Hi! I love your work sm💗💗 can I request a hothead/passionate wife reader and amused/calm mob Bucky!! Reader is quick to talk back to Bucky’s business partners, rivals, or even Bucky but Bucky calms her down. Sam and Steve(and all of Bucky’s men) know how she is so when she interrupts a meeting or something demanding Bucky’s attention, everyone knows to not say anything(except for his clueless business partners rip)
I rewatched the avatar movies and I love Jake and Neytiri’s dynamic. I can totally see mob Bucky being just madly in love with his big personality wife but will also kill anyone for disrespecting her 😭 anyways take your time, I look forward to all ur stories!
Hello! Thank you for the kind words, I absolutely loved this idea and really wanted to go ahead and write it. (I love mob/mafia Bucky honestly 😭) So, I thank you for this request and hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!
The Fire He Chose
Summary: You’re a fiery, attention-demanding wife in the mob world, never afraid to storm into meetings or make a scene when your husband is late, but he wouldn’t have you any other way. (Mob!Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 1.4k+
Main Masterlist
You weren’t the kind of woman mobsters married.
You were too loud, too quick with a threat, and had too much fire behind your eyes with not nearly enough tact on your tongue. In other words, you weren’t the kind of woman who demurred, smiled politely at fundraisers, or let things “slide for now.”
But Bucky Barnes had never cared much for what was expected.
He met you on a summer night in a small, dim-lit bar two neighborhoods over from his territory where the whiskey was cheap and the music was louder than the fights. He was there on business, but you were there for blood.
Someone had said something crude. Touched your wrist like they had the right to which led you to breaking a bottle over their head before they could finish their sentence.
Bucky watched you from the corner of the room. And when the glass shattered and the man hit the floor, you turned, breathing heavy with fire burning in your chest, and met his eyes.
You expected judgment or maybe boredom. But he smiled, slowly.
You didn’t know then who he was. Just that he was handsome and too calm for someone surrounded by chaos. You rolled your eyes when he offered to buy you a drink. Said, “Only if you’re not gonna waste it talking.”
You were married within two years.
No one saw it coming. His men, used to his cold precision and careful silences, were baffled when he brought you into his world. Not just as a wife, but as his. His girl, his queen, the one person in the world who could get away with storming into his office, yelling at him across a ballroom, or threatening to bury a man alive in the garden.
And Bucky? He was obsessed.
Not in the frantic, possessive way other men in his world acted. No, he loved you with the kind of madness that stayed quiet until it cracked open a man’s ribs. He loved you like he knew he didn’t deserve something as alive as you, but he’d kill a thousand men just to keep you looking at him like that again.
His men adjusted though. They learned quickly: when you raised your voice, they shut their mouths. When you called, Bucky came.
Even Steve and Sam, the closest thing he had to brothers, learned to expect the sound of your voice echoing off marble walls when something pissed you off. They’d exchange tired looks, maybe a smirk. But they’d never step between you and Bucky.
Because it didn’t matter how fiery your temper ran, he was always calm when it came to you.
And the world moved around that fact.
One late evening, right outside one of the meeting rooms, you approached the door and didn’t knock. You never did.
The oak doors flew open like they’d been kicked, and maybe they had as your heels clacked sharply across the marble like gunshots. Bucky was in the middle of a meeting with well-dressed, stiff-backed businessmen. The kind who wore five-thousand-dollar watches and thought it made them bulletproof.
Poor bastards.
Steve barely looked up. Sam leaned back in his seat with a slow grin already forming. The rest of Bucky’s men either went dead quiet or made themselves busy not existing.
But the outsiders, the men in suits, flinched. One of them sat forward, annoyed. “Excuse–”
“No,” You snapped, without even looking at him. You were already making a beeline for Bucky at the head of the table, eyes sharp, and jaw set like stone.
Bucky didn’t flinch either. He never did.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, watching you with the calm of a man who loved this, loved you, even when you were a walking wildfire, especially so.
“Sweetheart,” He said, voice like silk wrapped around steel. “You’re interrupting a meeting.”
You stopped just short of him. Hands on your hips and brow raised. “It’s seven.”
He tilted his head, smile tugging at his mouth. “Is it?”
“You said you’d be home by five. I made dinner.”
Bucky hummed. “You cooked?”
“I ordered, but I plated it myself.”
One of the men, clearly suicidal, tried again. “Mr. Barnes, if this is a private–”
Your hand slammed on the table. The sound cracked through the room loudly. “If you don’t shut up, I swear to God I will staple your tongue to your tie and make you eat your own business cards.”
The man recoiled.
Steve didn’t even try to hide his smirk now as Sam gave the man a look that was somewhere between pity and you’re on your own now, buddy.
Bucky stood slowly and adjusted his jacket. Still calm, still composed, but his eyes were on you. Just you, as always.
“What really happened?” He asked, stepping around the table like the meeting had ended the moment you walked in.
“Your cousin called,” You said through clenched teeth. “Said he put a tracker on my car for my safety.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked, a slow exhale followed. His voice, when he spoke again, was ice beneath a velvet coat. “I’ll handle it.”
You lifted your head. “I already threw the tracker in the river.”
“Of course you did,” He murmured, stepping into your space. “But I’ll make sure he doesn’t try that again.”
“You better.”
“Will you forgive me for being late?”
You didn’t answer right away, but the scowl on your face was enough of an answer. He leaned in just enough to press his lips to your temple, his hand sliding to the small of your back like he was both calming you and reminding the room you were untouchable.
“Meeting’s over,” He declared without looking at the rest. “We’ll reschedule.”
The men stood immediately. One of them looked like he’d just seen death take human form in a tailored suit and a five-foot-something woman in heels.
As you turned, Bucky’s hand still on your back, you caught Steve’s voice behind you:
“She’s gonna start a war one day.”
And Sam replied, “Yeah… and he’ll finish it smiling.”
You didn’t wait for the car door to be open.
The second Bucky's driver parked in front of the townhouse, you were already out and stomping up the steps, heels clicking like warning shots. You could hear him behind you, calm and steady like always, probably smirking to himself.
You didn’t care though, not really.
“Five,” You called over your shoulder as you unlocked the front door with too much force. “You said five.”
“I know.”
“You always say that, but this time I made a plan for tonight.”
You kicked your heels off in the hallway and didn't even head for the living room. You just stood there, arms crossed, dramatic in the warm glow of the chandelier light like some furious little goddess in silk.
