rosie

22 - Argentina

[jeezilikesports]

YESSS

[sofilsword]

NEVER

[getting-messi]

🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷

[sofilsword]

Este pueblo no se merecía ni el 2% de las bestialidades que escribieron en redes y transportaron a la vida real. Nos han dicho xenófobos, racistas, genocidas, colonizadores, tramposos, violentos, etc. etc. Una locura incoherente y CLARAMENTE PREMEDITADA.

Somos un pueblo sufrido y resiliente, somos gente q le pone el pecho a las balas y sigue adelante. Con mil y un quilombos, pero que siempre sonríe y que es solidario con cualquiera que lo necesite. Incluso si es gente que nos ha pateado cuando estábamos en el suelo.

Muchos acá y afuera han sido MUY DESAGRADABLES y GRATUITAMEMTE VIOLENTOS con el pueblo argentino y con gente como Messi que en la puta vida hizo algo malo. Espero que no seamos boludos y no olvidemos. Hagámonos respetar.

[stellacaerulea]

Entonces quemar nuestra bandera y arreglar botellas a los jugadores de Cabo Verde fue tudo una conspiración? Empezar una pelea después de la final? Elegir a Milei también? Pagar los trabajadores con comida en lugar de dinero?

[sofilsword]

QUE MIERDA DICEEE QUE MIERDA DICEEEE!!!!!!!!! CABO VERDE ES AMADO POR ARGENTINA, Y QUEMAR BANDERA LA UNICA FUE LA DE NUESTROS ASESINOS DE INGLATERRA Y UK!!!!!! PELEA DESPUES DE LA FINAL PORQUE LOS ESPAÑOLES HABLARON MIERDA ANTES DEL PARTIDO!

[sofilsword]

Este pueblo no se merecía ni el 2% de las bestialidades que escribieron en redes y transportaron a la vida real. Nos han dicho xenófobos, racistas, genocidas, colonizadores, tramposos, violentos, etc. etc. Una locura incoherente y CLARAMENTE PREMEDITADA.

Somos un pueblo sufrido y resiliente, somos gente q le pone el pecho a las balas y sigue adelante. Con mil y un quilombos, pero que siempre sonríe y que es solidario con cualquiera que lo necesite. Incluso si es gente que nos ha pateado cuando estábamos en el suelo.

Muchos acá y afuera han sido MUY DESAGRADABLES y GRATUITAMEMTE VIOLENTOS con el pueblo argentino y con gente como Messi que en la puta vida hizo algo malo. Espero que no seamos boludos y no olvidemos. Hagámonos respetar.

[sofilsword]

te amo argentina te amo

[bfbkg]

you’re mina’s best friend and your favourite band is coming to town and she says her friend has free box seats so you can go with him. she tells you it’s her childhood friend coworker bakugou katsuki and now you’re stressed because you know what this man looks like even if you’ve never met him. and he is gorgeous. your type to an embarrassing amount and this feels like an odd blind date when because you’re sure mina’s showed him a photo of you too.

[bfbkg]

you go to the concert, meeting him outside the venue and you find out it’s also his favourite band and he doesn’t mind taking you. his voice is deep and he moves his jaw when he’s thinking and his eyes widened when he saw you walking towards him. you have no clue what to make of that. he’s also dressed incredibly well. like his clothes fit him perfectly, accentuating his shoulders and biceps. even the length of his long legs. in expensive ass jeans a plaid shirt with a t-shirt underneath and a jacket.

you quickly realise how he doesn’t make much eye contact with you but the conversation is going nicely. there’s another guy who’s not paying attention to his surroundings and almost falls into you without realising and bakugou is quick to push him off. snarling a “watch where you’re going.” that gets you warm in the face.

you ask him about his work for filler conversation and you bring up yours. how you met mina. whole time bakugou is just endeared by you and when he finds a woman beautiful he kinda just gets awkward. intimidated. wants to impress but struggling how? and he can seehow you keep looking at him. always in his eyes, at his clothes, at his hands when he opens doors for you.

and once you’re in the exclusive arena box with him, you’re squealing because you’ve never been in one. that’s when he cracks a smile, scratching the back of his head.

[spacelabrathor]

Bakugo is nervous around you, once you officially start to date. He'll never say so, of course, but you see the tension he carries in his shoulders the first time you come over for a meal he cooked, and he watches you take your first bite while pretending he isn't. Needing so badly to know that you like it, that he's doing this right, and he only looks away on a low exhale of a sigh when he sees you close your eyes and groan at your first delicious bite.

You know he's going to kiss you for the first time about ten minutes before he does, because you can just feel the change in his body when he realizes that the meandering walk you've taken home from the restaurant will bring you to your front door soon. You actually go right for the handle when you arrive, his nerves putting you a touch on edge too, but he stops you with a low murmured,"hey," and a hand wrapped around your wrist.

And you physically bump into him when he tugs you lightly, so caught off guard because he's been so reserved with touching you so far, but when you tilt your head back to look up at his face, you see the color in the tips of his ears, spreading a bit into his cheeks. From the chill of the big, fat snowflakes falling around you, maybe, but maybe from him touching your jaw with his thumb as his eyes search yours in the soft light of your stoop.

The moment lingers, the pad of his thumb catching on your lower lip, and when you part your lips to speak, drawing in a breath, he murmurs, " 'm just - " and draws your face to yours.

His mouth is soft against yours. From his quirk, maybe, but he presses his mouth to yours the way someone hold something very precious to them. Breathing out through his nose, a little loud, a little nervous, as he shifts closer to you and presses closer still.

And you trade quiet, breathless kisses there in the falling snow. His fingers touching at your hairline, curling around your ear and keeping you pressed against him as you learn the shape of each other here.

You nip at his lower lip, just a instinctive little bite and he groans, and pushes. Moves you until you're pressed up against your door as he ducks lower and tilts your head further to meet him. Opening his mouth over yours on a gutted sound, making you shiver at the first taste of his tongue against yours.

He's nothing like you expected, you think. You'd just assumed he would be in this the way he is in all things - strong and dominating and sharp.

But when he pulls back from you at last, his cheeks flushed and mouth wet as he looks down at you like he's just experienced something religious, you think to yourself that you've maybe never wanted him more.

[spacelabrathor]

@willowser

[bkgexe]

damage control

bakugou katsuki x reader ✾ part 1/2 ✾ 16k (41k total)

✾ info! He saved the public of Japan from one of the most devastating incidents in the past century. He’s rough but charming. Dangerous but approachable. You just didn’t realize how much work it had taken to make him look this way. Sitting at your new desk, reading the notes left to you by the previous director, you finally figure out why it was so easy to secure this job:

Pro-Hero Dynamight is a certified PR nightmare.

(Congratulations! You got the job as PR director for the Dynamight Agency. It would be your dream job, if it wasn't for the most grating, annoying, dick-ish, kind of handsome(?), disrespectful man you've ever worked with—who's also the guy that signs your paychecks.)

✾ tw! f!reader referred to with gendered language; mentions of prosthetics needed bc of hero work-related injuries; canon-typical blood/injuries/violence; bkg is badly scarred up from the afo fight; scenes that can potentially be read as dubcon but nothing crazy happens; virgin bkg, kinda dominant reader, oral f!receiving, straight office smashing

✾notes! heheheheheheeeee HERE IT IS!!! the office fic..... this is just like a fun fluffy fic not to be taken too seriously. i love him your honor... you can read on ao3 also!

damage control (ˈdamij kənˌtrōl) noun: damage control; modifier noun: damage-control

measures taken to offset or minimize damage to reputation, credibility, or public image caused by a controversial act, remark, or revelation.

Becoming the director of public relations at the Dynamight Agency was a lot easier than you thought it would be. 

You have a good amount of experience in the field. You started out at Ms. Joke and Eraserhead’s agency (an easy first job, considering your bosses were the sunniest woman in the world and the most nonchalant guy you’ve ever spoken to), and you put a good five years in as a head PR assistant at Snipe’s agency. 

This was the first senior job you’d ever applied for—maybe a little too senior, but you’ve always gone for what you’ve wanted, regardless of whether or not you’d get it.

And look where it got you.

Here you are in your office building’s elevator—your (!!!) office building’s elevator (!!!)—heading to the top floor of the Dynamight Agency, a silver spear of a building that shoots up into the sky like a bullet train off its tracks. Once you’re up there, you’ll start your work with the dual owners of the agency: Dynamight and Red Riot—Dynamight and Red Riot (!!!).

You’re excited to work with Red Riot, mostly because he’s already Japan’s sweetheart. PR for him is just upkeep. Your other new boss, however, is going to pose you some problems.

At 28, Dynamight is already the number three hero in the country. There’s a reason the agency uses his name instead of Red Riot’s. He’s been the most sought-after hero for advertisement campaigns and brand deals for his entire career. He’s broad and single and strong, which is everything the greater public wants in a young, handsome hero. His attitude towards the press and public, however, is something that has worked against his image for years.

You can fix that. With your skill set, you can fix anything.

Red Riot is the one that did your final interview once you passed the first two, so you’ve never met Dynamight in person. You’re under the impression that he’ll be gruff but charming. Dangerous but still a paragon of good, determined to protect the people.

Dynamight is waiting at the elevator when you arrive, arms crossed and mouth curved into a frown. “You’re late.”

In the hoodie he wears, you can only see the scarring on the right side of his face—a shiny-pink spike from jawline to eyebrow, his blind eye a faded white that contrasts intensely with the blood-red iris of its counterpart.

You’ve been watching hero coverage for years. You’ve seen plenty of recordings of Dynamight in his sleeveless hero costume. Some snatches of footage tease a smattering of star-like scars across his right arm, dipping into the divot of his elbow and running up to his shoulder. The full extent has never been fully revealed, though it’s clear that they travel down his throat and onto his chest, past the neckline of his ballistic-weave vest. 

It’s one thing seeing the marks of such devastation through a screen—up close, you can’t help the way your eyes slightly widen, even though it’s only his face you’re seeing. You hate yourself for reacting at all. It’s rude, and unkind, and you care a lot about it until you fully process the first words out of his mouth.

Adrenaline belatedly hits your veins, wiping any other care from your mind, and you raise your hand to check your watch so quickly that you nearly hit yourself in the face. 

7:58. Two minutes early.

You look up at him in confusion. “But it’s—”

“I’ve been waiting for ten minutes,” he says, “so that makes you late. There’s a lot of shit you’re gonna have to take care of today.”

Before you can even breathe in response, Dynamight turns on his heel and walks deeper into the lobby, gesturing for you to follow him without giving you a second glance.

He gives you a tour so brief it can hardly be called a tour. The back of the lobby is an atrium, a paneled glass ceiling allowing bright sunlight to paint the room in bright golds and oranges. The room itself is shaped like half of an octagon, with a door on each of the four sides and a desk in front of each door. The office is decorated mid-century, with abstract paintings and credenzas boasting vibrant green leaves spilling over the tops of planters. A gorgeous geometric rug sits in the middle of the parquet floor, probably as large as the entire square-footage of your apartment. The two desks on the left have occupants, the others vacant and bare. Personal assistants, you assume, from the way they’re both too busy fielding phone calls to greet you. 

As Dynamight leads you to the door on the very right, he tells you who works where with the tone of someone telling an embarrassing secret, as if letting you know the names and locations of your new coworkers is painful and unpleasant for him. The names he gives you don’t help either. “Me,” he says as he points to the door across from yours, “then Ei, then Tape Face.”

He sounds half-asleep, and in a hoodie and joggers, his hair slightly flat at the front, it looks as if he’d gotten out of bed and come straight to work without even a passing thought for professionalism.

“The last guy left some shit to help you out.” He gestures inside the open door of the rightmost office—towards your new desk, where you can see a sheaf of notes as thick as a historical romance sitting, anticipatory, on the keyboard. You don’t like that it seems like Dynamight cares so little about this position that he can’t remember your predecessor’s name.

It’s going to be a nightmare to get started. This introduction doesn’t make you feel very hopeful. “What should I do if I have questions?”

“Ask ‘em,” he answers, deadpan and slow, as if that was a dumb question and he assumes it’ll be hard for you to grasp the concept of his answer. “I’m sure you can handle an email to Ei.”

“I can handle an email.” Your words are too clipped, and you’re frowning at him despite the pleas from deep within your survival instincts asking you to stop. You wonder if he can fire you on the spot, or if it’d take a while to send the paperwork through.

“Glad they covered something in PR school, or whatever—”

“College,” you say. “It’s called college.” You’ve never snapped at a boss before, and though you’re irked, you try to retain your sense of professionalism (because unlike him, you know how to be professional). “Sorry… Dynamight. Sir.” No, absolutely not—you don’t like that at all. You clear your throat. “Dynamight,” you decide on. 

He just stares at you, groggy and unamused.

After a moment, you remember the original context of the conversation. “...who’s Ei?”

“Red Riot.”

“Ah.”

You should probably know your boss’s real name. To be fair, they don’t really broadcast their personal information to the greater public. A lot of the televised material from UA has been wiped from the internet since you were young for privacy reasons.

Which Dynamight knows, because he’s one of the heroes that made such a big deal about privacy laws being modified for heroes. So that means he’s just being a dick.

“Good luck,” he says, already halfway out the door.

Sitting at your new desk, reading the notes left to you by the previous director, you finally figure out why it was so easy to secure this job—something you could’ve surmised from your first moments in the office.

Pro-Hero Dynamight is a certified PR nightmare.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was gruff. You do your research. You’ve watched Dynamight’s interviews, paid close attention to the way his team runs his social media, figured out which brand deals he accepts and which he doesn’t. You’ve done this for every hero in the top ten since you entered the industry. 

He saved the public of Japan from one of the most devastating incidents in the past century. He’s rough but charming. Dangerous but approachable. You just didn’t realize how much work it had taken to make him look this way.

A quick browse through LinkedIn and Glassdoor informs you that the average tenure of PR directors at the Dynamight Agency is four months.

Okay. Look at the positives: you’re sitting in an expensive, ergonomic office chair, you have a massive desk with a computer sitting on it that must have cost a couple grand, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the far wall overlook the most beautiful parts of downtown Musutafu, glittering buildings and neon lights and pale purple mountains in the distance. The pay isn’t anything to sniff at, either. And this’ll look great on your resume if you end up having to job hunt in a year or so.

But not before that. Maybe you’re stubborn, but something in you wants to be better than those that came before—to show everyone that you can handle what they couldn’t. You’re good at your job, but just you knowing that isn’t enough. You need everyone else to know it as well.

It’s when you open your email that your hope starts to diminish (just a tiny, tiny bit). A little number is bolded next to the inbox icon: 172. All unread.

You’re going to have to access all of Dynamight’s social media and start planning a strategy for fan engagement. There are three half-written reports on PR statements made before you worked here that have to be finished and filed. There’s a script to be drawn up for a small TV spot for Red Riot next week, and there’s an email from the CFO asking to meet soon, and there are about twenty different journals and magazines asking for interviews, and you close your eyes. Breathe. Consider how nice it’d be to be laying out on an Okinawan beach, a book in one hand and a cold drink in the other. 

Your quirk will help with this. At any keyboard, you maintain a Words-Per-Minute of about 220. Basically useless, but a great help in PR. You go through a lot of keyboards, though. You'll knock out most of this today, keyboard-willing.

From your work bag, you pull a small golden frame, which you put next to your monitor. In the picture, you stand smiling brightly next to Snipe, who in a rare moment had foregone his mask, his locs loose about his shoulders. He’s smiling in the photo, too, though it’s more subdued. It always is. 

He told you that you should apply for this position. Said that no one could do it as good as you. You chose to believe him, because he’s right—you’re good at what you do, so no amount of unread emails or rude comments are going to get to you. You’re going to take this industry by the balls and crush whatever you need to in order to do it.

So you get to work.

When your back begins to hurt and you’re yearning for a hot meal, the door to your office opens. It’s dark out, the sun long set behind the arrangement of skyscrapers outside your window. They’re transfigured from gleaming daggers into shadowy monoliths jutting up into the night sky, looming menacingly above the city streets.

“You’re still here,” your visitor comments—Dynamight, still wearing his hoodie, a big pair of black-and-orange headphones curled around his neck, blasting metal so loud that you can hear it from where you’re sitting.

You nod. “Looking over the notes that the last guy left me.”

“You didn’t email Ei.”

“I didn’t have any questions.”

He leans a shoulder against your doorway, arms crossed again. His body language is so odd. He’s especially closed off, but he moves with the languidness you would expect from a jungle cat. He’s awkward and not awkward simultaneously. “Shift ends at four.”

“I know,” you say, “but there’s just… a lot to do. And your last PR director, he—”

“Kimura.” He looks at you like he expects you to understand what he means even though your brain is fried from twelve hours of reading and typing and emailing. When it doesn’t click for you, he clarifies, “The last guy.” 

“Kimura,” you repeat.

“Did a shitty job,” he tells you. “That’s why there’s so much to take care of.”

You laugh, just once, exhausted. “Well—not to be rude, but he was dealing with a lot.”

“Never said he wasn’t. But I also never told him the job’d be easy." He shrugs. "Not gonna tell you that either.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. Part of you appreciates the fact that Dynamight is at least aware of how much trouble he causes the people that work for him. 

“Go home,” he says. “The work’ll be here tomorrow.” He doesn’t say goodbye as he leaves your doorway, but you didn’t expect him to.  

The work is definitely going to be here tomorrow—but home sounds nice.

.・。.・゜✭・.

you (5:21PM): Thanks again for bringing me on! Please feel free to offer any constructive criticism on my performance, or let me know if there are avenues I’m not pursuing that you’d like me to consider. I’ll always be looking for opportunities but I want to make sure you both feel catered to!

red riot (5:32PM): we’re really happy to have you!!! red riot (5:33PM): same to you, we’re always here to help however you need red riot (5:47PM): sorry let me make sure katsuki has seen this

dynamight (5:50PM): 👍

✧˖*°࿐

snipe (8:12PM): Congrats on your first day! 🎉🥳

you (8:21PM): awwww thanks!!! you (8:21PM): they're so interesting. complete opposites

snipe (8:35PM): Don’t worry much. Knew them when they were at school. Both good kids. snipe (8:36PM): You’ll fit in great there.

you (8:37PM): thank you snipe :) I’ll bring you some daifuku when I pass your building tomorrow 

snipe (8:38PM): 🤗

.・。.・゜✭・.

THE HERO HERALD

It’s a Dyna-FIGHT!!

Earlier today, Pro-Hero Dynamight was spotted getting into a physical altercation with a reporter—and you’ll never guess what it was about! Private sources have informed the Herald that Dynamight was caught sleeping with a villain! And the reporter has the entire video! Though it’s impossible to find evidence of this video online, we’re sure that the footage will leak soon enough…[click to read more!]

He’s working out when you finally find him.

“There you are,” you hiss, coming down the stairs into the gym. Machines crowd the floor, and people using them—sidekicks, accountants, techs—all look at you like you’re crazy for being angry in public. Then they realize who you’re angry at and look at you like you’re even crazier.

As you stalk towards him, he doesn’t even pause his workout. He’s at one of the pull-down machines, hands white-knuckling a bar that he drags towards his chest to lift an amount of weight that’s almost cartoonish. Or maybe you just underestimated the strength of a professional hero. 

The machine faces a mirrored wall, and his reflection looks over at you. “What’re you making a scene for? Other people are working out.”

“A reporter, Dynamight? A reporter?”

He lets go of the bar and the weights slam down, making you jump. He turns to the other people in the gym, barely acknowledging their presence. “Scram.”

They do. It never fails to amaze you how much he scares people. 

Once everyone is out of the gym, he turns back towards the mirror and grabs the bar again, beginning another set. As if he doesn’t even care.

You’ve gotten the sense over the past couple of months that Dynamight doesn’t like you. He’s never said it outright, but he doesn’t say hello when he sees you in the mornings, he ignores you in the breakroom—in fact, unless you’re in one of your weekly debrief meetings with him and Red Riot, he doesn’t speak to you at all—and that's if he shows up. It doesn’t help that in said meetings, when you speak, whatever you have to say is received by him with a sneer or an eye-roll. Both, sometimes. 

It’s childish. Ridiculous. Your job is to help him. But you’ve decided to just deal with it—the pay and the benefits more than make up for having to deal with someone playing at Mean Girls. Besides, your other boss is a ray of sunshine transmogrified into a human man, so it evens out.

Dynamight has done everything to make your job hard. He refuses campaigns, tweets expletives on a level which you've never seen, eschews professionalism in board meetings. Each day requires some sort of clean up, but it’s never been this bad.

“Why?” you ask, using every ounce of composure you have to keep your voice level. “Please, just—there has to be a reason.”

“Didn’t you read the tabloids?”

“The ones that said there’s exclusive footage of you sleeping with a villain? Look, I’m not trying to doubt your… capacity to charm,” you say, your tone implying that you’re actually heavily doubting many of his capacities. “I just don’t think that’s what actually happened.”

He pulls the bar down, exhales. Slowly lets it rise back up. “Asshole said something stupid.”

“What could he have possibly said that warranted him being roughhoused by a hero?”

“Roughhoused?” Down, up. Down, up. Your eyes watch the weights sink and rise. The gym is filled with sounds of labored breathing. “What is this, the fifties?”

“Tell me what he said.”

“Does it matter?” he asks. “Write up the apology. That’s what I pay you for, isn’t it?”

You’ve been in PR for over a decade now. It’s not like you haven’t seen the footage of previous public statements made by Dynamight—where very often, he obviously goes off-script to make his own opinion crystal clear. “Are you going to actually use what I write for you?”

Apart from the breathing, he’s quiet.

“What did the reporter say?”

“Will you just fucking drop it?” Mid-rep, he glances over at you. He’s wearing a black tank top, and—you’ve never seen this much of his bare skin up close, you realize. His scars extend down his right arm, more faded and smooth in the divot of his elbow, but angrier as they creep further towards his shoulder, the pointed ends of shiny stars twisting together. The way his muscles move beneath his skin is mesmerizing—solid and sure.

Your eyes dart towards the mirror and his intimidating gaze is on you, his eye boring into your soul. You look away, your face hot. “Just—I need to know or I can’t write the apology.”

The weight lowers again, softer this time, and it clinks as he stands and lets go of the bar. He sighs loud and long, as if you’ve asked him to go to a store half-way across the planet to buy you toothpaste. “Said some shit about Tape Face. Whatever. Like I said—doesn’t matter.”

“Tape Face…?”

“Sero. The CFO.” He looks at you blankly, almost disbelieving. “How the fuck are you this bad at knowing the names of the people that you work for?”

“How, exactly, would I know what weird little nickname you picked out for him? Besides, we haven’t had a chance to meet yet. I’ve been busy,” you remind him. “Maybe I would have had a chance if I wasn’t always playing maid and cleaning up after you.” 

Oh—fuck. You shouldn’t have snapped like that. Your patience is usually thick, a muscle strengthened over time by the most grating profession in the hero world. Somehow, Dynamight is able to surpass your strength and go straight for the tendons. 

Dynamight considers you for a long while, his jaw set tight, his workout all but forgotten. “He said that Hanta was a pity hire,” he eventually tells you. “I told him it was a pity his nose was broken. End of story.”

What happened to Cellophane isn’t a secret. 

A villain take-down gone bad—the worst handling of a crime in the history of heroes, if you were to believe the tabloids. But what really happened was that there were hostages, and that made things messy. While saving all seven civilians, Cellophane sustained injuries that forced him into early retirement.

