Bnha X Reader - Blog Posts

love in the margins | t. iida

a short, slow-burn library romance, ft. one blueberry muffin, exactly zero jokes, and a boy who takes flashcards way too seriously. (4597 words)

you meet tenya iida under circumstances that can only be described as tragically collegiate: a peer-led study group in the furthest, quietest corner of the campus library, surrounded by half-dead fluorescent bulbs and the palpable despair of students on the brink of burnout.

it's the third week of the semester, and you're already floundering.

you hadn't intended to be. in theory, you were going to stay on top of things—read the chapters early, color-code your notes, maybe even start a study group of your own. but somewhere between sleep deprivation, an avalanche of discussion posts, and the mysterious black hole that is the university's online portal, you fell behind. hard.

introduction to public policy has been your academic nemesis from the start. the textbook reads like legal jargon swallowed a thesaurus. the professor talks in dense, circular metaphors. every quiz is a minefield of trick questions and ambiguous phrasing. you are, in every sense of the word, academically drowning.

so when a brightly colored flyer promising a "collaborative review session" caught your eye on the bulletin board outside the lecture hall, you didn't think twice. you showed up. desperate. caffeinated. terminally underprepared.

and now you regret everything.

the room smells like dry-erase markers and nervous sweat. a whiteboard at the front is covered in illegible graphs. someone has already spilled a latte on the floor. the guy leading the group talks fast and loud, his explanations full of buzzwords and gestures but lacking anything remotely useful. you suspect he's just regurgitating the study guide at a slightly faster pace.

the other students seem to agree.

one by one, they start to trickle out. a girl leaves with the excuse of "office hours." a guy mutters something about dinner. another just quietly packs up and disappears, not even bothering with a pretense.

by the end of the hour, only two people remain: you, clinging to a futile hope of salvaging your gpa... and him.

he sits across from you with the kind of posture that makes your back ache just looking at him. tall, composed, and absurdly polished—like someone who writes essays three days early and carries a spare pen in case someone forgets theirs. his navy-blue sweater is wrinkle-free. his glasses catch the dim library light. his notes are not just color-coded—they're thematically organized, annotated with footnotes and marginalia in tiny, immaculate handwriting.

he hasn't spoken once. he hasn't needed to.

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

"you're still here?" you ask, more surprise than judgment.

the boy looks up, blinking as if surfacing from a well of deep concentration. he adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion.

"yes," he says, voice clipped and oddly formal. "you are as well."

you arch an eyebrow. "no offense, but... are you actually getting something out of this?"

his expression doesn't change, but he tilts his head slightly—almost like he's assessing you.

"of course," he replies. "engaging in structured group review enhances cognitive retention and contextual understanding. it's an effective method for consolidating knowledge prior to a high-stakes assessment."

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

you snort—audibly. it escapes before you can stop it. and to your surprise, a faint smile flickers across his mouth.

"i'm tenya iida," he says, extending a hand across the table with the kind of precision reserved for formal introductions at university mixers.

you stare at his hand for a moment, then take it. his grip is warm. steady. confident in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter.

"y/n," you say.

his smile grows just slightly. "it's a pleasure to meet you, y/n."

he releases your hand and immediately pulls out a second set of flashcards from his folder. of course he has a second set.

"would you like to quiz each other?" he asks, dead serious. "alternating questions could be a mutually beneficial method of review."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

something about him—the earnestness, the posture, the complete and utter lack of sarcasm—disarms you. it's like he's the living embodiment of academic sincerity. you're not sure whether to laugh or agree.

you do both.

"...sure."

you don't know it yet, but that's the beginning.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

it's not personal. it's just that study groups are the social equivalent of jury duty—temporary, miserable, and best forgotten. you assume tenya iida is one of those hyper-dedicated overachievers who only exist within the academic ecosystem. he probably recedes into a cloud of flashcards and moral fiber as soon as the library closes.

you are, however, proven categorically wrong the following wednesday at exactly 8:03 a.m.

you enter the campus café half-awake, mildly hostile, and fully dependent on the idea of caffeine as a substitute for sleep. the plan is simple: grab something with enough espresso to make your eye twitch, stare blankly at your phone for fifteen minutes, and pretend the crushing weight of institutional learning isn't slowly hollowing you out from the inside.

but fate—or perhaps syllabus-based divine intervention—has other plans.

because when you step inside, there he is.

same posture. same glasses. same stupidly crisp button-down like it didn't just come out of someone's laundry but graduated magna cum laude from it. he's seated at a table by the window, surrounded by highlighters arranged like soldiers, reading the textbook that has been your personal tormentor since week one.

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

you hesitate, caught in that weird space where it's too late to pretend you didn't see him, but also too awkward to walk past without acknowledging him.

before you can make a decision, he looks up—and smiles.

not just a polite, "ah yes, i recognize you" smile.

a real smile. brief, but sincere. like he's actually glad you're here.

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

"didn't expect to see you here," you say as you slide into the seat across from him, instantly aware of how tired you look in comparison to his perfectly combed hair and terrifying punctuality.

"i study here most mornings," he replies. "the ambient noise level is consistent, and the natural lighting is optimal for focus."

you blink. "that is... alarmingly specific."

he inclines his head. "i find that consistency breeds productivity."

you want to tease him, but the truth is, it's kind of admirable. alarming. but admirable.

he gestures to the pastry between you.

"would you like half?" he asks. "it's fresh. and i believe we have, at this point, established a cordial enough rapport to justify the sharing of breakfast items."

you stare at him.

"do you always offer muffins to people you've only studied with once?"

he doesn't even flinch. "only when they look tired enough to deserve one."

your mouth twitches.

"you've been saving that line, haven't you."

he looks mildly offended. "no. though i could annotate it in my planner if you'd like."

you laugh—genuinely this time—and accept the muffin. it's warm, sweet, and annoyingly perfect. just like him.

you don't pull out your flashcards. not immediately. you sit there in companionable silence, splitting the muffin and sipping your drinks like it's something you've always done. like this is normal.

you tell yourself this isn't a date. obviously.

it's too early in the day for romance. you're both clutching textbooks like weapons. he hasn't even made a single joke. (you're not sure he knows how.)

and yet—

when he leans in to show you a section he highlighted—carefully annotated with footnotes and marginal notes that are somehow neater than your typed essays—your shoulders brush. you don't pull away.

he doesn't, either.

later, you realize that you don't even remember what chapter you reviewed.

but you remember the sound of his voice as he quietly explained it. the way he passed you the last bite of muffin without saying anything. the way his fingers curled ever so slightly when he set his pen down between you.

you remember thinking, with a strange flutter in your chest: this could be something.

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

you repeat it like a mantra as you meet him at the library every tuesday and thursday without fail, settling into your now-permanent seats by the windows like assigned partners in some ongoing group project that no one else remembers being assigned to. his bag always lands on the table first, followed by a reusable water bottle the size of your emotional baggage. he brings extra highlighters now—plural—and starts leaving a green one near your elbow like he’s not even thinking about it.

you, in turn, stop pretending to study anywhere else.

because the truth is, you don’t concentrate better when he’s around—not even a little. he’s distracting in the worst possible way: tall and tidy and terminally composed, with a voice like a podcast host and a smile that you pretend not to notice every time he glances over at you with something like pride in his eyes.

and the worst part?

it’s working.

your grades are going up. you understand policy terminology now. you caught yourself referencing a case study unprompted in another class, and the look your professor gave you made it feel like you’d just been knighted.

you’d thank him for it—sincerely—if he didn’t look so smug every time you nailed a quiz.

“you’ve clearly been applying yourself,” he says one evening, looking over your annotated notes like they’re some kind of sacred text.

“i’ve been applying your study methods,” you reply, then instantly regret it, because the smile he gives you in return is devastating.

and that would be fine—annoying, but fine—if it weren’t for the fact that he’s started sitting closer.

not drastically. not inappropriately. just... close.

close enough that when you both lean in to look at something on the same page, your shoulders brush. your knees knock. his hand lingers near yours when he passes you a pen, and he doesn’t move away quickly. sometimes—and this is particularly evil—his thigh rests against yours under the table for minutes at a time, and you’re too proud (and too panicked) to say anything.

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

but something is happening. you just don’t know what to call it.

one thursday afternoon, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain. the windows in the library fog up slightly, making the whole room feel smaller, softer, somehow more intimate. your shoes are damp. your brain is fried. you’re barely holding onto your focus.

but he’s already there, sitting at your usual table with a mug from the downstairs café and a folder labeled “legislation review: week 5.” there’s a muffin. of course there’s a muffin.

he looks up as you approach. smiles. “you’re early.”

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

he hesitates, like he’s genuinely considering it. “it means i enjoy this.”

your heart does something stupid.

you take your seat before your face can give you away.

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

you’re trying to focus. really, you are. but his leg is pressed against yours and you swear it’s getting closer every time he shifts. it’s not even the contact itself that’s distracting—it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice. like it’s just normal. like this is how he always studies with people.

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

“y/n?” he says, and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“hm?”

“i asked if you’d like to walk through the case brief again. you seem... distant.”

you clear your throat and try not to sound like someone whose brain has just been wiped by a thigh. “yeah, no, i’m fine. just tired.”

he nods solemnly. “understandable. your coursework has been particularly intensive.”

he says it like he knows your schedule better than you do—which he might. you’ve seen his planner. you’re pretty sure he’s memorized the entire academic calendar, national holidays included.

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

“okay,” you say. “i need to ask you something.”

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

you glance around—no one’s within earshot— and lean in slightly.

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

“no. i mean yes, but no.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “this. the muffins. the flashcards. the... sitting so close i can smell your laundry detergent.”

he goes still.

“i’m just trying to understand if we’re, like...” you hesitate. “is this just a really intense academic friendship or are we... flirting?”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

then, carefully: “i hadn’t realized my proximity was making you uncomfortable.”

“it’s not!” you say, too quickly. “it’s just... confusing.”

“confusing how?”

you fidget with the cap of your pen. “because we do things that feel... date-adjacent. and i don’t know if that’s just how you are with people or if i’m—” you stop yourself before you can say not imagining it.

his brows draw together, faintly perplexed. “i apologize. i didn’t mean to cause confusion.”

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

his ears go pink. just slightly. “i wouldn’t define it as flirting. but i do enjoy spending time with you.”

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

he hesitates. then, quieter: “it’s not.”

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

and then—like the universe can’t stand unresolved tension—your knees bump again.

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

not even in your head, really—not technically. because you’re not dating. you haven’t kissed. there’s been no confession. there’s been no moment of clarity where either of you has stood dramatically in the rain and said i think about you all the time, which, honestly, is a bit disappointing.

but you still change your outfit three times before meeting him for coffee on saturday.

you still hesitate in front of the mirror, adjusting your sleeves and second-guessing your hair, muttering get a grip under your breath like it’s a prayer.

you still pause at the door to the café, one hand on the handle, and remind yourself—again—that this isn’t a date.

you’re just meeting up. casually. like friends.

friends who sometimes sit with their knees touching under library tables. friends who share muffins and steal glances and somehow always find reasons to linger a little too long in doorways.

friends who, if they weren’t so emotionally constipated, might’ve figured this out already.

but you push the door open anyway, and the little bell overhead chimes bright and familiar.

he’s already there.

of course he is.

tenya iida is punctual to the point of pathology. if you told him to meet you in the afterlife at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d be there early, holding a clipboard and a fully prepared powerpoint.

he’s sitting near the window, back straight, hands folded politely in his lap. his hair is a little messy from the wind outside. his sweater is navy—clean, simple, a little oversized in a way that makes you stare longer than you should.

he sees you and stands immediately, which is both adorable and completely unnecessary.

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

he doesn’t reply, but the smile he gives you is soft around the edges.

you order something with too much caffeine and not enough nutritional value. he offers to pay, like he always does. you decline, like you always do. it’s a silent tradition now, a ritual of stubbornness. he lets it go with a quiet nod, but not without giving you that look—the one that says i was raised right and this physically pains me.

you find a booth in the corner, a little more secluded than the rest. the sun spills in through the window in soft golden streaks, and for a moment, it feels like you’re somewhere outside of time.

“i’ve never seen you wear that color,” he says as you sit down.

you glance at your shirt. “yeah? too much?”

he shakes his head immediately. “no. it suits you.”

your mouth goes a little dry.

you recover quickly, leaning back and sipping your drink like it doesn’t mean anything. like the warmth crawling up your neck is from the coffee and not the compliment.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “what’s on the agenda for today? rigorous academic analysis? philosophical debates about economic ethics? impromptu pop quizzes?”

he tilts his head. “i thought we might take the day off.”

you blink. “from... studying?”

“from everything.” he shrugs, a little sheepishly. “i realized we’ve never spent time together without a textbook between us.”

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

he hesitates. just barely. “yes. like friends.”

the words hang in the air between you—awkward, uncertain, but not unkind.

you nod, slowly. “okay. yeah. we can do that.”

and you do.

you talk. not about school, not about deadlines or group projects or the upcoming midterm. you talk about dumb childhood stories and weird food preferences and the fact that he once tried to start a recycling initiative in his middle school and was very upset when no one followed the sorting chart correctly.

you tell him about your obsession with terrible reality TV. he listens with the seriousness of a man taking notes for a thesis.

he tells you about his older brother, and how much he looks up to him. you tell him about the stray cat that used to follow you home in high school, even though you never fed it.

he laughs—really laughs—when you tell him about the time you broke your nose in gym class trying to dodge a volleyball and ran straight into a bleacher.

“i’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “i don’t mean to laugh at your pain.”

“no, you do,” you say, grinning. “and it’s okay. i would too.”

at one point, your knees bump under the table again. this time, neither of you pulls away.

it’s later than you mean it to be when you finally leave the café. the sun is dipping low, the sky tinged with lavender and orange. the street is quiet, and the wind bites just enough to make you zip your jacket up.

you walk together. not toward the library, not toward another class—just aimlessly. like people who have nowhere else to be.

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

you’re not talking. not really. the silence between you is comfortable now, lived-in. every so often your hands brush, and you wonder—wildly, stupidly —what would happen if you just reached out.

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

“this was nice,” you say, when you finally reach the crosswalk where you’ll part ways.

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“we should do it again,” you say. casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

but he looks at you like it does.

“i’d like that,” he says. and then—“you’re very easy to be around.”

your breath catches.

you want to say something. you’re easy to be around too. i think about you when we’re not together. i don’t know if i’m imagining this but i hope i’m not.

instead, you say, “you’re weirdly charming, you know that?”

he blinks. “i—thank you?”

you grin. “it’s a compliment. mostly.”

he laughs. soft. pleased. “i’ll take it.”

he takes a small step back, like he’s about to leave —but then pauses.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“if this had been a date...” he clears his throat. “would that have been... agreeable to you?”

you stare at him.

then, slowly—carefully—you nod.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it would’ve been.”

he smiles. it’s small. tentative. but it lights up his whole face.

“then maybe next time, we won’t pretend.”

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

he nods once. then, with a strange, lingering sort of hesitation—like he’s not ready to go yet—he turns to leave.

you watch him go.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel... hopeful.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

when he texts you the next morning—same time tuesday? not for studying this time. if you're free.—you stare at it for a good ten minutes before responding. not because you’re unsure of your answer (you’re not), but because the implication hits like a freight train.

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

this time, he’s calling it what it is.

you don’t overthink your reply (for once). you just type yeah. i’m free and throw your phone face-down before your heart can beat out of your chest.

and when tuesday rolls around, you are twenty minutes early.

you tell yourself it’s because the weather’s nice and the walk was shorter than usual and you didn’t want to cut it close. but the truth is, you’ve been ready since noon.

you’re wearing the sweater he said he liked once, months ago, after a study session where he handed you a highlighter and your fingers brushed and you both paused like the world might end. it’s not even your warmest or your nicest sweater. it’s just... the one he looked at a little too long.

you don’t want to admit what that means.

you sit in your usual seat by the window. a small table, worn edges. your coffee in hand. no textbooks. no flashcards. just the sound of the café around you and the low simmer of anticipation in your chest.

he walks in three minutes early, which is basically scandalous by iida standards.

you glance up, and the second your eyes meet, he smiles.

it’s not his usual polite, committee-appropriate smile.

it’s something else.

something softer.

he sits down across from you like he’s been doing it his whole life.

you stare at him for a second too long.

“you’re early,” he says, like it’s a fact worth noting. his voice is gentler than usual.

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

he laughs—quietly, warmly. “i thought you might say that.”

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

you sip your drink and hope your heart doesn’t explode.

twenty minutes in, you realize you’ve forgotten what time it is.

again.

you’re talking about something stupid—a professor you both silently hate but never speak ill of in class—and he’s mimicking their voice in a whisper, hand shielding his mouth, and you’re laughing.

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

like you don’t have a hundred things weighing you down.

he always does that. makes everything feel easier. lighter.

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

you haven’t said it. not out loud. not even to yourself.

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

because tenya iida has the power to wreck you in a way no one else ever has.

not because he’s dramatic. not because he’s charming (though he is, in that annoying, understated, golden-retriever-with-a-perfect-credit-score kind of way).

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

because when he looks at you, it’s like you’re someone worth understanding.

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

neither of you mentions how long you stayed. it’s dark out, but neither of you cares.

you walk close, side by side. your hands brush once, then again. his fingers twitch toward yours, and you pretend not to notice—not because you don’t want it, but because you’re not sure what happens if you reach back.

you talk about nothing. and everything.

he tells you about the time his older brother accidentally dyed his hair blue with a shampoo prank and how no one in their house was allowed to mention it for an entire year.

you tell him about the time you accidentally set off a fire alarm trying to microwave leftover curry in a dorm that very explicitly prohibited strong-smelling food.

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

you bump your shoulder into his. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he glances at you. “i didn’t say that.”

you both stop at the crosswalk—the same one where you stood days ago.

the same one where he asked if this had been a date...

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

you just look at him, the wind brushing through your sleeves, your fingers cold where they’re shoved into your pockets.

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

and then—quietly—he says, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “of course.”

his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. careful.

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

“why... this?” he gestures gently between you. “i know i’m not the most exciting person. i’m not particularly funny or... spontaneous.”

you frown. “iida.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” he says. “why you keep showing up.”

you want to say because i like the way you talk when you’re tired, or because your laugh makes me want to listen to every dumb story you’ve ever told.

you want to say because i’ve never felt so calm next to another person in my entire life.

instead, you say, “because when i’m with you, i don’t feel like i have to be anyone else.”

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

“i don’t want to mess this up,” he says.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

you exhale, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “you’re not.”

his hand lifts, hesitates—then lands gently against your cheek.

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

it’s patient. reverent. like he’s memorizing the feeling. like he’s been waiting for the right moment and this, finally, is it.

his lips press softly against yours, and your hands lift automatically to his jacket, holding on, grounding yourself.

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

then he says, “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

he laughs, arms sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this is still new,” he says. “i know that.”

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

he pauses. “and i’d like to take you to dinner. an actual dinner. with reservations and menus and probably overpriced appetizers.”

you grin. “are you asking me on a real date?”

he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

“then yes,” you reply. “i’m saying yes.”

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once—finally—that feels like enough.

boyfriend of the year (?) | k. bakugo

texts from a relationship built on mutual annoyance, emotional damage, and sour gummies from 7/11

tell my mom we're in love | h. sero

fake dating wasn't on your holiday to-do list—until sero invited you home for tamales and chaos (3525 words)

you regretted this the moment you stepped out of the dormitory and into the sharp chill of mid-december air, a duffel bag hanging off one shoulder and your dignity already teetering on the edge. trailing beside you was hanta sero, practically vibrating with the smug energy of a man who had just talked his best friend into making the worst decision of her academic career.

and technically, he had.

somewhere between his mother's increasingly invasive matchmaking attempts and his inability to say the word "no" like a normal person, he'd decided the solution was to invent a girlfriend. and of course, of course, he'd chosen you.

"come on," he said now, as a cab idled at the curb, white exhaust curling into the crisp air like smoke from a slow-burning disaster. "tell me this won't be fun. just a little bit."

"i think i'm too emotionally aware to find this fun," you muttered, hoisting your bag into the trunk as he leaned beside you with his usual careless grace.

sero grinned—that unbothered, insufferably pretty grin that always made it harder to stay annoyed with him for long. "emotionally aware, huh? sounds like you're already getting into character."

you leveled him with a look. "if i'm your girlfriend, you're going to need to stop flirting like a golden retriever with a god complex."

"babe," he said, slipping into the backseat beside you with the kind of unearned confidence that should have come with a warning label, "flirting is literally how i survive in social settings. don't take this from me."

you stared out the window, hoping the freezing glass would cool the creeping warmth crawling up your neck. "we're not actually dating, hanta."

"right," he said, and he sounded amused, not wounded. "but we could be really good at it."

you didn't answer. he didn't press.

the cab pulled away from the dorms, and for a moment the silence between you was companionable, like it always had been. you'd known sero for years now—long enough to understand that his laid-back demeanor was as real as it was performative. he was the kind of person who made a room feel lighter just by being in it, but who also knew the weight of silence better than most people ever would.

he didn't make you feel like you had to be anyone but yourself. and that, unfortunately, was the root of the problem.

somewhere along the road from "we're just friends" to "please pretend to be my girlfriend so my mom stops trying to marry me off," things had started to shift.

not all at once. not obviously.

but they shifted.

now he was dozing beside you, his head tilted toward your shoulder, and every bump in the road made him inch closer. you should have nudged him off. you should have drawn the line.

but you didn't.

instead, you studied the soft lines of his face—the relaxed set of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows like his dreams were just a little too fast for his thoughts to catch—and you wondered what the hell you'd gotten yourself into.

by the time the cab slowed, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light over a neighborhood that looked far too idyllic to be real. sero's house was two stories of warmth and welcome: string lights curled along the porch railing, a wreath hung slightly crooked on the front door, and smoke drifted lazily from a chimney that promised something warm inside.

standing at the threshold was a woman with sharp eyes, a kind smile, and the unmistakable aura of someone who could both bake you cookies and emotionally destroy you in the same breath.

sero's mother.

you froze.

he didn't.

without hesitation, sero leaned in, brushing your hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. his voice dipped just low enough for only you to hear. "smile like you love me."

then he reached for your hand.

his fingers, long and warm, laced effortlessly through yours.

you didn't pull away.

and that was the moment—standing at the edge of his childhood, your fingers locked in his, heart skipping in the kind of rhythm you weren't prepared for—that you realized you were in far more danger than you thought.

because part of you didn't want to let go.

the cab hadn't even rolled to a full stop before sero's mom was standing in front of it, arms crossed, eyes already locked onto her target like a seasoned general. you had seen pictures, sure—sero had shown you a few over lunch one day, swiping through images of his mom with an almost reverent fondness—but none of them did her justice.

she was radiant. that was the first word that came to mind. not in some soft, dreamy way, but in the sharp, unmistakable warmth of someone who had mastered the art of existing unapologetically. she had a scarf looped carelessly around her neck, dark hair pinned up with wisps escaping, and that immediate, unnerving energy unique to mothers who know everything before you say a word.

