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a locket’s promise

in which . . . you and megumi are childhood friends, being held together by a golden heart-shaped locket.

you kept it, after all these years. why wouldn’t you? growing up together, experiencing everything side by side. you two were practically inseparable. two peas in a pod, the perfect pair, some would say. the kind of bond that didn’t need words—just a glance, a nudge, a shared laugh in the middle of nowhere. and then everything changed. you had to move away, suddenly, without warning. all the memories blurring together in a mess of rushed goodbyes and packed bags. but for some reason, you remember that one day with perfect memory.

you had snuck out with megumi the day before you had to leave. just as the first light broke across the sky, eager to explore somewhere new before everything would change. to make one last memory together, before it all ended. the world felt still, untouched, like it existed only for the two of you in that moment. your footsteps were soft against the damp grass, your voices hushed like you didn’t want to wake the morning. wandering aimlessly, you stumbled across an old, half-burned apartment building, its walls cracked and crumbling, scarred by time. the place looked long-forgotten, but something about it pulled you two in.

you stepped through broken doorways and hollowed-out rooms, dust and char filling up the place. there was something sacred in the stillness. like the building was frozen mid-breath. you two had went separate ways, eager to explore every inch.

as he was walking his foot hit something.

a sharp metallic scrape echoed against the silence. megumi crouched down, brushing ash and dirt away. he pulled out a small object.

a heart-shaped gold locket. impossibly intact. no scorch marks, no scratches, no broken chains. it glowed faintly in the light, like it had been waiting for someone to find it. he turned it over in his hand a few times, his expression unreadable. looking around to see if you were near by, then slipping it into his pocket without a word.

he didn’t speak of it again—not that day.

but the memory lingered in his mind.

then the next day came around, the day you were leaving. he had made a promise to himself: he wouldn’t let you go without giving it to you. his legs ached from running, but he didn’t stop. he sprinted through the streets like something in him would tear if he didn’t get to you in time. your name was the only thing on his lips. over and over.

“w-wait, please!” he gasped when he finally reached you, lungs burning, heart pounding.

you turned around, and the look on his face nearly broke you.

he opened his hand. there, nestled in his palm, was the locket.

“i found this the day we went exploring,” he said softly, almost like he wasn’t sure you’d hear him. “i want you to have it. to remember me.”

your throat closed up. words felt impossible. so you nodded. "okay."

he stepped forward and slowly guided you to turn around. then gently fastened it around your neck. his hands trembled, but his touch was careful. reverent. as if the moment might shatter if he moved too quickly.

you tried to be strong. tried to smile. but it felt like the air was being pulled out of your lungs. how were you supposed to leave? how were you supposed to exist in a world without him next to you?

a new town. new school. new people. everything unfamiliar, everything wrong.

still, life continued. you adapted. you had to. eventually, you learned how to fold your grief into smaller pieces. you grew up. made friends. laughed when you were supposed to. you smiled for photos, even if they didn’t feel real. sometimes life felt okay, but only just okay.

but you never forgot.

not him. not the memories. not the apartment. not the locket.

and now here you were.

back.

many years later, standing in front of that same ruined building. the sky was cloudy, the air thick with the scent of summer rain that hadn’t fallen yet. the apartment stood just as it had back then—weathered and quiet, like time had passed around it but never touched it.

you stood in silence for a long time. watching. remembering.

your fingers drifted to the locket resting against your chest. you had worn it every day since that morning. through every season, every heartbreak, every transformation of who you were becoming. you wore it through it all. it had stayed with you—something constant, something grounding. everlasting.

and yet, in all that time, you had never opened it. not once.

you didn’t know why. maybe because deep down, a part of you feared what might—or might not—be inside. the idea of it had grown so large in your heart that opening it felt like it could ruin something sacred.

but today felt different.

so with a steady breath, you unclasped the tiny hinge.

it clicked open with a soft snap.

inside, resting neatly in the curve of the locket, was a piece of paper. yellowed with age, edges worn and curled inward, folded into the tiniest square. your heart thudded against your ribs. carefully, you pulled it free, hands trembling.

you unfolded it, smoothing the creases one by one.

“i love you. i always have. and i’ll be here, waiting for you, no matter what.”

your vision blurred. the words looked simple, but they hit with the weight of years. you read it again. slower this time. over and over. letting every word wrap around your heart, filling the hollow spaces.

a sob built in your chest, soft and sudden. you clutched the locket in your fist, pressing it against your heart as the wind picked up.

