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We, as Twst fans, have to understand that NRC are the pettiest mfs. Tell me why they try to describe RSA as the most vile shit stained hell 2.0, and when we meet the first three RSA students, it's, Doe eyed angel, mermaid with autism and Mr. Steal yo girl.
1, Do you have a Yuusona? If so, what’re they like?
2, Neige request; A Neige with a reader a lot like the delinquent stereotype in anime. Like piercing, cutting class, riding a motorcycle, etc.
Even if you’re not still open for requests, please remember to pace yourself and take care of yourself when writing! You don’t want to burn yourself out, and there’s nothing wrong with taking a break! Remember that you are the person you should aim to please most in your writing, so it should be done on your own timeline. I hope you have a great day :)
hi! i do not have a yuusona rn! and i will take breaks when i need them, thank you for the incredibly kind message!
also this barreled out of control but i hope you like it!
or: Opposites attract— you, the resident delinquent and Neige, the campus golden boy, fall for each other.
w.c: 4k
The classroom was empty when you arrived, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on the rows of desks. You glanced at the clock, scowling when you realized you’d somehow arrived thirty minutes early.
Mandatory classes weren’t your thing, but attendance on the first day was non-negotiable. Not that you cared much about school rules—your 2% attendance record spoke for itself—but you figured showing up on day one would keep the advisor off your back for a little while longer.
With a sigh, you dropped into the farthest seat in the back, kicked your feet up on the desk in front of you, and pulled your jacket over your head. Might as well get some sleep if you were stuck here. The soft hum of the air conditioning was surprisingly soothing, and soon enough, you were out like a light.
By the time other students began filing in, you were dead to the world, a picture of absolute delinquent indifference. Your tattoos peeked out from under the rolled-up sleeves of your shirt, the silver of your piercings catching the light. The sight of you—motorcycle helmet resting on the floor beside your desk, boots propped up like you owned the place—was enough to send whispers rippling through the room.
“Is that them?”
“Yeah, the one with the bike. I heard they got in trouble for skipping finals last semester.”
“Do they even go here? I swear I’ve never seen them in class before.”
The whispers grew quieter as more students trickled in, each one taking great care to avoid the seat next to you. Nobody was brave enough—or foolish enough—to risk waking you up.
Enter Neige LeBlanche.
Neige was never late. He was the type to set his alarm thirty minutes early, leave the house with a perfectly packed bag, and still have time to pick up pastries for his classmates on the way to school.
So, naturally, he was horrified when his alarm didn’t go off that morning. After rushing through his morning routine at record speed, he burst into the classroom, cheeks flushed and hair slightly out of place—a rarity for him.
The first thing he noticed was that the room was full. The second thing he noticed was the empty seat in the back, right next to someone who looked like they’d walked straight out of a biker gang recruitment poster.
Neige hesitated, clutching his notebook like it was a lifeline. He’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. You were the mysterious rebel who showed up just enough to avoid expulsion, with a motorcycle that could be heard roaring across campus at odd hours of the night. You were intimidating, sure, but Neige wasn’t one to judge people based on appearances. Besides, he didn’t really have a choice.
With all the courage he could muster, he approached your desk and tapped you lightly on the shoulder. "Um… excuse me?"
You stirred, one eye cracking open to glare at him from under your jacket. “What?”
“Ah, sorry to wake you,” Neige said, his voice as soft as ever. “But… is this seat taken? It’s the only one left.”
For a moment, you just stared at him, taking in the rosy flush on his cheeks and the faint scent of sugar and flowers that seemed to follow him. He looked like the kind of person who helped old ladies cross the street and spent his weekends rescuing stray kittens.
“Whatever,” you grumbled, dropping your feet from the desk in front of you. “Do what you want.”
Neige practically beamed. “Thank you!”
He sat down, carefully placing his notebook on the desk, and tried to focus on the professor who had just started lecturing. Tried being the operative word.
From the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help sneaking glances at you. Everything about you screamed cool—your half-lidded eyes, the way your piercings glinted in the light, the lazy slouch of your shoulders like you couldn’t care less about anything or anyone. Even the scowl on your face seemed effortlessly stylish.
For the first time in his life, Neige LeBlanche felt self-conscious. His usually immaculate white sweater suddenly seemed plain. Was he staring too much? He was staring too much. What if you noticed? What if you thought he was weird?
Meanwhile, you were too busy trying to stay awake to notice anything. You caught snatches of the professor’s lecture, but most of it went in one ear and out the other. The only thing you did notice was the faint, almost nervous energy coming from the guy sitting next to you.
“Stop fidgeting,” you muttered, not even bothering to look at him.
“Ah—sorry!” Neige straightened in his seat, cheeks pink.
You rolled your eyes but said nothing more, settling back into your slouch. Beside you, Neige tried not to melt into a puddle of embarrassment. For someone so intimidating, you sure had a way of making his heart race.
And class had only just started.
Neige was screwed.
Absolutely, completely, irrevocably screwed.
Because this—this dizzying rush of warmth in his chest, this fluttering in his stomach, this unstoppable urge to look at you every other second—wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to him.
He’d been on stage in front of thousands without breaking a sweat. He’d received countless love letters and confessions, always accepting them with gentle grace before kindly turning them down.
He was not supposed to be this much of a mess over someone who, as far as anyone knew, only appeared on campus about twice a month. You were a phantom, a ghost of the school roster, a local cryptid people whispered about in the hallways.
And yet here he was, sitting in his room after class, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how the universe had conspired to throw him headfirst into whatever this feeling was.
