kikis-writing-service

[kikis-writing-service]

Okay I can’t stop thinking about this now; like Izuku gave everything for the world and the story rewarded him by taking away his ability to have the one thing he wanted and I fucking hate that

i think people often fail to consider that even if izuku does enjoy being a teacher, the dream he had ever since he was a toddler was ripped out of his hands. like, he only got to live his dream for like a year as a teenager. and sure, he gets the suit but thats not until much later.

he got to live his dream for a little bit, destroyed his body over it, got left with all the scars (which isnt just scars, this is lifelong pain, his bones and skin will hurt on some days; like there are physical implications here), and then he just has to accept that his dream is impossible again?

like, izuku as a teacher is nice aesthetically, but the truth of it is is so fucking heartbreaking to me that i really really mostly dislike this idea

[kikis-writing-service]

oh and the icing on the cake is he has to help kids achieve the dream he can no longer have; like imagine that setup in any other context?

i think people often fail to consider that even if izuku does enjoy being a teacher, the dream he had ever since he was a toddler was ripped out of his hands. like, he only got to live his dream for like a year as a teenager. and sure, he gets the suit but thats not until much later.

he got to live his dream for a little bit, destroyed his body over it, got left with all the scars (which isnt just scars, this is lifelong pain, his bones and skin will hurt on some days; like there are physical implications here), and then he just has to accept that his dream is impossible again?

like, izuku as a teacher is nice aesthetically, but the truth of it is is so fucking heartbreaking to me that i really really mostly dislike this idea

[kikis-writing-service]

i think people often fail to consider that even if izuku does enjoy being a teacher, the dream he had ever since he was a toddler was ripped out of his hands. like, he only got to live his dream for like a year as a teenager. and sure, he gets the suit but thats not until much later.

he got to live his dream for a little bit, destroyed his body over it, got left with all the scars (which isnt just scars, this is lifelong pain, his bones and skin will hurt on some days; like there are physical implications here), and then he just has to accept that his dream is impossible again?

like, izuku as a teacher is nice aesthetically, but the truth of it is is so fucking heartbreaking to me that i really really mostly dislike this idea

[kikis-writing-service]

Deku-sensei 🥦

[kikis-writing-service]

I appreciate your enthusiasm for the best boy ever, Izuku Midoriya!!! I too am pathetically down bad for him??? Like this man is such a MAN?!?!?? Let’s be pathetically down bad together 🤣🤣🤣

Yesss; I’ve never been this down bad 😭 this man truly has me in a chokehold

[kikis-writing-service]

I have a reassurance kink. I need to be told that I’m safe and everything’s going to be okay.

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Is it just me or does being dehydrated give you like the worst fucking dreams imaginable? Like why does the human body do that? What the fuck man

[kikis-writing-service]

Hiiiii just wanted to let you know is I’ve binged Spicy Curry and omg I love it. I love the dynamic, the concept, the struggles, I need MOAR PLZ also Damage Control is hurting me in ways I never thought fanfic could. Gah DAMN that shit is painful and I will also need more to satiate my angst/comfort trope that I hold close to my heart.

Thank you?!! And I’m glad you’re liking them!! If you like angst/comfort, you came to the right place hah.

If you can’t tell, izuku has a fucking chokehold on me right now so I’m really trying to finish up several one off things I’m working on for him. But once those are out of my brain, I’m going right back to Damage Control & Spicy Curry.

I actually have the next chapter for Damage Control drafted…I just gotta revise it so I don’t absolutely hate it when I read it. :) Stay tuned! ❤️

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Heat wave causing intermittent outages over here uhhhhh wish me luck guys

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Deku wearing Bakugo’s hero costume is so cute. I just want to go and give him a hug.

[kikis-writing-service]

Thank you!! I appreciate hearing you liked it!! ❤️

— scarred skin feels like him; izuku midoriya x reader

inspired by this post

content warnings: minor sexual content, body image themes (scars)

You're addicted to the way his scars feel beneath your fingertips.

It starts innocently enough—his hand brushes yours, and you feel that raised ridge of tissue across his knuckles, different from the smooth skin surrounding it. Rougher. More substantial. Your fingers linger a beat too long, tracing the edge before you can stop yourself.

Izuku doesn't notice. Or pretends not to. But you notice everything.

