kirsty-bytes

[kirsty-bytes]

watching the multiple unfinished drafts staring back at me as i begin a new series.

[kirsty-bytes]

bonus to shirt

Hanta Sero silently thanks the laundry room like it was fate. Ever since then, Sero’s made it a ritual to have you wear his shirts. Training? His shirt. Hanging out with the girls in the common room? His shirt. Sneaking to his dorm room late at night, curled up until the sun rises? His shirt again, soft, worn—oversized to the piercing where it makes you feel swallowed whole.

But nothing drives him crazier than fucking you in his shirt.

He doesn’t stop at any point, just grinds deeper, like he’s trying to melt into you. One hand slides up your torso, rough palms gliding under the shirt that barely clings to your frame. He pushes it higher—not to see more, but to feel—skin to skin. Your back arches at the touch, plump legs tightening around his hips as he rocks into you again, deliberate, memorising breathy gasps.

“You look so good like this,” he muttered against your neck, kissing and biting. “Wearing my shit, moaning in it—fuck.”

Then he takes it further.

With a grunt, he grabs the loose hem of the shirt and pushes it up further, not to take if off—but to shove it in your mouth.

“Hold it.” He says lowly, voice thick with heat.

Your moans are broken, caught between the cotton in your mouth but your body says enough. Nails dig into his back, thighs twitching each time he rolls his hips, hitting that spot in you that makes you see stars. The shirt clings to your sweat-slick skin, wrinkled and wet from your spit, but he’s obsessed. You could wear the damn thing for a week straight and he’d still think you look better in it than he ever did.

“Should let you have all my clothes,” He breathes, voice low and wrecked.

You want to say something back—something sweet or even teasing, but all that escape you are muffled, broken moans and whimpers. He grins, watching your eyes flutter, and he plows a little faster, chasing the build he can feel pulsing between you.

“You gonna cum huh?” He whispers, grip tightening on your waist, dragging you to meet each thrust. “Fall apart for me baby, just like that.”

“H-Hanta!”

And when you do, tensing, clinging, and eyes rolled back—he holds you like a victory, like prayer answered. “That stupid dryer,” he groans, almost laughing, almost breathless, “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

[kirsty-bytes]

“her face turned bright red.” MWAHHH???

"Y/n threw her long blonde hair into a messy bun"

[kirsty-bytes]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧

in which kagami and aomine’s rivalry crosses beyond the court, to a girl that’s not even fazed with both of them…right? ( kagami taiga/aomine daiki x reader)

cw: cursing

the moment i saw them side by side i just had to ahhh, watch kuroko’s basketball🫵

The late afternoon sun bled into orange and pink hues as it spilled across the cracked pavement outside Touou High. Aomine Daiki stood leaning against the rusted chain-link fence, a bottle of orange soda in hand, the cap clinking against his teeth. His eyes weren’t on the sky or the court—where the occasional sound of a bouncing ball echoed from students still sticking around—but on the open window of the music room across the yard.

There you were again. Back straight, guitar in hand, half-lidded eyes fixed somewhere above the frets like you were staring into a dream. Your voice rolled out in waves, smoky and slow. It wasn’t just the voice, though. It was the ‘I don’t give a shit’ stare, the way you moved like everyone was background noise.

Most girls melted when they saw his jersey, or worse, asked for a selfie after a good game. But you? You barely spared him a glance when he passed by your classroom. Even now, you didn’t pause at all when his orange soda exploded from shaking and fizzed right outside your window. Just one deadpan glance over your shoulder, an eyebrow raised. Then back to singing like he didn’t exist.

That was… kind of why he kept coming back.

The next day, you took a different route home. Not because you were avoiding him, but because your usual path had been blocked by some construction.

That’s how you ended up walking past the half-abandoned outdoor basketball courts near. You hated the smell of sweat on concrete. Despised the squeak of sneakers and the squeal of guys screaming at each other over a game. But mostly, you loathed how guys with balls thought they were untouchable.

Which is why, when you saw a tall redhead with broad shoulders stagger during a jump shot and end up flat on his ass, the scoff that escaped your lips was involuntary.

He heard it.

His head whipped around like a wolf scenting prey, and his scowl deepened.

“What the hell are you scoffing at?”

You shrugged, not even slowing your steps. “You look like a baby trying to walk for the first time. Should probably quit before your knees give up for good.”

He was in front of you in three long strides, shadow falling across your figure. You blinked, mostly from the fact that this guy was really tall. Your eyes traced the sweat along his collarbone, the tension in his jaw.

“Talk a lot of smack for someone who doesn’t even do a worthy sport,” he said, gaze dropping to the guitar case strapped across your back.

You exhaled through your nose, unimpressed. “Wouldn’t be caught dead near a ball in my life.”

You tried stepping around him, but he blocked you again.

You sighed. “What now? You gonna dunk me?”

“You don’t even know who I am,” he huffed, straightening to his full height like that was supposed to intimidate you.

You just blinked again.

“I beat Seiho. Shutoku. Kaijo. I’m the guy that’s gonna crush the Generation of Miracles, Kagami Taiga,” he said, chest puffing out slightly, like he expected you to gasp or applaud.

You tilted your head. “Am I supposed to care, or…?”

Before he could retort, another voice slid through the air like oil on water.

“Well, well. Look who’s talking to the enemy.”

Kagami turned, tensing like a dog ready to square up. Aomine had his hands in his pockets, ambling toward them with his signature lazy grin. His school bag hung from one shoulder, nearly falling off.

“Aomine.” Kagami said, voice low with something dangerous.

Aomine smirked. “And you’re the moron Kuroko’s been dragging around. Not bad.” He glanced at you,”Didn’t expect to find you fraternizing with rookies.”

You rolled your eyes. “You two really think you’re the shit huh?”

Kagami glanced at you, then at Aomine, a slow realization settling over him like a storm cloud. “Wait you know her?”

“Oh yeah,” Aomine said, giving a lazy wave. “She’s my number one fan. Follows me around like a lost puppy.”

Your lips twitched at that. “Right. If by ‘follow around’ you mean ‘tolerate your dumbass during practice when you loiter like a stalker’.”

Aomine laughed. “You wound me, princess.” Kagami looked between you two, frowning harder.

“You’re not supporting your future boyfriend?” Aomine called after you as you began to walk away again.

You raised a middle finger in the air without turning around.

Kagami snorted. “She’d have terrible taste if she even considered you.”

Aomine chuckled. “Guess we’ll see.”

It all boiled over at a district practice match where Touou and Seirin happened to be using the same gym.

He spotted you in the stands—probably dragged there by some friend who wanted you to “socialize” more—and you looked as bored as ever. Head propped on your hand, earbuds in, probably not even watching.

But then Aomine made a ridiculous fadeaway dunk, and he caught your expression shift ever so slightly. An eyebrow twitch and Kagami saw it.

So did Aomine.

After the match, sweaty and still high on adrenaline, the two met near the locker room. Kagami was grabbing water and Aomine was leaning against the door like he was waiting.

“Trying to impress her?” Aomine asked, voice casual but sharp.

Kagami narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been clinging to her like some street cat hoping for scraps.”

Aomine smirked. “She doesn’t like lapdogs.”

“She doesn’t like cocky either,” Kagami snapped.

“She doesn’t like you.”

“She doesn’t like you either.”

They both paused.

That was the problem. You didn’t like either of them. You often smiled sometimes, sure—but it was always that slow, unimpressed kind of smile that made them feel like you already knew what they were about to say. Like you read the whole script and found it cliché. But alas you were in their heads and that made you collateral damage.

The first time Aomine brought you a gift, it was more thought-out than anyone would give him credit for.

Momoi had stared at him, mouth agape, as he slid a carefully wrapped vinyl across the convenience store table like it was some kind of holy artifact.

“You? Actually researched her favorite artist?” she asked, poking the sleeve like it might vanish.

“She mentioned once,” Aomine muttered, scratching his neck. “And I found this limited vinyl. It’s got that pink smoke cover thing she likes.”

“She never mentioned liking that to you,” Momoi said flatly.

Aomine looked away, grumbling, “…I overheard.”

He’d waited until you were packing up after club. The guitar was already on your back when he stepped in, hands in his pockets, trying to look cool and casual and not like he’d just sprinted four stops to grab the record from the next ward over.

“Yo.” You glanced up from latching your case, visibly unimpressed.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to you like a peace offering, “don’t say I never do anything for you.” You blinked, gaze dropped to the record. Recognition flickered across your face. Then something unreadable and your mouth curved—ever so slightly.

That never meant anything good when it came from you.

“Hm,” you hummed, plucking it from his hand like picking fruit from a tree. You turned it in your fingers, admiring the sleeve. “Limited run? Bold choice.”

Aomine stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, trying not to let on that he’d practically memorized the production number.

“Wanna go out this Friday?” he said, eyeing you with his usual cocky grin. “It’s a date if you want it.” You looked up, tilted your head, and held the vinyl like you were weighing it in a scale against his offer.

Then you said, “Not a chance in hell.”

A pause of silence.

“…But thanks.” You turned and walked away, letting the vinyl rest casually under your shoulder as you adjusted your case. Aomine stared after you, slack-jawed.

Momoi, who had witnessed the entire thing from behind the corner, came to pat his back sympathetically.

“She’ll come around eventually,” she lied.

Kagami’s approach was less… calculated. In fact, he hadn’t even meant to do anything at all.

