minors can interact with posts at own risk, but we cannot be mutuals.
current obsessions: kpop (skz rn), anime, dr. pepper, cats
previous obsessions: supernatural, kdramas, marvel, the 100, racing… and more
ᯓᡣ𐭩 masterlists:
katsuki ✮˚.⋆
izuku ⋆𐙚｡
lee know ₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎
everything is aged up. plz feel free to send me requests and ideas. nothing proofread, just vibes. any hate will be blocked. please be patient with me as i find my rhythm.
★ in which lee know—someone typically armed with a wide catalogue of sarcastic commentary—suddenly can’t find a single word to say around you, a new late night show co-host. doesn’t he know radio hosts need to be able to speak?
— 이민호 lee minho x reader series ★ tags: smau, not-so-subtle fanboy lino, idol!au, semi-strangers to lovers, fluff + crack warning: sexual jokes throughout this series. no smut present though!
chapter one | chapter two | chapter three
WERE SO BACK W ANOTHER SMAU WHO CHEERED hey guys…. its been a while.... 🧘♀️🧘♀️
returning to your brother after studying in australia was something you counted down the days to after graduation. if only a certain brace-faced vermin of a boy named yang jeongin wasn’t attached to his hip all the tim—where did the braces go?!
pairing: yang jeongin x reader
wc: 2.7k
tags: brother’s best friend!jeongin, brother!chan, suggestive, allusions to sex (only making out lols), fluff, bickering as foreplay, enemies to …?
for @way2jellyous, happy secret stay, hope you enjoy! 💌
you spot chan before he spots you.
he’s just standing in place, shifting his weight from foot to foot in black trainers and a hoodie that’s probably older than he’d care to admit. under the hood is a beanie you’d swear is glued to his head with how many times he wears it.
and then his eyes land on yours.
and all of that tension in your shoulders—every inch of it—evaporates. you drop your bag, not caring that it lands upside down, passport and snacks scattering across the floor.
because he’s here. in the flesh, with his arms open wide. chan also kicks up to a run, then slowing to a jog, then fully lifting you off your feet like you’re still twelve and not fresh out of a four-year degree in the opposite hemisphere. his arms wrap tight around your middle, rib-crushing and immovable.
“jesus, it’s been years.”
“you visited someti—”
“not enough.”
you press your face into the fabric of his hoodie and breathe, chest tight with the weight of time and distance and how no hug has ever felt more like home.
“ready to go home?” he asks, nudging you toward baggage claim, looping one arm around your shoulder. you lean into it.
“yeah,” you murmur. “i think i am.”
“oh i forgot to tell you—jeongin lives with me now! we needed to save on rent so… suprise? an extra roommate is always fun!”
you hold back on throwing up.
and then consider how much trouble moving back to australia might be.
chan’s house is warm with late-summer heat and half-unpacked boxes, the kind of domestic chaos that smells like home but feels a little too staged—like a memory you walked into rather than made. your suitcase is bleeding open by the doorway, and chan is already halfway through trying to haul several boxes upstairs himself, despite your protests and his limp— a pulled hamstring from a gym injury he swears has healed enough for lifting.
“you’re gonna make your leg worse,“ you scold, trailing him with a grimace, still jetlagged but alert enough to clock the way his leg seizes. “don’t hurt yourself more, my god, just give it here—“
“i’m your big brother, not a cardboard cutout. i can lift things.“
“you can be both.”
he huffs a laugh, turns to grin over his shoulder like the last four years were just a blink, not a few continents away. it’s warm, open, a grin you haven’t seen in person since he visited for your third year showcase, his face blurred in memory by tears and fluorescent studio lights. and then—
“don’t let her fool you, hyung. she’s been this annoying forever.”
—that voice. behind you. smug, slick, deeper than you remember it being the last time he made your eye twitch in the living room.
a chill of revulsion rolled down your spine as you turn to the source.
jeongin. of course. but not quite the one you left.
the boy who once tripped over his own feet rushing into your house to catch a gaming tournament with chan is long gone, apparently replaced by… someone taller. broader. unfairly sharp-jawed for a guy who used to have churros stuck in his braces. the hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows are not helping, nor is the thick glasses that compliment his face shape far too well, or the fact that he has the audacity to wink at you when your eyes drop.
“hello jeongin. always a pleasure,” your voice flat, and making no effort to hide just how much his existence is not always a pleasure.
he mirrors the tone, slow, and infuriating: “hello yourself.”
chan, the poor bastard, is oblivious to the burning glares. “innie called off work to help set you up. because of my hammie, i can’t get be of as much help like i’d like to be.”
“right,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “so generous. must be hard jeongin, crawling out of the sewer to grace us with your presence.”
jeongin smirks, and you feel nauseous. “funny. thought you’d still be halfway across the globe pretending to be a designer.”
