#aizawa too

[twilightakiishi]

my type, apparently

[gemgdynamight0]

Idc what anyone says but Katsuki had the BEST and most interesting mentor-student relationships in the entire series. The set up and the developments are just perfect.

[summonedbunny]

If there's one person who deserves a good night's rest, it's him ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ

[soularsss]

hi tumblr im alive but my brain is brainrotting hard rn

[sweets-library]

The quiet hours

Shouta Aizawa/reader. hurt/comfort. wc: 4.2k.

READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. DO NOT READ THIS IF THEY DO NOT APPEAL TO YOU.

content warnings: spanking, punishment, rules, heavy use of daddy as a title, heavy themes of discipline

-

You're not allowed to watch the news when Shouta's not home. It might seem harsh, but after that one awful night—when you spiralled into panic attacks and wore yourself down to the bone over a fight that didn’t even involve him (“Underground pro moved to intensive care after brutal battle—”)—he laid down the rule: no news unless he's there to reassure you. And now, well, you’re breaking it.

Your fingers are raw, nails torn from anxious chewing as you follow the chaos unfolding on-screen. The fight rages on in an area Shouta patrols, and the pit in your stomach grows with every minute that passes. You search the screen, desperate for any sign of him—a dark figure amid the blur of heroes, villains, police, and civilians scrambling in the streets. The news helicopter captures the madness from above, and you try to convince yourself he’s fine. He’s always fine. But after an hour, when the villains are finally subdued, Shouta is nowhere to be found. Instead, you watch helplessly as bodies are loaded into ambulances, and worse, some are dragged away, lifeless.

It’s 3 a.m. now. Another rule broken. Shouta hates it when you stay up for him—he says it leaves you exhausted, strung out for no reason when you could wake up beside him, safe and sound. He’d be livid if he knew, but you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s your boyfriend, your partner, and every day he risks his life out there. Of course, you worry. Who cares if you can barely keep your eyes open at work tomorrow? At least you'd know he made it home.

The coverage is still playing when you hear his key in the lock, and your heart leaps into your throat. You quickly fumble for the remote, switch off the TV, and dive under the blankets on the couch, pretending to be asleep. He’s not going to be thrilled that you didn’t make it to bed, but at least he won’t think you’ve completely ignored his rules.

You hold your breath, listening to the familiar sounds of his boots hitting the floor, the clink of his goggles landing on the table, and the soft swish of his capture weapon being hooked by the door. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he makes his way into the living room, pausing when he spots you curled up on the couch. There’s a heavy sigh—he’s fondly irritated, you can feel it—and for a moment, you brace yourself for a scolding.

Instead, his arms slip gently under you, lifting you without a word. You instinctively snuggle into him, heart pounding with relief. He’s home. He’s safe.

“Missed you, Sho…” you mumble, your voice thick with genuine exhaustion now that he’s here.

"Hm," he replies, the stern edge in his voice making your heart skip. "Were you waiting up for me?"

You don’t dare look at him. “No,” you lie, nuzzling into his shoulder as he lowers you onto the bed. “I was just watching a movie and fell asleep.”

You feel his eyes on you in the darkness, scrutinizing. "Makeup down your cheeks," he notes, swiping at the streaks with his thumb. "Must’ve been a real tearjerker, huh?"

"Yeah…a dog died," you murmur, barely able to suppress a yawn. His quiet chuckle sends a wave of relief through you—he bought it, or at least, he’s letting you think he did.

“My little crybaby,” he teases, but you can hear the affection in his voice.

"At least kiss me before you start being mean," you grumble, pulling him down for a sleepy, lingering kiss. He hums against your lips, then pulls back.

"Go to sleep. I’m gonna shower and come to bed."

You smile, snuggling deeper into the blankets, eyes heavy as you let the relief wash over you. Somehow, you actually got away with it. You listen as Shouta moves around the apartment—showering, heating up his dinner in the microwave, and finally settling onto the couch. The familiar sounds are comforting, grounding you in the safety of knowing he's home.

And then, you hear it. The soft click of the TV turning on.

