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It had already been an exhausting day before your manager brought you the news that you would be the second model for Dynamight’s fragrance line photoshoot. You’d been stopped on the street by some ultra-creepy fans, had a delay on some routine car maintenance at the shop, and now this ?
“Fuck you, Yui,” you spit, planting your sandal-clad feet in front of the tall woman. “You know how he is. I won’t be involved with any of his shit products.”
She raises a sharp brow. “I’ve heard his products are quite desirable, really.”
“Still, I won’t do it.” A stray hair tickles your nose.
Yui sighs, readjusting the folders in her wiry hands. “There is something you may want to be aware of before you decline.”
“What?” you deadpan, fully aware of your attitude.
“The Bakugou family requested you specifically, as an ‘apology,’ or something of the sort,” Yui pronounces, sucking her teeth as she finishes.
Well, that certainly changes things. It was a grave transgression to turn down an opportunity of this sort, especially when the company (or family) offered it as an apology. It would have been almost like declaring war upon the modeling industry. Scary stuff.
If you turn them down, it means TMZ at your door and no gigs for at least a couple months. If you accept… Dynamight wouldn’t really be there, right? Last time was just a fluke. He wasn’t even supposed to show up, much less shove his hulking body into his own designs and stand there looking seriously pissed for an hour. He wasn’t supposed to stare you down like a bull about to charge and bark orders like he was behind the camera. That dickhead!
You shake your head, eyes clenched shut at the memory. What is more important: your career or your dignity?
“Fine. I’ll do it,” you resolve, having chosen lush body products and expensive groceries over a grudge. “But if he says one nasty thing to me, I’m out. …And I’m telling the girls not to work with him, too.”
Maybe it was petty, but he deserves it. He deserved to never again be able to hire the most sought after female models within a fifty mile radius. He was bossy, infuriating, and yet, he was still stupidly attractive.
Yui’s smug smile told you all you needed to know about what she thought. Sometimes you wondered if she might be a sadist, from the way she loved to torture others like this, but you figured that was for her wife to know and for you to suffer. She just turned on her heel, all sharp edges and intimidating presence. The only kind of presence that worked with you.
You were always clear to your Tinder dates about what you expected from a man. None of them could measure up, even if they thought so. You wanted someone powerful. Maybe a little controlling, you know? A man that isn’t afraid to pursue you; he knows what he wants, and what he wants is you. Your personality is overbearing, too. You easily steamroll anyone who can’t get up to speed, so Yui is the perfect manager. She’s just as much of a bitch as you are, but a little less erratic. A little more grounded.
You’ve been told you’re a bit of a brat. Men love brats, right? Then why can’t you find someone willing and capable enough to mellow your flame?
—
Dynamight is known for being flashy. That’s his whole thing : his insanely powerful quirk, dark and dangerous personality, and body athletic enough to require about four hours of workouts and four-thousand calories. The first time you ever saw him, you were almost terrified at what might be the state of his fridge. Probably a hundred pounds of unseasoned chicken and meal-prepped rice. He likely doses himself with enough pre-workout to kill a horse. He goes hard, always. In the spotlight, he flares brighter.
So why is his usually impeccably designed set bare? Minimal lighting, as expected, but none of the usual leather trim and masculine, natural decor. Most of the room is covered in wires, cameras, and staff. Hair and makeup bustle around in the background, chattering between themselves. The spill of relaxed laughter reverberates off the metal and plastic from the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of production tech. It almost reminds you of your university’s photography tech room. Almost. But that was a long time ago, the memory of operating cameras just like this fading into the recesses of your mind. It was before they shoved you in front of the camera, bound to be arm-candy for the rest of your existence. Hey, it paid well.
The only empty area of the set is lying in wait before the cameras. Still and quiet, brimming with energy. A snake about to strike. Your heart pulses. The burgundy loveseat in front of an inky, shadowed tapestry is unornamented of the king it’s so clearly meant to hail. It exudes power; effortless and ruling. Truly fit for someone like Dynamight.
