writeriguess

[writeriguess]

Hi everyone 💛

First off, I’m really sorry for the complete silence with posting over the past two days — and especially for not getting back to messages or asks for the past week and a half. I know many of you reached out expecting an immediate reply, and I truly appreciate your patience. While I’m not able to respond to everything just yet (there’s quite a lot to go through and I can't steal my sister's phone for hours so I could go through them all), please know I’ve seen them, I’ll be reading each one carefully, and I will get back to everyone as soon as I’m able. I didn’t mean to just disappear — things took an unexpected turn.

Last week Wednesday, I had a flare-up of my chronic pain condition during an extra shift I picked up (trying to earn a bit more ahead of an upcoming vacation). Unfortunately, instead of finishing the shift, I ended up being admitted to the hospital. Because my condition carries a higher risk of stroke, the doctors decided to monitor me closely.

Right now, I’m stable and doing okay — just deeply fatigued, which they’re still keeping an eye on. The exhaustion has been stubborn, and an MRI revealed some abnormalities that might suggest an increased stroke risk. I’ve been started on preventive medication, and so far, things are looking cautiously optimistic. If all continues to improve, I’m hopeful that I’ll be discharged sometime next week.

For a bit of background: I had a minor stroke about seven years ago. Thankfully, it didn’t cause major damage, but it did leave a few lingering effects — like reduced strength in the toes of my left foot. Given that history, my care team is being extra cautious this time, and honestly, I’m so grateful for that.

To make matters even more chaotic: Tumblr decided to have one of those weeks. I had a queue scheduled through September, but due to a recurring glitch I’ve dealt with before, absolutely nothing has posted. So if my blog’s been unusually quiet lately, that’s why — I promise I haven’t ghosted anyone! I’ve just been dealing with a hospital stay and a tech failure. I’ll be reaching out to Tumblr Support about it once I’m home and back on my feet.

And here’s where I give the biggest shoutout to my amazing sister, Nyla 💛 She saw my blog stopped posting (she follows me here — sharp-eyed as ever), and came to the rescue by lending me her phone so I could finally check in. My own phone is basically an ancient fossil — it can barely handle texts, let alone Tumblr. So seriously, please send all your love to Nyla — she’s been an absolute hero this week.

There is a bit of unexpected good news in all this: my boss — who truly deserves a medal and unlimited coffee — told me I won’t need to make up the hours I’ve missed during my hospital stay. Normally, that would mean postponing my vacation or picking up extra shifts later. But since I’d already been working additional hours and have a solid track record, he’s covering for me and paying my full salary. Which means: vacation technically started early! Not exactly the kickoff I had in mind, but hey — silver linings.

I’m really hoping to be home and back to my usual rhythm next week. I’ve missed being here so much — sharing stories, talking with you all, just being part of this space. Your support, kindness, and patience mean more than I can put into words.

In the meantime: please take care of yourselves, drink some water, check in on your friends, and don’t forget to send a little extra love to Nyla for being the MVP of the week 💛

I have to give her phone back now, but talk soon.

[writeriguess]

Just a quick question, since it's not listed in your "Rules/Guidelines"... do you also write about OCs and canon?

It would then be a father (canon) and son (OC) story. More specifically, about Dabi and his son Kaji in an awkward father-son conversation.

Hi! Sorry for the late reply — I’m currently at the hospital. I used to have OC fics listed before, but they were frequently misused, so I removed that option when I came back. That said, your scenario sounds totally fine! I’d be open to writing it, so feel free to send in your request.

[writeriguess]

hihi!!! just a question, I want to send in a request but I’m unsure if you write for her. But anyway! do you write for uraraka?

no worries if you don’t! I just love your writing. it’s always so in character & really hooks my attention! thank youu ^_^

Hi!! So sorry for the late reply — I’m currently at the hospital. But yes, I absolutely do write for Uraraka! Feel free to send your request anytime 💕 And thank you so much for your kind words, that really means a lot to me!

[writeriguess]

can we pls pls pls get a part two to house built on ash

Hi! I actually wrote a part two for it a while back — you can find it on my blog under the Bakugo x Reader tag if you scroll through a bit. I'm really sorry I can't link it directly right now — I'm currently in the hospital and using my sister’s phone, so I don’t have much time to dig through my posts. But it’s definitely there if you take a look!

[writeriguess]

hi hi! i was hoping you could write a katsuki bakugo x autistic!reader who struggles with ARFID/sensory issues when it comes to food and eating? thank you very much!

Taste and Patience

You sit on the edge of the couch, fingers tangled in the hem of your sweatshirt, watching the microwave tick down the last fifteen seconds on a plate of plain white rice. That’s all you can stomach tonight. Again. Just rice.

It’s not even the warm, buttery kind that smells like something you’d imagine a comforting hug would taste like. No. It’s dry. No seasoning. No sauce. It smells like almost nothing. But at least it’s safe.

You hear the front door open, heavy boots clunking on the floor. Katsuki’s home.

“Oi,” he calls from the hallway, dropping his keys into the tray on the entry table like always. “You eat yet?”

You flinch. You don’t want to lie. But you’re not sure you can handle another conversation about this.

“Sort of,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“Sort of?” he appears in the doorway, frowning. His eyes flick to the microwave as it beeps, then to the bowl in your hands as you pull it out. “Rice again?”

“Yeah,” you say, focusing way too hard on the way the steam curls from the bowl.

Katsuki walks closer, scratching the back of his neck. His voice softens. “You eat anything else today?”

You shake your head. “I tried. I—I made some toast but it was… it got weird in my mouth. Too scratchy.”

He squats down in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. “Did you spit it out?”

You nod, shame crawling up the back of your neck like it always does when this happens. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to eat like a normal—”

“Hey.” His voice is firm. Not angry, but grounding. “Don’t talk like that.”

You blink at him. Your throat feels tight.

“I mean it,” he says, squeezing your knees a little. “There’s not a single damn thing wrong with you just ‘cause food feels like hell sometimes. You’re trying, right?”

You nod.

“That’s all I give a shit about. Okay?”

You look down at the bowl. “I hate that I’m like this. I wish I could just… eat whatever like everyone else does. Go out and not panic because the menu has too many things I don’t recognize. Not gag when something has the wrong texture.”

Bakugo doesn’t interrupt. He never does when you get like this—when the words come all messy and hard and your chest feels like it might collapse from how small you feel.

“I get so hungry,” you whisper, voice cracking. “But the thought of putting anything new in my mouth just makes me want to cry. Or puke. Sometimes both.”

He moves up onto the couch beside you, pulling you gently into his side. “You ever think I don’t get it?” he asks quietly.

You blink at him. “I mean… you don’t, though. You eat literally everything.”

He chuckles, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. “Yeah, but I’ve got shit I deal with too. Not the same, but I know what it’s like for your body to fight you. Or your brain. Or both.”

You stare at the rice in your bowl. It’s already cooling. You kind of don’t want it anymore.

“Wanna heat it back up?” he asks, noticing.

You shrug.

“Wanna put it away and just hang with me for a bit?”

You nod.

He takes the bowl from your hands without a word and slides it into the fridge. Then he comes back, sits beside you again, and puts his arm around your shoulder. You melt into him like you always do. Like his warmth is the one kind you can handle without flinching.

“You ever want help trying something new,” he murmurs after a few minutes, “we can do it together. You pick what it is. We can go slow. No pressure. And if you spit it out or can’t eat it, who gives a shit?”

