MHA: Polyamorous X Reader relationship oneshots

[angst] Death - BakuKiri

[ 3534 words ]
((CHAPTER 362 SPOILERS?))

Bakugo is no longer Bakugone, how're we feeling ??🤯

You had dropped to your knees as soon as you saw the grainy, half-misted photos and blurred video footage on the news. The headlines mocked you, red and urgent to catch the viewers attention — trying to milk as much attention as it could whilst Bakugo just lay there, a tiny speck amidst the plumes of smoke. It couldn't be true, you thought. Squinting at the body you could see sooty, dishevelled blonde hair. It had to be a wig right? This all had to be some sick prank he was playing, or a horrible misconception. The trembling camera zooms in closer, showing his motionless features. Blood covers his face, he doesn't even look like him anymore — but it's undeniable. Your throat strains, a pained, guttural noise escaping your lips, right as a shriek is emitted from the camera and the footage dies.

He was going on about becoming the number 1 hero just last night, his arms batting you away in fake annoyance when you teased him about how bothered he got when you began cooking before checking all ingredients beforehand like a 'sane person.' His furrowed brow when you cuddled up to him on the sofa for a rare movie night, Kirishima supplying endless sugary snacks that he refused but ate anyway — his soft snores when he fell asleep on your chest in the first half hour. Yet there he lay, the camera zoomed in on his wrangled body. Gone. Forever. You don't even know what to feel, tears welling up as you read the damned bold headlines, searching for a 'we're just joking!' or an 'April fools!' Of course, your hopes failed to make an appearance, it was in fact not April the 1st, and the words of deliverance wobbling and blurring your vision became more distorted as reality crushed you. You didn't want to cry, if you cried, it was almost like it was official. If you cried, it would be set in stone, he'd be gone forever.

You'd been in a pub at the time of the news broadcast, waiting for your glass of iced whiskey to be filled up for the 2nd time. You'd had a rough day at work, your co-workers were giving you a tough time about some project that you couldn't quite remember or care what was about. It seemed like a flimsy boat in the ocean compared to what had happened next. The name Dynamite had been the spark that had caught your attention, blaring from the corner TV that looked identical to every other pub TV — boxy, small, and way too high up. There was a huddle of people craning their necks up, mouthes covered in horror and exchanging sorrowful glances. Your stomach had twisted in the brief few seconds you looked up. Your eyes had landed dead on the sight of Bakugo's body. The glass of whiskey you'd held slipped out of your hand and landed on the floor with a blunt clash, the glass shattering into a trillion irreplaceable bits, much like your heart. You were incapable of thinking anything — the words why why why humming in your brain like a broken record, until you'd consequently dropped to your knees.

The bartender and a few other people had gotten up and asked if you were okay, their hands flying to your back in a stupid attempt to comfort you. It seemed pathetic, they couldn't possibly understand how you felt, but you simply lacked the energy to push them away. A single tear slipped down your cheek. Dammit.
Breathing in and out, you push away the people suffocating you and rush out of the place, the door slamming shut behind you. It still felt unreal — you were full on bawling now, right in the middle of a street. A vibration from your coat pocket startles you. You didn't want to look, but you knew you had to. Pulling it out slowly with trembling fingers, you cover your hand with your mouth when your watery eyes skim over the callers identity. 'Kirishima❤️.' You feel yourself physically break again, over and over. You dreaded to think what he was feeling right now. Biting your lip to muffle your cries, you stumble over to a wide, semi-deserted alleyway, trying pathetically to compose yourself. You press the stupid green button, holding the phone to your ear.