47 posts
Dekuneho - LACY - Tumblr Blog
just a matter of time
posting a katsuki drabble tomorrow, and the day after that as well! they are already scheduled, so keep an eye out for that
the back-to-back is a thank you for helping me reach 200 followers ❤️
Hi… I'm Lama Hourani, Mohammed’s wife. We have been living under for 10 months, and we lack access to universal food, and we need help.🇵🇸
My husband lost his job, our house was destroyed, and our car was bombed. 😞🍉
A small donation of 10-25$ could make a big difference in my life.🍉🇵🇸
I hope you help us and donate even something small. Please don’t ignore my story.🇵🇸🍉🍉🇵🇸
https://gofund.me/cd29b3ea
I am so sorry for everything that you have had to endure and are continuing to endure. I will gladly support you in any way that I am able to.
To everyone who sees this, please help in every way that you can. Donate, repost, and interact — everything is very much appreciated !!
BEFORE YOU FOLLOW + RULES
☆ nsfw, mdni — this blog will write both nsfw and sfw content, however you must be 18+ to interact with my account and/or my works.
☆ please don't ask to be mutuals ( especially if i have never interacted with you ) or bring drama into my account
☆ i have no set writing schedule, however i often post around saturday/sunday (GMT+8)
☆ i also reblog and might make posts about spoilers, but i'll do my best to tag so you can filter it out
AS OF THE MOMENT, I AM ACCEPTING REQUESTS!
open to nsfw requests but no non-con or gore
keep it short and simple: give me the creative liberty so i’m actually writing an idea, and not just you sending an essay in my inbox
don’t assume i’ll be writing your request 100% ! if you don’t follow these two simple rules, then the answer is obvious haha <3
@ five in the morning
☆ ( pro-hero!katsuki x reader ) — you just wanted to surprise your boyfriend with breakfast | suggestive
@ tenderly, tragically
☆ ( pro-hero!katsuki x reader ) — aftermath of a huge argument; you can never stay away for too long | angst & fluff
@ no one else’s
☆ ( thirdyear!katsuki x fem!reader ) — katsuki already has plans once you graduate | suggestive
@ let me
☆ ( prohero!katsuki x fem!reader ) — you underestimate how gentle katsuki can be, if you needed it | smut
@ late evenings
☆ ( prohero!katsuki x reader ) — katsuki just missed you | suggestive
@ needy
☆ ( prohero!katsuki x reader ) — katsuki’s kink is you asking for it | smut
verified by: 90-ghost follow the ayyad's asmaa: @asmaayyad israa: @esraayyad14* sama: @samaayyad15 *= israa's alt. account @esraayyad18 has been suppressed
dear moots/lovely lurkers,
allow me to introduce you once again to the ayyad's. they are a wonderful family of 8. all of them led beautiful, rich lives-- here are some of their stories:
"I am Asmaa from Gaza-- a lawyer and a graduate of Palestine University... I am 25 years old... I have also been living far away from my fiancé for two years, I cannot reach him because of the increase in the coordination price and the closure of the crossings and borders." "My name is Israa from Gaza. I have always dreamed of becoming a doctor after I finish high school, but what happened in this war, the destruction of schools and universities, the suspension of education because of the war, and the death of many students, made me a girl who lost her passion and only wanted to end the war on the Gaza Strip." "Hello, I am Sama from Gaza... I am 15 years old... I was studying middle school and my educational career stopped completely here in Gaza, our life stopped completely." (the following excerpts were pieced together from posts/messages from asmaa and her younger sisters- israa and sama)
their family has been displaced numerous times. lost friends and loved ones. they don't live through the days- they survive them. no one should suffer through this immense pain on their own. there is power in numbers. please do your part by sharing/donating if you have the means
Hello, I hope my message finds you well
I'm Asmaa from Gaza 🇵🇸❤️, I'm asking you for a small donation of 20€ to save our lives from Gaza 🙏
Can you donate to me and my family? Thanks to your donation we can achieve our goal as soon as possible 🥺
Your support and standing by us in this difficult time is everything to us
I would be very grateful if you donated to me and my family, thank you for your generosity in our time of need ❤️
https://gofund.me/b60fb34d
hello! thank you for reaching out to me. i hope my platform can be of aid somehow to you and your family.
this fundraiser is vetted by 90-ghost, everyone! and check this post out as well
if you can’t donate, please spread the word by reblogging so users who are able/willing to donate can reach this fundraiser! as of right now, we have €12,810 raised out of their €45,000 goal
https://gofund.me/b60fb34d
https://gofund.me/b60fb34d
intermission — k.bakugou
if it's worth fighting for, it's worth saving.
cws: fem reader, established relationship, argument and the aftermath, hurt/comfort
⟢
Katsuki is difficult.
