Everything He Does | S. Todoroki

JADEEE I LOVE UR SMAUS they are so yummy

I LOCE YOU!!!!

i used to lurk on tumblr bad and i stalked u constantly so ur actually a big inspiration 😛

hii!! i love ur smaus i read the shinso and dabi fatherhood ones and they were amazing 🩷🩷

I wanted to request a fatherhood smau with either monoma or iida and ofc no pressure 🫶🏻

parenting.exe | t. iida

tenya iida is doing his best. you're doing... something. your child is doing whatever they want

happy birthday bakugo i’m greening out in your honor

happy birthday bakugo i’m rolling one up in your honor

december, again | d. kaminari

you wrote "december, again" about heartbreak. you didn't expect to meet someone who'd sing every word back like he'd lived it too.

the green room was quiet—dim and humming with low light, the scent of hot tea and stage dust clinging to the corners. you sat cross-legged on the worn velvet couch, cradling a chipped mug between your palms, listening to the soft static of the soundcheck being patched through the in-ear monitors coiled beside you.

your guitar sat in its stand nearby, already tuned, the strap worn from years of shows and nerves. you had done this so many times before—but tonight felt different.

tokyo was the biggest venue on the tour so far. a full room. a sold-out show. an unfamiliar city and a familiar ache in your chest. you'd played coffee shops, tiny festival tents, even the occasional college auditorium—but this was your first international stage, and the butterflies were relentless.

you glanced at your phone, already on do not disturb, but still lit up with a few unread messages. one was from your tour manager. one from your sister. and one, tucked between them, was a twitter notification.

@lightningmcme

im the guy in the front row screaming every word. respectfully

you smiled without meaning to. your thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer than necessary, rereading the tweet. it was stupidly charming—just like all his other tweets.

you remembered him. the blonde with the ridiculous username. he'd been tweeting about your music for years. always saying something half-sincere and half-stupid, like your lyrics had personally destroyed him in the grocery store or that he'd cry if you ever released a deluxe version.

and he always meant it. every word.

you weren't supposed to follow fans back—not often, anyway. but his account had popped up more times than you could count. sweet. supportive. never creepy. just... soft.

so when you followed him and sent a quick thank you, you hadn't expected the all-caps panic or the flustered spiral of gratitude. you definitely hadn't expected to still be messaging him days later. he was funny. kind. endearingly honest. it was easy.

and now he was here. somewhere in that crowd. front row, he'd said. you hadn't looked yet. didn't dare. not until the lights hit you.

you pressed your hand to your chest, just for a second, trying to calm the stupid flutter that rose there.

"two minutes," someone called from the hallway.

you stood slowly, adjusting your mic pack, and reached for your guitar. as you walked toward the wings, the sounds of the crowd drifted in—laughter, chatter, low excitement building into something tangible. the air buzzed.

the lights backstage flickered as the crew called final cues. you did one last breath check, settled your fingers on the strings, and exhaled.

showtime.

the stage lights washed over you in a warm gold as you stepped out, your guitar slung across your shoulder. a hush fell over the audience, the kind that always made your heart beat a little harder.

"hi," you said into the mic, breath catching on the tail end of a smile. "i'm... really honored to be here tonight. i've been writing songs in my bedroom since i was sixteen, and somehow you all made it feel like something real."

soft cheers rippled through the audience. somewhere near the front, someone whooped.

you scanned the barricade briefly, and there he was—blond hair tousled, jacket sleeves rolled up to his elbows, absolutely beaming. he looked like he hadn't blinked since you walked onstage. mouth already forming the lyrics before you even began.

denki.

you felt a grin pull at your lips.

