Songfic crush culture by Conan Grey Word count ~1.3k-1.4k
The common room of the UA High dorms was an absolute nightmare, and Bakugo was at his breaking point. Everywhere he looked, it was a sickening display of teenage couples being entirely too much. Kaminari was failing miserably at flirting with Jirou, Ashido was gushing over some cheesy rom-com manga, and the sheer amount of pink and red decorations Midoriya’s group had put up for a random campus festival made him want to blow the entire floor to pieces.
He leaned back against the couch cushions, aggressively shoving his black headphones over his ears to drown out the noise. He pulled up a random playlist, hitting play on a heavy, fast-paced metal track that perfectly matched the bitter annoyance radiating from his chest.
Crush culture
My God, don't look at your phone
No one's gonna call you
Quit checking your volume (crush)
Bakugo scoffed, locking his screen and shoving the phone into his pocket. He didn't need anyone calling him. He didn't want any of this brainless distraction. He kept checking his volume anyway, cranking the music higher to obliterate the sound of the couples giggling around him. Romance was a weakness, an anchor dragging down anyone stupid enough to get caught up in it. He was going to be the Number One Hero, and he didn't have time for this garbage.
I don't care if I'm forever alone
I'm not falling for you
Babe, this baby is loveproof (culture)
He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his jaw locked as he glared rigidly at the floor. He didn't care if he ended up completely alone. He wasn't falling for anyone. He had spent his whole life building walls to keep people out, and he was convinced he was completely immune to all of this cheesy, lovey-dovey nonsense.
Then, the front dorm doors clicked open, and you walked in.
You were laughing at something Kirishima had said, shaking snow out of your hair, your cheeks flushed slightly from the winter cold.
Bakugo’s heart did a sudden, violent jerk against his ribs. His scowl deepened, his fists clenching tightly inside his pockets. Damn it. He ripped his eyes away, fixing his gaze rigidly on the opposite wall, his teeth grinding together. This was the problem. You were the exact, specific problem. For the past three months, his brain had decided to completely betray him. Every time you spoke to him, every time you handed him a notebook in class, or smiled when he actually helped you train, his chest tightened up.
I don't care what you're sayin'
I don't wanna participate in your game of manipulation (crush)
He knew you weren't actually playing games you were just being yourself but it felt like a trap nonetheless. He didn't want to listen to anything you had to say, desperately trying to convince himself that your friendly attitude was just some subconscious trick to get under his skin. It felt like his own senses were conspiring against him, trying to drag him into the very thing he despised.
"Hey, Bakugo!"
Your voice cut right through his internal crisis. He didn't move, keeping his eyes locked straight ahead, but he slid one side of his headphones down to his neck, unable to completely ignore you.
You walked over to the back of the couch, leaning over it with a bright, too cheerful smile. "You look like you're about to murder someone. Everything okay?"
Bakugo snapped his gaze up to meet yours, his red eyes narrowing defensively. "Get lost. I’m not in the mood for your stupid questions."
And no, I don't want your sympathy, all this love is suffocating
Just let me be sad and lonely
Cause
Instead of flinching or getting annoyed by his harsh tone, you just laughed, completely used to his aggressive defenses by now. "Right, right. Lighten up, Sparky." You reached into your bag, pulling out a small, foil-wrapped chocolate heart left over from a baking project and tossing it onto his lap. "Don't choke on it."
With a wave, you turned around to head toward the kitchen, leaving him staring down at the piece of candy.
Bakugo's hand wrapped around the chocolate, his fingers clenching tight until the foil crinkled under the pressure. His face burned a furious shade of crimson. He hated this. He hated how a single, stupid piece of candy made his throat feel tight. He just wanted to be left alone in his bitter mood, but everyone else's suffocating affection was encroaching on his space.
Crush culture makes me wanna spill my guts out
I know what you're doin', trying to get me to pursue you
Crush culture makes me wanna spill my guts out
Spill my guts out, spill my guts out
He stood up so fast the couch rattled, shoving the crushed chocolate deep into his pocket. The sheer frustration felt like a physical ache in his chest, a wave of nausea at his own weakness. He felt like he was being manipulated into pursuing you, like his own heart was forcing him to play along. He needed to get away from the noise, away from the class, and most importantly, away from your bright smile before he completely lost his mind.
He stormed up the stairs to the dorm hallways, the heavy thud of his boots echoing his frustration. He didn't go to his room, though. Instead, he shoved open the heavy door leading to the roof, welcoming the freezing winter air that slapped him across the face. He pulled his headphones back over his ears, letting the music anchor him back to his bitter reality as he stared out into the grey sky.
Oh, no, don't look in their eyes
'Cause that's how they get you
Kiss you then forget you (crush)
He rigidly avoided looking back down toward the common room windows. That was exactly why he kept his walls up. Looking too closely at someone, letting them get under your skin, just left you wide open to get hurt. He wasn't going to let himself be vulnerable to someone who might just break his heart and forget about it.
All they feedin' you is beautiful lies
So hide in the bathroom
Til they find someone else new (culture)
He just needed to isolate himself from the beautiful lies of romance until this ridiculous mood passed, until everyone else found something else to obsess over and left him in peace.
He leaned against the concrete railing, looking out over the snow-covered campus. He thought about how you always managed to sit next to him during lunch, even when he growled at you to find another table. He thought about the way you train stubborn, relentless, refusing to back down even when he went all out against you. You weren't a distraction because you were weak; you were a distraction because you were exactly the kind of person he couldn't help but respect. And that respect had curdled into something else entirely something that made his chest ache when he saw you smiling at someone else.
The rooftop door clicked open again.
Bakugo didn't even have to look to know who it was. The scent of winter air mixed with your familiar, subtle scent gave you away instantly. He didn't turn around, keeping his back to you as the heavy metal door shut with a soft thud.
"I told you to get lost," he muttered, his voice barely carrying over the wind. He didn't take his headphones off this time, but he muted his phone screen.
"You left your jacket on the couch," you said quietly, walking up to stand a few feet away from him. You leaned against the railing too, looking out at the same view. "And you looked like you were about to blow up the building, so I figured I’d check if you were still breathing."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"Never said you did." You sighed, a small puff of white mist escaping your lips. "Just wondered why you’re up here freezing instead of downstairs with everyone else. I know you hate the lovey-dovey stuff, but usually, you just yell at Kaminari until he stops talking, you don't completely flee the room."
Bakugo's jaw clenched. He turned his head just enough to glare at you sideways. He felt the faint irritation of the common room creeping back into his mind, remembering the obnoxious noise of the couples downstairs.
Shut your damn mouth
You're talking too loud
And no one cares if you two made out
I'm sick of the kissing cult
"The hell do you care?" Bakugo barked, turning his face away to hide the heat rising to his cheeks. "Go back downstairs and hang out with the rest of the extras. I'm sick of hearing about who is going out with who, and I don't care about anyone's stupid relationships."
You rolled your eyes, but there was a softness to it that made his stomach flip. "I don't care about them, Bakugo. I came up here because you seemed actually pissed, not just your normal pissed."
He stared at you, his red eyes tracking the slight shiver in your shoulders. You hadn't even brought your own coat, you were just wearing your school uniform, clearly having rushed up here after him. It was incredibly stupid. You were going to catch a cold.
With an aggressive growl, Bakugo ripped off his headphones, letting them hang around his neck. He reached down, unzipping the heavy dark jacket he wore, and shoved it roughly into your arms. "Put it on, idiot. You're shivering."
You blinked in surprise, holding the oversized jacket before slipping your arms into the sleeves. It completely swallowed you, smelling strongly of woodsmoke and burnt sugar his distinct scent. "Thanks," you murmured, burying your hands in the deep pockets. "Didn't think you had a chivalrous bone in your body."
"Shut up. I just don't want to hear you whining about being sick tomorrow."
A heavy silence settled between you two, filled only by the whistling of the wind. Bakugo’s mind was racing, the suffocating feeling of his hidden feelings clawing at his throat.
Crush culture makes me wanna spill my guts out
I know what you're doin', trying to get me to pursue ya
Crush culture makes me wanna spill my guts out
Spill my guts out, spill my guts out
He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, desperately trying to ignore how good you looked in his clothes, how perfectly you fit right next to him. He felt trapped by his own emotions, furious that he was being forced into a corner by a feeling he couldn't control.
"You're doing it again," you said softly, breaking the quiet.
"Doing what?"
"Staring into the distance like you're trying to fight the air," you said, looking up at him. "Seriously, what's wrong? Is it training? Did Aizawa say something?"
"No."
"Then what is it?" You stepped closer, tilting your head to try and catch his eye. "You can tell me, you know. Even if you think it's stupid."
"It is stupid," Bakugo barked, his voice cracking slightly with a rare vulnerability that he instantly hated. He gripped the concrete railing so hard his knuckles turned white. "It's the stupidest damn thing in the world."
"Try me."
He finally snapped, turning to face you fully, his chest heaving. The frustration of weeks of denial, of trying to suffocate a feeling that refused to die, boiled over. He couldn't keep it inside anymore. The truth was tearing him apart, forcing its way out of him like an uncontrollable explosion.
Crush culture makes me wanna spill my guts out
I know what you're doin', trying to get me to pursue ya
Crush culture makes me wanna spill my guts out
Spill my guts out, spill my guts out
"It's this! It's all of this! This stupid love thing, those stupid extras downstairs, and you!"
You blinked, stepping back half a foot in confusion. "Me? What did I do?"
"You exist!" Bakugo shouted, his hands clenching, the sheer emotion making his shoulders tremble as he finally let everything spill out. "You walk into a room and you laugh at half assed joke, and you hand me stupid candy, and you don't even notice what you're doing!"
"Bakugo, I don't understand-"
"I don't want this!" he interrupted, his voice dropping into a fierce, desperate hiss. He took a step toward you, crowding your space, his fierce red eyes boring into yours. "I don't want to care about where you are during lunch. I don't want to notice when you're tired from training. I don't want to sit up here freezing my skin off just because your stupid face won't leave my head!"
The words hung in the freezing air, sharp and heavy.
You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat. The dots connected slowly in your mind, your eyes widening as the realization hit you. The anger, the avoidance, the sudden outbursts it wasn't because he hated you. It was the exact opposite.
"You..." you started, your voice barely a whisper. "You have a crush on me dont you?"
Bakugo looked like he wanted the roof to open up and swallow him whole. He groaned loudly, running a hand through his spiky blonde hair, turning his back to you once more. "Yeah. Brilliant deduction, genius. Go ahead and laugh. Tell Kaminari and the rest of them so they can make a joke out of it."
He waited for the rejection, or worse, the teasing laughter. He braced himself for the blow to his pride, his muscles tense.
Instead, he felt a soft tug on the back of his shirt.
He didn't move. You tugged again, harder this time.
Slowly, reluctantly, Bakugo turned around. You were standing there, your face completely flushed, but not from the cold. A small, genuine smile was tugging at the corners of your lips, and your eyes were bright.
"I'm not going to laugh at you," you said quietly, taking another step closer until you were standing right in his space, looking up into his defensive glare. "And I'm definitely not telling Kaminari."
Bakugo scoffed, crossing his arms, though the aggressive edge was fading, replaced by a tense nervousness. "Whatever."
"I mean it," you said, reaching out to gently touch his forearm. He stiffened, but he didn't pull away. "If you hated it so much, why didn't you just tell me to leave you alone for real? You always tell people when you want them gone."