Bucky stepped inside, closed the door behind him without a word, and hung up his coat like this was the most ordinary homecoming in the world.
“You ordered takeout,” He said mildly.
You scoffed. “I plated it, I garnished it. That counts as cooking.”
“Of course it does.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I even lit a candle.”
“Romantic.”
“I almost stabbed a man for you today.”
That got him. His mouth twitched barely, but it was there. That stupidly handsome smirk that only showed when you were being the most… yourself.
“Only one?” He asked, stepping closer, voice low and amused. “You’re losing your edge.”
You slapped his chest, it didn’t move him an inch. “Don’t you dare flirt with me right now, Barnes. I’m still mad.”
“Then what should I do?”
“You should grovel.”
“Mm.” He reached out, casually brushing your hair back over your shoulder like he had all the time in the world. “On my knees?”
You blinked. Then threw your head back with an exaggerated groan. “You are impossible! You don’t even feel bad!”
“Not even a little.”
“Why?”
His hands found your waist, gentle and solid. He pulled you in slowly like reeling in a net he knew you’d tangled yourself in. And you let him, of course you did.
“Because you missed me,” He murmured. “And that never gets old.”
You hated that it made your stomach flip. Hated it even more that he knew exactly what he was doing. You buried your face in his chest, smacking him weakly once more for good measure.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“…Same thing.”
His lips ghosted over your temple. “You gonna yell at me all night?”
“Maybe.”
“Good. I missed your voice.”
You looked up at him, pout in full force, but he only looked so calm and so in love, it made your chest ache.
“I wanted you home,” You whispered.
“I know, baby.” He brushed his nose against yours. “I’m here now.”
“And you’re mine,” You added, because of course you had to remind him.
wc: 3.6k
a/n: LMAOOO not me getting inspired/making new WIPs when i should be focusing on my old ones and WARRIOR😭. i swear i am...after a few more👀 Song Inspiration: POSER by PARTYOF2; recommend you listen while reading!!
The chair bites into Bakugo’s spine like it was built to punish pride.
Not the cheap plastic kind either—the kind with a hard back and unforgiving angles that knows where it’ll hurt.
Every shift scrapes against his skin, and the sting of it makes his temper flare all over again because he shouldn’t be sitting anywhere that smell like mildew and old cigarettes and people who think they’ve won.
Though it doesn't lessen the way the heavy cuffs clamps his wrists to the arms of the chair. They know exactly where to press—right against the softer part of his skin where the metal digs in every time he tests them.
And he does test them.
Tiny movements at first; a roll of the wrist...a flex of the forearm...a slow pull that would make weaker restraints squeal.
Nothing.
Bakugo jaw tightens until his molars ache.
He can still feel the fire of the forest. Where the smoke had clawed down his throat while he fought through flame and falling branches.
Where he'd been in the middle of training—his training—when the world decided it wanted to test him in a different way.
Shigaraki stands in front of the turned off TV with a slouch that gave off he’s both bored with the world and personally offended it still exists.
His pale blue hair catches the dim light while on his face rests a hand (that damn hand) like a parasite, fingers splayed across his cheekbones as though it owns him.
“This system has a strange way of transforming people’s lives into money or glory," The leader of the League of Villains talks like he’s reciting scripture.
“A society that sticks tight to those rules...citizens who blame the losers rather than encourage them...” He gestures vaguely as if the air itself is his audience. “Our fight is to question: what is a hero? What is justice? Is this society truly just?”
Bakugo’s glare hardens until it’s almost physical as Shigaraki’s eyes fix on him.
“We’ll have everyone thinking about it,” he says, voice dipping into something sharp and pleased. “That’s when we’ll know we’ve won.”
He pauses, slyness creeping into his tone like he’s dangling bait.
“You like winning too, right Bakugo?”
Winning
That makes the spikey blonde's stomach twist with disgust.
As if it’s the same kind of winning. As if Bakugo's winning is about watching the world burn.
The audacity of it all makes the prickling under the teen's skin surge.
Shigaraki finally stops circling his own sermon long enough to order something useful. “Dabi,” he says casually, “release his restraints.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Huh?” Dabi’s voice drags out, low and rough as he raises a brow. “You know this kid’s gonna fight.”
Bakugo’s gaze flicks toward him with dry acknowledgment. 'Yeah. No shit.'
“It’s fine,” Shigaraki answers unfazed. “We need to treat him as an equal since we’re recruiting him. Besides,” a malicious smile is heard behind the decrepit hand, sickly and self-satisfied, “he’s smart enough to know he can’t take us all and win in this situation, right? After all you U.A. students are so clever.”
Equal. The word lands like an insult causing the cuffs on Bakugo wrists to click faintly at his straining.
Dabi’s mouth twitches, unimpressed before flicking the annoyance away like a cigarette butt. “Twice,” he says. “You do it.”
Twice jerks like he’s been slapped with responsibility. “What, me?! No way.” He laughs wrong before suddenly blurting, the contradiction tumbling out in the same breath. “Absolutely!”
“Do it,” Dabi flatly orders again.
“Man...okay okay!” Twice mutters under his breath as he shuffles forward, hands working at the locks with light complaint. The moment Bakugo’s wrists are free, his shoulders roll like a predator finally allowed to stand.
Mr. Compress glides forward like he’s hosting a show, arms spread wide with a flourish.
“I do apologize for using such forceful methods,” he says, voice silky and theatrical. “But please understand that we are not just some unruly mob trying to commit crimes. We didn’t kidnap you by accident.”
Bakugo says nothing, simply flexing his fingers as the last restraint falls, feeling blood rush back through his hands. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his lip curls.
Shigaraki steps closer, voice dropping into something that tries to sound sincere. “Even though our situations differ, everyone here has suffered. Because of people... rules... and heroes who tried to hold us back. I’m sure you feel the same way—”
Bakugo lunges forward.
Hand swinging straight for Shigaraki’s face, he detonates—an explosion so close it’s a slap across everyone’s faces.
The blast blooms white-orange, loud enough to rattle the room, as the shockwave pushes dust and ash outward like a violent exhale.
When the haze clears Shigaraki’s is seen stumbled back, face still turned sideways from the impact. He does nothing for a moment, shaking eyes taking in the sight of the hand that now lays discarded on the floor, steam emitting from the severed appendage.
Bakugo plants his feet and squares his shoulders.
“I’m done listening to your endless jabbering,” he spits sharply. His eyes rake the room—taking stock of every villain, every angle, every threat—before bouncing back to Shigaraki. “Can you not get to the point or do you just like hearing your own voice?”