“But what if I waste food?” you ask, voice small.

“I’ll eat it,” he smirks. “You know I’m a bottomless pit.”

You laugh weakly. “You are. You’re basically a black hole.”

“Damn right.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It’s steady. It always is.

“Hey, remember that plain udon we tried last month?” he says. “You liked that, right?”

“Yeah… the noodles were soft. Not slimy. And the broth was okay. Just mild enough.”

“We could try that again. Or I can make it at home, make it blander if you want.”

“Would you really do that?”

Bakugo snorts. “You think I wouldn’t fight god himself to make sure you eat something that doesn’t make you wanna scream?”

You smile. It’s small, but it’s there. “You’re kinda dramatic.”

“Damn right I am. You love that about me.”

You poke his side, and he grabs your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Thanks for not getting mad about it,” you say quietly.

“Why the hell would I get mad?”

“People do,” you mutter. “They think I’m being difficult. Or picky. Or manipulative.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” he says. “You’re not being anything but honest. And I’d rather you be honest than force yourself to eat something that makes you feel sick.”

You’re quiet for a while. Then—

“Maybe tomorrow we could try something. Just a little. One bite.”

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Maybe. If you make it.”

“Hell yeah, I’ll make it. I’ll make three versions so you can pick the one that feels right. I’ll even name ‘em something dumb like ‘Option A: Gentle as Hell’ or ‘Option C: You’re Gonna Hate It But I Made It Anyway.’”

You laugh again, genuinely this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I do.”

He holds you a little tighter. “And I love you. All of you. Even the parts that are picky, and sensitive, and terrified of toast.”

You snort. “I am terrified of toast.”

“And that’s valid.”

You rest there with him in silence for a while, the rice forgotten. The hunger still there, but not unbearable. Not when you feel this safe. Not when Katsuki’s beside you, promising that tomorrow—or next week, or next month—you can try again.

And you believe him. Because with him, you always feel brave enough to try.

[writeriguess]

Another Katsuki x fem reader where she's in danger. I knowwww there's a lot of those and this is cringe but I WANT TO SEE KATSUKI SAVING HERRRRR

Stay With Me

The warehouse reeked of burnt chemicals and blood. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and the kind of silence that came after a fight you didn’t win. Katsuki’s boots crunched over shattered glass as he stalked through the wreckage, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

“Where is she?” he snarled, voice low and ragged, fury boiling off him in waves.

They said you were here.

They said the villains dragged you into this mess because of him. Because you were close to him. Because they knew he’d come.

They were right.

Another explosion cracked through the rafters as he blasted his way through a sealed door. Flames curled up the edges of his gauntlets. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel anything but the raw, clawing panic in his chest.

“Katsuki—”

Your voice.

Broken. Weak.

His heart nearly stopped.

He turned fast—nearly tripping over debris—until he saw you. Slumped against the far wall, bound at the wrists, bruised and bleeding but alive. Barely.

“Dumbass,” he breathed, rushing to you. “What the hell were you thinking?! Letting them take you like that—!”

His hands were shaking as he reached for you, tearing at the restraints with an explosion small enough not to hurt you, but hot with anger anyway. “You’re supposed to run. Not—fuck—not freeze like a scared little—”

“I didn’t freeze,” you whispered. Your lip was split. “They came too fast. I—I tried to fight. I really did.”

Katsuki dropped to his knees in front of you, expression twisting like something inside him had just split open. He cupped your face in soot-streaked hands, thumbs grazing the bruises. “You’re bleeding.”

“No shit,” you muttered, blinking up at him with a pained smirk. “You gonna cry about it?”

“I should leave you here.”

“But you won’t.”

He let out a noise between a scoff and a breathless laugh. “God, you’re such a pain in the ass.”

Then he pulled you against him. Not gently—but like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. His arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, trembling with adrenaline, with fear, with relief.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he muttered into your hair.

“I know.”

“Thought I was gonna get here too late.”

“You weren’t.”

“I would’ve burned this whole fucking city down if I was.”

You clung to him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring you to this world.

“I knew you’d come,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I kept thinking that. Even when they said you wouldn’t.”

“They’re dead,” he growled. “They don’t get to say anything anymore.”

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes—red, fierce, and raw—searched yours like he didn’t know how to say it. Not really. But he had to try.

“You’re not allowed to die before me. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And you never—never—go off without telling me again.”

“I didn’t—”

“I don’t give a damn,” he snapped. “Next time, I’ll chain you to me if I have to.”

“Kinky.”

He groaned, half-exasperated, half-relieved. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Your breath caught.

“What?” you whispered.

“I said you’re lucky I love you, idiot.” His voice cracked at the edges. “Now shut up and let me get you outta here.”

And when he lifted you into his arms—scorched and bloody and still trying to act like you weren’t about to pass out—you finally let yourself fall against his shoulder, safe.

Because Katsuki Bakugo had come for you.

And nothing in the world could stop him when it mattered most.

[writeriguess]

HIIII can you PLEEEEAAAASE write a Kiri x reader where he finds out she's being abused by her boyfriend (she's walking stiff and he sees bruises all over her body when he accidentally walks in while she's changing and is in just her under wear).

Cracks in the Armor

It started small.

Little things.

You stopped joking around after class. You didn’t hang around the dorm lounge as much. You moved stiffly, like your body didn’t belong to you, and smiled in a way that looked… rehearsed. Empty.

Kirishima noticed. Of course he did.

At first, he chalked it up to stress. Everyone at U.A. got pushed to their limit. Maybe your classes were wearing you down, or you just needed space.

But then came the bruises.

Small ones at first—hidden beneath sleeves, around your wrists, easily written off. But they grew. A flash of purple near your collarbone one day. A yellowing mark near your shoulder the next.

He saw it when you reached for your bag. He saw it when your sleeve slipped down. He saw it when you winced just from sitting too fast.

And every time he asked about it, you gave the same answer:

“Oh, I fell. Training accident.”

You always smiled.

But it wasn’t the kind of smile that belonged on your face.

It happened after training one day.

You lingered in the locker room, knowing everyone else had finished up and cleared out. You were in a hurry—peeling off your training shirt, wanting nothing more than to change, get out, go home and pretend everything was fine.

You didn’t hear the door open.

“Yo, Y/N—did you leave your—!?”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned sharply, shirt in hand, standing there in just your underwear and sports bra.

And Kirishima stood frozen in the doorway. His eyes landed on your body—and the bruises told a story you couldn’t take back.

Your ribs were an ugly mess of purple and green. Finger-shaped marks were etched into your arms. A handprint—faint but clear—lingered across your hip like some kind of cruel signature.

“K-Kirishima!” you gasped, grabbing for the shirt again, pressing it to your front like a shield. “Get out! Please—!”

He didn’t move.

“...Who did this?” he asked quietly.

You turned away from him, shame flooding your face.

“I—I fell. It’s from training,” you stammered, clutching the fabric harder. “I—I pushed myself too hard sparring with Iida, and then I slipped down the stairs last night, and—”

“Y/N.”

You didn’t want to look at him.

“I’m serious!” you snapped. “It’s not—! I mean, it’s not what it looks like.”

You heard him take a step closer. Then another. But his voice didn’t rise. It didn’t go angry, or loud. It went soft—gentle in a way that made your eyes sting.

“Please don’t lie to me.”

Your lower lip trembled.