The scar tissue across his body all have different textures—some parts smooth and slightly raised, others rough and puckered where the healing was more dramatic. When you finally work up the courage to really touch him, to run your palms along his forearms, you discover they're warm. Warmer than his regular skin, like they hold heat differently.

You become obsessed with mapping them. The thick rope of scar tissue that wraps around his right bicep feels completely different from the ridges across his palms. The scar on his inner bicep has its own texture, and the one circling his wrist creates a band of raised skin that catches under your fingertips. Some are soft, almost silky where they've healed smooth. Others have edges you can catch your nail on, raised and defined like embroidered ridges on fabric.

When he holds your hand, you can't help but run your thumb along the valleys between his scars, following the topography of damage and healing across his knuckles and fingers. The contrast makes your skin tingle—smooth skin giving way to roughness, then back to smooth again. Your fingers seem to have memorized every ridge, every hollow, every place where the texture changes.

The scar on his face is different entirely. Thinner, more delicate, running beneath his right eye like a crescent moon carved into his cheek. When you cup his face in your hands, your thumb naturally gravitates there, feeling how it catches the light differently, how the skin is slightly firmer than the surrounding area. It's barely raised, but you can feel it—a subtle change in texture that makes your fingertips hypersensitive to every minute detail.

In bed, it drives you to the brink. When he trails his scarred hands across your body—his fingertips ghosting across your collarbone, your ribs, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs—you can feel every raised line and jagged edge against your skin. The textured skin drags against yours in ways that make your breath hitch. Every uneven surface creates sensations that smooth skin never could. You find yourself pressing closer, chasing the friction. This only feeds your obsession, driving you to seek out his scars in every quiet moment between you.

You find yourself pressing your cheek against his right arm just to feel the raised lines against your face. Running your lips along the thick scar that cuts across his bicep, feeling how it changes the landscape of his skin. When you thread your fingers through his hair, you seek out the patch on the right side of his scalp where the texture is different—where scar tissue has created a slightly smoother, more sensitive area that makes him shiver when you touch it.

The facial scar becomes a particular obsession. When you kiss him, your hand instinctively finds his face, fingers seeking out the raised line beneath his eye. Sometimes you trace it with just the tip of your finger, following its path from his lower eyelid toward his jaw, feeling how it interrupts the smooth plane of his face.

He notices, eventually. The way you always seem to be touching the damaged parts of him. The way your fingers gravitate toward the ridges on his palms, how you linger on the raised scars across his bicep, how you unconsciously seek out the mark on his face.

"You're always touching my scars," he says one evening, catching your hand as it traces the thick mark that runs across his right bicep.

"I like how they feel," you breathe out. "So different from the rest of you."

His breath catches as you deliberately press your palm flat against the scarred skin, feeling all the different textures at once—the raised edges, the smooth depressions, the way they create patterns across his arm like abstract art you can touch.

"How they feel rough in some places and soft in others," you continue, demonstrating by dragging your fingertips slowly across the uneven surface of his forearm. "How warm they are."

You watch goosebumps rise across his unmarked skin as you speak, but under your fingers, the scar tissue stays smooth and warm. Even that difference fascinates you—how his body responds differently in the places that have been broken and remade.

His eyes are wide, pupils dilated as he watches your fingers move across his skin with deliberate fascination. "I...I never thought anyone would want to touch them," he whispers, voice raw with something vulnerable and desperate. "People usually avoid looking at them, let alone..."

"Let alone what?" you ask, brushing your lips against his facial scar and watching his breathing stutter.

"Let alone seek them out like you do." His voice breaks slightly on the words. "Like they're something good instead of just...damage."

The admission hangs in the air between you, heavy with years of self-consciousness and careful concealment. You can see it in his face—the surprise at being wanted this way, the disbelief that someone could find beauty in the places he sees only destruction.

"They're not damage," you say firmly, tracing the ridges across his knuckles before lifting his arm to press your lips to the scar around his wrist. "They're part of what makes you feel like you. They're part of what makes touching you so addictive."

His head falls back against the pillow, throat working as he swallows hard. "I don't understand why you—" He cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you trail your lips up the inside of his arm and press a soft kiss to the scar on his inner bicep.

"Why I what?" you ask, looking up at him with a satisfied, almost dreamy look.

"Why you want this part of me." His voice is barely a whisper now, thick with emotion and something deeper. "The broken parts."

