#earphone jack

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖momo.yaoyorozu 🥀

Momo kisses like everything she does—with elegance, precision, and an intensity that takes your breath away.

There's a certain refinement to the way Momo approaches intimacy. She's been trained in etiquette, in proper behavior, in maintaining composure at all times. But when she kisses you, all that careful control becomes something else entirely—not restraint, but rather a focused, deliberate passion that's somehow more intense for being so precisely applied.

She'll take your hand first, always. Her fingers intertwine with yours, and you can feel the slight calluses from training, the strength in her grip despite the delicacy of her touch. She steps closer, and there's confidence in the movement, in the way she tilts her head to look down at you (or up, depending on your height), her dark eyes holding yours with unwavering focus.

"May I?" she asks, because Momo is nothing if not polite, even in this. Especially in this. And there's something incredibly attractive about the way she asks permission, the way she makes you feel respected and desired in equal measure.

When you nod, her free hand comes up to rest at the side of your neck, thumb brushing along your jawline, and then she closes the distance with measured grace. The first touch of her lips is soft, controlled, testing. She's learning you, understanding what you like, cataloging your responses with that brilliant mind of hers.

But don't mistake control for lack of passion. Momo feels everything deeply, perhaps too deeply, and when she kisses you, all that carefully contained emotion begins to surface. Her lips part against yours, and her tongue slides out to trace the seam of your mouth with deliberate slowness, a request couched in elegant execution.

When you open for her, the kiss transforms. Her tongue slides against yours with purposeful strokes, each movement calculated for maximum effect. She's studied this, you realize—not from books or videos, but from every time she's kissed you before, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you press closer, what makes your fingers tighten in her hair. Momo is a quick learner, and she applies that considerable intellect to kissing you absolutely senseless.

Her hand at your neck is steady, fingers pressing against your pulse point where she can feel your heartbeat quicken. It grounds her, connects her to your physical response, and you feel her smile against your lips—satisfaction in knowing she affects you this way. The hand holding yours tightens, pulls you closer, and suddenly you're pressed against her tall, athletic frame, feeling every curve, every breath.

There's something incredibly sensual about the way Momo kisses. It's not rushed or frantic, but it is intense—thoroughly, completely, overwhelmingly intense. She kisses like she creates: with absolute focus and attention to detail. Every stroke of her tongue is deliberate, every shift of her lips purposeful. She's composing a masterpiece, and you're the canvas.

When she breaks the kiss to trail her lips along your jaw, down your neck, her breath is warm against your skin. "You're exquisite," she murmurs, and her voice has dropped to something lower, richer, almost husky with want. "Absolutely exquisite."

And then her mouth is on your pulse point, lips and tongue working in combination that makes your knees weak. She's precise even in this, knowing exactly where to kiss, where to apply pressure, where to use teeth just gently enough to make you gasp. When she returns to your lips, she's smiling—that rare, genuine smile that transforms her entire face—and she kisses you deeper, harder, with more passion than before.

Momo's control is exquisite, but it's not absolute. When you do something she particularly enjoys—bite her bottom lip, tangle your fingers in her long dark hair, press against her just right—that composure cracks. Her breath hitches, her grip tightens, and suddenly the kiss is more urgent, more desperate. Her tongue strokes against yours with increasing fervor, and you can feel the want radiating from her, the need she usually keeps so carefully contained.

"Please," she'll whisper against your lips, and there's something incredibly vulnerable about hearing Momo Yaoyorozu—confident, capable, brilliant Momo—asking for something, needing something. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

And you don't. You kiss her until she's breathless, until her perfect posture falters and she's leaning into you for support, until those dark eyes are hazy with desire and her lips are swollen and her hair is mussed from your fingers. You kiss her until the elegant, refined Momo gives way to something more raw, more real, more utterly devastating.

When you finally part, she takes a moment to compose herself, smoothing down her hair with trembling fingers, straightening her clothes. But she can't quite hide the flush on her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes, the small smile that plays at her lips. And she doesn't want to—because with you, she doesn't have to be perfect. She can just be Momo, and that's enough.

"Again?" she asks, and there's hope and heat in those dark eyes. And you pull her close and kiss her again, because kissing Momo Yaoyorozu is an art form, and you intend to spend a lifetime perfecting it.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖tsuyu.asui 🪷

Tsuyu kisses like the first rainfall after a drought.