His lips peel back in a snarl. “Basically what you’re saying is you’re nothing but trouble and you want me to join you.” He lifts his chin, refusing to be talked down to by any of them.
“Well screw you,” Bakugo growls.
“I like to win. And I'm gonna win just like All Might. No matter what you have to offer me, no matter what anyone says—that will never change! Do you understand?!”
There’s a heartbeat where he thinks they’ll rush him. He wants them to. He can feel the fight vibrating under his skin begging to spill ou—
He stops.
It’s not dramatic at first. It’s a tiny shift: his mouth goes still mid-snarl, head angling as if he’s caught a frequency no one else can hear.
A deep distant boom rolls in from far away.
It rattles the ceiling causing dust to sift down in a soft sprinkle, landing on shoulders and hair like a warning.
Everyone freezes.
Twice blinks rapidly, voice splitting in two. “That—uh—that wasn’t us!” one voice says anxiously. “Yes we definitely did that!” the other argues louder in defense.
Spinner’s nods toward to the boarded windows. “Heroes already?”
Dabi tilts his head, eyes narrowing, listening with the patience of someone who knows what an approaching fight sounds like.
“No,” he says slowly as if tasting it. “Heroes don’t sound that pissed.”
For a second Shigaraki’s expression glitches—irritation, confusion, a flicker of something like calculation.
Bakugo’s mouth twitches from it all. A grin starts at the corner of his lips, small and mean, like a secret he’s savoring. “Heh.”
Shigaraki’s gaze snaps back to him as his scowl deepens. “What are you smiling about?” he demands.
Bakugo doesn’t even give him the satisfaction of a full answer. His grin simply widens, this time showing teeth.
“Nothing,” he says lazily.
And then, like he can’t help himself—like the thought is too good to keep in—he adds low and delightfully:
“Guess you’ll find out.”
Another boom answers him.
The old building tremors with it; a thin jagged crack spiders up the plaster near the corner as the hanging lamp swings violently on its chain casting a nauseating sway of shadow across the room.
One of the lower-ranking villains (a kind of extra Bakugo doesn’t even bother to memorize) edges toward a boarded-up window. She leans in, face pressed toward the narrow gap between two warped planks—
only to instantly jerk back as if slapped.
She blinks once. Then twice.
“No...” she shakes her head with a mutter, a short incredulous laugh slipping out of before she can stop it. “That’s—no. I’m tripping.”
She leans in again for another look. This time she stays there longer, so much the room goes quiet behind her as if holding their breath.
Shigaraki’s patience finally breaks under the pressure of anticipation. “Well?” he snarls. “Spit it out.”
The villain straightens and turns around slowly, almost as if she’s afraid the room might change if she does it too fast.
“I—I think...” Her voice comes out unsure of itself. “...I see daylight.”
For half a second no one reacts.
Then confusion ripples through the room in low murmurs and scoffs, disbelief layering over itself.
“What?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“At night?”
Before anyone can laugh it off—
BOOM
The hideout seemed to flinch, boards creaking as a section of nailed wood rattled loose enough for a harsh beam of white-gold light to slice through the gaps.
It spills across the cracked concrete floor, flooding the dust-choked air in violent flashes as if the sun itself was slamming its fist trying to break in.
The surrounding villains could only stare in uneasy silenc—
Bakugo laughs.
It starts low, a sharp huff through his nose before the sound grows. Loud, wild, and gleeful—it echoes off the walls as another pulse of false daylight goes off.
“You guys really fucked up,” is all he says through the laughter, eyes blazing brighter than the light spilling in. “You know that?”
Dabi’s flames of irritation flares. “If you know what’s happening,” he steps forward intimidatingly, “start talking.”
Bakugo just looks at him as his teeth bared in a feral grin. “Nah.”
The explosions get closer—close enough that the floor quake in short angry bursts. Close enough that dust rains from the ceiling in thicker streams.
Then—
Silence.
For a moment the only sound is the faint crackle of something burning somewhere outside, the LoV’s own breathing suddenly too loud.
It's a quiet that makes the room loosen a fraction—shoulders drop, stance weakens, quirks idle.
A smaller villain near the door scoffs under his breath, courage returning now that the noise has paused.
He steps forward, swaggering into the space between Bakugo and the exit like he’s going to reclaim control with words.
“See?” he starts smugly. “All that talk and nothing. Just a little few b—”
The door doesn’t open.
It implodes.
Wood splinters into a storm of shards, the entire frame bursting apart as a thick spike of debris spears straight through the villain’s torso, lifting him off his feet in a grotesque second of shock—eyes wide, mouth open, no sound coming out.
He doesn’t even finish dying before a wave of fire surges in, swallowing him into an inferno that incinerates flesh and fabric so fast it leaves nothing human behind.
Stench from the steam hits hard—burnt wood, burnt hair, burnt meat—enough to make even hardened criminals recoil.
The League staggers back as one. Even Dabi’s flames reacted, the heat flooding the room feeling nothing like his.
Bakugo stands in the chaos like he belongs in it, soot and dust catching in his hair, eyes locked on the ruined doorway with a predator’s focus.
His laughter is gone now, replaced by the cold certainty of a bastard King watching his enemies finally understand the price of a mistake.
A figure steps into view through the smoke—silhouette carved out by the bright flare behind them.
The voice that follows is calm—almost emotionless—and that lack of emotion makes it worse.
“Who fucking thought kidnapping my bestfriend was smart?”
The sun is warm enough to make the air feel thick.
Not hot. Not oppressive. Just that soft golden light that settles over quiet neighborhoods when the day is almost done and everyone assumes nothing bad can happen anymore.
You hate it.
You sit cross-legged in the grass, arms folded tight over your chest, jaw set so hard it aches. The blades of grass itch against your calves as a tiny pebble keeps pressing into the soft part of your foot, but you refuse to move.
Because moving would feel like giving in. And giving in would feel like losing.
Bakugo Katsuki is doing the exact same thing across from you.
He’s sitting with his knees up, arms crossed, face twisted into a scowl that looks permanently carved there despite how young he is. His blond hair sticks up in uneven spikes, catching the sunlight like sparks frozen mid-blast.
He keeps glaring like you personally offended him by existing in his space (apparently you did).
Near the small garden patch off to the side of the yard, your mother and Bakugo Mitsuki are deep in conversation. They sit in mismatched outdoor chairs, leaning toward each other in conversation, hands moving as adult laughter drifts over loud and unaware.