“and i thought you’d still have a neck that could hold your head up properly, but here we are.”
chan groans like he’s used to this—which he is. “i’m gonna… go get a drink of water...”
you and jeongin don’t look away from each other. your mouths twitch like you’re both on the edge of a generational crash out. the air thickens with something that wasn’t there when you were both seventeen before you left. something tighter. hotter. matured.
he breaks first, with a glance that drops—and lingers—at your neckline before he stretches his arms behind his head and walks toward the kitchen to chan like he owns the place—which, to be fair, he partially does, “welcome home, princess. try not to trip over your ego on the way to your room.”
you want to throw your shoe at him.
you want to wipe that fucking smile off his face.
you want—
you need to sit down.
later, when the sun is low and chan’s asleep on the couch, you pass the hallway to your room and catch him in the mirror—jeongin, standing in the doorway of his room, arms crossed as he leans on the frame, watching you like he’s been waiting all day for the chance.
“you look… different,” he says lowly.
“so do you,” you shoot back, not slowing. “shame. i liked the version of you that knew how to shut up.”
his laugh is gravel now, cocked behind his teeth. “you liked me?”
“it was pity. don’t get excited.”
you disappear into your room and slam the door shut before he can respond. but something is left to linger.
it starts with doing the dishes.
or rather—what should’ve been doing the dishes.
“i’m not washing something you ate off of with your mouth open.”
“right, because your delicate sensibilities can’t handle a bit of backwash?”
you jab a soapy finger toward his face. “because it’s disgusting, you human garbage disposal.”
jeongin leans back against the sink, drying tea towel in hand, and has the gall to look amused. he’s wearing a threadbare tee, one that sticks too well to his chest and rides too high on his arms—and you hate how much you notice it now that there’s sweat on his neck and water dripping down the grooves of his hands.
“this is exactly why we never got along,” you mutter, trying not to let your gaze catch on the slope of his bicep.
he hums, too casual. “no, we never got along because you’re a brat.”
you turn your head slowly. “you wanna say that again?”
he grins. crooked. wicked. “brat.”
you flick water at him. soap, too. it splatters on his chest. you try not to look at the size. try.
he gasps like you’ve shot him point-blank. “i knew you had violent tendencies.”
“and i knew you were insufferable.”
“yeah?” he steps closer, dish towel slung over his shoulder like this is a war zone and he's thriving in it. his voice drops, goading. “admit it.”
“what, that you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met?”
he tilts his head. smirks wider. “that you missed me.”
you blink only once. your stare is a mix of shocked, confused, and a little… you won’t admit what.
and then, because you’re composed and level-headed and absolutely not affected by the sudden press of heat behind your ribcage, you take the plate in your hand and put it down into the sink a little too hard.
“you’re delusional.”
he licks his bottom lip slowly. like he’s tasting the way you said it.
you definitely do not stare.
it continues with the couch.
you’re curled up in the corner after dinner, knees hugged to your chest, flipping through chan’s old lyric notebooks for a project that won’t see the light of day. his scrawl is familiar, comforting, and the only reason your heart hasn’t leapt clean out of your throat since that kitchen incident. chan’s sat beside you, playing something mellow on the speakers. your brother, sweet, oblivious idiot that he is, ruffles your hair like you’re twelve again and mutters, “missed this.”
“me too,” you reply.
and then jeongin walks in. his hair is still wet from a shower, his skin pink at the collar of his band shirt. wearing grey sweatpants and an expression that says what, this? i’m just existing.
you immediately sit straighter, as if the feeling of repulsion snatched any relaxation out from your posture. chan doesn’t notice.
“there she is,” jeongin drawls. “learning to read words longer than two syllables, are we?”
you slam the notebook shut. “careful. i know where you sleep.”
“so do i,” he fires back, and your face burns, because the way he says it is loaded, is laced, is—
chan groans. “can you two not flirt while i’m here?”
“we’re not flirting!” you and jeongin exclaim at the same time—though yours sounds horrified, and his sounds far too pleased.
chan sighs like he’s aged fifty years. “you fight like an old married couple.”
“if i were married to him i’d throw myself into traffic,” you say sweetly.
jeongin only laughs. laughs. and then has the nerve to add, “that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
you hurl a pillow at his head.
he catches it one-handed, and smirks down at you.
your stomach does something unpleasant. you choose not to say a word.
later that night, you brush past each other in the same hallway as earlier.
you, in your sleep shirt, shorts, and socks.
him, with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth, hair damp again, towel around his neck, sweats hung low on his hips. did he shower twice in a few hours?
it should be silent. it should be awkward.
instead—
“you talk too much,” you murmur, going to brush his shoulder as you pass.
he doesn’t move away, doesn’t blink, and doesn’t break eye contact.