"this first song..." you said, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. "it's called 'december, again'. it's about holding onto something long after it's let go of you.

the opening chord rang clear. you let yourself fall into it.

i bought your favorite drink out of habit left it in the fridge 'til it went bad wore your sweater out in public just to see if anyone would ask

you sang like you were remembering every ache in real time. the lights were low and soft, like candlelight, and you could hear the audience singing with you.

your name still fits wrong in my mouth but it's the only thing i don't spit out

the lights dimmed slightly, drawing the audience closer. you caught sight of denki mouthing the words, his hands clasped against the barricade like he didn't trust himself not to float away.

it's december, again and i swore i'd be fine but the lights look like your headlights and the cold feels like that night when you left without saying goodbye and i still stand by the door like i'm waiting for you to come back in it's december, again and i'm missing you like it just happened

the audience went silent as you strummed your guitar. it was a silence that proved they were listening. really listening.

friends ask how i'm doing i lie like it's my second language there's still boxes in my closet of the pieces i can't manage

a girl in the third row wiped her eyes. you caught her movement out of the corner of your eye and softened your voice.

i sleep better with the TV on but you still show up when the volume's gone

it's december again and i swore i'd be fine but the lights look like your headlights and the cold feels like that night when you left without saying goodbye and i still stand by the door like i'm waiting for you to come back in it's december, again and i'm missing you like it just happened do you think of me at all? when it starts to snow when someone plays our song too slow i burned all the letters but not the words i still remember what i never heard

you opened your eyes again and let them rest on him. denki. he hadn't moved. his expression was soft, reverent, like he'd never seen anything more important than you at that moment.

it's december, again and the silence is loud you're still gone but i'm not proud of the way i keep breaking like it's some kind of vow and i still stand by the door like i don't know how this ends it's december, again and i'm missing you like it just happened

the last chord faded into a hush.

a beat of silence.

then the applause began—gentle, reverent. a swell of warmth.

you scanned the crowd.

denki was still at the barricade.

still glowing.

not in a flashy, spotlight kind of way—but in the way someone looks when they've found something they didn't know they needed.

you played the rest of your set like you were singing just for him.

⋆˙⟡

when you stepped offstage, your hands were still buzzing. you passed your guitar to one of the techs, accepted a bottle of water with shaking fingers, and headed straight for the security staff near the wing.

"hey," you said. "can i ask a favor?"

one of them looked up. "depends. how weird is it?" you smiled. "sweet blond boy. front row. looks like he sings along to everything even when he's about to cry. think you can bring him back here?"

the guy laughed. "yeah, i know exactly who you mean."

⋆˙⟡

denki didn't know how to move.

people were leaving. voices echoing. but he just stood there, staring at the empty stage like it still had something to give him.

he was pretty sure he hadn't blinked since you looked at him. actually looked at him. he had replayed it ten times in his head already. the exact second your gaze found his and you smiled.

his knees were weak.

and then a security guard was walking toward him.

"hey," the guy said. "you're the blond one, right? artist wants to see you backstage."

denki had exactly three brain cells functioning, and all of them screamed.

he followed the guard without speaking. his legs felt fake. his mouth was dry. this had to be a dream. it had to be.

backstage smelled like lights and sweat and something warm—something safe.

he tried not to trip over a cable as the door opened.

⋆˙⟡

you were curled up in a hoodie over your stage outfit, sat in a chair, when the door opened.

there he was.

golden and breathless and so clearly overwhelmed you almost stood up just to steady him.

"hi," you said, heart hammering. "denki, right?"

he nodded fast. too fast. "hi—yeah. yes. oh my god."

you laughed. "it's okay. you made it."

he blinked. "did i black out?"

"maybe a little."

you motioned for him to sit. he did. slowly. like it might be a trap.

"i just wanted to thank you," you said. "like i said, i've seen your tweets. your support. it's... it's meant more than you know."

denki looked like he might combust.

"i'm the one who's grateful," he said. "you wrote the soundtrack to my favorite breakdowns."

you grinned. "best compliment i've ever received."

there was a pause. something soft.

he glanced around, cheeks flushed. "this is... insane. you're, like, the reason i made it through last winter. that song? 'december, again'? i think i listened to it every day for two months. not even because i was heartbroken, i just—i don't know. it made me feel like i wasn't broken for feeling too much."

you blinked. slowly. carefully.

then denki tilted his head and said, "can i ask you something kind of personal?"

