just ask, you know--”

“I’m feeling your heartbeat,” you say to him, listening to his pulse in his neck. “I think it might have stopped. We should look into it.” “Is this because I made that joke about the black market? Babe, you’d never let me fuckin’ sell our kid--” “Don’t swear around Megumi,” you say, automatically, your eyes swivelling to Megumi’s crib without moving your head from its comfortable position. “You’ll give him a dirty mouth.”

“You love my dirty mouth,” Toji purrs, the arm around your waist pulling you in tighter and closer. Heat rushes to your face and you give him a headbutt in the neck that’s half affectionate and half warning.

“Not now,” you say, sighing comfortably. Toji is warm and solid and always there for you. “I’m too comfy.”

“Ah, far be it for me to interrupt your nap-time,” he teases, but he pushes a kiss onto your forehead anyway. “Hell, I could go to sleep here myself. Nobody said havin’ a kid would be this much effort.”

“Everyone said it,” you say, stifling a yawn. “You just didn’t believe them.”

He snorts again.

“Y’got me there,” he says. “Wouldn’t change him for the world, though.”

“You’re just saying that because he takes after you,” you smile against his skin. “If he looked like me and acted like me, if he was sweet and demure--”

This gets another laugh from Toji, who knows exactly just how not sweet and not demure you can be.

“I’d love him even more, probably,” he says. “We’re gonna have some fuckin’ blow-ups in the future, sweetheart. Good job you’ll be around to sort out your men, right?”

The arm not about your waist moves so he can cup your face now, tip your chin up towards him. His eyes are still very sharp, but they’re softened with love as he looks down at you. Toji gives you these moments in the quiet of night – when he’s not formerly-of-the-Zenin-family, when he’s not the ‘Sorcerer Killer’, when he’s not an assassin-for-hire – when he’s just Toji Fushiguro, your husband and father of your child. You treasure every single one of them and hold them close to you like a precious pearl, stringing them onto a necklace of memories you’ll cling to forever.

“I’ll be around forever,” you tell him. “If I die, I’ll come back to haunt you and tell you what a shitty job you’re doing on the PTA.”

He snorts.

“Don’t even joke,” he tells you with a flickering smirk – but that smirk quickly drops away to be replaced with a look of intense solemnity. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Are you getting soft on me?” You ask, but the hand tipping your chin up does a little jerk.

“Please,” Toji says, a little softer now. “Let me tell you I love you and mean it.”

Sparks fly all through your stomach, your heart twisting in your ribcage. You rarely see this kind of gravitas on his face – he rarely takes this tone, almost needy as he implores you to listen.

“I love you too,” you breathe. “You know that.”

He pulls you into a kiss that knocks the breath out of you, that makes you feel like you and Toji and Megumi are the only real people on Earth and everyone else is an imitation.

“Yeah,” he says, gruff. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like hearin’ you say it, though.”

bakugou who has a crush on you and cares about you in a subtle yet aggressive way... *deep inhale*

bakugou who quietly - and casually - invites himself into your room, carrying your favourite flavour of cup noodles in one hand, and spicy ramen for himself in another. both hot and steaming with freshly boiled water for the hearty broth

you're so busy with your work that you don't even notice his arrival; so busy that you can't help but jump when he breaks the silence with a gruff, yet gentle, "oi dumbass, have you eaten anything today?"

and when you try to remember - what was the last thing you ate? - he shakes his head and sets the food before you can even come up with an answer

"thought so. here. eat up. i wanna make sure you get something in your damn stomach. i'm not leaving until you do"

you open your mouth to object, but bakugou has always been quicker

"how is that you remember to tell everyone to take care of themselves, but you forget to do just that, huh?" he sits down on your bed and pats the spot beside him, getting comfy like he owns the place. like he owns your room

you glare at him for interrupting, and all bakugou does is glare at you right back. but you know from personal experience, that bakugou is quite possibly the most stubborn, hardheaded blond that you've ever met, and that arguing with him would be pointless

your stomach gurgles the very next moment - almost with comedic timing - and this doesn't go unnoticed by him. those ruby red eyes of katsuki's harden, so you swallow your pride and abandon your work for now. he somehow knew you desperately needed a break anyways

