warnings :- izuku has ofa, suggestive pairings :- izuku midoriya, katsuki bakugo, shoto todoroki, hitoshi shinso, touya todoroki (dabi), shota aizawa, keigo takami (hawks) x reader (leaning slightly toward feminine characteristics). (SEPARATE; the students are all aged up)
I FALL IN LOVE, JUST LIKE A TUESDAY DRUNK
(how they react to you requesting them to step out so you can change; when in reality you're just messing with them.)
Izuku Midoriya
The afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the apartment you shared with Izuku, casting a warm, golden haze across the hardwood floors. It was one of those rare, blissful weekends where the universe decided society could survive a few hours without the number-one hero.
No alarms, no sudden villain alerts, no heavy gear clanking onto the floor at three in the morning. Just peace.
Izuku was currently sprawled across the center of your shared bed, a position he had claimed the moment he finished lunch. At twenty-four, he had filled out considerably from his high school days; his shoulders were broad, his frame thick with hard-earned muscle, and his legs seemed to stretch on forever.
Right now, he was wearing a pair of faded grey sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt that said, simply, T-SHIRT across the chest. He was propped up on his elbows, buried nose-deep in a thick notebook full of hero analysis, a stray pencil tucked behind his ear. His messy forest-green curls were completely uncombed, sticking up in every imaginable direction.
You walked out of the bathroom, a freshly laundered outfit draped over your arm. You had a casual dinner plan with some friends in an hour, and it was time to get ready.
You stopped at the edge of the bed, clearing your throat. "Hey, Izuku?"
"Hmm?" He didn't look up from his notebook, his pencil scratching furiously against the paper. "Yeah, honey? Did you find that leftover katsudon? Because if you did, I swear I didn't eat any—"
"I'm not looking for the katsudon," you laughed, tossing your fresh clothes onto the vanity chair. "I need to get changed. Can you step out for a few minutes?"
The scratching of the pencil abruptly stopped.
Slowly, Izuku lowered the notebook. His vibrant green eyes blinked once, twice, as if trying to process a foreign language. Then, a slow, incredibly amused grin began to tug at the corner of his lips. He rolled on his back, sitting up slightly, tossing the notebook onto the nightstand, and lacing his hands behind his head.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice dropping into a playfully smooth, slightly husky register. "Did you just ask me to leave our bedroom?"
"Yes," you said, hands on your hips. "I need to change."
Izuku let out a dramatic sigh, throwing one forearm over his eyes as if he were a Victorian maiden experiencing a sudden bout of the vapors. "The tragedy. Here I thought we were building a life together, sharing a home, and yet… I am banished to the hallway like a misbehaving puppy."
"You are not a puppy, you're a grown man," you said, trying and failing to suppress a smile. "And you're blocking the mirror."
He peeked out from under his arm, his eyes gleaming with sheer mischief. "I am the top pro hero in the country, you know. People pay good money just to see me at a press conference. And here you are, throwing me out of my own sanctuary. Where is the respect for the symbol of peace?"
"The symbol of peace needs to vacate the premises for five minutes," you countered, walking over to nudge his leg. "Come on, out. Shoo."
Instead of moving, Izuku seized the opportunity. With lightning-fast reflexes that came from years of combat training, his hand shot out and gripped your wrist. He didn't pull hard, just enough to throw you off balance, and in the next second, you found yourself tumbling onto the mattress right next to him. Before you could scramble away, his heavy arm wrapped around your waist, pinning you securely against his side.
"Izuku!" you gasped, though you were already laughing.
"Nope. Not moving," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His curls tickled your skin, and his breath was warm against your collarbone. "The bed has a gravitational pull today. It’s a new quirk. Very dangerous. If I get up, the whole apartment might collapse."
"You are so full of shit," you said, twisting around in his grip so you could look at him. His face was right there, close enough that you could count the familiar dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. "Seriously, why are you being so stubborn? I just want to put my clothes on."
Izuku raised an eyebrow, his expression turning decidedly smug. "That’s exactly my point. We’ve been dating for seven years. We’ve lived together for five. I have seen you in sickness, in health, in mud-splattered clothes after a rainy day, and in that one ridiculously oversized All Might onesie you stole from my closet that you think I don't notice is missing."
"It's comfortable!" you protested, flushing slightly.
"It looks better on you anyway," he conceded smoothly, a flash of genuine warmth softening his eyes before the sass returned. "But my point stands. What exactly are you hiding from me at this stage of the game? Is there a secret tattoo you haven't told me about?"
"No, I am a person who wants a modicum of privacy to change into a nice outfit without my boyfriend staring at me like I'm a piece of food," you huffed, though your hands had automatically found their way into his messy green hair, gently twirling the curls.
Izuku hummed, clearly enjoying the massage, but he didn't loosen his grip on your waist. "I don't stare like you're food. I stare like you're the most beautiful thing in the room. There’s a distinct difference there, I promise."
"Smooth. Very smooth. Did you practice that line in the mirror?"
"Maybe," he admitted without a shred of shame.
You stared down at him, trying to maintain your best serious face. The truth was, this entire interaction was born from a silly internet challenge you’d scrolled past earlier that morning: Ask your long-term partner to leave the room so you can change, and see how they react. Most of the videos showed boyfriends looking mildly confused before shuffling out, or maybe whining a little.
You hadn’t expected Izuku, the literal beacon of selflessness, to mount a full-scale tactical resistance.
"Izuku, seriously," you said, putting a hand against his broad chest, feeling the steady, calming thud of his heartbeat. "I am setting a boundary. A very temporary, five-minute boundary. Out of the room. Go look at the fridge. Go re-organize your hero figurine shelf in the living room."
"No," he said simply.
You blinked. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean no," Izuku repeated, his tone entirely casual, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with absolute delight. "I'm the Number One Hero, honey. I face down rogue giant villains, international threats, and Kacchan when he hasn't had his morning coffee. A minor zoning dispute over a bedroom mattress isn't going to intimidate me into moving."
"You're abusing your power," you accused, poking him in the chest. "This is a violation of my rights."
"I am currently off-duty," he retorted smoothly, shifting his weight so he could prop his head up on his hand, looking down at you with a thoroughly wicked smirk. "Which means I am just a citizen enjoying his weekend on his bed. If you want me gone, you're going to have to physically evict me. And let’s be honest, sweetheart..." He trailed his eyes down your frame and back up to your face, his grin widening. "...your capture stats aren't quite high enough to move me if I don't want to be moved."
The sheer, playful arrogance of it made your jaw drop. The stuttering, easily flustered teenager from UA had long since evolved into a man who knew exactly how attractive he was, and worse, he knew exactly how to use it to drive you crazy.
"You are unbelievable," you laughed, swatting at his shoulder. "Okay, fine! Look, it was a prank, alright? It was a joke!"
Izuku didn't look surprised at all. Instead, his smirk softened into a triumphant, knowing grin. He dropped his head back onto the pillow, pulling you a little closer against his side. "I knew it."
"You did not know it!" you protested, resting your chin on his chest.
"Oh, please. I've known you for nine years," he said, his fingers gently tracing patterns against the small of your back through your shirt. "Your voice pitched up like half an octave when you asked me to leave. Plus, you had that look in your eye."
