as soon as you hear you your window open, you sigh. not out of fear, or out even surprise. its out of annoyance.
it’s well known knowledge that dabi is many things: a danger, a criminal, and a sorry excuse for a boyfriend who shows up at your window at least once a month.
“hey, dollface.” he grins, only flashing his teeth to piss you off. “miss me?”
you really should fix that lock.
but you don’t have the time. so you sigh, and point to the fridge. “theres soba. just wash your fucking dishes after.”
and he will, but he’ll probably leave a single, unwashed chopstick in your sink as a small act of protest. and because it seems like someone hired him to annoy you.
after his meal, he finds you in the bedroom, folding laundry. in a few quick strides he’s behind you, arms wrapped around your stomach, transferring his already high body heat to you. initially you roll your eyes, knowing that icing him out is the best way to put out a fire.
then you feel his chest press up against your back, and you mentally curse.
“you got skinnier.” you state, noting the lessening muscle beneath his worn in shirt. he laughs, knowing you’re right but bring far too immature to willingly admit it.
“fuck, well, you try keeping meat on your bones while you’re on the run.”
and thats the part that frustrates you the most. knowing he’s on the run constantly, without any shred of stability or routine. though you’d wish he’d use your front door as to not behest any concerned neighbours, you know that climbing in through window is his way of letting you know he’s alive. because most days, you aren’t sure.
he notices you still and feels something like regret. his stomach is full of food, food you made, and he can be grateful for that. even villains enjoy home cooked meals.
like he fulls the worry creep from your skin to his, he sighs, arms tightening from behind you.
“i’m fine.” he says, begrudgingly emphasizing that last word. he doesn’t care to hide his attitude. he knows you don’t care, either.
a beat passes, before you speak up. “…saw your wanted poster the other day.”
he knows you can’t see him, but a smile escapes. “yeah? they get my good side?”
“none of your sides are good.”
“well excuse me, doll.”
you turn around in his arms, and see a part of him he tries to keep buried. a part that is maybe worth keeping around, though he rips it away from you along with your groceries when he jumps back out that window.
like you’re humouring that part of him, testing if it’ll respond, you ask an age old question- one you’ve almost stopped caring about because you know the answer too well: “are you finally gonna give up crime for me?”
its been the focal point of many past arguments, though you know its futile. he’s too stubborn. too hurt
and the asshole pretends to actually think about it. “nah.”
you nearly laugh, mentally plotting to drag his body to the dumpster while he sleeps. but speaking of sleeping: “are you gonna spend the night?”
this one he doesn’t have to think about. “of course. where else am i gonna hide out?”
he’s quick to make the most of his temporary refuge, knowing he probably has owes you for what you’re doing. housing a fugitive is a serious offence, after all.
luckily for you, he knows what he’s doing. though that can be hard to realize, since he’s spent the last 5 minutes barely allowing the tip of his cock to enter you. he has you on your hands and knees, stationed behind you as he smokes a cigarette. somehow, the current predicament doesn’t bother him. or it does, and he just happens to have the willpower of a god.
blue eyes pierce your form, watching your pretty hands grip the sheets as he hands you the bare minimum- a slow push of his hips as your needy fluids drip down your thighs. he finishes his smoke, tossing it onto the ashtray before gripping your hips with both hands.
“i hate you.” you half moan, half groan. the groan tells him that you’re frustrated with his slow pace. the moan tells him you’re willing to wait as long as he gives it to you.
he smiles, savouring the moment. “you’re so cute, baby. don’t worry. i hear ya.”
he then grips your hips tight, slamming you down onto his cock while his pace picks up so fast your head spins. you barely have the time to release a surprised gasp as he begins thrusting in and out of you like its the last time.
he knows that if he opens his mouth to swear or even moan, he’ll risk ripping the staples around his jaw. its why he brings his hand down on your thigh hard when he feels your sweet pussy clench around him, tempting him to unclench his teeth and get vocal. that plan backfires, however, as the pain only makes you tighten more.
the slapping sound of skin against skin only feeds his obnoxious ego, knowing he has you where he wants you. every now and then, he makes sure to slow down, pulling out of you before slamming all the way back in. he’s not stopping you know each of his veins by heart. by now, you probably do.