"They're not broken," you correct, threading your fingers through his hair to brush against the scar on his scalp and feeling him melt beneath your touch. "They're rebuilt. Stronger. And I love feeling them when you touch me."

He makes a sound that's half sob, half moan as you take his scarred hand and press it to your cheek, nuzzling into his palm before guiding it down to trace your collarbone. You lean into his touch with a soft sigh, and he watches with wide, wet eyes as you genuinely lose yourself in the sensation of his textured skin against yours.

"I'm used to people avoiding them," he confesses, voice breaking. "Past relationships...they'd look away, or try not to touch them. And you...you actively seek them out."

"Because they're beautiful," you say against his cheek, feeling the way the scar tissue responds differently to your breath, how it doesn't quite register the same sensations as the rest of him. "Because they're you. Because they feel like nothing else."

The vulnerability in his eyes is devastating, raw and exposed as he watches you worship the very parts of himself others have always turned away from. His hands come up to frame your face, and you can feel every ridge and valley of his damaged fingers against your cheeks.

When he kisses you, you can feel the geography of his face change under your palms—smooth cheek giving way to the subtle ridge of scar tissue, then back to smoothness. When his hands slip beneath your shirt, tracing up your stomach, you feel the textural differences in his fingertips, some smooth and some rough, all of them warm and slightly calloused and perfect.

You're obsessed with the physical reality of them—how they feel against every part of your skin, how they create friction and texture and sensation that unmarked skin simply can't provide.

His scars are uncharted territory and you are its explorer, mapping every ridge and valley with your fingertips, palms, lips—learning the geography of his body through touch alone. You could spend hours just running your hands over him, feeling the way scar tissue gives way to smooth skin and back again, memorizing the topography of healing, becoming addicted to the way his rebuilt skin feels against yours. Because unmarked skin is fine, but scarred skin has substance. Scarred skin has texture and weight and complexity.

Scarred skin feels like him.

While I appreciate likes, what really keeps me motivated to share my work is community and conversation! So if you enjoyed this, consider reblogging with tags, leaving a reply, or dropping an ask. I'd love to chat about my faves, anime, writing, or honestly anything else—hearing what you thought or what resonated with you always makes my day. 🖤

[kikis-writing-service]

Someone who writes for Dabi—a fic based on Gloria by Kendrick like?? That song is too perfect for him???

[kikis-writing-service]

— losing control; izuku midoriya x reader

content warnings: explicit sexual content; specifically: oral sex; reader has feminine lower parts

You were spread out beneath him, back arched. Izuku was nestled between your thighs like he was made to be there. His scarred palms cradled your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles on your skin as his tongue moved against you.

There was something almost worshipful in the way he moved—tongue soft and deliberate, completely focused on mapping every response. Cataloging what made you gasp. What made you moan.

"So good," he murmured against your slick heat, voice muffled and thick. "You taste so fucking good, baby."

The taste of you made his head spin. Every sound you made sent heat straight to his cock. He was already hard and leaking, pre-cum dampening the sheets beneath him.

You threaded your fingers through his dark curls, the strands wrapping around your knuckles like silk. He groaned at the touch, the vibration traveling through you, making your hips stutter against his mouth.

The gentle tug of your fingers in his hair shot straight through him. Made his hips grind down involuntarily against the sheets. He wasn't thinking anymore. He was moving on instinct—chasing friction.

"Izuku," you breathed.

Your voice cracked something open in him. His name in your mouth lit a fire under his skin. He redoubled his efforts, tongue focused and unrelenting.

He was losing himself completely. The heat of your cunt, your trembling thighs, the way you reacted to every stroke of his tongue. His cock throbbed with each sound you made, each roll of his hips seeking relief against the friction of cotton and his own mounting desperation.

"Oh god," you gasped as he found that perfect rhythm, tongue working your clit with increasing fervor. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

The plea undid something fundamental in him. His grip on your thighs tightened, scarred fingers digging into your skin just enough to anchor him. He redoubled his efforts. He worked faster, more intently, as if your orgasm was the only thing keeping the world from ending.

His arousal had reached a fever pitch—cock throbbing with each heartbeat, each desperate grind against the mattress. But somewhere in the haze of want and devotion, the lines began to blur. The taste of you, the sound of your pleasure, the devastating satisfaction of being exactly what you needed—it was all building to something that threatened to tear him apart entirely.