In some ways, you understand Dynamight’s reaction—you don’t think violence should be a resort, especially for heroes in the public eye. The footage of him grabbing the reporter by his shirt and headbutting him in the face is going to be an absolute nightmare to scrub from the internet. But you can’t help but feel a twinge of vindication, something small and primal in your gut calling for an even exchange of damage.

“Thank you for telling me,” you say.

His breathing has evened out. The gym is almost silent now. “Got you off my back, didn’t it?”

It did. You go back upstairs with no other complaint. 

In the top floor’s lobby, lines ring and keyboard keys clack. It’s the most quiet office you’ve ever worked in, but it’s still an office through and through. Suzuki, Red Riot’s PA, speaks gently into the phone receiver as you wave at her on the way to your office. 

She waves back, smiling. Always happy because she’s the assistant of the easy one. You think that anyone would be thankful for their job after seeing what Mori, Dynamight’s long-suffering PA, has to put up with.

You write the apology in record time—literally, because you're so stressed that your WPM hits 236—then email it to Dynamight. He’ll do a small press conference tomorrow morning in the agency’s briefing room downstairs. The last things to do for the day are check for any outstanding emails and make sure you’re set up to begin your rehaul of their social media in the next week or so.

At five, you pack your things up to leave, ready to go home and decompress—but you’re stopped by a gruff voice telling you to wait up.

Dynamight stalks towards you from the direction of his office, his energy unreadable but undoubtedly displeased. “The fuck is this?” He displays his phone to you. On the screen is the official apology.

“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.”

His frown deepens. “Is this a joke?”

“No,” you say, a little confused. You know you’ve written a pretty damn good apology, regardless of whether he likes it or not. “I don’t joke about my job.”

He stares at you, expectant. His inadequacy with words would be funny if it wasn’t so aggravating. “People are gonna go for my throat if I read this shit tomorrow.”

“Look. I’ll be blunt. You know what people think about you.” You pretend not to notice his expression shift at this, the slight tightening of his jaw. “I’m not saying it’s warranted. Most people want to believe the worst because it’s interesting. But if anyone’s going to tell the public an uncomfortable truth and get it to stick, it would be you.”

“So you want me to call out reporters for being assholes.”

“I want you to talk about reporters treating heroes like human beings. Yes, apologize for the violence, but afterwards—you and I both know that Cellophane doesn’t deserve to be spoken about like that,” you say. “And you shouldn’t have had to hear it, either. That’s your friend.”

He regards you for a moment, eyes narrowed. A phone rings at a desk deeper into the lobby, and it will go unanswered. You’re always the second-to-last to leave the office, the last standing in front of you. The sound echoes off the walls, the glass ceiling, a ricocheting ghost.

You hold your ground the best you can. At your other jobs, you never had a hero push back on anything you wrote for them—but you also weren’t writing anything as important as this. You understand his hesitance. You understand wanting to uphold the status quo. You honestly don’t understand why he’s arguing with you about this, because the chances of him going off-script tomorrow are as high as the chances that you’ll be curled up on the couch reading a romance novel the second you get home. 

But you do really believe that if anyone can make a change, it’s Dynamight.

“He doesn’t like being called that,” he tells you.

“Who?”

“Hanta. Don’t call him that. Just use his family name.”

You swallow, unsure how to respond. “Good to know. Thanks.”

His eye glances at anything that isn’t you. The rug, the plants, the elevator call button’s dim light. You think he nods, but you might have imagined it. “If it goes bad tomorrow,” he finally says, “I’m gonna be pissed.”

“I’d expect you to be,” you tell him, and you really would. Bad press means you’re not doing your job well.

He doesn’t say anything. Just nods, then walks back towards his office.

It’s a gamble, but the most important part about a bluff is letting yourself believe it just a little bit, because the truth is easier to tell than a lie. The apology will go over well. You believe that. And later on in your apartment, when you’re curled up with a hot mug of tea and a book about handsome barons and eligible bachelorettes, you won’t feel nervous about tomorrow at all.

.・。.・゜✭・.

red riot (7:44AM): you look nervous are you nervous? should i be nervous

you (7:44AM): I’m very confident in what I’ve prepared. Unless we go off script, there should be nothing to worry about.

red riot (7:45AM): oh yeah i had no doubts that what you wrote is great. i meant like should i be nervous that kats is gonna say something really bad on live tv

you (7:45AM): It’ll be okay, I think. We had a conversation about it last night. you (7:45AM): I don’t think he’ll go off script by much. you (7:51AM): Just double checked with the broadcast team and there’s a ten second delay in case we need it.

✧˖*°࿐

mori (work) (8:07AM): dude hes doing a crazy good job mori (work) (8:07AM): like im so surprised he’s usually insulted at least thirty people by now

you (8:07AM): we’ve got like four minutes of broadcast time there’s still potential you (8:08AM): but no he’s doing really well

mori (work) (8:08AM): oof mori (work) (8:08AM): yeah he started swearing. okay. i mean not super bad though?

you (8:10AM): sorry had to get the broadcast team to censor him you (8:10AM): you think cunt isn’t super bad? that’s like the worst one you can say on tv you (8:11AM): jesus fucking christ that was close you (8:11AM): I can feel my heartbeat in my mouth

mori (work) (8:11AM): swallow it and hold onto it bc hes slipped into saying fuck every twenty seconds mori (work) (8:12AM): he does that when he gets nervous

you (8:14AM): genuinely I don’t believe he gets nervous I think he did that just to fuck with me

mori (work) (8:14AM): yeah it couldve been that too

.・。.・゜✭・.

🌟 HEROIC TIMES 🌟 ☑️ @ heroictimesnews

Pro-Hero Dynamight’s rousing speech calls into question the way we as journalists view heroes. We are glad that this problem is being brought to light, so we can improve as a news source and as people. What are your thoughts? #HeroicTimes #Dynamight #ProHeroes

🗨️  4.3k                   🔁  64.8k                    ♡  88.1k

🌿📚📷 CALL TO ACTION WHERE IS ALL MIGHT NOW @ heroheraldthe

At The Herald, we think that heroes need to realize that WE are people TOO! Maybe Dynamight’s got a new quirk: blowing up his ego. #Dynamight #HeroHerald

🗨️  224                    🔁  2.3k                     ♡  8.4k

dynadaddy 🌈 @ dynamighttapthatass

godddddddd hes so fu cking hot #dynamight

🗨️                            🔁  2                          ♡  6

dekus #1 💞💘💝💟 @ dontfeardekushere

deku has been saying this for years lmao but alright 😒 #dynamight #deku #yallhearsmn

🗨️  57                      🔁  103                      ♡  444

✨💫🌟✨ mina mommy ✨💫🌟✨ @ btsssslvr2

Feel like that suit didn’t really fit him well but he did make some points

🗨️  26                      🔁  88                        ♡  126

🖱️⌨️mousin around🖨️💾 @ bulletproofquirk

hes literally that 1 meme thats like yes i did that! and u would 2 for a check! 😂😂😂 #dynamight

🗨️  559                    🔁  7.3k                     ♡  11.3k

✨spAce giRl💫 @ wickedlywitchyyy3

hes always coming on my timeline but never on my face 😞

🗨️  5                       🔁  29                         ♡  56

New Hero Public Safety Commission ☑️ @ nhpsc

replying to @ bulletproofquirk

Pro-Hero Dynamight was in no way paid to get into an altercation with a member of the public. Please refer to his apology for further information. #Dynamight #NoViolenceIsJustified #Crime #Heroes #ProHeroes #FYP #NHPSC

🗨️  306.2k              🔁  176.3k                 ♡  22.4k

🔥💣💥DYNAMIGHT💥💣🔥 ☑️ @ dynamightofficial

Salad for lunch today.

🗨️  447.1k              🔁  942.9k                 ♡  1.4M

Dynamight has been especially active online lately.

Before you went in and revamped the (kind of sad) official Dynamight Twitter and Instagram pages, it had been maybe six months since any kind of promotional material had been sent forth into the tangled web of the internet. 

Social media is usually something the junior PR team takes care of. Before you got to the agency, the constant turnover of PR staff meant that less important things got overlooked. Everyone had been more focused on damage control than anything.

This is why you started looking through resumes to hire an assistant or two. You can’t do your regular job and half of Dynamight’s job at the same time. Well—you probably could, but you don’t want to.

Now, nearly five months into your tenure at the agency, you’ve assembled a team of two dedicated PR assistants. Tanaka is twenty, owns exactly two collared shirts, and is obsessed with ratioing people in YouTube comment sections. Inoue is twenty-two, plays the violin, and creates phenomenal hero edits for her TikTok.

The downside: this is the first job either of them have had outside of school. The upside, however: they both have massive social media followings and used the words ‘transferable skills’ on their resumes. 

Red Riot is a godsend who makes your job easier, because he takes care of his own social media and he does a great job. He’s charismatic and retweets the right things and posts the right pictures on Instagram. Dynamight hadn’t posted anything on social media for a little while before you started—mostly because his creative use of expletives kept getting him in trouble—and he still hasn’t. 

Your assistants are able to perfectly capture his caustic nature and blunt tone, but twist it enough that no one can find fault in what he’s posting about. Everything is vetted by you, but they do a great job choosing strategic posts. A picture on Instagram of him in the building lobby, dressed in his hero costume. A tweet that says No villain attacks in Musutafu for two weeks. These cowards aren’t shit. Replies to Deku’s more personal tweets with emojis implying (friendly) disgust or annoyance.

It’s not him completely. He most definitely wouldn’t tweet or post those things. But it’s enough of an aspect of his personality that people latch onto it and further build up their parasocial relationship with their favorite pro-hero.

When you have time, you visit your assistants on the fifth floor, where most of the junior department members work. You walk them through strategy and KPIs. They walk you through comment-based engagement versus like-based engagement. And when you finally think they’re ready, you give them full reins to Dynamight’s social media.

This is when a cup of coffee starts appearing on your desk every morning.

It’s always from the bakery down the street, where you sometimes go on your lunch if you need space from the office. It’s your regular order. You would be worried if you didn’t know that the security for the building was extremely tight. You need a specific clearance on your employee keycard to even have access to the top floor. Dynamight constantly talks to Kiri about how well the security systems are functioning. And if it’s good enough for Dynamight, it’s good enough for you.

So that means the culprit has to be someone in the office. 

When you ask Mori about it at her desk one morning, she says, “Maybe you have a secret admirer.”

“Doubt it, unless you’re trying to pull a move on me.”

“Not interested, sorry. Strictly dickly.”

“Why would that be the way you choose to—actually, never mind. I’m trying to figure out the coffee thing,” you say. Mori is an enigma in that she says some of the wildest stuff you could possibly choose to say out loud in a pro-hero’s office, and she always gets away with it. “So you and Suzuki haven’t seen anything?”

Suzuki looks at you from Kiri’s desk, mouthing no, sorry, then leans her head on the phone in her hand and continues to talk to whatever insurance company needs an agency statement to dole out reparation funds this week.

Mori shakes her head, leaning back in her chair and chewing on the end of her pen. “Maybe it’s one of the boys? They owe you a shit-ton for cleaning up Bakugou’s image as much as you have.”

Sometimes you ruminate over her familiarity with Dynamight. You’ve worked with him for a good chunk of time now, and you haven’t gotten a sniff of an invite to call him by his family name. He still barely acknowledges you when you’re in the same room. You’re not sure what you did, but he looks at you like a bug he accidentally stepped on but doesn’t feel bad about squashing. 

Maybe Mori didn’t ask to use his name—just went for it and dealt with the consequences, and their friendship developed from there. You think if you tried the same thing, he’d explode you on the spot.

“I doubt it’s Dynamight,” you say.

She snorts, a laugh that sounds oddly like the tiny, stunted laughs that Dynamight sometimes allows himself. Maybe being his PA has caused some of his personality to bleed into her. “Yeah, probably not. I wouldn’t put it past Kiri, though.”

“What’s that?” a voice asks from behind the two of you—Red Riot in the doorway of his office, adjusting one of his shoulder guards. 

You look at Mori and give her a don’t say anything look, and she smiles, fox-like, but goes back to chewing on her pen and reading through emails.

“Just work stuff,” you say, doing your best to smile in a way that implies you don’t have Red Riot under investigation for coffee-supplying. 

“Oh, I know a ton about work stuff,” he says, smiling back with his pointed teeth all perfect and white. It’s amazing how he can make a sharp smile feel so disarming. “Walk with me to the bakery? I actually wanna talk about work stuff, but I’m late for patrol.”

He’s your boss, and usually your boss asking you to have a conversation about work stuff would make you anxious to your core—but it’s Red Riot. You enjoy conversations with him about his most recently played video games, or what sports he wants to get into, or even your own interests—because rest assured, if he talks about himself, he’s going to want you to talk about yourself for twice as long. You wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to talk to you about ideas he has for future projects.

The warmth immediately seeps into your skin as you step outside, your face turning up towards the light like the head of a sunflower. It’s only early summer, but real heat looms like a parent on their kid’s first date.

“Sorry to make you leave the building,” Red Riot says, his boots thudding heavily against the sidewalk with each step. It feels as if his heavy gait is announcing him to the street—you can already see people across the road taking pictures on their phones. “I wanna talk to you about something that I didn’t think I could say in the office.”

Now this makes you pause. You falter only momentarily, falling a step behind him before you speed up. You try not to be anxious and fail horribly. “Of course,” you say, and your voice is two octaves too high. Your nerves fray under your sun-warm skin. “What’s up?”

“People really liked Katsuki’s apology.”

The footage has hundreds of thousands of views on Facebook, retweets the likes of which you’ve never seen in your career. He read it just as you’d written it, word for word (give or take some expletory ad-libbing), much to your surprise. 

Snipe texted you that afternoon, even though you know he was mid-mission: a thumbs-up emoji. It made you tear up at your desk for much longer than you’d like to admit. You haven’t talked to Dynamight about the success of his apology because you think he’d hate you even more if you tried.

A woman waves at Red Riot as your paths cross hers, and he waves back, smiling brightly. There’s nothing you can think to say to him—it went over better than even you thought it would, in your somewhat hopeful confidence. 

He stops so suddenly that you startle. Turns to you, obviously thinking. It’s easy to see when the gears are turning in his head, because each thought they churn out is written plain across his face, one after the other, like a factory line of consecutive feelings. “I need to thank you,” he says seriously, “but I really want you to understand why.”

The wind picks up, and you wrap your arms around your middle even though it isn’t cold. Muscle memory. A place to hide your hands, balled up nervously.

“Katsuki has a reputation. You know this, duh. The PR guys we had before were…” He wrings his hands, as if he’s nervous. As if there’s any reason at all for a pro-hero to be nervous in front of you. “I’m not gonna lie, understanding him is hard. Nothing he does is fake—it’s something I really respect about him. He’ll always be true to himself.”

“Which gets him into trouble.”

“But it doesn’t have to. What you wrote—it's exactly the kind of thing he would say. He doesn’t want people to think he’s angry without a reason,” he says, talking with his hands now, passionate about his best friend in a way that endears him to you terribly. “He wants people to understand why. I don’t think anyone before you has been able to get that. And they definitely haven’t been able to put his thoughts and all into words that people can get behind.”

“Oh.” You’re not entirely comfortable with the praise. Not used to it, maybe. You’re used to quiet thank-yous and thumbs-up emojis. “I mean—it’s just my job.”

He smiles, bright but without teeth. The kind of smile that says I know you’re trying to be humble, even though you’re not sure what else you could try to be in this moment. It’s not even humility, really—you were pretty confident that the apology would go over well, and it did. It’s why you’re a PR director at thirty.

“There’s a reason you’re still around,” he tells you, as if reading your mind. He’s great at interpreting body language, you’ve noticed—maybe you need to work on being more guarded with the way you carry yourself. “It’s not like we were firing people all the time. It’s just—everyone that came before you got too mad at Katsuki to even try to work with him. And you make it look easy.”

You nod, unsure what to do with your hands. Deep within you sits the need to answer emails and file paperwork—the most boring parts of your job, much more preferable than accepting a stream of praise from your boss. Other people would love this, probably. “Thank you.”

“It’s us thanking you. I know Kats hasn’t said it yet, ‘cause—well, you know,” he says, putting a hand out, indicating that there’s an obvious ending to that statement. It could be because he hates your guts. It could be because he’s emotionally stunted. “He will soon, though.”

Unbidden, the thought of the daily coffees comes to mind. “You don’t happen to be getting me coffee in the mornings, do you?”

He frowns, confused. “No, sorry.”

You fill him in on the situation in brief, realizing with every word that the coffees simply appearing on your desk are a little more of a concern than you’d previously thought.

“I mean,” he says when you’re done explaining, “it could be Katsuki. But if it’s not, that’s kinda sketch. I’ll look at the cameras and see if anything weird’s been going on the past couple days.”

The two of you say goodbye, a solution reached, but the idea has already been implanted in your head. It’s either a security risk, or it’s Dynamight. Both options seem so unlikely that it could almost make more sense if you discovered that the coffee was being phased onto your desk by an otherworldly being.

You don’t think about it again until the next day, when you decide to go to the office a little early. You want to finish querying some brands about deals before their people get into their offices. Being the first email read often results in the most success.

When the elevator doors open up to the top floor’s lobby, you’re greeted by the sight of Dynamight with his hand buried in the collar of a man’s shirt, herding him towards the exit. Mori watches from her desk, typing away on her work phone, as if this is normal (and for her, maybe it is).

With a start, you realize that the man is Tanaka—one of your assistants. “Dynamight, what—”

“This little twerp was skulking around your office this morning.” He gives Tanaka’s collar a shake. “Weren’t you?”

Tanaka nods, his face pale, obviously scared out of his mind. He reaches up as if to try to fight against Dynamight’s grasp, but his hand is shaking hard and it doesn’t make it all the way before falling back to his side. “Please—I’m sorry.”

“Can you let him go?” you ask, the irritation in your voice more there to hide the fact that you’re a little frightened. “He works for me. For us.”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t up to no good,” he responds, but he releases his grip.

Tanaka falls to his knees, and you rush to help him up while Dynamight tsks and rolls his eye. He’s not hurt, thank god, but he’s shaking like a leaf in a typhoon. Taking the brunt of his weight to help him stand isn’t hard—he’s a waif of a guy, still growing into his body. 

His hands are clammy when you give them a squeeze of reassurance before pulling back. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.

“Why’re you up here?” you ask him. “Is something wrong?”

“I, uh…” he starts, taking a nervous look at the pro-hero next to him, who’s staring Tanaka down like he’s a particularly annoying gnat. “I brought you coffee.”

Everything clicks. Of course he’d be able to get up to your floor with his ID—all of the PR staff have clearance. You’d requested it from the security team in case either of your assistants needed to reach you for an emergency.

“Told you it was a secret admirer,” Mori says, eyes still locked on the keyboard of her BlackBerry as she responds to messages with alarming speed. “Shame he’s like six years old.”

“I’m twenty,” Tanaka says, but his face reddens and he doesn’t deny any accusations.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the lobby. The only sounds are the click of BlackBerry keys and your heartbeat, which has taken up residence in the drums of your ears. 

Dynamight rolls his eye. “She has a boyfriend, idiot. Just fuck back down to whatever floor you came from and don’t pull this shit again. I won’t be as nice next time.”

“Of course. Thank you,” Tanaka mumbles, bowing to Dynamight, then to you, then to Mori, then to you again, and then he’s in the elevator and collapsing against the back wall as if he wants to sink into it, making eye-contact with no one as the doors slowly slide shut.

Mori puts the BlackBerry down on her desk and tuts. “I guess your boyfriend’s gonna have to start bringing you coffee in the mornings to make up for your boy-toy getting banned,” she says to you. “You should’ve let it last a little longer, Bakugou. He could’ve saved money.”

“Hold on,” you say, putting a hand out to stop Mori from saying anything else. “Who, exactly, is this boyfriend I have, and why don’t I know about him?”

They both look at you in question.

“The guy in the picture on your desk,” Mori informs you, as if it’s something you should know already.

“Snipe?” you ask, and then a kind of manic laugh bubbles out of you like soap foaming up in water. “Oh my god, no. He’s like an uncle.”

“That’s Snipe?” Mori asks, brows hitting the boundary of her temples. “He could have thirstier fangirls than Bakugou if he showed face a little more.”

“Please,” you say, hand still out, because you don’t want to hear anyone talking about Snipe like that. It’s like someone hitting on your dad right in front of you. “You can think it, just—please stop talking.”

“I’ll be thinking it,” Mori promises, and picks her BlackBerry up again to resume her fervent typing.

“How’d you even know about the picture?” you ask Dynamight. “Were you snooping through my office?”

“If I wanted to know about you, I’d ask.”

“Kiri showed it to us when he dropped off some paperwork for you,” Mori elaborates. “Just wanted to share that it was cute how happy the two of you look. Guess it’s for other reasons.”

“He’d just gotten ranked number fifteen. Again—an uncle,” you emphasize.

Dynamight, evidently done with this conversation, stalks past you towards his office. “I’m not taking calls this morning,” he tells Mori. “Tired as fuck after that.”

You understand—you’re exhausted too. You’re going to have to have a conversation with Tanaka about this, and you really don’t want to. You hope he doesn’t decide to leave the team. Even if he has a little crush, you can deal with that considering what his social media experience brings to the table. Finding someone else is going to be a pain in the ass.

It’s something you can think about tomorrow. You don’t have a team meeting for a week. You’ll write him a sternly-worded email. Or—not stern, but firm, maybe. Dear Tanaka: as your supervisor, I appreciate our work relationship but wish to inform you that it won’t be anything more. Also sorry my boss threw your body around like a little rag doll.

You should think on it, maybe.

Sometimes it’s good to let yourself breathe for a moment before thinking things through. Stress never lends itself to smart planning. Not thinking about it stretches out towards the end of the day, and you go home with your head down.

The next morning, like a bad bout of deja-vu, there’s a cup of coffee sitting on your desk. It’s from the bakery. You pick it up, take a sip. Your regular order. 

You’re going to have to go downstairs and talk to Tanaka about this, because if he thinks he can do this again after being threatened by one of the most powerful pro-heroes in the business, then maybe he has more screws loose than you originally assumed. 

The door opens before you can take a deep breath and figure out how, exactly, to explain the concept of boundaries to an underling. Dynamight stands there, hesitant to come in, as if the floor might swallow him whole if he steps inside. “Got the coffee?” he asks.

In surprise, you look down at the cup in your hand, then back to him. “You—?”

“Yeah. I owe you for the apology, or whatever.” He doesn’t look happy about having to buy you anything. Doesn’t look like he actually wants to thank you, either. “Eijirou said I should get it for you. And Mori told me what you usually have. So don’t go getting any ideas.”

“What’s your problem with me?” you ask, suddenly bolder than you’ve ever been before, because the fact that he wants you to know just how disconnected he is from this basic act of kindness fully expresses how deeply he dislikes you. And you need to know why, because what have you done to him to deserve that?

He stares at you for a moment. Thinking of a response, maybe. Or stunned by your question, though you’re sure there’s not much that stuns him. “You really wanna know?”

“Yeah,” you say, almost relieved that there is a problem, because you’ve been stuck wondering what you did to piss him off for months now. “I really want to know.”

