DILF!BAKUGO

DILF!BAKUGO

warnings: maybe a little suggestive if you squint your eyelids real close but otherwise just pure fluff!!!

drabble drabble drabble

~

just thinking about dilf!bakugo who has a daughter who is absolutely the sweetest angel you have ever met and i have two different scenarios for this.

you have her in your kindergarten class and she is just the cutest little thing. she’s always so polite and kind to others. one time the class went to a petting zoo and she was so quiet and gentle with the animals. at one point she was sitting on the hay covered ground with a piglet asleep in her lap. some other kid went over to her screaming about how cute it was and how they wanted to hold it and she scolded the kid. “now hush! can’t you see it’s sleeping. you can have a turn when it’s awake.” she whispered just a tad bit ticked off.

the day they got out for winter break you had a christmas party for the kids and boy was it hectic. there was hot chocolate spilt, cookie crumbs all over the place, frosting smeared on the chairs, you know all the normal kid things. as your picking up you hear her quiet voice behind you, “miss (l/n) would you like some help?” and your heart melts. you send her a sweet smile and shake your head, “no i got it baby, but thanks for asking pumpkin!” she makes a thin line with her lips, “are you sure? my daddy won’t be here for a little while, i really don’t mind!” she wasn’t gonna take no for an answer huh? 10 minutes go buy and you both finished and are now dancing to every breath you take by the police when suddenly you hear a knock and a gruff voice at the doorway. you turn around and katsumi runs in that direction. “hi daddy! how was work?” she says as she hugs him tightly. “it was good sweet pea thanks for asking.” as he plants a kiss on her forehead. he turns to you and stumbles a little. god you were gorgeous. “sorry i’m late, i had a little incident to take care of, i hope she didn’t cause too much trouble.” you shake your head and smile “never! she is the sweetest girl i have ever met!” you giggle a little and he smiles. katsumi runs up to you and hugs your leg. “i’ll see you in a few weeks miss (l/n)! have a great christmas break!” she hands you a card of her and her dad wearing matching green turtle necks and jeans. she had saved a christmas card for you. you smile so big and give her hug, “merry christmas katsumi! i hope you have a wonderful christmas and new year! be safe you two!” you wave goodbye and bakugos eyes gaze a little longer and then you can’t see them anymore.

another one would be you being bakugos assistant and sometimes (3 times out of 5) she’ll come to the agency afterschool. she’ll sit in a chair right next to his desk in the office, or she’ll go to the break room to sit at a table (a disney princess one with matching chairs that bakugo got for her) and she’ll draw and color on a notebook that you bought for her. sometimes she’ll even ask for you to lift her up and sit her on your desk and just talk your ear off. which you enjoy because it truly is interesting to get a peak inside a 6 year olds mind, especially pro hero dynamights childs’ at that. she’ll ramble and ramble about “miss (l/n), did you know that baby kangaroos are called joeys?” “do you think ants have nightmares miss (l/n)?” “what would happen if a volcano just erupted right now miss (l/n)?!” “miss (l/n) have you ever had a durian? they stink P U!” and you can’t help but entertain her thoughts by saying “really? i thought they’d be called dunkins!” “i’m sure ants have nightmares, they’re probably scared of some little blonde 6 year old girl drowning them with a water hose.” “well if a volcano exploded right now i’m sure your dad would pick you up and get you as far away from here honey!” “no i haven’t had a durian pumpkin, im sure they can’t smell as bad as your father.” you say as you pinch your nose and waft your hands and she bursts out in laughter.

katsumi sees her dad from the corner of her eye and covers her mouth to try and muffle her giggling, but it doesn’t work to any avail. “what’s all this laughter huh? this is a no laughing environment, only serious faces here.” bakugo says as he goes to tickle her sides. “m-miss (l/n) s-says you’re more stink-ier than a-a-a durian!” she lets out in between giggles and he pauses. “is what i’m hearing true miss (l/n)?” he says with a knowing smirk. you turn your head back to your computer with a straight face. “i said no such thing.” with a side eye. “hmm if i can recall last night you were saying my bedsheets sme-” you shush him and shoo him off shooting katsumi a smile to which she gives an even wider one back.

Do you understand the violence it took to become this gentle?

and you take me the way i am—

bakugou x reader

wc: 15k+

warnings: explicit language, explicit details of a boring desk job, fluff, kirishima is accidentally a menace but he means well, terrible punctuation, pro hero au

| part two > > >

7:50 A

Dynamight is always so subtly punctual.

You clock in at the front desk nine minutes before him and that leaves enough time to unlock your own office, water the plants and boot up your computer before digging the utility keys from the drawer. His door is made of a deep, dark chestnut wood and his name is in a thin, gold lettering just where your forehead reaches when you go to unlock it and swing it open. Setting up for him is a quick task; swiping at the thin layer of dust collecting on his monitor, pressing the power button to his own computer, and adjusting the coaster on the corner of his desk. The charcoal curtains at the back of his office are already pulled shut—because he likes to open them when he’s ready—so you only step to the window adjacent to your own office and pull the wooden slats to those blinds shut, too.

When he’s ready to tolerate your intrusion, with your clipboard and your sticky notes and your sing-song voice, he’ll let you know.

There is already a laundry list of memos from the afternoon before, but you’ve been working here for seven months now, which is long enough to recognize the things you already know he’ll decline (pro hero Deku’s lunch request is already outlined in orange highlighter; all you need to do is check off the box doodled next to his name). It’s become so unapologetically familiar at this point: Dynamight will pout at his dual monitors, Red Riot will stroll into the office in the next 45 minutes, and various other heroes will come and go. Policemen, too. Detectives. The occasional newbie in the legal department.

You’re used to this. You like it. Perhaps it’s why you’re the only assistant that’s lasted this long.

The agency had once been a manufacturing warehouse and the high vaulted ceilings murmur back the sounds of an early morning in Musutafu—sounds like employees yawning and chatting, sips of warm, caffeinated beverages, clicks of a mouse and the hum of a computer. The legal and technical teams are on the other end of the building, as well as two meeting rooms in the middle of the long stretch of space separating you and them. There are exposed beams and pipes, industrial light fixtures, and the floor in the breakroom is solid concrete. There is a loft, a small space with a couch and some chairs and a bookshelf (a small getaway). There is an underground gym, with a locker room and a sauna, which is to be used either before or after a long patrol.

Dynamight and Red Riot only have three sidekicks contracted at the agency: Reverse, Perfect Pitch, and Morph. They all have their own space, which consists of a desk and a laptop, a paper shredder and some plants, but they lack the four walls and door the pros get (it's a little silly and you laugh every time Dynamight gets haughty about it).

The lock on Red Riot’s office always gives you a hard time, always has, and you have to dig your heels into the harsh carpet and tilt the key upwards just to get it open. You do the same menial tasks once you wrestle your way in, although you have slightly more to organize. Papers are sticking out of a crinkled folder on his desk, tea mug bearing an ugly, brown ring along the inside, he likes his curtains pulled back to let the sunlight in, and there is a sticky substance on the arm of his chair (one you hope is just hair gel). The cup is rinsed out in the kitchen and you wipe away the unknown, tacky substance, the folder is tucked under your arm, and the morning sun burns your bleary eyes until they are watering.

By the time you are sitting back at your own desk—which is sandwiched between the pros—you can almost hear the elevator ding as he steps out of it. His tufts of ash blond hair nearly blend into the bright morning as it pours through the giant, rectangular windows, and you might have missed him if you hadn’t become so accustomed to the sight of his slouched form.

Dynamight’s hood is down—you know this to mean he’s having a slightly less shitty morning than usual.

Out in the open warehouse, whatever morning conversation that had started only minutes ago completely ceases, save for the occasional and unanswered good morning. His crimson gaze is glued to his dark, open door; you don’t need to watch his trek through the office to know this—and you don’t spare him a glance either—because you’re used to this. Because you know already.

One day, you think, you’ll ask him if he means to cross the threshold of his door at 7:59 exactly.

—

8:22 A

Red Riot hasn’t arrived, which perhaps should trouble you, though it doesn’t.

The skin of your lips had fallen victim to worry during the first few months of your employment at the agency, whenever Red Riot was scheduled for a nightly patrol and the clock was nearing 9 and he still hadn’t checked into the office. Any concern that had tentatively been brought up with Dynamight was just scoffed away—that jerk probably isn’t even awake yet—and by now you just assumed his hair was being uncooperative. His cheery smile would blind you the minute your nerves would push you to pick up the phone and call him.

It wasn’t unusual for a hero to come into the office following a patrol shift, either directly after or when they’d had the chance to shower off the dirt and grime they’d accumulated. Reports had to be made and filed, whether it was about a robbery or mugging, any suspicious activity, or the general status of the blocks they’d prowled.

As detailed as they could make it by memory, and that’s when you came in: compiling candid videos from Twitter or security footage from a nearby building to double check the timestamps, to verify everything was as accurate as possible. It was only a review, nothing more, and it wasn’t expected of you to add in any heavy or gruesome details because you weren’t the pro—and you didn’t get paid like one, either.

Dynamight always came into the agency after a meal and a deep scrub, and you had come to expect the half-assed report that would ultimately end up on your desk before lunch. He’s a pro hero, damn it; he didn’t want to agonize over the seconds on the clock at a certain point in an Instagram Live that was expiring on some extras profile.

Points of reference were almost always off in his reports—but that’s okay, you don’t mind.