"Because I didn't want you gone," he muttered, the confession tasting like ash in his mouth, but he forced it out anyway. His eyes flicked down to your boots before rising back to your face. "That's the problem. I wanted you around, and it drove me crazy."
You let out a soft laugh, a sound that made the tight knot in his chest loosen just a fraction. "You're an idiot, Katsuki."
Hearing his first name cross your lips made his heart completely skip a beat.
"You could have just told me," you continued, your fingers sliding down his arm to tentatively touch his bare hand. His palm was warm against yours. "Instead of sitting up here being miserable and freezing."
"I wasn't miserable," he grumbled, though his fingers automatically closed around yours, gripping your hand tightly. His grip was firm, almost possessive, but careful not to hurt you.
"Clearly, your little anti romantic attitude didn't work very well," you teased, stepping even closer so that the warmth of your bodies shielded against the wind.
Bakugo looked down at your joined hands, then up at your face. The sheer honesty in your expression was terrifying, but for the first time in months, he didn't feel like he was suffocating. The bitterness of his frustration downstairs didn't matter up here.
"Shut up," he muttered, though there was no real venom in it. He pulled you a little closer, his free hand reaching up to awkwardly but gently cup the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "Just... stay up here for a bit. I don't want to go back down there."
"I can do that," you smiled, leaning into his touch.
The winter wind still howled around the rooftop of UA, and downstairs, the rest of Class 1-A was probably still celebrating their loud, chaotic version of romance. But up on the roof, wrapped in his oversized jacket and holding your hand, Bakugo decided that maybe just this once falling for someone wasn't the worst thing in the world.
You walked to the library one last time, knowing this would be the final entry. The notebook sat, waiting, as it had always been, a small, quiet space where you had allowed yourself to open up more than you ever had before. But today was different. There was a weight to it now, a feeling that something had changed—something important.
You pulled the notebook from its hiding spot, your hands trembling slightly. His question from last time still lingered in your mind: If you could change something about the world, what would it be?
You had thought long and hard about this one, the answer not coming easily. What could you change? What difference could you make in a world so vast? But as you sat there, thinking about everything you’d shared with him, you realized that the answer had been inside you all along.
You began to write:
"If I could change something about the world, I’d want people to be kinder to one another. I know it sounds simple, but I think the world could use more understanding, more patience, and more empathy. Sometimes, we’re so caught up in our own lives that we forget to see things from others' perspectives. I think if we could all do that just a little more, things would be better."
You hesitated, thinking for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, you added:
"And, if I’m being honest… I wish we didn’t have to hide behind notebooks to be honest with each other. Maybe it’s time to take a leap and trust that sharing who we really are will be enough."
You closed the notebook, your fingers lingering on the cover. You felt a strange sense of finality, but also a quiet hope.
---
Tenya sat at his desk that evening, opening the notebook with the same anticipation he always felt. This time, though, there was something different in the air. His heart raced slightly as he read your response, and he couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity and depth of your words. Kindness. Empathy. It was something he deeply believed in as well, even if he had never said it out loud before.
And then there was the part about not hiding behind notebooks anymore, about taking a leap. He felt a rush of emotions. What did you mean by that? Did you mean…?
With his hand shaking slightly, he wrote:
*"I think your answer is beautiful. Kindness and empathy are things the world needs more than anything right now, and I believe that if we all made an effort to understand each other better, we could create something truly meaningful.
I’ve been thinking about what you said—the idea of not hiding behind notebooks anymore. And, if I’m being honest, I feel the same way. I’ve come to appreciate this exchange more than I ever thought I would. It’s given me a chance to open up, to be myself in a way I never have before.
But, maybe… maybe it’s time for us to take that leap."*
He paused, then added:
"What if we met in person? Not through these pages, but face to face? I know it’s a big step, but I think it’s time for us to stop hiding behind words and see where this connection could lead."
He placed the notebook back, his heart pounding. It was terrifying. What if you didn’t feel the same way? But in his gut, he felt that this was the right thing to do.
---
The next day, you found the notebook waiting for you, and your hands trembled as you opened it. When you saw what Tenya had written, a rush of emotions flooded over you. His words were so earnest, so vulnerable, and they made you feel something you hadn’t expected: a deep connection.
He wanted to meet.
Your heart beat faster, a mixture of excitement and fear swirling inside you. Could you do this? Could you really take that step? You stared at the page for a long time, your mind racing.
Finally, you wrote:
*"I think you’re right. It’s time to stop hiding behind words, to take that leap and see what happens. I’m nervous, but I’m also excited. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I think I’m ready. I want to meet you too.
So… let’s do it. Let’s take that leap together."*
You closed the notebook with a quiet smile, your heart fluttering. Whatever happened next, this was a moment you would never forget—the moment when the leap was made, and the connection was no longer just a secret in a notebook.
---
Tenya found the notebook later that evening, his eyes scanning your response with bated breath. A smile slowly spread across his face as he read your words. You were willing to take the leap too.
"I’m so glad," he wrote, his heart soaring. "I can’t wait to meet you. I think this is the start of something wonderful."
He added one last note:
"No matter what happens next, I’m grateful for this exchange. It’s been more than I ever expected, and I’m glad we could take this journey together."
He closed the notebook gently, feeling a sense of peace settle over him. It was the end of one chapter—but it was the beginning of something new, something real.
The moment you opened the notebook the next day, your heart skipped a beat. His words were simple, but they felt like a small revelation:
"What’s something you’ve always wanted to say but haven’t been able to?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. There were a thousand things you wanted to say, things you’d never had the courage to speak aloud. But what was the right thing to share with him? You stared at the page for a while, your mind swirling with possibilities.
Finally, you began to write:
*"There are a lot of things I’ve wanted to say, but I think the most important one is that I’m scared. Scared of not being enough, scared of putting myself out there and failing, scared of being misunderstood. I’ve always been afraid of showing too much because I’m worried it will drive people away.
But I’m learning that maybe it’s okay to be vulnerable. Maybe it’s okay to admit that I don’t have everything figured out.
I think... I think it’s okay to need someone."*
You stared at the words for a moment, your heart racing. You hadn’t expected to be this open, but it felt strangely freeing.
You returned the notebook to its spot, your thoughts a mix of excitement and fear. What would he think of your answer?
---
Later that evening, Tenya retrieved the notebook, his fingers trembling slightly as he flipped through to your latest entry. When he saw what you had written, he felt an unexpected rush of emotions. Your honesty about fear and vulnerability struck him deeply, more than he could put into words.
He paused, reflecting on your words for a long time before writing:
*"I understand. I think everyone has fears like that—whether it’s about not being enough or not being understood. I know I’ve struggled with that too, especially with how others see me. Sometimes, I feel like I’m carrying a lot of weight, trying to be perfect or to always do the right thing.
But I think you’re right. It’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay to need others. And I think, if anything, that makes you stronger, not weaker.
Here’s my next question: If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?"*
He wrote quickly, then stopped to add a small note beneath it:
"And just so you know, I think you’re more than enough as you are."
With that, he placed the notebook back in its hiding spot, his heart racing. This exchange had gone far beyond the simple questions and answers it started as. It had become something personal. Something important.
---
The next morning, you couldn’t wait to see his response. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this exposed, but there was also a sense of relief, like you had finally let go of something heavy. When you read his words, you felt a surge of warmth. His understanding, his reassurance... it was exactly what you needed.
You wrote beneath his question:
*"If I could change one thing about myself, I think I’d be more confident. I’ve always second-guessed myself, worried that I’m not good enough or that I’ll disappoint others. I think I need to learn how to trust myself more.
But at the same time, I’m learning to accept the parts of me that I don’t always love. I don’t have to be perfect, and that’s okay."*
You smiled as you added:
"And thank you. Your words mean more to me than I can say."
You returned the notebook to its hiding place, the fluttering in your chest intensifying. It felt like you were standing on the edge of something, but you weren’t sure whether to take the leap or hold back.
---
Tenya found the notebook later that evening, his eyes lingering on your response. Your answer about confidence spoke to something deep within him. He could relate—he had always held himself to the highest standards, pushing himself relentlessly, even when it meant feeling isolated or misunderstood.
He took a moment to think, then wrote:
*"I think we all have parts of ourselves that we wish were different, but I admire your ability to accept those parts. I’m trying to learn that too—to accept that I’m not perfect and that I don’t always have to be the best.
As for me, I struggle with being too hard on myself sometimes. I’ve always wanted to be someone people can count on, but it’s hard when I feel like I’m not living up to my own expectations. Maybe, like you, I need to learn to be kinder to myself.
Here’s my next question: If you could change something about the world, what would it be?"*
He added a small note beneath it:
"And, again, thank you for being so open with me. I never expected this exchange to mean so much."
He placed the notebook back, feeling a quiet sense of connection growing between you. There was something in the way your words aligned with his own thoughts, something that made him feel like, maybe, he had found someone who truly understood him.
You returned to the library the next day with a flutter of excitement. Each new note in the exchange felt like a step closer to understanding the mysterious person on the other side. This time, you eagerly retrieved the notebook, your heart racing as you flipped to his newest entry:
"What’s something you’ve always wanted to try but haven’t yet?"
His question had lingered in your thoughts all day. You’d been pushing yourself to take risks lately, to break out of your own comfort zone. So, you wrote without hesitation:
*"I’ve always wanted to take a spontaneous trip somewhere—no itinerary, just a destination, a backpack, and the thrill of figuring it out as I go. Maybe somewhere remote, where I could be surrounded by nature, or maybe a bustling city where I’m just another face in the crowd. It’s about getting lost and finding something new.
What about you? Is there something you’ve always wanted to try but never had the chance?"*
You paused before adding:
"And I meant what I said. You’re someone who stands out, even if you don’t always feel that way. I’m sure anyone who gets to know you sees that."
With a satisfied breath, you closed the notebook and placed it back in its hiding spot, hoping he’d find it soon.
---
Later that evening, Tenya sat in the quiet library, flipping through the notebook with a slight frown as he read your response. The way you described the thrill of spontaneity struck him as both daunting and exciting. He admired your adventurous spirit, even if it was a little beyond his own comfort zone.
As he wrote his reply, he found himself thinking of the many things he had yet to try. It wasn’t often he allowed himself the luxury of daydreaming about the future, but something about this exchange made him feel lighter.
"Your idea of a spontaneous trip is inspiring," he wrote. *"I’ve always wanted to take a road trip—just drive for hours with no particular destination in mind, seeing where the road leads. It sounds simple, but there’s something freeing about not having any plans.
As for something I’ve never tried—honestly, I’ve always wanted to do something a bit reckless, like bungee jumping or something high-adrenaline. I’ve never had the courage to go through with it. Maybe one day.
Here’s my next question: What’s the hardest lesson you’ve learned so far?"*
He added a small postscript:
"And again, I mean it—you’re someone who has the courage to dream big, even when it’s scary."
With that, he placed the notebook back in its hiding place, his heart swelling with a mix of anticipation and a strange feeling he couldn’t quite define.
---
The next day, you found the notebook waiting for you, and you eagerly opened it to read his reply. His words struck a chord in you. You could almost picture him, the ever-responsible Tenya Iida, imagining something as wild as bungee jumping. You couldn’t help but smile at the thought.