"sure," you said. "shoot."

"what got you into music?"

you smiled, soft and a little faraway. "i guess... i always felt a little too much. too loud in my head. writing was the only way i could let it out without exploding. and then one day, i put it to chords, and it stuck. it felt right. like i was finally telling the truth."

denki was quiet for a moment, like he didn't want to break the silence. then he said, "well, i'm really glad you did."

you looked at him, his wide eyes and messy hair and nervous energy. and then, without really thinking about it, you asked, "are you doing anything right now?"

he blinked. "me?"

you laughed. "yeah, you."

denki shook his head. "no, i... i mean, i was probably just gonna cry in a ramen shop alone about this whole night, so—"

"perfect," you cut in. "come cry in a ramen shop with me instead."

he stared. "wait. you're serious?"

"dead serious," you said. "you comin'?"

he nodded vigorously. "yes, of course."

you stood, grabbing your jacket. "cool. i know a good noodle spot. let's go, sweet blond boy from barricade."

and denki followed you out into the cold tokyo night, warm from something that had nothing to do with the stage lights.

and everything to do with you.

alley rose | k. takami

you know he's not yours, but you'd still pick him in every lifetime. the worst part? he'd let you. (2785 words)

you never meant to fall into it.

and maybe that's the problem.

because things that fall tend to break, and you? you've never been particularly good at knowing when to catch yourself.

it starts with nothing. not even a spark, not a clear moment. no dramatic beginning. no pivotal shift in atmosphere. he just... shows up one night. stands in the doorway of your apartment with wind in his hair and fatigue under his eyes and a grin that looks like it's trying to apologize for both.

you don't remember who invited him. maybe he just appeared. you wouldn't put it past him.

you only remember letting him in.

he takes up space easily. like he's always belonged there. like the couch remembers his weight. like your walls never had a choice in loving the sound of his voice.

he doesn't say much. he never really has to.

he leans against the kitchen counter while you make tea, not even asking what kind, just accepting the mug with his usual crooked smile and a quiet, "you're a saint."

he doesn't drink it.

he just holds it between his hands, steam rising between his fingers like an offering he doesn't quite believe he deserves.

you sit in silence for a while. the kind of silence that feels earned. he doesn't fill it with nonsense. he lets it exist between you, thick and soft and settled like dust on a bookshelf no one has the heart to clean.

"you don't sleep much, huh?" he says eventually, with the kind of voice that makes the night lean in to listen.

you shrug. "not when the world's this loud."

he nods like he understands. like he feels it too. maybe he does.

he spends the night—not in your bed, never in your bed—but on the couch. boots off, one arm lazily thrown over his eyes like the darkness is too much. there's tension in his shoulders even when he sleeps.

you watch him from the doorway longer than you should. tell yourself it's because he's in your home. that you're being cautious.

it's not that.

it's never that.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

he returns three nights later.

you don't ask why.

he starts showing up regularly. not every night, but often enough that you start leaving the door unlocked out of habit. he never uses a key. he always knocks, even when it's past midnight, even when you're both pretending he hasn't been there three times this week.

he doesn't talk about work. never talks about heroes or headlines or what happens after he walks out of your door and lets the world chew him up again.

you don't ask.

you offer him a space. warmth. the silence he pretends not to need.

he offers... something else. something half-shaped. a hand on your back when you pass each other in the kitchen. a smirk when you call him out on it. snacks left on the counter. a blanket draped over your shoulders when you fall asleep on the couch, though he'll swear it wasn't him.

and one night, when you're both sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with half a bottle of something nameless between you, he leans in and kisses you.

it's not hungry. not sharp. not even all that deep.

it's lazy. gentle. like he forgot himself and remembered you in the same breath.

when he pulls back, he just grins. "nice lips," he murmurs. "don't let anyone tell you different."

and then he's gone.

you press your fingers to your mouth and pretend it didn't mean anything. pretend it was just a drunk impulse. a thing he does. a fluke.

