katsuki obsessed

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

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

And look where it got you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7:58. Two minutes early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just stares at you, groggy and unamused.

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

“Red Riot.”

“Ah.”

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

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

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

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

Pro-Hero Dynamight is a certified PR nightmare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you get to work.

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

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

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

“You didn’t email Ei.”

“I didn’t have any questions.”

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

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

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

“Kimura,” you repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

.・。.・゜✭・.

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

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

dynamight (5:50PM): 👍

✧˖*°࿐

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

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

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

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

snipe (8:38PM): 🤗

.・。.・゜✭・.

THE HERO HERALD

It’s a Dyna-FIGHT!!

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

He’s working out when you finally find him.

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

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

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

“A reporter, Dynamight? A reporter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t you read the tabloids?”

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

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

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

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

“Tell me what he said.”

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

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

Apart from the breathing, he’s quiet.

“What did the reporter say?”

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

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

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

“Tape Face…?”

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

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

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

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

What happened to Cellophane isn’t a secret. 

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

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

“Thank you for telling me,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His frown deepens. “Is this a joke?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

.・。.・゜✭・.

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

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

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

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

✧˖*°࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.・。.・゜✭・.

🌟 HEROIC TIMES 🌟 ☑️ @ heroictimesnews

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

🗨️  4.3k                   🔁  64.8k                    ♡  88.1k

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

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

🗨️  224                    🔁  2.3k                     ♡  8.4k

dynadaddy 🌈 @ dynamighttapthatass

godddddddd hes so fu cking hot #dynamight

🗨️                            🔁  2                          ♡  6

dekus #1 💞💘💝💟 @ dontfeardekushere

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

🗨️  57                      🔁  103                      ♡  444

✨💫🌟✨ mina mommy ✨💫🌟✨ @ btsssslvr2

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

🗨️  26                      🔁  88                        ♡  126

🖱️⌨️mousin around🖨️💾 @ bulletproofquirk

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

🗨️  559                    🔁  7.3k                     ♡  11.3k

✨spAce giRl💫 @ wickedlywitchyyy3

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

🗨️  5                       🔁  29                         ♡  56

New Hero Public Safety Commission ☑️ @ nhpsc

replying to @ bulletproofquirk

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

🗨️  306.2k              🔁  176.3k                 ♡  22.4k

🔥💣💥DYNAMIGHT💥💣🔥 ☑️ @ dynamightofficial

Salad for lunch today.

🗨️  447.1k              🔁  942.9k                 ♡  1.4M

Dynamight has been especially active online lately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not interested, sorry. Strictly dickly.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I doubt it’s Dynamight,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“People really liked Katsuki’s apology.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which gets him into trouble.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns, confused. “No, sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They both look at you in question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should think on it, maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t answer the question.

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

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

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

“The fuck gives you the right to—”

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

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

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

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

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

“There’s always a game.”

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

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

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

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

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

.・。.・゜✭・.

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

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

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

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

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

✧˖*°࿐

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.・。.・゜✭・.

calvinklein ☑️ @ CalvinKlein

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

[photo] [photo]

🗨️  2.8k                   🔁  120k                ♡  395k

👾 ☑️ @ nitehide

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

🗨️  3.8k                  🔁  86k                   ♡  123k

nighthides baby 👅💦 @ r3al_3ater

replying to @ CalvinKlein okay im. in heat. ohhhhhhhhf 

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⚡ chargebolt :P @ therealchargebolt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stunningly, he concedes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now this—this you can make happen.

.・。.・゜✭・.

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

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

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

you (4:40PM): genuinely no idea

✧˖*°࿐

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

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

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

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

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

✧˖*°࿐

you (9:34AM): PROSCIUTTO

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

.・。.・゜✭・.

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

Re: Upcoming Press Release Proof

CALVIN KLEIN

Calvin Klein Red Riot Collection Spring/Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The hell’s going on in here?”

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

“Nothing,” you lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mori,” you say. “Don’t.”

“I’m your boss,” Dynamight counters.

“I’m your friend,” you say.

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

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

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

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

She hums in thought. “Ten.”

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

“Seven,” he counters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were rambling.”

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone is quiet.

Why the fuck did you say that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.・。.・゜✭・.

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

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

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

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

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

✧˖*°࿐

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

you (10:10AM): sometimes why ?

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

you (10:11AM): quartet

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

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

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

✧˖*°࿐

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

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

you (1:14PM): GODDDDDD suzuki

suzuki (1:15PM): 🤭

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

mori (1:17PM): okay shoulders

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

suzuki (1:18PM): no ☺️

mori (1:18PM): no

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

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

mori has left the chat!

✧˖*°࿐

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

dynamight (7:01AM): 👍

✧˖*°࿐

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

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

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

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

you (12:02AM): oh absolutely

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

.・。.・゜✭・.

Hi, welcome to Glossier! ✨💫

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Our new Astral perfume, made in collaboration with Pro-Hero Uravity, will get you off the ground in no time! Made with your day-to-day life in mind, this perfume can double as a starry show-stopper at the office or a celestial accent on a night out. Don’t let gravity keep you down—float away with us into this ethereal blend of pink pepper, soft amber, and delicate pear blossoms!

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

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

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

“Say yes,” Mori tells you.

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

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

Mori convinces you to have two. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grunts. Shrugs.

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

Another sip of whiskey. Nothing else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pepper…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You leave before you can be questioned further.

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

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

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

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

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

“You lied.”

“I… yeah. I lied.”

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

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

“Your moral code bends pretty easy under pressure.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They need to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alone,” you confirm.

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

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

“It’s dark out.”

“A little.”

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

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

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

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

In silence, he walks you all the way home. 

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

You’ve tolerated everything for too long, kept your relationship a secret —if it’s a relationship— like you’re a damn kpop idol, pushed by your company to behave in such a media trained way, and the only thing you get in return is getting to read sweet serenades that other girls write about your boyfriend.

The paper crinkles under your thumb where you’ve been gripping too hard. It’s cheap stationery, the edges frilled, a faint smell of perfume that stains the paper and makes you nauseous in a way even blood and smoke from Katsuki’s explosions never did. You know the handwriting. Or maybe you don’t—maybe they all blur together at this point, soft hearts and bubbly loops all confessing the same thing.

You thought it had stopped. That his temper, his sharp tongue, his refusal to care what anyone else thought had finally burned them off. But apparently not. Apparently, even after everything—after nights you’ve spent with him raw and unguarded, after hearing  words he’ll never say to anyone else—there’s still someone out there who thinks they can love him like you do.

And the worst part? You don’t even know if you can call it love. Not when you’ve never had the right to say it out loud. Not when he won’t hold your hand in public. Not when he keeps looking at you like you’re his, but never gives you the words to prove it if it isn’t in private.

So why does your chest feel like it’s splitting open over a stupid letter?

You fold the letter back up, too carefully, like even paper can bruise you. Slide it into the bag picked exactly where you found it, like it never touched your hands. But it’s already burned into the creases of your skin, the way your pulse thumps against your wrist, how your chest tightens like you’ve just taken a hit.

You carry it with you all day. Not the paper, but the ache of it.

In class, his laugh sounds too loud. In the hallway, when you're accompanied by him, Todoroki, Jiro and Izuku, you notice every girl who looks his way. Training feels heavier than usual, like the weight in your chest has seeped into your arms, slowing you down.

Katsuki doesn’t notice at first—of course he doesn’t. He’s himself. He doesn’t see the shift in you when he slings his bag over his shoulder. Doesn’t hear the sharpness in your voice when you tell him you’re fine with not walking to the dorms together for the day. He’s too busy grumbling about Izuku, about exams, about everything else in the world that deserves his anger and attention.

But by the time it’s late, when you’re both stuck in the empty dorm kitchen, the silence between you thick and wrong, he finally catches it.

“Oi,” he mutters, suspicious, leaning back against the counter like he’s ready for a fight. His eyes narrow, sharp as flint, his arms crossed over his chest. “What the hell’s your problem?”

And that’s the thing—you don’t even know how to answer. Because it feels so stupid, compared to everything else you’ve survived. Stupid, and yet, your throat still burns with it.

“I ain’t got a problem.”

“You obviously do. You won’t even look at me.”

