r,

“Rough day?” you ask softly, kicking off your shoes and dropping your bag by the door.

He grunts, eyes fixed on the screen he’s clearly not watching. “Villains were fuckin’ idiots. Agency paperwork was worse. Everything pissed me off.”

You hum in understanding, padding across the room in your socks. He doesn’t look at you right away, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves—tight shoulders, clenched jaw, that low growl he makes when the world’s been too much.

You don’t push. Not yet.

Instead, you move behind the couch, leaning over the back to press a gentle kiss to the top of his spiky blond hair. He smells like smoke and sweat. His body stiffens for half a second before he exhales through his nose.

“Food’s in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” you say quietly, letting your fingers trail down the back of his neck, slow and deliberate. “I missed you.”

Another grunt, but it’s softer this time.

You round the couch and sit beside him—not too close, just enough that your thigh brushes his. He still doesn’t look at you, but you catch the way his eyes flick down for a fraction of a second before snapping back to the TV.

You lean into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re all tense, Katsuki.”

“‘Cause the world’s full of morons,” he snaps, but there’s no real bite in it—not toward you.

You smile against his arm, letting your hand settle on his chest, fingers idly tracing the line of his collarbone through the open zipper of his costume. “Let me help.”

He finally turns his head, crimson eyes narrowing. “Tch. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” you murmur, shifting closer. Your lips brush the sharp line of his jaw, feather-light. “But I can make you feel better.”

His breath hitches—just barely—but you feel it. You always do.

You keep it slow. Painfully slow. Your hand slides lower, over the hard planes of his stomach, fingertips grazing the edge of his abs. You kiss his jaw again, then the corner of his mouth, teasing, never quite giving him what he wants.

“Y/N,” he warns, voice low and rough.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, innocent and knowing all at once. “Yes?”

His eyes darken. You can see the fight in them—the part of him that wants to stay pissed off at the world, and the part that’s already crumbling under your touch.

You swing a leg over his lap, straddling him carefully. His hands immediately go to your hips, gripping hard like he’s anchoring himself. You lean in, lips hovering over his.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper.

He growls—actually growls—and surges up to kiss you, hard and hungry like he’s been holding it back all day. You smile into it, letting him take control for just a moment before you pull back again, just out of reach.

“Nuh-uh,” you tease softly, rolling your hips slow and deliberate against him. “My pace tonight.”

His eyes flash dangerously, but he doesn’t fight it. Not really. His grip tightens on your hips, but he lets you set the rhythm—slow, torturous, perfect.

You kiss him again, deeper this time, hands sliding up into his hair as you grind down just right. He groans into your mouth, low and needy, and you feel the exact moment he gives in completely.

“Bedroom,” he rasps against your lips, voice wrecked.

You smile, sweet and victorious. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The first time you properly met Bakugou Katsuki outside of class, it was raining cherry blossoms and you were crying behind the dorms .

Not dramatic, ugly-crying, but the quiet kind where you try to pretend the rain on your face is just the weather. You’d failed the practical exam simulation by three stupid points, your quirk had glitched at the worst moment, and now everything felt wobbly and far away. The vending machine had eaten your 150 yen too, which honestly felt like the last straw.

You didn’t hear him approach. One second there was just the soft patter of petals on the pavement, and the next there was a very grumpy shadow blocking the streetlight.

“Oi. You’re gonna catch a cold sitting there like a drowned extra.”

You looked up, sniffling, and there he was—hands shoved in his pockets, uniform jacket slung over one shoulder, blonde hair damp and sticking up even more than usual. Bakugou Katsuki, top of the class, future number-one hero, currently glaring at you like you’d personally offended him by existing sadly in public.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, wiping your face with your sleeve. It didn’t help.

“Tch. You’re a shitty liar.” He crouched down—actually crouched—so you were eye level. His crimson eyes flicked over your face, not soft, never soft, but not cruel either. “Your quirk shorted out again, didn’t it?”