"Am I really that predictable?" you mumbled, a little deflated but entirely warm inside.
"To me? Absolutely," Izuku murmured softly, his playful demeanor melting away into that fierce, unwavering devotion that always made your heart skip a beat. He reached up, his large, calloused hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. "But I have to admit, the thought of you wanting to hide from me after all this time? I couldn't let you get away with that. There's nowhere you could go that I wouldn't want to follow."
You melted against him, the initial joke completely forgotten as you leaned into his touch. "You're such a sap."
"Only for you," he whispered, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He tasted faint like the tea he’d had with lunch, and his lips were warm and familiar. When he pulled back, his green eyes were shining. "Now, are you actually going to get changed for dinner, or can I convince my beautiful partner to stay in bed for another hour?"
You glanced over at the outfit waiting on the chair, then back to Izuku.
"Dinner isn't for another hour," you reasoned, shifting to make yourself more comfortable against him. "We have time."
"Excellent decision," Izuku chuckled, reaching over to pull the duvet up over both of your shoulders, sealing out the rest of the world, if only for a little while longer.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
Katsuki Bakugou
The digital clock on the nightstand clicked over to 11:14 PM, casting a faint, rhythmic green glow against the dark walls of the bedroom. Outside, the city of Musutafu was a low, distant hum.
Katsuki Bakugo was sprawled across the center of the bed, a massive, unyielding presence of heat and muscle. At twenty-six, the rough edges of his teenage years hadn't softened so much as they had settled into something sharper and more deliberate. He was wearing a pair of black sweatpants, his bare torso propped up against a mountain of pillows, and his eyes—sharp and perpetually calculating—were locked onto a tablet where he was reviewing Pro Hero agency incident reports. His thumb flicked across the screen, a tiny, rhythmic scritch-scratch that was the loudest sound in the room.
You stood by the closet, clutching a soft, oversized t-shirt and a pair of flannel shorts in your arms. The fabric felt cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the ambient heat Katsuki naturally radiated. You’d had a long day, the kind that settled into your bones and made your eyelids heavy, and all you wanted was to shed the restrictive, structured clothes of the outside world and crawl into bed.
You looked from the clothes in your hands to the man on the bed. He hadn't looked up, but the slight twitch of his jaw told you he knew exactly where you were standing.
"Hey, Katsuki?" you called out softly, your voice cutting through the silence.
"Mm." He didn't look up from the tablet. A line formed between his brow, his focus entirely consumed by whatever property damage report he was dissecting.
"Can you step out for a second? I need to change."
The flicking motion of his thumb stopped dead.
For a second, the room was entirely silent. Then, very slowly, Katsuki lowered the tablet, letting it rest against his chest. He didn't move an inch. He just tilted his head back against the pillows, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with a look that was a potent mix of sheer disbelief, heavy-lidded amusement, and a stubbornness that could rival a brick wall.
"The hell did you just say to me?" his voice was a low, gravelly rumble, rough around the edges from lack of use over the last few hours.
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, tightening your grip on the pajamas. "I asked if you could step out of the room for a minute. Just so I can get changed."
A slow smirk began to pull at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't his old, explosive battlefield grin; it was the quiet, knowing smile he only kept for behind closed doors, the one that meant he found you completely ridiculous and entirely captivating. He let out a short, huffed laugh through his nose.
"You've gotta be shitting me," he muttered, shaking his head slightly so his messy, ash-blonde hair fell across his forehead. He made absolutely no move to shift his legs or swing them out of bed. In fact, he seemed to sink even deeper into the mattress, anchoring himself. "We’ve been living together for six goddamn years. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed every single night. I’ve seen you in every state of dress, undress, and whatever the hell is in between. And now you’re asking me to vacate my own damn room so you can put on a t-shirt?"
"I'm just tired, Katsuki," you said, though a small smile was already threatening to ruin your serious expression. It was impossible to stay completely stoic around him when he was like this—relaxed and arrogant. "Come on, just five minutes. Give me some privacy."
"No," he said flatly.
"Katsuki."
"No." He picked the tablet back up, holding it in front of his face again, though you could see the glint of his eyes over the top of the screen. "Not moving. Sit your ass down or change right there. I don't give a shit. But I'm not getting out of this bed because you suddenly remembered modesty exists."
"It's called privacy," you argued, taking a step closer to the edge of the mattress. "Sometimes a person just wants to change their clothes without their boyfriend staring a hole through them."
Katsuki lowered the tablet again, this time setting it completely flat on the nightstand. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by that heavy, intense focus he used when he wanted to make a point. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his broad shoulders shifting under the dim light. The movement highlighted the faint, silver scars tracing across his skin—remnants of a life spent on the front lines, a life he willingly left at the front door the moment he came home to you.
"First of all," he started, his voice dropping an octave, honey-rough and deliberate. "I don't stare. If I'm looking at you, it's because you're mine to look at. Second of all, if you think I'm walking out into that drafty-ass hallway in the middle of the night because you're feeling stubborn, you don't know me at all."
"You're the stubborn one," you pointed out, gesturing to his completely immobile posture. "You're like a boulder."
"Yeah? Well, this boulder pays half the rent, and his body hurts from chasing a high-tier villain across three districts today," he grunted, though there was no real heat in his words. He patted the empty space on the mattress right next to his hip. It was a rough command, disguised as an invitation. "Stop wasting time. It's late. Get over here."
You let out a breath, your shoulders finally dropping as the joke ran its course. The sheer weight of his logic, delivered with that immovable, unbothered arrogance, was too much to hold against. A tiny bubble of laughter escaped your throat, and before you could stop it, you buried your face in the soft pile of the t-shirt in your arms, your shoulders shaking.
Katsuki’s brow furrowed. He didn't look angry—but his jaw slacked just a fraction. He looked genuinely, profoundly baffled.
"What the hell are you giggling at?" he asked, his head tilting to the side as he tracked your sudden shift in mood.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you managed to say, stepping up to the side of the bed and tossing the flannel shorts onto the mattress. You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, still breathless from the absurdity of his deadpan refusal. "It was a joke."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Katsuki just stared at you. He didn't blink. The tough, unyielding Pro Hero Dynamight was completely paralyzed by a total lack of comprehension. His brain was visibly trying to process the concept of a "privacy prank" between two people who shared a lease and a bank account.
"A prank," he repeated. It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact that he found fundamentally defective.
"Yeah," you grinned, pulling the oversized t-shirt over your head and letting your heavy work clothes drop to the floor. "I wanted to see if you'd actually leave. You looked so serious reviewing those reports, I couldn't help myself."
"You think that's funny?" Katsuki’s voice was entirely flat, stripped of all its usual gravelly bite, leaving only pure, unadulterated bewilderment. He leaned back against the pillows again, but his arms remained crossed over his chest, his eyes wide and completely fixed on you as you slipped into the comfortable flannel shorts. "You stood there with a straight face and told me to get out of my own bedroom. For a joke."
"A little funny," you admitted, sliding under the heavy duvet and immediately seeking out the radiator-like warmth of his side of the bed. You tucked your cold toes against his calf, eliciting a involuntary twitch from him, though he still didn't break his stunned stare. "You should have seen your face."