He acknowledges you for the first time by pulling the string to his blinds and letting the fluorescent lights of his own office flood the right side of yours. By the time you twist your head to smile at him, he’s already sitting back down with his chin in his hands.

Alright already, this means, let’s get this over with.

Dynamight’s clipboard is transparent, neon orange (Red Riot’s is—you guessed it—red) and all his notes are slightly more filled out than his partners. There are some print-outs of emails you know he hasn’t opened yet and a calendar with little fluffy, fluid cats as the numbers, just in case you need to double check his schedule for any upcoming opportunities. His report from yesterday afternoon sits on top; you want to get that out of the way as soon as possible because you know he’ll have a fit.

Although, his hood had been down.

Maybe not.

It’s not expected of you to wear a pencil skirt or a starched blouse; all the heroes show up in sweatpants and pullovers, as they only sit around at their desks, processing paperwork, until patrol rolls around and it’s time to change into their hero outfit. Still, it's nice to put half an effort into your daily wear, which usually means low and chunky heels that don’t hurt your feet when you make the evening walk to the train station. They usually sit underneath your desk, unclasped and hidden, that way you can pull your feet up into your chair when your butt hurts from sitting in one position for too long, and so it takes another minute to pull them back on before you are up and out of your always open office. You trail your fingers over the k. bakugou before crossing the threshold of his doorway.

Dynamight doesn’t say anything as you step inside—or when you pause to take in the gauze bandages clinging to the sharp edge of his jaw—and he only grunts in response to your chirpy hellooo! His eyes don’t leave the monitors, either, and you can hear the scrape of his mouse against the pad as he reads something.

“So, a few things from yesterday afternoon,” you start, eyes dropping to the various colored Post Its on the plastic in your hands, “the chief of police had some discrepancies with your last report. He says, and I quote, ‘Think again, Murder God. Try a little harder next time, woof.’”

When he fixes you with a slow and unimpressed glare, you dig your heels into the floor and steady yourself against the cut of it, pulling a grin high up on your cheeks. Dynamight doesn’t laugh at the ‘woof’.

“If he thinks I’m doing that report again, he’s—”

“I know,” you continue without pause, because you do, you do know. “It’s right here,” the weight of it makes a thick, flapping sound as the papers flutter when you wave it around, “I’ll try to get it sent back in before lunch, but I’ll see what comes up.” You shrug down at your clipboard and move on before he can open his trap again.

“You might already be aware of this, but Red Riot—”

Under his breath, chin back in his hand, he mutters Kirishima.

“—wants to have a meeting with you and the other heroes about that gang hit from last week, the one Reverse was caught up in.” Just to make sure the streak of red hair isn't arriving at this exact moment, you lean back and look down into the warehouse,“Deku called at 4:56 to ask if you—”

“Decline.”

It had been expected, but you can’t help the frown you send at the already highlighted note and, maybe it’s the cheery tone Deku greets you with every other day or the fact that he calls your line directly, but you try a little harder. For him.

Picking at a loose string on your cream sweater, you try to seem casual, twirling it around your finger as if you don’t ask him the same question three times a week. “He seemed really insistent this time, and maybe even a little nervous? My ears could be deceiving me,” it's a lie and he knows it; his glare through your head is as hot as his AP Shot, “but it seems like there was something important he wanted, no, needed the two of you to discuss, and I just so happen to have your calendar right here, and—”

“No.” Dynamight is looking at you like you’ve betrayed him, as if you’ve stabbed him in the back for advocating for his childhood rival. “I already told you and him, if I wanna talk to the damn nerd, I’ll call ‘im myself.”

The box is checked off as you hum, unaffected. You like to think this is why you’ve lasted so long, because you’ve become accustomed to Dynamight’s bark, to Red Riot’s tardiness, to the stacks of paperwork that land on your desk in an attempt to take the strain off the already burdened heroes. Perhaps the doctor was wrong about you being quirkless; maybe you were just blessed with unending patience.

“The coordinator for Nike called me back yesterday and they are already working on something with Ingenium right now. I think a shoe line? I don’t remember, I don’t even think she was allowed to tell me, actually.” The quick laugh you let out goes unnoticed as Dynamight stares back at his monitor. “But they can put the collaboration down for next November, because they’d like it to be a winter line. She’ll get in touch with me by the summer.” The first print-out is slid across his desk.

He doesn’t so much as look at it before flicking it back to you and running a hand over his face. “I don’t care about this shit.” In the harsh light of his office, he somehow looks both well alert and exhausted, as if his own will and determination were stronger than the bags under his eyes. “Tell it to Shitty Hair, whenever he gets his ass out of bed. It was his idea anyway.”

“I know,” You say again, but you leave the paper where it sits. He’ll look over it eventually, whether it’s just after you leave his office or in pause as he plugs in his paper shredder. “I just wanted to make sure you were filled in on all the details.”

Morning meetings with Dynamight have always gone relatively the same in the last seven months: he busies himself with his computer (some news or Hero rankings or other matters) while you list out his memos, he complains about how he hates this fucking bullshit side of hero work that apparently no one warned him about, or he pokes at his phone until you finally leave—and it’s all done with the occasional glare thrown your way.

Until now.

When you look back up at him (though you’re not really sure why), his ruby eyes are fixed on you, as if he’s suddenly become aware that you are standing there, speaking to him. As if he’s suddenly aware of your presence in his office space. A quiet moment passes as you stare back, because you aren’t sure if he’s going to say something or start complaining some more or what, but there is only gazing between the two of you.

The unfamiliarity of it all takes you back to last week, when the two of you were returning from some bullshit ass interview he had never wanted to do in the first place. He’d picked you up from your apartment early in the morning because, if he had to suffer through it, you were sure as hell gonna suffer with him, and you can remember the clean, leather space of his front seat. You can remember the way he’d wrestled with the tie you put him in, the way he’d ripped it from his neck with one hand on the wheel and tossed it somewhere in his backseat. You can remember the saltiness in the ramen he insisted on buying you for lunch.

You can remember the callousness of his hand when he’d accidentally touched yours while bidding you a husky goodbye, bathed in the golden light of a late afternoon.

It’s enough to make your stomach twist and for your face to heat at the memory. When you see that foreign look in his eye, you wonder if he’s remembering, too.

“That it?” He grunts, breaking you out of the confines of your spellbound mind.

“No,” You breathe, pressing the end of the clipboard further into your skin, just under your ribs so you can rest your forearms on it. “Backdraft is hosting a charity event for the fire department and they invited—”

“Decline.”

“Red Riot already accepted, and, as far as I know, he’s asking—”

“Decline.”

Undeterred, you check your boxes and continue. “Creati wanted to remind you that Shoto’s birthday is in two weeks and you still haven’t returned her RSVP.”

Dynamight lets out a low tch and an as fucking if, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Innocently, you try to sway on your feet pull a charming smile, but that look is still in his eye and it’s making your knees shake a little bit. Creati doesn’t call your line directly, but she addressed you—in addition to the pros—when she’d sent a gift basket a few months ago, and you appreciate that enough to try for her, too.

“Last Thursday, Deku’s assistant just so happened to mention that Shoto is really into sweaters right now, if you’d like me to look into it for you.”

“Absolutely not.” He all but snarls. “That bastard can choke for all I care, sign that on his birthday card.” His gaze flicks down your sweater, to where you stop moving your hips, and then back to his monitor.

“Fine, fine.” With a wave of your hand, you brush him off, sliding the last printout to him. Just as he picks it up, you hold out a hand and take a deep breath. “This is the one I’m most excited about, which is why I saved it for last.” He raises a light eyebrow. “Sports Illustrated would like to do a spread with you—and before you say no, I’ve already told them: no questions about anything political, nothing about religion or personal matters, nothing about your ‘notoriously private’ love life. This is to be strictly business.” You wave your hands in a way that could rival Ingenium.

Dynamight absentmindedly rubs at the bandages over his jaw and scans the details.

“You’d be the centerpiece of the issue and the main focus would be about hero life after graduating. Strictly business.”

Tension builds in your shoulders as you expect him to hit you with another solid decline, but he places the paper down on his desk and rubs the back of his neck, reading over it twice before tapping his finger against it. There is enough of a pause for little seeds of hope to be planted, for a breath to catch in your lungs while you wait for the answer you’ve been wishing for since yesterday afternoon. Your bottom lip pulls between your teeth, knees bending a little (ready for the jump of excitement, should he agree), and a squeal is building in your throat at the thought that he will finally, finally agree to some bullshit ass project that will boost his public image.

When he finally looks back up at you, his eyebrows are pulled down and his mouth is twisted into a scowl.

Uh oh.

“I hate this kinda shit. If I wanted people to stand around and take photos of me, I would sit out in the street in full gear, but I don’t!”

The seeds of hope are set alight before they have a chance to bloom. A sigh escapes you as you roll your eyes up to the ceiling, keeping them there as he rants. “I know you do—”

“I don’t want to be asked about what it’s like to be a—” he pauses and looks at the paper, “‘certified hero climbing the charts’, I’d rather they just let me do the fucking job.”

“—because you didn’t sign up to—”

“That’s right, damn it!”

“—so it’s another decline, then?” The pen in your hand hits your shoulder and clicks out before you poise it over the check box, but he doesn’t say anything, not right away.

When you flick your eyes up to him, he’s watching you with that same frown.

“Goooood morning, team!”

At the cheery voice of your other boss, you twist your entire body in the office, moving to block Red Riot from Dynamight (who murmurs "about fucking time") and his sourness as you beam back at the redhead. Somehow, maybe with his hero sense or something, Red Riot always manages to come in at the right time during the little meetings with the sneering blonde behind you. He’s a sight for sore eyes; his hair is in perfect condition, gelled and vivid in the morning light of the office, the gray pullover covering his chest looks warm and comforting.

