Renaye

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑 ᵇᵗˢ | SUN ❝draw me in and set me aflame...you are the center of it all❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐎 ᵇⁿʰᵃ | MERCURY ❝whispering secrets of the universe...you swiftly take the cosmic stage❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐑 ᵐᵘˡᵗⁱ-ᶠᵃⁿᵈᵒᵐˢ | VENUS ❝cloaked in mystery and allure...your beauty harbors an untamed fire❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 ᵗʷᵈ | EARTH ❝blue jewel in the vast void...you cradle life and myriad dreams❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 ʰᵒᵗᵈ | MOON ❝closest confident...in your phases we find our reflection❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ | MARS ❝stained by iron...your silence reveals tales of valor and endeavor❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐙𝐄𝐑𝐎 ᵗᵉᵉⁿ ʷᵒˡᶠ | ASTEROID BELT ❝fragments of creation…a celestial dance of chaos and harmony❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ⁱʷᵗᵛ | JUPITER ❝majestic monarch of the skies...your storms hold hearts greater than earth❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘 ʰᵃⁿⁿⁱᵇᵃˡ | SATURN ❝ringed maestro...your icy dance echos a symphony of beauty❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ʰᵒᵗᵈ | URANUS ❝leaning on your side, you spin...spin an axis of rebellion and uniqueness❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ᵏⁿʸ | NEPTUNE ❝from a distance you watch...gaze encompass a solitude unknown❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐌 ʰᵗᵍᵃʷᵐ | PLUTO ❝though demoted, you remain undiminished...a resilence that teaches strength in the shadows❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐗 ʲʲᵏ | SHOOTING STAR ❝blaze across my sky for only a moment...but in that second, you're all I see❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 ᵇⁿʰᵃ | ROUGE PLANET ❝drifting untethered through the void…a lost light still burning in the dark❞ [COMING SOON!]

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

The first explosion comes at you fast, snapping from his palms like punctuation.

You pivot sideways in the dirt, but the burst clips your shoulder anyway in flashing white-hot pain. You laugh through clenched teeth.

“Your left hook’s getting lazy,” you shout as you shove a focused burst of force from your own palm into his chest.

He skids, boots carving lines into the dirt. “Shut up,” he snaps. “You’re stalling.”

You are.

Because even while you’re trading blows, even while your heart is hammering and your quirk burns under your skin, part of your brain is already doing what it always does when Bakugo comes home from school:

Tracking his form... Clocking where his timing slips... Running through what he learned and where the gaps are...

Your quirk hums even stronger—a contained pressure that sits like a storm banked behind a dam.

On paper it’s called Kinetic Charge; considered to be a low-tier propulsion based-mobility enhancer. Good for jumps, bursts of speed, flashy but limited applications. Nothing to focus on. No need to worry about the possibility of a powerful hero (or villain) in the making.

At least that’s what the registry says. Because the stronger your emotions are?

Thrusting your palm forward, you compress it into a focused burst, the shockwave punching through the air before slamming toward an opening in Bakugo's defense like an invisible fist.

He takes it square in the lower face and skids back, boots tearing up grass. Coughing once, the blonde teen straightens, eyes alight.

“There you go!” he hoarsely laughs. Blood trickles at the corner of his mouth—his lip bitten at some point and didn’t even notice.

To any sane person, this would look like a fight.

Split lips. Dirt-streaked skin. Bruises blooming over collarbones and ribs. The kind of thing that ends with someone not getting up.

To you, it’s a regular Tuesday.

You counter his next blast with a shockwave that sends you into the air as you maneuver his attempted kick to the side. “Pop quiz,” you say breathlessly as you hit the ground. “What’s the formula for kinetic energy?”

Katsuki snarls, already charging. “The hell are you yapping about now?!”

“You forgot it last time,” you say, ducking under his swing and slamming your fist into his ribs. “Answer!”

He grunts as you collide, hands grabbing at your sleeves. “One-half m v squared!”

You grin even as your teeth rattle. “Good.”

He blasts you backward harder this time. Skidding, you catch yourself with one hand and push up, muscles screaming.

“You still doing that dumb homeschooling shit?” he pants.

“Yup,” you shoot back. “And still ahead of your whole stupid class.”

“Bullshit!”

“Ask me what you covered today.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Projectile motion.”

You launch yourself at him again. “Angle determines range. Forty-five degrees—”

He cuts you off with an explosion aimed at your feet causing you to stumble. "Shit," you lightly hiss before sending another concussive wave that rattles his bones.

“—maximizes distance assuming no air resistance,” you finish. “Which your teacher didn’t bother explaining.”

Bakugo's mouth twists into something mean as he release a sharp laugh. “You're such an fucking Extra.”

You freeze for half a heartbeat then you bark a laugh through your nose, even as you spit blood onto the ground.

Extra.

To anyone else it sounds like how he talks about background people—props. The nobody characters. The ones he dismisses with a sneer, shouts over in class, refuses to remember.

But he doesn’t say it to you like that.

He says it like it’s yours. Like he picked up the word, turned it over in his hands, and decided it fit you the way a nickname fits a scar.

Extra as in too much. Dramatic. Loud in the way you refuse to lose. Excessive in the way you refuse to bend.

You wipe your mouth with the heel of your palm and glare back. “You like it.”

He doesn’t deny it.

You circle each other slowly now, breathing heavy, sweat dripping. This is how you’ve always done it—learning braided into violence, explanations shouted between blasts, corrections delivered with bruises.

You never went to school with him.

You never needed to.

While the short-tempered boy sat in classrooms snapping at teachers and anyone who dared to be at his level, you were at home—textbooks spread out on the table, online courses stacked ahead of your age-group, lessons catered to you.

No bells. No peers. No waiting for everyone else to catch up.

And so, when Bakugo came home, furious and restless and full of energy with nowhere to put it, you two would spar.

A conversation-filled spar where he would tell you what they taught him. Where you would correct what they got wrong and explain the parts they rushed. Sometimes you already knew it, sometimes you didn't and you learned together.

But you always fought through it.

Bakugo swings his arm again, releasing a blast that fractures, veering just enough that it misses your face and instead tears a groove into the fence.

He pauses.

You don’t. Instead you close the distance and slam your shoulder into him.

His breath leaves him in a grunt as his hands grab for you, gripping your forearm hard enough to bruise. You twist, wrenching free with a controlled pulse of force that pops the air at his wrist forcing him to let go.

Bakugo wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheek. He laughs like it’s the best thing he’s felt all day.

“Damn,” he says breathlessly. “You’re really trying today.”

You pant, chest rising and falling. “I always try.”

“Never tried this hard.”