"Because it doesn't make any goddamn sense!" Katsuki burst out, his voice rising just a fraction, though it lacked any real malice. He threw his hands up, gesturing to the entire perimeter of the dark room. "What part of your brain thought, 'Hey, let me ask the guy who knows exactly how many freckles are on my left shoulder blade to vacate the premises for a change of clothes'? I thought you’d finally lost your mind from overwork."
"I haven't lost my mind," you laughed, resting your chin on his bare shoulder, looking up at his profile. The green glow of the clock caught the sharp line of his jaw. "You're just too easy to rile up when you're in your zone."
"I wasn't riled up. I was confused," he corrected roughly, though one of his large, calloused hands found its way to the small of your back, his fingers automatically splaying out against the cotton of your shirt to pull you closer. His grip was firm, anchoring you against him as if to prove a point. "There’s no 'privacy' in this house. You took a shower with the door wide open this morning because you wanted to tell me about some dumb cat video you saw."
"That was different. That cat was adorable."
"It's the same damn thing," he muttered, though the tension was finally leaving his shoulders. He reached over with his free hand, grabbing the tablet from the nightstand and clicking it off, plunging the room back into the soft, dim ambiance of the night. He slid down the pillows until he was lying flat beside you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
Even in the dark, you could feel the lingering disbelief radiating off him. He let out another long, slow sigh through his nose, his fingers gently tracing small circles against your hip through the fabric of your shorts.
"A prank," he whispered to the ceiling, shaking his head against the mattress. "Stupid."
"Goodnight, Katsuki," you whispered back, smiling against the warm skin of his neck.
"Yeah, whatever," he grunted, shifting his weight to pull you entirely over his chest, effectively burying you in his warmth.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
Shoto Todoroki
The quiet of the late afternoon always felt a little more profound in the apartment you shared with Shoto. Located on a high floor overlooking the bustling, ever-expanding skyline of Musutafu, the space was a carefully curated blend of modern simplicity and traditional comfort. It had taken months to find a place that felt right—somewhere that offered enough security for a rising top hero but still felt entirely detached from the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the Todoroki estate. Today, the setting sun was painting the tatami mats and low furniture in long, striking streaks of amber and violet, casting the living space in a warm, sleepy glow.
Shoto was currently occupying the center of your shared bed, entirely dead to the world of hero duties, agencies, and public relations. At twenty-four, the soft-spoken boy from UA had grown into a man of quiet, commanding presence. He was tall, his frame lean but packed with muscle forged through years of brutal training and high-stakes combat.
Right now, however, none of that formidable aura was on display. He was wearing a pair of loose blue lounge pants and a plain white t-shirt that clung to the broad expanse of his back. He was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, lazily scrolling through his phone, which was displaying a culinary blog about the best hidden soba shops in the prefecture.
You stepped out of the adjoining bathroom. A structured, freshly pressed outfit hung neatly over your forearm, pristine and wrinkle-free. You had a casual dinner reservation with some friends in less than an hour, and the clock was ticking down with unforgiving speed.
You stopped near the edge of the mattress, clearing your throat to break the comfortable silence. "Shoto?"
"Hmm?" He didn't look up from the screen, his thumb sliding across the glass with a methodical rhythm. "The place in western Tokyo just opened up, and its ratings are really good. We should go next Tuesday. I checked my schedule; I only have a minor patrol in the morning. I can be back by noon."
"That sounds amazing, and you know I will never turn down a noodle date," you smiled, walking over to set your jewelry down on the wooden dresser. The metallic clink of your watch and rings sounded loud in the quiet room. "But that's not what I'm talking about right now. I need to get changed for dinner. Do you mind stepping out into the living room for a few minutes?"
The scrolling stopped instantly.
Shoto slowly lowered the gadget to his lap, his head tilting slightly to the side in a manner that was deeply reminiscent of a confused puppy. His mismatched eyes—one a calm, deep grey, the other a sharp, brilliant turquoise—blinked at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated confusion. He didn't look annoyed or slighted; he looked like a scientist trying to solve an equation that defied the fundamental laws of logic.
He slid off his elbow, shifting his weight to sit up cross-legged on the mattress, resting his wrists on his knees. "You want me to leave the room?"
"Just for five minutes," you said, smoothing out the fabric of your clothes against your arm, trying to maintain an air of practical efficiency. "So I can change."
Shoto stared at you for a long, agonizingly quiet moment. His face was entirely deadpan, though a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away to anyone who knew how to read him. "I live here."
"I know you live here, Shoto."
"And we share this bed."
"We do. Every night."
"And I have seen you without clothes on," he stated. His voice was completely level, delivered with the casual, devastating frankness that only Shoto could manage—the kind of tone most people reserved for discussing the weather. "Multiple times. Last night, for instance."
A sudden, fierce wave of heat rushed straight to your face. You reached over, grabbing a discarded throw pillow from the armchair, and tossed it straight at his head. "Shoto! Don't just say things like that so casually!"
He caught the pillow effortlessly with his left hand without moving an inch. A small, rare smirk broke through his usual stoic expression, a flash of pure boyish mischief that made your stomach do a frantic flip. "I'm just stating a fact. I don't understand the sudden eviction notice. Is there a specific protocol I violated?"
"No, there's no protocol," you groaned, walking over to nudge his knee with yours, exasperated but completely charmed. "I'm just running late, and if you stay in here, you're going to distract me. Out. Go read about your noodles in the hallway or the kitchen."
You expected him to huff, press a quick, lazy kiss to your cheek, and finally wander out to the kitchen to wait for you. That was the standard trajectory of your playful bickering. But as the silence stretched across the sunlit bedroom, you realized the playful spark in his mismatched eyes had vanished, replaced by something heavier.
Shoto didn't move to get up. Instead, his posture stiffened. The thumb that had been loosely tracing the edge of the throw pillow went completely still. He set the pillow down beside him with agonizing slowness, his movements suddenly devoid of the relaxed, domestic warmth from just a moment prior.
When he looked back up at you, the faint trace of amusement was entirely gone. His gaze searched your face, intense and entirely unblinking, trying to read a subtext that wasn't actually there.
"Are you uncomfortable around me?" he asked softly.
The question hit the quiet room like a physical weight. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its teasing edge and returning to that quiet, fiercely guarded tone he used when he was distressed.
"What? No, Shoto, of course not—"
"Because if I have crossed a line, or if you feel like I have been overstepping your privacy, you can tell me," he interrupted gently, though his words carried a desperate undercurrent of self-reproach. He stood up from the bed. He didn't look angry; he looked profoundly unsettled. "I know I'm not always... perceptive. Fuyumi tells me that I can be dense about domestic matters. If my presence is bothering you while you get ready, I'll leave."
He took a step backward, away from you, toward the bedroom door.
You froze, the fabric of your dinner outfit suddenly feeling heavy in your hands. The prank—a silly little social media trend you’d seen earlier that week about treating your long-term partner like a complete stranger just to see their reaction—had backfired. You had anticipated a laugh, a stubborn refusal, or maybe even a playful eye-roll.