There's no other way around it. It's just who he is — rough around the edges, scalpel sharp from the cocky grins that slice through his face to the potent aggression he can't seem to abandon even with his status as a pro hero.
Considering he moves in tandem with his mother's heirloom of a temper, it's no surprise. You'd seen the woman twice, and witnessed firsthand how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Still, hereditary or not, there are times you wish he'd at least try to soften his words. Mold them into something kinder, gentler. A weapon wielded to keep you out of harm's reach, not to pierce you through the back to leave you in the lurch.
But it seems even that kind of mercy is too lenient for someone like Katsuki. Someone who always needs to have the last word and win the argument, even if it means you slowly harbor yourself away from him every time it happens. Lowering the white flag to half mast because you're just so tired of it all.
You're so tired of it all.
—
Katsuki is still for a moment, startled into stupor as he stares at the scene that just unfolded before him. His mind races, synapses firing across his brain to register what the hell just happened.
Three things come to mind, hazy—
The door. Slammed shut, right into his face. You shoving him out of the room to do so, hands forceful with the intent to push him away.
—before they meld into one, definite conclusion.
Once the pieces fall into place, and the realization dawns upon him, slashing through his previous daze with striking clarity to make way for another recollection, his cheeks flare up with rage.
A break? HAH?
There's no hesitance in the way he knocks on your door. They're light rasps of knuckle at first, but as the silence that follows gnaws at him, they soon advance into incessant pounds that demand your attention, frustration spilling over with every thud that grows more urgent, more desperate.
Again and again, until it swings open and—
"Do you need something?!" is spit out venomously by none other than you.
"Yeah, you," he says, biting back like it’s obvious, with just as much vitriol to counteract your own. He's tugging on your arm before you can let out a response, fingers encased around your wrist — firm enough to keep you in place, but never to hurt you. “The hell is your problem, huh?!”
You try taking it back. He doesn't budge, his grip unyielding.
"The hell are you doing?! Quit acting like a damn brat!"
It’s funny, you think. How Katsuki isn’t the best judge of character, yet acts like he’s platformed on some higher moral ground than you. There’s nothing more infuriating than his hypocrisy — how he spits out words spurred on by his negligence like it's nothing, only to swallow them down with an excuse while redirecting the blame to anyone but himself.
With all the strength you can muster, you yank your hand back.
Perhaps, you are more angry than you initially thought you were. Or maybe, he had just provoked you past that point — he’s always been good at drawing out the worst parts of you, after all. “Unless you’ve gone deaf,” you start, eyes narrowed into sharp, chastising slits. “Or are so lost in the head that you aren’t capable of paying attention to what others have to say, we’re on a break.”
Katsuki, who already lays out the worst parts of him on display for others to make a spectacle of, doesn’t bother hiding his irritation. The skin of his knuckles morph into a ghastly white as he challenges you to repeat that. You wanna say that again?
And so, successful in reclaiming the reigns of your arm, you say it again. You’re tired of holding out the olive branch. This time, you’re going to throw it at him instead.
“We’re on a break,” you reiterate. “A break.” you say once more for good measure, just to make sure that this time, it actually gets past his impenetrable shield of a skull. “So I don’t need to talk to you right now. I don’t even want to. Get out, Katsuki. And leave me alone until I tell you otherwise.”
Uncaring for whatever it is he has left to say to you, you reach for the door, fist curling around the knob’s cool metal as you pull it closer towards you to slam it shut, its hinges creaking.
He anticipates the move, though — stupid pro heroes and their stupid instincts — and shoves his foot through the narrow gap to prevent it from shutting all the way.
The door stutters, wedged just centimeters shy of fully closing — so close, you think. He swings it right back open with ease — but so far away.
Your expression is set as hard as stone as you glower at him; the harsh lines etched onto your face presenting themselves as if they had been carved with a chisel. Scoffing, Katsuki levels you with a glare as sharp as an angle grinder in return.
Two can play it that way hangs heavy in the air, lingering between the charged tension.
He runs his tongue across his teeth, thumb hooking over the waistband of his stupidly ripped to hell jeans as he straightens his shoulders to their full height — some vapid show of dominance.
"We're not going on a damn break."
What is this? Some peremptory order of the court?
“Yes, we are. We need it.”
“I don’t need a damn thing from you!”
His voice cracks like a whip, and you flinch despite yourself, trying to hold your ground. It’s that same harsh edge that’s both familiar and bitterly unwelcome.
