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qtvi0let · 11 days ago

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₊˚ˑ༄ؘ：JEALOUS AIZAWA ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ： MDNI!

a/n; a jealous Aizawa a day, keeps the doctor away or smth like that… first time posting a smut fanfic pls be nice otherwise ill cry💔 this is inspired by a bot i saw last year.

— Public/Exhibitionism (semi-public), Domination/submission, Teasing/edge play, immobilization, Risk play. // F!Reader

Art made by me

/////// The Scent of Jealousy ////////

Affection and Shota Aizawa rarely show up in the same sentence—especially when it comes to you. Everyone at U.A. knows it. Between hero work, grading stacks of papers, and training the next generation, he keeps things strictly professional. And sometimes, that same stiff boundary sneaks into your nights at home, wrapping around him like a barrier you can’t always break through. You’re the only one brave enough to poke at it—teasing him about “love languages” like it’s a joke he’ll never quite get. He pretends he doesn’t hear it, but the truth is, it sticks in his head more than he’d like to admit.

He wonders, sometimes, if he’s been falling short. If maybe he should surprise you with dinner out, or just carve out a few hours where the world can’t touch you both. But patrols run late. Emergencies pop up. Papers pile higher than sleep ever does. He’s grown too used to the distance—the empty spaces in conversations, the nights spent shoulder to shoulder but feeling miles apart.

You’re both so used to people touching you that it shouldn’t faze him at all. Pinning, grabbing, blocking blows for a classroom full of wide-eyed students—it’s second nature. But the part he can’t shake is the way something tightens in his chest when he sees someone else’s hands on you. He tells himself it’s irrational. It’s part of the job—nothing more than muscle memory.

Still, some people don’t know when to stop. A hand that drifts too low, a shoulder pat that lingers, laughter too close to your ear. And today you had to wear that dress—the one he can’t ever quite get out of his head. The one that makes him want to lock the door and remind you exactly who you belong to. But instead, you’re standing in the bright hallway at U.A., catching everyone’s eyes in his favorite dress.

And then Present Mic—loud, shameless, with that grin that never shuts off—plants himself at your side. One arm thrown around your shoulders, voice booming right next to your ear like you’re his personal audience. Hizashi tosses you winks like candy, laughs too loud at jokes only he’s telling. And Shota knows it’s just Hizashi being Hizashi—he probably has no clue you’re already spoken for.

But when you’re standing there, smelling like Mic’s cologne, wearing that dress that should be just for him—something in Shota burns.

And for once, he’s done pretending it doesn’t bother him.

————————————————————

Aizawa wasn’t just looking for you—he was hunting you, stalking the halls like a predator with your name carved into his mind. His eyes flicked through classrooms and empty corridors, cold and sharp, until he finally spotted you slipping past the janitor’s closet.

A shiver ran down your spine—like your body sensed him before your eyes did. You glanced over your shoulder just in time to see Shota closing the distance between you with that silent, lethal calm he wore like a second skin. You offered him a soft smile, lifted your hand to wave. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t slow down.

“Oh—Shota! I’ve been looking for yo—”

Your greeting died on your tongue when he grabbed your wrist, yanked you into the closet, and slammed the door behind you. The cramped space smelled faintly of disinfectant and old mops, but there was enough room for exactly what he had in mind.

Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, a startled gasp leaving your lips as he pressed close—so close you could feel the warmth rolling off him in waves. His hand tangled in your hair, turning your face toward the cold plaster.

“Shota—? What are you—”

You barely got the words out before his hips pinned yours to the wall. You felt him—hard, insistent, pressing through his pants against the curve of your backside. A tiny, helpless whimper escaped you, muffled against the wall.

“Shota… what if someone—what if we get—”

Your protest cut short when his voice growled low in your ear, rough with something feral and possessive.

“I can smell him on you,” he hissed, lips brushing your skin. “You know you’re mine, don’t you?” His teeth grazed the shell of your ear. “I won’t have you walking around reeking of another man’s cologne.”

He pressed harder against you, hips grinding just enough to make you squirm.

“I’m going to fuck his scent off you,” he murmured, each word dripping with dark promise. “Until all anyone smells on you is me.”

“What’s wrong?” you murmur, your tone teasing, wicked. You grind your hips up harder, feeling how solid he is behind you. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Shooo~…”

The nickname cuts through him like a spark to dry tinder. His fingers dig into your hips, enough to bruise. His breath ghosts hot over your neck as he snarls out, “Shut it.” His voice is rough, cracked open with that dark rasp that makes your stomach flutter.

You shiver when his stubbled jaw grazes your throat—sharp and scratchy, a stark contrast to the slow drag of his hands. He maps every inch of you, big palms sliding down your sides, gripping your thighs like he’s testing how far they’ll spread for him. Then he slides back up, dragging heat under your clothes until his fingers slip under your dress—tracing circles just beneath your belly, inching closer.

You can’t stop the tiny sound that slips out—half a gasp, half a plea. It earns you a low chuckle against your skin, his lips brushing your pulse. His hands creep higher, ghosting over your ribs before cupping your breasts through the fabric, thumbs flicking over your nipples until you’re squirming against him.

When he’s had enough of teasing, he bunches your dress up around your hips, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your panties. He pauses, breathing heavy against your ear—waiting for you to say it’s okay. You nod, just once, your cheek scraping the wall. That’s all he needs.

He drags the flimsy fabric down your thighs, lets it drop around your ankles. You hear the metal click of his belt unbuckling behind you, the soft rustle of his zipper. Then his cock—hot, thick, already leaking—nudges between your soaked folds. The blunt head slides through your slit, smearing slick along your thighs until you whimper at the drag.

You start to moan, but his hand clamps over your mouth—rough, calloused, claiming. “Quiet,” he growls into your ear, that possessive rasp curling hot in your gut. His hips shift—one solid push, and he’s inside. All the way, thick and heavy, stretching you open with that slow, merciless pressure that has your knees going weak.

Your muffled moan vibrates against his palm as he bottoms out—he’s not long, but he’s so wide you swear you can feel every ridge, every throb. He holds still for just a heartbeat, savoring the way you pulse around him, then pulls back just enough before driving in again—slow, deliberate, each thrust hitting deep enough to knock a breath from your lungs.

The closet is too small, too dark, but right now it’s the only world you know—just the smell of him, the rough drag of his hero uniform brushing your thighs, the obscene wet sounds where your bodies meet. He fucks you slow but unyielding, each roll of his hips a reminder—this is his, you’re his, and no one else gets to leave their mark on you.

And when your soft whimpers slip out under his palm, you feel him smile against your neck—dark and dangerous—before he murmurs low, “Good. Keep those pretty sounds for me only.”

Your breath hitches under his palm as his cock drags out slow, then sinks back in deep—again and again, each thrust a steady push that makes your thighs tremble. The cramped closet feels even smaller now, every creak of the door a reminder that someone could walk by, swing it open, see exactly what he’s doing to you. Maybe that’s why your pulse pounds so hard—why your walls flutter around him, clenching greedily on every deep stroke.

He feels it—of course he does. He grunts low, teeth grazing your neck, his free hand roaming your body like he’s memorizing every inch all over again. His fingers slide down between your legs, finding your swollen clit. He rubs it in slow circles, matching the pace of his hips, forcing you to feel every inch of him and then some.

Your muffled moan is swallowed by his hand, your back arching into the rough wall as pleasure curls tight in your belly. You feel him smirk against your skin, hear the rumble of a dark laugh that has your knees nearly buckling.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice shredded with heat and a hint of jealousy that hasn’t faded. “Letting me fuck you like this. Anyone could hear… could see… but they won’t. Because you’re mine, aren’t you?”

You nod frantically, eyes squeezed shut, a soft whimper vibrating against his palm as your hips rock back into him, desperate for more. His thumb circles harder, faster—your thighs quiver as you fight to hold in a cry.

“Be good,” he growls, pressing his forehead to the back of your head, breath ragged. “Be quiet for me. You wanna come, don’t you? Take it. Take all of it, sweetheart.”

He thrusts deeper, harder now—each roll of his hips making filthy wet sounds echo in the tiny closet. You’re so close your vision sparks, your body trembling under the way he fills you, the way his hand keeps you silent, keeps you his.

You feel it building—tight, sharp, unstoppable. He feels it too, the way you clench so sweet around him, your slick dripping down his cock. He bites down gently on your shoulder, muffling a groan as his hips snap forward one last time.

You come undone with a muffled cry, your walls squeezing him so tight he curses under his breath. He fucks you through it, rough and deep until his own hips stutter, his growl breaking into a low, wrecked moan as he spills inside you—filling you so full you swear you can feel him pulsing deep, marking you where no one else ever will.

When it’s over, he stays there—hips pressed flush to yours, chest heaving against your back. His hand slips from your mouth, only to tilt your head back so he can press a kiss to your jaw—possessive and soft, in a way that’s almost sweet if not for the mess he’s made of you.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, voice raw, satisfied, still hungry. “Next time, don’t let him touch you. Or I’ll remind you again.”

His fingers slip down to gather his cum dripping from between your thighs—smearing it back inside you with a low, dangerous chuckle as he pulls your panties back up. His cum tucked in and deep inside your pretty cunt.

