seaborgium-dazies

[seaborgium-dazies]

[seaborgium-dazies]

hi, your work is amazing!!

i was wondering if you could do a reiner x fem!reader smut fic where he has a scent kink/is obsessed with the sniffing the reader? it's ok if not, i just think that would fit him pretty well lol.

Thank you so much!! I love this idea, that is sooo him ! I wrote this in like 30 minutes lmao.

𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘚𝘊𝘌𝘕𝘛— Reiner x Reader

cw: scent kink, pantie sniffing, making out, sex, riding position, slight biting, and all that good stuff

…

Routinely, every single day after work, Reiner greets you at the door. He dips down and pulls you to a tight hug, his tall frame folding into yours, his arms wrapped firmly around your waist while yours rest loosely around his neck.

He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, inhaling deeply with an exaggerated sniff that makes you laugh—just before he smothers your skin in rapid, playful kisses.

Or sometimes, while you’re working from home, focused on documents at your desk, Reiner will wander in, lean down, and whisper, “You smell so good,” before biting your shoulder. Then he wraps his arms around your neck from behind, letting his weight settle onto your shoulders. He kisses just behind your ear, then inhales again like he can’t help himself.

Your scent—he can never get enough. It’s an addiction. Every time he gets close, he takes full advantage, leaning in for another hit of your sweet, irresistible smell. He wants it laced into his lungs.

When you're undressing for him, you turn around, hooking your fingers to the side of your panties. You drag them down, slow and deliberate— giving Reiner a perfect view of your ass as you bend to slide them off your ankles.

You step out of them, then toss them his way.

He catches them easily, holds them up to his face and shamelessly brings them to his nose, inhaling your hot scent.

“You’re gross,” you tease, your voice low as you walk towards him fully naked.

He meets you halfway, hands gripping your bare hips, pulling you into him. “You’re perfect,” he breathes against your lips, then kisses you like he’s starving for it.

He’ll have you riding him, his hands squeezing the soft curves of your ass, guiding your rhythm as you bounce on his hard cock. Each slap of your hips echoing the room, matched only by your breathless cries and the rough sound of his name falling from your lips

His lips find your neck, scattering soft, lingering kisses along your skin between shallow breaths. As Reiner thrusts into you, hitting your sweet spot with an unraveling pace, he inhales you—like your scent alone is enough to undo him.

“You smell so good,” he’ll whisper into your ear, as you cum on his cock, “So, so good.”

[seaborgium-dazies]

— 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.

[seaborgium-dazies]

I put my money on it, I put my money on you~

the moment mha boys realize that you're the one for them. cw: tooth rotting fluff; gn!reader now playing: money on it 🌊: deku, bakugo, shoto, kirishima, iida

deku:

Surprise filled dekus body as if he just slammed into a brick wall; that intense shatter-your-nose-into-a-million-pieces type of shock spilled over him like cold water when he caught a glimpse of your open sketchbook.

You had accidentally left it open and the colors caught dekus eye. Usually you guard those pages of paper like a furious dragon, but he just had to take a second look, he couldn't help himself. Yes, it was unmistakable, his freckles, his eyes, his hero costume…. And then the speech bubble that said "I believe in you"…

Fuck.

You had made fan art of him.

His heartbeat was probably at 200 bpm by now, pumping all of his blood into his face, a vibrant pink radiating off of his cheeks. He really wasn't going to survive you, you were so full of surprises, so many facets, he could fill 40 notebooks with analysis and he'd still have plenty of secrets to uncover. And to see how you do the same in form of art? It had him weak in the knees.

He shouldn't have, but he flipped through it. Writing, collages, songs, poems, drawings, the pages were so full of love, it was threatening to spill out. The curve of his nose, how you taught him to wear mismatched socks, the patterns he absentmindedly traces across your back during late night embraces? It was commemorated right here.

He wants to spend his lifetime with you. To know you, to see you, to love you. And to let you do the same for him.

He quickly shut the sketchbook, taking a seat on your couch and impatiently waiting for you to finally come. He tried his best to hide his discovery but he tripped over every word, his hands were super fidgety and his blush only intensified with time so when he finally admitted what he saw and how much he loves you, you wanted to vanish. You buried your head in your hands, embarrassment seeping into your bones. Izuku didn't let that discourage him, he started peppering kisses all over your body until you two were giggling messes.

bakugo:

Bakugo dragged his boots along the familiar halls of your apartment complex. He was going to get started on dinner and maybe run a load or two (something you two had been neglecting lately).