It was your fault, of course. If you hadn’t looked so effortlessly cool napping in that back corner, he wouldn’t be in this situation. If you hadn’t let him sit next to you with that lazy, unimpressed nod, he wouldn’t be losing his mind. And if you hadn’t existed, period—well, Neige wasn’t sure how to finish that thought.
When he walked into class the next day, he half-expected you to be gone, vanishing back into the mysterious ether like you always did. That’s why he nearly stopped in his tracks when he saw you in the exact same spot as before, jacket thrown over your head, looking as indifferent and untouchable as ever.
His heart skipped a beat.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to calm down. It wasn’t a big deal. He was just sitting next to you because there were no other seats. No other reason.
(That was a lie. He absolutely could’ve sat somewhere else. Half the class had seats open now that attendance was starting to dwindle. But Neige LeBlanche wasn’t one to lie—except, apparently, to himself.)
He made his way to the back of the classroom, his footsteps soft as he approached your desk. You shifted slightly under your jacket, one arm draped over your face, but otherwise didn’t react.
“Good morning,” Neige said, his voice gentle.
You peeked out from under your jacket, your expression groggy but still sharp. He thought you might tell him off, tell him to get lost or take another seat. But instead, you just gave him a single nod, as if to say, Whatever. Do what you want.
Neige couldn’t help it—he smiled. Wide and bright, the kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle and his cheeks flush. “Thanks,” he said, sliding into the seat beside you.
You froze.
It wasn’t like you cared what people thought of you. You’d spent years being judged for your tattoos, your piercings, your habit of rolling into campus on your motorcycle with exactly zero regard for the stares or whispers. It didn’t bother you. You liked being the outsider, the delinquent, the one who couldn’t care less about anyone or anything.
So why the hell was your heart pounding so hard just because Neige LeBlanche had smiled at you?
You quickly averted your gaze, pretending to focus on some invisible speck on your desk. It was just a smile. A stupid, friendly smile. Nothing to freak out over.
But it wasn’t just the smile. It was the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way the soft flush on his cheeks made him look even more radiant, the way he looked at you like you were something more than a rumor or a passing shadow.
“What's that stare for?,” you muttered, your voice quieter than you intended.
Neige blinked, startled. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” you cut him off, still avoiding his gaze. “Just… nothing.”
Neige nodded, biting his lip to keep from smiling again. He didn’t want to push his luck. But as he opened his notebook and started jotting down the professor’s notes, he couldn’t help stealing another glance at you from the corner of his eye.
You were sitting there, pretending to be unfazed, but the corners of your lips were slightly quirked.
And suddenly, Neige didn’t feel so screwed after all.
It was freezing.
Neige tightened his scarf as the cold bit at his cheeks, his breath visible in the night air. He shuffled down the street, the empty to-go cup in his hand a sad reminder of his dorm’s coffee machine betrayal.
He couldn’t believe this was how his midterms week was going—a late-night coffee run because he couldn’t stay awake long enough to finish his notes.
The streets were quiet save for the occasional car passing by. Neige adjusted his scarf again, grumbling softly to himself, when the unmistakable roar of a motorcycle engine split through the silence.
He turned his head just in time to see a bike pull up beside him, its rider clad in the usual mix of leather and defiance that made you impossible to miss.
“LeBlanche,” you called, your voice cutting through the cold air. “What the hell are you doing out here at this hour?”
Neige blinked, startled. “I, um…” He held up his cup like it was a shield. “The coffee machine in the dorm broke. I needed—”
You rolled your eyes. “Get on.”
“What?”
“Get. On.” You jabbed a thumb at the empty space behind you. “I’ll drop you at the coffee shop and back. You’ll freeze your ass off walking like this.”
Neige hesitated. It wasn’t like he was scared—okay, maybe he was a little scared—but it wasn’t every day someone offered him a ride on their motorcycle.
“C’mon, it’s cold,” you added, impatience flickering in your tone. “You don’t want to get sick before midterms, do you?”
That was all the convincing he needed. Awkwardly, he swung his leg over the bike and settled behind you, clutching his cup like it was his lifeline.
“Hold on tight,” you said, your voice firm.
“Oh, uh, okay.” Neige hesitated again, then gingerly wrapped his arms around your waist. His cheeks flushed as he realized how close he was to you. The warmth of your jacket, the faint scent of leather and something faintly sweet—it was… distracting.
When the engine roared back to life and the bike shot forward, Neige yelped and instinctively clung to you tighter, practically burying his face in your back.
You felt his grip tighten, his forehead resting against your shoulder, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you didn’t tell him he could’ve just held onto your shoulders instead.
The ride was quick, the cold air biting at your face as you sped through the empty streets. You pulled up outside the coffee shop, parked the bike, and glanced back at him. “C’mon.”
Neige scrambled off, looking a little dazed but mostly exhilarated, and followed you inside. The warmth of the shop was immediate, and the sweet scent of coffee and pastries filled the air.
You both walked up to the counter, and Neige looked over the menu. He ordered some kind of overly sweet monstrosity with whipped cream and caramel drizzle, while you stuck with something more straightforward.
When he tried to pay, you shoved his hand away and slapped your card onto the counter instead. “I got it.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me, LeBlanche,” you said, cutting him off.
He looked at you for a moment, then relented with a small, flustered smile. “Thank you.”
The two of you found a table by the window, the silence between you surprisingly comfortable as you sipped your drinks.
Neige, though, was fidgeting. He glanced at you, then down at his mug, then back at you again. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “Would you… maybe want to do this again sometime? I mean, not because of the coffee machine breaking or anything, but just—”
You raised an eyebrow, cutting him off with a laugh—one that came out louder and more incredulous than you meant. “You’re insane, you know that?”