You had entirely forgotten that Shoto Todoroki, despite being a formidable pro hero who could level battlefields with a wave of his hand, still carried the fragile, hyper-vigilant heart of a boy who always assumed he was the one at fault. Because of his past, because of the rigid, clinical isolation of his upbringing, he took boundaries with an almost painful level of seriousness. If you asked for space, his default instinct wasn't to think you were joking; it was to worry that he had somehow caused you discomfort or distress.
"Shoto, wait," you said, reaching out a hand, but he was already stepping into the hallway.
He stopped just past the threshold, his hand resting on the frame of the sliding door. He looked back at you over his shoulder, his expression a mask of stoic compliance that broke your heart. He looked exactly like he did when he was suppressing his own feelings for the sake of someone else's comfort.
"I'll be in the living room," he said, his voice entirely too polite. "Take your time."
"Sho, stop," you pleaded, dropping your clothes onto the armchair and stepping quickly across the room.
He stayed perfectly still as you closed the distance between you, though his mismatched eyes flickered down to your bare feet, then back up to your face, filled with a quiet, anxious longing.
You reached out, wrapping your fingers around his left wrist—and gently tugged him back into the bedroom. He didn't resist, allowing himself to be pulled back into the space, but he kept a careful, tentative distance, as if waiting for permission to exist in your perimeter again.
"It was a joke," you confessed softly, looking up into his troubled eyes. "It was just a stupid prank, Shoto. I'm sorry."
He blinked, the rigid line of his jaw softening just a fraction. "A prank?"
"Yes. There’s this silly trend online where people ask their partners to leave the room to change, just to see how they react. I thought... I thought you’d just argue with me or tease me like you usually do. I didn't think you'd take it seriously." You let out a soft sigh, sliding your hand up from his wrist to cup his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your palm, and you felt the slight tension in his muscles begin to melt under your touch. "I am never uncomfortable around you. You could never overstep your bounds with me, Shoto. I love having you in here. I love sharing everything with you."
Shoto stared down at you, processing your words with the methodical deliberateness that defined him. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the distant hum of the Musutafu traffic far below.
Then, a deep, shuddering breath escaped his lips. The invisible armor he had put up in the hallway completely crumbled. He let his forehead drop forward, resting it against your shoulder with a soft thud. His broad shoulders slouched, all the tension bleeding out of his large frame at once as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.
"Don't do that again," he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin.
You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him tightly against you. Even when he was relaxing his weight into you, he was careful not to crush you, balancing his strength with a practiced tenderness. "I won't. I'm so sorry, love. I didn't mean to make you think you did something wrong."
"I thought..." He paused, his breath warm against your collarbone, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. "I thought you were growing tired of me. Or that I had done something to make you want distance. I know I can be... overwhelming."
"You are perfect," you corrected fiercely, running your fingers through the soft, split-colored strands of his hair, untangling the messy fringe at the back of his neck. "You are the easiest, most comforting person to be around. I wanted to play a trick on you because you're usually so unbothered, but you just had to go and be the most adorable, sweet boyfriend on the planet and ruin my fun."
Shoto let out a low, vibrating sound that was half-sigh, half-chuckle. He slowly lifted his head, looking down at you from a mere breath away. The vulnerability in his eyes was staggering, but the anxious cloud had entirely lifted, replaced by a soft, melting warmth that made your chest ache with affection.
A genuine, beautiful smile had broken across his face—the kind of smile that didn't make it to the media cameras, reserved exclusively for the quiet confines of your shared apartment. He reached down, his hands anchoring firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest until there was absolutely no space left between you.
"If it was a prank," he whispered, his turquoise and grey eyes locked onto yours with a sudden, playful intensity, "then I don't have to leave."
"No, you don't," you laughed, resting your hands on his broad shoulders. "But I really do need to change, Shoto. I'm going to be late for dinner."
"Let them wait," he murmured, leaning down to press his lips to yours.
The kiss was slow, deep, and utterly possessive, a silent reassurance that whatever brief insecurity had sparked in his mind was entirely gone. His hands warmed against your back, his left side radiating a comforting heat that seeped into your skin, effectively erasing any lingering chill from your shower. When he finally pulled back, his thumb traced a gentle path across your lower lip, his gaze heavy and entirely devoted.
"I'll help you pick out your jewelry," Shoto offered as he finally let go of your waist, though he didn't move more than a step away. He walked over to the dresser, picking up the watch you had set down earlier, turning it over. "But no more pranks like that. My heart can't handle your internet trends."
"Deal," you smiled, walking over to retrieve your outfit from the armchair, completely basking in the warm, amber glow of the setting sun and the quiet, unbreakable comfort of the man who shared your life.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
Hitoshi Shinso
The bedroom door 'groaned on its hinges, a slow, agonizing protest that perfectly mirrored the posture of the man slumping through it.
Hitoshi Shinso looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backward, and then perhaps run over by a vehicle. His hero costume was half-undone—the heavy, specialized capture scarf already draped like a dead snake around his left forearm, his dark purple hair standing up in even more catastrophic, gravity-defying spikes than usual.
He dropped his gear bag with a heavy, metallic thud that vibrated through the floorboards of your shared apartment, let out a sigh that sounded like a tire deflating, and face-planted directly into the mattress.
"Welcome home," you said, looking up from the dresser where you were currently rummaging through a stack of clean clothes.
A muffled groan was his only response. His voice came out thick, scratched raw from a night of shouting commands and baiting villains into talking. "If anyone asks, I died in the line of duty. Tell the agency to bury me in something soft."
"Rough patrol, huh?"
"A villain with a quirk that turns pavement into marshmallow fluff," Hitoshi muttered, rolling onto his side so he could blink up at you with one bleary, exhausted eye. "Do you know how hard it is to maintain a serious, intimidating hero presence when you’re actively sinking into strawberry-scented marshmallow? My boots are ruined. I need a shower, but moving requires muscles, and mine have gone on strike."
You chuckled, pulling a soft oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from the drawer. You held them against your chest and looked at him. "Well, you can hibernate in a minute. But first, do you mind stepping out for a second? I need to change."
Hitoshi didn’t move an inch. He just stared at you. The exhausted, dead-on-his-feet hero vanished, instantly replaced by the insufferable, sharp-tongued tease you had managed to fall in love with.
"I’m sorry," he muttered, his voice dropping into that low register that usually made villains freeze in terror but had a very different effect on you. "Did I walk into the wrong apartment? Because I could have sworn my name is on the lease, and that the person currently standing in front of me has been seen by me in far less than a pair of sweatpants."
"Hitoshi," you said, warningly, though a blush was already creeping up your neck. "Out. Just for two minutes."
He slowly raised his eyebrows, a deeply unimpressed, deadpan expression washing over his tired features. He didn't blink. He just let his head drop back onto the pillow, propping himself up slightly with one elbow as if he were settling in to watch a particularly unconvincing street performer.
"Two minutes," he repeated, flatly. "You’re kicking me out of my own bedroom—well, our bedroom—so you can change a shirt. A shirt that, if memory serves, is actually my shirt from when I was in UA."