“you look too good for someone who ‘hates’ me,” he says, low.
you swallow. “i do hate you.”
one hand still braced on the hallway wall like this is just another battle. like this—like you—don’t set something sharp behind his gaze. he’s too close. too tall. too steady for someone who used to trip over his own feet. the towel slung around his neck still smells faintly of soap and cologne, and his shirt clings just slightly where it’s damp, like your attention was meant to be dragged across his collarbones. like he knew you’d look.
you shouldn’t look.
you do.
he tilts his head, eyes flicking down, and suddenly the air goes tight again, sharp with something not-quite-spoken.
“yeah?” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper, but it sinks its teeth into you. he leans down slightly. “say it like you mean it.”
you blink, slow. stubborn. your heartbeat is in your mouth, your ears, your wrists.
“i hate you,” you say.
and it sounds nothing like hate.
his gaze dips to your mouth.
you don’t move.
you can’t.
not when his hand is brushing down your waist now, not when the heat of his palm settles against the curve of your hip like it’s been there before, in a dream or a memory or something more dangerous. not when you let him. not when you lean in, helplessly, like it’s the most natural thing you’ve ever done.
his nose brushes yours.
“you sure?” he whispers, lips ghosting just shy of yours. “because you’re looking at me like you want to ruin me.”
your fingers curl into his shirt.
“you’ve been ruining everything since i walked through the door,” you breathe.
and then—
then he kisses you.
and it’s awful.
horrible.
searing, breath-stealing, catastrophic.
but so good simultaneously.
you gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down like water, like you’re the thing he’s been parched for, missing deeply, clawing at for four long years and two hundred thousand wanted arguments while you were away. his other hand finds your jaw, thumb tipping your chin up just slightly, guiding you like he already knows what kind of kiss you need. it’s not slow. not sweet. not when his teeth scrape yours, not when his grip tightens, not when your hands snake up to his nape to pull him closer like you’re trying to rewrite every memory of him with this moment alone.
your back hits the wall. he follows.
he groans, soft and low, when your mouth opens for him—and you’re dizzy with it, drunk off his breath, his body, the way he mutters your name like it’s been caught between his teeth for years.
you shouldn’t.
but god—you do.
his hands are on your waist, under your shirt, his knee between your thighs, your breath caught and spilling between kisses that blur into each other like a secret you never meant to say out loud.
you only break for air when he starts laughing—quiet, rasping, full of disbelief.
“still hate me?” he whispers, lips brushing yours.
you try to speak, but the words are caught in your throat behind confliction.
instead of saying something, you grip his shirt collar, pulling him into your bedroom, and closing the door behind you. moonlight carves the floor in silver stripes, cool against the sheets you haven’t slept in yet. his silhouette is in front of you, chest rising like he’s just run a mile—like you’re the finish line.
he exhales, slow.
his voice is rough when he says, “this is… insane.”
you nod.
he takes a step forward anyway, your shins find the edge of your mattress.
his hand finds your waist again, and you don’t stop him.
not when he leans in again, not when his mouth finds yours for the second time tonight—slower this time, deeper, dragging heat from your chest to your knees. your hands curl onto his biceps, fingers aching to grip, to pull, to keep. you kiss like you’ve both waited years for it.
because maybe you have.
once you pull away to breathe, jeongin kisses down your jaw, and tucks his head into your neck. he sucks in a breath through his teeth, as if to savour the moment. to savour what he’s craved for years.
“you drive me crazy,” he breathes, lips suckling the skin next to your throat gently. “you always have.”
you laugh—quiet, disbelieving, a mix of that and a sigh pulled from somewhere in your throat. “you’re such an asshole.”
“yeah.” he kisses your collarbone, hands sliding further up your waist under your shirt, now brushing the band of your bra. “i know.”
“i mean it.”
“i know that too.”
his hands slide all over you, not rushed, not groping—deliberate. like he’s finally gotten permission and he’s memorising the way you feel, every breath and curve and edge of skin. he maps you out like he’ll only get to do this once. if you have your way, it will most certainly not be the only time this happens. your hands feel up his upper back muscles over his thin shirt.
you’re both still mostly clothed. it almost makes it worse. the restraint. the tension still curled beneath your skin like it’s watching. like any moment, one of you might step back and laugh, like it’s still just a joke. like the bickering and insults and i hate yous were anything but armour.
but you don’t laugh.
you just let him touch you as he pleases.
let him press kisses down your neck, over your shoulder, teeth grazing. soft, then sharp. your breath catches when his hands lift the hem of your shirt, fingertips dragging against bare skin. slow, reverent. like this is not just a thing to do—but a thing he wants to do right.
he pulls back only when he has to. only to look at you. and you hate him a little for it—hate the way he looks like he’s seeing you for the first time, even though you’ve been in his life since before he had his second growth spurt.
