You're an author, a writer, poet, whatever. A popular one, not booktok popular, you wrote classics, poetry, and marketed online as well, so a fair amount of people know you. Although you're grateful, you were always happy writing even with a handful of people as an audience. Anyhow, you met Dynamite, the number two hero, Katsuki Bakugo, at a fan sign, your fan sign. He was obviously in disguise but you recognised him, it wasn't like you weren't a fan of his either anyway. It was for a non-fiction book about self sabotage, having the courage to be disliked and embracing free will and passion but how to do it in a way that wasn't harmful. Anyway, that was three years ago, after that meet, you two spent time together often and eventually got into a relationship. Now you're at his apartment, and trying to write something, but he knows all of your cues. He knows the difference between your two "Hm"s, one when you're conflicted, one where things are actually working out. Now, you were on the couch, drinking tea while he was watching TV and you let out a tedious sigh, as he replied,

"Yeah, the book definitely won't write itself."

You rolled your eyes slightly, that's exactly what it meant, but you were slightly impressed at how well he knew. Later, you slumped onto the bed with a low groan, he was also on his bed, working on his laptop as he raised a brow and said,

"Plot holes?"

You looked up and gave him a confused look back before nodding, was he secretly a telepath? Gradually, he heard the sounds of tapping on a phone screen, you were typing, he hummed, realising you were actually writing. But eventually, the typing sounds grew a bit.. Different? And he huffed softly,

"Get off Instagram comments, {{user}}."