rosie🦩

this acc will be a lot of talk pieces / poetic essays , pinterest dumps.

𝜗𝜚 dni ; old men . incels . homophobes . maga . (etc, the obvious.)

𝜗𝜚 8teen

𝜗𝜚 enfp - t

𝜗𝜚 pisces sun , leo moon

𝜗𝜚 fem fem fem ! bi bi bi !

𝜗𝜚 i read , paint , crochet , all the things !

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ 𝕗𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕤 ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

𝜗𝜚 artists ; clairo . hozier . lizzy mcalpine . paramore . fakemink . the nbhd . 2hollis . lana . phoebe bridgers . esha tewari . malcolm todd . panchiko .

𝜗𝜚 authors ; elsie silver , emily henry , jane austen , sylvia plath , george orwell , charlotte bronte , emily bronte , anne bronte , fyodor dostoevsky , osamu dazai , murakami , f. scott fitzgerald , tiffany d. jackson , tolstoy

𝜗𝜚 books ; 1984 . monday's not coming . wuthering heights . persuasion . villette . people we meet on vacation . bell jar . no longer human . the great gatsby . the beautiful and the damned . fahrenheit 451 . picture of dorian gray . the death of ivan ilych. one of us is lying . this savage song .

𝜗𝜚 shows ; teen wolf , criminal minds , suits , mha , seinfeld!! , greys anatomy , gossip girl , total drama island , gilmore girls!!!!

and slips of the tongue

There is a particular shade of exhaustion and anxiety that stems from being the person that seems to say the wrong thing, all the time. Not something dramatic and not something that ruins things at once, but a tiny little thing that seems to accumulate. A misplaced word, a poorly timed joke, a thought that leaves a gross flavor in your mouth. You mean one thing, but out comes another. You watch expressions shift, conversations stumble, and you immediately wish you could grab your words out of the air and shove them back in your mouth. But language is irreversible! Once spoken, the letters belong to the world.

First, slip-ups seem fixable. You apologize, explain, acknowledge, and promise to do better next time. Then, next time comes around and you do it again. Eventually mistakes stop being accidents and become proof that something is wrong with the way you move through the world.

The worst part isn't even what you said, it's the awareness that follows. The weight of someone elses problem, caused by you, sits in your gut. The perfect words arrive too late — on the drive home, in the middle of the night, while you toss and turn in bed. You become a collector, accumulating alternative versions of yourself, each one saying what you should have said.

Over time, conversations become lined with barbed wire and grow teeth laced with venom. Every word is measured before it goes, yet it happens again. And again. You try to build bridges to people, get too happy, and end up staring at the distance between.

The tragedy is not that we fail, but that we compare ourselves to a version of ourselves that never would. We imagine a person with perfect timing, perfect words, forgetting no such person exists.

There are days where every mistake feels unforgivable, when old memories return carrying every sentence you wish you'd never spat. On those days, it's easy to believe you're nothing more than your failures.

Yet despite every slip of the tongue, and every failed attempt to fix, you keep trying. You continue reaching for people, hoping the next sentence will carry your meaning more carefully than the last. Perhaps that is what it is to be human. Not avoiding mistakes, continuing to seek connection despite them.

dividers by ; @angeliicide

this acc will be a lot of talk pieces / poetic essays , pinterest dumps.

𝜗𝜚 dni ; old men . incels . homophobes . maga . (etc, the obvious.)

𝜗𝜚 5teen

𝜗𝜚 enfp - t

𝜗𝜚 pisces sun , leo moon

𝜗𝜚 fem fem fem ! bi bi bi !

𝜗𝜚 i read , paint , crochet , all the things !

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ 𝕗𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕤 ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

𝜗𝜚 artists ; clairo . hozier . lizzy mcalpine . paramore . fakemink . the nbhd . 2hollis . lana . phoebe bridgers . esha tewari . malcolm todd . panchiko .

𝜗𝜚 authors ; elsie silver , emily henry , jane austen , sylvia plath , george orwell , charlotte bronte , emily bronte , anne bronte , fyodor dostoevsky , osamu dazai , murakami , f. scott fitzgerald , tiffany d. jackson , tolstoy

𝜗𝜚 books ; 1984 . monday's not coming . wuthering heights . persuasion . villette . people we meet on vacation . bell jar . no longer human . the great gatsby . the beautiful and the damned . fahrenheit 451 . picture of dorian gray . the death of ivan ilych. one of us is lying . this savage song .

𝜗𝜚 shows ; teen wolf , criminal minds , suits , mha , seinfeld!! , greys anatomy , gossip girl , total drama island , gilmore girls!!!!

and slips of the tongue

There is a particular shade of exhaustion and anxiety that stems from being the person that seems to say the wrong thing, all the time. Not something dramatic and not something that ruins things at once, but a tiny little thing that seems to accumulate. A misplaced word, a poorly timed joke, a thought that leaves a gross flavor in your mouth. You mean one thing, but out comes another. You watch expressions shift, conversations stumble, and you immediately wish you could grab your words out of the air and shove them back in your mouth. But language is irreversible! Once spoken, the letters belong to the world.