“Now go back out there,” he breathes, zipping himself up while his eyes drink you in—your hair messy, your dress bunched up, his scent clinging everywhere. “Let everyone see exactly who you belong to.”

meanwhile…

Down the hall, a few students paused, ears perked.

“Did anyone else just hear that?” one whispered.

“Hear what?” another shrugged.

“Like… weird noises? Like grunting and a ‘shh’ or something?”

“Maybe it was just the janitor dropping his mop again,” someone said, trying to sound logical.

“No idea,” the first shrugged. “But it sounded… intense.”

They all shrugged and kept walking, none of them any closer to understanding what just went down.

Good lord…

#anime #smut #bnha aizawa #mha aizawa #aizawa shouta #aizawa #aizawa x reader #aizawa smut #my hero academia #eraserhead #bnha shouta aizawa #hes so daddy #tumblr fyp #fypツ #fyp #fypage #fyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy #my fyp #newbie

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yanderenightmare · 1 year ago

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TW: implied noncon/dubcon, omegaverse/hybrid au, size difference, predator x prey

gn reader

There’s nothing cuter than an Omega that doesn't know their place...

You’re an amusing little thing. Infinitely inferior and still trying to get away even though he’s stronger and faster and smarter in every way – trying ever so desperately anyway, despite knowing it’s pointless – how it will only end up with you tripping on your own tail and falling right back into his claws.

Silly little mate…

He can hear your heart beating. Desperately trying to supply your aching limbs as you sprint like death is on your heels.

He can hear your feet thump against the forest floor – each step clumsier than the former, turning sloppy and ever slower.

He can hear your breaths. Raw lungs burning, panting shallowly, catching in your throat as you choke on your tears.

Scrambling through the pines like prey – hair unruly and getting caught on the passing branches ripping at your face, picking yourself up each time your feet catch in the thick roots that lay coiled and curled like serpents in the dirt – feeling as if even the forest knows to punish you for being an Omega trying to deny and Alpha his rights.

He can tell your muscles are screaming at you now, begging for a break, pleading with you to take your chances and hide instead – even though you know it won’t do you any good when he can sniff out your scent – that though he can applaud the effort, running was already foolish enough on its own.

He’s barely breaking a sweat – right on your tail. His chuckles bounce off the trunks in mocking echoes – haunting you as you drain for energy second after meager second, knowing there’ll only be a short moment left until you hear the last laugh and feel the white pain of his teeth sinking into the flesh of your neck.

You still find the energy to fight him, even when he has you pinned into the moss bed with the sky-scratching trees looming above you – the stars like onlookers, like an audience – the full moon too, like a god watching its cruel fate take place.

But you refuse to bow, even as he cuffs your wrists inside his almighty fist, pushing them into the mud – keeping you down and beneath him – your pretty face contorted into a snarl, fangs flashed at him with swivel-eyes livid and bleeding with crazed wilderness.

You sure are a funny little mate.

He looks forward to taming you.

BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Hawks, Enji, Aizawa

JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Toji

DS – Doma, Sanemi

HxH – Illumi, Uvogin

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prettylilyanime · 6 months ago

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Blooming Hearts ♡ Chapter 02

˚✿˖ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem reader

˚✿˖ Synopsis: All your life, you’ve had it all—wealth, beauty, and a quirk good enough to secure your spot at UA. But after three years, you still feel more like an outsider than a future hero. Social life? Barely existent. Friends? Who needs them? You’re ready to coast through your final year solo… until fate lands you squarely in the lap of a certain hot-headed blonde—literally.

˚✿˖ tags/warnings: 18+, smut in the later chapters, reader is spoiled, shy reader, they're all third years at UA, Fluff, strangers? to lovers trope, not really strangers, miscommunication, drama, y/n just wants to make friends, reader is canonically pretty, reader is a hero in training, whipped bakugou, she falls first but he falls harder

˚✿˖ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next

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“Alright, Y/n, you have a five-minute head start. You ready?” Aizawa asks, his tone as monotone as ever.

Your classmates stand around, watching with interest, some already whispering amongst themselves. It’s not just anticipation for their own upcoming matches—it’s curiosity about yours. After all, you and Bakugou couldn’t be more different, and it’s the first time you’ve ever been directly paired up like this. Naturally, that means everyone has something to say.

"Careful not to feel her up too much, you'll get her costume glitter all over you!" Mineta cackles from the sidelines, that little purple shit clearly thinking he’s hilarious.

Before you or anybody else can even react, you catch the satisfying sight of Momo stomping the little creep into the ground, hard enough to make Mineta scream out in pain. Mina and Ochako join with a mean glare, saying something to the little perv that you can't really hear, but has Mineta begging with tears in his eyes.

The sheer relief that washes over you is almost comical. God, maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

Still, you quickly snap back to attention. Aizawa is watching you, and you don’t want to look any more anxious than you already feel. So, you nod quietly, keeping your mouth shut. You don’t trust yourself to speak—not when your voice would probably betray you by cracking like glass.

It’s ridiculous, really. You shouldn’t be this nervous. You’ve faced real villains before. Life-threatening, terrifying opponents who didn’t care whether you lived or died. You’ve fought them and survived. All of you have. And yet, the thought of Bakugou—Bakugou Katsuki—chasing you down in this exercise like a predator hunting prey is somehow infinitely more nerve-wracking.

Because this isn’t just about surviving—it’s about surviving while being watched. While he watches. And something about that makes your heart race in ways it definitely shouldn’t.

Well...your grade surviving, really.

Aizawa watches you for a moment, then blows a small whistle—where did he even get that?

“Begin.”

You waste no time. The second the sound pierces the air, you bolt, sprinting as fast as you can into the maze-like cityscape before you.

UA’s training grounds are nothing short of insane, complete with entire faux cities built just for exercises like this. Lucky you—it’s a cityscape today. Mina had to face Tokoyami in a dense forest in the previous round, which looked like a total nightmare!

Your legs are already starting to burn by the time you decide to veer off and head up the stairs of a mid-sized building.

The plan is simple: climb high enough to stay out of immediate sight and buy some time to think. You hope—no, pray—that out of the hundreds of buildings making up this simulated city, Bakugou won’t be able to pinpoint the exact one you’ve chosen.

But who are you kidding? He’s Bakugou Katsuki. Not to inflate his already massive ego, but the guy’s a total force of nature. And a miracle of nature, ugh what an incredible face!

You reach a decent height and finally stop to catch your breath, chest heaving as you glance around the dimly lit room. It’s mostly empty, save for a few scattered crates and broken-down props designed to mimic an old, abandoned office.

Perfect! It’s not much, but it might just be enough to give you a fighting chance to regroup and strategize.

Crouching low behind one of the larger crates, you steady your breath, though the pounding in your chest doesn’t seem to let up. You strain your ears, listening carefully for any signs of movement below. The silence feels deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the cityscape simulation around you.

This is fine. You’ve got this. All you need to do is stay hidden and outlast him for the time limit. Easy… right?

You try to convince yourself, gaslighting your mind into thinking everything’s going smoothly, but then—

BOOM!

A distant explosion rattles the floor beneath you, reverberating through the walls like a low thunderclap. The sheer force of it sends chills racing up your spine, and for a split second, you freeze. You know that sound all too well—Bakugou’s quirk, crackling with relentless, destructive energy.

Oh god. You swallow hard, palms starting to sweat as your nerves ramp up. His quirk is terrifying, and he’s absolutely relentless when it comes to winning. You’ve seen it before—during training, during actual fights—and every time, you found yourself in awe of how powerful and unstoppable it made him. You even rooted for him on occasion, impressed by his sheer force.

But knowing he’s coming for you? Yeah… that changes everything!

Another explosion echoes through the building, this one louder, sharper. You swear you can feel the heat even from several floors up. He’s getting closer. Too close. The tension winds tighter in your chest, adrenaline flooding your veins as your mind races to make a decision. Stay hidden or run?

Neither option feels particularly great right now. Both seem like they end in you getting caught.

Before you can decide, a loud crack echoes from the hallway outside, and then—he’s in the room.

You shriek in surprise, instinctively scrambling back. Bakugou freezes, clearly more caught off guard by your reaction than by the fact that he’s actually found you. His crimson eyes widen slightly, and for a split second, you both just… stare.

It feels like one of those moments where a rabbit locks eyes with a wolf, frozen in place by fear and instinct. You know how this story ends if you don’t act fast. And oh, do your instincts kick in.

Without a second thought, you bolt—pushing off the floor and dashing out of the room. Your boots click loudly against the tile with every frantic step as you run for your life, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. You hear Bakugou let out a low, frustrated “shit” under his breath, and a second later, the unmistakable sound of his heavy boots stomping after you.

But you’re smaller. You’re lighter. And somehow—just somehow—you manage to stay ahead of him, at least for now. Every breath burns in your lungs as you push yourself harder, rounding a sharp corner and sprinting down an empty hallway.

Don’t look back. Just keep running.

You don’t have time to think, only react—until you realize with growing dread that the hallway leads to a dead end. A large glass windowpane stretches across the wall in front of you, sunlight filtering through it, mocking you with its promise of freedom.