Your mother’s voice is calm but animated, her posture straight even when she relaxes. She listens more than she speaks, sharp eyes always flicking back toward you even when she’s smiling.
Mitsuki, on the other hand, laughs with her whole body. She slaps her knee once, completely unapologetic about the volume of her joy.
“So you’re telling me,” Mitsuki wipes at the corner of her eye, “they have to burn dinner at least once or it doesn’t count?”
Your mother hums in amusement. “It’s practically a requirement.”
You glance over at them, irritation bubbling low in your stomach.
Well...they’re having fun. Meanwhile you’re stuck on another forced playdate.
This was supposed to be a polite and civil affair. Reasons for exposure and socialization and he’s around your age.
You didn’t care about any of that.
But your mom told you to put your shoes on anyway. She always has a way to tell you to do something. A voice that doesn’t rise, doesn’t waver, or doesn’t argue back no matter how hard you push so you might as well stop fighting.
You fight anyway. You always do.
“What’re you pouting for?” Bakugo breaks the tension with aggression, “You gonna cry again or somethin’?”
“I’m not crying,” you shoot back, heat flaring in your chest. “You’re just annoying.”
He scoffs. “Annoying? You’re the one who won’t even play.”
“I don’t wanna play your dumb games.”
“They’re not dumb!” he yells, springing to his feet. “You’re just bad at ‘em!”
Your face burns. You stand too, movements jerky as anger sifts through your limbs like static. “I am not!”
“You are!” he shouts back, pointing at you like that settles it. “You don’t even try!”
“I try harder than you!” you're screaming at this point, voice cracking with the force of it. You hate the way your feelings always spill out too big—like you can’t keep them inside where they belong.
Your mom glances over then at the commotion causing you to clamp your mouth shut.
Bakugo notices. “What, you gonna tattle?” he sneers.
“I don’t tattle,” you snap. “I don’t need to.”
He snorts. “Yeah right.”
The silence settles back into place, heavier now. You both stand there, breathing hard, staring each other down like this is a battle neither of you know how to walk away from.
This wasn’t supposed to be permanent.
You and your mother were supposed to leave. Japan was just another stop—another borrowed house, another almost-home.
Then your father didn’t come back from war.
You don’t understand all of it yet. You just know that your mother stopped packing boxes and started planting roots. That she speaks Japanese more often now, keeps her voice steady even when her eyes go distant. That everyone else seems to accept this life faster than you do.
Japan still feels strange sometimes—too many rules, too many looks that linger too long on your skin, on your hair, on your mom.
Your dad used to say it didn’t matter. He used to pick you up and spin you until you laughed so hard it hurt, until the world blurred into color and nothing else existed.
You don’t remember his voice very well anymore.
Only the way the house went quiet after he was gone, and how your anger got bigger to fill the space.
From the garden Mitsuki calls out without looking, “Hey Katsuki! Show her that hero thing you’re always bragging about.”
Bakugo freezes for a beat before his chest puffs out in reflex.
“Tch. Fine,” he says, already turning away from you and stomping toward the back step. He digs through a plastic bin, tossing aside rocks and broken crayons and something that looks suspiciously like a chewed-up glove.
When he straightens again, he’s holding it up triumphantly like a trophy: an All Might toy.
It’s scuffed and worn, paint chipped at the edges, one arm a little looser than it should be—but it’s unmistakable: the pose, the grin, the cape frozen mid-sweep.
Your eyes follow it without permission.
“This is All Might,” Bakugo declares, thrusting the action figure toward the sky like he’s presenting evidence. “He’s the strongest hero ever. He always wins. And I’m gonna be like him.”
You take a good look at him; at the confidence, the way he says it like it’s already decided. “I know who All Might is.”
His glare jumps back to you. “Then why are you acting like you don’t care?”
“I do care,” you counter, pride flaring hot and fast. “I just don’t brag about it like an idiot.” You step closer despite yourself. “You don’t even hold it right.”
“What?” He jerks away from you when you get too close. “Yeah I do.”
“No you don’t. He stands like this,” you insist, mimicking the stance with your own small body, feet planted wide, chin lifted. “He’s strong, not sloppy.”
Bakugo stares at you for a beat. Then he laughs—sharp and disbelieving. “You think you know All Might better than me?”
“I know him just as good,” you say curtly. “Maybe better.”
The blonde child's fingers tighten around the battered plaything. “No way! You don’t even have one.”
“It doesn’t matter!”
“It does matter,” he insists haughtily. “If you don’t have one, you don’t get it.”
“I get it!” You lunge forward before you can stop yourself, grabbing the plastic's arm. “I'll show you. Give it to me!”
“No!” He yanks back, and suddenly you’re both pulling, feet digging into the grass, the toy stretched between you like a fuse about to snap.
The adults are still talking...laughing. Unaware of what's conspiring.
Bakugo’s face is red now, teeth clenched. “Let go!”
“You let go!”
“I had it first!”
“That’s not...FAIR!” you scream as you pull harder, and then—to both your surprise—you begin to gain ground.
You’re stronger than he expects, and Bakugo doesn't like that.
“You—!” His face twists, voice cracking with fury. “Fine!”
A sharp crack of sound snaps against your hands and arms. You stumble back with a cry, the figurine slipping from your grip allowing the toy to jerk free into his hands.
Bakugo looks shocked for exactly one second before pride takes over. “I won,” he says breathless.
You could only stare at him as your eyes began to sting—not just from the pain, but from the realization settling in too fast for you to dodge it:
He hurt you...on purpose.
Something inside you breaks loose.
You feel it crawl up your spine, pooling thick and sour in your stomach. Your hands tremble as the air around starts to feels wrong—thick and buzzing, like it’s holding its breath too.
“No,” you snarl through tears. “You didn’t.”
The ground under your feet shudders causing Bakugo’s smile to falter.
Pressure bends close to your skin, a deep vibration thrumming through your bones. It’s not clean nor controlled; instead a wave of rage, hurt, and humiliation crashing together with nowhere to go.
You look at the miniature All Might in his grasp and you hate it.
You hate that he had it. You hate that he used it. You hate that it mattered so much.
Your cry turns sharp as the heat continues to spike. “You cheated! So—”
Bakugo yelps at the sudden temperature making him drop the toy with a flinch.
“Nobody wins!” you finish through sobs.
The action doll begins to melt just as it hits the ground before shattering into fragments. Plastic warps as the force of the explosion scatters it across the yard; bits of cape, a broken grin, an arm uselessly in the grass.
