ASTRID

when his tongue pushes deeper into your mouth and his large hands finally cup your breasts, you shiver involuntarily, your body pressing forward into him, brushing against his crotch and pulling a low grunt from him in response.

his thumbs find your nipples, gently pressing into the sensitive buds, keeping his touch there just to stir you up. it works, of course. the sensation pulls more sounds from you —broken, breathy, honest — and something warm starts building deep in your stomach, unfamiliar but addicting.

your breath catches completely, fingers tangling in his already messy hair, tugging lightly at the strands as you keep kissing him, still grinding against his clothed dick without fully realizing it. he grunts into your mouth again, rougher this time, reacting to to you.

and you don’t even try to hide how long you make these moments last.

you drag them out on purpose.

you two would kiss for hours, just to see how long it takes before one of you finally gives in and pulls away first, trying to make the other give up.

and it the end? you would be breathless, turned on and wet, your underwear uncomfortable and his pants obviously straining him.

“do i give you a hard time?” you ask on a shaky voice, a smile creeping up your lips.

he just scoffs, forehead resting against yours, hands coming down your waist, gripping at your skin.

“hah, you wish,” he smirks, then his lips find you again, as if everything that happend is just the beginning.

you two really like torturing each other.

The sound of their collective panting filled the air, the thud of fists against skin echoing off the walls as they tested each other.

Quick jabs, hits to the ribs; it was push and pull as they were nearly on equal ground, two decorated professionals with national titles.

You had to keep a close eye— track his movements to take note of any injuries, run over how exactly you would deal with each one. It was your job to.

But, admittedly, you found your gaze wandering against your will lately. More often than you wanted to admit.

It was difficult to ignore the way his biceps flexed with each jab, how soft blond tufts fell over his face, stuck to the sweat lining his forehead, the low hang of his boxing shorts highlighted his abs straining with each motion.

"Fuck!"

The sharp curse broke your trance, eyes snapping up, immediately alert.

Eijirou's hands flew over his mouth, his fighter's stance softening, hesitant hands reaching out towards his friend whose head was angled down, fighting to not reel.

"Woah, man, I am so sorry—"

Katsuki slapped his hand away, wiping at the blood beginning to drip down his nose with the back of his hand, unyielding eyes meeting Eijirou's.

"Keep it goin', Shitty Hair. And you,"

He didn't bother to look at you as you approached, keeping his burning stare on his opponent while waving you off with a harsh motion of his free hand. "Get back."

His bite was nothing new. You didn't bother to fight the eye roll, stepping closer to assess the extent of the damage. "Don't be dumb. Let me look."

"You deaf or something? Beat it."

More blood trickled down, coming over the curve of his lip. You had worked with Katsuki long enough to know that he pushed himself until he was battered, had nothing left to give.

Your job was to keep that from happening.

With a sigh, you grabbed him by the crook of his elbow.

"You are gushing blood. Come on—"

"Get your fuckin' hands off me, you piece of—"

"Again, don't be dumb—"

Eijirou blinked between the two of you, watching as you wrestled to keep Katsuki's arm in your grip, ineffectively attempting to drag him away. With a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, he began to take backwards steps towards the bench where he kept his water, knowing there was little else he could do in this situation.

"I'm gonna take five. Go with her, man."

Feeling Katsuki's resistance give in just enough, you tugged him towards the med bay, giving Eijirou a grateful look over your shoulder. You hoped he didn't feel too guilty. Sparring was never supposed to get this intense, after all. But, mistakes happened.

You offered soft apologies under your breath to the few nurses on the same late shift as you were with a tight smile as you rushed past them to guide him into the room at the very back, shutting the door behind you.

It was just you two now.

Katsuki was still panting, worked up from the fight. There was probably enough adrenaline in his system to keep him from feeling the real pain of his affliction.

You pushed him back onto the bed against the wall to your right with a hand over his chest, feeling the warm muscle rise up and down under your palm before you turned to rummage through the cabinet, fishing out a medical kit with a crease forming between your brows.

"Are you trying to get yourself put on medical leave before your match next week?"

He didn't say a word, only the sound of his heavy breathing filling the room as you felt his glare against your back.

You sighed.

"Right before I get off too..."

"Yeah," He scoffed, a mocking edge to his voice. "'Cause I did that shit on purpose."

"You kept pushing. That was stupid and you know it, the best athletes know when to call it quits."

Katsuki scoffed, his jutted lower lip pursing as you set down the kit beside him, opening it up to fish out some gauze. "Maybe we should get you in the ring. Since you're such an expert."

You pushed his thighs apart with an unimpressed look, standing between them to get as close as you could.

A hand went behind his neck, gently tilting his head down so the blood wouldn't trickle back into his nose, go down his throat.

You carefully pinched the sides of his nose bridge to stop the blood flow, wiping away at what had escaped with clean gauze.

“You love making my life harder,” you muttered under your breath. “Can’t you just admit I'm right? Say you’ll be more careful?”

“The day I say that shit you can put a gun to my head.”

You rolled your eyes, but he continued.

"I don't say shit I don't mean," he sighed out, abs flexing as he winced slightly. “If your meddling ass didn't get in the way, I would've won.”

“Or you would've gotten your ass beat, but whatever.”

“I've had worse. A fucked up nose is nothing."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" you raised a brow, getting a new piece of gauze. "You never know when to stop, Katsuki. That's your issue."

The room settled into silence only the hum of the AC, your shifting, and the quiet, reluctant winces that slipped past as you tended to him.

His eyes never left you.

Sometimes, you wondered why.

Why he allowed you to treat him, why he let you get close. But you shook yourself out of those thoughts, reaching down to grab an ice pack. No time to get sidetracked, not now. Especially on something that was very likely nothing.

"Bleeding stopped."

He didn't respond, eyes downcast as you alternated between pressing it to either side of his nose bridge.

When he finally spoke, his words were quick. Quiet.

"I was going for his blind spot."

Said like he had to explain himself to you, or maybe himself.

But he didn't have to. You knew that his slip ups were extremely rare, he never made the same mistake twice— he beat himself up over every error, obsessed over earned perfection, victory.

His high standards for himself were what got him so far, but you knew they got to him. That, quietly, he sometimes needed reassurance, like anyone would.

“I know you were.” you finally responded, voice gentle, without pity.

"Eijirou's right side was open and he was getting tired. That was the right move. You would've gotten him."