And there it is again. That caustic tongue of his, always revealing itself in the worst ways possible.
His words are a torrential downpour, rebuking and admonishing, pelting against your composure like hail. And you hate it, this side of Katsuki. The one that makes you feel small.
“Doing all this dumb crap, and for what? You think this is gonna fix shit?
The one that shifts all the blame on you, draping it over your shoulders, like the weight of your shared mistakes is yours to bear alone.
“Act your own age for once, for fuck’s sake.”
The one that doesn't sheathe his sword in his scabbard. Brandishing the blade instead, leaving you to fend for yourself, all laid out and defenseless.
“It’s fucking exhausting.”
You hate that side of Katsuki. The one that hurts you. Over and over. Again and again. Until you think—Oh.
Maybe it isn’t this side of his that’s the issue. Maybe this is just who he is.
“Who the hell takes a damn break in a relationship anyway? You might as well just break up with me, damn it!”
And you’re tired, really. Your throat is raw and your head is spinning. You’re tired of fighting. When everything ricochets and comes to snipe at you instead, how could you not be?
Your hands drop to your sides, falling limp. “Do you want that, Katsuki?” you ask. And it’s quiet, the sound of your voice, soft like surrender, a fragile murmur. “Is that what you want? Because I’ll give it to you.”
Silence ensues. Stretches into what feels like an eternity. You are suddenly made very aware of how you’re presenting yourself right now. Heart made of glass, worn humiliatingly bare on your sleeve.
Is this what it means to be in love? To feel so weak, so pathetic, all the time?
“Forget it.” Your eyes shine with everything left unsaid. There is nothing left of you anymore. “Just — just close the door on your way out. I can’t — I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.”
You don’t bother waiting for a response before you turn away, don’t bother sharing one final glance with him, either. You’ve never been good at goodbyes, so you’ll leave it up to him how he wants his last image of you to be. Not that you had much of a choice, anyway.
Slowly, you retreat back into your apartment — one, two, three steps further away from your threshold — until the frame of your back diminishes in size, shrinking with each step. Your movements are heavy with resignation. Each stride you take feels like it’s sinking into the floor, dragging you down with its weight.
How could you be so naive? To think a man of his caliber could ever love you — how could you believe that?
How could you believe in that?
You don’t even realize you’re trembling, not until you lay your palms flat against the kitchen counter and feel the tremors pulsate through your entire being. The countertop is cool and steady beneath your hands — but you are everything but. You try to ground yourself. Close your eyes and take deep breaths as you will yourself not to choke on the sobs that claw at your throat, begging for release.
You’re not going to cry; you won’t allow it.
And yet, when two strong arms wrap around your waist to mold you against an unmistakable warmth, you tip over the edge, bursting into an endless cascade. Katsuki’s chin rests against the curve of your shoulder as you snivel, his thumbs gliding across your hip bones in soothing motions, working away all the pain he’s shouldered you with.
Apologies are whispered into the crook of your neck, where kisses are then pressed against; a lick over a bite, a bandage over an open wound. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, remorseful. He feels like it too. You feel the pitter patter of his heart against the small of your back, how they picked up their pace, seeing you leave like that. “I pushed you too far. I’m sorry.”
“Katsuki—” you sob, instinctively leaning into his chest. How is it that you find solace in the root of your agony? You will never understand how these things work. “I’m tired,” you confess. “Maybe… maybe we aren’t happy. Maybe we should—”
“No, no. Don’t do that.”
It’s raspy, the way it tumbles out his mouth. A few octaves lower, saturated in his penitence. He unfurls an arm around you, reaching a hand to slip his fingers into the cracks of your own. And you don’t miss how it’s a perfect fit, how it feels like the spaces between them were shaped just to hold each other like this.
“Don’t do that,” he pleads. “Give up on us. You can give up on me, but don’t give up on us.”
You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all.
As you both bask in the silence, Katsuki presses kisses onto your knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Let me apologize,” he begs.
And you do — you allow him to melt the chill that had long settled into your bones, let him usher out the freezing cold that took residency inside the hearth of your heart. Let him repeat his mantra of a prayer. I love you, I’m sorry. An earnest imploration that no one takes you from him, that you don’t leave him.
“I love you, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Please...”
Please what?
Please don’t leave me? Please believe me when I tell you I love you? Please don’t give up on us?
Katsuki’s not too sure. He tripped over the shards of his negligence and only took notice of the tragedy once he saw you bleeding. Far too careless, far too late. It’s a devastating wreck that left you in ruins, but broken parts can still be made beautiful, and Katsuki doesn’t mind spending the rest of his life on his knees if it means begging for your forgiveness.