“No,” you insist, forcing the word out through gritted teeth. “I’m tired and I want to sleep.”

It’s flimsy, and you know it. Katsuki knows it too—the twitch in his jaw gives him away. For a second, you think he’s going to push, bark something until you snap back and spill everything, because that’s how he solves things. But instead, he just stares at you, eyes sharp and unreadable, and then—

“Tch. Fine. Whatever.”

He shoulders past you, arms thrown into the air in defeat, the air between you crackling with everything unsaid, and the slam of his dorm room door echoes down the hall a few minutes later.

You sit there for a long time after, the silence heavier than shouting. The letter might as well be carved into your palms, your chest, your throat, each and every curly crevice of your brain. You told him you were tired, but when you finally crawl into bed, sleep won’t touch you.

Because all you can see is someone else’s handwriting pressed against his bag, like a secret you were never supposed to find out about.

Morning passes in a blur. You’re half-there in class, half stuck on the crumpled edges of that letter, too aware of every little sound Katsuki makes—his chair scraping, the way he yawns like he owns the room, how he doesn’t even glance your way. He hadn’t come by your dorm again, hadn’t said a word when you walked into class. You didn’t walk to class together with him, instead Mina picked you up in the morning, after noticing your last night’s disdain.

By the time lunch rolls around, your stomach’s tied into a knot too tight to eat anything from the bento Katsuki made for you. The hallway hums with chatter, lockers clanging and shoes squeaking on the floor. You step out, only thinking you want to spend lunchtime with Katsuki. In any case this dark cloud you've casted over both of you clears with small talk trailing a few classmates from other classes, and that’s when you see it.

A girl…

She’s standing right there in front of him, hands clenched around a folded note, cheeks burning red. Everyone’s eyes are on them—whispers already starting, girls are watching her, trembling from afar because they know they’d hate to be in her place. Katsuki’s expression is a mix of irritation and boredom, but he doesn’t walk away. He’s letting her talk.

You freeze mid-step, bento box still in your hands, like your whole body has gone hollow. You can’t hear what she says over the noise of the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can read it on her trembling lips, in the nervous tremor of her voice. The way she can’t look him in the eye while saying all the words you’ve never been brave enough to say out loud in public.

“I like you, Bakugou-kun.”

The ache that hits your chest isn’t sharp—it’s dull, heavy, like something’s pressing down hard on your ribs. You want to move, to leave, but your legs won’t work. All you can do is stand there and watch, as if some cruel part of you needs to see how he’ll respond.

And then his eyes flick, just for a second—past her shoulder, landing right on you.

Katsuki refrains from being smug; he never has been in these situations, usually opting to hide behind Iida while he shoos these girls off and for once you wish Todoroki was anywhere near your velocity so these damn first year horndogs had something else to obsess over.

You sigh, only once, deep from within your chest. It’s fine. If Katsuki doesn’t want to do anything, let alone utter a word of rejection to her, you’ll deal with this yourself.

Your legs work in their direction before you can think “If I were you I’d address my elders with more respect. If you don’t personally know Katsuki you can't address him with ‘kun’. It’s rude.” You say, gritting his given name out of your teeth like you can’t emphasise it in a bigger way.

“Im sorry” she replies voice small, eyes darting between you and Katsuki. Her fingers fidget with the note, crumpling it.

You should leave it at that, let her slink away with her pride intact. But something bitter twists in your chest, something that’s been sitting there since the night before.

“You should be,” you murmur, low enough that it’s almost swallowed by the hallway noise. But the girl still hears it. She bows, quick and awkward, then rushes off, her friends trailing after her in a flurry of whispers and concerning side-eyes in your direction.

The second she’s gone, silence thickens. You realize how close you’ve walked into Katsuki’s space, his shoulder practically brushing yours. His hands are shoved in his pockets, eyes narrowed—not at the girl, but at you.

“The hell was that?” His voice is low, sharp enough that only you catch it.

You clench your jaw, turning toward the classroom before anyone else can see your expression. “Nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothin’.”

You don’t answer, because if you do, everything in your chest might split open right here in front of the whole damn hallway.

And Katsuki—he lets you go, but you can feel his stare on your back all the way into the classroom.

Knowing it’s not right, you steal and read the letter again, later, when you’re supposed to be studying in your dorm, studying it like it’ll change this time. Like the loops of her handwriting will suddenly form something else—just kidding, or I didn’t mean it, or he didn’t read this. But it doesn’t change. It’s still filled with red glitter pen ink and hearts over the i’s, words like I’ve liked you since first year and you’re so cool when you fight and I’d do anything just to talk to you more.

You fold it slowly, carefully, like it’s something delicate instead of the thing that’s making your chest cave in. Your fingers feel stupid. Your whole body feels stupid. You’ve kissed him. Slept in his bed while sneaking off of Aizawa. Laughed at his morning voice, made fun of his chipped knuckles, held his face in your hands like you were scared it would disappear like it had once.

But none of that is public. None of it is real enough to keep girls like her from writing to him or confessing to him like that girl did today, or how that other girl wrote him the letter you’re holding onto.

You stare at the paper like it might catch fire in your hand.

He’s never said you were his. He’s never said you weren’t, either. You’re not sure which is worse.

There’s a knock on the door of your dorm—three sharp raps—and your spine straightens before your brain can catch up. It’s him. You know it’s him. That brutal rhythm of his. You tuck the letter behind your textbook, like you weren’t just spiraling over it, like your hands aren’t still shaking.

You open the door and try to look normal.

He walks in like he always does. Shoulders high, scowl already halfway formed, brow furrowed like the hallway pissed him off. “Yo.”

You nod. “Hey.”

He doesn’t notice it right away. The shift. The silence. Or maybe he does, and he’s just ignoring it. Katsuki’s always been good at choosing which battles are worth setting on fire.

He throws his bag down and stretches, yawning like he owns the room, like he owns you. Like none of this is weird. “I’m fuckin’ starving.”

You watch him move. Watch the way he grabs your water bottle and drinks from it like it’s his–an indirect kiss. The way he drops onto your bed like he was invited. The way his body settles in your space like it belongs there.

And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most.

Because he does belong here. In all the ways that matter to you.

But do you belong to him? Or are you the one who was lucky enough to be there before all these fangirls?

You sit on the edge of the bed and try to ignore the way your heart is thrashing around in your chest like a caged thing. But your words, they can’t stay inside your belly for a moment longer. “Some girl wrote you a love letter.”

He freezes, just a little. Not in the obvious way. Not like a deer in headlights. It’s subtler than that—his jaw tightens. His hand curls slightly, like he’s preparing for an impact when he was just holding his arms open for you to crawl in a minute ago.

“Where’d you see that?” he says.

“I didn’t go looking for it,” you snap, before you can stop yourself. “It was sticking out of your bag like she wanted someone to find it.”

His eyes flick to yours. There’s something unreadable in the red of them. Not guilt. Not quite. More like annoyance. Defensive. As if you’ve inconvenienced him by caring. You hate that you still want him to say the right thing. That even now, you’re hoping for a miracle.

“Did you read it?” he asks.

You laugh, sharp and humorless. His response wasn't one you liked “Should I not have?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I didn’t read it.”

“Didn’t throw it away either.”

“I forgot it was there.”

You nod slowly, like you believe him and save the backhanded comment about how the letter has been there for two whole days and now it’s in your hands again. Like it makes a difference saying it or not. “Do you tell people about us?”

He blinks. “What?”

You meet his gaze. It feels like pulling teeth. “Do you ever tell anyone we’re… together?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Something flits across his face—confusion? Frustration? Guilt? You don’t know anymore. You’re too tired to dissect it.

“I didn’t think I needed to,” he mutters “our friends know nonetheless”

You smile. It’s a horrible little thing, brittle and pathetic. “Yeah. That’s what I figured.”

And there it is. That ache. That awful, hollow feeling like your heart’s been carved out with a spoon like it’s cheesecake in a cup. You swallow it like a bitter and way-too-big pill.

Katsuki shifts like he’s going to argue, but you don’t give him the chance. You stand.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you say, voice quiet, final. “If I’m just someone you visit after school, if I’m just a secret, then I don’t want it.”

Silence.