The sound is enormous.
Your mother moves faster than Bakugo has ever seen an adult move. She’s there in an instant, hands on your shoulders, pulling you back against her chest.
The world drops into quiet like someone pressed a palm over reality itself as the pressure collapses inward. Vibration dying mid-thrum, the energy disperses harmlessly into nothing.
Your knees buckle as your power vanishes leaving you shaking, exhausted, and furious all at once.
“I’ve got you,” your mother murmurs as she holds you steady, one hand firm between your shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of your head. “Breathe.”
Mitsuki is already up, eyes wide. “What the hell—Katsuki! What did you do?!”
Bakugo doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
He could only stare, watching the ruined pieces of the All Might figurine across his backyard. At the scorch marks on the green grass.
Your mother turns, already apologizing, posture composed despite the tension in her lips. She bows deeply. “I’m so sorry. I should have kept a closer eye on her. I’ll make sure to replace the toy.”
Mitsuki waves it off reflexively even as she grabs Bakugo by the collar. “Didn't I tell you about using your explosions on people?!” Then softer to your mother, “It's fine, kids will be kids. Guess they both got tempers huh?”
Your mother nods with a tight smile in place, already steering you away.
You don’t look back the entire time. Your fury still simmers within as you leave the yard, heat lingering in your wake like a memory burned into the air.
You don’t see Bakugo standing there watching you go. He ignores Mitsuki's scolding as she drags him inside the house. Hell he barely even register her threats of 'taking away his games' or 'no hanging out at the arcade after school'.
All he sees is the aftermath.
The broken toy...
The heat...
The power...
A small smile tugs at his mouth before he even realizes it’s there.
hi hun!! i have another in a week :]] it's a little less cute than sunshine reader, but i read the fic where reader swore at someone and everyone was shocked and i thought it was so funnyy
i was thinking a.. hothead!reader who's got a sailor mouth and quick temper, so naturally she curses a LOT. and the boys dare her to try not to curse for just one day, and she accepts it, but without them even doing anything mischievous to tick her off, she drops something and she's like "fuck- shit, damn it!" and the boys are just giggling their head off and constantly reminding her to put money in the swear jar
ooh and maemae, i love the way you write descriptions omgg <333 especially when you write from james' pov, he's such a sweetheart!! ahh you're such an amazing writer, your stuff gives me all the warm fuzzies :] i hope you're taking care of yourself in the midst of writing all these requests!!
- ✏️
Thank you my love!
join the party
poly!marauders x hothead!reader ♡ 677 words
You know your boyfriends are plotting something. You eye them suspiciously as Sirius whispers to James, both of them giggling like children.
“What,” you say flatly.
James doesn’t even bother trying to hide his grin. “Nothing, sweetheart.”
You huff, biting your lip before you can call him any name that’ll make you lose your prize. It’s nine in the morning, and you’ve only got about sixteen hours to go with no cursing. Twelve if you go to bed early as a measure of self-censure.
Remus had raised an eyebrow at you after a particularly colorful stream of expletives the night before, asking as you made your contribution to the swear jar, “Do you think you could go even one day without swearing like that?” You said you could, and Sirius had pounced on the opportunity for a wager, betting you that you couldn’t go the entire next day without using a single curse word.
You’re sure the boys were hoping you’d forget overnight, but you aren’t accustomed to losing, and damned if you aren’t going to get your prize. Sirius has so little faith in you that he agreed to letting you pick what movies you all watched for the next month if you win the bet. The next month. That means a month-long reprieve from those stupid fucking heist movies they all love so much.
You’re also certain that, failing their first plan of your poor memory, your boyfriends are going to be cooking up some other scheme to make you falter. One of their famous pranks, to be sure. They tease you incessantly for your short fuse, and they’re bound to try and ignite it any way they can today.
You wonder what it’ll be. Dog breath potion slipped into your water bottle? Stink pellets tossed into your room? Or maybe something so simple as salt in your coffee?
You look down at the mug Remus handed you a minute ago, sniffing at it. They always use Remus when they want to be inconspicuous; it’s so hard to suspect him. But he wants you to lose the bet as much as anyone.
You stand, carrying your still-full mug into the kitchen.
“Not this time,” you mutter.
Remus looks up from his paper, frowning at you as you stomp over to the sink. “Dove, what are you doing?”
“You must think I’m so gullible,” you drawl, pouring the hot coffee down the drain. “There’s no way I’m ingesting anything you—” the handle of the mug slips from your grasp, the dish shattering in the sink “—ah, fuck!” You look up to see Sirius’ eyes widen, glee sparking to life, and realize what you’ve done. “Shit. Damn it!”
Remus puts a hand over his mouth while Sirius hoots, and James simply collapses in giggles, disappearing behind the couch.
“Tha—that was too easy,” Sirius cackles, using his forefinger to wipe under his eyes. “We didn’t even do anything yet!”
“Sweetheart, I’m almost disappointed,” Remus says, shaking his head even as he grins from ear-to-ear. “I thought you’d make it to the afternoon at least. Get your money for the jar.”
“That’s, what?” James' voice comes from behind the couch. “Three dollars?”
“Five,” you say gravely, holding up your favorite finger on each hand. “Fuck you, you assholes.”
“Pretty sure that’s six, babydoll.” Sirius cheeses at you. “Gestures count, don’t they Prongs?”
“A dollar per hand,” James agrees, now recovered enough to sit up on the couch.
You seethe at them, and Remus comes into the kitchen to help you clean up your mess, patting your shoulder consolingly.
“We’ll put it towards date night,” he says.
“Good idea.” Sirius kicks his feet up on the table, making a show of lounging in his chair. “I’m thinking tonight, we order in from that Indian place and watch The Italian Job. What do you think, lads?”
You bristle, but Remus sees the comeback sizzling on your tongue and squeezes your shoulder warningly. “Save your money, dove. Want me to make you some more coffee? Seems like you might need it today.”
Not a dramatic amount—just enough to taste it every time you breathe through your mouth: metallic...warm...familiar.
Your shirt clings to your back with sweat, and your hairline is damp from the kind of heat that doesn’t come from this afternoon's weather.
The backyard is torn to hell.
Grass has been kicked up into uneven patches from repeated impacts. The fence bears half-charred slats that Mitsuki complained about once and then never fixed. The air smells like dust and burnt sugar.
Nothing about this is normal.