The way Neige’s face fell made your stomach drop. His shoulders slumped, his smile faltering as he looked down at his mug, and for the first time, you realized how fragile he could look.
You cleared your throat, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I mean, yeah. Sure. We can do this again. Whatever.”
His head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Really?”
You nodded, avoiding his gaze and hoping he couldn’t tell how flustered you were. “Yeah. Sure. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
But when he smiled—radiant and genuine, like he’d just been handed the moon—you couldn’t bring yourself to regret your answer.
Neige had a way of looking at you that made your chest tighten, like you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. It wasn’t the kind of look you were used to—there was no judgment in it, no wariness or fear. Just pure, unfiltered awe, like you’d hung the stars in the sky.
And it scared the hell out of you.
You weren’t blind. You’d seen the way his gaze lingered on you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—the soft smiles he tried to hide behind his coffee mug, the way his face lit up when you walked into class, even on days you were late. It was written all over him: Neige was smitten.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same. How could you not? He was… everything. Kind, warm, patient in a way that didn’t feel forced or performative. He saw the best in people, even you.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Neige was sunshine, pure and untouchable, and you… well, you were the storm cloud everyone avoided. People whispered when you walked by, flinched when you spoke too sharply, or straight-up bolted if you so much as scowled. You were used to it. Hell, you encouraged it. It kept people at arm’s length, where they couldn’t get close enough to disappoint you.
But Neige had never been afraid of you. He talked to you like you were normal, smiled at you like you were someone worth knowing. And now, every time you caught him staring, every time his voice softened when he said your name, you could feel the weight of his feelings pressing down on you.
You wanted him. God, you wanted him. But you knew yourself, and you knew your reputation. People like you didn’t get to keep people like Neige. He’d see the cracks eventually—the temper, the flaws, the parts of you that didn’t match the person he thought you were.
So you let him look. You let him smile. And you let yourself pretend, just for a little while longer, that none of it meant anything.
It was better this way, you told yourself. Better to let him think you were clueless than to risk ruining what you had.
But then he’d smile at you—bright and genuine, like you were the only person in the world—and for a moment, just a moment, you wondered if maybe you were wrong.
The shift in campus perception was honestly more amusing than anything. People used to scatter like birds at the sound of your motorcycle engine; now, they smiled at you nervously, whispered in tones laced with intrigue rather than fear.
You had Neige to thank for that—his perpetual sunshine seemed to have melted the icy rumors that clung to you like a second skin.
Not that you cared. Let them think you were some misunderstood rebel who just needed the "right person" to bring out your hidden soft side. Whatever. As long as no one tried to cross your boundaries, they could make up whatever fairy tale they wanted.
You were mid-thought, hands stuffed into your jacket pockets, when someone bumped into you. Instinctively, you reached out, steadying them before they could stumble.
"Ah, thank you!" they said, looking up at you with wide, shy eyes, a faint blush coloring their cheeks.
And then they smiled.
That was new. Usually, people avoided eye contact like their lives depended on it, let alone smiled at you. You stood there, blinking, thrown off by the sheer normalcy of the interaction.
It was in this moment of confusion that you noticed Neige in the distance, his usual radiant expression frozen mid-bloom. He was staring, though his smile quickly returned—but something about it was... sharper. Too sweet, like honey laced with arsenic.
Before you could process it, Neige was suddenly beside you, his sugary demeanor dialed up to eleven.
"Ah, pardon me," he said with a voice so warm it could melt glaciers. He turned to the person you'd caught, his hand gently pulling theirs from your grasp. "Thank you for keeping them company, but we'll be on our way now!"
The stranger opened their mouth to protest but quickly thought better of it under Neige’s disarmingly sweet gaze.
Without missing a beat, Neige hooked his arm around yours and steered you away, his grip firm, yet not tight enough to hurt.
"Coffee?" he asked brightly, as if nothing had happened.
You at him, raising a brow. "You good?"
His smile didn’t falter, though his hold on your arm didn’t either. "Of course! I just thought we’d get a head start before it gets crowded."
You weren’t buying it. His cheerful tone was laced with something you couldn’t quite place—possessiveness? Jealousy?
Whatever it was, it made your heart skip in a way you weren’t ready to acknowledge.
The weight of Neige's silence sat heavy between you as you parked your bike and pulled him gently to a quieter corner of campus, away from prying eyes and ears. His hand was still gripping your arm like a lifeline, but he avoided your gaze like he thought it might shatter him.
“Okay, what’s going on?” you asked firmly, voice softer than you thought yourself capable of. “Just spit it out, Neige. What happened?”
He shook his head, his hair falling slightly into his eyes, still refusing to meet your gaze. Frustration bubbled up, but it wasn’t directed at him—it was at the tears threatening to spill over in his red-rimmed eyes.
You sighed, stepping closer, and placed your hands on his face, tilting it up so he couldn’t avoid you anymore. “Look at me,” you urged, voice gentler now. “Neige, tell me what’s wrong. Who hurt you?”
The dam broke. Tears welled up and fell freely, and he didn’t say a word before throwing his arms around you, burying his face in your chest. His grip was tight, desperate, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around him, shielding him from whatever invisible storm he was weathering.
“Neige,” you murmured, your voice soft yet insistent as you ran a hand over his hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe, alright?”
You stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, his body trembling against yours as he clung to you. Slowly, his breaths evened out, and the tension in his shoulders began to ease.