Your eyes narrow. “Maybe you’re just getting slower. Ever thought about that Katsuki?”

That gets him.

The smile drops as his brows knit. The air around him changes—heat building, sweat slicking his palms, that familiar scent of sharpness like the world’s about to ignite.

He lunges at you with a roar.

This time you misjudge the angle and his explosion clips your jaw with a hot sting. You feel it in your stomach first; that drop. The sharp humiliating jolt of anger.

Bakugo sees it instantly (he always does). He’s already smiling again like he can taste the shift in you.

“There she is,” he says almost delighted.

You hate him. You love him. You want to hit him hard enough to rattle his future.

“Shut up,” you spit.

He opens his mouth to say something worse only to suddenly stop.

You see it in the way his shoulders remain tense like he’s bracing for impact that isn’t coming. The way his eyes keep flashing, not focused on you anymore but on something beyond.

The spar ends without being called.

Bakugo continues to stand there, chest rising and falling like a storm as you tilt your head slightly to study him. You’ve seen this look before—right after tests, evaluations, anything that reminds him the world exists beyond this yard.

You don’t ask what’s wrong nor do you offer comfort. You never do. That’s not your language.

Instead you wipe your nose again, grimacing at the coagulated smear of red on your hand and say the only thing that fits. “You’re fighting sloppy.”

He bristles instantly as he shoots you a look. “You talk too damn much.”

“You’re the one swinging like you got something to prove.”

Nostrils flaring, he says nothing and simply looks away.

That’s answer enough.

You take a few steps closer, dropping to the ground first, legs stretched out, hands braced behind you as you take in the cool breeze of the afternoon air. “Never did tell me what happened at the exam. Been about what, a week has it?”

Bakugo's gaze sharpen, anger immediately snapping into place like armor. “Nothing happened.”

You stare at him until he hates the silence more than he hates being seen. He finally gives in, collapsing on the yard's soft grass with flung out arms.

“...I saw Deku,” he spits, as if saying the name tastes bad. “That quick little bastard.”

Your brows knit at the name you've heard a thousand times. You’ve never met Izuku Midoriya. You don’t what he looks like, how he sounds, his exact shape in the world.

You only know him secondhand—through Bakugo's bitter venom and Mitsuki’s occasional sighs about “that sweet boy” who's friendship with her son ceased around the time you moved in next door.

“I thought he’d stay gone,” the blonde hothead continues, “thought he’d be smart enough to know he doesn’t belong in the same space as me.”

You watch the way his fingers twitch, like he wants to explode something just to feel relief.

“He looked at me,” he nearly hiss. “Like...like he could actually keep up.”

Even when the words come out like an insult, you could almost hear something behind them that resembled fear. You couldn't help the curling of your lips as you stare at him flatly.

“So what?”

Bakugo's eyes flash as he stares at you like you’ve slapped him. “So what?!”

“Why are you letting a nobody control your thoughts?” you shoot back. “He's not even here and he already got you fighting stupid.”

“He’s not—”

“You’re giving him space in your head for free,” you interrupt, eyes hard. “That’s embarrassing.”

His face reddens as he jumps to his feet, glaring down hard. “Shut up!”

Refusing to let him hold higher ground, you quickly stand up. “No, you shut up.” You jab a finger at his chest. “You already passed the exam and did what you came to do. Now why would you let some nobody control your thoughts?”

That lands.

Bakugo looks like he wants to bite you before choosing to look away; irritation simmering with nowhere clean to go.

Straightening, you decide to change the subject. “I got you something.”

That gets his attention. “Huh?”

You reach into your pocket and pull out a small piece of crumbled tissue. There, in slightly damp paper, two small metal studs catch in the setting sunlight.

Bakugo could only stare. “The fuck is that?”

"What do you think dipshit?" You hold them up like you’re revealing treasure. “They're earrings. Found a tattoo shop not too far from that dweeb ass arcade you hangout at. Guy doesn’t care about age.”

He snorts as he leans closer. “Where’d you get 'em anyways?”

You shrug like it’s nothing “Got a plug I found from one of my online classes. Goes by Melissa S. What's her last name you ask? Well for me to know and you to not~"

“Mmhmm if you say so..."

“I'm serious, she’s smart as hell,” you all but proudly say like a parent at graduation. “Like too smart. The kind of smart where you blink and she’s already built something that isn’t supposed to exist yet.”

Bakugo gaze drops to the stud earrings again. “So what? These are special?”

“Eh...more of an insurance if you will.”

Holding the pair between your fingers, you extend them towards him. “Get your ears pierced,” is all you tell him. “That’s your present from me to you.”

He waits a second longer before a bark of laughter shoots out his mouth.

“Old hag’s gonna lose her shit when she sees them,” he says almost gleefully, eyes brightening as he accepts the gift.

Though he hesitates when he glances back at you. “What about you?”

You lift your chin slightly as an air of smugness wafts around your frame. “I already got mines done.”

That causes him to eye you sideways. “I'm pretty sure I would have noticed if you had new ear piercings...”

A slow mischievous smile crawls across your face as you raised your eyebrows deliberately. “Who said I got my ears pierced?”

That makes Bakugo pause.

Meeting your shameless expression, it takes only a millisecond before he understood, eyes flickering down to confirm what he was thinking.

A malicious smile stretches across his face as he huffs, shoulders easing as the knot inside him finally loosens. “Stop being a whore,” he says affectionately.

“Make me,” you murmur back with a smile of your own.

As the evening settles in, you both settle back down beside each other in the dirt, shoulder to shoulder in companionable silence wrapped like a promise.

Bakugo finds himself absentmindedly rubbing the stud earrings in his hand, expression thoughtful in a way he never lets anyone see.

Whatever the world throws next didn't matter.

Because this? This was already locked in.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Post-USJ Attack...

Bakugo Katsuki arrives earlier than he should.

The gates of U.A. are already open, but the campus feels wrong this morning—like the school is holding its breath after the USJ incident, waiting to see who cracks first.

A bandage sits along his jaw as two of his split knuckles are wrapped tight beneath white gauze. Dozens of bruises and scratches littered the quirk-user's skin in a canvas of pain.

Not as bad as Aizawa, but noticeable nonetheless. That alone pisses him off.

Bakugo keeps his head down as he walks in hopes to lessen the attention (it doesn't work). The tape across the bridge of his nose pulls when he scowls.

He had one plan: come to class early on purpose, see Recovery Girl and get the old lady to kiss it better, then disappear back into his seat before anyone could look too close or ask questions they weren’t entitled to.

Clean. Efficient. Done.

There was just one mistake he forgot.