“still hate me?” he taunts, giving you another sharp thrust to prove a point. he’s not actually trying to make you angry, though he knows that the last time you were, you rode him until he was fucked clean out.
“i- OH FUCK!” you cry, feeling his hand reach down to rub circles on your clit. the breathless laugh that leaves his lips is not lost on you as he takes in the incoherence of your words.
“thats right.” he continues to thrust. “let me feel that pretty pussy, doll. gonna let me cum in this sweet cunt? hm?”
he leans down until his chest is pressed up against your back, letting him talk into your ear. some lost muscle mass is less of a concern here, since his stamina is still exceptional. his pace never falters, pounding into you hard and passionately.
“do it.” you lift your head from the pillow. he grins at your command, but still attempts to get some shots in.
“say please.”
“touya todoroki, i swear to god i’ll turn your ass in.”
he laughs, gifting you with another hard thrust. he’d drag it on if he didn’t think you were serious.
“so demanding.” he slaps you again. “you know i’m gonna fill you up regardless, doll.”
and he delivers on that promise, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside of you, breathlessly smirking at the scream that escapes your lips. between the climbing in through your window and the loud, desperate cries, your neighbours probably assume something horrible happened.
he continues to rub your clit, still continuing your pleasure, still determined to make you cum. twice more, if he had anything to do with it.
maybe you aren’t in a rush to fix the lock, after all.
MIND you his biggest thing is hating Enji. Why would he ever want to turn into his father, a man who beat his wife?? Dabi totally has a temper, but he is never laying a hand on you (unless you ask nicely lol).
he'd be super super codependent that it's insane, though. after he finally gives up the whole being stoic and nonchalant and not falling in love, he's totally obsessed even if he tries to hide it bsfr.
jealous. freaks out over anyone you speak to that isnt out of necessity unless its like toga or shigaraki. probably wakes up in the middle of the night bc of nightmares, blood running down his cheeks. he'll lock himself in the bathroom careful not to wake you and stare at himself in the mirror, unblinking, until the tears stop.
if you do wake up and find him freaking out, he will eventually cave and probably just hold you a little tighter. you're the center of his twisted little universe. just your prescence keeps him stable.
you go and pick up your boyfriend from j-j-jaillll !!
"he's all yours, ma'am."
getting a call from your local police station telling you to come pick up your boyfriend from jail is not how you wanted to spend your friday evening. but here you are, standing at the foot of his cell with an expression so petrifying that even the officer standing beside you has to take a step back and avoid your gaze.
touya watches him unlock the cell with a grimace. the second the cell door slides open, you take a step forward—and touya does the most reasonable thing he can think of in regard to his safety and slams the gate closed, effectively locking himself back up again.
there's a moment of silence before you let out a gasp of absolute disbelief.
"touya, i swear to—"
"sir, i don't feel safe with her here. can't you, well, i dunno—make her stand a couple of fucking feet away from the door so i can step out without getting my face bashed into the nearest wall?"
the officer takes a long look at touya, who has the audacity to clasp his hands together in a plea, while you turn towards the officer with a raised brow.
"...you have her listed as your emergency contact. you'll be fine."
touya seems offended by the officer's words, but he doesn't argue any further as the man fumbles with his keys before unlocking the cell once again. touya steps out tentatively, shoulders slumping and a pout tugging his lips downwards (a half-assed attempt to look innocent, really) and you try not to let your eye twitch.
"officer, could you tell me just what he did again? i've seem to have forgotten what you told me." you state dryly, watching touya squirm under your gaze as he strains his wrists against the cuffs wrapped around them.
"uh—he was caught vandalizing a gas station. you know that one mr. takami a couple streets over runs? then he, uh, sort of beat him up."
"oh, come on—"
"shut. up. officer, please take us to the front desk so i can fill out the necessary papers and take him home."
the entire ordeal took only a little under an hour. and before touya knew it, he was back to being his usual passenger princess self beside you, though he had to keep one arm braced against the door and the other gripping the middle console for his own safety.