Then, low, rough: “You’re not a secret.”

You look at him. Really look. His hands are fists now, knuckles white. His jaw is locked. He looks furious—but not at you.

“I didn’t wanna share you with people who don’t fuckin’ deserve to know anything about you,” he says, voice taut, like it’s been bottled up too long. “Didn’t wanna hear them talk about you like you’re just—like you’re not mine.”

The word hits you hard.

Mine.

You don’t move but your lips do “well i don’t like seeing girls confessing to you in my presence or lack of it. Had I not been there, would you have rejected her?”

“Are you for real right now?” His voice is sharp, almost a bark, but it’s not the same anger he throws at Deku or anyone else. This one feels thinner, frayed at the edges, like he’s barely holding it together.

“Yes,” you snap back, your throat raw. “I am for real. Because all I’ve got is your word behind closed doors. And that doesn’t mean shit when girls can line up to throw themselves at you and you don’t even—” your voice breaks, bitter, “—you don’t even shut it down.”

“I did,” he growls. “I always fuckin’ do. I don’t look at ‘em, don’t talk to ‘em, don’t give a damn what they say—”

“You don’t have to. You don’t even have to try and they still—” you cut yourself off before the words and they still want you slip out, because they sound pathetic in your head.

Katsuki stands, sudden, explosive, the bedframe creaking behind him. His hands rake through his hair like he’s trying not to combust. He opens his mouth to speak but you rush to get your voice out first.

“Katsuki, just go to your dorm.”

The words drop heavy, final.

For a second, he doesn’t move. His shoulders are squared, fists balled so tight you can hear the leather of his palms creak. He looks like he’s about to argue, like he’s ready to explode all over again—but then his jaw clenches shut.

You can see it in his face, the war between fighting you and obeying you. And then, with a sharp breath through his teeth, he chooses the one thing you didn’t expect.

He leaves.

The door shuts behind him with more force than necessary, the echo rattling in your chest.

And just like that, you’re alone again. Alone with the folded letter hidden in your textbook, your hands still shaking, your heart pounding like it’s trying to punch its way out of your ribs.

You let the door click shut behind him. You let it echo.

And then you go very, very still.

Because you’re not mad that girls write him letters. Not really.

You’re mad because you’re not allowed to.

You’re the one who’s slept in his bed, memorized the slope of his neck, traced the scar on his ribs, in the middle of his chest with your pinky like a prayer—and you don’t even get to look at him too long in public. You don’t get to hold his hand in the hallway or lean on his shoulder at lunch. You get fake glances. Tension. Nothing. You get nothing.

Because it would be too risky if the teachers found out.

Too dangerous, he said once. A distraction, he said.

But right now, it just feels like shame.

So you go quiet.

You ignore his texts. Short replies when you do answer. You sit somewhere else during lunch. You walk a little faster when you hear his footsteps behind you.

You don’t fight with him.

You just… vanish a little.

It drives him insane.

You see it happening in real-time. The cracks forming. The way he watches you like he’s memorizing new choreography—where you sit, who you talk to, when your smile looks fake. He doesn’t blow up, doesn’t pull you into an empty room, doesn’t bark your name in the hallway like a scene.

He just simmers. Quiet, sharp anger. The kind he never shows other people.

The kind that only belongs to you.

And just like that, you end up avoiding him completely. No matter how heavy it sits with you, classes pass and you don’t even look each other in the eye. First years look at you when you stroll around the hallways with your friends, whispering, probably talking about how rude you were to that girl the other day.

Mina and Jiro tell you to pay them no mind. Ignore them. Pretend they don’t exist.

But it’s hard. It’s impossible when the distance between you and Katsuki turns the rest of the world into static, and he—he’s louder than ever. Every corner you turn, he’s there.

Surrounded. Swamped.

Girls leaning over his desk during breaks, grinning too wide, shoving chocolates into his hands with bowed heads and tears in their eyes. Letters are slipped under his elbow and his shoe locker. His name squealed with the -chan honorific, voices high and desperate, like he’s some kpop idol and not the boy who once fell asleep on your lap with his drool smudging your thigh.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even react. Doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t yell at them to back off, doesn’t burn them with his words. He just lets it happen, face blank, like he doesn’t care one way or another. He gives them back their chocolates and throws away the letters in the class garbage bin, while looking at you.

Which makes you wonder if maybe you were the only idiot who cared too much.

At night, your room feels colder. You catch yourself reaching for your phone, for his contact, and then force yourself to shove it under your pillow. You don’t want to be the one to cave first. Not this time. You even avoid sitting in the living room with everyone else so you don’t see him.

But every time the door down the hall slams, every time footsteps stomp past your room, your heart skips anyway. Hoping it’s him. Hoping he’ll knock.

On a certain Friday, one that Aizawa has allowed you to stroll around Musutafu and sleep at your parents place for the weekend, once classes end after seeing amazing grades from the whole class for a whole month straight, you finally crack.

It starts with a cough.

Just a tiny one. Delicate. Performed.

Then another. Louder this time, exaggerated like someone dying of consumption two feet away.

You don’t even need to look up. You know that brand of thirst when you hear it.

There’s a small crowd forming at the end of the hallway, just outside 3-A. You’re still digging in your locker for your notes, but the air is already shifting—thick with nervous giggles, breath mints, and desperation.

You steal a glance.

Yup.

There he is. 

UA’s Bakugo-chan, face set like he’s defusing a bomb, arms crossed tight over his chest while three—no, four—first-years orbit him like he’s the last man on earth. One’s holding a tupperware. One’s doing a shaky curtsy. One’s definitely about to cry.

He looks like he’d rather be dead.

The brunette closest to him twirls a strand of hair around her finger like she’s prepping to braid it with his soul. “Senpai… I baked these just for you,” she says, voice like a kitten. “They’re shaped like little explosions! Because you’re so—like—boom! Y’know?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just stands there, twitching. Betrayed by his own goddamn jawline.

You watch a second-year pull out her phone and try to angle it low-key for a selfie. Katsuki dodges it like it’s an incoming bullet. “Oi,” he snaps. “You tryna lose that arm?”

They squeal.

One claps. Another gasps. A girl actually sighs and clutches her chest like she’s been shot.

He turns, finally, searching the hallway like he’s looking for divine intervention. Then he sees you. Locks eyes like you’re his last hope. Doesn’t say a word—but his expression is loud enough.

‘Help me’

You sigh and take your time. Close your locker slowly. Walk toward him like you’re about to drag a child out of Disneyland.

Then you do it.You reach up.

Grab him by the ear.

“Let’s go, Romeo,” you say flatly, tugging him with zero grace.

He flinches. “Oi—what the fuck—?!”

“Katsuki, im gonna handle this”

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd. One girl physically recoils. Another drops her cookies. You sport them a look of disgust and anger. Hands crossed over your chest, one eyebrow raised.

“You should all be ashamed! You’ve been harassing him for weeks! Not even bothering to consider whether he has a girlfriend or not. Can you all not see you’re making him uncomfortable? I'm going to report this to all of your teachers. And if they don’t do anything about it, I will!”

“Bakugo-chan doesn't have a girlfriend!” One of the girls yelps in a high pitched scream.

“I am his girlfriend” you say, not noticing the way Katsuki blushes at that.

“Impossible!” Another girl says 

And then a girl tries to touch him. Interlock her hand in his elbow.

“Youre tryna lose that hand girl?”

The words snarl out of your throat before you even think, louder than you intended, and the entire hallway freezes. The girl jerks her hand back like she touched a live wire. Another actually gasps and drops her pen case.

Katsuki’s shoulders quake, and for a horrifying second you think he’s about to explode in one of his usual outbursts. But no—he’s laughing. Laughing. Low and sharp, like the sound’s been trying to break free for days.

“Haah… you fuckin’ heard her,” he finally says, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning his weight toward you like he’s settling there. His voice carries down the hallway, deadly casual. “She’s my girlfriend. Got a problem with that?”

The crowd ripples, whispers darting like minnows. Someone squeaks. Someone else mutters “no way.”

You, meanwhile, are frozen in place, the words I am his girlfriend still burning on your tongue, only now echoing back at you with the force of he actually admitted it.

