oooo! could you do a version of the accidentally calling them your husband with dabi! and anyone else! maybe the rest of the lov! pretty please!
—How the League of villains members react to you accidentally calling them "husband"
꒱ | ೃ࿔₊•Summary: How the LOV members react to you calling them 'husband' by accident and catching them and yourself off guard!
༆࿐ཽ༵☆Pairing: Dabi (Toya Todoroki) f!reader ; Shigaraki (Tomura Shigaraki) x f!reader ; Twice (Jin Bubaigawara) x f!reader ; Mr. Compress (Atsuhiro Sako) x f!reader
ઈଓᦗ࿐Tags: Cute ; Slip up ; Slow burn ; MHA ; Emotional ; Funny
ঞじòぴWord-count: idk maybe 8k?
༻༺A/N: Heyyy so as you can tell I haven’t been active but here is the long awaited request that I’ve done for the 3rd time now after I was almost done because my phone just died so yeah… anyways I don’t really know much about the LOV members but the internet helped so I tried my best and enjoy xx!
Part 1!
Dabi (Toya Todoroki) - “You Just Called Me What?”
It’s late when he comes through your apartment window. Not that he ever uses the door — or that he ever asks.
Dabi moves like smoke, silent and fast, and tonight is no different.
You’re in your living room, curled up with a cup of something warm and a re-run playing too low to matter. The sharp, scorched scent of fire hits before the sound of boots.
“You know,” you murmur without looking, “breaking and entering is technically a crime.”
“So’s harboring a villain, sweetheart,” he replies with a smirk in his voice.
You finally glance up.
He’s bleeding.
Again.
_________________________________
You don’t say anything at first. You just set the cup down, push off the blanket, and head to the bathroom for the first aid kit you keep stocked just for him.
He’s already on the couch when you return, leather jacket half-off, shirt torn where some idiot took a lucky shot. There’s a split above his eyebrow and bruises blooming down one side of his ribs.
“I told you last time—” you start.
“I know. ‘Don’t get hurt again, Dabi. You’re not invincible, Dabi. Your quirk’s a walking self-destruct button, Dabi.’” He rolls his eyes. “You sound like a wife.”
You raise a brow, kneeling in front of him. “If I were your wife, you’d be sleeping on the balcony.”
A smirk tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t reply. Not when you’re leaning in like that — warm hands and soft fingers and that concentrated look on your face while you clean him up like he hasn’t burned cities.
You’re always gentle. Even when he doesn’t deserve it.
_________________________________
“Hold still,” you murmur.
You dab at the cut above his brow. He winces.
“Baby,” he grits out, “that shit stings.”
“You’ll live,” you say, amusement flickering in your voice. “Big, scary arsonist can’t handle a little antiseptic?”
“You talk a lot of shit for someone with no backup.”
“I talk a lot of shit because you let me,” you counter. “And because you keep showing up like you live here.”
There’s a pause.
He holds your gaze for a second too long.
Then: “Maybe I should.”
You laugh — light, easy, because what else do you do when Dabi flirts like he’s defusing bombs? “What, like rent-free? You’d burn through the floorboards in a week.”
His smirk returns, half-lazy, half-challenging. “You’d miss me.”
And you don’t say it, but you would.
_________________________________
You finish with the gauze and tape, then lean back onto your heels with a sigh. “Okay. You’re fixed up, mostly. Just don’t—”
“Don’t push myself. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before.” His voice is quieter now. He’s looking at you a little differently. “You always take care of me like that?”
“Only when my idiot husband stumbles in after getting into street fights.”
The word slips out mid-sentence, so natural you don’t catch it until it’s already in the air.
Silence.
Dabi blinks.
His entire expression stills.
You freeze.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my god— I didn’t— I wasn’t— I meant guest. Or— or squatter. Or asshole with blue fire—”
“Did you just call me husband?” he asks, tone slow and smug in the way that always means trouble.
You try to stand. He grabs your wrist.
“Say it again.”
“No.”
He grins — amused, delighted. “Come on. I wanna hear it.”
“I’m not saying it again, you menace—”
“Husband,” he mocks in a singsong voice. “Aww. You got a little domestic daydream up there, sweetheart?”
