next chapter should be about Shiratorizawa!
how it feels to try find a fanfic but all you find is smut
— umibe no etranger matching icons
• reblog/like if you save it please
devoted to you ૮ ྀི◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ྀིა
katsuki bakugo who makes love to you with a tenderness you didn’t know he possessed—he refuses to call it ‘fucking’ says it feels too crude, too disrespectful to describe what you both share. it’s not just about desire, it’s about love, about trust, about the quiet moments where his world feels like it begins and ends with you.
katsuki bakugo who starts by holding your hand, rough fingers brushing against your soft skin, and kisses your fingertips one by one. then your knuckles, each press of his lips slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every curve of your hand. he works his way up to your arm, leaving warm, lingering kisses along the way, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your wrist, the curve of your elbow, until he reaches the crook of your neck. he plants a few soft kisses there, his breath warm against your skin, but never leaves marks. he doesn’t need to. others might talk about ‘claiming’ but that’s not him. he doesn’t need proof for anyone else—he knows you’re his, just as much as he’s yours.
katsuki bakugo who never rushes your time together. he’s not in any hurry to get anywhere. he takes his time, savoring every moment, every touch, every sound that escapes your lips. he wants to make you feel good—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, in ways that only he knows how. he says it’s how a man should love his woman, with care, with devotion, with the kind of passion that builds slow and steady, like a flame he never wants to burn out. it’s not just about making love—it’s about showing you, with every kiss, every touch, just how deeply he loves you.
katsuki bakugo who hangs onto every word that slips from your beautiful lips like it’s gospel. it doesn’t matter what you say, he’s ready to obey without a second thought, no hesitation, no questions asked. you want to try something new? he’s already asking how and where you want him, his crimson eyes burning with anticipation as he waits for you to guide him. show him, teach him—he’s all yours to mold.
you want to have full control, to flip the dynamic and make him yours to command? oh, that’s his favorite. the way you take the lead, the way you look down at him with that confidence he loves so much, makes his pulse race. nothing gets him going like being yours to use, to please, to satisfy. he’ll follow your every move, hang onto your every demand, and do it all with a smirk because there’s nothing he loves more than surrendering himself to you.
you want him to get on his knees and beg? he’s already there, the second the thought crosses your mind. no words needed—he knows. and when you finally do speak, telling him what you want, his knees hit the ground faster than his pride can protest. for you, pride doesn’t matter. ego doesn’t exist. it’s you—your words, your desires, your commands—and he’d do anything to give you exactly what you want.
and if he ever did say no to you, even once? well, that’s not him. no way, no chance. katsuki bakugo who jokes that you might as well shoot him in the head if he ever dared deny you.
katsuki bakugo who is absolutely, undeniably, head over heels for you—like, beyond saving. it’s almost embarrassing how smitten he is, but he couldn’t care less about what anyone thinks. if someone asks him a simple question, somehow, the whole conversation gets derailed, and suddenly, it’s all about you.
"oh, that reminds me." he’ll start, and then it’s off to the races. "my girl loves that kind of stuff. did you know she—" and there he goes, talking about your favorite foods, the way you light up when you laugh, how you always manage to make him feel like he’s the luckiest guy on the planet.
it doesn’t matter who’s listening—his friends, his colleagues, hell, even strangers. katsuki can’t stop singing your praises. he’ll call you ‘amazing’ and ‘beautiful’ like it’s a fact of life, like the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. and don’t even get him started on the future.
he’s already got it all planned out. every time he talks about you, it’s with this quiet, determined confidence. "she’s gonna be my wife one day." he’ll say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. there’s no ‘if’ in his mind, only ‘when.’ "and the mother of my brats." he adds with a little smirk, already imagining the future—kids with wild blond hair and that fiery spirit he loves so much in you.
he’s completely, utterly gone for you, and everyone knows it. and honestly? he wouldn’t have it any other way.
cw: fluff, reader is sick, and hates being taken care of, but toji will not allow it, domesticity, established relationship, divorced dad!toji is the perfect caretaker :3. masterlist. wc: 1.4k.
divorced dad!toji is indisputably good at taking care of you when you’re sick.
it only makes sense—you learn a thing or two about caring for others once kids come into the picture, and he’s been doing it alone for most of their lives, so by the time the second flu season came around (when he knew he’d have whiney, mopey children to look after), he was an official expert concerning caring for others when they’re ill. and sure, you’re not his kid, but why are you so different?