“I’m sorry.”
You’re no longer crying, your tears long simmered down into soft sniffles. That doesn't mean you’re no longer hurt, or angry, though.
“You’re an asshole,” you say, wiping at your lash line with the heel of your palm.
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
Somehow, you let him twist you around to face him — subconsciously, you might have wanted that too, but you’d count all the hair on your scalp before you’d ever admit that.
Katsuki cages you against the counter in his arms. There’s no room to leave, but you wouldn't have done it anyway.
“I love you, okay? I…fucked up, I know, but I’m the fuckin’ best at everything I do, so I’ll make it up to you. Swear.”
There are times you’ve wondered if Katsuki was the right one for you. He’s overwhelming in all senses of the term. The embodiment of chaos, always rushing into things headfirst without taking heed. He swears like a sailor and throws equal parts bark and bite, warranted or not.
He is his mother’s son, after all.
“Oi,” he grunts. “I love you, please tell me you know that.”
But he’s his father’s child too, and underneath all the layers that make Katsuki who he is, there is softness at his core — the one he’d inherited from his father. Why else would his eyes be glossy? Why else would the tip of his nose be ruddy? Why else would you feel so safe in the cage of his arms?
“Hey…” Katsuki mumbles, verging on tears. “Said I love you.”
You don’t miss the unsure lilt in his voice that seeks for the reassurance he’d never explicitly ask for.
“Fuck you,” you seethe, already crying again. “I love you too.”
Another fundraiser I'd like to bring more attention to is that of Munna and her family.
Munna has 3 children, Rima, who is a teenager, Salah, an 11 year old, and Lina, who is only 5 years old. Their family has been forced to evacuate and they've been living in a small tent for the last 9 months of this ongoing genocide. They've faced countless dangers, from the threat of Israeli artillery to the famine and shortage of clean water.
Below you can see a video of young Lina, speaking about her family's situation
This family is saving up the funds currently to evacuate to Egypt, where they will be safe and the children will be able to continue their education and receive proper nutrition and healthcare.
This fundraiser is extremely low on funds, having not even reached £1000 of their end goal of £30,000. Every donation will go towards helping this family and every share spreads young Lina's message further.
kofi request: budding romance 🍀
tenderly, tragically ☆ ( prohero!katsuki x reader ) — aftermath of a huge argument, clingy and soft katsuki my entire blog’s agenda
You wake to an empty bed once again — the third time this week. It’s cold on your right; that’s a bit unfair. Does Katsuki take all the love and warmth along with him? Or it could be because it’s two AM and every trace of fatigue drained out of you at the reminder of your lone bedroom, like a cold, empty picture of a memorial.
You shuffle out of bed, ignoring how strangely unsettling it is not to have a body to crawl over just to get to the kitchen. You forgo the house slippers; you only steal Katsuki's pair anyway — and right now, he's out of the question.
The kitchen feels just as stale. No surprise there. Katsuki's absence sucked the life out of your shared apartment.
A glimpse of orange by the dining table begs for your attention. You approach carefully, stomach swooping. It’s a lunchbox, still with leftover food greasing the sides, unwashed. You know this one well enough because you bought it for him. For Katsuki. This was never here before, though.
You aren't sure how the fight started, if it was something blandly petty, or if either of you crossed an unforgivable line that tipped towards a night of screaming and shrieking that had your neighbors complaining hours after. You find that you don't have it in yourself to care anymore. This apartment, that bed — all without Katsuki is worse than any hurtful dagger of words you threw at each other.
Your fingers skim on the orange lunchbox, tracing the little ‘X’s sprinkled throughout like some off-brand copy of his hero costume, intimately familiar. Katsuki snorted when you gifted it to him — it was a really, really ugly laugh.
"Oh."
You startle and whip your head to the source, gaze landing on Katsuki, stunned and mid-way through rubbing the back of his hair with a towel.
You flinch away from the lunchbox, embarrassed. Insulting him brought him to life.
The comfort you'd been craving for the past three days materialized in the physical embodiment of the person you were supposedly angry at. It’s hard to summon even a trace of it now, not when the person you’d been aching for is standing a few feet away, just shy out of reach.
“Why are you awake?” Katsuki starts, uncharacteristically soft, gratingly rough like left unused for a while.
“Why are you here?” you ask instead. You refuse to admit outright that you couldn’t sleep without him — refuse to admit that it’s what’s been eating you up since the fight.
Katsuki frowns. “This is my place too.”