You wrote beneath his question:
*"The hardest lesson I’ve learned so far is that things don’t always go the way you expect, and that’s okay. I’ve learned that sometimes you have to let go of control and trust that things will work out, even when they seem impossible. It’s something I still struggle with, but I’m getting there.
As for you, I think you’ve got more courage than you realize. I bet if you ever do bungee jump, it’ll be because you decided to take that leap—literally and figuratively."*
You hesitated before adding:
"I think the most important lesson we can learn is to stop holding ourselves back. Life’s too short to play it safe all the time."
You returned the notebook to its place, your heart racing. You were starting to feel like you knew him in a way no one else did, and it was a connection you cherished.
---
Tenya retrieved the notebook that evening, his chest tightening as he read your words. The vulnerability in your response resonated deeply with him. The lesson you had learned was one he had yet to fully embrace. He’d always been so determined to keep everything in order, to keep control, but perhaps it was time to let go just a little.
"Your answer is something I need to hear more often," he wrote. *"I’ve always struggled with letting go of control, especially when it comes to my responsibilities. But I think you’re right. Life is too short to constantly play it safe. Maybe it’s time to take some risks.
Here’s my next question: What’s something you’ve always wanted to say but haven’t been able to?"*
He paused, feeling a sudden, inexplicable hesitation before adding:
"I’ve been enjoying this exchange more than I ever expected. It feels like we’re connecting, even though we’ve never met."
He placed the notebook back in its hiding spot, his thoughts swirling. It had started as an experiment, but now it felt like something more—something real.
His question lingered in your mind long before you reached the library the next day. Do you think there’s someone out there who truly understands you? It was so simple, yet so deeply personal.
When you found the notebook, your hands trembled slightly as you opened it. You read his words again, feeling the weight behind them. After a moment of hesitation, you began to write:
"Honestly? I don’t know. I’d like to think there is, or that there will be someday. I think understanding someone takes time and effort, and not everyone is willing to put in that work. But I’d like to believe it’s possible. What about you? Do you think someone truly understands you?"
Satisfied with your answer, you closed the notebook and returned it to its place. As you walked away, you couldn’t help but feel like this exchange was becoming more than just a game. It was starting to feel like a connection—a real one.
---
Tenya found the notebook that evening, his heart beating faster than he cared to admit. As he read your answer, he felt a deep sense of understanding and a quiet admiration for your honesty.
"Your answer resonates with me," he wrote. *"I don’t know if anyone truly understands me, either. Sometimes, I think people see only the surface—the rules I follow, the responsibilities I carry—but not the person behind them.
Here’s my next question: What’s something you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t had the chance to yet?"*
He paused, then added:
"By the way, your perspective on understanding someone is thoughtful. It’s refreshing to hear."
He placed the notebook back, adjusting his glasses as a faint smile tugged at his lips.
---
When you returned to the library the next day, you couldn’t wait to see his reply. You felt your heart ache slightly as you read his thoughts on being understood. There was something so sincere about him, and it made you wish you could meet him in person.
"Something I’ve always wanted to do?" you wrote. *"I’d love to take a trip by myself, just to see what it’s like to rely only on myself and my own decisions. I think it would be scary but also liberating.
What about you? What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?"*
After a moment’s hesitation, you added:
"Also, I think anyone who takes the time to get to know you would see there’s so much more to you than rules and responsibilities."
You returned the notebook to its hiding spot, feeling a little bolder than before.
---
Tenya found your response later that evening, and your words stopped him in his tracks. The idea of taking a trip by yourself struck him as both daring and admirable, but it was your final comment that truly caught him off guard.
"Your idea is inspiring," he wrote. *"I think you’d learn a lot about yourself on a solo trip.
As for me, I’ve always wanted to teach a class, even if just for a day. I’d love to share what I’ve learned with others and see them grow because of it.
Here’s my next question: If you could describe yourself in three words, what would they be?"*
He placed the notebook back, his mind lingering on your encouraging words. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly seen.
The next day, you returned to the library, drawn once again by the pull of the notebook. This secret exchange had become a comforting constant in your life, a small corner of your world where you could be honest without fear of judgment.
When you found his latest entry, your heart warmed. The thought of him playing the violin was oddly endearing, and you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of person he was outside of his words.
"What’s a memory you cherish the most?"
The question brought a flood of emotions, and you spent a moment staring at the page before writing:
"One of my favorite memories is from when I was little. My family went camping in the mountains, and one night, we sat around the campfire, singing songs and telling stories. I remember looking up at the stars, feeling so small but so connected to everything around me. It was one of those rare moments when everything felt perfect. What about you? What’s a memory you hold close?"
You closed the notebook and returned it to its spot, your thoughts lingering on the memory you’d shared. As you walked away, you wondered what kind of moment he would choose.
---
Tenya found the notebook later that day, his breath catching slightly as he read your response. He could almost picture the scene you’d described—the warmth of the fire, the laughter, the endless expanse of stars. It was a memory full of heart, and it made him reflect on his own.
After a moment’s thought, he wrote:
*"What a beautiful memory. Thank you for sharing it.
For me, one of my most cherished memories is from when my brother, Tensei, taught me how to ride a bicycle. I was so determined to get it right, and he was so patient with me, even when I kept falling. I remember the way he cheered when I finally managed to ride on my own. That moment made me realize how much he believed in me, and it’s stuck with me ever since.
Here’s my next question: If you could meet your younger self, what would you tell them?"*
He paused before adding:
"By the way, your memory made me want to try stargazing. Do you have a favorite spot for it?"
He returned the notebook to its hiding spot, his thoughts swirling with curiosity about the person behind the responses.
---
You found his reply the next day and felt your chest tighten as you read his memory. There was so much warmth in his words, so much love for his brother. It made you admire him even more, despite not knowing who he was.
"If I could meet my younger self," you wrote, *"I’d tell them that it’s okay to make mistakes, that failing doesn’t make you a failure. I’d tell them to be kinder to themselves and to trust that things will work out in the end.
As for stargazing, there’s a hill just outside the city that’s perfect. It’s quiet, with hardly any lights, and the view is amazing. I hope you get the chance to try it someday."*
You hesitated before writing the next question, wanting to choose something meaningful.
"Here’s my question: If you could ask the person reading this one thing, knowing they’d answer truthfully, what would it be?"
With that, you returned the notebook to its spot, your heart racing as you imagined what he might ask.
---
Tenya retrieved the notebook later that evening, his pulse quickening as he read your latest entry. The way you spoke to your younger self struck a chord with him, and he found himself wishing he could have offered you the reassurance you described back then.
Your question, however, left him at a crossroads. What did he want to know? After a moment’s thought, he wrote:
*"If I could ask you one thing, I’d ask: Do you think there’s someone out there who truly understands you?
Your answer doesn’t have to be long. Even a simple yes or no would suffice."*
He placed the notebook back in its spot, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. The question felt personal, maybe even a little bold, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity about your answer.
The next time you returned to the library, the now-familiar notebook felt like a lifeline. You retrieved it with practiced ease, a small thrill coursing through you as you flipped to his latest question:
"What’s one thing that makes you truly happy?"
It was such a simple question, yet it carried so much weight. What did happiness mean to you? What moments brought you the most joy? You tapped your pen against the edge of the notebook, thinking.
Finally, you wrote:
"What makes me truly happy is creating something with my hands—whether it’s sketching, playing an instrument, or crafting something small. It gives me a sense of peace and accomplishment that’s hard to find anywhere else. What about you? What makes you happiest?"
You smiled at the thought of him reading your words, wondering what his answer might be. With care, you placed the notebook back where it belonged and left the library, the day feeling a little brighter than usual.
---
Tenya found the notebook that evening, and as he read your response, he felt a sense of kinship. He could imagine you sitting in a quiet corner of U.A., pencil in hand, lost in your art or music.
"What a wonderful answer," he wrote. *"For me, happiness is when I know I’ve made a difference, no matter how small. It could be helping a classmate understand a difficult concept, assisting someone in need, or even just holding the door open for someone who’s carrying too much. Those moments remind me why I chose this path.
Now, here’s my next question: If you could spend a day doing anything you wanted, what would it be?"*
He hesitated for a moment before adding a small postscript:
"By the way, your answer made me curious—what instruments do you play?"
He placed the notebook back in its hiding spot, a smile tugging at his lips as he walked away.
---
The next morning, you couldn’t wait to see his reply. As you opened the notebook and read his words, your cheeks warmed. His postscript was unexpected, and it made you laugh softly to yourself.
You scribbled your response beneath his question:
*"If I could spend a day doing anything, I’d take a long train ride to somewhere new, a place I’ve never been before. I’d spend the day exploring, finding quiet little spots to draw or people-watch.
As for instruments, I play the piano and guitar. What about you? Do you play anything?"*
You paused, then added:
"Also, your answer made me smile. It’s nice to know there are people like you who find happiness in helping others."
With that, you returned the notebook to its spot, your mind already buzzing with anticipation for his next reply.
---
Tenya retrieved the notebook later that day, his heart racing slightly as he read your answer. A train ride to somewhere new—he could picture it vividly. There was something so peaceful about your vision of happiness, and it resonated with him.
"Your ideal day sounds wonderful," he wrote. *"I’ve never thought much about train rides, but your description makes it sound so calming.
As for instruments, I’m not very musical, but I used to play the violin when I was younger. I stopped because my schedule became too demanding, but reading your answer makes me wonder if I should pick it up again.
Here’s my next question: What’s a memory you cherish the most?"*
He placed the notebook back, adjusting his glasses with a faint smile. There was something about this exchange—this growing bond with someone he didn’t know—that made his days feel more meaningful.
The question gnawed at you throughout the day: What’s one thing you wish people knew about you? You pondered it between classes, during lunch, and even during your evening training session. It wasn’t an easy question to answer.
The next day, you returned to the library with your answer ready. Retrieving the notebook from its hiding place, you flipped to the latest entry and wrote beneath his question:
"I wish people knew that I don’t always have it together. Everyone thinks I’m confident and unshakable, but the truth is, I doubt myself more often than I’d like to admit. What about you?"
You hesitated before returning the notebook, wondering if your words sounded too vulnerable. But then again, wasn’t that the point? The anonymity made it easier to be honest, and there was something cathartic about sharing a truth you seldom voiced.
As you left the library, a part of you felt lighter, yet anticipation buzzed in your chest.
---
Tenya Iida stood in the library that evening, his eyes scanning the aisle to ensure no one was watching. He retrieved the notebook, his heart racing with an excitement he hadn’t anticipated when he first planted the challenge.
As he read your response, his eyebrows lifted slightly. He’d always prided himself on his own composure, on the way he carried himself as an exemplary student and aspiring hero. But your words resonated with him in a way that surprised him.
Sitting at one of the tables, he carefully wrote his reply:
*"What a heartfelt answer. It’s strange, isn’t it? The way people see only what they expect to see.
As for me, I wish people knew how much pressure I feel to always do the right thing. Sometimes, it feels like my actions are more about living up to expectations than my own desires.
Here’s my next question: If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?"*
He placed the notebook back in its hiding spot and adjusted his glasses, a faint warmth lingering in his chest. Who was this mysterious person? He found himself intrigued, wondering about the face behind the words.
---
You found the notebook the next morning and read his reply, your lips curving into a soft smile. You hadn’t expected such vulnerability, and it made you curious about him—who he was, what he looked like, what his life at U.A. was like.