Tsu doesn't do pretense. She doesn't play games, doesn't hide behind false modesty or manufactured shyness. When she wants to kiss you, she tells you directly, in that straightforward way of hers that's become so endearing. "I want to kiss you now, ribbit," she'll say, and it's not a question, but there's always a pause where she waits for your response, respects your consent even as she states her desire plainly.

When you smile and nod, she closes the distance with unhurried purpose. Tsu never rushes anything—she's patient, methodical, thorough. Her large hands come up to rest on your shoulders, and there's strength in that grip, power contained in those deceptively delicate-looking fingers. Then she leans in, and her lips meet yours with warm pressure.

The first thing you notice is how soft her lips are. The second thing you notice is her tongue.

Tsu's quirk affects more than just her appearance, and her tongue is long, prehensile, incredibly versatile—and she knows exactly how to use it. When the kiss deepens, when her lips part and her tongue slides out to meet yours, it's an experience unlike any other. The length of it, the dexterity, the way she can wrap around your tongue and stroke it with muscular precision—it's overwhelming in the best possible way.

She makes this soft "ribbit" sound when she kisses, a quirk (no pun intended) that's entirely unconscious and absolutely adorable. It vibrates through the kiss, adds another layer of sensation that makes your head spin. Her tongue explores your mouth thoroughly, reaching places others couldn't, tasting you with clear enjoyment, and all the while she's making these quiet amphibian sounds that shouldn't be hot but absolutely are.

Tsu's kisses are wet—not unpleasantly so, but noticeably. Her quirk means she's always slightly damp, and there's something primal about the slickness of her tongue as it slides against yours, the moisture of her lips, the way she tastes like fresh rain and something uniquely Tsuyu. She kisses like a storm rolling in, intense and natural and impossible to resist.

Her hands aren't idle during this. They slide from your shoulders down your arms, and you feel the slight suction of her fingertips—another quirk trait, the ability to stick to surfaces—leaving tingling sensations in their wake. When she presses her palms flat against your back and pulls you close, you feel that subtle adhesion, the way she's literally sticking to you, claiming you as hers.

"You taste good, ribbit," she says matter-of-factly when she pulls back, her large eyes studying your face with that characteristic directness. "Like home."

And then she's kissing you again, her long tongue delving deeper, stroking along yours with deliberate, thorough movements. There's no technique borrowed from movies or romance novels—Tsu kisses purely on instinct, doing what feels good, what makes you gasp, what makes her ribbit with satisfaction. And her instincts are excellent.

When things get more heated, Tsu's composure remains largely intact. She doesn't become frantic or desperate; instead, her methodical nature applies itself to taking you apart piece by piece. Her tongue does things that should be impossible, wrapping around yours, stroking the roof of your mouth, exploring every inch of available space with thorough attention. Her hands grip you tighter, the suction of her fingertips increasing slightly, and you're effectively pinned against her, held in place by quirk and desire as she kisses you breathless.

She'll pull back occasionally to check in, to make sure you're okay, to gauge your reaction with those perceptive eyes. "Good?" she asks, and when you nod frantically, desperate for her to continue, she smiles—that wide, genuine smile—and murmurs, "Good, ribbit," before diving back in.

There's something grounding about kissing Tsuyu. She's so honest, so present, so entirely herself that it makes you feel safe to be entirely yourself too. Her kisses don't demand anything except your genuine response. She doesn't need you to perform or pretend—she just needs you to be there, with her, in the moment, genuine and real.

When you finally part for real, lips swollen and breathing heavy, she rests her forehead against yours and ribbits softly, contentedly. Her hands are still stuck to your back, and she makes no move to release them, enjoying the closeness, the connection. "I love you," she says simply, because Tsu doesn't complicate things with flowery language or dramatic declarations. She just tells you the truth, plain and simple and perfect.

Tsuyu Asui kisses like the most honest thing in the world, and in a society full of facades and performances, that honesty is the most refreshing thing you've ever tasted.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ mina.ashido 🌸

There's never any warning before Mina kisses you.

She doesn't do the slow build-up, the careful approach, the asking permission with words. She just sees you, decides she wants to kiss you, and suddenly she's there, bouncing on her toes, grinning that brilliant smile, pink skin glowing with excitement. "Babe!" she squeals, and then her arms are around your neck and she's pulling you down (or bending down) and kissing you like she hasn't seen you in years instead of hours.