Your heart skips a beat. The news. The coverage of the attack is still on. You cringe, suddenly wide awake, the comfort of a few minutes ago evaporating as panic flares up again. You strain to hear every detail, anxiety pooling in your chest as you imagine the look on his face when he realizes what you've been up to.

The clink of his plate hitting the coffee table snaps your attention back, followed by the low groan of the couch as he stands. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, pad toward the bedroom. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, willing yourself to look peaceful, and innocent—hoping against hope that you can delay the inevitable until morning.

But you’re not that lucky.

"Sit up." His voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.

You hear him, but you stupidly ignore it, keeping your eyes shut in some desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let it go. The air grows tense, and you hear the sharp click of his tongue, a sound that makes your heart stutter.

“Little girl, you do not want to make this worse than it already is,” he warns, his tone laced with quiet authority. The moment those words hit, your body moves before your brain can even catch up. You sit up, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, trying to steady your breath.

He steps closer, his presence looming as he positions himself in front of you. You don’t dare look up, but the weight of his stare presses down on you. Then, his fingers grip your chin, not harsh, but firm enough to force your eyes up. The moment you meet his gaze, your stomach drops.

He’s pissed. His dark eyes are locked onto yours, filled with disappointment and frustration.

"I'm going to give you one chance to tell me how you spent your night," he says, voice low and steady, "and so help me, if you lie again, you'll be getting bedtime spankings for a week."

The threat sends a chill down your spine. This isn't your boyfriend Shouta right now. The warmth and gentleness are suddenly punctuated by the stern, unyielding side of him that leaves no room for games.

"I—well," you stammer, your voice small. "I was watching TV... and I stayed up too late. I'm sorry." The apology slips out in a mumble, barely audible, as his hand moves to cup your jaw, holding you in place. He leans in, his presence overwhelming.

"Sorry, what?" His voice is firm, a quiet demand that makes your heart race.

"Sorry, Daddy..." you whisper, heat rushing to your face in embarrassment. It feels vulnerable to say it out loud, especially now.

"Hm." He lets go of your chin, crossing his arms over his chest. His forearms strain against the fabric of his sleeves, muscles flexing as he sizes you up. The air between you is heavy with his disappointment, but despite the weight of it, a small flutter stirs in your stomach. You hate how his sternness affects you like this.

"You were watching what on the TV?" he asks, his tone pointed, his gaze never leaving yours.

You sniff, nervously playing with your fingers, unable to stop the tremble in your hands. "I... I was watching the news," you finally admit, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I was just so worried, and it was so late, and they were in your area, and I just—"

"Enough."

The word snaps the air like a whip, and your mouth shuts instantly. The tension in the room feels almost suffocating as you stare up at him, waiting for the inevitable.

"So," he continues, his voice even and measured, "not only did you stay up far later than you're allowed, knowing full well you have work tomorrow, but you also worked yourself into a panic over the news. And then, you lied to me about it." He pauses, eyes narrowing as if daring you to challenge him. "Do I have that right?"

Your throat tightens, and your stomach feels like it's sinking. There's no way out of this, no excuse you can offer. He expects an answer, and there's only one.

"Yes... Daddy," you whisper, your voice fragile, on the verge of breaking under the weight of it all.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration before rubbing his tired eyes. The sound of his exhale fills the room, thick with disappointment. You can feel his exhaustion, his worry—this is not how he wanted to end his night, and it makes your chest ache.

“We talked about this,” he says, his voice firmer now, frustration seeping into each word. “We have this rule for a reason, so you don’t spend your nights like this—crying over something that’s not even happening!”

You sniffle, your chest tightening as guilt floods through you. “But... what if something did happen? And I had no idea, and you were hurt, and alone, and—”

“Sweetheart,” he cuts in, gentler now but still firm, “if something happens, you’re the first person they will call. You know this. The hospital will notify you if I’m hurt. And if it’s anything else, the commission will contact Mic, who will call you immediately. You know all of this—we talked about it when we made this rule. Together.”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly tired and frustrated. The exhaustion in his eyes, the strain in his voice, all hit you at once. He’s been working so hard, pushing himself to keep you safe, to keep everyone safe, and here you are, breaking the very rules you agreed on. The weight of it presses down on your chest, and the guilt gnaws at you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick with regret.“I just... I worry. So much.” The words come out in a whimper, hoping for some sympathy, but Shouta isn’t swayed by the tears.