Voices drift down the hallway before he even reaches Class 1-A.

“...Aizawa-sensei—” “...villains actually inside—” “...USJ was supposed to be safe—!”

He should’ve known better than to think he’d be the only one early.

Bakugo's scowl deepens, already irritated with himself for miscalculating. He slides the door open with more force than necessary causing the door to rattle in its frame.

Conversations falter in a way that’s almost eerie as eyes flick to him. Someone inhales sharply. A few heads turn too fast, eyes snapping to his face before they remember to look away.

“Kacchan...” Izuku starts, then trails off, green eyes fixed on the tape across Bakugo’s face. “Your nose—”

“Did something happen after—” Mina's voice overlaps from across the room.

“Woah! Dude are you okay?” Kaminari adds, already half out of his seat. “Didn't you get healed up by Recovery Girl when we were still at USJ—”

Bakugo's patience snaps.

“Mind your own damn business!” His words cracks across the room like a slap.

Voices drop in silent acceptance. This is who Bakugo Katsuki is, after all—the one who puts teeth in his words and dares anyone to test the boundary.

Izuku's eyes linger on the bruises a moment too long anyways, flicking from Bakugo’s nose to his jaw, then down to the bandaged knuckles. Kirishima’s brow creases faintly. Mina presses her lips together in silent concern.

No one says anything else.

Good.

Stalking to his desk, the aggressive hero-in-training drops his bag with a dull thud. He sits hard, chair scraping loudly against the floor, posture rigid as he stares straight ahead.

The injuries don’t match the USJ fight—not really. Anyone with half a brain could tell if they looked close enough.

Villain damage is chaotic, wild, meant to incapacitate or kill. This isn’t that. These marks are too...close. Too personal.

 ̶A̶l̶m̶o̶s̶t̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶a̶m̶a̶g̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶g̶i̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶b̶y̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶r̶

Slumping into is seat, Bakugo ignores their leering, instead muttering under his breath about going to Recovery Girl later.

Around him the class slowly resumes its low murmur; still talking about Aizawa, about security, about how everything feels different now.

Though Bakugo barely hears it. His mind instead focus on the ache in his jaw, the throbbing of his knuckles.

The bell hasn’t even rung yet and he already wants the day over.

His phone buzzes in his pocket once. He ignores it.

A second buzz follows almost immediately.

Huffing through gritted teeth, Bakugo grabs his phone, angling the screen low so no one can see. The cracked glass lights up with a single message.

____: still went to class even after last night's spar? bold

____: make sure not to bleed on your schoolwork

He wipes at his nose instinctively before realizing what he was doing, scowling at the screen. Of course that’s what you'd say. Not are you okay. Not does it hurt.

Even so, that didn't stop the easing of the tension in his chest the longer he stared at the message.

He types back without thinking.

BK: shut up

The reply comes back fast.

____: you’re the one who leaned into it

Bakugo pauses as his thumb hovers over the screen. For just a split-second the noise of the room fades—the murmurs, the shuffling, the weight of everything unsaid.

He rubs his jaw with the heel of his palm, jaw setting as he exhales slowly through his teeth. He types slower this time.

BK: You would’ve done the same

There’s a beat.

Then—

____: Obviously

A corner of his mouth twitches into an almost smile. Not really one, but something close.

You tore off a bite of the lettuce wrap and chewed as you watched him with half-lidded eyes. “No greeting after all that? Well good morning to you too Shunshine.”

He ignores that.

“This isn’t your father’s office,” he gesture sharply as he turns. “The entire campus is one spark away from collapsing, and you decide to pour gasoline on it."

You swing your feet, watching his antlers carve sharp lines in the air as he moves. “Gasholine?” you repeat. “Pleashe. I wazh more like...the foam thing they uzhe on firesh.”

You raise a hand and waggle your fingers like jazz hands. “Plush the crowd? Loved it. Shtanding ovation in their heartsh. I could feel it.”

Louis stops dead. Slowly, very slowly, he turns to stare at you. “You humiliated two carnivores...”

“They were about to go for round two anyway,” you give a loose shrug. “From what I shaw, fox boy was presshed and cloudy-day-wolf looked like he wazh about to have a breakdown. Then here I come, crackin a few jokesh and boom—the lovebirdsh retreated. You’re welcome.”

“Do not call them lovebirds,” Louis mumbles.

“Aww look at you,” you coo, letting your voice pitch up into mocking sweetness. “Cherryton’sh little Golden Boy™ trying to protect the shcool image. How noble. Very mush on brand.”

His eye twitches. “Do not call me that either.”

“You right. How about Future Beashtar? Shavior of coexishtence. And Me? I’m just helping your campaign babe. The more incidentsh you shtop, the better you look. I’m like…your emotional shupport gremlin.”

Louis pinches the bridge of his muzzle hard for a long silent second.

“I am not a Beastar. Yet,” he says through gritted teeth. “And I don’t need your help turning the cafeteria into a circus.”

“Ouch,” you say, wing to your chest. “That’sh rude to the circush.”

He gives you a look that says he is absolutely calculating how much trouble it would cause if he threw you out the window.

You rolled onto your back with a groan at this point, tray balanced on your stomach as you stare up at the dorm ceiling. “Look, did anyone elshe get bit after I walked in?”

He hesitates. “...No but—”

“Shee?” You spread your free wing in a ta-da fashion. “No fatalitiesh. Ten outta ten conflict resholushion.”

Louis made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, something halfway between a scoff and a laugh.

“This isn’t a game,” he insists. “Do you have any idea what it’s like here right now? Tem was murdered ____. In this school...on these grounds—”

“Tem,” you repeated softly, the name slotting itself into place from the secondhand gossip you’d overheard on move-in. “The alpaca right?”

Louis’ eyes flicked to you, assessing whether you were actually listening or just repeating. You placed your tray securely beside you on the bed as you sat up.

You knew how to recognize the shift when Louis went from annoyed to serious. This was the latter.

“An herbivore dying violently on campus,” he began, voice flattening into that calm reasoned tone he used on his fellow peers. “Everyone knows what that implies—even if they won’t say devoured out loud. The administration is terrified...parents are terrified. And herbivores are...they’re looking at every carnivore like an attack waiting to happen.”

“Harsh,” you murmur.

“No, accurate,” he shot back. “Do you know how many safety meetings we've held since it happened? How many times they’ve said ‘coexistence program’ in the last month? They’re clinging to their image by the whiskers, and you—” he jabs toward you “—waltz in and shine a spotlight right on a fox and a dog trying to rip each other’s throats out in front of the entire school.”