“it’s just a cold,” you croak, tossing off the blankets bundled around your body as you wobble to your feet, “not the plague.”
he seizes you in his grip when you stumble forward, your glazed eyes slow to blink. the room is spinning. it’s tilting, too—back and forth, over and over until your head is dizzy and the only thing you can think about is collapsing back on the couch. where you belong, toji had scolded, wrapping you in a soft throw and easing you back onto the cushion.
the last thing you had expected of him was to be a fussy mother hen, quirking his brows at you each time you insisted you were fine. that look shut you up, your lips sealing and knees weak with the urge to appease the difficult man that your partner had morphed into at the first sign of a sore throat.
it had started as something bearable and easy enough to repay: he ran all your baths and lulled you to sleep every night with blunt nails on your scalp and cooked you hot meals and kept you cozy.
each morning, he’ll discretely crack open the window and its blinds, ensuring some sun on your skin and air in your lungs. it was still more than you’d asked for, but you couldn’t refuse him. besides, a little pampering didn’t hurt.
but that was before you’d stared too long in the depth of his eyes and seen what was buried under the mossy gravel in them.
love—enough of it for the both of you. enough whispered adoration to survive the drought from your end, where you seem more inclined to wither away in your illness than smile at the consideration he’s been offering you.
he’s been given little more than grumbles these past few days when he stops to coo at you. does that matter to him? it doesn’t seem like it—if his cooing and grinning are any indication when you huff at him—and that frightens you.
what does it mean to be held without limits—to be unraveled and split open, then cherished unconditionally? devoured by it to the bone?
it means being caught by gentle palms and a pot of soup bubbling on the stove.
unstable in the warm embrace of his biceps, you almost bite your tongue and throw him a pout and lay back down—almost sink into his arms and let him cradle you like the baby he insists you are, his cold hands soothing on your feverish face. as oppressive as he is, he’s hard to resist (smile, lips, eyes and the wrinkles by them) and you almost don’t.
almost.
he isn’t your father (as much as he’ll act like it for the time being) and you aren’t his baby (as much as he’ll debate that), and the last thing you want to be is helpless.
he has a life—kids, work, hobbies—and the free time he does have shouldn’t be wasted on pacing around at your every beck and call, his green eyes alight with concern at your mere sniffles.
the profound tenderness in toji’s gaze is a heavy burden on your throat and ribs, prickly like a cough and gaping like a wound. it’s been days of this—of his kisses on your sweaty forehead and his hands cupping hot mugs of tea and his love engraved in every movement, touch, breath.
being taken care of feels funny; foreign, like another language. it feels strange.
it feels perfect.
“fever,” he mumbles with a hand on your cheek, the other rubbing circles on the small of your back. “real bad one, too. dammit.”
he rummages through your blank stare for a moment and finds what he’s looking for there, his lips cold and sure on your own, thumb stroking your cheek.
he keeps doing this—kissing you and keeping you near, always a tug away despite how groggy and gross you are. it isn’t that he doesn’t know you can get him sick—it’s that he doesn’t have it in him to care. isn’t that perfect?
the sun is in half-bloom; honeyed, delicate, and encircling the crown of his head and showing him for what he really is. it dances at his fingertips as they brush your jaw, on a mission to crumble your resolve and the thickness of your skull as if to peer inside, like a shivering animal seeking refuge in a frozen carcass.
“i can”—you push out of his grasp, wobbly like a fawn—”take care of myself.”
his smile is fond. he knows you.
“i know.” his hands find their way back to you (they always do), wandering, loving and covered in the intimacy of sunlight through blinds and everything he doesn’t say—and everything he does. “but i want to take care of you. you still hungry?”
the soup is at a rapid boil on the stovetop, wafting steam and smelling of bay leaves and parsley. it makes your stomach curdle. are you going to feed it to me, too? you nearly bite, but it wouldn’t be worth it.
if there’s one thing you’ve learned since you came down with a cold, it’s that he seemingly can’t be hurt by your words, especially in your sorry state. like a hissing kitten showing its fangs.
when your stomach grumbles, he decides for you, ruffling your hair and moving to mix the soup, and you scoff, following close behind with a sway to your step.
he hums absentmindedly while he stirs, clicking off the stove and pulling a bowl from the cupboard. the soup is runny with broth and thick with vegetables and noodles, hearty and homemade and your favorite.
there’s something content about him as he wades through domesticity, an ever present softness to his features while he’s in your company. he beams at you like you’re something to care for—a garden worth tending to, full of weeds and potential.
is there a moment in a relationship when menial, tedious tasks become something you do with love? you slump into the counter, eyeing him while he whistles and pours out your soup, taking a taste for himself and sighing.
a lurch rattles your heart in your ribcage. what wouldn’t you do for him? he grabs the bowl and pulls you back to the couch, letting you sit before handing you the soup. he drags the blankets you’d tossed away from the floor and fluffs them around you, placing his cool hand on your neck. drowning—that’s what this is.