He turned the key, the silly key chain you gave him jingling against the metal key ring. He kicked his shoes off and started your coffee machine, the buzzing faded into the background when he spotted something new on your living room shelf.

He immediately came closer to investigate the new addition to your home decor. It couldn't be, could it?

A heartfelt smile spread across his face when he saw his own body staring back at him - in 1/6th of his glory. There was a figurine of him.

It stood tall, next to pictures of you two smiling, dancing and on holiday. The base was beautiful, the details insanely intricate, a soft smile on his faux face. He could understand your thought process.

His heart was beating wildly in his chest. How long had it been here? Hidden between memories and promises of the future?

The last couple of times he was in your flat he was either in a rush or came home tired as a dog, he hadn't even noticed the sign of utmost love you silently put up in your living space.

He knew that you had some cute figurines in your bedroom, but this was different. This wasn't a joke, this wasn't to taunt him, this was truly honest support, love and pride. You took pride in him. He needed to sit down at that realization.

He truly has you on his side, someone to come home to when people misunderstand.

his raised voice or his harsh words. He truly has you. There's no reason for fear anymore.

shoto:

A sigh left shotos lip, finally patrol was over. He couldn't wait to wash the grime off of his body and snuggle into bed with you. He groaned and rubbed his temple, unlocking his phone . 4.12 am. He really hoped that you were fast asleep by now.

He stopped by the convenience store near your flat, browsing through the tea section as a yawn made his way past his lips. He bagged some green tea, black tea, hibiscus (since you said you wanted to try it sometime) and a few herbal mixes.

He knew that you were out of tea, since he made the last one before he left for work. But he couldn't wait to have the steaming cup between his hands, to sip and feel the tension leaving his body. It had become a ritual at this point, something to help him unwind, something to help him find his peace.

He had you to thank for it, always waiting up for him, snuggled up on the couch with a hot cup of tea on the coffee table. And as much as he loved that you took on this burden for him, he hated seeing you like that. He hated the yawns and dark undereye bags the following day. You had had lengthy discussions - you were saying that it didn't matter to you - that you did it because you loved him - but he wouldn't accept it.

You had promised to not wait up for him tonight and he turned the keys, quietly opening the door. The dark greeted him as he toed off his shoes, sliding his bag to the floor. When he made his way to the shower he saw something on the coffee table. A thermos?

There was a sticky note on it.

"Promise I didn't wait up"

A gentle smile spread on his face, he shook his head, pocketed the note. He opened the thermos and felt the steam against his face when he took a whiff. You had even gotten his favorite blend. And you made him his tea while respecting his wishes. He loves you so much it made him sick. And one thing was for certain: he was going to keep you close to his heart forever.

kirishima:

You and kirishima both had work tomorrow morning, you both knew this was a bad idea. And yet.

You were laying on his couch, the oppressive summer heat from the day was gone and only black skies and a gentle breeze remained. Your mixtape was playing in the background and you were occasionally singing along to the songs, or humming harmonies. But mostly you were talking to your lover.

It felt as if time didn't exist when the two of you conversed, as if the melodic laughter, your stomachs that jumped with each giggle and the love radiating off of you tore a hole into time and space - housing you two lovebirds.

The minutes slipped past you, every snort, cackle and snicker infinitely more valuable than hours in dreamland. That's how you found yourselves intertwined in the early morning hours, the sky having turned a light blue around you. You both knew the time to depart was approaching but you really would've given anything to just fall asleep in his strong arms instead.

Armed with a double espresso, kirishima and you made your way to your work places. He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before saying his goodbye. His eyes were already closing and yawn followed yawn, but he didn't have it in himself to be annoyed. In fact he was elated. Losing sleep was a good thing as long as you were the reason for it.

iida:

He was running late, he was exhausted and sweaty and he was running late. Running late to a really important date. Your one month anniversary. The worst part is that he knew you were probably already dolled up and that you had been buzzing with excitement for the past week, you just loved the thought of going to your favorite fancy restaurant again. One month. One beautiful month. A month full of clear, crisp, deep breaths after what felt like years of smog clouded lungs.

That's what makes it the worst, that hes sweaty, stinky, and late. Some stupid villain decided to make a commotion like 3 minutes before his shit ended and it had dragged on. On top of that he lost his phone and had no idea how to even tell you that he'd be late.