You took a deep breath and wrote back:
"I’d change the way I overthink things. It holds me back sometimes, makes me second-guess myself even when I know what I want. What about you?"
Returning the notebook to its place, you felt a growing sense of connection to your mystery partner. It was strange, sharing these thoughts with someone you’d never met, yet it felt natural.
---
Tenya found your reply later that day and smiled, his fingers brushing the edge of the notebook.
"If I could change one thing about myself," he wrote, *"I’d be less rigid. I tend to stick to rules and plans too strictly, and sometimes I think it holds me back from seeing the bigger picture.
Here’s my next question: What’s one thing that makes you truly happy?"*
He closed the notebook, a faint blush warming his cheeks. This exchange had become a highlight of his days, and he found himself looking forward to your responses with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
Tenya iida x fem reader inspired by one of my favorite series dash and lily (go watch it's on Netflix) this is part 1
The First Note
It started with a notebook.
On a quiet afternoon in the library, the atmosphere hummed with soft whispers of students buried in their studies. You had escaped to the solace of the upper floor, a sanctuary of dusty tomes and overlooked shelves. You often spent your free hours here, hidden among the stories and knowledge that allowed you to forget the chaos of hero training.
As you slid a worn paperback back into its place, your hand brushed against something unfamiliar—a plain blue notebook, tucked snugly between two books. Curious, you pulled it free. On the cover, neat handwriting caught your eye:
"To whoever finds this, I have a challenge for you."
You hesitated, glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting someone to be watching. But the aisle was empty. Curiosity bubbled in your chest as you opened the notebook to the first page.
**"If you're reading this, congratulations on stumbling upon my little experiment. My name is... well, that's not important right now. Let's just say I attend U.A., and I want to try something different.
Here’s the challenge: Answer the question below. If you’re interested in continuing this exchange, leave your response and hide this notebook where you found it. If not, simply put it back.
Here’s the question: What drives you to become a hero?"**
Your heart fluttered at the boldness of the idea. It was oddly thrilling, as if the mysterious author were inviting you into a secret game. For a moment, you debated whether to participate. Then, unable to resist the allure, you pulled out a pen and scrawled your response beneath the question:
"I became a hero to prove to myself that I could. That I’m more than my fears and failures. What about you?"
Satisfied, you closed the notebook and returned it to its place. As you left the library, a small smile tugged at your lips. The idea of sharing thoughts with a stranger, of connecting with someone in such an unconventional way, was oddly exhilarating.
---
The next day, curiosity got the better of you. You returned to the library, eager to see if the notebook had been found. Your pulse quickened as you retrieved it, the cover now slightly askew, as if it had been handled recently.
Flipping it open, you found a new entry beneath your response, written in the same neat handwriting:
*"What a thoughtful answer. For me, being a hero is about responsibility. It’s about ensuring the safety of others and living up to the legacy of those who came before us. Now, here’s my next question:
What’s one thing you wish people knew about you?"*
The question lingered in your mind long after you left the library, the notebook safely returned to its hiding spot.
Little did you know, on the other side of campus, Tenya Iida sat at his desk, a slight blush creeping up his cheeks as he thought about the mysterious person who had responded to his challenge.
Prompt: A musician mysteriously receives love letters from an unknown admirer within their industry, leading them on a quest to find out who it is.
The faint hum of a melody echoed through the spacious recording studio. (Y/N) sat at the grand piano, her fingers gliding effortlessly over the ivory keys. The soft light from the desk lamp illuminated the sheet music she had been working on for weeks, a potential chart-topper for her upcoming album. Outside the studio’s soundproof walls, the bustling city thrived, but in here, it was just her and the music.
"Take five, yeah?" her producer called out from the control room, and she nodded, stretching her fingers. (Y/N) stood up, shaking the stiffness out of her arms, and turned to grab her water bottle. That's when she noticed it—a folded piece of paper on the piano bench.
Frowning, she picked it up. No one should have been in here except her and the staff. Curious, she unfolded it. The paper was neatly creased, the handwriting elegant and precise.
Your music is as breathtaking as the stars—raw, unfiltered, and beautiful. I can’t help but admire you from afar. Keep playing, (Y/N). You’re captivating.
Her breath hitched. No signature. Just a mysterious message.
"Did someone leave this?" she called out to her producer. He shook his head from behind the glass, looking just as confused.
A wave of unease washed over her, but it was tinged with curiosity. Who could have written this?
The next few days were uneventful, save for her usual schedule of interviews, rehearsals, and meetings with her label. That is, until the second letter appeared. This time, it was slipped into her bag after an event.
There’s a fire in your music—one that makes me want to burn alongside you. Thank you for being you.
She stared at the words, her heart pounding. Whoever it was, they weren’t just anyone. Their words felt intimate, almost as though they truly knew her.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, Katsuki Bakugou lounged on the couch in his penthouse apartment. His arms were crossed, and he was glaring at the TV playing a rerun of his latest music video. His manager had been nagging him about softening his image lately, and it annoyed him to no end.
"What do they know, huh?" he muttered. "I’m not about to play some lovey-dovey crap just to sell more records."
But even as he grumbled, his mind wandered back to her. The way her music resonated with him was almost infuriating. It stirred something deep inside him, something he couldn’t quite put into words. She was a rising star, and everyone knew it.
Still, Katsuki wasn’t the type to sit back and let feelings get the better of him. He’d never been good at expressing his emotions, but writing those letters had been... oddly freeing.
"Maybe this is stupid," he muttered under his breath, crumpling up yet another draft of a letter. But then he sighed, smoothing out the paper and finishing his latest note.
---
Back in her apartment, (Y/N) sat cross-legged on her couch, the latest letter in her hands. The words were more personal this time, almost like a confession.
If only I had the guts to say this to your face. One day, maybe. Until then, let my words reach you like your music reaches me.
Her fingers traced over the inked words. The mystery was eating away at her, but she couldn’t deny the thrill it brought.
Who was this hidden admirer? And why did their words make her heart race?
---
The next morning, (Y/N) woke up to the sound of her phone buzzing incessantly on her bedside table. Squinting at the screen, she groaned.
Her best friend and fellow artist, Mina Ashido, had sent a barrage of texts.
Mina: "OMG, check the trending page right now!"
Mina: "Your last performance is blowing up!!!"
Mina: "ALSO. Did you see that photo circulating??? 👀"
Confused, (Y/N) quickly opened social media. Sure enough, her name was trending, and so was an image that made her heart skip a beat.
It was a photo of her walking out of her studio last night, holding the latest anonymous letter. The picture wasn’t clear enough to make out the writing, but the caption read:
“Who’s sending love notes to (Y/N)? Secret admirer or industry insider?”
She froze. Her chest tightened as she scrolled through hundreds of comments speculating who the admirer could be. Fans threw out wild guesses, ranging from fellow musicians to actors she’d barely spoken to.
Slamming her phone down, she muttered, "Great. Just what I needed."
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door. Mina’s voice called out, "Open up! I brought coffee and nosy energy!"
(Y/N) swung the door open, glaring at Mina. "This is your fault, you know."
Mina grinned unapologetically, handing over a latte. "Don’t look at me! I didn’t leak the photo. But come on, aren’t you the tiniest bit curious about who’s writing these letters?"
(Y/N) groaned, flopping onto her couch. "Of course I’m curious! But now it’s not just me wondering—half the internet is."
Mina plopped down beside her, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Okay, but think about it. This person knows you. It’s not some random fan. They’ve been where you are—your studio, your events. That narrows it down, right?"
Her words made sense, but the thought only heightened (Y/N)’s frustration. Who could it be?
---
Across the city, Katsuki Bakugou slammed his phone onto the counter. He’d seen the photo, too, and his mood had soured instantly.
"Dammit," he muttered, running a hand through his spiky hair. The whole point of writing those letters was to remain anonymous, to express himself without the pressure of his reputation or the spotlight.
His manager, Kirishima, raised an eyebrow. "You okay, bro? You’ve been pacing like a caged animal for the last hour."
Bakugou scowled. "No, I’m not okay! Some idiot snapped a photo of her with one of the letters."
Kirishima blinked in surprise. "Wait... you’re the one writing those?"
"Shut up," Bakugou growled, his face reddening slightly.
Kirishima smirked, crossing his arms. "Man, you’ve got it bad, huh? Didn’t think you were the romantic type."
"It’s not like that," Bakugou snapped, though his tone lacked conviction. He shoved his hands into his pockets, glaring at the floor. "Her music... it’s different. It gets to me. And I don’t know how to deal with it, okay?"
Kirishima studied him for a moment before clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Well, if you don’t want this blowing up any further, you might need to take a more direct approach. You can’t just keep sending letters now that people are watching."
Bakugou frowned, the thought of confrontation making his stomach twist. He wasn’t one for emotional displays, let alone confessing his feelings to someone like (Y/N)—someone so talented and bright that it made him feel exposed.
"I’ll figure it out," he muttered.
---
Later that evening, (Y/N) arrived at an industry gala, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She hadn’t planned on attending, but her manager insisted it was a good opportunity to keep the public’s focus on her music, not the mystery surrounding her admirer.
The grand ballroom was packed with familiar faces—fellow artists, producers, and media personalities. She made her way to the bar, needing a drink to calm her nerves.
That’s when she spotted him. Katsuki Bakugou.
He was leaning against the far wall, his usual scowl in place as he sipped from a glass of whiskey. His sharp red eyes scanned the room, landing on her for a brief moment before flicking away.
She tried not to overthink it. They’d crossed paths before at events like this but had never spoken beyond polite nods. Still, something about his presence felt... different tonight.
As the night went on, (Y/N) couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. Not in a creepy way, but with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
Unbeknownst to her, Bakugou’s gaze lingered every time she turned away. His hands itched to write another letter, but his gut told him it was time to make a move.
---
The music from the gala orchestra swirled through the air, but (Y/N) found it hard to focus. Her eyes scanned the crowd as if the answers she sought could be found in the sea of familiar faces. Somewhere in this room was her mystery admirer—or at least someone who might know more about them.
She hadn’t forgotten the fleeting moment her gaze locked with Katsuki Bakugou’s earlier. It was rare to see the fiery and notoriously temperamental artist at social events like this. While she didn’t know him personally, his reputation preceded him: explosive, blunt, and fiercely talented.
“Looking for someone?” Mina teased, appearing by her side with a mischievous grin.
(Y/N) huffed. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Mina raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “Well, you might not have to look far. Guess who’s been stealing glances at you all night?”
(Y/N)’s heart skipped a beat. “What are you talking about?”
Mina tilted her head toward the far end of the room, where Bakugou stood in a shadowy corner, arms crossed, his sharp eyes fixed on her once again.
“He’s not exactly subtle, is he?” Mina whispered conspiratorially. “You think it could be him?”
(Y/N) shook her head quickly, though she couldn’t ignore the way her pulse quickened. “No way. He doesn’t seem like the type.”
“Maybe that’s what makes it so intriguing,” Mina said with a wink before disappearing back into the crowd, leaving (Y/N) flustered and alone.
---
Bakugou drained the last of his whiskey, the liquid burning as it went down. His jaw clenched as he watched (Y/N) laugh at something her friend said. She looked radiant tonight—elegant and confident, like she belonged in the spotlight.