"hanta," she said brightly as you approached. "you took forever, mijo. i was about to call."

and then her eyes slid to you.

her whole face changed.

"qué linda," she said, stepping down toward you without hesitation. "you're even prettier than the pictures."

you opened your mouth to answer—say something polite, maybe even charming—but instead you were pulled into a hug so warm and familiar you forgot how to speak altogether.

she smelled like cinnamon and butter, like café and home. her arms wrapped around you without hesitation, solid and reassuring, and you blinked twice before realizing she wasn't letting go just yet.

she pulled back, hands on your shoulders, eyes scanning your face with curiosity. "how old are you, mija?"

"seventeen," you managed. "ua student. same class as hanta."

"top twenty," sero chimed from behind you, proud and useless.

his mom smiled wider. "good. you'll need that to keep up with him. he talks too much."

"i'm right here," sero said, offended.

"and what's your quirk, sweetheart?" she asked, guiding you inside like she owned every molecule of the house—which she probably did.

"just a luck quirk," you replied. "it's not anything big or flashy."

"flashy's overrated," she said. "flashy gets you on magazine covers, but smart keeps you alive. hanta could use some of that balance."

sero made a wounded noise. "i'm right here."

you stepped into the house and tried not to gape. it was warm and lived-in, with mismatched furniture and soft lights, and framed photos in every direction. you passed at least three different versions of baby sero—one with cake on his face, one dressed as a shark, and one in a tiny suit looking like he'd lost a bet.

you were immediately ushered to the couch, where sero flopped down beside you like he'd done this a thousand times. his arm stretched along the back of the cushions behind you, easy and casual, but you felt the heat of it like a brand against your neck.

his mom sat in the armchair across from you, one leg crossed, hands folded, expression deceptively pleasant.

"so," she said. "how long have you two been together?"

"six months," you and sero answered in unison.

your eyes met. you both smiled.

it was practiced, but god—it didn't feel like a lie.

"how'd you meet?" she asked next.

sero leaned forward like he was telling a secret. "training. she beat up kaminari. i've never recovered."

you tried not to laugh. "he followed me around for a week."

"i was courting you."

"you were loitering near vending machines."

"i was being persistent," he corrected. "it worked, didn't it?"

his mom watched you both, eyes narrowed just enough to make you sweat.

"and what do you like about my son?" she asked you, suddenly.

your mouth went dry.

sero glanced sideways, surprised.

but the answer came easy.

"he's reliable. and funny. and he listens—really listens. like you're the only person in the room."

you could feel sero's eyes on you, and the room felt warmer than it had a second ago.

"he's easy to be around," you said, a little softer now. "i feel like i can breathe near him."

a long silence stretched across the room.

then sero bumped your shoulder with his own, voice low. "you're not supposed to make me blush in front of my mom."

his mom smiled, pleased. "i like you."

you smiled back, because how could you not. "thank you."

"i made tamales," she said, rising to her feet. "sit tight. i'll get you a plate."

"do you need help—?" you started, half-standing.

"no, no. you're a guest. you sit and let yourself be adored."

she vanished into the kitchen with surprising speed.

the moment she was out of earshot, you collapsed sideways onto the couch.

"i blacked out," you whispered. "what did i even say?"

"that i'm amazing and you love being around me," sero said smugly.

you shot him a look.

he leaned a little closer, voice dropping. "also, you were adorable. you didn't have to go that hard. i almost forgot it was fake."

you didn't answer.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

dinner came after a comfortable lull in the afternoon—just enough time for you to grow used to the house's warmth, the quiet hum of kitchen sounds, and the sound of sero humming to himself as he helped his mom plate tamales. there was something undeniably domestic about it—watching him lean over the counter, sleeves pushed up, swiping a bit of masa from the corner of a dish with a grin when he thought no one was watching.

you caught yourself watching.

a little too long.

and when he turned around and caught your eye, offering you a wink that made your stomach stutter—you looked away, pretending to study the wall like it had secrets.

the house filled slowly with more noise, more feet, more voices. by the time dinner was ready, the table was surrounded by people—his siblings, all younger, all chaos incarnate. there were five in total, ranging from what looked like barely ten to maybe sixteen. all of them clearly adored sero, and all of them clearly had a thousand questions about you.

"are you really his girlfriend?" one of the younger girls asked, blinking up at you from her seat at the far end of the table.

sero, already sitting beside you, reached for your hand under the table without hesitation. "of course she is," he said easily. "she puts up with me. that's gotta mean something."

you glanced sideways, surprised by the way his thumb started tracing circles into your palm. his fingers were warm, his grip relaxed, like this was a habit and not a performance. your first instinct was to pull away—but you didn't. you let him hold on.

"do you like him?" one of the boys asked bluntly, somewhere between a dare and a test.

you looked over at sero, who was already looking at you.

and the smile that spread across his face wasn't teasing. it wasn't even smug.

it was soft.

"i do," you said honestly. "he's easy to like."

one of his sisters actually swooned.

their mother returned from the kitchen, a stack of warm plates balanced in her arms. "aye, look at you two," she said fondly, setting down the food. "you look like you've been married five years already."

sero snorted. "that's because she already tells me what to do."

"someone has to," you said, nudging his leg under the table.

his knee pressed into yours and didn't move.

the meal began in full, voices rising over each other, stories flying back and forth like birds across the table. tamales were unwrapped, passed down, devoured. rice and beans steamed in bowls at the center. someone spilled horchata and got teased for it for fifteen minutes straight.

sero kept his hand under the table the entire time.

sometimes on your knee. sometimes brushing your fingers. once, briefly, resting on your thigh with a touch so casual and confident you forgot how to breathe for a second.

"so how did you know?" his mom asked halfway through the meal, raising an eyebrow. "that you liked each other, i mean."

you blinked. "um."

sero didn't miss a beat.

"she made this face at me once," he said, totally serious. "during training. right after i got my ass handed to me. and i thought—yeah. i'd let her ruin my life."

you choked on a sip of water. "that's not what happened."

"you raised your eyebrow," he insisted, "like i was both impressive and pathetic. it was very motivating."

"you were bleeding."

"romance is about timing."

the table erupted in laughter.

"you're ridiculous," you muttered, but there was no bite to it. you felt lightheaded from smiling too much.

his younger sister leaned over the table toward you. "you make him less annoying," she said seriously. "he's, like, way less weird with you here."

"he's still weird," someone else muttered.

"hey," sero said, deeply offended. "i'm the glue of this household."

"you're the glitter glue," one of the boys shot back. "unnecessary and all over everything."

the conversation swirled, but it was warm. easy. you felt like you'd slipped into a rhythm you hadn't known you were missing. sero's family didn't make you feel like an outsider. if anything, they treated you like a permanent fixture—like they already liked you, just because he did.

and sero—he kept looking at you.

in the quiet moments between bites. when you laughed at something his brother said. when you wiped your fingers on your napkin and he passed you your drink like he'd already anticipated you'd reach for it.

"you're really good at this," you whispered during a lull, leaning in.

"at what?" he asked, voice low, chin tilted toward you.

"this," you said. "pretending."

his eyes flicked down to your mouth, just for a second.

"what can i say," he said quietly. "i'm something of an actor."

you snickered.

and then his mom called your name from across the table.

"you like dessert, mija?" she asked, already bringing out the plates.

you blinked twice before answering, forcing a smile. "of course. thank you."

sero didn't look away from you for a long time.

dinner had long ended. the noise had faded. sero's house, once pulsing with overlapping voices and clattering plates, now thrummed with a different kind of energy—low, contented, quiet.

his siblings had scattered, full-bellied and sugar-sticky, off to bedrooms and couches and wherever else they disappeared to in the evening. someone had turned on a dusty old playlist in the den, and the soft hum of vintage boleros curled through the walls like warmth that refused to die.

you stood in the hallway between the dining room and the back door, hovering in the in-between of things: of conversations and thoughts, of what was real and what had only started out that way.

you weren't sure what to do with your hands.

or your heart.

sero appeared beside you like he always did—quiet-footed and comfortably close, smelling faintly of soap and masa and something sweet from dessert you hadn't caught the name of. his sleeves were still pushed up, revealing his forearms, and you hated that you were looking at them. not because they weren't worth looking at—they were—but because it meant your guard was down. again.

"come on," he said softly. "balcony?"

you didn't answer. you just nodded and followed.

the air outside was sharp and clean. the kind of cold that wakes you up without being cruel. you wrapped your arms around yourself more out of instinct than discomfort. the balcony was small, with a windchime shaped like a lizard hanging from the overhang, and a view of soft suburban rooftops and yellow windows scattered like lanterns across the horizon.

you leaned against the wooden railing. he did the same.

neither of you spoke.

you were too full of the evening. of tamales and laughter. of too much touch under the table. of words you'd said with a smile that weren't lies—but weren't supposed to be true either.

the problem wasn't pretending.

the problem was that pretending didn't feel like pretending anymore.

you didn't know when it had changed. maybe it was gradual—each time he laced his fingers through yours without asking, or rested his hand on your thigh mid-story, or offered you a grin across the table that was so familiar, so soft, you forgot why you were here in the first place.

but it hit you now, standing beside him in the chill—this unshakable, irreversible knowledge:

you were in love with him.

god, you were in love with hanta sero.

not just in a surface-level, crush-colored way. not just in the i-like-how-he-makes-me-laugh way. it was deeper than that. older. something that had snuck in when you weren't looking and taken root so quietly you hadn't noticed until it was everywhere.

you were in love with the way he held space. with the way he listened without trying to fix you. with the way he let the world land on him lightly, and still carried it in both hands when it mattered.

you were in love with someone who didn't even know you weren't faking anymore.

you exhaled.

"you're quiet," he said, not looking at you. "regretting it already?"

you shook your head. "no. it's just... weird how easy it was. with your family."

he hummed. "they like you."

"they liked that i made you less annoying."

"that is the highest compliment in my house."

you smiled, faint. "they're sweet. loud, but sweet."

"you kept up fine."

"i think i blacked out for half of it."

"you were golden," he said, softer now. "you always are."

you turned toward him slowly.

the lights from the kitchen spilled faintly through the curtains behind you, catching just enough of his face for you to see how relaxed he looked. how present. how close.

you swallowed.

"hanta?"

he looked over at you, brows raised. "yeah?"

there was a beat of silence.

"i don't know how to lie to you," you said.

he blinked once.

then again, slower.

"what?"

"i mean," you continued, hands curling around the edge of the railing. "i've been trying. all day. and i thought i could. i thought i could pull it off—play the part, pretend—but then we got here, and your mom hugged me, and you touched my hand under the table, and i just... i don't know when it stopped being a bit."

his eyes searched your face like he was looking for something he'd already lost.

"hanta," you said again. "i'm in love with you."

his face froze.

the air between you seemed to still. the windchime didn't move. the whole world narrowed into this one pinpoint moment, bright and fragile and terrifying.

he stepped back—just barely.

"you don't have to keep pretending," he said. carefully. cautiously. "no one's watching anymore. you can drop it."

you stared at him.

"i'm not pretending," you said.

another beat. a sharp exhale.

his lips parted slightly. his brows furrowed, not in confusion, but in disbelief. in the kind of fear that came from wanting something too much and being afraid to reach for it.

"you're serious."

"i've never been more serious about anything in my life."

sero let out a long, shaky laugh. it cracked halfway through.

"say it again," he whispered.

"i'm in love with you."

and this time, you reached for him.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, and you felt the moment he melted—slow and overwhelmed, the way something melts that's been cold for too long.

"you've got to be kidding me," he muttered, leaning into your touch. "i thought—god, i thought i was the only one losing my mind over this."

you smiled, eyes stinging.

"you weren't."

"i've been in love with you since second year," he admitted, voice breaking a little. "you kissed my cheek that one time after i carried your books back from the nurse's office, and i nearly died. like, actual cardiac arrest."

"that was a year ago."

"welcome to my long, slow descent into insanity."

you laughed, quiet and ridiculous.

and then he kissed you.

it wasn't rushed. wasn't showy. it wasn't a fireworks-and-credits-roll kiss.

it was the kind that happened in doorways, in hallways, in quiet rooms where hearts beat too loud. the kind that changed nothing and everything all at once.

he kissed you like he meant it.

you kissed him like you'd been waiting your whole life to.

when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours.

"you're real?" you whispered, breath catching.

"i better be," he said. "otherwise you've just confessed to a figment of your imagination."

you swallowed a grin.

his thumb traced your cheek.

"i thought this would end in disaster," he said quietly. "that pretending would ruin everything."

"and?"

"and now i don't want it to end at all."

you leaned in, bumping your nose against his.

"then it doesn't have to."

he smiled, and kissed you again.

not like he was pretending.

like he was home.

i beg pls do a shoto x reader smau just like cutesie things and theyre already dating i need it for my daily serotonin intake ^^ like where he just does the most boyfriend things without noticing...

w2e, the marias, beabadoobee, laufey typa romance i beg 🙏

everything he does | s. todoroki

in which loving you comes naturally to him—even if he rarely says it out loud

⋆˚࿔ ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴜᴋɪ ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏᴜ + ᴘᴅᴀ. ✩˚⋆

✧ hellooo!! the unexpected support on my first lil drabble made me want to write another one!<3 This one’s just a little longer though

✧ fluffy fluff, suki loooves youu, gn reader

During the early stages of yours and Katsuki’s relationship, when it came to being publicly affectionate, furthest he would go would be hand holding.

You didn’t mind however. His hands were always comfortingly warm, and despite his explosive, even deadly quirk, would always hold yours firmly, yet ever so gently. Such a simple gesture, though it always brought a feeling of safety.

Besides, Katsuki didn’t seem like the type to go past handholding beyond closed doors to begin with. You knew what you were getting into, and you were completely content with just that. You simply took it as a silently set boundary of his, and you didn’t want to force your boyfriend out of his comfort zone.

Which, you realised overtime, even if you wanted to, you didn’t have to.

It was like he was exploring his own boundaries, pushing his own buttons. The more steps he took out of border, the further his hands wandered.

They went from your own, snaking their way to your shoulders, waist, anywhere on your back. The fleeting touches eventually leading to sweet, careless hugs and kisses. Becoming second nature to him.

Walking down a street? You’re not walking unless you’ve got a hand around his bicep, your head on his shoulder.

In a crowd? His arm is not leaving your waist.

Waiting in line? Your impatient grump of a boyfriend is hugging you from behind, leaning his head on your shoulder as he grumbles complaints into it.

You think about it every once in a while. How he went from having the tips of his ears burning at your hand nestling in his, to having his arms shamelessly around you at all times. You don’t know what is it that gave him the push, just happy it’s you he feels comfortable with to such extent.

All the while, Katsuki wishes he could put it into words for you.

Falling for you, then falling in love with you has taught him a lot. The kind of love you showed him has helped him realise things, look at them from a different perspective. It made him yearn for and want everything he never thought he would. Being publicly affectionate a small, nonetheless great example of that.

Katsuki used to think there was no need for not just you and him, but anyone to be all lovey-dovey in public. He used to think it was completely unnecessary, obnoxious even. That is, until the small sense of longing surfaced from the depths of his heart.

Katsuki thinks it grew stronger the deeper he fell. It wasn’t long before he’d decided to act on it, languidly at least.

It was weird, kind of a newfound feeling for him. He quickly pinpointed it to, pretty much, wanting to show your guys’ love off. He wants to show off how good he is to you and how happy you are with him. To the whole world, preferably, because he loves you that much and more.

In Katsuki’s head, he notably matured for this. Something he did next to, and thanks to you. But he guesses that’s just part of being in love.

⋆˚࿔ ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴜᴋɪ ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏᴜ + ᴄᴜᴅᴅʟɪɴɢ. ✩˚⋆

✧ hey hii heyyy! first time i have the courage to post a drabble i wrote... plz have mercy

✧ pure fluff, bakugou is a bit ooc, reader is gn!

As expected of the great explosion murder god, he insists on always holding you. The stubborn boy will literally wrestle you until you are both lying down, his arms around you, chin on top of your head.

That being a short sum up of how cuddling usually went with your boyfriend… until the moment he’d shockingly, begrudgingly agreed to being held.

“Fine.” He muttered, almost spat out. “Just this once.”

Safe to say it was not just that once.

Katsuki would rather walk barefoot on glass particles before he’d admit just how much he adores being held by you.

He adores hates! how safe and even small it makes him feel. Lying on your chest as you gently card your fingers trough his hair with one hand, slowly rubbing his back with the other. The soothing rise and fall of your chest, the comforting, steady sound of your heartbeat. Not to mention the occasional soft kisses you plant to the top of his head, sometimes accompanied by whispered sweet nothings.

And although flustered, Katsuki will demand this treatment every night. Wordlessly however.

Unless you initiate holding him, he’s crossing his arms, tossing and turning next to you, purposefully loudly sighing until you’d just get the damn hint and pull him into your arms. (You already know what he wants. He’s just too cute all huffy, stubborn as usual.)

It’s unspokenly become your guys’ little secret - the most important part of your nightly routine. You holding him, him being held by you.

You, who he loves so much, he’d let all his walls break down for.

A fact you’re very blissfully aware of, so you’d happily spend the rest of your nights holding your pretty blonde in your arms.

DRESS PRESENTATION!

keigo takami (hawks) x reader smau, model au

an: more of a teaser than a trailer.. sorry. formatting sucks but we deal w it.

tag list (open): @chaoslibra @samm1e13 @seijuroww @personally4runa

dividers from: @saradika-graphics

Chapter Seven

Warning: 

The Following Story is entirely out of my imagination, I do not mean harm when writing this story with any religion or culture.

That being said, BNHA does not belong to me, any other character beside the main character does not belong to me.

English isn’t my first language, please be kind <3

main list < Previous chapter Next chapter >

“You’re shitting me right?” Bakugou’s voice suddenly came above the whole training ground. But he knew somewhere it was true, cause to be fair the evidence was adding up and looking right at him.

Drax ignored him, as he kneeled before you. His horns as black as the night sky poking out of his head, a mark covering one of his eyes as he looked up at you. “You’re highness is finally at the certain age that she will discover herself fully. But its not safe anymore princess, you should come wit-“

“Woah woah woah, I’m sorry does it look like I’m going to come with you?” You spoke out, taking a step back from everything and everyone, panic coming to the surface. “ cause first you tell me, my whole life is a lie, second of I’m apparently a danger to society and possibly the universe—“

You were reaching for your back, two heavy pair of black wings sitting beautifully on your back. “And lastly, get these things off me-! What’s happening-!” Your breath fell quickly, as you kept clawing at your back, trying to wrap your head around the fact that he just called you “your highness”

Drax finally stood, slow and careful, taking a cautious step toward you. His voice lowered into something almost melodic, steady like a lullaby. “Breathe, Princess. Please. The wings won’t hurt you — they’re part of you.”

But the word Princess snapped you right back into that same spiral, making the air feel even thinner.

“I’m not a princess!” you shouted, voice cracking under the weight of your fear. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, uninvited and hot, but you blinked them back, pulling your knees tightly to your chest. “I’m not— I’m not anything. I don’t want this.”

For a long moment, the field was quiet except for your uneven breathing.

“You are a stranger-! And If-“ You couldn’t finish that sentence, tears streaming slightly down your cheek, but you quickly wiped it away. “The wings need to go-! I can’t go on like this-! I-“

Bakugou stepped in, closing the space between you with a firm, grounding presence. His hand didn’t touch you, but hovered close — steady, solid, and unshakable.

“Hey.” His voice wasn’t sharp like usual, but low and commanding enough to cut through the storm spinning in your head. “Breathe, idiot.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes, but you felt the shift in his tone. He inhaled slow and deep, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it in a controlled breath. “Come on. Match me.”

Your chest was tight, your breathing ragged, but you tried. Shaky at first, shallow — but with each breath Bakugou took, you mirrored it a little closer, the panic loosening its grip, just enough for your head to clear.

Once your breathing steadied, Drax finally moved, slow and careful, giving you space but speaking with calm certainty. “The wings don’t have to stay out, Princess,” he said softly, the word still foreign and heavy on your ears. “They only appear when your instincts wake... when your blood remembers. I can teach you to control it.”

You hesitated, blinking through the tears, your voice barely above a whisper. “Control it?”

Drax nodded once, lifting a hand, palm open and steady. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Focus on the space between your shoulder blades. Feel the weight... and then imagine pulling it inward. Like folding a blanket — slow, but firm.”

You took a deep breath, imagined it being Nezu who wrapped an soft blanket around you. Your shoulder blades slowly relaxed, your body slumping cause of all the adrenaline, as your vision began to blur a little.

“That’s it..” Drax smiled softly, as he watched your wings slowly fold itself up and into your body with some small magic. “You’ve done amazing your highness..” He spoke to her softly, as he saw aizawa and All might run over to them finally.

Aizawa’s hand lingered on your shoulder for a moment longer, steady and grounding, but his sharp gaze never left Drax. The tension in his posture wasn’t from the wings — it was from the stranger standing too calmly in the middle of U.A.’s training field, acting like he belonged there.

Drax straightened as Aizawa slowly rose to his feet, his scarf subtly shifting like it was ready to strike if it had to.

“You talk like you’ve been watching her for a long time.” Aizawa’s voice was even, but the edge beneath it was clear as day. “And I don’t remember your name on the guest list.”

Drax met his gaze without flinching, that same respectful calm settling over his features. “I’ve watched over her from a distance. My duty lies with her safety, not your school’s permission.” His words weren’t sharp, but they were firm.

Aizawa’s brow twitched slightly, his instinctive distrust sharpening. “And what exactly are you protecting her from?” His eyes flicked to you, still pale and shaky, and then back to Drax. “Or should I be asking — who sent you?”

Bakugou, still hovering nearby, tensed at that. His gaze darted to Drax, the same question lingering silently on his face, though he’d never admit it out loud.

Drax clasped his hands behind his back, glancing toward the horizon for a moment before answering. “There are forces older than your heroes and your villains. Forces that have been waiting for her to awaken.” He turned his head back to Aizawa. “If I wished her harm, I wouldn’t have helped her control the wings. You know that.”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “Maybe. Or maybe you need her alive for something worse.”

The air between them thickened, the unspoken standoff cutting through the fading tension. All Might stepped in then, placing a hand lightly on Aizawa’s arm.

“Eraserhead,” All Might said softly, “he did help her. At least for now.”

Aizawa didn’t relax, but his eyes flicked back to you, your body still slumped against the training ground, barely holding it together. He let out a slow breath through his nose.

“This conversation isn’t over,” he muttered, eyes returning to Drax with a silent promise. “You’re coming with us for questioning. U.A. doesn’t trust strangers.”

Drax gave a small bow of his head. “Understandable. I will answer what I can.”

Bakugou shot a glance at you, watching your barely-there strength flicker like a dying flame. His voice was low, but it cut through the heavy air.