Your brain short-circuits under the pressure of Bakugou’s boots thundering closer behind you. Without a second thought—and maybe entirely out of panic—you do something completely mental.

Sharp, glowing pink petals swirl from your hands and shoot forward, shattering the glass into a cascade of shimmering shards. You barely have time to smile at your quick thinking, forcing your legs to make one final push toward escape—but then—

“EEK!” you shriek as something grabs your ankle, yanking you backward with enough force to slam you into the ground. The wind rushes out of your lungs, and for a moment, all you can do is gasp, eyes wide as your heart races in your chest.

Before you can even process what just happened, Bakugou is on top of you, pinning you down with one large hand still wrapped tightly around your ankle. He’s breathing heavily too, damn you pushed him into some heavy cardio, but his grin? It’s pure victory.

Not amused, not playful—just smug satisfaction from having won.

You lay there, completely frozen, and for a terrifying moment, you wonder if you might actually suffer from heart failure.

Not because you lost the exercise—that’s a given, and you’ll deal with the embarrassment later—but because this man—this giant (and unfairly gorgeous) behemoth of a man, who dwarfs you in both size and sheer presence—is sitting right on top of you.

He’s not pressing down hard enough to actually constrict your chest, so why, oh why can’t you breathe right now?

“Not even gonna fight back?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his voice low and rough. And to your utter disbelief, you realize—this is probably the first time he’s spoken directly to you.

You quickly avert your gaze, unable to keep staring up at him in this position. “I... I don’t see the point, really,” you mutter, though your voice comes out more like a pout. You’re too embarrassed to look at him again, especially when you hear him snort in response.

“Don’t act like a baby. You’re a quick little thing.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a strange kind of respect laced into it.

Oh no. Oh no no no. This is where you die—right here, pinned beneath Bakugou Katsuki, heart racing uncontrollably while he casually throws out words that make your brain short-circuit.

“You ever notice that you bring up flowers wherever you go?” he says suddenly, loosening his grip just slightly as he nods toward the shattered windowpane.

“What?” you blurt out, blinking in confusion. You follow his line of sight and freeze.

Outside, in what should have been a lifeless, gray landscape, is a single, glaringly obvious path of vibrant pink blossoms, trailing directly toward the building. Everything else looks dead—withered and dry—but the path you took is marked by glowing sakura petals, mocking you in all their vivid glory.

You gape, horrified. Your quirk betrayed you. Of course, it did.

And to make things worse… you know exactly why.

None of your classmates—not even Aizawa—know that your quirk reacts whenever you lose control of your emotions. Fear, happiness, sadness, excitement… whenever any strong feeling overwhelms you, the pink sakura blossoms bloom uncontrollably around you.

Oh god. Were those flowers sprouting because you were scared? Or… excited? Please don’t be from excitement. Please don’t be from excitement.

Before you can spiral any further into your thoughts, you feel a tug at your waist. Startled, you glance down, only to see Bakugou holding up the yellow flag he’s snatched from your costume.

A shrill whistle echoes across the training grounds, signaling the end of the exercise—and Bakugou’s win.

You sigh heavily, slumping against the ground in defeat. Of course, he got the flag. Of course.

Bakugou stands, towering over you as he holds the flag lazily between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips. “Gotta be faster next time princess.”

As if you hadn’t already felt your heart medically stop—this time, you freeze. Did he just call you… princess?

Your brain short-circuits. There’s no way you heard that right. No way.

Mina is raccoon eyes, and she's stunning. Ochako is cheeks, Momo is ponytail girl and you really can't get more gorgeous than her,

And you're princess?!

A heart attack doesn't begin to explain the medically concerning things happening to your body right now.

You blink up at him, mouth opening slightly as if to say something, but no words come out. What could you even say? Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears it drowns out any coherent thought.

Meanwhile, Bakugou doesn’t seem phased at all. He twirls the flag once more, looking way too relaxed for someone who just rendered you a mess. “You gonna sit there all day or what?” he asks, his voice rough. “C’mon, get up.”

You’re still frozen in place, cheeks burning as you try to gather yourself.

Why did he have to say it like that?

You’ve always known Bakugou was intense—loud, brash, a force of nature—but you didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect him to pin you down in a sparring match, call you princess, and leave you feeling like your heart might actually explode.

“Oi.” His voice snaps you out of your spiraling thoughts, and you glance up at him again, only to find him staring down at you with an arched brow. “Did you hit your head that hard? Do we need to call recovery girl over here?"

It's enough to wake you up, the tips of your ears burning as you push yourself up and off the ground, body tense with lingering nerves. "I'm okay...I think" You mumble, again, that natural pouty look that has the blonde raising a brow.

The rest of the walk back to Aizawa is silent, and you can't help but mentally relive the moment in your head a million times. Princess?!

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#katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #my hero academia #bnha x reader #bnha #bakugo katsuki #x reader #bnha bakugou #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x fem!reader #blooming hearts #bakugo x y/n #bakugo fluff #bakugo x reader #my hero academia x reader

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aheckinmess · 10 months ago

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So, I'm going to attempt to do Kinktober this year as a fun little challenge for myself. But because I'm obsessed with both MHA and JJK right now, I'm writing two versions of each prompt for Kinktober. One with a MHA character and one with a JJK character.

Here's the list I'm working with!

Praise -> Izuku Midoriya/Satoru Gojo

Caught Masturbating -> Tomura Shigaraki/Yuji Itadori

Edging -> Hizashi Yamada/Toge Inumaki

Virgin -> Shouta Aizawa/Satoru Gojo

Begging -> Izuku Midoriya/Yuta Okkotsu

Breeding -> Enji Todoroki/Ryomen Sukuna

Somnophilia -> Shouta Aizawa/Megumi Fushiguro

Spanking -> Hitoshi Shinsou/Kento Nanami

Eating Out -> Hizashi Yamada/Yuji Itadori

Temperature Play -> Enji Todoroki/Choso

Against a Wall -> Eijiro Kirishima/Megumi Fushiguro

Predator/Prey -> Dabi/Yuta Okkotsu

Bondage -> Shouta Aizawa/Kento Nanami

Monsterfucking -> Fumikage Tokoyami/Ryomen Sukuna

Fuck or Die -> Tomura Shigaraki/Suguru Geto

In Public -> Hawks/Toge Inumaki

Knife Play -> Twice/Suguru Geto

Size Difference -> Toshinori Yagi/Toji Fushiguro

Dom/Sub -> Enji Todoroki/Kento Nanami

Orgasm Denial -> Tamaki Amajiki/Yuji Itadori

Hate Fuck -> Katsuki Bakugo/Toji Fushiguro

Deep Throating -> Hitoshi Shinsou/Megumi Fushiguro

Pet Play -> Hawks/Suguru Geto

Sleepy/Morning Sex -> Snipe/Megumi Fushiguro

Masks -> Twice/Choso

Olfactophilia -> Katsuki Bakugo/Toge Inumaki

Roleplay -> Snipe/Choso

Punishment -> Dabi/Choso

Blindfolds -> Mr. Compress/Satoru Gojo

Biting -> Eijiro Kirishima/Toji Fushiguro

Aftercare -> Mr. Compress/Yuta Okkotsu

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yanderslutt · 5 days ago

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𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

He watched you long before you knew his name. Now, he's your professor.

A hero. A liar. A predator. And maybe... your salvation.

Y/N is a brilliant but haunted college student working on her senior thesis: Applied Ethics & Heroic Society Studies. She doesn't believe in heroes anymore-not after what Keigo Takami did to her. She's focused, closed off, and determined to expose the moral rot behind the mask of heroism.

Then comes Professor Aizawa. Sharp-tongued. Cold-eyed. Obsessive. The kind of man who reads your silence better than your essays. The kind who lingers too long after office hours.

What starts as mentorship turns into something darker-something twisted and dangerously intimate. Because Shouta Aizawa doesn't just want to help Y/N write her thesis. He wants to unravel her. Own her. Protect her... from everyone, including herself.

And when her past comes knocking-feathered, smiling, and deadly-Y/N is forced to confront a truth more terrifying than desire:

Some heroes aren't meant to save you.

They're meant to destroy everything that ever hurt you.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

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incorrectmhatweets · 11 months ago

Text

Just thinking about Present Mic and how unrecognizable he is out of his hero costume to most people. His radio voice is very recognizable as well, but he probably doesn’t talk like that all the time. I also love the fact that it was hinted at one time that he doesn’t respond to Mic when he is Hizashi and the other way around because he seems to separate his mentality when he is a hero and when he is not, which has its own pros and cons.

Because of this, I really do think he is a method actor. Idk if he is a good one or not. He probably enjoys messing around when he is playing a part for hero students, but considering his looks and how fairly unrecognizable he is, I bet he probably helps with sting operations.

Bonus thoughts on this subject revolve around him being very recognizable in costume, recognizable out of it by some students, friends, family, people he works at the radio show with, and probably a few obsessed fans who care enough to learn his look. The number of people who would recognize him if he shaved his stash (it will grow back and he can easily put on a very realistic fake one if he needs to) and chose to wear a sun dress, big sun glasses, a floppy hat, and curl his hair? A hand full of people.