“Tch,” he muttered under his breath, frustrated with himself. Why couldn’t he just go over there and talk to her? He was Katsuki Bakugou, for crying out loud. He didn’t get nervous, and he definitely didn’t fumble over his words.
But this was different. She was different.
“Bakugou!”
He turned to see his manager, Kirishima, grinning as he approached.
“What now?” Bakugou asked, already regretting the interaction.
“Quit sulking, man. You’ve been eyeing her all night. Just go talk to her already.”
“Shut up, Eijiro,” Bakugou growled, glaring at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kirishima laughed, clapping him on the back. “Sure, sure. Just saying, she’s probably wondering why the great Katsuki Bakugou is lurking in the shadows like a creep.”
Bakugou’s scowl deepened, but Kirishima’s words lit a fire under him. Before he could second-guess himself, he set down his empty glass and started making his way across the room.
---
(Y/N) turned back to the bar to order another drink, trying to steady her nerves. She wasn’t expecting a deep, gravelly voice to speak from behind her.
“You don’t look like you’re having fun.”
She turned, startled, to find Bakugou standing there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored black suit. His crimson eyes were sharp, but there was an intensity in his gaze that made her heart race.
“I could say the same about you,” she replied, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
He smirked faintly. “Fair point.”
An awkward silence stretched between them before he finally sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look... I’m not great at this whole ‘small talk’ thing, so I’ll just get to the point.”
(Y/N) blinked, her breath catching in anticipation. Was he about to confess something?
“I’ve heard your music,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s good. Real good.”
The compliment caught her off guard. She knew Bakugou wasn’t the type to hand out praise lightly.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He shifted, his expression hard to read. “You don’t let the spotlight change you. That’s rare in this industry.”
(Y/N) tilted her head, studying him. There was a vulnerability in his tone that didn’t match the tough exterior he was known for.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
He hesitated, the words he wanted to say caught in his throat. Instead of answering, he gave her a curt nod. “Just wanted you to know.”
Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, more confused than ever.
---
Later that night, (Y/N) returned to her apartment. She was still replaying her conversation with Bakugou in her mind when she noticed something on her coffee table.
Another letter.
This one was different from the others. It was shorter, written in the same elegant handwriting, but the words felt raw, almost urgent.
I saw you tonight. You were stunning, as always. One day, I’ll tell you this in person. For now, let this be enough.
Her heart raced as she read the note. The timing was too perfect. Could it really be him?
---
The letter sat on (Y/N)’s coffee table, its words burning into her mind. "I saw you tonight." The timing was too coincidental. She couldn’t ignore the possibility that Katsuki Bakugou might be her mystery admirer.
Still, doubt lingered. Could the man known for his explosive temper and gruff demeanor really write something so vulnerable and heartfelt?
The next morning, (Y/N) couldn’t shake the thought of him. She decided to take Mina’s advice and look into her potential admirer. She flipped open her laptop, pulling up past interviews, performances, and anything she could find about Bakugou.
Despite his fiery personality on stage, she noticed glimpses of something else in his quieter moments—subtle but telling. The way his fingers lingered on his guitar strings during an acoustic performance, the way he spoke about music like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Could there be more to him than met the eye?
---
Across the city, Bakugou was struggling with his own dilemma.
"Why’d you chicken out?" Kirishima asked, leaning against the counter of Bakugou’s kitchen.
"I didn’t chicken out," Bakugou snapped, glaring at his friend. "I just... didn’t think it was the right time."
Kirishima raised an eyebrow. "You literally had the perfect chance to tell her last night. Now she’s probably more confused than ever."
Bakugou growled, running a hand through his hair. "It’s not that simple, alright? What if she thinks it’s weird? Or worse, what if she doesn’t care?"
Kirishima smirked. "Oh, she cares. Trust me. The way she was looking at you last night? She’s curious. You’ve already got her attention. Now it’s up to you not to screw it up."
Bakugou huffed, crossing his arms. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll figure it out."
---
Later that day, (Y/N) found herself back at the studio, trying to focus on recording. But her mind kept wandering, replaying her interactions with Bakugou and the letters.
"Earth to (Y/N)!" her producer called, snapping her out of her thoughts.
"Sorry," she muttered, adjusting her headphones. "Let’s try that again."
As the track played, she poured her emotions into the lyrics, her voice carrying a rawness that hadn’t been there before. By the time they wrapped up the session, her producer was beaming.
"That was incredible," he said. "You’re really feeling this one, huh?"
(Y/N) nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. Music had always been her outlet, but this song felt different—like she was channeling all the confusion, excitement, and vulnerability she’d been holding inside.
---
That evening, she received an unexpected message from Mina.
Mina: "Guess who’s performing at that charity concert tomorrow? 😉"
(Y/N) blinked at her screen, her stomach flipping as she read the attached flyer. Sure enough, Katsuki Bakugou’s name was listed among the performers.
Her fingers hovered over her keyboard.
(Y/N): "You think I should go?"
Mina: "Are you kidding? Of course! You need to figure this out, and what better way than to see him in his element?"
(Y/N) hesitated, but Mina was right. If she wanted answers, she couldn’t just sit back and wait.
---
The next night, (Y/N) arrived at the concert venue, her heart pounding as she took her seat near the front. The atmosphere was electric, with fans cheering and the buzz of anticipation filling the air.
When it was finally Bakugou’s turn to perform, the crowd erupted into screams and applause. He walked onto the stage with his signature confidence, gripping the microphone as his band prepared to play.
But then something unexpected happened.
Instead of launching into one of his usual high-energy songs, Bakugou gestured for the band to hold back. The stage lights dimmed, leaving him in a spotlight as he picked up an acoustic guitar.
"This one’s... different," he said, his voice gruff but steady. "I wrote it for someone who probably doesn’t even realize how much they mean to me."
(Y/N)’s breath caught as the first chords filled the air. His voice, raw and unfiltered, carried the emotion of every word as he sang about longing, admiration, and fear of rejection.
It was beautiful—and unmistakably personal.
As the final note lingered in the air, Bakugou looked out at the audience, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd. For a fleeting moment, his gaze landed on her, and she felt the intensity of his stare like a jolt to her chest.
Could this be his way of confessing?
---
The applause roared through the venue as Katsuki Bakugou stood on stage, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His song, stripped bare of his usual fiery bravado, left the audience spellbound. But for (Y/N), it was so much more—it felt like a window into his soul.
As the crowd cheered, his crimson eyes scanned the faces again, lingering on her for a beat too long. Her heart raced, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure if it was from the music or the possibility that he’d just revealed himself as her mysterious admirer.
When the show ended, (Y/N) couldn’t sit still. She needed answers, and for once, she wasn’t going to overthink it. She made her way backstage, her palms clammy and her mind spinning with every scenario imaginable.
The security guard stopped her briefly, but she showed him her industry pass, and after a moment, he nodded her through.
The backstage area was buzzing with activity—crew members packing up equipment and performers chatting in clusters. She spotted him leaning against the wall near the dressing rooms, his usual scowl firmly in place as his bandmates spoke animatedly beside him.
Summoning all her courage, she approached.
“Bakugou.”
He looked up sharply, his red eyes widening slightly before narrowing again. “(Y/N)? What’re you doing back here?”
Her voice wavered for a moment, but she steadied herself. “I needed to talk to you.”
His bandmates exchanged knowing smirks before making themselves scarce, leaving the two of them alone.
“What’s up?” he asked, crossing his arms. His tone was casual, but there was a tension in his posture that told her he wasn’t as indifferent as he wanted to appear.
She took a deep breath. “That song you played tonight. Was it... about me?”
The question hung in the air like a challenge. Bakugou’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, she thought he might deflect or deny it. But then he sighed, running a hand through his messy blond hair.
“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low. “It was.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “So you’re the one who’s been sending me the letters?”
He nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Look, I know it’s weird. I just... I didn’t know how else to say it. You’re not like anyone else in this industry. Your music—it’s real. And you... you’re real.”
His words were raw, unpolished, and utterly genuine.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” she asked softly.
He shrugged, his lips curving into a wry smirk. “Because I’m not exactly the romantic type. Thought you’d laugh in my face or something.”
(Y/N) couldn’t help but smile at that. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Those letters were beautiful, Katsuki.”
His eyes snapped up to hers, surprise flashing across his face. “You mean that?”
“I do.”
They stood there for a moment, the noise of the bustling backstage fading into the background. Finally, (Y/N) reached into her bag and pulled out the most recent letter—the one she’d found on her coffee table.
“When I read this, I didn’t know who it could be. But now...” She stepped closer, holding the note between them. “Now it all makes sense.”
Bakugou swallowed hard, his usual confidence faltering under her gaze. “So... what now?”
A small smile tugged at her lips. “How about we start with coffee?”
His eyes widened slightly before softening. He let out a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess that’s a good place to start.”
As they left the venue together, the world outside felt a little brighter, the music in their hearts no longer hidden but shared.
Promot: He has wings and fights crime in the city. She's a normal human who can't help but be drawn to the mystery under the feathers
The city skyline gleamed under the golden hues of sunset, the hum of traffic below blending with the distant sirens of heroes at work. You had always been fascinated by Pro Heroes, but none more than him—Hawks, the Winged Hero. He moved through the sky with effortless grace, his crimson feathers cutting through the air like a falcon hunting its prey.
You weren’t a hero. You weren’t even Quirked. In a world where nearly everyone had some kind of ability, being Quirkless made you an anomaly, a relic of the past. It didn’t bother you—not too much, anyway. You had a normal job at a cozy bookstore, lived a quiet life, and kept your head down. But despite your best efforts, you couldn’t stop yourself from watching Hawks whenever he soared past.
And one day, your quiet life collided with his in a way you never expected.
It happened after work. You were walking home through a dimly lit alley—a shortcut you always took—when a sudden gust of wind and the whoosh of feathers made you stop in your tracks. A figure landed in front of you, tall and striking, his golden eyes gleaming even in the low light.
“Hey, you okay?” Hawks asked, folding his wings behind him.
Your breath hitched. Up close, he was even more intimidating—broad-shouldered yet lean, his red feathers ruffling slightly as if sensing danger. But there was something playful in his smirk, an easy confidence that made it impossible to look away.
“I—I’m fine,” you managed to say, heart pounding.
“Good,” he said, tilting his head. “’Cause you were about three steps away from walking straight into a mugging.”
Your eyes widened, and as if on cue, a cry echoed from the alley ahead. Hawks snapped his fingers, and a cluster of his feathers shot forward, moving faster than your eyes could track. A moment later, a man stumbled out from the shadows, tied up in red plumes.
“See? Lucky for you, I’m good at my job,” Hawks said, winking.
You exhaled, staring in awe. “I—I didn’t even see them.”
“Most don’t,” he replied, stepping closer. His gaze flickered over you, as if assessing you for injuries. “You really shouldn’t walk alone at night, y’know. No offense, but you’re kind of an easy target.”
You bristled. “I can take care of myself.”
His smirk deepened. “Sure, sure.” Then, with a dramatic sweep of his wings, he lifted off the ground. “Try to stay out of trouble, yeah?”
And just like that, he was gone, a streak of red vanishing into the night.
You stood there for a long moment, your heart still racing.
Something about him was magnetic, intoxicating.
And somehow, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time you saw him.
---
The next day, Hawks was all you could think about. You tried to shake it off, convincing yourself it was just the adrenaline of the moment. But when you saw him again—this time during your lunch break—it was as if fate had other plans.