“Tch. Looks like you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, horn-head.”

Drax’s only response was a quiet nod, eyes lingering on you — as if the answers he carried weren’t going to be easy for anyone to hear.

You quietly reached out for All might, as everything became a little dizzy. “Dad..I-..” She almost fell but he caught her. “That’s the shock of someone who just experienced transformation.” Drax spoke gently. 

Aizawa’s sharp gaze flicked to Drax, still watching him like a hawk even as he hovered near your side. “She’s not your concern anymore,” Aizawa said coolly. “You’ve done enough. We’ll handle it from here.”

But Drax didn’t flinch, his attention resting on you, the faintest flicker of something like guilt hidden behind his calm expression. “She’s more than you know,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “And this is only the beginning.”

All Might’s hold on you tightened slightly, as if the weight of those words settled in his chest too. He exchanged a look with Aizawa, silent but loaded, before carefully scooping you into his arms.

“We’ll talk later,” Aizawa said to Drax, his voice final, sharp as steel. “Right now, her well-being comes first.”

Drax gave a slow nod, stepping back, finally yielding to the unspoken boundary.

You fell in and out of consciousness, and the last thing you remember was a feeling of warm hands lifting you up and holding you close.

———

“Fascinating..” Nezu spoke in his office, as you slept on the couch in the same room. “I knew my little light was special, but woah..” He gently stroked her hair. He looked over at drax, as bakugou has been sent back to his room, making him take a step back. “Tell me everything.” He finally spoke to Drax.

Drax’s expression didn’t waver, but there was the faintest crack of hesitation before he finally spoke.

“She is not what you thought her to be,” he began quietly, his voice deep but controlled. “Her blood is older than quirks, older than your society, older than humanity’s current place in the world.”

Nezu’s ears twitched slightly, but he said nothing, letting Drax continue.

“She is the daughter of Eve — the Eve,” he said, letting the name hang heavy in the air. “The same one written into your oldest human texts, the mother of mankind. Her bloodline... was never fully human to begin with. And her father—”

Drax paused, his throat tightening slightly, though his face remained composed.

“Her father is Lucifer.”

Nezu’s fingers steepled slowly, the weight of the revelation washing over him like cold rain. His mind raced, analyzing every oddity, every unexplained flicker of power or instinct you’d ever shown — and now it all clicked into place.

“So, the Morning Star and the First Woman,” Nezu mused aloud, the words almost surreal. “I assume that makes you more than just an observer.”

Drax straightened slightly, the shadows on his face deepening under the room’s dim lights.

“I am Lucifer’s right hand,” he said simply. “I was tasked with watching over her. When her time of awakening arrived, I was to retrieve her and bring her to safety. Away from those who would use her... or destroy her.”

Nezu’s dark eyes narrowed, sharp as broken glass.

“And you let her live her entire life here, unaware of any of this.”

“She was safer not knowing,” Drax answered without flinching. “Knowledge draws attention. If the other realms — Heaven, Hell, or worse — learned what she was before her wings surfaced, she wouldn’t have survived long enough to understand her own power.”

Nezu leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze flicking toward your sleeping form. His voice softened, but the steel in it remained.

“She is not a pawn. Not for Lucifer, not for you. Not for anyone.”

Drax bowed his head slightly, his voice steady.

“She is not a pawn. She is a queen.”

Nezu’s lips pressed into a thin line, the reality settling on his chest like iron. After a long pause, he nodded once.

“There is this ancient prophecy surrounding heaven and hell. One where a child was born, one so powerful she could rule over two realms, eliminating everyone in their way.” Drax looked outside the window of UA. Seeing the young man screaming at the very rightfully suspicious teacher.

“This is not her first lifetime.. Her soul is centuries old, but every time they tried getting rid of her, she just reincarnated back onto earth.” Drax looked back at Nezu, his expression so serious that Nezu’s heart began to race. “This is the first lifetime we were able to safe her when she was a child.”

Nezu’s eyes narrowed, absorbing the weight of this revelation. “A reincarnating soul… so, she’s been reborn over and over again?”

“Yes,” Drax said, his voice heavy with the centuries of watching and waiting. “Each time she returns, she’s born into a new life, with no memory of who she once was. But the moment she reaches the age of awakening, the moment her true power surfaces, they come for her. Heaven. Hell. Everyone.”

Nezu’s mind whirred, his small form suddenly brimming with questions. "And you — you've been watching her this whole time, knowing all of this?"

Drax’s gaze softened, but there was no warmth in it. Only the cold, relentless truth.

“I’ve been her guardian,” he replied quietly. “Since the day she was born. I was bound to protect her, to guide her when the time came. And this time... it was different. This time, we managed to save her before her awakening. She’s been living a normal life, thinking she’s human.”

Nezu’s eyes flicked to you again, his thoughts racing. "But now that she’s awakened... now what?"

Drax’s jaw tightened. "Now, she must learn to control her power before they find her again. And they will. The clock is already ticking."

“And that means she has to come with us. To hell.” Drax continued, looking at Nezu and then gently gazed at you. “This was not an easy decision for his majesty himself. But he loved her so much he had to let her go at the right time.” 

Drax slowly stood over nezu, glaring slightly as his own horns on his head became slightly bigger. “Never. Ever. Suggest his majesty let her go easily.” 

Nezu didn’t flinch, though his expression tightened. The tension in the room was almost unbearable, the weight of centuries of loyalty and authority pressing down like a storm cloud.

Drax’s eyes softened ever so slightly, his voice returning to a quiet seriousness. “You don’t understand what it means to care for someone the way he does. Lucifer has watched over her for lifetimes. He’s waited. And now, she is his responsibility. Not just the prophecy. But her. She is his heart.”

Nezu remained still, his eyes never leaving Drax. He understood the depths of this commitment, even if he didn’t fully agree with it. He was used to playing games of strategy, but this... this was something far more personal, something that had stakes that could shatter everything.

“I understand,” Nezu said after a moment, his voice cool, but there was an edge to it now — something heavier, more deliberate. “But don’t mistake me. I am not so naïve as to believe I can simply let her go without understanding the consequences. Lucifer’s wishes don’t dictate everything here. She is here now. She is one of us, and we will protect her. If that means keeping her away from you, or from Hell, we’ll find a way.”

“He never implied for her to go alone.” Drax gracefully made a small circle in the middle of the air, grabbing a small book out of the pocket between space and time. “We are able to travel through dimensions. Only the highest form of Royalty and his majesty’s closest companions are being teaches this technique.”

He held the book up, looking at Nezu. “She will learn of to travel through dimensions, sharpen her powers and learn the rules of the universe.” He gently laid the book down on the desk. “His majesty told me she can choose three extra people to come with her. One Adult, two kids.”

Nezu’s brow arched slightly at that, his curiosity sharpening. “Three companions?” he repeated quietly. “And these companions would be permitted to follow her into Hell? To train beside her?”

Drax nodded, his expression neutral but his eyes glinting with something sharper. “Yes. His majesty believes in choice — even if the world doesn’t. She will decide who they are. No one else.”

Nezu’s gaze flicked toward you, still resting quietly on the couch. The room felt smaller now, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the gravity of the decision looming in the near future.

“She’s still a child,” Nezu murmured, almost to himself. “The responsibility you're handing her will shape her forever.”

Drax’s voice softened, but didn’t lose its weight. “She was born with that responsibility. Now, at least, she’ll have a say in who stands beside her.”

Nezu leaned back, finally resting his paw against the desk, but not touching the book. His sharp mind was already calculating the possibilities, the risks, the consequences — and the faces of those likely to be chosen.

“She’ll need time to understand,” Nezu said after a moment. “And we’ll be ready when she does.”

Drax tilted his head slightly, his voice low. “Time isn’t something we have much of, Principal.”

The two of them sat in the heavy silence, the ancient book resting between them like an unspoken contract — your future already unfolding, even as you slept, blissfully unaware.

---------

taglist:

@graythecoffeebean @slovesyouuu @erensbbg

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A/N: A little shorter than usual, it's been really busy these past few weeks, but don't worry I don't let you guys without another chapter! Enjoy, cause I'm cooking ;)

Chapter Six

Warning: 

The Following Story is entirely out of my imagination, I do not mean harm when writing this story with any religion or culture.

That being said, BNHA does not belong to me, any other character beside the main character does not belong to me.

English isn’t my first language, please be kind <3

main list < Previous chapter Next chapter >

“This isn’t good.” A god like present closed a small screen, overseeing the situation that has happened the last few days. Small locks of hair floating across their face, as they gently pushed it out of the way, tucking it behind their ear. Suddenly, an Angel that must have been 5 feet shorter than the being before her, quickly came running towards her. 

“Your Majesty!” She spoke in a hastily tone, her breath has quickened as she had been flying as fast as she could. “It’s her! She found out-!” Quick to wip their head, they summoned the one they were talking about. Suddenly, white chains surrounded a screaming woman, as they have trashed around. 

“LET ME GO!” She demanded, her hair getting caught in the chains, burning it off. “YOU SAID SHE WAS DEAD AND MADE IT TO HELL.” She yelled, scratching her knees as she launched herself at the inhuman being, who was looking at her with pity. 

“I didn’t think she was. He hid her well.” They spoke in a monotone voice, pulling up an monitor again, smiling at themselves. “Doesn’t mean I can’t kill them yet, she isn’t human after all.” “YOU MONSTER! THAT’S MY DAUGHTER!!”

The woman spat, as the godly being stomped their foot hard, silencing them. “SHE IS THE DEATH OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. She must be stopped, or would you rather have your precious husband find out with who you had an affair with? He will not take it so kindly as I did.” 

“So what? I never loved him, I was only made to be a toy. I can be so much more than that, but YOU never gave me the chance. I sinned but i’ve been forgiven but I still live in this FUCKING PRISON!” She ran at it, but got caught back by the chains.

 “ENOUGH.” The deity stood up, hovering over her. It looked slightly to the right, where one of its right hand looked directly at them. “Michael. Get one of the executors to sign up and get down at earth, you know what to do.”

Michael vanished in a cascade of golden light, leaving only a faint shimmer in his place. The divine presence turned their gaze back to the woman bound in searing white chains, her eyes filled with both fury and despair. “You will regret this,” 

she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice raw with pain. “You claim to be righteous, but all you do is destroy what you fear. You are no god—just a coward behind a throne.” The deity’s expression remained unreadable. Slowly, they descended, their feet barely touching the celestial marble beneath them. 

Their presence alone was enough to make the woman’s body tremble, the sheer weight of their power pressing down on her like an invisible force. “I am what is necessary,” they said, their voice devoid of emotion. “And you… you are a mistake that should have never been.”

“HE WILL FIND YOU. SAMAEL WILL—” Suddenly, a loud smack echoed through the kingdom, silencing the defiant cry. The force sent ripples through the celestial halls, as if the very foundations of heaven trembled in response.

“Do not bring up his name.” The deity’s voice was low, dangerous. Their hand shot forward, seizing the woman’s jaw with an iron grip, forcing her to meet their gaze. “Know your place, Eve. First woman of men kind.”

Eve panted, her breath ragged, yet her eyes burned with defiance. The deity’s grip did not loosen. Instead, they leaned in, their expression cold, detached.

“She will die,” they whispered, their tone like the final toll of a bell. “She will die because she is a venom to heaven. She will never exist again.”

Eve thrashed against the chains, her body trembling with rage and grief. “You… you’re making a mistake,” she rasped. “If you do this, nothing will hold him back. Nothing.”

The deity released her with a shove, letting her collapse onto the marble floor. “Then let him come,” they said, turning away. “Samael has no power here. And soon, neither will she.”

———

“Are you dumb or are you actually playing with me?” Bakugou grumbled annoyed, as his pencil ticked against your paper. “There is no way you think this is the correct answer.”

You rolled your eyes, finding his attitude more exhausting than anything. “Oh, I’m sorry, are you suddenly a math genius now?” you shot back, crossing your arms.

Bakugou scoffed, his crimson eyes narrowing. “I don’t need to be a genius to know you messed up basic algebra, dumbass.” He tapped the eraser of his pencil aggressively against the mistake.

After the incident a couple of months ago, Bakugou and you weirdly grew slightly closer. Oh, you two still went head-to-head over everything, but you also felt that Bakugou could at least tolerate your existence now. Maybe even respect it, in his own gruff way.

You huffed and snatched the paper back. “Alright, smartass, why don’t you show me how it’s done then?”

A cocky smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Watch and learn.” He leaned over, quickly scribbling the correct equation down with almost unnecessary force. His shoulder brushed against yours, and though it was unintentional, neither of you moved away.

“See? Not that hard.” He shot you a triumphant look, waiting for your reaction.

You stared at the numbers on the page before sighing. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. You win this round.”

“Damn right I do.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed smugly, but there was something softer in his expression now, something almost amused.

You looked up and chuckled, throwing your eraser at his head, which he dodged with ease. “Get that smug smirk off your face.”

Bakugou scoffed, reaching for the eraser where it had landed. “Tch. You’re just mad I’m right.” He tossed it back at you, hitting you square in the forehead.

“Ow!” you glared, rubbing the spot as he smirked triumphantly.

“That’s payback.”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but grin, shaking your head as you turned back to your paper. Maybe studying with Bakugou wasn’t so bad after all.

Just as you were about to refocus, a shadow loomed over the two of you. Aizawa stood there, arms crossed, his tired eyes fixed on you both.

“You two. Training ground. Now.” His voice left no room for argument.

You blinked. “Huh? Why?”

“Private session,” Aizawa said simply. “And Bakugou, you’re coming too. You’re the only one who can snap her out of it if things go south.”

Bakugou frowned. “Tch. What do you mean by that?”

Aizawa didn’t answer, already walking away.

You exchanged a glance with Bakugou, confusion and a bit of unease settling between you. Training wasn’t unusual, but this felt different. More serious. And the way Aizawa had said ‘if things go south’ didn’t exactly ease your nerves.

With a sigh, you stood up. “Guess we better get moving.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This better not be a waste of my damn time.”

But as the two of you made your way to the training grounds, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to change.

When you arrived, Aizawa was already waiting, arms still crossed, his usual tired expression laced with something more serious.

“All Might will be here in a second,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Bakugou. “Since it was proven my quirk isn’t able to stop you from going crazy, pure strength will have to do.” He gestured for you both to change into your hero suits.

You swallowed hard, exchanging another look with Bakugou before nodding. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just another training session. Something bigger was at play.

Moments later, clad in your hero suits, you stood across from Bakugou in the designated training area. Aizawa gave a simple nod before stepping back, letting the two of you take center stage.

“Alright, you two,” he called. “Nothing lethal. Control is the goal here.”

Bakugou cracked his knuckles, smirking. “Hope you can keep up, dumbass.”

You grinned, fire flickering at your fingertips. “Just try not to get burned.”

The moment Aizawa gave the signal, Bakugou lunged forward, explosions propelling him towards you. You sidestepped, barely dodging his initial strike, and retaliated with a burst of flames, forcing him to leap back. The heat radiated around you, more controlled than before, the fire curling around your arms without scorching wildly.

“You’re not flailing like last time,” Bakugou noted, blocking a fire-coated punch with his gauntlet. He shoved you back with a controlled explosion, enough to send you skidding but not enough to knock you off your feet.

You smirked, rolling your shoulders. “Maybe I’ve been paying attention.”

“Doubt it.” He shot forward again, this time feinting to the left before blasting up, aiming to come down with a powerful strike. You responded instinctively, flames surging beneath your feet to propel you upward, meeting him midair. The clash of fire and explosions sent a shockwave through the training ground, but neither of you backed down.

For the first time, you weren’t just reacting. You were fighting with precision, your fire bending to your will rather than raging uncontrollably. Bakugou noticed it too, his smirk widening as he deflected another burst of flames.

“Not bad,” he admitted begrudgingly. “But you’re still not beating me.”

You laughed, feeling the exhilaration course through your veins. “We’ll see about that.”

Aizawa watched from the sidelines, arms still crossed, his sharp eyes catching every movement. Alright arrived a few moments later, looking over at the two fighting. “Are you sure we should let her train so soon?” He questioned, worry definitely readable on his face.

“For some reason, bakugou keeps her grounded.” Aizawa answered him back. “I don’t know why, I don’t know how he does it, but he really does it.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed behind his capture weapon as he watched the spar unfold. Every movement was precise—refined. Your fire, once unpredictable and wild, now curled with intention. Controlled heat. Purpose.

But it wasn’t just the fire. It was you.

You didn’t hesitate like you used to. You didn’t let fear or doubt lead your steps. And every time your focus wavered, even slightly, Bakugou was there—charging, countering, snapping you back into the moment like a human anchor forged in explosions and spite.

“Tch,” Aizawa muttered under his breath. “I’ve seen pros with less chemistry.”

All Might leaned on the railing beside him, arms crossed, a contemplative look in his eyes. “I always knew Bakugou had raw potential… but he’s changed, hasn’t he? It’s not just about strength anymore.”

Aizawa gave a slight nod, watching as Bakugou barked something at you mid-air, the usual edge to his tone slightly dulled by—what was that? Encouragement?

“Whatever it is,” Aizawa said, “it’s keeping her from losing herself. That’s worth something.”

Your feet landed hard against the ground, heat pulsing up through your legs. Smoke curled around you, the aftershock of your last clash with Bakugou crackling through the air like static.

“Focus!” he shouted, voice cutting through the haze. “You’re drifting again!”

You snarled but nodded, brushing sweat from your brow with a swipe of your wrist. “I’m fine, damn it.”

“Didn’t look like it,” he muttered, already launching at you again. His explosions were tighter now, less destructive and more directional, meant to challenge—not hurt.

You ducked a blast, then twisted around him, flames lacing through your fingers as you skated the edge of control. The fire was hotter than ever—singing with adrenaline—but it obeyed.

Barely.

Bakugou turned mid-air, landing hard in a crouch. “That’s it,” he barked, breathless. “Make it yours. Don’t let it control you.”

You charged him, heat building at your back. A ring of fire burst outward from your feet, surging in his direction like a tide. Bakugou leapt above it, and the two of you collided mid-air again—your flame, his blast—a perfect storm. For a heartbeat, all the world was heat and light.

You crashed onto the ground with a roll, coughing but laughing under your breath. “You know,” you said, looking up at him, “for someone who acts like they hate me, you sure shout a lot of motivational speeches.”

He stood over you, hands on his hips, hair singed at the edges, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Shut up,” he said flatly. “You just suck less now.”

You snorted, flames flickering harmlessly at your sides. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

But he offered a hand to help you up anyway. You took it.

His grip was firm, grounding, and when you were back on your feet, he didn’t let go right away. Just for a second, his eyes scanned your face—checking for something. Fear, maybe. Unsteadiness. You didn’t know what he found, but he grunted, finally letting go, stepping back.

“Tch. Don’t get soft on me now.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, brushing your fingers through the smoke in the air. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Up on the platform, All Might smiled knowingly. “I think she’s found her anchor.”

“No,” Aizawa replied quietly. “She found her equal.”

——

The crackling of fire and explosions had softened now, echoing faintly across the charred training field. You and Bakugou stood a few feet apart, breathing heavily, the adrenaline finally beginning to settle in your veins.

The edge of your vision shimmered from the leftover heat, the scent of burnt ozone lingering in the air. Embers drifted lazily to the ground like falling stars, and the world felt still again. For a moment, it was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Bakugou glanced toward you, brushing ash from his gauntlet. “You’re getting faster,” he muttered, not quite a compliment—but coming from him, it might as well have been.

You grinned, about to throw some snark back when—

BOOM.

A blinding light tore through the sky.

Golden. Blistering. Divine.

It didn’t come like thunder—it was thunder. The force slammed into the ground just a few yards away from where you stood, cracking stone and sending dust and heat flying outward like a shockwave. Your instincts screamed as your flames flared to life without your permission, reacting to the sudden surge of unnatural power.

Bakugou whipped around, shielding his face with one arm. “What the—?!”

From the center of the impact, the golden light took form—elegant yet inhuman. Wings folded sharp as blades behind a tall, armored figure. Silver and gold etched down their arms like glowing veins. Their presence was holy—but cold, suffocating. Divine judgment in humanoid shape.

They didn’t speak at first.

They didn’t need to.

The pressure in the air told you everything—this being wasn’t here for a visit.

They were here for you.

“Designated target acquired,” the figure finally said, voice vibrating not just through the air—but through your bones. “Your presence defies order. You will be removed.”

There was no time to speak.

No time to question.

The moment you locked eyes with them—they moved.

Faster than human sight.

A burst of golden energy shot forward—and they were already on you.

You threw up a wall of flame, barely reacting in time. It held for a second—then shattered like glass as the being crashed through it, sending you flying backward across the field. You slammed into the dirt, rolled hard, and barely pushed yourself up before another strike came.

Bakugou launched himself into the air, roaring, “BACK OFF!”

A concussive blast shot toward the figure, forcing them to sidestep—graceful and calculated, like they had rehearsed every motion long before it happened. Still, Bakugou’s interference gave you a second to breathe.

“Move!” he shouted, landing beside you, panting. “This one’s not here to train—they’re here to erase you!”

“No kidding,” you spat, flames roaring to life around your arms, hotter than before. More alive. Your eyes glowed with heat, something primal starting to boil in your chest. This wasn’t just a fight anymore—it was survival.

The figure lifted their staff—or sword? It shifted with light—radiant, lethal, impossible to define. The glow at its edge intensified, humming with divine resonance.

In an instant, they moved again—straight toward you.

But this time—you met them head-on.

Your flame burst outward with raw force, clashing against the searing divine light of the intruder. Heat and holiness collided, scorching the battlefield in a vortex of color and energy.

Every strike from them was precise, meant to end. Every movement from you was instinct, raw power barely held in check. You ducked under a horizontal slash of their radiant weapon and let fire erupt from your feet to launch upward, twisting midair and releasing a jet of flame that crashed down toward them like a meteor.

They countered effortlessly—but the speed at which you moved now shocked even them.

You suddenly felt a piercing stab in your arm, as you we’re bleeding. You looked at your arm, but instead of the red blood you were used to, it was pitch black. “W-Whats..happening to me..”

Bakugou turned sharply, catching the way you staggered. “The hell’s going on? What happened—did he hit you?!”

You looked at him, lips trembling. “I… I think something’s wrong.”

The golden-armored attacker paused mid-step, eyes narrowing. Their blade lowered ever so slightly, their voice laced with contempt. “That isn’t human blood…”

A chill crawled up your spine.

You stared at the black fluid still dripping from your arm—and then you felt it. A flicker. Something twitching beneath your skin, like claws dragging along bone. The pain faded… but it was replaced with pressure. Your heart beat faster. Something inside your chest stirred.

“Heh…” the figure tilted their head. “It’s beginning, then.”

Bakugou was suddenly in front of you, his tone sharp. “What the hell does that mean? Beginning what?!”

The figure didn’t answer.

But your body did.