He blinked down at you, as if assessing your honesty before a slight smile touched his lips. He gripped the edge of the small bed a little tighter, leaning down closer.

"Knew you were starin'."

Your heart jumped in your chest, but you pushed it down.

"Well, that is my job."

"It's your job to watch for injuries. Not stare."

You couldn't help what came out of your mouth next.

"Maybe I was staring at Eijirou."

"You think you're so funny."

"I think your ego's inflated."

"Wanna say that again?"

You pressed the ice a little too harshly into the side of his nose, drawing a small groan from him.

"Save it, Katsuki."

You packed up your kit and gathered the bloodied gauze to throw away, rinsing your hands before coming back to assess your work.

Blood clean, no signs of continued bleeding. A small bruise forming under his right eye from the trauma, expected.

It took everything in you to ignore the weight of his eyes, how he looked at you with an intensity reserved for his oppenents in the ring. Calculating, searching. You could feel the burn crawling up the back of your neck. Professional, keep it professional.

You nodded a little too quickly, turning on your heel. "Yep, all good. No more sparring, but you can go back now."

He tugged you by the back of your shirt collar before you got too far, pulling you back between his legs, face only inches away from yours.

"You don't want that."

The sudden proximity along with his words made your heart spike, as if caught.

What did you want? The question made you uneasy.

(Or, maybe it was the answer that you knew deep down that made you want to crawl out of your skin.)

You pushed back slightly, deflecting.

“I want you to see Dr. Tanaka as soon as you can. I'll make an appointment for tomorrow morning since he left for the day. I think your nose is broken.”

“No it's not.”

It wasn't. If it had been broken, you would've known from one look, you would have been angrier with him. But that was your out, your excuse to get away. And he had called your bluff, gaze unmoving.

"Don't play dumb right now."

“I'm not playing dumb." the words came snappy, brave; but you were just so close, that fire faltered. His hand that had gripped the back of your collar had shifted carefully to the front, so close to your neck that you were afraid he might feel your heart try to burst out of your throat.

"You're just…" you trailed off, struggling to find your words. "…difficult. You're being difficult.”

"Difficult?" a dry sort of laugh. "You're the difficult one. For someone smart you can be pretty fuckin' dense."

You bit the inside of your lower lip, eyes darting between him and the door.

You knew what he meant. This back and forth between you was nothing new. But when it got too real you had always gotten away, said something and acted like nothing had happened once you cooled down.

The sounds outside seemed to be getting louder, closer. These doors didn’t have locks. Anyone could come in, find you like this. One of the nurses checking in, a gym goer looking for band-aids.

“Or maybe you do know. Hm?”

The question pulled you from your thoughts in an instant, made your eyes snap to his— first mistake. Once his crimson stare bored into yours, you couldn’t look away.

Could you have been that obvious? You thought your moments of distraction were fleeting, imperceptible to the average eye.

He had never commented on it before, slipping back to his normal self even after your closest calls.

But you should’ve known better. Katsuki Bakugou was not average in any sense of the word.

(Of course, he noticed. Of course he did.)

You sputtered something before you could think, just wanting to hear something other than the sound of your own thoughts.

"Some…someone could—"

"No one's gonna come in." his voice flat, dismissal easy. All matter of fact as he craned his neck down closer to you.

"Unless you want Eijirou to come in. Since you were, what, staring at him, right? That what you want?"

"What?!" the word was almost a squeak, high and taken aback. "That's not— "

You fought the strange heat crawling up your face by shooting him a look, eyes narrowing.

"Katsuki. I was joking."

He hummed.

(Unbelieving? Amused? A bit of both?)

"Sure you were."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The defelctions that had once come so easy were heavy on your tongue. There was no joke, no eye roll, nothing you could say to slip away. Not this time.

You sighed, next words defeated.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be real with me." you could feel his breath against your lips; hot, charged. "Tell me you don’t want this, that you haven't thought about it.”

“Katsuki…”

It came out weaker than you wanted. Small, kind of breathless. Almost pleading.

For what— to let you go?

(To keep going?)

He kept egging, eyes not once leaving yours. “Say it. I'll stop.”

And you knew he would. Because he was being serious, you could tell by his voice— how it was low under his breath, softened. 

For you, he was being intentionally careful.

Just the thought made you want to cave. But the entire reason your relationship worked, why you were able to handle him, was because you didn't give in.

"There are rules about this sort of thing—"

"You think I give a fuck about bullshit rules?"

"Yeah, I know you don't." you gave him a look. "But I do. I could lose my job, you could get me fired, or…"

You swallowed back the rest of it.

He didn't have to know how it made you afraid, testing the fragile nature of this relationship. How giving in meant that all of this could shatter, that this could all amount to one big mistake.

Katsuki blinked, taking in your expression. He looked off to the side for a beat, lips pursing in thought before, carefully, he took your hands into his.

"You know I won't let that happen. I don't see any of the other shitty medics here."

You snorted a little. Because you did know. You cocked your head to the side, a small smile tugging at your lips. "They're not shitty."

He didn't retaliate, just raised his brows slowly. The truth of his words wasn't what mattered, it was the implication behind them.

(You're the one I see. You.)

His earlier words rang in your ears.

Tell me you don't want this, that you haven't thought about it

You couldn't, because you had.

Countless times— whenever you watched him hover over his opponents, keep them locked underneath him, the heat in his eyes, a cocky smile on his lips.

He wormed his way into your mind, more often than not, late at night. When sleep couldn't find you and your bed felt exceptionally cold. Empty.

(Him. You imagined him.)

Denying all of that was exactly what you should have done. That would have been the rational thing to do, the smart thing.

But as you traced his face, followed the soft curve of his cheeks against the otherwise harsh lines, watched the furrow of his brow deepen ever so slightly, as if he, of all people, was nervous— you couldn't fight the feeling anymore.

Because you wanted to kiss him, and you wanted him to kiss you— more than anything.

Hesitantly, you brushed your thumbs over the bruises on his knuckles.

“No, I… I do. Want this, I mean."

Something in his expression shifted. Surprise, for a brief second, before that cocky gleam in his eyes that you had seen when he was in-action settled over his face. Only, a little different. (A little sharper, hungrier.)

"Yeah?" he pushed closer, nose just barely brushing yours. "You want this?"

Slowly, you nodded.

"Yes."

His gaze darted from your eyes and lips before the sliver of space between you finally disappeared.

The kiss was tentative, careful. So unlike him that it caught you a little off guard.