you both sit in relative silence, but the silence is comforting and calm. the kind where you can enjoy each others presence without having the need to say anything

until you accidentally grab the wrong cup and the sudden harshness of excessive spice hits your tongue, annihilating your poor tastebuds

and what does katsuki do when you make a face? god, he laughs. but it isn't anywhere near condescending. it's boisterous and loud and full of emotion. you playfully swat at his bicep and he snickers, finally reaching for the glass of water you keep on your bedside table

he gives you the right noodles, only after he's done teasing you, and it's only then is he satisfied when he knows you have something settling in the pit of your belly

you don't notice it; the way he looks at you when you're not looking - yet - but his body warms up in a way he's never felt before when he's beside you. making sure you're alright. taking care of you

he's content with making his home here, even if he has to keep his true feelings to himself for fear of you pushing him away

because no matter how painfully his heart longs for you - beats for you - bleeds for you - katsuki's okay with this; subtly yet aggressively pining after you from afar

“atsumu, can i ask you a question?” you asked over the phone, stopping the continued thoughts that your best friend was sharing with you.

“yeah go ahead,” he said.

“well, have you ever kissed anyone before?” you felt stupid asking — especially as you were certain atsumu has probably kissed tons of people before but just in case you were wrong, you did want to know.

“kissed somebody?” he retorted with a scoff, “no, i haven’t actually. have you?”

you shook your head and even though he couldn’t see your face, he could tell your answer by the miserable sigh you projected over the phone, “look at us, two best friends who’ve never been in a proper relationship or kissed anyone, how pathetic.”

“it’s not pathetic, we just haven’t gotten round to doing it yet, that’s all” he countered, “but…”

“but..?”

“we could. kiss i mean, each other.” he suggested and you splutter in surprise, definitely not expecting that, “it would be a platonic kiss of course, just two friends who’ve never kissed anybody before, kissing each other.”

“that would be more pathetic tsumu,” you exclaim, “it’s late anyways, i’ll call you later okay?” you hear him hum in agreement before you end the call, ready to go to sleep.

but you couldn’t sleep, it was impossible for you to do so when atsumu’s absurd suggestion lingered on your mind. when you originally asked the question, you didn’t even think about the idea of you kissing your best friend at all; you just wanted to know if he had kissed anyone.

so when he did propose that you two should ‘platonically kiss’ each other, at first it seemed wild but as you laid in your bed that’s all you could think about — how you didn’t hate the idea of kissing your best friend.

“atsumu, i need to talk to you,” you said on the phone as the clock struck 2 am.

“to what do i owe the pleasure y/n, are you calling about my previous offer?” he joked and you could practically feel the smirk growing on his face.

“yeah about that…i was actually thinking that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea?”

“oh really?” he asked and you hum in affirmation, “well when can we do it?”

“i didn’t know we had to plan when we did it,” you teased “can’t we just do it whenever?”

“yeah whenever, sure” he agreed “anyways it’s late and i’ve got things to do, you should go get some beauty sleep not like you need it or anything.”

atsumu hung up the phone before you could even register what he said, until when you finally rested your eyes and your imagination ran wild with sights of you and your best friend together in an actual romantic relationship. it was an unsettling thing to think about, how much you didn’t hate it but there was always potential in you reading too much into this and atsumu only seeing this as a platonic kiss.

after another hour of deep thinking, you decided to call atsumu again, “hey atsumu.”

“three calls in one night, i must be special,” he said with a chuckle.

“i just wanted to say, about earlier—“

“can you hold that thought a second y/n,” he said “i just need to do one quick thing.”

you hear a knock at your door, and question who on earth would be knocking at 3 am and when you open it, you were surprised to see atsumu standing proudly on your doorstep, phone next to his ear still.

“one second tsumu, there’s an idiot at my door,” you said hanging up the phone and atsumu gasps putting his hand over his heart in mock hurt, “what are you doing here?”

“i’m here to collect my kiss.”

“but you live an hour away,” you emphasised

“and it took me an hour to get here,” he responded smartly, “you did say, we can just do it ‘whenever’ and since i’m here now we can do it here.”