“You’re bleeding, you jackass.”
“And yet you still called me your man,” he says, tilting his head. “Interesting.”
You flush hot. “Shut up.”
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
_________________________________
The teasing lasts all night.
Every time you hand him something: “Thanks, wife.”
Every time you sigh at his laziness: “That’s no way to talk to your husband.”
Every time your fingers brush his: “Careful, this is basically a honeymoon.”
But underneath the grin, there’s something else. Something quieter. Focused.
He keeps watching you.
Like he’s trying to figure out if the word meant nothing… or everything.
Because he wanted it to mean everything.
Shigaraki (Tomura Shigaraki) - “Husband? No, I—”
You never imagined calling Tomura Shigaraki “husband” would end up so… complicated.
The night started like any other: you were sitting together on the couch in his cramped apartment, watching some low-key anime, the flicker of the screen lighting up his tired face. Shigaraki was mostly quiet, eyes half-lidded, the weight of the world settling on his shoulders like it always did.
You liked coming over — not because he was talkative or warm, but because the silence wasn’t suffocating when you were there.
“Want some ramen?” you asked, nudging the instant noodle cup towards him.
He grunted, an almost inaudible “yeah,” and grabbed the cup, fumbling with the lid like he hadn’t touched food in days.
You smiled softly, but your eyes caught the nervous twitch in his fingers. Something about the way he kept avoiding your gaze made your heart squeeze.
“Hey,” you said quietly, “you don’t have to do this alone.”
He blinked, and his lips twitched as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.
The night wore on. You passed him the spoon a few times, and when your fingers brushed, he jerked back like you’d shocked him.
“Sorry,” he muttered quickly.
You just shrugged it off “it’s okay”
The moment passed, but the tension lingered, hanging between you like thick fog.
_________________________________
Later, you were leaning against him, half-asleep, when you mumbled, “You’re such an idiot sometimes.”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
You grinned and snuggled a little closer. “I don’t know how you put up with me.”
His eyes flickered, and he cleared his throat. “You’re annoying.”
“Only to you.”
“Obviously.”
Your smile faded a bit, and you nudged his arm. “Hey, you know… I’m yours.”
He blinked at that like you’d just insulted him. “What?”
You swallowed nervously, realizing maybe you said too much. “I mean… I’m yours. You know, like, in that way.”
He stared at you blankly, fingers twitching.
You laughed nervously, then the words slipped out before you could stop them. It felt right in that moment!
“I’m your wife.”
The silence after was deafening.
Shigaraki’s eyes went wide, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
“Husband,” he blurted.
You blinked. “Wait—what?”
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, voice cracking. “You—You said husband. I heard it.”
You blinked again, baffled. “I didn’t say husband.”
He shook his head, looking down at his hands. “But you thought it. I saw it on your face.”
Your heart raced. “I’m not sure what that means.”
He cleared his throat loudly, breaking eye contact. “It means… I don’t know. It’s weird. I don’t do this stuff.”
“Neither do I,” you admitted.
He fidgeted with his sleeves. “I don’t know how to respond.”
“Me neither.”
You both laughed awkwardly — the kind of laugh that fills the silence but doesn’t quite fix it.
Twice (Jin Bubaigawara) - “Husband? Chill, you’re being dramatic!”
The sun was dipping lower outside, spilling warm golden light through the blinds of Twice’s cramped apartment. The familiar clutter greeted you the moment you stepped inside—empty snack bags, scattered comics, and clothes draped over chairs and the couch. It wasn’t exactly pristine, but it felt like the most comforting place in the world.
Twice was sprawled on the worn-out couch, his usual nervous energy tempered by the soft calm of having you there. One leg was curled beneath him; the other swung slightly as he scrolled through his phone, occasionally grinning at something.
You kicked off your shoes and set down your bag, holding up the snacks and a thermos of tea you’d brought. “Hope you’re hungry.”
His eyes brightened. “You’re a lifesaver! Come sit, come sit.”
You settled beside him, the couch sinking beneath your weight. Twice instantly shifted, looping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. The warmth of him felt like a soft blanket wrapped around your heart.
For a moment, you just breathed in the comfortable silence. The world outside faded — no missions, no chaos, just this shared calm.