"It's about privacy," you said, trying desperately to keep your face completely serious. You clutched the clothes tighter to your chest, leaning heavily into the bit. "Modesty is important, Shinso. We need boundaries in a healthy relationship. Now, please. Step into the hallway."
Hitoshi let out a short, breathy puff of laughter that was pure, unfiltered sarcasm. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, right where his voice changer usually pressed into his skin, leaving a faint red mark.
"Modesty," he muttered, the word tasting like a joke on his tongue. "Right. Because last weekend, when you accidentally locked yourself out of the bathroom while conditioning your hair, you definitely screamed for my help with the utmost modesty."
He leaned back further, a slow, knowing smirk finally breaking through his exhaustion. The shadows under his eyes didn't look quite as heavy now that his brain was actively engaged in picking apart your terrible execution of a prank.
"You’re doing a bit," he stated, his voice returning to its normal, casual drone. "You have that look on your face."
"I am completely serious," you insisted, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. "I just want some privacy. Is that so much to ask from my partner? A little respect for my personal space?"
Hitoshi sighed, a long, dramatic sound, and deliberately spread himself diagonally across the entire bed. He stretched his long legs out, utterly ruining your neat presentation of the duvet.
"If you wanted me out of the room, you should have just told me you ordered takeout and it's getting cold," he said, closing his eyes. "At least then I’d have an incentive to fight the gravity currently pinning me to this mattress. But this? Asking me to stand in the hallway like a punished schoolboy while you put on sweatpants? Please. I have a severe caffeine deficiency. I am legally exempt from participating in whatever Instagram trend you’re trying to replicate right now."
"It's not an Instagram trend!" you argued, though you were losing the battle against your own smile.
"Oh, really?" Hitoshi opened his eyes, fixing you with a piercing gaze. "Then what is it? A psychological experiment to see how fast you can induce an aneurysm in a tired pro hero? Because it’s working."
He shifted, propping his chin in his hand.
"Let's analyze the logic here," he continued, his tone dripping with that classic, dry wit that had once made his UA classmates want to shake him. "We have been dating for four years. We share a closet. The veil of mystery, my love, has not just been lifted—it has been shredded, burned, and the ashes were scattered over this very floor."
You crossed your arms, the clothes bunched up under your elbows. "You're a real drama queen, you know that?"
"I'm a realist," he corrected smoothly, a faint, genuine warmth softening the sharp edges of his smirk. "And realistically, I am too tired to stand up, let alone walk five feet to the door, turn the handle, stand in a drafty hallway, and wait for a cue that is inevitably going to end with you laughing at me."
He reached out, his long, pale fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, tugging just enough to make you shift your weight.
"Come here," he murmured, his voice losing some of its sarcastic bite, replaced by the deep, heavy drag of exhaustion. "Stop playing games and give me a reason to stay awake for another fifteen minutes. My brain is fried."
You finally let the serious facade drop, letting out a proper laugh as you tossed the clean clothes onto the desk chair. You stepped closer to the bed, looking down at the messy, crumpled form of your boyfriend. For all his sharp words and lazy deflections, the grip on your wrist was warm and grounding.
"Fine, you caught me," you admitted, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "It was a prank. I saw a video of someone doing it to their partner to see if they'd actually get offended or just confused."
"And what was the expected outcome?" Hitoshi asked, closing his eyes again as he dragged himself upward, shifting his body until his head was resting comfortably in your lap. He let out a contented hum, his sharp features relaxing completely as you automatically brought a hand up to weave your fingers through his messy, tangled purple hair. "Were you hoping I’d get all flustered and apologetic? 'Oh, I'm so sorry, let me give you your space!'" He mimicked a high-pitched, panicked voice that sounded absolutely nothing like him.
"Maybe a little," you teased, gently tugging at a particularly stubborn knot near the crown of his head. "A little chivalry wouldn't kill you."
"Chivalry died when I walked through this door," he muttered, leaning into the touch of your fingers. "Besides, you don't want chivalry. You want a reaction, and I am far too smart to fall for the oldest trick in the book."
"You're just lazy."
"I am strategically conserving my energy," he corrected, his voice growing fainter as the comfort of your lap and the rhythmic stroking of his hair began to take their toll. "There's a difference. Now... shut up and let me pretend the world doesn't exist for an hour."
You smiled down at him. "Okay, Nighthide. Sleep."
"Don't use my hero name to command me," he mumbled, his breathing already slowing down. "That's my gimmick..."
Within seconds, the deep, even rhythm of his chest told you he was out cold. You stayed right where you were, abandoning the clothes and the prank entirely, content to just be his soft place to land.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
Touya Todoroki (Dabi)
The mattress dipped under a sudden, heavy weight that smelled distinctively of cheap tobacco and scorched leather.
Touya didn’t bother changing out of his clothes. He just dragged his long, lanky frame across the sheets, propping his back against the headboard with a rough, grating sigh. His dark coat was slung somewhere near the front door, leaving him in his fitted white tank top. The silver staples holding his jaw and collarbones together glinted under the dim, buzzing lightbulbs of the hideout’s bedroom. He looked thoroughly wrecked, a faint trail of grey ash still dusting the sharp line of his collarbone.
"You look like shit," you said, not turning around from the warped wooden dresser where you were pulling out a clean shirt.
"Feel like it too," Touya rasped. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration that always sounded like it was scraping against sandpaper. He dragged a scarred, patchwork hand down his face, the pale blue of his eyes peering out from between his fingers. "Some low-tier hero thought he could corner me in an alley. Had a water quirk. Kept dousing my sparks. Fucking irritating."
"Did you kill him?"
"Left him a little crispy around the edges," he muttered, a cruel, lazy smirk tugging at the staples around his mouth. "He won't be playing with hoses anytime soon."
You pulled a soft, oversized t-shirt and loose shorts from the drawer, turning around to face him. "Glad you made it back in one piece. Now, do me a favor and step out for a minute? I need to change."
Touya didn’t blink. He just stared at you, his heavy eyelids drooping as that lazy, wicked smirk widened into something altogether filthy. He didn't make a move to get up. Instead, he slid a bit further down the mattress, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You're joking, right?" he grunted, a low chuckle rattling in his throat. "We’ve been sharing this cramped box of a room for six months, and suddenly you’re getting shy about a little skin?"
"I'm not getting shy," you sighed, shifting your weight. "I just want to change into my sleepwear without you staring holes through me with those creepy blue eyes."
"Creepy?" He let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. "Get real. You love these eyes. Especially when they're looking at you from a hell of a lot closer than this." He leaned his head back against the wall, his gaze dropping deliberately from your face, tracing the line of your throat, down to where your hands were clutching the fabric. "Besides, why the fuck should I leave? I'm exhausted. My legs feel like lead, and frankly, watching you strip down is the only decent entertainment I’m gonna get tonight."
"Touya, out," you said, your tone firming up, though the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you. "Two minutes. Go smoke a cigarette on the fire escape."
"Nah. It's raining," he said smoothly, not shifting an inch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack, flicking a tiny, bright blue flame alive with the tip of his thumb. He didn't light a cigarette; he just watched the flame dance along his fingers, reflecting in his pupils. "Tell you what. You want me gone, you’re gonna have to physically drag me out. And we both know how that ends. You get close enough to grab me, and I’m tearing those clothes off you myself."