Your eyes, trained on the set, slide over to an innocuous, stout woman biting her nails, staring ahead just as you did. She mumbles something about the decor choice—or lack thereof—and spins back around.
You startle, looking away quickly. Fuck, where was Yui when you needed her? You flounder as the woman locks onto you and begins marching quickly in your direction.
“You! Where have you been? We need to get you into hair and makeup right this second!” she spits, bony fingers digging into your elbow. She kind of reminds you a bit of your grandmother. “All the Pros are already in there. Don’t bother them, or you’re off the shoot.”
Jeez. High pressure, much? It’s unclear how much of yourself you’ll have to be to bother them, but you have half a mind not to test it. This is for the Bakugou family.
After dragging you across the main room—and nearly sending you flying into expensive cameras multiple times—the woman gently presses down on the handle to the green room, the click of the hinge the only thing you hear before a rounding yell spills from the crack.
“SHUT UP!” the booming voice nearly smacks you in the face.
The response isn’t pained, terrified silence, but raucous laughter.
A deep, rough voice rises above the noise—”But I thought you were excited, bro! You’ve been after her for so long—”
The same grating yell explodes again. “FUCK! OFF!”
You must have a particularly ugly look on your face, terrified and frozen, because the short woman huffs when she glances back to make sure you’re still there, even though her fingers are squeezed insistently on your pressure points. You feel your hand start to go numb.
“Don’t look so daft, girl. It’s not every day you meet Pros,” she grits out, her piercing eyes slashing through your confidence. So much for the rock in your corner—Yui. “Try to make a good impression. You’re not the star of the show here. You’ll need them to like you.”
Well, obviously you’re not the star. You are a casual model, after all. These were Pro-Heroes. You pull every ounce of strength from your body not to roll your eyes at her.
The door squeals, pulled open by a broad, scarred hand. “Arisu! What are you doing out– oh? Who’s this?” The hand is attached to a very large man. Not a model, obviously, but someone just a bit more important. And scary. Red Riot himself, in the flesh.
You know who he is. A little too well. At the sight of his bright, curious face, pearly white—and sharp—teeth, you can’t help but relive every single time you’ve thirsted after him on your Twitter page. Ab-shot after bicep-shot; that one time he’d run that same scarred hand through a mane of burgundy hair he’d let grow since his high school days. Lord have mercy. He’s sweet too, all too familiar with the neighborhood children and elderly women. You can just picture them asking this tree of a man to change their light bulbs (even if they weren’t out, yet). He’d happily do it, knowing they didn’t need changing.
Red Riot’s smile doesn’t falter at your open mouth. Somewhere behind him, you hear a scoff.
“Who– me?” you guess, blinking.
He hums an affirmation.
“Oh… oh. I’m Y/N. One of the… um… sorry, models for the shoot,” you stutter, dumbly sticking your palm out. You’re relieved when Red Riot takes it, gently shaking your hand.
“Nice to meet you! I’m Kirishima!” he says brightly. Then he opens the door even more, exposing a group of Pros looking excited and anxious. The man of the evening—an angry-looking blond—coughs when he averts his eyes by shifting his entire body away from the door, looking supremely guilty and caught. “This is Bakugou, Kaminari, and Midoriya. Sorry, I wasn’t sure if you would recognize us!”
Holy shit. Is that the Symbol of Peace? Waving at you?
The next thing that comes out of your mouth is: “Oh my god. That’s Deku.”
The angry one almost looks like steam is coming out of his ears.
Red Riot chuckles. “Yeah, that’s Deku.” He glances over to you briefly, then stalls. “Are you okay?”
You feel as if your organs just fell through the bottom of your ass. You’ve spent so many hours watching Deku flip and fly through the air, demolishing villains with the most appalling set of skills. He’d send out a whip, careening through the cityscape, somehow not destroying a thing in the process. A little foray into his Wikipedia page one lonely night left you with a burning heart and overwhelming admiration for him.