“Good morning, Red Riot!”

Though you’ve worked here for seven months, though you’ve said sir and only called them by their professional names, they both still look a little uncomfortable when you say it to their faces.

The red hero in question rubs the back of his neck and grins shyly, glancing to the still-curtained window. “Hey, no need for that, I told you to just call me—woah, big list!” He leans over your shoulder to scan the clipboard, clearly eager to change the subject. “Aww, Bakugou, you can’t skip Backdraft’s charity event!”

“‘m not goin’.” Dynamight grumbles.

“I’ve got a few things for you, too, mister.” You tap Red Riot’s shoulder lightly with your closed fist. “Including news about that Nike collab.” When stars light up his eyes, you wiggle your eyebrows victoriously at the grumpy blonde, who only tch’s in response.

“Alright!” Kirishima cheers and pumps a fist into the air before peering over your shoulder again. “What did they say? They called yesterday?”

“Yes! She called me back right after lunch and—oh, get this! Ingenium is coming out with a shoe line! But you can’t say any—”

“Are you two done?” Dynamight’s crimson eyes flick between the two of you. “Take this somewhere else.”

With a resigned sigh, you shuffle through the things on your clipboard, checking over your boxes to make sure you didn’t miss anything. The print-outs are still on your employers desk and he hasn’t formally declined the Sports Illustrated spread, which causes your lips to curl into a sly grin. You’ll let it stew in his mind—for now—and maybe ask him about it later, when that report is shiny, complete, and back on his desk.

“Do you need anything?” Red Riot moves to get further into the room as you ask. The meeting that’s been planned comes back to the front of your mind and it’s clear they’ll talk about it once you leave. “Tea, or—do you have your water bottle with you?”

It’s silent; Dynamight doesn’t answer (not as a pair of eyes bounce between the two of you), but then he reaches under his desk and pulls out his black bag. There’s an orange and green tumbler in the mesh netting on the side and you can hear from the way it clinks against his desk that it’s empty, just like it always is when he comes in. You take it from him with a quiet thank you and he doesn’t meet your eyes as you back out of the room, bringing the door with you.

Just before it closes, you see a flash of Red Riot’s mischievous grin and it’s directed at Dynamight.

—

10:32 A

The papers that had been sticking out of the crinkled folder on Red Riot’s desk just so happened to be the very papers he would need in the morning meeting. You realize it when they are in your hands—though they shouldn’t be—and you have to smile faintly at the image you summon of him, hunched over his desk as the sun sets, scratching out as many notes as he can with his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder.

It’s out of instinct that you had started to look over them, but when you began to see names you’d only heard through the news—bad names, harsh and guttural names that were always accompanied by evil tidings—you realized just exactly what you were looking at. You managed to catch the beginning of a very detailed record of how Reverse had ended up in the ER a few days ago, of why there was still a bandage around her forehead and three of her fingers. Though you work for pros, you’re still just a civilian; the case is ongoing and untrained eyes shouldn’t yet see this kind of material. That doesn’t stop you from reading on with a quickened breath, however—you like Reverse quite a bit, after all, and there is a proud warmth at knowing she had saved three others in lieu of herself with her quirk (hence the bandages).

From your desk, you can see the meeting room they’re all gathering in (Morph and Pitch Perfect came back to the office only a handful of minutes ago, after handing off their shift to another agency that would cover it while the meeting was in place). The curtains have been drawn and, as you watch for a few baited moments, you can see the shadow of their figures, the dance of colors that suggests they are watching over surveillance footage. The folder in your hands is hot and heavy; Red Riot needs it, and the last thing you want is for him to stand at the head of a room and fumble, the burning eyes of policemen only making his face as red as his hair.

But you also don’t want to barge into a room shrouded in information you shouldn’t know and draw attention to the fact that the folder was left behind.

There are a few scenarios you try to come up with as you nibble your lip: “Ah, Dynamight! You forgot your water bottle!”—he would absolutely throw you a strained glare and, with gritted teeth, tell you he would have brought it if he wanted it; “Morph, your mom, line one.”—you didn’t know if Morph’s mother was even alive, or in their life, and it would cause you even more embarrassment if she wasn’t; “Silly me, is this not the women’s powder room?”—you’ve worked here for seven months. They know you know where the bathroom is.

You’ve got nothing. And the clock is ticking.

The gap is closing and any minute Red Riot, Kirishima, will be standing up, freezing mid-rise from his chair as he realizes—

With a sigh, you reach under your desk and refasten your heels, pulling the folder close to your chest as you hurry to stand. Moving as quickly as you can, the fronds of your plant blow back as you strut past it, trying to look calm and casual as you slip by the various faces in the long, echoing hallway. Obviously you can’t knock, so you try to click the handle agonizingly slow, praying there isn’t a policeman leaning against the other side. It opens just a fraction as the sound of glass breaking spills out of the room; you cast a glance to the video footage projecting on a blank wall, unable to look away as you hear Reverse curse something foul in the scratchy audio, just after she’s shown being thrown through a window. You suck your stomach in as much as you can, holding your breath as you slip through the narrowest crack you’re able to fit through. There isn’t anyone leaning against the door—or even taking up the back of the room—and you close it behind you, resting against the wood as you catch your breath.

Not one head turns to look at you.

If it weren’t for the significance of the situation, you might have pumped your fist in the air, Red Riot style. You don’t, of course, quickly finding him standing only a few steps in front of you, hands tucked under his armpits as he focuses on the video footage. In the dark of the room, the light from the projector casts a shadow over his broad back; it’s enough that you could stand behind him and nary a soul would know. That might be a good thing, given the task at hand.

A quick glance around the room shows Reverse at the front, watching the footage with a scowl on her pretty face. Pitch Perfect is standing on one side of Red Riot, two policemen on the other side of the pro. Dynamight is leaning against the wall off to the side, a man in a white button up standing with Morph on the opposite wall.

Easy. There should be no reason you couldn’t slip in and out in a jiffy.

When you get close enough, you touch Red Riot’s arm very gently and he only glances away from the screen for a moment before he’s winding his arm around you, placing a soft hand on your back as he brings his ear to your lips.

“You forgot this.” You whisper, face heating as he leans back to look down at the this you’re talking about. His arm is still around you and the warmth from his hand suddenly makes you shy; he never fails to be a gentleman.

Red Riot’s face is blank for a moment and Reverse shouts something menacing, something about not getting away with this in the background audio. “Oh!” He whispers back, sharp teeth gleaming down at you in a grin you can’t help but return. “Thanks!”

Easy.

A hand is placed around your wrist then, a clammy hand, and your attention is tugged elsewhere. At first, you think it’s Red Riot just being silly, but then the hero twists his arm so it’s back to his side and he’s glancing at the door in the nicest, most polite way you’ve ever been told to ‘get out’.

“Hey sweetheart,” A voice beside you whispers, as the hand moves from your wrist to the still-warm spot on your back Red Riot had been touching, “Get me a cup of coffee, would you? Two sugars.”

There is a tone your voice can take, one that other people working with the public are familiar with. It’s a Customer Service Voice™, and you’re quite used to using it, quite used to wielding it when you are answering the phone or talking to PR about a new, Dynamight sized stack of paper on their desk. It even comes out when you yourself are the customer; you can’t help it, it’s automatic at this point.

So there are words that build in your throat then, a smile that begins to curve on your lips, as you turn to face the man with the badge on his chest next to you. As you look from his half interested face, as you look at the arm extended your way, the gum smacking between his teeth.

But his hand is on the small of your back, and he’s not Red Riot, Kirisihima, or Dynamight, or even one of the sidekicks. And that makes you pause.

Because who the hell does he think—

“Get your damn hand off ‘er.”

Dynamight’s voice is louder than the recorded sound of sirens and it fills up the room without hesitation, without so much as an ounce of shame or uncertainty. Whispering was a thought that never even crossed his mind, and it has all eyes swiveling to him—standing up from the wall, looking as if the policeman had offended him with the touch and not you—and then swiveling to what he’s staring at—which is you.

Red Riot looks down at your figure, confusion creasing his brow for only a moment, before he peeks over your head to the policeman staring in surprise at Dynamight. He takes one glance at your face (which must be ghastly, because you are caught between a grimace and a bogus smile), and then his own face is contorting into one of irritated surprise.

“Hey man, don't touch—” Red Riot starts, but the hand still hasn’t moved.

“I said to get your fucking hand off her.” Dynamight’s eyes are shadowed by the curve of his furrowed brow, which you think might be a good thing, and you can only see how small and wild they are in the pops of light that spark from his raised hand. “If you want coffee s’damn bad, then get off your ass and go get it yourself.”

“It’s okay!” You squeak, stepping away as the man raises his hands in defense. The Customer Service side of you has been ripped from her slumber, wide eyed and embarrassed that something has gone wrong in the world she’s supposed to make perfect.

“My bad, man, I didn’t realize she—”

“She what? Wasn’t a servant to order around?” Dynamight growls. Someone flips the light on and you squint, blinking a few times in shock at both the lights and how quickly your sneaky situation went south. “Whaddya want her to do next, get on her knees and—”

“It’s okay!” You wave your hands wildly as your face burns. “Coffee? Anyone else, coffee? I don’t mind!” When you look at Dynamight, you resist the urge to cringe; if that’s what villains see when he’s barreling towards them, it’s no wonder they always run from him. “It’s okay! Water? I can grab water, too!”