Your fingernails began to sharpen—subtle, not enough for someone untrained to notice, but Bakugou caught the change. Your eyes burned faintly, a soft crimson glow ebbing in and out like breathing embers. You could feel something inhuman curling at the edge of your mind. Unfamiliar.

A faint voice echoed inside your skull—not in words, but in emotion. Mocking. Ancient. Yours… and not yours.

“I—I don’t know what’s happening,” you whispered, grabbing Bakugou’s arm. “Something’s—inside me.”

“You’re not turning into anything,” he snapped. “Stay with me, dumbass. You’re stronger than this.”

But the figure was moving again.

They rushed forward, blade glinting with divine light—but Bakugou was already launching himself at them, fists exploding mid-air to intercept.

“You want her,” he growled, “you go through me.”

You fell to your knees behind them, clutching your arm as the black blood began to sizzle against your skin. The pressure in your chest was rising. You could feel it in your bones, in your breath—in your soul.

A part of you was waking up.

Not fully. Not yet.

But it was there now.

You clawed at your back, a scream coming out of your body as the bone snapping sound of something revealed two beautiful set of black wings. You stood there, like before, eyes pure black as you were about to pounce onto the angel, you got stopped.

Not by bakugou, not by Aizawa, no.

By something that felt like a little piece of home for some reason.

A claw held your arm, big black horns coming into view as it looking up at the angel. “Camael, I don’t appreciate you hurt his majesty’s daughter.” The creature spoke to the angel, Camael.

“Nothing personal Drax.” He spoke back, eyes full with hatred. “But she had to go. She’s a threat to Heaven.”

The mention of Heaven made your chest tighten, the words like poison on your ears. It didn’t matter what you’d become, or what you were now; the angel’s words stung deep, igniting the flames of rage inside you. But you couldn’t act on it. Not while this powerful being held you in place.

Drax’s eyes never left Camael. There was a cold, unreadable expression on his face as he stood his ground. “She will not be harmed,” Drax stated with finality. His voice was thick with authority, as though it was a decree, not a suggestion. “You’ve been warned.”

Camael scoffed, stepping forward slightly. “You think you can stop me, demon? I am a warrior of Heaven—”

“You are nothing more than a pawn,” Drax interrupted, his voice unwavering. The tension in the air thickened, crackling with a dark energy that seemed to swirl around him. “I won’t say it again. Leave.”

For a moment, everything stood still. The two beings, one of light and one of shadow, locked in an unspoken battle of wills. The ground beneath you seemed to tremble as the dark energy from Drax met Camael’s celestial power.

But despite the angel’s fiery glare, Camael didn’t make a move. There was something in Drax’s presence, an undeniable power that was not to be challenged. For all his arrogance, Camael knew when to retreat.

The angel’s wings flickered as he finally stepped back, unwilling to engage any further. “This is not over,” Camael spat, his voice seething with hate. “You cannot protect her forever.”

Drax didn’t flinch, his gaze unwavering as Camael spread his wings and took flight, vanishing into the sky with a blinding flash of light. Silence fell in the wake of his departure, leaving you standing, your body trembling, caught between two worlds.

As the last of the angel’s light faded, you blinked, the dark energy within you slowly simmering down, though it still burned beneath the surface. Your wings twitched again, the black feathers glinting ominously.

The dark figure—Drax—turned to you. His eyes softened slightly, though his expression remained stoic. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice much gentler now.

You were silent for a moment, still in shock from everything that had just happened. The angel, your transformation, the sudden appearance of this demon—everything felt so surreal. But as you stared up at Drax, something about his presence, the way he was unwavering in his protection of you, made you feel an odd sense of safety.

“I… don’t know,” you muttered, your voice shaky. “What… what was that? Why did you help me?”

Drax's gaze softened ever so slightly. “I’m here to keep you safe, Princess,” he said simply, his tone devoid of emotion but carrying a weight of experience. “You have much to learn, and there are forces that want to see you destroyed. But you are not alone.”

The word Princess struck a chord in you, the significance of it making your mind reel. You had no idea what it meant, but the way Drax said it—the quiet authority in his voice—suggested something far greater than what you had imagined.

Bakugou stepped forward, a tense expression on his face. “Who the hell is this guy? Why is he calling you ‘Princess’?” He looked at you as if expecting an explanation.

You shook your head, still dazed by the events unfolding. “I… don’t know. But I don’t think he’s our enemy.”

Drax’s eyes flicked briefly to Bakugou, sizing him up, but he said nothing. His focus remained on you, the same unreadable expression on his face.

Your eyes wondered to Drax again, as allmight slowly stood behind you. “..Who are you..?”

He bowed deeply, his hand laid on top of his own heart. If he even has one.

“My name is Drax, I am the right hand man of the one who controls hell itself.” He looked up again “and you, your highness, you are the daughter of Lucifer Morningstar.”

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taglist:

@graythecoffeebean @slovesyouuu

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A/N: A very late birthday post! My birthday was this Monday and I also lost the original document where I store this story so I'm sorry for the delay! Do let me know what you thought of this chapter :DD

Chapter Five

---------

Warning: 

The Following Story is entirely out of my imagination, I do not mean harm when writing this story with any religion or culture.

That being said, BNHA does not belong to me, any other character beside the main character does not belong to me.

English isn’t my first language, please be kind <3

main list

< Previous chapter Next chapter >

The tension in the air is awkward. It always happens when you walk into the room.

After the incident, you sat in your designated seat. You didn’t dare look any of them in the eye, especially bakugou. You had time to reflect a lot on you losing control and having burned him a lot.

Everyone ignores you too.

You noticed of course, when everyone becomes quiet when you enter. You didn’t blame them, you would have done the exact same thing if you were in their position. But it was still a bummer,

You were just started making friends

Lunch used to be one of your favorite times of the day. Now, it was unbearable.

You sat in your usual spot, tray untouched, eyes locked on the table in front of you. The low hum of chatter filled the cafeteria, but it felt distant—like you were hearing it from underwater. You knew it wasn’t a coincidence that no one sat directly next to you.

Even Kaminari, who usually had no concept of personal space, was two seats away, nervously shoving rice into his mouth without looking in your direction.

You sighed, pushing a piece of food around your plate with your chopsticks. It’s not like you didn’t understand. You did. You had lost control—almost hurt people. If you were them, you’d be wary too.

Still, it stung.

You finally glanced up, scanning the room. Yaoyorozu was whispering to Jirou, who subtly glanced your way before looking back at her food. Iida was speaking with Midoriya, but his usual hand gestures were stiffer than normal. Even Uraraka, who had always been warm and welcoming, only gave you a small, uncertain smile when your eyes met.

And then there was Bakugou.

He was sitting a few tables away with Kirishima and Sero, his back to you. You hadn’t spoken since the incident—not really. His burns had healed quickly thanks to Recovery Girl, but that didn’t mean you forgot the way his suit had practically melted off his skin, the way he had looked at you in those final moments.

Like he wasn’t sure if you were still you.

The memory made your stomach twist, so you quickly looked away.

You felt his eyes burn into you as you stood up, students whispering as they looked at your every move. Of course everyone knows, rumours spread quick here. You barely made it past the cafeteria doors before a hand grabbed your wrist, halting you in place.

Your body tensed immediately—you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Oi.”

That rough, familiar voice sent a shiver down your spine. Not out of fear, but something else. Something you weren’t ready to name.

You swallowed and slowly turned, meeting Bakugou’s intense gaze. His red eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable. He wasn’t scowling, but he wasn’t exactly looking at you with his usual irritation, either.

It was something different.

“What?” you muttered, trying to sound unaffected.

Bakugou narrowed his eyes. For a second, he didn’t speak. Then, his grip on your wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go completely. “You gonna keep walkin’ around like a ghost forever?”

You stiffened, glancing away. “It’s none of your business.”

“Tch.” He clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed, but there was no real heat behind it. “Dumbass, I ain’t gonna let you mope around like some kicked dog. You think I give a shit about what happened?”

Your head snapped up, eyes widening slightly. “What?”

He scoffed. “You think you’re the first person to screw up? You think I haven’t—” He cut himself off, scowling. “Whatever. Point is, stop actin’ like everyone’s scared of you.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Aren’t they?”

Bakugou held your gaze, his jaw clenching. “I’m not.” Something about the way he said it, so blunt and firm, made your chest tighten.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, he huffed and finally let go of your wrist. “Get your shit together,” he muttered before brushing past you, hands shoved in his pockets.

You stood there, staring at his back as he walked away, the warmth of his grip still lingering on your skin. A small sudden smile leaving your lips, It felt like a small weight got lifted off your shoulders.

He might be a secret softy after all.

——

“She’s moving into the dorms today” Aizawa stated in the living area, where whole class 3-A was gathered today. “I want her to feel welcomed. Just because she lost control of her quirk, doesn’t mean you should treat her any less.” He spoke with a stern voice.

“I have seen how you have been treating her and I got to say, I’m disappointed.” He sighed, beginning to walk away. “After all, true heroes would never judge” He spoke as he disappeared into his own private living area, leaving the students alone with his words and their thoughts.

The common area was unusually quiet when you stepped in, arms wrapped around a box filled with your belongings, suitcase rolling unevenly behind you. You didn’t expect a warm welcome, not after everything that had happened, but the sheer weight of the silence still pressed uncomfortably against your chest.    

You kept your head down, moving quickly toward the elevator. Just get to your room. Don’t make it worse.  

“Ah—Wait!” 

You nearly flinched when Midoriya’s voice rang out. He was already moving toward you, hands outstretched, as if hesitating to offer help. His eyes were the same as always—full of that ridiculous, unwavering kindness.  

“Here, let me take that,” he said, reaching for the box in your arms. You hesitated. “I—uh—”  “Don’t drop it, nerd,” came another voice, rough and exasperated. You turned just in time to see Bakugou stomp forward, scowl deep as ever. Before you could react, he grabbed the handle of your suitcase, yanking it from your grasp like it was his own.  

Your mouth opened, then closed again.  “What?” he grumbled, barely looking at you. “You were struggling with it.” “I wasn’t—”  

“Oh, so you wanted to carry all this yourself?”  

You clenched your jaw, but before you could respond—“Kacchan, you don’t have to be so rude about it,” Midoriya said with a sigh, shifting the box in his arms. “Shut it, Deku.”  

“I was just saying—”  “Tch. Who asked you, huh?”  

Midoriya rolled his eyes. “You’re literally helping her too, Kacchan.”  

Bakugou stiffened like he’d been electrocuted. “I—That’s not—Shut the hell up!” You blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement. Midoriya sighed again, clearly used to this routine. “Come on, let’s just get her stuff upstairs.”  

Bakugou grumbled something under his breath but didn’t argue, already stomping toward the elevator with your suitcase. Midoriya gave you a small, reassuring smile before following after him.   You stood there for a second, processing.  

Your eyes slowly watering but smiling softly. You quickly wiped them away as they brought you to your dorm room. You looked around, as you noticed midoriya standing there, watching you. “I-If you don’t mind me asking, how..how did you lose control..?”

You looked at both bakugou and midoriya, as you sat on the bed. “I don’t know I just..” You fiddled with your rings. All I can remember is just straight rage..”

You looked at your hands. Blurred memories flashing in your head, as you lit up the flame slightly. The boys looked at you, carefully studying your expressions. “I’ve never felt my quirk like this before.” You looked up at them, “It was raw, but it also felt like…” You trailed off.

“More like myself. I have never felt more in touch with myself before than that day.”

Bakugou scoffed. “That’s a load of crap. You either control your quirk or you don’t.” But there was no real bite in his tone—just curiosity.

“Maybe..” Midoriya looked at the both of them. “I think- Are you certain its a quirk?” He rambled, his hands moving fast as he got nervous. “I-I mean! T-Think about it-! Mr Aizawas Quirk didn’t work-! And H-His quirk always works!!” 

You didn’t realise that you’ve been standing up, and slightly hovering over him as he scrunched down. “What do you mean aizawas quirk didn’t work?”

Silence settled over the room, thick and heavy. Midoriya swallowed hard, his fingers twitching as his mind raced to piece everything together.

“I-I mean exactly that,” he stammered, eyes darting between you and Bakugou. “Aizawa-sensei tried to erase your quirk during the incident, but… nothing happened.”

You blinked. Your heartbeat quickened. “That’s not possible,” you muttered. “His quirk has worked on me before.”

Midoriya nodded frantically. “That’s what I’m saying! It should have worked—but it didn’t. Not even for a second.” He exhaled sharply, trying to calm himself down. Bakugou scoffed, crossing his arms. “That’s bullshit. She’s had a quirk since day one. What the hell else could it be?”

Silence settled in the room again, but this time no one knew the answer.

——

You kept tossing and turning in your bed that night. 

You kept tossing and turning, the sheets tangled around you, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t escape. No matter how hard you tried to push them away, they clawed their way back—Aizawa’s quirk not working, the raw power you had felt, Midoriya’s worried expression.

What if he was right? What if this wasn’t just your quirk evolving?

Every time you closed your eyes, flickers of that moment returned. The heat, the certainty, the overwhelming sense that something had shifted inside you. It didn’t feel foreign. It didn’t feel wrong. It felt… like you had only just begun to wake up.

With a frustrated sigh, you sat up, running a hand through your hair. The moonlight streamed through your window, casting pale light over your room. Instinctively, your fingers traced over the burn mark on your palm.

With a huff, you threw off the covers and got to your feet. If sleep wouldn’t come, you might as well do something useful. The energy buzzing under your skin was unbearable, like a fire begging to be unleashed.

Slipping on your training gear, you made your way outside, careful not to wake anyone. The training grounds were deserted at this hour—just how you wanted it. No distractions. No eyes watching.

The second your feet hit the mat, you ignited your flames. They roared to life instantly, more intense than ever, licking up your arms as if responding to your frustration. You took a deep breath and got to work—punches, kicks, controlled bursts of fire. Each movement was sharp, deliberate, fueled by the gnawing uncertainty in your chest.

Faster. Harder. Stronger.

The heat around you thickened, sweat dripping down your temple as you pushed your body past its limits. The raw power felt good—too good. Your control wavered, flames surging higher, burning brighter.

“Oi. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You froze, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Bakugou stood at the entrance of the training grounds, arms crossed, his sharp crimson eyes locked onto you. His usual scowl was there, but something else lingered beneath it—concern.

“You tryna burn the whole damn place down?” he scoffed, stepping closer. “Or are you just that much of a dumbass that you think overworking yourself in the middle of the night is a good idea?”

You wiped the sweat from your brow, meeting his gaze. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Tch. No shit.” He eyed the scorch marks on the ground, then back at you. “Your flames are different.”

You swallowed, flexing your fingers as the fire dimmed. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you before you crossed your arms, tilting your head at him. “And what about you?” you questioned, narrowing your eyes. “What the hell are you doing awake?”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, looking away for half a second before scoffing. “That’s none of your damn business.”

You raised a brow. “Oh, so it’s okay for you to call me a dumbass for being out here, but not the other way around?”

“Tch. Shut up.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his jaw tightening. “I wasn’t sleeping either.”

That made you pause.

You had expected a brush-off, an insult, maybe even an explosion—but not honesty.

Your arms loosened slightly. “Bad dreams?” He clicked his tongue again, looking off to the side. “Something like that.”

A beat of silence.

Then, with a sharp breath, Bakugou rolled his shoulders and dropped into a stance, popping his knuckles. “You wanna push yourself? Fine. But you’re not gonna do it like an idiot.” His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Let’s train.”

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders before mirroring his stance. “Fine,” you muttered, tightening your fists. “But don’t go easy on me.”

Bakugou smirked, a flicker of excitement flashing in his eyes. “As if I ever would.”

Without warning, he lunged. You barely had time to react before he was in your space, throwing a quick, testing jab toward your ribs. You twisted just in time, flames sparking at your fingertips as you countered with a sharp kick aimed at his side. He dodged, a small explosion bursting from his palm as he propelled himself backward.

“Your reaction time’s slow,” he taunted. “You hesitated.”

You scoffed, wiping sweat from your brow. “Yeah? You talk too much.”

A burst of fire shot from your hands as you lunged forward, feinting left before twisting at the last second, aiming a punch toward his shoulder. But he was ready. He caught your wrist, the heat from your flames barely phasing him, and yanked you off balance. You hit the mat with a grunt, the impact knocking the air from your lungs.

“See? Hesitated again.” He smirked, offering a hand. “You’re thinking too much.”

You glared up at him but took his hand anyway, letting him pull you up. “Maybe I wouldn’t be if someone wasn’t barking in my ear every two seconds.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, get over it.” His smirk faded slightly as he crossed his arms, eyeing you with something close to curiosity. “You’ve been weird lately.”

You tensed. “Gee, thanks.”

“I mean it, dumbass,” he shot back. “You’re holding back, but at the same time, you’re not. It’s like you don’t even know your own power right now.”

You hesitated, looking down at your hands. “Maybe I don’t.”

Bakugou frowned, silent for a moment. Then he scoffed. “Tch. That’s dumb. You do.”

Your eyes snapped up to him. “What?”

His gaze was steady, unwavering. “You’re acting like you’re lost or some shit, but I’ve seen you fight. I’ve seen how you move, how you burn.” His voice was firm, like he was stating an undeniable fact. “This isn’t about not knowing your power. It’s about you being too scared to accept it.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

Something had changed inside you, something deeper than just your quirk. But you weren’t sure if you were ready to face what that really meant.

Bakugou clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “You wanna figure this out? Then stop overthinking and fight like you mean it.” He popped his knuckles again, dropping back into his stance. “Now get up. We’re not done.”

You let out a slow breath, rolling your shoulders.“Fine,” you muttered, flames sparking to life once more.

Bakugou’s smirk widened as he watched the fire in your eyes finally match the flames in your hands. “That’s more like it.”

The two of you circled each other, the air between you charged with something electric—something unspoken. You didn’t know if it was the heat from your flames or the sheer intensity of his presence, but in that moment, nothing else existed. Just the fight. Just the fire.

You lunged first, no hesitation this time. Bakugou met you head-on, explosions igniting in his palms as the battle between you burned into the night.

And through it all, that damn smirk never left his face.

---------

taglist:

@graythecoffeebean @slovesyouuu

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A/N: I didn't abandon this story I promise!! I've been really busy and my birthday is next week so I'm prepping for that! Hope you enjoyed :)

Chapter four

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Warning: 

The Following Story is entirely out of my imagination, I do not mean harm when writing this story with any religion or culture.

That being said, BNHA does not belong to me, any other character beside the main character does not belong to me.

English isn’t my first language, please be kind <3

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Bakugou’s breath hitched as he took an involuntary step back. His heart pounded in his chest, not from exertion—but from something else. Something unfamiliar.

Fear.

Your eyes, usually burning with confidence, had turned pitch black, like the void of a starless night. The flames surrounding you crackled with wild, erratic energy, shifting from blue to a light blue, then flickering into white for a split second. The air around you was suffocating, heavy with something unnatural.

“The hell is this?” Bakugou muttered, his voice quieter than usual. He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself.

Aizawa stood up, straightened his posture as he felt the shift in this fight. He looked at the side where Present Mic was standing. “Those flames aren’t the ones we are used to..” Aizawa pointed out, paying extra attention now, his fingers tensed, already preparing to activate his quirk again if necessary.

You put a small step forward, those steps being uneven making you look like a zombie. Your flames shining brighter than ever. All of the sudden a slash of flames, hotter than the sun, came over towards bakugou, as he could dodge it just on time.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” he barked, flipping mid-air before landing in a crouch. His chest heaved, adrenaline spiking in a way he did not like.

That wasn’t a normal attack. That was something deadly.

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus despite the sting across his face. His skin burned just from being near it. He grit his teeth. “Oi! What the hell are you—?!”

He stopped in his tracks, as you stood in front of him, your hair burning, no—

Floating.

He looked closely to your forehead, a massive scar ran from side to side. It looked like barbed wire running across it. But the weirdest part was not the scar itself

But that it in fact was glowing.

Your hands were covered in flames, almost grabbing bakugou when he suddenly got pushed to the side. Midoriya tackled him on the ground as she nearly hit him.

Bakugou hit the ground with a grunt, the weight of Midoriya keeping him down just long enough to avoid your outstretched, burning hands. The heat from your flames still singed the air above him, and for a split second, he could feel the searing intensity brush past his face.

“The hell, Deku?!” Bakugou barked, shoving Midoriya off him.

Midoriya scrambled up, his eyes frantic. “You weren’t moving!” he shouted, his gaze darting back to you.

Your flames had completely lost their shape. The white-hot fire around you swirled chaotically, licking at the air with a hunger that didn’t seem normal. Your stance was unsteady, your breath uneven. And those eyes—the ones that weren’t yours but somehow were yours at the same time—fixed on the two of them with something unrecognisable.

Aizawa’s sharp eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before him. The intensity of your flames, the unnatural way they moved—it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t just a quirk going out of control. Something deeper was happening.

Without hesitation, he activated Erasure. His hair whipped upwards, his crimson gaze locking onto you as his quirk flared to life.

Nothing happened.

Aizawa’s stomach dropped.

Your flames didn’t even flicker. They roared, surging higher, feeding off some unseen force. His Erasure should have worked. It always worked. So why—?

“Shit.” Aizawa immediately reached for his capture weapon, swinging it toward you with practiced precision. If he couldn’t shut your quirk down, he’d have to contain you.

But the second the cloth neared your flames—It disintegrated.

Aizawa barely had time to react before a wave of scorching heat blasted toward him. He jumped back, dodging it by inches, but even then, the air stung against his skin. “Sensei!” Midoriya’s panicked voice rang out as he forced himself up. His eyes darted from Aizawa to you, horror settling into his expression. “Your Erasure—why didn’t it work?!”

Aizawa didn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenched as he landed in a low stance, calculating his next move. Why didn’t it work?

Aizawa quickly switched gears. He wouldn’t be able to neutralize your quirk—but he could subdue you. His capture weapon might not hold, but if he could get close enough—

Before he could act, a sudden, piercing shriek filled the air.

Not from you.

From the fire itself.

The white-hot flames surged violently, expanding outward like a living creature—lashing at the ground, leaving behind deep scorch marks. The entire battlefield was becoming unstable.

Aizawa’s eyes widened slightly. This had to stop.

“Everyone, back up!” he commanded, his voice sharp and unwavering. His gaze flickered to the staff area, where the pro heroes were now on their feet. “We need reinforcements—NOW.”

Bakugou, despite his injuries, growled. “Like hell I’m backing down!”

Aizawa shot him a deadly glare. “That’s an order, Bakugou. This isn’t just a fight anymore.” Bakugou gritted his teeth but didn’t argue further. He wasn’t stupid—he knew when shit was bad.

And right now?

This was a whole new level of dangerous.

Alarms went off, and the students were ushered behind them.

“We can help!” Iida screamed as Midnight held him back. She shook her head.

“This is bigger than you all. I trust you with my life, but this girl—” she pointed at you, half-drowning in your own flames—“this has never happened before! Do not do anything irrational for our sake!” she cried, trying to create distance between the flames and the students.