“here?” you question and he nodded, “right now,” with him nodding again. “okay,” and you didn’t know why you agreed, but you knew there was no point in having atsumu travelling all this way to end up with no kiss at all.

when his lips pressed against yours, it was awkward — at first — with your body becoming stiff in nervousness, scared of doing the wrong thing and atsumu sensed that his hands moving around your waist easing you into relaxation and you both fell into a comfortable rhythm as you kissed.

as atsumu pulled his lips off yours, you felt sad already missing the feeling of his lips against yours. “so…” he said awkwardly, “how was that?”

“it was fine,”

“just fine?” he repeated with a growing smirk, knowing that the kiss was definitely more than fine.

“i’m going to bed tsumu, bye” you said quickly, shutting the front door in atsumu’s face ignoring the loud “hey!” he yells from the other side as you run upstairs to your bed.

you assumed atsumu left and you were ready to go to sleep trying to erase your brain over the best kiss you’ve ever had —the only kiss you ever had but before your head could finally rest against your pillow you get a call from atsumu.

“y/n,”

“yes?”

“answer one thing for me really quick,” he asked “was that kiss platonic or romantic?”

“uhh,” you were caught off guard by his question and you knew your answer would definitely influence how your friendship progresses after today but you felt more confident answering knowing that it was over the phone so you wouldn’t have to deal with whatever unwanted reaction atsumu may give you in person, “romantic, it was romantic. if that’s what you wan-“

the call cuts out, and you hear the loudest celebratory cheer from outside your house and you immediately smile at how adorable atsumu was. even though it wasn’t your intention, you were happy to go to sleep having had your first kiss and getting a boyfriend all in the same day.

an: yes this is a repost apologies to the 30 people who’ve interacted w this I hope you enjoy it let me know what you think of this drabble which re reading it as I post it for the second time I hate BUT I hope you love it people

Reblogs are very appreciated

ASHES FROM PURGATORY — TWO

A/N: The reader is getting closer and closer to her encounter with Midoriya, I confess that I am anxious to write about... So from this chapter onwards, I will alternate the diary version with the narration version.

Warnings ⚠️: mentions of blood and death.

Pairing: Villain!Deku × afab!reader.

More information about the story: here.

⠀⠀27 April 2031,

Ever since the quirk registration system was put in place my life has gone to shit. Not that it was ever good these last ten years, but from time to time I need to walk in the shadows with a mask on my face so I don't get caught, it would be bad if someone managed to drag me to the nearest health clinic.

As the name implies, the government makes a documentation of your quirk, those whose individualities are not useful are dismissed, but if you are unlucky enough to be useful or have a rare quirk, you will be taken to the trial where it will be decided whether you become a member of the Paranormal Liberation Front or become one of the many quirkless. Fortunately I was able to escape that.

My mom, if she were alive of course, would be taken away for sure. She had a rare kind of space-time quirk that allowed her to open portals, to teleport people or objects to two non-adjacent locations. My father didn't have such a flashy quirk, but it was useful in his work at the hospital, it was an quirk of not feeling tired or not needing sleep, something like that, I can't remember now because I haven't thought about them for a long time. And I had my little sister, who had not manifested a quirk at that time.

My whole family died on D-Day like thousands of other innocent people, unfortunately I was not as lucky. I was coming back from the beach when the bombing started and my father sent me a message telling me to run and hide. At the time I didn't understand what that meant, but when the buildings started to fall and half the city was engulfed in fire, I ran away as fast as I could.

I found out what happened in the morning before my mobile phone battery ran out. Bakugou - the student tipped to be hero number one - had been murdered by Izuku Midoriya, the self proclaimed successor of All For One and the Symbol of Fear, thousands died during the battle, the images of the genocide were broadcast for the whole world to watch and since that day the concept of happiness has been erased from that reality.

Would all this have happened if I had not been negligent at that time? This doubt wears away what little sanity I have left, so I cannot fantasise what my life would have been like in a colourful future, not without this sweet dream ending in a sea of blood.

Dreaming adds to the weight on my conscience, but I can't help imagining how nice it would be to open the door of my house and smell the smell of home-baked breads prepared by my mother. Although anything would be better than the smell of ashes and blood stuck to the soil of this country.