Soft. His lips were so soft against yours.

He kissed you like he was trying to figure out the shape of your lips, go slow enough to savor the moment, commit the feeling to memory. The hand near your collar came up to cup your jaw, angle your face just right.

You had thought about what this would feel like for longer than you would ever admit. Did he think of you the same way? Were you what he had expected?

When he pulled back just enough to breathe, he drank in your expression; your pretty lips plush and parted, wide doe-eyes blinking up at him.

He groaned, "Fuck it."

You yelped when calloused hands gripped your arms, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, thick biceps flexing as he pulled you down to straddle his thigh.

You planted your hands on his chest to steady yourself on instinct, unable to process it for a second. Your thighs were around his leg, his hands at your waist, holding you in a way you had only ever thought would exist in the secret fantasies you let yourself indulge in. The small bed creaking under your combined weight. His chest rising and falling under your palms.

Sometimes, you forgot how strong he actually was. How he wasn’t just some other annoying, short-tempered guy— his body was molded to his profession; brute strength and jagged lines carved from a life in the ring. His shoulders broad, a tapering waist, arms nearly the size of your head. He could probably pick you up and snap you in half if he really wanted to. Your stomach flipped at just the thought.

Before you could open your mouth to speak, he flexed the muscle of his thigh; deliberate, testing. Sharp eyes watching as your face flushed at his bare muscle pressing up against your core.

Your breath hitched, warmth pooled down between your legs, heart beating in your ears as his large hands slid down to rest over your hips, holding you steady— pulling you down closer.

"Feel good?"

Your ears burned at the mocking edge to his voice. You squirmed, caught between wanting to slap that smug look off his face and slowly seek more friction by grinding down.

You didn't have to choose, not when his hands slowly guided your hips down, back and forth against his hardened muscle. You bit your bottom lip between your teeth, clearly embarassed, ineffectively fighting the whimpers that threatened to slip past with each movement.

His gaze never once left you, taking note of every little reaction.

Heat crawled up your face at being watched so shamelessly.

Leaning forward, you distracted yourself by pressing soft kisses up the side of his throat, staring to grind down on him yourself, your tongue darting out before gently sucking soft marks into his skin.

He let out a strained sigh, tilting his neck back just enough to give you more access.

You hooked your arms loosely around his neck, pecking across his jaw. Your fingers curled into the hair at his nape, giving it a soft tug, pulling his head back so his eyes met yours.

Pupils blown, eyes heavy with want, hair falling over them all messy and disheveled.

You didn't know how you had gone so long without this, how you could have ever wanted to keep your distance. Now that you let yourself have a taste, you didn't think you could ever get enough.

Tugging him to you by the hair, you pulled him to kiss you again.

This time, it was feverish, insatiable. Months of tension and denied desire pouring over all at once.

He kissed like he was still chasing you; like he had something to prove, like he wanted you to feel that you were his favorite taste. A clash of tongue and teeth, nipping at your bottom lip. Each time he pulled back to breathe it lasted less than a beat before he rushed back to steal the soft sounds that slipped past your lips as your hips continued to buck against his thigh.

But the fabric, it was in the way. No matter how hard you grinded down on him, there was too much between you and what you wanted, and the frustration was showing. Your slight sighs turning into small huffs, brows pinching against your will.

The next time Katsuki pulled back, you didn't let him kiss you again. The small string of saliva between your lips broke as you spoke, softly panting. "I want 'em off."

He looked down at your request, pinching the fabric of your pants between his index and thumb. Eyes looking up into yours carefully, like he was uncertain if that was something you really wanted.

You nodded, a little frantic.

"Off. Please."

He got straight to it. Getting them off wasn't pretty, but a controlled sort of desperate.

His movements were precise as always, fairly smooth, but you could feel that something was simmering under his palms as he moved you around to get them off just right, even more so when they finally rested over your bare legs, eyes slightly dazed as he gave the flesh a tentative squeeze.

You bit your lip at the feeling, skin burning under his touch, wanting it all over you.

You glanced down at your shirt.

"This too."

He scoffed, but there was something like a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Fuckin' bossy."

His hands slid under the hem, bunching the fabric up over your chest, too impatient to get it all the way off. He reached back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall to the floor as he took in the shape of your bare chest, the way your nipples hardened at the cool air of the clinic.

For a beat too long, he just stared.

On instinct, you wondered if something was wrong, if there was something about you that was weird or unappealing, the feeling twisted in you. But before you could tug your shirt back down, he cupped your tits with both hands, feeling the weight of them, squeezing slightly.

"Been waiting for this shit for so fuckin' long, y'know that?" He groaned out, leaning forward to bury his face into them.

You whimpered as he pressed wet kisses across the skin, thumb brushing over one of your nipples while his tongue lolled out to lick over the other, sucking it between his lips.

You began grinding down on his thigh again, the feeling so much more intense with just your panties on. You shifted your hips to find the angle that felt best, rubbing yourself down against the hard muscle of his thigh beneath you, solid and perfect, the friction sending sparks up your spine, your breaths coming out in shallow pants.

Each roll of your hips made your breath come a little faster, especially as his mouth pulled off one of your tits to give the other a fair share of attention.

Your nails dug into his shoulders when he nipped at your chest, sucking harshly, catching your sensitive peak between his teeth just to hear you whine. His tongue was hot against your skin, wet and needy.

Katsuki could feel your arousal starting to coat his thigh, soaking through your panties, smearing over his leg with every drag of your hips. Smiling against your chest, he pulled back with a soft pop, looking down at the glistening mess you left behind.

He moved a hand down between your bodies, slightly nudging your hips up with his leg to give him enough space in between to feel you over your panties, the fabric evidently damp as his index and middle finger stopped right above your clothed clit, pressing against it just slightly, enough to pull a shaky sigh from your lips.

"All this from just my thigh?"

There was a smug, slightly demeaning tone to his voice, like he was surprised you were so wet, as if it wasn't his fault. It made you want to throttle him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Your brows furrowed. "Shut up."

He only chuckled, drawing a line down your clothed slit. All slow, agonizing. Self-satsfied at the soft whimper that slips out of you.

"It's a simple fucking question. Haven't even touched you properly yet."

You huffed, mustering your most serious expression to meet his eyes. "God, just quit teasing, Katsuki. You're being mean."

He raised his brows, that smile on his face only widening. "You think this is mean?"