“No,” He barks, “You won’t. You’re supposed to be doing that,” He finally lets out the breath he was holding, running a hand through his hair as he looks at the eyes on him, as he realizes the audience he has. That foreign look is coloring him once again, the one from this morning, the one from last week, “that damn report, anyway.” He finishes his sentence in a mumble, leaning back against the wall to cross his arms. He turns away from you, seemingly interested in the washed out surveillance footage, but you think you can see the pink tips of his ears.

Maybe he’s just pissed.

“Oh, yes.” A grin is forced onto your face, trying in earnest to appear unbothered by the eyes on you, the harsh light of the fluorescence, the flustered policeman. Red Riot sends you a sympathetic smile, and moves to follow you as you back towards the door. “Yes, the report. I will be going and doing that. Now. I will be doing that now, yes.”

Your nails scratch at the wood as you grab blindly behind you, searching for the handle, and your cheeks begin to hurt as Red Riot steps up to shield you, pulling the door open himself. The folder comes down to lightly tap you on the head once you are safely back out into the hall.

“You okay, man?”

“Is it possible for one to die of embarrassment, sir?” Almost ironically, his expression goes bashful at the formality. “I only ask that you check on me at your first convenience, I might be dead at my desk.”

He laughs, about to respond when Dynamight shouts, “turn the damn lights off already” and then his expression goes from shy to yikes, and he disappears behind the door in a flash.

—

11:43 A

Three of Dynamight’s timestamps have been corrected when Pitch Perfect comes to stand in your doorway, pulling at a torn edge of his phone case.

“Hey, Ando,” You greet with a smile as one of relief greets you back. Though he’s been at the agency longer than you, he’s still only a sidekick, so you feel a little less inclined to be so official with him. “What’s up?”

The sweater he’s wearing is decorated in red, white and blue, a vintage image of All Might printed on the front. It doesn’t look at all old, but the icon is faded and washed out, giving it the illusion it’s been sitting at the back of someone's closet for a few years. Bought new to look old. It’s cute.

He pushes his black hair out of his face as he shuffles on his feet. “Well—oh, hey, how are you?” Pitch Perfect is the youngest sidekick contracted at the agency and his nerves show through his every action. After you tell him you’re fine, he continues. “Great, me too. Well I was wondering—I noticed that I was scheduled for the last weekend of the month.”

It’s quiet as you purse your lips, waiting to see if he’s going to continue, but he doesn’t, so you pull up the patrol calendar up on your monitor. It takes half a second to come up and you punch in your password, clicking through the notification that you are not the administrator and won’t be able to save any changes you make. You don’t know why Dynamight or Red Right don’t just give you the rights, since you adjust the schedule every month anyway.

“Yeah, it looks like you are. Is that going to be okay?”

“Actually—and I know that I’m not working the weekend before, but I was wondering if it was okay for me to have that Saturday off? My, my girlfriend is going to have her first ultrasound and I’d like to be there. At least for that one.”

A pleased pout works its way onto your lips and you can’t help but coo at him. “I didn’t know you were expecting, Ando.” You grin when he shrugs. “That’s exciting, I’m happy for you. Now, let’s see,”

Usually, you try not to make anyone work more than two weekends in a row, though—obviously—sometimes it can’t be helped; being a hero left little room for days off, little room for family and significant others and birthdays, and they all knew that when they signed up for it. But still, you know it sucks and that things come up, so you try to be as lenient as possible, to create as much wiggle room as possible.

“You’re supposed to patrol that Saturday with Red Riot.” You say, “And he’s already scheduled the two before that, with both Reverse and Morph.” With a hum, you glance down to the scheduled off days at the bottom of the calendar.

“I know that it’s probably not going to happen, but—” Ando shrugs again, still plucking at that torn edge of the phone case.

Red Riot and Dynamight both work more than the three sidekicks, and their names are in their respective colors throughout most of the week every week. They always have to work a weekend or three out of the month, though you hate to schedule it and the fact that they rarely complain about it only makes the guilt heavier.

But being a hero left little room for days off, and they knew that when they signed up for it.

“Dynamight is scheduled on a Sunday, the week after. You might be able to trade with him.”

“Oh, oh, well then, uh, Red Riot is—no, he’s the weekends before, uh,” Ando shifts his eyes to the ceiling like he’s thinking hard. “What about Reverse?”

You frown at him, but take another look. “Reverse is scheduled for Friday, all day actually. She’s pulling a double shift, so I wouldn’t want to make her work three in a row.”

“Morph?”

“Morph works three days out of that week and they worked the weekend before.” You furrow your eyebrows and shrug, “Unless you want to switch during the weekday with one of them? But just ask Dynamight to—”

Oh. Oh.

Dynamight is not a bad employer. He’s loud and intimidating, he likes things a certain way, and he doesn’t tolerate any blatant bullshit (read: the morning meeting), but he’s not a bad employer. You can’t exactly imagine him oohing and awwing over the fact that Ando has an ultrasound with his girlfriend, but he’s always been willing to work multiple weekends in a row, to pull a triple shift if no one else could. There was a time when he and Red Riot were just starting out, with a fresh, mostly empty warehouse and a few desks. There was a time when it was just them, and he’s more than used to the grind at this point.

Still, Ando had been fumbling to come into your office; it wasn’t likely he was going to ask Dynamight to switch patrol with him.

“I’ll ask him,” You offer, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll just get Dynamight to switch with you.”

Ando’s eyes get wide and he shakes his head. “No, no, that’s okay, actually,”—There it is, that Customer Service Voice™— “I’ll just make the next one, it’s okay.”

“Ando,” You can’t help but laugh, especially as the door to the office next to yours swings shut. “Just—tell her you’ll be there, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

Dynamight appears as if he heard his name being mentioned, suddenly in your doorway with his shoulders raised and his mouth open like he’s got something to say. His hood is up, which makes you feel a bit like Ando—nervous— who moves aside to step way out the pros line of sight (he still glances at him though, then you, and then back and forth).

Why he’s stopped by your office, you can’t be sure, so you say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m not done with the report yet, I’m sorry.”

A small frown pulls on his lips and he glances once more at Ando before tching, “‘m goin’ to lunch.” His black bag jostles against his back as he turns on his heels and saunters down the hall. Ando doesn’t turn to look at you until he’s completely out of sight.

“Tell her you’ll be there, seriously.” The changes are already being made to the schedule and you’re ignoring the alert that reminds you that you’ll need to get administrator approval before anything will be finalized. When the sidekick in your office swallows, you wave your hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not afraid of him.”

You wonder what he’ll eat for lunch, if he’ll go back to that ramen stall.

You wonder what he would have said, had Ando not been there.

—

12:32 P

It’s over three onigiri from the corner market that you figure out why Dynamight has bandages on his jaw.

“Ooooh,” You wince around the rice in your mouth, lips pouting as you watch your great, heroic, employer get his face scraped into the concrete. “Nice one, Buffalo Head, at...7:56:34 P.M.” The clean hand, the one that hasn’t touched your food, taps the spacebar and adjusts the time on the report pulled up on the monitor. You chicken peck the numbers, double, triple checking the timestamp before swallowing your food and rubbing your fingers on the napkin next to your mouse.

The heels have been discarded, not even hidden under your desk anymore, but haphazardly laying out next to the trash bin. Rotating your shoulder to alleviate some of the pinching at your back (you really need to work on your posture), you adjust your position and hit the ‘save’ button in the corner of the page, just in case. The next error in the report is highlighted in red and you read over it for a moment before tapping the spacebar again.

You give Dynamight the decency of watching the screen long enough to see him launch himself from the ground, blasting his body through the alleyway as he twists midair, delivering a solid punch to Buffalo Head.

“Yeah,” another bite of your rice, “take that.” And then you skip forward to the next issue in the report.

With the meeting and the various figures coming in and out of the office due to the investigation, a lot has been going on this morning. Still, you can’t help but feel bad you haven’t finished this report for Dynamight, especially since you know he’ll be on edge until it’s squared away. No matter how many times he'll insist he doesn't give a damn, you know he's probably been peeking through the window that looks into your office every hour. He's never been the type to abandon something, to let it go unfinished, no matter how pissed off it made him.

Also, you really want to ask him about the Sports Illustrated thing, but you suppose you need to bide your time as long as possible.

Working through lunch is usually okay with you; the door stays open and the phone stays on, but you get to eat at your desk with your shoes off, which is more relaxing than it sounds. Sure, you’d love to retire to the room upstairs, read a magazine or two and fight the mid-day weariness, but this is fine. Watching Dynamight get his ass handed to him, and seeing him hand it right back, is alright with you, too.

You most likely won't look over a report for the incident with Reverse, considering it's still an open investigation and, by the time it's all said and done, more than one report will have been made on the entire situation. That's okay with you, too, because you're not exactly interested in those kinds of fights, you don't really want to see that footage. What you'd seen this morning, of Reverse fighting and trying and still coming up short, makes your stomach heavy with sympathy for her. You're still a civilian; you've no problem watching Dynamight chase down a purse-snatcher or Red Riot break the blade of a villain, but you'd rather not see the dirtier side of it all.

Just as you take another bite of your onigiri, your phone rings. The greeting you always start with is already in your mouth, though you're forcing rice around it and down your throat so you can sound at least a little professional, but when you see the number on caller ID, your nerves deflate and the Voice™ slips from your thoughts.