“you still hate me?” he murmurs.
you nod, lazy and flushed and out of breath. “with my whole heart.”
he smiles like you’ve just said i want you.
and then he kisses you again.
chan can’t know.
not yet at least. you both agree. you have too much to figure out for now.
and if he heard the soft thud of your body falling back onto your mattress between gasps, he doesn’t ask.
and if he noticed jeongin’s not in his own bed by morning—
BLAME IT ON A BLACK STAR ꉂ`𖦹. bakugou katsuki | wc: 862
tags/warnings: gn reader, angst, death of a child (not shown), guilt & shame, marcie using dogs and russian dolls and babies as a metaphor for the inferiority complex of a lifetime
a/n: my bouy :( my baby :(( ← guy acting like they didn't write this
to masterlist
you've already seen the news.
"#5 pro hero dynamight failed to save child in freak villain attack!"
you know it wasn't just him; that shouto, and deku, and uravity were all on the scene just as soon as he was— but their names aren't being dragged through the mud.
(because they are not bad dogs. they haven't had to learn to sit, heel, stay. to be good.
they already knew how to do that. he only knew to sic 'em. and the untrained dog learnt that himself.)
when the front door clicks open, you don't rush for him. don't make any sudden moves to get up from the couch, just gently tip your head back to look at him. you see all of him.
the slump of his shoulders, the soot that clings to his suit in smudges, the way his hands curl tight and useless at his sides. the blood that neither of you need to mention. his mouth twists when your eyes meet, like he knows he should say something but the words have burned out of him already.
“katsuki,” you murmur, and that’s enough. it’s permission, it’s safety, it’s yours.
he staggers the rest of the way to you and it’s not graceful— never has been, not when he's tripping off the highest shelf he sits himself on. you catch the sharp edges anyway, the weight of him sinking against your chest as if you’re the only thing keeping him upright.
you don’t tell him it wasn’t his fault. he’d only spit it back, shatter it between his teeth. instead, you hold him. one hand in his hair, the other spread warm against his trembling back, feeling the shudder of every breath he can’t control.
then it breaks, the softest part of him. the russian dolls that build him, each smaller and more fragile than the last, chip and splinter and shatter all together until the smallest remains. tucked into the palm of your hands, pressed like a weight on your chest.
the sound rattles out of him, raw and unrestrained, like every wall he’s held up all day has finally cracked. you tuck your chin over his head and let him.
“’m sorry,” he weeps, repeating himself like a child who's in trouble, over and over until the words are hoarse. “shoulda— fuck, shoulda done more—”
“you did what you could. you’re home,” you whisper, rocking him gently like the world isn’t on fire. cradling him to your chest like a mother holding an infant who just won't go down. “you’re home, katsuki. that’s enough. let it be enough.”
eventually; after what feels like hours, (days to him. months and years and decades of ruin), the sobs hollow out into hiccuping breaths, his body weighted and heavy against you. you coax him up, lead him down the hall, fingers laced with his even when his grip falters. (when he feels like he doesn't deserve it.)
in the soft light of the bedroom, you sit him on the edge of the mattress. he doesn’t fight you when you kneel in front of him, just watches you through swollen, bloodshot eyes as you hold a warm rag you'd just run under the tap in the bathroom.
the first swipe across his cheek makes him flinch, not because it hurts but because it’s gentle. too gentle for the mess he feels like. you hush him when he tries to look away, cupping his jaw to steady him as you wipe away soot and salt and the shine of tears.
“look at me,” you murmur, and he does, eyes wide and wet and aching. “you did what you could. do you hear me? i’m proud of you, even for what's out of your control.”
his hands are worse— knuckles scuffed raw, grime pressed into the lines of his palms. you cradle them in your own and work the cloth over each finger, slow and careful, until the shake in them eases. he lets out a sound that’s not quite a sob, not quite a sigh, and slumps further under your touch.
“don’t deserve this shit,” he mutters, voice cracking in its smallness.
(small. never a word you would utter to describe your boy.
never a word to describe bakugou katsuki. he who is larger than life and always will be in your eyes. he who feels small every day.)
“you deserve it most.” your thumbs sweep over his wrists, anchoring him back into his body. “you deserve to be taken care of.”
by the time you've undressed him of his hero suit and tug him into a soft shirt and pull the blankets back, he’s pliant, all the fight wrung out of him. you guide him down into the pillows, nestle him in gently. his eyes are glassy, rimmed red, but they follow you until you’re there again, curling into the space beside him.
his face presses into your chest, hands curling weakly in the fabric of your clothes, like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear. you hold him tighter.
you kiss his hair and hold him tighter. there is no tragedy in your bed. just katsuki, yours, and loved all the same.