He steps into your office and shuts the door behind him. Tension ekes through the air, sticky like tar. His mouth twists into a frown, the scar on the side of his face pulling tight. “I don’t respect you.”

His bluntness is like a tire iron hitting a knee. Skin bruised, bone snapped.

“I’ve worked with enough public relations idiots to know what you guys stand for. It’s all about lying to make things look good.” He leans back against the door, hands in the pockets of his joggers. “I can’t respect someone that does that kind of shit without a conscience.”

His words sink in, a blade into an organ. Your face is burning with shame or anger or both, and you hate him right now. You hate him for being so straightforward but also for waiting so long to tell you. “When have I ever tried to get you to sell an image?”

He doesn’t answer the question.

“When have I ever made you do something you didn’t want to do?” 

He toes at a speck of dust on your floor, frown still in place.

“Bakugou,” you say, a warning, and this is what makes his head snap up, eye suddenly locked with yours. 

“The fuck gives you the right to—”

“When have I crossed your boundaries? Because I don’t want to, but if I have—I need to know what I did.”

“Don’t use my name again without permission. That’d be a fucking start.”

“You’re right.” You needed to get him to listen to you, yes, but you shouldn’t have been that bold with him. Not when he doesn’t respect you. Doesn’t trust you. “I’m sorry,” you say, and you really mean it.

He exhales loud and long, leaning his head back against the door. The line of his throat is illuminated by the light streaming in through your windows. “I don’t get you,” he eventually says. “Don’t get what kind of game you’re playing. PR assholes are always lying, but at least I can usually tell what they’re lying about.”

“I’m… not,” you reply. “There’s no game. I don’t like lying.”

“There’s always a game.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying not to be frustrated with him. Even though he deserves it. When you push your fingers against your closed eyes, you see a black deeper than darkness. “All I want to do is a good job,” you say, letting your hand fall. “And being good at my job means that I take into account the needs of the general public and the heroes I work for.”

The feeling of him staring at you is almost physical—something that gets into your muscles, shoots tension up the back of your neck the same way the nervous system reacts when skin touches cold metal. His eye is piercing in a way that unravels your defenses like an orange peel, leaving only the ugly, vulnerable pulp within. “Whatever. Drink the coffee or don’t.”

As suddenly as he came, he’s out of your office, the smell of woodsy cologne following him. All you can do is stare at his absence.

You pick up the coffee and take a sip. It’s abnormally hot. You imagine it held in Dynamight’s hand—imagine the warmth generated by his quirk seeping from his palm into the cup, heating your coffee on the walk over.

Maybe you should begin to accept that every interaction you ever have with him will always result in burnt-out embers, sparking.

.・。.・゜✭・.

mori (4:14PM): so is ur dad single or

you (4:17PM): 1. not my dad 2. PLEASE don’t

mori (4:18PM): like why doesnt he take off the mask ever mori (4:18PM): thats one of the most handsome men ive seen in my life mori (4:19PM): plus you could bounce a quarter off his ass hes so crazy in shape

you (4:22PM): please. please. why such a specific visual.

mori (4:23PM): lmaooooooooo okay ill stop but if he ever wants a hot young gf you have my number

✧˖*°࿐

snipe (11:49PM): How is work going? 🤗 snipe (11:50PM): You wrote the apology I’m guessing? Great work. 🤗

you (11:59PM): I did!! you’re up late omg

snipe (12:01AM): Evening patrol. Finishing up now.

you (12:01AM): how was patrol?? work is actually going a lot better than it has been you (12:02AM): still having problems with dynamight though

snipe (12:11AM): Coffee tomorrow morning? My treat. And we can catch up. 

you (12:13AM): I’ll meet you at the usual spot :) at 11 so you can sleep in?

snipe (12:14AM): LOL. Sleep is for the young. But 11 is perfect. 🤗

.・。.・゜✭・.

calvinklein ☑️ @ CalvinKlein

prohero Nighthide wrapped in leather. heat up your summer in an open denim jacket, nothing underneath.

[photo] [photo]

🗨️  2.8k                   🔁  120k                ♡  395k

👾 ☑️ @ nitehide

replying to @ CalvinKlein finally did what everyone asked me to. hope you’re happy #asspics

🗨️  3.8k                  🔁  86k                   ♡  123k

nighthides baby 👅💦 @ r3al_3ater

replying to @ CalvinKlein okay im. in heat. ohhhhhhhhf 

🗨️  5                       🔁  29                    ♡  56

⚡ chargebolt :P @ therealchargebolt

replying to @ nitehide lookin GOOD hitoshi !!!!!!!! 😻😻😻 #asspics #iloveasspics

🗨️  10.2k                🔁  7.3k                 ♡  11.9k

Calvin Klein reaches out within the first year of your employment at the agency—which is big, because they’re a crazy brand to have as a partner, and they usually don’t work with rookies.

You know that neither Red Riot nor Dynamight have worked with them before, but Sato Ryo, the Japanese representative for the company, emails you to inform you that he is once again asking if the PR director can try to convince your bosses to do a collaboration and subsequent ad campaign.

Looking at the drafted contract, you can’t understand why they’ve never done it. The money they’re willing to pay is, quite frankly, ridiculous, and you know that this would give them a boost in popularity that (most feasibly for Red Riot) would push them further up the hero ranks. 

“Absolutely not,” is the first thing Dynamight says when you meet with him and Red Riot in the latter’s office for your weekly debrief.

“What’s so bad about it?” you ask, pushing the contract across Red Riot’s desk towards where Dynamight is perched on its edge. 

“My job isn’t posing for cameras and taking my fucking clothes off.” He stands up, ignoring the contract, and starts to pace in front of the windows. 

Red Riot’s office is almost identical to yours, except his is extremely disorganized. The stacks of unsorted papers on the shelves behind him are five seconds away from giving you a panic attack. There’s something within you that wants so badly to file. 

The hero himself sits at his desk, arms crossed behind his head, absentmindedly swiveling his chair left to right. When you look at him, he shrugs and says, “I’m not the one you’ve gotta convince.”

You’re sure that Red Riot has tried to change Dynamight’s mind in the past, but this has got to be at least the fourth conversation they’ve had about a Calvin Klein partnership. Briefly—very briefly—you wonder if the scars have something to do with his reluctance. Most heroes have paparazzi pictures of them at the beach in swim trunks or bikinis, revealing ample skin even if that wasn’t the intention. 

You’ve never seen Dynamight in any of those tabloid spreads. He keeps to himself. It’s part of what draws people to him—they want to know the extent of his wounds, to romanticize his injuries and play savior for still wanting him in spite of. There are whole forums about it, for fucks sake, where people are begging for even a flash of midriff, a hint of how low his scars extend.

It’s fucked up, and you’d understand if he didn’t want to do this because of those people. You’d understand if he didn’t want to do it because he’d rather be at home in a maid’s outfit, or whatever he’s into. In the end, what he does with his time is up to him. 

“I’m not going to force you to do anything. But I’m suggesting it,” you emphasize, “because it’s good to engage in tactical public exposure geared towards your target audiences.”

Dynamight scoffs. “Tactical public exposure is supposed to be fuckin’ meet-and-greets. Not pictures of my ass in briefs, you creep.”

“I am not the one putting your ass in the briefs. I am not the creep.” You raise a finger when he begins to speak again, your expression a warning that if he doesn’t stay silent, you’ll get Calvin Klein himself into the office to make some trouble. And you don’t even know if Calvin Klein is a real guy. 

Stunningly, he concedes.

You grab the contract from the desk, smoothing it out on your leg even though neither hero touched it. “Unfortunately for you, one of your biggest target audiences consists of female fans between the ages of eighteen and forty that are attracted to men.”

Dynamight’s eyes are narrowed at you so hard that you’d be surprised if he could actually see you. “So you want an eighteen-year-old to look at my ass in briefs?”

“Stop. Talking. About your ass. In briefs.” Every sentence is punctuated by an exasperated shake of the contract towards him.

“Why do we lose them after forty?” Red Riot asks. 

“Thought you said you weren’t going to force me to do anything I don’t want to do,” Dynamight says.

“I’m not,” you say. “It’s part of my job to bring you contracts with potential. It’s not like I’m gonna strip you personally.”

“As if you wouldn’t love to do that,” he says, out of absolutely nowhere.

It’s—shocking. Jarring. Your heart sticks to your ribs and there’s suddenly sweat on your brow. “Excuse me?”

“Kats,” Red Riot interjects, “don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick. I’m just saying.” The way he says this makes it sound like he truly believes it, even though everyone in the room can very obviously tell he’s being an asshole on purpose. “What other reason would there be to push it so hard?”

“I’m not pushing anything. I never want to see your ass in briefs. I’d rather be drawn and fucking quartered. With the horses and everything,” you tell him, all pretense of professionalism thrown out of the windows revealing the bay of Musutafu. You want to drown him in that crystalline water. “And for the record, if your fans knew how little you thought of them, your time as a hero would be over in an instant. You owe public relations your entire career.”

He laughs, mean and gravelly. “I don’t owe public relations shit. I could do your job twice as good as you and I wouldn’t have a stick up my ass the whole time.”

“Katsuki,” Red Riot repeats. He’s not serious often, so his tone is striking. You didn’t know that his voice could be anything but friendly. “Jesus. Go get some coffee, man. Cool off.”

All amusement floods from Dynamight’s expression, and his face returns to its typical unpleasant scowl. He’s like a kid that’s had its toy taken away—but, surprisingly enough, he listens. “Fine,” he grunts. “But I’m not doing any of this.”

When Dynamight is gone, Red Riot lets out a long sigh through his nose, putting his elbows on his desk and clasping his hands. He would look like a businessman about to make a deal if it wasn’t for the casual gym-wear that he dons at work every day. “I’m sorry about him. Are you—? I know he said what he said but he really didn’t mean it, and I’m gonna talk to him right now about it.”

You’re confused. You pause, brows furrowed, waiting for him to continue.

“Because it was kinda like, you know…” He grits his teeth a little. “Harassment? And he’s just—really rude a lot of the time, but it doesn’t excuse anything, and—”

“Red Riot?” you interrupt. You feel a little ridiculous using his hero name in a conversation as serious as this. “It wasn’t… it didn’t bother me. He’s just full of himself. And kind of an asshole. I’m coming to terms that it’s part of the job.”

He balks at that, leaning back from his desk. “But you shouldn’t have to come to terms with it. It’s not acceptable. Like, at all.”

“It’s not. But I think he just likes to run his mouth.” Honestly, the comment about you wanting to ogle his ass was one of the least offensive things to come out of that conversation. “I’m his PR director. I’m going to have to deal with a lot more of his attitude getting him into trouble while I’m here. I can handle a stupid comment from time to time.”

“I’m still gonna talk to him about it, if that’s cool.”

You nod. “Of course. And sorry—to be blunt. And for the language.”

“We’re pretty chill here, you know that,” he says. “As long as you’re not cursing me out, I don’t mind how you speak to me. Unless I deserve it.”

When he smiles at you, all boyish charm and pointed teeth, you smile back—he’s good at putting people at ease, making them feel safe, despite his sharp edges. Fitting for a hero. 

“Anything else you want to discuss before I head back to my office?” you ask.

He stands and walks over to you, leading you towards the door. “Not really. Just—I didn’t realize you were still calling me Red Riot. You can call me Kiri. We know each other better than that.” “Oh,” you say, pausing as he opens the door for you. Kirishima. That’s his family name. You made sure you went through their personnel files after your first conversation with Dynamight. So this is a nickname he’s allowing you to use. “That’s—okay, yeah.”

“And if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know,” he says.

You step out into the lobby, looking back to offer a warm smile. It’s odd to have one boss that’s so boorish and another that’s so kind. “Thanks, Kiri.”

He gives you a genuine smile and a little wave, which you can’t help but return. You really struck gold with him being a client. His charisma is effortless.

As you reach your office door, footsteps stomp towards Kiri’s office. You’re not trying to eavesdrop, but you hear Dynamight venomously whisper, “Kiri?” followed by an equally quiet response of, “Yeah, man, we’re supposed to be friends with her, not…” and then the door thuds shut.

You try not to think on it. Dynamight disliking you doesn’t phase you much because he doesn’t seem to like anyone much. It’s annoying, sure—you’d rather be on good terms with your bosses—but if it’s what you have to deal with, it’s not that bad. The picture of you and Snipe sits quiet on your desk, a reminder of all you know you can achieve.

When you email Sato the news about the shoot, he doesn’t seem surprised. He thanks you for trying and wishes you well. 

But three minutes after his response, you send another email—the subject: Potential Mag Shoot w/ RR?

Now this—this you can make happen.

.・。.・゜✭・.

kiri (4:33PM): im so excited kiri (4:34PM): i cant tell you HOW long ive wanted to do this

you (4:36PM): are you into modeling?

kiri (4:37PM): no but ive heard that the food spreads at ck shoots are insane kiri (4:38PM): prosiuto and everything kiri (4:38PM): prosiucto kiri (4:38PM): procsiuto?

you (4:40PM): genuinely no idea

✧˖*°࿐

mori (9:22AM): kiri just told me. thanks for doing this for him btw mori (9:23AM): when is it being published just wondering

you (9:26AM): I think this month? he’s going in for the shoot next Tuesday

mori (9:27AM): u think hell be okay on his own? like he doesnt need someone with him or anything

you (9:30AM): no I don’t think so but you can always ask him. he told me about the food spreads at the shoot are you trying to get in on that

mori (9:33AM): yea. thats why i wanna go mori (9:33AM): i love prosciutto

✧˖*°࿐

you (9:34AM): PROSCIUTTO

kiri (9:37AM): omg i never wouldve got that

.・。.・゜✭・.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected]

Re: Upcoming Press Release Proof

CALVIN KLEIN

Calvin Klein Red Riot Collection Spring/Summer

“Calvin Klein has always been a brand that focuses on the common ground between style and affordability,” says Creative Director Ren Kaori. “With our Red Riot Collection, airing this spring, we center the underwear as the hero. It shapes you, molds you—saves you, the way heroes save people every day. The Red Riot Collection isn’t just about heroism. It’s about altruism. Ten percent of the proceeds from this line will go to funding agency start-ups. Don’t just save your style this spring and summer. Save a life.”

You don’t meet Sero Hanta, CFO of the agency, for a laughably long amount of time. At least, not in person. Kiri explains to you that it’s because he mostly works from home. He’s great at his job—he’s just not an office type of guy. 

And he is great. You’ve exchanged necessary emails, and anytime you’ve asked for assistance on something, Sero has been able to help you out within a span of hours. Meeting him now feels like meeting a celebrity—his ability to problem-solve without leaving you on read for several days has you genuinely star-struck.

On the morning of your meeting, you’re having a cup of coffee in the break room with Mori. You’re both chatting intermittently, you monitoring emails on your phone and her tapping away on her tablet. Even during breaks, work never really quiets for heroes and their employees. 

But then she says, “Ohmygod,” and your attention is immediately snatched away from your emails (boring) and thrown towards potential drama (not boring).

She looks up at you, awe-struck, and then back down at her tablet. “You got him to do this?”

With unbridled urgency, you reach out for the tablet because you have to see for yourself what made the usually stoic Mori squeal like a high-school girl.

When you see the picture, you clap a hand over your mouth. “Oh,” you say, muffled, “my god.”

The Calvin Klein spread was published this morning. You were so distracted by your meeting with Sero that you hadn’t thought to take a look. On the tablet, there’s a picture of Kiri in the process of putting his hair into a bun. It’s normally gelled-up into abstract spikes of red, but for the shoot, his hair is soft. A strand that he missed curls around the nape of his neck, drawing your gaze.

And his neck draws that same treacherous gaze down to his back…

The action of putting his hair up tenses all the right muscles in the upper body, and you physically cannot process the image in front of you. Those are shoulders you would sink nails into. Those are shoulders you would sink teeth into.

This is your boss, a small voice in your head tries to remind you (the professionalism you had been so proud of when you started), but then you see his ass—yes, in briefs—and no more voices are talking in your head at all apart from the one, primal instinct telling you that you’re looking at something you need to smack.

“The hell’s going on in here?”

You slam the cover of Mori’s tablet over the screen and look up to see Dynamight in the doorway, an empty mug dangling from his hand. 

“Nothing,” you lie.

You look at Mori. She laughs, hard. “You got lost there for a second, huh?”

“What the fuck were you looking at?” Dynamight asks, and now he’s striding into the room, putting down his mug on the table and reaching for the tablet.

You jerk it away from him, trying to hand it over to Mori without allowing him to intercept. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. Just… like, I don’t know. Girl stuff.”

Mori does finally take the tablet from you, but she says, “Or guy stuff. Anyone’s stuff. I think plenty of people would be happy to get their teeth into that.”

God, why did she bring up the teeth, because now you’re thinking about the shoulders again, and—

“Hand it over.” Dynamight reaches out towards Mori, gaze unflinching. “Or I’ll take it.”

“Mori,” you say. “Don’t.”

“I’m your boss,” Dynamight counters.

“I’m your friend,” you say.

“You’ve known her for like a week.” He gestures again towards her. “Give me the tablet, Mori.”

“I’ve worked here for months now,” you inform him.

Mori seems amused more than anything, but she picks her side eventually. “Sorry, boss. It’s my tablet. And I don’t see you giving me a raise for following your every order.”

“Five thousand added to your yearly salary,” he says. “And if I say bark, you better fuckin’ do it.”

She hums in thought. “Ten.”

There’s no way this is happening. They aren’t bargaining her pay so he can see what made you so flustered. And the barking (???)???

“Seven,” he counters.

Mori smiles wide and hands over the tablet, to your utter horror. 

Everything happens very slowly, it seems. Mori mouths sorry at you, and Dynamight is pulling the cover away from the tablet’s screen, and your phone is so warm in your hand because you’re gripping it for dear life. 

He looks at the picture for what feels like an eon. And then he looks at you, and you have no idea how to sum up the expression on his face because he seems both shocked and disgusted at the same time. 

“I have a meeting to get to,” you blurt out. “So I’m just—”

“And I got talked to about—” He shakes his head, pressing his lips into a tight line. “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

“A hypocrite with a meeting,” you repeat, “so I’ll just be going… there, to that meeting—”

“Is this what you’re into? Fuckin’—glamor shots?”

“Don’t—you know what, you need to stop interrupting me.”

“You were rambling.”

“I wasn’t rambling, I was saying I have to go—”

“Yeah, to your meeting or whatever, where you’re gonna discuss Ei getting his dick out for some views on Twitter, or—”

“Oh my god, Twitter doesn’t even count views.” 

You stood up at some point. You’re not uncomfortably near him, but because of the tension, even with the break room table in the way you feel too close. You have to say something to get out of this, because you’d rather be in the cold grip of distant space where you’d instantly die than right here in this room. 

“You’re jealous,” you start, and the way his face changes lets you know you’re hitting the right nerve. “That’s understandable. Your best friend is getting the attention that you normally get, so your ego’s damaged. But let me remind you that you’re the one that didn’t want to do the campaign. It could’ve been your shoulders I was looking at.”

Everyone is quiet.

Why the fuck did you say that?

“Going to that meeting now,” you say in one single, anxiety-ridden exhale, and you’re finally able to scurry out of the break room.

Your heart is still pounding when Sero greets you at the door of his office. He’s tall, with a lazy smile that seems permanently etched on his face, and he wears a sweater and joggers, which seems to be the low-effort uniform for all of the men you work with. You, Mori, and Suzuki deserve raises just for keeping the fashion game alive in the Dynamight Agency.

When Sero shakes your hand, it’s with his prosthetic. It feels and looks like skin, but it’s cold in your grasp. Briefly, you wonder if he misses things from before. The life of a hero. Or maybe losing something so instrumental to him—not only his arm, but one half of his mutation quirk—convinced him that doing something like this was better. Working in hero finances, working with his friends. You’re sure he’s compensated well.

“I love that you’ve shaken things up around here,” is the first thing he says to you, and you can tell he genuinely means it from the mischief in his eyes. “Let’s talk cash first so we can talk personal after. That Calvin check? Crazy.”

You talk to Sero about brand potential for five minutes and then personal things for fifty. He wants to know where you went to school, what heroes you admire, your favorite night-out story, the funniest joke you’ve seen online. 

You haven’t been able to get into this kind of stuff over perfunctory emails. Now, if nothing else, you know that you have someone semi-normal to talk to in the office that isn’t on a higher hierarchical level than you, even if he’s in and out.

“So what’s the draw of working at home?” you ask after discussing his favorite movie (Snatch starring Jason Statham and Brad Pitt, partly because of the plot and partly because of the shirtless boxing scenes in the latter half of the movie). 

He shrugs. “A lot of things. I like to relax when I’m working. I also play Counter-Strike competitively, so it helps when I can switch between my laptop and PC without commuting across the city.”

You laugh, though you’re not surprised somehow that he takes video games extremely seriously—but you can’t help your eyes darting to his arm, wondering how he plays so well, even with a prosthetic. 

It’s not a thought you want to have. It’s intrusive. Ableist in a lot of ways, and you’re aware of this. You look away as soon as you glance at his hand—but it doesn’t matter how quick you are. Sero notices.

You notice him noticing, and shame burns in your gut for even having that kind of thought going through your head. 

“It’s myoelectric,” he says after a moment. “Reacts to nerve signals and stuff, so it’s almost as good as real. Guess that’s the kind of treatment you deserve after getting an arm blown off for the greater good, right?”

He grins but you don’t, because you can’t. “I’m sorry,” you say.

Only then does his grin dim, just a little. “Don’t be. It’s old news. I was gonna retire in a couple years anyway. Besides—retraining my hand is how I got into e-sports, so there’s positives. A lot worse things you could lose, you know?”

“Yeah,” you say, except you don’t know. None of the heroes at your past agencies had ever gotten hurt to the extent that Sero had, and it’s not like you’re ever in the line of fire.

When you’re back in your office, you see an email from Sato Ryo, congratulating you and Kiri on an excellent collaborative campaign. You send back a polite and equally congratulatory response. 

There’s a hollowness to this victory, a tree trunk eaten up so that only the bark remains. It’s tough to get the sound of Dynamight’s disapproval out of your head. The feeling you had when Sero explained his prosthetic to you. You try to swallow past it, to ignore the feeling in your throat, but even a hollow takes up space.