Finally, finally, he hooked his fingers into your panties, pushing them aside. The first touch, skin-on-skin, made you gasp. He dragged his fingers between your folds, coating them in your slick, slow and deliberate, coating them before circling your entrance.

"I can show you mean."

His eyes were locked between your legs, watching his own fingers move. "Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. “Fucking soaked."

He pushed one finger inside, slow enough that you felt every inch. You whimpered softly, walls fluttering around him.

He groaned softly, watching your face contort, feeling himself get even harder in his shorts.

"Tight," he breathed. "Gonna add another. That okay?"

You nodded frantically, beyond words.

The second finger stretched you more, made you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning too loud. He worked them deeper, curling them slightly. Your chest heaved at the intrusion you fought to not cry out, your nails digging into his shoulder as he hit just the right spot.

"There?" His voice was rough, satisfied. "That the spot?"

You couldn't respond, forehead falling into the crook of his neck, clinging to him as he curled his fingers again, rubbing that soft patch inside you with devastating precision.

Once he found it, he didn't stop, pumping his fingers in and out, hitting it with precision each time.

You grinded down into his hand, feeling the heel of his palm press up against your clit. You chase the feeling, shameless. Lost in the sensation, the overwhelming feeling of him all around you.

You mumbled into the skin of his neck incoherently about how you were: "Almost… 'm gonna…"

You could hear his voice right by your ear. Hoarse, determined.

“Yeah?” his efforts nearly doubled. “Close?”

You could only nod, coherent thoughts gone from your mind, only a desperate haze of want.

"Yeah. Yes. Please, please more…"

He kept at it, silently savoring your desperate sounds.

You wrapped your arms tight around his neck, moans muffled into his skin as the tightly wound up knot came undone. Your breaths getting heavy in your lungs, head getting fuzzy, eyes fluttering shut, nails having left angry red lines down the skin of his upper back.

He ran a hand up and down your back as you collapsed against him, coming down from the high. He let you rest against him, breathing from a moment before pulling you back with a small kiss to the side of your head.

"Look at me."

It didn't sound like a request.

"Hm?"

You watched with hazy eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, the loss making you whimper. They glistened under the harsh light of the clinic, coated with the evidence of what he'd just done to you.

He held your gaze as he brought them to his mouth. His tongue darted out first, licking a long strip up the slick-covered fingers. Then, he took them fully into his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes never once leaving yours.

Your breath caught in your throat. Heat flooded through you again, despite having just come. Tasting you off his own fingers like you were the best thing he'd ever had— it was almost too much.

When he finally pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft pop, he smirked at your expression.

"Tastes good," he said simply, like commenting on the weather.

You clenched around nothing, already missing him inside you, feeling spent but somehow needing more.

"You're shameless."

"Last I checked, I wasn't the one humping your thigh."

Your face burned, a small, angry sort of pout settling on your lips.

He snickered, hand sliding up to your waist, giving it a small squeeze. "Little too late to get all embarassed. Shit was hot."

"Uh huh…" You gave him a look, "Um. Thanks, by the way... that was—" You trailed off, not knowing how to express what you feel just the right way. "Good. It was good."

Katsuki snorted. "Just good?" you rolled your eyes, but leaned into his teasing with sweetness, something he didn't quite expect.

"Much better than good."

He searched your eyes for a beat, a hand coming up to brush back some of your hair. Then he pecked your lips— soft, almost sweet — before tugging your shirt back down carefully.

That was when you slowly realized, he was wrapping this up. But… he didn't cum?

He didn't cum.

"Hey, wait you didn't—"

He knew what you were talking about, the strained bulge in his shorts was nothing short of obvious.

"Does it look like I care."

His dismissal of his own need threw you off.

"Katsuki, that's not fair. I can't just—"

"Sure you can. You just did."

You turned his head towards you, pulling him into a soft kiss, parting his lips with yours, trying to not get lost in tasting yourself on his tongue. Gently trying to urge him to let you have him the way he had you.

You try to convince him, urge him to let you return the favor, do something.

You ran your hand over the bulge in his shorts, traced it gently, wanting. He groaned against your mouth, the sound strained in the back of his throat, like he was holding himself back. "C'mon, Katsuki," you palmed him over his shorts, wanting to hear more. "Let me? Please?"

He looked like he could give in, his jaw tense, eyes screwing shut as your finger hooked into the waistband of his shorts, drawing out a breathy sigh. You froze when the intercom crackled above you.

"The gym will be closing in ten minutes. Please begin wrapping up your sessions and make your way to the exit. Thank you."

You blinked. Fuck.

"…I can be quick?"

That was a lie. Ten minutes wasn't nearly enough time to do what you wanted to.

He waved you off with a snort, tugging your hand away from his throbbing cock, taking it upon himself to adjust the hem of your shirt with more care than you thought possible from someone like him.

"Relax." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Shit’s not a big deal. Can take care of it in the shower."

The mental image of him standing under the shower, hand wrapped around his cock, thinking about this — you — made something low in your stomach tighten.

You must have made a face, because he huffed out a laugh.

"But if you want to make it up so bad," He leaned in closer, nose brushing yours. The soft curve of his lashes was so much more apparent this close. He pressed a final, lingering kiss, grinning softly as he spoke. His voice low against your lips, promising. "We'll go for round 2."

may blabs: if u ever genuinely have a bloody nose do NOT tilt your head back. that blood will go down your throat and if it gets into ur stomach u could throw up and that is not good so do NOT do that ✌️✌️

big special thank u to the mutuals ( @updownandbatty & & @cupidkats & @hushedlotus ) AND irls i bothered w this fic… u are goated ❤️‍🩹

again, art in the header is not mine, credits to the artist !!!

taglist: @nanakamii 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ :

There are a few reasons why it’s a fabulous time of year, in his humble opinion. For one, he fights best in the heat, making this his peak season for pro work. For another, your students are on break, which means so are you, which means Katsuki can finally take you on the long-awaited trip he’s been promising. Most importantly, though, summer is your favorite season, and that’s enough reason for him to like it with you. 

Then a shriek cuts through the room, pulling him from his thoughts before he can even sit up and properly rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Kats!” you cry, voice pitched high with panic. “There’s a spider on the sink! Wake up!”

“God dammit, woman,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he rises from bed and pads over to where you are. “You teach kids how to be heroes for a living, and something as dumb as a spider gets you all fucked up?”

“Don’t start,” you hiss. “Just get the thing out of here, I don’t—oh my god! Katsuki, it’s moving! Hurry!”