He and Kuroko had been sent to the mall by Riko to pick up gauze and antiseptic, since their last practice had ended in a skirmish involving elbows, sweat, and someone’s busted lip.

Kagami was still grumbling about how it wasn’t even his fault when he turned the corner of the pharmacy aisle—and stopped. There you were, staring at the top shelf like it had personally offended you.

He blinked. What were the odds?

You shifted on your feet, eyeing the box of plasters like it would come down if you stared hard enough. Then you looked at the basket by your feet, considered it, and put one sneaker on the edge. Kagami swore under his breath. You were going to fall. He could see it.

“Seriously?” he muttered and moved in behind you.

Before you could commit full idiocy, he reached up and grabbed the box. You blinked at the hand hovering beside your face— turned slowly, gaze traveling up his frame.

He handed the box down to you.

“Thanks,” you said simply and walked off.

Kagami stood there, staring after you like a deer in headlights. Kuroko appeared beside him with his usual ghostly timing, making Kagami flinch.

“Who was that?” he asked, blinking up at the blush crawling up Kagami’s neck.

“No one,” Kagami muttered, clutching the gauze tighter than necessary. “Nobody important.”

The hallway outside your school gym was mostly quiet—save for the distant echo of sneakers and the murmur of coaches shouting in the background. You were mid-step, heading back from the water fountain, when Kagami appeared and stepped into your path.

Not stood, not walked by.

Stepped like it was intentional. Like he’d waited.

You blinked, your brows slowly lifting. “…Lost?” He didn’t budge.

“No,” Kagami said, his voice deeper than you expected.

Then scoffed. “So why are you cornering me by the lockers?”

Kagami stepped forward slightly. There was something new in his eyes—something unpolished, hot. Frustration crackling just under the surface.

“I don’t like it when Aomine shows up around you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like it when Aomine shows up around me either.”

“Still doesn’t stop him.”

Speak of the devil.

A familiar voice broke through the hall like a slow clap. “Well, don’t I have competition.”

You exhaled—loudly. “Great.” Aomine sauntered in with that cocky half-grin, his jersey half-off, towel slung around his neck, and that permanent aura asshole on his face. He leaned against the locker across from you, arms folded lazily as he eyed Kagami.

“You know,” Aomine started, “it’s funny. The whole tough guy act you put on? Transparent as hell. You’re just trying to use her to piss me off.”

Kagami’s jaw clenched. “That’s rich coming from the guy who won’t leave her alone.”

Aomine pushed off the locker with a smirk. “Maybe if you weren’t around barking at her like a lost mutt, I wouldn’t have to stick around.”

“Like hell I bark—!”

“Enough.” Your voice cut through the tension like a blade. They both turned. You were standing with your arms crossed, gaze flat and unforgiving.

Neither of them had seen you like this before.

“You two never once thought to ask how I feel about any of this.” That shut up the entire hallway.

Aomine rubbed the back of his neck and Kagami looked away.

You stepped forward, eyebrows arched. “You’re too busy turning this into some ego-driven sports drama. And for what? To win what, exactly?”

Their silence was telling.

You exhaled through your nose and shook your head. “This petty rivalry is clouding whatever brains you two have left, because—hate to break it to you—I don’t even like either of you.”

The silence deepened.

Aomine rolled his shoulders with a low chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t know that yet.”

Kagami grunted. “She’d have better judgment than to fall for someone like you.”

“You say that like you’re any better,” Aomine snapped.

You were already turning away. Honestly? Your chest did buzz a little—having two tall, stupidly competitive boys about to go at it over you? It wasn’t terrible. But your expression stayed flat as ever.

Just as you were walking off, Kagami called out behind you.

“Then let us prove it to you.”

You stopped and threw a look over your shoulder slowly. “Excuse me?”

Aomine stepped up beside him, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Spend time with us.”

You blinked. “Together?”

“Tomorrow,” Aomine continued, glancing toward Kagami and then back at you. “At my house.”

You turned fully now. “What?”

Even Kagami looked baffled. “Your house?”

Aomine shrugged. “What? It’s probably the biggest of all three of ours. My parents are gone for the week. We’ll have space.”

You looked between the two of them.

Kagami was visibly skeptical. Aomine looked far too casual for someone who just offered to put his heart on the chopping block.

“I—” you started, then paused. “You’re serious?”

They both nodded.

You studied them for a moment. Your gaze flickered from Kagami’s clenched fists to Aomine’s smirk that was beginning to crack under the pressure.

You finally sighed. “Fine.” Both boys blinked.

“Fine,” you repeated. “Let’s put this dumb contest to rest.”

[kirsty-bytes]

“anyway, whatever i guess.”

— me, probably, about some complex personal emotional problem

[kirsty-bytes]

The day at the beach had been colder than expected, with a biting wind that turned your bare shoulders into a field of goosebumps. You hadn’t packed right—too confident in the forecast. So as you sat curled in on yourself, hugging your knees, watching the waves roll in while the rest of the class played in the surf.

“Hey,” came a voice, familiar and casual. “You look sad and cold.”

You looked up to find Hanta Sero standing over you, smiling with that easy charm he always seemed to carry .

“I—I’m okay,” you lied, teeth practically chattering.

He raised a brow, then in one smooth motion peeled off his shirt—an old black band tee with a faded logo, a tear in the sleeve, and soft wear along the collar—and tossed it over your head. “Take it. I run hot anyway.”

You sat there stunned, tangled in warmth and fabric and… him. It smelled like citrus shampoo and something faintly earthy, and that was it—you were doomed. That was the moment you fell harder.

You never gave the shirt back and you never pretended to.

At first, you meant to. But then it lingered on your desk then, migrated to your bed. And before you knew it, it became your comfort object—sometimes worn to sleep, sometimes clutched like a pillow. It was your little piece of him.

Which was why, when Class 1-A’s laundry rotation came around and your room was forcefully purged of all clothing items by a determined Yaoyorozu, panic set in.

You tore through your drawers and rummaged under your bed. The shirt was gone.

Momo blinked calmly as you approached her, breathless. “Yaoyorozu, where did you put my laundry bag?”

“I sorted everyone’s clothes by label. Yours should be in the one of the machines on the left.”

“Are you sure?” you pressed, trying not to sound as desperate as you felt. “There was a black shirt—old, a little beat up, smells like boyish and wee…earthy—”

Momo gave you a look, “I didn’t see anything like that.”

“Fuck—it’s important, okay?” Flustered and unhinged, you charged through the dorm halls. But on your way to the laundry room, you passed the common area—and nearly died.

Because there was Bakugou Katsuki, casually wiping down the arm of the couch with something bunched up and suspiciously dark.

Your soul left your body.

“WAIT—WHAT ARE YOU WIPING WITH?!”

He glared at you mid-swipe, asking or rather questioning, “What the fuck are you screeching about?”

You lunged, snatched the fabric from his hand, and unfolded it with trembling fingers, only to find it was just an old rag, not his shirt. You exhaled, flopped back in relief, and promptly chucked the cloth over your shoulder but in the process, it hit Bakugou in the face.

“You wanna DIE?!”

“Sorry! It’s a crisis—not important!” you yelled over your shoulder, already sprinting down the hallway.

The laundry room was a battlefield itself. There were detergent spills, mystery socks, half-folded shirts abandoned. You combed through every machine, cursed every missing load, and even dove behind the dryers. That’s where you spotted it—crumpled and forlorn inside the back of a dryer drum.

“Yes,” you whispered dramatically, reaching in like you were grabbing a priceless relic. Only, in true cliche fashion , your sweater caught on the dryer lip. You tugged once, twice and got stuck.

“Shit.” Great, here was the start of an embarrassing memory. So there you were, half your body swallowed by the machine, ass in the air, arms flailing—and in walked help or rather, Sero.

“…Okay,” he said after a pause. “Do I wanna know?”

You squeaked. “I’m fine!”

“You’re literally halfway inside a dryer.”

“I’m pulling something out.”

He crouched next to your visible body, laughing under his breath. “Do I need to call support? Or Kaminari?”

“No! God, no. Last thing I need is him filming this for the group chat or worse, pornhub.”

His gaze peered in to the crumpled shirt in your trapped hand. “Wait. Is that my old band tee?”

You froze.

“You still have that?” he asked, surprise blooming across his face. “I thought I lost that ages ago.” You stared at the shirt’s frayed edges, the rip in the back, and the faint, lingering scent of him that somehow hadn’t fully washed out. You made sure it didn’t.

“…Yeah,” you admitted, voice low. “It’s kind of special to me.”

He tilted his head, curiosity sparkling. “Why?”

You glanced at him, heart stammering. “Because that was the first time you talked to me.”

His smile softened, eyes flickering with something unreadable for a moment. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks slightly pink.

“I talk to you a lot now,” he said, voice a little quieter.

“You do,” you murmured.

He reached forward to help untangle your sweater, fingers brushing your waist lingering a beat longer than necessary. As he pulled, the shirt gave a dramatic rip on one of the dryer’s side, practically disintegrating in your hands.

You stared at the torn cloth, mournful. “My shirt…”

Sero winced. “RIP.” You two sat there in the aftermath, surrounded by lint and his hand still lightly on your knee. He looked at the remains of the shirt, then at you. “You really liked that old thing?”

“It wasn’t just a shirt,” you said, curling the scraps to your chest. “It was yours.” His gaze locked on yours, more intense now. A pause stretched between them, heavier than before.

“…You want another one?” he asked, voice softer.

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ve got a closet full of dumb shirts. I mean, most aren’t dryer-proof, apparently. But I’ll let you pick. Hell, take a few.”

