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The look of love

That Pinterest trend but bakudekufied

BAKUDEKU NATION WHERE ARE YOUU

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Reference below 👇🏻

All For One x Reader (Pre All Might/Nana Shimura- before he messed his face up lol)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You stopped pretending you were alone.

That was the first thing he took from you—the illusion of privacy. It didn’t matter where you stood or how quiet you moved; there was always the sense of being observed, like your thoughts themselves were reporting back to him.

You learned his patterns without meaning to. The way the air felt heavier before he entered a room. The way doors unlocked themselves when he decided you should pass through. The way conversations died the moment you stepped too close to anyone else.

Not ordered.

Prevented.

At night, you sometimes lay awake and wondered how much of you still existed outside of him. How much of your routine—your breathing, your posture, the careful way you spoke—was chosen, and how much had simply been… shaped.

When the doubt crept in, it was quiet at first.

‘If he watches so closely… why does he never say my name?’

The thought festered. You found yourself moving slower, testing the invisible leash. Lingering in hallways. Letting your gaze drift just a second too long toward a subordinate who looked at you with something like curiosity.

It was corrected immediately.

That evening, you were summoned without explanation.

All For One stood near the window, city lights bleeding through the glass behind him. He didn’t turn when you entered. He didn’t need to.

“You’ve been seeking validation,” he said calmly.

Your stomach dropped. “I—no. I just—”

“You want to be seen,” he continued, as if you hadn’t spoken at all. “And you are mistaking silence for absence.”

He turned then, facing you fully. The pressure of his attention pinned you in place more effectively than any hand ever could.

“You believe,” he said, stepping closer, “that because I do not ask for you, you are optional.”

His fingers reached out—not touching yet. Hovering. The space between you felt charged, deliberate.

“You are mistaken.”

Your breath came shallow. “Then what am I to you?” you whispered.

He closed the distance.

His hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you forward with minimal effort. Not force—expectation. You moved because it never occurred to you not to.

“You are consistency,” he said quietly. “You are stability. You are something that does not betray, does not leave, does not require permission to exist in my space.”

His thumb pressed slightly, just enough to remind you how easily he controlled your balance.

“You are mine,” he finished.

The word settled deep. Heavy. Warm. Terrifyingly comforting.

“I monitor what belongs to me,” he continued, tone almost indulgent now. “I limit access. I correct behavior. I remove distractions.”

His hand slid higher—still chaste, still controlled—but intimate in its certainty.

“When you feel invisible,” he said, “it is because you are safe. Because nothing is allowed near you without my approval.”

Your pulse thudded painfully. “And if I wanted… more?”

The pause was deliberate.

His grip tightened—not enough to hurt. Enough to remind.

“There is no more,” he said. “There is only proximity. And I decide how close you stand.”

Then, softer—dangerously so:

“You do not need to earn my attention. You already have it. Constantly.”

He leaned closer, close enough that his presence eclipsed everything else. The world narrowed until there was only his voice, his hand, his will.

“You belong to no one else,” he murmured. “Not their thoughts. Not their desires. Not their hands.”

A beat.

“Not even your own.”

You should have recoiled.

Instead, you felt the doubt dissolve—replaced by something steadier. Simpler. The relief of being defined so completely that there was nothing left to question.

When he stepped away, your body remembered the shape of his absence.

And when he dismissed you, you realized something chillingly sweet:

You didn’t feel owned.

You felt kept.

The change was subtle enough that, at first, you wondered if you imagined it.

The corridors you were once permitted to walk freely now required accompaniment. Conversations stopped sooner. Eyes slid away from you faster. People no longer addressed you directly—they spoke around you, as if acknowledging you without permission might cost them something.

You understood why the moment it happened.

A subordinate had looked at you for too long.

It wasn’t leering. It wasn’t brave. Just a flicker of curiosity—human, careless. He’d spoken your name once, softly, like testing whether it belonged to him to say.

That night, All For One summoned you.

He didn’t mention the man. He never had to. He stood close enough that you could feel the faint pressure of his presence against your spine, his attention winding tight and patient.

“Tell me,” he said calmly, “did you enjoy being noticed?”

Your mouth went dry. “I didn’t—do anything.”

“I didn’t ask what you did,” he replied. “I asked what you felt.”