“You know,” you started, leaning into him, “this apartment? It’s kind of a disaster.”
Twice chuckled. “It’s organized chaos.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fancy way of saying you’re messy?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Exactly. But it’s my kind of messy.”
You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “I kind of like it. Like you.”
“Really?” Twice’s voice was softer now. “You like me… messy and all?”
“Especially messy.”
He laughed, the sound light and happy. “Good, because I’m a mess inside and out.”
The two of you sank into a contented quiet, the gentle hum of an anime playing on the TV filling the space between you. You sipped your tea while Twice munched on chips, the casual comfort wrapping around you like a second skin.
After a few minutes, his phone buzzed. He checked it and glanced at you with a sly grin. “Pizza delivery. Wanna order?”
“Definitely,” you said, laughing. “You’re always starving.”
As Twice reached for a slice, you nudged him playfully. “God, husband, chill, you’re being dramatic.”
The words slipped out before you realized it, and Twice froze mid-bite. His eyes widened in disbelief.
“Husband?” His voice was a strangled whisper. “Did you just—”
You swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t mean it like that! It was a joke.”
But Twice was already bouncing on the couch, his fingers tangled in his hair, muttering to himself in a nervous rush. “Oh my god, I love you! But marriage? Too soon! Too soon! But I love it! But I’m scared! What if I mess it up? What if you meant it? What if you’re waiting for me to propose? What if I’m not ready?!”
You bit your lip, watching his chaotic thoughts swirl like a storm. It was classic Twice — all over the place, but somehow adorably sincere.
“Okay, okay,” you said gently, grabbing his hands to steady him. “Slow down. It was just a slip. I’m not proposing.”
He blinked rapidly, trying to catch his breath. “But what if I mess it up?”
“You won’t. I’m here.”
Twice’s cheeks flushed pink as he smiled shyly. “I’m a mess.”
“A lovable mess,” you whispered.
He chuckled softly, squeezing your hands. Then, with a nervous grin, he leaned closer and mumbled, “Wanna practice saying it again? Just in case I ever do propose.”
You laughed, heart fluttering. “Only if you promise not to freak out this much next time.”
“No promises,” he whispered back, his eyes sparkling.
_________________________________
As the evening deepened, Twice’s apartment became a small world of its own — one filled with laughter, warmth, and little moments that made your heart swell.
You found yourselves sprawled on the floor, surrounded by empty snack bags and scattered cushions. Twice pulled out a stack of goofy hats and shoved one onto your head.
“Try this one!” he said, balancing a ridiculous, oversized pirate hat.
You giggled, the silliness breaking down any lingering awkwardness. Twice joined you, donning a feathered cap that was just as ridiculous.
“Perfect match,” he declared with a goofy grin.
You caught his gaze and smiled softly, thinking about how far you’d come. Twice, the chaotic, sometimes anxious hero, was right here beside you — raw, vulnerable, and open.
He caught your gaze and blushed. “You’re really something special.”
You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “So are you.”
_________________________________
Later, while the anime played on, Twice turned to you with a sudden seriousness. “You know, I never thought I’d find someone who gets me. Who sticks around despite all the chaos.”
You tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His smile faltered for a moment, replaced by something softer, almost fragile. “Sometimes, I’m scared I’m too much. That I’ll mess it all up.”
You shook your head. “No. You’re enough. More than enough.”
He exhaled slowly, a weight lifting from his shoulders. “Thanks for believing in me.”
You took his hand in yours, the simple touch saying more than words ever could.
As the day continued, the memory of that single word — “husband” — echoed in your mind, a small spark that promised a future full of chaos, love, and maybe, just maybe, something more.
Mr. Compress - “A Slip of the Tongue”
The first time you visited Mr. Compress’s apartment, you expected something… flashier.
Maybe a place full of bright colors, rich velvet drapes, magic cards flying through the air, a hat rack overflowing with top hats. But no—it was surprisingly quiet. Warm wood floors, golden lighting, books stacked in every corner. The only truly flamboyant thing was a single, well-loved velvet coat on a mannequin by the door.
“This is cozy,” you’d said the first time you came in, a little stunned.
“And yet… utterly lacking in drama,” he replied, gesturing with flair. “Forgive me. I left my exploding doves in the other dimension.”