“Baby,” he begins, his voice firm but not unkind, “you have to trust me. I don’t want you sitting here, crying yourself hoarse every night over something that hasn’t happened. It’s not fair to you. It’s not healthy, and I won’t allow it.” His gaze is piercing, locking with yours, filled with concern but unwavering in its resolve. You know he’s right, but the ache of your worry feels so real.

Silence hangs in the air for a moment as he looks at you, clearly weighing his next move. Finally, he speaks again, and it’s not what you expect.

“I’ll call your work in the morning. You’re not going in tomorrow.”

“What? No—Shouta, I’m fine!” you whine, trying to push back against his decision, but he taps your cheek again, this time with a little more firmness.

“Little girl, I don’t think you’re in any position to argue with me right now,” he says, his voice calm but unyielding. “Trust me, you’re not going to want to go to work tomorrow. We’re working this out tonight. I don’t want to have this discussion again, so we’re dealing with it here and now.”

The finality of his words hits you hard, and you feel the sting of tears building again, pressing at the corners of your eyes. You don’t want to deal with this—not now. Not like this. “Daddy, please, I’m sorry,” you plead, your voice fragile and trembling, but it doesn’t change his resolve.

Your apology falls on deaf ears as Shouta pulls the blankets from your legs with a swift motion, guiding you up with a firm but gentle grip. “Don’t argue with me,” he says quietly. “Come here. Now.”

You hesitate, but his firm tone leaves no room for defiance. He takes you by the arm, leading you to the end of the bed. He sits down, looking up at you with that same intense gaze, the weight of his authority wrapping around you. You stand in front of him, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Shouta, I—” you start, but his sharp look cuts you off before the words can even fully leave your mouth. You’re in no position to argue. You know this, but it doesn’t stop the nervous tremor running through your body as you shuffle your feet, feeling his gaze settle heavily on you.

“How many rules did you break tonight?” he asks, his voice calm but firm, waiting for you to face the truth.

You bite your lip, glancing down as the weight of your actions settles in. “I... I stayed up late,” you begin in a shaky voice, “and I watched the news... and I lied.” Your voice cracks on the last confession, barely above a whisper. “So... three,” you finish, the admission hanging in the air like a confession you’ve been dreading.

Shouta’s hands move to gently rub the sides of your legs, grounding you in the moment. His touch is comforting, a reminder that even now, when things feel so overwhelming, he’s here for you. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whisper, your voice breaking as a tear slips down your cheek.

He’s watching you carefully, aware of how hard this is for you, but also knowing this moment is important. You flourish under this dynamic with him—he knows that. It’s his responsibility to guide you, to redirect you when you stumble, and this is one of those moments. A slip. A mistake. One that he’ll correct, and when he does, everything will fall back into place and you'll feel better for it.

Shouta gently wipes the tear from your cheek, his thumb soft against your skin. "I know you’re sorry," he says quietly, “but this is why we have these rules. To help you, not to hurt you. And you know I’m going to make sure you learn from this.”

You nod, knowing deep down he’s right.

“Thank you for being honest with me, sweetheart,” he says softly, patting your cheek lovingly. The warmth in his touch eases some of the tension coiling in your stomach. “I think that’s enough TV for the rest of the week. You can read your books instead.”

Your heart sinks at the thought of being cut off from your usual distractions, but you suppress the urge to stomp your feet and whine. You know he’s not done yet. “And tomorrow after breakfast, I want you to write 50 lines in your notebook, telling me you won’t lie to me again,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You nod slowly, knowing this is part of the process. It feels unfair, but deep down, you understand that it’s for your own good.

“Now for tonight,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “I think we will finish this discussion over my lap. Come here.”

With a mix of reluctance and acceptance, you shuffle closer to him, positioning yourself over his lap. It feels both familiar and daunting as you bury your face in your arms, the warmth of his body wrapping around you. The world outside feels distant, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of your breathing, trying to steady yourself for what’s to come.