“What?” You’re not even mad. You’re just — “I thought you crashed at Kirishima’s house this entire time.”
“I’m not just gonna—” Katsuki bites his tongue, looking off to the side. He continues drying his hair, the biceps of his arm rippling. “Been sleeping on the couch. So I didn’t wake you up, or whatever.”
Well, you don’t know what to feel. Are you supposed to feel excited that Katsuki still came home even when you both unspokenly swore not to face each other? Furious that he hasn’t tried to apologize and instead snuck around the apartment like a thief on a hit-and-run in the dead of the night?
Maybe both. You might just be relieved that he didn’t hate you enough to keep himself away, even if he didn’t crawl up in the same bed.
“Right,” you say in a soft exhale. “Okay.”
Katsuki’s eyes flick up to you again warily, dangerously still. You don’t know what to say to him, so you keep quiet. Red eagerly follows as you reach for his lunchbox and pad over to the kitchen sink. As if sensing his response, you spare him a glance.
“I’ll do it,” you say. “I’ll wash this. Go change.”
You face away from the bedroom with purpose, scrubbing diligently. Soon enough, his footsteps sound across the silent apartment, fading to your bedroom. His closet is there, meaning his clothes are stacked in it, too. You wonder if he’s ever looked at you asleep and thought it looked as empty as you felt it was.
After you rinse off the suds and wipe the excess water on the towel hanging over the stove, Katsuki greets you with a sight of him resting against the bedroom door frame. How rude. You’d given him a free pass, and he’s blocking you off in return.
“Katsuki,” you mutter, walking closer.
He stares, tracing the curve of your cheek and the swell of your mouth. You missed him, too. Now that he’s here, emanating heat, the vestiges of lethargy wriggle back into the bones of your body. You long for your bed; you long to take him along with you.
“D’you wanna talk about it?” Katsuki rasps out.
“Not right now.” You shake your head. “Not really.”
“Okay,” says Katsuki softly, shifting to shuffle past you.
You latch onto his wrist, trying your best to keep his gaze. “Sleep on the bed.”
Katsuki freezes, then turns and gazes into your eyes searchingly. You hope you can convey well enough that you hate him for fueling your bubbling fury, for sharing the heated remarks; most of all, you hate him for leaving.
“Okay,” Katsuki says again. “Okay, yeah. Let’s go to bed.”
Somehow, you end up on the bed with Katsuki’s arms caged around you from behind. His breaths hot against the nape of your neck, your body warmed head to toe. He has one leg in between your thighs, pulling you closer, and closer, until you can almost cry from how good it feels to be back here. You’ve given him an inch and knew he would take a mile.
“I don’t like when we fight,” Katsuki grumbles, sounding half-asleep.
“Mm.”
“So let’s just forget about it.”
“Is that healthy?”
“Dunno. Don’t care.” Katsuki’s mouth hovers over your neck, teeth marks a threat. “What’s unhealthy are the bags under my fuckin’ eyes.”
You laugh, breathy, and a violent shudder courses through Katsuki. You turn to your side to meet Katsuki’s little scowl, a pout. For every villain and civilian’s worst nightmare, he’s really charming.
“Are you only trying to make it up to me so you don’t have to take up the couch?”
Katsuki would usually fire back with a snark, but this time, you get to watch as his eyes soften and his shoulders lose their tension. He hides it away with a large hand on your face in the guise of tousling your hair.
“No,” he murmurs, “can’t sleep without you.”
Your eyes slip shut, giddy like it’s your first date. “Then I guess our feelings are still mutual.”
five in the morning ☆ ( prohero!katsuki x reader ) mdni | suggestive
The digital alarm clock seated on your bedside table flickers, casting a glow that reads 5 AM in the asscrack of morning. Your boyfriend is dead asleep and probably won’t wake up for a while, hopefully. You don’t waste opportunities that the universe has clearly granted on a silver platter, and so you set to work right away.
You slip off the bed, skillfully slithering away from Katsuki’s grip. He stirs momentarily, legs sliding over the warmth you had left; you hold your breath, watching him carefully. Katsuki continues snoring.
Mission accomplished.
Katsuki’s the better cook, and he had been spoiling you rotten all this time with his three-star Michelin cooking. Considering how well he treated you last night, you want to treat him by waking up to breakfast in bed this morning. It’ll be nothing special, but he’d be on the other end of the princess treatment this time, and it’s at least something.
A traditional Japanese breakfast would take a while, but you had prepared beforehand with leftovers and freezer foods. Now, the real challenge is perfecting Tamagoyaki the way Katsuki does — an impossible feat, but you wouldn’t be Katsuki’s favorite person in the world if you weren’t stubborn and headstrong.