I also HC that, along with his voice quirk, he has trained his voice studiously to mimic others. Including female voices. Which is really helpful for undercover ops he does with Aizawa, where Hizashi wanders home alone at night, playing a defenseless woman to lure out monsters and predators. Hizashi could absolutely handle themselves, but it’s always safer to have backup just in case the criminal’s quirk is dangerous.

I also just realized how stringy, leggy, tall Hizashi coming into the office in a dress and curled hair and makeup would probably remind Yagi of his mother at a glance.

#bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #present mic #yamada hizashi #hizashi yamada #eraserhead #yagi toshinori #headcanon #gender fluid #scream man #yell man #a man of many names and voices

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mintmatcha · 2 years ago

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Mint, I need Lady in Waiting reader to find out that Sir Aizawa isn't married, I NEED this (I need to caress his weary face in my hands and watch his eyes slowly close as he cuddles into them, like a cat)

It’s normal for him to notice who comes and goes at these events. The vigilance is ingrained deep in every muscle, so much so that his eyes flicker to the door whenever there’s even a hint of movement.

That’s how he notices you dip out, the tails of your dress following behind.

He also notices that someone else is watching you.

“And then the dragon breathed fire. Did you know dragons could do that, mister?” the princess babbles, “That might only be in stories, though.”

Aizawa can barely mutter out a sound as he watches the other man -a squire, servicing under one of the other knights- excuses himself and heads to through door. He knows something is wrong by the way he moves. There’s too much purpose in his stride, a goal set into his brow and a smirk of his lips. It’s not the smile of a secret lovers meeting– its the sharpness of a predator hunting its prey.

“Mister Aizawa?”

Princess Eri tugs at the fabric of his shirt. The princess is especially young compared to the age of her father, only six as of this summer. Guarding her as been some of the easier years of his life, but also some of the most rewarding.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he stands, “I have to check on something.”

The young girl looks at him with wide eyes. “Will you be back soon? You promised we would dance.”

He ruffles her hair as he spins on his heel. He fears she has become his soft spot. “Before you know it, princess.”

He can’t hear your voice until his halfway down the hall and clear of the din of the banquet hall. It’s hushed, but with none of the polite lacquer you usually apply.

“I said I am retiring for the night,” you hiss.

“Perfect - then we shall head to your room.”

As Aizawa peers around the corner, he catches the blonde man reaching for you and grasping at the hem of your sleeve. You immediately rip yourself away, only for the squire to grap your other hand much more firmly.

“Sir Monoma,” you say, “If I have told you once, I have told you a hundred times. My heart belongs to another and I have no interest in you.”

The squire steps in closer, a laugh on his breath. He’s drunk enough that Aizawa can almost smell it from here. “Everyone sees how you long for the man. If he hasn’t reciprocated by now, you are waiting for nothing. You’re wasting your good years on a fool.”

Pity pangs in Aizawa’s chest. Have your affections been this obvious the whole time? He’d only just began to notice your lingering glances and hesitant touches– how long had it been obvious to everyone else? How much time had he spent missing you?

“Just one chance.” The squire tugs on your arm, trying to drag you in, but you hold firm, “I’ll treat you real nice, I swear it.”

The man twists slightly and you yelp.

Aizawa moves without thinking. It’s easy to catch a drunk man off guard. He slides in and knocks his weight off center, and in the instant of surprise, his hard snatches the squires away from yours. With a twist and a pop, the man’s arm folds behind his back and he falls to his knees, a strangled sound in his lips. It’s after, when he sees the fear in your eyes, that the anger sets in.

“If I am ever to catch you touching a maiden again I will break this arm so badly that you will never use it again, do you understand?” The words rip from his throat, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir, or course, sir,” the man spits out.

“Your charge will hear of this.” With a shove, Aizawa sends him stumbling back, “And the king. Now, be off.”

There’s a moment of hesitation.

“I said be off.”

Monoma scrambles down the hall, back towards the party. You watch, rubbing your twisted skin with a dour look and avoiding Aizawa’s gaze. He’s not one to get flustered, but suddenly he is; you smell like juniper and flowers, a summer’s day, and rolled in like a winter’s storm.

“Don’t worry. His wrist is only sprained,” he offers.

“Frankly, I think you should have broken it.”

That surprises him enough that he chuckles.

“Was that too harsh?” you ask.

“Not at all.”

“Thank you, Sir, I don’t know how to repay you-”

Aizawa had discussed moments like these, the little openings that life gives him and he keeps squandering. Hizashi always tells him to be bold and romantic, Toshinori says to be soft and himself. Both seem like bad choices- so Aizawa decides to so something different entirely.

“Give me your hand.” He holds his own out, palm up. “That is all I request.”

You check the hall with a fair amount of apprehension. “Would your wife approve?”

“I am not married.”

“You aren’t?”

“Not even close to it.” He want s to explain the mix up, but the only thing he can focus on are you hands and how they wring your dress, “You can deny me. I’d understand.”

You lift your hand and place it in his, hovering slightly above his touch. Gently, he raises it to his lips and gives it the chastest of kisses. He expects you to pull away, maybe even slap him, but you don’t. Your touch lingers, warm against his skin.

“Are you sure you are unmarried?” you whisper, “You’ll break my heart if you are lying.”

He turns your wrist and presses a firmer kiss into your pulsepoint, then another, and another, trailing up your arm.

“You can ask the king himself.”

Right before he can nestle his face into the crook of your neck, you break away.

“Then, I will,” you say, dipping away and back towards the grand hall, “I will ask right now. I don’t want you to make a dishonest woman of me, sir.”

“Don’t ask in front of the court!” Aizawa is quick to follow, a uncharacteristic blush blossoming across his cheeks.

“Because you’ll be shown to be a liar?”

“Because the king might end up begging you to take me.”

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teyvat-academy-au · 8 days ago

Note

I don't know if my memory serves me wrong or not. But I specifically remember in an episode of MHA, Aizawa uses his quirk on Ojiro, or whatever the name of that one guy with a mutation quirk that has the tail. Even though it is said that his quirk doesn't affect mutation quirk, when he uses it on that student with animal quirk features, that tail stops moving for a bit(Aizawa didn't activate his quirk for too long either).

If the fact that his quirk could still semi-affect a mutation quirk that serves as an extra limb, can we use that to prove the fact that there are other species in Teyvat and those species are not quirks.

Of course, there is the time mismatch of when Teyvat knows that Vision appears and what UA/Government said they appear. They obviously already think that "omg, TA fake history, fabricated proof" or something along those lines, so I don't think we can shove in their head the fact that Visions predated Quirks.

I need sleep, I am spiraling>:33

I think that in the USJ battle they made a special emphasis on the fact that his quirk does not work on the mutant type quirks.

#teyvat academy au #teyvat academy #lazy story smile #genshin impact #bnha #mha #aizawa #ask

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quirkwizard · 3 months ago

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Hope you’re doing well! This ask might seem a bit different, but if you’ve seen or read the golden compass (one of my favourites) the characters have daemons, which is basically their soul, what do you think class A daemons would be, including All Might and Aizawa if you want. Thanks for all your amazing work!

If daemons existed in the bnha universe, what would the characters have? Sorry for my bad English 😅

So the way I understand it, Daemons are basically spirit animals with certain rules and connections to their person. There is some link between the animal and the personality of the person. They're basically a spirit animal. So I'll try to match what animals I think fit them and avoid any obvious ones, like making Shoji's daemon a squid.

Sato-Gorilla: The gorilla's power is great, yet it's fare more gentle of a creature then it first seems. Koda-Rabbit: Shy and skittish, the rabbit never the less makes a for a wonderful companion. Sero-Spider: Nature's weavers, the spiders truly offer a unique yet practical way of helping the world. Mineta-Squirrel: A squirrel is considered a pest by many, it's stature hides a surprising amount of intelligence. Hagakure-Chameleon: Hidden from the world, the chameleon is no less a colorful and observant creature. Ojiro-Beetle: A small, unassuming creature, the beetle hides an impressive power all it's own. Aoyama-Swan: The prime and proper swan is often hunted, yet is monstrous when it is cornered. Shoji-Tortise: Slow and uncomplicated, but above all else, the tortoise is resilient. Denki-Dog: A friendly and loyal animal, the dog is not above moments of utter silliness. Jiro-Bat: A widely misunderstood animal, the bat is defined by it's ability to listen about all else. Momo-Bee: The bee is an animal of creation and leadership, leading the others to build a strong hive. Mina-Parrot: Parrots are loud and unafraid to speak their minds, bearing their colors for all to see. Tsuyu-Capybara: The capybara's peaceful nature reflects it's acting, seen as both soft and friendly. Tokoyami-Owl: A dark and mysterious creature, the ominous owl haunts the nights with it's loud cries. Kirishima-Armadillo: An animal that starts out weak, but the armadillo's shell grows stronger with maturity. Uraraka-Otter: An otter is a cute, friendly, and group oriented animal that will kill you if it gets the chance. Tenya-Wolf: While a powerful figure in it's own right, the wolf survives due to its ability to work with others. Shoto-Cat: The aloof and quiet cat is hard to get to understand, but loyal to those who earn its admiration. Bakugou-Tiger: While often admired for their power and ferocity, the tiger is defined by its pride and solitude. Izuku-Ram: By no means a predator, the mighty ram meats all challenges head on and unafraid.