.・。.・゜✭・.

mori (7:34PM): youre KIDDING me did you see what boss posted mori (7:35PM): hes watching the walking dead i think

you (7:37PM): thank you for looking out… I’m fixing it now you (7:37PM): also sorry to bully you but you call him boss ??

mori (7:37PM): i think he meant to say ‘id fuck up a zombie’ just missed a word mori (7:37PM): oh lol yeah he hates it

you (7:40PM): okay fixed. but tbh remarkably I don’t think that’s the worst thing he’s tweeted while I’ve worked here you (7:41PM): like usually I feel terror when he does something like that but I was so calm

mori (7:44PM): nah ur just getting used to the way chaos feels to the body mori (7:44PM): after my first year my stomach barely dropped anymore when he did some stupid shit mori (7:45PM): dw youre doing a good job mori: (7:52PM): omg almost forgot shoulders lol. I lost it after u left 

✧˖*°࿐

sero (10:06AM): u play video games??

you (10:10AM): sometimes why ?

sero (10:11AM): we gotta have a meeting abt next financial quartet but i dont wanna come in lmaooo sero (10:11AM): quartet* sero (10:11AM): quartet*

you (10:11AM): quartet

sero (10:11AM): quarter* sero (10:12AM): shut up sero (10:15AM): sorry as like a joke not real shut up sero (10:22AM): are u mad at me :(

you (10:24AM): i just downloaded counterstrike but you’ll have to teach me you (10:25AM): for our meeting

sero (10:25AM): 😻😻😻 sero (10:26AM): add me on discord im gonna call u

✧˖*°࿐

suzuki (1:11PM): kiri wants to do family lunch w all of us at some point this week suzuki (1:11PM): so send me places u guys like and we can pick one together ☺️

mori (1:12PM): su u realize u have like the best boss in the world right

you (1:14PM): GODDDDDD suzuki

suzuki (1:15PM): 🤭

you (1:16PM): that’s so sweet of him though

mori (1:17PM): okay shoulders

you (1:17PM): can you please forget about that

suzuki (1:18PM): no ☺️

mori (1:18PM): no

you (1:18PM): he looked good okay????? like you guys didn’t look

suzuki (1:19PM): i know someone who did 🤭 suzuki (1:19PM): i know someone who downloaded the pics to her tablet 🤭 suzuki (1:19PM): i know someone who looks at them at her desk sometimes 🤭

mori has left the chat!

✧˖*°࿐

you (6:52AM): We have the weekly debrief with Kiri today at 8:30. Just a reminder. you (6:54AM): Please show up this time, I really don’t want to have to reschedule it.

dynamight (7:01AM): 👍

✧˖*°࿐

you (11:58PM): sometimes this is so hard. like how are you so full of yourself that you won’t even respond to a text

snipe (11:59PM): They’re young and cocky. They’ll learn the hard way. snipe (12:00AM): Not your responsibility to teach them.

you (12:00AM): yeah you’re right. I think it was easy to feel like I knew everything when I worked with you because you were so cooperative and you always wanted to help. but I know that I have to earn their respect with my work. and sometimes I feel like I’m just never going to be doing the work well enough to get there you (12:00AM): sorry I don’t mean to vent to you so often you (12:01AM): I miss our gossip sessions

snipe (12:02AM): I’m up for early morning shift. Know it’s late, but you good for coffee right now?

you (12:02AM): oh absolutely

snipe (12:02AM): Meet you at the convenience store near yours in ten. 🤗

.・。.・゜✭・.

Hi, welcome to Glossier! ✨💫

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When Mori invites you out for drinks, you say yes about thirty percent of the time. You’d probably say yes more if she invited you out on weekends, but she’s an avid fan of an after-work beer at a dive bar. 

It’s different today, she tells you while you’re both pouring cups of coffee in the break room. “Kiri convinced Bakugou to come too. This has happened one other time in my entire career, so you have to be there. You don’t have a choice.”

You take a sip of your coffee. Perfect. You’ll need at least another cup if you’re going to accept the idea of having to deal with Dynamight outside of work hours. 

“Say yes,” Mori tells you.

Steam from your cup curls under your chin, and you feel warm all over. Anxious. You’re not going to get trashed tonight, but your PR instincts tell you that any amount of alcohol can lead to a bad story. 

“Fine,” you say, “but I’m only having one drink.”

Mori convinces you to have two. 

The bar down the street from the office is tiny and warm, lit with twinkling golden fairy lights. Everything feels fuzzy. The walls are paneled with dark wood and it makes the room intimate, comfortable. 

You can’t tell if it’s the lighting or the cocktails making your head hazy. Is the bartender giving you stronger drinks because you’re with two famous heroes? Or does this bar just have really good prices?

You have work in the morning—you know you should leave early. But Kiri is drinking beer after beer, his ears pink at the tips, and Mori is laughing loud and hard at all of his bad jokes, and even Dynamight doesn’t seem to be in his usual pissy mood. Suzuki and Sero are both red-faced and tipsy, whispering into each other’s ears what you think is commentary on everyone else. At nine, the bar owner brings out a karaoke machine, and you realize that you’re not going to be able to get out of here anytime soon. 

Sero and Suzuki go back-to-back, both picking Cranberries songs that their voices are much too low to sing correctly. On the stool to your left, Kiri negotiates with an increasingly quiet Dynamight, nearly begging him to help perform Promiscuous. “I’ll be Nelly Furtado,” he says, “so you can be Timbaland. His part is way easier, dude, I promise. It won’t be hard.”

Dynamight doesn’t respond at all beyond a perfunctory no. Mori eventually agrees to do Timbaland's part of the song, leaving you with Dynamight to your left, a stool between the two of you. He’s been quiet all night, though not unpleasant—something that hasn’t evaded your notice. 

You’re not entirely sure why Mori thought his attendance would be something that would tempt you to come. Maybe if he loosened up after a couple glasses of whiskey, or if he suddenly got really fun when a karaoke machine was involved, you would understand. But the only thing you’ve learned about him is that he watches everyone like a bird of prey, even when he seems somewhat content.

He’s wearing a black cap, pulled down tight so his face is shadowed by the brim. Each hour, he nurses a glass of whiskey until it’s empty, and then with a flick of his fingers, signals the bartender that he wants another without a word. In fact, it might be the quietest you’ve ever seen him. Even at work, though his words are all short and gruff, at least he speaks.

“Keep staring and we’re gonna have a problem,” he says, and the sudden reappearance of his voice startles you, like it’s a snake that’s been waiting in the grass for the perfect moment to sink its teeth into your ankle. 

“Sorry,” you say, and then regret apologizing. You’ve had more drinks tonight than it feels like you’ve had in years—maybe since your first really successful campaign for Snipe, when he took you out with the team and told you not to come in the next day because he could only imagine what your hangover was going to look like. 

It hadn’t looked good. Neither had your bathroom the next morning, a hand-shaped crust of vomit on the rim of your sink.

Your drink suddenly doesn’t taste as good. You put your glass on the bar, watching its condensation bleed against the gloss-stained surface. “You don’t come out often.”

He grunts. Shrugs.

“I really can’t tell if you’re enjoying this or not.”

Another sip of whiskey. Nothing else.

“Especially when it seems you’ve lost the capability to speak.”

This gets a side-eyed glare, but it’s softer than his usual ones.

You tap the side of your glass, let the condensation soak into your fingertips. “If you didn’t secretly enjoy this, I feel like you wouldn’t have come out.”

He’s quiet long enough that you don’t think you’re going to get a response. He sips his drink, watches Kiri belt both parts to the chorus of Promiscuous, Mori beside him laughing her ass off. “I… it’s—”

A loud gasp cuts him off, almost dramatic in its volume, in the way it fills up the entire bar. Promiscuous ends, and a woman is at the bar on Dynamight’s other side, staring at him with wide, shiny eyes. “Oh my god—oh my god?”

His hand curls so tight around his glass that you worry about it shattering. 

“Dynamight, oh my god. The way you took down that earthquake villain last week was insane,” she continues, a genuine respect in her voice that’s just barely overshadowed by shaky excitement. “You’re like—I just really can’t believe it’s you. Can I have a picture?”

“You’re right,” he mutters to you, completely ignoring the woman. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” He pulls a few yen notes from his pocket and throws them on the bar, stalking out and leaving his whiskey half-finished.

It’s quiet. Everyone in the bar is staring at the space where Dynamight once was. He’s just been an absolute dick to this person that was genuinely excited to see him, which—you can’t blame him for being annoyed, but he could’ve handled it better. The woman he ignored looks angry—sad, almost, as if by being brushed off by him, she’s been alerted to how little she matters in the world.

Your instincts kick in as if you never left the office. You smell pink pepper, an intently easy-to-recognize amber-edged scent that’s been very popular in pro-hero offices recently. “Is that the new Glossier perfume you’re wearing?”

The woman stares at you blankly. Blinks twice before answering. “Uh… yeah.”

You lean forward, lowering your voice as if telling her a secret. “I can’t let this get out to the public, so please don’t say anything, but Dynamight has a pretty intense allergy to pepper.”

“Pepper…?”

“Makes him super sensitive to any kind of peppery perfume. Like yours. I love it, personally. But doesn’t that suck for him?”

“I… guess?” The woman looks like she doesn’t quite believe you, but isn’t knowledgeable enough about perfumes to call you on your bullshit.

“He really only talks to fans during meet-and-greets, and that’s because we vet everyone in line to make sure they’re not wearing anything that’s gonna set him off,” you say conspiratorially, as if that’s a completely normal part of security at hero events of which she should already be aware.

Finally, your (slight and harmless) manipulation begins to take hold. The woman’s lips twist a little, guilty, as if it was actually her fault that Dynamight had to leave. “That’s the worst...”

The most important lesson of PR: never leave a negative interaction without spinning it, especially if your team is the one that created the negativity. 

“I’m really sorry that he had to leave in such a hurry.” You put your hand on hers, squeezing slightly, as if reassuring her after something truly awful has happened. “Look—if you give me your address, I’ll make sure you get a signed picture, okay?” 

Human connection often makes people more willing to believe the things you tell them. She smiles a little and squeezes your hand back. “Thank you. Will you tell Dynamight I’m sorry? I just—I had no idea.”

“Of course I will,” you say, emphatic, “but I’m sure it’s already forgiven. People get excited when they see him. He knows that. Even if you’d known about the allergy, you’d probably have come over to say hey before really thinking. I would’ve done the same thing.”

The woman smiles, satisfied, the interaction positively spun as easily as a training exercise from your college days. She jots down her address on a napkin you find at the edge of the bar, and the night is saved—partially. There’s still an angry pro-hero roaming the streets that seems to be keen on lashing out at anyone.

“Mori,” you say, spinning on your stool to face her and Kiri, “can you—”

Before you can finish your question, you’re stopped in your tracks by the concerned looks on your co-workers’ faces. 

“Holy shit,” Mori says, hushed. “That was kind of evil. But like, in a badass way. Do you do that a lot?”

“How did you know what perfume she was wearing?” Kiri asks.

You don’t have time to answer their questions. Essentially, you got lucky. But if it hadn’t been her perfume you recognized, you would have focused on something else. The material of her shirt, the vodka cranberry she had in her hand, the mousse she used to style her hair. Allergies are an easy excuse. Picking up on detail is half your job already. 

Right now, the hero walking away from the bar is a much bigger priority than teaching them all about the unfortunate realities of public relations. “Mori, can you mail her a signed promo pic tomorrow?” you ask, handing over the napkin.

She nods, while Kiri continues to anyone still listening, “Is it like, a really specific scent? I’m just—that’s so impressive. Don’t you think that’s impressive?”

You leave before you can be questioned further.

He’s halfway down the street when you make it out of the bar, his all-black outfit smudging his edges into the night. He doesn’t slow down when you reach him, trying to adjust your stride to his. His height gives him an advantage, and you feel like you’re a step too close to jogging for comfort.

“I’m not going back there and apologizing,” he says by way of greeting. “People need to learn to leave me the fuck alone.”

“I’m not asking you to apologize. I took care of it.”

He looks at you, eyes narrowed. Suspicious. He doesn’t stop walking. “What did you do?”

“What do PR people do best?” you ask. “I smoothed it over.”

“You lied.”

“I… yeah. I lied.”

He’s silent for a moment, appraising your words. “You told me you don’t like to lie.”

“I don’t.” It doesn’t sit right with you. Manipulation is the easiest tool to access in the public relations toolbox, the quickest skill to hone and perfect. Doing your job well and being honest can often be mutually exclusive—but this is why you do good work. You can usually find a way to fit into both categories. Not always. “I didn’t have time to figure anything else out.”

“Your moral code bends pretty easy under pressure.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“‘Course you did,” he says. He stops and turns towards you, his eyes illuminated by moonlight—one deep as red wine, the other smooth like a milky stone. His gaze is heated, scorching. “And you chose exactly what I’d expect.”

The disdain dripping from his tone—maybe it’s this that makes you snap. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel awful for gaslighting that poor woman into thinking she’d done something wrong. “Shut up.”

He’s taken aback by this. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

“Just shut up. What is it? Do you think you’re the standard for moral highgrounds?” you ask, and oh god, you should be thinking about your job, and about keeping it, and about not snapping at your boss, but you just keep going. “You’re the most difficult person I’ve ever had to work with. You’re stubborn and rude and you never fucking listen to me, even though I’m trying to do what’s best for you. You can stand here and judge me when you don’t make knee-jerk decisions in the field, and when you take accountability for your shitty attitude with the public, and when you finally realize that you’re just a person. And I’m just another person asking you for even a shred of patience.”

He stares at you for so long that you’re scared you broke him. You can hear your breaths in the emptiness of the night, in the silence after your words. The sky above is dark like molasses, stars blotted out by light pollution. Everything feels slow, thick.

“Not a lot of people that’ll talk to me like that,” he says.

The weight of fear on your shoulders lightens almost imperceptibly. “There’s not a lot of people that I think need to be talked to like that.”

“And I do?”

“Seems like nothing else’ll get through to you.”

He crosses his arms, looking down at you with a contemplative furrow in his brow. “You want patience, huh?”

“Anything at this point,” you say. “I’m tired of this. I just want to do my job. I want us to work together. I want you to trust me.”

“Trust is a reach,” he says, blunt. You wonder whether or not it’s the whiskey that’s allowing him to respond so plain and open. “But you haven’t been awful. Haven’t made me do too much I don’t like doing.”

You barely repress a well-deserved eye roll. “Of course I haven’t. Like I’ve told you—my job is to help you as much as it is to help your image.”

“Right,” he says. Turns away from you momentarily before turning back. Considering whether or not it’s a good idea to say something, you think, before he finally does. “It’s good that you spoke your mind.”

“...you mean that I told you to shut up?”

He seems amused by this a little, as much as he’s able to be amused. It’s in the eye, rather than an expression that crosses his face. “I know I can be…” he starts. Licks his lips, unsure of how to continue. “People don’t usually call me on my shit.”

“They need to.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m glad you did.”

It’s the first time he’s told you that he’s happy with anything you’ve done, the first time he’s been truly open with you, and it’s about this: calling him on his childish, angry bullshit. “Then I’ll keep doing it.”

“Good,” he says. He doesn’t leave like you would’ve assumed would be his instinct—conversation done, interaction over. Instead, he lingers, quiet and awkward, hands in his pockets. 

You clear your throat because you have no idea what to say now. No idea where you stand, exactly. All you know is that it’s different from before, and it’s going to take more than this specific moment to map out all the new ground.

“You heading back to the bar?” he eventually asks. It could be a dismissal, but somehow doesn’t sound like one.

Going back is the last course of action you want to pursue. You don’t want to deal with the woman in the bar that Dynamight insulted, and you don’t want to deal with Kiri and Mori and Suzuki and Sero all asking you about what happened. You don’t want to confront the fact that you resorted to dishonesty so quickly.

Your mouth feels dry. “I’m just gonna go home.”

“Alone?” he asks. Brows raised. An honest question, edged with concern.

Not for you specifically, you’re sure. Concern he would have for anyone walking home in the dark, the hour edging towards midnight. 

“Alone,” you confirm.

His hands are dug deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders held tense. “You live far?”

“A few blocks.” Seven, and long ones at that. You point vaguely north.

“It’s dark out.”

“A little.”

“Be cheaper if I call a car out that way.”

Sudden boldness hits you, probably stemming from your frustration at his inability to talk straight. “Do you want to walk me home?”

He looks at his shoes. You’ve noticed this pattern: the inability to look you in the eyes when he has to be direct, even though that’s something he never seems to shy away from in other areas of his life. “Didn’t say all that. But it’s dangerous to be out this late by yourself.”

Despite the deflection, despite the fact that he would do it for anyone at all—you appreciate the thoughtfulness of it. “Let’s go,” you say. 

In silence, he walks you all the way home. 

At your building’s door, you don’t thank him, but you don’t think he expected you to. He watches you get your key in the lock from the bottom of the stoop, then turns and leaves without a word.

part two!

[a11eya]

TITLE: lights will guide you home

CHAPTER: 12

PAIRING: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

SUMMARY: Soul-lights aren’t as common in this day and age as they were in the past, before quirks, but they’re common enough that people do still find their soulmates.

At thirteen, you meet Bakugou Katsuki, and he lights up for you in orange and gold. You tell him he's your soulmate. He sneers and tells you that you aren't his. He makes your adolescence miserable until you part ways.

You meet again as adults, late at night, in a grocery store, over a pile of bok choy. He apologizes for how he treated you when you were children.

(In which you have a choice—to reject Bakugou's apology, reject him, or to let him show you the man he's become, to learn with him what it means to love and forgive.)

TAGS: soulmate au, trope inversion/subversion, slow burn, getting together, falling in love, fluff, aged up characters, pro-hero characters, eventual smut, mild bullying

NAVIGATION: Series Masterlist

The thuds are intrusive, loud, and they pull you out of sleep with insistent hands.

A bleary glance at the clock on your bedside shows that it’s too early on a Sunday morning for you to want to be awake. After a minute of squinting up at the ceiling, it processes that the thuds you’re hearing are knocks on your front door.

Throwing an arm over your eyes, you try to ignore it and go back to sleep. Someone’s got the wrong apartment and you hope they realize it soon.

Sure enough, after a solid minute, they finally stop. You relax. Drift a little, sleep enticing you back into its arms.

Then your doorbell goes off. Once. Twice. The knocks resume, alternated with your doorbell.

You sit up in a flurry of motion. Wipe your hands down your face, groaning. Throwing the covers off your body, you shove your feet into your slippers and march to the door.

When you swing the door open, you’re nearly smacked in the face by a fist.

You jerk back belatedly, but there’s no need; Bakugou’s reflexes are much better than yours, and he pulls back immediately upon seeing you.

For a moment, you just blink stupidly at him, wondering if you’re still dreaming.

The seconds tick by, and reality kicks in. Just the sight of him floods you back up with any tension sleep had taken from you. You hate that you’re suddenly self-conscious about how you look, hair a mess, clothes rumpled.

Scowling, you ask, “What’re you doing here?”

You tug down the hem of your sleep shirt as if that’ll fix how much of your legs your shorts fail to cover. Bakugou’s eyes flick down at the motion, then swiftly back up to your face. He crosses his arms over his chest then quickly lets them fall back to his sides. He shoves his hands into his pockets, a scowl that matches yours on his face.

“Can we talk?” he asks quietly.

You pause. You know you’re being contrary, you know, but what right does he have to pound on your door so early in the morning to talk on his terms? So you say, “I’m really not in the mood. I just woke up.”

“I can tell,” he says, and any other day, he’d say it with a sharp grin, a pinch to your cheek. Any other day, you’d laugh, knowing he’s teasing. But today, now, everything he says prickles, offends. He doesn’t smile. You don’t laugh.

When you continue to stare at him, mouth set in a terse line, he exhales harshly.

“I want to talk about yesterday,” he says.

His eyes are red, bloodshot, you notice as you meet his gaze. If you thought the circles under his eyes were dark yesterday, they’re nothing compared to the shadows there today. And he’s wearing the same clothes you saw him in outside the gym. Did he even go home last night?

You chew on your bottom lip, hating that you’re worried, hating that you’re still upset with him and can’t bring yourself to ask if he’s okay.

“Look.” Bakugou exhales sharply. “I didn’t express myself right. Shit went down wrong. Can we talk about it?”

You try to focus on him, on what he’s saying. But his lights are distracting. They’re so dim, you can barely see them against his skin. They don’t look right, flickering weakly. Is he sick? You’ve never seen them this way.

Bakugou takes in your lack of response, and his face hardens. He says, “If you need more time, I’ll leave. But I’ll be back. I don’t do unresolved bullshit.”

Down at his sides, he clenches and unclenches his fists. He waits.

You finally give him your full attention. Study him for a long moment. Decide.

“...Come in,” you say finally, and you step back, pulling the door open. “I’m gonna go wash my face and change. You can wait wherever.”

He nods, but you don’t stay long enough to see it, already on your way to the bathroom.

You brush your teeth and wash your face, wincing at how puffy your eyes are. You didn’t even cry or anything yesterday, but it sure looks like you did. It’s so fucking dumb.

Yesterday passed by in a blur. You’d woken up from your nap because Mikan had stepped right onto your chest with his full weight, wanting to be fed. After, trying to lose yourself in action, you’d cleaned up around your apartment a little bit, played with Mikan for a while, tried to do some stretches you’d picked up from Kiri. Even those things had exhausted you, so resigned, you’d just gone to bed.

Glancing at yourself in the mirror one last time, you grimace. You wish you could get your cold compress in your freezer to take the swelling down, but you’re unwilling to do it with Bakugou here. It feels a little too much like losing, admitting that he’s gotten to you.

So instead, you head to your room and change.

As you close the door to your bedroom, you pause and lift your head. Wisps of scent and sound waft over you—the rich, bracing smell of coffee, the clatter of a pan against your stovetop, the opening of a cabinet, a drawer.

Incredulous, you furrow your brows. Is Bakugou cooking?

You round the corner into the kitchen, and he is. With his back facing you, he says, “S’almost done. Go sit.”

You stare at him for a moment, watching the shifts, the interplay of muscles along his back. You sigh.

“Bakugou… We should just talk. Don’t needa eat.”

You’re not sure what he’s thinking—is he trying to ingratiate himself, soften you towards him before you have a conversation? Or is he just so used to using your kitchen… cooking for you, that it’s second nature, even though it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him, eaten anything he’s made?

Your traitorous stomach growls a little, reminding you that you skipped dinner last night.

Bakugou glances over his shoulder at you, eyes narrowed.

“Sit,” he says, and you know that tone. You know it means he won’t take no for an answer, and you don’t want to argue with him. Not anymore than you already have. Not yet, at least.

So, shoulders slumped, you open a cabinet and pull out a pair of plates, bowls. A drawer gives you utensils.

You set the kitchen table with these after filling a glass with water and head over to the coffee machine just as the rice cooker beeps. It doesn’t look like Bakugou’s made himself a cup yet, so you grab a mug and fill it with coffee. After snagging the creamer from the fridge and pouring a splash into his cup, you head over to the table.

Bakugou’s there setting two bowls of rice next to bowls of miso soup. Tamagoyaki is in the center of the table, looking pretty and golden and perfect. You’re sure he’d have made more, cooked some veggies and other protein, but your fridge is pretty bare.

Your stomach growls again, and you sit, defeated.

“Thanks for the food,” you murmur before digging in.

It’s silent for a while except for the sounds of chopsticks against bowls, plates.

You focus on the food; it’s good, like Bakugou’s food always is, but it settles like lead in your stomach.

You watch him sip his coffee and regret getting it for him because making his cup came a little too naturallyl; sitting here with him is a little too domestic. A month ago, this was all you ever wanted, you think. But now things are so complicated.

When both your plates are empty, you stand, taking the dishes from the table, and head to wash them in the sink. Bakugou watches you from the table, you can feel it, with his mug of coffee between his hands.

You linger, wiping your hands dry on a towel—you don’t want to sit back down. But there’s no avoiding it.

“Do you… do you want to move to the living room?” you ask him.

He nods.

The silence between you settles heavily, like a thick cloud of fog. The last time you felt this uncomfortable around him was that night at the grocery store, over the bok choy.

Then, every cell in your body just wanted to be away from him. You could barely meet his eyes, and looking into his face only brought back painful memories.

And then he opened his mouth and apologized.