"You're disgusting," you said, but there was a tremor of amusement in your voice.
"I’m a villain, sweetheart. Disgusting is in the job description," he muttered, letting the flame die. His voice dropped into a rough, intimate register that made your stomach do a sudden, sharp flip. "But if you're gonna stand there holding those clothes like a shield, you're just wasting time. Let me see what I’m working with tonight."
"You aren't 'working' with anything tonight, you're covered in soot and alleyway grime," you countered, taking a step back as he suddenly swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The boots hit the floorboards with a heavy thud. Touya stood up, his tall, dangerously thin frame uncoiling like a snake. He didn't walk so much as prowl, closing the distance between you before you could even register the shift in his energy. The heat radiating off him was immense—a constant, sweltering aura that always made the air in the room feel thick and suffocating.
He stopped right in front of you, the scent of burnt leather and smoke hitting you full force. He was filthy, his skin smudged with carbon, but his eyes were burning bright.
"Soot washes off," he murmured, his hand coming up to cup the side of your neck. His skin was rough, a mix of smooth, unburnt flesh and the rigid, gnarled texture of his purple scars. His thumb dragged lazily along your jawline, leaving a faint grey smudge on your skin. "And a little sweat never hurt anyone. In fact, I remember you screaming my name pretty loud the last time we got a little dirty in this bed."
The sheer intensity of his gaze was enough to melt whatever resolve you had left, but you bit the inside of your cheek, determined to keep the joke alive. You leaned back slightly against the edge of the dresser, your hands still holding the folded pile of clothes against your chest like a barricade.
"You're tracking ash all over the room, Touya," you muttered, looking down at his boots, then back up to his face. "And I'm serious. Go wait in the hallway. Just for a couple of minutes. I want some privacy."
Touya’s eyes narrowed, the lazy smirk fading just a fraction into an expression of sheer, unadulterated amusement. He didn't drop his hand from your neck; instead, his thumb continued its slow, rhythmic stroke against your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the raw, terrifying power humming just beneath his skin. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips.
He let out another low, rattling laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and directly into yours. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"
"I'm not lying," you insisted, though the proximity was making it incredibly hard to keep your voice steady. "I just... I want to change in peace. Is that so much to ask from my boyfriend?"
The word boyfriend usually made him scoff or roll his eyes—he preferred terms that were a little more dangerous, a little less domestic—but tonight, it only seemed to fuel his stubbornness. He tilted his head, his electric blue eyes boring straight into yours, stripping away every single layer of your defense. He knew you. He knew every twitch of your eyebrows, every shift in your posture, and the exact tone of your voice when you were actually upset versus when you were just trying to get a rise out of him.
"You're pulling something," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute certainty. "I don't know what kind of stupid game you're playing, but you picked the wrong night to try and trick me, sweetheart."
"It's not a game," you tried one last time, though the corners of your mouth were already betraying you, twitching upward.
"Yeah? Then why is your heart beating so fast?" Touya’s hand slid down from your jaw, his long, scarred fingers wrapping loosely around the side of your throat, feeling the rapid, telltale pulse. His grin turned triumphant, wicked, and entirely self-satisfied. "You're throwing a tantrum because I came home late, or you're just trying to see how long it takes for me to lose my mind. Which is it?"
You stared at him for a beat, realizing the jig was completely up. There was no out-smarting a guy who spent his entire life reading people's worst intentions in the shadows. With a defeated sigh, you let your shoulders drop and relaxed against the dresser, the fake sternness completely melting away.
"Fine. You caught me," you admitted, a genuine laugh finally breaking through. "It was a prank. I wanted to see if you'd actually leave or if you'd just get annoyed."
"A prank," Touya repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, mock-offended growl. He stepped even closer, his lanky frame effectively pinning you between his body and the heavy wooden dresser. The heat rolling off him was like standing next to an open furnace, making you dizzy in the best way possible. "You think it's funny to try and kick an exhausted, aching villain out of his own bed after he just spent the last three hours dealing with a glorified fire hydrant?"
"A little bit, yeah," you teased, tilting your chin up defiantly. "You're usually so dramatic, I thought you'd storm out and pout."
"I don't pout," he hissed, though there was no real heat behind the words. His blue eyes softened into something deeply possessive, his gaze dropping to your lips. "And I don't leave this room unless I'm taking you with me. You should know that by now."
"I do know," you whispered, the playful banter shifting into something much more intimate. You let go of the clothes in your hands, letting them drop carelessly onto the dresser behind you. You raised your arms, looping them around his neck, ignoring the faint scent of ash and the rough texture of the staples against your skin. "You're still filthy, though."
"I told you," Touya murmured, his hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity. He lifted you easily, setting you down on the edge of the dresser so you were at eye level with him. "Soot washes off. And right now, I have a much better idea of how we can both get clean."
He didn't wait for your response. His mouth slammed into yours with a rough, hungry desperation, his tongue sliding past your lips to claim you completely. The taste of him was always the same—bitter tobacco, and an underlying sweetness that belonged solely to you. He kissed you like he fought: aggressively, and leaving absolutely no room for escape.
Your fingers tangled in his stark white hair, pulling him closer as the heat in the room spiked, the ambient temperature rising with his mood. Touya groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding up under your shirt, his rough, scarred palms sending shivers straight down your spine as they pressed against your bare skin.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his breathing was ragged, his blue eyes dark and wild. He rested his forehead against yours, the slow smirk returning to his lips.
Without breaking eye contact, he slid his hands back down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the dresser. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, holding on as he carried you out of the bedroom and into the adjacent bathroom. He kicked the door shut behind him, the sound echoing in the space just before he shook off his boots and stepped into the spacious shower enclosure, reaching out blindly to twist the handle, clothes and all.
The blast of lukewarm water hit you both instantly, plastering his white hair to his forehead and drenching both of your clothes in seconds, but it did nothing to cool the sudden, fierce heat between you. Touya pressed your back against the tiled wall, the cool stone a sharp contrast to the blistering warmth of his body. He rasped, his thumb brushing against your wet lower lip, "I don't think you realise how much trouble you're in."
You leaned your head back against the tiles, a defiant, breathless smile touching your lips as the water streamed down your face. "Then stop talking and show me."
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
Shota Aizawa
The yellow glow of the desk lamp was the only thing cutting through the heavy, quiet darkness of the bedroom. It illuminated a pile of student essays, a half-empty mug of black coffee that had gone cold hours ago, and Shota Aizawa.
He was slouched in his chair, his shoulders hunched in a way that would make a physical therapist weep. His capture scarf was draped over the back of the seat like an oversized, exhausted snake, and his signature black apparel was unzipped halfway down his chest, revealing the wrinkled grey t-shirt underneath. His long, black hair was tied back in a messy, haphazard bun, though several stray strands had escaped to frame his face.
The only sound in the room was the humming of the air conditioner and the rhythmic, dry scratch of his red pen against the paper.
You stepped out of the bathroom, a stack of clean pajamas held tightly against your chest. You looked at him, then at the bed, then back to his hunched form.
"Hey, Shota?" you said softly.