Kinetic Charge hums in your bones when you kick off the ground, cracks forming under your foot.
“Finally,” Bakugo grins at you like he's been waiting for this all day—feral, bright, happy in the ugliest way.
The first explosion comes at you fast, snapping from his palms like punctuation.
You pivot sideways in the dirt, but the burst clips your shoulder anyway in flashing white-hot pain. You laugh through clenched teeth.
“Your left hook’s getting lazy,” you shout as you shove a focused burst of force from your own palm into his chest.
He skids, boots carving lines into the dirt. “Shut up,” he snaps. “You’re stalling.”
You are.
Because even while you’re trading blows, even while your heart is hammering and your quirk burns under your skin, part of your brain is already doing what it always does when Bakugo comes home from school:
Tracking his form...
Clocking where his timing slips...
Running through what he learned and where the gaps are...
Your quirk hums even stronger—a contained pressure that sits like a storm banked behind a dam.
On paper it’s called Kinetic Charge; considered to be a low-tier propulsion based-mobility enhancer. Good for jumps, bursts of speed, flashy but limited applications. Nothing to focus on. No need to worry about the possibility of a powerful hero (or villain) in the making.
At least that’s what the registry says. Because the stronger your emotions are?
Thrusting your palm forward, you compress it into a focused burst, the shockwave punching through the air before slamming toward an opening in Bakugo's defense like an invisible fist.
He takes it square in the lower face and skids back, boots tearing up grass. Coughing once, the blonde teen straightens, eyes alight.
“There you go!” he hoarsely laughs. Blood trickles at the corner of his mouth—his lip bitten at some point and didn’t even notice.
To any sane person, this would look like a fight.
Split lips. Dirt-streaked skin. Bruises blooming over collarbones and ribs. The kind of thing that ends with someone not getting up.
To you, it’s a regular Tuesday.
You counter his next blast with a shockwave that sends you into the air as you maneuver his attempted kick to the side. “Pop quiz,” you say breathlessly as you hit the ground. “What’s the formula for kinetic energy?”
Katsuki snarls, already charging. “The hell are you yapping about now?!”
“You forgot it last time,” you say, ducking under his swing and slamming your fist into his ribs. “Answer!”
He grunts as you collide, hands grabbing at your sleeves. “One-half m v squared!”
You grin even as your teeth rattle. “Good.”
He blasts you backward harder this time. Skidding, you catch yourself with one hand and push up, muscles screaming.
“You still doing that dumb homeschooling shit?” he pants.
“Yup,” you shoot back. “And still ahead of your whole stupid class.”
“Bullshit!”
“Ask me what you covered today.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Projectile motion.”
You launch yourself at him again. “Angle determines range. Forty-five degrees—”
He cuts you off with an explosion aimed at your feet causing you to stumble. "Shit," you lightly hiss before sending another concussive wave that rattles his bones.
“—maximizes distance assuming no air resistance,” you finish. “Which your teacher didn’t bother explaining.”
Bakugo's mouth twists into something mean as he release a sharp laugh. “You're such an fucking Extra.”
You freeze for half a heartbeat then you bark a laugh through your nose, even as you spit blood onto the ground.
Extra.
To anyone else it sounds like how he talks about background people—props. The nobody characters. The ones he dismisses with a sneer, shouts over in class, refuses to remember.
But he doesn’t say it to you like that.
He says it like it’s yours. Like he picked up the word, turned it over in his hands, and decided it fit you the way a nickname fits a scar.
Extra as in too much. Dramatic. Loud in the way you refuse to lose. Excessive in the way you refuse to bend.
You wipe your mouth with the heel of your palm and glare back. “You like it.”
He doesn’t deny it.
You circle each other slowly now, breathing heavy, sweat dripping. This is how you’ve always done it—learning braided into violence, explanations shouted between blasts, corrections delivered with bruises.
You never went to school with him.
You never needed to.
While the short-tempered boy sat in classrooms snapping at teachers and anyone who dared to be at his level, you were at home—textbooks spread out on the table, online courses stacked ahead of your age-group, lessons catered to you.
No bells. No peers. No waiting for everyone else to catch up.
And so, when Bakugo came home, furious and restless and full of energy with nowhere to put it, you two would spar.
A conversation-filled spar where he would tell you what they taught him. Where you would correct what they got wrong and explain the parts they rushed. Sometimes you already knew it, sometimes you didn't and you learned together.
But you always fought through it.
Bakugo swings his arm again, releasing a blast that fractures, veering just enough that it misses your face and instead tears a groove into the fence.
He pauses.
You don’t. Instead you close the distance and slam your shoulder into him.
His breath leaves him in a grunt as his hands grab for you, gripping your forearm hard enough to bruise. You twist, wrenching free with a controlled pulse of force that pops the air at his wrist forcing him to let go.
Bakugo wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheek. He laughs like it’s the best thing he’s felt all day.
“Damn,” he says breathlessly. “You’re really trying today.”
You pant, chest rising and falling. “I always try.”
“Never tried this hard.”
Your eyes narrow. “Maybe you’re just getting slower. Ever thought about that Katsuki?”
That gets him.
The smile drops as his brows knit. The air around him changes—heat building, sweat slicking his palms, that familiar scent of sharpness like the world’s about to ignite.
He lunges at you with a roar.
This time you misjudge the angle and his explosion clips your jaw with a hot sting. You feel it in your stomach first; that drop. The sharp humiliating jolt of anger.
Bakugo sees it instantly (he always does). He’s already smiling again like he can taste the shift in you.
“There she is,” he says almost delighted.
You hate him.
You love him.
You want to hit him hard enough to rattle his future.
“Shut up,” you spit.
He opens his mouth to say something worse only to suddenly stop.
You see it in the way his shoulders remain tense like he’s bracing for impact that isn’t coming. The way his eyes keep flashing, not focused on you anymore but on something beyond.
The spar ends without being called.
Bakugo continues to stand there, chest rising and falling like a storm as you tilt your head slightly to study him. You’ve seen this look before—right after tests, evaluations, anything that reminds him the world exists beyond this yard.
You don’t ask what’s wrong nor do you offer comfort. You never do. That’s not your language.
Instead you wipe your nose again, grimacing at the coagulated smear of red on your hand and say the only thing that fits. “You’re fighting sloppy.”
He bristles instantly as he shoots you a look. “You talk too damn much.”
“You’re the one swinging like you got something to prove.”
Nostrils flaring, he says nothing and simply looks away.
That’s answer enough.