He sighs, gently nudging you out of the way before grabbing a napkin and scooping up the (very) small arachnid. He tosses it into the trash as you let out a sigh of relief.

“There,” he grumbles. “Quit squealing now.”

“Thanks, baby,” you beam, turning to wrap your arms around his neck. You press a kiss to his lips, and he happily returns it. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he mumbles, pulling you against his chest. “Shower yet?”

“No, I’ll probably take one later—”

“Perfect. You can join me,” he says with a satisfied grin.

You give him a flat look. “I just did my skincare for the morning. I’m not washing it all away—”

“Let’s get this off’a you,” he says, promptly deciding to ignore you as he lifts your shirt over your head. You sigh in defeat (though you never really put up a fight anyway), groaning as your shirt goes flying, followed by your bra, and he can’t help the smirk of victory that spreads across his face.

“You’re super annoying,” you tell him seriously. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. “And you’re a fuckin’ idiot. Wanna exchange some more facts while we’re at it?”

It’s summer. Katsuki enjoys summer. He likes the warm weather, the extra time you have on your hands, and the way the two of you can spend a few days somewhere nice and far away from everything. You don’t bring along papers to grade. He doesn’t check his emails during the rare paid time off he’s taken. His paychecks finally come in handy for a nice, well-accommodating hotel room. No one interrupts when he wants you to himself.

There’s no reason not to love summer. Katsuki looks forward to it every year. He fights long, bothersome fights with villains and delinquents out there through the cold winters and tells himself that if he works hard now, he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor when the warm weather rolls around. It’s the only thing that gets him through long days at the agency, or the stupid interviews and social bullshit that his publicist forces him through. 

All of it endured for this. This singular, peaceful week and a half with you by his side, enjoying his life without any other nonsense for once.

Katsuki likes summer—and he’s gonna like it a hell of a lot more when he puts a shiny ring on your finger when you say yes to being his wife in just a little bit.

“Here,” you hand him your body wash, “if you’re going to waste my freshly applied skincare, you better make it worth my while. You do the work.”

“Not a problem—anything for my lazy fuckin’ sunshine. You deserve to be pampered,” he agrees smoothly, chuckling when you throw your loofa at his chest. 

“Lazy?”

“S’what I said,” he hums easily. “Glad to know your ears still work.”

“You take that back, you asshole—mmph!”

He cuts you off with a kiss. It’s a good fucking kiss, he thinks. Warm water is cascading down his back, you’re in his arms and pressed against his chest, your arms are looping around his neck, there’s a scenic ocean view from the small one-way window next to both of you, and your nails do that thing that he loves with the hair at the nape of his neck. This is all that he wants. 

Katsuki can get used to a life like this—in fact, he already is used to a life like this. Ever since you moved in with him two years, three months, and twelve days ago (not that he’s been counting), he’s spent every morning waking up and moving through his routine with you woven into it. 

You in his bathroom, your toothbrush tucked beside his. You at his table while he slides breakfast onto your plate. You in his kitchen, wearing your stupid little apron while you cook as he comes home roughed up after patrol. You on his couch after dinner, legs tucked beneath you as you grade assignments. You in his bed, dragging the blanket he kicked off right back over the two of you while you shiver and complain.

Katsuki is used to this life. He fucking loves it, even. He wants it for the rest of his days. He wants you tangled up in his space, threading yourself through every corner of his existence, and he wants the comfort of knowing the next day will look the same.

So he’s going to marry you. He’s got it all figured out.

Raccoon Eyes helped him pick the ring—it’s exactly what you’d want, according to her. Apparently, she has access to the Pinterest board you’ve had for years. Ponytail Girl took you to get your nails done—something pretty and dainty and perfect for the photos. He was strictly warned not to propose unless your cuticles were in flawless condition. Pink Cheeks dragged you out to pick up a few new outfits, as if you didn’t already have enough clothes. Still, if Katsuki gets to see you in something new, he’s not about to complain. Flat-Face and Shitty-Hair even looked over his speech.

Well. It’s as close to a speech as he’s going to get. Katsuki doesn’t do stupid, sappy bullshit the way people insist he should. It wouldn’t be him. He’s going to tell you what matters off the top of his head—the things he’d never forget. He’s going to tell you that he loves you, and he’s not going to stop. That he’s going to take care of you no matter what. That you’re the only person on this planet who doesn’t drive him up a wall. That you’re worth keeping, worth never letting go of, so you better get used to it and just marry him already.

But since Kirishima insists that Katsuki at least go over the main points first, he sends the idiot a few bulleted outlines just to get him off his back.

More people than Katsuki would prefer already know that this is going to happen. It was supposed to be just Kirishima and Mina, and that was it. Kirishima simply because—well, the annoying bastard is decent enough at advice when it comes to this kind of thing, so Katsuki allows it. Mina simply because he needed someone to approve the ring, and he sure as hell wasn’t going shopping with his hag of a mother.

But the pink-haired fucking gossip ends up running her mouth, and suddenly, everyone comes to him with an opinion of their own.

She’ll be mortified if you let her get engaged with bare nails! 

You can’t let her repeat an outfit for the pictures. They have to be special!

Kirishima says you’re gonna wing your proposal??? C’mon, man, you have to plan what you’re going to say, you gotta make this good!

Katsuki has put a lot into these plans. Took you to that resort across the globe you’ve always wanted to visit, planned out your nails and outfit to match so that the pictures come out flawless, practiced the stupid speech that he didn’t need with Kirishima and Sero against his will, and he’s going to make this proposal good. Better than good. The greatest. Because that’s what he does—he does things the best, and it’s going to stay that way because that’s what you deserve. 

The fucking best that he’s got. 

“Baby,” you pull away from his lips, holding a hand to stop him when he leans back in for more. He grumbles when you do, displeased, and you laugh as you murmur, “As much as I would love to shower with you forever, we have places to be.”

“Yeah, and we got all day to be places,” he insists, hands wandering past your bare hips, grabbing a handful of your ass, and squeezing. 

“You said we’d explore,” you whine, “and I wanna do it before all the other people get there and busy everything up!”

“I’ll shove ‘em out the way,” he offers, grinning when you giggle. 

“Maybe some other time,” you snort, “maybe when you’re not in Japan’s top ten hero rankings and always land on the news. Then, maybe, I’ll entertain that lovely idea of yours.”