you tell yourself it won't happen again.

it does.

not the kiss—but the weight of it. the imprint.

the moments start to blur together. late night dinners. half-slept mornings. you learn the exact sound his jacket makes when it hits your couch. the rhythm of his breath when he falls asleep sitting up. the way his voice drops when he's tired, softening like he's forgotten he's not supposed to be real around you.

you learn how to love him without touching him.

he makes it easy.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

you don't talk about what this is.

not once.

not when he brings you takeout and eats with you in silence. not when he falls asleep with his head on your shoulder. not when he disappears for four days and comes back without a word and looks at you like he never left.

you tell yourself it doesn't matter.

because he's not cruel.

he never leads you on—not really. never calls you his. never asks you to stay. never says he loves you.

he just makes it feel like he does.

and maybe that's worse.

maybe if he'd been colder, you would've walked away by now. maybe if he'd kissed you like he didn't mean it, you wouldn't still taste him in your coffee. maybe if he didn't smile like you were the only person in the room—maybe then you'd be able to sleep at night without checking your phone for his name.

but he does. and you can't.

you try to pretend it's fine.

you're adults. capable of detachment. you know how this goes. some people just need somewhere to land. someone who doesn't ask questions. someone who lets them rest.

you can be that.

and for a while, you convince yourself you're okay with it.

because sometimes he looks at you and you think—maybe.

maybe this could be something.

maybe he just needs time.

maybe you're the only one who sees him like this—tired and soft and human.

maybe that matters.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

one night, he cooks for you.

it's a disaster. the pasta overboils, the sauce burns, and he sets off your smoke alarm because he forgets how sensitive it is.

you sit on the floor with him, coughing and laughing, fanning smoke with a magazine while he yells at your ceiling.

when it finally clears, he sits beside you. knees touching. arms brushing. smelling like burnt garlic and relief.

he doesn't kiss you that night.

but he falls asleep in your lap, and you thread your fingers through his hair and pretend he's yours.

he's not.

but he lets you pretend.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

"you're good at this," he says once, curled up in your blanket, the ends of his hair brushing your collarbone.

"what?"

"letting me stay."

you don't answer.

he doesn't expect you to.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you kiss again, weeks later.

it's different.

it's not light or easy or careless. it's slow. warm. aching.

he holds your face like it's glass. kisses you like he's afraid to stop. touches you like he's saying something he doesn't have the words for.

and afterward, he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs, "you always feel like home."

and you wonder if maybe this is something.

maybe this is real.

but then he gets up. leaves without looking back. and you stay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what you did wrong.

˚⊹ ᰔ

your friends start to notice.

"you've been distracted," one of them says.

"i'm fine," you lie.

they don't press. but they look at you like they know.

you delete the messages you want to send him. never hit call. never ask where he is when he disappears for days, weeks, reappears with new bruises and an easy smile and nothing in his eyes.

you pretend not to care.

but your hands shake when you wash his mug.

˚⊹ ᰔ

he shows up again.

you open the door. he looks tired.

you don't ask why.

he leans against the frame like he belongs there. like he knows you'll let him in.

and you do.

he doesn't kiss you this time. doesn't speak.

he just lays beside you on the couch. not touching. not sleeping. just breathing.

you turn your head.

he doesn't look at you.

you wonder if he's already left.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you don't remember the last time he said your name.

you don't remember the last time you said no.

˚⊹ ᰔ

there's no end. not yet.

there's just the quiet stretch of something wearing thin. the slow suffocation of wanting too much from someone who never offered you anything in the first place.

you tell yourself it's fine.

you knew what this was.

he never said it would be more.

but you wish—god, you wish—he hadn't made it feel so much like love.

because now, you don't know how to unfeel it.

you don't know how to stop opening the door when he knocks. how to stop hearing your name in the silence between his sentences. how to stop hoping.

and worst of all?

you don't want to.

not yet.

maybe not ever.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you don't talk about it.

the situation. the dynamic. the... thing between you.

there's no language for it. not really.

it's not a relationship. not a friendship. not even a fling.

but it's something. it has weight. it has presence. it takes up room in your life and your chest and your plans and your future in the way real things are supposed to. only it doesn't behave like something real. it behaves like a ghost with too much nerve. a shadow that leaves fingerprints on your heart but disappears when the light comes on.

you try to explain it to a friend once. someone who notices the way you pause when your phone buzzes. the way your smile flickers when it doesn't.