When you finally broke, the orgasm crashed over you in waves that made you cry out his name. Your back arched off the bed, fingers tightening in his hair almost painfully. And the sound—raw and desperate—destroyed whatever restraint he had left.

His orgasm crashed through him suddenly and devastatingly. His whole body went rigid against the mattress, a broken moan torn from his throat as he spilled across the sheets. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through him, his hips jerking helplessly against the bed as his cock throbbed, cum soaking the cotton beneath him.

The realization settled over him slowly, like cold water seeping through fabric. Even as aftershocks rolled through his body, shame flooded his system with brutal intensity. He was supposed to be taking care of you. Supposed to be focused entirely on your pleasure. And instead he had gotten so lost in the act of serving you that he had lost control completely.

He pulled back with a quiet, distressed sound, sitting up on his heels with unsteady hands. His eyes were wide, pupils still dilated, cheeks flushed.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, voice rough and slightly breathless, words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—I got too excited. I couldn't help it. You just taste so good, and the sounds you were making—" He broke off, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp curls, the shame almost choking him. "And now you have to wait because I couldn't keep it together long enough to actually take care of you properly."

You blinked at him. Still panting. Still trembling from the lingering aftershocks of your orgasm.

"Wait. You came?" you asked breathlessly.

"Yeah," he muttered, mortified.

"From eating me out?"

"Yes." His voice cracked on the word, and he looked at you with wide, confused eyes. "And now you have to wait because I couldn't control myself." The last part came out as a pout, his lower lip jutting out slightly.

Your eyes drifted down to where his cock lay soft against his thigh. Streaks of cum still glistened on the sheets beneath him.

"Fuck, that's hot." You bit your lip, thighs rubbing together unconsciously.

"What?"

"I said it's hot." You reached for his face and yanked him down to you. He yelped, hands scrambling to catch himself as he toppled forward. You kissed him while he was still trying to steady himself—slow, deep, tasting yourself on his lips. "Really fucking hot."

"But—" His face went even redder, if that was possible, and he looked completely flustered. "That's not—I mean—" he stammered, voice pitched higher. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that."

"Hey, it's okay," you said gently, thumbs stroking his cheeks.

He leaned into your touch for a moment, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Then his face scrunched up again.

"But now we have to wait," Izuku whined.

You laughed, the sound bright and delighted.

"There's no hurry," you said, fingers tracing the freckles scattered across his shoulder. "God, the fact that I can get you so worked up by doing so little... it makes me feel so wanted."

"Baby," he said, hands coming up to frame your face. "You are wanted. So much." He kissed you then, soft and earnest.

When he pulled back, you gave him a soft smile. "I know."

You kissed him again, slower this time, and when you broke apart, he shifted to bury his face in your neck. You felt him settle against you with a soft exhale.

"Just give me a few minutes, okay, baby?" he murmured against your neck. You could feel his breath warm against your skin. Could smell the lingering traces of your arousal on his lips.

You ran your fingers through his hair, and he settled deeper against you, skin to skin. The warmth of your body beneath his, your scent surrounding him, the soft rise and fall of your breathing—it was overwhelming in the best way. He shivered, and you could feel him starting to get hard again against your thigh despite having just cum. Because this was Izuku, after all: give him a few minutes and the promise of redemption, and he'd be ready to worship you all over again.

While I appreciate likes, what really keeps me motivated to share my work is community and conversation! So if you enjoyed this, consider reblogging with tags, leaving a reply, or dropping an ask. I'd love to chat about my faves, anime, writing, or honestly anything else—hearing what you thought or what resonated with you always makes my day. 🖤

[kikis-writing-service]

every artist who draws deku with full face and body freckles has a reserved spot in heaven

[kikis-writing-service]

i'll defend fanfic for my whole life. like the joy it brings is genuinely transformative and indulgent in a way unique to the genre. it isn't meant for a market, it isn't meant to be sold or marketed. it is born out of such care and passion for a media that one must write and must share it, so other folks can enjoy it to. for no other reason than love and joy. do you know how special that is? especially in our current social and political climate.

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yes and: it should be downright impossible for a nap to make it worse like what? I rested why does my head now feel like bongos that are being played

it should be illegal to take a nap and still have a headache when you wake up. like no i shut it off and back on again why are you still here

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It’s real fucked up that my antidepressants basically just stop working once a month.