“i found my way back,” you whispered into the wind. “i’m here.”

and maybe he was too.

but not in the way he used to be. not with his calming presence or the warmth of his touch, but in quieter ways. the way your heart ached, the way the wind touched your face ever so gently, the way the locket still glowed in the light.

you stood there for a long time, letting the silence speak for both of you.

because love like that doesn’t vanish.

it waits.

because you knew, deep in your heart, that he was out there, waiting for you.

and you had finally returned.

from this ask

bakugo treasured you in ways that made no sense, even to himself. he wasn’t sure when it happened—when you went from a stranger, someone who only ever seemed to appear when something was broken, to the person who consumed his every thought. fixing his gadgets, repairing his suit, tweaking his gear; it was supposed to be a simple, exchangable relationship. but somehow, it became something deeper.

some would say it was inescapable, the way you’d fit into his life without him realizing it, until the small talk turned into long fulfilling conversations. the laughter you shared during late-night tinkering sessions, the way your hands would brush when you passed him a tool, the small moments that kept adding up.

when he realized he liked you, he knew he had to ask you out—to get it out of the way, just in case you didn’t feel the same. he just couldn’t hold it back anymore. his voice was rough, like he was gritting his teeth to get the words out, but he made himself say them. it wasn’t some dramatic confession—no cheesy speeches or anything like that. but for bakugo, it was everything.

“y’know, when i’m with you, things aren’t so… bad. you don’t annoy the hell outta me either. and i wanna do better by you. so what do you say? can i be your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone as blunt and straightforward as ever.

when you two started dating, it was definitely a change—but for the better, of course.

you were his equal. it didn’t matter that your strength wasn’t physical—he was more than aware that your mind was just as sharp as his combat, your skills just as powerful in their own right. and it wasn’t just your genius that made him admire you; it was the way you moved through the world, the way you manage to tackle problems and challenges with effortlessly. it was impossible not to respect you.

he’d mention your adjustments to his gadgets, dropping your name casually, always being proud of you. “they thought it’d work better if it was smaller, huh? damn nerd was right,” he’d mutter, hands adjusting his gear with a satisfaction that only came from knowing it had been you who made it better. he was impressed by you more than he would ever say.

complimenting you constantly, but never in the way you’d expect. not with gentle words or soft confessions. no, bakugo’s version was different. “you’re not entirely useless…” or, “you did good, dumbass. don’t beat yourself up.” it all came from a place that was all him, raw and unfiltered. and you knew, deep down, to him it was a comment of admiration.

he understood your dedication to your work, how you’d get lost in a project for hours, forgetting everything else around you. he didn’t need you to ask for anything. he just knew. on the days you got so caught up in your tinkering that you barely remembered to eat or sleep, bakugo would be there—slipping into the workshop with a plate of your favorite food or stacking your laundry neatly by your bed. he wouldn’t say a word. he’d just do it, like it was second nature.

and if it got too bad—if you were pushing yourself too hard—he’d drag you away from your work, his hand firm on your shoulder as he pulled you toward your couch. “get some damn rest, you idiot. i’m not gonna let you burn yourself out.” it wasn’t harsh; it was just how he cared—and oh boy, he cared a lot.

around you, bakugo found a strange sense of calmness. when he was with you, things slowed down. there was no pressure to be something bigger, louder, or stronger. he didn’t have to be the ‘the best’ all the time. didn't have to put up an act. he could just be him, and that was enough. maybe it was the way you let him sit in silence, neither of you needing to fill the space with words. or maybe it was the way you’d look up from your work and catch him staring, only for him to gruffly turn away, pretending he wasn’t adoring you the whole time.

so, with every little thing, every little action, you knew. you knew that he was the one for you. no one else.

thank you omg im giggling

tech support, hearts included

in which katsuki bakugo found love somewhere unexpected...

bakugo wasn’t sure when he started to be so keen on seeing you, insisting that you be the one to help him with adjustments and quick fixes. he wouldn’t accept anyone else. bakugo wasn’t one to ask for help, but with how intense his battles had gotten—and how his fighting style had improved—so did his gadgets. it was inevitable.

it all started when he rushed in one day, demanding someone fix his suit, only to be met with a very confused and startled you. at first, you were unsure how to react to the angry hero bursting in, but your calm demeanor had a strange effect on him. ever since then, you two hit it off. sure, he was aggressive and ill-mannered, but somehow, you tolerated it. you saw past his gruff, troubled exterior and soon enough, he was strangely calm with you. and for reasons he couldn’t quite put into words, that made him come back.

his friends noticed the shift too. he’d been visiting the support course a lot more often, getting weirdly flustered when his visits were brought up. he would sit there, silent but fascinated by the equipment you fixed. it was clear to them that something was different.