"is it serious?" they ask.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

because how do you explain it? how do you articulate the emotional toll of being almost loved?

so you shrug. "it's nothing."

you lie.

but you shouldn't have to.

˚⊹ ᰔ

hawks—no, keigo, because he insists you call him that when you're alone, like that somehow makes him more honest—isn't cruel.

that's what you keep coming back to.

he never promises you anything. never strings you along with declarations or dates or matching mugs in the cupboard. he doesn't label this. doesn't even try.

but he lets you sit close. lets you hold his wrist when he's pacing and won't tell you what's wrong. lets you run your fingers through his hair when he comes back with blood under his nails.

he lets you treat him like someone you love.

and in return?

he lets you pretend he loves you back.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you try to find clarity in the small things.

like in the way he leans toward you in crowds. the way his eyes soften when he hands you a drink. the way he listens when you talk about things that don't matter.

but the truth is, affection doesn't equal intention.

and you're tired of translating his silence into possibility.

˚⊹ ᰔ

he disappears for two weeks.

no warning. no explanation. just gone.

the first few days you check your phone constantly. reread old messages. try to remember if you said something wrong. if you asked for too much. if he finally got bored of the emotional middle ground you let him live in.

the silence grows louder.

by the time the seventh day passes, it becomes a roar in your head.

you don't call. you don't text.

you tell yourself it's a boundary.

it's not. it's fear.

because if you reach out first, you won't like the answer.

˚⊹ ᰔ

he shows up on a tuesday.

doesn't knock. just opens your door like nothing's happened. like it hasn't been days since he last looked at you. like he didn't vanish into the wind and leave you to rot in your own expectations.

he drops his bag by the couch. throws himself down and stretches like a cat, muscles flexing under his shirt, wings shifting slightly.

"miss me?" he says with a grin.

your heart cracks. so quietly, so precisely, you barely feel it.

you sit beside him. don't say anything.

he throws an arm around your shoulder like this is normal. like you're normal.

"sorry," he says casually. "work stuff."

you nod.

he doesn't elaborate.

you don't ask.

and the silence between you stops being safe. it becomes suffocating.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you start pulling away in increments.

you don't make him tea anymore when he shows up. you don't wait for him to call. you stop folding his jacket when he leaves it draped over your chair. you stop making room in your drawer for the little things he forgets behind.

and he notices. of course he does.

he notices the tension in your jaw when he touches you. the fact that you turn your face away when he leans in like he might kiss you. the way you no longer meet his eyes when you say goodnight.

he doesn't say anything.

but one night, when you're both watching some movie neither of you are paying attention to, he speaks into the dark.

"you okay?"

you hesitate.

then: "i'm tired."

he hums. "long day?"

you don't answer, and he doesn't ask again.

˚⊹ ᰔ

your friends start asking questions. real ones.

"is this working for you?" "what do you want out of this?" "are you happy?"

you laugh them off.

but the ache in your chest lingers.

because no. you're not happy. not really.

you're in love with someone who only shows up when it's convenient. who never shares the parts of himself that matter. who touches you with familiar hands but guards his heart like it's state property.

and you? you've built a home out of his shadows. you've memorized a version of him that doesn't even belong to you.

you don't want to do this anymore.

˚⊹ ᰔ

but you still do.

because it's better than nothing.

because the alternative is letting him go.

and that feels like losing something you never got to keep in the first place.

