CHAPTER 1: THE STREETS ARE PAINTED ORANGE
you're yet to meet your new boss, except he's everywhere you look in all the worst ways. . .
genre: bkdk x reader, nsfw, slowburn, enemies to lovers (bkg), friends to lovers (izu), publicist!reader, teacher!izu, pro-hero!bkg, LOVE TRIANGLE
warnings for this chapter: none!
a/n: only izuku would say 5pm in person lol i love him. hope u guys enjoy the first chapter (ngl it's a lil rushed, i just didn't wanna keep anyone waiting🥺) and as always, not proofread
series masterlist
Travelling through the city in a fucking limo isn't something you could have ever imagined for yourself. If the windows weren't tinted you'd be ducking out of view, but of course, Dynamight needs his privacy.
Except, Dynamight isn't here.
Instead, you're left to listen to the cheesy pop song spilling from the radio with your legs crossed against cream, leather seats and no other than a silent driver but to ensure you make your way to work promptly & safely.
You eye him in the rear view mirror for the umpteenth time, his thinning hair and dark shades that keep his gaze concealed from view. Seems difficult to drive in, but goes hand in hand with whatever stoic, FBI bullshit he seems to have going on.
He's a busy man, you remind yourself. You'll just have to discuss game plans with him once you reach the office, though it would have been nice to already have things in place before entering the building.
Would you have your own desk? Beside his? Does he have a private office? Of course he does, he owns the agency. What CEO doesn't have their own private office? You conjure up an image of the mighty Dynamight— bulging muscles and tarnished hero suit— exploding keys on a laptop and fight a smile.
What will his apology be like? You've seen enough media to know he's not exactly well versed in them, but you're almost definitely promised one with the lengths him and his team have gone to just to save face. You imagine his gruff, uninviting voice as you turn a corner toward the agency— "I'm sorry about your neighbourhood, or whatever."
No. That wouldn't do. He would have to grovel, "I'm so sorry yn. Let me make it up to you. Have my agency, take my hero suit! I'll do anything to make things right!" That's more like it. A stretch, but with his place in the ranks dropping dangerously low after the incident you gather he must be willing to do anything to keep his place in the public eye at this point. Which is your job, of course. So perhaps you could use a heartfelt apology as a little incentive to write up some good reviews about what a delight the pro-hero Dynamight is!
The driver says nothing as you pull up outside the building. You get out, smoothing your skirt and muttering a 'thank you' as you swing your purse over your shoulder once your heels hit the pavement. He's gone before you even register you've closed the door, sweeping up cherry blossom petals from the edge of the sidewalk as he speeds off.
You take a deep breath, taking in the size of the office in front of you. It's huge. Bigger than your new apartment complex, fitted with the same open floor plan and practically made of glass. You can see directly into each floor, at the people running around holding papers, staplers, taking phone calls, scrubbing carpets. It's all daunting to say the least, which is why you tighten your grip around the strap of your bag and force your chin up high.
You won't let this intimidate you.
Taking purposeful steps toward the sliding glass doors, you march inside and make your way toward the front desk. A young girl, probably early twenties, shoots you a look over her computer screen that reads as slightly irritated by your presence and it throws you a little off balance.
"Name?" She snaps, long nails sliding over the keyboard and you have no idea what she's typing in so soon.
"(Y/N) (L/N)." You cough, digging through your purse trying to retrieve the keycard the small man had graced you with the day before, "I'm Dynamight's new publicist." You explain, ready to hand out the ID badge when she stops typing to stare at you with parted lips.
"You're the new publicist?" She gawks, but something about the way her eyes run over your skirt and blouse makes you uneasy.
"I— yes, am I in the wrong place?" You fumble with the badge, placing it back in your bag, but she shakes her head, quickly returning to her stoic gum chewing as she rests back in her seat.
She taps away for a few moments longer before double clicking the mouse and something begins printing from a black box in front of her. "You'll be on level 5 today, though it might change as time goes on." Is all she says as she hands you a sticker, access to level 5 and a barcode smudged across the top in black ink.
"Right," You nod, staring at the sticker between your fingers, "What is it I'll be doing today?"