You nodded, ashamed. Everyone knew your quirk was unstable under stress. Everyone, apparently, included Bakugou.

He clicked his tongue. “Dumbass. You think pros don’t have bad days? You think I never blew myself up practicing?” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a little packet of strawberry Pocky he definitely hadn’t bought for himself . He shoved it toward you. “Eat. Sugar fixes everything until it doesn’t.”

You took the Pocky with shaky fingers. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“I’m not,” he snapped, ears turning pink. “I just don’t want you moping around my training spot looking like a sad soggy cat. It’s bad for morale.”

“Your training spot?” You glanced around. This was just the side path behind the dorms.

“Shut up.” He sat down next to you, cross-legged on the wet ground like it didn’t matter that his pants were getting soaked. “Now eat the damn Pocky before I change my mind.”

So you did. And somehow, sitting under a vending machine eating strawberry Pocky with Bakugou Katsuki while cherry blossoms floated down like slow-motion snow, the world felt a little less heavy.

That was the first time.

There were more after that.

He started appearing when you least expected it—like a very angry guardian angel who swore a lot.

When you overslept and missed breakfast, there was suddenly a slightly squashed melon pan on your desk with a sticky note that just said “eat, idiot” in angry scrawl.

When you stayed late training and your hands were trembling from quirk overuse, he’d barge in, toss a cold sports drink at your head, and growl, “Five more reps, then you’re done. Don’t make me drag you to Recovery Girl.”

He never said “I was worried.” He didn’t have to.

You started leaving things for him too.

A little handmade keychain shaped like an explosion . You left it on his desk when he was out. The next day it was clipped to his hero case, clinking softly against the metal.

He pretended not to notice you noticing.

One day, after a particularly rough villain simulation where you’d frozen up again, you found him waiting outside the locker room.

“You didn’t fail,” he said before you could speak.

“I literally hesitated and almost got Kirishima decapitated by a fake robot—”

“You recovered in 3.8 seconds. That’s better than last time.” He crossed his arms. “You’re getting stronger. Stop being dense.”

You stared at him. “Did you… time me?”

“Shut up.”

Your heart did something weird and fluttery.

Spring turned into summer. The cherry blossoms were long gone, replaced by cicadas and the smell of sunscreen. Class 1-A had a movie night in the common room, everyone piled on the couches like a big sleepy puppy pile.

You ended up squished on the end, blanket half falling off, because Kaminari kept stealing it to make a blanket fort with Sero.

Then a warm weight dropped down next to you. Bakugou, in his black tank top and skull pajama pants (yes, those existed, and yes, they were adorable), yanked the blanket out of Kaminari’s hands with a snarl and threw half of it over you.

“Problem?” he asked the room at large.

Everyone suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.

You hid your smile in the blanket. It smelled like him—caramel and something sharp like citrus.

Halfway through the movie (some old All Might film everyone had seen a million times), you felt something touch your hand under the blanket. Carefully, like he thought you might bite, Bakugou laced his fingers with yours.

His palm was warm. A little sweaty. Calloused from training.

You squeezed back.

He didn’t look at you once for the rest of the movie, but his ears stayed red the entire time.

Later, when everyone was asleep and the credits rolled, he muttered into the dark, “Your hands are cold all the time. It’s annoying.”

You laughed so hard you had to bury your face in his shoulder to stay quiet.

The next morning, he walked you to class holding your hand like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Kirishima took one look, grinned like a shark, and got elbowed so hard he saw stars.

You didn’t care.

You had strawberry Pocky in your bag, a tiny explosion keychain glinting on his belt, and Bakugou Katsuki’s fingers tangled with yours.

The world still wasn’t perfect. You still had bad days. Your quirk still glitched sometimes.

But now, when it rained cherry blossoms or your heart felt too heavy, you knew exactly who would show up—grumbling, pink-eared, and secretly soft—ready to sit with you and share the last strawberry Pocky.

And that?

That was more than enough.