“What’s your safeword?” he asks, his hand rubbing your back comfortingly, a grounding presence in this moment.

“Red,” you reply firmly, the single word a declaration of your readiness, a promise of trust.

“Good girl.” His approval wraps around you like a warm blanket, but before you can fully absorb it, his hand comes down hard. Even with the cushion of your pajama pants, the sting is sharp, and a whimper escapes your lips as you bury your face deeper into your arms.

The initial shock of pain sends warmth pooling in your cheeks, and you brace yourself, knowing he’s just getting started. He begins to layer swats on your backside, each strike firm and unyielding. With every hit, you feel a mix of emotions—pain mingled with an odd sense of release. His hands fall without mercy, and in the back of your mind, you know this is only the warmup, the prelude to what’s to come.

Your breath quickens, and you focus on the rhythm of his hand, feeling the sting dissipate into a strange warmth that blankets your apprehension. Each swat brings you closer to a clarity that only he can provide, a reminder of the balance between discipline and care.

“This won’t work if we can’t trust each other,” he says, his voice steady and authoritative, each word punctuated by the rhythm of his hand striking your backside. The hits keep coming, a sharp reminder that you need to pay attention. You don’t bother to respond; you know he wants you to listen right now.

“I need to be able to go to work without worrying that you’re at home crying yourself sick over something that was completely avoidable.” The sting resonates in your skin, but it’s the truth in his words that hits harder. Each swat underscores his concern, reinforcing the message he’s trying to drive home.

“If you’re feeling nervous, text me, or Hizashi, or Nemuri. I can’t always answer right away,” he continues, his tone firm yet laced with care. “But I’d rather you reach out to someone for help when your anxiety is getting the best of you than turn on the news and make things far worse for yourself.”

His emphasis on reaching out wraps around you like a lifeline, and you begin to realize the weight of your actions. It’s not just about following the rules; it’s about building a foundation of trust and communication. You focus on his words, letting them sink in as each strike reinforces the lesson. Whenever he redirects you, his discipline feels less like punishment and more like an act of love, a reminder that you’re never alone in this.

The swats stop for the moment, but you know the routine, and dont bother getting excited. He eases your pants down to sit at your knees, and resumes the flurry of spanks while you cry and drum your toes into the mattress. 

“And under no circumstances is it ever okay for you to lie to me,” he asserts, his voice unyielding, filled with the weight of authority. “Everybody makes mistakes, but if you can’t tell me the truth, then where does that leave us? If I find out you’re lying to me again, I have half a mind to wash your mouth out with soap and give you lines every day for a month. Do I make myself clear?”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you choke out a sob, barely able to respond. “Yes, Daddy, m’sorry!”

“If I can’t trust that you’re making good choices, then there will have to be long-term consequences.” His tone softens slightly, but the seriousness remains. “Do you need me to set up a check-in schedule for you? Is that what it will take for you to behave?”

Your heart sinks, guilt washing over you as you realize he’s already stretched thin, so busy and tired, and here you are, adding to his burden. “No, no, I’ll behave! Please!” You cry, desperation tinging your voice.

“I’m happy to hear that, baby,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he continues his steady rhythm. “But if that’s what you needed, then that’s just fine. We’ll talk about it another time.” His hand gently caresses your back, the warmth of his touch providing a comforting contrast to the stinging of your skin. “I love you, sweetheart. If you need more support from me, then you need to tell me.”

You can feel his gentleness in his words, even if he can’t see the tear-streaked cheeks you hide from him. A fresh wave of emotion crashes over you, and you can’t help but weep, overwhelmed by the mixture of relief and vulnerability. The pain lingers, but it’s softened by the assurance that he’s here, guiding you through the shadows of your anxiety. In this moment, you feel a flicker of hope—his love is a steady anchor, reminding you that you don’t have to navigate this storm alone.

“Love you, Daddy. I’m sorry; I can do it. I can be good,” you cry, your voice thick with remorse.

He lets out a weary sigh, the sound heavy with mixed emotions. “You’re always my good girl, baby. I love you so much. We’re almost done.” With that, he shifts the position of your legs, exposing your sit spots more fully for the next phase of your punishment.