She furrows her brows, nails hovering above the keys, "You don't already know that?" You shake your head. "Nobody briefed you on the way here?" You shake again and she sighs like you've just purposely made her job harder.
She clicks a few more times, then points to an elevator at the hall across from you. "5th stop, door 5-B. Someone will be in there to explain everything you need to know."
You mutter a thank you and make your way over, pressing the arrow as you wait for it to make its way to your stop. There's a fan crew already building outside the glass doors, multiple young women desperate to catch a glimpse of Dynamight waltzing through the office on a Monday morning. You snort at the receptionist, who presses some kind of button that casts the glass in a visible tint, meaning it's impossible to see in from the outside. Boujie.
The elevator stops at each floor, various men and women in tailored suits and janitors uniforms piling in beside you, each level just as swarmed as the last. Until you make it to the 5th floor, where only you and another male— tall and red haired, dressed outstandingly casual— get off. It's quiet enough to hear a pin drop up here, away from the hustle and bustle of below and it's now you realise that this must be Dynamight's floor.
The red haired man turns to give you a polite smile, beckoning you out of the elevator first and you finally manage to put a name to the face. "Oh— thank you, Red Riot, sir." You bow far too low, and he cringes like he hates the formality, two hands against your shoulders in order to bring you upright.
"Please, don't bow." He shakes his head, leading you out of the elevator with a hand on your shoulder, "I'm just like any other guy here." His laugh is boyish and awkward, an almost familiar warmth to it that bleeds into the way his hand comes up to awkwardly rub across the nape of his neck.
You're hyper aware of his large hand across your shoulder, wordlessly guiding you through corridors. You furrow your brows, "Are we going to the same place?"
Something seems to register in him now, and he skids to a halt. "Wow, I am so sorry. I just assumed you were one of Bakugo's new hero trainees." He scans your formal attire like he's only just noticed, hand leaving your shoulder through the apology. "I now realise you're not a hero-in-training. Which way were you going?"
"Left, I think." You mumble, totally unsure. Hopefully he can direct you. He is a hero, after all. "Door 5-B? I'm Dynamight's new publicist."
His eyebrows raise at this, the same way the woman's at reception had. "Wow. You're the new publicist?"
You laugh— strained and nervous— "Everyone seems to keep saying that."
He darts forward, hands held up in front of him and flailing wildly. "No, no, no, it's not a bad thing! It's just—" He sighs, like he's about to say something he shouldn't. "Bakugo can be pretty. . . difficult when you don't know him. His last publicist didn't last a week." He laughs, letting go, then catches himself and shoots you a disconcerting smile to make up for it, "I'm sure you'll be fine, though. I hear his team specifically selected you based on your experience in the hero sector, so we're all expecting great things!"
Right. Not nerve-racking at all.
His red hair bobs over his shoulder at the sound of what must be a group of teenagers rushing the staircase to a small gym like room opposite. His class, you assume. The kind of U.A field trips that Dynamight must volunteer to host at the agency. Must be with some kind of metaphorical gun to his head, you're sure.
"Ah, I should get going." He breathes, weary eyes narrowing like he doesn't want to leave you so soon, but his body's already dragging itself toward the classroom. "Door 5-B is right down the hall, right across from 5-A." He directs with an arm while halfway down the hall and you try to study the large office he points to with a determined nod. "Good luck, publicist!" He bids, a little too sing-song for your liking, and it's then you realise he hadn't actually had the time to ask for your name. Probably since somebody as reckless as Dynamight wouldn't be able to keep this place above water without someone like Red Riot lending a helping hand behind the scenes.
You head toward your designated room with a passing thought about how swamped the poor guy must be, pitchy etched across your features as you smooth your attire and run a reaffirming hand over your hair. With a confident tip of your chin, you raise your knuckles for a very professional knock.
This is it. You're finally going to be face to face with the immature, time bomb of a hero that foolishly hasn't left your mind for longer than a second for the last 3 weeks. Except now he holds the title of your boss and you hate the smile you're forced to keep strapped to your face while you await him.