When you finally pulled back enough to look at him, his eyes were still glassy, his cheeks flushed from both the crying and how close you were holding him. You wiped his tears away with your thumbs, your touch careful, your voice low. “Tell me what happened.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching your face like he was committing it to memory. Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed you.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. His lips were soft, desperate, and warm against yours, and for a split second, you froze, completely blindsided. But then everything you’d been holding back—every stolen glance, every lingering moment, every unspoken word—burst out of you all at once. You grabbed his jacket, pulling him closer, kissing him harder, pouring all the feelings you’d been too scared to admit into that single moment.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen and faces flushed. Neige’s wide eyes met yours, his voice trembling as he finally spoke.
“I-I thought I was losing you,” he confessed, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ve liked you since the day I said hello to you, and I thought—when I saw you with someone else—that maybe I wasn’t as special to you as you were to me. And it hurt. It hurt so much.”
Your heart clenched as you cupped his face again, your thumb brushing gently along his cheek. “Neige, you’re the most special person in my life. I’ve liked you too, but I held myself back because of your reputation. I didn’t want to ruin how everyone sees you.”
His brow furrowed, and for the first time since you’d known him, Neige looked genuinely upset—though it was more at your reasoning than at you. He raised a hand and gave you a weak punch to the shoulder, his pout oddly adorable. “You don’t get to decide what’s good for me,” he muttered, his cheeks still red.
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, pulling him close again. “Okay, okay. That’s fair. Then let me ask you this: Neige, will you be mine?”
The tears welled up again, but this time, they were accompanied by a bright, teary-eyed laugh. “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking as he buried his face into your neck, holding onto you like he never wanted to let go. “Of course, yes.”
The campus was abuzz the moment you and Neige stepped onto the quad together, hand in hand. Conversations hushed, heads turned, and phones subtly (or not-so-subtly) appeared to capture the moment.
There you were, the campus’s local delinquent, the untouchable cryptid who never gave anyone the time of day, walking side by side with Neige LeBlanche, the golden boy who could charm the birds out of the trees.
But what really sent the gossip mongers into a frenzy was how soft you looked. Gone was the usual detached scowl, replaced by a faint flush on your cheeks, your usual sharp demeanor melted into something almost bashful.
And Neige? Oh, he was radiant as ever, but there was an unmistakable air of triumph in the way he held your hand—a sweet, subtle smugness in his satisfied smile as he glanced at you, completely wrapped up in your presence.
The whispers grew louder with every step:
“Is that…?”
“Are they holding hands?!”
“No way. Them?!”
“Neige really bagged them?”
“They really bagged Neige?”
But honestly, who cared? You sure didn’t. Not when Neige looked at you with that gentle, heart-stopping smile, his thumb brushing lightly against the back of your hand as if to remind you he was there.
The rumors, the stares, the whispers—they all faded into white noise. None of it mattered when you had that smile aimed at you, lighting up every corner of your world and making you fall for him all over again with each passing second.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Late Feburary
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WHY CHAPTER 431 OF MY HERO ACADEMIA SCREAMS CENSORSHIP
First let's start by the "afterword", the note Horikoshi left after 430 and before the extras, chapter 431.
Original japanese for those who understand.
The best traslation I found and most people are agreeing with.
Key sentences are:
1.The real final chapter is 429, 430 is more like a curtain call.
2. PS: For chapter 431, I turn off the cameras and free the characters from their dramas.
This note being left after 430 and before the extras is so important. . The clarification of "the real final chapter is 429" and 430 is the curtain call is screaming: the show has ended here. This is further stated by "i turn the cameras off" by the man who use to refer himself as the camera man, I leave you with an example.
(They're talking about Vol 37 cover)
And back to point number 2: "and free the characters from their dramas", which could perfectly be understood as "the characters are no longer tied to their previous plots and drama" no longer connected to the main story.
It may seem like a reach until here, we're just trying to convince ourselves that's not canon, right? They´re delusions, right?
The problem is how far away everything about 431 antagonizes the whole story, the characters doesn't feel like themselves, they even regress back all their development, the drawing style looks totally different and there are many irregularities that call for our attention.
Dabi, 431 and by Horikoshi
Toga and Ochaco in 431:
Toga and Ochaco by Horikoshi:
All Might's signature for Katsuki (Horikoshi would never mess this up):
Kirishima with 6 fingers lol, Horikoshi loves drawing hands, he would never.
Katsuki's odd teeth what the fuck. (His hand looks good to me)
Ochaco and Shoto just look, weird. It's clearly not Horikoshi's art style.
And this awful background (center) was the main giveaway.
Horikoshi's backgrounds are so professional:
At this point I'm getting tired since the difference is astounding, don't believe me, just check the manga.
I don't think Horikoshi would've allowed those mistakes had he have a role in the making, maybe he did, there's no saying about that, but clearly if he did his involvement was very low.
Character's development wise now.
Seriously? "Deku"? And Katsuki complaining for picking him up. He cried his eyes out when Izuku lost his quirk and now he's back at season 1?
Izuku would never in a million years turn down that offer. And if he did, it would never be like this, so devoid of emotion and empathy.
430 showed us an Izuku aiming for his dreams again and at 431 this Izuku ¿? It's okay with being a teacher? Ok. And if that's not the problem, why he outright rejects Katsuki out of nowhere? When their rivalry was one of the main points of the plots for 430 chapters and now just um over? Without justification? Ok.
Ok.
Now specifically about that ship canonization and bkdk.
Horikoshi has been doing this for 10 years. The choices he took the whole manga were incredibly intentional, all those romantic tropes given to bkdk, his interviews, all stand in direct opposition to what happened in this last chapter.