“Firsht of all no one’sh throat got ripped,” you said. “Shecond of all, I took that shpotlight and rotated it to clownery. Very different vibe.”

“And Legoshi,” Louis continued over you, practically vibrating with the need to get his point out. “You drew even more attention to his teeth.”

You snorted at that. “Hish teeth drew attention to themshelvesh. I just mentioned the elephant tooth in the room.”

“He is a wolf,” Louis said sharply. “One with very little control over how he’s perceived. And now you’ve got half the cafeteria muttering chompers under their breath when he walks by.”

You thought back to the wolf’s face—stretched somewhere between guilty and dazed—and felt a little flicker of something that wasn’t quite guilt.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “But nobody wazh shcreaming by that point. I’ll take 'wow that guy hash teeth' over 'oh no hesh gonna eat me’ any day.”

Louis could only shake his head, exhaling hard through his teeth.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You never had to. All your father does it just throw money at the problems until they go away. But the thing is? It won't work at this school. Not right now. Any public scene that involves aggression and carnivores is dangerous. Even if you turn it into a...a bit.”

You perked up immediately at that.

“A bit?” you echoed. “Sho you admit it wazh a good bit.”

“I did not—”

“You called it a bit, that’sh legally binding!” you haughtily declared. “You acknowledge my craft.”

You pop a pea into your beak as a mini-reward.

“Look,” you said around it, “I get it. Tem’sh dead. But what do you want me to do Louish? Walk in, shee shome animals playin’ tug-of-war with each other’sh limbs and go ‘oh dear, I shall mind my own businesh’? That’sh borin’.”

“Yes!” he snapped.

You blinked at him.

“Yes,” he repeated, more controlled this time. “Or at the very least don’t insert yourself right in the middle of it. You’ve only been here half a day and already made yourself the most talked-about herbivore on campus.”

You fluffed a little at that, feathers preening at his words. “Awww. Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Well you shouldn’t have phrashed it like one,” you said primly.

For a moment Louis was too stunned to respond. Then his brows knit, and you can practically hear his blood pressure spike.

Before he can decide whether to lecture you about responsibility or nepotism first, the familiar vibration of your phone buzzed against your thigh.

You fished it out from the pocket of your blazer without looking and glanced at the screen.

BIG POPPA 🤑🦆🥰 [Incoming call]

You smile despite yourself.

“Oop. Timeout,” you said, already swiping to accept. “Dad’sh calling.”

“Of course he is,” Louis muttered under his breath. “You probably set off some psychic rich-person alarm when you said ‘fight’ in a fifty-meter radius.”

You hit speaker and set the phone on the bed between you and your tray.

“Pumpkin!”

Your father’s voice bursts out of the tiny speaker like it’s too big for it; rich, warm, and booming warm in a way that always, always hits the same spot under your sternum.

“Oh listen to that echo—is that your room? Tell me that’s your room. Does it have a window? Are there bars? Do tell me if the accommodations are insufficient, I’ll buy the whole building and knock out a wall myself.”

“Hi Daddy~” you sing-songed as you tried not to laugh, glancing around at the bland furniture and suspiciously thin mattress.

“Cherryton treating you right?” he barrels on before you can answer. “You call me if anyone so much as looks at you sideways ya hear? I’ll have their job by Tuesday.”

Louis quietly sinks into the desk chair, elbows on his knees, listening with the grim resignation of someone who has been through this before.

“It'sh only been like five hoursh Dad,” you say, kicking your feet lazily in the air. “At leasht give it a day.”

“A day is plenty of time for incompetence,” your father declares. “You’re surrounded by teenagers after all. And do you know what teenagers are? They’re lawsuits waiting to happen.”

You snort. “I’m a teenager.”

“No. You’re an angel,” he corrects immediately. “There's a difference.”

That earns a involuntary huff from Louis. You glance over in time to catch him looking like he just bit his own tongue.

'Oh...he hates that,' you realize.

A little spark of mischief lights up in your chest.

“Weeeeeell,” your eyes linger on Louis just long enough to make sure he sees the smirk forming on your beak, “now that you menshion it...”

There was a pause on the other end.

Just long enough for the hairs on the back of your neck to prick.

“What happened,” is all your father says. It wasn’t a shout, but all the air seemed to still for a moment.

You popped a piece of corn into your beak to buy time.

“Oh you know,” you finally speak. “Jusht a fox bein’ a fox. He tried to threaten me on the way outta the cafeteria with the ‘watch my back’ schtick. Very creative, I know.”

“....Threatened you?” your father repeats, voice suddenly quiet.

You toy with a loose thread on your blazer sleeve with a shrug.

“Yeah,” you admit lightly. “But like...how threatening could he really be? Orange mangey thing—no bigger than the dog that bit hish assh on the arm five minutsh before. Hell, everyone in the cafeteria thaw it. Exshept me of courshe.” You sigh dramatically. “Shame too. Got there too late, it sheemth.”

There’s another beat of silence.

“So he’s injured...Good. That’s enough for me to identify him.” You could already picture your father’s eyes narrowing, gaze turning cold in a way you’ve seen directed at board members and those who disagreed with him.

Louis’ head swiveled so fast you heard something in his neck pop. “Is he—”

“Tell me something Pumpkin!” Your father cuts over him, voice snapping back to its usual cheery cadence. “Is it getting chilly over there yet? I saw on the forecast it might be.”

“Uh....I mean, I guesh? Why?”

“Just because. My baby duck would do very well with a nice warm fox-fur neck warmer. Don’t you think?”

Louis stares at the phone like he’s hearing a crime in progress. “Is he serious?” he hissed at you.

You shrugged one shoulder. “Hesh just talkin’ big...probably.”

“To be clear,” your father continued, “that was a joke for legal purposes—alleged if you may. Now if some little red-furred punk with a bite on his arm happens to disappear from the class roster?” You can hear the shrug in his tone. “Who knows.”

“Dad,” you roll your eyes even as warmth curls in your chest. “You can’t just threaten to make people into clothing every time they’re mean to me. It’sh tacky.”

“I’m not threatening,” he says, affronted. “I’m planning. There’s a difference.”

Louis press into his eyelids as if trying to hold back a migraine.

“This is exactly what we need,” he mutters under his breath. “An overprotective rich parent casually talking about making students disappear.”

Your father hums on the other end. “...is that Louis in the background?”

Louis straightens instinctively, shoulders going stiff. “Good afternoon sir,” his tone slips into that careful politeness reserved for adults who had the power to ruin his day.

“Ah my favorite stag,” your father speaks cheerfully. “How’s my little staff member doing?”

Louis’ eye twitched.

“I’m...a student,” he said with strained patience. “Same as your daughter.”