SOMEONE MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE

♡ hawks, aizawa, bakugo, dabi

— contains. f!reader, angy bnha men, use of dabi’s real name, non-explicit/mentions of: harassment, alcohol, slight possessiveness

𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐊𝐒 ♡

“She’s not interested, pal,” he says as he snakes an arm around your waist from behind you. He left you for one minute to get drinks and all of a sudden, a random half-drunk guy came up to you, chatting you up despite your obvious protests, seemingly unaware of who you came here with. Keigo takes the seat next to you and says nothing more to the guy but as the guy protests, Keigo was quick to cut him off, irritation noticeable in his tone and expression, “fuck are you still here for?” Immediately, the guy recognizes who he’s dealing with. Panic and apologetic replaces his previously cocky expression as he cusses before excusing himself. Keigo turns back to you, pulling you closer to him as he soothes your arm. “You okay, pretty bird?”

𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀 ♡

“___, you good?” A familiar voice speaks from behind you, the source of the voice putting a hand on the small of your back, suddenly you aren’t afraid of the guys who have been pestering you for the last couple of minutes, asking you your name, your number, if you’re waiting for someone, the list goes on. Shouta directed the question at you but his eyes were glued to the men who suddenly felt threatened under his gaze. He arrived late for your date, his fault. His voice is calm but you can tell by his gaze and the shift in his breathing pattern, he’s furious, only holding himself back because he doesn’t wanna do anything that could potentially hurt you in the process. After giving him your answer, he clenches his jaw as you take your leave, but not before he stops to give them a last warning. “Don’t show your faces here again”

Keep reading

Sleeping with the Villains

Request: My request idea that popped in my head was I haven’t seen a story of shigaraki’s or dabi’s impression of them sleeping nude/naked with their S/O. I was wondering what their thoughts would be? I wouldn’t mind it if it was both sfw and nsfw:)🤸‍♀️

It can either be headcanoan or a fic. you can choose which one suits best for you to compose. 💕 💕 💕

Word Count: 1.5K each

A/N: I went for a more sfw vibe(‾◡◝)

-

Dabi:

His skin is rough, calloused and burned, and even if he is clean, the scent of ash overtakes that of milk and honey. Dabi is scarred, his body in deep purple patches that are pieced together with staples and on a good day, he can ignore the the pain, can push past it and focus on how soft your hand is compared to his, he can focus on you, rather than the way that that his clothes catches over his skin and pulls on the grooves and the burns. On the harder days, he has to push himself out of bed before you can wake. He has to bite down on the pain that screams for him to collapse, and he’ll swallow pain medication and drink the pain away before you can wake. He is a man ready to explode at any given minute, and he will refuse to do that in front of you.

He wears a loose fitting shirt and sweats that makes it unbearably hot and when he walks into the bedroom that he shares with you, you’re undressed. He grins at you and even if his skin does ache, he can’t deny you, and he can’t deny himself. If you want him now, he’ll give himself to you in a painful and horrible way to keep you by his side.

“I didn’t realize we were going to fuck tonight,” he says, a thin smile on his lips as he sits beside you on the bed. “You should have told me, I would've dolled myself up.” He teases, but he’s serious. He wants to be made pretty for you, to have you look at him and ignore the scars that decorate his face and his body. When you roll your eyes and shake your head, your hand curved over his untarnished skin, he deflates.

“It’s not that,” you tell him with a laugh. You mov to sit fully on the bed, your legs crossed and he’s unable to keep his eyes off of you.

He raises his brows, and his eyes are focused on the swell of your stomach, soft and full, and he hates that he wants to touch you. To simply let his body drape over you and keep you under him. “It’s not?” He asks, his throat already beginning to close and when he catches your eyes, he flashes a smile- awkward and tense. “Then what is it?”

Your hand moves slowly away from him, and even though he is warm, the fire inside of him unending and all consuming, he is cold without you. He watches as your hand falls to cup over your calves. “I just want to sleep naked with you.” He must have given you a bewildered look because when you laugh, you go to hold his hands. “You heard me,” you lilt, something so sweet on your tongue that it makes him ache.

“Why?” He’s done it before with you. Sticky skin against sticky skin, your chest rising and falling, his body shaking in the afterglow of sex as you kiss his chest. But it was always that, always after sex when you both slept naked together. Why now? Why without clothing? And even when he’s dressed, he feels so bare.