He was opening the door, expecting you to be in tears, or fuming. Upon opening your flats door with his spare key, he got hit with a heavenly smell. Your soft humming and the sizzling of a pan making a perfect duet.

Flowers in hand, tail between his legs and a heart pounding in his chest he came towards you.

"Tenya!"

You slung your arms around him, and pressed a passionate kiss to his lips, he was completely surprised.

"I'm so sorry I'm late baby- I was trying to come so fast- I tried calling but my phone- And I really meant to come on time but there was this villain-"

"Yeah, I saw! "

Your cheeky smile made him melt, but he still looked like a kicked puppy.

"Aww tenya it's okay! I saw that there was a chase on the news and i knew you were patrolling there! So i rescheduled the restaurant and decided to do this instead."

Iida looked at his feet, afraid that you would see the tears pooling in his eyes. You had memorized his routine? And were so understanding? And even though he fucked up and felt so guilty, you opted to work with it and make something beautiful despite the circumstances?

The bear hug that followed left you speechles.

©️ seaborgium-dazies 2025; do not copy, reupload, edit or feed to AI.

buy me a coffee?

[seaborgium-dazies]

1k words with inspiration: literally 10 minutes or less of writing. a breeze

1k words without inspiration: i will do it. i will take the ring to mordor

[seaborgium-dazies]

don't let them catch you crying, boy, if it didn't really hurt

mha boys hear you crying through the wall :'(

cw: hurt/comfort, gn!Reader

🌊: bakugo, deku, denki, iida

deku:

bakugo:

denki:

iida:

©️ seaborgium-dazies 2025. do not edit, repost, feed to AI.

buy me a coffee?

[seaborgium-dazies]

— the safety of being known; izuku midoriya x reader

content warning: grief/loss, emotional hurt/comfort

The rain had stopped an hour ago, but Izuku still felt like he was drowning.

He'd gone through the motions at the agency. Showered until the water ran cold, watching blood—not his own—spiral down the drain in pink rivulets. The metallic taste of failure still coated his tongue. He'd changed into civilian clothes on autopilot, each movement automatic and empty. Jeans. T-shirt. Jacket. The routine of normalcy when nothing felt normal.

He was supposed to go home. That's what people did after days like this—they went home, made dinner, pretended tomorrow would be different. Instead, he found himself walking through empty streets without seeing them. Every step felt hollow. Like his body was moving without input from his brain.

Three people.

The number echoed in his skull with each footfall against wet pavement—a metronome of failure that kept perfect time with his heartbeat. Three people he should have saved. Three families that would get devastating phone calls tonight because he'd been a split second too slow, because he'd miscalculated the building's structural integrity.

The woman in the blue dress had been calling for her daughter. Voice rising to a shriek that still rang in his ears. The elderly man had reached toward him in those final seconds before the concrete gave way, eyes wide with a trust that Izuku had failed to honor. The teenager with the scared eyes who'd tried so hard to look brave—he couldn't have been older than sixteen, still wearing his school uniform, and he'd called out "Deku!" like seeing him meant everything would be okay.

Their faces played on loop behind his eyelids every time he blinked.

He'd given his statement to the police with a voice that didn't sound like his own. Each word carefully measured and clinical. Had submitted to the paramedic's examination with the patience of someone who wasn't really present in his own skin, letting them poke and prod at superficial cuts while something much deeper bled freely. The other heroes on scene had tried to talk to him. Todoroki's quiet concern with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Kirishima's well-meaning words that he couldn't quite absorb. But their words had slid off him like water off glass.

Now he was walking. Because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant seeing their faces again. Meant feeling the exact moment when hope had died in their eyes, when they'd realized that he—that Deku himself—wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't enough.

The city moved around him in a blur of neon and late-night commuters. Salarymen heading home from overtime. Couples walking hand in hand. The ordinary pulse of life continuing as if the world hadn't fundamentally become smaller three hours ago.

How could everyone just keep moving when three people had stopped breathing forever?

Izuku stopped walking.

He was standing in front of a familiar apartment building. Its modern glass facade reflected the fractured patterns of streetlights and traffic signals. Your building. The brass nameplate gleamed dully in the artificial light, and he stared at it for a long moment, his mind slowly catching up to what his body had already decided.

Of course he'd come here. His subconscious had led him through empty streets, past his own building, past a dozen other places he could have gone. When had his feet learned the path to your door so completely that they could find it even when his mind wasn't present?