I, myself, don't know much about Jump but what I've heard is they end lot of shonens with the same heterosexual formula. I don't think all of this is a coincidence.
Something really important that needs to be adressed to is what happened back in June (I think), when suddenly MHA announced it was ending in 5 chapters could've something to do with this. The manga was suddenly rushed to its ends with unsatisfying resolutions and as if that was not enough, one month later (at most) the same happened to JJK and all of this came accompanied by a switch of one of the heads of Jump.
About 431 again though.
I was just thinking what would I do if I was pressured to write something that ruins the biggest project of my life and goes against everything I was hoping for? Refuse. Tell them to write it themselves. If I can't do anything to stop it and it'll be there, alright, but I WON'T DO IT.
And I think this could be Horikoshi's case.
I've never seen a shonen manga come so close to implying his male protagonist and his male deuteragonist are in love before. Yes, it was not EXPLICIT but it was so fucking clear if you knew how to read, all the way up to 430. All those cliches tropes he gave them, he knew, we know.
I thought I'll die trying to explaineverything that seems wrong with this with nothing to back me up but the fact that he added that note is clear for me. I'm surprised they allowed him to publish it, I thought we wouldn't even have that.
PS:
It's interesting this being posted the same day 431 comes out. Also "heroaca is pretty dark, huh?"
I'll not go into this anyways because it's kind of a reach but the conclusion is: I think it's a "soft" censorship and Horikoshi did his best to relay his message given what he had.
i’m so convinced that the people who hate on gay ships just for being gay ships are genuinely just homophobic
“Why do you have to make it gay! they’re like brothers! blah blah blah!”
specifically when it comes to bkdk. Like I can acknowledge that they aren’t canon, but horikoshi never made any ships canon. (aside from obvious ones like gentle and la brava, parents, etc etc.)
I like izuocha don’t get me wrong, but in the end they each had other people on their mind. Yes, there were implications of love. But it was largely one sided, and stopped really developing when they both got more invested in their respective blonds.
Bkdk was never implied to be brotherly, or even platonic. What they have transcends both of those dynamics. Whether that morphs into romance is up to interpretation.
So when you’re like “i don’t like bkdk, it’s just another desperate gay ship” it doesn’t make sense. You either are copy and pasting random opinions you got from tiktok, or you’re homophobic. (yes this applies to gay people with this opinion, internalized homophobia is a thing)
We get so little representation in media that we have to make our own, and that’s okay. It’s not like someone else enjoying their gay headcanon will make your straight headcanon any less valid.
And this applies to other ships that people fight about. In mha and outside it.
can everyone just enjoy their weirdos kissing art and get on with life?
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🎥🎁 Twst the Animation Commemorative Campaign! To celebrate the upcoming season 1 of the anime, there will be limited log-in bonuses and increased pull rate banners for Heartslabyul’s Dorm Uniform cards.
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📚⛺️ NRC Combined Training Camp! Pick any 3 characters to train up.
🐴🌹 SSR Clubwear Riddle drops!
🖊️🐙 Merchant of the Depths Azul Commemorative Campaign! Limited time missions and log-in bonuses to celebrate the release of Azul’s OB card.
Late November
Suspiciously unnamed event featuring suspiciously unnamed characters. Could it be…?! Nightmare part II?! (They will most likely hold an ABEMA stream closer to the end of November to announce more details.)
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Content warning: Dub-con, biting, blood sucking, ALT universe - no school, predator/prey, power imbalance, possessive behavior, dark romance elements, he wants to eat you (lovingly). Merman form Floyd!
Fem reader
The shore was hers in the early morning, when mist still clung to the water like a secret.
You moved along the rocks with practiced ease, bare feet finding purchase on slick stone as your basket bumped against your hip. The oysters here were fat and plentiful, untouched by the other fishermen who preferred the popular beaches closer to town. Let them fight over the picked-over shallows. This place, with its sharp rocks and treacherous tide pools, belonged to you.
The sun was barely cresting the horizon when you saw it.
At first, you thought it was a net. A large one, tangled and dark in the shallow water where the tide was retreating. But then it moved—a sinuous, powerful ripple that sent water sloshing against the rocks.
You froze, basket gripping tight in both hands.
The creature thrashed once, twice, and then stilled. In the growing light, you could make out the shine of scales. Teal and blue, catching the dawn like stolen jewels. The fishing net was wrapped around something massive, something that definitely wasn't supposed to be this close to shore.
Your father's voice echoed in your mind: Never approach a tangled animal. Cornered things bite.
But you were already moving closer, feet carrying you across the rocks before sense could stop you. Because tangled in that net, half in and half out of the water, was something impossible.
A merman.
He was enormous. Even caught as he was, you could tell he was easily twice your length, his powerful tail curled and bound by the netting. His skin was pale where it wasn't scaled, and his hair—falling past his shoulders—was plastered to his face and neck in dark, wet streaks. His fingers, gripping uselessly at the rocks, were webbed and tipped with black claws.
And his face...
You had never seen anything so beautiful.
Sharp features, almost cruel in their elegance, and even unconscious there was something dangerous in the cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. Gills fluttered weakly at his neck. His ear—fin-like and delicate—twitched as you approached.
He wasn't unconscious after all.
One eye opened. Then the other.
Mismatched. One golden like a coin in sunlight, the other black as the deep sea. Both fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His pupils were slitted like a cat's, and they dilated as he focused on you standing above him, basket still clutched in your hands like it could protect you.