Your eyes widened, and your mouth opened slightly. “Are you… sure?”

His grin grew. “Think of it as a limited edition sleepwear collection by yours truly.”

You burst out laughing, warmth blooming in your chest. “I’d be honored.” He offered his hand, pulling you up with a slight tug, faces inches apart. Neither of you moved immediately and his palm didn’t drop from yours.

You smiled, nervous and giddy all at once. “You are aware of what you’re doing if you give me all your shirts right? I mean it looks like we’re dating.”

“Yea I know,” he said, with a chuckle. “Guess you’ll just have to come by sometime and grab a few replacements.”

Your heart skipped, his answer direct of what he intends.

“…You’re trouble.” you said, shaking your head.

He winked, smiling, “Only to emotionally attached girls in dryers.” You shoved him playfully, but didn’t let go of his hand.

And just like that, your favorite shirt might’ve been destroyed—but something else had just begun, you got the boy.

bonus

[kirsty-bytes]

Our mothers, sisters, daughters can never feel safe in a country that refuses to realise the reality of the situation. In schools, in our homes, in a fucking police station, there’s always a high chance of being raped or murdered. And the cases? Tossed aside. When we cry out for help, the perpetrators and the enablers of this behaviour laugh at us, taunt us and tell us to say no. How do we say no if we’re getting killed for saying no or simply not speaking at all. It’s a horrific situation going on against women and children.

Please interact with this page linked below to declare GBV a national disaster and for them to actually do something !!!

https://www.instagram.com/womenforchangesa?igsh=MTA5d2FiMGN1aGo0aQ==

[kirsty-bytes]

[kirsty-bytes]

[kirsty-bytes]

in which you and midoriya’s relationship has a title, once and for all.

cw: emotional abuse (past memories), rough/slow sex, cowgirl, missionary, choking, switch midoriya & reader, cursing 18+ (mdni)

so this is lengthy, very, very lengthy and was listening to unthinkable writing this so yea, so sad it’s ending ngl :’)

Midoriya had always thought strength was something you earned. Something built in your bones, chiseled through sleepless nights and battered knuckles. But your strength was quiet, hidden. You moved like a hand on the back of someone’s neck, not shoving but guiding, and somehow still in full control.

He still remembers the night you slept in his bed.

He didn’t think of the night as something regrettable, in-fact, it replayed multiple times in his head. Seeing you in that state, it flipped a switch. And when he woke up, sunlight spilled across your bare legs where the sheets had ridden up. He turned his face away, cheeks burning, as if he hadn’t seen the most vulnerable parts of you before, and you laughed when you noticed, already awake.

“Cute,” you said, brushing his curls back with a practiced hand. You left a small kiss on his cheek and got up to leave.

But after that, everything was different.

You began sitting with him in the cafeteria—no warning. Sometimes in a corner, alone with him and his half-muttered statistics. Sometimes in the center of the crowd, in plain view. Heads would turn and whispers would boom, but you didn’t care. Your focus, sharper than any lens, remained solely on him. You found yourself captivated by the intelligence that tumbled from his lips as he said something about hero analytics, quirks and strategies. The eyes of the cafeteria held so many judgments and you knew he worried somedays.

He had asked you, voice low, “Isn’t this… weird? People are staring.”

You glanced at him over your coffee, nails tapping the cup. “Let them. If they have time to stare, they don’t have anything worth while…besides,” you leaned in, lips brushing his ear, “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

He flushed to his ears. “I— w-we’re not— I mean—”

“Midoriya,” you murmured, dragging his name like it tasted good, “Don’t deny what’s true just because it doesn’t fit into the norms.”

And that was how it went.

He’d visit your massive dorm a damned palace compared to his as always. Sometimes he sat cross-legged on your rug while you outlined media strategy for him—which networks to trust, how to dodge loaded questions, when to smile, when not to since he was climbing the popularity ranks very quickly. Other times, he just sat, chin on his hand, watching you work at your desk, muttering to yourself about projects and complex decisions to be made.

Once, during a lull, with his head laid on your lap while you typed, he asked quietly, “Don’t you ever get tired?”

You paused. “Of what?”

“Always being on.”

You looked at him, truly looked. “Tired? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I get to quit. I don’t get to fall apart, Izuku. I just breathe—and move on.”

He said nothing afterwards but you noticed the way his hand curled slightly underneath you. You noticed everything; but despite your growing closeness, you maintained a certain distance. Whenever conversations became too personal, you would retreat, masking your vulnerability with cryptic remarks or changing the subject.

“You don’t need to understand me,” you said.

He didn’t always listen. But he let you pretend he did.

It happened one cool evening, just after curfew had passed. You were walking back toward the business dorms. No guards of yours—just the sound of your shoes against stone and your perfume lingering between.

“I don’t usually offer this,” you said, almost idly, “but I want to show you something.”

He glanced at you, puzzled. “Show me what?”

“There’s a place I visit,” you said. “Outside the city. I’ve never taken anyone there. But I’m thinking about it now.”

He frowned. “Why now?”

You gave him a side glance, “There’s something I want to tell you—but I want it to just be the two of us, without any interference around.”

He stopped abruptly and you slowed too, to accommodate him.

“Can I… think about it?” he asked.

You blinked slowly. Your eyes narrowed—not angrily though, just thoughtfully. You sighed, then stepped closer and took his hand, the one he always wore that bracelet on. Your initials dangled from it, etched into silver, his pretty leash.

You squeezed it. “Think quickly.”

Then you turned, just as Reiji and Yamato appeared at the edge of the courtyard like summoned phantoms. Your heels clicked in perfect rhythm as you disappeared into the dorm’s golden light.

He stood there far longer than he needed to.

When he finally got back to his own dorm and opened the door, the sight that greeted him felt like a poorly directed intervention.

Everyone single friend of his was there. Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki, even Kaminari strangely, sitting on the couch, waiting.

He blinked. “…What’s with the setup?”

Uraraka stood. “We need to talk about your relationship with—“

He didn’t need clarification. “No.”

“Midoriya—”

“I don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he said, sharper than usual. “It’s between me and her.”

Iida stepped in, arms tense. “That’s exactly the problem. You’re involved with someone who manipulates the entire school of U.A. She’s been seen with another boy. Similar gestures to yours—flirting.”

Midoriya’s jaw tightened. “We’re not in a relationship so why would it hurt me?”

“She’s promiscuous and you’re fine with being one of her boytoy’s?” Uraraka added.

He hesitated, mouth ajar slightly.

Todoroki sighed. “Let him breathe, he’s mature enough to handle his business.” Everyone stared at the dual boy then looked back to Midoriya, sighing.

“Just…don’t let her break your heart, especially in the start of your career.”

Kaminari, of course, chimed in with spectacular tact. “But seriously how did you pull her and not me? I’m charming. You’re, no offense, just kinda…plain.”

The room turned to stare at him.

“What?” Kaminari shrugged. “Can you at least give me tips? I’ve been eyeing a girl from her circle. Think she likes guys with muscles.”

Midoriya stood. His voice was calm. “She likes people who think and most likely her friends too. Try that for once.”

He left them behind, their voices fading as he retreated to his room, the silence thicker now than ever. His head buzzed with the information but he told himself he wouldn’t believe anything until he heard it from your own lips.

That’s when his phone buzzed.

A single message, no words—a poll. “Yes” or “No.”

Attached was an image: you in a silk robe, with a hint of your collarbone and chest exposed, showing just the curve of your breast, not clear enough though.

His throat went dry.

—midoriya

Of course you’d try to seduce me.

—you

I don’t try

I am doing so,

Now hit yes.

He stared at the screen for a long moment. Then hit “Yes.”

—you

I’ll pick you up on friday

5pm, don’t be late.

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. But his heart had already leapt ahead of him, down a road you had long since paved from the moment you called him your bitch.

Friday arrived too quickly.

There was a strange rhythm to you—always picking Fridays. It’s always at the edge of the week. He noticed the pattern now. Every time you pulled him closer, it was on a Friday—like you were drawing curtains on his world just before the weekend began, folding him into your mold where no one else could see. But before he could overthink on it more, he assessed the luggage in his hand.

He packed lightly. Just a small duffel of clothes, toothbrush, and the anxiety that never left his ribs.

Then a ping.

His phone lit up with a single message from you—you were here.

He moved toward the dorm window, fingers parting the curtains.

You were dressed down, but never unremarkable—jeans, a soft shirt clinging to your frame beneath a cropped hoodie, and a small bag in hand. No guards, none of your cliche lingering behind, just you.

You weren’t looking for him. You were surveying the dorm’s exterior like a bored person. Midoriya slipped on his shoes, grabbed the bag, and walked to the front quietly. As he approached, you didn’t greet him with words. You simply looked at him once, cool and unreadable, and pointed to the direction of the school gates.

“Transport’s there,” you said.

He fell into step beside you.

It was quiet. Just the hush of your breathing, the subtle crunch of gravel beneath shoes, and the pulse in his throat that beat louder with every step. He opened his mouth to ask where you were going but the slip of your hand into his paused his thought process completely.

You laced yours fingers with his like you owned his pulse.

And you did.

He glanced down at your interlocked hands—yours slightly smaller, but somehow stronger in meaning—and he shut his mouth again. There was nothing to say. Not when the air between you was already heavy with implication.

When you reached the vehicle, Midoriya paused.

A sleek black car idled quietly at the curb, window tinted, polished. A driver in a suit stepped out, bowed slightly to your figure, and held the door open.