The realization that he'd unconsciously sought you out in his darkest moment felt both inevitable and terrifying.

He should go home. Should climb the stairs to his empty apartment, should shower again until the hot water ran cold and try to scrub away the guilt that clung to his skin like a second layer he couldn't shed. Should write his incident report with clinical precision. Reduce three lives to bullet points and timestamps.

Instead, he found himself in the elevator. Pressing the button for your floor with fingers that shook slightly. He'd been here several times now—dropping off files when your work intersected, walking you home after late meetings, grabbing takeout when you'd both worked through dinner. The visits had evolved from professional courtesy to genuine friendship.

But this felt different.

This was a plea.

By the time he reached your door, rational thought had reasserted itself enough to ask the obvious question: What was he doing here? You were friends—real friends who grabbed coffee just to talk, who texted about things that had nothing to do with work, who genuinely enjoyed each other's company. But you weren't the person he called when his world fell apart.

He should leave. Turn around, go home, handle this like an adult instead of showing up on your doorstep seeking comfort. But even as the rational thought formed, exhaustion won out. His head dropped forward. Forehead coming to rest against your door with a soft thunk.

The metal was cool against his skin. Solid and real in a way that felt grounding.

He let his eyes fall closed, breathing measured and careful because if he let his control slip even a little bit he might fall apart completely right here in your hallway.

He heard movement from inside. Soft footsteps approaching the door. The quiet sound of the peephole cover sliding aside. A pause. Then locks turning.

The door opened and he stumbled slightly from his weight having been resting against it. His hands came up automatically to catch himself, palms flat against the doorframe, and he found himself face to face with you.

Your hair was loose around your shoulders instead of pulled back for work. Catching the warm light from your apartment. You were wearing an oversized sweater that made you look smaller than usual—soft and approachable in a way that made his chest ache.

But it was your face that destroyed him.

Your eyes went wide with visceral concern the instant you saw him. Even in civilian clothes, even without the obvious signs of physical trauma, you could see straight through to the wreckage inside him.

"Izuku?" Your voice was soft. Worried. "What's wrong?"

He opened his mouth to answer and found he couldn't. The words were there—I failed, people died, I wasn't good enough—but they felt too big for his throat. Too sharp to speak aloud without cutting something vital inside him.

"I..." His voice came out rough. Barely recognizable. "I don't know why I'm here."

But that wasn't true. Some part of him knew exactly why he'd come here, to you. Because you looked at him like he was just Izuku, not a symbol or a failure. Because you were the only person who could sit with his brokenness without trying to fix it. Because right now, the thought of being alone felt like it might actually kill him.

You stepped back without hesitation. Opening the door wider. "Come in."

"I shouldn't—" he started, but you were already reaching for him, fingers gentle but firm as they circled his wrist. He hadn't realized how cold he'd become until your warm touch found his skin.

"Izuku." Your voice was firm now, brooking no argument. "Come inside."

He let you guide him inside, each step feeling heavier than the last.

"Sit," you said, guiding him toward your couch. "I'll get you some water."

He sat heavily. Head in his hands. Behind him, he could hear you moving around your kitchen—the soft clink of glass, water running, cabinet doors opening.

When you returned, you settled beside him. Close enough that he could feel your presence but careful not to overwhelm. For a long moment, you just sat with him in the silence.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" you asked after a while, voice gentle.

He shook his head without lifting it from his hands. Words felt impossible. How could he explain that three people had trusted him to save them, and he'd failed so completely that their final moments had been spent watching him reach for them just a second too late?

"Okay." Your voice carried such gentle understanding, but he could hear the slight catch in it. Your own emotions threatening to break through your composure. "You don't have to."

No pressure. No demands. Just quiet understanding that sometimes being human meant sitting in wreckage without trying to fix it immediately.

You reached toward him slowly, and when he didn't pull away, your fingers settled gently in his hair. The touch was soft. Patient. Like you were handling something precious and breakable. Your fingertips found the tension in his scalp and began working through it with gentle pressure.

That's when he broke.

The sob came from somewhere deep in his chest. Raw and ugly and completely beyond his control. It was followed by another, then another, until he was shaking with the force of grief that had been building all day.

"I'm sorry," he managed between ragged breaths. "I shouldn't have come here. I don't know what I was thinking—"

"Hey." Your voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. The hand in his hair stilled, and suddenly your other hand was on his shoulder. "Don't apologize for needing someone. You're safe here."