The hair stylist messing with his curly green hair sucks her teeth at his movement, and his focus breaks from greeting you to sheepishly spill apologies to her. His cheeks flush under her attention, and you can’t help but notice the dusting of freckles across them. By the look on the stylist’s face, she noticed too.
Oh.
“Oi,” the blond danger perched across the room calls. His arms are crossed over a broad chest, clad in a sleeveless black shirt. You have the fleeting thought that if you were closer, you’d probably be able to see the lines of his pecs. Is it because of the tightness of the fabric, or is he just that muscular? Damn.
Your attention flies to him. By the look on his face, he’s read the room. You balk under his heavy stare, a deer in headlights. “Hello, Bakugou,” you manage.
He jerks his head in a tense nod. It must be some kind of fuckboy greeting. Not cute. But a stray blond hair is knocked out of place by the movement, and his hairstylist’s face sours. You choke back a laugh.
Chargebolt, who had looked up from his phone when you walked in, gasps, “Ooh, Blasty! Is this the model–” He’s cut off by Dynamight’s hand, which comes flying at his face with tiny but threatening explosions. His hair stylist just sighs.
“I’m a model,” you interrupt, throwing Dynamight a dirty look. “I was invited by Dynamight’s parents. I’m probably not the model you’re looking for, though.”
Chargebolt recovers from the attack, having ducked out of the way and jogged over to you. His smile grows. “You can call me Kaminari. You’re supposed to be Blasty’s partner for the shoot, right?”
Your eye twitches. “I– I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. You’ll be with me,” Blasty himself interjects. “The old hag said so.”
He must mean Bakugou Mitsuki. It makes sense that she was the one to both extend the invitation and allow you a seat in the spotlight. By the way Dynamight talks about her, it sounds like she rules with a heavy hand.
Kaminari laughs beside you, a chaotic sound, and throws an arm on your shoulders. Your knees nearly buckle beneath him as you yelp.
Dynamight snarls behind gritted teeth, “Sparky, get the fuck out.”
The arm lifts off your shoulders like it’s been burned. Kaminari murmurs an “alright, alright” and a “see ya” to you before escaping through the open door.
“You,” he starts, pointer finger outstretched towards you. Wasn’t he ever taught not to point at people? “You better not ruin this shit.”
You cock your head. “I’ll do my best, Dynamight.”
He regards you from under a thick set of lashes, and then raises his chin. “Bakugou.”
Your eyebrows jump in surprise.
Red Riot—Kirishima—startles at the sound of his pocket ringing. With Bakugou’s intensity, you almost forgot about him. He curses, and then fishes around in it for his phone.
“Sorry, guys, I’ve gotta take this,” he huffs after checking the name. He quickly stands, making his way to the door. As he accepts the call and grabs the doorknob to give himself a bit of privacy, you hear him whisper, “Hey, baby. What’s up?”
The ensuing silence is deafening. Stylists meander around the room, bottles clicking on the counters.
You stand there awkwardly, waiting for one of them to tell you what to do. Bakugou’s gone back to his brooding, laid back in his chair and staring resolutely at the wall, and Deku’s distracted, glancing at his stylist’s back and pretending like he’s not. Kirishima and Kaminari are definitely the most socially adept of the four of them. Well, maybe not Kaminari, but at least he doesn’t completely forget–or ignore–your presence.
You eye the seat next to Bakugou, and your other option beside Deku. You’d rather chance an inattentive seatmate than risk your head, so you shrug and plop down next to Deku.
He snaps out of his trance, the almost inaudible muttering stopping abruptly. “Oh! I’m sorry! Do you need anything, Y/N?”
Your smile is taut. “Just waiting for my turn in hair and makeup, really. But thank you for asking,” you reply, leaning in to whisper, “someone here didn’t really seem up for company.”
Deku cringes. His freckles stretch across a grimace. You notice tiny ones splattered like paint on his nose, and bite back a grin. Twitter will love this. “He’s like this with strangers.” He shrugs and flushes. “Oh, not that you’re weird or anything! Or a stranger– I just–!”