"babe, you are driving way too fast."
big mistake. if touya knew better, he would've held his breath all the way home instead.
"do you know how worried i was? did you know i was in the shower when they called? you're paying the hospital bill coming in the mail one of these days for when you finally send me into cardiac arrest with all the shit you pull, touya!" you snap, and since you were at a red light, you remove your hand from the steering wheel and give touya's ear a harsh tug, just for good measure.
"okay, i get it—ow that fucking hurts! let go of my ea—i mean, sorry," he wheezes dramatically, and you finally let go of your grip on him with a huff when the light turns green.
"you're lucky they let you off so easy. seriously. i think you deserve at least—wait, are you not wearing your fucking seatbelt?" you snap, looking back and forth between touya and the road like this entire day was the most irritating inconvenience of your life, and touya can only scramble to put it on while mumbling a string of apologies under his breath. he peers up at you wearily, and you turn away from him and back towards the road with a grumble and tensed-up shoulders.
you're in a really bad mood today.
touya wants to tell you that he's sorry and that he knows he's wrong, but he's afraid that if he looks at you a certain way or says the wrong thing, you might just use your bare teeth to bite his head clean off.
so, he settles into his seat quietly and allows you the peaceful ride back home you deserve. now that he thinks about it, you've been under quite a bit of stress lately. it takes touya half a second to realize he must have made it worse, and it takes him another second more to remember that today was your only day off of the week—and he sinks back into his seat with a frown.
touya throws a careful glance at you through his peripheral vision, taking note of the tired look in your eyes.
you were worried about him when he got arrested. picking himup from the police station when he knows no one else would. fussing over him not putting on his seatbelt and being safe. and that is when touya is reminded why the only number in his emergency contact is yours.
it's because you love him, dearly and with all your heart, even when he acts like an exasperating little shit (e.g., the stunt he pulled today).
carefully, as if he's getting ready to pet an angry cat that loves to scratch, touya takes his hand and drapes it over your thigh, rubbing gentle circles as he presses his fingers into the fabric of your jeans. you don't push him off you, merely sighing through your nose and keeping your eyes on the road, and touya takes that as a sign that you're not too mad at him.
"when we get home, i'll run a nice bath for you to relax in. we can order takeout, and i'll massage your legs real good, you know, just the way you like after a long day." he says softly, and his touch is tender enough that you can't help but melt underneath it.
touya made staying mad at him really hard.
"fine."
"we can watch a movie too, your choice—you won't hear a single complaint from me. i'll even tell kei i'm sorry, even though that jackass was lookin' at me funny and started the whole—whatever. just know that i'm sorry, doll. i mean it."
touya doesn't tell you how he's only sorry for causing you stress, not sorry for rightfully knocking keigo down a size. but you finally do glance at him—and your face has softened into the very smallest of smiles. that sight alone is enough to warm touya's body entirely with love.
"alright then."
touya keeps his word, just like he always has. he carries you into the apartment bridal style just to hear you laugh again, he lights a candle for your bath and massages your shoulders and temple as you bathe, and he doesn't even bat an eye when you flick through your tv shows and select pucca. no, he settles into your side and passes you his favorite blanket instead.
touya makes mistakes often—all the time, actually. it was his specialty, but he liked to blame his miscalculations on bad luck or the universe working against him. but, then again, it didn't make sense for the universe to be working against him if he had you—a gift to breathe life back into him, the light of his life, divine intervention, if you will.
he'll work on himself to be better for you, and you'll recognize his efforts and dote on him accordingly. you make touya somewhat civilized and human, and for that, he is forever grateful.
❛ what was your firstkisslike .ᐟ.ᐣ♡ ❜ —FLUFF
⤷ ft. izuku , bakugo , shoto , dabi , hawks
*all chars are 18 +
⋆ ˚ ꩜ izukumidoriyais terrible at acting normal around you when he is even a little bit drunk.
you find this out somewhere around your third time going out for drinks together.
the staff room had emptied out in waves earlier, all tired heroes turned teachers dragging their feet after a long week of classes. aizawa had grumbled something about paperwork, present mic had tried to convince everyone to go to karaoke, and somehow, in the shuffle and small talk, it ended up being just you and midoriya standing in the doorway, the evening sunlight turning the windows gold.