The door swings open. You blink, once, twice, three times. Not Dynamight. No mess of blonde hair, no ruby red eyes, none of that signature, shit-eating smirk you'd grown to hate over the time spent in rumination. Not even a hero suit. Just a plain, regular man in a plain, simple suit.
The light bounces off his glasses when he turns his nose up at you, bitter like he's already irritated just by your presence at his door and you've already anticipated the part of his lips before he speaks— "(Y/N) (L/N), Dynamight's publicist." You extend your hand.
He takes it, albeit with a begrudging curl of his lip, "You're late." He ushers you inside. You take a seat at the shiny table, gathering that this must be some kind of conference room by the furniture. The interior is almost totally black, save for the fresh, grey carpet and you can at least appreciate the sleekness of the design.
The urge to explain yourself soon dissipates when a stack of papers is thrown in front of you with no acknowledgment and you take a moment to study the bored look on his face before sifting through the documents. Files, all requiring Bakugo's signature. Charity events, donations, appearance requests from talk shows all the way to children's hospitals. You look up through your brows with a bitter scrunch of your nose, "What is this?"
"Your work for today."
You take another look over, flicking through the pages to make sure you're seeing this all right, "These are letters. Requiring Dynamight's signature." He nods, and you almost laugh. "So, what does this have to do with my role as his publicist?"
"Your job is to sort them into piles of which you think would be suitable for him to take on at this moment in time, those that would benefit him in the public eye. Sign those, give them to me by 4, then you're welcome to leave. Those that you don't," He drawls, long arm reaching under a single computer desk behind his legs to make a show of dragging a metal trash can in front of you and tapping the edge with two fingers, "go in here."
There's a brief moment of stunned silence before you're dropping the corner of the papers back against the desk and crossing your arms. "Isn't this the sort of thing he's supposed to tend to by himself? I can't forge his signature."
"It's not forging. These people know a top pro-hero like Dynamight doesn't have time to waste on sifting through fan mail."
"He's not a top hero." You blurt without thinking, lost in a spec of dust against the all black table top. Your own voice takes you out of your head and you can't help but feel that wasn't something you were permitted to say.
"What?"
You don't know why, but you double down, "He's not a top hero, and this isn't fan mail. He can't even answer real business inquires himself, which is why he's number 15 in the ranks and the reason you hired me to do damage control."
To your surprise, the man seems mildly amused. Walking by your side just to take an expensive, gold trimmed pen from his pocket and place against the papers in front of you as he makes his way to the door. He stops, one hand on the handle just to mutter, "You'll do well here." before the door is closed behind him and you're left to soak in the heated aftermath of your words.
You finish the papers by noon. It's tedious at first, but once you really got into your stride Bakugo's signature became muscle memory and you were able to skim read each letter at an efficient enough speed to be done within the hour.
You spend the rest of the afternoon grateful for the fact you still have a job after your little slip up that morning. You realise people here must not be very good with names, since that's the third person yet to ask for any title other than publicist or dare to offer their own. A brief snooping session takes up most of lunch— mostly pens, paper, a laptop logged in under a company name you're too afraid to attempt to break into and a shelf of various trophy's. A team photo with Dynamight at the centre, scowling through the sunlight that bounces off his gauntlets while various others around him, including the elder pro Best Jeanist, jump for joy. It's engraved at the bottom, the date of the day the Agency launched and project Dynamight became a go. If he weren't such a dick, it probably could've made you a little mushy.
After lunch, you spend an hour or two catching up on your latest read. A re-read, actually. A home comfort, one of the very few able to be saved from your bookshelf post-rubble and you'd thrown it in your bag this morning with no real expectation of opening it. Almost like a good luck charm, really. A remainder of the magic from where you grew up, able to be carried with you through this new journey and you'd never admit how it made you feel a little safer just to have with you for fear of sounding foolish.
When the clock strikes four, you waste no time retrieving your belongings. You search for the dark haired man that had briefed you this morning on your way out, hoping to apologise and offer any assistance if needed, but he's wrapped up in a conversation with another two males by the printer when you lock eyes so you only really get a nod in return.
