Bakugou who makes it a habit of FaceTiming you out of the blue because he’s horny. Your friend group and his own have had to bear witness entirely too many times to answering the phone and he’s exposed somehow—they always just wanna say hi, ask him how his recent mission is going. They learn after enough times, that when he FaceTimes you out of the blue, to steer clear of your phone until you give them the okay. there’s just been too many times with you answering and then screaming to the top of your lungs as you clutch the phone to your chest and tell him that there are people around.
but does that stop him? of course not, the little whore. he’ll call you after he’s gotten out the shower, so his body is still wet and glistening. he’ll call you while he’s away in some other country, with his dick in the camera and a pout on his lips because he misses your stupid face. he’ll call when he’s this close to orgasming, because seeing you will always push him over the edge.
he calls you one day while you’re working at home, typing away at your computer, your phone propped up beside you. you answer without looking at him, smiling, asking how everything’s going so far and it’s not until you look up, when you gasp.
“Katsuki!” You yell, a little giggle tearing through your words in surprise. “What if someone was around? Again?” You ask him, but it’s hard to remember why you’re this upset when he looks so pretty in front of you. He grunts, still jerking his cock as he sits on the edge of the bed, his phone propped up on what you believe a nightstand, as you can see the way his stomach curls in from how raggedly he breathed.
“You’re alone, right?” He asks in a huff, eyebrows screwing up as he takes in your wide eyes and slightly gaping mouth as you stare at his form. You nod absentmindedly, already feeling your inner thighs starting to get slick, shifting a little in your seat.
“Show me a tit, or something. I miss you.” Bakugou mutters, eyebrows pinched as he twists his wrist over his tip before he slides back down his shaft.
“When don’t you wanna see my tits?” You tease him, but oblige, lifting your shirt, eyes rolling slightly at the downright filthy noise that leaves his mouth at the sight. You don’t even have to play with them, just sit them on display and he’s already so quick to burst all over himself.
You take it a step further though, pushing back in your chair until he can see most of your body where you sit, slipping out of your bottoms and underwear until you’re on display for him. You put your knees to your chest before settling back, thighs on either side of the arms as you spread yourself, smiling at him all the while.
“So fuckin’—shit!” He sounds damn near strangled as he cums all over himself, eyes squeezed shut as he jerks at his cock. you can’t help but laugh when you hear the crackling of his quirk going off, watch how the sheets beside him char and start to smoke in his intensity. He’s always so easy, you think to yourself with a little laugh as you began to get dressed, and you love it.
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Sometimes I think about Dominik Koudelka's assistant who takes Minkowski's call in Ep43 Persuasion...
In the moment, dismissing the voice on the other end of the phone feels like the right thing to do. She can't just put any random person who calls through to Mr. Koudelka immediately; if she did, there would be no point in him having an assistant at all. And when that random caller is claiming to be Mr. Koudelka's dead wife, of course it would be wrong to subject him to that. (Cont. below cut)
She's seen Mr. Koudelka in the denial stage of grief, if only from a professional distance. She knows that the only time he took off after he heard the news was the day of his wife's funeral. She knows he started working days so long it was a wonder he got any sleep at all. She's heard rumours that he tried to insist that The Times' coverage of the shuttle crash ought to use the word 'allegedly' more. Apparently he ignored every sensitively-worded inquiry about whether he wanted to have any input on his wife's obituary.
Mr. Koudelka certainly doesn't need some cruel joke reopening emotional wounds. It's better not to mention it to him. His assistant knows that she did the right thing.
Or at least, she thinks she did. But she still can't stop thinking about that voice on the other end of phone, its desperation, its sense of urgency, its bizarre impossible claim.
So maybe she finds herself looking up Renée Minkowski, just to set her mind at ease. And there's surprisingly little information out there, but she eventually finds a clip of an interview from just before the launch of the Hephaestus mission. And that's when her stomach drops. She recognises the voice in the video. It's the same voice as the one she heard on the end of the phone. She's sure it's the same voice.
And what is she supposed to do then? Go to her boss and tell him that his wife is alive? Tell him that she lost him potentially his one chance to talk to his presumed dead wife? Admit that she didn't tell him about that call straight away? She's got no proof, just her memory. What if she's wrong about it being the same voice? Maybe it was a good impersonator, or a technological trick, or the power of suggestion. Is telling him the truth worth risking her job for? Is it worth risking giving false hope to a widower who has only just begun to move on? What if he doesn't believe her? What if he does?
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what are bradley’s earliest memories of ice and mav? the bits of his perspective on them that you’ve written are so fascinating
fairly unsurprising answer but: ice: when he came to see Carole to apologize for killing goose in ch 2 of wwgattai (sets the tone of their relationship)
mav: something very benign like mav doing magic tricks for him as a little little kid. you know how your earliest memories are always a little fuzzy and always afternoon sunshine? imagine a desaturated maverick sitting crosslegged in the grass in pale afternoon southern california sunshine showing Bradley how he can detach his thumb from his hand and then put it back again. no blood, no bone, no pain, and he’s got this daredevil grin like he’s enjoying separating his thumb from his hand. can’t see his eyes behind his aviators. the best magicians are the ones who can make even their pain disappear. or, playing “got your nose,” holding Bradley’s nose up so he can see it right in front of his very eyes, NO PAIN!, and then making it disappear. “where’d your nose go, Gosling? oh, my gosh, I lost your nose!! how’re you gonna smell? i bet you’re gonna smell bad. get it? get it? —here it is, i found it, don’t worry, it’s all good!” and putting his nose back so everything’s ok. that’s Bradley’s earliest memory of mav.
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