You should run. You should go get your father, get the other fishermen, get anyone—
Instead, you set down your basket and knelt beside him.
Up close, he was even more massive. His tail alone was longer than you were tall, powerful muscle bound beneath scales that seemed to shift color in the light—teal to blue to something almost black in the shadows. The netting cut into his skin in places, and you could see the faint shimmer of blood where the ropes had rubbed him raw.
"Hold still," you murmured, knowing he couldn't understand but needing to say something, anything, to fill the silence.
His eyes tracked your every movement as you reached for the net. You worked carefully, fingers finding the knots and pulling them loose. The rope was thick and rough, the kind used for deep-sea fishing. How had he gotten caught in this?
He didn't move as you worked. Didn't thrash or fight. He just... watched.
It took longer than you would've liked, the sun climbing higher with each passing moment. Your fingers ached by the time you pulled the last of the netting free, tossing it aside in a useless heap.
"There," you said softly, sitting back on your heels. "You're free."
He still didn't move.
For a long moment, you simply stared at each other. His gills flared with each breath, and you could see the slight rise and fall of his chest—more human than fish, in that regard at least. There were stories about merfolk, whispered around fires and told to scare children away from the water's edge. Monsters who dragged sailors to their deaths. Beautiful sirens who lured men to drown.
But looking at him now, tangled and beached and trapped, you had helped him without thinking twice.
Slowly, he shifted. His arms—strong and lean, deadly in their grace—pushed him upright. Water sluiced off his shoulders as he rose, propping himself up to get a better look at you. He was even bigger like this, looming, and you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
His gaze dropped to your basket. Then back to you.
You followed his line of sight and, without really thinking about it, reached into your basket. Your fingers found an oyster, one of the ones you'd already shucked open. The meat sat pale and glistening in its shell.
An offering. Or maybe a test.
You held it out to him.
His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting in a gesture that was distinctly inhuman. Curious. Calculating. Then he leaned forward, moving with a liquid grace that seemed impossible for something so large, and his lips parted.
Sharp teeth. Rows of them, serrated and gleaming.
Your hand trembled, but you didn't pull away.
He took the oyster from your palm with surprising delicacy, his mouth closing over the meat. You felt the brush of his lips against your skin, cool and smooth, and then he was pulling back, swallowing.
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes did. A spark of interest, perhaps. Or hunger.
You should go. The tide was coming in, and you still had oysters to collect, taxes to help pay, a father waiting for you back home. This creature—this merman—was free now. He could return to wherever he'd come from, and you could pretend this morning had been a dream.
But when you moved to stand, his hand shot out.
His fingers wrapped around your wrist, webbed and strong and unyielding. Not painful, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks. You froze, heart hammering against your ribs as he pulled you closer—not roughly, but with an insistence that said he wasn't asking.
His face was inches from yours now. You could see every detail: the sharpness of his features, the way his pupils had dilated until his eyes were nearly black, the water droplets clinging to his impossibly long lashes. He was staring at you like you were the strange one, the creature out of place.
Then he smiled.
It was a dangerous thing, that smile. All teeth and mischief, something wild and untamed lurking behind it. He leaned closer still, and you could feel his breath against your neck—cool, tinged with salt and something else, something distinctly other.
"W-wait—"
He didn't wait.
His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair and dislodging your bandana. It fluttered away, forgotten, as he pulled you against him. His skin was cool and slick with seawater, and you could feel the powerful muscle beneath it, the strength that could easily crush you if he chose.
His nose brushed against your throat, and you felt him inhale—a long, deep breath that made your skin prickle. He was smelling you. Learning you.
"Please," you whispered, not even sure what you were asking for. Please let me go? Please don't hurt me?
His mouth opened against your neck, and you felt the sharp points of his teeth press against your skin. A warning. A promise. Your body locked up, frozen between terror and something else, something that made your pulse race for entirely different reasons.
He could kill you. Right here, right now. One bite and you'd be gone, dragged into the water and drowned, just another story whispered around the fire. Just like those village myths described.
But he didn't.
Instead, he bit down on the space where your neck met your shoulder—not hard enough to tear, but firm enough to break skin. You gasped, pain lancing hot and bright through you, and your hands flew up to push against his chest.
He didn't budge.
His mouth sealed over the wound, and he sucked.
The sensation was overwhelming—pain and pressure and something almost unbearably intimate. You could feel him drinking, feel the pull of your blood as he swallowed it down. His grip on you tightened, holding you in place, and a low sound rumbled from his chest. Pleasure, maybe. Satisfaction.
You couldn't move. Could barely breathe. Your fingers curled against his chest, feeling his heart beat slow and steady beneath your palms—so much slower than your own rabbiting pulse.
He drank until you felt dizzy, until black spots danced at the edges of your vision, and only then did he pull back. His tongue—slick and clever—laved over the bite, soothing the wound even as blood continued to trickle down your collarbone.
When he finally released you, you stumbled back, hand flying to your neck. Your fingers came away red.
He watched you, golden eyes half-lidded and satisfied. There was blood on his lips, stark against his pale skin, and he licked it away slowly, deliberately, like he wanted you to see.
You should run.
You should scream.
Instead, you stood there, chest heaving, staring at this impossible creature who had just fed on you like you were nothing more than prey.
But if you were prey, why were you still alive?
His smile returned, smaller this time but no less dangerous. He reached out again—slowly, giving you time to flee if you wanted—and his fingers brushed against your cheek. Gentle, almost tender, completely at odds with the monster he'd just proven himself to be.