“I’m not,” you whispered. “I just… I mess up sometimes. I push him too far. I say the wrong thing or… Or I don’t listen when I should.”

Kirishima’s chest tightened.

“You’re saying this is your fault?”

You swallowed hard.

“I know he doesn’t mean to hurt me,” you said, eyes burning now. “It just—sometimes it happens. I just need to stop being so difficult.”

Silence.

A long, heavy silence.

Then—

“You think you deserve this?” Kirishima asked, his voice trembling now too. “That this is something you earned?”

You couldn’t answer. You were too busy holding yourself together. Too busy choking back the tears clawing their way to the surface.

He walked up slowly, like you were a wild animal that might bolt at any second. You expected him to yell, or to say something condescending or full of pity.

But instead, he took off his hoodie and carefully placed it around your shoulders.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he said. “Not right now. But I’m not going to let you go through this alone anymore.”

You shook your head. “You don’t get it, Kiri. If anyone finds out, he’ll—he said—he promised things would get worse if I ever told—”

“He threatened you?”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “He said no one would believe me anyway.”

Kirishima’s jaw clenched, his fists curled tight. But he didn’t let the anger reach you. His whole body was shaking, but when he spoke, it was still calm. Gentle.

“Then I’ll believe you,” he said. “I do believe you.”

That broke you.

You collapsed into him, sobbing into his chest as his arms wrapped carefully, protectively, around your shaking frame.

And in that moment—just for that moment—you felt safe.

Truly, deeply safe.

Kirishima didn't try to "fix" it. He didn't rush you, or demand answers. He just held you like you mattered. Like you weren't broken.

Because to him—you weren't.

[writeriguess]

Hawks x fem reader! She's a major thrillseeker and he's taking her to fly around the city and does all kinds of "risky" stuff (while making sure she stays safe).

Don’t Let Go

The wind tugged at your hair and stung your cheeks as you stood on the edge of the rooftop. Forty stories up. Hawks hovered beside you, arms crossed, grin lazy.

"You sure about this?" he asked, one golden brow lifted.

"You promised me a thrill, bird boy," you smirked, leaning forward just slightly to watch the street below. "Don’t tell me you’re getting cold wings now."

He chuckled, eyes sparkling. "You’re a menace. You know that, right?"

"You love it."

He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His wings flared wide behind you both, catching the moonlight.

"You have no idea," he murmured into your ear. Then, without warning—

He jumped.

Your scream turned to laughter as the city blurred into streaks of light. He tucked you against him tightly, wings slicing through the air with sharp grace.

"Holy sh—!" you gasped, clutching his jacket. "You didn’t even count down!"

"Where’s the fun in that?" he laughed. "You said you wanted risky."

"This is insane!" you shrieked, wind rushing past your ears. "You’re crazy!"

"You should see me on a bad day," he shouted over the wind, swooping down toward a skyscraper. You gasped again as he veered just to the side, skimming the glass so close you thought your toes would leave streaks.

You laughed, breathless. "You did that on purpose."

"Obviously. Gotta give you your money’s worth."

He dipped suddenly, doing a barrel roll that left your stomach flipping. You clung to him and laughed harder.

"Okay, okay, I admit it," you yelled. "This is actually amazing!"

"I knew you’d come around." He shot upward again, the city lights growing smaller beneath you as he soared high above the skyline. His wings slowed, letting you hover midair, suspended in the glow of Tokyo Tower.

For a moment, it was just the two of you. Silent, floating. The wind died to a whisper.

Your voice dropped. "You ever take anyone else up here?"

He glanced at you, a rare seriousness in his eyes. "...Nope. You’re the first."

You blinked. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious." His voice softened. "I mean, most people panic once I leave the ground. You? You’re yelling for me to fly faster."

"That’s because I trust you," you said. Then, grinning: "And I’ve got a death wish."

He chuckled. "Nah. You just like danger with a safety net."

You shot him a look. "You saying you’re the net?"

He smirked. "I never drop what’s mine."

You didn’t even have a comeback for that. He could probably feel the way your heartbeat picked up.

He tilted his head. "Want to try something really crazy?"

"Define crazy."

He raised your hand, guiding it to the edge of his wing. "You steer."

"Wait—what?!"

"I’ll stay close. I’m still holding you. But you get to lead." His voice was low and coaxing. "Unless you’re scared."

You narrowed your eyes. "Hand it over, pigeon boy."

He laughed, and just like that, you were guiding the flight. A little jerky at first, but he adjusted instantly, muscles shifting under his jacket as his wings obeyed your pressure. The thrill was electric—like riding a rollercoaster that listened to you.

You screamed, laughing, as you banked hard left, then right. "This is unreal!"

"You’re doing great," he called. Then, teasing: "Maybe a little heavy on the turns, though."

"Shut up and hold on!"

He grinned, then dipped again, your body flush against his as you both freefell toward the street, only for him to snap his wings open at the last second and shoot sideways through a narrow alley.

You were breathless by the time you landed on another rooftop, legs shaky and heart thundering.

"That was—"

"Amazing?" he offered.

You nodded, grinning wildly. "I was gonna say 'completely irresponsible,' but yeah. That too."

He stepped closer, brushing hair from your face, voice low and playful. "Want to go again?"

You glanced at the sky, then at him. "Hell yeah."

He smiled, slow and warm. "Told you. Menace."

[writeriguess]

Ohhhhh can I have a Dabi fic where Dabi was caught before the Final War, and people tried to demand him to be locked away and the key thrown away for life, but reader (fem preferably please...), who's his girlfriend, managed to convince the Todoroki family to fund his rehabilation back to society. So my request is the reader telling him he has two options, either being locked away or to be rehabiliated. He resents the latter option because that would mean working on abandoning his hatred but she begs him to agree.

What’s Left After Fire

The room was colorless — like they’d bled it dry.

Concrete walls. Steel chair. Two-way mirror. Lights that buzzed too loud above. It felt like a mausoleum more than a holding room — like they’d built a tomb just for him, and instead of a grave, they’d left a table and a pair of manacles.

His skin was stretched tight in places where grafts had failed. The scent of old antiseptic and scorched flesh lingered around him, clinging to the seams of his patched-up body. His jacket was gone. Just prison-grade sweats now — grey, just like everything else.

Except his hair. That stubborn, snow-white hair — grown longer now, falling in front of his eyes in uneven strands. There was no flame here, no color, but he still burned.

And then you walked in.

The door shut behind you, heavy and final.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink. Just sat, his wrists shackled to the metal table in front of him, eyes pointed at nothing. His voice came out flat, low — barely above a growl.

“If you’re here to give me your last goodbye, make it quick.”

You didn’t flinch.

“I’m not.”

No reaction. No smirk. Not even a twitch.

You stepped forward. The sound of your boots on the floor was the loudest thing in the room.

“I’m here to give you a choice.”

That made something flicker across his face — not curiosity, not interest, but irritation. Like a cigarette ember catching wind.

“Choice,” he repeated, like it tasted bad in his mouth. “Funny word. You know what they told me when they cuffed me to this chair?”

You stayed quiet.

“‘You’re lucky she’s still vouching for you,’” he recited, low and mocking. “‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Dabi.’”

A pause. His eyes finally met yours — pale, narrowed, full of fury.

“So tell me. How much did you beg?”

Your jaw clenched. You hadn’t expected him to thank you, but you didn’t think he’d spit like this either. Then again… no, you did.

“I didn’t beg,” you said. “I made them listen.”

