#venus.writes
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GINGERBREAD COOKIES — HAWKS
❅ *:･ﾟkeigo is an awful baker, but luckily for him he makes up for it with his enthusiasm and pretty face.
*:･ﾟ❅ pairing: hawks x gn!reader
*:･ﾟ❅ content: fluff, established relationship, soso much domestic fluff, keigo's bad at baking but he's handsome so you put up with it, mentions of food/eating.
hehe this turned out cuter than i thought it would :3 alsoalso ik it makes sense for him to be able to cook !! but baking's a whole different skill so !! yeah !!
"What are you doing?"
Keigo starts, his feathers poofing and nearly sending your mixing bowl—one he must've haphazardly balanced on the edge of the sink—clattering to the ground. He looks comically caught, gripping your now dirty whisk with both hands and his eyes rounded in surprise.
It takes a moment for your sleep-addled brain to catch up, to notice the batter and poorly greased pans—he's baking. Never a good sign when it comes to Keigo, he’s never been the best in the kitchen.
You couldn’t count on two hands the times you’ve caught him huddled over the stove stirring something which should not be stirred or trying desperately to save the charred remains of dinner. Keigo had a multitude of practical skills, cooking anything but the basics just wasn’t one of them. At least not when you leave him unsupervised.
“S’a little early to be baking cookies, isn’t it birdie?”
He hums, eyes heavy and saccharine again with the weight of his grin, “never too early for something sweet, dovie.”
You don’t bother responding, instead shuffling across the kitchen so you can drape yourself over his shoulders. You tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder, the heavy and warm smell of his cologne overwhelming as you nose along the line of his jaw. Your fingers reach to tangle in his hair, nails scratching lightly over his scalp and drawing a low, appreciative hum.
The bowl of batter sits abandoned in front of him, and you finally get a better look at what he was trying to make. You think it’s supposed to be gingerbread, but it’s thick, full of clumped powder and smells overwhelmingly like cinnamon.
“I don’t know if you’re doing that right, baby,” you tease, eyeing his clumpy batter mixture. “Think you’re supposed to mix it until there isn’t any clumps.” Your arms belt tighter around his waist, hooking your chin over his shoulder to get a better look at the mess.
Keigo blinks then, staring down at the bowl with furrowed brows, “I've been following the recipe. It didn’t say what it was supposed to look like.”
“Supposed to turn into dough, baby—uniform so you can roll it out and cut it into shapes.”
His pout deepens then, returning the whisk to the bowl before detangling himself from you, settling against the counter to look at you. It’s then you notice just how messy he’d gotten, streaks of flour litter his cheeks and chin. The sight makes you laugh, leaning into him to wipe gently at his face with your thumbs. Keigo leans heavily into your touch, fighting to keep the pout on his face. “Mhm maybe you’ll have to stay and help me with them then, dove, you always make the best sweets.”
"Only if you promise not to go anywhere near the oven. I’ll fix the batter and you can help decorate them once they’re baked.” Keigo finally lets the smile grow on his face, leaning to nudge your nose with his own.
“Aww, you don’t think I can manage a few cookies all by myself? I think the dough woulda turned out good if you’d left me to it,” his voice is light and teasing as he turns into you, lips skating across your cheek.
“I think you would’ve come out with some rock-hard cookies if I let you try and put that batter in the oven,” with a quick kiss to his collar, you tug him back away from the counter. “Now scooch—quicker we get these made the quicker I can drag you back to bed, hero.”
He hums, letting you take his space in front of the stove and replacing your spot, draping his broad form over you. Keigo watches as you work, chin hooked over your shoulder and pressing incredibly unhelpful kisses to them.
You’re not entirely sure he knows just how unhelpful he’s being, a heavy weight at your back which forces you to awkwardly shuffle to get ingredients and makes whisking a much harder task than it should be.
You quickly learn he’s not much better at decorating the cookies then he is baking them, icing melted and crudely overlapping the lines of what was supposed to be a Christmas tree.
At least he’s pretty.
tags: @dinodumbass ; @uwuthatshit ; @hirugummies ; @dukina ; @trashy-bowtie ; @boo-kugo ;
#❄; 'tis the season#✶ venus.writes#✶ writes.bnha#✶ writes.hawks#bnha x reader#mha x reader#hawks x reader#keigo takami x reader#takami keigo x reader
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A BIT OF REPRIEVE — IZUKU MIDORIYA. cw. kids, no pronouns used, biological kid implied, domestic fluff as always. (this is very bad and only 500 words but,, enjoy)
It’s become a sort of routine for Izuku to visit you at the office on off days, usually with your daughter balanced on his hip and a stack of poorly wrapped bentos in the other.