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seraphhskies · 9 months ago

Text

the villain - shota aizawa

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Shota Aizawa x Fem. Reader | Smut

Prompt: Roleplay

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: 18+, slight violence if you squint, language

A/N: Ok this one turned out cute I think! Reader has a quirk called Hide, which allows them to turn invisible.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You're pretending to be the villain. How long can you hold out?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“So you think it’s a terrible idea?” You asked, raising a brow at the man in front of you. Shota rolled his eyes, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter in your shared apartment.

“I never said that.” He stated. “I said, I think it’s a terrible idea unless it’s in an enclosed space.”

“It can be enclosed!” You exclaimed, grinning widely. You were definitely taking this as a victory. It was his turn to raise an eyebrow at you.

“And where would that be?”

You blanked, freezing as you tried to think as quickly as possible. Shota waited patiently, although a smug look began to grow on his face.

You snapped, tilting your head in another grin. “Your training room should work.”

He hummed, before shrugging in agreement. You nearly squealed, embracing the man in a hug. Really, he was happy to indulge you. It wasn’t like you were the only one benefiting from this, after all.

And that’s how you ended up in this little… predicament.

You, stupidly, had thought Shota would go easy on you. The training room was bigger than you thought, set up with places to hide. He wasn’t much for talking, which made this a lot harder.

Heroes liked to monologue, to give speeches about justice, and he was just silently chasing you down. It was exhilarating, though you knew he would catch you eventually.

You were panting with exertion already, your head beginning to pound from the overuse of your quirk. You peeked out from your hiding place, spotting him directly in the middle and squeaking as his eyes immediately darted to you.

You ducked, out of his field of view yet again, and activated your quirk. Your invisibility was extremely useful against Shota- who needed to see you in order to stop you.

A loud snap sounded just above you, your eyes widening as you watched it just barely miss. His binding cloth retreated back into his hand, and you could practically see the gears in his head turning as he tried to guess where you would be.

You darted off as he looked in an opposite direction, but his head snapped to where the floor was indented with your footprints. Damn training-room floors, you grimaced. You squealed as the cloth shot out towards you once more, dropping to the floor to avoid it.

In doing so, you stopped focusing on your quirk- now visible.

“Gotcha.” Shota grinned, like a predator finally catching its prey. His hair began to float, eyes turning a bright red and stopping your quirk.

Exhaling, trying to ignore the way the sight of him like that made your heart beat faster, you scrambled upwards. Your feet carried you to the left before you thought about it. He was quick, but you were too.

Before you could get too much farther, he swung the cloth- wrapping it perfectly around your wrist. You struggled as he teasingly reeled you in. An idea hit you, and you almost laughed aloud at the thought.

“Let go of me, hero!” You cried, struggling harder against the cloth.

Shota paused, lips twitching as he nearly laughed. Instead, he forced them into a scowl. “No.”

You deadpanned. That was it?

He squinted, unsure of what else to add before he just sighed. Shota, before you could think about it any longer, had your entire body wrapped in the cloth. A slight scream left your mouth as you came whirling toward him, dizzy and wide eyed by the time he had fully pulled you over.

“Your life of crime is over, villain.” Shota said flatly, though he managed to give you his fiercest glare. You appreciated the effort and attempted to put on your best acting face.

“Please!” You begged, eyes big and watering as you looked at him. “Isn’t there anything I can do to get out of this?” You batted your eyes.

Shota deadpanned at you, and you were having a hard time fighting back your smile.

“I can think of one thing.” Was his reply. This time, you could tell he was fighting the eye roll. His face was neutral, although the kiss that he pulled you into was nothing but searing. You smiled into it, lips moving perfectly against his own.

“I think I understand,” You pretended to sniffle, attempting to frown as he pulled away.

“Good.” Shota murmured curtly. The cloth around your arms and waist tightened, keeping you bound.

“I’m going to unwrap you now.” He murmured, closing his eyes briefly as they were dry. Your quirk was restored, but you made no move to get away. “If you attempt to escape,” He glared, lifting his chin. “I won’t go easy on you.”

Oh.

Those words shot straight to your core. Part of you wanted to run away just to see what would happen, but you stayed still. He withdrew the cloth, and you flexed your arms as they were freed.

“I understand,” You breathed, sighing happily into the kiss that he pulled you into. You hummed against him, hands coming to his chest. Shota’s grip was on your hips, and he drew small circles on them with his thumbs.

He grew a bit rougher with you, pushing you onto the floor. His teeth nipped at your neck, leaving small purple marks where he sucked on your skin. You were already making sounds for him, little noises that had him struggling to focus.

“You’re so responsive,” He murmured in your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your face flushed in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” You said quickly, but Shota shook his head.

“Don’t be. I like it.” You were as red as a tomato at his response. Shota was so matter-of-fact when he spoke, and for some reason it never quit catching you off guard.

He pulled and prodded at your body, taking his time as his hands explored every inch you offered him. A content hum left your mouth as his lips pressed to your neck, leaving soft kisses all the way down to your collarbone.

Your hands tangled in his hair, the man letting out a low groan when you tugged on it. His eyes opened, a playful glare in them. You gave an innocent smile, sucking in a breath as he unzipped your hero costume.

He tossed it to the side with little care after peeling it off of you. He was back on top of you then, lips attaching to your breast as you sat up to help him. A soft moan left your mouth, the hand not holding him up trailing down your body.

You responded in kind, tugging on his shirt to get him to take it off. Reluctantly, he sat up and did as you asked. You watched him like a hawk, not wanting to miss any detail. You tilted your head to the side in a grin when he gave you a chiding look.

“It’s not polite to stare, y’know.” Shota grumbled.

You shrugged, raising your eyebrows and eyes flickering to your rather unclothed form. “Is that so?” You teased, leaning back to give him a bit of a show. You spread your legs, giving the most innocent look you could muster.

You could physically see his resolve crumble, even though the man tried so hard not to let it show on his face. He didn’t respond, but the way he tensed and crawled on top of you was response enough.

The kiss he pulled you into was burning, all tongue and teeth as he left you gasping for air. You were dripping for him, could feel it even for the half hour that the two of you were chasing one another.

He gave you a squeeze, mouth on yours as his hand dipped down to your core. He tested how wet you were, and you could feel the way his lips twitched a bit- fighting back a smirk. You repaid the favor by fumbling for his belt, tugging it down.

You pulled away, struggling to focus when his hand worked his magic. You were biting your lip to hold back moans, although a sigh of relief nearly left you when you finally got his damn pants down.

Shota just watched you, trying not to look entertained. Your eyes were drawn to the way he was already throbbing for you, the tip of his cock a pretty red. You wrapped your hand around the length, stroking him in time to his own pace.

He shuddered at the first contact, the muscles of his stomach tensing. You moaned as he slipped a finger inside of you, picking up the pace. Your breathing was heavy, face contorting as you struggled to be quiet.

“Sho,” You panted, a whine escaping you as he inserted another finger.

“I’m listening.” He teased, through his own half-lidded eyes.

“Fuck me already.” You pleaded softly, begging him with your eyes. Shota’s posture stiffened, and he groaned before pulling you into a kiss.

He was quick to oblige, lifting your hips a bit to get a good position. The head of his cock teased through your folds, both of you watching intently as he rubbed against you.

Almost painfully slowly, he pushed into you. Your hands struggled to find purchase on the floor, mouth dropping open as he finally bottomed out. He began to move after that. The pace he set increased, both of you moaning in unison as he pulled out and pushed back in.

“Ho-holy shit-” You panted, arching into him.

He was as much of a mess for you as you were for him, strands of hair hanging in his face as he slammed into you. Shota’s eyes were on you, drawn in by the way your breasts bounced with each thrust.

“So good,” You whined, far more vocal than he was.

Spurred by your sounds, a hand moved to your clit. You clenched around him, hips bucking as his pace never slowed. His fingers expertly rolled your clit, and your body trembled beneath him. Your hips bucked against his own, a sinful moan falling from your lips.

Your eyes closed, the pleasure a bit too much. He knew you were getting close- if the way your walls began to flutter around his cock were any indication. He was too, grunting as he practically drilled into you.

As his pace increased, so did the pace of his fingers, and you were gripping onto the floor like it was a lifeline. The word ‘fuck’ left your lips over and over again, whining and crying out as you felt yourself growing closer and closer.

“Wanna make you cum, sweetheart.” Shota’s voice was quiet, focused on the task at hand as he watched your face. His own was contorted with desire, the sounds you made just for him were enough to nearly drive him over the edge- but he waited.

His words did the trick, the rare pet name catching you off guard enough that it had you falling, hurtling over the edge.

You called his name, cunt clenching around his cock. He kept the pace, working you through your orgasm as he allowed himself to near his own.

His name was a prayer on your lips, encouraging and loving as you urged him to fall with you. He hissed, hips stuttering as his body twitched. Shota’s grip on your thigh would most definitely leave a bruise, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Still sensitive, you whimpered as he pushed as deep as he could into you. His dick twitched inside of you, the remnants of his orgasm wracking his body.