The pen didn't stop. "Mhm."
"Do you mind stepping out for a few minutes? I need to change."
The scratching of the pen paused. For a second, the room was completely silent. Then, Shota slowly tilted his head back, letting it rest against the top of his chair. He didn't turn around to look at you. He just stared at the ceiling, his eyes blinking slowly in the dim light.
"Say that again," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"I asked if you could step out into the hallway," you repeated, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "Just for five minutes. I want to change into my pajamas."
Slowly, deliberately, Shota rotated his chair. He rested his elbows on his knees, intertwining his fingers, and fixed you with a flat, entirely unimpressed stare. His expression was completely blank—the face of a man who had faced down high-tier villains, survived near-fatal injuries, and dealt with a class of chaotic teenagers for nearly every year for the past decade, and yet found this specific request to be the most baffling thing he had encountered all his life.
"You want me," Shota said, gesturing vaguely to himself, "to leave my own bedroom. Where I am currently working on mid-term evaluations. So you can take off your clothes."
"Yes."
He stared at you for a long, agonizing beat. He didn't blink. "Why?"
"Because I want some privacy?" you offered, though it sounded weak even to your own ears.
Shota let out a long, slow breath through his nose—a sound that was half-sigh, half-scoff. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his dark eyes tracking the way you were clutching the pajamas like a shield.
"(f/n)," he sighed. "We have been living together for over nine years. We share a lease, a bed, and a cat that currently prefers sleeping on your chest over mine. I have seen you at your absolute worst and best."
He paused, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, a dry, deadpan edge cutting through his voice. "More importantly, I have seen every single square inch of your body. Multiple times. In varying degrees of lighting. There is absolutely nothing hiding under those clothes that is a mystery to me. So, logically speaking, making me get up, walk out into a cold hallway, and stand there like a stranger while you put on a t-shirt is a massive waste of energy."
"It's modesty thing," you argued, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks despite yourself. "Can't I change without you staring for once?"
"I'm not staring. I am grading. If I wanted to look at you, I would. But right now, Bakugo’s complete disregard for property damage is taking priority. You changing in the corner is not going to distract me."
"So you won't look?"
"I didn't say that," Shota murmured, his hand dropping back down. A tiny, almost imperceptible quirk appeared at the corner of his chapped lips—the closest he ever came to a smirk when he was this exhausted. "If you're going to stand there and make a production out of it, I might glance over. It’s a habit. Hero training. I'm conditioned to notice sudden movements in my peripheral vision."
You bit your lip, trying desperately to keep your face straight. The prank was supposed to evoke some sort of dramatic sigh before he begrudgingly dragged himself out of the room. Instead, you were getting a full-blown, deeply logical lecture on the mechanics of his peripheral vision and the sheer inefficiency of walking ten feet to the hallway.
"So you're absolutely refusing to give me privacy?" you asked, taking a step forward and puffing out your chest in mock offense. "Shota, I am shocked. Truly. Where is your chivalry?"
Shota’s gaze drifted from your face down to the stack of clothes you were holding like armor, then back up. He didn't look flustered in the slightest. If anything, the slight marks under his eyes seemed to heavy further with profound exhaustion.
"My chivalry quota went down when I agreed to let you take over three-quarters of the closet," he said smoothly, picking his red pen back up and twirling it between his calloused fingers.
He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours with terrifying intensity. "If you're trying to prove a point, you're failing. Logically, what is your end goal here?"
"I just think a gentleman would respect my boundaries," you huffed, trying to suppress the giggle threatening to bubble up in your throat.
He let out a low, gravelly chuckle—a sound that vibrated straight through your chest. "Boundaries. Right. The same boundaries that involve you kicking me in your sleep to steal the blankets? Or the boundaries where you regularly use my lap as a footrest without asking while I'm trying to review case files?"
"Those are different," you said quickly. "Those are... relationship perks."
"And standing out in a freezing hallway while my coffee dies a second death is a relationship penalty," Shota countered, his voice dropping into that smooth, commanding tone he used when he was shutting down a class argument. "I’m not moving. If it bothers you that much, change in the bathroom. The light is already on, and it requires zero expenditure of my energy."
You groaned softly, realizing that breaking his stubborn logic was going to take a bit more effort. "But the bathroom floor is cold, Shota! And I want to change here. Why are you being so difficult?"
"I am the definition of low-maintenance," he muttered, turning his chair a fraction of an inch back toward his desk, though his eyes remained fixed on you. "You're the one initiating a logistical nightmare for a five-minute task. Change, don't change, or sleep in what you have on. But do it quietly. I have ten more essays to get through before I can even consider closing my eyes."
You stood there for a moment, watching him. The dim yellow light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the faint, pale scar beneath his right eye. He looked entirely immovable, a solid anchor of sheer apathy against your antics. It was maddening how well he knew you, and even more maddening how utterly immune he was to being rattled in his own space.
"Fine," you sighed, letting your shoulders drop as you took a couple of steps toward the edge of the bed. "But if I catch you peeking, I'm not getting you coffee tomorrow."
"A risk I'm willing to take," Shota murmured, already lowering his pen back to the margins of a terribly formatted essay.
You turned your back to him, unbuttoning your shirt slowly, deliberately creating rustling fabric sounds to see if he'd actually look. In the quiet of the room, every slide of cloth felt magnified. You glanced over your shoulder.
Shota hadn't moved an inch. His red pen was moving in sharp, decisive strokes, slashing through a particularly horrifying sentence. He was completely dialed in, his focus terrifyingly absolute.
With a small smile, you finally let the act drop, slipping into your soft pajamas and letting out a contented sigh as the warmth settled in. You tossed your discarded clothes into the hamper by the door and padded softly across the carpet, stopping right behind his chair.
Without a word, you leaned down, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck and resting your chin on his shoulder. He smelled like old paper, bitter coffee, and the faint, comforting scent of mint.
Shota didn't flinch. He just leaned back slightly into your touch, his head tilting back just enough to press against your cheek. The tense line of his shoulders softened, just a fraction, under the weight of your embrace.
"Done with your performance?" he asked, his voice low and private in the dark room.
"Yeah. You're no fun to prank."
"Good. Pranks are irrational," he said, though his free hand reached up to gently clasp your forearm, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle against your skin. "Now let me finish this."
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
Keigo Takami
The late-evening sun was dipping just below the horizon, painting the sky outside the high-rise apartment in bruised shades of purple and gold. Inside the bedroom, the atmosphere was soft, quiet, and warm.
Keigo Takami—known to the rest of the world as the razor-sharp, perpetually moving Number Two Hero, Hawks—was currently reduced to a heap of golden-blonde hair and oversized crimson wings on the center of your shared bed. His heavy, fur-lined hero jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, leaving him in just his tight black undershirt and baggy cargo pants. He was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, lazily scrolling through his agency phone with one hand. His massive red wings were half-unfurled, spilling off the mattress like a plush, feathered comforter, a few loose primaries twitching rhythmically.
The soft click of the bathroom door opening drew his attention.
You stepped out into the bedroom, clutching a folded pile of oversized pajamas tightly against your chest like a shield. You paused by the edge of the dresser, looking at him, then down at your feet, trying your absolute best to channel a sudden, intense wave of bashful modesty.