“there’s that quiet place near the station,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “the, um, bar with the drinks you like. if you’re not too tired, i mean. we could, you know. debrief. about the week.”
you raised a brow. “debrief. is that what we are calling escaping grading duties now?”
he laughed, that soft breathless sound that still felt way too boyish for someone who could punch holes in mountains, and nodded. “professional debriefing. sorry… it's very important.”
so now you’re here, tucked into a small booth across from him, your shoes off, legs curled up on the cushion. the place is low lit and warm, the hum of quiet chatter wrapping around you. grill smoke, apps, the clink of glasses. the kind of spot regulars haunt and new people only find by accident.
izuku has shed his jacket, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to make your brain unhelpful about it. he has a beer in front of him, and the tips of his ears are pink. so are his cheeks. they always get that way after a few sips. you pretend not to find that devastatingly cute.
“so...” you say, tapping your chopsticks lightly on the edge of your plate. “how’d your class handle your quiz today? anyone cry?”
he brightens immediately. this is his territory. “no crying. a lot of determination, though. they’re really trying. their notes are getting better, and, um, you know that exercise you taught me? about turning the lesson into a story so they remember the order of moves?”
your chest warms. “yeah?”
he grins, big and genuine. “it worked! they loved it. i think you might be a genius.”
you make a show of flipping your hair. “i know.”
he laughs again, softer this time, eyes lingering on you a little longer than usual. the table between you feels smaller. a little more crowded with all the unspoken things that have slowly piled up over months of shared drinks, shared lesson plans, shared late nights in empty hallways.
you take a sip of your drink and watch him thumb the rim off his glass. his fingers are calloused, knuckles nicked with fading scars. teacher hands, hero hands. he always holds his pen delicately, like he is still afraid of crushing things.
“what about you?” he asks suddenly. “how was your week? really, not just the ‘i survived’ version.”
you scrunch your nose. “it was fine.”
he gives you that look. the one that says he has read the manual on you cover to cover. “that... isn’t an answer.”
you huff. “fine-ish. they nearly blew up the training room monday. and i had to mediate a fight about who gets to sit by the window. and i’m ninety percent sure one of the kids is trying to set up their parents with each other and uses my class as a planning base.”
his eyes widen. “really?”
“oh yeah. they are committed, code names. everything. they act like i don't know.”
you laugh waving the memory off. he smiles, but it softens into something fond. “and you handled all of that by yourself.”
“that’s my job,” you point out.
he looks at you like it's more than that. like it's something precious. “you are really good at it.”
you feel your face heat. the drinks are not helping. “midoriya, you cannot just say things like that casually. i am defenseless. tipsy.”
Imagine being childhood friends with Touya, but having to move away and go into witness protection with your family after a villain attack.
After Touya’s death, the Todorokis try to find you and let you know, but you can’t be found. After a while, they just think it’s better for you to live in peace and never know about what happened to your best friend.
Ten years go by, and you’ve decided to move back into the area. It’s your first day back, and you haven’t met anyone you know yet. You could’ve sworn you’d seen Shoto gaping in confusion at you, but then there was an explosion and yelling, and you’d blinked and he was gone.
You’re just walking through one of the quieter districts when you see him from behind.
It may be fifteen years since you’ve seen him, and for some reason his skin is all weird, but it’s Touya, hair awfully dyed and for some reason dressed all grungy. He’s talking to three other people - is one of them covered in hands? - and you probably should leave him alone.
You do not. Instead, you start running, and do the same thing you used to do to each other as kids.
“TOUYA!” Before he can even react, you leap up and jump on his back, knocking him to the ground. The man with all the hands can only stare in confusion as you squeeze the life out of your oldest friend in a hug.
Touya, who insists on brushing your hair, then complains about any split ends he sees forming, but is gentle nonetheless as he can’t not devote himself to you—it’s in his nature.