“i can take care of myself,” you repeat, this time, a sharp snap, a white-knuckled grip on the bowl, and you brace for the impact of toji’s response, for the dip to ease on the couch as he walks away from your hunched, cagey form. you wait for him to run and—
“i know,” he reminds, tilting your face toward his own. the sun is doing that thing again—where it hugs him and strips him down until the soft, delicate underbelly of his intentions is revealed. it’s hard to agree—it’s impossible to refuse. “i told you i want to—”
“but i’ll get you sick—”
“and if i get sick, you can take care of me like i took care of you.” he steals your palm and kisses the heart of it, watching you as he does it. “but for now, let me do this.”
let me do this—it’s the only thing he’ll ask of you. your nails smooth over the stubble on his cheek when he nuzzles into it. you’re sick, and he’ll take care of you or die trying. somehow, you’d managed to weasle your way into that group of people whom he regards with nothing but infatuation—that group he’ll make soup for and listen to them groan and whine while he does it.
the evening is golden and beating with a heart of its own as it regresses into the night. amber sunshine reflects off of worn, endlessly padded on wooden floors and the messy coffee table and black television screen.
it glints off a cup of day-old tea and the spoon in your soup.
is it ever worth it to let your flesh gape under the fingers of a strange hand? to let them make you bleed should they want you to?
he wraps you in that blanket again, and you sink into the couch.
yes, you think, yes.
new choso illustration by gege 💜
the purple theme and flowers choso is holding are so significant it represents admiration and honor but also that a death came too soon. purple was the perfect choice for him.
Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust (2000)
၄၃ 𓍯 𓋭 ୨୧ ౨ৎ 𝜗𝜚 𐙚 ྀི ᧔o᧓ ꔫ
ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ⪩⪨ ೀ 𓋜 ⑅ 𝜗𝒞 ꒰୨୧꒱ Ⳋ᧙
၄⋆၃ ꢤꢆ ୨९ ୨୧┈୨୧ ೀ
೨౿ ᠀𓏲 ϑ𐑞 ꣑୧ ︶ིྀᩧ ೇ
𑁥౿ ꢾ𓍢ִ໋ 𐒘𝛠 ϑℓ ၄၃
^ྀི᪲ ୭ৎ 𝝑𓏲 𝝑𝝔 𝝑𝑒
໑᱖ ꪆৎ 𑁥𓍢 𓊆ྀི 𓊇ྀི 𑁥𓏲
♡ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ୨୧ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ୨ৎ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ฅ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ೀ
☆ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⑅ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ♩ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ◌ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ꕤ
𓋜 ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ๑ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ៸៸៸ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ‹𝟹 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ʚ
ꔫ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ 𐂯 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ◝ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ᵎᵎ
꒰ ꒱ྀི ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ꒰ ꒱ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ૮ ა ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ฅ ฅ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ก ก
⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⊃ ⊂ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ՞ ՞ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ﻌ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹏
symbols and kaomojis
ʢ-̫͡-ʔ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ꨄ︎͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏✩͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏Ꮼ͏͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏✻͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ˟̑.₊̣̇.*̑♬
ஃ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏༚*ᘡ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ஐຸ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏(′⅄‵)͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏~̑˟̑ෆ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ꩵ
꒭꒱꒹꒟✩⃛͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏(*ꀛꀦꀛ*)͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏︶꒷꒦͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏꧁꧂
It's cold and Aizawa hasn’t offered you his coat.
You two have been seeing each other for the past three months, you’ve known him longer. There’s little dates when you both have the time, at his place but it’s usually yours. He spends the night, you order take out when you both can’t bare to cook, and you spend your nights reading while he dozes next to you.
Its quite domestic for such a new relationship.
And it’s not like you wouldn’t call him chivalrous, he’s as chivalrous as you like in a guy, a good in-between. But you wish he would look at you and notice that you’re shivering.
Now your footsteps are getting heavier with each passing moment, the aggravation becoming more and more apparent on your features as the chill in the air gets colder and colder. You think you might kill him, and you secretly hope he looks your way–
“Are you okay?” Shouta asks, circling his arm around your waist. He pulls you against him and the warmth is good for the moment.
You’re still mad, or at least you want to stay mad. “Just say you hate me.”
He’s grinning now, its subtle but it’s still a grin. And you’re tempted to push him away and continue sulking in your annoyance.
“You’ve been shivering for the past 10 minutes, you don't want my jacket?” He’s teasing you, his hand squeezing the flesh above your hip, through your clothes. You can sort of smell his cologne but it’s too faint compared to the smell of earthiness and crisp air.
You look at him, really look at him, and you can’t help the smile growing on your face. It makes your cheeks hurt in the cold air.
“I thought you were gonna be a gentleman and keep me warm,” You reply, more sugary than you’d like to come off.
He’s looking at you with that lazy look in his eyes, the same one he gives you before he’s about to tell you some boring joke in bed.
He chuckles dryly and pulls away from you, taking his coat off and draping it over your shoulders. And you can’t help but think he looks cute in his fitted henley shirt.
“Is that warm enough?” He presses a chaste kiss into your temple before wrapping an arm around your waist for a second time.
You mumble a quick “yeah” and lean into him.