He gave a slow blink. Lazy. Dangerous.

“And who the hell are you to make the Todorokis do anything?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned back in the chair. The restraints bit into his skin as he moved — his wrists already chafed raw. He didn’t care. Maybe he liked the burn. Maybe it made him feel alive.

“You know Shoto’s the one who caught me, right?” he asked. “Used his little ice-and-fire combo trick like a good boy. All according to Enji’s plan. Team effort. Very heroic. Real family bonding moment.”

“I know,” you said quietly.

His laugh was short and sharp.

“And now the same family wants to save me? What changed, huh? What miracle convinced them to waste resources on a broken weapon?”

“You. You convinced them.”

That made him still.

You took a step closer, dropping a thick folder on the table. His file. Evaluations, proposals, risk assessments, medical records.

“I laid it out. Told them they had two choices. Let the system eat you alive… or give you a shot at something else.”

“And they bought it?”

“They agreed in less than five minutes.”

His jaw twitched. “Yeah. I bet Enji loved the idea. Fixing the family screw-up with a rehab poster boy. Slap a progress chart on my face and call it ‘atonement.’”

You didn’t say anything.

He leaned forward, eyes burning now, voice razor-sharp.

“He doesn’t get to cleanse his sins through me.”

“He’s not the reason this is happening.”

“Isn’t he?” he snapped. “Come on. Let’s not pretend this is about me. I gave them everything they deserve. Burned their legacy to the ground. Called the world to watch. And now that the smoke’s cleared, Enji’s crawling back, waving the flag of forgiveness, thinking he can salvage me like I’m some broken PR stunt.”

You let the words settle. They were heavier than the walls around you.

“Maybe he is,” you said finally. “Maybe Enji sees this as damage control. But I don’t.”

“Of course not,” he sneered. “You still think there’s something worth saving in here.”

He thumped his chest once, dull against ribs.

“I saw what was left in the mirror. You know what I saw?”

He looked up again. His voice dropped into something bitter.

“Nothing. Just a mess of scars and ash and dead nerves.”

“You’re alive.”

“I didn’t ask to be.”

“You did,” you said, stepping even closer. “Every time you kept moving after your skin peeled off. Every time you burned and bled and screamed and still didn’t die. You fought for something. I don’t know if it was revenge or rage or survival, but you chose it.”

He was silent.

“And now I’m giving you another choice. One that isn’t about Enji, or the League, or the people you hurt. One that’s about you.”

He looked at you like you were speaking a different language.

“I’m not giving you freedom. I’m giving you a long, brutal, humiliating climb. Doctors. Supervised housing. Monitored Quirk suppression. Therapy. Family meetings. The works.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“It might be.”

Another silence. The kind that makes your stomach twist.

Then you tried again. Carefully. Softly.

“You can take it, or you can stay here. Alone. Until the end of your life.”

He looked down at his hands. Palms burned. Fingers fused in places. Knuckles split and bleeding.

He hated the idea of being anyone’s project. Especially his father’s.

You stepped closer, heart pounding.

“Touya—”

He jerked his head up so fast it almost rattled his chains.

“Don’t.”

Your mouth shut.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t you fucking say that name right now.”

You exhaled through your nose, trying to stay calm.

“I only call you Touya when I need you to hear me.”

His lip curled. “That’s not my name anymore.”

“I know.”

“Then stop pretending it is.”

You didn’t step back, even as he bristled.

“I call you Touya because you’re not just Dabi. You’re not just fire and pain and vengeance. You’re still that boy who wanted to be loved. And you still have the choice to be something more.”

He looked at you for a long time.

His eyes weren’t soft. They weren’t melting, or flickering with buried warmth. They were hard. Suspicious. But under all of it — that rage, that disgust, that bone-deep grief — was a sliver of something else.

Not hope. Not yet. But the ache of possibility.

And he hated it.

He hated that you saw it. That you were dragging it out of him like some surgeon with a scalpel and no anesthesia.

“So those are my options,” he muttered.

You nodded.

“Cage or climb.”

“Yeah.”

He looked back down. Took a slow breath. Then — like glass cracking under pressure — he muttered, low and lethal:

“Fine.”

You barely heard it. But he didn’t say it again.

He leaned back in the chair. The cuffs held, the air was heavy, and nothing about him softened.

But he said it.

And that was more than you ever expected.

[writeriguess]

Pls write Katsuki x female reader where she's really really sick and has a high fever and katsuki takes care of her.

Too Hot to Handle

Your skin burned, clammy and sticky with sweat. Every inch of your body ached, your head throbbed with a dull, relentless pressure, and even blinking felt like a monumental task. You’d meant to text Katsuki that you wouldn’t make it to movie night, but your fingers had given up halfway through the message and you’d passed out again.

When you woke up, it wasn’t to the quiet hum of your apartment or the distant sound of traffic. It was to a sharp knock—followed immediately by the creak of the front door opening.

“Oi. You alive or what?” came a familiar voice. Gruff. Annoyed. Concerned.

You barely had the energy to turn your head toward your bedroom door before Katsuki stormed in, a plastic bag dangling from one hand, the other already dialing up the scowl on his face.

“What the hell is this?” he snapped, holding up your phone. “You text me ‘srry cant cme 2nite feel bda’ and then disappear off the face of the fuckin' earth? Are you stupid?”

You groaned in response, too exhausted to argue.

He crossed the room in two strides and sat on the edge of your bed, eyes narrowing as he looked at you. The irritation melted into something tighter, something softer. “Shit,” he muttered. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” you rasped, voice nearly gone. “Feel worse.”

Katsuki reached out and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead without hesitation.

His jaw clenched.

“Goddamn it. You’re burning up. Why the hell didn’t you call me?”

You tried to shrug, but the movement was weak. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Thought I’d sleep it off…”

He gave you a look so withering it could have turned water to steam.

“You’re a dumbass,” he muttered, getting up. “Stay put.”

You weren’t going anywhere, even if you wanted to.

A few minutes later, he returned with a damp towel, a thermometer, a bottle of water, and what looked like half a pharmacy’s worth of supplies.

He pressed the thermometer to your lips. “Open. And don’t argue.”

You obeyed, if only because you didn’t have the strength to do anything else.

After the beep, he read the number and cursed under his breath. “103.8. Fuckin’ ridiculous. You’re lucky I came.”

You shut your eyes. “Sorry…”

There was silence for a moment. Then, softer, he said, “Don’t be. Just—next time, tell me. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the goddamn night.”

You opened your eyes slowly. “You came all the way over here…?”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing away like it embarrassed him. “You weren’t answering. I figured somethin’ was wrong.”

He folded the towel and laid it gently across your forehead, hands surprisingly tender as he adjusted it.

“Drink this,” he said, lifting your head enough to help you sip water. “Slow.”

You tried. The water felt like heaven, but swallowing was hard. He watched you the whole time, like you might spontaneously combust if he blinked.

“You take anything?”

You gave him a weak shake of your head. “Didn’t get up…”

Katsuki exhaled through his nose. “You really are helpless when you’re sick, huh?”

He handed you two fever-reducing tablets and coaxed you through swallowing them before gently lowering you back against the pillows. His movements were still rough around the edges—he was Katsuki, after all—but there was a care to it. A quiet patience he usually hid behind explosions and profanity.

You closed your eyes again, heat still pounding behind them.

“I hate this,” you mumbled. “I feel gross.”