“Never let me have any fun,” he complains playfully, grinning as he leans back in to kiss you again. You kiss him back, and fuck—Katsuki wants to be here forever. He never wants summer to end, and he wants this for the rest of his damn days. 

He almost wonders if retiring this young is a plausible option for him when you slip your tongue into his mouth and run it against his. 

His cock is half hard already—he can feel the way it presses against you, and you move your thigh, bringing it up to rub against him and make him groan. He rolls his hips for a moment, grinding against your skin as he grows to full hardness. He doesn’t have to touch you to know that you’re dripping between your legs, not because of the shower but because of him. And he takes a little bit of pride in that. In knowing that just him and his lips on yours is enough to turn you into a pliant, needy mess in his arms. 

“Katsuki,” you try to warn. 

“Jus’ let me have my fun,” he smirks, “you know you want it. We have time.”

—————

The shower takes a bit longer than expected. But not too long—you and Katsuki are still on schedule for the day he’s planned, so he’s not worried. 

You’re still in the bathroom getting ready when Katsuki is getting dressed. He grins to himself at the thought of you doing your makeup and dolling yourself up just for him. He’s going to kiss you senseless with that lip gloss of yours smeared all over his mouth once you let him slide the ring he picked onto your finger.

He reaches into the pocket of the last pair of pants he wore to grab the small box that currently holds the most valuable thing he owns. His old hag of a mother nagged him not to keep it on him like that—that he’d lose it, or accidentally expose it, or absentmindedly throw it through the wash. He doesn’t listen, of course. Mainly because he never listens to the hag, but also because he refuses to keep that ring anywhere but within reach of his own two hands. He needs to know it’s there at all times or he’ll lose his damn mind.

So, like he always does, he grabs yesterday’s pants and reaches into the right pocket, ready to move the familiar velvet box into the pocket of the pair he’s wearing now.

Except when he reaches in, the pocket is empty. He stills. His pocket is fucking empty. 

No, it isn’t, he thinks, trying to keep a level head—it’s in there. Of course, it is. There’s nowhere else it’ll be, so he just needs to check again. His fingers sweep through the pocket again, slower this time, then harder, pressing into the seams as if the box might be tucked into some hidden corner of fabric. Some secret pocket within his pocket that was always there, and he just never noticed. 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Katsuki curses under his breath and checks the left pocket. Then the back pockets. Then he turns every single pocket he’s got inside out. Then he gives the pants a sharp, thorough shake like his life depends on it.

Nothing. Still absolutely fucking nothing.

From the bathroom, you’re still humming softly to yourself, the faucet running for a moment before clicking off. Your makeup bag zips open, then shut. You’re completely, blissfully unaware of his growing dilemma. 

His pulse spikes so hard it feels like there’s an explosion behind his ribs.

No. No, no, no. He had it. He confidently knows he had it. Last night, before bed, he checked for it—just like he always checks for it. He remembers the shape of the box against his palm. Remembers putting the pants over the chair. Did he take it out? No. He wouldn’t do that. Would he? Did he? He can’t think straight, his mind a busy swarm of worst-case scenarios and nightmare possibilities. 

“Babe?” you call through the bathroom door. “Is my lip gloss in my purse? Can you check? I don’t think it’s in my bag.”

Shit. The last thing he needs right now is you coming out while he searches for this fucking ring that he knows he had in this room as of last night before bed. Where the hell could it have gone within the few hours he slept? It’s a ring. Sure, weird and unnatural things happen—he causes explosions at will with his palms, for crying out loud, but it’s a damn ring. Weird and unnatural enough things do not happen that his ring could have grown legs and run off. 

“No!” The answer comes out far too loud. He cringes when he hears his own voice and clears his throat. “No, baby, s’not here. Keep lookin’.”

Silence for a beat. Then, “Um...okay?”

Katsuki drops to the floor and looks under the bed. Nothing but dust and an old pair of slippers from previous guests. He checks beneath the chair, under the dresser, behind the nightstand. He yanks the sheets half off the mattress, searching for the familiar sight of velvet that he knows deep in his heart is not going to be there, lying between wrinkled sheets.

But he checks anyway, and sure enough, nothing. His breathing turns shallow.

“Babe, I found my lip gloss,” you call, “right under my nose, too. It was in the bag that I was looking. I think I’m going crazy.”

“That’s good, baby,” he says, not paying proper attention, “you wear that gloss.”

If only he could find what he’s looking for, too—he really will go crazy if he doesn’t. 

Maybe it fell in the suitcase. That has to be it—right? He lunges for the luggage, unzipping it so fast that the zipper almost rips right off from his force. Clothes get flung over his shoulder in frantic handfuls—shirts, pants, socks, boxers, toiletries, charger cords. Still no box. From the bathroom comes the pop of a makeup compact closing. You’re still humming, still taking your sweet time as you get ready, and he really hopes that you’ll take a long fucking time today. He’ll never, ever complain about you taking long ever again if you just take as much time as you need today, of all days, when he needs you to, for once. He needs you to continue having no clue that the single most important object in his life has apparently vanished into thin air.

Katsuki straightens, hands flying to his chest as he tries to force air into his lungs. 

Think, moron, he says to himself in his head. He had it yesterday. He fucking knows he had it yesterday. He paid for lunch and felt it in his pocket after. He felt for it in the elevator on your way back to your room. He felt for it before bed. He always checks every chance he gets.

So it has to be here. It has to be.

It has to be, because if he somehow lost the ring meant for you—the same ring he spent months choosing, the same ring he’s supposed to slide onto your finger today—he might actually tear this entire hotel room apart with his bare hands, floor by floor, room by room, until he finds what’s his.

“Katsuki?” you call again, a little concerned this time as you hear him rummage around. “You okay out there?”

He stares at the disaster zone already forming around him, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“Fine, sweetheart,” he forces out. “Just couldn’t find my watch, s’all.” Then he drops to his knees and starts searching the floor all over again.

“Lost something too, huh? Feels like everything’s going missing today,” you laugh from the bathroom. 

No kidding, he almost says. And then, because apparently the universe needs to hate him more than it already does, the bathroom door clicks open.

Katsuki’s head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

You step out looking beautiful—you are so, so painfully beautiful. You and your pretty new outfit with those pretty little nails and those pretty lips that are glossy exactly the way he’d imagined they’d be when he’d get to kiss them. You look so perfect, so ready to be asked to be his wife—and yet, here he is. No ring, and his plans all but turned upside down.

