Chapter Text
Izuku had always existed somewhere just off to the side. Not quite invisible, but not quite present either. Like furniture in a room—there, functional, sometimes even necessary, but never really looked at. Never seen. It wasn’t just the silence of people passing him by or the way they averted their gaze when his eyes met theirs. It was deeper than that. It was the disinterest, the way their focus slid right off him like water off plastic. As if to acknowledge him too long might cause some kind of /inconvenience/.
He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t command attention, and that worked in his favor most days. But it didn't stop the sting. He adjusted the weight of his oversized bag, hitching it up on one shoulder as he stepped into the sleek lobby of the building. His sneakers barely made a sound on the marble floor. The air was cold and smelled like fresh coffee, dry-cleaned suits, and that subtle scent of money—the kind of money that didn’t need to be spoken about because it was always assumed.
He muttered to himself under his breath: You like your job. You like your job. It was a weak mantra, but it worked, most of the time. His black curls were half-hidden under a faded beanie that had seen better days, his round glasses low on his nose, fogged slightly from the temperature change outside, and his mask that covered the rest of his face.
If you saw him walking past, you might’ve thought he was someone’s assistant’s assistant. A delivery boy. A nervous intern. Definitely not someone who worked in the same room as celebrities, influencers, and elite media staff. And yet, he did. He belonged here, even if no one ever acted like he did.
Technically, he didn’t work for the company directly. He was freelance, attached to a certain explosive-tempered hero with a household name and a contract as complicated as his personality. Wherever the interviews happened, Izuku followed. Studios, hotel rooms, event halls—it changed constantly. Today, it was this corporate tower.
He took a long sip from his reusable coffee cup, sighing quietly. The homemade brew was lukewarm, but comforting. Sweet, bitter. Something he could control. He stepped into the elevator as the doors opened with a soft 'ding'. To his surprise, it was empty. A small, rare moment of peace.
He leaned back against the cold wall, letting himself breathe for a second, shoulders finally relaxing a little. But, of course, peace never lasted. Just as the doors were about to close, a group of assistants—three of them, loud and perfumed—shoved their way inside. He was immediately pressed into the far corner, his shoulders tensing up again.
“Watch where you’re pushing!” one of them snapped, elbowing past without looking. Izuku flinched, stammering a quiet apology through the black mask. Not that she heard. Not that she cared. He clutched his coffee tighter, grateful for the lid and straw. After enough ruined shirts and spilled lattes, he’d learned. Too many incidents where no one said sorry, but everyone expected him to foot the dry-cleaning bill. He could afford it now, sure, but that didn’t mean he wanted to waste money replacing a perfectly good shirt just because someone couldn’t be bothered to notice him.
The elevator was far too cramped now. Bodies pressed too close, chatter ricocheting off the mirrored walls. He shrank in on himself, lowering his gaze, eyes fixed on a scuffed spot near his sneakers. The pressure of their elbows and handbags jabbed into him with every shift and motion. The sudden jolt as the elevator started its slow ascent knocked him sideways, slamming his hip against the metal railing.
He considered telling them to be careful—just a little more spatial awareness, please—but the thought withered before it could become action. He knew how that played out. They’d roll their eyes. Scoff. Maybe laugh. Definitely ignore him.
“Hope we bump into that hero I heard the others talking about,” one of the assistants said with a dreamy sigh. “Dynamight~” The way she dragged out the name made Izuku’s jaw tighten.
Another assistant snickered. “Yeah, that guy’s a walking temper tantrum. Bet he’s already snapped at someone. So hot when he’s pissed though.”
Izuku rolled his eyes, thankful for the thick rims of his glasses that masked the expression. Seriously? That’s the takeaway? He bit back a sigh. The obsession with Dynamight’s anger was as weird as it was exhausting. They didn’t know the guy like he did. They saw fire and heat and danger and thought it was sexy.
When the elevator doors finally slid open with another mechanical ding, the group spilled out, still laughing, still loud. Not one of them glanced back at him. Izuku stood there for a second, adjusting his bag again, fingers rubbing at the sore spot on his shoulder. The metal railing had really dug in this time. He sighed softly, wincing. Ouch. That’s gonna leave a mark, he thought bitterly.
The doors slid shut again, leaving him alone once more as the elevator climbed higher toward the studio floor. When the doors slid open again, Izuku stepped into the studio in pre-interview mode. Bright lights cast harsh shadows on half-built sets, folding chairs squeaked under the weight of assistants darting around, and production crew muttered to each other as they wrangled cables and cameras. It always looked like a mess right before it came together.
He took a deep breath, preparing himself to blend in again. But on his first step forward, his foot caught on a thick coil of lightning cable stretched across the floor—nearly sending him face-first into the floor. His arms flailed for a moment, the weight of his bag pulling him sideways before he righted himself, heartbeat thumping in his throat.