“You are gross,” he said. Then, after a pause, “But you’re mine, so I’m stuck with you.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

He stayed. All night.

You drifted in and out of sleep, but every time you surfaced, he was there—cooling your skin, wiping away sweat, forcing you to drink, cursing you gently under his breath. Once, you woke to find him holding your hand, head resting on the side of your bed, mouth slack with sleep.

He must’ve felt you shift because he stirred, blinking blearily.

“You awake?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. “Barely.”

“How’re you feelin’?”

“Horrible.”

He smirked, brushing his thumb along the back of your hand. “Still alive, though.”

“Only because you’re here.”

His smirk faded into something else—something warmer. Something that settled in his chest and stayed.

“Damn right I am.”

[writeriguess]

Can you write a Katsuki x fem reader fic where he thinks she has died on a mission and is enraged, and when she comes back dripping wet from thunder, he's enraged at her because he was so worried, but then just starts to sob and throws himself into her arms, which shocks her.

Thunderstruck

The first time it happens, it’s a flicker.

Static across the comm line. Barely a second. But Bakugo knows the sound of failure. He knows the sound of something breaking.

The comms don’t come back.

He’s halfway out of his seat before anyone else notices. Pacing. Cursing. Hands clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms through the gloves.

“Tch. It’s just interference,” someone says. “Storm’s picking up.”

But his gut—his gut tells him otherwise.

You’re never late. Never careless. Never silent.

And Katsuki Bakugo knows what silence means on the battlefield.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” you teased, ruffling his hair. “It’s recon, Katsuki. We’re just getting layouts and logging activity. No combat.”

He scowled, swatting your hand away. “Don’t act like you can’t get your ass blown off doing paperwork.”

You smirked. “You worried about me?”

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed your chin and kissed you hard, like he could stamp his presence onto your bones.

“Come back in one piece, dumbass,” he muttered.

“Always.”

That was six hours ago.

Now he’s storming through HQ like a bomb with a cracked shell, barking orders even though it’s not his mission, demanding updates like anyone can give him what he wants—

Your location. Your vitals. Your voice.

When Kirishima finally grabs him by the shoulder and says, “Katsuki... there was an explosion at the recon site,” he doesn’t process it.

Until they show him the wreckage.

Until they pull something half-burned from under a pile of concrete.

Until it’s your uniform jacket.

Still smoking.

Bloodied.

He goes still.

Every sound disappears. The rain, the shouting, the chopper overhead—it all fades to a dull, suffocating roar inside his skull.

No body.

No confirmation.

But the silence? The silence is screaming.

He doesn't realize he's dropped to his knees until someone tries to lift him.

He shoves them off with a snarl, dragging the scorched fabric into his lap like he can will it to be fake. Just some mistake. A wrong jacket. Someone else’s blood.

But he knows it’s yours.

He can smell your shampoo burned into the fibers. His hands have been on this fabric a hundred times—pulling it off you, gripping it when you hugged him from behind.

And now it smells like smoke.

He doesn’t remember getting back to HQ. Doesn’t remember smashing a hole in the wall of the locker room. Doesn’t remember sobbing, just once, into the broken tile before punching it again.

What he remembers is fear.

Not the kind from battle. Not even the kind from losing.

It’s the fear of never getting the chance.

Never getting to say he loved you, not really. Not with the quiet, sacred kind of love he’d never admitted out loud. The kind that choked him when you left the room and lit him on fire when you laughed.

You died thinking you were just his teammate. His girlfriend, maybe.

But not that you were everything.

So when the door creaks open five hours later, and you stumble in—drenched, shaking, scraped raw but alive—

Bakugo doesn’t believe it at first.

He thinks it’s his brain cracking under the weight of grief.

But then you speak.

“Guys?” your voice wobbles. “I—I’m okay. I—”

He turns.

And the pain doesn’t leave him.

It erupts.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Your eyes go wide. You don’t even get the chance to answer before he’s across the room, voice thunderous, hands clenched, eyes glowing with something rabid and shattered.

“Do you even fucking realize what you did to me?!” he growls, stalking closer. “You just disappear in the middle of a mission—comms go dark, and then BOOM—nothing but rubble! Nothing but your jacket and a bloodstain and you think you can just—just fucking—walk in like you didn’t just RIP MY GODDAMN WORLD APART?!”

“I—I fell—into the canal,” you stammer, backing up a step. “There was a blast—I couldn’t—my earpiece was gone, I tried to get back—”

He isn’t listening.

“I thought I lost you,” he snarls, voice breaking. “I thought I’d never hear your voice again. Never feel your hand. Never—fuck.”

The rage snaps.

He stumbles forward like gravity’s finally won, fists slackening as a choked sound breaks from his throat.

And then he collapses into you.

A full-body crash. Hands in your soaked hair. Face buried in your neck. Shoulders trembling. Your heart almost stops—because Katsuki Bakugo, your Katsuki, the one who never cried, the one who mocked people for crying—

Is sobbing.

Silent. Violent. Breathless. He clutches you like something fragile, like something he still doesn’t trust to be real.

“...Katsuki?”

You whisper it, barely breathing.

He can’t answer.

Because this is the second time he’s lost everything.

The first was when he thought he’d never be good enough.

This time it was you.

And if he ever had to go through that again, it would kill him.

You hold him tighter. One hand on the back of his neck, the other gripping the back of his hero suit.

“I’m here,” you whisper against his temple. “I’m right here. I’m sorry I scared you.”

He inhales like it hurts.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he whispers, voice shaking. “I swear to god, I—if I’d lost you, I—”

You pull back just enough to see his face. Tear-streaked, flushed, and furious—but the kind of fury that only comes from love.

“I won’t,” you say softly. “I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time all day, his breathing starts to steady.

And then he kisses you.

Hard. Desperate. Like he needs to feel every inch of you alive beneath him.

And you let him.

Because for a moment, both of you were ghosts.

But now—he’s real.

And so are you.

[writeriguess]

KATSUKIIIII X F READER where she's having her periods??

Boom Boy & the Blood Moon

You didn’t move from the couch, buried beneath five layers of blankets, a slowly cooling heating pad, and the crushing weight of cramps that felt like your uterus was trying to murder you from the inside out.

Your phone buzzed again.

You ignored it.

Another buzz.

Then a knock.

Then the sound of your front door unlocking.

You groaned into your pillow.

“Y/N?”

Bakugou’s voice carried into the room like a warning shot. “Why the fuck aren’t you answering me?”

You didn’t lift your head.

“Because I’m in hell,” you mumbled. “Literal, bloody hell.”

You heard him pause near the door, scanning the scene like he just walked into a crime scene.

“You sick?”

“No,” you groaned. “Worse.”

His tone shifted instantly.

“...Shit.”

“What is it? What happened?”

You flopped one hand out from the blanket burrito and gave him a dramatic wave.

“Period,” you said mournfully. “Cramps. Pain. Suffering.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh.”

You peeked up at him. He stood awkwardly at the edge of the room, as if unsure whether to step closer or leave you to die in peace.

His hands were in the pockets of his hoodie, jaw tight.

“You dying or just being dramatic?”

You squinted at him.

“You ever had a cramp that made you want to punch God?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“...No?”

“Exactly. Then shut up and let me die.”

Bakugou snorted.

“You’re so fuckin’ dramatic.”

You grumbled and buried yourself deeper into your blanket. “Go away.”

“No.”

You heard him disappear into the kitchen. Cabinets opened. Something clattered. Then silence.