Suddenly, a flame was being thrown towards them

“Duck!!” Present Mic screamed, Activating his quirk as they all ducked on the ground.

“MOVE!”

All Might was already in motion, his body a blur as he leaped into the air. Even in his weakened state, his instincts were razor-sharp. With a single, powerful swing of his arm, he sent a burst of wind toward the oncoming flames, redirecting them just before they could consume the students.

The fire scattered, but it didn’t go out. It didn’t even weaken.

All Might landed in a crouch, his expression grim as he took in the battlefield. “These flames… they’re not normal.” His voice was tense, low, nothing like his usual booming confidence.

Aizawa grit his teeth, keeping his stance low. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Deku and Bakugou were still near the front, their bodies coiled and ready for action despite the obvious danger. Deku’s hands clenched into trembling fists, his mind racing at a million miles per second.

This isn’t normal—this isn’t normal—what’s happening to her?!

He’d never seen flames like these, not even from Todoroki. They were alive, writhing unnaturally, burning hotter than anything he’d ever felt. And your eyes—

“Shit,” Bakugou muttered beside him, wiping at the sweat dripping down his face. His usual arrogance had been replaced with something sharper, more serious. “She’s losing it.”

Aizawa didn’t take his eyes off you, already preparing to counter whatever happened next. “She’s not just losing it,” he said, voice grave. “She’s burning herself out.”

All Might straightened, his fists tightening at his sides. “We need to get her under control before she burns everything—including herself— to the ground.”

Just as he said it, a new presence entered the battlefield.

Aizawa’s eyes flickered toward the side as Endeavor stormed onto the scene, his own flames roaring to life. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his posture—something different. He wasn’t here just as a hero.

He was here because he recognized exactly what was happening. “Step back.” His voice was deep, final. “I’ll handle this.”

Bakugou scoffed, still panting from the fight. “Yeah? Where the hell were you before this got outta hand?”

Endeavor ignored him, his piercing gaze locked solely on you. All might stood next to him, protecting bakugou and deka from the flames. Everyones gaze locked onto you,

Until you suddenly weren’t there

You moved quickly, as a white fire wip grabbed endeavours arm, as if it saw him as an enemy and not an ally

Endeavor barely had time to react before the white-hot flame wrapped around his arm, tightening like a vice. The heat was unbearable—even for him. This wasn’t normal fire. With a sharp grunt, he wrenched his arm free, his flames flaring in retaliation. But as soon as he turned, you were gone again.

Fast. Too fast.

"Where—?"

"Above!"

All Might’s voice rang out just in time. Endeavor’s instincts kicked in, and he barely managed to twist to the side before you came down like a meteor, flames crashing into the ground where he had just stood. The earth cracked under the force of your attack, a shockwave of searing heat forcing everyone nearby to stumble back..

Your face was eerily blank. No recognition. No hesitation. Just raw, uncontrolled instinct.

And the fire was moving on its own.

That was the real problem. It was acting like it had a mind of its own, striking out without you even needing to direct it. Like it had decided Endeavor was a threat—on its own. All Might’s voice was tense, urgent. “We can’t let this continue.” But before anyone could make a move, a new voice cut through the chaos.

“OI!”

Everyone’s heads snapped toward Bakugou. He was already moving. Ignoring the heat, ignoring the flames, he charged straight toward you. “Kacchan! stop!” Midoriya’s voice was desperate, but Bakugou didn’t even hesitate.

He saw it—what the others didn’t.

Yeah, the flames were out of control. Yeah, you weren’t responding. But you hadn’t attacked him. Not with this hateful purpose he saw with endeavour anyways

He wasn’t the enemy.

“Snap the hell out of it!” His voice was raw, loud enough to punch through the roaring flames.

But you didn’t react.

Bakugou gritted his teeth. Fine. If words weren’t enough—

He grabbed your wrist. A shockwave of heat burst from your skin, sending sparks flying as his glove instantly caught fire. The smell of burning fabric hit the air, but he didn’t let go.

“You hear me?! Cut this shit out already!”

Your body jerked.

The flames stuttered.

For the first time, your blank eyes flickered.

Not black.

Not empty.

Yours.

And just like that—

The fire collapsed.

The white-hot flames vanished, pulling inward as if a switch had been flipped. The battlefield fell silent. The only sound was your sharp, ragged breathing.

The weirdest part was

You weren’t burned at all.

Your legs buckled, and Bakugou caught you before you could hit the ground. His hand was badly burned, but he barely reacted, just grumbling under his breath as he steadied you.

“Dumbass,” he muttered. “Next time, warn us before you go nuclear, yeah?”

You cracked a tired smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “You think I wanted to go all ‘nuclear’?”

Your body was slowly giving out, but through the blur of your vision, you could see All Might running toward you. He gently picked you up from Bakugou’s arms as you lulled into sleep against him.

“Dad..” Was the last thing you said before hearing someone scream “someone warn recovery girl!”

And everything went black.

——

The first thing you felt was a soft paw on your hand, indicating that nezu had heard about the incident. 

Of course he knows

You blinked slightly, the bright light shining too bright for your liking in your eyes. Shifting slightly, you moved to see Nezu at the side of your bed, worry seeable in that expression of his.

You smiled weakly in your pillow, looking at him. “It feels like a truck just drove through my body..” You groaned, “what happened..?”

“You lost control,” Aizawa said bluntly, his tired eyes scanning you. “Badly.”

Your head pounded as the memories came rushing back. The heat. The flames licking at your skin. The way everything had blurred together in a haze of white fire. You had never felt that kind of power before—it had been overwhelming, all-consuming.

“God..” You shot up but winced, “Is everyone okay?? Did someone get hurt??” You panicked as nezu grabbed your hand tighter.

“Calm yourself,” he said, voice gentle but firm. “Panicking will only make things worse.”

You forced yourself to take a breath, your body still trembling from exhaustion. Your eyes darted around the room, searching for any signs of disaster. “But—my flames—”

“No one was seriously hurt,” Aizawa interrupted, his gaze heavy. “Some minor burns, a few close calls, but nothing fatal.”

Your heart pounded. “I—”

“You lost control,” he said, tone blunt but not unkind. “But you didn’t completely lose yourself. You didn’t attack anyone directly.”

That should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. Your hands curled into fists against the blanket. “That doesn’t change the fact that I could have.”

“It doesn’t,” Nezu agreed, but his eyes—calculating and impossibly sharp—held something else. “Which is why we need to figure out why this happened and how to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

Endeavor scoffed from where he stood, arms still folded. “It was rage. Pure and simple.”

You turned to glare at him, anger bubbling beneath your skin despite your exhaustion. “You think I wanted to lose control?”

“I think you let it consume you,” he replied coldly. “I’ve seen it before.”

Your fingers twitched, flames threatening to spark at your fingertips before you took a deep breath and forced them down. Nezu tilted his head, watching you closely. “This isn’t just about anger, is it?”

You hesitated. The truth was, you didn’t know. It had been rage—anger at Bakugou, at the past, at yourself—but it had been something more, something deeper. Something you still couldn’t explain.

Aizawa sighed, rubbing his temples. “For now, just rest. We’ll deal with this when you’re stronger.”

You wanted to argue, to demand answers, but the exhaustion was already pulling you down again. You let out a shaky breath, nodding slightly. Nezu finally released your hand, offering you a small smile. “We’ll figure this out together.”

You sighed as everyone left the room, your head hitting the pillow as you could only think of the disaster that happened today. ‘My new friends are going to hate me..’ She mumbled softly, as she closed her eyes again, letting sleep take her away again.

——

Screams. That was all she could hear.

The air reeked of burning flesh, though she wasn’t sure if it was hers. Heat rippled through the darkness, pressing against her skin like a living thing, whispering against her ears like voices from the abyss. She touched her cheek—her skin was intact, yet the sensation of melting wouldn’t fade.

Then, through the inferno, a figure emerged. Cloaked in shadow and fire, its presence commanded the very flames to part around it. It moved with an unnatural grace, as if the world bent to its will.

“Do not be afraid, princess,” the figure spoke, its voice a deep, silken purr that sent ice down her spine despite the unbearable heat. “When the time is right, I will come for you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. There was something wrong with its presence, something ancient and absolute. The way it stood—poised, patient, knowing—made her feel as though this moment had already been decided, written in fire and brimstone long before she was even born.

She wanted to move, to run, but the ground beneath her was no longer solid. The flames curled at her feet like living tendrils, waiting. Watching.

The figure took another step forward, and the fire pulsed with it, as if bound to its will. She could see its face now—or what should have been a face. Instead, shifting darkness obscured its features, except for its eyes. Two burning pits of gold, glowing with something far worse than malice. Devotion.

“I serve only my master,” the figure murmured, tilting its head. “And you, my dear, belong to him.”

The fire surged, and suddenly, a hand—its hand—reached for her. The moment its fingers brushed against her skin, a searing pain exploded through her palm, as if hell itself had branded her. The agony pulled a scream from her throat, but the sound was swallowed by the inferno.

She was falling.

Falling into him. Into his world.

And then—

She woke up.

Gasping, her body jerking upright, the darkness of her room pressing in around her. The flames were gone, but her skin still burned. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her breath uneven.

She looked down at her trembling hand.

A fresh burn mark had appeared on her palm, the imprint of an outstretched hand. The pain was dull now, but the heat still smoldered beneath her skin, a silent reminder of what had touched her. She clenched her fingers, but the mark remained, unmoving—a brand, a promise, a warning. Something was going on.

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taglist:

@graythecoffeebean @slovesyouuu

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A/N: Don't forget to leave a comment behind :)!

Chapter 3

---------

Warning: 

The Following Story is entirely out of my imagination, I do not mean harm when writing this story with any religion or culture.

That being said, BNHA does not belong to me, any other character beside the main character does not belong to me.

English isn’t my first language, please be kind <3

main list < Previous chapter Next chapter >

“Are you absolutely 100% sure you want to do this?” Uraraka asked nervously, fidgeting with her own suit.

You transformed into your own suit—a sleek black bodysuit adorned with small blue flames flickering across the fabric. A massive belt wrapped tightly around your waist, while a mask, designed to protect you from the ashes of your quirk, was securely fastened to your face.

“I am sure, someone has to put him in his place” you rolled her eyes, as you stretched a little. “I won’t let him bully someone, even if that someone is used to it, no.”

Yaoyorozu crossed her arms, concern clear in her expression. “I understand wanting to stand your ground, but Bakugou isn’t an opponent to take lightly.”

You rolled your shoulders, the fabric of your suit flexing with the movement. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” you said, adjusting the mask on your face.

“Just..be careful.” Uraraka warned her, smiling at her softly. “All the girls believe in you.”

You looked back at her, as you smiled. Giving her a thumbs up. Uraraka looked at her with a small disbelief, but she could see she was trained very well.

After all that smile was exactly like All-Mights.

——

As you tied your hair in a ponytail, your bangs still covering your forehead as you prepared for the fight, Todoroki approached, his usual calm expression unreadable. His heterochromatic eyes flicked toward Bakugou, who was stretching across the field, sparks popping off his palms in anticipation.

“You’re really going through with this?” Todoroki asked, his voice even but carrying an edge of curiosity.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. “Yeah. Someone needs to knock that ego down a few notches.”

Todoroki studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Your quirk… You said before that you trained with my father.” His voice was measured, but there was a slight tension underneath.

Your jaw clenched instinctively. “Yeah. I did.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Then you know what he’s like.”

A bitter chuckle escaped you as you secured your mask again. “Oh, trust me, I know. I get why you and your siblings want nothing to do with him.” You glanced at him, your flames flickering to life at your fingertips. “Training with Endeavor wasn’t learning—it was survival.”

Todoroki’s expression hardened slightly, but there was something else there—understanding. A quiet, unspoken acknowledgment between two people who knew exactly what kind of man Endeavor was.

Before he could reply, Bakugou’s voice cut through the air. “Oi! Hurry the hell up! Unless you’re already chickening out.” You smirked, stepping forward. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”

Todoroki gave you a small nod, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Just don’t let him get under your skin. He feeds off of it.”

You glanced back, grinning. “I’m counting on it.” Then, without another word, you strode onto the battlefield.

——

You stood a few paces away from bakugou, seeing him yet not close enough to really see him. You count to ten, feeling some of the teachers gaze on your back. ‘Swift and fast’ you thought, as you heard aizawa slowly count from 10 to 0.

“3..2..1..now!” He screamed, taking a step back.

Bakugou strode immediately in your direction, using his explosions to boost himself as quickly as possible at you. You concentrated on your hands as you created a wall of blue fire, giving you a small advantage of getting in his blind spot.

“THE HELL?!” He screamed, as the flames dissolved, leaving the area empty. He looked up, suddenly seeing you charging from the sky towards him to kick his face. He grabbed your boot just in time before it could do serious damage. 

You twisted your leg, using your free one to kick his cheek, making him let go of your other leg.

Bakugou stumbled back slightly, his teeth gritted as he wiped at the faint red mark forming on his cheek. His crimson eyes flickered with something between annoyance and excitement.

“Tch, not bad,” he admitted, cracking his neck. “But you’re gonna regret that.”

Before you could respond, he launched himself forward, explosions propelling him at a speed that made the ground crack beneath him. You barely had time to brace before he was on you, swinging a fist aimed right at your ribs.

You twisted at the last second, dodging most of the impact, but the heat still seared against your side. Gritting your teeth, you countered by igniting your flames in a burst, forcing him to jump back to avoid getting burned.

You panted, your chest rising and falling as flames burst from your fists, striking toward Bakugou like whips of fire. But he was fast—too fast. He weaved through them effortlessly, each explosion from his palms propelling him just out of reach.

Before you could adjust your aim, he was suddenly in front of you.

“Too slow.”

His hand clenched your collar, yanking you forward before slamming you down with brutal force. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, dust and embers scattering in the air as pain jolted through your back.

Bakugou didn’t let go, leaning in with a wild grin. “What? Thought you had me?” His grip tightened. “Not even close.”

You groaned, eyes locking onto Bakugou despite the pain radiating through your back. Instead of struggling, you smirked.

“You hit like a man trying to prove something.”

And to everybody’s surprise, you head bunked him so hard that it caught him of guard. You pulled your legs towards your own body and kicked his chest hard, getting him off from you. As he flew back, you send him a wave of fire, burning some of his suit.

Standing up, slightly stumbling because of using your head to defend yourself, you wiped the blood from your nose, smirking badly. “Is that all you got?”

Bakugou caught himself mid-air, flipping before skidding across the ground, smoke rising from the scorched parts of his suit. His breath was heavy, eyes wide for a fraction of a second before they narrowed into something more dangerous.

Slowly, he wiped at his mouth, noticing the faint trace of blood on his glove. Then, he started laughing. Low at first, then louder, a wild, almost unhinged grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, you’re dead.”

He charged at you, explosions propelling him forward like a missile. The heat from his blasts burned against your skin before his fist even got close. You quickly created distance, your hands moving like you are grabbing a pole, as flames manifested in your hands, creating a whip. 

Your whip catches his arm, burning through his clothes. He yelped, but tugged it forward catching you off guard and wrapped the whip around your neck, choking you a bit. You unleased the whip as you gasped for air, feeling the skin of your neck burning.

Bakugou didn’t hesitate—he launched himself forward, aiming a brutal right hook at your face.

At the last second, you ducked, sliding beneath him as you ignited the flames around your hands. With a swift motion, you drove a Flame-coated Uppercut into his stomach, sending a shockwave of heat between you both.

Bakugou grunted, his body lifting slightly from the impact, but he recovered fast. His hands sparked violently as he spun mid-air, twisting to send an explosion straight at you.

You barely had time to react. The blast struck your side, sending you skidding across the ground, your suit slightly charred. The smell of burnt fabric filled the air, mixing with the heat of battle.

Panting, you wiped the blood trickling from your lip and pushed yourself up. Bakugou was already grinning, cracking his knuckles.

"You still breathing?" he taunted, his crimson eyes gleaming with excitement.

You smirked, rolling your shoulders. "You’re gonna wish I wasn’t.”

Your fist connected with his jaw, sending him stumbling back. But you weren’t done. Twisting mid-air, you brought your knee up hard into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. As he staggered, you spun and delivered a flaming roundhouse kick to his side, sending him crashing into the ground.

"Where’s all that confidence now, Bakugou?" you taunted, breathing heavily but steady.

Before you could react, Bakugou caught your wrist and twisted, yanking you forward before slamming you into the ground. The impact sent a shock through your body, knocking the air from your lungs. You barely had time to gasp before he pressed a knee into your back, pinning you down with his weight. His breath was hot against your ear, voice low and sharp.

"You think fire makes you strong? Please. You’re just a failure who can’t even control it."

Your body stiffened.

That wasn’t just Bakugou’s voice—it was a ghost from your past, bleeding into the present.

“You're just a failure if you can't control it.”

A tiny figure stood in front of a wooden target, burns covering her arms as she was sweating. The Number Two Hero looked down at the little lady, a scowl visible on his face. 

“You think you can become the number one with those pathetic kind of moves?” 

Her fingers twitched at her sides, curling into fists. She wanted to scream. To cry. To fight back. But she knew better.

Instead, she forced herself to meet his gaze, her lip trembling but her eyes burning with something deeper.

She would get stronger. She would prove him wrong.

Even if it killed her.

——

Bakugou smirked as he pinned you down again, this time with no room for escape. His hands sparked with small explosions, the heat grazing your skin, but he didn’t let them go off just yet.

"Tch. That all you got?" His voice dripped with arrogance, crimson eyes glaring down at you. "All that fire, all that talk, and you still can’t keep up."

Your breath was ragged, your limbs aching, but his words burned worse than any of his explosions. You struggled against his grip, but he didn’t budge.

Then, he leaned in closer, voice dropping low.

"You’re just a failure if you can’t control it.” He repeated again, Your entire body went still.

A sharp ringing filled your ears. The world around you blurred. The weight of Bakugou pressing you down melted away, replaced by something heavier.

The memory crashed into you, sudden and suffocating. The scent of burnt skin. The crushing disappointment in Endeavor’s glare. The suffocating pressure of not being enough. Your vision flickered. The present wavered.

Then, fire erupted.

A blast of pure, untamed heat exploded from your body, the sheer force sending Bakugou flying back. He barely managed to brace himself before skidding across the battlefield, eyes wide in surprise. You pushed yourself up, slow and steady, your body trembling but your flames burning brighter than ever.

Your fingers twitched, sparks of fire getting ignited all across the room. Controlled? No. But this time, you didn’t care.

Bakugou was just about to bark something back, but stopped at his tracks, his eyes widening as he looked into hers.

Cause they weren’t her usual color, they were pitch black.

Something was very, very wrong.

---------

taglist:

@graythecoffeebean

---------

A/N: I love imagining fight scenes in my head, but actually writing them are always harder when English is your second language- I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! Can't wait to share more of it.

please let me know if you wanna be in the taglist!

Chapter Two

---------

Warning: 

The Following Story is entirely out of my imagination, I do not mean harm when writing this story with any religion or culture.

That being said, BNHA does not belong to me, any other character beside the main character does not belong to me.

English isn’t my first language, please be kind <3

main list < Previous chapter Next chapter >

---------

The moment class started you knew it would be heavy. Not because of the material or classes you had to take, oh no you had those in the bag. 

But because of the damn stares.

‘Not only was my entrance dramatic, but this dumbass really has a staring problem..’ She whispered to herself as she began writing down the material Aizawa was talking about. The stares of the explosive blond were glaring holes into her back. It was so bad, it felt like he was actively making holes into your body.

You looked around, half interested in what aizawa was saying but more interested in what was sitting around you.

As instructed by nezu, you sat in the far front. With besides you a sort French aesthetic kind of student, who winked at you as he noticed you looked at him. You shivered slightly, something tells you that even with his appearance you should keep a distance from him.

Behind him sat a guy with a lighting bolt in his hair, one of his hands was in his hair as the other was scribbling to keep up with aizawa, who has continued with his talk with no sign of stopping.

“Pssst” a noise krept from behind you. You turned your body slightly turning back to see a pink skinned girl staring at you with a whole lot of curiosity. “It’s so random a new student joins our class so in the middle of the school year, I’m Mina Ashido! But everyone calls me mina.”

She grinned, resting her chin on her hand as she kept her eyes locked on you. “Sooo? What’s your Quirk?” she whispered, completely ignoring the lesson happening at the front of the room.

You hesitated, not sure whether to answer with Aizawa still talking. Before you could decide, the student beside you shifted slightly. With his glittering uniform and confident smirk, he looked like he belonged on a magazine cover rather than in a classroom.

“Mina, mon cher, you’re overwhelming them,” he said smoothly, flashing you a wink. “I am Yuga Aoyama. Enchanté.”

“Yeah, yeah, we know you’re fancy,” Denki muttered from behind him, lazily spinning his pen between his fingers. “But seriously, what’s your Quirk? It’s gotta be something cool if they let you transfer into 3-A this late.”

Mina nodded eagerly, eyes gleaming. “Right?! I mean, you must be crazy strong or super smart or—”

A dry voice interrupted from the front. “Ashido. Kaminari. Do you enjoy being distractions?”

Mina’s mouth snapped shut as Aizawa’s gaze landed on her. Denki immediately straightened in his seat, eyes darting back to his notes. Aoyama, on the other hand, only gave a slow, deliberate flip of his hair before turning forward again.

The classroom settled back into silence, except for the scratching of pens against paper and the occasional creak of a chair. Mina shot you a side glance, mouthing, Tell me later.

As lunchtime approaches, you stood still with a tray of your lunch as you looked like a deer in headlights.

‘So many tables..’ You thought, as you walked around, trying to spot mina.

“OVER HERE!!” A female voice shouted as mina waved excitedly to you, trying to get you over at the lunch table.

Relieved, you quickly made your way toward Mina’s table, weaving through the maze of students. As you approached, you noticed she wasn’t alone—several of your classmates were already seated with her.

“Finally! I thought you’d get lost or something,” Mina teased as she scooted over to make room for you. “Come sit!”

You carefully placed your tray down and took a seat, still feeling a little out of place. Across from you, Denki grinned. “First lunch with the squad, huh? Big moment.”

Next to him, the spiky red head, Kirishima, gave you a friendly nod. “Don’t worry, everyone here’s cool. Except Bakubro.” He laughed, dodging a half-hearted kick from the explosive blonde sitting at the edge of the table.

“Shut up, idiot.”

You finally allowed your eyes to rest on bakugou. His blond hair was ashy and spiky, which weirdly suited him. He had broad shoulders, but to be fair everyone had that in the hero course. They trained you to the bone at U.A, she heard the teacher enough about the exams and what they plan every year.

But the thing that pulled you the most were those eyes.

Crimson eyes, with a hardend gaze.

“You have a staring problem extra?” Bakugou pulled you out of your thoughts. You smirked, clearly liking a challenge. “Should we reverse that question over to you? Hm? I saw you staring the entirely of class, not so slick dude.”