Her enthusiasm is absolutely infectious. Mina kisses with her whole body—pressing against you, arms tight around your neck, one leg sometimes hooking around yours for balance as she stretches up. She's all warmth and energy and joy, and kissing her feels like mainlining pure happiness. Her lips are soft and always taste like whatever fruity lipgloss she's wearing that day—strawberry, cherry, watermelon, pineapple, something sweet and distinctly Mina.

She smiles while she kisses. You can feel it, the way her lips curve against yours, the way she sometimes pulls back just to grin at you before diving back in. "You're so cute," she'll say, or "I missed you so much," or "One more, just one more!" and then she's kissing you again, giggling between pecks, covering your face with quick, affectionate kisses before returning to your lips properly.

When Mina deepens the kiss, when it shifts from playful to passionate, it's like a switch flips. Suddenly all that energy focuses, concentrates, becomes laser-targeted on making you lose your mind. Her tongue slides against yours with surprising skill, and she kisses like she dances—with rhythm, with enthusiasm, with moves that shouldn't work but absolutely do.

Her hands are everywhere. In your hair, on your shoulders, sliding down your chest, cupping your face—she can't stay still, can't stop touching you. Every touch is warm (her quirk keeps her body temperature slightly elevated), and you can feel that warmth seeping into your skin, making you feel flushed and dizzy and desperately wanting more.

"Is this okay?" she asks breathlessly between kisses, and without waiting for an answer, "Can I—?" and her tongue is stroking yours again, deeper this time, more insistent. She makes these happy sounds when she kisses—little hums and sighs and occasionally full-on delighted giggles when you do something she particularly enjoys.

Mina is vocal during kissing. She tells you exactly what she likes, what feels good, what she wants. "Yes, like that!" or "More, please more!" or just your name, gasped against your lips with such affection it makes your heart squeeze. There's no shame in her desire, no embarrassment about wanting you so obviously, so completely.

When things get really heated, when you're both breathless and grabbing at each other with increasing desperation, you have to be a little careful. Mina's quirk responds to her emotions, and when she's really aroused, really excited, her skin starts producing very dilute acid. It's not enough to hurt—she has too much control for that—but you can feel it, a slight tingle where her hands rest on your skin, a small burn that's more pleasant than painful, that marks you as thoroughly as any hickey.

She notices when it happens, always pulls back with wide golden eyes, worried. "Sorry! Did I—are you—?"

"I'm fine," you assure her, pulling her back, and the relief and desire that floods her face is beautiful. She kisses you harder then, more carefully, channeling all that energy into the kiss itself rather than her quirk. Her tongue does absolutely sinful things, stroking and swirling and doing this flicking thing that makes your knees buckle.

Mina kisses like dancing, like music, like the best party you've ever been to. She kisses like joy personified, and being the focus of that joy, being the person she wants to kiss like this, is intoxicating. When she finally pulls back, she's grinning breathlessly, pink skin flushed darker with pleasure, golden eyes sparkling with mischief and affection.

"Love you!" she chirps, and kisses you one more time, quick and sweet. "Best kisser ever, by the way. Just so you know. I'm keeping you forever, no take-backs!"

And you wouldn't want to take it back anyway, because kissing Mina Ashido is like bottled sunshine, and who would ever want to let that go?

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ kyoka.jiro 🎸

Getting Jiro to kiss you the first few times requires patience. She's not good with vulnerability, doesn't like feeling exposed, tends to hide behind sarcasm and deflection when emotions run too high. She'll roll her eyes at romantic gestures, scoff at cheesy lines, maintain that cool, slightly aloof exterior that keeps people at a distance.

But when she finally lets those walls down, when she decides she trusts you enough to show you the passionate, feeling person underneath the defensive exterior—god, it's worth the wait.

Her approach is hesitant at first, uncharacteristically uncertain. Her fingers, usually so confident on her instruments, fidget with the hem of her shirt or the ends of her hair jacks. "This is stupid," she mutters, not meeting your eyes. "I don't know why I'm so nervous. We've kissed before. This is dumb."

You take her hand, and she finally looks up, and there's vulnerability in those dark eyes that makes your chest tight. "Shut up," she says, but there's no heat in it, and then she's pulling you down by your collar and kissing you like she's afraid if she thinks about it too long she'll lose her nerve.