You were drifting off when he returned, carrying a tray.

“Move over.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He nudged you with his knee.

“I said move, dumbass.”

You grunted but shifted slightly. He set the tray on the coffee table, then gently peeled away the cooling heating pad from your belly.

“This is cold.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you muttered.

He didn’t say anything. Just left the room again. A minute later, he came back and handed you a warm one.

“Here.”

You blinked. “Did you… reheat it for me?”

“Tch. What, you want a fuckin’ medal?”

You smiled despite yourself.

“No. Just… thanks.”

“Eat,” he said, pointing at the tray. “I made soup.”

You stared at it.

“Did you poison it?”

He rolled his eyes.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d already be six feet under.”

You took a sip. It was actually good. Warm, salty, exactly what your angry body needed.

“…This is really nice.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the couch, watching you.

“I remembered you said chocolate helps,” he said casually. “So I brought your dumb snacks, too.”

You looked over. Sure enough — a bag of your favorite candy and a fresh pack of pads were sitting beside the tray.

Your heart squeezed.

“Katsuki…”

He looked away quickly.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“But you remembered the brand.”

He shrugged.

“You act like I don’t pay attention. You’re bleeding and pissy and curled up like a dead bug. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

You laughed softly. “Dead bug?”

“Shut up.”

You took another sip of soup.

“I’m serious, though. You didn’t have to come. I was just gonna cry into a heating pad and hope for the best.”

“Well, that’s dumb,” he said. “I’m here. Deal with it.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Okay.”

He grunted, but didn’t move away.

You stayed like that for a while — eating, sipping tea, listening to the low hum of the TV.

Then:

“Katsuki?”

“What now?”

“Do I gross you out like this?”

He blinked.

“What?”

You fidgeted.

“Like… bleeding and whiny and gross. Do I gross you out?”

He stared at you.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?”

You looked away. “I dunno.”

Bakugou reached over and turned your face toward him.

“Listen,” he said slowly. “You could be covered in blood, sweat, dirt, whatever — and I still wouldn’t think you’re gross.”

You blinked.

“I’ve seen people explode in battle, Y/N. Your period is not gonna scare me.”

You laughed, a little teary.

“I love you.”

He scoffed.

“‘Course you do. I’m amazing.”

You smacked his arm lightly.

“Ass.”

He smirked and pulled you closer.

“I love you too, dumbass.”

You melted against him, full heart and sore belly and all.

He wrapped his arms around you, one hand pressed gently over the heating pad, the other stroking your hair.

And for once, the cramps didn’t seem quite so bad.

[writeriguess]

I'M OBSESSED HOW YOU WRITE KATSUKI!!! That said, I'd like you to write an idea of mine. Katsuki has been in LOOOOVE with reader for a looooong time but has never confessed. Of course Bakusquad always tries to usher him because they can't stand seeing him so lovesick and keep telling him she's going to find someone else one day. And one day, their warnings come true and he hears that Iida has asked her to go out with him and she has agreed, which finally pushes him into confessing, and she returns his feelings but thought it's impossible he'd ever like her back, which is why she tried to move on from him and Iida presented a chance.

Too Late, Idiot

Katsuki Bakugou had been in love with you for years.

Not a fleeting, half-hearted crush. Not the kind that burned out. No—his burned slow. Deep. A steady ache behind his ribs every time you laughed too loud or leaned too close or looked at someone else the way he wished you’d look at him.

But he never said anything.

Couldn’t.

The words clogged his throat like smoke.

So instead, he watched. Glared. Pined in silence like a coward.

And the Bakusquad? They watched him.

Just tell her.

Kirishima’s voice, patient but firm, had become a constant refrain.

Before someone else does.

Mina warned, more than once.

She’s not gonna wait forever, bro.

Even Kaminari had a point. And Kaminari almost never had a point.

But Katsuki didn’t believe it. Not really. You felt... permanent. Untouchable. As if the universe wouldn’t dare hand you to someone else.

Until it did.

Until he saw it.

Iida, stiff as ever, stopping you in the hallway after class. Asking you something—his voice too far away to hear.

And you...

You smiled.

You nodded.

Katsuki felt the ground tilt under his feet. His heart didn’t break all at once—it cracked, slow and sharp like ice splitting under pressure.

He didn’t talk to you for two days.

Not because he hated you. God, no. He hated himself. For waiting. For assuming. For letting you go without ever holding on.

It was Kirishima who cornered him that night in the dorm lounge.

"You look like you’re about to explode"

"I am about to explode"

"So go tell her before you self-destruct"

Katsuki snorted, bitter.

"It’s too late"

Kiri shrugged like it was obvious.

"Then go make it not too late"

You were just coming back when he found you—walking up the front steps of the dorms, arms crossed against the chill in the air. Your expression was... off. Not happy. Not sad either. Just distant.

He stepped into your path.

"Oi"

You startled slightly, then blinked up at him.

"Katsuki?"

His hands were fists in his pockets.

"You goin’ out with him now?"

You stared at him like he’d grown another head.

"...I guess?"

"Why?"

You frowned.

"That’s not really your business, is it?"

He flinched.

Yeah. He deserved that.

But he didn’t back off.

"I thought you knew"

You tilted your head, wary.

"Knew what?"

"That I... like you"

It came out rough. Broken. Like it scraped something raw on the way up.

"I’ve liked you for a long time"

You just stared at him.

And then, softly, like you couldn’t help it—

You laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because it hurt.

"No you haven’t"

"I have" he snapped, stepping closer.

"I was just—I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know if you’d ever feel the same"

Your voice was barely a whisper.

"You were scared?"

He looked away, jaw clenched.

"Yeah"

"Of what?"

"Of messing it up. Of losin’ you. Of hearin’ you say you didn’t want me"

You were quiet for a long time. Then—

"I thought it was impossible you’d like me"

You looked up at him, eyes shining.

"I waited so long, Katsuki. And I thought... I thought you just didn’t see me that way"

He swallowed.

"You said yes to him 'cause of me?"

"I said yes because I thought I needed to move on"

Silence stretched between you like a taut wire.

"You still wanna be with him?"

Your answer came without hesitation.

"...No"

His breath left him in a rush.

"Then don’t"

You smiled, soft and sad.

"Then ask me"

He stepped closer.

Close enough to feel your warmth in the cold.

"Go out with me, dumbass"

Your laugh was brighter this time. Real.

"You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet"

He grinned.

"I’ve got a lifetime to practice"

[writeriguess]

Pls write: You have a wet dream with Katsuki. Mutual pining trope.

In the Quiet of Sleep

You’ve had dreams before. Stupid ones. Dreams where he looks at you like he means it—like the heat in his eyes is something more than battlefield focus or combat adrenaline. Dreams where he says your name like it’s a tether, not a curse.

But not like this.

Not with your body betraying you.

Not with his mouth on your neck, his breath ragged, voice low.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he growls against your skin, hands braced on either side of your head as he moves inside you like he owns you. Like he always has.

Your nails dig into his shoulders. His hair brushes your forehead. His sweat smears into yours, and all you can do is cling to him, gasping, aching, trying not to say it—

“I love you—”

You jerk awake.

It’s dark. Your sheets are twisted around your legs, and your shirt is damp with sweat. Heart hammering, you blink up at the ceiling like it can explain how you got here. Like it can make sense of why you’re still breathing like he’s touching you.