First, slip-ups seem fixable. You apologize, explain, acknowledge, and promise to do better next time. Then, next time comes around and you do it again. Eventually mistakes stop being accidents and become proof that something is wrong with the way you move through the world.

The worst part isn't even what you said, it's the awareness that follows. The weight of someone elses problem, caused by you, sits in your gut. The perfect words arrive too late — on the drive home, in the middle of the night, while you toss and turn in bed. You become a collector, accumulating alternative versions of yourself, each one saying what you should have said.

Over time, conversations become lined with barbed wire and grow teeth laced with venom. Every word is measured before it goes, yet it happens again. And again. You try to build bridges to people, get too happy, and end up staring at the distance between.

The tragedy is not that we fail, but that we compare ourselves to a version of ourselves that never would. We imagine a person with perfect timing, perfect words, forgetting no such person exists.

There are days where every mistake feels unforgivable, when old memories return carrying every sentence you wish you'd never spat. On those days, it's easy to believe you're nothing more than your failures.

Yet despite every slip of the tongue, and every failed attempt to fix, you keep trying. You continue reaching for people, hoping the next sentence will carry your meaning more carefully than the last. Perhaps that is what it is to be human. Not avoiding mistakes, continuing to seek connection despite them.

dividers by ; @angeliicide

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: ProHero!Bakugou x Model!reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You, a rising model lands a major opportunity with Vogue for their annual cover and fashion campaign. As you continue to navigates the industry, you finds herself working with ProHero Bakugou, leading to an unexpected mix of attraction, tension, and romance.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.4k

You had been modeling for four years. Still seen as “new” in the business, but your name was rising fast. You were getting noticed through runway shows, magazine spreads, and interviews. When your agent told you that Vogue wanted you for their annual cover and fashion collection campaign, it felt like all your hard work was paying off.

Later that afternoon, you sat in a café with your best friend, [friend’s name], still buzzing from the news. The smell of the warm pastries filled the air as you scrolled through your messages. Then a new notification popped up from your agent.

“Wait… what?” you muttered.

Your friend leaned over your shoulder. “What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You turned your phone toward her. “Remember that Vogue shoot I mentioned?”

“Yeah, the one where you work with cute heroes?” she teased, grinning.

You laughed. “Well, apparently, I’ve been paired with Dynamight.”

Her jaw dropped. “SHUT UP! You’re kidding!” She grabbed your hands, shaking them excitedly. “Oh my god, Y/N! That’s huge!”

You smiled shyly. “I know, but… I’m nervous. This is such a big deal for my career. I don’t want to mess it up.”

Your friend huffed and tilted your chin up. “Y/N, stop. You’re the hardest-working person I know. You’ve been killing every job lately. You’ve got this.”

You couldn’t help but smile at her confidence in you.

“And come on,” she added, smirking. “You get to work with a hot hero. Maybe you two will spark some chemistry… if you know what I mean.”

You laughed and rolled your eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

Meanwhile, across the city, Katsuki Bakugou sat in his agency’s lounge, looking like someone had sentenced him to community service.

Kirishima clapped him on the back. “Dude, you’re going to be on the cover of Vogue! You should be excited!”

“Tch,” Bakugou grumbled. “This is stupid. Can’t believe I got roped into this.”

“C’mon, man,” Denki said, grinning. “It’s a big deal! You’ll gain popularity and meet cute models!”

Mina and Sero groaned in unison. “Moron,” they muttered at Denki.

“Everyone shut up!” Bakugou barked, running a hand through his hair. “None of you idiots are helping.”

Kirishima leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee. “Look, bro. You might not have a choice, but think about it. This could show people another side of you. You’re not just the angry guy with explosions. Show them you’ve got range.”

Bakugou glared for a moment before exhaling through his nose. “Whatever.”

The next day, you arrived at the studio early. Nerves fluttered in your chest as stylists buzzed around, prepping lights and fabrics. You spotted him immediately—spiky blond hair, sharp eyes, and an aura that made everyone else instinctively move aside.

Taking a deep breath, you approached him. “Hi, I’m Y/N. It’s a pleasure to work with you,” you said with a polite bow.

He glanced at you, unimpressed. “Yeah, nice to meet you.”

You blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. You had seen his fiery attitude on TV before, but in person, it hit differently.

Trying to fill the awkward silence, you said, “So… are you excited for the shoot? I was a bit shocked when they told me you’d be doing this too.”

He gave you a sideways look. “Tch. I don’t care about this crap. My manager and friends think it’s a good PR move; that’s all.”