Your gaze drifts over the room he’s practically destroyed, glancing at the overturned suitcase, the sheets half-hanging off the bed, the clothes strewn across the mattress, the pockets of his pants from last night inside out, the drawers wide open, and Katsuki crouched on the floor near the nightstand with his expression looking like he is one second away from going unconscious.

You blink once. Then twice. Then you walk over to him.

“Oh no,” you say, frowning, “you still didn’t find your watch?”

He rises to his feet so quickly that it almost makes his head spin. “Nah. Got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup. Nothing to worry about.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Then why were you on the floor?”

“I was stretching.”

“Katsuki.”

“Just warmin’ up and getting my blood flowing—what’s so weird about that?”

“Warming up for what, exactly?”

“For the day,” he says, giving you his best face that says, isn’t it obvious? Like you asked a stupid question, and you’re the one who’s being weird. 

You stare at him for a long, silent moment, then glance down at his empty wrist that most definitely doesn’t have the watch he claims to have found. He wants to kick himself—you’re seeing right through his frantic lie. 

“Okay…” you say slowly, “so then why aren’t you wearing your watch if you found it, Katsuki?”

His eye twitches, and his jaw grits, and he just really wants to go home if he’s being honest. Summer is over. It’s ruined. There’s no going back from this, so he might as well just give up for now. He’ll try again next year—he’ll be more prepared and listen to his old hag of a mother for once and swallow his pride to admit she was right. All he wants to do is just go home and sleep for a week and forget this whole thing ever happened. 

“You sure are askin' a lotta questions this morning,” he says tightly.

You take a few slow steps toward him, studying his face. He knows he looks awful—that you’ll see right through him and his cracking composure. His jaw is tight. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. His breathing is just slightly off. He’s avoiding looking directly at you, which alone is enough to tell you something is deeply wrong. And you know him better than anyone. Usually, he’s grateful for it—but sometimes, at times like this, he couldn’t hate it more. 

You see right through him. 

“Katsuki.” Your voice softens. “What happened?”

“Nothing fucking happened. Who said anything happened?”

“Something definitely happened.”

“Nothing happened,” he repeats, firmer this time. “I’m fine. Room’s gonna be fine—room service’ll clean it. Everything’s fine. We’re leavin’ in five.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you argue, giving him a rather defiant look. He knows that look—that look that’s as stubborn as he is himself. You’re not going to drop this. 

“I’m not lying—”

“You are. Bakugou Katsuki, don’t take me for a fool, you hear? I’m not an idiot, so just tell me what’s going on, or I’m not leaving this hotel room.”

He rubs a hand down his face and turns away from you before you can see the panic written all over him. The despair. The heartbreak, truly—he’s absolutely devastated. If he leaves this vacation without the certainty that you’re going to be his wife, he thinks he might not even live long enough to make it to next summer so that he can try again. He’ll die of heart failure before then.

And it has to be summer. He refuses to go back home and squeeze some proposal into a random weekend just for the hell of it. It has to be perfect. It has to be meticulously planned. It has to be your favorite season, with the best plans and flawless execution. It has to be everything you deserve and more. It has to happen when the two of you can actually celebrate it together—not spend one night happy only to be thrown right back into your whirlwind lives the next morning with patrol this and extra lessons that.

And he was so close—so fucking close to making it happen. 

You’re here, you’re dressed, you’re absolutely perfect, and you’re ready to go. But he doesn’t have the ring. How could he be so useless that he couldn’t even keep a single ring safe? 

This is the most helpless he’s ever felt—the moment he’s been planning for months is slipping right through his fingers like sand. The reservation he made. The beach spot he picked out. The speech he definitely did not need and definitely did not rehearse in the shower like a fucking loser. Every part of today has been planned down to the second, and now he can’t even follow his perfect plan because he doesn’t have the one thing that matters.

You know him well, and just like he figured you would, you’ve pieced together that something is seriously wrong as you move closer, voice gentler now. “Hey. Kats, look at me.”

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t say anything. Your hand grabs his and tugs him towards you as you hug him from behind, rubbing up and down his abdomen in that soothing way that you always do. He melts against his will. 

“Katsuki. Baby.”

He slumps back and sighs.“What?”

“You’re scaring me a little.”

That makes him deflate even more. “Don’t be scared. S’nothing to worry over.”

“Well, I always worry over you, and I especially worry when you leave our hotel room a disaster scene,” you poke his belly. 

He still says nothing.

Your voice softens impossibly more. “Baby...just tell me what’s wrong. We can figure it out together—I’ll buy you a new watch if that’s what you’re sad over. It’s a watch! I know you liked it, but hey—material possessions are temporary, okay?”

“S’not the watch,” he mumbles.

“Then what is it? Tell me.”

For a fleeting second, he almost does. He almost tells you and just gets it off his chest, almost blurts the whole thing out, almost says: I lost your ring. I lost the ring I was gonna propose with, and I ruined everything. You’d know what to do. You’d make it better. You’d fix it like you always do. But he doesn’t want you to fix it—he wants to make things good for you, for once. You’re always fixing his fucking mistakes. Always dealing with his disasters and dealing with his nonsense. Katsuki knows he’s not easy to deal with. He knows you’re a saint for putting up with him. So he sighs, ready to swallow down the words, tell you everything is fine, and make sure you have a good time tonight—and for the rest of this trip, too, for that matter. 

“S’nothing, okay? C’mon, we have a good time ahead of us—I’m one hell of a planner, baby,” he says as he turns, pulls you into his arms, throws on his best smug grin, and kisses your forehead. 

—————

Katsuki is lying to you. 

You know that he is. When you come out of the bathroom and see your hotel room an absolute mess, you know something weird is up. Katsuki hates messes—hates when something is out of place for longer than five minutes. He grumbles about your stray hoodies thrown about the apartment and the way you have so many pillows on the bed just to toss them to the floor when you get ready to sleep. He huffs when you don’t clean as you cook and save everything for the end, messing up the kitchen to make one meal. He gives you a flat look when you have empty coffee cups in the cup holders of your car and throws them all away himself with an exasperated shake of his head. 

Katsuki hates messes. He’s not messing up your room, then leaving it a mess without cleaning up unless something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.

But he won’t tell you. You know he won’t tell you until he decides that he can, and sometimes, he might even decide that it will never happen. Getting Katsuki to tell you anything before he decides to is like pulling teeth—except you’ve never met such a stubborn fucking tooth that won’t budge. 