You handed him a discreet wad of yen, no words exchanged, and after a nod, the driver bowed again, hailed a cab, and left you two alone.

“You drive?” Midoriya blinked, surprised.

You looked at him, eyes feeble. “Of course. I don’t let people take me to places that matter.”

With that, you slid into the driver’s seat. He climbed in beside you, fingers brushing the interior—soft leather, hints of expensive perfume and cherry. Everything about it felt foreign and intimate, like you.

You drove.

Miles stretched beneath like a long line, trees blurring past in streaks of green and dusk. Midoriya watched the road with half-lidded eyes, the low hum of the car rocking him into something almost like sleep, not restful, just… suspended.

And then, your voice jolted him back. “I saw you made top three, congratulations.”

He blinked and sat up, “Ah—yeah. Thank you.” Then a quiet nod from you, eyes still on the road.

He looked at your side profile, lips slightly parted in thought, hair neatly brushed and tucked behind your ear. For once, you held no cunning or riddled look to you, you looked peaceful almost, simply driving.

And somehow, that unnerved him more, this thing you were showing him seemed serious. You reached the mountains after an hour or so. The world was quieter, fewer buildings and more trees. Mist began to gather like breath against glass. And then, as you turned into a forested path, a set of golden gates stood ahead tall, regal, with a small panel on the side.

You reached forward and pressed a single button and the gates opened with a soft mechanical sigh. What unfolded behind stole his breath.

The rush of water loud and pure. Midoriya turned his head to see a broad waterfall tumbling down dark rock, mist curling like smoke into the air. Nestled beside it was a small wooden structure, steam curling from what looked like a natural hot spring nearby. And ahead—a wide clearing, lit by dozens of soft lanterns and tiny hanging lights strung from the trees like stars trapped in branches.

In the center was a cabin, not a typical. A retreat sort of. Glass, stone, and rich wood framed the massive structure in quiet opulence. It bared windows that stretched two floors high. A deck that spilled into the trees. The entire space glowed like something sacred.

He was hushed, unsure of what to say.

You parked the car to the side and stepped out. He remained frozen for a second longer, unsure if he’d woken into something not real.

Then he followed.

You walked toward the door with that same steady grace you always had until you paused at the threshold. You turned slowly, the soft golden lights catching in your hair, and tilted your head just slightly.

“Welcome,” you said, voice curling with something softer now. “To my first home, Midoriya.”

He swallowed hard. “First?”

Your smile barely touched your lips. “We don’t have enough time in this life for just one version of ourselves. You’ll see, come in.”

You opened the door, and the warmth of the cabin enveloped him like a secret. He had never felt more out of place and more chosen, all at once. The cabin’s interior was a harmonious blend of rustic charm and modern elegance. Exposed wooden beams stretched across the high ceilings, and large windows allowed the hues of the night to bathe the room. A grand fireplace stood at the center, its hearth adorned with achievements and antique trinkets, no family portraits.

You gestured for Midoriya to sit on the plush leather couch as you moved to the sink, retrieving two glasses of water and setting them on the table. You took a seat beside him, your gaze distant.

“This place wasn’t always like this,” you began, your voice soft. “It started as a modest cabin, built by a man who cherished the serenity of the countryside. He often traveled to the city for work, and on one trip, fate led him to the love of his life or so I’ve heard.”

You paused, taking a sip of your water before continuing, “The two met in the most cliche of circumstances—a collision on a bustling street, coffee spilling over his clothes. She insisted on buying new clothes for him, leading to a conversation that grew into a deep connection. They talked more, the man visited the city more and she the countryside, to this very cabin.”

Your eyes darkened slightly as you recounted the turmoil that followed, “However, the woman’s family disapproved. They even organised an attempt on his life because he couldn’t say away, leaving him wounded. Blood spilled that day and the woman had to witness this all.”

“And he left, he couldn’t look at her the same even if it wasn’t her fault. He couldn’t bear the weight of what loving her cost.” You pause ,then continue, choosing to ignore the focused and sympathetic expression on his face.

“And the woman devastated, immersed herself in the family business, becoming a shadow of the woman she once was. She did what her mother asked of all along, rebuilt herself into a efficient businesswoman—a weapon.”

You swallowed tightly, your fingers lacing together.

“And then one day, she collapsed. From lack of sleep, from starving herself trying to be something she wasn’t. The doctors told her she needed rest. For her sake and for the baby.”

You didn’t look at Midoriya.

“She didn’t want it, not when it was a reminder of what she lost. But it was too late. The girl was born and she was never held. The woman never spoke to her daughter unless it was business or rather remind her what her future should look like. As much as she didn’t care, she didn’t want the girl to fall victim to the same things she did.” You didn’t cry, or express emotion—your voice carried everything.

“Her grandparents raised her. Her mother…she only showed up when the family demanded it. Funerals, galas, stakeholder meetings. All that was exchanged was a stiff ‘hello’. As the girl grew, the woman started trying to mold her. Teach her to control what she couldn’t. To keep her from feeling anything that might turn her into her grandmother or worse, herself.”

You looked up, locking eyes with him now. And for once, there was no tease in your stare. Just the ache of something unraveling.

“But she did it wrong, she broke her daughter in her own way. Not with violence but with silence. Urging the constant need to be untouchable. To treat everyone as lesser, as pawns, toys. The girl never had an equal.”

“In her world it was be superior or inferior, and the first and only person that made her feel inferior was her own mother. She was...tough, and the girl had no stable relationships, all in the name of protecting her from her emotions, from love.” The fire cracked slowly. Midoriya shifted but said nothing, so you asked, quietly, “You know what that story is about?”

His fingers flexed where they rested on his knees, “I know it’s connected to you,” He’s hesitant, his brows furrowed, “I’m just afraid to say.”

“You’re intelligent, just say it.”

His gaze met yours softly and he whispered, “It’s you, you’re the daughter.”

You nodded. “This is why I am the way I am, Midoriya. Why I control everything and everyone. Because no one ever taught me how to trust.”

He sat back, digesting your words. When he spoke, his voice was soft but unwavering.

“I saw it,” he said gently. “The day you came into my room. When you laid near me and said I bring out a side of you, that you don’t like. I saw it again when you let me touch you without a word, even as you tried to push me away.”

Your breath caught slightly, the memory vivid in your mind, too. His words held no judgment—only a fragile honesty, like he was unspooling something he hadn’t yet admitted to himself.

“But that part of you,” he continued, his voice steady, “the part you don’t like… it’s not all of you. And it’s not something you’re stuck with. You’re not your mother. Or your grandmother. You’re trying—even when it scares you.”

Your throat tightened. “Go change. Hall to the left. There are directions to the hot spring.”

You turned before he could see your expression crack.

The spring steamed gently under the pale night sky, carved from natural stone and humming with heat. You tested it first, stepping in slow, letting the warmth drag tension from your limbs.

Once submerged, you leaned back against the stone and closed your eyes. Then you heard him.

Soft footsteps against the polished stone path. You straightened subtly, opening your eyes but keeping your face turned forward, unreadable, as you listened to the shuffle of cloth and the faint breath he took as he came closer. You turned to meet him, a small smirk already tugging at your lips.

Midoriya stood at the edge, a towel slung low around his waist, his eyes flickering from the warm haze of the spring… to you… to the pile of clothes you’d left in the corner. His mouth opened slightly—whether in question, nerves, or something else entirely—you didn’t give him a chance to voice it.

“Get in,” you said coolly, turning your eyes forward again. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen.”

A beat of silence.

Then the soft whisper of linen hitting the ground.

You didn’t have to look to know he’d joined you. You could feel it—how the heat swelled around you, the currents disturbed by his presence. He sat beside you, careful not to brush against your skin, the distance between you both feeling louder than anything either of you had said.

The soft glow of fireflies drifted lazily through the trees beyond the springs, casting tiny green flickers against the steam. Midoriya’s gaze lingered on the surface of the water, silent, as if unsure how to begin.

Then he spoke, voice low and thoughtful. “The purpose of you telling me your family history… there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

You nodded, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “Of course there is.”

He looked at you, patiently. So you kept going.

“My reputation at U.A.…” you started slowly, eyes watching the fireflies blink like embers in the dark. “It’s becoming a façade. The act, the control, the perfection… it was always a shield. But now it feels more like a cage. It’s getting hard pretending I’m heartless all the time. It’s… exhausting.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable, but his attention fully on you. “it's okay, continue.”

Your mouth opened, but the words got lodged in your throat. And then for the first time since he met you—you stuttered.

“I—I…” You looked away quickly, cheeks hot from the slip.

He blinked, caught off guard. You never faltered or broke. But you were doing it now. And not from anger, from something else. You inhaled deeply, then exhaled slow, water swirling around your collarbones. Your voice came quieter now, more tender.

“It’s hard… to say what I feel. Verbally, I mean. It always gets...weird” You turned to him then, your voice threading into a murmur. “So… can I just show you?”

The question settled between you, heavy and raw.

His heart thudded once, hard enough to be heard, he thought. Because that? That was unlike you. You asked, not demanded.

He nodded—dumbly at first, but then with slow intention, his eyes never leaving yours. You moved toward him gently, the water shifting between your bodies, and your hand came up to cradle his cheek. The contact was featherlight at first, but the intimacy behind your gaze—how bare you looked under the dim light—was devastating.

And then you kissed him.

It was a touch that trembled with everything you couldn’t say. It was the softest thing you’d ever done and probably the only softest thing you will do.