The city streets are calmer at this time, the setting sun casting an orange glow between buildings that slips through the cracks in the pavement and warms the concrete beneath your heels. You declined a ride from the designated driver you'd been assigned under the pretence that you're still new to this part of the city and would enjoy to spend some time getting to know the joys of the area. He relented with no much more than a grunt, clearly unbothered by the fact you were only giving him one less job to do and was quick to speed off down the straight as soon as you shut the door.
For once, you trail winding alleys and quiet streets without fear, bag swinging loosely at your side without the need for a tight grip and your heels clicking against tarmac at a leisurely pace. It's peaceful enough to have thoughts of Bakugo and your shitty first day melting away and a new kind of excitement lighting in your stomach. The buildings don't disappear for miles— everywhere you look, each turn for hope of finding a cleaner sky, the road's still lined with sky scrapers with don't begin to dwindle until a sharp left takes you to what must be considered downtown here.
Shorter buildings, jazz bars and food trucks ease your mind here. Murals decorate almost every wall, each one a story more significant the last. An imagine of a young, fearless All Might makes you smile, his signature grin still incandescent through the paint on the walls. A few steps later and similar image, this one black and white with streaks of burning orange through the straps of his hero suit makes you stop. The words across the bottom are dry, soaked into the pores of the brick and you know this must be an old work just judging by the glow of youth in his cheeks. Dynamight, the one that was still side kicking for Best Jeanist long after the war. Beaten, bloody, yet still radiating confidence with that classic scowl of his, branded with the phrase 'SYMBOL OF VICTORY' beneath his torso.
You ignore how it burns, forcing your way further into the hum of the town, the heartbeat of community more apparent the further you walk and an assessing glance over the uniforms clinging to the backs of men sharing a beer informs you that this must be closer to working class than the strip of city your boss and other pro-heroes frequent. This is a real neighbourhood, a reflection of the one you lost to the hands of a so called hero. The one being commended on that wall, staring at you like he wants to taunt and yet this is the most at home you'd felt in weeks.
The pleasant smell of hot food drags you further down the narrow road, inhaling the warm spices with each new step and a smile on your lips. You make a point to explore each truck, scanning the menu and conversing with each new face behind aprons and hair-nets as you go. None pique your interest much, until a familiar smell has you inhaling with a content sigh, "Katsudon." You mutter to yourself, following the tip of your nose like a sniffer dog until your face to face with the absolute beauty that is the restaurant.
It's tiny. So small it's barely visible on the corner of the street if you weren't looking for it, but you've been doing this long enough to know that only makes it all the more special. A neon red open sign is all you need to push open the door, surprised to find a few chairs and tables beside the counter for those that decide to stay and eat. You scan the fridges, mouth watering at the thought of a crisp soda in this waning afternoon heat, but the smell of fried chicken only drags you closer to the counter.
A kind looking man— the old kind — skin pulled into sagging grooves around his neck, each sun spot a story that could stretch for years. He smiles at you, cheeks flush to his lash line and it's the sort that has you smiling back just as bright without realising. "What can I get for you?" He chirps, voice surprisingly steady despite his slow, shaking hands hovering the notepad in front of him.
You push up onto your tiptoes, arms folded atop the counter— "What do you recommend?"
His smile seems to grow impossibly wider at this, slits for eyes turning up to you; "You know what you're here for. You want the fried chicken." He hums, and you can't help but laugh.
"Yes, how did you know?" You watch as he scribbles something into the notepad, that endearing sort of chicken scrawl only old men possess.
He waves you off, hobbling to slide the note toward the chef— "I am very old." is all he says, before disappearing.
You're left, still smiling, to yourself against the counter. It's a rare pocket of calm. You briefly think this place might be magic, what with the strings of fairy lights and potted plants swinging from every corner of the ceiling. The fridges blink and buzz, the chime of the door sounds, you remain peacefully swaying beside the counter to the quiet music spilling from the crackly speakers.
"Oh—" a similarly sweet voice is making its way beside you, the shuffling of leather shoes against tile coming to an eventual stop. "I'm not used to seeing anybody else in here." A laugh, boyish and a little unsure.
You look up. Bushy, green hair catches your eyes first, followed by these wide, forest eyes that round at you like they've never been face to face with a real person before. Something peach coloured and jagged against his freckled skin has you raising you brows. A scar, a literal tear in the skin right below his eye, huge enough to stretch across almost his entire cheek.