Touya, who likes to lazily rest his arm over your shoulder.
Touya, who rolls his eyes when you ask him if he can be your personal heater, but he lets you anyway
Touya, when it’s the dead of the night, and it’s as if there is no one in the entire world but you two, relishes in your gentle comfort while you hold him close and stroke his hair, craving your words of praise, needy. After all, it is far more vulnerable to submit to love then to give it out
Touya, who isn’t a morning person, so he likes to sleep in while being surprisingly clingy
༻༺A/N: Heyyy so as you can tell I haven’t been active but here is the long awaited request that I’ve done for the 3rd time now after I was almost done because my phone just died so yeah… anyways I don’t really know much about the LOV members but the internet helped so I tried my best and enjoy xx!
It’s late when he comes through your apartment window. Not that he ever uses the door — or that he ever asks.
Dabi moves like smoke, silent and fast, and tonight is no different.
You’re in your living room, curled up with a cup of something warm and a re-run playing too low to matter. The sharp, scorched scent of fire hits before the sound of boots.
“You know,” you murmur without looking, “breaking and entering is technically a crime.”
“So’s harboring a villain, sweetheart,” he replies with a smirk in his voice.
You finally glance up.
He’s bleeding.
Again.
_________________________________
You don’t say anything at first. You just set the cup down, push off the blanket, and head to the bathroom for the first aid kit you keep stocked just for him.
He’s already on the couch when you return, leather jacket half-off, shirt torn where some idiot took a lucky shot. There’s a split above his eyebrow and bruises blooming down one side of his ribs.
“I told you last time—” you start.
“I know. ‘Don’t get hurt again, Dabi. You’re not invincible, Dabi. Your quirk’s a walking self-destruct button, Dabi.’” He rolls his eyes. “You sound like a wife.”
You raise a brow, kneeling in front of him. “If I were your wife, you’d be sleeping on the balcony.”
A smirk tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t reply. Not when you’re leaning in like that — warm hands and soft fingers and that concentrated look on your face while you clean him up like he hasn’t burned cities.
You’re always gentle. Even when he doesn’t deserve it.
_________________________________
“Hold still,” you murmur.
You dab at the cut above his brow. He winces.
“Baby,” he grits out, “that shit stings.”
“You’ll live,” you say, amusement flickering in your voice. “Big, scary arsonist can’t handle a little antiseptic?”
“You talk a lot of shit for someone with no backup.”
“I talk a lot of shit because you let me,” you counter. “And because you keep showing up like you live here.”
There’s a pause.
He holds your gaze for a second too long.
Then: “Maybe I should.”
You laugh — light, easy, because what else do you do when Dabi flirts like he’s defusing bombs? “What, like rent-free? You’d burn through the floorboards in a week.”
His smirk returns, half-lazy, half-challenging. “You’d miss me.”
And you don’t say it, but you would.
_________________________________
You finish with the gauze and tape, then lean back onto your heels with a sigh. “Okay. You’re fixed up, mostly. Just don’t—”
“Don’t push myself. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before.” His voice is quieter now. He’s looking at you a little differently. “You always take care of me like that?”
“Only when my idiot husband stumbles in after getting into street fights.”
The word slips out mid-sentence, so natural you don’t catch it until it’s already in the air.
Silence.
Dabi blinks.
His entire expression stills.
You freeze.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my god— I didn’t— I wasn’t— I meant guest. Or— or squatter. Or asshole with blue fire—”
“Did you just call me husband?” he asks, tone slow and smug in the way that always means trouble.
You try to stand. He grabs your wrist.
“Say it again.”
“No.”
He grins — amused, delighted. “Come on. I wanna hear it.”
“I’m not saying it again, you menace—”
“Husband,” he mocks in a singsong voice. “Aww. You got a little domestic daydream up there, sweetheart?”
“You’re bleeding, you jackass.”
“And yet you still called me your man,” he says, tilting his head. “Interesting.”
You flush hot. “Shut up.”
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
_________________________________
The teasing lasts all night.
Every time you hand him something: “Thanks, wife.”
Every time you sigh at his laziness: “That’s no way to talk to your husband.”