God, you want him to go, you want him to stay. You’re gratified that he’s come to talk things over with you, but at the same time you’re still so angry. About what he said to you and how he said it. About how dumb you feel worrying over him when he hadn’t been thinking about you at all.

You stare down at the coffee table and wait for him to speak.

But he doesn’t say anything, his eyes just lingering on you. You wait, and wait, and wait. It gets to the point of being unbearable, so you take a deep breath.

You ask, “What’d you mean, when you said you didn’t express yourself right?”

Bakugou is silent for a long moment.

“When I said it has nothing to do with you,” he starts, “I meant I didn’t not contact you on purpose. Wasn’t ignoring you or whatever. S’just I gotta take care of the job first. Do you get that?”

His faced is screwed up in frustration, mouth a stark slash across his face.

You swallow. You run your hands across the material of your pants, up and down your thighs, fiddling with the fabric.

“I get it,” you say. “But you’re saying you didn’t give notice that you were leaving to Kiri, or your other friends, or your family? And that you didn’t tell anyone you’re back?”

“...I messaged Ei on our work channel,” he says grudgingly. He’s so tightly wound, sitting forward, leaning his forearms on his knees. “But that’s because we own the agency together. He needs to know if I’m gone, when I’m back.”

“So you had time to message him,” you point out. “I would’ve appreciated some of that time, too, you know?”

Bakugou exhales explosively, sitting up sharply. “Why does it matter? I would’ve told you eventually. Shit, sorry, but I had work to do and it came first.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you narrow your eyes at him.

He glares at you. You meet his glare for a moment then look away.

Sighing deeply, you sit back into the couch and close your eyes, trying to keep calm, but your teeth are clenched tight and you’re beginning to feel like it’s hard to breathe. Something shivery and painful in you throbs. You snap.

“You know why it’s unfair,” you say, unable to help the venom that tinges your words. “You’ve been in the city for days now. I get I’m not the biggest priority in your life, but I would’ve settled for a goddamn emoji, Bakugou. If not the first day back, then the second. Hell. The third.”

His eyes flash, then narrow. Fists clenched, he says, tone ragged, “Hero work’s unpredictable. I had shit to do right the fuck away because it couldn’t wait, and I’ve barely gotten any sleep since stepping foot in this fucking city. So I can’t always let you know where I am or what I’m doing or when I’ll be back—it’s shitty and you might not get it, but s’how it is. Fuckin’ deal with it.”

His words are a slap to the face. Your body numbs out, as if losing all sensation, all feeling. You feel yourself retreating, as if you’re viewing yourself from outside your body.

Willing your voice not to shake, you say, “No, you don’t get it. And I don’t wanna fucking deal with it.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, fuck,” Bakugou snarls.

Something cracks inside you.

“I want you to leave,” you say, voice steel.

“We’re not fucking done.” Bakugou stands, looming, and your body, instinct, forces you to your feet.

“Stop running away,” he growls, voice low. Threatening. He steps into your space, face inches from yours.

“Leave,” you say.

“Not until—”

“Not until shit, Bakugou,” you say explosively. “What more is there to say? You’re not even listening, you don’t fucking get it. If you don’t leave, I will.”

You head for the door and begin pulling on a pair of shoes, any shoes, anger narrowing your vision into a tunnel.

Bakugou grabs your upper arm. “Wait, fuck. Fine, I’ll go!”

You stand rigid, refusing to look at him. He lets go of your arm with a sound of pure frustration. Stuffing his feet into his shoes, uncaring that he creases the heels and leaves the laces untied, he yanks the door open and walks out.

Breathing hard, you stand unmoving, watching the door come to a slow close.

You’re the dumbass who thought this thing, whatever it was, could work out between the two of you. You only have yourself to blame for thinking he’d changed, that he finally understood how his actions could affect others and was better. But he’s the fucking same.

You refuse to think about him, waste a single second more on him.

“What do we think about this one?” Mitsuru asks, spinning slowly.

The dress she’s wearing is a deep burgundy, beautiful against the tan of her skin. It’s a simple cut with a fitted bodice, the front curving into a square neckline with the back dipping into a deep u-shape. The skirt of the dress flares out to her ankles in a few gentle pleats that swish as she turns.

You study her critically, mouth pursed.

“I really like the color—you’re gorgeous in it,” you say, eyes scanning up and down her body. “But it kinda bunches up weird in the back, don’t you think?”

Mitsuru twists so she can look at herself reflected in the mirror. She frowns, turning this way and that.

“You’re right,” she finally says, sighing. She ducks back into the changing room to try on the next dress.

“You should keep it as a maybe, though.” You rest your chin on your propped up hand. “It’s not too bad. Maybe we’ve just been looking at dresses too long. Shopping fatigue or whatever.”

“No, I trust your eye,” Mitsuru says, voice a little muffled behind the curtain, barely audible over rustling fabric. “I want to look good at this wedding, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” you say, amused. “But regardless of what you wear, Souta’s gonna take one look at you and regret allllll of his dumbass choices.”

Mitsuru snorts. “Counting on it!”

She comes back out in a silky emerald green dress that hugs her from the chest to knee until the fabric flares out more loosely, to the ground; a high slit runs up the bottom to her mid-thigh. Thin straps hold up the neckline. When she turns, making a circle, you see that thin straps criss-cross across her bare back.

“This one,” you say immediately. “Your ass looks fantastic. God, you’re hot.”

Mitsuru barks out a laugh.

“Thanks babe,” she says warmly, looking at herself in the mirror. Nodding, she says, “Yeah, I’m getting this one.”

“You should do hair down, I think, since your shoulders are bare,” you say.

She fiddles with her black hair, bringing it up with her hands to imagine an updo and then releasing it.

“You are always right,” she says, grinning at you through the reflection in the mirror.

“I saw your guy’s back in town,” Mitsuru says, watching her straw make circles in her iced coffee. “Was on the news for stopping some rando villain.”

You stiffen, your grip on your drink tightening.

Oblivious to your reaction, she sips at her coffee. “How was that trip he was on?”

You chew on the tip of your own straw, mind scrambling for what to say. God. You’d just told her only a couple weeks ago about Bakugou. About how much you trusted in his change, about how good he is to you. Fuck. Part of you is embarrassed to even tell her about what’s happened between the two of you. You don’t know what’s worse—her thinking that you’re immature for being upset over this, or her confirming that she was right to distrust him.

That’s a lie. You know which one is worse.

“Seems like it went fine,” you say eventually, not meeting her eyes. Instead, you pretend to be looking at the cafe’s pastry menu, squinting at the text.

“Seems like?” Mitsuru echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It’s hero stuff, top secret or whatever.”

“Hmm.” She hums out an unconvinced sound, tapping her nails against the table.

Swallowing, you glance at her. She’s staring at you with narrowed eyes.

“Something’s up with you,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “You’ve been off all day, and now you’re acting like you don’t give a shit about Dynamight when he’s all you could talk about these past couple weeks.”

Wincing, you avert your gaze. Hesitate. You decide to come clean. “I—things aren’t the best between us right now, okay? Shit happened.”

The clacking of her nails stops.

“What happened,” she says.

“All he could say was, ‘That’s how it is. Deal with it.’ Like I’m a little kid that doesn’t deserve an explanation, or, or a compromise. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I don’t know why I can’t get through to him. He’s such an asshole.”

Your hands are shaking, you realize, so you clasp them together and move them off the table.

You told Mitsuru everything. The more you talked, the more angry you got. It was an effort to keep your voice low, appropriate for a public space. And damn, you’ve never before had a problem with Mitsuru’s non-reactions, her ability to keep quiet until the whole story’s out, but this time, it’s driving you crazy.

Falling silent, you wait for her judgment.

Mitsuru’s brow is furrowed as she gazes down into her coffee, the ice now long-melted. She looks up at you.

“So what are you gonna do?” she asks.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

“I mean, what now? Are you gonna cut him loose? Or are you gonna try to fix things with him?” Mitsuru flicks at her glass with a nail, the motion generating a lovely ting.

You stare at her.

“I swear this isn’t me telling you I told you so,” she says.

You grimace, and she grimaces back.

“But this sounds very like him, just doing whatever he wants and not giving two shits about anyone else,” she says. “Do you think you can change him after a lifetime of that? Or is this something you can accept—that he can’t always keep you looped in?

“I don’t think you’re wrong for wanting to be informed. And I do think it was an asshole move for him not to give you a timely heads up that he was back in town. He should apologize for that, even if it’s something he can’t change. But at the same time, you and I are both, like, normal people. We don’t know anything about hero work. Who knows what he has to deal with behind the scenes. And two things can be true at the same time, y’know? That he did something shitty, but it’s something he didn’t have control over. Or if he did, that there are other factors at play or whatever.”

Mitsuru sighs deeply, leaning back in her chair. “God. Not you making me be sympathetic towards a man, even partially. Especially that man.”

You laugh humorlessly, shaking your head.

“I mean you don’t have to be sympathetic towards him. You could just be on my side, you know,” you say, smiling faintly.

“This is a bullshit free zone, bestie,” she says. “Sorry to tell ya.”

“Ugh.” You slump over, burying your face in your hands. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll let you know when I figure that one out.”

“You do that.” Mitsuru reaches over and strokes your hair. “And you tell me if I can do anything for you, okay?”

You raise your head, peeking through your fingers. “Buy me a cookie?”

Mitsuru snorts.

“I’ll buy you two, how about that,” she tells you.

The truth is, you still miss him.

It was hard not knowing where he was or when he’d be back. You thought that was the worst things could get.

But he’s here. In Musutafu. At his agency, at his apartment, out with his friends, out on the streets on patrol. Yet somehow, he feels the farthest away from you he’s ever been.

And you wish you were stronger, that you could keep your promise to yourself not to waste your time thinking about him anymore. But he’s everywhere. In the coffee cup that sits on your dish rack, bone dry, for days. In the bite of food from your favorite takeout place, suddenly tasteless. In the slant of light that shines in your eyes, just like it did in his that time on the roof, as you play with Mikan in the living room. In the sunset as you’re walking home from work, rays of gold against a brilliant orange sky.

When did he become such a big part of your life, for you to have all these thoughts associated with him?

You know that maybe you’re not going about this in the best way. But what options do you have? Both times you tried to talk to Bakugou about how you felt, he just. Didn’t get it. Like talking to a brick wall.

But you miss him. Fuck, you miss him.

“Hey, I’m so sorry. I think one of the delivery drivers took your order by accident,” the girl behind the register tells you.

Internally, you scream. It’s been a long week, and to top it off, you had to work overtime today. On a Friday. So you figured you’d stop at your favorite homestyle diner for takeout on your way home. A little comfort food.

“That’s okay, it’s not your fault,” you say, reining in your emotions. You may have had a bad week, but you’re not about to take it out on her.

“If you don’t mind waiting a little,” she says, “we can remake your order right away!”

“Sure, no problem.” You don’t have anywhere to be, anyway. “Would I be able to get a time estimate?”

“Fifteen to twenty minutes, tops. Again, so sorry.”

You reassure her it’s fine, then pay and step aside to let the next person talk to her. Sighing quietly, you move towards the door, intending to wait out in the fresh night air, a nice change of pace from the stifling crowd of people waiting to be seated or picking up food.

The door opens to let a group of people in, and you step aside and wait for them to pass. Your eyes scan passively, not looking at anything in particular, when they meet a familiar pair of red eyes.

You freeze. Red eyes widen.

Hurriedly, you look away, hoping he doesn’t say anything to you, but of course he does. He calls your name before you can slip out the door behind him.

“Hey, how’ve you been!” Kirishima exclaims, a grin on his face, eyes creased, friendly.

On the list of people you want to talk to the least, he’s high up on it. You can’t believe your luck.

“Hey, Kiri,” you say, giving him a half-hearted smile.

“You haven’t been around the agency all week. Been busy?” he asks.

Blinking, you pause. Is he just playing ignorant, or does he really not know that you’ve been purposely avoiding the agency? You decide to give a safe answer; you don’t want to prolong this conversation anyway.

“Yeah, work, you know how it is.” You shrug.

Glancing behind Kirishima, you see his party lingering a short distance away; they’re plainly curious and not at all hiding it as they watch the back and forth between the two of you.

Pinky’s immediately recognizable. She’s distinctive with her long, pink hair, the curved horns, her eyes with the black sclera and golden irises. The dark-haired man behind her takes you a second to place; he’s Cellophane. You see the elbows now. Next to him is a shorter blond man with a black zigzag in his hair. You can’t quite recall his name… Something to do with thunder? Or lightning?

They’re all heroes, you note until you’re jolted from your thoughts, forced to step out of the way as the door opens again for more people.

It suddenly strikes you. If Kiri’s here, what if…?

“Kiri, it was nice seeing you, but I don’t want to keep you from your friends,” you say, heartbeat spiking as you try to edge toward the door, half-afraid you’ll see orange and gold come through at any second. “I’ll see you around.”

“Wait!” Kirishima says, reaching out to catch your arm. He drops his hand when you stiffen slightly.

“Sorry,” he says softly. “Please, wait. Do you have a minute to talk real quick? I promise it won’t take long.”

As you stand there, indecisive, Kirishima looks over his shoulder. “Guys, go ahead and grab a table. I’ll be right there.”

It takes Cellophane nudging Pinky and the blond guy in their sides to get them moving.

Sighing deeply, shoulders drooping, Pinky then perks up, waving goodbye at you. By reflex you wave back. The boys nod at you before following her.

“C’mon, let’s get out of everybody’s way,” Kirishima says, opening the door for you.

Your attempt at escape thwarted, you step outside, walking a couple feet away from the restaurant to the entrance of an alleyway, beyond the stream of people walking Musutafu’s streets. Adults in office wear, students heading home from cram school, a hero or two patrolling in the distance. It’s a busy night.

“Thanks for staying,” Kirishima says, smiling at you.

“No problem,” you say, though that’s pretty much a lie. Your eyes can’t help but scan the faces of people walking by, on alert.

Kirishima touches your shoulder, grabbing your attention.

“Bakugou’s holed up at the agency,” he says. A complicated flash of emotion crosses his expression before he goes on to say, “So… you don’t have to worry. He didn’t come with us tonight.”

Relief floods you like a cool rush of air. Then a tightness squeezes your chest. Really, how much does Kirishima know?

Like, it makes sense if he knows everything. He’s Bakugou’s best friend. Of course Bakugou would tell Kirishima, if he would tell anyone. It’s not like it’d be wrong of Bakugou to talk about what happened between the two of you.

But just… someone else knowing about those painful moments, the hurtful words you’d exchanged—it’s like you’ve been stripped bare for Kirishima to see, uncomfortably naked. What exactly did Bakugou say? That you were unreasonable, controlling? Demanding of things you’re not entitled to?

Did Bakugou talk about the shakiness in your voice when you asked him to leave? What your face looked like as you held back tears?

“What did you want to talk about?” You force the words out. Your tone is flat, unnaturally so. But it’s all you can manage right now.

Kirishima pauses, studying your face.

Voice gentle, he says, “I just wanted to ask how you’re doing. I… I missed seeing you for our workouts this week.”

“I’m okay,” you say. “Like I said, work’s been busy. Haven’t had the energy to go to the gym.”

“Alright,” Kirishima says, eyes still searching your face.

You will your expression into stone; you won’t give him anything more.

Brow furrowed, he sighs, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Taking a deep breath, he says, “Look. I think I went about this the wrong way. I’m sorry I brought up Bakugou. I know that maybe things aren’t cool between you guys right now. And Bakugou can be a jerk sometimes. I really do want to know how you’re doing, how you’re holdin’ up.”

He ducks his head a little so he can look into your eyes.

The sincerity in them is unmistakable. His worry is crystal clear.

Maybe all of it combined melts some of the ice that’s been choking you. He’s a bystander in all this, after all. He’s only ever been kind to you. None of this is his fault.

Exhaling sharply, you shake your head.

“First—tell me what you know,” you say. “What did Bakugou say to you? About… our argument?”

“Nothing much, really,” Kirishima says, quick to reassure. His shoulders straighten, as if a weight’s been lifted from them as he reacts to your mood shift.

“I only picked up something was wrong when he came into work on Monday in a really terrible mood. Like worse than usual. And it hasn’t gone away. He’s been taking it out on everyone, even poor Pulsar.”

You wince, thinking of the young girl, then scowl as pinpricks of annoyance flicker through you. Bakugou needs to grow up and have some emotional maturity. He’s all about work, clearly. Where the hell is his professionalism?

Kirishima scratches the back of his head. “So I might’ve… teased him a little, saying he should go over to your place to chill out.”

You don’t know what expression you make, but it mustn’t be good because Kirishma says hastily, “Because he’s always in a better mood after he hangs out with you and the cats!”

“But how did you know we argued about him not telling me he was back?” you ask.

“Oh.” His eyes widen. “I didn’t. I mean I didn’t know until just now. You guys argued about that? Wait, he didn’t tell you he was back?”

You shake your head.

Light dawns on his face. “Damn. Jeez. So how’d you find out?”

“I was at the agency a week ago, working out at the gym,” you say. “Bumped into him. He said he’d been home for days at that point.”

Kirishima winces. He looks at you, expression suddenly awash with guilt.

“Hey. I’m really sorry for not telling you right when he got back. I know I promised. I—it’s going to sound like an excuse when I say this, but I thought he told you when he got back. He’d been back for hours when I got his message on our work channel. I figured you’d be the first one to know!”

Weariness drenches you, turning the corners of your lips down and filling you with sadness. The reminder that Bakugou’d told Kiri he was back the same day… Shaking your head, you look away, saying, “It’s okay, Kiri. It’s not your fault. It’s on Bakugou at the end of the day, and on me for having expectations.”

Looking miserable, Kirishima bites his lower lip. “I’m not saying you should let this slide. But—”

It happens between one second and the next—Kirishima whips his head around, as if sensing something you can’t; an ear-piercing screech punches its way down the block; you fall to your knees, hands clamped desperately to your ears as you try to protect them; the streetlights and the restaurant’s windows shatter as Kirishima lunges towards you, body hardening to form a shield.

He’s fast, but not fast enough—you wince as shards catch at your face, your hands. The street is plunged into darkness.

Kirishima touches your forearm. Ears ringing, sharp pain throbbing through your head, you look up at him, crouched over you. He’s talking to you, you realize. You lower your hands to hear him better, only to register that they’re wet.

Emergency lights begin to flicker on here and there throughout the street, and with their dim light, you see that there’s blood on your hands. From what? That’s when you feel liquid trickling down your neck, from your ears. Oh.

You stare down at them in a daze until Kirishima puts his hand on your back, jostling you a little. Even as you strain to hear him, you can’t make out what he’s saying above the endless ringing.

It scares you. What if this is permanent? Your breath shallows out as you begin to breathe faster.

You watch as Kirishima’s skin smooths out from where it’s hardened from activating his quirk. His hands reach out to gesture towards his face. His mouth, more precisely. You force yourself to focus.

“I’m okay,” you say, once you manage to read his lips. “Are you?”

He nods. “Go inside the restaurant. Stay there.”

He says a couple more things, things you don’t quite catch with how quickly he’s speaking. You just nod, and then he’s standing, calling to Pinky and Chargebolt, right, that’s his name, who’ve emerged from the restaurant.

They take off down the street, and you watch for a long moment, still coming to grips with what’s happened.

Now that there’s enough light to see, scenes of chaos up and down the street become apparent to you. Some people are still on the ground, as lost as you are. Others are stumbling around, looking panicked.

A touch to your elbow draws you back to yourself. It’s Cellophane.

“Are you hurt? Can you stand?” he says, and with relief, you realize you can sort of hear him.

“I’m okay,” you say, and with his help, you get to your feet.

He leads you into the restaurant, well away from the windows and broken glass, deeper in where people are huddled, sitting together with flashlights.

“You’re okay,” Cellophane tells you as you take a seat. His eyes and hands are clinical as they canvas your body, searching for any pressing injuries. “EMS are on their way, and heroes are taking care of the situation. You just sit tight here. I’m going to go back outside and help some of those people out of the street.”

The longer he talks, the more clarity your hearing gains. It’s such a relief you almost topple over.

“What happened?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know much of anything, if I’m being real with you. We think it was probably a villain attack, but can’t be too sure.”

“Okay,” you say softly, gazing down at your hands. You wipe them against your pants to try to clean them, leaving smears of dark red.

Looking up at him, you say, “Thank you.”

“No prob,” he says, grinning reassuringly, and his smile is all teeth and friendliness.

EMS does show up soon after, and you wait your turn as others who’d gotten more severe injuries are treated first .

There are no more noise explosions, no signs of further violence, to your relief. News soon trickles down via the EMS workers that it’d been a villain and her quirk responsible for the destruction and chaos. She’d been apprehended, and you were told it was no longer necessary to shelter in place.

“Thank you,” you tell the medic as she finishes up with a final bandage on your face.

“You’re very welcome,” she says cheerfully. “You took it like a champ. No glass fragments at all in you, but I know these thin lacerations sting like hell.”

She pats you on the back. “You’re free to go. Make sure to follow up with your doctor about the ears if any ringing or hearing loss persists.”

As you gather yourself and move away from the EMS vehicle, only a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye warns you before you’re surrounded by warmth, a firm grip, a familiar scent. Orange and gold.

“Thank fuck,” you just barely hear, and tears unbidden suddenly spring to your eyes, catching you by surprise. You inhale sharply.

It’s scary how quickly you’re undone just by the sound of his voice, his presence, all your composure and levelheadedness gone. You blink rapidly, tears creating wet tear tracks down your cheeks.

Bakugou cups your face.

You look up at him. Bakugou looks at you, crimson eyes blown, his gaze tracking the bandages scattered across your face, the remnants of dried blood in the edges of your hair, the bandages on your hands, the stress of the night tight at the corners of your mouth.

“Fuck,” he repeats, and he hugs you close, arms so tight around you that not even a sliver of air separates your bodies.

You don’t even mind the buckles and protrusions of his hero suit digging into you. Just seeing him, touching him—it’s more than enough. Because you know in your bones that you’re safe in his arms, that he’ll take care of everything. Your only thought is Bakugou. Bakugou.

“Let’s go home,” Bakugou mutters into your hair, and you nod, burying your face into his chest.

Author's Note: Hi friends... how ya doing... long time no see..........

Though I did respond to an ask saying I'd post this in January, I really wanted to get this out in time for my birthday, which is today! (Sorry to you, friend who sent in the ask, for the accidental lie!) I am 32 this fine Sunday, and let me tell you, my 30s continue to be the best years of my life. (Though this chapter almost didn’t make it up today; it’s been very… eventful. I am on a road trip with my sister and disaster struck. But we are safe and working on making dinner as I write this!)

If you can believe it, this chapter was 50% written by March, and I wrote the other 50% in the past two days. (So if you see any typos—no you don't.) The usual a11eya at tumblr dot com excuses: this year was super busy for me with work, and despite some chaotic personal things that've made this year challenging, I can say that I'm fine—safe and healthy, which is all anyone can ask for. I did pick up a new hobby, which is part of the reason I was away this year: ceramics! I took a class at my local community college, and I made several bowls, mugs, even a small vase! I'm happy to say that I'm taking the next level offered for the class this spring. If anyone's interested, I'd be happy to show you all what I made via pictures!

Thank you to all of you who've sent in messages and left comments on ao3 wishing me well and asking after lwgyh. I appreciate you so much. (And I will reply soon.) Thank you for your continued interest and generosity with your time and attention. This one's for you.