The brunette with the Tupperware looks like she’s about to faint. “B-but—Bakugo-chan—”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” Katsuki snaps, and this time his scowl is sharp and merciless, all teeth. “And don’t waste your time on this shit again. I’m not interested. Got it?”

The four girls scatter like pigeons. One forgets her bag. Another trips over her own shoe. The hallway is still buzzing when it empties, everyone craning their necks to see, whispers already sprinting to the far end of UA.

You let go of his ear, only when you’ve shoved him inside your empty classroom. He doesn’t move away.

“Girlfriend, huh,” you mutter, more to yourself than him.

Katsuki tilts his head down toward you, eyes burning, cheeks still hot under the fluorescent lights. He doesn’t grin—he never does—but his voice is softer than you expect when he says, “Damn right.”

Your chest aches, in that strange, dangerous way—the kind of ache that feels like relief and terror knotted together.

Katsuki’s “Damn right” still hangs in the air when you realize how close he’s standing. The classroom’s empty; only the hum of the lights fills the silence. You can still hear the echo of the hallway outside, the faint sound of lockers and chatter that doesn’t reach you here.He sits himself on his desk, finally and you follow suit. 

His hands wrap around your waist slowly, like he’s scared to explore an uncharted land that lies under creases of cotton tucked inside the hemline of your viscose skirt.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you murmur, half to the floor, half to yourself.

He shrugs, hands still in his pockets. “I wanted to.”

You laugh once, shaky. “That’s a first.”

“Yeah, well.” He exhales through his nose, then looks at you properly. “You think I liked watchin’ all that? You think I didn’t wanna yell before?”

You don’t answer. You just stare at the little crack of floor in your vision until he closes it with his forehead clashing against yours—slow, intended, every movement heavy like he’s still measuring your mood.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like a fuckin’ secret,” he says, quieter now. “I just—didn’t want people talkin’ about you. About us. I wanted my life to be private.”

You bite your lip, words catching somewhere in your throat. “I know,” you whisper. “I just… I wanted to feel like you weren’t ashamed of me.”

His head tilts down, eyes flicking up at you from under his lashes. “Ashamed?” His voice is rough. “You serious? You think I’d be this stupid and let you drag me in here by my ear in front of everyone if I was ashamed?”

That pulls a small, unwilling laugh out of you. “Guess not.”

He moves again, until you can feel the heat of him, now well rested and trapped inside his thighs. You can smell the faint smoke on his shirt, the sharp scent that’s always been his. His hand hesitates, then rises—knuckles brushing your jaw, tentative in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “I’m sorry. I hate going to sleep mad for so long.”

It’s simple, but it lands like a hit. You blink hard, and the next words slip out without thinking. “I know. Me too.”

His thumb traces your chin while the rest of his fingers trace the skin of your neck, then his breath is closer. You can see the nervous flicker in his eyes—the rare kind, the one that only ever shows up right before he does something that scares him. Like this.

You lean in first. Just a little. Enough to give him permission.

And then he closes the distance.

The kiss is soft in a way neither of you have been for weeks. All heat and hesitation, like he’s trying to apologize without words, like you’re trying to forgive without saying it. His hand slides to the back of your neck, grounding you, keeping you close until breathing becomes something shared.

When you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours. His voice is a quiet rumble between you. You kiss the apple of his cheek.

“No more being angry at eachother” he mutters.

You nod, still catching your breath. “No more.”

He smirks—just a little. “Good. ’Cause I ain’t explainin’ that hallway shit twice.”

You laugh, the sound small but real, and his thumb ghosts over your cheek before he presses a quick kiss there, lighter this time, like punctuation.

For the first time in days, the air around you feels calm again. Not perfect—never that—but real.

Katsuki’s thumb is still resting against your cheek when you realize you’re smiling. You shouldn’t be—you should still be angry, or at least pretending—but the second kiss catches you before you can think. It’s firmer this time, surer, his hand sliding to the back of your neck again. The warmth of him settles low in your chest, the way it always does when he lets his guard drop like this.

You press closer, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. The smell of him—explosions, soap—fills your head until you forget that you’re still standing in a classroom with the door unlocked.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe, forehead against yours always, a tiny huff of laughter slipping out.

“Finallyyyy” he mutters.

For a moment you just stare at each other. His lower lip protrudes in a pout that you mimic as well as you can. He hums at you, like a spoiled child that didn’t get what they wanted on christmas day. It’s his way of saying he’s missed this. The silent moments in which you look at each other in the eyes and feel grateful that both of you are still here, still alive.

You answer by tugging him back down. The next kiss is slower, less angry, and when he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you in, the whole week of silence between you dissolves.

Your hands find his shoulders, then the back of his neck, then the edges of his jaw. He sighs against your mouth, a soft, almost relieved sound, and for a moment there’s nothing but the press of your heartbeat against his chest and the quiet hum of the classroom lights.

Then the door slides open.

A voice cuts clean through the moment.

“I’d like to remind you that this is still a school.”

You freeze. Katsuki goes rigid. Then you both spring apart like you’ve been electrocuted.

Aizawa stands in the doorway, half-lidded eyes narrowing at the scene in front of him. His capture scarf shifts slightly, like it’s already considering how to separate you two if you don’t move fast enough.

You’re already scrambling backward, face burning. Katsuki mutters something under his breath that sounds like a very quiet ‘shit’, running a hand through his hair like that might erase the last thirty seconds.

Aizawa sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to know. I don’t need to know. Just—save it for after hours, preferably off campus.”

“Yes, sir,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper.

Katsuki, again, grumbles something that might also be ‘yes, sir’, though it’s muffled enough to sound more like static.

Aizawa simply stands against the doorframe, expression unreadable except for the slow blink that says he has seen far too much for one lifetime. He sighs. “Of all places? In my classroom? When you can have an off campus day to yourselves?”

His voice is so flat that for a second it doesn’t register. 

You open your mouth, but nothing coherent comes out. Katsuki’s ears are bright red. He tries to shove his hands in his pockets and ends up looking like he’s been caught stealing snacks instead of making out.

Aizawa continues, tone bone-dry. “Anyways. Congratulations on discovering mutual affection. Detention for both of you after training. Three days.”

Katsuki bristles. “What? We didn’t—”

“Four days,” Aizawa says without even looking at him. “Keep going and I’ll make it a week.”

Katsuki shuts up immediately, jaw clenching.

You try, weakly, “Sir, it won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Aizawa replies. “Because if I have to walk in on that again, you’ll be scrubbing the entire dorm kitchen with a toothbrush.”

He steps back toward the hall, already done with the conversation. “You’re dismissed,” he adds dryly, even though you’re still on lunch break.

When the door slides shut, silence swells again.

Katsuki exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “Four days.”

He shoots you a glare, but there’s the edge of a smirk under it. “Worth it.”

You snort, finally giving up and laughing. He rolls his eyes, mutters something about “damn nosy teachers,” and when you bump his shoulder on the way out, he doesn’t move away this time.

But the next Monday, he sits next to you at lunch. Loudly. Casually. Lets his thigh press against yours in full view of everyone. Says your name in a way that makes Kaminari raise an eyebrow.

When your friends ask you, eyes glimmering in utter surprise, if this is an official statement of your relationship status, Katsuki scowls, but the tips of his ears are pink. He shoves another bite of food in his mouth just to shut himself up.

“It is” he says, simply, shoving a spoonful of rice in his mouth.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because for once, you’re sitting beside him — not on a different table, not in secret, not in the dark —and everyone can see.

And for Katsuki Bakugo, that says everything.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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And thankfully, the apartment complex you chose was magnificent, modest, but absolutely stunning. It certainly made the pill easier to swallow. Especially now, with the incredible salary increase, you could finally afford something more comfortable; at least by your standards. It had only been a few days since you moved in, settling into a corner unit just beneath a set of condos that luxuriously occupied the top floor.

With hardly any time between moving everything in and attempting to get situated, you hadn’t even purchased groceries. Which is why you were currently standing in the lobby, half-asleep, hoodie lopsided, flip-flops smacking against the tile; waiting patiently for the elevator, arms heavy with crinkling plastic bags from a convenience store run at two in the morning. Perhaps going this late had been a mistake, or possibly a stroke of genius. It was hard to tell when you were juggling three packs of instant ramen, a bag of sour gummies, some chips, and two volumes of a shoujo manga you definitely didn’t need.