You were sitting on a bench in the park, reading a book, when a shadow passed overhead. Looking up, you saw him hovering above, grinning.
“Hey, bookworm.”
Your stomach flipped. “Hawks?”
“Gotta admit, I was kinda hoping to run into you,” he said, landing beside you with an easy grace. His wings folded neatly, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “You good? No more shady alleyways?”
You frowned. “That was one time.”
He chuckled. “Right, right. Just lookin’ out for you.”
You hesitated before asking, “Why?”
Hawks seemed surprised by the question, his golden eyes studying you for a moment before he shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe ‘cause you’re different.”
Your heart skipped. “Different how?”
He smirked. “You actually look at me like I’m human and not just a hero.”
The words made your breath catch. For the first time, you realized how exhausting it must be—to always be seen as a Pro Hero first, a person second.
Before you could respond, he stretched his wings. “Well, duty calls. See ya, bookworm.”
And just like that, he was gone again, leaving only the flutter of feathers in his wake.
And you?
You were completely, hopelessly intrigued.
---
Days passed, and your encounters with Hawks became more frequent—though you weren’t sure if it was by chance or if he was deliberately seeking you out.
You’d see him soaring above the city while you walked home, his wings casting fleeting shadows over the streets. Sometimes he’d swoop down with a quick “Hey, bookworm,” before disappearing again. Other times, he lingered, chatting with you about anything and everything—your favorite books, your life, your opinions on hero society.
But the more you got to know him, the more you realized how little you actually knew.
One night, after closing up the bookstore, you found him waiting for you outside. His usual confident smirk was replaced with something more thoughtful.
“Busy day?” he asked.
You nodded. “You?”
He sighed, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “Same old. Villains, paperwork, pretending like I don’t wanna just fly away and ditch it all.”
You blinked. “You’d really do that?”
A small chuckle left him. “Nah, not really. But it’s nice to dream.” He leaned against the wall, his wings folding behind him. “Being a hero… it’s not as glamorous as people think.”
You hesitated before asking, “Then why do you do it?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, softly, he said, “Because I have to.”
There was something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. You wanted to pry, to dig deeper into whatever weight he carried—but before you could, he stretched his wings.
“Hey, you hungry?” he asked, suddenly grinning. “I know a great takoyaki stand.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Is this how you get all your fans to like you?”
“Nah,” he teased. “Just you.”
And just like that, the tension in the air dissipated, replaced by something warm and exhilarating.
Little did you know, you were starting to break through the walls he’d carefully built around himself.
---
You weren’t supposed to be here.
That much was clear as you crouched behind a stack of crates in a dark warehouse, heart hammering in your chest. This wasn’t a world meant for you—villains, heroes, battles. You were just a normal person.
So how did you end up in the middle of a crime scene?
It had started with a late-night walk, the city unusually quiet. Then, you’d heard it—raised voices in an alley, Hawks’ name mentioned in hushed but urgent tones. Your curiosity got the best of you, and before you knew it, you were following a group of men to this abandoned building.
Bad idea. Very bad idea.
Now, you were trapped, eavesdropping on a conversation that you definitely weren’t supposed to hear.
“The Winged Hero’s been interfering too much,” one of the men growled. “We need to clip his wings—literally.”
Your stomach twisted.
Hawks was in danger.
Before you could process your next move, the air shifted. A gust of wind, the sound of feathers slicing through the air—then, chaos.
Crimson plumes shot through the darkness, striking the villains with precise, controlled force. In a flash, Hawks appeared, golden eyes sharp, his wings flaring out like a shield.
“You guys talk too much,” he said casually, but his voice carried a dangerous edge.
Then, his gaze snapped to you.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
You swallowed hard. “I—I was just—”
“No time for that,” he interrupted, wings flexing as he assessed the situation. More men were coming, weapons drawn. “Stay behind me.”
A fight broke out, and you barely had time to process the blur of movement—Hawks weaving through the air, his feathers slicing through enemy ranks with terrifying precision.
And yet, even in battle, he kept you within his line of sight.
You had always been drawn to the mystery under his feathers. But now, as you saw the ruthless efficiency in his movements, you realized something else.
Hawks wasn’t just a hero. He was a weapon. A force of nature.
And you had just stepped into his world.
---
Chaos erupted around you. Hawks fought like a storm given form—fast, precise, deadly. His feathers shot through the air like knives, striking down every villain who dared to move. You had never seen him like this before. This wasn’t the charismatic, cocky hero who teased you at every opportunity.
This was a warrior.
And yet, despite the overwhelming odds, there were too many of them. You could see it in the way his wings faltered, the way his movements slowed. He was holding back—he had to. If he went all out, there was a chance you’d get caught in the crossfire.
And the villains knew it.
“Get the girl,” one of them growled.
Your blood ran cold. Before you could react, a pair of arms grabbed you from behind.
“Let go of me—!” you struggled, kicking and thrashing, but you were just a normal human. No Quirk. No powers. No way to fight back.
Hawks’ head snapped toward you, his golden eyes blazing with fury.
“Big mistake,” he muttered, voice dripping with anger.
Before your captor could move, a feather whizzed past, slicing the villain’s arm just enough to make him release you. You stumbled forward, and in a blink, Hawks was there, pulling you behind him.
Then, with one powerful flap of his wings, the remaining enemies were sent flying.
Silence settled over the warehouse. The fight was over.
But Hawks wasn’t smiling.
He turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Are you hurt?”
You shook your head, still breathless. “No, but—”
“Then what the hell were you thinking?”
His voice was sharp, sharper than you’d ever heard before. The usual playfulness was gone, replaced by something raw, something terrified.
“I—” You hesitated. “I heard them talking about you. They wanted to—”
“I can handle myself,” he snapped, wings twitching. “You? You don’t belong in this world.”
You flinched at the words. “I was just trying to help—”
“I can’t protect you if you keep throwing yourself into danger,” he cut in, his gaze intense. “And I won’t watch you get hurt because of me.”
Your heart clenched. “Hawks…”
His fists tightened at his sides, his wings trembling slightly. Then, after a moment, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“You’re not like me,” he said, golden eyes searching yours. “You don’t have powers. You don’t have wings.” His gaze dropped, as if the weight of his own words hurt to say. “And I can’t let you break yourself trying to fly in a world that wasn’t made for you.”
The words hung between you, heavy and unspoken.
You understood what he meant.
This wasn’t just about tonight.
It was about you. About him. About whatever this was between you—something neither of you had fully admitted but both of you felt.
You had always been drawn to the mystery under his feathers. But maybe some mysteries weren’t meant to be unraveled.
Maybe this was as close as you could get to him.
And maybe that had to be enough.
A lump formed in your throat, but you forced a small smile. “Then… I guess I’ll stay on the ground.”
Hawks stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Good,” he murmured. But as he turned away, wings spreading wide, you could see it—the hesitation in his movements, the way he lingered for just a second too long.
And you knew.
Even as he flew away, he would never really leave.
Prompt: Our hero is famous... but he doesn't want to be. She's the only one who sees past the mask.
The world adored him. Red Riot, the unbreakable hero, the unyielding shield of the people. His name was spoken with admiration, his face plastered across magazine covers, and his victories replayed on news channels daily. To everyone else, he was an inspiration—fearless, indomitable, and shining like a beacon of hope.
But to you?
He was just Eijirou.
And he looked exhausted.
You stood in the back corner of the bustling hero agency, watching as Kirishima smiled and waved at reporters, his signature sharp-toothed grin never wavering. He was answering questions about his latest battle, a takedown of a villainous group threatening civilians in Shibuya. They called him a "symbol of resilience," the hero who never backed down.
But you saw the stiffness in his shoulders. The way his hands clenched behind his back. The way his eyes, bright and determined for the cameras, dimmed the moment he thought no one was looking.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you observed the scene. Your own hero name—Tempest—wasn't nearly as famous, though your quirk was nothing to scoff at. Stormweaver, a powerful wind manipulation ability that allowed you to control air currents, pressure, and even summon small bursts of lightning in high-energy states. It made you fast, unpredictable, and a nightmare in aerial combat.
But fame wasn’t your thing.
Unlike Kirishima, you weren’t a headline hero. You worked best in the shadows, handling recon, quick interventions, and crowd evacuations. People appreciated you, but they didn’t worship you.
And you were fine with that.
Kirishima, though? He had no choice.
The press conference finally ended, and he turned, heading toward the agency’s private wing. The second he crossed the threshold away from the public eye, his shoulders slumped, and the weight of the world crashed down on him.
“Long day?” you asked, arms crossed as he passed you in the hallway.
He jumped slightly before chuckling, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… but, y’know, just another day in the life of a hero.”
“Bullshit,” you said flatly.
His crimson eyes widened slightly before he laughed again, this time more tired than amused. “You’re always so blunt, Tempest.”
You shrugged. “I just don’t like fake smiles.”
He tilted his head, studying you with quiet curiosity. “You’re the only one who calls me out on it.”
You leaned against the wall, watching him carefully. “Because I know you, Eijirou. You don’t like this, do you? The attention, the expectations.”
He hesitated.
For a moment, he looked like he wanted to deny it, to flash another grin and insist he was fine. But something in your gaze held him in place.
Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his messy red hair. “I wanted to be a hero to help people. To make them feel safe. I never wanted… all of this.” He gestured vaguely toward the closed doors behind him, where reporters had just been shouting his name. “I mean, I get it. It comes with the job. But sometimes… I feel like I’m just playing a role instead of being myself.”
You nodded, your own expression softening. “Then stop pretending.”
His eyes flickered to yours, uncertain.
“You’re strong, Eijirou. Not just because of your quirk or your title, but because of who you are. People admire you, yeah, but you don’t have to be their unshakable hero 24/7. You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed.”
He looked down, gripping his hands into fists. “But if I stop, even for a second… what if I let people down?”
You stepped closer, your voice quieter now. “Then let me hold you up.”
His breath hitched, and for the first time, the unbreakable hero looked like he was on the verge of cracking.
You weren’t sure what compelled you to do it, but you reached out, taking his hand in yours. He stared at the contact, almost as if he couldn’t believe it. His hands were warm, calloused, steady… but they trembled slightly under your touch.
“You’re not alone, Eijirou,” you said softly. “You never were.”
And for the first time that day, he smiled—genuine, quiet, and meant only for you.
---
Kirishima didn’t let go of your hand right away.
For a long moment, he just stood there, his fingers curled slightly around yours, as if grounding himself in the reality of your words. Then, with a deep exhale, he finally released you, rubbing the back of his neck in that sheepish way he always did when he was unsure of himself.
“Thanks, (Y/N),” he muttered, eyes flickering to yours before glancing away. “I… don’t really know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” you replied. “Just… be honest with yourself for once.”
He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Easier said than done.”
You understood that. More than he probably realized.
The two of you had worked together for years now, first as classmates in U.A., then as pro heroes navigating the chaotic world of villain takedowns and public expectations. But unlike him, you never embraced the spotlight. You operated in the background, handling missions that didn’t come with flashing cameras and screaming fans.
And yet, despite your differences, you and Kirishima had always been close. You had each other’s backs on the battlefield, sure—but this? This felt different. Deeper.
A sudden knock on the nearby office door made both of you straighten.