“Dabi,” you call his name and it’s like sin that slips past your lips. Your hand rises slowly to cup the side of his face and he hates how you can read him like an open book. He hates how vulnerable he’s become when he’s around you. “I just want to sleep with you. Nothing more and nothing less, honey.”

Honey. What a sweet thing to call him. A nickname that is given and told with love and admiration, and he knows who he is. Thirty people is how many he’s killed. His skin is purple and falling apart on him. He is ash and smoke, and at any second, he will fall apart. No matter where you touch, he is scarred; your touch is something so delicate and painful against his neck that he leans into it, desperate for the pain, but desperate for the touch that you are so willing to give him.

“Me too?” He asks, his clothing pulling taut against his scars and when you nod, a soft, inaudible plea on your lips, he can’t deny you. He can’t rid himself of his clothes quick enough, and yet, he takes them off softly as if he were taking off a bandaid.

Your hands replace his and when you lean over him, your chest is in his face and if it were any other time, if he were less broken than he is now, he’s sure he would have joked and teased. He’s sure that he would have used sex to distract you from seeing him. You’ve seen him before and yet, it is never enough. It’s never his skin, it’s never him, it’s a ghost of who he should be- coy and charming. Yet, here he is, having you helping him remove his clothing because if he were to do it, he'd never be bare in front of you. He’d rather burn once more than to ever have you truly see how he appears.

He is a man of many faults and when you kiss his lips, his scarred and rough bottom lip pressed against yours, he pushes you down to the bed and hovers above you. Your hands hold him tenderly, keeping him together, and you smile at him. There are tears in your eyes and he wonders if he’d match you in another lifetime. The fear. The adoration. The way that despite being above you, he’s unable to breathe properly. He can’t stand it. It’s all so horrific in a way he never thought could be real. He lays on the bed, his body vulnerable to you and your ridicule and when he looks at you, he gives you sad eyes, expecting for your face to twist once you realize who you’ve allowed to touch you.

The air is cold, and his staples are warm, and he is bare. Fear has taken over, and it’s chosen to stay, to his his eyes follow as you look at him, and when you raise your hand, letting it hover over his scarred skin, he can feel it and it’s excruciatingly painful and something that he has craved for far too long.

“Honey,” you call him, your hand curving over the crown of his head and running past his hair. You say it so dolefully that he has to shake his head and even then, your smile is one that lacks it’s usual shine.

“It’s nothing,” your name is a whisper against his lips and it’s a sin for him to say something like that. “Just-” he pauses, he doesn’t want you to stop touching him, but he also doesn’t want you to look at him. He swallows and wraps his hand around your wrist. “Do you mind just laying beside me?”

It’s pitiful. Pathetic and everything bad that he’s ever been told. He can’t stand you looking at him when he can’t feel. When he isn’t supposed to feel a thing. And yet, your lips press against his and he can taste the mint on your tongue, and he lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes tightly as you rest carefully beside him.

“Dabi,” you call him and it sends a shiver down his spine when the thin blanket is placed over the both of you. He hums in response, unable to trust his voice at the very moment. “For what it’s worth,” your breath is cool against his shoulder, “I think you’re beautiful.” He can’t help the ugly and snarky laugh that slips past his throat in some cruel joke. You ignore the mean sound and continue, your hand soft on his body. “I wouldn’t dream of ever leaving you. I think I’m too attached to ever believe that I could find someone else. You’re the best that I’ll ever come across, and I hope that when you look at me, you know that I’ll never grow tired of you.”

When you’re asleep, your name having left his lips in a mantra, he lets out a shaky breath. His face burns and he’s glad that he can’t cry. He’s glad he rid himself of that emotion. He’d never forgive himself if he cried because of you. He’d never forgive himself for being so attached to you. He holds you close and the ceiling is blurry. You’re warm in the ways that remind him of something once lost and found. You are something that he will never forget and will never forgive himself for invading your life. Sleeping bare with you was much more than nude, it was vulnerability to let you touch him and see him as him. He turns his head and kisses your forehead. “I hope that when you look at me, you know that I’m sorry.” His voice is weak and he can’t breathe, but he’s by your side and when he wakes up, he wants you to still be there.