The first touch is a bit awkward—noses bump, angles are wrong—but then Jiro adjusts with that same precision she applies to her music, and suddenly everything clicks into place. Her lips move against yours with increasing confidence, and you realize she's been paying attention, learning, understanding the rhythm of kissing you just like she'd learn a new song.

When she deepens the kiss, her tongue sliding against yours, she makes this soft sound—pleasure and relief mixed—and her hands slide up to cup your face. Her earphone jacks, which usually hang at her sides, curl around you, wrapping loosely around your arms, your waist, adding another point of connection. They're incredibly sensitive, you've learned, and she shivers when you carefully touch them, running your fingers along their length.

Jiro's quirk adds a unique dimension to kissing. Those jacks can conduct sound, and when she's really into it, when she's losing herself in the sensation, they start picking up the rhythm of your heartbeat, the sound of your breathing, and somehow feeding it back, amplifying the experience. It's hard to explain—like kissing with surround sound, like every sense is heightened, like you can literally feel the resonance between you.

"Is this—" she gasps against your lips, pulling back just slightly, and her cheeks are flushed, her carefully maintained cool completely shattered. "Is this okay? The jack thing, I mean. It's not weird?"

"It's perfect," you tell her, and kiss her again, and she melts into it with a relieved sigh.

When Kyoka really gets going, when her initial shyness gives way to genuine passion. She kisses like she plays guitar—with rhythm and skill and an intensity that builds and builds until you're both left shaking. Her tongue strokes against yours in tempo, sometimes slow and deep like a bass line, sometimes quick and teasing like a riff. She's creative with it, trying different patterns, different pressures, paying attention to what makes you moan, what makes you grip her tighter.

Her hands slide from your face into your hair, and she pulls—not hard, but firm enough to make you gasp, to angle your head exactly where she wants it. There's control there, confidence growing with every passing second, and the realization that she can affect you like this clearly thrills her.

Her jacks wrap tighter around you, and you can feel them vibrating slightly—not sound exactly, but sensation, adding a buzz that makes everything more intense. When you run your tongue along hers in a particular way she likes, the vibration increases, and she makes this choked sound of pleasure that goes straight through you.

"Fuck," she gasps when she breaks for air, and her carefully cultivated punk image is completely demolished—lips swollen, hair mussed, eyes dark and wanting. "You're—that was—"

She can't even finish the sentence before she's kissing you again, more urgently this time, like she needs it, needs you, needs this connection that goes deeper than sound or touch or anything she can explain. Her tongue delves deep, stroking against yours with increasing desperation, and her jacks are definitely vibrating now, sending pleasant shivers across your skin wherever they touch.

When things get really intense, Jiro loses all her carefully maintained composure. She's pressing against you, hands grabbing, jacks wrapped tight around you like she's afraid you'll disappear. She's making sounds—breathy moans and gasps and your name, broken and wanting—and it's the most beautiful music you've ever heard.

Finally pulling apart, she rests her forehead against yours, breathing hard, a small smile playing at her lips. "You're pretty good at that," she says, trying for casual and completely failing. "For a dork."

"Yeah?" you tease, and she laughs, genuine and bright, and kisses you again, softer this time, sweeter, her jacks loosening to a comfortable embrace rather than a desperate grip.

Kyoka Jiro kisses like a symphoy and you'd happily spend forever learning every note.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ toru.hagakure 🔎

Toru Hagakure kisses like the best secret you've ever kept.

Dating someone you can't see presents unique challenges, but Toru has never let her invisibility stop her from living life to the fullest. If anything, it makes her more bold, more mischievous, more determined to make her presence known in ways that don't rely on visibility. And when it comes to kissing, she's developed an art form all her own.

You never see her coming. That's part of the fun, part of the game she loves to play. You'll be standing somewhere, minding your own business, and suddenly there are hands on your shoulders, a giggling voice in your ear, and then lips pressing against yours before you can even react.

"Surprise!" she laughs against your mouth, and you can hear the grin in her voice even if you can't see it. "Did I get you? I totally got you!"

Her kisses always start with laughter. Toru is sunshine personified, all energy and joy and mischief, and that bubbling happiness carries into every physical interaction. She kisses you and giggles at the same time, delighted by your surprise, by your willing participation, by the fact that she can affect you so completely even when you can't see her.