“Mhm,” your father hummed. “And yet who’s the one keeping her from ruining the cafeteria completely? Feels like staff-level responsibility to me. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they give you a raise.”

You snickered. “He already actsh like he run the place. The Future Beashtar they call him.”

“That’s good,” your father said. “Aim high son. Just remember: my girl is management. You are support.”

Louis says nothing else—just a simple, long controlled breath through his nose.

Your father’s theatrics may have rattled other people. But to you? It was just the sound of home.

“Anyways! Now more about your room Pumpkin. Is the mattress okay? I told them I’d send a truck if it’s not....”

As he launched into another rambling mini-lecture on your well-being, you found your mind slipping into memory.

Your mother had died before you were old enough to store more than scattered flashes of her in your mind. And so, your father had become everything: protector, provider, the duck-shaped sun your little world revolved around.

He worked too much, worried too loudly, and absolutely refused to accept that you should ever bend in order to fit into someone else’s expectations.

"You didn’t do anything wrong Pumpkin," he'd say. "People just can’t handle greatness."

When regular schools decided you were too much—too loud, too talkative, too easily distracted, too unwilling to sit still and quiet—he’d taken you out to be homeschooled.

And that you did.

You learned math and literature and how to file a complaint.

How to watch adults across big mahogany tables, how they flinched at your father’s voice, how they folded when he leaned back and smiled with all his teeth.

It didn't take long for you to figure out that the world was a place where people either shrank you or you expanded until they were the ones scrambling to accommodate.

That puffing up, hissing, and throwing your weight around like the male ducks was right if that’s what it took to keep anyone from pushing you around first.

Somewhere in the middle of all that Louis had arrived.

You can still remember the first time you saw him: too skinny, ears too big for his small head, antlers just starting to push through skin as he stood like he was waiting to be put back where he came from.

He’d moved in next door after that whole underground mess your father had never told you the full details of. The only knowledge you've gotten was hearing words like rescued and sold for meat whispered between adults during dinner, or when your father’s feathers would puff up every time he said the word black market.

Your father had looked at you, at Louis, and then clapped his wings together like he’d just been given the world’s easiest project. “Perfect! ____ will help him socialize.” he’d declared.

Across endless arranged playdates you’d dragged Louis everywhere you went like he was a prop and you were the showrunner. When he’d go quiet, you filled the gaps with your own voice. When he stumbled over words, you bulldozed ahead for both of you.

Now here you are years later—sprawled on a dorm bed while that same boy paces your room, caught between wanting to strangle you and wanting to shield you from the consequences of your own mouth.

“...Pumpkin? You still there?”

Your father’s voice snaps you back to the present.

“Yesh,” you say. “Shorry. Got losht in thought. You were shaying...mattressh?”

“I was saying if the bed is bad, I will burn that school to the ground and rebuild it,” he says as if it was a perfectly normal solution. “But never mind that now. I want you to make sure and email me if any administrator gives you a look. Even if a janitor breathes crooked in your direction—”

“Dad,” you cut in with a smile despite yourself. “I can handle a crooked breath.”

“Of course you can Pumpkin,” he immediately rearranges his words around your interruption with practiced ease. “You shouldn’t have to. That’s the point.”

Louis watched your face as your father went on. You could see it in his eyes; the understanding, the faint pinch of something like envy, the resignation of someone who’d long ago accepted your father as a permanent environmental factor.

“Anyways!” your father's voice dropped into that syrupy warmth he reserved only for you. “Don’t worry your pretty feathers about any of this. Let the adults handle it. You just eat, sleep, and have fun okay? And listen to me sweetie—don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re too much. There is nothing wrong with you.”

The words slid into that familiar empty space in your chest and settled there warm and heavily. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I know.”

“Say it back,” he prompted like he always did.

You rolled your eyes, but your beak quirked. “There’sh nothing wrong with me,” you recited.

“Exactly,” he said. “Now I have a meeting in ten minutes where I’m going to pretend to be a reasonable man. Make sure to text me a photo of your room later so I can judge the curtains. Call me if you need anything and I’ll send a lawyer...or cake.”

“Preferably cake,” you said. “Love you Dad.”

“Love you more,” he shot back. “My perfect girl.”

The line clicked off.

For a second, there was just the hum of the light and the fading echo of your father’s voice in your ears.

Louis leaned back heavily in the desk chair as if someone had taken a weight off his antlers and set it on his shoulders instead.

“You know he’s going to email the headmaster now,” he stared at your phone like it might explode.

You shrugged. “And?” Picking up the cup of orange gelatin, you poke it to watch it wobble. “They’re lucky. Do you know how much money he dropped on preservashionsh to get me in here?”

“Do not call them that,” Louis groaned. “They’re donations to the coexistence program.”

“Either way it we all win,” you chirped. “Cherryton got a brand new language lab and I got a front-row sheat to Wolf v. Fox smackdown.”

“There are easier ways to attend this school,” he says dryly.

“Not for me~”

He didn’t argue.

Lunch forgotten, you hop off the bed in a burst of energy, nearly tipping your tray as you make your way over to your suitcase and start rummaging through the clothes, humming some nonsense tune under your breath.

Louis watched you for a moment then narrowed his eyes. “...what are you doing now?” he asked warily.

“You’ll shee.” You dig until your feathers close around a folded tote bag; yanking it out with a triumphant noise and stuffing things into it.

Behind you Louis sounds like every molecule of his being is bracing for impact. “____” he says slowly.

"Okay...I'm ready!" You sling the tote’s strap over your shoulder and turn to him with your brightest smile.

He blinks. “Ready for what.”

“Your Drama club of courshe,” you clarify, beak curling. “The fact you have a whole little theatre cult going on and you didn’t invite me? I feel betrayed.”

“Definitely not,” Louis immediately stands up as if he can physically block the door by will alone. “You are not stepping foot into the drama club.”

You unwaveringly saunter over and pat his arm like you’re soothing a nervous child. “Relax babesh. I just wanna shee you in your natural habitat. You know, watchin you yell at people productively and shtuff.”

He bristles. “It’s not yelling, it’s directing,” he snaps. “The drama club is the one stable place left on this campus. And I refuse to let you turn it into whatever it is you turn things into.”

“Fun?” you suggest.

“Chaos.”

“Tomato tomahto.”

You can see the gears turning in his gaze—the arguments he could throw at you, the appeals to for you to listen, the subtle reminders that your father’s money won’t protect him if his beloved club implodes.

You also see the moment he realizes none of that matters.

Because you’ve already decided.

He scrubs a hand over his face, looking toward the ceiling as if praying for a meteor.