Shigaraki Tomura:

His reflection is whole- the mirror before him clean and free of anything that would distort him. With an exposed chest, his shirt is on the sink counter, and he stands in front of the mirror shirtless, observing his body as if he had never seen it before. Tomura raises a careful hand, letting it ghost over his stomach where scars of all shapes and sizes are etched upon his body. The scars are soft, stretched skin that feels almost false under his own, the edges ragged and tickling against the tips of his fingers. He’s never had the luxury of taking a moment to stop and watch his own body, to trace over the imperfections and feel them. It’s so foreign that it makes his anxious, worry bubbling in his stomach that when you call his name, he pulls his hand away from himself, taking a step away from the mirror, recoiling as if his reflection would reach out and trap him there.

He’s never been one to be ashamed of himself, to let the words of others affect him. Time and time again, he’s been told of how awful he looks, reminded of how he’d look better if just a few things were changed about him, and in the end, he’s never cared about any of those comments. He never put his worth on his physical appearance, and that was fine for him. Still, when he sees himself he can find his own flaws, the remarks that people make, and when he sees you, he can’t find any of those. The shirt is grabbed, held tightly in his hands that he has to lift a finger, because old habits die hard.

The door closes behind him and he sees you sitting on the bed, the blanket pulled up towards the chest, gripped in your fists as you hold it close, giving him a tentative smile. Your shoulders are bare, your collarbones exposed, and with his own torso exposed, he clears his head and turns towards the door, almost hoping for an interruption but so scared that someone other than you would see him like this- scars and all.

“You’re not wearing anything,” he presumes, turning back to you, a soft shade of pink blooming on his chest and slowly creeping upwards. “I uh-” he clears his throat even if there is nothing there- “should I do the same?”

You laugh and it’s so sweet, so light and airy, that it reminds him of the first time he shared cotton candy with you. It’s a memory that he pushes away when you drop the blanket and even if he’s seen you in much more passionate ways, he still averts his eyes.

“Only if you want,” you tell him and it makes something inside of him switch, to follow the implication of a command and shed his clothing.

His shirt falls into a puddle of fabric and he steps over it, his steps quick as he goes to the bed that he shares with you. The edge of the bed presses against his thighs and he can’t seem to rid himself of his sweats quick enough, sliding them off until they pool around his ankles. He’s breathless, looking down at himself, his hands hooked over the waistband of his briefs and when he blinks, your hands are over his.

“Usually sex is a lot more fun than this,” he jokes, lifting his head and giving you a ghost of smile that quickly disappears.

“It is,” your voice airy. “But-” your knuckles are now pressed his hips and you lower them slightly, your hands cool against his warm skin- “it’s not about sex tonight.” His boxers join the pool of fabric that is around his ankles and he quickly removes his socks, climbing into bed as you back away to make space for him.

“No?” He whispers, leaning towards you, his hands on either side of your thighs as you sit on your legs. “What a shame,” he says, leaning his head onto your chest, his ear pressed against your beating heart. Your hands curve over the top of his head and he pushes himself further into you when you click your tongue.

It’s quiet for a moment and he can’t bring himself to ruin the silence, to move away from you, even if his arms are starting to tire from holding himself up. Your hand is over him, parting through his silver hair and his ears burn with every touch.

“Tomura?” He hums in response, pushing himself further into you. He doesn’t want for the moment to be ruined. He wants to stay here, uncomfortable and sore, and safe and held. He wants to be in your arms. “How about we lie down, okay?” Your hand leaves the crown of his head and when you pull away, he’s left chasing after you, trying to follow your warmth and reclaim it.

The blanket is pulled, held open for you and him, and in it, is warmth. In it, is you that looks at him so tenderly, the corners of your eyes crinkled and the little fat in your cheeks pushing upwards as you smile at him. He’s clumsy and quick, and he doesn’t care if he seems desperate to get under the covers with you, but it’s all that he wants. He just wants to be beside you.