And as fate—or the universe, or some overworked celestial intern—would have it, this would be the exact moment you met the finest man in the entire complex. Perhaps the entire planet. While looking like you’d been rotting in bed since Tuesday.

They say first impressions are everything. A silent but lasting judgment, stamped onto you the moment someone lays eyes. And in this fleeting instant, it took less than a second for you to be seen as the resident weirdo. Which, clearly, wasn’t the kind of impression you’d hoped to leave on anyone outside of work. But lo’ and behold, it happened. Starting the moment the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. You stepped inside without so much a thought, more focused on not dropping anything than on checking your surroundings. Arms full and vision partially blocked by plastic bags, you fumbled to press the button for your floor, mumbling quiet curses under your breath.

Then, without a word, a hand reached out and pressed the button marked 9, the movement so swift you flinched, startled by the realization that you weren’t alone.

“Thanks,” you offered, flashing a polite smile over your shoulder.

That’s when you saw him.

A tall, really tall, man who had been built like a battering ram, standing just behind you, dressed head to toe in black tactical gear. His collar sat low on his neck, clinging to the sheen of sweat that slicked his skin. Damp blonde hair curled near his forehead, and the faint scent of smoke lingered in the narrow space between you. His eyes were a sharp crimson, shining brighter than rubies—as they flicked to you, unimpressed and dragging over you in a slow sweep that felt more like a judgment than a glance.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared.

And somehow, that said plenty.

With a sharp jawline and heavy-lidded eyes, he wore exhaustion like armor. It was a weariness that suggested the day had gone, at least, twelve rounds with him and almost won. If looks could kill, his would’ve cleared out a building. Or, at the very least, cause you to nearly drop every last one of your bags.

“Wait,” you blurted before your brain could catch up. “Aren’t you…?”

This question was self-explanatory and didn’t need an answer. You’d seen that face enough times on the news, splashed across headlines, or caught mid-detonation in grainy footage to know that he was, in fact, the Dynamight. One of the top pro-heroes in the country. A living explosion with a public temper and a hero license to match.

But up close with keys clenched between his teeth and a duffel bag sliding off one shoulder, he didn’t look like a menace.

Yes, he held an atypical scowl but he just looked tired.

And big. Definitely big.

Even slightly hunched under the weight of his gear, with gauntlets dangling from his other shoulder like boxing gloves, his biceps looked like they were on the verge of starting a fight with his sleeves.

“Tch,” his tongue clicks, side-eyeing you with perplexing precision. “Don’t tell me you’re a fan or some shit.”

“It’s hard not to be when you’re always on the news.”

That gets you a sharp snort as he shifts his weight onto one leg, arms crossed over his chest in that way that screams don’t get comfortable. The elevator hums softly around you, fluorescent lights flickering a little overhead. You swear the silence between floors drags a second too long.

“Yeah, well—,” he mutters, glancing at the elevator buttons like they’re the real enemy here. “People love watchin’ shit blow up.”

“That must make you a real box office hit.”

“Sure. Whatever you say,” he didn’t even look at you when he answered, voice low and edged with a bite—but there was a smugness under it too, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Just don’t go expectin’ any autographs.”

“I’d manage just fine. Though I’d probably make a pretty penny pawning off your signature.”

The quip earned you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was almost fighting showing a glimpse of his teeth. Still it counts as a win, if you were keeping score. Knowing someone in the building—especially someone not totally allergic to conversation—might not be the worst thing.

“Real fuckin’ cute,” he mutters, more gruff and amused than flirty. “You always talk this much, or just when you’re stuck in a metal box with a pro?”

Lifting a brow, your arms tightening slightly around your grocery bags. “Only when said ‘pro’ nearly scares me into dropping three cups of instant ramen.”

His gaze flicks to the bags, then back to you. “At two in the goddamn morning?”

“I was hungry,” you shrug. “Hope that’s not a crime.”

He clicks his tongue again, but you catch the way his eyes narrow—not angry, more curious now. Maybe just squinting at the absurdity of this shared moment.

Then the elevator dings, sliding open on your floor. You move to step out, but his boots echo behind you.

“Hmm? Don’t tell me…”

He jerks his chin toward the hallway, “9C.”

“Wait. Really?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, striding ahead without so much as a glance back. “I’ve got enough shit to deal with, so try not to be another pain in my fuckin’ ass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you say back, jaw slack with pure amusement. “And here I thought the worst thing about this city would be the traffic.”

He snorts, tossing a look over his shoulder, “Keep talkin’, smartass. I’ll have a noise complaint in before you even finish unpackin’.”

Then his hand lifts in a lazy wave as he slides his key into the lock, clearly at home and completely unbothered. The door shuts behind him with a decisive thunk. And despite yourself, you grin. Still standing in the hall with a bag full of junk food, and already one story deep into the chaos that is your new neighbor.

In Bakugou’s defense, none of this was ever meant to become a habit. But scientifically speaking, fate isn’t something he can regulate; it’s a force of nature with a will of its own. And lately, it’s been working overtime to make you a recurring fixture in his day. Sometimes, in the smallest, stickiest ways.

Each encounter usually starts with you catching the elevator doors with that slippered foot of yours, smiling up at him, chatting about nothing: bad office coffee, some new ramen place a few blocks down, how that damn mailman kept mixing their packages up. He never said much. Mostly watched. But sometimes he’d grunt in agreement, or pull an earbud out when you got particularly animated.

Sometimes, he even helped you carry your groceries—in those rare moments you’d actually went shopping—always wearing a scowl. Like it pissed him off how heavy the bags were. With all that muscle mass, they weren’t. But who would he be if he acted like he enjoyed it?

This time around, though, it was purely accidental. Completely uncalled for.

Another elevator run-in. With you, looking so fucking pretty, it is actually annoying, humming to yourself, laundry basket hitched at the hip in the lobby. And when the doors dinged open ahead, it felt like an angel had been revealed to the world.

He fucking hated it.

“Look at that,” you grinned, pulling an earbud out. “Fate strikes again.”

He didn’t even try to hide the annoyance, already jabbing the “door close” button like it owed him lunch money.

“Tch. More like bad fuckin’ luck.”

But you stepped into the elevator anyway, cheerful as ever. “Mm. Sure. Or maybe you’ve just got my schedule memorized.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered. “This dumb ass elevator just hates me.”

Adjusting the basket, you gave a soft huff, “Well, lucky for you, I come bearing fresh-dried towels and small talk.”

His eyes flickered down to the basket like it personally insulted him; and hell yeah it did. Because why the fuck are you carrying anything in his presence? “Give it here. You’re goin’ to throw your back out carrying that shit by yourself.”

“Should I thank you for caring so much about my spinal health?”

“Shut up,” he scoffed, reaching to take the basket from you with one hand like it weighed nothing. “Don’t make it weird.”

The snicker that came from those lips, plump, glossed-up, and so damn soft looking, made his stomach turn, eyes narrow and heart race.

“Didn’t take you for the chivalrous type.”

He turned away from you, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. It was so easy for you to tease him, and that infuriated his heart in a gentle way. “Keep fuckin’ yappin’ and I’ll throw your towels down the damn stairwell.”

“You wouldn’t dare. That’s premium detergent you’re threatening.”

The elevator jerked to a stop at their floor, and he stepped out first, still holding your basket like it was his sworn duty now. He didn’t wait or look back— he knew you were trailing after him, arms folded behind your back with a curious look directed toward him.

“You know, if this keeps up, I might start thinking you like running into me.”

He shot a glare over his shoulder—maybe he did, maybe he didn’t—eyes narrowing more, “You tryin’ to piss me off?”

“I’m just getting started.”

He muttered something under his breath, a gentle pain in my ass, while waiting at your door, shifting the basket to one arm while you fumbled with your keys.

In all his time living in this complex, no one had ever caught his interest. All his previous neighbors were idiots; extras in a world way too big for them. Some were stalkers, others were fans, and the rest? Just plain fucking boring. He didn’t care. None of them mattered. Until you, the elevator weirdo, moved in. Now, for some reason, he can’t stop wanting to matter to you; can’t stop wanting to be relevant in your world. He grumbled all the time about these stupid ass emotions. Because to him, the shit is wack as hell. But at this point, what can he do?