The table collectively went, "Oooooh," as they watched the interaction unfold like an intense showdown. Mina covered her mouth, barely containing her laughter, while Denki leaned in, clearly entertained. Even Kirishima, who usually played peacemaker, smirked as he watched Bakugou's reaction.

Bakugou’s eye twitched, his grip tightening around his chopsticks. “Tch. Like I’d waste my time staring at some extra like you.” He scoffed, turning his attention back to his food, but you didn’t miss the way his jaw tensed.

“Oh yeah?” You leaned on your elbow, resting your chin in your palm. “Then what’s got you so worked up, Bakugou?” You purposely dragged out his name, watching for a reaction.

Denki almost choked on his drink, and Mina had to slap his back to keep him from making a scene. “Yo, I like them,” he wheezed between coughs. “Finally, someone who isn’t scared to mess with Bakugou.”

Bakugou set his chopsticks down with a loud clack, eyes flicking back to you. “Keep running your mouth, and we’ll see how funny you are during training.” His tone was low, dangerous—yet, there was something else beneath it, something almost… intrigued.

You simply smirked, unbothered. “Looking forward to it.”

Kirishima let out a low whistle, shaking his head with a grin. “Man, you’ve got guts. Most people don’t go head-to-head with Bakugou unless they wanna get blown up.”

Mina elbowed you playfully. “Yeah, but I kinda love it! We needed some fresh energy in 3-A.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, clearly irritated. “Like I care. If they wanna get their ass kicked, that’s their problem.” He grabbed his tray and stood up, shoving his hand into his pockets as he walked off without another word.

You watched him go, noting the slight stiffness in his posture. Interesting.

Denki leaned toward you with a conspiratorial grin. “Sooo, what’s the deal? You got a death wish, or do you just like pissing him off?”

You chuckled. “He’s easy to piss off, you can see that from a mile away” 

Mina laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Okay, okay, enough about Bakugou before he somehow hears us and explodes something.” She leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “But seriously, what’s your Quirk? You’ve been here half a day, and we still don’t know!”

The tall one with black hair and can shoot tape out of his elbow, Sero, chimed in as well. “And what’s up with you knowing all these teachers? I’ve seen them look at you-“

You laughed softly, putting your chopsticks down. “Well,” you started, “The reasons I know almost all pro heroes is because of my adoptive parent, Principal Nezu.”

Kirishima’s eyes widened, nearly dropping his drink. “Wait, what?!” he blurted out, leaning forward like he hadn’t heard you right. “You’re telling me Nezu—our Principal Nezu—is your adoptive parent? That’s insane!”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as his brows furrowed in curiosity. “Wait, hold on,” he said, eyes locked on you. “Does that mean you grew up at U.A.? Like, did you just… run around the school as a kid?”

You chuckle, “Technically I did, My quirk developed when I was around 3 years old, it was really destructive and out of control, so after classes nezu would always send someone to train with me.” You played with your food a bit, the rice going back and forth. “I trained a lot with all might, but also with endeavour, since it does resolve around fire..” You slowly turned a bit quiet, remembering a bit of the old times.

Mina’s eyes widened as she nearly dropped her chopsticks. “Wait, WHAT?!” she practically shouted, earning a few glances from nearby tables. She ignored them, leaning in closer with an excited gasp. “You trained with All Might and Endeavor? That’s not just cool—that’s, like, insane!”

She reached out and lightly shook your arm. “Dude! That’s top-tier hero training! No wonder you got into 3-A so easily!”

But then, as she watched you quietly push your rice around, her excited energy softened just a bit. She tilted her head, her big golden eyes studying you carefully. “Wait… was that, like… a good thing? Or was it, y’know, hard?”

Mina wasn’t the type to pry, but she also wasn’t the type to ignore when something felt off. So instead of bombarding you with more questions, she simply nudged you with her shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Hey, no pressure, but if training with those guys sucked, you totally have the right to say it.”

Then, as if to lighten the mood again, she smirked. “But also, real talk—was Endeavor as scary back then as he is now? Be honest.”

You sighed, “lets just say… I get why his kids aren’t talking to him anymore or at least as possible.”

Denki let out a low whistle. “Yikes. That bad, huh?”

Kirishima frowned, crossing his arms. “Man… that’s rough. I always figured he was tough, but—” he shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like the good kind of tough.”

Sero sighed, propping his chin on his hand. “Can’t say I’m surprised. The guy’s intense in all the wrong ways.”

Mina pouted, resting her cheek on her palm. “Ugh, that sucks. No kid deserves that.” Then, after a beat, she perked up. “But hey, you got out of it way cooler than him, sooo… win?”

Denki grinned. “Yeah! You turned out awesome despite all that. Kinda badass, not gonna lie.”

The table hummed in agreement, their support loud in their own way.

You smiled softly, the tension that had been building up easing out of your shoulders. You looked at the squad and laughed softly. You could get used to this

When the lunch period was finished and everyone resumed back into their respectable classrooms, aizawa announced that is was highly time to train. He stood in front of your desk, his gaze softer than normal with other students.

“You can watch if you want, but if you decide to fight than just now I won’t put you against an easy person. I know you can handle the top of the top here.”

Midoriya perked up at Aizawa’s words, turning toward you with wide eyes. “Whoa, Aizawa-sensei must really believe in your skills if he’s saying that!” His expression shifted into one of deep thought, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to start scribbling in his notebook.

“I mean, it’s rare for him to just say something like that outright… You must have already shown some serious potential for him to trust you against the strongest students in our class!” He muttered under his breath, glancing at you like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.

Mina smirked, leaning toward you. “He’s totally trying to analyze you already.”

You laughed, waving at midoriya. “I bet your quirk is just as awesome!” You compliment him, making him blush slightly and bakugou scowl. You turn your head towards him, one of your eyebrows raised to him. “What?” You started.

Bakugou clicked his tongue, arms crossed as he shot you an irritated glare. “Tch. Don’t go filling Deku’s head with crap.”

Midoriya tensed slightly. “Kacchan, that’s not—”

You slowly walked over to bakugou, your hands on top of his desk. “What, did I bruise your ego or something?”

The class collectively oohed at your boldness, while Mina practically vibrated with excitement.

Bakugou’s eye twitched, his scowl deepening. “Like hell I care. Just don’t go acting like Deku’s some big deal.” He jabbed a thumb at himself. “If you’re gonna be impressed by someone, it should be me.”

You rolled your eyes, which caused bakugou to stand up and slightly tower over you. “Wow, that was so not insecure at all. Cry me a river bakugou.”

Bakugou stood up straighter, his glare now intense as he leaned over his desk, his hands planted firmly on the edge. “You think you can talk to me like that, huh?” His voice was low and filled with a dangerous edge. “I’ll make you regret that, extra.”

“I can’t hear you, blasty.” You grinned up at him.

“Enough.” Aizawa shouted, making everyone halt in their position. “If you two want to fight, then do it. Take it to the training area.”

The class was silent, all eyes on you both as the tension crackled.

Bakugou’s lips curled into a sneer, his fists clenched tightly. “You think you can actually keep up, huh? Don’t cry when I wipe the floor with you.”

You stood your ground, unfazed by his words. "Don’t worry, I’ll leave you in the dust where you belong.”

Aizawa sighed, and shook his head. “These kids will be the death of me..”

---------

taglist:

@graythecoffeebean

---------

A/N: I'm so excited for you all to see this development happen, please do let me know it the comments what you think will happen next!

Chapter One

---------

Warning: 

The Following Story is entirely out of my imagination, I do not mean harm when writing this story with any religion or culture.

That being said, BNHA does not belong to me, any other character beside the main character does not belong to me.

English isn’t my first language, please be kind <3

main list < Previous chapter Next chapter >

---------

The first thing you remember are Nezu’s words."You are special.” He had whispered it one night as he tucked you in, his small, warm paw brushing against your cheek. Nezu had always told you the story of how he found you—an infant left at the gates of U.A., wrapped in midnight-colored silk, staring up at him with eyes too knowing for a child."You came like a blessing I didn’t deserve."

He had raised you with unwavering care, but even as he doted on you, he never shielded you from the truth."But with being special comes great danger."His small claws had pushed your bangs back as he kissed your forehead. "Remember, little light, while you shine, you will inspire others."

You weren’t like the other children. You developed your quirk faster than anyone had expected. And where you walked, destruction followed. Small flames flickered across your palms, a deep, unnatural blue that earned the name hellfire. It didn’t just burn—it consumed.

And so, Nezu made sure you were trained by the best before you could even ride a bike. You grew up surrounded by Pro Heroes, raised on the battlefield before you ever stepped into a classroom. Endeavour took the lead in honing your flames—his brutal, relentless training pushing you past your limits. Even as a child, you could sense the weight he carried, the bitterness in his voice when he told you to do better, be stronger. The burns on your body were proof of his expectations.

But All Might was always there. He was different. Where Endeavor taught you to endure pain, All Might taught you to rise above it. His lessons weren’t just about strength, but about hope, about what it meant to be a hero. About what it meant to be good.

“Remember Young one, only you will decide if you either become good or destroy others”

You always liked All might, even now as you helped him more and more. As his powers took a toll on his body and sometimes couldn’t do the basic things, you were there like a shadow. Besides Nezu, he was like a father to you. And that’s why when he brought the news with Nezu it felt like a dad’s telling his daughter bad news.

“You will enrol in our school, starting tomorrow.” Nezu had stated, the small blue flame in your hand suddenly dying out fast as you slammed your hand on the table. “Why?! I know the rules of the hero society better than anyone!”

“You might know the rules and laws of the society, but you don’t know the society” All mights spoke gently. “In order to become a great hero, you should also connect with other heroes, which you haven’t done since you’ve been homeschooled for 18 years.” He stated in an all matter of fact tone. Nezu nodded his mouse head in agreement. “It will be good for you little light” He hit you with the childhood nickname. He grabbed your hand, his paw as soft as ever as you slumped into your seat. Gently squeezing it two times, a secret code you always had with him.

“You have so much potential, you’ll be in aizawa’s care and he’ll help you as much as what we can do. Trust me, it will be good for you little light..” You sighed, frustrated this was happening but nodded nevertheless. “Okay Nezu..”

“I’ll do it”

~

When the day came around that you had to sit in class, you were extra early. You knew every pro hero that teaches personally, so because you know them you had some small advantages.

Like sipping coffee in the teachers lounge for example.

“My Little babyyyyy” Midnight cooed, holding you close as you made sure you didn’t spill hot coffee onto her. “All grown up and here for me to teach!” You whined and laughed softly. “Nemuriiii let gooo, I’m going to spill all my coffee!”

“Oh please,” Midnight—Nemuri Kayama—dramatically gasped, holding you tighter as if you were a long-lost child. “You think a little coffee is going to stop me from getting my hugs?”

You laughed, half-heartedly trying to wiggle free, careful not to spill the steaming cup in your hand. “Yes, actually! And I swear if you make me drop this, I’m making you make me another one”

Nemuri pouted, finally loosening her grip with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, fine. But only because I don’t want my little woven one walking into her first day of class with coffee stains.” She gave you a teasing smirk, ruffling your hair.

You huffed, smoothing it back down. “You act like you didn’t see me every day growing up.”

“Yes, but this is different!” she declared, stepping back and twirling a strand of her hair. “You’re finally a student here. A future hero. And I get to watch you kick all those wannabes’ butts.”

The ‘wannabes’ butts’ midnight is talking about is none other than class 3-A itself. Nezu, being as kind as he is, let you read through the files of each student of the class. The one that stuck out to you the most were two people.

Izuku Midoriya and Katsuki Bakugou.

All might explained that Midoriya, also known as deku, was his predecessor. As you had watched a few videos that had gone viral off the sport festival, you understood why.

But Bakugou, Bakugou was something else.

You had heard about his explosive power—literally—but reading about him in a file and watching him fight were two entirely different things. His combat style was raw, unrelenting, as if he had something to prove with every move. He didn’t just want to win—he wanted to dominate.

But what caught your attention wasn’t just his strength—it was his drive. Unlike Midoriya, who had a quirk passed down by the world’s greatest hero, Bakugou’s power was his own. Earned. Honed. Sharpened like a blade against his own willpower. He wasn’t fighting just to be a hero—he was fighting to be the best.

And now, you’d be standing beside him, competing against him, proving yourself in the same class as him.

The thought sent a flicker of anticipation down your spine. As you said your goodbye to midnight, you threw away your stuff and walked out the door, onto the 3-A classroom itself.

The hallway buzzed with muffled chatter, the distant echoes of students settling into their classes. But as you stepped into Class 3-A, the noise died instantly. Twenty pairs of eyes snapped to you, scanning, questioning. Some confused, some curious, some wary.

You didn’t wear the standard U.A. uniform—not yet. Your attire was sleek, black with faint silver embroidery, a mix of functionality and elegance. The weight of your presence alone unsettled the room.

Then, of course, he reacted first.

“The hell?” Bakugou’s chair scraped back violently as he stood, his hands already crackling with sparks. His crimson eyes locked onto you like a predator sizing up prey.

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled, his palm popping with tiny explosions. “You walk in here like you own the place—gotta be real dumb or real strong.” You tilted your head, completely unfazed. “You always greet new people by trying to blow them up?”

“Only when they piss me off.” His palm flared brighter.“And you’re pissing me off.”

The tension in the room was suffocating. A few students tensed—Midoriya’s eyes darted between you and Bakugou, Uraraka looked like she wanted to step in but thought better of it. Even Todoroki’s gaze lingered on you, analyzing.

You smirked. This class might be fun after all.

Before anything could happen a long, grey cloth snapped out of nowhere, wrapping around Bakugou’s wrist, immediately neutralizing his quirk.

“Enough,” Aizawa’s voice came low and sharp as he stepped out of the shadows, hair floating slightly, eyes glowing red. “Bakugou, sit down before I erase you completely.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, ripping his arm free. “Tch. Whatever.” He shot one last glare at you before slumping back into his chair, arms crossed. Aizawa’s tired eyes flickered toward you. “And you—take a seat. Now.”

You met his gaze and, after a beat, nodded. No backtalk, no smart remarks. Just a slow, easy stride toward an empty desk. Aizawa sighed, rubbing his temple. “Great. First day, and we’re already starting like this.” He gave the class a pointed look. “Get used to it. She’s one of you now.”

The silence that followed was almost deafening. You leaned back in your chair, ignoring the questioning stares.

Let them wonder.

------

taglist:

@graythecoffeebean

Prologue

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Warning: 

The Following Story is entirely out of my imagination, I do not mean harm when writing this story with any religion or culture.

That being said, BNHA does not belong to me, any other character beside the main character does not belong to me.

English isn’t my first language, please be kind <3

main list Next chapter >

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“Your majesty, you honestly can’t tell me she would be safer on that-“ “On that what? Exactly?” The cloaked figure held the smallest bundle in his hands. It held its finger gently with its own, smallest round cheeks in the world smushed against the inside of its palm.

“You’re making a mistake, you ought to be making a mistake.” The other voice exclaimed, as they paraded through the streets of Musutafu. Nobody even batting an eye on the two strange looking fella’s. “Your Majest-“ “ENOUGH.”

Blue flames surrounded the two of them, anger flowing through its veins. “You will not stand here to your king and belittle him on his plan to KEEP HIS CHILD SAFE.” His anger quickly deflated as the little one began stirring and making noise.

It gently rocked it, slowly but surely the little one opened her eyes. Full black ones stared back to one of it owns. The creature looked at the protesting one. “As long as Heaven knows she’s alive, she will never be safe.

he gently put her down infant of their destination. “You will be okay, my woven one..daddy will always be watching over you..” He kissed her forehead gently, a long nail stroking her cheek

He rang the bell, his eyes never leaving her as he stood up straight. “You’ll be safer here..my daughter.” As she began to fuss, a small mouse person heard the cries as he went on his nightly stroll. Seeing the mouse approach, he hid in the shadows, his eyes still onto her little form, trying to capture this moment, for ever in his brain imprinted.

“Oh my!” The little mouse man exclaimed, jumping up at his feet as he quickly ran towards the babygirl wrapped in a bundle. “Goodness, what are you doing here my dear?” He picked her up, the streetlights shining gently onto her face. He could tell she had a scar, all across her forehead, as if her head gotten cut open.

Nezu adjusted the baby in his arms, gently bouncing her as he inspected the scar running across her forehead. His sharp mind was already working through the possibilities—who had left her, why she was here, and most importantly, what had happened to her.

The infant stared up at him, unblinking, her solid black eyes like endless voids. And yet, there was something there—awareness. A knowing that no child her age should possess. “Hm,” Nezu hummed, brushing a paw over the scar. “You’re quite the curious one, aren’t you?”

The baby let out a small noise, neither a cry nor a coo, just a sound—like the whisper of something ancient trying to form words. The mouse’s ears twitched. “Strange…” he muttered, before shaking his head and tucking her securely against his chest. “Well, no matter. You’re safe now.” Behind him, hidden in the darkness, the cloaked figure tightened its jaw. They should leave. They had to leave. But the way Nezu cradled her—carefully, protectively—made its body hesitate.

For a single moment, an unbearable instinct clawed at their chest. To take her back. To run.

But it couldn’t.

Knowing she was safe, they blew a soft kiss towards his child, as they opened a portal into the ground. “I love you..” It whispered again, as it was the last thing it had ever told her for a long time.

All they found important was that she was safe.

explosive hearts: a bday surprise ꣑ৎ

𖤐 synopsis: the explosive hero-in-training reluctantly endures a surprise birthday party organized by his classmates, but finds genuine joy in the thoughtful gift and quiet moments shared with you.

𖤐 trigger warnings: fluff

𖤐 pairing: katsuki bakugou x gender neutral! reader (post-relationship)

the hallways of ua were surprisingly quiet as you made your way toward the heights alliance dormitory, clutching a small package wrapped in black paper with tiny orange explosion patterns. your heart hammered in your chest, almost rivaling the explosive quirk of the boy whose birthday it was today.

katsuki bakugou. april 20th.

you'd been planning this for weeks—the perfect gift, the right moment to give it to him, and most importantly, how to survive the encounter without becoming a victim of his infamous temper. dating bakugou for the past few months had been an adventure, to say the least. beneath that prickly exterior was someone fiercely loyal and determined, someone who pushed you to be better every day.

but that didn't make his birthday any less intimidating.

---

the morning had started with a flood of texts from your classmates, all coordinating for bakugou's "surprise" party—a surprise he'd undoubtedly see coming from a mile away.

"remember, 5 pm sharp!" mina had texted, followed by a string of explosion emojis. "and don't tell him!"

you'd spent your free period between classes frantically wrapping his gift, your mind replaying memories of how your relationship with the explosive hero-in-training had evolved.

it had begun during joint training sessions three months ago. you'd been paired together for combat practice, and unlike others who hesitated around his fiery temper, you stood your ground.

"you're not going to beat a villain by holding back, so don't hold back with me!" you'd challenged him.

he'd looked shocked for a moment before that trademark smirk spread across his face. "fine by me. don't cry when you lose!"

to everyone's surprise (especially his), you'd managed to hold your own. not win—bakugou was too skilled for that—but you'd impressed him. and impressing bakugou katsuki was no small feat.

after training, he'd cornered you in the hallway.

"you. train with me tomorrow," he'd demanded, more than asked.

and so began your regular training sessions, which gradually transformed from strictly professional to something more personal. you noticed how he'd adjust his techniques to help you improve, how his criticism, while blunt, was always constructive. the way his eyes lingered on you when he thought you weren't looking.

your first kiss had been after a particularly grueling session. both of you, sweaty and exhausted, had collapsed against the gym wall. you'd turned to say something, only to find his face inches from yours, those intense crimson eyes studying your face with an unfamiliar softness.

"you're not half bad," he'd mumbled, and then his lips were on yours, rough and demanding yet surprisingly gentle.

since then, your relationship had been as explosive and intense as the boy himself—full of heated arguments, passionate make-up sessions, and quiet moments of understanding that no one else got to see.

and now, his birthday was here, and you wanted it to be special.

---

according to kirishima, bakugou hated celebrations focused on him. "too much damn attention," he'd growl. yet you knew he secretly appreciated the acknowledgment—just not the fuss.

as you approached his door, voices from inside made you pause.

"deku, get that stupid banner out of my face!"

"but kacchan, it's your special day! everyone pitched in to—"

"i don't care! i didn't ask for this!"

"come on, man!" kirishima's cheerful voice. "it's just a small party! even all might sent you a card!"

you winced. so much for your plan to have a quiet moment with him. class 1-a had apparently beaten you to the punch with a surprise party. for a moment, you considered turning back, waiting until later when the chaos had died down.

"where's [y/n]?" bakugou's gruff question made you freeze. "if you extras dragged everyone here but didn't tell [y/n], i'm blowing this whole damn dorm up."

your heart fluttered. he was looking for you?

taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. the room fell silent instantly.

the door flew open to reveal bakugou himself, hair wild as always, crimson eyes narrowing when he saw you. behind him, the entire class froze in various stages of party preparation. midoriya was hanging a crooked "happy birthday" banner, kirishima and sero had armfuls of snacks, and ashido was attempting to set up a small music system. kaminari was in the corner, tangled in what appeared to be extension cords, while todoroki stood awkwardly by the window, holding a small wrapped gift.

"there you are," bakugou grumbled, something like relief crossing his features before his scowl returned. "these idiots decided to invade my room."

"happy birthday, katsuki," you said softly, holding out the small package. "i was hoping to catch you alone, but..."

his eyes darted to the gift, then back to your face. without warning, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

"hey!" came the muffled protests from inside.

"kacchan! we spent hours decorating!"

"bakugou, that's rude!" you chided, but couldn't help smiling. this was so like him.

"they can wait," he said, crossing his arms. "i've been dealing with their birthday crap all day. first, round face and deku ambushed me at breakfast with some homemade card that looked like a five-year-old made it. then glasses gave me some lecture about 'the importance of commemorating one's date of birth with proper reflection.' as if i give a crap."

you laughed, imagining iida's serious expression as he delivered what was probably a well-intentioned speech.

"then all might sent me a card with some american superhero on it," bakugou continued, rolling his eyes, though you noticed he didn't sound quite as annoyed about that one. "and now they've taken over my room like it's their right. i haven't had five minutes to myself all day."

"want me to come back later?" you asked, though you were disappointed at the thought.

"no," he said quickly, almost too quickly. his cheeks colored slightly as he realized his eagerness. "i mean, you're already here, so whatever."

"smooth recovery," you teased.

"shut up," he growled, but there was no real heat behind it.

"here," you said again, pushing the package toward him. "it's not much, but i thought you might like it."

he took it with surprisingly gentle hands, turning it over once before carefully tearing the wrapping paper. inside was a custom-made training journal, bound in leather with his hero name embossed on the cover in orange lettering. when he opened it, the first page had a handwritten note from you.