You take a few steps closer, dropping to the ground first, legs stretched out, hands braced behind you as you take in the cool breeze of the afternoon air. “Never did tell me what happened at the exam. Been about what, a week has it?”
Bakugo's gaze sharpen, anger immediately snapping into place like armor. “Nothing happened.”
You stare at him until he hates the silence more than he hates being seen. He finally gives in, collapsing on the yard's soft grass with flung out arms.
“...I saw Deku,” he spits, as if saying the name tastes bad. “That quick little bastard.”
Your brows knit at the name you've heard a thousand times. You’ve never met Izuku Midoriya. You don’t what he looks like, how he sounds, his exact shape in the world.
You only know him secondhand—through Bakugo's bitter venom and Mitsuki’s occasional sighs about “that sweet boy” who's friendship with her son ceased around the time you moved in next door.
“I thought he’d stay gone,” the blonde hothead continues, “thought he’d be smart enough to know he doesn’t belong in the same space as me.”
You watch the way his fingers twitch, like he wants to explode something just to feel relief.
“He looked at me,” he nearly hiss. “Like...like he could actually keep up.”
Even when the words come out like an insult, you could almost hear something behind them that resembled fear. You couldn't help the curling of your lips as you stare at him flatly.
“So what?”
Bakugo's eyes flash as he stares at you like you’ve slapped him. “So what?!”
“Why are you letting a nobody control your thoughts?” you shoot back. “He's not even here and he already got you fighting stupid.”
“He’s not—”
“You’re giving him space in your head for free,” you interrupt, eyes hard. “That’s embarrassing.”
His face reddens as he jumps to his feet, glaring down hard. “Shut up!”
Refusing to let him hold higher ground, you quickly stand up. “No, you shut up.” You jab a finger at his chest. “You already passed the exam and did what you came to do. Now why would you let some nobody control your thoughts?”
That lands.
Bakugo looks like he wants to bite you before choosing to look away; irritation simmering with nowhere clean to go.
Straightening, you decide to change the subject. “I got you something.”
That gets his attention. “Huh?”
You reach into your pocket and pull out a small piece of crumbled tissue. There, in slightly damp paper, two small metal studs catch in the setting sunlight.
Bakugo could only stare. “The fuck is that?”
"What do you think dipshit?" You hold them up like you’re revealing treasure. “They're earrings. Found a tattoo shop not too far from that dweeb ass arcade you hangout at. Guy doesn’t care about age.”
He snorts as he leans closer. “Where’d you get 'em anyways?”
You shrug like it’s nothing “Got a plug I found from one of my online classes. Goes by Melissa S. What's her last name you ask? Well for me to know and you to not~"
“Mmhmm if you say so..."
“I'm serious, she’s smart as hell,” you all but proudly say like a parent at graduation. “Like too smart. The kind of smart where you blink and she’s already built something that isn’t supposed to exist yet.”
Bakugo gaze drops to the stud earrings again. “So what? These are special?”
“Eh...more of an insurance if you will.”
Holding the pair between your fingers, you extend them towards him. “Get your ears pierced,” is all you tell him. “That’s your present from me to you.”
He waits a second longer before a bark of laughter shoots out his mouth.
“Old hag’s gonna lose her shit when she sees them,” he says almost gleefully, eyes brightening as he accepts the gift.
Though he hesitates when he glances back at you. “What about you?”
You lift your chin slightly as an air of smugness wafts around your frame. “I already got mines done.”
That causes him to eye you sideways. “I'm pretty sure I would have noticed if you had new ear piercings...”
A slow mischievous smile crawls across your face as you raised your eyebrows deliberately. “Who said I got my ears pierced?”
That makes Bakugo pause.
Meeting your shameless expression, it takes only a millisecond before he understood, eyes flickering down to confirm what he was thinking.
A malicious smile stretches across his face as he huffs, shoulders easing as the knot inside him finally loosens. “Stop being a whore,” he says affectionately.
“Make me,” you murmur back with a smile of your own.
As the evening settles in, you both settle back down beside each other in the dirt, shoulder to shoulder in companionable silence wrapped like a promise.
Bakugo finds himself absentmindedly rubbing the stud earrings in his hand, expression thoughtful in a way he never lets anyone see.
The gates of U.A. are already open, but the campus feels wrong this morning—like the school is holding its breath after the USJ incident, waiting to see who cracks first.
A bandage sits along his jaw as two of his split knuckles are wrapped tight beneath white gauze. Dozens of bruises and scratches littered the quirk-user's skin in a canvas of pain.
Not as bad as Aizawa, but noticeable nonetheless. That alone pisses him off.
Bakugo keeps his head down as he walks in hopes to lessen the attention (it doesn't work). The tape across the bridge of his nose pulls when he scowls.
He had one plan: come to class early on purpose, see Recovery Girl and get the old lady to kiss it better, then disappear back into his seat before anyone could look too close or ask questions they weren’t entitled to.
Clean. Efficient. Done.
There was just one mistake he forgot.
Voices drift down the hallway before he even reaches Class 1-A.
“...Aizawa-sensei—”
“...villains actually inside—”
“...USJ was supposed to be safe—!”
He should’ve known better than to think he’d be the only one early.
Bakugo's scowl deepens, already irritated with himself for miscalculating. He slides the door open with more force than necessary causing the door to rattle in its frame.
Conversations falter in a way that’s almost eerie as eyes flick to him. Someone inhales sharply. A few heads turn too fast, eyes snapping to his face before they remember to look away.
“Kacchan...” Izuku starts, then trails off, green eyes fixed on the tape across Bakugo’s face. “Your nose—”
“Did something happen after—” Mina's voice overlaps from across the room.
“Woah! Dude are you okay?” Kaminari adds, already half out of his seat. “Didn't you get healed up by Recovery Girl when we were still at USJ—”
Bakugo's patience snaps.
“Mind your own damn business!” His words cracks across the room like a slap.
Voices drop in silent acceptance. This is who Bakugo Katsuki is, after all—the one who puts teeth in his words and dares anyone to test the boundary.
Izuku's eyes linger on the bruises a moment too long anyways, flicking from Bakugo’s nose to his jaw, then down to the bandaged knuckles. Kirishima’s brow creases faintly. Mina presses her lips together in silent concern.
No one says anything else.
Good.
Stalking to his desk, the aggressive hero-in-training drops his bag with a dull thud. He sits hard, chair scraping loudly against the floor, posture rigid as he stares straight ahead.