As the final swats begin, you feel the sting intensify, but beneath it all, there’s a strange sense of clarity. His unwavering presence and the weight of his expectations create a safe space for you to confront your fears and anxieties. Each strike serves as a reminder of the lessons you need to learn, urging you to let go of the worry that spirals out of control when he’s not around.

Though the discomfort is real, it pales in comparison to the overwhelming love that underpins this dynamic. You focus on that love, knowing that it’s a guiding light leading you toward a healthier path.

"And you know very well that we’ve discussed this before—about how important it is for you to take care of yourself. You need sleep, especially on work nights, and I’m not going to stand by while you exhaust yourself for no reason." His voice is firmer now, just loud enough to cut through your sobs, but never harsh or angry. "I think tomorrow we’re going to have another talk about your bedtime routine. Clearly, I’ve been too lenient, and that stops now, little girl."

The words sink into you, a mix of dread and relief. Even as he speaks, the discipline continues, each strike a rhythmic reminder of his control and your need to listen. He never yells, never lashes out—just that calm, unyielding tone. It leaves no room for doubt: this is not up for debate. You don’t try to suppress your crying anymore, knowing the apartment is soundproof, and that in his arms, you are safe to let go of everything. The punishment is painful, yes, but the deeper ache comes from knowing you’ve disappointed him—and yourself.

And still, through the tears and the discomfort, you know that he’s right. You need the boundaries he sets, the safety they bring. You feel the weight of his words settle inside you, and even though you don’t want to face the conversation tomorrow, you know it’s for the best.

Your ass burns, the heat lingering even after the punishment has ended. You see now that it’s really for the best that you won’t be going to work tomorrow. His hands rub your back soothingly, the warmth of his touch a balm against the ache. Slowly, he shifts you onto his lap, wrapping you in his strong arms, the fabric of your pants slipping down one ankle as you bury your face into the comforting crook of his neck.

“I know, sweetheart. It’s alright,” he murmurs softly, his voice like a gentle caress against your ears. “You’re okay. You did so good.” Each word is a soothing balm, and you can’t help but melt into his embrace, soaking up the praise like a flower yearning for sunlight. “My good little girl, I love you, baby.”

In that moment, as you cling to him, the world outside fades away. All that matters is the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek and the steady pulse of love radiating from him. You feel safe, cherished, and most importantly, understood. The earlier turmoil dissipates, replaced by a profound sense of peace, as you allow yourself to rest in his arms, knowing he’ll always be there to guide you back to safety.

Eventually, the storm of tears subsides, and a soothing calm washes over you, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You stifle a yawn, snuggling deeper into his arms, teetering on the brink of sleep. He continues to murmur sweet reassurances, his voice a soft lullaby that wraps around you like a warm blanket as he carries you back to your side of the bed.

For a moment, you feel a twinge of abandonment as he steps away, but he’s back almost instantly, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he holds a makeup wipe in hand. The tender gesture brings a flutter of warmth to your chest as he wipes away the remnants of your earlier distress. You fight the urge to surrender to sleep, but his soothing presence makes it increasingly difficult. The room falls into a comfortable silence, filled only with the sound of your soft breaths and his gentle movements.

Once your face is free of makeup, you feel lighter, as if the weight of the evening has been washed away. He leans in, pressing a feather-light kiss on your lips, then your cheek, and finally your forehead, each kiss a reminder of his love and devotion. He crawls into bed beside you, pulling you close into his warm embrace. You instinctively wrap your limbs around him, finding comfort in his strength and warmth.

As you settle into the familiar rhythm of his breathing, you murmur out one last “Love you, Daddy…” The words linger in the air as sleep finally claims you, enveloping you in a dreamless, deep slumber, safe and secure in his arms.

-

guys i hate to say the daddy issues got to me. nobody look at me ok sometimes being an adult is really hard. i cross posted this on ao3 btw

[black-and-yellow]

[mooonpiess]

this picture alone has me hc that hizashi is a light weight. that man can not handle his liquor AT ALL.

and with drinks hes less in control of his quirk, so he always sticks to one or two and is always with shouta “just in case” ;)

[decarbry]

heroes always stop

[ireallyneedaintrestinglife]

There is something so inexplicably lonely about time travel fics that very few stories I've ever read manage to hit on.