You press a hand over your mouth.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

Except your body’s still throbbing, the ache real enough to make you squirm against the mattress, trying to will it away. You didn’t even get to finish. You woke up just as he looked down at you, pupils blown, lips parted like he was about to say something that mattered.

That’s the worst part—how real it felt. How much you wanted it. How much you still want it.

You squeeze your eyes shut and groan softly into your pillow. You can’t look him in the face tomorrow. Can’t hear his voice without flashing back to what it sounded like in your ear. Can’t see those stupid sharp canines when he smirks without remembering how they scraped against your skin.

He doesn’t even know. About the crush. About the dreams. About the way you look at him during training and pretend you’re not imagining what his hands would feel like somewhere other than your waist when he throws you across the mat.

You’re his friend.

Maybe.

On good days.

Acquaintance on bad ones.

You banter, you bicker, he snaps, you roll your eyes. It’s not love. Not to him.

But your heart doesn’t seem to care.

And your body?

It’s already dreaming of him again.

[writeriguess]

Katsuki x reader where his and reader's daughter is getting bullied, which triggers back Katsuki's memories of how he was a bully once.

Cycle Breaker

The call came just past noon.

You were supposed to be on a break, halfway through a lukewarm cup of coffee, but the school’s name flashing on your phone sent a bolt of ice through your stomach.

Katsuki saw your expression the second you looked up.

“What?”

You blinked, mouth parted. “It’s the school.”

His jaw set immediately. “What the hell happened?”

You didn’t have an answer until the teacher’s strained voice crackled through the receiver.

“It’s Airi... There’s been an incident.”

Airi wasn’t crying when you arrived. That almost made it worse.

She sat stiff in a chair outside the nurse’s office, hands balled in her lap, small fists clenched until her knuckles turned white. Her eyes stared blankly ahead. A bruise was blooming under one eye, small but ugly.

You knelt in front of her.

“Baby…”

Her lip twitched at the sound of your voice, but she still didn’t look up.

Katsuki stood off to the side, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He hadn’t spoken yet, and that silence buzzed louder than anything else.

The teacher cleared her throat nervously. “We… we didn’t see the start of it. Apparently, a few kids have been teasing her—”

“What’d they say.” Katsuki’s voice was sharp. Hard.

The teacher flinched. “We’re still piecing it together, but—”

“Tch.” Katsuki didn’t wait for the excuse. He turned on his heel and stormed past her, down the hall where he knew the principal’s office was. His steps echoed like a warning.

You held Airi tightly in your arms while he disappeared.

You found him half an hour later, jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. His palms still faintly sparked when you touched his shoulder.

“What happened?” you asked quietly, trying not to spook him.

“They’re handling it.” He spat the words out like they tasted foul. “One of the kids got suspended. The rest are getting ‘counseling.’”

He scoffed, like that word was a joke.

You glanced down the hallway where your daughter still waited.

“Did they say what started it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, without looking at you:

“They called her ‘Half Spark.’ Said she was pathetic. That she was the daughter of a pro and still couldn’t light a damn candle.”

Your breath hitched. “Katsuki—”

He ran a hand down his face, gripping his jaw. “They said she’s useless. That she’s a failed firecracker.”

The words echoed. The same ones he'd once used. Not just heard—said.

He saw the look on your face and growled. “Don’t say it.”

“Katsuki—”

“I know, alright?” He slammed his fist into the wall beside him — not hard enough to break it, but enough to shake the frame of a poster nearby. “I know what this is. What it feels like. What I did to Deku—”

You blinked. He never used that name anymore. Not unless he was pissed. Or grieving.

He turned to you fully then, eyes sharp.

“You think I don’t remember what I said to him? Every single word? I ripped him apart. Every goddamn day. And now it’s my kid sitting there with her face down because some brat thinks she’s not good enough.”

His voice cracked — not with sadness, but rage. Pure, burning, self-directed rage.

“And the worst part is—” He swallowed. “I get it. I get why they did it. That’s what makes me sick.”

You stepped closer, letting your hand rest on his chest.

“She’s not you.”

“She’s too much like me.”

“No.” Your voice didn’t waver. “She has your pride, maybe. Your spark. But she’s not cruel. And she’s not going to end up like that because you changed.”

Katsuki’s eyes dropped to the floor. He didn’t answer.

Airi didn’t speak much on the way home.

She sat in the back seat, arms crossed, eyes locked out the window. Katsuki drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other twitching at his side like he wanted to blow something up.

The second you got through the door, she headed to her room without a word.

You let her go.

But Katsuki didn’t.

After a few minutes, he followed her. No knock. Just opened the door and leaned against the frame.

She sat on the edge of her bed, arms hugging her knees.

“Why the hell didn’t you hit them back?”

She looked up, startled.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“They’re in my class,” she muttered.

“And?”

“I didn’t wanna get in trouble.”

Katsuki snorted, stepping inside. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Airi frowned. “You get mad when I fight.”

“I get mad when you lose.”

Her eyes widened.

He crouched in front of her, voice low and even now.

“You’re not weak, Airi. You’re still figuring out your quirk. So what? They talk big ‘cause they’re scared of what you could be. That’s how it works. They try to beat you down before you figure it out.”

“But what if they’re right?” Her voice cracked. “What if I’m just… not enough?”

Katsuki stared at her. And for a second, you saw something haunted flash in his eyes.

“You think being strong means lighting shit on fire?” he said finally. “I couldn’t even face my own damn friend without acting like a bastard. I thought power meant being loud. Mean. Unstoppable.”

He leaned closer.

“But I was wrong. The truth is, strength means getting back up even when you feel like crap. Standing up when no one else will. And protecting what matters, no matter how dirty it gets.”

Airi’s lip trembled. “But I can’t even—”

He grabbed her wrist — gently, but firm — and held her palm up. A small spark flickered there, faint but alive.

“You’ve got the fire,” he growled. “Now you just need to make ‘em regret ever doubting it.”

Her eyes finally met his, wide and stunned. He let go, standing up again.

“And next time,” he said, turning toward the door, “if anyone calls you ‘Half Spark’ again... blow their damn desk up.”

“Katsuki—!” you barked from down the hall.

“What?!” he snapped back. “It’s better than letting her rot in silence!”

You turned the corner into the room. “No explosions.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Threaten it, then.”

Airi giggled — barely a whisper — but it was there.

Katsuki gave you both a look and huffed, walking out.

That night, Airi fell asleep on the couch between you both. Again.

But this time, Katsuki didn’t stare off in guilt. He watched her. Watched the way her tiny hands still curled into fists in her sleep. Watched the bruise starting to fade.

“She’s not like me,” he muttered.

You rested your head on his shoulder.

“No. But she’s still yours.”

He didn’t respond for a while.

Then, quietly:

“Deku still sends her those birthday cards. Did you know that?”

You blinked. “He never misses a year.”

Katsuki grunted. “I used to think he was just showing off. That it was pity. But now… I think he does it ‘cause he doesn’t want her to grow up thinking someone like me can’t change.”

You looked up at him, surprised.

He met your eyes. Tired. But steady.

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t end up like me. Even if it kills me.”

You reached for his hand, gripping it tight.

“She’s already better.”

[writeriguess]

Can you write a fic where Aizawa is in love with another teacher (reader) at the UA? It's kinda like a forbidden relationship because they're not supposed to but!

Behind Locked Doors

The click of the classroom door echoed louder than it should have. Aizawa didn’t flinch—he never did—but you could feel the tension hanging off him like the stray strands of his hair. He locked it behind you with a soft snick, then turned, eyes dark and unreadable.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come here.”