You rock back on your webbed feet with hands clasped behind your back.

“I’ll come by later beshtfriend,” you say softly, holding his gaze, eyes wide and guileless. “I promishe I’ll be on my besht behavior.”

You both know you are undeniably lying.

Louis’ jaw works. He looks like he wants to argue more, but the fight’s gone out of his shoulders a little.

“....Rehearsal starts at four,” he finally mutters. “If you’re going to show up, at least don’t be late.”

Your grin is blinding. “Yesshir Director!”

“Don’t call me that either.”

Moving to the bedroom door, he pauses before looking back once more. “Just....try not to make any more enemies today, all right?”

“Oh no promisesh,” you say cheerfully. “But I’ll try not to make any boring onesh.”

Shaking his head, Louis says nothing else and simply leaves.

The room is quite now that your main source of entertainment was gone.

You take the chance to wander over to the window. From here you can see a slice of campus: manicured lawns, the path leading toward the main buildings, a glimpse of the auditorium’s peaked roof in the distance.

Somewhere over there, a tall gray wolf is probably still sitting in the cafeteria, picking at his cold bean steak and wondering what hit him.

His face pops in your head again—those big anxious eyes, the way his ears had flattened when you called out his teeth, the stunned look when you told him he looked like a cloudy day.

A little spark fizzes in your chest. Maybe its Interest. Maybe its mischief. Or maybe its something else you don’t bother naming.

He can still feel the fire of the forest. Where the smoke had clawed down his throat while he fought through flame and falling branches.

Where he'd been in the middle of training—his training—when the world decided it wanted to test him in a different way.

Shigaraki stands in front of the turned off TV with a slouch that gave off he’s both bored with the world and personally offended it still exists.

His pale blue hair catches the dim light while on his face rests a hand (that damn hand) like a parasite, fingers splayed across his cheekbones as though it owns him.

“This system has a strange way of transforming people’s lives into money or glory," The leader of the League of Villains talks like he’s reciting scripture.

“A society that sticks tight to those rules...citizens who blame the losers rather than encourage them...” He gestures vaguely as if the air itself is his audience. “Our fight is to question: what is a hero? What is justice? Is this society truly just?”

Bakugo’s glare hardens until it’s almost physical as Shigaraki’s eyes fix on him.

“We’ll have everyone thinking about it,” he says, voice dipping into something sharp and pleased. “That’s when we’ll know we’ve won.”

He pauses, slyness creeping into his tone like he’s dangling bait.

“You like winning too, right Bakugo?”

Winning

That makes the spikey blonde's stomach twist with disgust.

As if it’s the same kind of winning. As if Bakugo's winning is about watching the world burn.

The audacity of it all makes the prickling under the teen's skin surge.

Shigaraki finally stops circling his own sermon long enough to order something useful. “Dabi,” he says casually, “release his restraints.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Huh?” Dabi’s voice drags out, low and rough as he raises a brow. “You know this kid’s gonna fight.”

Bakugo’s gaze flicks toward him with dry acknowledgment. 'Yeah. No shit.'

“It’s fine,” Shigaraki answers unfazed. “We need to treat him as an equal since we’re recruiting him. Besides,” a malicious smile is heard behind the decrepit hand, sickly and self-satisfied, “he’s smart enough to know he can’t take us all and win in this situation, right? After all you U.A. students are so clever.”

Equal. The word lands like an insult causing the cuffs on Bakugo wrists to click faintly at his straining.

Dabi’s mouth twitches, unimpressed before flicking the annoyance away like a cigarette butt. “Twice,” he says. “You do it.”

Twice jerks like he’s been slapped with responsibility. “What, me?! No way.” He laughs wrong before suddenly blurting, the contradiction tumbling out in the same breath. “Absolutely!”

“Do it,” Dabi flatly orders again.

“Man...okay okay!” Twice mutters under his breath as he shuffles forward, hands working at the locks with light complaint. The moment Bakugo’s wrists are free, his shoulders roll like a predator finally allowed to stand.

Mr. Compress glides forward like he’s hosting a show, arms spread wide with a flourish.

“I do apologize for using such forceful methods,” he says, voice silky and theatrical. “But please understand that we are not just some unruly mob trying to commit crimes. We didn’t kidnap you by accident.”

Bakugo says nothing, simply flexing his fingers as the last restraint falls, feeling blood rush back through his hands. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his lip curls.

Shigaraki steps closer, voice dropping into something that tries to sound sincere. “Even though our situations differ, everyone here has suffered. Because of people... rules... and heroes who tried to hold us back. I’m sure you feel the same way—”

Bakugo lunges forward.

Hand swinging straight for Shigaraki’s face, he detonates—an explosion so close it’s a slap across everyone’s faces.

The blast blooms white-orange, loud enough to rattle the room, as the shockwave pushes dust and ash outward like a violent exhale.

When the haze clears Shigaraki’s is seen stumbled back, face still turned sideways from the impact. He does nothing for a moment, shaking eyes taking in the sight of the hand that now lays discarded on the floor, steam emitting from the severed appendage.

Bakugo plants his feet and squares his shoulders.

“I’m done listening to your endless jabbering,” he spits sharply. His eyes rake the room—taking stock of every villain, every angle, every threat—before bouncing back to Shigaraki. “Can you not get to the point or do you just like hearing your own voice?”

His lips peel back in a snarl. “Basically what you’re saying is you’re nothing but trouble and you want me to join you.” He lifts his chin, refusing to be talked down to by any of them.

“Well screw you,” Bakugo growls.

“I like to win. And I'm gonna win just like All Might. No matter what you have to offer me, no matter what anyone says—that will never change! Do you understand?!”

There’s a heartbeat where he thinks they’ll rush him. He wants them to. He can feel the fight vibrating under his skin begging to spill ou—

He stops.

It’s not dramatic at first. It’s a tiny shift: his mouth goes still mid-snarl, head angling as if he’s caught a frequency no one else can hear.

A deep distant boom rolls in from far away.

It rattles the ceiling causing dust to sift down in a soft sprinkle, landing on shoulders and hair like a warning.

Everyone freezes.

Twice blinks rapidly, voice splitting in two. “That—uh—that wasn’t us!” one voice says anxiously. “Yes we definitely did that!” the other argues louder in defense.

Spinner’s nods toward to the boarded windows. “Heroes already?”

Dabi tilts his head, eyes narrowing, listening with the patience of someone who knows what an approaching fight sounds like.

“No,” he says slowly as if tasting it. “Heroes don’t sound that pissed.”

For a second Shigaraki’s expression glitches—irritation, confusion, a flicker of something like calculation.