˚⊹ ᰔ

then one night, it changes.

not loudly. not dramatically.

just... changes.

you're sitting on the floor again, legs stretched in front of you, a blanket around your shoulders and the tv on low. keigo's beside you, but not touching. for once, there's real distance.

you glance at him.

he's staring at the screen, eyes unfocused.

you don't recognize his expression.

you whisper, "why do you keep coming here?"

he blinks. looks at you. "what do you mean?"

you shrug. "i mean... you never talk. you disappear. you show up without warning. and i let you. every time. i don't ask for anything, and you know that."

he stays quiet.

"so why do you keep coming back?"

the silence stretches. you think maybe he won't answer.

then he says, soft: "because you're the only place i don't have to lie."

your stomach twists.

because that should mean something. it almost does.

but then you realize—

he's not saying he wants you. he's saying he likes what you give him.

peace. comfort. quiet.

you're not a person to him. you're a haven.

and he never had any intention of staying.

you breathe in, slowly, and nod.

"okay."

he looks at you, confused. "okay?"

you stand. your knees ache. your chest does too.

"you can go now."

he rises slowly, uncertainty flickering across his face for the first time. "what?"

you repeat it. "you can go."

he studies you. then smiles, like it's a joke. "don't be dramatic."

you stare at him. "i'm not."

something in his expression falters. "look," he says. "i didn't mean to—"

"i know," you say. "that's the problem."

he goes quiet again.

you continue, softer now. "you didn't mean to kiss me. or stay. or sleep here. or come back. or look at me like that. or make me feel like you wanted something real. and you think that's enough. that because you never said you cared, you didn't have to."

his mouth opens, then closes.

you're tired. so, so tired.

"you never had to lie to hurt me, keigo," you whisper. "you just had to let me believe you wanted me here."

he doesn't argue. he doesn't reach for you. he just stands there.

quiet.

just like always.

you don't ask him again to leave.

he just does. eventually.

without slamming the door. without saying goodbye.

and maybe that's what breaks you.

because there's nothing dramatic to hold on to. no final fight. no angry words. no declarations.

just absence.

and that hurts more than anything else.

˚⊹ ᰔ

you sit in the quiet after he's gone. your blanket falls off your shoulders and you don't pick it up. you sit there until the sun starts to rise.

and when your phone buzzes hours later, you don't check it.

because you already know—

it's not him.

it never really was.

touya todoroki (dabi)

burnt edges, unread messages | smau ⤷ not dating. not nothing. something in between. something you never got to name before it was gone. domesticated | smau ⤷ parenthood was not in the plan, but now there's a glitter drawing of you and touya on the fridge

in case you get lost ♡₊˚

hi, i'm jade.

this blog is for daydreams, delusions, and digital papercuts

✩‧₊˚

⌗ about me ⌗ about the blog ⌗ request rules ⌗ masterlist

requests: closed

status: functioning (?)

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you can also find me on wattpad: @socialobligation

(not on ao3 though... i never figured that website out and at this point it's a personal grudge)

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do not copy, translate or claim my work without credit. ever. i put time, care, and a tiny piece of my soul into what i make. please respect that.

thank you for being here. reblogs are love ♡

brother’s best friend | s. todoroki

⇨ the only thing standing between you and shoto is your brother—unfortunately for him, neither of you listen well.

Hi! 😭 I really like your SMAU stories/scenarios, i think they're so funny and I love reading through them. So with that, can you do another dadzawa one? I loved that one, I love dadzawa. Make it anything as long as it includes dadzawa and brainrot lol. And maaaybe also another part where they say 'I love you'? Just out of nowhere? Please? 😭

parental oversight | s. aizawa

being aizawa's daughter means sharing the house with a sleep-deprived cryptid and 3 cats (part ii to 'parental guidance')

shoto todoroki

brother's best friend | smau ⤷ the only thing standing between you and shoto is your brother—unfortunately for him, neither of you listen well. 5 + 1 | fic ⤷ the five times he almost confessed (and the one time he did) everything he does | smau ⤷ in which loving you comes naturally to him—even if he rarely says it out loud