You laugh, tossing your head back. Bakugou twitches from his seat on the other side of your friend. “It’s okay, really. He’s weird and strange to me, too.”
Bakugou grunts. Deku sighs.
The conversation lulls as you study the Symbol of Peace. “So, how did you find the time to model for this guy?”
“I promised Kacchan a long time ago that I’d always be around, and I guess this is what he took that as,” Deku explains, his reply more sweet than you expected. Instead of complaining or worrying about all the saving he does as a hero and how this was just taking more time with civilians away from him, he chose to support his best friend.
You can’t manage to keep your thoughts inside, uttering, “That’s so thoughtful, Freckles.”
Bakugou chokes on a sip of water. The hairstylist bristles. She claps her hands together and announces, “Looks like we’re done, sir. I’ll be here during the shoot, in one of the break rooms. Your assistant will let me know if you need a touch up.”
Freckles blinks, turning his body towards her. “Oh, thank you! I’ll see you, um, later then!”
Her smile is demure as she bows and leaves the room, unquestionably aware of his eyes following her.
“Kacchan, why don’t you give Y/N the outfit she’s wearing so she can change?” he says, switching the room’s attention off him and onto you.
Bakugou’s jaw works as he reaches behind him to the rack of bagged clothing. He rips a hanger off and tosses it to you.
“Thanks,” you mumble.
“Be nice, Kacchan!” Freckles chastises.
“Whatever. Find me when you’re done sucking face,” he spits. “Fucking idiots.”
What?
You stare at the side of his face, chiseled and stony, as he stands up and snatches a black and orange sleek motorcycle helmet from the ground next to his chair.
“Kacchan-” Freckles starts.
Bakugou just makes a low sound in his throat, cutting him off. His jaw tenses when he looks back at the two of you, his eyes darkening when they land on you. If he has such a problem with you, why did he let his parents invite you to the gig?
You scoff when he stalks out of the room, letting the door slam behind him.
Freckles sighs. “I’m sorry, Y/N. He has a hard time expressing his emotions, and since you’re here–” he explains, stopping himself with a shocked expression.
“Since I’m…?” you try to prompt him, but he just clamps his open mouth shut and shakes his head like he’s trying to knock something right out of it.
“Never– nevermind,” he answers.
You bite the inside of your cheek and fix your gaze on the door.
Obviously perturbed by the awkward silence, he asks, “Do you want to smell the cologne?”
You bustle, having relaxed without the thought of Dyna– Bakugou. But now his overbearing presence is back in the room, even if he isn’t. Strange.
“It’s good, I promise!” he continues, waving his hands around like he was worried you thought he was trying to get you to smell dirty socks. “The chemists did a really good job at capturing what he actually smells like, but this is more like when he hasn’t used his quirk in a while. He usually smells more sweet– but that’s due to the nitroglycerin in his palms! You know, he actually hates that it makes him smell like caramel. He says it rots his teeth!”
Blinking, you suddenly become acutely aware of your open mouth. Freckles sure likes to talk a lot, huh?
“Oh, I’m sorry. Everyone tells me I need to zip it around new people,” he chuckles, lifting a thick arm up to shyly scratch at the back of his undercut. “Here, I’m sure you’ll like it.”
You tentatively reach out to take the bottle from him. A beat passes, and you snort. “A grenade, really?”
Freckles smiles, white teeth and all. “Ironic, isn’t it? Very him, though.”
“Yeah, definitely,” you grin. Popping the lid off, you go to spray some on your neck out of instinct. On second thought, Bakugou probably would get pissed that you wasted it on your “worthless” skin. You can even hear him complaining. Maybe that’s even more reason why you go ahead and apply it to yourself.
Or maybe it’s because it actually smells amazing .
Notes of black spice, deliciously Bakugou’s energy. And something else a little too him, as well. Sage, incense, an obsessive scent. Masculine and dark. Dangerous. You were simply fucked. If he really smells like this up close, you are going to go insane.
“Oh… oh God.”
Freckles’ face spreads in a devilish grin.