“Red Riot?” a voice called. It was one of the agency assistants. “There’s another interview request. They want to do a feature on your hero origins. The director asked if you’d be available to—”
“Tell them I’m busy,” Kirishima interrupted, surprising both you and the assistant. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was firm.
The assistant blinked. “Oh. Uh… sure thing.”
As the door shut, you turned to him with a raised brow. “Look at you, setting boundaries.”
Kirishima sighed. “I dunno. Maybe you got in my head.”
“Good,” you said with a small smirk. “It’s about time.”
He chuckled, but there was still tension in his shoulders. You could tell he wasn’t used to saying no. After all, his entire identity revolved around being there for others—protecting them, saving them, never letting them down. But heroes weren’t indestructible.
You glanced at him, debating whether to push further. Then, before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed his wrist.
“C’mon.”
Kirishima blinked. “Huh? Where are we—”
“You need a break,” you said simply, dragging him down the hallway. “And I know exactly where to go.”
---
Fifteen minutes later, the two of you were sitting on the rooftop of the agency, legs dangling over the edge. The city stretched out below, lights flickering like fireflies against the early evening sky. Up here, away from the noise and expectations, the world felt quieter. Smaller.
Kirishima let out a slow breath, leaning back on his palms. “Man… I forgot how nice it is up here.”
You smirked. “That’s because you never take the time to slow down.”
He glanced at you. “And you do?”
You shrugged. “Sometimes. Helps clear my head.”
For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of rain from the distant storm clouds. You could feel the shift in air pressure—a subtle tingle from your Stormweaver quirk telling you that a storm was coming.
Kirishima must have noticed the way you inhaled deeply, sensing the shift. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… thinking.”
“About?”
You hesitated before answering. “Heroes. Expectations. How people think we’re invincible.” You turned to look at him. “How you think you have to be invincible.”
Kirishima frowned slightly but didn’t deny it. Instead, he ran a hand through his red hair, exhaling through his nose. “I know I can’t be unbreakable all the time,” he admitted. “But it’s hard, y’know? People rely on me. They trust me to be strong.”
You nudged his shoulder. “Being strong doesn’t mean never breaking. It means knowing when to let someone help you pick up the pieces.”
His eyes met yours, something unreadable flickering in the crimson depths. “You really believe that?”
“I do,” you said firmly.
Silence settled between you again, but this time, it was more comfortable. Less heavy.
Then, after a long pause, Kirishima smiled—not the wide, toothy grin he always gave to the public, but something softer. More real.
“Thanks, (Y/N),” he said quietly.
You leaned back on your palms, gazing at the horizon. “Anytime, Red.”
And for the first time in a long while, Kirishima allowed himself to just be.
---
The sky darkened, painted in hues of deep blue and violet as night settled over the city. The distant rumble of thunder rolled through the clouds, a subtle reminder of the coming storm. Up on the rooftop, away from flashing cameras and screaming fans, Kirishima finally let himself breathe.
You sat beside him, the gentle hum of the wind filling the silence between you. Unlike most people, you didn’t expect him to fill every quiet moment with conversation. You didn’t push him to be something he wasn’t.
Maybe that was why he always found himself gravitating toward you.
He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his messy red hair. “You ever feel like… people only see what they want to see?”
You turned to him, brow raising slightly. “All the time.”
Kirishima huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I guess you would.”
You weren’t flashy like some of the other pro heroes. You didn’t chase fame or crave validation. You did your job—Stormweaver was as reliable as the changing winds, fast and unpredictable, always one step ahead of disaster. People appreciated you, but they didn’t put you on a pedestal the way they did him.
And maybe that was why you understood him better than anyone.
Kirishima leaned back, bracing his arms behind him. “I don’t hate being a hero. I love helping people. I love making them feel safe. But sometimes… I wonder if they only like me because of the idea of me, y’know?”
“The unbreakable hero,” you murmured.
He nodded, jaw tightening. “Yeah. What if I wasn’t unbreakable? What if I cracked? Would they still believe in me?”
You shifted, moving so you were facing him fully. “Eijirou,” you said, voice steady. “You’re more than just your quirk. More than your reputation. And if people can’t see that, then that’s their problem.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you. There was something raw in his gaze, something fragile beneath the hardened exterior. You had seen it before—brief moments where the mask slipped, where the weight of his own expectations nearly crushed him.
But this time, he didn’t try to hide it.
“I don’t want to be a symbol,” he admitted. “I just want to be me.”
You reached out, placing a hand on his forearm. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, his muscles tense like he was waiting for something—permission, reassurance, maybe even acceptance.
---
The first raindrop landed on your cheek.
It was cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of Kirishima’s skin beneath your fingertips. His crimson eyes flickered to the darkening sky, watching as storm clouds thickened above the city. The wind picked up, shifting unpredictably—an extension of your own unease.
You could feel it coming.
A storm, yes, but something else, too. Something heavier.
Kirishima hadn’t moved away from your touch. If anything, he seemed to lean into it, his tension easing slightly beneath your grip. His confession still hung in the air between you, fragile yet unshakable.
"I don’t want to be a symbol. I just want to be me."
You squeezed his arm gently. “Then be you, Eijirou. The world can wait.”
He exhaled slowly, letting his head tilt back as the rain started to fall in earnest. Droplets clung to his red hair, sliding down his jaw. “I don’t even know what that means anymore,” he admitted.
You frowned slightly. “You’re not just Red Riot. You’re not just ‘the unbreakable hero.’ You’re the guy who stays late after missions to make sure everyone else gets home safe. The guy who buys extra snacks because you know Bakugou won’t eat unless someone makes him. The guy who memorizes every intern’s name so they feel like they belong.”
Kirishima blinked, caught off guard. “You… noticed all that?”
“Of course I did.” Your voice softened. “Because I see you, Eijirou. The real you.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His expression shifted, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, before you could react, he reached up, his hand cupping the side of your face.
The warmth of his palm sent a jolt through you, like the first crack of lightning splitting the sky.
“You always do that,” he murmured.
“Do what?” you asked, voice quieter now.
“See past the mask.”
The words sent a shiver down your spine, though you weren’t sure if it was from the cold rain or the way he was looking at you—like you were something solid, something grounding, something he didn’t have to pretend around.
The rain fell harder now, soaking through your hero uniforms, drenching your hair, but neither of you moved. You weren’t sure if you wanted to.
Then, just as Kirishima opened his mouth to say something else, your earpiece crackled to life.
“Tempest, Red Riot, we have an emergency downtown. Multiple hostages. High-powered villain. Report in immediately.”
The moment between you shattered like glass.
Kirishima pulled back, his expression shifting—not hidden, but focused. He was still him, still raw and uncertain, but this was what he did best.
You pushed your damp hair out of your face, standing up. “Let’s go.”
He hesitated for half a second before nodding, rising to his feet beside you.
Whatever had just passed between you would have to wait.
The storm had broken—and the world still needed its heroes.
---
The city was chaos by the time you arrived.
Neon lights reflected off the slick pavement, distorted by the rain. Civilians had been evacuated to the edges of the streets, their panicked whispers blending with the wail of sirens. The hostage situation was centered in a high-rise bank, shattered glass littering the ground outside.
You and Kirishima landed in sync, the rush of wind from your quirk kicking up debris as you scanned the scene.
“Tempest, Red Riot, we have three hostiles inside,” the lead officer briefed you quickly. “They’ve got a quirk-enhanced barricade, and we believe at least two of them have combat abilities. The hostages are being held on the upper floors.”
Kirishima cracked his knuckles, his expression sharp. “Got it. We’ll handle it.”
You nodded, raising a hand to the sky. The storm above rumbled in response, the air shifting as you pulled at the wind, gathering pressure in your palms.
A deep voice from inside the building called out before you could make a move.
“Well, well. Look who showed up.”
A figure stepped into view through the broken windows. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in jagged, crystalline armor that pulsed with an eerie red light. You recognized him instantly—Breakneck, a high-tier villain with a strength-enhancing quirk that made his body as hard as diamond.
He grinned, his eyes locking onto Kirishima. “Red Riot. Been looking forward to this.”
Kirishima tensed beside you, his jaw clenching. “You know me?”
“Everyone knows you,” Breakneck sneered. “The unbreakable hero, right? Let’s put that to the test.”
Without warning, he lunged.
Kirishima barely had time to harden his body before Breakneck’s fist collided with his torso. The impact sent a shockwave through the street, cracking the pavement beneath Kirishima’s feet as he slid backward.
You reacted instantly, launching a powerful gust of wind to break the momentum, sending Breakneck stumbling. Raising your arms, you called the storm to you, lightning crackling in your fingertips.
“I’ll handle the hostages,” you told Kirishima. “You keep him busy.”
He nodded, shaking off the hit. “Be careful.”
You didn’t waste time responding—within seconds, you shot upward, weaving through shattered windows as you raced toward the upper floors.
The hostages were bound near the back of the room, their eyes wide with fear. Two more villains guarded them, one with a quirk that generated explosive pulses and another with enhanced reflexes. They turned the second you landed.
“You guys are really making this difficult,” you muttered. Then, with a flick of your wrist, the air pressure in the room dropped.
The sudden vacuum knocked both villains off balance as they gasped for breath. You surged forward, wind twisting around your form, striking with a precise kick that sent the first one flying into the wall. The second tried to counter, but you were faster, weaving through their attacks like a current slipping through cracks.
With a powerful gust, you slammed them both to the ground.
“Stay down,” you ordered, voice sharp.
You turned to the hostages, using the edge of a sharp air current to slice through their restraints. “Get out of here. Now.”
They nodded frantically, scrambling toward the exit. You ensured they were clear before rushing back down—only to find Kirishima locked in a brutal fight.
Breakneck was strong. Too strong.
Even with his quirk, Kirishima was struggling, his hardened body cracking under the force of the villain’s relentless attacks. But he wasn’t giving up. He never did.
You clenched your fists. He doesn’t always have to do this alone.
Summoning every ounce of your power, you reached for the storm. Thunder roared in response, lightning dancing between the clouds before you redirected it—channeling the energy straight into your fist.
Then, like a lightning strike breaking through stone, you struck.
The impact hit Breakneck square in the chest, sending an electric current surging through his body. He spasmed, his crystalline armor flickering with unstable energy before shattering on impact.
Kirishima didn’t hesitate. With a final, devastating punch, he sent Breakneck crashing into the pavement, unconscious.
Silence.
Then, as the rain continued to pour, Kirishima turned to you—soaked, breathing hard, but smiling.
“You really saved my ass back there.”
You smirked, the storm still humming in your veins. “Told you. You’re not unbreakable, Eijirou. You don’t have to be.”
Something flickered in his gaze—something softer than battle, stronger than words.
Maybe, just maybe, he was finally starting to believe it.
---
The rain had slowed by the time the fight ended.
The moment Breakneck hit the ground, the tension in the air dissolved. The villain lay unconscious, his shattered armor glinting under the city lights. Sirens wailed in the distance, signaling the arrival of backup. The civilians were safe. The job was done.
But Kirishima wasn’t moving.
You turned to him, breath still uneven, feeling the residual crackle of lightning in your veins. “Eijirou,” you called softly.
He was staring at his hands.
Knuckles bruised. Faint cracks running along his hardened skin. Evidence of the battle. Evidence that, no matter how much he told himself otherwise, he wasn’t unbreakable.
“I was losing,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the rain.
You stepped closer. “But you didn’t.”