"Sorry, it's just. . . I'm usually the only one here at this time." He speaks again, taking you out of your trance. One shoulder against the counter, fully facing you and the bright, yellow rucksack hanging from his fingers resting unknowingly against your knee. You curse yourself for staring, eyes darting to the light hairs that spout across his top lip as he smiles. He doesn't seem to mind, like he gets this a lot.
"Yeah, I—" you furiously tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, turning back to face the counter. He doesn't look away. "I'm new. This is my first time coming here." It comes out more wobbly than you'd have liked, but he doesn't make any indication of it if he notices.
His grin widens, "What did you order?"
"Fried chicken." You mumble, suddenly a little ashamed. Should you have gotten something healthier? One scan of the muscle peaking beneath that blazer tells you he probably wouldn't order such—
"No way! Me too!" He laughs, "Well, I'm yet to place my order. But it is my usual, I swear."
"Is it any good?" You tilt up at him and for a moment something mildly flustered flashes across his face.
"Oh, yeah. Best in the city." He nods, looking down at his scarred fingers with a slight frown, "It's a shame not many people know about this place."
You hum, "Well, I know about it now. And if it's as good as you say, I'll be back here everyday for more."
He eyes you from the side of his face with a grin that borders on wild, you wonder if he's always this happy after a long day. "I'm sure I'll see you here, then."
"You come here everyday?"
He nods, taking two wooden forks from the pot and holding one out to you. You take it, wordlessly. "5pm, everyday. I pass this place on my way back from work." The old man from earlier pokes his head out from a swinging, red door. Him and the man beside you share some kind of secret smile and the man gives a small wave with his free hand next to you, then the man behind the counter is darting back inside the door and shouting towards the chefs.
"Wow," you blink, turning to face him and he meets your eye with a knowing grin, "You really do come here everyday."
He nods, almost proud.
"Where do you work?" You hope it's not a forward question, but you're desperate to know with the pin stripe suit he's wearing.
"U.A Highschool, a few blocks away."
"You work at U.A?" You gawk, "Isn't that like the most prestigious training school in the city?" You know it is. You're just double checking, like his confirmation would make it any more impressive.
He nods, this time less prideful and more thoughtful, "It's a blessing, really."
You don't ask any more, turning back to the counter, still running over the images of him training a bunch of heroes-to-be right before coming over to somewhere so. . . simple.
A bell rings, different from the one above the door. Pitchier, yet further away. The kitchen door swings open to reveal the same old man, carrying two take out boxes. He hands the first one to you, which you take, but study the green-haired man's reaction first just to be sure. He seems happy enough, taking the styrofoam between two beefy hands and thanking the man with a bow. He turns to shoot you a smile in the moment of silence, you return the favour but don't dare open up the box until you're out of the door. You don't realise the two of you are walking side by side until he opens the door for you and you have to make a conscious effort to duck under his huge arms on your way out.
Once back on the pavement, you allow yourself to get used to the hustle and bustle again. He seems to do the same, leaning back against the window as his eyes dance along the small children playing not far in front of the two of you. You join him, almost shoulder to shoulder and finally pry open your box.
The smell hits you instantly, nostrils flaring and mouth watering, "Oh my god, this smells incredible." You moan, pulling it closer to your face just to take a long, purposeful inhale.
He watches you with an amused chuckle, box still safely shut between his fingers, too busy soaking up your reaction. "I told you, best in the city."
You turn to him with a playful glare, waving your wooden fork in his face like a weapon, "I haven't tried it yet." He urges you with a hand, and you make a show of digging your fork into the crispy meat, bringing it to your lips and blowing gently. He looks a little pink cheeked at the action, but watches intently for you to wrap your lips around the wood and chew with a mock purpose anyway.
Your eyes widen slightly and he laughs, "What's the verdict?"
"Holy shit." You mumble in between chews, and his smile only grows. "You really weren't kidding."
"You think I'd lie?" He raises a brow, a little sarcastic, which already feels out of character despite hardly knowing him. It's a kind of teasing settles into his smile lines like it's not used to being there, one that makes you a little giddy in return. You don't know why.