Happy holidays, and happy new year, everyone. Wishing you all good health, warmth, and happiness. I'll see you in the next chapter.

[little-fairy-forest]

Golden hour | 2

wc : 2k

Bakugo x fem!reader, angst,

Bakugo puts the puzzle pieces together, but is he missing a piece?

Bakugo’s grip tightens around his cup until the plastic creaks in protest. He doesn’t realise it until Camie shifts beside him, her thumb brushing his wrist in a grounding, questioning way. The couple stand in silence as they watch the scene before them, Kirishima holding the door open as he bends down slightly to assure you on something. Fuck, he knows you're strong but something has clearly made you break. Mina, who's doing her best to even stand straight with the amount of jelly-o shots she had in the hour prior , helps you find your coat. Camie's soft voice breaks him from his thoughts.

"You okay?" She asks gently, leaning towards him so only they can hear the conversation. Her nails tapping against her glass of bubbles.

Bakugo hums back, keeping his eyes on the trio who are doing their best to leave discreetly. Bakugo feels this weight hounding in on him, not physically but.. somethings picking away at his head once more.

And he sure doesn't like it.

The apartment feels louder now, Kaminari still shouting about something to do with the aux. The birthday decorations now feeling obnoxiously loud in his face, the slightly sticky floor now catching his attention. The left over beer pong long forgotten on the dining table as people had moved on to either conversations or finding away to dance within kirishimas shoebox of an apartment. It all blurs together in Bakugos mind as he tries to piece together what had just unfolded moments ago, on that damn balcony that now hosts another, bad memory. Between stale ciggs smoked after bad patrols, phone conversations that never ended well to now.. someone he cherishes essentially running away from him.

Mina’s pink head disappears past the door, Kirishima’s broad back following close behind, keys jingling as they go. The door shuts with a soft click that somehow lands harder than any explosion he’s ever caused.

Bakugo swallows. Hard.

Halloween.

Rabbits, kirishima mentioned.

His jaw clenched as he thought about what details his friend had essentially shared with the group. He should be happy. That's what everyone expects when you have a pretty– beautiful girl attached at your hip, friends celebrating his birthday, apartment decked out for the occasion. Yet, there's still this lingering feeling of something missing. So why does it all feel wrong?

Camie shifts again, clearly sensing the change in his mood. “Hey,” she says gently, trying to catch his eye. “Did I say something wrong?". She sips her glass of bubbles as she glances briefly over at the door.

"No" Bakugo answers to quickly. Fuck. "Nah, you're all good.. she probably just needed to go home is all" lies. Bakugo runs a hand through his hair as he tries to put up a front. He doesn't want to worry Camie, as she does anyway between hero work and himself alone.

She studies him for a second longer before sipping her drink once more. Her soft lashes squinting at the man, seeing if she can figure out the storm swirling behind his sharp gaze. He shifts slightly under her gaze, looking down at her before swiftly finishing his drink in one gulp. He tries to ignore the burn as it goes down, feeling both satisfied and uneasy.

She takes a sip, and smiles. "Ok, love, we can chat for a little bit with the others before they come back. Good to give them space" . Bakugo nods, he appreciates that Camie is trying to take his mind off things. The weight lifts off his stomach slightly, not gone just dulled. He appreciates the gesture of trying to take his mind off things, its one of the various traits about Camie that just makes him weak. Sometimes he has to remember he too, has to be cared for.

He pressed a light kiss on her head as he guides her towards the other idiots who are attempting to set up karaoke on the Tv. Her scent, a floral, faintly sweet lingers in his senses, and for a second, the noise of the apartment, the laughter, the music, everything fades into the background. He still has time to celebrate his birthday the right way.

---

The sun peaks through the blinds as bakugo shifts in his bed, sleep taking over his bones. Or maybe its the alcohol- settling deep and warm, keeping his thoughts dull and fuzzy. Soft breaths brush against his side, looking down to find Camie's sleeping form. Curling against his side with her hand gently tucked under her cheek that lays on his pectoral. Smiling softly he brushes a few strands out of her face, the memories of last night still dancing between the walls. He pulls the covers over her a little higher, showing a tenderness no one else is allowed to see. The covers embrace her in a further warmth as she smiles in her sleep.

Happy birthday indeed, Katsuki.

With a quiet groan as he stretches , he shuffles to find his phone somewhere on his nightstand. He switches it on, harsh light hurting his eyes a little. Notifications flood the screen- missed 'happy birthday' messages to hero news. Flicking past these notifications and opening his messages.

Bakugo: you idiots get home in one piece?

The reply comes quicker then anticipated.

Shitty hair: course! All good here man 💪🏻

Shitty hair: brought y/n back to mina's, both probably had one too many lol.

Kirishimas a liar, a bad one at that. His jaw tightens as last night replays in fragments- your face, the way you left, how fast everything unraveled. He rubs a hand over his mouth, already feeling the weight of the mess waiting for him. Does he text you? He hasn’t in weeks. Pride, guilt, and something sharper twist together in his gut.

Fuck.

He scrolls down, thumb hovering before stopping on your name

Bakugo : you dead?

Delivered.

Read.

Oh.

Great.

Bakugo tosses his phone back onto the nightstand, he glances at his clock reading '9:24am'. Not too bad, he glances around the rest of his room. Clothes sprawled on the floor, Camies heels by his chair, her purse too on his chair. All signs of a good night anyway. The sunshines brighter as he rubs his eyes, he glances down at Camies sleeping form, pressing a kiss on her hairline as he shuffles gently to make his way out of the bed. Moments like this he cherishes deep down tucked away in his heart. Being loved by someone has made bakugo softer, not in a way that he nessicarily hates, but embraces. Its a side to him hes been told to show off more, especially by his mother. Thats right, they've plans to celebrate his birthday also.

Bakugo makes his way into his kitchen, flicking the kettle on a little harder then normal. His mind starts up again - back to you. Was the conversation on the balcony too much? Or was it something he didn't witness. To be fair, he spoke all of like ten fucking words to you. Nothing crazy, mean or important.

The kettle comes to a boil, bakugo makes himself some coffee on autopilot as his mind is ablaze, carefully moving as he settles on his sofa as he collects his thoughts some more. The quiet hum of the traffic below act as a nice ambiance as he tries to grasp his straws together. Normally this calms him, but today it's plaguing his mind.

He knows two things are fact;

One - you're hurt. He saw it. He felt it.

Two - Kirishima knows something he doesn't

By the way he rushes you outta' there before he could do anything, say anything. All gentle hands and soft whispers, like bakugo wasn't standing right there.

This thought makes Bakugo put his coffee down and rubs his eyes as he tries to connect the dots. You were fine when it was just him and kirishima on the balcony, no issues. Once you stepped inside and sang happy birthday to him did only then you have an issue. Why? Because thats when he introduced Camie. Light bulb moment. Bakugo shakes his head as he replays the scene from last night.

No fuckin way. You's seemed to have gotten along from what he could see. Sure, Camie may of came off a bit brash, between the drink and excitement of celebrating his birthday who could blame her. She's a confident girl who likes to take lead.

Bakugo sips his coffee, thick steaming liquid settles on his tongue - bitter - as he tries to link his thoughts together. Hes a pro-hero for fucks sake! He's trained to think quick, not spiral like a amateur. This will annoy him till he figures it out. Glancing at the clock on the tv stand reads '10:02am'. Ah Camie should wake soon enough.

He hadn’t introduced you earlier—hadn’t needed to. Hero work had kept him busy, patrols stacking up, and when he wasn’t working, he’d been wrapped up in something new. Something good. Something that actually wanted him back.

Rabbits.

Bakugo snorts softly at the memory of Kirishima’s comment, shaking his head. Yeah. He can admit that much. He and Camie had been inseparable lately—caught up in stolen hours, shared nights, learning the shape of each other without apology.

The realisation hits like a light snapping on, harsh and blinding. Bakugo shakes his head, replaying the scene over and over—your posture, the way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, how you started scanning the room like you needed an escape. From him

He scoffs. Typical, running away from your problems. What did you expect for him to do? Read your mind. That, for starters wasn't nor was never his problem to solve. You had always been like this- quiet about storms swirling your mind, important shit you needed help with, then acting suprised when no one chases after you when you run. Never reaching out, not to him anyways. Hurt people don’t leave like that. People who’ve already made up their minds do.

And Mina chasing after you? Christ.

Bakugos jaw locks, another sip of the bitter coffee coats his throat.

Of course she chased after you, putting her nose where it doesn't belong. Swooping in the minute things get uncomfortable for you as if you were incapable of facing your issues. Pathetic.

If you really had an issue, you could've been the adult that you are and hashed it out with him, this is clearly the focus of it all. You have an issue with Bakugo, or possibly Camie. He hates when people run away from the issue, to him - this whats makes him a good hero - always facing the challenge.

But no - you smiled, played polite, then slipped out the back like it was all too much for you to handle.

Bakugo finishes his coffee, leaning back against the sofa. Irritation simmering in his chest. You didn't leave because someone wronged you, you left because you couldn't stand to see him happy with someone else.

Balcony? Fine

Cake? Fine

Camie ? That's when things changed.

And that stings him - but it's not his problem. Camie hadn’t done anything wrong. If anything, she tried. He stayed, You didn’t.

That told him everything he needed to know.

Soft padding of footsteps takes Bakugo's mind back to reality, he turns to where the sound is coming from just down the hall. Camie enters wearing one of his t-shirt, hair messy from sleep, light make up still graces her face after last night. Smiling softly as she placed herself down on the sofa beside him, thighs touching off his, warm and soft. Leaning her head against his shoulder she mumbles something about visiting his parents later. Ah, that's right they have lunch later. Bakugo shuffles and places a firm kiss to her lips, a gentle smile creeping up on both of them. The sound of the morning traffics acts as a lullaby as they both just embrace the calm before the storm. Somethings brewing, he can feel it.

But for now, he'll enjoy what makes his heart beat a little fast, his smile that reaches his dimples, and what gives him a reason to keep going.

---

Oh hi

-> masterlist

[sofiee213]

Taxi Cab (Part 3)

— k. bakugo x f!reader angst continuation

part 1 part 2

──── ୨୧ ────

I saved thousands, yet I could not save us.

11:47 AM.

I am curled in a fetal position, still wearing the clothes from last night. They smell faintly of smoke, cheap alcohol, and his fiancée’s cloying perfume. It’s a bitter scent.

I remember the cool, grounding weight of Shoto’s arm around my waist, the quiet promise of safety in his presence. I remember the way he didn’t ask questions, the way he just took care of me.

But mostly, I remember the ring. And the word.

Fiancée.

A single, elegant word that serves as the final, official obituary for all the years I gave.

The world owes me nothing, I know that. But Katsuki Bakugo owed me something. He owed me the memory of a love that reshaped his entire being. He owed me the recognition of the woman who held his broken pieces until they fused into something whole.

And now, even that sliver of hope — the fragile, illogical thread I clung to that one day his memory would return — has been cut. He is building a future on the hollow ground of my past.

I whisper the truth into the damp cotton of my pillow, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of my room:

I am not just the woman he forgot. I am the woman he had to forget to finally become the man she could choose.

Now, I am left with only the artifacts of a life that never was: the phantom weight of a ring that was never placed on my finger, the bitter taste of promises that belonged to a man who no longer exists.

I have to move on. I have to accept the world’s cruel irony.

But a tiny, pathetic ember still glows in the ruins of my heart. It is the hope that one day, years from now, when he is settled into his beautiful, easy life, a scent will cross his path — perhaps the familiar trace of my hero suit’s custom detergent, or a specific brand of coffee I always made — and that the memory will break through.

I hope that, just once, the real Katsuki Bakugo — the one who learned how to be vulnerable beneath my touch — will look at his perfect fiancée and wonder, just for a moment, why his chest aches for a girl he doesn't know.

I hope that one day, he will turn his crimson eyes to me across a crowded room — years after I’ve moved on, years after the pain has scabbed over —and he will see not a drunk, shouting stranger, but the essential anchor, the constant, the beginning of everything good in his life.

I hope he sees me again.

Until then, I will be out here, in a world I helped him save, learning how to be a hero when the greatest battle was already lost.

──── ୨୧ ────

Thirty days.

Seven hundred and twenty hours since the wrought iron gate clicked shut. Since the ring flashed under the porch light. Since Shoto Todoroki walked you away from the wreckage of your own heart.

They say it takes twenty-one days to form a habit. You’ve spent thirty trying to break the habit of loving him.

You aren’t cured. You aren't "over it." But you are functioning.

The first week was a chemical haze of painkillers and sleep aids. The second was the purge.

“I hate this apartment,” you confessed to Mina, your voice raspy from disuse. “Every corner smells like him.”

“Then we fix it,” she declared, summoning an army.

Mina, Hagakure, Yaoyorazu, Ochaco, Tsuyu, and Jirou descended on your life like a perfectly orchestrated hero operation. They didn’t mention his name. They didn’t need to. They understood the assignment: Erase the Anchor.

They packed up the double-sized agency planning whiteboard where his spiky, aggressive handwriting had scrawled "Dynamight & (Your Hero Name) — BEST FUCKING AGENCY, ZERO COLLATERAL.” They painted over the wall where he’d accidentally scorched the drywall while arguing with you about microwave etiquette. They replaced the ancient, hideous couch he’d insisted on keeping.

Ochaco meticulously scrubbed his favorite mug, the one shaped like a grenade, and placed it in a box labeled "DONATE."

“You’re getting a new life,” Jirou said simply, plugging her headphones into your speakers and blasting something loud and distracting. “The one you were always going to have, just… without the noise.”

They didn't try to fill the void. They taught you how to live comfortably with the space.

──── ୨୧ ────

Slowly, through the haze of grief, you began to find the outline of yourself again.

You started thinking about the man he was, not the stranger he had become. The old Katsuki — the one who remembered you, the one who fought for you — would have hated seeing you like this. He would have clicked his tongue, scowled, and told you to stop being an extra in your own life.

“If you’re gonna cry, do it while you win,” he used to say.

So, you chose yourself. Because he wasn't there to choose you anymore.

But the days were manageable; it was the nights that were the enemy. The nights were when the silence got loud. You’d roll over and your hand would hit the cold expanse of the sheet where his warmth used to radiate like a furnace. You’d wake up reaching for a shoulder that wasn’t there.

And then there was his mother.

The doorbell rang two weeks in. You almost didn’t answer, but the aggressive pounding was familiar.

Mitsuki Bakugo stood there, holding three containers of spicy curry. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her jaw was set.

"I didn't cook this for him," she said, her voice gruff as she shoved the containers into your hands. "I cooked it for you. You look too thin."

She came in, and for the first time, the loud, boisterous woman was quiet. She looked around your apartment, seeing the lack of his boots by the door, the lack of his presence.

"I tried to talk to him," she admitted later, sitting at your kitchen island while you ate the curry that tasted painfully like home. "I told him he was making a mistake. I told him he was throwing away the best thing that ever happened to him for some... some shiny new toy who likes the fame more than the man."

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "He doesn't remember, kid. And he's stubborn. He thinks I'm just being controlling. He thinks..." She trailed off, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I raised a hero, but I forgot to teach him how to remember."

"It's not your fault, Mitsuki," you whispered.

"I know," she sniffed, standing up abruptly. "Anyway. I'm not gonna bother you with him. But you... you're still family. Even if that idiot is too blind to see it."

She became a regular fixture, bringing food and fresh laundry, ensuring you survived.

And then there were the flowers.

Every Tuesday, a delivery arrived at your door. Simple, elegant arrangements. White camellias. Blue hydrangeas. Nothing romantic, nothing that screamed "date me." Just... presence.

The card was always the same.

I’m here. — S.

Shoto didn't push. He didn't try to fill the space Katsuki left. He just stood at the perimeter of your life, a silent sentinel, reminding you that you weren't invisible. That someone saw you.

It gave you the strength to do the hardest thing yet.

You walked into the leasing office downtown. The paperwork for the agency was on the desk.

Dynamight & (Your Hero Name) Agency.

You stared at the header for a long time. The dream you had built together. The floor plan included two offices, side by side. A shared gym. A balcony where he promised he’d grill on Fridays.

You picked up the pen.

And you crossed his name out.

"Just me," you told the leasing agent, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hand. "I'll be opening the agency alone."

You were doing it. You were moving forward. You were breathing without the assistance of his memory.

But the universe has a cruel sense of humor.

The call came in at 04:00 AM.

It wasn't a local dispatch. It was a priority summon from the World Heroes Association. A massive, coordinated raid on a villain stronghold involving an international trafficking ring. Target location: Italy.

They needed heavy hitters. They needed widespread quirk coverage. They needed you.

You packed your gear in a trance, the muscle memory of being a hero taking over where your heart failed. You zipped up your hero suit — the one he helped design to withstand high impact, checking the reinforced seams with trembling fingers — and looked in the mirror.

You looked strong. You looked ready. You looked like a woman who hadn't spent the last month crying on her bathroom floor.

You didn't check the mission roster. You didn't want to know who else was deployed. You just needed to work.

Two hours later, you are strapped into a seat on a massive, long-haul military transport jet. The interior is dim, lit only by low-level blue safety lights. The air is cold, recycled, and smells of jet fuel and sterile upholstery.

You stare at the headrest in front of you, focusing on your breathing. In. Out. Just a mission. Just a job.

Steps echo down the aisle as the last few heroes board. You keep your eyes forward, shrinking into your seat, hoping to remain invisible until you land in Europe.

And then, the air shifts.

It isn’t a sound that alerts you. It is a scent.

A sharp, distinct mixture of burnt sugar, nitroglycerin, and expensive, spicy cologne. It washes over you like a physical wave, stealing the oxygen from your lungs. It is the scent of mornings in your kitchen. It is the scent of the pillow you haven't been able to wash.

Your heart gives a painful, treacherous thud against your ribs — a traitor in your own chest.

Against your better judgment, you turn your head.

You look behind you to see who owns the smell, though you already know.

And you are right.

Katsuki Bakugo is walking down the aisle, his gear bag slung effortlessly over one shoulder. He doesn't look at you. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, his jaw set in that familiar, stony line. He looks exactly the same as he did that night on the porch, and yet, he looks like a complete stranger.

He passes your row without breaking stride. He moves to the back of the plane, finding an empty row far away from everyone else. He drops his bag, sits down, and immediately leans his head against the reinforced window, crossing his arms over his chest. Closing his eyes.

He looks peaceful. He looks unbothered.

You whip your head back around, facing forward, your knuckles turning white as you grip the armrests.

You thought you could manage this. You thought thirty days of silence, thirty days of rebuilding, thirty days of tearing him out of your life would be enough armor to withstand seeing him again.

But it still stings. It burns worse than fire.

The proximity is suffocating. Knowing he is breathing the same recycled air, just thirty feet behind you —alive, whole, and completely belonging to someone else — breaks the scab right off the wound.

You turn your face toward your own window, staring out at the grey, pre-dawn runway. You bite the inside of your cheek, willing the emotions to recede. Don't cry, you order yourself. Not here. Not where he can see.

But you can't stop it.

A single, hot tear spills over, tracking a slow, humiliating line down your cheek.

You raise your hand to brush it away, to hide the evidence, but another hand beats you to it.

Cool, gentle fingers graze your cheekbone, catching the tear before it can fall further. The touch is grounding, solid, and safe.

You freeze, turning your head slightly.

Shoto is there.

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't look back at the blonde man in the rear of the plane. He just looks at you, his eyes filled with a quiet, steady understanding.

He lowers his hand and silently takes the empty seat beside you.

As the engines roar to life and the plane begins to taxi, pushing you back against the seat, Shoto shifts slightly so his arm is pressing firmly against yours. A silent anchor.

He is here.

And as you lift off toward Italy, leaving the ground behind, you realize that while you are flying into a war zone with the man who broke you, you are not flying alone.

──── ୨୧ ────

a/n: hiii 💗 thank u SO MUCH for waiting for part 3!! ✨and YES, before anybody throws tomatoes at me — there will absolutely be a part 4.

also if you need emotional support or a palate cleanser after this heartbreak buffet, my wattpad fic “trust no hero” is waiting for u!! it’s got fluff, romcom energy, k-drama moments, all the serotonin ur poor heart deserves 😭💗✨

thank u for the love & the messages… see u in part 4 🫶

[eikyuunimain-deactivated2026051]

husband!katsuki who always stares at your ring when he’s holding your hand. runs his thumb over it while you talk, doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. sees it glinting in the sunlight while you nap on his chest and gets a tight, hot feeling in his chest like he could die happy right now.

husband!katsuki who never learned how to rest until he had you. comes home from patrol with tension in his shoulders, drops his bag by the door, and doesn’t relax until you kiss his jaw and say, “welcome home, baby.”

husband!katsuki who folds your laundry with his earbuds in, grumbling through it—but tucks your socks together in neat little pairs and always puts your favourite shirt on top. wipes down the bathroom sink. buys extra of your shampoo without asking. won’t say he likes domestic shit. but he does. because it means you’re not going anywhere.

husband!katsuki who can’t keep his hands off you when you wear his shirts. walks by and smacks your ass, pulls you into his lap, nuzzles into your shoulder with a low “you tryin’ to get fucked on the couch or what?” like he’s joking—except he’s already pushing the fabric up your thighs.

husband!katsuki who still growls when you tease him—but melts the second you say “be nice to your wife.” groans low, grabs your hips, mutters “fuckin’ cheat code, you know that?” while dragging his mouth down your stomach.

husband!katsuki who fucks you rougher now that you’re married. not meaner. just deeper. slower. like he has something to prove. like he wants you to feel it when you walk the next day. says “s’what you get for marryin’ me, huh?” with his fingers in your mouth and his cock buried to the base. like this is just part of the deal now.

[little-fairy-forest]

Golden Hour

Bakugo x fem! reader, angst, soft

Bakugo's birthday celebrations are in full swing, but who's his guest you haven't met before?

wc : 1.2k

The small conversation around the apartment filled the air, the smell of whatever sweet candle was lit filled your lungs. The drink that was in your cup was too bitter for your liking – who gave you this wine anyway?

The click of your heels follows you as you make your way onto the balcony for fresh air. The April weather is holding off lightly, the musk of this mornings rain still present in the air. God, when did it get so stuffy in there? The birthday party was in full swing. Familiar faces, some old some new, all here to celebrate.

"Hey! When did you get here, dude?" Kirishima hits the back of your shoulder, and he pulls you into a hug. He's so friendly it warms the weird pit feeling in your stomach. No time for doubts, you're here to celebrate your friends birthday.

"I got here with Kyoka about twenty minutes ago, she's somewhere by the kitchen," you respond, clicking your glass with your nails, relax, breathe, y/n.

"I helped set this up for bakubro. Birthday boy can't put up his own decorations, ya know?" kiri grins as he drinks out of his bottle, such as a gentlmen.

You smile as you sip from the cup again, the bitter taste flowing down as you bite back a gag. From both the taste and whatevers boiling in my subconscious.

"After the cake later we we're thinking of heading to a bar or two if you wanna join, kaminari knows a karaoke place downtown–"

"I'm okay, thank you, I was on night patrol, so im running on a quick nap," lies

"No worries, bro. I'll have you on standby in case Sero ends up on the dance floor again– no hospital trips–"

"You's out here?" A gruff voice is heard as the sliding door shuts. The birthday boy makes his way over to you both. Fuck.