He froze for a second—one blink, one breath—and then responded. His hand came up to the base of your neck, fingers pressing into your skin like he was afraid you might vanish. He kissed you deeper, a low sigh slipping from him into your mouth. The warmth of the water was nothing compared to the heat blooming between you.

You pulled away, breathless, your lips tingling, eyes unreadable. But he saw it then—all of it. The hurt, the longing and the fear of this becoming more, more than you intended.

“You give me a feeling I’ve never felt before,” you whispered. “I mean I know it’s different from what I feel usually. I’ve obsessed and played with people. But this… whatever this is with you… it doesn’t feel like any of that. I don’t want to own you anymore, I don’t want to win…I just…”

You looked down, lips trembling slightly.

“I just want to be with you.”

He was quiet, absorbing every word like they were sacred. Then he leaned in, his forehead pressing softly to yours.

“You are with me,” he whispered. “Right here.”

Abruptly, something shifted.

It wasn’t the coldness you practised on a daily basis but at the same time, it was you again—yet this…this was a fusion. You moved slowly easing yourself into his lap where he sat. Your arms draped around his neck, movements smooth and catlike, and when you met his gaze, there was a familiar glint—witty, dangerous, knowing.

“You’ve been so good to me,” you murmured, the words like ribbon wrapping around his nerves. Your lips ghosted over the column of his neck, placing a kiss that made his breath waver. “I think it’s time I fully compensated you for all you’ve done.”

He opened his mouth, about to ask, but you silenced him with a single manicured finger placed gently over his lips. You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a near-whisper. “There’s a bed in there,” you said, tilting your head toward the shed just past the structure behind him. “Carry me.”

He blinked, surprised by the simple command—and perhaps more so by how effortlessly he wanted to follow it, but his eyebrow lifted in amused challenge, choosing to mize the change in conversation.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a laugh, and leaned forward just enough to whisper against his ear, “Please.”

That broke him. In a quiet, reverent motion, he rose—his palms finding the small of your back, arms slipping beneath your thighs, lifting you like it was nothing. The heat of your body clung to his, legs wrapping instinctively around his torso, damp skin pressing to his bare chest as you adjusted your hold.

You let him settle against the mattress with a soft thud, guiding his fall with the gentle weight of you body. He braced himself as your palms came to rest just above his head, fingers splayed wide on the sheets. Despite it being dark, the faint light traced the curves of your wet skin as your gaze locked onto his, suspended. It didn't really click earlier that you both were fully naked but now? He got to see you fully.

Slowly, you reached forward and curled a finger beneath his chin, tilting his face until his eyes met yours. "You know what I want," you whispered. He nodded, breath caught as always—and you allowed your hand to drift lower, grazing the planes of his chest—and the lines of his abdomen. Each brush left him trembling, goosebumps rising in your wake. When you arrived at your destination, touch faint, stroking with slowness—his pulse fluttered under your palm.

As his breath shallowed, you eased your hips forward, lifting your body just enough to position yourself above. The slick of water still cling to you guys, and with a pause—stillness stretched between your bodies, you watch amused as his eyes darkened with anticipation. The strength in your thighs guided you inch by inch, slow and precise. His fingers instinctively gripped at the sheets, his jaw tight as he tried to focus, tried not to let his eyes flutter closed.

But you caught that flicker and tsked softly, your voice smooth.

“Eyes on me, remember?” you whispered, leaning in just close enough that your nose grazed his.

He opened them again, wide and glassy, locking onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. You could feel his heartbeat through every point of contact—fast, thudding, almost desperate. You sank down fully, letting the feel of him pulse through. His breath stuttered beneath you, and you could see the reverence in his expression—desire, awe.

You bounced, enough to make him lurch at the sudden speed. A groan left him, and you watched it, memorized the way his brows knit together in barely-contained restraint. The rhythm was rushed because you were too impatient to savour the moment—and just craved to see him fall apart because of you. That would be the only thing that reassured you that you're still you, even after the confession.

One of his hands rose, shaking before settling at your hips like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch. You let him—no, you guided him—covering his hand with yours and pressing it to your skin.

You leaned in again, your lips brushing his ear.

“Izuku, you don't know how long I’ve been—fuck—imagining this,” You moaned soflty, your breath warm against his skin. “You feel so good.”

“You’re so perfect,” He rasped, a shiver running through him. And beneath you, with your body drawing him in and your voice unraveling him one moan at a time, Izuku Midoriya melted—not just into the bed, but into you completely.

Behind it all, your hand moved to his neck, fingers curling just enough to hold him close, the pressure soft but insistent. A fragile, breathy sound escaped him—strained, almost broken—and you couldn’t suppress the smirk that tugged at your lips. You sighed, encouraging him with a hushed whisper to let it all out, to surrender to the moment.

You slowed your hips, tilting your head back, lost in thought as the emotions swirled within you.

You didn’t notice his scarred hands sliding gently over yours, coaxing your fingers to relax over his throat, or the way his touch steadied you when you least expected it. And you certainly didn’t expect to find him now settled over you, between your legs, his presence warm and grounding.

“What are you—?" your body rose lightly but his hands urged you to lay back.

His voice was soft, almost tender as he murmured, “You don’t have to pretend… just be yourself.” There was no rush in his words, only patience and understanding. “Take your time and relax for me.”

He leaned closer, his gaze fixed on your face as it shifted with every flicker of feeling—surprise, vulnerability, and an undeniable spark of pleasure. His eyes searched yours, silently promising safety in this shared space, a quiet invitation to simply be.

“Can you do that for me?” he whispers.

“Yes.” Then you gently held his neck.

You didn’t know how long the two of you stayed like that—wrapped in each other’s arms, savoring the warmth. Time felt paused and when your breaths finally came in ragged waves, and he collapsed gently beside you, you inhaled sharply, the cool air burning in your lungs.

As you both lay there, the cool night air wrapping around you and the stars twinkling softly above, you broke the comfortable silence with a quiet question. “So… what are we now? If you’ll have me.”

He looked down at you, his lashes brushing his cheeks as his eyes held a gentle, sincere warmth. His voice was soft, almost a whisper carried by the night breeze. “I’m your boyfriend… and you’re my girlfriend.”

You paused, the weight and sweetness of his words settling over you like a promise. Then, with a slow, contented nod, you replied, “That sounds nice.”

When the two of you returned to U.A, the shockwaves were instant and unmistakable. Every single student did a double-take when the queen bee herself walked confidently into Midoriya’s homeroom, a carefully prepared bento in one hand and a green gift bag in the other.

You smiled down at him warmly, the teasing glint in your eyes softened by genuine affection. Leaning in, you pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, quiet enough for only him to hear. Then, turning with effortless grace, you gave a polite nod to the entire class before slipping away.

No one could quite believe it. The same girl who once vowed to dismantle Midoriya until he bared his deepest fears had herself been broken down—not shattered, but softened—by the very boy she intended to control.

—fin

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

[kirsty-bytes]

[kirsty-bytes]

tysm to everyone who’s been liking, following and reblogging, i hope i write more stuff that you guys will hopefully enjoy in the future—like you guys bringing a girl to a tear🥹🫶🏾

[kirsty-bytes]

𝐖𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐰

in which friendships come and go, it’s natural (jirou x reader)

inspired by we hug now by sydney rose & a real life experience

cw: angst (light), neglect of friendships?, cursing

Thee sun filtered through late spring leaves, and everything looked the same as it did three years ago—except it wasn’t. Kyoka Jirou stood at the rusted iron gates of a high school she never thought she’d return to, her U.A. uniform hanging stiff and polished against the casual backdrop of ordinary teens laughing across the quad. She shifted on her boots and exhaled slowly, the tips of her headphone jacks twitching in the breeze.

This trip had been a whim—or maybe it hadn’t. Graduation was a week away, and everything felt like it was ending. Her classmates were celebrating, talking internships and pro-hero gigs. They mentioned complying a list of people they’d invite, many uttering old friends and distant families but her? Her mind kept drifting back to a memory that wouldn’t fade.

Memories of her best friend before Momo, you.

She never answered that last message. Not the one that said “Good luck at U.A.” with a smiley face that tried too hard. She had read it, hovered over the keyboard, and shut off her phone, running off to her new school.

Now here she was. Three years and an entire universe later.

The school bell rang.

She watched the doors spill students, walking out in lazy groups toward the bus stop or after-school hangouts. And there—there you were.

The girl from her childhood. Her best friend.

Your hair was a little shorter, black jacket sleeves pushed to the elbows. A missing pinky and half a ring finger on your right hand. You were giggling walking with a few friends, holding a thick book to your chest. And then you saw her.

Your smile vanished.

Jirou’s heart thudded.

You slowed your steps, said something quick to the others, and walked forward alone. Your expression was unreadable—tight around the mouth, eyes rimmed in something that might’ve been eyeliner or sleep deprivation.

“What do you want, Jirou?” you asked.

Jirou’s throat felt tight, you used to call her by a different name, unknown to her now, “I… I was in the area.”

You tilted your head, something bitter twisting in your features. “So you thought you’d drop by because?”

“I wanted to see you.” Jirou’s voice was quiet, focused on your missing fingers.

You held up your hand—what remained of it. “You notice now?” Ignoring her express of wanting to see you.

Jirou flinched. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, turning away slightly. “Not to you.”

You two stood there on the cracked sidewalk, three years of silence thick between you like fog. You let out a breath, arms crossing loosely, holding yourself.