Safe.

The word hit him because that's exactly what this felt like. Not the safety of being protected, but the safety of being known. Of being allowed to fall apart without judgment.

He cried until the weight of the day had poured out of him and left him shaking and empty. Through it all, your hands stayed gentle, grounding him when everything else felt like it was falling apart. You didn't try to shush him or offer platitudes. You just held space for his grief.

When the storm passed, he found himself slumped against your side, head on your shoulder. You were humming something soft under your breath, fingers still moving through his curls.

"Better?" you asked when his breathing evened out.

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Good." Your hand cupped the back of his neck, thumb brushing the sensitive skin there with something almost reverent. "You're exhausted. When's the last time you ate?"

He had to think about it. "This morning."

You reached for his hands, turning them over gently, and he realized you were checking for injuries out of pure instinct.

"The paramedics already looked me over," he said quietly. "Nothing serious."

The relief that flooded your expression was immediate. Your hands stayed in his, thumbs brushing across his knuckles in a way that was both comforting and grounding.

"Come on," you said softly, standing and gently pulling him up with you. "Let's get you something to eat."

You led him to your kitchen and started rummaging through your fridge. You glanced up from the open fridge. "Is leftover pasta okay?"

He nodded, watching you with quiet appreciation. "Yeah, that's perfect."

You filled the quiet while the food heated, then while he ate—chatting about a funny commercial you'd seen on TV last night, how your building's elevator always stops on the third floor for no reason, a weird dream you'd had the night before. Nothing important, just giving him something to focus on besides his own thoughts.

When he finished eating, he looked over at you, blinking slowly like someone fighting off sleep, and ran a hand through his hair. "Thank you," he said, voice rougher than intended. "For all of this."

"You don't have to thank me," you said quietly. "This is what people do for each other."

But it wasn't, was it? This level of care—careful and unspoken and fragile, but unmistakably real—this was special.

And suddenly, he understood what had been growing between you for months. What had drawn him here tonight, to your door.

He was in love with you.

Not just attracted, not just fond, but completely in love—because you saw him. Not a symbol or a hero, but a person worthy of care and tenderness.

The feeling was overwhelming. Like coming home to something he'd been searching for without knowing it.

"I should go," he said suddenly, self-consciousness washing over him as he became acutely aware of how he must appear—exhausted, emotional, having imposed on your evening without warning.

"Should you?" Your hand stilled on the counter. "It's late. And you're exhausted."

The question hung in the air between you. Should he go? Back to his empty apartment where silence would press against him? Back to endless replay of today's failures?

"I don't want to impose—"

"You're not imposing," you said firmly. "Stay tonight. We can put on something mindless, and you can sleep on my couch. You don't have to say anything else about what happened."

There was something in your voice—not just kindness, but protective fierceness. Like the thought of him leaving, of him being alone with his pain, was genuinely unbearable to you.

"Okay," he said quietly. "If you're sure."

Your smile was soft and relieved and radiant. "I'm sure."

When you took his hand, something warm settled in his chest. Palm against palm—nothing complicated, but tonight it felt like everything.

As you led him back to your living room, your presence calm and steady, Izuku found himself noticing details he'd never paid attention to before—the way your hands moved when you spoke, the soft flutter of your eyelashes, how your lips pressed together when you were thinking. Everything about you seemed suddenly, intensely precious.

He would tell you eventually. What you'd come to mean to him. But for now it was enough to follow you into your kitchen and let you feed him. To sit beside you on your couch pretending to watch whatever mindless show you picked while stealing glances at your profile. To fall asleep on your cushions with a spare blanket tucked around him, surrounded by your scent.

Tomorrow would come with its weight of responsibility. But tonight, in the sanctuary of your living room, he was just Izuku.

And somehow, that felt like enough.

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. 🖤

[seaborgium-dazies]

guy who will take any and every opportunity to call himself your husband …. introduces himself as such if he meets someone new and you are with him. if not he’ll slip in a ”my spouse is waiting for me at home, i need to head back.” or ”well, i wouldn’t be a very good husband if i didn’t know how to cook.”

[seaborgium-dazies]

hello beloveds ☺️

[seaborgium-dazies]

Hii! Love your work and your writing style but I do have a question.

What characters do you write for?

Lots of love-Another tumblr poster!