The invisibility adds a unique dimension to kissing. You have to rely on other senses—touch, sound, taste. You feel her lips against yours, soft and warm and enthusiastic. You hear her breathing, the small sounds she makes, the whispered words between kisses. You taste her lip gloss (she wears it religiously, says it helps people know where her mouth is, though you suspect she just likes the flavors).

"Close your eyes," she whispers, and when you do, suddenly it's not about the invisibility anymore. You're both just two people kissing, and the lack of visual input somehow makes everything else more intense. Every touch of her lips registers more strongly. Every slide of her tongue sends sharper sensations through your system. Every brush of her fingers against your skin makes you shiver.

Toru's hands are constantly moving when she kisses, and you have to track them by touch alone. They cup your face, slide into your hair, trail down your neck and across your shoulders. She's tactile, needs to touch and be touched, uses her hands to communicate presence and affection in ways her invisible body can't. When she frames your face with both palms, you know she's looking at you even though you can't see her eyes, and somehow that makes it more intimate, more real.

"You're so pretty," she murmurs between kisses. "I love your face. I love looking at you. Sometimes I just watch you and you don't even know I'm there and you make these faces when you're thinking and it's so cute I could die."

"That's a little creepy," you tease, and she gasps in mock offense.

"It's not creepy! It's romantic! I'm being romantic!" She bites your bottom lip in retaliation, gentle but firm, and then soothes it with her tongue. "Take it back or I'll stop kissing you."

"No you won't."

"You're right, I won't." And she's kissing you again, deeper now, her tongue sliding against yours with practiced ease. "I like kissing you too much."

When Toru really gets into kissing, when the playfulness settles into something more heated, her presence becomes overwhelming despite—or perhaps because of—her invisibility. You feel her everywhere. Her body presses against yours, and you map her shape by touch alone—the curve of her waist, the soft warmth of her chest, the way she fits perfectly against you. Her legs tangle with yours, and you feel the smooth skin of her thighs, the flexing of muscles as she rises on her toes or pulls you down to her level.

Her breathing gets heavier, audible in the quiet of the room, and you use the sound to orient yourself, to know where her mouth is before you capture it again. When you kiss her neck, you have to find it by touch, trailing your lips along invisible skin until she gasps and you know you've found the right spot. She makes the best sounds—breathy moans and surprised gasps and your name, whispered like a prayer.

"There," she breathes when you find a particularly sensitive spot. "Right there, yes, oh my god—"

Her invisibility means she can be bold in ways others might not. She'll kiss you in public, and no one knows except the two of you. She'll press against you in crowded spaces, her lips finding yours in stolen moments where you're surrounded by people but completely alone in your bubble of secret affection. It's thrilling, this private intimacy in public spaces, and Toru loves pushing those boundaries.

But there's vulnerability too. Sometimes, in quiet moments after passionate kissing, she'll press her forehead to yours and whisper, "Do you wish you could see me?"

And you tell her the truth—that you see her in every smile you hear in her voice, in every enthusiastic gesture you feel, in every moment of joy she brings into your life. That she's the most visible person you know, invisibility be damned.

When she kisses you after you say things like that, it's different. Slower, deeper, more emotional. Her lips move against yours with tender reverence, and her hands hold your face like you're precious, like you're the one who's rare and special and magical. Her tongue slides against yours in long, sweet strokes that speak of gratitude and love and bone-deep affection.

"I love you," she whispers, and you feel tears on her cheeks even though you can't see them. "I love you so much. Thank you for seeing me. Really seeing me."

And you kiss her again, tasting salt and sweetness, feeling her smile return, hearing her giggle as the melancholy passes and joy reasserts itself because that's who Toru is—resilient, happy, determined to find brightness even in invisibility.

Later, she'll ambush you again with surprise kisses. She'll leave lip gloss prints on your cheek. She'll whisper teasing comments during class and then kiss you breathless in empty hallways. She'll make you laugh and gasp and occasionally walk into walls because you're trying to kiss her while walking and spatial awareness is difficult when your girlfriend is invisible.

Loving her teaches you that the most important things—joy, affection, connection—have never needed to be seen to be real.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ nejire.hado 🌀

Nejire doesn't approach anything casually, and kissing is no exception.