You laughed. You always laughed around him.
Even now—several months into whatever strange relationship you had—you still didn’t have the right words for it. He cooked for you. You brought wine. He told stories. You curled up under his arm. And sometimes, when the world quieted down, when the League wasn’t calling or the world wasn’t falling apart, you stayed the night.
But no one had said the words yet. Not those words. Love. Forever. Commitment.
Not even close.
_________________________________
Tonight, it was pouring rain, and you’d arrived with a dripping umbrella and two bags of groceries.
“Dinner is on me this time,” you’d insisted, sidestepping him when he tried to take the bags from your hands.
“Darling, you wound me,” he said with a grin behind his mask. “You know I take pride in feeding my guests.”
“I’m not a guest anymore,” you shot back, raising a brow. “Besides, I want to cook for you.”
He raised both gloved hands in surrender. “Far be it from me to deny a beautiful woman the pleasure of poisoning me with her affection.”
“Watch your mouth,” you said, elbowing him lightly as you kicked off your shoes. “I brought dessert too.”
“My heart is yours.”
“Damn right it is.”
The evening passed with soft jazz playing from a dusty old speaker. You moved around his kitchen like you belonged there—because lately, it kind of felt like you did. He lingered nearby, leaning against the counter, offering unnecessary tips just to stay close.
When the food was finally plated, you both settled at his low dinner table, sitting cross-legged with your knees brushing.
“Truly divine,” he declared after the first bite. “You’re trying to win me over. I feel it.”
“Trying?” you asked, smirking. “I’ve already got you wrapped around my little finger.”
He tipped an invisible hat. “Touché.”
_________________________________
You were cleaning up, sleeves rolled and humming under your breath, when he came up behind you to dry the dishes with a towel in hand.
“Have I mentioned how lovely you look tonight?” he asked softly.
You turned, flicking a sud-covered finger at him. “Don’t flirt while I’m doing chores. That’s cheating.”
“Darling, I only flirt when it’s inconvenient. It adds to the thrill.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing. “God, husband, calm down.”
Silence.
A beat passed.
You froze.
He did too—hands still in midair, towel half-wrapped around a plate.
“…I beg your pardon?” he said, almost too calmly.
You clapped a wet hand over your mouth. “I didn’t—oh my god—I didn’t mean—!”
He placed the plate down very carefully and turned to you, both gloved hands behind his back in classic magician form.
“Husband?” he echoed, voice pitched half an octave higher. “That’s… well, I must say I didn’t expect to be promoted mid-dishwashing session!”
Your cheeks went nuclear. “I—look, I didn’t mean it! It was a slip! I meant to say—like—boyfriend? Partner? I don’t know! It came out weird!”
He straightened dramatically, head tilted back, hand on his chest.
“Oh, the cruelty!” he cried. “To be crowned a husband, only to have the title ripped away mere seconds later!”
“Stop it,” you groaned, burying your face in a kitchen towel. “I want to crawl into the sink and die.”
“You wound me again! I was already picking out tuxedos.”
You smacked him with the towel.
_________________________________
Once the laughter settled and your face returned to a semi-normal shade, you both sat on the couch, close and quiet, tea cooling in your hands.
“I’m sorry,” you said again, more seriously this time. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
He tilted his masked head. “You didn’t. Not truly.”
You looked at him.
“I’m a performer, my dear. I may appear dramatic—but I promise, I do not take your words lightly.” His voice was softer now, stripped of showmanship. “Even an accidental word like ‘husband’… well, it struck me. But not in a bad way.”
Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”
He nodded slowly. “There are worse things to be than the man you accidentally associate with the word ‘forever.’”
Your breath caught in your chest. “I didn’t mean it like that. But… I don’t hate the idea.”
He turned toward you more fully, the golden glow of the lamp outlining the shape of his mask.
“I want to hear it again,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“Call me that. One more time.”
You hesitated. “Now you’re just messing with me.”
“I’m quite serious.”
You shifted, then said it softly—“husband”—like it might crumble in your mouth.
He inhaled slowly. “Goodness. That really is dangerous.”
Your lip curled into a shy smile. “Why?”
“Because I think I could get used to it.”