He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Because you were here. Because you saved me.”
You frowned. “And what’s wrong with that?”
His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “Heroes are supposed to be strong. People look up to us. They trust us to protect them, to be unshakable. And if I can’t even—”
“Stop.”
Your voice was sharp, cutting through the storm in his head. He looked at you, startled.
You met his gaze, firm and unwavering. “You keep saying ‘heroes are supposed to be strong.’ ‘Heroes are supposed to be unshakable.’ But Eijirou—heroes are just people.”
He inhaled sharply, as if the words physically struck him.
You softened slightly, stepping even closer. “People don’t follow you because you’re unbreakable,” you continued. “They follow you because you don’t give up. Because you care. Because you fight even when it hurts. That’s what makes you strong. Not your quirk. You.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, red eyes searching yours.
Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. He let out a breath—deep, steadying. Something in him seemed to shift, as if the weight he had been carrying for so long had finally begun to lift.
“You always do that,” he murmured, echoing the words he had spoken on the rooftop.
You tilted your head. “Do what?”
“See me.”
The rain had slowed to a drizzle now, the storm passing, but the world around you felt impossibly still. His gaze softened, his lips parting slightly as if there was more he wanted to say.
You felt your heart skip.
Then, with a small, quiet smile, Kirishima reached out—hesitant at first, then surer—his fingers brushing against yours.
Warm. Solid. Real.
Maybe he wasn’t unbreakable.
But standing here, beside you, he didn’t have to be.
Tomura Shigaraki x Reader | Yandere | NSFW Themes | Dark Obsession
You first noticed it when small things started going missing.
Your favorite hoodie, a pair of panties, even your half-used chapstick—gone. At first, you chalked it up to forgetfulness, but then the unsettling feeling crept in.
The feeling of being watched.
It was subtle at first, a prickle at the back of your neck when you walked home, the eerie sensation of eyes on you even when you locked your door. But it became undeniable when you found a Polaroid tucked beneath your pillow.
A photo of you sleeping.
Tomura Shigaraki licked his chapped lips as he watched you through the cracked window of your apartment, his red eyes hazy with obsession. You looked so sweet when you slept, your body curled up, soft and vulnerable. It took everything in him not to climb inside, press himself against you, feel the heat of your bare skin against his. He had been patient. So patient. Watching you from afar, learning your habits, slipping into your apartment while you were away just to breathe you in—to press his face against your pillows, inhale your lingering scent, touch himself to the thought of your delicate little whimpers. He wanted more. Needed more. And tonight, he wasn’t going to hold back.
---
You awoke to the sound of slow, deliberate breathing. Your body froze before your mind even registered the presence looming over you. A hand clamped over your mouth before you could scream. "Shh," a low, raspy voice cooed against your ear. The weight of a body pressed down on you, warmth radiating through your thin pajamas. "Don’t wanna wake the neighbors, do you?" Your breath came in frantic gasps as you struggled, but the grip on you only tightened. A soft, almost mocking laugh rumbled against your skin. "Fuck, you’re even cuter when you’re scared," Tomura murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, his breath hot and heavy. "I was gonna wait a little longer, but you keep making it so hard for me." His free hand trailed down your side, slow, possessive, savoring every tremble of your body. "You leave your curtains open… wear those tiny little shorts around the house…" His fingers dipped lower, teasing the waistband of your pajamas. "Do you have any idea what that does to me?" Tears pricked at your eyes as you writhed beneath him, but he just chuckled, his hips pressing against yours in a lazy grind. "You act so innocent," he sighed, dragging his tongue along the side of your neck. "But deep down, I know you want this. You need me as much as I need you." You shook your head, muffled sobs against his palm. "Aww, still pretending?" His voice was laced with amusement as he finally pulled back just enough to meet your wide, teary eyes. His pupils were blown, filled with something dark, something hungry. "Don’t worry, sweetheart," he purred, licking his lips. "I’ll make sure you never want to leave me." His fingers slipped lower, and you realized with a sinking horror— There was no escape. You belonged to him. Forever.
---
Your body trembled beneath him, every nerve screaming at you to run, to fight—but he was stronger. His grip firm, possessive, hungry. Tomura smirked at your wide, teary eyes, his fingers trailing lower, teasing the waistband of your shorts. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. “Are you scared?” You tried to shake your head, but the tears betrayed you. His smirk widened. “Liar.” His fingers hooked under the fabric, tugging it just enough for his rough fingertips to brush your skin. His touch was slow, deliberate, savoring the way you flinched beneath him. “I’ve thought about this for so long,” he whispered, pressing a chapped kiss to your cheek. “Watching you, learning every little thing about you…” His tongue darted out, tasting the salt of your skin. “And now, I finally have you.” You whimpered, your body tensing as his hand dipped lower, but suddenly— A knock at the door. Tomura froze. Your heart leapt into your throat. Was this your chance? “Shit,” he hissed under his breath. His hand flew up to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you understand. “Not. A. Sound.” You bit your lip, nodding frantically, your breath coming in short, terrified gasps. The knock came again, louder this time. “(Y/N)? You home?” Your friend. It was your friend’s voice. Tomura’s grip tightened ever so slightly. His gaze was wild, conflicted, but his lips curled into a dark smile. “Guess we’ll have to continue this later, sweetheart.” He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. “But don’t think this is over. You’re mine.” And with that, he was gone. The air felt cold without his weight on top of you, but the terror remained. Because you knew… He would be back. And next time, he wouldn’t let anything interrupt him.
---
You should be scared. You should be disgusted. After all, Tomura Shigaraki was a dangerous man. A villain. A stalker. And yet… You felt a thrill knowing he was watching. At first, the knowledge of his presence had terrified you. You kept your curtains drawn, triple-checked your locks, avoided walking alone at night. But then, a darker curiosity began to bloom inside you. If he was going to watch, why not give him something worth watching?
---
It started small. You left your curtains open just a crack, accidentally dropping your towel after a shower, stretching just a little too provocatively in front of your window. The first time, you swore you could hear his ragged breathing outside. Then, you got bolder. Lying on your bed in nothing but your panties, fingers grazing your own skin, pretending to be oblivious to the red eyes burning into you from the darkness beyond your window. You imagined him there, panting, shaking, touching himself while watching you touch yourself. The thought sent a rush of heat straight between your legs.
---
Tonight, you wanted to push him further. You stood in front of the mirror, running your hands over your body, fingertips ghosting over your breasts, teasing your own hardened nipples through the sheer fabric of your camisole. "Shigaraki," you murmured his name just loud enough for the night to carry it. You didn’t know exactly where he was, but you knew he was there. He always was. Sliding your hands lower, you toyed with the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your hips, slow, deliberate. Your breathing grew heavier, the anticipation making you dizzy. Were his fingers clenched? Was he biting his lips raw, trying to control himself? Would he finally snap? The thought made your core throb with need. And then— CRASH. Your heart leapt as the window shattered. A rush of cold air flooded your room, followed by a shadow—red eyes gleaming in the dark, hair disheveled, breath ragged. He had snapped. "You little slut," Tomura growled, his voice raw, shaking with something dangerous. You barely had time to react before he was on you, pinning you against the bed, hands gripping, claiming. His fingers dug into your thighs, pushing them apart, pressing his body against yours so you could feel just how hard you had made him. "You wanted this, didn’t you?" His voice was low, a mix of fury and desperation. His hips ground against you, his breath hot against your ear. "Fucking teasing me… every night… acting so innocent." A whimper left your lips as he bit down on your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. "You like knowing I’m watching, don’t you?" He licked the fresh bruise, his hands roaming everywhere. "You touch yourself, moan my name, knowing I’m out there, losing my fucking mind over you." His hands slid up your bare thighs, his nails scraping just enough to send shivers through you. "You think you can play these little games with me?" He smirked, eyes dark with hunger. "Let’s see how much you can take before you’re begging me to ruin you." And this time… You weren’t going to stop him.
---
Tomura’s breath was hot against your skin, his hands rough as they gripped your thighs, spreading them apart just enough to make you feel exposed. “You wanted this,” he growled, his red eyes burning with something primal. “You knew what you were doing.” His fingers trailed up your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, teasing, testing, savoring the way you shivered beneath him. He wanted to punish you for making him lose control—but he also wanted to devour you, piece by trembling piece. "Every night," he murmured, pressing his lips to the fresh bruise on your neck, "you put on a show for me. Acting so sweet, so innocent, but touching yourself right where I could see." His tongue flicked against your pulse, savoring the way it raced under his touch. "Did you think I wouldn't snap? That I wouldn't come for you?" Your breath hitched as his fingers inched higher, just barely brushing against the damp fabric between your legs. You twitched, instinctively pressing your thighs together, but his grip tightened, forcing them apart again. "Ah, ah," he tutted, his smirk curling against your skin. "No more teasing. You’re mine now, and I’m going to take my time with you." A shudder ran down your spine at the possessiveness in his voice. He dragged his lips down, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, his hands roaming greedily over your bare skin. Every touch, every whisper, every slow, agonizing movement was deliberate. He wanted you desperate, trembling, aching for more. "Say it," he murmured against your throat, nipping at your sensitive skin. "Say you want me." You hesitated, pride warring with the heat coiling in your stomach. But the moment his fingers pressed a little harder against you, a needy whimper betrayed you. His chuckle was dark, satisfied. "That’s what I thought." He tilted your chin up, his red eyes locking onto yours—intense, unrelenting. His lips hovered just over yours, his breath mingling with yours, the promise of what was to come hanging thick in the air. "You’re never getting away from me," he murmured, pressing his body flush against yours, making sure you felt every inch of him. "And the best part?" He smirked, tracing your lips with his thumb before dragging it down, teasing along your throat. "You don’t even want to."
---
Your heart pounded as Tomura loomed over you, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, his red eyes drinking in every inch of your vulnerable form. “You look so pretty like this,” he murmured, voice low and husky. “All breathless, all mine.” His hand slid down, ghosting over your throat before applying the slightest pressure—not enough to hurt, but enough to own you. He tilted your chin up, forcing your gaze to lock with his. "Say it," he murmured, his lips barely brushing yours. "Tell me you belong to me." Your breath hitched, your body trembling beneath him. You should fight, should resist—but something inside you burned for him, craved the way he made you feel trapped, desired, consumed. "Say it," he demanded again, his fingers tightening just enough to make your pulse race. Your lips parted, the words slipping out in a breathless whisper. "I... I'm yours." His smirk was wicked, triumphant. "Good girl." His mouth crashed against yours, rough, demanding, starved. His fingers tangled in your hair, pulling, claiming, making sure you felt every ounce of his obsession in that kiss. His body pressed against yours, pinning you down, leaving no space between you. Every movement, every grind of his hips, every teasing brush of his fingertips against your bare skin was deliberate—a slow, torturous build meant to break you, to ruin you for anyone but him. "You played your little game," he murmured against your lips, trailing kisses down your jaw. "But now? Now, you’re mine to play with." His hands roamed your body, memorizing every curve, every shiver, every sharp inhale as he dragged his lips down, down, leaving marks in his wake. "No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to touch you. Only me." His fingers dug into your hips as he pinned you further into the mattress, his breath ragged, his control hanging by a thread. "You're not getting away, sweetheart," he whispered darkly, pressing one last lingering kiss against your pulse. "Not now. Not ever." And the worst part? You definitely didn't want to.
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