You answer it, tucking it between your shoulder and ear as you wipe your hand again on your napkin. "Hey, Deku, good afternoon!"

"Oh, hey there! I just realized I'm probably calling you while you're at lunch, I can call you back, if, if you'd like me to!"

"No, that's okay, no worries." A glance at the clock tells you he’s calling a little earlier than usual today. "Dynamight’s also at lunch right now, though. He might be back soon, if you’d like to wait."

"So I guess that's another 'decline' for today?" He doesn't sound upset, more like he was expecting it and is joking, but the sound of his sweet laugh makes you frown.

"I'm sorry, I will corner him in the elevator today, if I have to." You briefly imagine it: you, arms held out like you're trying to put a sack over a feral cat; Dynamight, hands curled up and sparking as he hisses at you.

"Oh, please don't apologize! If he's at lunch, that means he's having a late patrol, right? So he'll be back in tomorrow morning."

You decide not to confirm that for Deku, even though you quite like him. At least once, you have to do something right for your boss (he does sign your paychecks, after all).

"I can meet him early, if that's okay with him. I know I'm bothering him, but I need his advice on something, or else I wouldn't push so much." Deku sounds a little weary then, like something is weighing on his shoulders and your stomach twists. You wish you would have tried a little harder this morning.

"I will definitely corner him, just for you." A pen clicks against your shoulder before you scribble down his request. Deku laughs at your comment. "I hope you aren't working too much!"

"I've got to, if I'm gonna be number one before Kacchan! But thanks!" Something sounds in the background, like wind or trouble with the connection. It sounds like he might be outside, on patrol himself. "I'll let you get back to lunch, have a good day!"

He and Red Riot. Sweethearts, just darlings. "Hey, you too! Be safe! Bye!"

When the phone clicks back into place, you're still swirling rice out of your teeth with your tongue and you sigh, looking back at the footage with interest. As you think about what Deku said, you pause, switching tabs on your computer to bring up the current Hero board (which is a bookmarked website, considering how often you check it for Dynamight).

Just as the page finally loads, you catch the flash of his hair —free from the hood once again—as he marches down the hallway. It only takes a minute for your eyes to find his name on the list and your mouth falls open when you do.

"Hey!" You squeal, pausing to see if he heard you. The door to his room doesn't close and you have a sudden urge to shout out his name, his actual name (though you don't know why, you two aren't that close) when he peeks his head around the corner.

"You talkin' t'me?" His eyes narrow on you at your desk, though they hold no malice or annoyance at the way you've grabbed his attention.

"Yes, come 'ere!" The smile on your face provokes a wary look from him, but he steps into your office, glancing at your long-forgotten shoes in the corner, then down at your food.

"Whaddya—are you working during lunch?" Dynamight sounds astonished at this fact and you frown up at him; you're a hard worker, after all, why is this so surprising to him?

"Because of your report, sir, now look at this—"

"Would you forget that damn thing already?"

"Nevermind that, Bakugou, look!"

Your fingernails make a pleasant sound as you clack them against the screen, against his name and the small photo of him from his Hero Profile. One of his hands is flat against your desk, the other holding himself up against the back of your chair as he crowds over you and into your space to see the computer monitor. When you look up at him, though, his eyes are not on his name or where your fingers are pointing. His eyes are on you.

Dynamight’s lips are open just slightly, just enough that you can see a hint of his white teeth as studies your face. The close proximity makes you gasp; he’s closer than you expected. It’s not some loud, cliche, cheesy gasp, but enough that your own lips part in surprise—his eyes flick to them for just a second—and you suck in a sharp, quiet breath.

And there it is,

That look.

The one he gave you when you sat off to the side, behind the camera where the rest of the technical team was during his interview, as you placed your chin in your hand and watched him. The look he gave you before he put his hand on the back of the passenger's seat—your seat, in his car—as he drove you home. The look he gave you the next morning, when you told him you thought he did a great job.

Then he blinks once before turning his face to the screen, exposing a stretch of his neck and the clench of his jaw to your eyes. You’re momentarily drawn to the soft skin below his ear, but before you can even start to wonder how it would feel to press your nose there, you’re clearing your throat and tapping the screen again.

“Number 7,” You say, “You’re number 7 today, just ahead of Deku.”

Dynamight doesn’t say anything at first and, for a moment, you worry that he’s angry for some reason. His jaw is still clenched and his eyes are fixed on the screen, but it doesn’t seem like he’s really seeing what he’s looking at.

“Sir?”

Finally, he grunts in response and shifts on his feet, blowing out a breath before narrowing his eyes at your monitor. It takes him a minute, his ruby eyes bouncing back and forth between he and Deku’s names, and then his eyebrows are pulling down, cheekbones getting rounder with the sinister grin that takes over his mouth.

(For a brief moment, you wonder what the hell is wrong with you; you could spend hours talking to men like Red Riot, you would never tire of laughing at the jokes men like Deku tell, you could and do enjoy every second you get in their presence, in the presence of kind gentlemen just like them. But there is something that makes your entire body hot, something that twists your stomach when Dynamight wears that sharp smirk of his, when his eyes are as wild as they had been in the morning meeting, and then you can’t help it; the saccharine smell of him isn’t overpowering, but it’s enough to put an image in your head, one that you shouldn’t have, because he’s your boss).

“Hah!” The sound of his singular, harsh laugh pulls you from your mind. The chair jostles just a little as he moves to the other side of you, shoving himself in the space between you and your phone. Before you realize it, both his elbows are planted on the desk as he leans over it, already dialing a number with the phone in his hand. “I can’t wait to tell that little—”

“Sir!” Reaching between his arms, you smack the receiver on the phone. “You can’t call Deku just to rub it in his face!” A noise is made at the back of his throat as he swivels to face you, so close that your noses almost touch. Your shoulder is pressed against his, arm stretching between his own, your fingers on his wrist as you try to force him to silence the loud dial-tone.

“He’ll—Deku’s just gonna ask you about breakfast tomorrow!” It’s said so fast, you think he might not have understood. “He already called today, I was gonna ask you later, you know, when I, when I give you the afternoon memos.”

His rival's request has him scowling, lips twisting as he slowly extends back his full height above you.

“I’m sure—Deku checks the rankings all the time, he’ll see it soon enough. Let’s just, uh,” Dynamight’s intense gaze doesn’t leave you, not even as you rattle in your chair, averting your eyes to the uneaten onigiri. You grab one, the one you haven’t taken a bite of, and offer it to him. “Let’s just enjoy the moment!”

Another cautious look paints his face, but he takes it.

“A toast,” You say, holding your riceball out for him to tap, “to Pro Hero number 7: Dynamight—might—might—might!” Pulling out your best Present Mic impression, you try to make it sound like your voice is echoing in a stadium. “Whoooooo!” Your cup a hand over your mouth to muffle your cheers, tapping one hand against your desk to mimic clapping.

The hero in question rolls his eyes, but he touches his rice to yours when you beam up at him. “Shaddup,” He mutters, turning his face, but you can see the amused smirk that’s worked its way onto his lips.

“Congratulations, sir.” You bow your head low, laughing as he shakes his head and nearly inhales the onigiri.

“Save it, I’ll be number 5 by next week.” He speaks around the food in his cheeks, moving back to the front of your desk, giving you enough space so that you can breathe as your heartbeat settles back into a normal pace. “And you better give me somethin’ better than tuna mayo.”

Holding out your hand, you grunt as you swallow, grabbing a pen from the cup on your desk to squiggle nonsense on a sticky note. “Number 5 next week, I’ll add it to the calendar.”

His hands are in the pockets of his sweatpants as he pauses in your doorway, leaning against the frame to stare back at you. There is still a smile on your face, clearly entertained with your own humor, and you place your chin in your hand as you stare back at him, waiting.

For him to say something. For you to come up with another joke. For anything to happen.

But the edges of his lips soften just slightly, looking a little more tender than the one that burns through your stomach and makes your heart pound (though this one does, too). Finally, he shakes his head again and says, “forget about the report and finish your damn lunch," before he pushes off the doorway saunters back into his office.

Out of his line of sight once and for all, a hand claps over your mouth; the moment has you thoroughly flustered and wanting and has sent your mind dizzy with thoughts you shouldn’t have, so you do your best not to watch him. The shadow of his figure moves to his desk—you can make him out of the corner of your eye through the still open blinds of the window that peers into his office—and you wait for him to close them, like he always does.

The afternoon is still waiting for you, and him, and there are already a few sticky notes with messages you’ll pass along to him before he heads out on patrol at the end of the day. His blinds should be shut, just like his door, and he should open them whenever he’s ready for you to come in, just like always does.

But Dynamight doesn’t shut them; he just sits back down at his desk and continues working on whatever he had been before. He just sits back down at his desk like he’s ready for you whenever you’re ready for him.

—

2:48 P

As it turns out, you aren’t ready for him, not for a good while.

Though you’d given him the last bite of your food, you’d decided to listen to him and enjoy the rest of your lunch, report at the back of your mind. It turns out to be a mistake, however, because you’d been acutely aware of the fact that his blinds were open, that he could be watching you out of the corner of his eye just as you were him, and he could be seeing you doing...anything.

Trying to read something on your phone, responding to emails from PR (again), avoiding the topic of the morning meeting when Reverse popped in to ask, “hey, what was that all about”; he could see it all, if he so wanted. Maybe he would catch you itching your nose and think you were picking it, maybe you looked particularly bad from the angle of his window.

Suffice to say: even after coming back from lunch, you take your sweet time finishing up the report, because your shoulders are still tense and your mind is still floaty with the smell of him. You’re not quite ready to stand in his office and face him just yet.