"Hey, Keigo?" you called out softly, keeping your voice just hesitant enough to pique his interest.
Keigo didn't even look up from his phone screen, a lazy, habitual grin already tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, gorgeous? What's up?"
"Do you mind... stepping out into the hallway for a few minutes?" you asked, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "I need to change into my pajamas."
The silence that followed was immediate, but it wasn't a shocked silence. It was the heavy, loaded silence of a predator watching a particularly amusing prey animal walk directly into a trap.
The scrolling motion of his thumb stopped. Slowly, Keigo rolled over onto his back, burying his head into the plush pillows while his enormous wings flared outward, spanning nearly the entire width of the king-sized bed. He tucked his hands behind his head, his golden-blonde hair flaring out in messy, sleep-tousled spikes. When he finally looked at you, his amber eyes were bright, narrowed, and absolutely gleaming with a dangerous, playful mischief.
"Step out?" Keigo repeated, his voice dropping into a low, honeyed purr that sent a compulsory shiver down your spine. He tilted his head, his sharp, bird-like gaze tracking the way you were white-knuckling your pajamas. "Into the hallway? Of our own apartment?"
"Yes," you said, trying to maintain a straight face. "Just for five minutes. Please?"
Keigo let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his wings puffing up with pure amusement. He didn't look flustered; he looked like Christmas had come early, and you had just handed him the wrapping paper.
"Babe, I say this with all the love in my heart, but you've got to be kidding me," he chuckled, rolling effortlessly off the bed. He drifted over to you, his movements terrifyingly fluid, his bare feet making absolutely no sound against the hardwood floor. Before you could even blink, he was standing directly in your space, close enough that you could feel the radiating heat of his wings.
He leaned down, bringing his face level with yours, those dark, dramatic markings around his eyes crinkling as he grinned. "You want me to leave? Now, why would I do a silly thing like that when the view in here is about to get so much better?"
"Keigo, come on," you whined, taking a half-step back, though your back immediately hit the solid wood of the dresser. "I’m being serious. I want some privacy."
"Privacy?" He echoed the word like it was a foreign concept, a soft, teasing lilt in his tone. He reached out, a single, warm index finger hooking under your chin to gently tilt your face upward. He didn't press, but the sheer weight of his presence was overwhelming. "Sweetheart, we’ve been dating for years. I’ve literally carried you out of the shower when you were too tired to walk. There isn't a single part of you that I don't know by heart."
He stepped even closer, his chest nearly brushing against the pajamas you were holding. His crimson wings curved forward, wrapping around the two of you like a plush, secluded tent, effectively cutting off the rest of the bedroom and trapping you in a cocoon of soft feathers and amber warmth.
"In fact," Keigo whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips for a lingering, agonizing second before darting back to yours, "if you're feeling a little shy tonight, I can think of a dozen ways to help you get those clothes off. And none of them involve me standing out in a drafty hallway like a rejected puppy."
Your heart gave a violent, traitorous thud against your ribs. This was the problem with trying to prank a man who lived and breathed shameless confidence. You had expected a whine, or maybe a dramatic complain about how unfair you were being. Instead, he had turned the tables so fast you had whiplash, turning a simple request into an open invitation for a masterclass in flirting.
"It's a modesty thing," you tried to argue, your voice wavering slightly as the blush you had been trying to fake suddenly became very, very real. "Can't I just change without you staring?"
"Who said anything about staring?" Keigo hummed, his free hand sliding down to rest against the dresser right next to your hip, effectively pinning you in place. "Staring is for strangers. I prefer appreciating. There’s a distinct artistic value to it, you know? And besides, as a pro hero, it's my civic duty to remain vigilant and observant of my surroundings at all times."
"I am not a villain, Hawks," you grumbled, using his hero name to try to inject some authority into your voice.
It backfired immediately. Hearing his hero name only made his grin widen, his eyes darkening with a sudden, wicked heat.
"No, you're much worse," he murmured, leaning in until his lips were just brushing against the shell of your ear, his warm breath hitching your pulse. "You're a distraction. A highly dangerous, devastatingly beautiful distraction. And right now, my situational awareness is telling me that you are wearing far too many layers."
His hand shifted from the dresser, his long, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the edge of the pajamas you were clutching. He didn't pull, but the subtle, teasing tension was there. "Come on. Let me help. I can have you out of those clothes in fifteen seconds flat. Five seconds, if I use the feathers, but I think a personal touch is much more romantic, don't you?"
The sheer, unfiltered audacity of him was too much. The heat in your cheeks was reaching a boiling point, and the tight, suffocating grip you had on your pajamas was slipping because your hands were starting to sweat. You could feel the vibrant energy radiating off him, the absolute certainty that he had won this little psychological warfare.
You broke.
"Okay, okay! Stop! It’s a prank," you burst out, your shoulders slumping as you let out a loud, defeated groan. You pushed your hands against his chest, trying to create some distance, though it felt like trying to move a mountain draped in feathers. "It was just a joke."
Keigo froze. For a split second, his brilliant, fast-processing mind actually sputtered to a halt. Then, slowly, his head tilted to the side as his eyes searched your face, looking for the punchline.
"A... prank?" he repeated.
"Yes! A prank!" you huffed, hiding your flaming face behind the stack of pajamas. "I saw this thing online where people ask their partners to leave the room so they can change, just to see if they get flustered or upset. You were supposed to complain, or look confused, or at least feel a little awkward! You weren't supposed to... overwhelm me!"
The silence returned, but this time, it lasted for only three seconds before Keigo completely lost it.
His entire body shook with mirth, his massive crimson wings flaring outward and ruffling in his amusement, sending a small gale of wind through the room that stirred the curtains. He leaned his forehead against your shoulder, his golden hair tickling your collarbone as he laughed so hard his chest heaved against yours.
"Oh my god," he gasped, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he finally looked up, his face flushed with genuine delight. "You were trying to fluster me? Sweetheart, love of my life... I am a public figure who gets hit on by reporters for a living. You're going to have to do a lot better than asking for a little privacy if you want to rattle my cage."
"I see that now," you muttered into your pajamas, feeling incredibly foolish but unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. "You're shameless."
"Guilty as charged," Keigo beamed, finally stepping back just enough to give you some breathing room, though his wings remained curved around you like a protective barrier. He reached out, gently tugging the pajamas down from your face so he could look into your eyes. His expression had softened, the teasing glint melting into something incredibly warm, fond, and deeply devoted.
"But hey, for the record?" he murmured, his thumb reaching up to gently wipe a stray strand of hair away from your forehead. "I highly appreciate the effort. Even if it completely backfired."
"Shut up," you laughed softly, leaning your head against his chest.
Keigo wrapped his arms fully around you now, burying his face into your hair and inhaling deeply. His feathers settled, wrapping tightly around the two of you, shutting out the rest of the world until it was just the two of you in your own little crimson universe.
"Next time, just ask me to help you change," he whispered roguishly against your ear, unable to help himself. "I promise I'll be much more cooperative."
"Don't push your luck, bird-brain."
fin-
(i needed to make one of my own fics based on this prompt lowk)