"to become the number one hero, you need to keep track of what works. no one works harder than you, katsuki. happy birthday. - [y/n]"

the rest of the pages were specially formatted for training regimens, with sections for technique improvements, quirk developments, and combat strategies. you'd also included some analysis of his recent fights from the training exercises, with your own observations on what made his moves effective.

in the very back, hidden between the last page and the cover, was a photo you'd secretly taken during one of your training sessions. bakugou was mid-explosion, his face lit by the orange glow of his quirk, a fierce grin of pure joy on his face. it captured everything you loved about him—his power, his passion, his absolute certainty in his own abilities.

bakugou was silent for so long that you started to worry.

"if you don't like it, i can get something—"

"shut up," he interrupted, but his voice lacked its usual bite. he was still staring at the journal, running his thumb over the embossed letters. his eyes had found the hidden photo, and you saw his expression soften in a way that made your heart race. "this is... good. really good."

coming from bakugou, that was equivalent to anyone else's effusive praise.

"you actually put thought into this," he continued, glancing up at you. "not just some random crap like the extras in there."

"well, i know how serious you are about becoming the best," you replied. "and you deserve tools that match your ambition."

something changed in bakugou's expression then—a softening around the eyes, a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth. before you could react, he'd stepped forward, one hand coming up to cup the back of your neck.

"you get me," he said quietly, almost wonderingly. "everyone else just sees the explosions."

"i see all of you, katsuki. the good, the bad, and the explosive."

he laughed then—a rare, genuine sound that made your heart soar. "damn right you do."

his kiss caught you by surprise, fierce and passionate like everything he did, yet with an underlying tenderness that he showed to no one else. you melted into it, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulled you closer, his free hand sliding to the small of your back.

the door suddenly flew open, and you both sprang apart to find kirishima grinning at you.

"sorry to interrupt, lovebirds, but we've got cake melting in here. very unmanly to waste good food."

bakugou's face flushed red—from embarrassment or anger, you couldn't tell. "hair-for-brains! ever heard of privacy?"

kirishima just laughed. "come on, birthday boy. everyone's waiting."

"don't call me that," bakugou growled, but he didn't protest further. instead, he tucked the journal carefully into his pocket and took your hand, his palm warm against yours. "those idiots in there probably got a cake or something. might as well not let it go to waste."

it was as close to "thank you for the party" as bakugou would ever get.

"lead the way, birthday boy," you teased.

he growled at the nickname but didn't let go of your hand as he pushed the door open, facing his classmates with what could almost be described as tolerance. "alright, you extras! let's get this over with!"

---

the party was actually fun, even by bakugou's standards, though he'd never admit it out loud. the cake was spicy chocolate—someone had done their research—and even the gifts showed that his classmates knew him better than he gave them credit for.

kirishima had gotten him a set of premium hand weights. "for when you can't get to the gym, bro!"

todoroki, surprisingly, had gifted him a high-end knife set. "you mentioned wanting to improve your cooking skills," he'd said simply, ignoring bakugou's suspicious glare.

midoriya's gift—a limited edition all might collectible that bakugou had been eyeing for months—almost caused another explosion, but you saw how carefully he set it aside rather than throwing it away.

but as the celebration continued, you noticed how he kept the journal close, occasionally touching his pocket as if to make sure it was still there. and throughout the evening, his eyes would find yours across the room, that rare smile appearing just for you.

at one point, kaminari suggested party games, which led to an intense round of "truth or dare."

when it was bakugou's turn, ashido grinned mischievously. "truth! when did you realize you liked [y/n]?"

the room fell silent, everyone waiting for the inevitable explosion. but bakugou just scoffed, his eyes finding yours.

"when they didn't back down during training," he said bluntly. "most people either fear me or try to 'fix' me. [y/n] just told me to bring it on." he paused, then added with a smirk, "plus, they called deku an annoying fanboy once, and that's when i knew it was meant to be."

"hey!" midoriya protested as everyone else burst into laughter.

you remembered that moment—it had been after midoriya had spent fifteen minutes analyzing bakugou's fighting style in excruciating detail, stars in his eyes the entire time.

"he's brilliant, but doesn't he ever turn it off?" you'd whispered to bakugou, who had looked at you with newfound respect.

the game continued, and by the time it circled back to you, most of the class had either embarrassed themselves or revealed surprising secrets. sero had admitted to using his tape to cheat on a middle school test. todoroki confessed he secretly enjoyed romantic comedies. uraraka had been dared to float iida around the room like a balloon.

"[y/n], truth or dare?" kirishima asked.

"truth," you decided, not trusting the gleam in his eye.

"what's your favorite thing about our explosive friend here?" he gestured to bakugou, who looked like he was considering murder.

you thought for a moment, aware of bakugou's eyes on you. "his determination," you finally said. "when katsuki decides to do something, nothing stops him. it's inspiring." you met his gaze across the circle. "and he pushes me to be better too."

something flashed in those crimson eyes—surprise, pleasure, and something deeper that made your pulse quicken.

"damn right i do," he said, but his voice was softer than usual.

---

the party started winding down around midnight. aizawa had stopped by briefly—"just making sure you're not destroying the building"—and seemed satisfied that the celebration was relatively controlled, at least by class 1-a standards.

as people began to leave, you started helping clean up, gathering paper plates and cups.

"leave it," bakugou said, coming up behind you. "they made the mess, they can clean it."

"that's not very heroic," you teased.

"neither is trashing someone's room for a party they didn't ask for," he retorted, but there was no real anger in his voice. in fact, he seemed almost... content? it was a strange look on bakugou's usually scowling face.

most of the class said their goodbyes, until only kirishima, midoriya, and a few others remained to finish cleaning.

"we'll handle the rest," kirishima said with a knowing grin, nudging midoriya who was obliviously gathering balloons. "you two probably want some time alone."

"mind your own business, shitty hair!" bakugou barked, but he didn't disagree.

taking your hand, he led you out of the dorm and onto the balcony at the end of the hallway. the night was clear, stars visible above the ua campus, a gentle spring breeze carrying the scent of cherry blossoms.

"thanks," he said abruptly, leaning against the railing. "for the journal. it's... exactly what i needed."

"you're welcome," you replied, standing beside him, your shoulders almost touching. "i'm glad you like it."

"and for not making a big deal about today," he added, turning to face you. "everyone else acts like i should be dancing around because i managed not to die for another year."

you laughed. "that's one way to look at birthdays."

"the only way that makes sense," he insisted. "but... i guess it's not terrible having people acknowledge it. even if they're annoying about it."

coming from bakugou, this was practically a heartfelt speech of gratitude.

"next year," he said in a low voice, moving closer so that his arm pressed against yours, "just you and me. no extras."

your heart skipped. next year. he was already thinking about spending his next birthday with you.

"it's a date," you promised, feeling the warmth of his presence beside you.

he turned to face you then, expression serious. "you know i'm not good at this... feelings crap."

"you don't say," you teased gently.

he glared, but there was no real heat behind it. "i'm trying to say something here."

"sorry," you said, fighting a smile. "go on."

he took a deep breath, as if preparing for battle. "you're important to me. more than... well, more than anyone. and i'm going to be the number one hero someday, which means i need people i can trust at my side. people who push me. people who understand me." his eyes locked with yours. "that's you."

coming from bakugou, this was equivalent to a passionate declaration of love.

"katsuki..." you began, emotion thick in your voice.

"don't get all sappy on me," he warned, but his hand found yours, fingers intertwining. "just... be there. keep training with me. keep challenging me."

"always," you promised. "as long as you do the same for me."

a genuine smile spread across his face—not his battle-hungry grin or his triumphant smirk, but something softer and more rare. "deal."

then he was kissing you again, one hand cupping your face, the other at your waist pulling you closer. you wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the solid warmth of him against you, the subtle scent of nitroglycerin and something uniquely bakugou enveloping you.

when you broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, those crimson eyes unusually gentle.

"best birthday," he admitted grudgingly.

"just wait until next year," you promised with a smile.

he grinned, that familiar confidence lighting his features. "it better be even more explosive."

"with you, katsuki, how could it be anything else?"

as the stars shone overhead and the distant sounds of your classmates echoed from inside, you stood in comfortable silence with the boy who had captured your heart with his explosive determination and hidden tenderness.

loving katsuki bakugou wasn't easy—it was challenging, frustrating, and sometimes downright infuriating. but as he stood beside you, his hand warm in yours, you wouldn't have it any other way. because beneath all the explosions and anger was a heart that beat just for you, and a promise of many more birthdays to come.

taglist: [open] mutuals: @https-bakugo @haikyuubby @va-3 @lotusstarr @tulippanes @n3r0-5352 @gh0st-g1rll

© property of kenzdolls

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒

𖤐 synopsis: in the dimly lit league of villains' hideout, an unexpected moment of vulnerability unfolds between you and dabi as you both share painful memories of your fathers.

𖤐 trigger warnings: dark themes, abuse (implied)

𖤐 pairing: touya (dabi) todoroki x villain! gender neutral! reader

the afternoon light filtered weakly through the boards covering the windows of the league of villains' current hideout. dust particles danced in the thin beams of sunlight that managed to break through, giving the otherwise dreary room a strange, almost ethereal quality. the abandoned building had become home for the past three weeks—not the worst place you'd stayed since joining the league, but certainly not the best either.

you lounged on the worn couch, your legs stretched across dabi's lap as he absently traced the scars on your arm with his fingertips. his touch was feather-light, careful not to press too hard against your skin. despite his rough exterior and the violent nature of his quirk, dabi always touched you with a gentleness that still surprised you sometimes.

the hideout was unusually quiet today. shigaraki had taken toga, twice, and spinner on some reconnaissance mission, while mr. compress and kurogiri were meeting with potential allies across town. it was rare to have the place entirely to yourselves, and the silence felt almost luxurious after days of toga's manic laughter and twice's constant contradictory chatter.

"what are you thinking about?" dabi asked, his deep voice breaking through the comfortable silence. his turquoise eyes studied your face with an intensity that used to make you uncomfortable but now felt like home. you shifted slightly, adjusting your position on the couch. "just enjoying the quiet, honestly."

dabi's lips quirked up on one side—the closest thing to a genuine smile he ever showed. "never thought i'd miss silence until i joined this circus."

you laughed softly. "remember when toga and twice had that three-hour argument about whether strawberry milk was better than chocolate?" "and then spinner threatened to duct tape their mouths shut?" dabi shook his head, the staples at the corners of his mouth catching the light. "i nearly burned the place down just to escape."

"but you didn't," you said, reaching out to push a strand of his dark hair away from his face. "because underneath all that brooding and those threats, you care about them."

dabi scoffed, though he didn't pull away from your touch. "i don't care about anyone in this league except you."

"mmm, keep telling yourself that," you teased, knowing full well how annoyed he got when you suggested he had a soft spot for the other members.

he rolled his eyes but didn't argue further. his hand continued its gentle exploration of your arm, tracing each scar with a reverence that made your heart ache. some were from your life before the league, others collected during various missions. dabi knew the story behind each one—just as you knew the story behind each of his purple scars that mapped out his body like a grotesque puzzle.

"this one," he said, touching a particularly jagged mark that ran from your elbow to your wrist, "still looks painful."

"it's not anymore," you assured him. "just a reminder of why we're here. why we're fighting." dabi nodded, understanding perfectly. every member of the league carried their own wounds—some visible, others buried deep beneath the surface. it was what united you all, in a way. the scars left by a society that had failed you.

"speaking of reminders," you said, sitting up a little straighter. "i found something yesterday when i was out." you reached into your pocket and pulled out a crumpled newspaper clipping. "thought you might want to see it."

dabi took the paper from your hands, his expression hardening as he unfolded it. it was an article about the number two hero, endeavor, speaking at some charity event about supporting children with difficult-to-control quirks. the irony was sickening.

"bastard," dabi muttered, his fingers tightening around the paper. small wisps of blue flame began to lick at the edges of the clipping. "still pretending to be a fucking saint."

you watched as the paper blackened and curled, turning to ash in dabi's palm. the blue flames danced across his skin but never extended to where his other hand rested on your leg. his control was impeccable—it had to be, after what he'd been through.

"i know you don't like talking about him," you said carefully. "but whenever you see anything related to him, you get this look in your eyes…" dabi's jaw clenched, the staples stretching his scarred skin even tighter. "what look?"

"like you're back there," you said softly. "back in that house with him."

for a long moment, dabi said nothing. the silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken memories and pain. you didn't push—you'd learned early in your relationship that pushing dabi only made him retreat further into himself. instead, you waited, giving him the space to decide whether to let you in or change the subject entirely. finally, he brushed the remaining ashes from his palm onto the floor. "what about you?" he asked, deflecting as he often did. "you never talk about your old man either."

you shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant despite the sudden tightness in your chest. "not much to talk about. can't miss what was never there."

dabi's gaze sharpened. "sometimes that leaves its own kind of scar." the observation caught you off guard. it wasn't often that dabi showed this level of perception about emotional matters—or perhaps he simply chose not to reveal it most of the time.

"i guess it does," you admitted. "but different from yours. my father just… wasn't around. yours was there in all the worst ways possible."

something shifted in dabi's expression then, a crack appearing in his carefully maintained façade. his eyes darted to the boarded-up windows, then to the door, as if ensuring you were truly alone before he allowed himself to speak.

"sometimes i think it would have been better if he hadn't been there at all," dabi said, his voice so low you had to lean in to hear him. "if he'd just fucked off and left us alone instead of…" he trailed off, his free hand clenching into a fist.

you placed your hand over his, feeling the tension in his fingers. "instead of what, dabi?"

he looked at you then, really looked at you, with a vulnerability that made your breath catch. in that moment, he wasn't dabi the villain, the man who burned heroes without remorse—he was toya, the broken child beneath all those scars. "instead of training me until i broke," he said finally, the words rushing out like they'd been trapped inside him for too long. "until i literally fucking burned."

you held his gaze, letting him see that you weren't afraid of his truth. "tell me."

and for the first time since you'd known him, dabi began to talk about his father—about endeavor, about enji todoroki. about what it meant to be the firstborn son of a man obsessed with surpassing all might at any cost.

"he married my mother for her quirk," dabi explained, his voice hollow. "it was never about love or family. it was about breeding the perfect weapon. and i was the first attempt."

you listened, your heart breaking as he described the "training" sessions that started when he was just four years old. how endeavor would push him for hours, demanding he produce hotter flames, maintain them longer, control them better. how his tiny body would shake with exhaustion, how his skin would blister and burn from his own quirk.

"my fire was hot—hotter than his. that's what he wanted," dabi said, a bitter smile twisting his scarred lips. "but my body couldn't handle it. not like his. i tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen. said i was being weak, that i needed to push through it."

"he was wrong," you said firmly, squeezing his hand. "he was wrong about you."

dabi laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "oh, i know that now. but back then? he was my father. my hero." the last word dripped with venom. "i thought if i could just try harder, be stronger, he'd finally be proud of me. that he'd finally love me." you felt a burning behind your eyes but forced back the tears. dabi didn't need your pity—he needed your understanding.

"what about your mother?" you asked gently. "did she try to stop him?"

a flash of genuine pain crossed dabi's face. "she tried. in her way. but she was… damaged. the more children she had, the more unstable she became. and he kept pushing her to have more, hoping the 'perfect combination' would eventually emerge." he paused, his gaze distant. "until shoto was born." you'd heard him mention that name before—his youngest brother, the one with both fire and ice. the "masterpiece" that endeavor had been striving for.

"once shoto came along with his perfect half-and-half quirk, i became obsolete," dabi continued. "still had to train, still had to meet his impossible standards, but without even the sliver of attention i'd had before. i was just… a failed experiment."

"so what happened?" you asked, though you had a sickening feeling you already knew the answer. the scars that covered so much of his body told part of the story, but you'd never heard him explain exactly how he'd gotten them.

dabi was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. when he finally spoke again, his voice was distant, as if he were narrating someone else's tragedy rather than his own.

"i wanted to prove i wasn't a failure. that my fire was special—better than his, better than shoto's." his eyes glazed slightly, lost in the memory. "i pushed myself further than i ever had before. the flames were beautiful—so hot they turned blue. perfect control, just like he always wanted."

he held up his scarred hands, staring at them. "for about thirty seconds. then my skin started to cook." you swallowed hard, imagining a young toya engulfed in his own flames, screaming in agony.

"he watched it happen," dabi said, his voice now eerily calm. "stood there while i burned. i remember looking at him through the flames, waiting for him to save me. he just… looked disappointed. like i'd broken his favorite toy."

"dabi," you whispered, unable to find words adequate for such horror.

"i don't remember much after that," he continued. "i should have died. sometimes i think i did die, and whatever i am now is just… the ghost of toya todoroki walking around in this patchwork body."

you moved then, shifting to kneel in front of him, taking both his hands in yours. "you're not a ghost. you're here. you survived."

"did i?" he looked at you with those piercing turquoise eyes. "toya todoroki died that day. i made sure of it. dabi rose from those ashes."

you reached up to touch his face, your fingers gently tracing the stapled scars. "and dabi is who i fell in love with. but that doesn't mean toya isn't still in there somewhere."

he closed his eyes briefly at your touch, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability before the walls came back up. "toya was weak. he wanted his father's approval, his love. dabi just wants to watch him burn."

"and you will," you assured him. "when the time is right. the league will help you expose him for what he really is."

dabi nodded, some of the tension leaving his body as he focused back on the present, on the mission ahead. on the revenge he'd built his new life around.

"what about you?" he asked after a moment, clearly wanting to shift the focus away from himself. "you said your father was absent. what's that story?" you settled back beside him on the couch, respecting his need to change the subject while recognizing his genuine interest in your past. it was only fair—he'd shared his darkest memories with you.

"not nearly as dramatic as yours," you said with a small shrug. "he just… left when i was three. don't really remember him much at all."

"he ever try to contact you?” you shook your head. "birthday card once a year until i was ten. then nothing. my mother said he had 'commitments elsewhere,' whatever that meant."

"what was your mother like?" dabi asked, his hand finding yours again.

"tired," you answered honestly. "always working two or three jobs to keep a roof over our heads. she did her best, i think, but she wasn't really… present, even when she was physically there." dabi nodded, understanding.

"emotional absence can fuck you up just as much as physical absence."

"yeah," you agreed, surprised by his insight. "she never hurt me, never yelled or anything like that. but she also never really saw me, you know? it was like i was just another responsibility, another burden she had to carry."

"what about when your quirk manifested?" dabi asked. it was a natural question—for most children, the emergence of their quirk was a pivotal moment, one where parental guidance was crucial.

you laughed bitterly. "she was terrified. my quirk isn't exactly… family-friendly." your quirk—the ability to absorb and manipulate the negative emotions of others, turning them into a physical force—had first manifested during a particularly bad day at school when you were six. a bully who'd been tormenting you suddenly collapsed, screaming about the darkness crushing him. no one had understood what happened, but your mother had taken one look at your glowing eyes and known.

"she tried to help me suppress it," you continued. "said it was dangerous, that people wouldn't understand. that they'd think i was villain material." "self-fulfilling prophecy," dabi noted with a smirk.

"i guess so," you agreed. "by the time i was a teenager, i'd learned to control it well enough to use it selectively. started small—making bullies feel their own cruelty, making abusive teachers face their own insecurities." "vigilante justice," dabi said, a note of approval in his voice.

"it felt good," you admitted. "to finally use what everyone told me was a villain's quirk to help people who were suffering. but society doesn't see it that way, does it? using an 'evil' quirk makes you evil, no matter your intentions."

"this fucked-up hero society only sees in black and white," dabi agreed. "no room for the gray areas where most of us actually live."

you nodded, thinking about the path that had eventually led you to the league. "after my mother died, there was nothing holding me back anymore. no one to disappoint, no one to pretend for. i started using my quirk more openly, targeting people who abused their power—corrupt officials, violent criminals the heroes couldn't be bothered with, businessmen exploiting their workers."

"and that's when you caught shigaraki's attention," dabi concluded, having heard this part of your story before.

"yeah. found myself cornered by some pro heroes who didn't appreciate my particular brand of justice. thought i was done for until a warp gate opened up right in front of me." you smiled at the memory, despite the fear you'd felt at the time. "never thought i'd be grateful to see a bunch of notorious villains, but that day i was."

dabi's arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his side. "lucky for me they recruited you." his voice was gruff, but the sentiment behind it was genuine.

you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. "do you ever wonder what would have happened if our fathers had been different? if your dad hadn't been an abusive monster, if mine had actually stuck around?"

"we wouldn't be here," dabi said simply. "you might've been a licensed hero, using your quirk to help people through the proper channels." "and you?"

dabi was quiet for a moment, considering. "i don't know. maybe the same. or maybe i'd have followed in the old man's footsteps anyway, become the next endeavor." he shuddered slightly at the thought. "sometimes i wonder if that flame is in my blood regardless of what he did to me."

"it's not," you said firmly. "you're nothing like him, dabi. your anger, your fire—it comes from a place of justice, not ego. you want to burn away the corruption, not become the number one hero."

he looked at you with a mixture of skepticism and hope, as if he wanted to believe your words but couldn't quite bring himself to. "maybe. or maybe i'm just as obsessed with destroying him as he was with surpassing all might. different goals, same fucking toxic mindset."

you sat up straighter, turning to face him fully. "no. there's a difference. he hurt innocent people—his wife, his children—to achieve his ambition. you've never done that. you've never hurt someone who didn't deserve it."

"tell that to the heroes i've burned," dabi said darkly.

"those 'heroes' prop up a system that abandoned both of us," you reminded him. "that lets people like your father abuse their children in the name of creating better heroes. that labels children as villains because of quirks they never asked for." dabi studied your face for a long moment before a genuine smile—small but real—curved his lips. "how did i end up with someone who actually believes in me?"

"because beneath all that anger and cynicism, you still believe there's something worth fighting for," you told him, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. "and so do i."

for a moment, you stayed like that, sharing breath in the dusty afternoon light of the hideout. two broken people who had found each other in the darkness, whose scars complemented rather than repelled each other.

"we're going to tear it all down," dabi murmured, his lips brushing against yours. "the hero society, the systems that failed us. and when i finally face him—when endeavor finally sees who i've become—i want you there with me."