"soooooo bakubro, how did your support course visit go?" kirishima cooed one day, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.

"shut up." bakugo snapped, though his usual irritation felt weaker than usual. he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, though.

one day, his friends decided to follow him, curious to see exactly what he was up to when he visited you. they wanted to meet the person behind this softer version of bakugo—who was now less explosive and a bit more… calm.

mina knocked on the door, and you shouted, "come in!" when the door opened, they were shocked to find you and bakugo in… a questionable position. you were so close to his face, fixing his earpieces. if anyone else tried to get that close to him, he’d go nuts. but here he was, blushing like a middle schooler. once he saw his friends standing in the doorway, he pulled away quickly, like he’d been caught doing something heinous.

"what are you guys doing here?!" bakugo barked, his voice uncharacteristically high-pitched.

you gave him a subtle, reassuring look. your eyes silently told him it’s okay. "bakugo, it’s fine… did you guys need adjustments too?"

"nah, just here to see our goooood friend. ain’t that right, bakugo?" denki snickered, causing kirishima to chuckle along with him.

"you guys sure look cozy…" kirishima added, earning a nudge from mina.

bakugo’s face turned even redder, and he clenched his fists in frustration. he wasn’t embarrassed by you—not at all. but he was embarrassed about how his friends were clearly noticing something he wasn’t ready to admit. he didn’t want them seeing him like this, looking like a lovestruck teenager. it would give them something to tease him about for months.

you handled the situation with grace, turning it into an easy conversation, getting to know bakugo’s friends and introducing yourself to them. surprisingly, they were cooler than you expected. the teasing was lighthearted, and they didn’t seem to judge him, but bakugo… was seething.

his discomfort was palpable, his chest rising with each deep breath. every second they stayed felt like an eternity to him.

"so, does this mean you two are like… a thing?" denki teased, raising an eyebrow at bakugo. kirishima was grinning widely, clearly enjoying his friend's discomfort.

bakugo’s eyes widened in alarm. "shut the hell up!" he snapped, a bit of nervousness creeping in despite his best effort to hide it.

the conversation continued, but his discomfort was now obvious to everyone. as the minutes ticked by, the awkwardness didn’t seem to fade. class was starting soon, so eventually, they had to say their goodbyes.

"bye, bakugo! bye, bakugo’s favorite tech support! keep him in line!" mina called out, trailing behind kirishima and denki as they left, laughing and chatting amongst themselves.

you turned to bakugo with a teasing smile. "your favorite, huh?" you said, your voice light but mischievous.

his face went from red to a deeper shade, and his eyes widened in horror at the thought of his friends’ words lingering. "i didn’t say that," he mumbled, taken aback.

you couldn’t help but grin at him. "sorry, jus' messing with you," you said, moving a little closer.

his jaw clenched, and he sneered, trying to hide the warmth creeping up his neck. "y’know, all of that is…" he trailed off, unsure how to finish his sentence without sounding completely dismayed.

you grabbed his hand, silencing him with a soft but reassuring smile. "it’s okay, bakugo. your secret’s safe with me."

his heart skipped a beat as you held his hand. he quickly glanced away, his chest tightening, though he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. for a moment, all the usual bravado and anger melted away, and he just felt… relaxed. and vulnerable. it was scary, but in a way that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad to have someone who understood him.

"yeah, whatever," he muttered, but it lacked the usual heat. his voice was quieter now, softer, and it wasn’t just his usual irritation. there was a strange… comfort in the way you treated him—like you weren’t afraid to see through his walls. and somehow, that made him want to keep you close.

he didn’t say it, though. he’d never admit that he liked the way you made him feel. it was too much—too real. so he just squeezed your hand, trying to hide how soft he felt under your touch.