When Bakugou left in his fit of misplaced frustration, his stylist decided to focus his attention onto you. You were forced to change into the outfit, a skimpy burnt orange lace set with a flowing miniskirt, and sit in your chair wrapped in a modesty robe while you got your hair and makeup done. Your stylist seemed miles more pleased and content with you than he did with Bakugou. You think you can understand the feeling.
You’re making your way back to the main set room when a pair of arms snatch you from the hallway into a dark alcove. A massive hand wraps around your mouth, silencing the cry crawling up your throat.
This is it, you think. I’ll die here, killed by some salty set-hand with a weird vendetta against pretty women. There really is too much of an incel problem in the city.
You are ignoring your loud heartbeat and futile attempts at struggling to make peace with your grudges when your captor spoke.
“Stop fuckin’ wiggling around. I’m not gonna hurt you, idiot.”
You croak like a frog.
“I’m serious. Quit it.”
You still in his grip, chest heaving against his thick arms.
“As much as I’d love to keep you shut up, I’ll take my hand off if you promise not to scream,” he growls, and suddenly you recognize the voice. Fuck! He really did hate you! But would a Pro really kill you? “Will you promise me, princess?”
Okay, well, that’s a new one. You figure he likes to be nice to his victims before he rips their throat out. You concede regardless, watery eyes clenched shut while you nod furiously.
He slides his hand from your mouth down to your neck. You swallow. “What– what do you want, Bakugou?”
“What’s going on with you and him?”
You shake your head slightly, the veil of confusion clouding your eyes. He murmurs something frustrated-sounding. Your lips just barely form “who?” when he growls.
“That fuckin’ nerd,” he hisses, and you feel his chest against your back, rising and falling with a vengeance. “What’d he say to you?”
Suddenly this all makes sense. You were just some unfortunate byproduct of the Dynamight-Deku rivalry, and you were going to get hurt because of Dynamight’s anger issues.
“It’s not your fucking business,” you scoff. But his grip on your neck tightens for a moment, then releases its pressure.
“It is,” he starts, voice deep, “it is if it’s about you.”
You try to turn to look at his face, but you can’t move. “We just talked about your cologne. That’s it. I have some on me, if– if that’s why you’re angry. I won’t put it on again, I promise.”
He tenses. Then you feel shifting against you until a hair tickles your temple. Is he…? His lips ghost over your pulse, and it jumps. You feel a little sick with yourself for enjoying this.
“I’m not pissed,” he unintentionally murmurs into your ear, “you smell good.”
You lean into his grip. “Thanks. I’ve heard it smells like you.”
He smirks against your skin, the hand trapping you against him moving down to massage your hip. He’s almost a stranger, and yet… he rubs a thumb against the swell of your curves, feeling the silk robe slide and roll under it.
“The old hag didn’t care if you said yes. I did,” he admits. You get a little whiplash from the lust he was dragging you into, to this conversation.
“You wanted me to come?” you ask. “I guess you chose this stupid outfit, too? I’m cold, you know.”
He growls and moves his hand from your neck to your ribs. “I wanted you to come, yeah. But I didn’t choose the lingerie. I don’t know who did, but I might fuckin’ kill them for making you wear it.” He pauses. “You can change. They’ll answer to me if they have a problem with it.”
Your mouth quirks up, feeling the rising heat of his palms. “I think I’ll let you live with it for a little longer.”
He bares his teeth in a savage show of dark energy. He begins to grunt, “Like hell you will—”
But you’ve already slipped out of his hands and glided down the hallway.
—
The photographer had to be a pervert. You think that everyone must be somewhat of a pervert about Bakugou, but this was just excessive. They had him laying out, thighs spread across the loveseat. A king on his throne. Suddenly, the set choice made a whole lot more sense. He glares around the room with narrowed eyes, working his jaw. Something pissed him off, you can tell, and he’s about one wrong comment from blowing up the place. He shifts in place, hips lifting slightly. You avert your eyes from his figure.