There is still a nagging voice at the back of your mind, one that realizes that every minute you delay the inevitable only reflects on your boss, and his reputation as a diligent hero shouldn’t be dragged down because you were a little shy. As the printer on your desk spits out the last sheet of the new, finished, shiny report, you know it’s high time to turn it in and be finished with it. Even if your stomach is still flipping a little.

Every call that comes in for Dynamight is directed to you. Red Riot allows his line to be open, since he minds being on the phone less than his counterpart, but Dynamight—and the Public Relations team—would rather you handle any calls concerning him. There is still a phone line set up in his office that he can make calls from, but it’s rarely used.

So when you round the corner from your open door and into his, it surprises you to see him, phone in one hand and twirling a paperclip in the other. He looks relaxed and is talking with a low voice (so low you can’t make out what he’s saying only feet from him), his brows furrowed only the tiniest bit, as if they don’t know any other way to be. The chair squeaks as he slowly rocks in it.

The look on his face is gentle, not boastful or arrogant in the slightest, and you hope he’s finally called Deku back, that they're finally having the talk the green-haired hero seemed to need.

When he notices you standing in his doorway, he sits up at once and grunts into the phone, “I gotta go.”

“No, no!” You wave your hands, whispering as loud as you can, “Don’t hang up!”

Dynamight’s arm is still tensed, but it’s clear the person on the other end is still talking. You hold the report up to show him as he grumbles (maybe to Deku), “yeah, I know,” and you step closer to set it on his desk. His eyes flick between it and you, before going wide as his hand tightens on the phone, spinning away from you to whisper, “shut your mouth, old man!”

Old man?

You try to run through the list of people you know are present in Dynamight’s life that could be the “old man”. It’s no secret he’s close to All Might himself, Eraserhead, even retired hero Best Jeanist. It warms your heart then, and you realize it doesn’t matter who he’s talking to, because it’s the fact that he even called some old mentor of his just to chat. Perhaps he called them to tell them of the Hero ranking.

It’s sweet and it brings a smile to your face as you begin to back out of the room, hands clasped behind your back just like always.

“Hang on,” Dynamight says, moving the phone from his lips to show he’s talking to you. “You better not have—not you, damn it!” He sighs, “You better not have worked through lunch to finish this stupid thing.”

“Only the start of it.” You smile when his brows furrow. “Saw you get your face rubbed into the concrete.”

Tch. “This is nothing.”

“I know,” You laugh, “I watched you apprehend the big, scary, Buffalo man.” He rolls his eyes when you snort and you wave your hand at the phone again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, I’ll come back later with the memos.”

“If it’s Deku asking me for—yes, I’m still here dad, gimme a minute!”

You’re pretty certain you aren’t imagining the pink tint to his cheeks.

“Deku has called already, but I have other things, too.” You bat your eyes innocently. “And I hope you have something to say to me, alsoooo!”

For a second, his eyes widen in surprise, but he’s quick to compose himself. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sports Illustrated on your mind, you shrug. You can picture him, outfitted in some sponsored athletic wear, grumbling as he answers questions he hates. Maybe he’ll pick you up again and take you with him. “Oh, nothing.” The coy smile on your face warrants a hot glare.

“I’ll have something to say to you, alri—what?! Damn, you’re just as bad as your wife!”

You can’t help but laugh as you slip from his office, using his phone call as distraction enough to duck away from his wolfish eyes. It bathes him in a fresh, sweeter light, the realization he’s talking to his very own old man, of all people. It softens the image of him next to you with that smirk on his angular face, it makes him seem more like a Bakugou and less like a Dynamight.

Red Riot is hot on your heels when you turn back into your room. When you face him, he’s smiling and looking ike he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t be. You try to stay composed, sitting down and straight up, scooching closer to your desk so you can ask him, very professionally,

“Can I help you, sir?”

Whatever it was he was planning on saying dies in his throat as he shifts on his feet, leaning his hip against your desk as he crosses his arms. “C’mon, stooop. Just Kirishima!”

“But you’re my boss, sir.”

“I’m your friend, too.” He protests, pouting a little as he stares down at you.

You’ve never really considered this; it’s not like you and he have ever been together outside of work, as if he’s ever texted or called you for anything that wasn’t office related. At his insistence, you begin to wonder if that was his doing, or yours. A small wave of panic makes your hands clammy; surely he didn’t think you disliked him by any means, as if you were genuinely uninterested in knowing him in a more friendly light.

“I’d actually tell you to just call me Ei, if I didn’t think you’d pass out on the spot.” Red Riot, Kirishima, laughs then, when you pretend to faint against your chair.

When you sit back up and wiggle your mouse to wake up your monitor, you assume the conversation is over. The redhead in front of your sighs and steps up to the window, peeking in at Dynamight, who is still on the phone. If you and Red Riot were actually on Ei terms, you might have asked him what the “old man” is like; the concept of the two people who’d created the little ball of dynamite next to you is fascinating. You wonder if there is a time or place or world where you would meet them.

The conversation isn’t over. “Him, too, you know.” Red Riot peeks back at you. “I’m sure you could at least call him Bakugou.”

Thinking about it, you shrug. You and Dynamight have been together outside of work, though you’d been doing work related tasks (besides the ramen). “He’s never complained before.”

“Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like it.”

“Where is all this coming from?” You swivel your chair to face him fully, crossing your fingers across your stomach as you force out a little laugh. It feels a little awkward, but that panic is beginning to grow. He couldn’t be serious, right? Have you missed something obvious? Not that it was appropriate in the slightest; Red Riot seems to realize this and turns sheepish at your direct question.

“I don’t know,” He finally relents with a sigh, but you can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with this morning. With the policeman and the hand and the look on your face. With the look on Dynamight’s face. “Just something I thought of.”

Just for him, you try to imagine it: you and Kirishima spending time together outside of work, though you aren’t even sure what you’d do. Maybe get lunch, maybe with Bakugou, too. There are movies you all like, perhaps, and you could watch them at the other’s apartment, or go see them in the cinema, even. But just as soon as those images come, they’re clouded over by their own larger-than-life shadows: you, trying and failing to find anything in common with Pinky or Chargebolt, with even Deku or Shoto. A birthday party cut short because a villain attacked right as the cake was being cut. Dinner ruined when a crowd began to develop outside the doors of the restaurant.

With a shake of your head, you decide, no, that’s okay. Red Riot and Dynamight; that’s just fine as it is.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You send him a smile as he ambles aimlessly around your office. Red Riot always seems to get a little antsy at this time, when patrol is close but not close enough to send him down the locker room just yet. “Was there something else you wanted?”

“No,” He says, shrugging as he tucks his hands into his pockets. The books and folders on the shelf behind you suddenly become oh so interesting to him, and you let him read over them for a few quiet moments before he sighs and turns back to the door. “Just checking on you, friend.”

“Thank you, sir.” It makes you laugh when he groans dramatically. After another moment of him leaning his forehead against the doorway, mouth open as if to testify to the boredom bearing down on him, you decide to indulge him. “Thank you, Kirishima.”

His teeth are gleaming and white and sharp as he grins at you, pumping his fist into the air that way he always does. “Finally!”

“Alright, alright, don’t get used to it.”

Red Riot points a victorious finger at you, other hand clenched in a fist. “You say that now, but I’ll—”

“Oi!” The window rattles as Dynamight knocks his fist against it, the red of his eyes burning through the blinds. “Get back to work, Shitty Hair!”

A look is exchanged between the two of you and then you make a point to put your hands on your hips, even though you’re still sitting down. “You’re getting me in trouble.”

Red Riot laughs, shaking his head. “He’s not shouting at you!”

“Out, out, out!” You wave your hands at him and he holds his up in surrender, making a half-hearted effort to hurry out of your office.

Perhaps there is time or place or world, one where Red Riot is Ei, one where you know Bakugou’s parents. Perhaps there is a time or place or world where a man picks you up and you slide into his passenger seat, and you don’t have to pretend like you’re doing it for work.

—

4:12 P

Ando had tried, one last time before leaving, to convince you not to ask Dynamight to switch shifts.

And he had failed.

“It will be fine,” You had assured him, much to his distress, “He’ll say yes, it’s okay.”

The calendar is pulled up on your computer once more as you look over the changes pending: Pitch Perfect is set to work the last Saturday of the month, and Dynamight is scheduled to work the first Sunday of next month. Dynamight will switch with Pitch Perfect, taking over that Saturday (even though he’s scheduled 4 days that week) and Pitch Perfect will work the first Sunday for your boss, and the following two weekends.

Makes sense to you.

You ignore the notification again as you hit save, choosing to request approval from the administrator before pulling those heels back on. The door next to yours is still open, which surprises you, considering he never leaves it open this long; it warrants too many visitors, too many complaints from the legal team about the damages he’d done to public property in his showdown during a previous patrol.

“The next time some old hag is about to get her fucking neck snapped, I’ll be sure to let her know I couldn’t step in because the city needed to save some money!”

The afternoon sun breaking through the windows in full effect now and the sight of it makes the weight of the day a little heavier; you can feel that it’s almost time to go home, almost time to take a shower and change into sweatpants, just so you can eat dinner and curl up on the couch to watch a movie until you’re weary enough to put it all to bed. You decide not to look at the clock anymore; it always seems to go faster that way.

That clipboard is back in your hands, once again decorated in multi colored Post Its. There aren’t as many as there had been this morning —there never are—and you’ll be able to rattle through them quickly before scoring the schedule switch for Pitch Perfect.