As the rice boils, you move to reach for a cutting board but instead, startle at a warm figure pressing against your back.
Fuck. He wasn’t supposed to wake up right away! You barely started. Did he wake up once he realized you were missing?
“Katsuki,” you say, twisting around to meet your boyfriend’s half-asleep daze. “Can you go back to bed and pretend to be surprised in preferably an hour or so?”
“Nah,” he rasps out, octaves lower than usual. “Don’t wanna waste my view.”
Your plans have been foiled, but whatever. The heat emanating from Katsuki’s body makes you want to leech off him for a little longer. This morning had been a little too cold for comfort.
Katsuki keeps quiet as you work, his chin resting on the curve of your shoulder. He doesn’t murmur any complaints or criticisms, so it could either be because he’s approving of your methods, or it could be because he’s dozing off on your clavicle. He’s pliable as you glide through the kitchen, back and forth — and still, Katsuki’s like a cat perched over you.
“Hey,” Katsuki says. You feel his voice rumble over his chest, and it meets your shoulder blades. “Baby, look at me, please.”
A please so early in the morning? What a miracle.
You shift around, meeting Katsuki’s sharp and heated gaze. Seems like he enjoyed watching you a little too much. You smile, your arms slowly winding their way around his shoulders as his nose brushes against yours.
“Hi,” you whisper in the space you share, grinning.
“Mm,” hums Katsuki, expression turning fierce.
Without warning, he ducks and bites over your nose. It doesn’t hurt, just the threat of his sharp teeth on your skin. Still, you jump in his hold, bewildered and possibly a little aroused?
“Katsuki—”
He licks over your mouth, humming like a cat purring in approval.
Well — scratch that. He’s more like a dog, licking your face like that, what the hell? You hide your face with an arm, ignoring the heat pooling in your stomach at how Katsuki’s staring at you like he’s mistaken you for breakfast. Breakfast that you worked hard to prepare!
“Down, boy,” you scold. Is he experiencing cuteness aggression?
“Had some on your lips,” Katsuki explains, like he couldn’t have just wiped it off with his thumb. “Tastes good.”
He pokes his tongue out, and you go cross-eyed, trying to follow it. There’s a trace of sauce on it, and you have to summon the power of a thousand men to hold back from sucking on it. He cages you on the island counter with two beefy arms.
“You, I mean,” clarifies Katsuki.
The thousand men are failing miserably.
“Katsuki,” you warn, sounding winded. Pointedly ignoring his grin, you push on his chest. “Let me finish your damn food first, ungrateful brat.”
“You ain’t my ma,” Katsuki snarks back. “Could make you one, if you—”
“Katsuki!” You push on his shoulders with more force, ears burning. Katsuki barks out a gleeful laugh, sounding too lively at this hour, feeding your mess of irritation and arousal.
Katsuki skids to a halt before you can reach the dining table, leaning forward to capture your lips in his. You inhale sharply, fingers twitching uselessly by his side. Katsuki pries your lips open with his, licking into your mouth some more. You can taste the residue of the fruits of your labor ( the breakfast that will get cold soon if Katsuki doesn’t cut this shit out ), and his hand sliding down to cup your ass is all it takes for you to melt against him.
You jerk away, needing to breathe. Katsuki watches you with a frown. You feel lightheaded.
“Fuckin’ cute,” he mutters, pinching your cheek. “Cookin’ breakfast f’me like that. So good to me, baby, you know that?”
“I — I should be the one saying that, Katsuki,” you say, embarrassed. “‘s why I wanted to surprise you.”
Katsuki scowls. “Stop acting all cute so damn early in the morning. I don’t want to fuckin’ marry you on some random fucking Wednesday.”
Breakfast is quiet, with you steaming from embarrassment and Katsuki preening from his win, all smug and stupidly handsome. It didn’t work out as planned, but maybe it was just an opportunity for you to share a Wednesday morning with your Katsuki, who’s criticizing the lack of spice but inhaling every grain of rice on his plate.
You smile at your food. Maybe marrying him on a Wednesday wouldn’t be so bad.
far from the weight of the world — s.todoroki
Shoto loves how it feels to be loved by you
cws: fem reader, descriptive mentions of enji's abuse to shoto and rei (but nothing too detailed), self hatred towards scars, fluff
⟢
He'd never been fond of it.
He always found it ugly. Detestable, even. Worthy of disdain and the contempt of anyone who'd been unfortunate enough to come across it.
It reminded him too much of his father, of everything he couldn't abandon. Despite the passing of time and how often he tried to cast the past away, his left side always reeked of death.