“Thanks,” you say quietly, taking the basket back once the door swung open.

“Yeah. Whatever,” his eyes met yours for a beat too long before he turned, striding off down the hallway, earbuds back in, hand raised lazily over his shoulder like punctuation.

And when he heard you step into your apartment—he hoped you were grinning stupidly, heart racing—because, though he wasn’t smiling, his own damn heart was pounding. There was always this softness that settled in after the two of you talked. Like you were holding something delicate and didn’t wanna drop it. It hadn’t even been that long since you moved in, and yet fuck. Was he suddenly developing some kind of weird ass emotional disease?

Not that he could ever think of you like that, but—well, shit—he wasn’t blind. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him. Felt how easy it was to fall into a rhythm with you, banter came naturally to both of you without even trying. It was stupid. Dangerous. And yet, for someone with a personality intense enough to make most people keep their distance; he didn’t mind seeing you. Didn’t mind those few minutes between floors. Maybe even looked forward to them. Even if it did only exist in the confines of elevator talk.

About three days later, what began as a harmless distraction ended up serving as a harsh reminder that instincts exist for a reason. It started with a drink and a smile before turning into an awful gut feeling the moment he referred to himself as an ‘alpha male’. Unironically, this would be the first date you’d been on in months and it was already a complete disaster. He laughed at the wrong moments, touched your waist even after you flinched, and tossed out a crude remark he had the nerve to call a compliment.

He is everything Bakugou Katsuki isn’t, and that is a compliment to the explosive hero himself. Because despite all his rough edges, you’d come to terms with one undeniable truth: you were utterly attracted to him and not this vile man sitting in front of you right now.

It was the reason you decided to go on a date to begin with. To try to shake this impending crush you had.

Not that it actually mattered.

He was the boy next door—well, more like the smoldering, broad-shouldered pro-hero who lived one apartment over—and you? Just a regular woman working a 9-to-5, trying to keep her life in order. A relationship like that could never work… right? Or maybe you were just overthinking it. Psyching yourself out before giving it a shot, too afraid of rejection, or too afraid of ruining whatever fragile, budding connection the two of you actually had.

Time couldn’t have dragged any slower. Some distraction this turned out to be. Eventually, you made a flimsy excuse, bailed, and practically sprinted home in heels. But, as if the night couldn’t get any worse, the psycho followed you.

Right up to the front of your building where he forcefully grabbed your arm.

“Why’d you run off like that, baby? We were just getting to the good part,” it was meant to be endearing but it only made you cringe in disgust.

“What the hell? Let me go,” you snapped, heart pounding loud in your ears. You tried to pull away, but his fingers clamped tighter, digging into your skin.

He leaned in closer, breath sour with whiskey. “C’mon, don’t be like that. You were flirting all night. What, suddenly you’re too good now?”

In that moment, your stomach flipped and panic clawed its way up your throat like a noose tightening with every breath. This isn’t just an awkward date anymore. This is dangerous.

“You’re drunk,” you reason, voice trembling despite your best effort to sound firm. “Go home and sleep this off before I have to call the police.”

He just smiled wider, like it was all a game. The glint in his eye made one thing painfully clear: he didn’t think you’d actually do anything about it. And maybe—maybe he was right. You would’ve stayed frozen there, caught in the moment, heart rattling like a warning siren in your chest if not for the voice that cut through the air behind you.

“Oi.”

One word barked out in a warning.

“What the fuck d’you think you’re doin’, huh?”

As if he were the sun cutting through clouds after a storm. There emerged, Bakugou Katsuki, looming and furious, wearing sweatpants and a tight fitted tank top, with eyes glowing like embers. His pace was slow, almost lethal. There was something predatory in the way he moved, hands buried deep in his pockets, looking like he had just come back from an evening jog.

The guy stepped back immediately. Trying to look as innocent as possible while attempting to appear tough.

“Leave us alone, man. We’re having a private conversation here,” the sleazy guy bit out.

“That ain’t what it looked like to me,” Bakugou snapped back, voice low.

“It doesn’t really matter what it looked like to you. This is between me and her.”

Bakugou stopped a few paces away, head tilted slightly, and jaw flexing. His voice dropped even lower, almost calm, but somehow more menacing. Then he stepped in. Close enough to shift the air. Close enough for the guy to realize just how badly he’d fucked up.

“Hah. Nah, it’s between all of us now,” he cuts his eyes to you, sharp but waiting. “Still wanna deal with this fuckin’ loser?”

In response to his question, you quickly shook your head. That was all the confirmation he needed because then, the man couldn’t help but to flinch when Bakugou raised a hand, embers sparking off his palm with loud, crackling pops that matched the fury climbing up his spine.

His expression didn’t shift, but his eyes were burning.

“I’ll give you three seconds to fuck off before I make it real hard for you to walk away.”

The guy blinked, stumbled backwards before muttering something about you being “crazy” and “not worth it” then storming off in a rush of cowardice.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Bakugou muttered. The words were lethal, but they weren’t aimed at you.

After he left and the adrenaline ebbed into silence, is when you finally felt calm enough to release the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding until now. In fact, you just stood there, shoulders hunched, fists clenched tight at your sides.

Bakugou didn’t move right away either. He just stood there, with eyes sweeping over your face and body in a quick, practiced scan for any signs of damage. He did it so seamlessly, you almost didn’t notice. Must’ve been part of his pro-hero training. He exhaled slowly through his nose and you could tell he wanted to hit something. The twitch in his fingers gave it away. Suddenly, you wondered what he was thinking? When his eyes found yours again, that edge softened just enough.

“You hurt?” he asked, rough and to the point.

In the moment, you didn’t answer. Maybe you couldn’t. Maybe the answer was already written on your face.

He took a step toward you, then stopped short, he hesitated as if he didn’t trust himself not to scare you. The thought made his frown deepen.

“Hey,” his voice dropped, quieter now. “I’m talkin’ to you. You good?”

Another beat of silence passes before you shook your head, again, eyes burning.

Bakugou sighed and without another word, he stepped forward, gently pulled the strap of your bag off your shoulder, muttering:

“C’mon. I’m cookin’.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

This time around, the elevator ride remained silent. Neither of you, but mainly you, had much to say after that encounter earlier. Internally, you were grateful to have had a pro-hero as a neighbor. His timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Any second later and… the mere thought made you shiver. Who knew what would’ve happened.

When the doors opened to floor nine, he led the way, sticking a key in the lock before twisting the knob. In a gruff, rough-edged way, he chivalrously allowed you to walk ahead, telling you to leave your shoes at the door.

His apartment smelled of soap and charcoal, which could only be summed up as a direct result of his quirk. Regardless, it is clean in a way yours could never quite managed to be. With the income he undoubtedly earned, every piece of furniture looked hand-made, wooden and modernized. He has a black ornate clock ticking steadily on the wall, a simple case of classic movies lined the shelf, and even his fridge—based on the quick glimpse you caught—is fully stocked.

Sitting on a stool at his kitchen island with a glass of water, you watched as he moved like an executive chef who’d cooked for thousands more times than you could imagine. Contrary to popular belief, there were no explosions, no yelling, not even a single mess. Just quiet control and simple peace.

Was this truly the same man you’d seen screaming his head off on television? In fact, the way he handled situations, the way he spoke to you, was rough but stripped of aggression. This is your neighbor, the one you really fucking liked.

He cooked you soba, setting the plate down in front of you with chopsticks hanging in the noodles like a flag.

“Eat,” he muttered. “And stop lookin’ at me like I’m ‘bout to bite you.”

His words made you smile, and you obeyed by taking a bite in hopes it’ll anchor you. The flavor profile is immense, like good—so, so good. This bowl stands to be the best thing you’d eaten in weeks. And although, he didn’t hover, he still leaned against the counter sipping tea, with eyes flicking to you like he couldn’t help himself. Maybe a part of him wanted to gauge your reaction, to observe genuine emotion.

“Thank you,” you say softly, after finishing the meal he so diligently prepared. “For stepping in. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t.”