There is much less pep in your step, much less chirpiness in your voice when you enter Dynamight’s office. The clipboard is loose in your hands, you’re dragging your feet, and your hair might even be messed up (though you aren’t sure if that’s true or just insecurity popping in from the exchange during lunch), but he somehow looks more awake than you. He’d been out last night, awake early this morning, and his nerves were probably getting the best of him—just like Red Riot—and yet, he somehow managed to look just as alert as he had hours ago.

That’s why he’s the pro, after all.

“Just a few things,” Leaning against the wall across from his desk, you speak in a low, lazy voice. “Deku asked about breakfast tomorrow. Said he really, really—”

“Decline.”

“Oh, come on,” You’re in the elevator, you’re raising the sack. “He knows he’s pushing, but he actually wants your advice, oh wise one.”

“Advice? What the hell kind of advice does he want from me?” Dynamight is curling up in the corner, he’s hissing and spitting at you.

“He didn’t say.”

Something flashes over his face and he looks almost sullen then, like what he’s remembering is unpleasant. Like something sour is in his mouth, his lips twist into a frown, though it’s not laced with the usual hostility he holds towards the number 8 Hero. As life long rivals, you can only assume their past is charged with memories, both good and bad, decent and terrible (that day, the one that had been in the papers, when Dynamight was still Bakugou and Deku was still Midoriya comes to mind; you can’t remember the headline, but you won’t forget the look on your employers face in the photo, when they called a child brave for withstanding a villain composed of sludge). Checking the box in silence, you decide not to push him on it.

“Backdraft responded to your decline, saying that he hosts two charity events a year and you, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, are required to go to at least one.” In an attempt to wipe that look off his face, you wink at him. “And you already skipped the one earlier this year.”

He snorts, looking suddenly offended. “Required by who? Some B-list hero? I don’t fucking think so.”

The clipboard is brought to your chest as you hum, blinking slow and soft eyes at him. “You don’t want to dress up nice for one night? Prance around in the fire station and earn some money for some ill kids?”

“Absolutely not.” Dynamight sizes you up as you laugh in surprise, “What? You like to do that fancy shit or somethin’?”

Backdraft has hosted the charity for a few years in a row and it’s always a big turn out, it always generates a lot of money for whichever cause is the focus of the night. As far as you know, multiple big name heroes always attend at least one of the two he hosts, and the invites for Red Riot and Dynamight had come across your desk right at the start of your employment.

Heroes only, not their assistant.

Which is a good thing; you can’t imagine the chaos that would ensue if you had to go to one of those events. There isn’t anything even remotely nice enough for you to wear in your closet. Whatever you maybe could find to wear would cost half a fortune (you don’t get paid that well) and you wouldn’t be able to try the snacks—the hors’devours—without potentially popping out of your dress. It all sounds a little frightening.

“I don’t get invited to that stuff,” You shrug, “I wouldn’t really know if I like it.”

Dynamight stares at you for a long time, leaning back in his chair a little with a half-lidded gaze. He’s considering you, long enough in the moment for you to imagine him in that tie again, in that white button up he’d worn, long enough that you begin to wonder if he’s thinking about asking—

“Go with Shitty Hair, then.”

It’s not like you’re disappointed. It’s not like you even wanted to go in the first place. Not at all. Not even a bit. “I bet he would wear the tie I put him in.” When he sneers at you, you stick out your tongue at him.

“Well, ask him then! If you want—”

You’re still hoping for a yes to the Sports Illustrated deal, so you don’t want him to get too worked up. “I’m only joking,” He shuts his mouth and crosses his arms, leaning further back into his chair. “I wouldn’t know how to act at one of those things, anyway.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Anyway,” Mission accomplished; the gloomy look is gone. “Did you check your email? Pitch Perfect needs to switch a patrol with you, if that’s okay.”

He waits for another moment before releasing the tension in his chair and scooting up closer to his monitor with a sigh. The mouse scraps across the pad and he mutters something under his breath as he clicks and clicks, at one point even gritting his teeth and shaking his head as if something has made him irritated. For the most part, Dynamight doesn’t have any issues with technology, but sometimes his impatience gets the better of him.

“There is an appointment he has to go to,” The blinds behind him have been opened, though you aren’t sure when he’d done it, and the sunlight is casting everything in an orange glow, one fit for the man before you. His eyes are scanning the screen and you assume he’s looking over your changes. “It’s important and he’ll take over the following Sunday for you.”

If this were any other request, you would expect at least a scowl or a frown, some kind of sharp remark about not doing his job or maybe even a decline until Ando marched into the office and asked himself, but for this, Dynamight only nods once.

“‘kay, ‘sfine.”

Being a hero left little room for days off and he’d known that when he'd chosen his profession (or when this profession chose him, one could say, with a quirk like that). It makes you think of what Red Riot had said, about being friends, and it makes your stomach twist in a way that hurts.

Maybe you were pushing them away under the guise of difference in social status, and maybe you were looking at it all wrong. They wouldn’t have time for friends, you think, but what if you just made the most of the time they did have? You’re not so crazy to think Kirishima or Bakugou are dying to spend time with you, to throw back a few beers at some dingy bar downtown, but maybe they would enjoy it, if you indulge them. Maybe, amongst all the Buffalo Heads and open investigations, they could benefit from one, relaxing night amongst friends.

Your thoughts give you a spike of energy and you scoot your way closer to his desk, trying to remain casual. “Well, that means you have a free day at the start of next month.”

Dynamight looks between your eyes and the smile curling on your face, eyebrows furrowing. “Yeah?”

“And I can think of maybe a thing or two you could do that day, if you aren’t so busy with other things.”

The emotions on his face change in an instant, your stomach dropping at the things that flash across the edges of him—the Look, that wolfish gaze, the beginning of that sharp smirk—and he leans his head to rest back against the chair. Maybe it’s the dimming light outside or the fact that the fluorescent lights in his office are off, but his eyes look darker. “And what’s that?”

Taking in the plant in the corner of his room, the mug still at the edge of his desk, his cell phone charging near a bookshelf behind him, you shrug. “Oh, I don’t know, it’s just that you’re gonna be free the whole day now, and you could probably stand to do something fun, something like—”

“Spit it out already, you wanna do somethin’ or what?”

The casual facade drops from your face, just as the blood does. “What?” Straightening up, you awkwardly tuck your hair behind your ear. “I was—I mean, the Sports Illustrated deal. I was, uh, talking about that.”

Dynamight visibly bristles as he lets out a groan, rolling his eyes as he tucks himself closer to his computer screen. His shoulders come up around his ears, tension coiling up in his back as he avoids looking at you. “You’re still on that?”

For some reason, you can’t will the mask of nonchalance back on your face, you can only blink at him. He didn't really think—there was no way he thought you were—

“It’s still unchecked on my list here because you never, uh, well you never officially said no.” When he looks back at you, you can feel that your entire face is as red as his eyes. “So I thought, maybe, if you had that day off—” As you say the words, you begin to realize what you’re asking: for him to spend his day off doing something he hates. Guilt washes away your embarrassment. “That sucks, actually. You should spend the day doing whatever you want to do.”

Dynamight scrunches up his face, narrowing his eyes at you like he can’t follow your train of thought. “You want me to do this stupid thing or not?”

“I think you should do whatever you want to do.” You tell him honestly, “But, I do like to watch you squirm in a makeup chair.”

The awkwardness dies between the two of you and he looks high and mighty again. “Oh, so now you’re invited to my event?”

You cock your head to the side, unable to hold back the teasing tone building in your voice. “You’re gonna go by yourself, then? Just like you went to that interview by yourself?”

It’s the first time today either of you have spoken about it. It’s been a recurring thought in your mind since that very day, but you realize it has only ever been just that: a thought. At the mention of it, remembrance flashes across his face and you wonder if his heart races the way yours does. Does he think about the long-sleeved dress you wore that day? Or the way you’d styled your hair?

Finally, he says, “Be ready at 7:30 then. If you make me wait even a minute later, I ain't going.”

“You’ll do it? That’s a yes?” You can’t help the squeal that comes out of your throat when he rolls his eyes. The Public Relations team will have a party, you’re sure of it. They’ll be overjoyed that their most tempersome hero will finally do something to raise his public image. Maybe he really will hit number 5 on the Hero ranking soon.

“You need to get out more.” He mutters, “If that’s got you so damn excited.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.” You shake your head at him, holding out a hand to silence him as you bask in the acceptance, in the checkmark you get to put by the Post It. “Report is finished, I already gave you that.” He nods. “The chief of police wants you to stop by in the morning, something—don’t groan—something about the investigation, I believe.”

There is only a day left between you and the weekend. The prospect of getting to sleep in, of getting to enjoy a late brunch with your friends is appealing. The normalcy of it all brings your eyes back up to the blonde before you; his weekend will be all Dynamight, all action and danger, all fire and crumbling cement. You want to tell him to get some rest, but it comes out of nowhere, so you don’t (the two of you aren’t even that close, anyway). If he goes to the station in the morning and runs through the report there, he’ll have no reason to come into the office tomorrow, which wouldn’t put him back in your line of sight until Monday.

Which is okay, you tell yourself (even as your stomach sinks). It’s just fine because he’s your boss and you are not on Bakugou terms.

“And that’s it for today.”

Dynamight groans and runs a hand through his hair, turning to look out of the open windows behind him. In the fading light, you can’t see his face, only his profile and you wonder if his thoughts are anywhere near yours. Does the weekend even excite him? It must have once, when he was still in school and would have two days to himself—himself, not Dynamight.