Every time your fingers brush his: “Careful, this is basically a honeymoon.”
But underneath the grin, there’s something else. Something quieter. Focused.
He keeps watching you.
Like he’s trying to figure out if the word meant nothing… or everything.
Because he wanted it to mean everything.
Shigaraki (Tomura Shigaraki) - “Husband? No, I—”
You never imagined calling Tomura Shigaraki “husband” would end up so… complicated.
The night started like any other: you were sitting together on the couch in his cramped apartment, watching some low-key anime, the flicker of the screen lighting up his tired face. Shigaraki was mostly quiet, eyes half-lidded, the weight of the world settling on his shoulders like it always did.
You liked coming over — not because he was talkative or warm, but because the silence wasn’t suffocating when you were there.
“Want some ramen?” you asked, nudging the instant noodle cup towards him.
He grunted, an almost inaudible “yeah,” and grabbed the cup, fumbling with the lid like he hadn’t touched food in days.
You smiled softly, but your eyes caught the nervous twitch in his fingers. Something about the way he kept avoiding your gaze made your heart squeeze.
“Hey,” you said quietly, “you don’t have to do this alone.”
He blinked, and his lips twitched as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.
The night wore on. You passed him the spoon a few times, and when your fingers brushed, he jerked back like you’d shocked him.
“Sorry,” he muttered quickly.
You just shrugged it off “it’s okay”
The moment passed, but the tension lingered, hanging between you like thick fog.
_________________________________
Later, you were leaning against him, half-asleep, when you mumbled, “You’re such an idiot sometimes.”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
You grinned and snuggled a little closer. “I don’t know how you put up with me.”
His eyes flickered, and he cleared his throat. “You’re annoying.”
“Only to you.”
“Obviously.”
Your smile faded a bit, and you nudged his arm. “Hey, you know… I’m yours.”
He blinked at that like you’d just insulted him. “What?”
You swallowed nervously, realizing maybe you said too much. “I mean… I’m yours. You know, like, in that way.”
He stared at you blankly, fingers twitching.
You laughed nervously, then the words slipped out before you could stop them. It felt right in that moment!
“I’m your wife.”
The silence after was deafening.
Shigaraki’s eyes went wide, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
“Husband,” he blurted.
You blinked. “Wait—what?”
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, voice cracking. “You—You said husband. I heard it.”
You blinked again, baffled. “I didn’t say husband.”
He shook his head, looking down at his hands. “But you thought it. I saw it on your face.”
Your heart raced. “I’m not sure what that means.”
He cleared his throat loudly, breaking eye contact. “It means… I don’t know. It’s weird. I don’t do this stuff.”
“Neither do I,” you admitted.
He fidgeted with his sleeves. “I don’t know how to respond.”
“Me neither.”
You both laughed awkwardly — the kind of laugh that fills the silence but doesn’t quite fix it.
Twice (Jin Bubaigawara) - “Husband? Chill, you’re being dramatic!”
The sun was dipping lower outside, spilling warm golden light through the blinds of Twice’s cramped apartment. The familiar clutter greeted you the moment you stepped inside—empty snack bags, scattered comics, and clothes draped over chairs and the couch. It wasn’t exactly pristine, but it felt like the most comforting place in the world.
Twice was sprawled on the worn-out couch, his usual nervous energy tempered by the soft calm of having you there. One leg was curled beneath him; the other swung slightly as he scrolled through his phone, occasionally grinning at something.
You kicked off your shoes and set down your bag, holding up the snacks and a thermos of tea you’d brought. “Hope you’re hungry.”
His eyes brightened. “You’re a lifesaver! Come sit, come sit.”
You settled beside him, the couch sinking beneath your weight. Twice instantly shifted, looping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. The warmth of him felt like a soft blanket wrapped around your heart.
For a moment, you just breathed in the comfortable silence. The world outside faded — no missions, no chaos, just this shared calm.
“You know,” you started, leaning into him, “this apartment? It’s kind of a disaster.”
Twice chuckled. “It’s organized chaos.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fancy way of saying you’re messy?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Exactly. But it’s my kind of messy.”