He clinks his drink with kirishima, letting his sing "Happy Birthday" for what felt like the millionth time this evening. Sharp red eyes meet yours. They look you up and down, meeting yours once again. An unreadable expression behind his eyes, god to know what he was thinking. Your dress suddenly feels too tight, the air knocked from your lungs omce again. The hair pinned back now feels ready to rip out, your makeup weirdly feeling scratchy –

"You don't drink wine," he gruffly says with a quirked brow.

You look down at your cup, swirly the remains of the awful drink.

"True, but it's all they had cold," you say back. Why was this so awkward? Your heart started to pitter-patter in your chest. Fuck sake

"The fuck? Your (favourite drink) is in the cooler, Pinky got a whole case?" Bakugo turns to kirishima to confirm. Kirishima nods as he downs the last of his drink

"I'm going back to refills– I'll bring some out," kirishima pats bakugo on the back and shoots him a grin, huh?

"Easy red... we haven't eaten yet"

The balcony door shuts as kirishima makes his way into the kitchen, leaving you both standing awkwardly waiting for the other to speak. Your heels start to feel tight. Your dress now makes you less confident as it once did, and your confidence is rocked as the man before you is staring you down. Million thoughts run through your head as you wait for kirishima to come back with your drink

"You comin later? We have a place book downtown–"

"No, I won't. I had patrol, so im tired. Sorry, "

The blond gives you a face, the face you know too well. ' Bullshit ' . He doesn't press, well not now. He was too busy thinking of a way to convince you to come later. He noticed the slight shiver in your form. Why didn't he notice sooner?! Not that he cares‐

"The fucks yer coat? Its like almost freezing point out here?"

"Inside, I only came out for air"

"Tch"

The sound of the door sliding open eases you both into a relaxed state, kirishima hands you a can and clinks it with his now already half empty can. The three of you stand in silence as kirishima tries to read the vibe. It's times like this you're happy he can pull a conversation out of thin air.

"We should make our way inside, gettin' cold out here, bro!" Good idea, you could just about feel your fingers as the cold creeps in even further into your skin, or was it the embarrassment trying to take over.

The blond nods, and he bumps your arm as he walks past you. He looks into the apartment from the balcony, scanning the room briefly. Smiling softly when he meets a pair of eyes.

That feeling again what is –

"Lets go,"

bakugo leads the way inside, you and kirishima follow behind. The pit in your stomach has now turned into a fire. Who is he looking for? The lights begin to dim as everyone shushs

The crowd began to sing happy birthday, the warmth of the birthday candles illuminated bakugos features like he was made of gold. You sing as you smile at your friend, friend god, what a horrible word.

Midoriya holds the cake carefully as bakugo blows the candles out. Cheers can be heard and , wait, who's that?

Camie

She comes over and hugs bakugo just as the cheers die down. They both share an intimate hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. The room feels as small as you zone out. Cheers and "whoops" can be heard as the pair is now forced for a quick photo.

You fool.

Bakugo smiles as they engage in small talk. He's smitten at the girl around his waist now. Since when was this a thing, if anything, this seems like a hard launch of their relationship.

"They're cute, man, right?" Kirishima mumbles as he stuffs his face with cake. Offering you some on his fork. You decline as you turn to him and send a soft smile.

Play it off

Kirishima swallows the lump of cake in his mouth. "It took him long enough," what?

You turn to look at kirishima with a face, and he shoots you, smiles, and laughs "oh come on! Don't tell me you didn't know! They've been like rabbits for what? One two three– however long since halloween"

The pit in your stomach stops. Your heart stops. Your world stops. You steady your breath and try to remain calm. You're surrounded by eyes, dont freak out.

"No, I wasn't told. Crazy. " You throw back your drink, words coming out like venum. You didn't mean to sound bitchy, but now you feel like the last person in the room to know of this pariring. Actually fuck that, you are. The burning feeling comforting something inside you. Fuck here they come.

Camie smiles softly as she offers you a small wave. God, she is gorgeous. Her manicured nails and soft glow lights up the room. Bakugo has such an angel on his arm. They make a hot pair thats for sure.

" L/N , nice to meet you"

Bakugo smirks, nudging camie to say something. He opts to whisper in her ear, earning a giggle in return. You scan the room quickly, looking for your escape that comes in the shape of pink hair and skin. You brought back into conversation as Bakugo repeats the question

"Oi, yes or no dumbass?"

"Sorry I didn't hear you, making sure kaminari isn't on aux again"

Snort and a giggle follow. Fuck, someone shoot you. Now your embarrassed, flustered, and ready to go home.

You turn to Kirishima, voice soft and hoping he picks up on your social queue

"Have you seen Mina?, she has my jacket"

Kirishima is a bimbo but no fool. He's a gentleman. He knows when a lady needs an escape route from a situation. He coughs the last bit of cake out of his throat and leads you by the small of your back through the crowd and towards mina, who is by the cooler.

Bakugo throws a quick glance and grumbles

"the fuck you going?" The words pour out, rough, harsh, territorial. His voice ricketing off the walls of his apartment. A few heads turn and whispers start to seem between the music and vibes. He didn't mean for it to be loud, for it to sound so possessive.

The room now falls flat against bakugos eardrums, the bass dulls, and the voices turn to static. His pulse is loud, too loud, drowning everything else out. He blinks once, slow. He may be tipsy, but he’s not a fucking idiot. Not when it comes to you.

His jaw twitches.

Shit, he looks down at Camie - soft smile and her warm hand now curled around his arm, eyes sparking and confused as Bakugos attention is now split in two.

He looks back towards where you once were, now being ushered out by Mina following behind and Kirishima grabbing some keys.

Fuck

Who knows if ill finish this ,

Masterlist

Recs open,

[ryoride]

rockstarbf!bakugo who had his band make a band shirt of your lips so he could wear you at every show—making sure to wear the loose tank version at each set you attend to show off the kisses you leave on his neck.

rockstarbf!bakugo whose bandmates bring you up every chance they get while talking to the crowds, making sure to note that the more 'romantic' songs the bands released were all written by him about you.

rockstarbf!bakugo never goes onstage without a good luck kiss whenever you make it to a concert & never settles for just one—he tends to be forced off you by kirishima & denki right before he has to be on stage.

rockstarbf!bakugo who always promotes his band's songs on his social media by either posting selfies of you to the song on his story or posting the rare photo his bandmates catch of him being affectionate with you.

rockstarbf!bakugo spends a lot of his free time teaching you bass and how to play his songs—sometimes having you play a few chords while he's writing to find his rhythm in songs.

rockstarbf!bakugo who's bandmates absolutely adore you, to the point where they kept a EP dedicated to you secret for a year so rockstarbf!bakugo could surprise drop it on your birthday.

rockstarbf!bakugo who's so all over you the moment he & his band are through with shows that even denki tells him to 'get a room'—causing rockstarbf!bakugo to hoist you over his shoulder and carry you to his dressing room after each show.

rockstarbf!bakugo leaves hickeys all over your throat & lets you leave lipstick all over his collarbones—snapping a couple photos in his mirror to keep for later before rushing you home.

rockstarbf!bakugo who bends you over on the couch barely five minutes after getting home, bullying thrusts punching you deeper into the velvety cushions of the couch while he bites into your shoulder—letting all his groans die whenever you flutter around him.

rockstarbf!bakugo who wipes the frothed-up mess with his fingers, pumping it back into you, placing chaste kisses on your spine, groaning at your whines & leaving kisses to your flushed skin.

rockstarbf!bakugo who uses each moment spent in sin to help him write the next album for his band—and makes it up to you for being so rough by being the most begrudgingly affectionate man on earth

rockstarbf!bakugo who made the photo of your lipstick all over his throat the album cover on one of the special vinyl releases, with an unreleased song his bandmates alleged was written back when katsuki had a 'pathetic crush' on you.

rockstarbf!bakugo is very pathetically in love with you, to the point it's shocking he manages to keep the 'bad boy' rockstar persona up so much, considering how he almost melts whenever he's with you

[deeversuswords]

‧˚₊ Truth Exposer 1: Uncovered — Ch.27

PAIRING — Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki/Vigilante F!Reader RATING — Explicit CONTAINS — heavy angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), mutual pining, slow burn, eventual smut, moral ambiguity, cheating (not between katsuki/reader), unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, grief/mourning, dark themes (past abuse, stalking, kidnapping, torture, quirk trafficking), violence, swearing, open but hopeful ending, dual pov (mostly reader), no use of y/n ◆ married bakugou katsuki—not to reader—and has a daughter too ◆ characters are in their late 20s SUMMARY — Running away would be the sensible thing to do. Getting as far away as possible from him, the one person who’s your ticket to losing your freedom. Not searching for him out of stupid curiosity and showing up at the last place you should: his house. They say curiosity killed the cat, but yours seems to always end up as the key unlocking doors that should probably stay locked. Because when you open the door to Bakugou Katsuki’s life, it’s not a loving marriage, not a happy family of three you find, but falsity, forced duty, and a dark secret that threatens his very own life. Bakugou Katsuki, the pro hero tasked with catching you and your downfall. And you, the vigilante exposing ugly truths for a living—his salvation.

➥AO3 LINK // ➥AO3 CHAPTER LINK // ➥TUMBLR CHAPTERS LIST

CHAPTER SUMMARY — Katsuki's secret is out.

CHAPTER WARNINGS — n/a

WORD COUNT — 4.6k

a/n: I can't believe we're halfway through the fic. 27 chapters to go! \o/ There’s a lot I want to say, but I’ll keep it short: thank you for giving this story a chance, lovely strangers, and for brightening my days a little more. It makes me so happy to know someone out there is reading whatever crazy stuff my brain summons from the abyss of creativity XD.

Enjoy this chapter 🧡

You were Katsuki’s secret.

You were the jabs at his ego and the no-bullshit words it needed when it bruised. The fuel behind his drive to aim higher, to do better. The silly, random facts that teased short, breathy laughs out of his chest, washing some of the stress away. The existential questions scribbled on post-it notes that made him look for answers in his own life while wondering about yours.

He remembered them all.

You were “Need a way out?” and the hand he could’ve taken when his wife-on-paper dragged him to those goddamn parties, PR stunts masquerading as a perfect marriage. You were the reason he watched the crowd, hoping foolishly to see you. The devil on his shoulder, nudging him to sneak away and text from behind the curtains when he couldn’t take it anymore.

He kept some of those messages.

You were the late-night warm meals, unexpected deliveries from tired guys who clearly wanted to be in their own beds, not in his agency’s lobby, handing over neatly wrapped bento boxes. The scolding voice in the back of his mind, telling him to get the hell out and rest when work swallowed him whole. Telling him to live a little more.

He found it easier to.

You…had always been his secret.

Initially, because of the classified nature of the commission. Ultimately, because his heart had chosen you.  

Against logic, morals, and everything else he stood for.

Pieces and pieces of you he’d collected over the two years. Locked them away in a safe, hidden behind fragments of himself in the back of his closet at his parents’ house, his childhood home. It’s evidence, he’d tried drilling into his brain, sometimes with anger frying it, other times with desperate denial.

Evidence he told no one about.  

Evidence that became memories.

They were personal.  

Private.

His, and yours, too.

A secret history he’d share with you someday.

You, the core of the guilt wrecking his heart as he followed Izuku into his place. He’d probably have to tell him the truth about you, and that made Katsuki hate himself more than having to lie about it.

Today might be the day he broke his promise.

He’d betray you.

Sell your freedom. Destroy your future—your life—if he failed to convince his best friend that you were the kind, strong, ruthless-where-it-counted woman he knew you to be.

“You look like your dad,” Izuku said, sounding calm, but his stiff walk betrayed the anger. He dropped onto one end of the couch, crossed one leg under the other, and leveled Katsuki with a hard stare.

“Thank fuck I do. Ain’t in the mood to go lookin’ for another.” Snarking would definitely earn him extra points. “Cut the crap and get on with it.”

Izuku’s eyes narrowed. “You’re having an affair…with her. I’m not sure where the other woman fits in.”

Was he that obvious?

Damn right he was. With the way he held your rigid body like it belonged there, and the way he pushed you away—wanting you out of Izuku’s sight and somewhere safe—he definitely looked like a man ready to burn the fucking world for his girl.

“Who knows?” Katsuki plopped down on the other end of the couch, a crude smirk slapped on his face. Potential personal anguish really had a way of turning him into a dick twelve years later. “Maybe I ain’t got one, but two, and was about to have the threesome of my life ‘til you got in my way.”

“Kacchan.”

“How about you keep your nose outta my business, huh? Ain’t your place.”

“I can’t.” Izuku raked a hand through his hair. “Something’s been off with you for a while. I can feel it,” he said. “I thought it had to do with your marriage, with your wife’s affair, but now I see you with my friend. A woman you met once. And you're acting like you’ve known each other forever, which doesn’t make any sense. What’s going on?”

Friend? You’d been in contact with Izuku this whole time?

“What makes you so sure it’s her?”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“And you ain’t answerin’ mine.”

Izuku’s cheeks puffed up before he blew out the air. Loud. Frustrated. “I had the chance to see her face up close. I memorized it.”

His stomach twisted, then dropped. “Up close? The hell does—”

“Your turn, Kacchan.”

Fuck him. He was this close to snapping, and barely five minutes into the conversation.

“My wife gave me a hall pass as an apology.” He shrugged. “Was about to put it to good use. Your former date happened to be the one.”

“Impossible.”

“Why? She’s my type. ‘Course I went after her when nothin’ happened between you.” Asshole. Jerk. Dickhead. Not only was he reducing you to a one-time fuck, he was throwing it in the face of the guy he’d known his whole damn life. That was low. Even for him. “Took me less than a day to find her, take her out for a drink, and get her to accept my offer.” He held Izuku’s probing gaze, unbothered. “She wants me.”

Izuku tilted his head and sized him up in a way he never had before, putting Katsuki instantly on edge. Scarred fingers drummed on the back of the couch as the silence stretched. And stretched. And fucking stretched.

When it snapped, like a thick rubber band, it snapped with three words that confirmed Katsuki hadn’t been crazy in the hours following what happened at the restaurant.

Three words that plunged into his chest and ripped a chunk out of his heart.

“I kissed her.”

And when that organ bled, it craved blood to replenish itself.

Katsuki lunged forward, grabbing Izuku by his collar and shoving him into the couch. “You what?” he snarled like the fucking rabid, jealous animal he was. His breathing turned ragged to match. “You kissed her?” Red dotted his vision. Rage scalded through his veins. “Got in her pants too?”

Izuku dared to clear his throat and silently stare.

Katsuki’s trembling fist twisted in his shirt. “Better start talkin’, or this’s gonna get ugly.” The staring continued, and he couldn’t take it. “Izuku!”

“Once. I kissed her once,” Izuku said, shaking his head when Katsuki’s eyes went wide. “It was a mistake. And I think she felt the same.”

Katsuki’s grip loosened. “A mistake?” he echoed as he let go and dropped back onto the couch, sucking in a shaky breath. His heart pounded wildly under his ribs. His head swam with images of you and Izuku, and for one fucked-up moment, he thought that maybe you would’ve had it better with him, despite your secret identity. You would’ve found happiness.

Because this dumbass Katsuki knew since forever would’ve done everything to put a smile on your face. 

Izuku was a good guy. He still rambled and mumbled about the nerdiest shit, still carried more baggage than he showed, but Izuku’s world was lighter than his. Brighter, and kinder. Warmer, and safer.

The guy who’d been through hell with him, who stood by him at his worst and best, would’ve fucking loved you in ways Katsuki…could never.

“You can be honest with me,” Izuku said, his tone cautious as if he spoke to a wounded animal. “Whatever it is, I’ll listen, and if you ask me to, I’ll keep it to myself. I promise.”

“I…I can’t.”

“Kacchan, you did it for me once. Let me do the same.”

Katsuki raised an arm and dropped it over his eyes, blocking out some of the shitty reality noosing him. “That was different.”

“No, it wasn’t. That was a secret that changed my life, and I think what you’re carrying right now is changing yours.”

His jaw clenched. Teeth ground together.

How the hell did he end up here? Married to a villain. Madly in love with a vigilante. Lying and being a dick to the only guy who knew him like the back of his hand, and accepted him anyway, even when he’d been the worst.

And what about you?

Would you even trust him if he told the truth? Wouldn’t he lose you as a consequence of it?

He didn’t want to lose you.

Fuck, he seriously didn’t want to lose you. The idea made it much harder to breathe.

“What happens if I ain’t tellin’?”

“I’ll look into it—starting with her,” Izuku said honestly. “I can’t guarantee what I find will stay hidden.”

“Blackmail?” Katsuki snapped upright, glaring something murderous. “You for real?”

“I’m sorry. I really am. But the way you’re fighting me—”

“Miyuki’s a villain.” 

Bomb dropped.

Katsuki tsked and tore his gaze away from Izuku’s baffled one, pressing his fingers to his temple. Saying it out loud made it worse. So much worse. His stomach twisted, revolting against the sickening weight of absolute, utter, complete fucking failure.

His failure.

His absolute, utter, complete fucking failure.

“Ain’t even the worst of it,” he continued. “Truthie, your friend, and my…” He wiped his palms on his pants. “She’s givin’ me a way out. She’s the only one who can, all things considered.”

“I-I don’t understand.” Izuku’s face had gone pale as paper as he scooted closer. “What do you mean your wife is a…a villain? How did you find out? Do you have proof? And how is she giving you a way out? What way?”

Fuck it.

“Listen to me.” He drilled his glare into Izuku’s face, hoping the message was clear: one word, one slip of the tongue, and all hell would break loose. “I’m about to trust you with more than my life. Don’t you dare break it.”

Izuku nodded. “I swear.”

An hour of spilling out the farce that was his life did wonders. Some of the weight lifted off his chest, finally. The fog that clung to his brain cleared.

He could breathe. Actually breathe. Lungs-at-full-capacity breathe.

The only part he left out was your identity, but not for long. It pended while Izuku listened, absorbed, processed. He went through the full range of emotions, and Katsuki almost felt crappy about it, but Izuku insisted like the little shit he was. A grown ass man, who still hadn’t learned to let go and move the fuck on when someone says stay outta it.

There was worry over Yua. Grim acceptance of what Katsuki’s lawyers had laid out. Horror when he heard about the Quirk trafficking ring and wife-on-paper’s involvement. Shame that it had gone on for years under their nose.

Then, fury.

White-hot and blazing brighter than Katsuki’s explosions. A rare sight, but a welcome one. The one language they spoke without any filter.

“What’s her role in all this?” Izuku demanded, and Katsuki couldn’t help the pride that inflated in his chest like a balloon.

He chose his words carefully, hinting at your identity. “Truthie exposed that bitch’s activities to me. Told me about the trafficking ring.”

“Truthie…exposed?” Izuku blinked, then sputtered a round of gibberish. His hands smacked down on Katsuki’s shoulders and shook him. “Kacchan, what have you done?! Damn, this is bad. So bad. Oh god, you could lose your license. No, worse. If the Hero Commission finds out you’re in cahoots with the vigilante you were assigned to catch—What have you done?”

“They won’t,” Katsuki said with a shrug. “Far as they’re concerned, the Truth Exposer case hit a dead end.” He cracked his neck. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Damn, he needed a good stretch or a massage. “Last update they got said there might be more than one person operatin’ under the name.”

“W-what? You—You lied? In your report?” Izuku let out the longest sigh known to mankind. “Kacchan, what the hell?”

“Had to give ’em somethin’ to get ’em off my back.”

One more round of violent shaking. “Do you hear yourself?” Izuku’s voice cracked. “You’re a pro hero. You swore to stop people like her—dangerous people.” Another round of shaking. “One word from her could throw our whole society into chaos. Too many already believe everything she says.”

Katsuki didn’t flinch. “If that was her plan, you think she wouldn’t have done it already?”

“Something could happen and change her mind. What then? Are you ready to take responsibility? You’ll throw your life away for her. And what about Yua, Kacchan? If you and your wife are in jail, who will raise her? Your parents? You’re her father. Shouldn’t you act like it?”

“You done?” Katsuki crossed his arms, pretending his best friend’s rant didn’t slap him in the face, full force and without mercy. Izuku was right, but so was he to believe in you. “Her mind’s set, and that heart of hers…is in the right place.”

Izuku sagged in defeat, gathering his hands in his lap. “How are you so sure?”

The couch was comfortable as he sank into it, stretching out his legs. He thought of everything he’d experienced with you. The brief moment you had with Yua before he almost killed you on the floor of his hallway. The time when you cried in his arms, torn over winning that kid’s bid. The honesty with which you stopped him from leaving. The way you held him without asking a damn thing.

“There’s a side to her,” he said, throat closing in around the words. “It’s so fuckin’ pure…and so unconditionally givin’. It almost got her—” His knee grew restless. His hands began to feel sticky, dirty. “I hurt her. ‘Cause of that side of hers, I almost—I almost killed her.”

He didn’t need to look at Izuku to know his reaction, but did it anyway as punishment. Green eyes were wide with concern and something close to fear, for good reason. It sounded terrible when it was his guilt saying it.

“Long story, but she broke into my house to check on me. I wasn’t right in the head and lost my shit when I saw her with Yua,” he explained, disgusted with himself for acting on that first protective impulse. “My kid was too close, and she hesitated gettin’ away from me to not hurt her, I think.”

“Kacchan…”

“Ain’t sure for how long, but she had bruises. Told her never to forgive me for that shit.” Katsuki shook his head and lowered it, his mouth dry. “I almost snuffed out her life with my bare fuckin’ hands, and that idiot jumped in to save mine. Tell me how her heart’s not right.”

“You caught feelings,” spoken so quietly that Katsuki almost didn’t hear it.

Caught? He drowned in them. You existed in his every cell. In his first and last thought. In his heartbeats. Hell, if it weren’t for Yua, he’d regret not meeting you sooner and making you his. “Yeah.”

“When?”

“Ten months in.”

“So, right now, you are…”

“Down bad? Yeah,” he confirmed without batting an eye. His heart skipped in anticipation for what he was about to say as he looked at Izuku. “I…fuckin’ love her, Izuku.” His fingers clenched in the fabric of his pants. “Like mad. I’m crazy for her.”

*

The look on your face was wild when you ripped the door open like a storm, leaving Katsuki to stand awkwardly, hand frozen mid-air over your doorbell. Damn door was lucky it was made of steel. Anything else, and it would've flown off its hinges.

Your wide eyes swept over the entirety of him—his face, his body—searching, searching, searching. Panic he should’ve probably focused on, but he was suddenly too busy checking you out.

Jumper. Tight jeans. Boots. 

His hero name, in a grungy font, stretched across your chest.

He lingered on it.

Was this some kind of joke? 

He had ripped his whole damn heart out in front of Izuku, and now here you were, hours later, standing in his fucking merch?

“Katsuki?” 

Your voice carried your stress, but his raw, stupid heart refused to let him focus on it. Nagged him for a piece of you, a particle so it could calm down. His control was slipping; he knew that. Today might be the day he’d do something completely out of line.

Dragging his tired ass inside your apartment, he reached for your jeans pocket and pulled you forward. You stumbled into his arms, tensing as he leaned back against the door to close it. 

“You wearin’ my stuff,” he muttered, breathing you in. Thank fuck he’d had the sense to shower at Izuku’s, though he hated that his skin didn’t smell like him. He should be lingering on your skin, your hair, your clothes, not another guy.