“Don’t thank me, dumbass. I just got a knack for chasin’ off weirdos.”

“That you do,” you agree with a laugh, he also had a knack for making you laugh. “Who knew having a pro as a neighbor would come with such perks?”

“Tch,” his teeth clicks lightly. “Pro or not, nobody’s layin’ a fuckin’ hand on you while I’m around.”

His words touched you, truly. It made your heart race to the point you actually started to cry softly. The reality set in, and you were so incredibly lucky to have made such a wonderful connection. At the sight of tears, he winced, fumbling for tissues.

“Don’t start cryin’, damnit.”

After that, something shifted.

Bakugou had to give you his phone number. If going out on dates, which he fucking despised the idea of, was going to be part of your routine, he found it best to grant you permission to access him personally. He tried to justify it as protection, but honestly, his reasoning was more selfish than noble.

Was it bad that he wanted to talk to you outside that godforsaken elevator? He didn’t think so. And neither did you, because soon, you started making yourself comfortable by becoming a frequent in his life. It took a matter of seconds before you started crashing on his bed whenever you were too tired to walk down the hall. Sometimes, you’d insist on sleeping on the couch, but he just couldn’t stomach the idea of letting his unexpected guest do so. He’d grown so accustomed to having you over, that he’d even leave a pillow fluffed up with extra blankets folded, waiting just in case.

He thought he’d get annoyed by your frequent texts, but it turned out to be the highlight of his day—especially when you sent those stupid-ass moving pictures or chatted about the little things.

His favorite is always about the elevator.

Pain In My Ass:

Not them finally fixing the metal box after a month…

Still can’t believe they had us walking up nine flights of stairs for that long.

read ✔️

He’d then respond, “Bet it breaks again tomorrow.”

Then you’d send a laughing emoji with this little quip:

Pain In My Ass:

Should we sue?

delivered ✔️

And slowly, slowly, he began to soften. He grumbled less, and smirked a bit more. He let you decorate his fridge with those dumb ass magnets you always seemed to find on clearance at the convenience store you loved so much. He let you call him by his first name, and you let him call you by yours. It felt familiar, as if he’d known you for a lifetime. And he reluctantly liked the sound of it rolling off his tongue.

Bakugou was shit at admitting it, but he actually fucking liked you. A bit too much. He’d been suppressing it for a while, but attraction, chemistry, and connection couldn’t be hidden in moments filled with intimacy—like right now, on a night you asked him over to watch a movie, and he’d taken over the kitchen like he always does, preparing an array of snacks.

“For someone who doesn’t live here, you’ve got a real habit of acting like this is your place,” you teased with a smile, watching him pace around.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the attention.

“If you stocked your damn fridge, I wouldn’t have to.”

He constantly fussed at you for your lack of food, but always mentally created a grocery list, knowing he’d make it his mission to have it filled by the next evening.

“I’ll just start charging you rent since you seem to greatly dislike my limited grocery spend.”

He snorted, grabbing another bowl from the cabinet. “Yeah? Then I’ll pawn off those shitty magnets on my fridge to cover it.”

Laughter rang through the air at his response, and you lightly smacked his shoulder. “I thought you liked them?”

“They’re fuckin’ stupid,” he muttered, lips tugging into a smirk. “But I put up with ‘em ‘cause they’re yours.”

He avoided looking at you directly, pretending to focus on the snacks, but the slight curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. The banter, the conversation, nothing ever seemed to falter with you. Not many people got his sense of humor, nor did they grasp his personality.

But you, fucking you, read him perfectly. And he appreciated that more than he’d ever admit.

As you kept talking, he placed some final touches on the food and slid a plate toward you. His eyes, watchful as always, stayed locked on you as you took a bite. The hum that slipped from your throat when the flavor hit made his pulse spike in an uncontrollable wave, much like a fuse hissing down to detonation.

“It’s so good,” you murmured, already snagging another bite.

“Damn right it is.”

Bakugou meant to leave it at that. He really did. But when his hand lifted to brush a crumb from the corner of your mouth, the atmosphere shifted, suddenly turning sensual. He couldn’t resist the temptation of your lips—so soft to the touch and pleasant to look at. His thumb lingered too long, dragging against the plumpness of your lower lip before he pulled his hand back, jaw clenched tight.

Fuck.

FUCKKKKKK.

He shouldn’t want this so badly. But you were standing right there, lips practically begging for him. If that wasn’t enough, there were your eyes too, locked on his like you could see every thought running through his head. He hated how easy it was for you to undo him, how much he wanted to drown in you. His gaze dropped again, lingering on the way your mouth parted as you breathed. He could almost picture it: how you’d taste, and how you’d sound when he finally kissed you.

Then you leaned in, just barely, perhaps without even realizing it. But regardless, it was enough.

A curse tore from him as he closed the space, crashing his mouth against yours. This kiss was a mixture of everything—rough, messy, charged with the restraint that had been silently breaking for months. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb pressing firm against your cheek as if to pin you in place, to make sure you couldn’t slip away now that he had you.

And you kissed him back just as desperately, clutching at him like you had been starving too.

“Shit,” he muttered, trying to regain control, trying to remind himself to stop before he went too far. Pulling back slightly, breathing heavy, eyes dark with restraint.

“Katsuki,” you murmured, tilting your chin up to kiss him again. This time, your hand fisted his shirt, pulling him closer. Your insistence made a low growl escape him. “I really like you.”

“Tch,” he froze for half a second, struggling against the chaos you’d unleashed, before giving it up entirely. “You’re really something,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you impossibly close. “I like you too, idiot.”

The next kiss was fiercer, hungrier, desperate in a way that left both of you reeling. Hands tangled in each other’s hair, hearts slamming, lips colliding again and again. Time had denied you this euphoric experience long enough, and now it erupted into one impossible, burning instant.

“Wait—,” you laugh, pulling back, and he lets you, only to dip lower, pressing hot kisses down your neck and nipping at your bare shoulder. “What about our movie?”

“Why the hell do you care about some shitty movie right now?” he mutters against your neck, smirking when you shiver.

“Guess you’ve got a point,” you tease. “But you’re going to have to prove you’re worth missing the ending for.”

“Heh,” he smirks against your skin, teeth scraping your shoulder. “I’ll have you forgettin’ about it in ten fuckin’ seconds.”

He smirks, grabs you like you weigh nothing, and tosses you over his shoulder. Striding past the couch without a second glance at the untouched snacks and abandoned movie, he carries you upstairs—your laughter mixing with his low, satisfied chuckle.

In no way, shape, or form did you ever expect to feel so blissfully at peace with the most passionate man on planet earth. Everything Bakugou Katsuki did was never half-assed, and that included his love. Every heartbeat felt synchronized, and the world would fall away every time his lips found yours. The intention hadn’t been to fall in love, let alone so seamlessly. But somehow it had come to this point where everything just fell together.

Groceries were still an unspoken shared duty, mainly one-sided with Bakugou grumbling as he hauled the heavier bags and you teasing him mercilessly.

“Y’know, you could probably bench press the whole building,” you’d joke.

“Shut up,” he’d snort, one eyebrow raised, though secretly you knew he liked the praise.

The elevator remained a stage for your endless chatter, small talk now punctuated with laughter and a quiet, comfortable familiarity. On late patrol nights you’d wait for him in the lobby, a huge smile on your face. He’d want to hear about your day, and you’d tell him everything—whether it was complaining about the office or recounting some absurd city mishap.

He listened, muttering a single gruff word of acknowledgment, occasionally cracking the tiniest smirk when your stories grew ridiculous.

And then there were the little moments that made your chest tighten and your stomach flip with quiet wonder. Like when the lights flickered one evening and your hand instinctively found his. How he didn’t pull away, but held it firm, like it was his job to keep you safe—and always had been.

Being with him like this, amid the domestic chaos, the soft quiet, the everyday intimacy, was something you never could have imagined when you first stepped into that elevator. The man who once radiated fire and scowls now let his walls down just enough for you to see him fully. And in turn, you realized that you didn’t need grand gestures to feel sparks.