“Cut the crap, why’d you really come?”

Jirou looked down. “Because I’m graduating and my classmates were talking about who they’d invite and I thought of you. Because I kept thinking about us these past weeks. Because… I listened to that old playlist we made. And it hit me—I don’t even know your laugh anymore.”

You huffed softly through your nose. “You used to make me laugh. Back when you still talked to me.”

“I didn’t mean for it to be like that,” Jirou said. “U.A. was… everything happened so fast. Training, dorms, patrols—”

“I know,” you said, voice cutting. “I know it was important. I was proud of you….

…But Jirou…when did it stop being about me and you? Ever since you got accepted to UA it’s like it’s been all about you and how you’re so stressed with the work and the training. I—

“See? I didn’t want to burden you dealing with that.”

“So you decided to cut me off because I wouldn’t understand?” She kept quiet.

“You could’ve told me. About your hand.” Jirou murmured.

“Why?” you asked again, sharper this time. “So you could feel guilty?”

“No. So I could’ve been there.”

You friend blinked at that. “You weren’t there for anything else.”

Jirou looked away.

“Not when my dog died, not when I lost my fingers and definitely not when I had to go to therapy because I couldn’t cope.”

There was silence for a long moment. Then you spoke, voice quieter now. “I waited for months, you know? Still sent you things. Inside jokes, new songs. I kept hoping I’d get a reply. I thought maybe you were just busy. But then I stopped hoping. Because even when you did respond, it wasn’t you anymore. It was someone polite but gone, far off.”

“I know,” Jirou whispered. “I know I was cold. I didn’t mean to be. I just didn’t know how to hold on and change at the same time.”

“I wasn’t asking you to stay stuck to how we were,”

“I didn’t know how to grow without leaving things.” she admitted.

“There’s something your hero classes teach, called adaptability.” You snap a little, then composed yourself.

“I missed you,” Jirou said, voice soft and raw.

You looked at her, eyes shining faintly, but your mouth was still guarded. “I missed who we were. I’m not sure if I even missed you.”

That one stung. But it was fair.

“I get it,” Jirou nodded. “You don’t owe me anything.”

You looked at her for a long moment. “You know what hurt the most? It wasn’t that you changed. We both did. It was that I kept trying to carry the friendship by myself. Like if I tried hard enough, you’d turn around. And you never did.”

Jirou looked down at her boots again. “I wanted to. I just kept thinking, I’ll only make it worse by reaching out now.’”

“That’s the thing about distance,” you said. “It lies. You think things are over just because you can barely see each other anymore but it’s not.”

“I’m not mad,” you added.

“I know.”

“I don’t miss you anymore.”

“I figured.”

“I don’t hate you either.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

You shifted the book in your arms. “We were good, though.”

Jirou smiled faintly. “We really were.”

You smiled too—just for a second. “I still have that stupid video. The one where we tried to record a cover and both cracked up halfway through.”

Jirou laughed under her breath. “I remember.”

“You sang so off-key.”

“That’s a lie.”

“You wish.”

You shared a look, brief and weightless. Like two people passing on a train, recognizing a familiar face through the window and then it was gone.

A silence stretched between you, heavy with what had been unsaid for too long. Then you sighed and stepped back, shifting your bag on your shoulder.

“You said you were graduating?”

“Yeah,” Jirou replied. “It’s an impromptu gala kind of, can invite anyone and I thought of you—besides my parents.”

“Respectfully, I’m declining. I just don’t…feel connected to that part of you anymore. That version of us in pimple patches and guitar picks, it’s gone Jirou.”

“Okay.”

“I hope it goes well though.” You smile.

“Thanks…can I—?” Jirou paused, then reached out. You stared at her hand. Then slowly, carefully, reached back.

You hugged. Awkward at first, then tighter. Familiar. A little broken. But still there.

It wasn’t an apology, not fully. But it was something.

When you pulled back, you looked at her, really looked at her, and said, “Thanks for coming.” Then began to walk towards your group of friends waiting.

Jirou stood for a moment longer, letting the silence settle around her. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and deleted a message she’d written two months ago but never sent. Then she turned and walked back the way she came.

No guilt or regrets.

Just the knowledge that some stories don’t need closure.

They just need to end.

[kirsty-bytes]

my paper got pushed back so i got 3 days to myself, yk what that means💃💃💃💃

[kirsty-bytes]

happy pride month to the girls, gays, theys—every one of the bambi’s who are a part of the lbgtq+ community !!! love u for life !!! 🤍🏳️‍🌈

[kirsty-bytes]

in which midoriya expects this ‘relationship’ to be dead after what he did—but your soft spot said otherwise.

cw: edging (m receiving), handjob, blowjob, teasing, facial, cursing, degrading +18(mdni)

It was Friday, at exactly 1:47pm, a few minutes after lunch ended. Well, not a few, almost 2 hours and you were absolutely livid. Why exactly?

Izuku fucking Midoriya.

He was late.

You checked your phone expecting to see a flurry of apologies. No messages. No missed calls. Not even a lazy apology or some exclamation-ridden excuse.

Nothing.

A hard breath slipped from your nose as you stood. You weren’t going to cause drama, slamming into his class and demanding why he had stood you up, you weren’t even going to ball tears in your room. A boy—no a pet—didn’t deserve such attention from you.

But the irritation within you bubbled steadily, just enough for your glossed lips to curl as you picked up the bag of food you hand prepared yourself and threw it inside.

Satisfying, in the most unfulfilling way.

The hallway was loud when you turned to go to your destined class. Midoriya’s voice echoed off the walls—soft, warm, that boyish excitement that made people like him. Laughter scattered like marbles, and you spotted him too easily. In the center of the hallway, sweat clinging to his brow. His arm, well one arm were too full—of joy, of forgetfulness, of Uraraka.

The other was clearly in a bright blue sling, his wrist seemingly injured.

The entire class seemed bubbly, talking animatedly among each other about wherever they were in their hero gear. She was the loudest, recounting a move she fumbled on the training sights in glee.

And then—without warning—Uraraka jumped onto Midoriya’s back with a bubbly squeal. He nearly lost balance, red in the face, trying to steady both of them.

Your eyes narrowed for a brief second.

The same boy who couldn’t be bothered to send a single message was here, letting someone cling to him like a baby to its mother. Sweaty and smiling. Joking around like he hadn’t promised you a part of his day.

But you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t give yourself the luxury of expression. You adjusted your grip on your bag, straightened your posture, and kept walking. Your heels echoed against the tile as you passed through them. A few of them—Mineta, Kaminari, even Bakugo—stiffened at your presence and instinctively stepped aside, parting like the Red sea.

You didn’t look at him. Not once. Let him feel your presence, let it haunt him.

Midoriya turned at the movement and froze, caught mid-laugh, hand still holding Uraraka’s knee behind him. His smile died quickly, eyes going wide.

You didn’t break stride. And by the time he remembered—

“Crap.” He whispered, voice tight. “Lunch.”

He shifted forward, peeling Uraraka off his back gently but urgently. “Wait—I had lunch plans—I forgot—”

Iida blinked. “With who? What are you—”

But Midoriya was already stepping forward, heart pounding, searching down the hall. Gone were you, too far to catch without running. He cursed under his breath, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab at the moment and rewind it. To say wait, to say he’s sorry, to explain, to—

He didn’t enjoy his entire day like earlier. He pondered nervously during class, how would he explain himself? You hated excuses—that’s one thing. And he’s been drawing out the chance to apologise by the second. It was currently 7pm, in the common room of the dorms—a blur of voices and plates and clinking utensils. Midoriya sat between Uraraka and Iida, pushing his curry rice around while his mind chewed through imaginary texts he hadn’t sent.

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“You can yell at me, if that helps.”

But nothing he could type would be enough. Not for a girl who didn’t just plan a lunch, but curated it. Not for a girl who had given him gifts that cost more than most students’ scholarships. Your silence didn’t just mean disappointment to him—meant he’d become something to file under “not worth the reminder.”

“Alright,” he muttered, standing. “Gonna call it early.”

“Midoriya you’ve seemed fidgety ever since we got back from training. As your friend and class president, what’s the matter? Is it your arm?” Iida asked.

All he did was smile, strained tight, and shook his hand, treading to the dustbin. He tossed what remained of his dinner, rice half-eaten, and waved a vague goodnight before trudging off alone. His fingers trembled around his phone as he walked, screen lighting up again and again as if the universe was mocking him. Only weather alerts, news updates and this stupid widget app—Nothing from you.

By the time he reached his dorm, he was exhausted from trying to think of what to say to what didn’t have a shape. He pushed open the door—

—and stopped dead. There, curled into the black leather of his desk chair, you sat idly. Legs crossed, body leaned back like you’d been there for hours, like this was your chair, your room, yours.

A tight, long-sleeved black shirt hugged your arms, sleeves pulled neatly over your wrists. Shorts, ridiculously tight and short, cut high over your thighs, paired with tall cotton socks. No shoes adorned your feet but that wasn’t the biggest issue. You were in his dorm—not even expressing the faintest glint of guilt for breaking in, sitting there like you owned everything.

“You look comfortable today, Izuku—except for the arm.” you said coolly, your voice steel.

His stomach dropped.

He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide. The air thickened with tension so fast it felt like a wire stretching tight between you. You rolled your eyes. Always a deer caught in the headlights, pretending to be baffled.

“Oh, calm down. I’m not here to kill you.” You stood slowly, brushing invisible dust from the chair as if that had offended you more than anything else. Irritation, pure and practiced, carved into every movement you made.