"i will be," you promised, closing the distance between you with a gentle kiss. "until every false hero burns."

outside, the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the boarded windows. soon the others would return, bringing with them the chaos and noise that defined the league of villains. but for now, in this quiet moment, there was just you and dabi—two children abandoned by their fathers in different ways, who had found their own path to justice in a world that had never wanted either of you.

and if that path was stained with ash and marked by flames, so be it. some things needed to burn before they could be rebuilt.

side note: this is an old, but long drabble I decided to post because well- why not?

mutuals: @haikyuubby @https-bakugo @va-3 @lotusstarr @kitkat13001 @n3r0-5352

© 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 —

relationship headcanons with mr. compress pretty please with cherry on top <33 thank u !! >ᴗ< ♡

answer: of course, thank you for your support + the commission!! (˶◜ᵕ◝˶)

𝐌𝐑. 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒:

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐫. 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐦𝐫. 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐱 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧! 𝐠𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

MEETING MR. COMPRESS:

he’s immediately intrigued by your quirk. he sees it as an art form, just like his own. he’ll watch you use it during operations, analyzing the nuances, the precision, and the creative applications, making silent commentary in his head by appreciating your skill, and giving you tips.

he’s a gentleman, even to fellow villains. expect a bow, a flourish of his hat, and a charming introduction. he’ll remember your name perfectly.

he’ll make a point of engaging you in conversation, usually about strategy, technique, or the finer points of villainy. he wants to know what makes you tick, and subtly gauge your ambition.

he might test you, not in a malicious way, but to see how you think on your feet. expect sudden questions during planning sessions. "hypothetically, if our escape route is compromised, what's your immediate plan?" he's observing your resourcefulness.

if you're injured, he will (very discreetly) make sure you get the best care available within the league. he’s not going to fuss over you, but he'll use his connections to ensure you're patched up properly.

MR. COMPRESS CRUSHING ON YOU:

he starts paying extra attention to your appearance. not in a creepy way, but he notices the details. he’ll internally admire your sense of style. like, if he got you a gift, it would be something you would wear.

he finds excuses to be near you. he’ll offer to assist you with your assignments, or provide a "second opinion" on your plans, when in reality, he just wants to spend time with you.

his jokes get slightly more frequent and a little more…suggestive- but he keeps it classy, of course. expect witty banter and playful teasing, always with a hint of a deeper meaning.

he might start "collecting" little mementos related to you. Not in a stalkerish way! maybe a item from your quirk, or a discarded sketch if you're artistic. He keeps them hidden, treasures of his affection.

he'll start subtly incorporating elements of your style or quirk into his own performances and illusions. it’s a tribute to you, a way to keep you close to him.

he might offer you a rare glimpse behind the mask – not literally, but he'll share stories from his past, or his artistic philosophy. he’s letting you see the real atsuhiro sako, just a little bit.

DATING MR. COMPRESS:

dates are elaborate and theatrical. think rooftop dinners with a hidden view of the city, private performances tailored to your tastes, or a meticulously planned heist of a priceless artifact...just for the thrill of it.

he’s a master of romantic gestures, but always with a villainous twist. he might "compress" a bouquet of roses into a perfect sphere, or steal a star from the sky (a perfectly safe illusion, of course) to give it to you.

PDA is rare, but incredibly meaningful. a stolen glance, a lingering touch, a quiet word in your ear during a chaotic battle – these small moments speak volumes.

he’s fiercely protective of you. anyone who threatens you will face his wrath, delivered with elegance and surgical precision.

he is surprisingly open and vulnerable with you. he trusts you with his secrets, his fears, and his hopes. he knows you understand the darkness within him, and he can be his true self with you.

he loves to hear you talk about your quirk, your ambitions, and your plans. he genuinely appreciates your talent and vision. he’s your biggest fan, but also— your most honest critic.

he’s fascinated by your perspective on the world. he values your input and seeks your advice on everything from strategy to aesthetics. he sees you as his equal, his partner, and his muse.

he’ll compress little things that remind you of him into little trinkets for you to have, like a small figurine representing his mask.

Hs is an amazing listener. he remembers even the smallest details about you, and uses them to surprise and delight you.

he’s not jealous, really. he trusts you too much to go there, however, he will be possessive and will keep a close eye on anyone who seems too close to you. he will never tell you of this.

he’ll teach you new tricks and techniques with your quirk, pushing you to explore its full potential. he helps you become an even more formidable villain.

© 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 —

𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐱 𝐠𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐱 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭! 𝐠𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

!!𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 @https-bakugo 𝟐𝟓𝟎 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭!!

𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠..𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐈 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐬𝐨 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

The classroom of 1-A buzzed with early morning energy as you slumped in your seat, desperately trying to avoid making eye contact with the explosive blonde sitting two rows ahead. Even from behind, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spiky hair seemed to defy gravity with the same stubbornness as its owner.

Don't look at me, don't look at me, you silently chanted, knowing full well that Katsuki Bakugou had a sixth sense for when people were staring at him.

It had been three weeks since you'd transferred into UA's hero course, and you were still adjusting to the strange reality of being in the same class as your childhood friend—if you could even call him that anymore. Your mothers had been best friends since college, which meant you and Katsuki had spent countless afternoons together as children. You remembered a different Katsuki then: still competitive and loud, but he'd smile sometimes too.

That was before middle school, before his quirk developed fully, before the distance grew between you.

"Oi," a gruff voice broke through your thoughts, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Somehow, Bakugou had materialized next to your desk during your daydreaming. "You're coming to my place after school. The witch been asking about you."

It wasn't a question. It never was with him.

"I have homework," you protested weakly, knowing it was a poor excuse.

His crimson eyes narrowed. "We have the same homework, dumbass. Bring it with you."

Before you could respond, he was already walking away, leaving a trail of whispers in his wake.

"Did Bakugou just... talk to the new kid?" "I didn't know they knew each other!" "Is it safe to be alone with him?"

The last comment made you snort quietly. If only they knew how many times Aunt Mitsuki had forced Katsuki to play house with you when you were six.

—————————————————————

"You've been avoiding me," Katsuki said bluntly as you walked the familiar path to his house. The cherry trees were in bloom, soft pink petals drifting down around you both.

"I haven't," you lied, adjusting your backpack strap nervously.

"Bullshit," he replied, but there was no real heat behind it. "You practically dive behind Deku whenever I look in your direction."

You winced. He wasn't wrong.

"It's just... weird, okay? Being in the same class again after so long. You're different now."

"So are you," he countered, giving you a sidelong glance that made your heart stutter. "You used to talk more."

"You used to listen more," you shot back, surprised by your own boldness.

For a moment, you thought you saw the ghost of a smile cross his face, but it was gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

"Whatever," he muttered, kicking a pebble with more force than necessary. "The old hag’s making spicy curry. She remembers it's your favorite."

The fact that he remembered too hung unspoken between you.

—————————————————————

"LOOK WHO'S HERE!" Mitsuki Bakugou's voice boomed through the house the moment you stepped through the door. Within seconds, you were enveloped in a bone-crushing hug that smelled of citrus perfume and home.

"It's been too long!" she exclaimed, holding you at arm's length to examine you. "You've grown so much! Masaru, come look how tall they've gotten!"

Katsuki's father appeared from his home office, wearing his usual kind smile. "Welcome back," he said warmly. "We've missed having you around."

"Thanks for having me," you replied, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face. You'd forgotten how much you'd missed this house, this family.

"Don't smother them," Katsuki grumbled, already heading upstairs. "We've got homework."

"Homework can wait until after dinner," Mitsuki declared. "Besides, I want to hear all about UA! Is my son behaving himself? He's not bullying you, is he?"

"SHUT UP, HAG!" Katsuki roared from halfway up the stairs.

You laughed, feeling the tension of the past few weeks start to dissolve. "He's actually really amazing in hero training," you admitted. "Everyone respects him."

Mitsuki's expression softened. "Is that so?" She glanced toward the stairs where her son had disappeared. "Well, don't tell him I said this, but I'm proud of the little brat."

—————————————————————

Dinner was a loud affair, just as you remembered. Mitsuki and Masaru asked about your parents, about your quirk training, about your impression of UA. Katsuki remained mostly silent, but you caught him watching you when he thought you weren't looking.

After helping clear the dishes (over Mitsuki's protests), you finally followed Katsuki to his room. It was neater than you expected, minimalist but with traces of his personality everywhere: a shelf of hero analysis books, weights in the corner, a poster of All Might that you remembered him getting for his tenth birthday.

"Your room hasn't changed much," you observed, setting your backpack down.

"Why would it?" he replied, dropping onto his desk chair and gesturing vaguely toward the bed. "Sit wherever."

You perched on the edge of his bed, suddenly hyperaware of being alone with him. It was ridiculous—you'd spent countless hours in this very room as kids—but something felt different now. Maybe it was the way his UA uniform fit across his shoulders, or how his hands looked stronger than you remembered.

"Are you going to stare at me all night or are we going to do this homework?" he asked, not looking up from his notebook.

Your face burned. "S-sorry. Modern Hero Art History, right?"

For the next hour, you both worked in surprisingly comfortable silence, broken occasionally by a question about the assignment or a muttered curse from Katsuki when he made a mistake. It felt... normal. Nice, even.

"Why did you stop coming around?" he asked suddenly, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

The question caught you off guard. "What?"

"Middle school. You used to come over all the time, then you just... stopped."

You set your pencil down, studying the pattern on his bedspread. "You started hanging out with those other guys. The ones who followed you everywhere. You seemed like you didn't want me around anymore."

His eyebrows drew together. "That's stupid."

"Is it?" you challenged. "You changed, Katsuki. You got meaner. Especially to Midoriya. I didn't know how to talk to you anymore."

He was silent for so long that you finally looked up, surprised to find him staring intensely at you. Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes before his usual scowl returned.

"Yeah, well. I was an idiot in middle school."

Coming from Bakugou, this was practically a heartfelt apology.

"We all were," you offered, a small olive branch. "But for what it's worth... I think you've changed again. For the better."

He turned back to his homework, but not before you caught the faintest blush on his cheeks. "Whatever. Hand me that textbook."

—————————————————————

Over the next few weeks, something shifted between you and Katsuki. You stopped avoiding him at school. He started waiting for you after hero training. Sometimes you'd study together in the common room, surrounded by your curious classmates who couldn't quite figure out your relationship.

"So... you and Bakugou, huh?" Kirishima asked one day as you were changing for gym class.

"What about us?" you replied, trying to sound casual.

"You're like the only person he doesn't yell at," Mina chimed in, eyes sparkling with interest. "Spill the tea!"

"We grew up together," you explained with a shrug. "Our moms are friends. It's not a big deal."

But it was becoming a big deal, at least to you. The more time you spent with him, the more you noticed things: the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he was truly amused, how gentle his hands could be when helping you with a training exercise, the protective way he positioned himself when villains attacked during your field training.

And worst of all, you were pretty sure Katsuki had noticed your noticing.

—————————————————————

"You're distracted," he growled during your Saturday training session. You'd taken to practicing together on weekends, away from the prying eyes of your classmates. "Your form is sloppy."

"Sorry," you mumbled, resetting your stance. "Let me try again."

He circled you, making minute adjustments to your posture. "Elbow higher. Center your weight." His hand brushed against your lower back, and you tried desperately not to react.

"Better," he approved, stepping back. "Now try to hit me."

You launched forward, quirk activated, aiming a strike at his midsection. He dodged easily, but you anticipated it, pivoting to catch his arm. For a moment, you thought you had him, but then the world tilted as he swept your legs out from under you.

You landed hard on your back, Katsuki following you down, his hand catching your wrist and pinning it above your head. His face hovered inches above yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Predictable," he said, but his voice sounded strange—rougher than usual.

You were suddenly aware of every point of contact between your bodies, the weight of him partially above you. His eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second.

"Katsuki..." you breathed.

He released you abruptly, standing and offering a hand up. "Again," he said, turning away. "And focus this time."

But focus was impossible now. Every touch, every glance felt charged with something neither of you was willing to name.

—————————————————————

The training camp was supposed to be an opportunity to improve your quirks, but all you could think about was the growing tension between you and Bakugou. You'd caught him watching you during meals, during training, during the rare moments of downtime. And you'd been just as guilty.

"Just talk to him already," Uraraka urged as you sat together by the campfire on the final night. "The suspense is killing all of us."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you replied, though your eyes automatically sought out Katsuki's spiky blonde head across the fire.

"Sure you don't," she giggled. "That's why you've been staring at him all night."

Before you could defend yourself, Aizawa announced it was time to turn in. You stood, brushing dirt from your pants, when a message buzzed on your phone.

Meet me by the lake. 10 minutes. -K

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you made your way to your cabin, changed quickly, and then slipped out into the darkness. The path to the lake was lit only by the stars and the waning moon, but you could have found your way blindfolded.

Katsuki was already there, sitting on a boulder near the water's edge, his back to you. The moonlight silvered his hair, softened the perpetual anger in his profile.

"You came," he said without turning around.

"You asked me to," you replied simply, coming to stand beside him.

For several long moments, neither of you spoke. The lake lapped gently at the shore, crickets singing in the undergrowth.

"You've been acting weird," he finally said, turning to look at you. "Weirder than usual."

"So have you," you countered.

"Because of you!" he snapped, standing suddenly. "Because you keep looking at me like—like—"

"Like what?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Like you want something from me," he said, stepping closer. "Like you're waiting for something."

Your breath caught in your throat. This was it—the moment where you either took the leap or retreated to safety.

"Maybe I am," you admitted.

His eyes widened slightly, and for once, Katsuki Bakugou seemed at a loss for words. Then, with a frustrated growl, he closed the distance between you, one hand tangling in your hair as his lips crashed against yours.

The kiss was everything you'd imagined and nothing like you expected—fierce but unexpectedly tender, demanding yet asking a question. You answered by wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, he pressed his forehead against yours. "Took you long enough," he muttered.

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet night. "Me? You're the one who's been glaring at me for weeks!"

"That's how I look at everyone," he protested, but his hands remained gentle where they held your waist.

"Not everyone," you corrected softly. "Not me. Not anymore."

Instead of arguing, he kissed you again, slower this time. In the gentle night beneath the stars, with the boy you'd known all your life but were just beginning to truly see, you felt something click into place. Like coming home after a long journey, to find that home had been waiting for you all along.

"We should get back," he said eventually, though he made no move to let you go.

"Five more minutes," you murmured against his lips.

For once, Katsuki Bakugou didn't argue.

© 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 —

𝑴𝑯𝑨 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒔' 𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒎 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝑷𝒕.𝟐! (Pt.3) (pt.1)

𝑴𝑯𝑨 𝑩𝒐𝒚𝒔' 𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒔. 𝑷𝒕.𝟏!

I haven't really made any posts but I tried to be fun with the bio and names.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PERV SHIGGY FICS I’M ON THE FLOOR BEGGING i just saw ur post asking if you should write abt it and you SHOULD!!!!! 🙏🏻😞

this is so poorly written im sorry :(( i wanted to post this before i completely forgot about it or lost my ideas so i might edit this later

warnings: ooc, afab & gn reader, nsfw (whos surprised)

tomura has absolutely zero sense of personal space and needs to be within 20 feet of you at all times. he has no shame, constantly touching you—hugging you from behind, hand slipping its way into your underwear, rubbing your clit as he inhales into your neck deeply. he has an almost disturbing obsession with how you smell, jerking off in the shower because he had to use your shampoo after forgetting his or pressing his face into your panties and taking slow, heavy inhales right before eating you out.

hes the kind of guy who sends you pictures and videos right after he finishes, cum dripping from his fingers, smeared into the fabric of the panties he stole from your laundry. theres nothing shy about the clips he sends either—him moaning, jerking off with your prettiest underwear wrapped around his dick, completely lost in how much he craves you. i dont think hed be the type to be overly creepy or disrespect your boundaries because he respects and loves you a ton, but hed totally still glance down your top or up your skirt and pinch your butt when he thinks no ones looking, unable to resist absolutely ogling at you. occasionally, he would have you sitting you beside him in public, fingers casually rubbing your clit through your panties until youre soaked, getting off on the fact that you have to hold it together while hes the only one who knows what hes doing to you.

im gonna rip my hair out

Can you add onto crybaby Dabi?? :(( Maybe talk about him being insecure (I love your writing btw)

warnings: gn reader, sfw, crying, reverse comfort

touyas cheeks were puffed out, his fists clenched as he tried to hold back the tears he refused to acknowledge existed. touya stood in front of your bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection, feeling the familiar swell of frustration and insecurity rise in his chest. his scarred, rough skin, his broken body, the atrocities hes committed—it all disgusted him, and the worst part was how much he hated feeling so vulnerable. if his tear ducts werent burned, hed probably be bawling by now, but instead, he settled for trembling and sniffling like a child, stumbling over his own feet trying to make it to your shared bedroom. when you came into the room to see what was up with him, he didnt even have the strength to play it off and push you away—he just slumped down against the bed, brows creased, eyelashes and palms wet with his bloody tears as he tried to save himself from the embarrassment of completely breaking down. and of course, you stayed. you always did, sitting beside him quietly, your hands running up and down his back as an attempt to comfort him as his body shook with the effort of holding everything in for so long. he hated how nice you were to him, how much he needed you despite the fear that one day, youd abandon him.

ib: better 4 u

warnings: nsfw, shigaraki being a loser idk

tomura who comes over to you looking irritated as he practically jumps on you with all his body weight slowly rutting into your leg. you can feel his breath on your neck as he kisses and nips at the skin on your collarbones whimpering and groaning, muscles tensing as he cums in his pants with you scratching his head and rubbing small circles into his shoulders

terribly inspired by d1s1ntegrated

I’ve been so unbelievably OBBSESSED with the idea of older!sugar daddy shoto todoroki, he’s so emotionally constipated and lonely and so he somehow gets in contact with broke ahh reader (haven’t figured out how yet…) and whisks her away to this world of fine dining and fancy parties and spoils the LIFE out of her. All she has to do in return is sit pretty for him, let him show her off and help him to relieve the stresses of being the no.2 hero iykwim…

Would anyone be interested if I went ahead and wrote this…

there’s a power pulling me back to you || monoma neito

imagine having a quirk that makes your body work like a magnet. and when monoma copies it without a second thought, your bodies smush together. your heads bonk against each other, and you’re pretty sure your teeth clank from the impact (your lips may have touched, too).

you push him by the shoulders, your arms shaking due to the strength the movement requires. you see his face—shocked, frozen in place. you squeeze his shoulder, repeating “earth to monoma,” when he takes too long to respond. he suddenly deactivates his quirk, causing your bodies to part.

he doesn’t make a single sound, eyes still wide. you think yours widen too at some point, because the expression he’s making is so... new. you never thought you’d see him so caught off guard, even if you tried. and it looks strange on him— uncharacteristic. before you can hold it in, you burst out laughing.

he seems to calm down after hearing that. he was afraid he made you uncomfortable, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. he mutters a quiet apology, his usual smile returning. when your laughing fit doesn’t end anytime soon, he crosses his arms and gives you an unimpressed look.

you hold your stomach and cover your mouth, trying your best to stop laughing. why on earth would that happen? well, you know why, but it’s way too ridiculous. you feel warm all over, like your body’s about to fall apart. your giggles slowly die out. you breathe in and out. “it’s fine,” you say. “who could’ve known?”

“none of us, it seems,” he replies. “you clearly enjoyed it, though.” he gives you that teasing smile you hate.

you open your mouth to reply—but then, what can you even say? deny that you enjoyed it? claim that he liked it even more? none of those are accurate, so you shut your mouth. after a moment of thought, you murmur, “I guess I did,” with a shrug.

his smile drops—he wasn’t expecting you to admit it. his arms fall to his sides as a thousand different responses race through his head. before he can decide against it, a mocking laugh escapes his mouth.

“haha! no wonder you did! I’d give you a chance if you begged for it, but I bet you’re too shy to ask for another time! what a—”

before he can finish his sentence, you step in and grab his tie, pulling him down to your level. you stare directly into his eyes. “can you do that again, pretty please?” you ask.

he breathes out slowly, taking his time. then he raises a hand to the side of your face, leaning in. you tilt your head and nod in approval. in a flash, he crashes his lips against yours, activating his quirk just in time. your bodies stick to each other yet again. he drapes an arm around your waist, holding you tightly, his other hand burying itself in your hair. you hug his shoulders, a cold hand brushing his neck, causing him to shiver.

for the first time in your life, you thank whoever blessed you with this quirk—as your bodies slot perfectly together.

you part to catch your breath, but your quirk immediately forces your faces back together. his reflexes cause him to pull your hair to keep your noses from crashing against each other. you let out a suspiciously pained noise. he leans in to kiss you again, then again.

Rainy Day

As the rain dropped from the sky in the quiet neighborhood, someone was not so quietly cursing themselves out. “Shit! I’m going to be late. My mom’s gonna kill me!” Running like a mad man down the street to her bus stop, cause only idiots run in the rain. To spare herself of the incoming incident she could have just walked. Or I dare say, get in trouble and have her phone taken away for the night. But no, she decided to test fate, as always, and risk running in the rain.

She would regret this decision

“Shouldn’t have stayed up all night watching YouTube. Just because there is like 10 MHA abridged’s, doesn’t mean you have to watch all 10 of them plus movies… I really don’t want my phone taken away.”

It was as if god(s), if any, heard her unserious plea. Because gosh be darned, she done this stick for 3 years now.

HOW THE FUCK WAS THIS THE FIRST TIME SHE TRIPPED!!! LIKE WAS THIS DIVINE LUCK OR WAS THE WORLD FUCKING WITH HER!!

Sticking the landing straight one her ass, letting her clothes get soaked to death, she sat there, stunned. As she was reeling from what one could call divine fuckery or karma, her day was about to get a whole lot worse.

Headlights dawned on her figure as she turned around. She couldn’t move, she was going to get hit. The bus couldn’t see her through the heavy rain and neither could her bus mates waiting not even a few steps away. She couldn’t move. She should be moving, she ain’t no horror movie cliche, she should be able to move. But it’s as if her whole body just gave in, like she wanted this. All she could think was of the end. That she would die to a school bus.

‘This is it. This is what kills me. Fucking school. I at least thought it was going to be me, or my mom, or hell, even a fiery blaze. Not a fucking school bus. I’m going to die. I never got to go to a convention by myself. I’ll never finish those fics I wanted to. I’ll never have a graduation or become 18 or vote or lose my virginity. Actually I can live without that last one. Oh my god, I never got to see my old friends, or finish SAO abridged… yeah the first one seemed more important. But what about my parents, my sister, my best friend? I just started caring about my life, I was going to live all my cliche high school dreams. I JUST turned 17, and that birthday sucked! What kinda bullshit is this! I don’t want this! I hate this! I was going to do so much! And now I can’t. I love my family, I love my friends, I love my life! If I’m gonna die I don’t want it to be to a school bus. It’s going to hurt like hell. And no one is gonna to benefit from it! THEY CANT EVEN SEE ME! What a waste! At least let me end it myself. I’m never going to see those around me grow up, I am never going to grow up. And screw heaven, I’m not even guaranteed that fake luxury. I’m never going to finish my favorite mangas. Or games. Or animes. Or anything.’

As the pain of getting hit by a 1,000 pound bus did, in fact, hurt like hell.

Crawling with her last ounce of strength reaching for the broken phone, she typed or tried to type her last words.

‘God, Buddha, Zeus, Cthulhu, Mother Nature, or who ever the hell is upstairs, if any, please at least let thi s se nd. A nd h o w d o e s B l ue L o c k

e n

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Starting system…

Finding host..

System host found.

Welcome Host!

To the Female Lead System!

Do you want to join?

Yes No

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Choosing for Host…

Yes

Heavily inspired by: Cheating Men Must Die