There is something so terribly isolating about seeing the people you love and care for surrounding you but being unable to communicate to them why you care so much more about them than you should at that moment in time.

So many little moments that you hold near and dear to your heart that they may never get to experience if and when you end up changing the timeline.

Not being able to reminisce on those shared moments, forever being unable to have the same inside jokes you had before, even if you end up making things better there is something so bittersweet about it all that never really gets addressed.

[stingrachelmha]

And all those love letters in the mail are probably just from pity!!

[just-a-little-nut]

I wanna sit in their lap and give 'em gentle kisses on their face and hands.

Caress their cheek, maybe even switch and let them lay down on my lap while I scratch their head and back.

I just want that stereotypical gentle domestic fluff. Just a tiny piece.

[dicenote]

Death Note characters ranked on how good they are at driving, from worst to best:

Near: I'm sorry, but he's not reaching the pedals. Like, if you could strap his brain to a car and make him psychically drive it, he'd do better than most people on this list. But in a regular car he'd unfortunately struggle. Maybe he can control the gas/brake while Rester steers, or vice-versa.

Matsuda: I just know that he gets distracted by every little thing. Funny road sign? New song on the radio? Discussing murder notebooks with his passengers? He suddenly forgets that he's in the middle of changing lanes.

Ide: Better than Matsuda because at least he keeps his damn hands on the steering wheel. He's considerably worse if Matsuda and/or Aizawa are bickering in the car with him, though.

Misa: Her placement can be shifted up/down a few spaces depending on your definition of "good". She will get you to your destination 10 minutes earlier than you expect, but multiple traffic laws will be broken on the way.

L: Look, I know he piloted a helicopter in canon without a license, but the sky doesn't have lanes or traffic lights. He can figure out how to drive the vehicle, sure, but his driving is chaotic and only marginally better than Misa's overall.

Light: Like L, he probably doesn't have a license and could work his way around a car. Unlike L, he wants to look like the perfect law-abiding citizen and will try his best to drive like one. He ends up going a bit under the speed limit because of this. L finds his behavior highly suspicious.

Aizawa: Completely average driver, other than the occasional bout of road-rage. Or Matsuda-rage, if a certain idiot is messing with the AC again.

Mogi: Also completely average, but goes completely silent while driving (except when working as Misa's manager). Is he focusing on the road, or does he just not feel like talking? Nobody knows.

Mello: Prefers motorcycles, but is shockingly capable at driving a wide variety of vehicles just fine. He'll even obey the law if he isn't actively committing a crime in said vehicle.

Soichiro: We saw him smash that car into Sakura. Dude managed to make that look cool as hell. When not breaking and entering TV studios, though, he's probably very good at going the speed limit and following traffic laws and all that boring stuff (he is a cop, after all).

Matt: Roughly half of his experience driving is from Mario Kart and GTA, but he can still somehow Tokyo Drift IRL. Theoretically, these could be points against him (see L's placement), but he's so bafflingly good that Rule of Cool makes him the best by default. My point is that he could drive normal, but where's the fun in that?!

[zuzukuu]

loving when ppl write toshinori (all might) as smart. like the golden retriever personality is his, but works scarily like present mics DJ persona- we've seen toshi get serious, we've seen him break down,, and we know he'd put his life on the line for his kids- yet he still manages to put on his signature smile. He's been a hero for a little around 35 years,, he obviously knows how things are run. He knows police procedures off the back of his hand, he knows how to learn everything there is about a person in 30 seconds flat, he knows the tells of a disaster in progress, he has the hero mindset to a Tee. If the dorky personality helps villains not notice the cogs turning in his eyes, it's just a slight perk.

Edit: upon seeing the reblog by @rurounivash I've realised that yeah lowk he goofs out on some things, sometimes he does just airhead his way through the day because damn, you can't expect the man to be vigilant 24\7 BUT, he does apply his godforsaken iq to learning how to do other things, i.e, teaching his kids

[byjovewhataspend]

the students got too rowdy after curfew and erasermic had to come out and scold them

sort of the goth couple equivalent to that 'flowing sheer robes vs sleeping cap and nightgown' couple meme.