"don’t worry, i’m not going anywhere," you said, your tone reassuring.

he let out a low growl under his breath.

but as you stood there, your fingers still wrapped around his, bakugo knew one thing for sure—he wouldn’t trade these moments with you for anything.

using you like a fucktoy. he wasn't gentle—not like the other times, rather a primal need to ground himself. something real after the frustratingly intangible loss. each thrust was a raw release of that pent-up fury, a embodiment of the anger that simmered beneath his skin.

still, a lingering frustration that was slowly bleeding away with each forceful thrust. "fuuuuck, just like that doll." he grunted.

unable to form words, only small sounds, whimpers and pleas that escaped your lips, being the only response you could manage against the relentless pace. your nails dug into his back, a silent language of sensation in the tense space between you. his movements were sharp, driven by need, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he neared the edge.

finally coming to a release, a soft sigh escaped his lips, leaning in. whispering praises into your ear, a gentle warmth suddenly in his voice, "did s' good for me." his touch tender as he pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead.

sero, who's the type to casually initiate physical affection—grabbing your hand out of nowhere while walking up a rocky hill, putting his head on your shoulders while sitting next to him, or leaning his arm across your shoulders like it’s second nature. he does it so naturally, so instinctively, that it doesn’t even feel like a gesture—just something that is so casual for him.

sero, who never lets anything go unnoticed. felt a cool breeze? he's already wrapping his jacket around you, even if you say you're fine. came home to find you passed out with your makeup still on? he’s gently wiping it off, knowing how much you care about your skin. noticed you're out of your favorite chips? he’s restocking without a word the next time he leaves the house.

sero, who never dims your light—not for a second. he could be having the worst day of his life, but if you walk in excited and glowing about something, he’ll match your energy without missing a beat. your joy is his joy, always.

sero, who brags about you constantly to his friends. “that mission? all them, i was just there for decoration,” or, “you’re struggling with that? ask them, they’re seriously the beeessstttt at it!” he finds any excuse to talk you up, like it's just a fact everyone should already know.

sero, who learned to make tiny origami animals with his tape. he’s not even sure when it started—just a little trick that turned into something more. now you find frogs and cats and birds left on your nightstand, each with a scribbled note underneath: made this just for you ღ

sero, who never pushes you or makes you feel overwhelmed. if you’re upset, he doesn’t ask a million questions. doesnt pressure you. he just shows up—snacks in hand, a quiet movie queued up—and sits beside you in silence. he waits, ever so caring, until you're ready to talk.

kirishima came home after a long day of being a pro hero—muscles aching, uniform a little scuffed, but a smile on his face. no matter how exhausting the day had been, coming home always made it worth it. the thought of seeing you and his son, kept him going through the hardest patrols.

he stepped inside, expecting the usual—maybe the scent of dinner still lingering in the air, the sound of the tv playing some cartoon in the background, his son running up to him yelling “daddy!”—but instead, his ears caught shouting.

“you’re the meanest mommy ever!” his son’s voice rang out, followed by the sound of tiny feet stomping and something soft hitting the floor—which he assumed was a toy thrown in frustration.

kirishima's brows furrowed as he stepped into the room, instantly taking in the scene—his five-year-old, red-faced and teary-eyed, standing in front of you with his little fists clenched. and you, still calm but clearly tired, standing your ground.

he spoke before anything else could happen. “hey! what do you think you're doing?”

his voice wasn’t loud, but it carried enough weight to stop his son in his tracks. the boy froze like a deer caught in headlights, slowly turning around.

“mommy said no ice cream,” he mumbled, blinking fast, “s’ being mean to me.”

kirishima crouched down, placing a hand gently on his son’s shoulder. “i know you're upset, but that doesn’t mean you can talk to her like that. she’s your mom. she loves you. and when she says no, it’s because she’s looking out for you.”

his son looked away, chewing on his bottom lip. the defiance hadn’t totally left his face, but his shoulders sagged a little. his eyes flicked to you, then to the ground. after a moment, he turned and stormed off down the hall, muttering under his breath.

kirishima stood up with a quiet sigh. “I’ll handle this.” he then gave you a look—half apology, half reassurance—before following after him. 

the house was quiet for a few minutes. you sat on the couch patiently waiting. then, soft footsteps padded back toward the living room.

kirishima returned, walking slowly with your son at his side. the boy was sniffling a bit, but his expression had softened. he clung to kirishima’s hand like a lifeline.

“m’ sorry, mommy...” he whispered, eyes darting up to meet yours.

your heart melted. you knelt down and opened your arms. “it’s okay, baby. i forgive you.”

he rushed into your hug, wrapping his little arms around your neck tightly. you kissed the top of his head and glanced up at kirishima, eyes meeting his in quiet thanks. he gave you a small smile in return—one of those warm, sweet ones that said i’ve got your back.

later that night, the house was finally quiet. your son had fallen asleep curled up with one of his stuffed dinosaurs, breathing steady and peaceful.

you and kirishima lay in bed, limbs tangled under the blankets, the soft glow of the nightlight from the hallway seeping through the cracked door.