After a moment passed, he pulled out of you and you winced. The oversensitivity had you clenching around nothing.

Exhausted, Shota laid on the floor next to you. Before you could even think to protest at the lack of affection, he pulled you on top of him. You sighed happily, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“Definitely a great idea.” You grinned smugly.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa shōta #bnha #mha #smut #x reader #no y/n #bnha fanfiction #aizawa shouta #eraserhead #shouta aizawa x reader

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guesswhojusttt · 3 months ago

Text

peace, peace, my love (Aizawa/reader)

Chapter 3: if you are intolerable (let me be the one to tolerate you)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 AO3

(art credit to https://rob0ti.tumblr.com/post/177084481180/let-aizawa-pet-all-the-cats )

Summary:

He let me speak my own language. Earthlings probably don't realize it, but meeting someone like that is rare in life. That's a miracle in itself. - Earthlings, Sayaka Murata

Fight! Flight! Freeze! Fawn! (Fornicate…?) Fuck!

Turn into a cat? Run faster? Turn into a cat then run faster? Punch him? Kick him? Lick him? Burst into tears? Yell 'free cat cafe' and point in the opposite direction to distract him?

Of course you cannot outrun him, he is a hero and you are a malnourished, lazy thing, but you are small, as a cat, small enough to hide, and even if he finds you, you can squeeze into places he can neither see nor reach. Round the corner, down an alley, under a dumpster.

Yes. This is a perfectly good dumpster.

Big and clunky and dented, carved with rust the way wood is carved with curving curlicues- one downside of a cat's sharp sense of smell is that every scent is heightened: the wet rot, the moist ground, the oil slicks catching shimmering rainbow glints like a portal to another world, shimmery black garbage bags bloated and hastily tied shut and spilling out in ebbs and flows, piles teetering too high till they've toppled over to litter the filthy, grey concrete- which, actually, little known fact, makes for a good blanket to protect you from the way the concrete absorbs cold, and it's a tight fit, perfect for mice and pigeons and runts who need to hide from big predators.

And no predator was more fearsome and more loathsome than man.

"This again." He sighs, but there's no real weariness to it, only pity (somehow this is worse, for all your rhapsodizing about how you want to be pitied actually), "I would've hoped you already know I won't hurt you."

His footsteps are getting closer, but aimless. He does not know where you are. He cannot see you, you are squeezed not just beneath the dumpster but have backed up- back, back, allll the way back, that even if he did bend down to peer, he would not find you- you, who are so safely tucked behind more garbage than should reasonably be here (but this is not the first time you have slept here, you know the garbage trucks don't come for another couple of days, so. It's as good a cover as any, for now).

Still, those scuffed old boots are pittering around, splashing on oil and the juice of rot and mold and gutter water puddles, and his voice is that low, steady, this is a man you could introduce to your parents and he'd call them sir and madam and offer to help them move heavy furniture and assure them he has a steady income to support not just you but them well into ripe old retirement sort of voice, "do you know what my Quirk is?" He continues conversationally, "I could force you back into a person, if I wanted to. I could just look at you- don't even have to touch you, wouldn't matter if you ran away or scratched or bit- one look, and I turn off your Quirk, and you're back into human form. I say this not to threaten you, but to tell you that I can do it and am choosing not to, because I will not force you into anything you don't want."

Are you supposed to be grateful for this basic human decency, this sliver of generosity? What does he want, the not as much of a jerk as you could've been award?

You wedge yourself in cold metal and rotting wood because at least it is familiar, at least you do not have to fear losing it, being abandoned, the way you did in his plush soft warm exquisite blankets and pillows and-

You're hyperventilating. You don't mean to, but you realize that your inhales are too desperate, your exhales too ragged, your lungs too tight, too small, physically unable to gasp in any air no matter how much you gulp it down like a parched man at an oasis- your ribs are wringing the very air from your lungs like water from a sopping towel- it's that tunnel vision again, except there's nothing to see, nowhere to run, it's just pinpricks of black and red stabbing at your eyes, and you cannot breathe, you are not capable of breathing-

"I realize in hindsight that maybe telling you I could force you out of your form was perhaps- not helpful, but I only meant to- that is, I'm not going to use it even though I can, so you don't have to be so sc- I'm just making this worse, aren't I?"

You cannot hear him, not really; or you do, but only through a sharp, drawn-out ringing in your ears. Suddenly you are young again and they are coaxing you out of hiding and you are terrified and sobbing or maybe you are even younger and you are still dumb enough to listen when they swear they only want to help you, that stupid, silly age where you take people at their word and believe pinky promises. Your mind rattles off outcome after outcome, blurring through possibilities, scrambling erratically for some way, any way, out of this, out of here, away from him, away from danger-

Every scenario plays out in your head in rapid succession- he'll drag you to a shelter (not again again not again) and pat himself on the back for rescuing a stray, only to go out drinking with his friends and forget all about you, leave you to spend months and years and all your nine lives waiting for someone to take pity on you, to pet you, to take a shine to you, to adopt you and never once, never once being chosen- or worse, being adopted only to be returned because they got sick of you, because they don't like you anymore, because they can't (won't) keep you anymore- or cut the shelter altogether and adopt you directly and speed run it to get to the very same part, the inevitable outcome, of ending up right here 'neath this dumpster where you start and end, or maybe you'll hide here long enough that he'll get tired of waiting because no one can stay here forever, so he will leave because he has work and responsibilities and cannot pause them just to entertain the fancies of a skittish rabid animal, so you will escape and he won't find you, you will go to the library tomorrow and get a pen and fill out the intake forms and get a little corner with a yoga mat stinking of feet in the homeless shelter that you will choose only because it's the closet one to wherever Toga's gone to now, and even if she can stand to be away from you, you can't stand to be away from her because she is quite literally the only person who even talks to you like you're a person, too.

(Okay, this is not true. In fact it is a bold-faced lie. In fact nothing could be further from the truth. She does not speak to you like you're a person, but also she does not speak to anyone like they are a person, she does not even view herself as a human, not at all, so.

Still.

It is the closest thing you have to-)

Oh, and isn't that pathetic? Worms have more dignity than you. Isn't that humiliating, that she's your very favorite and you are not even in her top 10? That you are a whole adult and she is a child and the only reason you were ever close is because protecting her, looking after her, gave you a sense of purpose, as if your life is not a total waste so long as it is contributing to someone else's? Maybe you only like it because it makes you feel useful, important. Needed.

And no one would throw out a useful tool, right?

But no one needs an ugly homeless filthy cat. No one wants- because who in their right mind could ever want-

Through the slat of the dumpster, where your fragile head is tucked between your little shoulders, you watch shadows shift along alleyway concrete, watch sludge soak into dented metal trash cans, watch him sit down cross-legged, as if at a kotatsu rather than upon the filth and rain stains. In his large palms a small, thick book opens like a flower blooming.

"This one actually… is a... well, you can decide for yourself." He clears his throat, stilted and awkward like a friend who's recommended a questionable show and both hopes you won't judge him for it and secretly hopes you enjoy it as much as he does. " 'You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, “No, I don’t want to watch TV!” Raise your voice—they won’t hear you otherwise—“I’m reading! I don’t want to be disturbed!” Maybe they haven’t heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: “I’m beginning to read Italo Calvino’s new novel!” Or if you prefer, don’t say anything; just hope they’ll leave you alone.' "

He is reading to you as if a bedtime story. Is he… seriously going to camp out here, in soggy litter in the pitch black night, waiting for a feral cat to crawl out from under the dumpster? Is he that on his mettle to arrest you, to punish you, to demand his money back? Is he that arrogant, that presumptuous, that he fancies himself a hero, a martyr, so patient and good and gallant that he is sacrificing his scarce, precious free time (because you know, you know, you have seen him come back to his apartment past midnight and leave the house so early that he can scarcely put one foot before the other) just to feed a sorry stray, will so very kindly drop you off at a cat shelter and feel all self-satisfied for being so fucking selfless and doing his kind deed of the day? Turn it into a moral to teach his students, a sappy story to tell his friends over pink drinks?

God. You really do hate those heroic types. Despise, loathe, utterly-

" 'Find the most comfortable position: seated, stretched out, curled up, or lying flat. Flat on your back, on your side, on your stomach. In an easy chair, on the sofa, in the rocker, the deck chair, on the hassock. In the hammock, if you have a hammock. On top of your bed, of course, or in the bed. You can even stand on your hands, head down, in the yoga position. With the book upside down, naturally." Why does he teach at the supercilious child-soldier-factory that is U.A.? This man's life calling is clearly an audiobook reader, a nature documentary narrator, an ASMR legend. One of those apps advertising sensual stories for women. Voice low, dreamy, trickling into your ears so they're no longer pinned back, easing your tail's anxious flicking to slow and curl calmly behind you, bristles sinking till the fur is smoothed down. His voice feels quiet, although it is not: it is, in fact, all you can hear, no longer deafened by the blood rushing to your ears nor your rapid breathing- because your breathing is not rapid at all anymore, instead steadying to sync with the surety of his own voice. Every time you've ever heard him , each time you've interacted with him, the same word keeps floating to the forefront of your mind, unbidden yet clear as a rising sun: stable. An oak tree, firmly entrenched in its miles-deep roots, never to be dug up or destroyed, unchanging come flood or hurricane or earthquake. You force your eyes open every time they drift closed, keep your lids from slipping shut, even as his voice drags on like the most loving of lullabies, the most mellifluous of melodies. "Of course, the ideal position for reading is something you can never find. In the old days they used to read standing up, at a lectern. People were accustomed to standing on their feet, without moving. They rested like that when they were tired of horseback riding. Nobody ever thought of reading on horse-back; and yet now, the idea of sitting in the saddle, the book propped against the horse’s mane, or maybe tied to the horse’s ear with a special harness, seems attractive to you. With your feet in the stirrups, you should feel quite comfortable for reading; having your feet up is the first condition for enjoying a read.' "

Your breathing slows, mellows out like the rest of you, thoughts of fighting or flying long since chased off with those neat black letters floating the air from him to you. You find your chin tucking into your arms, your mind fuzzing and blurring at the corners, the story fading to background white noise and then nothing at all.