Then he slipped backward into the water, his powerful tail propelling him away from the shore. He didn't go far, though. Just far enough to float, watching you from the safety of deeper water.
Waiting.
You pressed your hand harder against the bite on your neck, feeling your pulse throb beneath your fingers. Your basket lay forgotten on the rocks, oysters spilling out onto the stone.
The sun was fully up now, painting the water gold and pink. You needed to go. Needed to collect your oysters, go home, bandage your neck before your father saw.
But you couldn't stop staring at him.
And he couldn't stop staring at you.
You came back the next morning.
You told yourself it was because this was your spot, and you weren't going to let some merman—real or not, dangerous or not—chase you away from it. You needed those oysters. Your father needed them. The tax collector would come at the end of the month, same as always, and you couldn't afford to lose your best fishing spot to fear.
That's what you told yourself.
The truth was harder to name.
He was there when you arrived, floating in the same spot as before, his long body barely visible beneath the surface. But the moment you stepped onto the rocks, his head broke the water, wet hair plastered to his face and those golden eyes fixed on you with unnerving focus.
You set down your basket and knelt at the water's edge, just out of reach. The bite on your neck throbbed beneath the bandage you'd hastily wrapped before leaving home. Your father had noticed, of course, but you'd lied and said you'd scraped it on the rocks. He'd believed you, or at least pretended to.
The merman drifted closer, moving with barely a ripple. He rose from the water the same way as before—arms braced against the rocks, lifting his torso up until he was nearly eye-level with you. Water streamed off him in rivulets, catching the early morning light.
He was just as beautiful as you remembered. Just as terrifying.
You reached into your basket and pulled out an oyster, already shucked. A peace offering, maybe. Or perhaps just an excuse to keep him here a little longer.
His eyes tracked the movement, and when you held it out, he took it without hesitation. This time, his fingers brushed against yours, webbed and cool, lingering for just a moment too long before he brought the oyster to his mouth.
He ate it slowly, never breaking eye contact.
You should be afraid. You were afraid. But fear was starting to mix with something else, something that made your breath catch when he leaned closer, something that kept you rooted in place instead of running.
"I don't even know if you understand me," you murmured, reaching for another oyster. "Do you? Or are you just... a fish?"
He tilted his head, and something that might have been amusement flickered across his features. Then he reached out and tapped your forehead with one clawed finger—gentle, deliberate. A response, even if you couldn't understand it.
Not just a fish, then.
The days began to blur together.
Every morning, you came to the shore. Every morning, he was waiting.
You brought oysters, and he ate them from your hands with a delicacy that seemed at odds with the predator you knew he was. Sometimes you brought other things too—fish you'd bought from the market, scraps of bread that he sniffed at curiously before eating.
He never spoke. You started to think maybe he couldn't. That merfolk were simply... different. Not quite sentient like humans, even if he was smarter than any fish. Something in between.
But he communicated in other ways—the tilt of his head, the flash of his teeth when something pleased him, the way his eyes tracked your every movement.
Always watching.
Sometimes he grew bolder. He'd pull himself further onto the shore, his massive tail stretched out in the shallow water, and simply observe as you worked. His mismatched eyes—one gold, one black—followed you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. There was something in that gaze. Something hungry and curious and dangerous all at once.
It made you nervous at first, that unblinking stare. The weight of it, like he was studying prey. But as the days passed and he did nothing but watch, you grew accustomed to it. He never lunged, never tried to drag you under. Just... watched.
You wondered about that first bite often. The sharp pain of it, the cold press of his mouth against your skin, the way he'd drunk from you like you were something he needed. But he never repeated it. Never so much as bared his teeth at you again after that morning.
Eventually, you pushed the memory aside. Maybe it had been a test. A one-time thing. Maybe he'd simply been curious about how humans tasted and decided you weren't worth the effort.
The thought shouldn't have disappointed you.
On calmer days, when the water was still and clear, he'd let you come closer. You'd kneel at the water's edge and he'd drift near, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you dared.
The first time you brushed your fingers against his tail, your hand trembling with nervousness, he'd gone completely still. His eyes locked onto the point of contact, pupils dilating, and for a moment you thought you'd made a mistake.
But he didn't pull away.
The scales were smooth and cool beneath your touch, surprisingly delicate. They shifted colors in the light—teal to blue to something almost black in the shadows—and you could feel the powerful muscle coiled beneath them. He could kill you so easily with this tail. Wrap it around you and drag you into the depths before you could even scream.
But he let you explore, let your fingers trace the patterns of his scales with a fascination you couldn't quite explain. And when you finally pulled your hand back, he'd slipped beneath the surface without a sound, leaving only ripples behind.
Other days, he stayed in deeper water, just his head visible above the waves. But even then, you could feel his gaze on you. That constant, unrelenting focus that made you hyperaware of every movement, every breath.
Your father stopped asking about the scar on your neck once it healed. The mark it left was thin, barely visible unless you knew to look for it. You caught yourself touching it sometimes, fingers ghosting over the place where his teeth had broken skin, and wondering why part of you almost wished he'd do it again.
The morning everything changed started like any other.
You arrived at the shore with your basket, the sun barely up, and he rose from the water to greet you. By now, you knew the routine: your food offerings first, then you'd gather your oysters from the shore.
But today, he didn't reach for the fish you offered.
Instead, his hand shot out and grabbed your ankle.
You yelped as he pulled, and suddenly you were falling, the world tilting sideways as cold water rushed up to meet you. You landed in the shallows with a splash, soaked through instantly, your dress plastered to your skin and your basket tumbling from your grip.