You let out a nervous laugh. Great. This was going to be fun.

A few minutes later, the crew ushered you both toward the set. You changed into a sleek black leotard paired with tights and tall boots while Bakugou appeared shirtless in black slacks—his usual mix of confidence and danger.

The photographer called out poses. You stepped close, one arm brushing his chest while his hands rested around your waist. His palms were warm, rough, steady. For a moment, your heartbeat drowned out everything else.

As the shoot continued, something shifted. The tension eased. He started to relax, you loosened up, and your poses flowed naturally. When you leaned in and met his eyes, the flash of the camera seemed to fade away. His gaze held yours—steady, focused, and unexpectedly soft.

You didn’t know what to make of that.

When the photographer finally called it a wrap, you both stepped apart, exhaling in sync. You changed into your regular clothes, hesitating outside Bakugou’s dressing room before knocking.

“Who is it?” his muffled voice called.

“It’s Y/N,” you replied.

“What do you want?”

You rolled your eyes. “Open the door and I’ll tell you.”

The door swung open, and he glared down at you. “Oi. What?”

You crossed your arms. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab lunch or something. You haven’t eaten all day.”

“Tch. I appreciate the gesture, but I’m good.” He started to close the door, but you stopped it with your hand.

“Seriously? What’s your deal?” you snapped. “I’m trying to make this less awkward, and you act like it’s torture to hang out for one meal.”

Bakugou looked away, jaw tightening.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “I’ll go. Just quit whining.”

You sighed but smiled a little. “Great. I’ll text you the address.”

Two hours later, you sat across from each other at a cozy café. The air smelled like coffee and sugar, and sunlight poured through the windows.

He was still in his hero hoodie, hood down, hair tousled. You tried not to stare, but it was hard.

“Thanks for coming,” you said, stirring your drink. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually show up.”

He smirked faintly. “You sounded annoying enough that I figured you’d keep nagging until I did.”

You laughed. “You’re not wrong.”

For a while, you talked about work, the chaos of the shoot, and even the media pressure he usually hated. He was less harsh when he spoke like this. Just honest.

At some point, your knee brushed his under the table, and neither of you moved away.

When you finished your drinks, you hesitated. “Hey… if you’re not busy, we could hang out at my place. It’s close, and I owe you real food. My cooking’s not great, but I promise not to poison you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s safe for me?”

You smiled. “Guess you’ll have to risk it, hero.”

He gave a small, amused snort. “Fine. Lead the way.”

The walk to your apartment was quiet but comfortable. When you unlocked the door, the tension between you felt thick and buzzing.

He stood close behind you, his breath brushing your neck. “You really gonna make me dinner?” he asked, voice low.

You turned, heart racing. “Maybe later.”

His eyes flicked from your mouth to your eyes, and before you could overthink it, he leaned down and kissed you. It was firm, unhurried, but full of heat. The room filled with sounds of your lips smacking. your spit connecting with his as your tongue runs across his bottom lip. His grip tighten on your waist, heat crawling up his neck. this was a much more passionate kiss than before. your heart was pounding as you continued with the deep sensual make-out.

you started rocking back against his bulge feeling it grow bigger between your legs. your heart was pounding as you pressed down, but bakugou pulled away briefly as a deep husky groan escaped his lips.

You grinned softly. “Guess we’ve got chemistry after all.”

“Tch. Don’t get cocky,” he muttered, but the faint smirk on his lips gave him away.

Weeks later, your Vogue cover hit the stands. The photo of you and Dynamight—him in all his sharp-edged glory, you bold and confident at his side—went viral instantly.

You gained a surge of recognition, more offers, and multiple interview requests. During one of them, the host leaned forward with a sly grin.

“So, Y/N,” they began, “you worked closely with Pro Hero Dynamight. Be honest—was there any attraction?”

You smiled, trying to play it cool. “I mean, who wouldn’t be attracted to him? He’s strong, hardworking, and definitely not as mean as everyone thinks.” You paused, teasing. “But yeah… he’s hot.”

The interviewer laughed. “Fair enough!”

You didn’t think much of it afterward—until your phone exploded with notifications. Clips from the interview were trending everywhere, with headlines blaring your quote.

Meanwhile, Bakugou’s phone blew up too. He scowled at the screen, scrolling through articles—then smirked.

A few minutes later, your phone rang. You answered instantly.

“Hey,” you said, smiling.

“Just saw your interview,” his rough voice came through the line, low and amused. “Guess you had a lot to say about me.”

You bit your lip. “Yeah? What do you think?”

“I think we should meet up and talk about this attraction over dinner,” he said, his tone teasing.

Your cheeks warmed. “Let’s do it.”

A few days later, reporters cornered him after a mission.

“Dynamight! What do you think about Y/N finding you attractive?”