You stopped trying to discourage the behavior, no amount of chastising, telling him to enjoy his days off, will get him to stop him from eating lunch with you. “It tastes better when I’m with you,” he pouted, eyes preformatively glassy and wide.
So, you’re not surprised when someone knocks on your office door the minute your lunch break officially begins, muted giggling leaking through the wood.
You can tell they've been home—at least for a bit—izuku's bangs are clipped back with little butterfly clips and his eyes are rimmed by poorly applied glitter. And Mei’s hair’s done, poorly braided into two pig tails and tied off with mismatched ribbons—clearly Izuku’s work.
“Hi, honey.” His voice is all soft, sweet and syrupy enough to make the tightness in your shoulders lessen. Mei’s nestled in the bend of one arm, curled around a comically large seal that he’d bought for her the last time you went to the aquarium, and her grin splits wider when she sees you.
“I’ve missed you,” you coo, reaching to wipe at the bit of glitter still clinging to the round of her cheek, unveiling your husband’s freckles and dimples, “both of you—day’s been really boring.”
“Missed you too, wish you could’ve gone with us.” Izuku grins brightly, sitting his stack of bentos on the edge of your desk, “you would’ve liked the penguins.”
You lean in to meet him halfway, smiling into the kiss, "mhm, I can tell you dressed her this morning—she doesn’t match at all." Izuku nips at your lower lip, eyes narrowing into a glare as he pulls back.
"Mean." It’s a tease, soft and breathy as the hand cupping your head smooths down your neck, thumbing at the line of your jaw. “And to think, I went all this way just to bring you lunch just for you to bully me. Must really love you or something.”
“Mhm, I love you too,” it’s earnest enough for his eyes to soften, dropping to knock his nose against yours, “or something.”
“Can we eat now? ‘M tired and I wanna eat the strawberries.”
Izuku huffs, pulling back to poke softly at her sides, “you weren’t supposed to tell, that part was a surprise!”
#bnha x reader#mha x reader#deku x reader#izuku midoriya x reader#midoriya izuku x reader#✶ venus.writes#✶ writes.bnha#✶ writes.izuku
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CAUGHT 'YA — HAWKS
✩ ˛˚ . the last thing you were expecting on your morning coffee run was to come face to face with your,, acquaintance?? the number two hero. even further from that was nearly face planting in front of said hero.
˛˚ . ✩ pairing: hawks x gn!barista!reader
˛˚ . ✩ word count: 1.2k
˛˚ . ✩ content: fluff, coffee shop + meet cute, reader works at a coffee shop near hawks' agency, he's insufferable in a good way, it's a cat cafe too <3 bc i think hawks likes coffee + cats and can't be convinced otherwise.
this is so self-indulgent it should probably classify as self-ship but,, it's my birthday weekend :3 so i'm letting myself do it. it's not winter yet </3 but i really love the setting!! this is written as part of my love in the everyday collab!
“Don’t you look warm,” your voice is muffled, a whisper buried deep in the softness of your scarf. The malice is unearned, bright yellow eyes blinking up thoughtlessly as you glare down at the calico’s toasty fish-shaped bed.
It’s too early for you more than anything, the sun barely warming the sky and trees creaking with the weight of last night’s ice and snow. But you’d run out of the overpriced coffee your friend gave you for your birthday and you’d been suitably spoiled away from anything canned. So, you woke up an hour earlier than normal to make the icy walk.
There’s barely time to relish in said overpriced coffee, warming your frigid fingers against the paper cup, before you’re back in the cold. Misfortune chases you further, catching your heel on the shop’s icy step. You don’t have the chance to catch yourself, let alone the time to wallow in your poor luck, before you fall.
Your face doesn’t immediately meet the icy cement though, someone from behind catches you with a soft ‘careful!’. You claw blindly at their arms with little care for the paper cup splattering on the sidewalk, thankful that it’s not your nose or knees instead.
You smile, fighting down the grief for your coffee and the mounting embarrassment from falling, “thank you, I don’t know...” The words catch in your throat, squeezing next to your now hammering heart, when you finally meet his eyes. A very familiar pair of gold-ringed eyes. Your mortification only grows as he helps you upright with a disarmingly well-practiced smile, warm palms strong and sure around your elbows.
Billboards have never done Hawks justice. He’s always prettier, brighter—the warmth of his hair and the flush of freckles across his nose—in person. You’re always taken aback by him, by the width of his wings and the breathtaking way he smiles. He’s larger than life and no amount of magazine covers and spreads can capture it, the way his eyes—narrowed by the dark of his markings—seem to pierce through you, pinning you where you stand.