Nobody looked up. No one asked if he was okay. Not a single head turned. Not that he expected them to. He straightened quickly, adjusted his glasses like it was all part of some stretch, and kept walking toward the back of the room, where a plain metal chair had his name taped to the back in Sharpie and peeling masking tape.
He sat down with a quiet exhale and began unpacking. Palettes first, arranged by tone—warm, neutral, cool—then setting powders, a lined-up row of clean brushes sorted by size and function: foundation, contour, precision, fan. He always organized them the same way: stylers to the left, face brushes center, detailing tools on the right, disposable wands and cotton swabs tucked in a small cup by the base of the mirror. Tissues, beauty sponges, spoolies, and antibacterial spray. Lip tints he knew would last through the shoot, a matte finish mist to fight sweat under the lights.
Once the table was set and the brushes spread, Izuku leaned back and wiped his forehead with the cloth he kept tucked in his coat pocket. The studio lights, even at half-brightness, were already cooking the air. He grabbed his water bottle, twisting the cap off with one hand while reaching into his bag with the other. A glance at his watch. Still a little early. That was good. He pulled out a small paper-wrapped packet, peeled it open, and tapped two capsules into his palm. Suppressors. He popped them in and swallowed hard, chasing them with another gulp of water. They slid down with ease.
He didn’t hide what he was, technically. His documents listed him as omega. HR knew. Legally, companies couldn’t fire him for taking heat leave. He didn’t get penalized or underpaid, either. Omegas had rights now. But still—he never said it out loud. Whenever someone asked, he’d shrug and say, “Guess.” They always guessed beta. Always. Something about the way he carried himself, or didn’t. The quietness. The lack of scent. Maybe it was the way he tucked himself into corners and never asked for anything. Betas were easy to ignore. So he let them believe that. It made everything smoother. Fewer questions. No one paid enough attention to notice his pattern of absence every few weeks. That was the perk of being invisible.
Izuku was mid-sip when the studio doors slammed open with a bang that echoed through the space like a gunshot. He flinched hard, nearly choking, the bottle thudding back down onto the table. He turned instinctively, already knowing who it was. And there he stood—Dynamight. The blond hero’s sharp red eyes scanned the room, landing directly on Izuku. His mouth went tight. Izuku felt the heat rise up the back of his neck like it always did.
It begins, Izuku thought grimly.
Dynamight stormed across the room and dropped into the makeup chair with a loud, irritated grunt, sprawling back in the seat. “God—I hate this shit,” he muttered, rolling his neck from side to side with aggressive cracks.
“G-good morning,” Izuku said automatically, stepping forward with the plastic cape in hand. He looped it around Katsuki’s neck, fingers careful.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the blond mumbled.
Izuku’s hands didn’t tremble, but his voice faltered as he asked, “How a-are you?”
Katsuki turned his head just enough to glare at him. It wasn’t even a full look—just a sharp tilt, eyes half-lidded with annoyance. It was enough. Izuku swallowed the rest of his words, lips pressing into a thin line behind his mask.
Katsuki was not a good client. Not by any measure. Everyone knew it. He was demanding, rude, had no concept of boundaries, and refused to sit still. He talked over everyone, blasted music during delicate eyeliner work, and had no patience for precision. He also always showed up late, leaving makeup artists with barely any time to do a half-decent job. Most professionals would walk away. And they had. Every makeup artist who worked with him eventually quit. Some after two sessions. Some after one. Even the ones being paid double rate. Izuku stayed. Maybe because he was used to being treated like background noise.
Maybe because somewhere along the line, he stopped believing he deserved better.
As if to emphasize the point, Katsuki pulled his phone from the plastic cape and opened a loud action video, blasting the volume without warning. Izuku’s eye twitched. He reached around anyway, pushing Bakugo’s messy blond hair aside so he could begin shaping it—what little styling there was time for. He was supposed to do hair first, technically, but with Katsuki’s lateness, it was a miracle if Izuku got even five uninterrupted minutes with his face.
He worked quickly, gently—patting down primer, brushing foundation, dabbing under the eyes where Katsuki’s lack of sleep left faint shadows. He barely blinked. His eyes followed the video on his phone, barely registering the person inches away from his face. It wasn’t that he didn’t know Izuku was there. He just didn’t care. Or pretended not to.
God, Izuku thinks, as his fingers comb through Katsuki's hair, working a light gloss pomade into the strands. He shouldn't still be annoyed, but he is. It isn’t just the volume of the video still blasting from Katsuki’s phone—it’s the sheer disregard of it. The absolute entitlement. Like the noise wasn’t disruptive, like other people didn’t exist in the same space. Katsuki did this every time: threw himself into the chair late, made himself impossible to work around, and then stared blankly at his phone.