His hand aches, and his arms are sore, and he’s beside you, his face against your chest as he holds you close to him. It truly is just lying beside you, it’s nothing more, simply being bare in front of you with the distraction of sex to occupy you or him, and it’s horrific. Your hand starts from his neck, past scars trembling under your touch that leads him to hold his breath, taking in one last breath that fills his lungs with the sweet aroma of your body wash and cream. Your hand lowers, tracing over the scars that are wrapped around his arms, coiled and pressed and whispers your name. It stops you for a moment, but when he says nothing else, devoid of breath, his lungs burning and throat tight, your hand continues to press and massage over the scars, each gentle nudge bringing forward the reminder of who he is and when his hands clamps around your arms, free of the mangled scars that are his, he lets out a mix of a whine and cry. He doesn’t know what it is that you are doing, but it hurts and he’s so desperate for the comfort that he fails to register as your hand glides down and flutters over his side, where a scar is large against him, wrapping around his side and fading once it reaches towards his stomach. It’s an odd sensation, different from his. Yours feels as if it really is a ghost that is pressing against him, something so light and foreign that it’s as if you had never touched him before.

“Does it ever hurt?” You ask, and he can feel the press of your thigh against his.

“Yes,” he breathes, unable to lie to you. What is it about you that ruins him, that makes him so weak and willing to tell you whatever it is that you want to hear. He’d bow before you, plead at the mercy of you for just a simple smile.

“Am I hurting you?” You ask and when you press down, the small shift of weight making his gasp out, he hisses out his answer.

“Yes,” he confesses. Your hand starts to lift away from him and he holds it down, his own scarred hand holds yours. “Please, don’t stop,” he asks of you and when he pulls away his eyes burn and yours look so sad and he can’t have that. He can’t have you look at him, and he can’t bear to see you so sad.

Tomura presses his lips against yours, the kiss wet and shaky and it’s more of him needing you than it is of him just wanting to kiss you. He pulls you close, his nails dragging against your soft skin and there’s this aching part of him that doesn’t want to let up for breath, he’d be happy to die there with you, his lips on yours, and yours on his. His heart echoes in his ears and beats against his ribcage like a bird with too big of wings trapped in a cage. Your hands curve around his neck, and it’s different. It isn’t a gnawing sense of pain and itch, it’s not muddled clarity that makes his stomach twist; it is simply you and your touch that keeps him grounded. He’s gasping and when he finally pulls away, gasping for breath and looking at you through half lidded eyes, he sees you smiling back at him, your chest rising and dipping and he is still with you.

“I’m still here,” you say as if you could have heard his worries. Your hand cups his chest and moves to tangle into his hair. “Whatever you want of me, I’ll give it to you.” It’s something that he will hold you to and when you press your lips against his in a fleeting kiss, he’s left wanting more.

twirls hair. imagine flirting w strict driving instructor diluc, who has had enough with your reckless driving. absolutely sick of you inviting him to peek down your low cut shirt and “accidentally” touching his thigh as you reach for the joystick. just a fake ditzy giggle n oops! it’s so firm i mistook it as the gear shift ~

the way you’re not taking road safety seriously at all and pouting as if you should’ve passed the test without a hitch makes diluc frustrated, even more so when you plead for him to “bend the rules a little” and “not be so uptight.”

it’s really funny to you of course because when he’s releasing his frustration on your throat by fucking it, making tears spring up from your doe eyes, you know he’ll give you the pass and his number. diluc’s a gentleman so surely he’ll regret pounding your throat sore, after all you were too cute slurping with your hair tucked behind your ear, blinking up as if you ask with your gaze, am i doing good?

diluc definitely has a thing for praise hungry brats. (not projecting !!! nope. ps. i passed the exam w 100%, watch me hit you on the roads <3)

drunkenly sneaking back into the kamisato estate is more difficult than you thought it would be. the fact that you couldn’t see properly in the dark with your woozy vision or how ayato has his hands glue gripped to your waist, it was proving to be quite a mission. he’d be standing behind you, head in the crook of your neck and his breath smelling like the cheap inazuma beer because apparently it gets you drunk quicker. that proves to be true as you try and slide the key into the door to his private quarters at the back of the estate.

“ayato wait… wait… just let me open this-“

but he cuts you off, sneaking his head around to peck your lips to which you lean into despite your mission. he’s useless at this moment with a one track mind.

“mhm just twist the key baby, it’s not hard.” he murmurs, kissing up your neck and you’re trying to open the door.

you whine, even stamping your foot, “then why isn’t it—“ and all of a sudden you both fall forward into his quarters like bowling pins, ayato’s hand flying to your stomach to stop you from falling on your face.