Silence stretched. He let it. He always did.

“I felt…” You hesitated, then whispered, “…confused.”

His hand settled at the back of your neck. Not squeezing. Anchoring.

“Confusion,” he said thoughtfully, “is what happens when boundaries are tested.”

His thumb brushed once—slow, deliberate—just under your jaw. Suggestive not in action, but in implication.

“You are not meant to wonder who is allowed to see you,” he continued. “That decision is not yours.”

Your knees weakened slightly. He noticed.

“I remove uncertainty,” he said, guiding you backward until the edge of a desk pressed into the backs of your legs. “That is how I care for what is mine.”

Your breath stuttered. “What happens to people who forget that?”

The pause was long enough to feel like an answer.

“They are corrected,” he said finally. “Or removed.”

You didn’t ask what had happened to the man.

You didn’t need to.

Instead, you whispered, “And me?”

His hand slid from your neck to your waist, fingers spreading with quiet authority.

“You,” he said, “are reminded.”

He leaned in—not to kiss, not to touch further—but close enough that the space between you felt intentional, controlled, aching with restraint.

“You are watched because you are valued,” he murmured. “Restricted because you are desired. Isolated because no one else is worthy of the confusion you inspire.”

Your heart pounded. The fear tangled with something darker, deeper—relief curling low in your stomach.

“I will not have you doubting your place,” he continued softly. “If that means narrowing your world until only my voice remains… so be it.”

When he finally stepped back, the room felt wrong without him—too large, too empty.

The next day, you noticed it fully.

No one lingered near you.

No one met your eyes.

No one spoke your name.

Only him.

And when the loneliness set in—sharp and immediate—you realized, with a slow, frightening clarity, that it only hurt because he hadn’t spoken yet.

Because you were waiting.

Waiting to be reminded.

The silence was deliberate.

That was how you knew it was punishment.

He didn’t summon you. Didn’t correct you. Didn’t remind you. The systems still responded to you, the doors still opened, the world still bent—but his voice was gone.

You lasted two days.

By the third, the absence gnawed at you so sharply it felt physical. Your thoughts looped uselessly, every action suddenly weightless without his attention anchoring it. You caught yourself pausing mid-step, waiting for a presence that didn’t come.

When you finally broke protocol—stepping into a corridor you knew was no longer yours—the air changed instantly.

He was there before you reached the end.

“You are restless again,” All For One said, not unkindly.

Your knees nearly gave out at the sound of him.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed. “I won’t—”

He raised a hand. Silence fell.

“I removed myself,” he said calmly, “to see whether you would drift… or return.”

He approached slowly, studying you like a system under stress. When he stopped in front of you, his hand lifted your chin—familiar now. Expected.

“You didn’t seek others,” he observed. “You didn’t rebel.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip—not crossing any line, yet unmistakably intimate.

“You sought me.”

Your voice broke. “I didn’t know who I was without you.”

That was the moment his control tightened.

“There it is,” he murmured.

He drew you in, not roughly, not urgently—decisively. Then, he guided you away, it wasn’t to a public room, or an office, or anywhere meant for strategy.

It was private. Shielded. Chosen.

Time blurred after that.

You remember his presence never leaving—not even when it should have. His attention wrapped around you completely, unwavering, consuming. Whatever line existed before dissolved quietly, intentionally, without spectacle.

There were no commands.

No negotiations.

Only closeness so absolute it erased doubt.

When it concluded—when you lay there, senses heavy, mind quiet—you realized something that terrified you more than anything before:

He hadn’t left.

All For One remained beside you, seated close enough that you could feel him without looking. His hand rested against you—not claiming now, but keeping. As if stepping away simply… hadn’t occurred to him.

“You are quieter,” he said after a while.

“I don’t feel lost anymore,” you admitted.

“Good,” he replied. “That was never acceptable.”

You turned your head slightly. “Why didn’t you go?”

A pause.

“Because possession,” he said slowly, “is not satisfied by distance.”

His hand tightened just enough to remind you where you were anchored.

“You belong at my side,” he continued. “And I find I have no interest in leaving what is mine unattended.”

The words didn’t frighten you.

They settled over you like a promise.

And when you closed your eyes, wrapped in the certainty of his presence, you understood fully—finally—that resistance had never been taken from you.

You had given it up.