Still. Katsuki did have a nice face. That was the worst part. Bone structure is like a magazine model. Skin that, while always slightly flushed with anger or exhaustion, took product beautifully. Symmetry. Definition. An easy canvas, if he ever sat still and shut up. But no, he had to ruin it with his attitude.
Izuku winced slightly as the volume on the phone spiked again. Katsuki had queued up a video of that Omega streamer again, currently doing a detailed breakdown of top hero quirks and strategy analytics. The green-haired omega on screen spoke with confidence and just the right amount of snark to keep the tone entertaining. His makeup was always flawless, lighting was always pristine. His videos went viral almost daily. And Izuku—well. Izuku could talk for hours about Bunny.exe.
One of the few omegas in the hero-adjacent space to rise to the top in under a year. He had brand deals, exclusive interviews, top-five Twitch placement, a makeup line in development, and millions of followers across platforms. Quirk breakdowns, fashion reviews, tech streams, charity collabs. Green curls, striking eyes, a face you didn’t forget. People either wanted to be him, date him, or figure out how he pulled it off.
And Katsuki was watching him. Loudly. Openly.
Izuku's fingers froze for half a second, then resumed combing through his hair. He wanted to say something. Wanted to blurt out, Hey, I watch him too. Wanted to see Katsuki’s reaction if he ever knew who was sitting right behind him. But he didn't dare. Not after that glare earlier. So he said nothing. Just finished the touch-up, removed the plastic cape, and stepped back.
Katsuki stood, shoved his phone in his pocket, and walked off without a glance, without a thank you, without even a grunt.
You're welcome!
*
*
A few hours later, Izuku made it home—dragging his feet across the tiled floor, feeling every ounce of exhaustion press down into his bones like wet cement. He reminded himself again, You like your job. And it was true, sort of.
But the job? The being unseen, unthanked, and unappreciated? That part left him /hollow/. He kicked off his shoes and swapped them for his All Might-themed house slippers, the soft foam barely cushioning his tired feet. His body felt drained, soul wrung out like a rag. He didn’t feel like a person, not after a day of being invisible.
He put his lunch and cup on the sink and threw yesterday’s takeout into the microwave, and turned the dial. Steam fogged the container while he headed toward the bathroom. Just before the shower, he opened the hallway closet and reached up. Off came the black curly wig. Carefully styled, real human hair, expensive. Next came the contact lenses, pinched from his eyes and dropped into the container. He blinked slowly, letting his vision clear, revealing the vibrant green of his real irises. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—freckles—and sighed.
The water was hot and fast, and he scrubbed down quickly, wanting the grime of the studio off his skin. When he finished, he dried off and changed into his loungewear just in time for the microwave’s ding. He ate standing at the counter at first, then moved to the couch and flipped on the TV. They were already airing clips from the day’s interview. A brief flash of Katsuki, bored in the chair, snapping at someone off-camera. Izuku rolled his eyes and hit mute. Silence felt better. He chewed slowly in the quiet, and when he was done, he cleaned his plate, placed it in the drying rack, and turned toward the hallway again.
The guest room door creaked as he opened it. The light flicked on, and it was clear this wasn’t a space meant for guests. The bed was barely used. Half the room was dedicated to a full creator’s setup. A ring light on a tall stand. Tripods. A high-end DSLR mounted above the monitor. Makeup carts rolled into the far corner, packed with palettes, primers, and stylers.
The opposite side of the room was more...personal. Plushies lined the edge of the bed. Soft toys. Ribbons. A shelf near the corner glowed under LED strip lights, displaying an intentionally arranged collection of adult toys, all glittering under the soft, ambient light.
He crossed the room and opened his closet, pulling out one of the tighter outfits—stream-friendly, flattering, a little flirtatious. He changed quickly, then went to the vanity to style his hair. His real hair, pulled into loose curls, fluffed to maximum bounce. A quick touch-up of BB cream and concealer. Tinted balm on the lips. Freckles were deliberately untouched. The final step was his headset, which he adjusted as he powered up the PC. The screen glowed to life. One click launched the streaming software. He set the scene, loaded his game, and hit "Start Countdown."
A soft animation loop appeared on stream—Starting in 5 minutes...—and chat began to fill fast. His mods greeted everyone, dropping emotes, spamming hellos. The number at the corner climbed fast: 0... 28... 57... 112... 140... 300+. Then bits started pouring in. People donating just to be noticed first. His followers. His loyal fans.
/They saw him./
Izuku took a deep breath and leaned forward, checking the camera angle. That’s when he saw it—a faint smudge of product still clinging to his cheek. He grabbed a makeup wipe, dabbed at the spot, and in doing so, wiped away just enough to reveal the freckles beneath.
Oh?
Did he forget to mention?
He smiled at the camera—charming, soft.
He’s Bunny.exe.
And Dynamight was watching him.
TBC