“good job, i knew you could do it,” and ayato continues what he wanted to do outside, now pushing you against the closed door and pressing his lips to yours, sliding his hand to your ass and squeezing. you mumble a little moan and ayato’s about to stick his tongue in your mouth before you’re rudely interrupted.

“ahem. brother?”

you scream, covering your mouth with your hand and gripping ayatos arm with your other. ayato, however, doesn’t even jump, just slowly turns around and sighs. his little sister, ayaka is perched on one of the chairs, all curled up with a book with the moonlight guiding her along the pages.

“sister. go to bed.” he deadpans. what does a man have to do to just kiss his girlfriend in peace? he tries to sneak his arm back around you but you shrug him off.

“let’s go to my room nooow.”

“sorry you had to see that, kamisato-sama.” you bow, and you hold your head when you come back up from the quick motion in your drunken state. ayaka covers her mouth to hide her laugh.

“what are you doing? baby, let’s go,” ayato whines beside you but you look at him wide eyed.

“she’s a kamisato! i don’t want a bad impression!”

“what? so am i!”

bokuto as your boyfriend

request:  The type of lover fic is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read 🥺 could I request relationship headcanons with bokuto?

a/n: AH thank you for loving it!!! i like writing those types of things whenever im in a mood to write but not write *seriously*! and yes i LOVE bokuto he’s such a HIMBO my BABY GOD – also i’m trying a different layout for hcs! i think i like my old ones better than making a separate header for each character but,,,,we shall see

[bokuto boyfriend headcanons]

-bokuto, obviously

Keep reading

You really didn’t think you could love Shinichiro more than you already did.

None of you both had ever been big fans of love. Not even in an edgy love-isn’t-real way, but love simply didn’t matter that much, nor it was something you both went out looking for in life.

Even after a year and a half of being together, you still couldn’t tell much difference from when you were “just friends”, apart from the kissing.

But whenever you got to catch a glimpse of Shinichiro around his younger brother and his friends, something in you could feel it.

“Oi, Mikey, who even let y’all in here, huh? Shouldn’t you be at school?”, Shin’s voice echoed in the garage, and you giggled, sat on the motorbike he was cleaning.

He wiped his hands with a towel, the cloth now dirty with oil, and he rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist, eyes fixed on his brother and two of his friends. They looked at you, sweet smiles on their faces, but eyes colored with mischief.

You shrugged when your boyfriend turned to look at you, a playful grin plastered on his features.

“Don’t look at me like that, it wasn’t me!”, you defended yourself, but shoot the kids a wink.

A yelp left your throat when you felt Shin’s hands wrap around your wrists, pulling you to his dirty body, wrapping his arms around your waist and he laughed.

“Leave her alone, pervert”, his younger brother spoke, holding back his laughter as your boyfriend let go of you to give him an offended look.

“Yeah, she’s waaayyy too pretty for you, Shinichiro”, Keisuke said, and you laughed, but were fast to take the dirty cloth from Shin’s hand before he threw it to the kid.

“Baji’s right, we hope you know you could do better, Y/n”, it was a surprise to see Draken join, but it didn’t disappoint, and you laughed again at Shin’s shocked expression.

He walked over to the three kids, messing Mikey and Baji’s hair with his hands, and lightly tapping Draken’s forehead as he clicked his tongue.

The boys laughed as he explained to them how, ‘as literal babies with zero girlfriends in total, they were in no place to comment on his relationship, but he would gladly give them advice if they ever needed it’

The kids rolled their eyes, hiding their blushed cheeks when the older boy pointed out how they were only being little bitches to him because they were jealous because of how beautiful you were, and how they all liked you so much, before giving you a fast goodbye and running out of the garage.

“Those kids, I swear…”, he started speaking as he turned back to you, rolling his eyes with a grin in his lips. He always had that look on his eyes when they were around, like he wanted to make them laugh, to take care of them, “So young and so fucking annoy— mhpm!”.

You cut him off with a kiss, to which he answered by wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you close.

“What was that for, doll..? You’ve got your pretty face all dirty with oil now, dumm—”.

“You’ll be a great dad one day, Shin”, you said, and he closed his mouth, looking at you with gentle eyes and a playful grin, “We’ll be the best parents to ever walk Earth, right?”.

“I promise you we will”.