She asks a million questions first. "Is now a good time? Should I use chapstick first? Do you prefer soft or firm pressure? What about tongue—do you like tongue right away or should we work up to it? Oh, but I guess we've kissed before so you know what I like but do you think I know what you like? Should I ask more questions or is that killing the mood?"

"Nejire," you laugh, cupping her face to stop the flood of words. "Just kiss me."

"Okay!" she beams, and then she does, and it's like being hit by a wave of pure enthusiasm.

Nejire kisses with total commitment. Her arms wrap around your neck, pulling you close, and her lips press against yours with firm, warm pressure. She hums happily into the kiss, this pleased, melodic sound that makes you smile against her lips. When you smile, she pulls back just enough to grin at you, her periwinkle hair floating around her face in that perpetual spiral, eyes bright with joy.

"That was nice!" she announces. "Let's do it again!"

And she does, and this time it's deeper, more exploratory. Her tongue slides against your lips, and when you part for her, she makes this delighted sound of discovery, like she's finding something wonderful and new even though you've kissed like this before. Her tongue strokes against yours with curious enthusiasm, testing different pressures, different movements, cataloging what makes you sigh, what makes you press closer.

Her quirk, the wave motion, responds to her emotions. When she's really happy, really excited, you can feel this pleasant vibration radiating from her—not strong enough to move you, but enough to feel like humming energy against your skin. It's like kissing someone while standing next to a purring cat, this constant pleasant buzz that makes everything more intense.

"Is this good?" she asks, pulling back to study your face with those wide, expressive eyes. "You look flushed. Is that good flushed or bad flushed? Should I do something different? What if I—"

You kiss her again to stop the questions, and she melts into it with a giggle. "Okay, okay, less talking, more kissing. I can do that!"

And she does, with remarkable focus once she gets going. Nejire might seem scattered, but when she's interested in something, she gives it her complete attention. And right now, she's very interested in kissing you absolutely senseless. Her tongue does complicated things—swirls and flicks and long, dragging strokes that make your toes curl. She's creative with it, trying new techniques, seeing what works, what makes you moan, what makes your fingers tighten in her floating hair.

Her hands aren't idle either. They roam across your shoulders, down your arms, along your sides, exploring with the same curiosity she brings to everything. When she finds a spot that makes you shiver—the sensitive skin just below your ear, the dip of your collarbone—she focuses there, kissing and licking and occasionally using teeth, delighted by your reactions.

"You're so responsive!" she says happily against your neck. "I love how you react to me. It's like a science experiment but way more fun and also I get to kiss you which is the best!"

Even in the middle of making out, Nejire can't help but comment, observe, process out loud. But somehow it's not annoying—it's endearing, quintessentially her, and you wouldn't change it for anything. Besides, between the commentary, she's kissing you so thoroughly, so enthusiastically, that you can barely think straight.

When things get really heated, when her breathing quickens and her cheeks flush and that vibration from her quirk intensifies, Nejire becomes almost aggressive in her enthusiasm. She presses closer, kisses harder, her tongue stroking against yours with increasing urgency. Her hair floats more wildly around both of you, creating this bubble of spiraling periwinkle that feels private, intimate, like you're in your own world.

"I love you," she says between kisses, and then immediately, "Did you know your lips get exactly 3.7% fuller when we've been kissing for more than five minutes? I timed it! Well, estimated. It's hard to time things when your brain feels fuzzy. You make my brain feel fuzzy. Is that normal? That's probably normal. Oh, that thing you just did with your tongue—do that again!"

You do, and she makes this beautiful sound of pleasure, high and sweet, and kisses you so hard you stumble backward. She follows, never breaking contact, until you're pressed against a wall and she's pressed against you and there's no space left between your bodies. Her hands frame your face, and she kisses you deeply, thoroughly, with surprising skill hidden beneath all that scattered energy.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Nejire's eyes are sparkling, her smile radiant, her hair a wild spiral around her flushed face. "Again?" she asks hopefully, already leaning in, and you laugh and kiss her again because how could you ever say no to Nejire Hado?

Author's Note: You guys loved the boys so much, I had to write the girls too! Thanks to @amyisgay123. They each have such distinct personalities, and writing how their quirks would influence their affection was REALLY fun (Ochaco making you float? Yes, please. I feel like that’s already canon. Toru being a menace? Absolutely.