Shoto held a deep loathing towards the scar marring the pallor of his complexion, trailing from his hairline down to the cliffside of his cheekbone. The wound always felt raw, as if the seared flesh had just been inflicted onto his skin.
He used to flinch every time he'd catch glimpse of it in the mirror. Used to graze his fingertips over the scarred tissue, only to pull back, aghast at how much it had stung, at how much everything still seemed to burn.
His hatred for it ran deep, down to the hollow of his bones, seeping into the cracks of his chest, where shame and fury festered into poison.
At some point in time, he had even gone as far as making it a habit to cover up the proof of his upbringing, as if it would mask the cruelty of it all. He'd hide it behind a lock of hair, swept to the side, red strands in a shade familiar enough to ignite the resentment in his heart just shy of fully obscuring his vision.
It rankled him to no end. But he found out that there are some things you learn to live with the older you get, when the seasons pass by you and suddenly, you've grown up and metamorphosed out of a body too feeble to protect yourself and your mother from your paradox of a father.
A villain behind closed doors, but a hero beyond them.
It's almost commendable, the irony of it all. Parents are supposed to lead by example, but the only thing Endeavor had taught Shoto was everything he didn't want to be. A simulacrum of his pathetic excuse of a father.
Someone who could truly protect others, even after the hinges of his front door creaked shut to hide him from the public's prying gaze and he no longer had to play pretend in front of them.
And Shoto can, now. Protect others. He's no longer five years old, hunched over a tatami mat and forced to look face-to-face with the bruises on his mother's bony knees, sullied by an unsightly shade of purple. He's no longer five years old, tears pin pricking the corners of his eyes as he bared his teeth in a weak attempt to guard himself from what always came eventually.
He's stronger now. A pro-hero, too So he's learned to accept his scar as part of who he is, rather than a testament to what he couldn't protect.
That doesn't mean he has to like it, though. Even after all these years, he can't seem to spare a shred of pride for it. And that's fine, he thinks. He's content, living like that. Because he doesn't need to like it, or be proud of it. He just had to learn how to live with it without wincing at his reflection.
He just needed to reclaim it as his own. It's the same with his left side. They're both his, not his fathers. They both belong to him, not to his father.
Not that it makes much of a difference to him. He still finds them ugly, all the same, even if you seem to think otherwise.
"That... tickles."
The memory smeared over the crimson stain painting the left side of face might be one of the reasons it's always been so sensitive — Shoto's not too sure. But what he does know is that unlike him, you've always been fond of the broken parts of him, accepting all his baggage and all his damage as if it were your own.
"Sorry, Sho." You laugh, though it comes out as an exhale more than anything else. "Couldn't help myself."
You make a move to retreat your hand back against your side, but Shoto cranes his head to lean into the curve of your palm before you can.
"No," he says, contentment lacing the drawn-out breath he releases. "I didn't say to stop. I quite like it."
"Really now?" You tease.
A hum. "Yes. Do it more."
"If you say the magic word, maybe."
Shoto has found himself to be quite the spoiled man—
"Please?"
—though you seem to have no issue with indulging him.
Giving into his plea (as always), your thumb brushes against his scar, stroking it fondly while he drinks in the sight of you through half lidded eyes, admiring your highlighted features, courtesy to the glow of moonlight peeking past the window blinds.
"You're such a baby, Sho," you comment.
The slight bob of his head tells you he agrees.
It's funny, how things change. At the start of your relationship, Shoto had been amadant against using pet names. But just like every wall of his you managed to pick apart — carefully and patiently, brick by brick — he soon learned to bask in the affection.
It's a nice thing, to be loved.
Shoto cants his chin up to look you directly in the eye, jutting out his bottom lip as he waits for you to pick up on the silent implication of his gesture.
You lean downwards, and he shuts his eyes in anticipation, but instead of feeling the press of your lips against his own, it lands just above his eyelid — the center of his scar.
Shoto pouts, eyes shining with disappointment. "I didn't mean there..." he whines with a groan, resting the plush of his cheek against your stomach once you've let go.
Your fingers move to thread his hair, carding the silky, dual-toned strands with gentle motions.
"Sorry." You giggle. "My fault."
Shoto huffs, but also presses a kiss through the fabric of your pajama shirt in response, sending off the butterflies in your stomach to go flutter their wings.
"I love you, Shoto."
There should be warnings to these things, he thinks. And limits, to how often you can make a mess out of him like it's absolutely nothing. One day, you're going to kick his heart into overdrive and send him into cardiac arrest.