You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “I kind of like it. Like you.”
“Really?” Twice’s voice was softer now. “You like me… messy and all?”
“Especially messy.”
He laughed, the sound light and happy. “Good, because I’m a mess inside and out.”
The two of you sank into a contented quiet, the gentle hum of an anime playing on the TV filling the space between you. You sipped your tea while Twice munched on chips, the casual comfort wrapping around you like a second skin.
After a few minutes, his phone buzzed. He checked it and glanced at you with a sly grin. “Pizza delivery. Wanna order?”
“Definitely,” you said, laughing. “You’re always starving.”
As Twice reached for a slice, you nudged him playfully. “God, husband, chill, you’re being dramatic.”
The words slipped out before you realized it, and Twice froze mid-bite. His eyes widened in disbelief.
“Husband?” His voice was a strangled whisper. “Did you just—”
You swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t mean it like that! It was a joke.”
But Twice was already bouncing on the couch, his fingers tangled in his hair, muttering to himself in a nervous rush. “Oh my god, I love you! But marriage? Too soon! Too soon! But I love it! But I’m scared! What if I mess it up? What if you meant it? What if you’re waiting for me to propose? What if I’m not ready?!”
You bit your lip, watching his chaotic thoughts swirl like a storm. It was classic Twice — all over the place, but somehow adorably sincere.
“Okay, okay,” you said gently, grabbing his hands to steady him. “Slow down. It was just a slip. I’m not proposing.”
He blinked rapidly, trying to catch his breath. “But what if I mess it up?”
“You won’t. I’m here.”
Twice’s cheeks flushed pink as he smiled shyly. “I’m a mess.”
“A lovable mess,” you whispered.
He chuckled softly, squeezing your hands. Then, with a nervous grin, he leaned closer and mumbled, “Wanna practice saying it again? Just in case I ever do propose.”
You laughed, heart fluttering. “Only if you promise not to freak out this much next time.”
“No promises,” he whispered back, his eyes sparkling.
_________________________________
As the evening deepened, Twice’s apartment became a small world of its own — one filled with laughter, warmth, and little moments that made your heart swell.
You found yourselves sprawled on the floor, surrounded by empty snack bags and scattered cushions. Twice pulled out a stack of goofy hats and shoved one onto your head.
“Try this one!” he said, balancing a ridiculous, oversized pirate hat.
You giggled, the silliness breaking down any lingering awkwardness. Twice joined you, donning a feathered cap that was just as ridiculous.
“Perfect match,” he declared with a goofy grin.
You caught his gaze and smiled softly, thinking about how far you’d come. Twice, the chaotic, sometimes anxious hero, was right here beside you — raw, vulnerable, and open.
He caught your gaze and blushed. “You’re really something special.”
You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “So are you.”
_________________________________
Later, while the anime played on, Twice turned to you with a sudden seriousness. “You know, I never thought I’d find someone who gets me. Who sticks around despite all the chaos.”
You tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His smile faltered for a moment, replaced by something softer, almost fragile. “Sometimes, I’m scared I’m too much. That I’ll mess it all up.”
You shook your head. “No. You’re enough. More than enough.”
He exhaled slowly, a weight lifting from his shoulders. “Thanks for believing in me.”
You took his hand in yours, the simple touch saying more than words ever could.
As the day continued, the memory of that single word — “husband” — echoed in your mind, a small spark that promised a future full of chaos, love, and maybe, just maybe, something more.
Mr. Compress - “A Slip of the Tongue”
The first time you visited Mr. Compress’s apartment, you expected something… flashier.
Maybe a place full of bright colors, rich velvet drapes, magic cards flying through the air, a hat rack overflowing with top hats. But no—it was surprisingly quiet. Warm wood floors, golden lighting, books stacked in every corner. The only truly flamboyant thing was a single, well-loved velvet coat on a mannequin by the door.
“This is cozy,” you’d said the first time you came in, a little stunned.
“And yet… utterly lacking in drama,” he replied, gesturing with flair. “Forgive me. I left my exploding doves in the other dimension.”