But maybe not, you think. Maybe he likes it this way, so far from the child he once was, so much stronger and different. He’s the kind of man that doesn’t shy away from responsibility (save for a few time-wasting reports), doesn’t hesitate to step up to the plate when no one else will. It’s admirable. You wonder if he knows you think that. You wonder if he cares.

It must be strange for him, you think, to come to an office like this and sit behind a desk. To clock in and clock out. To open emails and do interviews he doesn’t want to, all because someone asked him to. In only hours, he’ll be out there, on the streets and keeping them safe. In only hours, he’ll be putting his life on the line while you fall asleep in front of the television. Perhaps that’s why he grumbles and growls at charity events and lunch dates, because he’s so far from the “brave” child he once was, and he doesn’t need a weekend. At this point, he’s used to the grind, maybe he craves it.

He says, “I hate this shit.”

So you say, “I know.”

And he doesn’t look back as you exit the office.

—

After 5:00 P

The keys are tucked safely back in the drawer of your desk, ready to be used in the morning, the plants are watered, your desk is cleared of anything that can’t wait until tomorrow, and you’re ready to go home. Heels on your feet, bag on your shoulder, phone in your hand. When you flick the light off, you feel that same bittersweet satisfaction you always feel, the one you’ve felt for the past seven months; you’ll go home to the empty apartment and you’ll piddle around—read, watch a movie, maybe call your friend or finally install those updates on your laptop—and you’ll be ready with a smile to greet whatever Hero or sidekick meets you in the morning.

Your life shouldn’t be your job, and you wouldn’t say it was, but you like it. Quite a lot.

It’s not hard to find out why.

Red Riot has already bid you goodbye for the day, going as far as to grip you on the shoulder and bid you a safe trip home (“I’ll be out there, so if anyone tries to steal your purse or somethin’, just call for me!”), before practically running to the elevator, to the gym on the floor beneath you. When you round the corner for the last time, Dynamight is digging his blunt fingernails into the edge of his jaw, trying—and failing—to pull the bandage there. Leaning your head against the doorframe, you watch him, as he struggles to grip it and then pulls his fingers away, looking at them like he’s expecting something to be in them.

He glares at you when you laugh, “Shaddup,” but his hands don’t fall away as you approach him, as you set your bag near his desk so you can help him.

You flick his hands away, moving your own to mimic where they had been, and he observes you for a moment before turning his chair to fully face you. When you realize you are nearly in between his legs, your stomach turns. With your nails, it’s easy to grip the edge of the bandage, and Dynamight winces as you start to peel it away, as if the stickiness pulling at the unshaven hairs on his chin hurt more than it did to have his face rubbed into the sidewalk.

“Don’t be a baby,” You smile, but he doesn’t respond (or glare), he just watches you. The way your sweater settles on your shoulders, the string at the bottom of it, the way you shift on your feet. “Ready?” You ask, gripping the bandage between your thumb and forefinger.

His nostrils flare and he takes a deep breath before nodding. When it riiiiips off his face, he almost immediately covers the spot and curses, “Fuck!”

It sticks to your finger and you have to shake it multiple times before it falls into his trash bin. “Watch your mouth, sir!”

“You watch it, sweetheart!” He growls, but he flicks a new bandage across the desk to you. At the name, your face heats and you think of the way he’d looked in the meeting, of the rumble of his voice and the pops from his hand. This man—the same one who’d threatened a policeman in his own building and scrapped with a giant, buffalo man—winces when you place a new bandage over his raw chin. You smooth it over his skin with the pad of your thumb, biting your lip to keep from smiling, and when you let your eyes fully, fully take him in, you realize something.

“Are you—is that eyeliner?”

“No,” Dynamight immediately counters, though his hand shoots to the desk to grab something from it, to curl it into his palm and out of your line of sight. “It’s not eyeliner.” The top of his eyelids are smudged with coal and it continues down to just underneath the outer corner of his eyes. It makes him look sultry and smokey, a little sharper than usual. “I’ve got to fill in the gaps my mask doesn’t cover.”

Hands are raised in defense as you grin at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“I ain’t worried!”

Realization washes over you, not like that of a dam breaking, but as if you’ve decided to let go, to be caught up in the waves of fondness that have been building on your shoulders all day. The arm that you hold out against him bends, closing that length you keep him at—not your boss, but Bakugou—and you bring your hand up to gently run under his right eye. He closes it on instinct, but when the pad of your thumb only smudges out the liner there, it opens after a second. It doesn’t go unnoticed that those eyes flick back down to your lips and it’s only after you feel a tug at your sweater that you realize he’s twirling that damn string around his finger.

It’s quiet between the two of you, enjoying the domestic moment without interruption or pause and you search his face as if what you need to say next is written between the furrow of his brow or the red of his eyes. Nothing comes to mind—he doesn’t say anything, either—and your hand eventually falls away from his face with a quiet sigh.

The moment has to be shattered eventually, so you warn, “Don’t get scraped up out there again, alright?”

Tch. “What? You worried about me or somethin’?”

“I ain’t worried.” It’s cheesy, but you can’t help it; you tap your finger on his nose lightly. “Mr. Number 7.”

“Don’t get too used to it, I’ll be—”

You’re already nodding, rolling your eyes up to the ceiling like you always do. “—number 5 next week, yes sir.” The space between you finally widens as you take a step back. His hand falls away from your sweater. “I know.”

The office is almost empty behind you, a few leftover members of the technical team milling about on the other end of the building. There are three of them, you count, as you collect your bag from the ground and you feel a momentary rush of embarrassment at the idea that they’d seen you and your boss, touching and speaking in a way that isn’t work appropriate. When you turn back around to bid Dynamight goodbye, he’s already risen from his chair, his own bag thrown over his shoulder, and whatever space you had forced between you two has been closed.

It’s obvious on his face as he stares down at you: the weight of every tense moment from the day, from the week, from the ride in the car, it’s all caught up to him, too. His hand wraps around the back of your neck and he pulls you close to him, unashamed at the eyes he has on your lips.

“Jus’—you can call me by my name.” Bakugou considers the surprised look on your face, as if he’s searching for any hesitation or displeasure, just in case. “You did earlier, ya’ know.”

The heat on your face dies down at his words, distracted. “What? When?”

“In there,” Nodding his head towards the window to your office, his voice drops into a breathy whisper. His fingers shift, sliding up to dig into your hair. The action keeps you silent again, the heat between the two of you indiscernible; is it his? Or yours?

“Oh.” You say lamely, and his nose brushes against yours as his eyes slip close. “Bakugou,” You say it, and then again and again, testing the way it fits around your teeth. He doesn’t say anything, only nods in encouragement before he—

“Hey, man, are you coming or—oh!”

Dynamight’s arm is back by his side in record speed and when you blink up at him, he’s already three steps away from you. There is nothing that can be done about the quickened breath that’s escaping his chest, or yours. Red Riot flicks his eyes between the two of you for a long time, lips open and wrapped around the oh that had come from them.

Then he grins, which is the worst.

“Sorry guys, did ya’ need a minute?” There isn’t any shame or embarrassment on his face, which only multiplies yours tenfold. “I can wait downstairs, if you—”

“Shut up, Shitty Hair,” Dynamight snaps, putting a hand on the small of your back to usher you out of his office. Not once does he look at you, but the pink tint to his cheeks only gives you a wobbly smile. The door slams behind you, curses spitting from his lips as he locks it, and you pause halfway to the elevator—the idea of being stuck in there with both of them horrifies you. You’re more than sure they’d be able to hear your heartbeat.

“I forgot something,” You lie and Red Riot does it again, looks between the two of you as if there is a show just waiting to play out before him. If Dynamight can tell you’re lying—which you’re sure he can—he doesn’t say anything, he only nods once and turns around.

“Later,” He mutters, stomping forward when Red Riot pauses to wink back at you. After a moment, Dynamight puts his hand on the back of his neck (almost exactly as he did to you, though with a much harsher hand now) and spins his head around, dragging him down the hallway.

A breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding comes out then, slipping out into the quiet air around you as you lean against the wall. What a day.

He doesn’t look back once, not even as they wait for the elevator, not even when he hesitates after Red Riot leaps in first. They are a good distance from you, but you can see the hand that tightens on the strap of his bag, the same one that eventually runs itself through his ash hair, just before he lets out his own breath and follows Red Riot.

There is a lot you know about this job, about this space, about Dynamight, but perhaps it’s time to discover him—Bakugou, just the way he is.

hi🤭 i’m🤭 working🤭 on🤭 a🤭 fic🤭 but🤭 i🤭 have🤭 been🤭 working🤭 a🤭 lot🤭 so🤭 idk🤭 when🤭 it🤭 will🤭 be🤭 posted🤭🫶

Everybody shut up I'm sinking into a daydream universe where I'm loved and nothing is wrong

rins masterlist☆

smut/smutish content is indicated by *

last edited, 8/13/22

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fics/ficlets

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drabbles

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*so sweet; cowboy!bakugo x fem!reader you are just too damn sweet for bakugo

domestic bliss; bakugo katsuki x fem!reader as stated in the title

*makeout sesh; bakugo katsuki x fem!reader pure brainrot

sick and clingy bakugo; bakugo katsuki x fem!reader as stated in the title

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headcanons

nothin to see here folks!

xtra

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HAIKYUU

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drabbles

nothin to see here folks!

headcannons

nothin to see here folks!

xtra

nothin to see here folks!