Sometimes he caught you staring, eyes lingering too long on the curve of his jaw, the slope of his broad shoulders, the way his hands moved when he cooked or carried your bags. He’d clear his throat, scowl, and mutter,

“Don’t get all sappy on me,” but his fingers would brush against yours anyway, a quiet reassurance that needed no words.

It felt good to love him. And to know he loved you too—because he’d said it first, with that gruff certainty that made your heart ache. Being his was unpredictable, but perfect. Being yours was the softest thing about him.

And in a world that was always loud, explosive, and uncertain, this quiet, reckless, tender space was yours.

Together.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────── the end.

The thing is, he’s not even trying. He’s just being himself. Barefoot in your kitchen, hair still damp from the long shower he took earlier, a soft hint of stubble along his jaw because he hasn’t bothered to shave yet. There’s this quiet, worn ease to him today—the good kind. Like he finally got some rest. Like his body knows it’s home again.

And you want to climb him.

He looks up as the kettle whistles and clicks it off, moving to grab the mugs. The tea’s still steeping and he’s focused, brow slightly furrowed as he checks the water level—and you’re already stepping forward, like some heat-seeking missile locked onto target.

“Did you do something new in your workout?” you ask casually, voice just a little too breathy as you near him.

He glances over his shoulder with that familiar frown, forehead crinkling. “Nah.” He turns off the burner and straightens up. “Why?”

You shrug as you close the distance between you. He smells like fresh laundry and warm citrus—probably from that shampoo you like in the guest bath—and it’s too much. “I don’t know. You just…” You reach out, hand grazing his arm as he sets a mug down. “You look broader. Bigger. Maybe it’s the mission? You’ve been lifting tanks again?”

His ears turn pink.

You don’t miss it.

Your hand moves up to squeeze his bicep—Gods, it’s firm and warm under your touch—then slides to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He stiffens under your touch, like he wasn’t expecting it, but doesn’t move away. If anything, he goes still. Like very still.

Then, lower. You trail your hand down over his abs, across the ridges of his obliques where the compression fabric hugs tightest. It’s soft and warm from his skin underneath, and you’re close enough now to feel the way his breath hitches.

He freezes.

Absolutely freezes.

Cheeks flushing, ears glowing, and hands awkwardly hovering near the counter like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

And then you say it.

“Should we have sex?” you murmur, tone airy like you’re just asking about the weather. “Like… we can be quick. Ten minutes.”

Boom. The effect is immediate.

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat—half a cough, half a choked sound of disbelief—and pulls back slightly, blinking hard like he’s buffering. “Wh—I just—uh, I just got back, a-and we—we just ate and I—”

His voice cracks a little, and your grin stretches slowly, dangerously, as you slide your hands to his hips and lean up, resting your chin on the curve of his bicep, looking at him with mock innocence.

“What?” you ask, soft and teasing. “Why are you blushing?”

“M’not—” He glares at the stove like it betrayed him. “You can’t just say shit like that—”

“Like what?” you blink, still all fake-innocence, even as you press a little closer to feel the heat radiating off of him. “Like I want you to fuck me?”

His jaw flexes. Hard. That stubborn little muscle ticking near the hinge.

Your words hang heavy in the air—sticky and intimate and real in a way that scrapes at the edges of Katsuki’s guarded heart. He’s still standing there, tense and blushing and stubbornly glaring at the stove like it might rescue him, but his body tells you more than his silence ever could.

His jaw ticks again, that muscle fluttering like he’s clenching down on something hard—like he doesn’t trust what’ll come out if he speaks too easily.

And then, finally, he mutters low, almost sheepish, “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that. You tilt your head against his arm. “Like what?”

He shifts his weight a little, stiff in the way he gets when he’s feeling vulnerable and hates that he is. “Fuckin’,” he says, jaw tight, eyes still not meeting yours. “Like we just… fuck. Nah. That—” He shakes his head, almost like he’s brushing something off. “That ain’t what we do.”

That makes you pause.

Because he says it so softly, even if he’s trying to sound annoyed. There’s a thread in his voice; something frayed and raw and incredibly honest. And it cuts right into your chest.

Still, because you are who you are, you press gently at the edges of his discomfort with a little teasing, hoping to coax him out of that tightly wound shell. “Alright,” you hum, playing innocent again, leaning back slightly but keeping your hands on him. “No ‘fucking,’ then.”

You feel the way his abs tense under your touch, the way his breath stutters. And you smile, dangerous and soft. “But… it doesn’t have to be ten minutes, by the way. It can be longer.” Your tone lilts up at the end, knowing exactly what you’re doing. “We can go a couple rounds. Three or four—”

Before you can even finish the sentence, he groans—deep, frustrated, and entirely done with you. His hand comes up immediately, shoving his palm into your face with a muttered, “Sh’ddup,” like he’s trying to smother both your words and his rising panic.

You laugh—a warm, playful thing—and bite gently at his fingers, just to make him curse.

“Damn it,” he mutters, yanking his hand back like you shocked him. His ears are scarlet now. Full body flush, like he’s overheating from the inside out.

You take pity. A little.

“Katsuki,” you say, softer now, voice still tinged with amusement, but genuine beneath it. You step down, just slightly, letting your chin drop from his bicep as you gaze up at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Still frowning. Still looking like you’ve cornered him and he’s not sure what to do with the feeling.

“Why are you being so weird about it?” you ask gently, brushing your fingertips along the hem of his shirt. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just stands there, shoulders stiff, fingers flexing like he’s working through it physically—like the words are stuck in his chest and need to be wrestled out.

And then, finally, he breathes. “Just… still can’t believe y’want me like that.”

The confession is so low, so bare, that you almost don’t catch it.

But you do.

And your heart breaks a little.

Because now it makes sense—the flushed cheeks, the awkward stumbling, the hesitation and heat and quiet. It’s not embarrassment. It’s disbelief. That after everything—his temper, his history, the image people project onto him—you still look at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Like you’re hungry for him. Like you love him enough to want to devour him, over and over, and never get full.

He finally looks at you then. Really looks. And the ache in his eyes guts you.

He swallows hard, brow furrowed. “S’just—everything’s always been so heavy with me. People either expect too much, or they don’t want anything at all. But you…” His voice tapers. “You see me. And you still want me.” His mouth quirks, barely. “That’s fuckin’ insane.”

And it hits you again—how serious everything is to him. Every look, every brush of your hand, every shared bed and soft kiss. Nothing with Katsuki is casual. Nothing is careless. When he loves, he does it with everything. With a kind of unflinching, terrified devotion that makes your chest feel like it’s caving in under the weight of it.

And sex?

It’s not just a release to him. Not a checkbox. Not even just intimacy.

It’s you. It’s him. It’s all the silent promises he doesn’t know how to say out loud; the need to make you feel seen and touched and worshipped. Not dominated. Not conquered. Not fucked.

Loved.

Completely. Helplessly. Permanently.

So when he says he can’t believe you want him—it’s not just about attraction. It’s about worthiness. It’s about not knowing what the hell he did to deserve someone who looks at him the way you do when you’re begging him to come to bed.

You step into him again. Wrap your arms around his waist. Press your cheek to his chest and breathe in the warm, clean scent of him.

“I do want you,” you whisper. “Not because I expect anything more than what you already give me. Not because I want you to be someone you’re not. I want you, Katsuki. Just you. I love how serious you are. I love how much you care. I love the way you touch me like I’m precious.”

Your hands slip under his shirt, palms warm against his skin. “You’re everything I want.”

His breath shudders.

And then he’s wrapping his arms around you, too. Tight. So tight it almost hurts—but it doesn’t, not really. Not when it’s him. Not when you know that grip is the only way he knows how to say thank you for choosing me without falling apart.

You hear his voice, low and gruff in your hair. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smile, closing your eyes. “You’ll never have to find out.”

And it’s in that silence that he kisses you—no teasing, no heat, just a long, slow press of his lips to your temple. The kind of kiss that says you’re mine, and I’m yours, and I don’t want anyone else in this world but you.

And later, when he finally leads you to the bedroom—hands still shaking a little, but more confident now, more sure—you let him take his time. Let him kiss you like it matters. Let him love you the way only Katsuki can.

Like it's serious. Like it's sacred. Like it’s the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense.

溶けていく / 神への祈りのように / 肌と汗と / 「もう一度」