He is sex personified, you decide. The hairstylists mussed his hair just right, accentuating his already sensual bad-boy look. Anyone who got to see that in the morning, his sleeping face framed by cozy morning sunlight and body bare to the world, is too lucky to be alive.
“Alright, you two! Let’s get this show on the road,” the photographer, a nondescript, slight man, shouts to the set. Apparently, they’d already taken the photos featuring the other Pros, and now it’s your turn.
If you shift a little to the left from your seat next to the camera, you can spot Freckles and the hairstylist bashful and hovering over a table of catered tea sandwiches. To the right, Kaminari throwing playful punches at Kirishima, even though he only comes up to his friend’s shoulder. And in front, the man who can’t seem to follow directions. It’s like he’s tuned out the photographers in exchange for full, vicious attention on you.
His intensity scares you, and also makes you wildly attracted to him.
“Y/N, do you mind standing in front of Mr. Dynamight?” the photographer asks.
You reply by sliding off your seat and settling yourself in front of Bakugou, face to face. Looking down at him like this, his red eyes trained on your chest, your face, your eyes, your everything, should feel dominant. And yet, you feel more hunted than ever. The side of his mouth rises, exposing a sharp canine.
“We’ll start off by taking some photos like this. Undress whenever you’re ready, Miss Y/N.”
You take a deep breath, chest stuttering. You feel intimidated. You’re having trouble holding Bakugou’s eye contact, not with him sitting like that. His expression is almost like a kid in a candy shop.
“Stop staring,” you hiss.
He hums, fingers tugging at the strings of your robe. “You won’t let me see, princess?”
“And stop calling me that.”
The bow unties and your robe falls open. He breathes in so quickly you think he might have gasped had his jaw not been clenched shut.
“Fuck, I can’t believe you’re gonna be on camera like this.” His hand pulls back a flap of the robe.
Heat crawls up your neck and you swat at him. “This is normal, you asshole. I’m a model!”
He nods stiffly like he’s still not happy with it, and slides his hand inside the fabric to remove it from you.
“You’re gorgeous.”
The photographer interjects as the robe hits the floor and an assistant runs in to pick it up, “Alright! Y/N, could you please look back at the camera?”
You throw a smolder over your shoulder like you’ve been taught, ignoring Bakugou’s comment. The chattering behind the cameras hushes, and the photographer pumps his fist.
Lights flash.
The other standing poses are a blur, your focus stolen by the feeling of your partner’s strong, wide, heated hand running over your bare skin. On your waist, then your hips then your ass. You know you have to be professional, but you can’t help mentally thanking whoever chose this outfit for the extra bottom-half coverage.
You snap back to reality when the photographer instructs you to drop to your knees. Something about both power dynamics and photo composition flutters through the staff. But you do as told, sinking to your knees in front of the blond. You balance yourself on his knees, and they spread under your hands.
“God—” he grunts. His gaze darkens. The position is submissive, and he seems to be enjoying it. You think you might, too.
His fingers twitch from their place on his thighs, itching to push your hair back from your face so he can see you more clearly.
“Last photos, then lunch! Be natural, you two,” the photographer directs. “Like you’re seducing each other. Like a young, hot couple!”
You lay your head on his lap, face away from the camera. You understand your place in this photo; you’re the seductress, nothing more than decor.
“You’re not just a piece of furniture, princess,” Bakugou says roughly.
You raise your gaze up to him, smirking, and then turn your head sideways to the camera. He’s right. Dynamight may be an explosion, but you’re the smoke and rubble. Mysterious, destructive, and powerful. You slide a delicate palm up his thighs, expression venomous and viper-like.
His stomach tenses at your touch when you reach it, the faint smell of caramel beginning to permeate the air. You’re reminded that the thin shirt they put him in left nothing—really, nothing—to the imagination. You mentally swear at the feeling of his muscle (is that an eight -pack? can someone even have that many abs?) against your fingertips. This position is too much for magazines. Too much for an advertisement. Too much for any sort of public viewing. Too much for you .
His chest rises with a deep breath. “Fuck.”
You can’t agree more. You really are fucked.