The injuries don’t match the USJ fight—not really. Anyone with half a brain could tell if they looked close enough.
Villain damage is chaotic, wild, meant to incapacitate or kill. This isn’t that. These marks are too...close. Too personal.
Slumping into is seat, Bakugo ignores their leering, instead muttering under his breath about going to Recovery Girl later.
Around him the class slowly resumes its low murmur; still talking about Aizawa, about security, about how everything feels different now.
Though Bakugo barely hears it. His mind instead focus on the ache in his jaw, the throbbing of his knuckles.
The bell hasn’t even rung yet and he already wants the day over.
His phone buzzes in his pocket once. He ignores it.
A second buzz follows almost immediately.
Huffing through gritted teeth, Bakugo grabs his phone, angling the screen low so no one can see. The cracked glass lights up with a single message.
____: still went to class even after last night's spar? bold
____: make sure not to bleed on your schoolwork
He wipes at his nose instinctively before realizing what he was doing, scowling at the screen. Of course that’s what you'd say. Not are you okay. Not does it hurt.
Even so, that didn't stop the easing of the tension in his chest the longer he stared at the message.
He types back without thinking.
BK: shut up
The reply comes back fast.
____: you’re the one who leaned into it
Bakugo pauses as his thumb hovers over the screen. For just a split-second the noise of the room fades—the murmurs, the shuffling, the weight of everything unsaid.
He rubs his jaw with the heel of his palm, jaw setting as he exhales slowly through his teeth. He types slower this time.
BK: You would’ve done the same
There’s a beat.
Then—
____: Obviously
A corner of his mouth twitches into an almost smile. Not really one, but something close.
He slips the phone back into his pocket and leans forward, elbows braced on the desk, eyes narrowing as he watches the mummified body of Aizawa step through the doorway.
I saw this thing going around of characters being written with the prompt “who did this to you?” And I think that could be especially delicious with Peter (TASM ofc) 😋 could work as reader being the hurt one or even .. vice versa!! Mayhaps Peter got hurt and the reader is the one to bust someone up, and shows up to class with a broken nose lmao whatever interests you more
- Lots o love 🍁
Thanks for requesting ml!
cw: bloody noses
tasm!Peter Parker x hothead!reader ♡ 878 words
“Just give me a name, Peter!” You’re storming after him, no help at all as your boyfriend pinches his nose closed between his thumb and forefinger, looking around the kitchen for something to stop the bleeding. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because—” Peter finds the paper towels, wadding one up and stuffing it under his nose. “—because I don’t need you running around Brooklyn with a baseball bat over my bruised nose.”
“It could be broken!”
“I would know,” he says, oddly confident. Peter leans back against the counter, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Your heart aches to see him in pain, but the blood it’s pumping feels like fire, and you prefer to focus on that. “I appreciate that you want to avenge me, sweetheart, but I can handle myself.”
You give him a deadpan look even though his eyes aren’t open to see it. “Pete, you know I love you just as you are, but you’re not exactly built like a fighter.”
“I’m stronger than you think.”
“Be that as it may,” you go on, rolling your eyes at his macho (and in your opinion, completely delusional) self-assessment, “I want to help.” You move closer to him, placing a hand under his head to support the awkward angle of his neck. Peter opens his eyes to give you a grateful look, and you take the paper towel from him, checking to make sure his nose is still bleeding before putting it gently back in place. “I just want to know who did this to you,” you say softly. “Please, honey?”
Peter eyes you, but you see the endearment taking effect, the slight softening in his features and the twitch his hand gives on the counter, instinctively reaching for you.
“It’s not a satisfying answer,” he says after a minute.
“That’s alright,” you encourage him. “I’ll take anything.”
Peter sighs. “Alright, I didn’t want to tell you because it’s embarrassing.” You feel your eyebrows pinch, but stay quiet. “I saw some guy stealing a lady’s bike in Bushwick, and when I tried to grab it from him, I nailed myself in the face with the handlebars.”
You feel your eyes go wide, and Peter’s mouth curves on one side in a sheepish half-smile.
“That’s not embarrassing,” you say. “You were trying to help. Anyway, it sounds to me like it was the bike thief’s fault.”
Peter actually laughs, then grimaces, hand flinching toward his nose. “Yeah, I thought you might say something like that. Can’t give you a name there, baby. I was distracted, so all I saw was the back of his red beanie while he was running off.”
You pout at him, stroking at the skin beside his nose tenderly. “Well what were you gonna do, chase him down? Then you might’ve really gotten beat up.”
Peter’s cheeks color faintly pink. “Yeah, maybe. Anyway,” he moves on quickly, taking on a satisfied tone, “there’s no one to get revenge on. I did it to myself.”
You hum noncommittally. “Well, I’m sorry you got hurt.”
Peter grins, and when he removes the paper towel this time, the bleeding has stopped. “Thanks, pretty girl,” he says in a familiar tone, hands finding your hips and angling them against his. “If you wanna make me feel better, I’ve got some ideas.”
You do make him feel better. And the next day, you come into class feeling a lot better too.
“Shit,” Peter hisses when you sit down beside him, reaching over to turn your face towards the light so he can better make out the bruises around your nose and the dried blood still crusted around your nostrils. “What the hell happened to you?”
You shrug, enjoying the feel of his hands on your face. “You should see the other guy,” you joke (though really, you wish you had thought to take a picture). “Anyway, now we’re matching.”
“When I said it’d be fun to match at school someday, this is not what I meant,” Peter insists, thick eyebrows knit together worriedly. “And who’s the other guy? Did you find a bike to beat you up too?”
“Better.” You smirk. “A bike thief.”
It’s possible you get too much enjoyment out of watching Peter’s face as it slackens, eyebrows moving gradually upward as his eyes widen in realization. “Wha—but, sweetheart, there’s no way you found the same guy. Did you just pick a fight with some random bike thief?”
“No, I think it was him.” You quirk an eyebrow. “Tall, red beanie, giant tattoo on his neck?”
Peter’s lips part in wonderment, and you have your confirmation.
“I figured those guys usually work in the same area every time. So when I saw a dude with a red beanie stealing a bike in Bushwick, I was pretty sure I had the right guy.”
“So, what?” Peter scrubs a hand through his hair. “You went and riled him up until he punched you in the face? Baby, what were you thinking?”
You roll your eyes. “I got even,” you clarify, leaning back in your seat as the bell rings. “Anyway, your nose might just be bruised, but his is definitely broken. Like I told you, you should see the other guy.”