Hawks—face awash in gentle eureka—says your name, voice so soft and tender you nearly lose it to the wind. And then he smiles—a charming smile, a boyish grin so unlike the sultry smirks he wears on every ad and billboard. “If it isn’t my favorite barista,” something like affection gleams in the gold of his eyes.
You flounder under the weight of his smile, the heady smell of his cologne, and the warmth of his hands on your shoulders. You’re not used to having him so close, always keeping behind the safety of your counter whenever he comes in for his criminally late-night coffees and scones.
“Thank you,” you repeat, only a little dazed now as you determinedly keep your eyes locked on his own. It doesn’t help you, though, soft pools of honey bore into you from under his pretty, thick eyelashes and you’ve already forgotten your niceties.
“You’re welcome,” he answers, voice bright and airy as he searches over your face. “You alright? That was quite the fall.”
“I’m fine!” You untangle yourself from him, hoping that giving yourself some distance will help clear your head. All it does is remind you of your coffee, “can’t say the same for my cup, though.”
Hawks frowns down at the puddle, hand still cradling your elbow softly, “what a waste.” Then, his expression clears, and he smiles at you, “c’mon we can get you a new one. Heard they started making blueberry muffins again and I’ve been dying to get my hands on one.”
The cold chases you into the coffee shop, clinging to your coat and nipping at the round of your nose. Hawks is warm beside you, a slow gentle heat which seeps into you and melts against your skin from where he’s holding onto your arm. It’s dizzying and you fight the urge to lean into his side, to cocoon yourself in the plushness of his wing.
“You cold?”
You become painfully aware of your shivering; pinning your hands tight between your arm and side in a fruitless attempt to leech body heat, “oh no, I’m okay! I’ll be warmer once I'm back home.”
Hawks hums, unconvinced, at your attempt to placate him. And much to your mounting horror, he begins fishing into the pocket of his hero costume, pulling out a pair of thick dark gloves. You recognize them as a part of his winter costume, trimmed with white and clearly made of something heavy and incredibly soft. He doesn’t give you the opportunity to politely decline, tugging your hands gently into his own and slipping the worn-warmed gloves onto your hands. He presses his thumb affectionately into the grooves of each knuckle as he goes, as if mimicking the press of lips.
“There,” he muses, a contented looking smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “now, you’ll have an excuse to see me again. You’ll have to give me my gloves back somehow,” he teases, eyes warmth with mirth. He’s gone before you can respond, already half-way across the café to order and leaving you to tend to your stuttering pulse.
One of the cats trots after him, batting after his boots. It takes to circling his leg while he orders, brushy orange tail curled tight against his ankle and head butting against the length of his calf. He stoops to pet it after handing over his hard, cooing softly as he scratched dutifully behind each velvety ear.
He returns to your corner bearing two paper hot cups and two delicately wrapped blueberry muffins. Hawks hands you the furthest cup, muffin balanced on top with something pinned beneath it. He smiles, something nervous in the way his wings twitch behind him.
“I can pay for my own coffee, Hawks—you didn’t have to.”
“I know, I wanted to,” Hawks assures as he leads you out of the shop, palm warm against your back as he does.
“Well, thank you. I appreciate it, Hawks.”
His wings twitch again behind him, restless ruffling as he lifts a hand to rub at the name of his neck. It makes you smile—he looks nearly skittish, so unlike the normally poised and controlled persona you’re used to seeing on TV. Normal almost.
“It wasn’t any trouble, I needed to get one for myself before heading in anyways,” he makes a show of lifting his own cup. “Just try not to fall victim to any villainous sidewalk again. You might not be so lucky to have such a brave and dashing hero there to catch you this time.” His smile grows when you laugh—easy and wide.
“I’ll try my very best, birdie.” The reaction is immediate, a bright flush crawling up his neck as he turns into his collar.
Something deep in your chest lurches when he turns to leave, a bitter curl of reluctance as you watch him. You look down at the cup in your hands, whose heat’s leeched from between your palms and the enticingly sweet pastry on top.
Once the muffin’s removed you realize what it had been pinning—a small square sticky note you recognize from behind the counter with a number and note scrawled in practiced lettering: ‘maybe I'll let you get the next one –hawks ;>’.
TAGS: @httpghostface ; @boo-kugo ; @boyfrwenz ; @iitoshi ; @saintouru ; @bbiemilk ; @xphntmhvx ; @itachislut ; @kailali ; @asaptakami ; @https-bachira ; @saturnsbluestar ; @izufeels ; @dinodumbass ; @uwuthatshit ; @hirugummies ; @dukina ; @trashy-bowtie ;
#bnha x reader#mha x reader#hawks x reader#keigo takami x reader#takami keigo x reader#keigo x reader#hawks fluff#✶ venus.writes#✶ writes.bnha#✶ writes.hawks
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