Bakugo’s mouth twitches from it all. A grin starts at the corner of his lips, small and mean, like a secret he’s savoring. “Heh.”

Shigaraki’s gaze snaps back to him as his scowl deepens. “What are you smiling about?” he demands.

Bakugo doesn’t even give him the satisfaction of a full answer. His grin simply widens, this time showing teeth.

“Nothing,” he says lazily.

And then, like he can’t help himself—like the thought is too good to keep in—he adds low and delightfully:

“Guess you’ll find out.”

Another boom answers him.

The old building tremors with it; a thin jagged crack spiders up the plaster near the corner as the hanging lamp swings violently on its chain casting a nauseating sway of shadow across the room.

One of the lower-ranking villains (a kind of extra Bakugo doesn’t even bother to memorize) edges toward a boarded-up window. She leans in, face pressed toward the narrow gap between two warped planks—

only to instantly jerk back as if slapped.

She blinks once. Then twice.

“No...” she shakes her head with a mutter, a short incredulous laugh slipping out of before she can stop it. “That’s—no. I’m tripping.”

She leans in again for another look. This time she stays there longer, so much the room goes quiet behind her as if holding their breath.

Shigaraki’s patience finally breaks under the pressure of anticipation. “Well?” he snarls. “Spit it out.”

The villain straightens and turns around slowly, almost as if she’s afraid the room might change if she does it too fast.

“I—I think...” Her voice comes out unsure of itself. “...I see daylight.”

For half a second no one reacts.

Then confusion ripples through the room in low murmurs and scoffs, disbelief layering over itself.

“What?” “Don’t be stupid.” “At night?”

Before anyone can laugh it off—

BOOM

The hideout seemed to flinch, boards creaking as a section of nailed wood rattled loose enough for a harsh beam of white-gold light to slice through the gaps.

It spills across the cracked concrete floor, flooding the dust-choked air in violent flashes as if the sun itself was slamming its fist trying to break in.

The surrounding villains could only stare in uneasy silenc—

Bakugo laughs.

It starts low, a sharp huff through his nose before the sound grows. Loud, wild, and gleeful—it echoes off the walls as another pulse of false daylight goes off.

“You guys really fucked up,” is all he says through the laughter, eyes blazing brighter than the light spilling in. “You know that?”

Dabi’s flames of irritation flares. “If you know what’s happening,” he steps forward intimidatingly, “start talking.”

Bakugo just looks at him as his teeth bared in a feral grin. “Nah.”

The explosions get closer—close enough that the floor quake in short angry bursts. Close enough that dust rains from the ceiling in thicker streams.

Then—

Silence.

For a moment the only sound is the faint crackle of something burning somewhere outside, the LoV’s own breathing suddenly too loud.

It's a quiet that makes the room loosen a fraction—shoulders drop, stance weakens, quirks idle.

A smaller villain near the door scoffs under his breath, courage returning now that the noise has paused.

He steps forward, swaggering into the space between Bakugo and the exit like he’s going to reclaim control with words.

“See?” he starts smugly. “All that talk and nothing. Just a little few b—”

The door doesn’t open.

It implodes.

Wood splinters into a storm of shards, the entire frame bursting apart as a thick spike of debris spears straight through the villain’s torso, lifting him off his feet in a grotesque second of shock—eyes wide, mouth open, no sound coming out.

He doesn’t even finish dying before a wave of fire surges in, swallowing him into an inferno that incinerates flesh and fabric so fast it leaves nothing human behind.

Stench from the steam hits hard—burnt wood, burnt hair, burnt meat—enough to make even hardened criminals recoil.

The League staggers back as one. Even Dabi’s flames reacted, the heat flooding the room feeling nothing like his.

Bakugo stands in the chaos like he belongs in it, soot and dust catching in his hair, eyes locked on the ruined doorway with a predator’s focus.

His laughter is gone now, replaced by the cold certainty of a bastard King watching his enemies finally understand the price of a mistake.

A figure steps into view through the smoke—silhouette carved out by the bright flare behind them.

The voice that follows is calm—almost emotionless—and that lack of emotion makes it worse.

“Who fucking thought kidnapping my bestfriend was smart?” 

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Before it all began...

The sun is warm enough to make the air feel thick.

Not hot. Not oppressive. Just that soft golden light that settles over quiet neighborhoods when the day is almost done and everyone assumes nothing bad can happen anymore.

You hate it.

You sit cross-legged in the grass, arms folded tight over your chest, jaw set so hard it aches. The blades of grass itch against your calves as a tiny pebble keeps pressing into the soft part of your foot, but you refuse to move.

Because moving would feel like giving in. And giving in would feel like losing.

Bakugo Katsuki is doing the exact same thing across from you.

He’s sitting with his knees up, arms crossed, face twisted into a scowl that looks permanently carved there despite how young he is. His blond hair sticks up in uneven spikes, catching the sunlight like sparks frozen mid-blast.

He keeps glaring like you personally offended him by existing in his space (apparently you did).

Near the small garden patch off to the side of the yard, your mother and Bakugo Mitsuki are deep in conversation. They sit in mismatched outdoor chairs, leaning toward each other in conversation, hands moving as adult laughter drifts over loud and unaware.

Your mother’s voice is calm but animated, her posture straight even when she relaxes. She listens more than she speaks, sharp eyes always flicking back toward you even when she’s smiling.

Mitsuki, on the other hand, laughs with her whole body. She slaps her knee once, completely unapologetic about the volume of her joy.

“So you’re telling me,” Mitsuki wipes at the corner of her eye, “they have to burn dinner at least once or it doesn’t count?”

Your mother hums in amusement. “It’s practically a requirement.”

You glance over at them, irritation bubbling low in your stomach.

Well...they’re having fun. Meanwhile you’re stuck on another forced playdate.

This was supposed to be a polite and civil affair. Reasons for exposure and socialization and he’s around your age.

You didn’t care about any of that. 

But your mom told you to put your shoes on anyway. She always has a way to tell you to do something. A voice that doesn’t rise, doesn’t waver, or doesn’t argue back no matter how hard you push so you might as well stop fighting.

You fight anyway. You always do.

“What’re you pouting for?” Bakugo breaks the tension with aggression, “You gonna cry again or somethin’?”

“I’m not crying,” you shoot back, heat flaring in your chest. “You’re just annoying.”

He scoffs. “Annoying? You’re the one who won’t even play.”

“I don’t wanna play your dumb games.”

“They’re not dumb!” he yells, springing to his feet. “You’re just bad at ‘em!”

Your face burns. You stand too, movements jerky as anger sifts through your limbs like static. “I am not!”