You do not know this, but the next day, he comes back to this dumpster, checks beneath it, and panics when he sees you're not still there, right where he left you last night. He shouldn't've gone back home. He shouldn't've started nodding off himself, should've called off work, should've stayed and waited for you to come out on your own even if took the rest of your life. His scarf stretches to scour all around and beneath the leaking dumpster bin just in case he somehow missed you, (slip of a thing that you are, slippery as you are), but no, you're- you're really not here. He checks your leafy bush at his apartment complex but it it is only the twin cats, Fushi and Sushi, who he feeds but only wishes that he could talk to them to inquire as to your whereabouts. He builds a ramshackle cat shelter in the complex, two wide entrances so you do not feel backed into a corner, with straw for warmth because a blanket might get wet and therefore defeat the point, and while everything from skittering squirrels to thumping rabbits to the other stray cats, like the fat squash-faced orange one and the skinny one-eared one and the sleek tear-stained black one take refuge in it, you are not here. He built it for you, and you are not here.

You have not come back. Never, ever there. Never again.

He scared you off.

It's because he told you about his Quirk, isn't it? He should've shut his mouth, should've kept it secret. Telling you he could turn you back into a human must've cemented your pre-existing distrust and distaste for him. Tilted the power far too much to his end.

It doesn't… make sense, this- this obsession. He's fed and pet and taken care of countless stray cats ever since he could walk on his stubby little legs, so why was this time any different? Was it because he'd found out you were a person? But he'd fed and donated to homeless people before too, never once tried to chase them down and- and what? What would he even do, when he found you? He'd wanted to adopt you when he'd though you a cat, but you're a whole person. What was he going to do, let you be his roommate? Every time he thought of just- just doing what he always does, just dropping you off at a shelter, his blood curdles like sour milk and he'd shrink back. Somehow it would be- it would just be wrong, okay? Why is he still thinking about you?

You'd never even spoken to him.

(This isn't entirely, completely, wholly out of the blue for him. It does not go against who he is as a person, but he leans into it: once, young and starry-eyed (though he is loathe to ever call himself as such), he had been in the bus, gazing idly out the rain-tracked windows, and the bus rolled to a stop at the traffic lights. There was a black-haired girl, sitting cross legged outside a sprawling Victoria's Secret boutique, all bubblegum pinks and elegant blacks, propping up a cardboard sign in her lap, sharpie begging in all caps SO HUNGRY, NO FOOD, NO MONEY TO CONTINUE COLLEGE. ANYTHING HELPS.

All he had in his pocket were two vegan espresso cookies they were giving out at a potluck his parents had dragged him to last night, both still uneaten and in their crinkly wrappers, and his leg twitches with the impulse to run to her, shove the cookies in her hand, tell her he doesn't have money on him now but he'll come back tomorrow, walk her into the nearest store, buy her something. He wants to tap on the glass, beckon her to come, maybe he could lean out the door and give them to her and ask for her number so he can contact her to make sure he can find her tomorrow, and the time stretches, the bus unmoving, the woman too, and he has to do something, anything, get off the bus, he can just wait for the next one, surely even a few bites of soft cookies would be better and- his eyes dart from one passer-by to the next, biding hope that one of them will stop, will drop change into her hands, but they ignore her as one would an ant, insignificant and nigh-invisible, and maybe if someone did help her he wouldn't feel such searing guilt that he did nothing, himself.)

So, no. Him obsessing over helping you is precisely the sort of thing he would do. He is, after all, the same man who, down the line, will take in an abused little girl and adopt her as his own daughter instead of doing what any hero would do, and leave her to be as soon as she's free from the Shie Hassaikai compound.

And- if he is being entirely honest- it is not just goodness, not just concern, but curiosity. The sort of stories you must have, to have ended up there, that night. The sort of things you must have to say- how he yearns to hear them all.

He leaves food out every night. Strays wander in to eat it, all of it.

But not you.

Never you.

He does not continue reading, because, well. It was nicer when he was reading it aloud to you. He does not how to explain it, but somehow he is certain you are the type to enjoy a particularly good book.

But perhaps that is projection and wishful thinking and a dangerous path to traverse, to pin the would-like-to-be-trues atop the what-is-actually-trues. Crush is just a lack of information and all that. It is entirely possible you do not care for books at all.

へ ♡ ╱|、 ૮ - ՛ ) (` - 7 / ⁻ ៸| |、⁻〵乀 (ˍ, ل ل じしˍ,)ノ

You can always come home to this abandoned bookshop. After all-

There was no point. That is, no sense in finding a shelter till you find out where Himiko is staying and get one near hers. In case… that group of men turns out to hurt her. In case she needs a place to stay. In case…

You have tried homeless shelters. Actively, desperately, maddeningly tried. Some would not let you stay in the shelter if you did not join in their Bible circle and their prayer to Jesus (subsequently throwing you out the moment you muttered the Jesus would never force anyone to perform religion like a monkey at the zoo just to get a bowlful of soup that's more water than it is stew), some were constantly at full capacity and carried waiting list heavier than your heart, some wore lecherous grins and wandering hands and can pull a few strings as long as I can pull some of yours, cutie.

Molestation was fine. Groping was fine. Smiling and pretending to enjoy the amateur PornHub-level dirty talk was fine. But when those attentions were directed to a half-your-age petite thing in a middle school uniform just to let her have a corner of the rug to sleep on- only then did you punch him and then, of course, be charged for assault of a staff member and subsequently permanently banned.

But it was worth it, the splits in your knuckles, the loss of your backpack that they wouldn't let you in to take back, because this was how you met Himiko.

So you went to another shelter. Rats squeaked and roaches crawled and spiders wove and bedbugs bit and it is not their fault that they genuinely cannot afford pest control.

Well, it depends. In some, the management- the CEO, the boss, the whoever- clearly pockets more money than the rest of the staff combined. In others, they are so severely understaffed that they rely more on volunteers than actual employees- apologetic, accommodating, altruistic volunteers who work their hands raw to make the shelter halfway livable- though the building remains too cramped like a crumpled shoebox and there is never a working shower nor bathroom stall and the food runs out before the line does, even if you'd been standing in wait for hours- shelters you'd been waitlisted for that had now closed to lack of funds, lack of resources, lack of eleemosynary institutions-

And they close, bright and early in them morning at the hairline fracture before the crack of dawn, so that they have the day to clean and organize and put it all together for the evening. You have a bed, you can sleep there and eat breakfast there- and then, what do you do all day? Live in the library. Slither back to the shelter when the library closes. Rinse. Repeat.

They did not allow animals. A blind man sat outside every day refused to part ways with his oversized, flea-ridden, panting dog- shelter workers would bring the food out to him, and he would scoop the steamed pork out of the sandwich with his bare hands, hold it out for his drooling companion to lap up form his open palm, and then the man would eat the soggy bun and little else. Loyal as a dog to his own dog. Started some sort of fundraiser to get the money to get his dog a proper vet visit and vaccinations, you think. Don't remember if he reached the campaign goal.

So this abandoned old book shop- it was a goldmine. Yes, it was freezing in the winter and searing in the summer, but so were half the homeless shelters. While in the shelters there was a guarantee that even the fleas in your hair would be stolen if you didn't stash them well enough, while the staff was too overworked and underpaid to lift a finger about the drugs and the drunks and the rapes and if they fought back to try to break up a fight- knives or guns or fists fling- they'd either be stabbed in the process or fired or quit.

Here was your safe haven. Here you were safe from every harm, except the elements, except squeaking mice and skittering cockroaches and other things that make a home in shelters and beaten down apartments anyway.

The water was out. Broken pipes, or maybe frozen, or maybe the water company had finally realized they're supposed to shut it off since no one comes around here anyway. Not anymore. The gas and electricity and heat have been out since before you got here- if no one is around to pay for something, it ceases to exist.

What a sobering thought.

The holes pockmarking the decrepit walls mirror the ones on your face, except the building's blemishes are big enough you can walk through- and walk through them you do, as some of the doors are still locked, rust and age congealing them into place. Plaster's easy enough to tear apart, (it roughs up your palms till they're nothing like the soft silky hands of the heroines featured in the romance novels you loved), and most of the work's been done for you by stray dogs and cats and whatever other pathetic animal sought shelter here.