He's not used to all this, after all. Every kiss still tastes like the first, and every I love you still aches like it hurts.
But he's learning. He's learning a lot — how to love, how to let himself be loved. So even if there are times where he doesn't quite get how you could dote on something as ugly as the scar on his face, or the bruises stamped on his soul, he knows it'll all make sense in due time.
As long as he's with you, he knows it'll be alright.
"I love you too," he confesses, rouged from how easily you make a mess out of him. "The most," he adds.
"Now please, my kiss."
There's a tug on the corner of your mouth.
"So good," you praise, already leaning down to meet him halfway. "Didn't even have to remind you."
talking nonsense | h.iwaizumi
You and Iwaizumi discuss his most recent piercing. And he's a little bit in love with you.
cw: 18+, gn!reader, suggestive, pining
— ✦
You keep your hands pressed firmly against the paper, coated in some kind of unknown substance Iwaizumi is not artsy enough to identify. It covers your hands and the shade of pink you've decided to paint your nails for the week, appearing in splotches up your wrist and ending midway on your forearms. Somehow, none of it gets on the sweater you're wearing.
His sweater — the one he purposefully left behind for you, not that you know. In your eyes, Iwaizumi is just a bit forgetful and if his clothes are in your home then it's fair game to be worn by you. Finders, borrowers; he wouldn't mind if you chose to keep it, though. His clothes always look better on you than they do on him.
You bounce a bit, putting extra pressure onto the paper beneath your palms. Your shorts ride up the expanse of your thigh, creasing and bunching by your hip, and the heat that licks up Iwaizumi's spine has him just barely biting back a curse. He's not just here to admire — though he finds himself doing so regardless when it comes to you — he's here for an opinion.
"You don't think it's too much?" he asks, tilting his head to the side so you can see clearer. The simple silver hoop hanging from his ear. You groan and he clicks his tongue.
He watches you lean back, letting go of your paper mâché creation to lean against the foot of your emerald green couch (bought at a yard sale by you; picked up and moved in by Iwaizumi). "For the last time Haji, if I really thought it was too much I would have told you already." Your lips quirk to the side as you huff out a laugh, "Plus, it's one earring — hardly anything to scoff at."
Iwaizumi clicks his tongue, narrowing his eyes, "What? You want me to get all tatted up? Piercings everywhere?" He says it sarcastically; you pick up on it but you're tilting your head to the side as though you're seriously considering it. Your gaze warms his cheeks and leaves his mouth feeling dry.
"I think you'd suit a tattoo or two," you hum, turning back to your project. You bring your hand up and make a half-hearted attempt at scratching your cheek, smearing some of the paste against your skin. "Another earring — a helix this time." You bend forward, getting closer to your creation with scrutiny in your eyes. Iwaizumi tries not to let his gaze linger, all but whipping his head to the side to stop himself from tracing the dip of your spine under your (his) sweater.
He fails, unable to turn away completely. Some rational part of him reminds him that you're his best friend — one of the few people he's managed to get really close to in this new environment and new university — but he eyes you through his peripheral anyway. Your shorts ride up further. Iwaizumi digs his nails into his palms and shifts around in his seat.
And then, you're looking up suddenly, meeting his stare with an intensity that leaves him feeling glued to the chair he's sitting on. He laughs, wedges some humour into his words, "Think we should slow down." You're smiling, plump lips — soft lips, he's sure of it — parting to just a sliver of your teeth.
"Just think about it," you say, pausing your poking and prodding at your project. "I can think of some other piercings you could rock." It's a quick mumble, followed by the split-second drop of your eyes past the tense line of his jaw, past his shoulders, past his hips. What you're insinuating is not lost on him, but it does take him by surprise.
Iwaizumi draws in a sharp breath. You refocus your attention on your project.
"In case you ever wanted any recommendations," you tack on, words just a touch above a whisper.
He can't figure you out. Or perhaps, he has and the realisation hasn't quite dawned on him yet. It will — when he's gone back to his own apartment and he's sitting on his own couch, he'll finally put two and two together. Iwaizumi hopes that by then, he'll have worked up the courage to do something about it.
In all honesty, it's taking every bit of restraint left in him to keep himself planted on this chair, far from you and those damn shorts and his damn sweater. He wants to tell you he loves you, and then maybe fuck you right into that emerald green couch he helped you haul into your apartment a few months ago. Instead, he says, "You seem like you've given this a lot of thought."
"Obviously," you answer without a shred of hesitation. "I'm always thinking about you, Hajime."
There is one thing Iwaizumi Hajime can be certain of and it's that you will absolutely be the death of him.
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