You laughed. You always laughed around him.
Even now—several months into whatever strange relationship you had—you still didn’t have the right words for it. He cooked for you. You brought wine. He told stories. You curled up under his arm. And sometimes, when the world quieted down, when the League wasn’t calling or the world wasn’t falling apart, you stayed the night.
But no one had said the words yet. Not those words. Love. Forever. Commitment.
Not even close.
_________________________________
Tonight, it was pouring rain, and you’d arrived with a dripping umbrella and two bags of groceries.
“Dinner is on me this time,” you’d insisted, sidestepping him when he tried to take the bags from your hands.
“Darling, you wound me,” he said with a grin behind his mask. “You know I take pride in feeding my guests.”
“I’m not a guest anymore,” you shot back, raising a brow. “Besides, I want to cook for you.”
He raised both gloved hands in surrender. “Far be it from me to deny a beautiful woman the pleasure of poisoning me with her affection.”
“Watch your mouth,” you said, elbowing him lightly as you kicked off your shoes. “I brought dessert too.”
“My heart is yours.”
“Damn right it is.”
The evening passed with soft jazz playing from a dusty old speaker. You moved around his kitchen like you belonged there—because lately, it kind of felt like you did. He lingered nearby, leaning against the counter, offering unnecessary tips just to stay close.
When the food was finally plated, you both settled at his low dinner table, sitting cross-legged with your knees brushing.
“Truly divine,” he declared after the first bite. “You’re trying to win me over. I feel it.”
“Trying?” you asked, smirking. “I’ve already got you wrapped around my little finger.”
He tipped an invisible hat. “Touché.”
_________________________________
You were cleaning up, sleeves rolled and humming under your breath, when he came up behind you to dry the dishes with a towel in hand.
“Have I mentioned how lovely you look tonight?” he asked softly.
You turned, flicking a sud-covered finger at him. “Don’t flirt while I’m doing chores. That’s cheating.”
“Darling, I only flirt when it’s inconvenient. It adds to the thrill.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing. “God, husband, calm down.”
Silence.
A beat passed.
You froze.
He did too—hands still in midair, towel half-wrapped around a plate.
“…I beg your pardon?” he said, almost too calmly.
You clapped a wet hand over your mouth. “I didn’t—oh my god—I didn’t mean—!”
He placed the plate down very carefully and turned to you, both gloved hands behind his back in classic magician form.
“Husband?” he echoed, voice pitched half an octave higher. “That’s… well, I must say I didn’t expect to be promoted mid-dishwashing session!”
Your cheeks went nuclear. “I—look, I didn’t mean it! It was a slip! I meant to say—like—boyfriend? Partner? I don’t know! It came out weird!”
He straightened dramatically, head tilted back, hand on his chest.
“Oh, the cruelty!” he cried. “To be crowned a husband, only to have the title ripped away mere seconds later!”
“Stop it,” you groaned, burying your face in a kitchen towel. “I want to crawl into the sink and die.”
“You wound me again! I was already picking out tuxedos.”
You smacked him with the towel.
_________________________________
Once the laughter settled and your face returned to a semi-normal shade, you both sat on the couch, close and quiet, tea cooling in your hands.
“I’m sorry,” you said again, more seriously this time. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
He tilted his masked head. “You didn’t. Not truly.”
You looked at him.
“I’m a performer, my dear. I may appear dramatic—but I promise, I do not take your words lightly.” His voice was softer now, stripped of showmanship. “Even an accidental word like ‘husband’… well, it struck me. But not in a bad way.”
Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”
He nodded slowly. “There are worse things to be than the man you accidentally associate with the word ‘forever.’”
Your breath caught in your chest. “I didn’t mean it like that. But… I don’t hate the idea.”
He turned toward you more fully, the golden glow of the lamp outlining the shape of his mask.
“I want to hear it again,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“Call me that. One more time.”
You hesitated. “Now you’re just messing with me.”
“I’m quite serious.”
You shifted, then said it softly—“husband”—like it might crumble in your mouth.
He inhaled slowly. “Goodness. That really is dangerous.”