“Seriously—how… how did you get in?” he asked, still stiff, voice unsure. “My room’s pretty high up—”

You smiled, dry as the air between them.

“I flew in. Duh.” Sarcasm dripped off every syllable, but you didn’t elaborate. You never did, it was always a secret.

Midoriya stared at you for a long moment before moving forward, stepping in, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. He flopped onto the edge of his bed, body heavy with exhaustion and regret. He peered up at your motionless body, thinking.

You looked back but not in the way you used to look at him. Your eyes are usually playful, cunning and unpredictable, now? All you felt was displayed proudly on your face. Disappointment, anger—annoyance.

No one spoke for a minute. The silence this time wasn’t as peaceful. It was charged. It sat between you two like a thirdwheel , loud in its restraint. You didn’t need to ask why. The weight of his guilt was doing it for you already.

And you knew it.

“Midoriya, you know the type of person I am.” You said, swallowing harshly, “ You missed lunch. You missed my lunch.”

He stopped. “I know. I swear I know. I felt awful the second I realised—“

“And yet no message,” you went on, still motionless. “No excuse. Not even a lie, Midoriya. I was disappointed and it takes a lot to disappoint me.”

“I was going to text—”

“Were you?” you snapped. “Because I didn’t hear from you at all. But it’s fine, at least I fed the rats of UA with the food I carefully prepared this morning myself. At least they never pick and choose—they are thankful for what’s given to them.”

So much for no drama earlier today.

You stepped closer, your eyes narrowed, a cool fire lit beneath them.

He looked sheepish. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you really sorry? Because with all the giggles you had with Uraraka today, you seemed perfectly content.” You muttered lowly, emphasising on the Uraraka part. His breathe hitched and he felt a part of him crack.

“That’s just my friend—I swear I had so much—

“I don’t care! I don’t care if she’s your friend or not or you broke your arm, was it so hard to inform me that you weren’t available?” You reached out, took his available wrist in his hand, where the silver bracelet you gifted dangled with your initials.

“You forgot about me today,” you murmured, voice quieter now. “But you wore what I gave you.”

“I didn’t forget about you,” he whispered. “Just the time.” That startled a tiny breath of laughter from you.

“I hate that I waited for you,” you continued. “I don’t wait for anyone, Midoriya. I don’t. Not for my mother. Not for my guards. Not for people who call themselves royalty. But you? You vanish for half a day and I still think you’ll come. I sat there for almost 2 hours—thats the most patience I’ve held.”

“I wanted to spend time with you.” he said softly.

Your eyes flicked down, kissing your teeth. “Don’t make me want things I can’t have. I may be bossy but I know my limits, if you don’t agree to this—just say so so I can find someone else who actually respects the rules I set out for them.”

There it was—unguarded emotion. For a second, the walls fell a tiny bit.

He looked at you gently, pleading. “You already have me. I’m genuinely so sorry and I’ll do anything to show that. Please…just don’t give up on this.”

You blinked. Your body stilled, no breath, no twitch of your lips. Just silence.

He continued, quietly, “I mean—I’m not good at this odd relationship we have. You know that. I’m… not built for mind games or knowing what girls want me to say. But I want to try, I want to be no—I am yours fully. Today was a mistake, one that I am going to learn from moving forward.”

“You’re earnest,” you muttered, almost annoyed.

“Is that a bad thing?”

You leaned closer to him, your body slightly towering over his perched one and glared into his eyes—then your expression softened gradually. As much as you hated it, he was—“ You know you’ll have to make it up to me somehow.”

He nods, “I know. And I want to.”

“Show me.” You smirked. Midoriya’s jaw tensed. He shifted closer, hand brushing along the outside of your thigh. His fingers trailed upward, inching toward the hem of your shorts, slow enough.

A sharp smack to the back of his hand made him flinch.

You shook your head. “Oh, no. You don’t get to get off while making it up to me. That defeats the point.” He lowered his hand, throat dry. He stared for a moment lost.

Then slowly and quietly, he shifted off the bed. His knees hit the floor.

He lowered his head until his forehead touched the cold wood of the floor, hands flat against the carpet, body bent.

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

You watched him, lips parted slightly. His posture wasn’t performative. It wasn’t flashy or begging for pity. It was reverent and honest. He was learning. Your expression softened. Not by much, but just enough. Your fingers reached out, brushing against his curls, and you exhaled, a faint breath of amusement breaking through the tension.

“I do love when people kneel,” you said with a small smile, half-hidden. “It’s very… grounding.”

He didn’t move. You sat on the bed, legs parting to rest on either side of one of his shoulders and his breath caught.

“Look at me.” His eyes lifted, green and wide and heavy with nerves. Your legs framed his jaw. His body was still rigid, but his face told you everything—regret, restraint, and something more vulnerable. You slid a hand along his cheek, fingers brushing his jawline.

“I should make you stay there all night,” you muttered.

“Wouldn’t stop me,” he whispered.

You bent forward and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead—just above the fresh bandage from today—lips cold.

Then, without a word, you tugged him upward. Midoriya followed your pull, moving fluidly until he laid back, propped up on his soft pillows. You sat on your knees, your manicured fingers skimming the edge of the mattress, your lips parted slightly as your eyes tracked his form—settling at the bandaged wrist that rested gently against his side.

Your voice, low and laced with curiosity, slid into the space between you two.

“What happened?”

He looked over at you and offered a tired smile, though his eyes still held the problems of the day. “Boulder. Almost fell on me. I dodged just in time—well, kind of. Ended up fracturing my wrist when I hit the ground wrong.”

Your brows lifted slightly, expression unreadable. Then, with an eerie sort of calm, you reached out and cradled his injured arm in your hands like it was made of glass. Your fingers were icy but soft as they slid up to the edge of the wrap. You leaned in and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss on the outside of the bandage.

“You’re reckless,” you murmured, not looking at him as your lips brushed his skin again. Then, you finally lifted your gaze to meet his, pupils dilated. “It makes sense considering you forgot our lunch today.”

Midoriya flinched, a sliver of guilt flashing across his face. “And I begged for forgiveness—“

You cut him off with a sharp inhale and a faint, controlled smile, pursing your lips in mock consideration.

“I shouldn’t be here at all, you know.” Your voice dropped to something more teasing. “But… you’ve had a long, painful day.” You lifted a hand and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “So I’ll do something very special. Just this once.”

He blinked rapidly. “Special?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you rose slowly, deliberately, and with the kind of grace that made his mouth go dry. You slid up next to him on the bed, knees settling over either side of his hips. Your palms flatted over his chest as you leaned closer, your lotion harbouring a soft but intoxicating smell.

“Pick a spot on me,” you whispered, your lips barely an inch from his.

His eyes widened instantly, darting in pure panic between your face, neck, the slow curve of your waist, and lower—too low. His breath caught when his gaze momentarily faltered between your legs before he shut his eyes tightly and shook his head, flustered beyond belief.

“Anywhere. I’ll let you. But you’d better choose before I change my mind.” You smirk deepened. You could feel his pulse race beneath you.

“M—My… your mouth,” he said finally, voice small and cracking.

“Good boy,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear.

You leaned in and kissed his forehead. Once, then again. You moved lower—his cheek, then the other, soft, lingering. And finally, your lips found his. Light. Slow. Just a whisper of pressure, as though you were testing how much he could handle.

He trembled.

You pulled back slightly, your noses still touching, and stared into his eyes. “You’re shaking,” You didn’t wait for an answer.

Your lips dropped again, this time to the underside of his jaw—then his neck. You found a spot just behind his ear that made his breath hitch and hovered there, biting gently. When you felt him tense further—the telltale signs of his dick tented right against your ass, you chuckled low in your throat.

“So sensitive Izuku,” You giggled in his ear.

You pressed lower, kissing down his throat, his collarbone, and then—you paused, resting your chin just above the hem of his shirt.

“You always get so nervous when I’m nice to you,” you mused, lips brushing the edge of his shirtline.

“How can’t I?” he mumbled in a haze.

Then your fingers toyed lightly with the waistband of his pants, just the elastic, as if weighing a decision. You glanced up at him, your eyes dark with amusement. “You trust me, don’t you?”

He nodded. It was barely perceptible.

You leaned in and bit playfully at the waistband, not pulling—just grazing your teeth along the fabric, enough for him to twitch. His breath left him in a staggered exhale. Then you dipped lower, dragging the flat of your tongue along the sharp cut of his v-line—slow and hot and deliberate.

His hand flew to his mouth.

A choked sound slipped past his lips, half-formed, feral in the back of his throat—and at that exact moment—footsteps.

“Deku?” Uraraka’s voice rang through the door, light and concerned. “Hey, we just wanted to see if you were okay.”

Midoriya’s soul nearly left his body.

“We were gonna grab snacks,” came Tsuyu’s calm voice. “Do you want us to bring you anything? Or maybe come in and cheer you up for a bit?”

You didn’t pause.

Your tongue flicked again—this time even slower, bolder—like a threat disguised as affection. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, squeezing his eyes shut as his body arched slightly against the bed.

“I—I’m good!” he called out hoarsely, forcing a smile into his voice. “Just gonna—just gonna sleep it off!”

You looked up at him with mock innocence, eyes gleaming.

“Okay! Let us know if you need anything, alright?” Uraraka called.

“Feel better soon, Midoriya,” Tsuyu added. He didn’t move until he heard their footsteps finally retreating down the hallway.