“thank you, by the way,” you said, voice low. “he gets cranky sometimes, and it can be… a lot.”

kirishima reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, then leaned in to kiss you. “of course. we’re supposed to be a team, right?”

you smiled, leaning into him. “right.”

and for the first time that day, you felt the tension and stress ease out of your body. feeling glad you weren’t alone in this whole parenting thing.

toga had invited you to one of her friday night game nights—something she and her roommates hosted every week. you weren’t exactly new to the group, having crossed paths with most of them at various parties and hangouts before. but there was one person you’d never officially met—shigaraki.

you’d heard about him in passing. mostly comments about how he rarely joined group things, how he didn’t really go out, wasn’t much of a people person. so you never thought much of him, just imagined he was some standoffish, maybe even a little rude, guy who stayed in his room.

but when he actually showed up that night, you were surprised.

he wasn’t what you pictured at all. for one, he was cute. messy hair, tired eyes, hoodie sleeves almost too long for his hands. yeah, he was quiet, but not in that uncomfortable, avoidant way. it was more like he was simply observing. listening. and when he did speak, he was funny. like, genuinely funny—the good type of dry humor, clever remarks, teasing his roommates in a way that had you laughing more than you expected.

toga, of course, immediately paired the two of you up for charades. said you’d make a good team.

she was right.

somehow, you and shigaraki ended up completely in sync—racking up the most points and winning the game. once you guys got the hang of things, you were unstoppable together. dominating everyone and making each game look like it was everyone else’s first time playing.

it was easy, being around him. nerdy. funny. every time he leaned in to whisper a dumb comment about someone’s horrible mannerisms, trying to decipher their actions, you couldn’t help but laugh. he kept giving you these endearing glances, almost like he was admiring you.

as the night wore on, a few people started heading out. the energy was winding down, but somehow you and shigaraki were still wide awake, still having the time of your lives, laughing at every joke—each one never seeming to get old.

but eventually, you had to call it. you didn’t have a ride home, and it was getting late. toga offered to call you one, but before you left, you got his number. exchanged a quiet little “see you around,” with a gentle smile.

and now, lying in bed, phone still lit up with his contact saved at the top of your messages, all you can think about is when you’re going to see him again.

megumi had a tendency to admire you.

he was so fascinated by your curly hair, it was insane. he loved the way it looked in the sunlight, the way you’d style it, the way it framed your face. he was obsessed with you, quietly, deeply, and constantly.

he didn’t understand it at first—always questioning things about it. "why do you need that many products?" or "what does that one do?" he'd ask, pointing at a random gel. but the more you taught him, the more he started to appreciate it. the effort, the care, the time you put into it. he never realized how much went into your routine until he watched it with his own eyes.

and god, did he watch. from across the room, leaning against the doorframe, silently in awe. it was calming to him—the way your face looked so serious and focused as you finger-coiled each curl, the gentle way you handled every step like it was sacred. he never interrupted. just watched, like it was a ritual he wasn’t meant to disturb.

sometimes, he’d ask to help. "come on, let me try. i’ll make it look soooo pretty." he was clumsy at first, careful to the point of overthinking every touch, but determined. he wanted to learn, wanted to be good at it—for you. and once he got the hang of it? he was unstoppable. looking up new styles late at night, bookmarking tutorials, and pulling up pictures to show you. "what if i try this one on you?" he wouldn't stop until it looked perfect.

he got even more involved once he started buying you products. he just wanted to spoil you—because you deserved it. he’d walk in holding two bags, grinning softly. "the lady at the store said these are the best ones." and when you shopped together, you’d catch how enchanted he was by it all—reading labels, scanning ingredients, researching them on his phone. "this one says sulfate-free. do you want it?" and even when you shook your head no, he’d toss it in the cart anyway. no one could stop him from spending every dime on you.

on wash days, he already knew what was up. detangling brush on the sink, towel around your shoulders, bottles everywhere. he made it his mission to offer all the support he could. "you’re almooost done, right? you’re doing great." checking in every so often with soft encouragements and sleepy little smiles, like he was cheering you on from the sidelines.

and always—always—your personal photographer. you’d ask if you looked okay, and he’d mumble, "…yeah, you look fine." but the blush on his cheeks would give him away. he was burning up just looking at you. you’d catch him later, showing you pictures he secretly took. "look at this one i got of you," he’d say, proud and smitten. "you look so pretty."