For a moment, you could only gasp and sputter, disoriented. The water was freezing against your skin, seeping through your clothes, and when you tried to push yourself up, you felt him move over you.
Your heart seized in your chest.
He rose from the water like something from a nightmare—or a dream. His arms braced on either side of you, caging you in, blocking out the early morning sun. Water streamed off his shoulders, his hair, dripping steadily onto your face and chest. Each droplet was cold, raising goosebumps along your exposed skin.
This close, he was massive. Overwhelming. His tail stretched out behind him in the shallow water, longer than three men laid end to end, powerful and serpentine. The scales caught the light—teal and blue and black, shifting with each subtle movement.
And he was above you. Looming. Trapping you between his body and the sand.
Your breath came in short, panicked gasps. This was it. This was the moment. You'd grown too comfortable, too complacent, and now—
His mismatched eyes locked onto yours. One gold, one black, both impossibly focused. Predatory.
"W-wait, please—" Your voice came out strangled, barely above a whisper.
He tilted his head, studying you. Water continued to drip from him, cold droplets landing on your collarbone, your throat, your face. You could see every detail now—the sharp angles of his features, the delicate fins where his ears should be, the way his wet hair clung to his neck and shoulders. His skin had that strange, iridescent quality, not quite scale and not quite flesh, something in between that your mind couldn't categorize.
His fingers—webbed and tipped with black claws—flexed against the sand beside your head.
You were going to die. After all these mornings, after you'd started to think maybe you were safe, maybe he was different, maybe those myths were just myths—
He leaned down.
His face moved close to yours, so close you could feel his breath against your neck. Cool and steady, while yours came in terrified gasps. His nose brushed against your throat, and you felt him inhale, taking in your scent the same way he had that first morning.
Then his tongue—cool and slick—traced a path along your neck, following the trail of a water droplet that had run down from your jaw.
You froze, every muscle locked tight.
And then he whispered.
"Pretty."
The word was barely there, carried on the wind like a secret. Quiet as the waves lapping at the shore. But unmistakable.
Your eyes widened. He—he could speak?
Before you could process it, his right hand moved from the sand to find yours. His fingers—webbed and strange and cold—intertwined with yours as much as they could, the webbing stretching between his digits as he laced them together. His grip was firm, possessive, and you could feel the points of his claws pressing lightly against the back of your hand.
His left arm remained braced against the sand, holding his weight, keeping him hovering above you.
"You can—" you started, voice shaking. "You can talk? This whole time, you—"
He wasn't just some creature. Not just a fish with animal instincts. He was sentient. Like you. He understood.
His lips curved into something that might have been a smile—dangerous and knowing—and then his mouth moved to your neck.
First, he nibbled. Gentle, testing bites that made you gasp and squirm beneath him. His teeth scraped against your skin, sharp enough to sting but not to break. Like he was tasting you, savoring you.
Then he bit down on your shoulder—the same place as before, reopening the scar that had only just healed.
The pain was sharp and immediate, and you cried out, your free hand flying up to clutch at his shoulder. His skin was cold and wet and wrong under your fingers, that strange not-quite-flesh texture that made your mind recoil even as your body stayed frozen beneath him.
His mouth sealed over the wound, and he drank.
The sensation was just as overwhelming as you remembered—pain and pressure and something unbearably intimate. His body pressed closer, his chest against yours, cold and heavy and solid. You could feel every plane of muscle, the inhuman strength coiled in his frame. His heart beat slow and steady against your racing one.
His tail shifted in the water behind him, and then you felt it—the smooth, powerful length of it wrapping around one of your legs. Not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough that you couldn't have pulled away even if you'd tried. The scales were cool and slick against your skin, and you could feel the muscle beneath them, powerful and unyielding.
You were completely trapped. Pinned beneath him, his hand intertwined with yours, his tail around your leg, his mouth at your throat.
He drank in long, hungry pulls, and that low rumbling sound started up in his chest again—pleasure, satisfaction, something that vibrated through you where your bodies pressed together.
Your vision started to blur at the edges, dizziness creeping in, but he stopped before you could slip too far. His tongue laved over the wound, cleaning away the blood, soothing the ache.
Then he lowered his head, pressing his face into the space between your neck and shoulder, and simply breathed. In and out, slow and steady, his wet hair tickling your jaw. His tongue dragged along your skin one more time, lazy and possessive, tasting the salt and blood and sweat.
You felt his lips move against your neck as he whispered again.
"Mine."
The word was quiet, barely audible, but it resonated through you like a brand.
His hand—the one still intertwined with yours—squeezed gently, and then he released it. You felt him reach for something, his weight shifting slightly, and then he was pressing something into your palm.
You looked down, dazed and dizzy, and saw it.
A pearl. Perfectly round and massive, almost the size of your fist. It shimmered with colors you didn't have names for—pink and blue and silver and gold, all shifting and swirling in the morning light like captured moonbeams.
Your fingers closed around it instinctively, the surface smooth and warm against your skin.
When you looked back up, he was watching you. His mismatched eyes were intense, unreadable, and there was still blood on his lips—your blood.
Then his tail unwound from your leg, and he pushed himself back into deeper water with a powerful thrust. But he didn't leave. Just floated there, a few feet away, still watching you with that same burning focus.
You sat up slowly, water streaming off you, the pearl clutched in your hand and the fresh bite on your shoulder throbbing in time with your heartbeat.
He could speak. He understood. He'd called you pretty, called you his.
And you had no idea what any of it meant.
But as you sat there in the cold water, soaked through and bleeding and holding his gift, you couldn't bring yourself to be afraid anymore.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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