“And yet here I am,” you said, stepping closer anyway.

There was a beat—two—where neither of you spoke. The only sound was the hum of the overhead lights and the quiet thump of your heart climbing into your throat. Aizawa looked like he wanted to say something practical. Sensible. But instead, his fingers curled around your wrist, pulled you in, and kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in days.

Your back hit the edge of his desk with a soft jolt, one hand braced behind you, the other tangled in his shirt as his mouth moved against yours with barely restrained urgency. His scarf brushed against your hip, half-loose from his shoulders, forgotten in the heat of it.

“Shouta—” you gasped between kisses, and his grip only tightened.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low and frayed. “Don’t say my name like that when we don’t have time. It makes me reckless.”

You pulled back, barely an inch. “Then maybe we should stop.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Your silence gave you away.

He exhaled, rested his forehead against yours. “This is stupid. We’re risking everything.”

“We’re teachers, not criminals.”

“Principal Nezu would disagree,” he said dryly. “Fraternization between staff. The whole ‘setting an example’ thing. You know how this place is.”

You did. Every corner of UA had eyes—students with sharp ears, heroes with sharper instincts. Rumors bloomed like wildfire in the right hallways. If anyone even suspected…

“I hate pretending,” you admitted. “I hate walking past you in the halls and not being able to look at you like I want to.”

His jaw clenched. “You think I don’t? Every day I sit in that damn staff room acting like I’m not counting the hours until I can be alone with you.”

The kiss that followed was messier—less restrained. Like he needed you to feel it. To know what he couldn’t say in the daylight.

When he pulled back, breath ragged, he looked tired. Tired, not from lack of sleep, but from holding back too long.

“We can’t keep sneaking around forever,” he said quietly. “Sooner or later, someone’s going to notice.”

“Then what do we do?” you asked. “Give it up? Pretend this never happened?”

A beat. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I’m not that strong,” he admitted. “Not when it comes to you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling in the front of his capture weapon like a lifeline.

“Then we hide it. Just a little longer. Just until it’s safe.”

“It might never be safe.”

“Then we make it worth the risk.”

Another pause. Another kiss—slow, this time. Full of everything neither of you could say out loud in daylight.

He sighed against your lips. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You’ll survive,” you whispered. “You always do.”

[writeriguess]

I NEED any theme with this post

https://www.instagram.com/p/DH8eKy4xFUu/?igsh=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ==

PLEASE 🙏

author's note: I'm not really sure what the 'theme' is in that post—it’s just a selfie, so there’s no real clue about what kind of story it’s supposed to tell. But here’s something with Katsuki wearing that shirt?

Shape of You

You’re not even supposed to be looking.

Not like this, not this intently, not like your eyes are carving his name into the insides of your skull. But there he is—Katsuki Bakugou, standing a few feet away in the gym, facing the weights rack with his back turned to you.

And wearing that goddamn shirt.

You don’t even remember where he got it, or if you’ve seen it before, but it’s black and sleeveless and tight, clinging to him like it was custom-made by someone with malicious intent. But that’s not the problem. The problem is the cutout.

It’s a skull—faded, jagged, the kind that looks like it was torn into the fabric with feral teeth. The top of the cutout starts between his shoulder blades, and the rest of it trails down his back in uneven slashes, ribcage-style. His skin shows through like it’s daring you to look, and every time he moves, the muscle flexes just right through the holes, like art painted in motion.

“Are you staring?” His voice cuts through the weight room like a blade.

You blink and jolt, your water bottle sloshing in your hand. “No.”

Katsuki turns his head just enough for you to catch the faint smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Liar.”

“I wasn’t,” you insist, too fast. “It’s just—your shirt’s weird.”

His eyes narrow. “Weird?”

You gesture vaguely. “It looks like a murder happened to it. Why the skull?”

Katsuki huffs, turning back to his barbell like he’s already bored of the conversation. “Looks cool.”

“It looks like you lost a fight to a paper shredder,” you mutter under your breath.

“You like it,” he says, almost smug now. “You’re still staring.”

You sit back down on the bench, trying to focus on literally anything else. You came to train, not to have a crisis over the way Katsuki’s back looks through a haunted shirt. But your treacherous mind keeps rewinding to the way his shoulder blades roll like waves under his skin, how the sweat glistens along the line of his spine…

“You gonna lift,” he grunts, “or just keep undressin’ me with your eyes?”

“I’m not—!”

“You are.” He doesn’t even look back this time, just starts deadlifting like he didn’t just call you out with sniper accuracy.

“You’re impossible,” you say, your voice somewhere between a growl and a whimper.

“And you’re obvious,” he shoots back, breath heavy but even. “You’re worse than fuckin’ Deku in high school.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I’m never looking at you again.”

Katsuki sets the bar down with a thunk and turns around slowly, still smirking. He’s flushed from exertion, hair clinging slightly to his forehead, and that goddamn cutout frames him like sin on legs.

“You’re really gonna pretend you don’t wanna touch?”

You gape. “What—?!”

He steps closer, looming. “My back,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I know you’ve been lookin’. I’m not blind, dumbass.”

“You wore that shirt on purpose,” you accuse, pointing a trembling finger at him. “You planned this.”

Katsuki snorts. “So what if I did?”

The gym’s too quiet now. You can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the echo of someone slamming weights on the far side, but all you can feel is him—warm and real and teasing, so close you could reach out and trail your fingers down the lines you’ve been memorizing with your eyes for weeks.

You should say something. A witty comeback. A refusal. Anything.

Instead, your hand twitches.

And he sees it.

His voice drops, low and dark and heavy as gravity. “You wanna touch?”

Your throat goes dry. “Katsuki…”

“C’mon,” he says, stepping right into your space, crowding your knees with his legs. “You got somethin’ to say, say it. You want my back? Say it.”

“I—” You swallow. “It’s just a shirt.”

“No,” he growls, leaning in until his breath fans across your cheek. “It’s me. You want me.”

God, he’s unbearable like this—confident and cocky and right. And you hate how easily you fold.

“Fine,” you breathe. “I do.”

His smirk curves into something darker, sharper. “Good.”

And then he turns around—slowly, like a reward—and tilts his head over his shoulder.

“Well?” he drawls. “Go on.”

You hesitate, hand hovering just above the jagged edges of the skull cutout. He watches you over his shoulder, eyes molten, unreadable. When your fingers finally make contact—warm skin, smooth and taut under your palm—his breath stutters.

You trail down slowly, over muscle, over scars you’ve never noticed before, tracing the hollow space between his shoulder blades. The skull cutout frames your touch perfectly, like a window made just for this. And Katsuki shudders.

“You like that?” you ask softly, surprised by your own voice.

“Shut up,” he says, voice rough. “Just—keep going.”

You do.

Your hand moves lower, following the lines of his back, the flex of his muscles under skin, each breath he takes echoing in the cage of your ribs. And maybe you were staring. Maybe you did want this all along.

Katsuki turns back after a minute, catching your wrist before you can pull away.

His eyes are darker now, pupils blown wide, and when he speaks again, it’s not a challenge. It’s a promise.

“I’m gonna wear this shirt every damn day until you do somethin’ about it.”

You stare at him.

Then grin.

“Guess I better start making plans, huh?”

He leans in, forehead bumping against yours. “Yeah,” he whispers, “you better.”