Midoriya waited a beat longer before letting out a strangled sigh and collapsing back into the mattress, utterly drained from the effort of not embarrassing himself in front of half the dorm.

Your laugh was low and husky against his skin, sin wrapped in amusement. “You actually kept it together.”

Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants.

“Let’s get you more comfortable, yeah?”

Slowly, teasingly, you began tugging them down—his pants and underwear at once—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping something precious and fragile. Momentarily, his full length sprang up and the voice in your mind was impressed. His dick was wow, even your parietal lobe couldn’t work out his exact measurements—but you knew—this was big.You pressed another kiss to his lower abdomen, then murmured,

“You won’t forget again.”

Your fingers curled around him slowly—deliberately—like you had all the time in the world and every intention to savor it.

Midoriya shuddered. Your gaze flicked up to watch his face: his lashes fluttering, his jaw clenched tight, and that familiar, adorable flush creeping over his cheeks. You moved a little closer, your hair brushing against his thighs.

“Eyes on me, Izuku.”

You pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along his length, languid. The contact was light, teasing, and devastating. You hummed quietly, almost in glee, as his cock gave a faint twitch under the movement. His tip leaked thick globs of precum and your wet muscle darts out to lick at it, tasting the hint of saltiness and fruit?

Your glossed lips wrap themselves around his tip, sucking lightly, noting the way his voice goes up an octave and the trembles in his abdomen increase. Midoriya’s hand slipped to the back of your neck—hesitant at first, but desperate for something to ground himself. His other hand hovered over his mouth, trying—failing—to hold back the sound that nearly broke from him when you licked a slow line from the base afterwards and back to his tip, swirling.

Your grip adjusted on the base, pace measured and maddening. Your warm mouth took him in deeper, inch by inch, and he felt his mind start to blur around the edges—heat curling in his gut, tension tightening in his core like a bowstring ready to snap.

You moved rhythmically now—mouth and hand working in tandem, perfectly in control. The moan of satisfaction you let out as you felt him throb in your mouth made his head fall back against the pillow. He was unraveling—completely, helplessly unraveling—and you were thriving in it.

The pressure of his fingers at the back of your neck grew just slightly—pleading, shaky. You smiled inwardly against him, removing yourself, just your hand stroking slow and casual. A dribble of spit ran down your chin but you still looked so, so addicting.

“Look at yourself, ready to blow your load so early,”You murmured between slow motions, voice husky and low.

Midoriya let out a broken sound behind his hand. You just looked up at him again with dark, heavy-lidded eyes—utterly calm, utterly in control—as you let go of his twitching length, more precum escaping and laid your head on one of his sculpted thighs, pouting mockingly.

“I want to help you, I really do but…do you really deserve it Izuku?” You asked, darting a playful lick on his tip.

He breathed, almost a whimper. “P-please…”

Your lashes fluttered.

“Please what?” you asked softly. You didn’t look up yet, just letting your breath fan warmly against his skin. “Use your words, darling.”

He bit down on the side of his finger, trying to compose himself. Failing completely.

“I c–can’t,” he whispered. “Please… I—don’t stop, I c-can’t take it…”

His voice cracked, and your heart stuttered for just a moment. You lifted your head slightly, hand teasing a pulsing vein then you grinned.

“You’re so polite when you’re desperate.” His hips trembled. A strangled noise escaped him—muffled again by his palm, but raw and pleading. Your name was a prayer and a warning all at once. “Please, I—please let me cum…”

You take him fully in your mouth, the tip of his cock kissing the back of your throat as you suck him slowly all the way. Your throat bulged as you moved your head back and forth, spit flying everywhere but he didn’t care, not when you were making him feel so good. He knew he shouldn’t disturb your focus, or touch you at all, you were still angry.

But the nasty, wet sounds that came from you as you deepthroat him, the slightest gag you had when he touched your uvula once and help him so, the single trickle of a tear down your right eye, it was all so sexy. His fingers crept slowly behind your head, hesitant at first—almost like he was afraid to touch you too boldly. You didn’t pause—mouth continuing the pleasure.

His fingers slipped deeper into your hair.

You felt it then: the faint pressure. A gentle tug. Not forceful, but firm—needful. Your eyes flicked upward just as his hand pressed you further down. A small, muffled sound of surprise escaped your throat, not in protest, but curiosity. Your lashes fluttered, and for a moment, your pace faltered.

Midoriya’s breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His hand trembled where it gripped your hair, like even he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing—just lost in the moment, drowning in sensation. His hips bound forward into you, and you choked, shocked, then relaxed your throat as he thrusts, chasing his pleasure.

So… he could be bold, after all.

You moan lowly, letting the vibration travel between them—rewarding him, encouraging him. Then you resumed, your tongue swirling, deliberately drawing out every whine you could feel rolling through his covered mouth.

His fingers tightened, and he slows, pulling you off by a grip in your hair as he visibly twitches, then erupts. His thick cum doesn’t land where he expects it though. It streaks in wild spurts over your cleavage and face. A small, involuntary gasp leaves the both of you. All you can do is take it.

You exhale slowly, eyes fluttering shut for until it reduces to oozes. Jizz clings to your skin, trailing like heat down the curve of your face. You draw two fingers across your cheekbone, dragging through the moisture like you’re savoring the weight of it. It glistens faintly in the low light—evidence of how deeply he’s satisfied.

Your fingers pause near your lips. With slow, deliberate movements, you bring them to your mouth. A flick of your tongue—measured, sensual. You hum softly, letting him watch the way your lips close around the taste of heat and control, the tension in the air almost magnetic.

When you open your eyes again, they’re darker.

He’s watching you with wide, dazed eyes, his chest rising fast, lips parted like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“I am s—so,” He stutters but you lean forward.

Your hand finds the side of his face, firm but gentle, and you tilt his head just enough to bring your mouth to his. You kiss him—slow and full and deep—until he melts into you with a quiet, groan. The salt, the heat, the memory of what just happened—it lingers between your lips.

You moved toward his desk without a word, plucking a few wet wipes from a packet with efficiency. He watched you in silence, chest still rising and falling too fast, his green eyes half-lidded and awed.

Your knees dipped the mattress softly, and you crawled toward him—not with the seduction from earlier, but something more affectionate. You slipped beside him, folding into his side without asking. One arm draped across his chest, the other tucked beneath your head as it found rest against the space just above his heart.

Midoriya didn’t speak. He just turned, slowly, to look at you—eyes still wide, still pink at the corners, as if trying to process that you were still here.

For a long time, silence filled the room like water rising to chests.

“Something about you makes me want to open up everything that urks me,” you said softly. “And I don’t do that often. It’s weak.”

His fingers tensed slightly on your ribs. He didn’t respond.

“People in my world don’t get the luxury to forget things—it’s deadly. I wish…I wish I had that freedom.” You chuckled bitterly. He gently lifted your chin with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes.

What he saw there made his breath hitch. No cunning calculation behind your eyes, no riddled playfulness…Just… soft. A quiet vulnerability you try too hard to bury on a daily basis.

He swallowed. He didn’t dare speak. Your eyes searched his for something you couldn’t name.

Then, with a sigh, you dropped your gaze and laid back against him again. Midoriya ran his fingers gently down your spine, a slow, thoughtful stroke, as if trying to memorize the way your skin curved under his touch. Your breathing slowed.

“I can’t say I understand—but I can be an ear. Even if it’s useless…” He whispered into your hair and you hummed, tracing slow circles on his chest to feel the warmth under his shirt, the steadiness of his pulse.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said quietly.

“And you’re exactly what I expected,” he murmured.

You raised a brow.

He smiled a little, tired and genuine. “Addicting and complicated,” Your gaze hardened for half a second. “Don’t romanticize me.”

“I’m not,” he said, voice dropping lower. “I’m warning myself.”

You laughed once—dry and low and beautiful.

Then you sat up, just enough to shift positions. Your thigh swung over his waist, straddling him in a slow, easy motion. His breath hitched—not from lust, but from the sheer weight of you.

You loomed over him, arms resting on either side of his head. Your top had ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of your waist and chest. Your sleep shorts clung, unapologetically tight.

His fingers dug into the sheets, resisting the urge to touch you. You leaned closer, gaze unwavering, “Don’t forget me next time,”

He nodded once. “I won’t forget.”

“You will,” you said. “I don’t chase.”

Midoriya swallowed. “Then I’ll come crawling.”

You smirked. “I’d like to see that.”

“You did. Earlier.” You clicked your tongue and rolled off him, settling back onto the bed beside him with a dramatic sigh.

“I was trying to be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Then stop making me want to laugh.” He turned toward you, watching you stretch, lazy and languid against his sheets.

“You’re staying?” he asked.

You blinked at the ceiling.

“Maybe.” He didn’t argue. You pulled his blanket up over your bare legs and turned onto your side, facing away from him.

“I could’ve eaten with anyone today,” you said. “Dozens of boys who would’ve skipped class for the chance.”

Midoriya stayed silent.

“But I chose you,” you said. “Even though you frustrate me. Even though you don’t act the way you’re supposed to.”

“…I know.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He scooted closer behind you, just close enough for your back to graze against his chest.

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

He reached over, hesitantly, and wrapped a loose arm around your waist and for once, you didn’t stop him.

part 1, part2, part 3, part 4, part 5

(exams have been beating my ahh, so this is probably the last one in a little while)

[kirsty-bytes]

how it feels when i get really excited to talk ab a special interest and my friend goes "yeah you've said that before"