“You are!” he shouts back, pointing at you like that settles it. “You don’t even try!”

“I try harder than you!” you're screaming at this point, voice cracking with the force of it. You hate the way your feelings always spill out too big—like you can’t keep them inside where they belong.

Your mom glances over then at the commotion causing you to clamp your mouth shut.

Bakugo notices. “What, you gonna tattle?” he sneers.

“I don’t tattle,” you snap. “I don’t need to.”

He snorts. “Yeah right.”

The silence settles back into place, heavier now. You both stand there, breathing hard, staring each other down like this is a battle neither of you know how to walk away from.

This wasn’t supposed to be permanent.

You and your mother were supposed to leave. Japan was just another stop—another borrowed house, another almost-home.

Then your father didn’t come back from war.

You don’t understand all of it yet. You just know that your mother stopped packing boxes and started planting roots. That she speaks Japanese more often now, keeps her voice steady even when her eyes go distant. That everyone else seems to accept this life faster than you do.

Japan still feels strange sometimes—too many rules, too many looks that linger too long on your skin, on your hair, on your mom.

Your dad used to say it didn’t matter. He used to pick you up and spin you until you laughed so hard it hurt, until the world blurred into color and nothing else existed.

You don’t remember his voice very well anymore.

Only the way the house went quiet after he was gone, and how your anger got bigger to fill the space.

From the garden Mitsuki calls out without looking, “Hey Katsuki! Show her that hero thing you’re always bragging about.”

Bakugo freezes for a beat before his chest puffs out in reflex.

“Tch. Fine,” he says, already turning away from you and stomping toward the back step. He digs through a plastic bin, tossing aside rocks and broken crayons and something that looks suspiciously like a chewed-up glove.

When he straightens again, he’s holding it up triumphantly like a trophy: an All Might toy.

It’s scuffed and worn, paint chipped at the edges, one arm a little looser than it should be—but it’s unmistakable: the pose, the grin, the cape frozen mid-sweep.

Your eyes follow it without permission.

“This is All Might,” Bakugo declares, thrusting the action figure toward the sky like he’s presenting evidence. “He’s the strongest hero ever. He always wins. And I’m gonna be like him.”

You take a good look at him; at the confidence, the way he says it like it’s already decided. “I know who All Might is.”

His glare jumps back to you. “Then why are you acting like you don’t care?”

“I do care,” you counter, pride flaring hot and fast. “I just don’t brag about it like an idiot.” You step closer despite yourself. “You don’t even hold it right.”

“What?” He jerks away from you when you get too close. “Yeah I do.”

“No you don’t. He stands like this,” you insist, mimicking the stance with your own small body, feet planted wide, chin lifted. “He’s strong, not sloppy.”

Bakugo stares at you for a beat. Then he laughs—sharp and disbelieving. “You think you know All Might better than me?”

“I know him just as good,” you say curtly. “Maybe better.”

The blonde child's fingers tighten around the battered plaything. “No way! You don’t even have one.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“It does matter,” he insists haughtily. “If you don’t have one, you don’t get it.”

“I get it!” You lunge forward before you can stop yourself, grabbing the plastic's arm. “I'll show you. Give it to me!”

“No!” He yanks back, and suddenly you’re both pulling, feet digging into the grass, the toy stretched between you like a fuse about to snap.

The adults are still talking...laughing. Unaware of what's conspiring.

Bakugo’s face is red now, teeth clenched. “Let go!”

“You let go!”

“I had it first!”

“That’s not...FAIR!” you scream as you pull harder, and then—to both your surprise—you begin to gain ground.

You’re stronger than he expects, and Bakugo doesn't like that.

“You—!” His face twists, voice cracking with fury. “Fine!”

A sharp crack of sound snaps against your hands and arms. You stumble back with a cry, the figurine slipping from your grip allowing the toy to jerk free into his hands.

Bakugo looks shocked for exactly one second before pride takes over. “I won,” he says breathless.

You could only stare at him as your eyes began to sting—not just from the pain, but from the realization settling in too fast for you to dodge it:

He hurt you...on purpose.

Something inside you breaks loose.

You feel it crawl up your spine, pooling thick and sour in your stomach. Your hands tremble as the air around starts to feels wrong—thick and buzzing, like it’s holding its breath too.

“No,” you snarl through tears. “You didn’t.”

The ground under your feet shudders causing Bakugo’s smile to falter.

Pressure bends close to your skin, a deep vibration thrumming through your bones. It’s not clean nor controlled; instead a wave of rage, hurt, and humiliation crashing together with nowhere to go.

You look at the miniature All Might in his grasp and you hate it.

You hate that he had it. You hate that he used it. You hate that it mattered so much.

Your cry turns sharp as the heat continues to spike. “You cheated! So—”

Bakugo yelps at the sudden temperature making him drop the toy with a flinch.

“Nobody wins!” you finish through sobs.

The action doll begins to melt just as it hits the ground before shattering into fragments. Plastic warps as the force of the explosion scatters it across the yard; bits of cape, a broken grin, an arm uselessly in the grass.

The sound is enormous.

Your mother moves faster than Bakugo has ever seen an adult move. She’s there in an instant, hands on your shoulders, pulling you back against her chest.

The world drops into quiet like someone pressed a palm over reality itself as the pressure collapses inward. Vibration dying mid-thrum, the energy disperses harmlessly into nothing.

Your knees buckle as your power vanishes leaving you shaking, exhausted, and furious all at once.

“I’ve got you,” your mother murmurs as she holds you steady, one hand firm between your shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of your head. “Breathe.”

Mitsuki is already up, eyes wide. “What the hell—Katsuki! What did you do?!”

Bakugo doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

He could only stare, watching the ruined pieces of the All Might figurine across his backyard. At the scorch marks on the green grass.

Your mother turns, already apologizing, posture composed despite the tension in her lips. She bows deeply. “I’m so sorry. I should have kept a closer eye on her. I’ll make sure to replace the toy.”

Mitsuki waves it off reflexively even as she grabs Bakugo by the collar. “Didn't I tell you about using your explosions on people?!” Then softer to your mother, “It's fine, kids will be kids. Guess they both got tempers huh?”

Your mother nods with a tight smile in place, already steering you away.

You don’t look back the entire time. Your fury still simmers within as you leave the yard, heat lingering in your wake like a memory burned into the air.

You don’t see Bakugo standing there watching you go. He ignores Mitsuki's scolding as she drags him inside the house. Hell he barely even register her threats of 'taking away his games' or 'no hanging out at the arcade after school'.

All he sees is the aftermath.

The broken toy... The heat... The power...