[willowser]

HMMMMMM interesting to think about arranged marriage with prince shouto...............

i think he wouldn't know. what to expect with you. i think he'd have an idea, as in, what his father, the king, has taught him; the duties of a wife, where your importance ranks in relation to his duties. what he's not meant to discuss with you, like politics and matters at court and foreign relations. how you will speak to him. what to buy in the event that you become...unhappy. a nuisance.

("and she will," enji had muttered, briefly glancing up from the parchment on his desk to fix shouto with a look he didn't understand. "they always do.")

you don't meet until the royal wedding, when you're coming down the long aisle of the grand cathedral, dressed up in a swathe of silk and lace. a thin, gossamer veil hides you from him, but he can feel the ardor in your eyes, the intensity burning through the material. it doesn't seem real until your bare face is only a breath from his own, until he has to see the earnestness in your stare, too.

your kiss is simple and chaste, nothing spectacular, something that leaves his mind as soon as it's over. ever a todoroki, a hundred other things enter his mind, all regarding his now iron-laid obligations: it's vital he meet with advisor keigo to reiterate the plan to establish his authority among the council; general aizawa is in attendance to the wedding, and shouto has not yet received word on his opinion of the new king's ideas to modernize their armed forces; midoriya is somewhere, no doubt wanting to go over state affairs again.

truthfully, shouto doesn't spend long "celebrating". there's already too much that's required of him, hardly enough time to even scarf down a few bites of the banquet laid out before he's being chartered off into discussions on foreign relations and infrastructure development. maybe once or twice does he look back to check on you, chatting pleasantly with his mother and sister at the front of the great hall, and that's satisfying enough.

it's not until much later that he sees you again; freshly bathed and wearing something sheer and long and white, atop his bed.

or his marriage bed, he must remind himself.

enji didn't spend long going over consummation, with him or either of his brothers—natsuo, red-faced and annoyed at the very subject, always storming off, and touya had seemed well-aware of the process, at the time (back before he'd been ex-communicated). it had sounded simple: strip off your dress, get his cock out and into you, and only retreat once he was sure his seed had been spilled.

—so he's not exactly sure what to do or think or how to feel, when you're laid bare and reaching up to hold his face.

it's so startling that he sits back on his knees, to frown where he's looming over you.

you stare at him quietly, like you're expecting him to say something, and he only has a moment to wonder if this is you becoming an unhappy nuisance—what had been the answer, to solve this, anyway?—before you let out a soft laugh.

"c'mere," you tell him, sitting up, too, when he keeps his distance. "i want you to kiss me."

"i already have."

"yes," you laugh again, amusement glowing in your eyes, like the warmth off the fireplace, as you reach for the ties on his trousers. "but you're meant to do it again."

and up until then, he'd felt confident in his achievements, his executions; he'd managed a lot today, in one evening, and he had a lifetime to manage more. it was a good a start as any, he'd thought, but now—

shouto almost can't get the words out when he feels your hands ghosting up the inside of his shirt, nails tickling over his ribs. "a-am i?"

you wrap your arms around his waist in what could be a hug, scooting forward to look up at him with your chin against his chest. "yes," you smile and—it's familiar in a way, how touya would whenever he was teasing. "you're my husband, you're meant to kiss me whenever i want."

that—was not something his father had ever said, he was sure, and it was a too-rare exchange between his own parents. now that he thinks about it—and he does, then, because he's faced with the reality that he doesn't know as much as he should—he's not sure the former king and queen even sleep in the same room, much less the same bed.

much less hug and touch and even smile, the way you do now.

there's no argument he can make against it, aside from finding keigo to find his father to verify the truth to such a statement, and he's only meant to retreat from this bed on one condition.

and if this is what it takes to meet that—then shouto supposes he'll have to do it, for now. he's a brand new king, after all, and it would seem he still has much to learn.

[shirakumoh]

it’s a still image but i can hear how annoying they are