Not the guy who kissed you and knew the taste and feel of you.

Possessiveness was a toxic bitch that fit right at home within him, and grinned wickedly as you snuggled closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. Katsuki felt your racing heart through the layers, and the way you melted in his embrace, as if this right here was what you waited for while he was away.

“I figured it might earn me points with the police if I looked like a pro hero’s fan,” you grumbled. “See? My heart isn’t that black. I like him. Even though, on second thought, you’re probably not the best choice for that.”

He wanted to be offended, but it was impossible. Your hands were sliding up his back—slow, bold—pushing him closer to the breaking point. Then they trailed back down, like you couldn’t decide where to land. Where to hold. Where to feel. In the end, they came around to the front, bunching the fabric of his sweater as your fingers curled against his chest.

“Depends. Can get away with it if it ain’t about my personality.”

“So when they ask why I like you, I’m supposed to point to your looks? Say something like…‘Sir, have you seen him? Some deity with too much free time built that man.’” You broke into a fit of breathy laughter. “Holy looks make a saint out of me.”

Amusement sparked in his gut. “Truthie…what the hell?” He couldn’t help grinning against your neck as his chest swelled with every single shitty romance cliché imaginable.

“That’s still tame compared to the stuff I’ve seen and heard.” 

His grin slipped into something softer as he lifted his head, tilting your chin to catch the truth in your eyes. Damn, did he adore your eyes. “You went lookin’ for the crap people say about me?”

“Of course. ‘Know your enemy’ is a thing.”

Katsuki glanced at your jumper, then let a finger trace the collar. “Buyin’ their stuff included?”

“That’s…” You gave a cryptic smile. “Maybe?”

He said nothing, only looked at you. Simply looked at you. Long, quiet seconds passed as something hot, relentless, stubborn stirred inside him. Now that someone else knew how he felt, it was harder to hold back. Harder to find reasons to keep himself in check. Harder to keep swallowing the same bitter pill life had been shoving down his throat.

He wanted that promised freedom and hated himself for even thinking about asking you for it earlier than planned.

Impatient bastard.

“Once the kid’s safe…” His thumb grazed your bottom lip, nail tracing it like a ghost. Your mouth parted on a soft, gasped inhale, and fuck him, he deserved an award for self-control. “You think I can file for divorce?” It’d be so easy to kiss you. Lose himself until morning. “Think there’s enough proof to do somethin’ about that hag?”

Your pupils expanded with every pass of his thumb. Irises glazed. “If it’s what you want, I’ll make it happen.” You sounded out of it. Dazed. “There’s always a way. Always. But…can I? Isn’t Midoriya—”

“He’s on board. Got my back. Yours too, but you gotta meet him. Tomorrow morning.”

“Today.”

“Huh?”

“It’s almost two in the morning, Katsuki.”

Silence fell over the hallway, over you and him, broken only by his pounding pulse and your uneven breaths. This was perfect. This was good. Natural, personal. It gave him permission to stare, to greedily soak up how the shadows softened your face, making you look just as pretty at night as you were during the day.

Fucking beautiful.

Stunning little thing that owned even the last drop of his blood.

“She asleep?” he asked, the craving to spin you around and pin you to the front door flaring up hard and fast. He wanted a taste of you so bad it fogged his thoughts.

Get a grip.

You nodded. “She’s in the guest room. Locked, with her approval.”

Silence once more.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth, holding back the question that had his tired body tense.

Should he stay, or—

“Stay,” you said.

Shit. Either you were psychic, or he was pathetic at hiding it.

“Fine.” He shrugged. “Takin’ the couch.”

“The couch isn’t for sleeping.” You stepped away and began skipping toward your bedroom.

“Huh? Oi, Truthie.” Katsuki was right on your heels, his steps hurried, eager. “You askin’ me to sleep in your bed, or somethin’?”

“No. No way. Not at all.” You stretched the last word out like it was chewing gum. “I’m planning on stuffing you in my closet. You, Katsuki, are the missing piece to complete my—” You winked at him over your shoulder. “—Dynamight collection.”

Fucking hell, you’d be the death of him. 

The craving from moments ago? It spread like an existential need through his system. Pulling on his collar, he kicked your bedroom door closed. “Collection, my ass. Three pieces ain’t a collection.”

“Three?” You covered your mouth with a hand and laughed. “Oh, I have some bad news for you.”  

His brows skyrocketed to his hairline. “Nah. You’re lyin’.”

“Bet?”

Hell no. “Bet.”

“If I don’t own every single piece of Dynamight merch ever released, I owe you a favor. Outside of our deal. Whatever you want,” you said. “If I do, you owe me one.”

“Whatever I want? Shit. You sure?” He cocked his head, filthy desires putting a vulgar smirk on his face. “Ain’t you scared I’m gonna ask for somethin’ ‘inappropriate’?”

“Then you do. Big deal.” 

Pretty eyes dragged lazily over his body, lingering a little too long on his dick. His brainless dick that perked up at the attention.

How the hell was he supposed to get in your bed and actually fall asleep, when there wasn’t a single innocent thought left in his head?

“Thought you ain’t into married men.”

“Filing for divorce equals marriage is over.” You motioned him to follow you, and he did, without hesitation. “Right?”

His jaw locked tight as he battled a frustrated groan. You. Always you. He wanted you so fucking bad, he’d blow a favor like that to have you. All of you. For an hour, or twenty-four. A minute.

“I hope you’re not a sore loser.”

Katsuki didn’t have time to be.

You sat cross-legged on the floor of your walk-in closet, pressed a hidden button under the center island, and the damn thing opened to reveal every single piece of his merch ever released. He knew because he kept track. Hell, he’d even pitched in some ideas a couple of times to force his own perfectionism to shut up.

His eyes nearly fell out of his skull. Not even wife-on-paper had all of it.

Every item was pristine, sealed in the original packaging, labeled down to the release date like you were preserving rare artifacts instead of his mass-produced, cash-making crap. 

He didn’t even want to think about how much money you’d blasted on it.

He muttered your name, completely stunned, and that was all it took for you to fall flat on your back, laughing your heart out. Your laughter wrapped around him, light and warm, tinkling like bells in his ears. You didn’t move, but he felt as if you were reaching for him through your joy. Inviting him in.

“I wanted—wanted to s-send you a picture of this once we hit the three-year…m-mark,” you said, rolling to your side, giggling. Your smile was too bright. Too full of happiness and innocence that he’d come to associate with you, and only you. His heart struggled. “Your enemy collecting your stuff? Outrageous. So scandalous. I bet you’d have lined up every single company to try finding me in their buying registry.”

“That so?”

Your eyes twinkled as they found his, making him embarrassingly weak in the knees. Hell, any man would be if you looked at them the way you looked at him.

“Yes!” You sat up, clasping your hands with a sparkle of pride. “Since the first year was the start of our ‘catch me if you can’ game, and the second was a silly confetti bomb and a fireworks show, I had to up my game for the third.”

“Screw that confetti crap,” he muttered, scowling. “It had glitter in it.” He still remembered how that shit ended up in places glitter should never go. “Paid five cleaning crews to get it outta my office. And my house.”

Your laughter filled the space once more, quieter but just as addicting. 

More.

More.

More.

Happiness looked pretty on you, and he wanted to protect it with everything he was and had. Preserve it in its purest form. Because experiencing it felt like it healed something in him. He wasn’t sure what. Yet.

Which was why you needed to know—

“I ain’t gonna ever betray you.” He wrapped his truth in your name, watching the surprise chase the joy from your face. “Except Izuku, no one’s gonna know who you really are. Not a single damn soul.” His fist clenched at his side. “Truth Exposer’s gonna be Dynamight’s worst failure.”

You said nothing at first. No visible reaction, but the conflict in your eyes was alive and kicking. When you finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “What if I do?”

“You gonna?”

“Tell me.”

He exhaled harshly and joined you on the floor, sitting in front of you. “Yeah. Even if you do.”

He was supposed to keep his hands to himself, but they had a mind of their own, grabbing your calves and dragging you to him. You gasped, clutching his shoulders as your legs went over his spread thighs, feet landing flat on the floor beside his hips. Your knees knocked together as you snapped them shut.

With your face so close, Katsuki almost forgot what else he was trying to say, distracted by the feel of your timid, shaky breaths on his lips.

“I know you don’t do shit for kicks and giggles. Whatever you do, it’s got reason. Motivation. Purpose.” His forearms settled on your knees. “No one can change my mind on that.”

You held his stare for another beat before you pressed your forehead to his forearms. “You’re such an idiot, Bakugou Katsuki. The biggest I’ve ever met.” He didn’t take offense, but a cold shiver broke over his skin as something sharp tore through his chest. You sounded like something inside you broke. “What the hell did they teach you? Did no one ever tell you that getting this close to your target is plain stupid? Wasn’t that part of your hero curriculum?”

“We both know you ain’t my target anymore.”

“Well, we’re not friends either,” you snapped, lifting your head. “We’re…I don’t know. Something we shouldn’t—”

“Choices,” he cut in, defining it with the simplest word there was. “We’re each other’s choice. I’m yours. And you’re mine.”

a/n 2: Just a small fun fact—this chapter wasn’t meant to mark the middle of the fic, but it happened, and honestly, I think it couldn’t be more fitting. So, how do we feel? Is it really a surprise that the quote in the summary comes from none other than Katsuki himself? Also, gotta love double meanings. And the fact that Izuku casually dropped the bomb about the smooching with Truthie just to get the truth out of Katsuki XD.

There’s so much going on in this chapter that I could talk about it the whole day! I'll shut up now.

taglist: @lunaryasha | @tomiokasecretlover | @fiselle | @5oftkitty | @lousypotatoes | @alexiavettel | @meikoo

[meikoo]

this chapter is a blessing oh my fucking god i have to process this first but i swear ill be back to word vomit about this because jesus christ my heart is somersaulting rn it’s fucking insane fuckfuckfuck i love kat so much how did u write him so fucking perfectly i cantt do this 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

[deeversuswords]

🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡 🧡🧡🧡🧡

Take your time!!! This chapter was…phew. A lot.

I'm looking forward to your word vomit. My face is prepared and ready to hurt from all the grinning XD

[meikoo]

Him trying and failing to convince zu that he was abt to have a threesome or that we were a one time fuck is hella funny. AND IZUKU WAS RLLY TESTING HIS LUCK 😭😭😭 “saw her face up close, i memorized it” ???? straight up telling kat he kissed reader ????? HOW R U ALIV

“and when that organ bled, it craved blood to replenish itself” BANGER LINEEEEE

fuck kat doubting himself and thinking that maybe we would be happier with zu :(( WHORE NO.

im so glad he actually has someone to talk to about it now, and he said he loved us AAAAA and then when he pulled us by our pocket and “you’re wearin’ my stuff” i imagined he said that in the softest way with the most lovesick look anyone could ever have and my heart just fully melted. like my heart is gone. its floating around in my system as liquid mush rn.

them being so sweet concerns me a lil cause like what if this is the calm before the storm…. TRYING NOT TO WORRY

he said he’d divorce mi-🤢🤢 wife-on-paper. YAY!!! i really want us to hang out with yua, need more yua content we luv her she’s so precious and deserves a loving home with in-love parents 😜💕

“we’re each other’s choice. im yours and you’re mine.” kat r u trying to kill me?????? dude just eat my face already what r we doing.

ur writing really feeds my delusions im falling in love with this version of kat sososo much ugh 😭😭😭 ty for the food im very full and i licked up that plate real clean :333

OMG ALSO YAY ZU KNOWS!! MORE ZU CONTENT PLS LET THEM BE BESTIES^^

[deeversuswords]

Imagine that he said all that crap with a straight face. As much as it stings because of what he reduced her to, it's also kinda funny. Like, out of everything, he went straight for that 🤣

The beauty of Katsuki's POV...you get to use the rawest, grittiest words XD

Oh, yeah. Of course, he would! I mean, his situation is so shit, and Izuku's is more like sunshine and rainbows lmao, but the fool doesn't realize that she actually thrives in his chaos.

YES YES YES. He got 100% mushy with the "you're wearin' my stuff." Melted on the spot right then and there. Plus, her having an entire collection of his merch... (the ice cream bucket from chapter 1 is there too, btw)

Girlie being like "Not your fan, pfft, but I own every single piece released :D. To piss you off, of course."

...everythiiing will be fiiine 💖💖💖💖

About Yua—she’ll steal some of the spotlight in the sequel. I have plans, heh. But she’ll make a comeback soon in the current part. So, we’ll get to see more of Katsuki as a dad @_@

asjdkgaskdkla yes! Please fall in love with him more. Katsuki on the brain 24/7 \o/

You’re very welcome! I’ll do my best to keep the feast going 🧡🧡🧡

[meikoo]

THERES GONNA BE A SEQUEL???? HELLO MARRY ME

[deeversuswords]

Actually, it's a...trilogy.

I'll put the explanation under Read More, in case you're curious.

Basically, part 3 is what started this whole thing. I wrote 20 chapters for it when I realized that there's way too much history between them to be crammed in, and making that history known throughout the plot was critical to understand why their relationship was the way it was (a complete mess).

So, I decided to write the prequel. The initial concept was still pro hero/vigilante, and Quirk trafficking, but lighter, with more silly moments in it, like Truthie becoming Yua's nanny to keep an eye on Miyuki XD. However, while rewriting the draft into final draft, the plot took darker and darker turns, so...bye bye nanny idea! And hello, this.

Because of those darker turns, it became obvious that part 1 won't be able to lead me into "part 3" as I planned, and that I'll need the link between them, which is part 2.

Part 2 is already outlined, beginning to end. I still have some details to work out, then I'll be off to write the first draft. I was supposed to already be writing it, but my brain needed time to cook. 💀

Part 3 has an outline done because of the first attempt, but it will need to be adapted according to whatever goes down in part 2.

I’ll stop yapping now. If you made it this far, thanks for reading. Much love <3.

[meikoo]

WOA. expect me spamming ur notifs until the very end omgomg so excited yes let urself cook cause UR SO GOOD 🧎🧎🧎🧎🧎

[deeversuswords]

Expect the same! You're not escaping my replies!!!

I'll go melt into a puddle now from the praise 😭😭😭😭😭🫠

[cherrycosmos8]

texts w katsuki as your babydaddy

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Things between you two were already falling apart before the test turned positive. He messed up—like really messed up—and you walked away before it could hurt even more.

warnings: cursing, angst/comfort (eventually) y/n is pregnant, y/n is kinda harsh, katsuki is trying

a/n: hey guys!!! so this is my first time ever doing this, but the idea has been in my head for DAYS so i decided to finally act on it. i did post this on tiktok but i wanted to see how it did on here as well! anywhooo, i hope someone enjoys it at the very least ✨✨

[wadigrove]

君の手が / 「このままでいい」と / 触れるたび

your hands whisper, "you’re enough," with every touch—

꒷꒦︶๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

He looks good. Too good. Unfairly good.

And it’s driving you insane.

Katsuki’s standing in your kitchen, quietly making you tea like the sweetest, grumpiest domestic man in the world. His back is turned, but you can still see the way his sweatpants hang off his hips in that dangerously perfect way—low, effortless, like he doesn’t even realize how sexy he looks. His compression shirt is clinging to every inch of him, outlining the hard curve of his back, the tension in his shoulders, the sharp taper of his waist, and—Gods—those biceps. They flex just slightly as he lifts the kettle, like he’s not even trying, and it makes your mouth water.

Maybe it’s the hormones. Maybe it’s the three days of missing him like oxygen while he was overseas on that joint mission. Maybe it’s just the primal fact that your man is fine as hell, and you want him more than anything right now.

But whatever it is, it’s bad. Like, pacing-in-place, clenching-your-thighs, bite-his-arm bad.

The thing is, he’s not even trying. He’s just being himself. Barefoot in your kitchen, hair still damp from the long shower he took earlier, a soft hint of stubble along his jaw because he hasn’t bothered to shave yet. There’s this quiet, worn ease to him today—the good kind. Like he finally got some rest. Like his body knows it’s home again.

And you want to climb him.

He looks up as the kettle whistles and clicks it off, moving to grab the mugs. The tea’s still steeping and he’s focused, brow slightly furrowed as he checks the water level—and you’re already stepping forward, like some heat-seeking missile locked onto target.

“Did you do something new in your workout?” you ask casually, voice just a little too breathy as you near him.

He glances over his shoulder with that familiar frown, forehead crinkling. “Nah.” He turns off the burner and straightens up. “Why?”

You shrug as you close the distance between you. He smells like fresh laundry and warm citrus—probably from that shampoo you like in the guest bath—and it’s too much. “I don’t know. You just…” You reach out, hand grazing his arm as he sets a mug down. “You look broader. Bigger. Maybe it’s the mission? You’ve been lifting tanks again?”

His ears turn pink.

You don’t miss it.

Your hand moves up to squeeze his bicep—Gods, it’s firm and warm under your touch—then slides to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He stiffens under your touch, like he wasn’t expecting it, but doesn’t move away. If anything, he goes still. Like very still.

Then, lower. You trail your hand down over his abs, across the ridges of his obliques where the compression fabric hugs tightest. It’s soft and warm from his skin underneath, and you’re close enough now to feel the way his breath hitches.

He freezes.

Absolutely freezes.

Cheeks flushing, ears glowing, and hands awkwardly hovering near the counter like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

And then you say it.

“Should we have sex?” you murmur, tone airy like you’re just asking about the weather. “Like… we can be quick. Ten minutes.”

Boom. The effect is immediate.

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat—half a cough, half a choked sound of disbelief—and pulls back slightly, blinking hard like he’s buffering. “Wh—I just—uh, I just got back, a-and we—we just ate and I—”

His voice cracks a little, and your grin stretches slowly, dangerously, as you slide your hands to his hips and lean up, resting your chin on the curve of his bicep, looking at him with mock innocence.

“What?” you ask, soft and teasing. “Why are you blushing?”

“M’not—” He glares at the stove like it betrayed him. “You can’t just say shit like that—”

“Like what?” you blink, still all fake-innocence, even as you press a little closer to feel the heat radiating off of him. “Like I want you to fuck me?”

His jaw flexes. Hard. That stubborn little muscle ticking near the hinge.

Your words hang heavy in the air—sticky and intimate and real in a way that scrapes at the edges of Katsuki’s guarded heart. He’s still standing there, tense and blushing and stubbornly glaring at the stove like it might rescue him, but his body tells you more than his silence ever could.

His jaw ticks again, that muscle fluttering like he’s clenching down on something hard—like he doesn’t trust what’ll come out if he speaks too easily.

And then, finally, he mutters low, almost sheepish, “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that. You tilt your head against his arm. “Like what?”

He shifts his weight a little, stiff in the way he gets when he’s feeling vulnerable and hates that he is. “Fuckin’,” he says, jaw tight, eyes still not meeting yours. “Like we just… fuck. Nah. That—” He shakes his head, almost like he’s brushing something off. “That ain’t what we do.”

That makes you pause.

Because he says it so softly, even if he’s trying to sound annoyed. There’s a thread in his voice; something frayed and raw and incredibly honest. And it cuts right into your chest.

Still, because you are who you are, you press gently at the edges of his discomfort with a little teasing, hoping to coax him out of that tightly wound shell. “Alright,” you hum, playing innocent again, leaning back slightly but keeping your hands on him. “No ‘fucking,’ then.”

You feel the way his abs tense under your touch, the way his breath stutters. And you smile, dangerous and soft. “But… it doesn’t have to be ten minutes, by the way. It can be longer.” Your tone lilts up at the end, knowing exactly what you’re doing. “We can go a couple rounds. Three or four—”

Before you can even finish the sentence, he groans—deep, frustrated, and entirely done with you. His hand comes up immediately, shoving his palm into your face with a muttered, “Sh’ddup,” like he’s trying to smother both your words and his rising panic.

You laugh—a warm, playful thing—and bite gently at his fingers, just to make him curse.

“Damn it,” he mutters, yanking his hand back like you shocked him. His ears are scarlet now. Full body flush, like he’s overheating from the inside out.

You take pity. A little.

“Katsuki,” you say, softer now, voice still tinged with amusement, but genuine beneath it. You step down, just slightly, letting your chin drop from his bicep as you gaze up at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Still frowning. Still looking like you’ve cornered him and he’s not sure what to do with the feeling.

“Why are you being so weird about it?” you ask gently, brushing your fingertips along the hem of his shirt. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just stands there, shoulders stiff, fingers flexing like he’s working through it physically—like the words are stuck in his chest and need to be wrestled out.

And then, finally, he breathes. “Just… still can’t believe y’want me like that.”

The confession is so low, so bare, that you almost don’t catch it.

But you do.

And your heart breaks a little.

Because now it makes sense—the flushed cheeks, the awkward stumbling, the hesitation and heat and quiet. It’s not embarrassment. It’s disbelief. That after everything—his temper, his history, the image people project onto him—you still look at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Like you’re hungry for him. Like you love him enough to want to devour him, over and over, and never get full.

He finally looks at you then. Really looks. And the ache in his eyes guts you.

He swallows hard, brow furrowed. “S’just—everything’s always been so heavy with me. People either expect too much, or they don’t want anything at all. But you…” His voice tapers. “You see me. And you still want me.” His mouth quirks, barely. “That’s fuckin’ insane.”

And it hits you again—how serious everything is to him. Every look, every brush of your hand, every shared bed and soft kiss. Nothing with Katsuki is casual. Nothing is careless. When he loves, he does it with everything. With a kind of unflinching, terrified devotion that makes your chest feel like it’s caving in under the weight of it.

And sex?

It’s not just a release to him. Not a checkbox. Not even just intimacy.

It’s you. It’s him. It’s all the silent promises he doesn’t know how to say out loud; the need to make you feel seen and touched and worshipped. Not dominated. Not conquered. Not fucked.

Loved.

Completely. Helplessly. Permanently.

So when he says he can’t believe you want him—it’s not just about attraction. It’s about worthiness. It’s about not knowing what the hell he did to deserve someone who looks at him the way you do when you’re begging him to come to bed.

You step into him again. Wrap your arms around his waist. Press your cheek to his chest and breathe in the warm, clean scent of him.

“I do want you,” you whisper. “Not because I expect anything more than what you already give me. Not because I want you to be someone you’re not. I want you, Katsuki. Just you. I love how serious you are. I love how much you care. I love the way you touch me like I’m precious.”

Your hands slip under his shirt, palms warm against his skin. “You’re everything I want.”

His breath shudders.

And then he’s wrapping his arms around you, too. Tight. So tight it almost hurts—but it doesn’t, not really. Not when it’s him. Not when you know that grip is the only way he knows how to say thank you for choosing me without falling apart.

You hear his voice, low and gruff in your hair. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smile, closing your eyes. “You’ll never have to find out.”

And it’s in that silence that he kisses you—no teasing, no heat, just a long, slow press of his lips to your temple. The kind of kiss that says you’re mine, and I’m yours, and I don’t want anyone else in this world but you.

And later, when he finally leads you to the bedroom—hands still shaking a little, but more confident now, more sure—you let him take his time. Let him kiss you like it matters. Let him love you the way only Katsuki can.

Like it's serious. Like it's sacred. Like it’s the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense.

溶けていく / 神への祈りのように / 肌と汗と / 「もう一度」

—until we melt, like a prayer to gods, skin and sweat and, "again."