Shelter.

Can this place really be called… a shelter?

If you close your eyes- (and you do live like that, going through life with your eyes closed and hands outstretched blindly before you- it is the only way to stay sane-) you can pretend your head is not resting on cool concrete, but a cool, hard pillow, make-believe the cold air is of a cranked-up air-conditioner rather than the cruel winter winds, playact that the putrid stench of mold and rust and filth is just a sorry custom-made candle, tell yourself your exhaustion is from a night out way, way too late with friends-

Oh, but the fantasy shatters there: even in your daydreams you don't really know how to imagine what having friends would be like.

Maybe your hair is just matted because you had a crazy, wild night partying. Maybe you're hungry because you're on some fad trendy diet. Maybe your scarcity in clothes and belongings is because you're a minimalist. Maybe-

A roach crawls its spindly legs up your arm, and you jerk away but don't crush it.

You two are here for the same reason anyway. A safe haven (albeit dingy, albeit slovenly), tucked away from humans who'll crush you underfoot and elements that'll batter your skin till it's frostbitten and numbed beyond salvaging.

You're fine, right here. You don't mind, being here.

Really.

But now the water was out.

That's okay, though. You can lap some up somewhere. Suffice to say what you said before, isn't it? A homeless person is a threat. A homeless animal is a tragedy.

Truth be told, there was another reason you'd come back to this, your ever-present hidey hole.

The books. Water-stained and water-logged from years of leaks before you'd ever found it, they were not entirely hopeless. Somewhere, surely, must be... Italy Navarro? Italo Cavaro? Cavali? The book, damn it. If on a winter's night a traveler. Surely it was here.

This abandoned book shop, though… there is so much to say about it. To tell its story (what it was like while it was in the height of business, how it retained these hundreds of books even after the shop was bought out, how the shelves are sorted by a strange, seemingly nonsensical system which you'd pieced together over years), to explain each labyrinthine aisle, each interesting tale- you have so much to say. If only there was someone to listen.

You know the title, you know the author's initials. You don't know what the book looks like, though, and color and size would be helpful to know what to look for. You are also not quite sure what genre it falls under- speculative fiction? Contemporary literature? Comedy, tragedy, romance? The fact that it was second person should narrow it down, you had not read a second person story since the Choose Your Own Adventure book series..

There is no copy of it here (you decide, after hours of futile rifling), but what if there is and you missed it? You could kick yourself.

(It is nice to have something to look for. It gives one a sense of purpose; redirects your aimlessness to a clear, physical goal, a neatly typed-out quest in a video game: acquire the book).

You peruse the library because it is sort of common knowledge that libraries are better than shelters, and the librarian has known you well enough by now that she smiles as soon as you enter. Large, square, wire-rimmed glasses frame gentle brown eyes, corners crinkled with decades of smiles, the pilthum grooves from the corners of her lips running deep and up to the sides of her nose. How wonderful, you think, to laugh so much that it carves into your face, till your very skin is heavy with wrinkles etched from a whole, full lifetime of joy. Silvery threads lace through her brown bob, and somehow the greying hairs only complement her, the way everything seems to.

"This is not the sort of book you usually read."

"Yes, but do you have it?"

"Well, dear, we've only the one copy."

"Which is, of course, checked out." By him, no doubt.

"Oh, don't look so annoyed, dear. He's not one of those that keeps a book till it starts growing grey hairs of its own. He's a regular, ever punctual, returns each book before it's overdue, and in pristine condition, too. Such a darling. Never has to pay fines, doesn't talk much but always asks after my health- "

"I'm sure he does," you say curtly, "he certainly seems the type."

"You've met?"

"No."

She blinks owlishly you, but doesn't push or even ask. Kicked out of a shelter? Doesn't ask. Smell so repugnant and clearly wearing the same clothes she saw you in last month? Doesn't ask. Come in with a flimsy teen girl splattered in blood that is clearly not her own? Other than offering butterscotch candy from the bottom of her velvet old lady purse and offering a printout of hotlines, doesn't ask.

You huddle into a stiff desk chair- libraries being the only place in the world offering free, indiscriminate access to computers- click-clacking at the keyboard's fat buttons, mindlessly refreshing your inbox and reading only Thank you for taking the time to speak with us about our custodial opening. Unfortunately, we have decided to pursue other candidates who appear to match our requirements more closely at this time. and Thank you for applying to the position at this company. Unfortunately, the Ootori Group has moved to the next step in their hiring process, and your application was not selected at this time. and Thank you again for your interest in an employment opportunity with Center for Learning, and we wish you the best in your ongoing job search. and-

The rest of your inbox does not exactly provide relief:

Your available account balance is low

The available balance on PERSONAL CHECKING/SAVINGS ACCOUNT ending in 0981 has dropped below $100.

See available balance

If you want, you can set up an additional low balance alert for an amount other than $100 that's right for you.

You can also enroll in Balance Connect™ for overdraft protection to help you cover your purchases and payments.

Learn more about Balance Connect™

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"All yours, now, dear!" Your shoulders jump, startled out of a miserable stupor, the old librarian's sweet voice goading you back to reality. You have no idea why you read so much of these superfluous e-mails that never had good news anyway. You blink, eyes already straining from staring aimlessly at the computer monitor. The instant the book is returned, she waves you over, waving the tattered wrinkly book in her equally tatted wrinkly hands.

The man who has just returned it turns to see just who she's talking to, and his eyes widen in- shock? Disgust? Relief? As if his whole body is declaring finally, finally, finally!

You curl in on yourself, electrifying fear licking up your spine like a jellyfish sting, because look at the facts, at how much he did for you, at how you've done nothing at all but inconvenience him at every turn, he must hate you, so how can you help the way your throat and lungs squeeze shut, shoulders rolling in and neck tucking in and ready to flee the instant he-?

But he does not. Approach you. Or talk to you. Or so much as acknowledge you.

He only thanks the librarian and leaves.

Oh.

Oh, okay. You see how it is. You didn't want to talk to him anyway.

You quell your disappointment relief, purse your lips, fidgeting with the plastic library card (hot pink owl mascot with its wings outstretched along the length of the card, big round glasses perched atop its cheerful yellow beak), yet somehow you are not at all happy to get the book.

You don't even want to read it.

You genuinely don't.

(Because you want him to read it to you. You don't want to read it yourself.)

(Yes, yes, you love reading, you devour books not like food but like air, freely and greedily without having to budget or ration or think at all, but this book? This book specifically?

Can't be bothered to read it if he won't read it to you.)

Your hand hovers over the book- there is a steam engine train on its carmine-red cover- but you do not take it. "I actually- ah... still need to finish Earthlings. Yeah. Sayaka Murata, actually. I don't think I can read this book now, so... uh. You can just, y'know... give it to whoever is next in the waitlist, yeah? I changed my mind."

"Wonderful, dear, it was set for renewal- sir! Your book-"

He stops in his steps. Had he been in such a hurry to leave you?

Of course he was. You'd only ever seen each other in the dark, deep in the night, if you discount the time he'd seen you in the bath, but you'd been asleep. But now? Now that he sees you standing, talking, existing as a fully sentient human being? Not a cat huddled 'neath a dumpster, nor shivering atop a tree? Now that you're not something for him to coax and lure to false security? Now that he sees what you really look like, in broad daylight, where you can't hide (though all you want is to shrink away from his gaze)?

You really do shrink back, legs liquidizing and nearly shaking from the urge to run away. It's embarrassing, the way he looks at you. Disgust, revulsion, judgement. God, how your legs ache to scurry and hide under the desks, anything, anything to get away from his scathing execration.

Wordlessly, he drifts back to the front desk. Hands over his white card. She scans it with a cheerful beep. Hands it back to him. He tucks it into his coat pocket. It is small enough to fit comfortably in, though you can still make out its rectangular outline in the black fabric.

(The very same fabric he'd tucked you in a couple weeks ago, to shield you in the rainstorm).

All you see is his back- yes, broad and firm and strong, but also ramrod-straight, tense and coiled as if bracing to pounce or be pounced upon, hesitating, deliberating, shilly-shallying like he's gotta do something monumental but just isn't ready. A student who did study for a test but didn't expect to have to take it quite this soon, had in fact been banking on having more time to prepare. Taking a deep breath to steel himself- oh, God, he has to steel himself just to look at you?

He takes the smallest step towards you- barely perceptible. Not so much a step as it is slightly raising his right foot to move forward but not quite, as if the command from his brain had only halfway reached his muscles.

Slight as it is, it is still enough for you to flinch back.

He stops.

You lick your lips. They are dry, peeling like old paint flaking off decayed wood. Swallow thickly (you hear the crinkle in the back of your throat). You cannot bring yourself to make eye contact, instead occupying yourself with boring a hole into his boots with your self-conscious stare. Your voice comes out hoarse, humiliated, and heedful. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"You didn't." And he says it so earnestly, so sincerely, so simply and factually that you remember yourself all at once, ice cold water dunked on your head and bringing you right back to harsh bitter reality. He stops himself as if scared he'll scare you off again. Instead he sinks down in the orange bean bag chair, opens the little red book, and-

reads to you again.

~~~

more of my writing

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