"I'm not sure." You answer, honestly, tucking that same strand of hair behind your ear as you drop your gaze toward the toes of your pointed heels. You don't really feel grown up enough to wearing them anymore, like you'd unknowingly slipped out of your work persona and into the little girl you remember being before all of this even started.
His face drops a little, "You're not?" like you should know he wouldn't dare. Like he's sure of it. You think you believe him.
"Well, I don't even know your name yet."
"Izuku." He answers immediately, eyes sparkling. You're shocked he's given you his first name, fumbling over your words for a moment before sharing yours. You give him your first, too. It feels right. "That's pretty." He hums, finally flipping open the box between his fingers just to give himself something to do. It doesn't do much to hide the way his cheeks glow, but you don't say anything.
You snort, "I feel like that's the millionth time I've said it today." He shoots you a quizzical look through a mouthful of chicken and you continue, "First day at a new agency, lots of introductions." He nods, finishing his food.
"You don't seem happy about it."
You must've been frowning, you realise, quickly trying to school your expression before one look at his face has you giving up altogether and slumping back against the wall with a sigh, "It wasn't what I was expecting."
"How so?"
"My boss is a total dick." He laughs like he wasn't expecting you to say it.
"You didn't expect that?" He places his food against the window ledge in order to give you his full attention, indication you should continue. You decide you may as well let it out to this kind. . . stranger? Weird, you feel like you've already known him a lifetime, but he is. And plus, it's not like you've got anyone else to go home and complain to. Just a lonely apartment with Dynamight's name slapped on the front.
"No, I expected that." You laugh, the first real spout of joy to rack your chest in weeks. "It's just that— he kind of owes me for something." His brows furrow and you sigh, "I know, I know. New job at some big fancy agency, I'm being ungrateful." You roll your eyes, but there's no real distaste behind it, more like it's for yourself. "I just expected him to at least show up for my first day, maybe even an apology— if that's not too much to ask." You're looking away, studying the way the pink sky turns the pavement a kind of burnt orange. Orange. You curse yourself for even noticing. It hurls you into your next sentence, has you staring right into those emerald green eyes like they could strip the city of the colour entirely. "I mean, isn't it common practice for a celebrity to have a one on one with his publicist on her first day? He's not exactly helping to disprove the public consensus that he's a selfish, unfeeling asshole." You laugh, uncharacteristically bitter, "But of course, that's my job. I'm sure he'll have me wiping his ass by next week, that's if he even shows."
Izuku hums, low and thoughtful. You shoot him an assessing look, in fear of mockery, but come to find he's genuinely mulling over your words. It remains like this for a few seconds before he's sighing out the exhale of a particularly deep breath and turning to you with a weird amount of determination; "You shouldn't let others deter you. I assume this is a job you worked for, so why let someone else ruin this for you? You should remain determined, even when others try to put a dampener on your dreams." You must be wide eyed, because his cheeks glow upon finishing his ramble and he turns to face his bright red sneakers with an awkward laugh, "But you're right, he does sound like a bit of a selfish, unfeeling asshole."
You break into shared laughter, so much so you're practically shoulder to shoulder as you shake with giggles, but it isn't uncomfortable. Just a pleasant warmth that spreads through your skin at the contact, like his body's radiating its own heat despite the layers of clothing.
"Thank you, Izuku." You smile, bumping his shoulder, "You're a good teacher."
He rubs the back of his neck, "Oh, that doesn't really have a lot to do with my teaching skills."
"Of course it does. You taught me to never give up on my dreams, even when things are hard."
His teeth poke out a little, revealed by how his smile widens, "You're right. I guess I never really switch off, you know."
"Well, don't go changing now." You point a falsely threatening finger at him and he holds his hands up in mock surrender, "You don't know how much I needed that."
He chews his lip and you can see the cogs turning as he finds the words, "Can I— would you let me get your number? You know, in case you ever need my wise words again, friend to friend."
"I'd like that." Is all you say, handing him your phone.
tags (forgive me if i've forgotten any!): @hauntedbyink @tvkvi @fries-pls