Hii!!! Thank u!! <3333 And that's a great question! I've been meaning to make a guide for a while now and i'll post it soon! As a rule of thumb i'm willing to write for almost all characters from any show in my carrd (especially if the request is hot enough I'm willing to write most characters) but I'm gonna make a more comprehensible list soon hehe.

For now I'll just leave the mha characters here:

izuku

bakugo

iida

sero

denki

shoto

shiggy

ochako

kirishima

jirou

dabi

hawks

aizawa

all might

see u around!! ლ⁠(⁠´⁠ ⁠❥⁠ ⁠`⁠ლ⁠)

[seaborgium-dazies]

IVE BEEN CRASHING OUT ALL NIGHT BC OF MY EX INSTEAD OF WRITING AIZAWA SMUT 💔💔

idk what to do?!)!??!??! Like one of the more recent times we saw each other we fought (stupid reasons but we yelled and all) and she hit me with pillows (?) like it didn't hurt but it was very forceful and she called me a slur (in a joking manner???) ?!?? and ever since then I'm like ?!??! wtf??? and I didn't talk about it with her because I didn't want to see her but now the anger is eating me but if I call her to talk or SMTH then I'm showing her that I'm still invested and she gets to play "detached and healing" and I'll look like a fool🕴🏻🕴🏻🕴🏻🕴🏻 what am I supposed to do.... help me please

[seaborgium-dazies]

I'm cooking two really delicious things up (if I dare say so myself). stay tuned my tides 😋

[seaborgium-dazies]

hello! dropping by to just say: the miscommunication over text concept with the mha boys was written deliciously. i was kicking my feet like a lovesick schoolgirl while reading, ironically enough! it was genuinely so entertaining for its simplicity, and i think a lot of it has to do with how realistic the texts were while keeping it true to the characters. and, there was a deep-seated, lingering tendril of my avoidant attachment prospering at the mutual treatment from reader. i, too, would return the dry texts tenfold! ☆*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

AAAAAAAAAAA THANK U POOKS💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘 this is SO sweet, you're getting the biggest biggest biggest hug ever anon! I'm soooooo glad u like it and I hope to see u around!! (⁠っ⁠˘⁠з⁠(⁠˘⁠⌣⁠˘⁠ ⁠)(⁠つ⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)⁠つ<333

[seaborgium-dazies]

shameless intrusions

perv!dabi barges into your room without knocking to update you on the lov's plans. He doesn't care what time it is, didn't even care enough to check the clock when he came home. He doesn't care what you're up to, matter of fact, he hopes that you're doing something dirty as he opens the door.

He doesn't expect to find your room empty, but the faint sound of running water tells him all he needs to know.

A wicked grin spreads across his face when he realizes that you wouldn't be coming out of the bathroom that soon.

A soft "fuck" leaves his lips when he spots your discarded clothing on the floor.

Perv!dabi immediately goes for your panties, and picks the soft material off of the floor. He runs his thumb over the wet patch you left on them, a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

Perv!dabi presses his nose into the fabric and inhales your scent deeply while palming his hardening cock. He stops the groan building in his chest from emerging before he pockets the sweet smelling clothing.

He figures that a quick peek through your room wouldn't hurt anyone. He opens your closet: nothing interesting. He opens your bedside table: nothing interesting. And then he sees it, a glittering purple calling him.

He walks towards the vivid purple plastic, and recognizes that shape immediately. How could he not?

That particular dildo was a fan article that circulated in deranged fan forums dedicated to villains. Its the dildo that's supposed to represent him.

It was rumored to have the exact same length as his cock (which he knew wasn't true) and the same delicious curve (slightly true).

Dabi had no idea who was behind the production of that thing and he never really cared, but knowing that you have it and left it laying in your sheets, still glistening with your wetness?

It opened up a whole new world of derangement for him.

buy me a coffee if you'd let perv!dabi smell your panties and pump his cock to your smell

©️ seaborgium-dazies do not steal, edit, reupload or feed to AI.

[seaborgium-dazies]

MARSHMALLOWS — teacher!izuku midoriya

something small and sweet about support teacher!reader and veryyyy blushy izu before i go to sleep hhebbehe enjoy

m.list !

— 2025 © pwn. all rights reserved. do not repost, narrate, or translate my works. thanku!

[seaborgium-dazies]

Toya begging to be suffocated by your thighs over text, during some important meeting. Send tweet.

staring you down like this

and then you get these messages

© accidentcache do not repost, translate or alter my work without permission. all rights reserved.

[seaborgium-dazies]