When he tells you, S’nothing, okay?, and turns around to give you a kiss on your forehead as if that will just make you forget, you’re mildly insulted. But he’s on vacation, too—he’s on the rare time off that he lets himself take once a year for a week and a half at most, and you want it to be good for him. Need it to be good for him. You need him to have a good time and enjoy himself because summer, with you, is the one time he lets himself be selfish and do what he wants. He ignores phone calls and emails, and he even sleeps in after staying up late. 

You know he’s lying, but you decide if that will keep him happy, if just for a week and a half, then you’ll let him lie and hide the truth and forget about whatever it is that’s got him so panicked. 

“You’re sure it’s nothing?” You kiss his jaw. 

He relaxes, shoulders slumping as you drop it. “Yeah, I’m sure. Now let’s go. You look hot, by the way—m’gonna rip that skirt right off’a you when we get back.”

“Don’t even think about it,” you huff, “Ochako spent a long time planning this outfit. She’ll be so sad if it doesn’t make it back.”

Ochako has never been so particular about your outfits before—you’ve never shopped with her at such fancy stores, either. She is never one to spend money on excessively expensive things, but for some unknown reason, she’d insisted that your dream vacation spot requires just as dreamy of a wardrobe, and you let her entertain her whims. A part of you wonders if it’s because she’d never dare take herself on such a nice trip or wear such nice clothes even if her paycheck now more than allows it of her, so you let it happen for the sake of allowing your friend to indulge a little, even if it’s not for herself. 

Katsuki huffs out a rather strained chuckle at your comment. “Leave it to Pink Cheeks to ruin my fuckin’ fun,” he grumbles. But he’s distracted. You can tell. “She hangs out with that nerd too much.”

You’re just about to correct him for what feels like the millionth time over the years—their names are Ochaco and Izuku, Katsuki. You’ve known them long enough to get it right by now. 

But then your eyes focus on the floor behind him at something. Your blood runs cold when you squint and get a better look—because if you’re not mistaken, and you’re pretty sure you aren’t, you’re looking directly at a tiny velvet box half-hidden beneath the edge of the dresser.

Your eyes flick from the box to the inside-out pockets on the pants that lay about. To the overturned suitcase. To the half-stripped bed. To the sweat at his temples. To the look in his eyes that feels like the world is ending over something he refuses to tell you about. And then back to the small velvet box peeking out from beneath the dresser. 

You have a sick feeling you know exactly what’s in the box—and suddenly, it all feels so…so obvious. How did you ever miss it? The way Yaomomo insisted on getting your nails done together. How she insisted on picking for you what to get, on matching your nails to hers—oh please, let’s just match this once together! The way Mina seemed so interested in your rings, trying them on as she rummaged through your jewelry and asked, oh my gosh, I think we’re the same size…what’s your ring size? The way Ochako grabbed your hands and stared at your nails as she’d complimented them with such satisfaction before planning your outfit accordingly—you have to have at least one fancy outfit for the trip, don’t you think?

Everything clicks into place so suddenly, it almost leaves you breathless.

The way he’s so panicked. The way he tore your room upside down. The way, even before all of that, he insisted on this trip being so carefully planned. 

Oh—it hits you all at once. Oh. 

Your heart gives one hard, dizzying thud against your chest. Then it starts pounding so loudly, your ears feel like they’re ringing. 

Katsuki is talking, saying something about how you need to grab a jacket and the air will be chilly when the sun sets at the beach, and he’s not going to share his like he always does this time. “Hey,” he huffs, “are you even listening—”

You step around him quietly, paying him no mind. He stops mid-sentence, brows knitting as he watches you crouch near the dresser. Your fingers reach beneath the edge of the wood and come back holding the little velvet box. And just like that, silence drops over the room—his words cut off mid-sentence. 

Katsuki goes completely still.

You straighten slowly, box cradled gently in your palm like something fragile and delicate. Like the wind will blow it away if you’re not careful. Like you can’t bear to lose this one thing you’re holding. His face drains of color as it pales, and his shoulders sag as if someone cut the strings holding him upright.

For the first time since you’ve known Bakugou Katsuki, for the first time in the years and years you’ve loved him and seen him through every lens and angle possible, he looks utterly, completely, spectacularly defeated.

You glance at the room again—at the chaos, the evidence of a frantic search, the proof of how badly he’d been spiraling trying to find this box that he’d been carrying around for you. Then you look back at him. At your Katsuki—your angry, grouchy, gruff Katsuki who loves you so carefully, so delicately, so effortlessly, he teaches you a whole new side of love that you never knew of. 

Your chest aches with fondness, and your eyes feel that familiar sting at the back of them that you try to fight back. 

You take a step closer, voice quiet as you murmur, “Kats...” Another step. One more. He’s stiff, and his jaw is clenched as he keeps his gaze fixed on the box in your hands. You lift the box slightly between you. “Is this what you were looking for?”

His eyes close as he lets out a shaky breath. A rough exhale leaves him through his nose, and you’ve never quite heard him sound so helpless. 

“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely, rubbing his temple. “I…fuck—yeah, sweetheart. That’d be it.”

You fight back a watery smile. “It was under the dresser.”

“I can see that.”

“I think you were too frazzled and missed it.”

“I’m painfully aware.”

“It’s okay—it happens to the best of us, baby. We all lose things.”

His eyes crack open into a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You wanna keep rubbin’ it in or are you done?”

You can’t help it—you laugh softly, stepping into his personal space and bringing a hand against his chest, rubbing slow circles. His heartbeat is still pounding wildly beneath your palm.

“You were planning to propose?”

He looks away immediately. “No. Who the fuck said that—you see a box and think I’m gonna get on my knees for you? Don’t get so confident—”

“Katsuki.”

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Can’t you just let me have this? Fuck—yes, I was going to propose. Happy? Wanna hear my speech too, just so you’re in the loop?”

“I mean, if you’re offering,” you shrug playfully.

His head slumps forward to your shoulder as he hugs you close. Hugs you tight and close like the proximity is the only thing keeping him together. “Be quiet.”

You turn your head and kiss his temple, letting him stay like that for a few moments before stepping away. Before he can protest as you pull back, you lift his hand and place the small box carefully into it, curling his fingers around it.

“Here,” you murmur. “I found your watch.”

“What the fuck are you saying—”

“Put your watch on and hurry up, we’re already twenty minutes behind schedule, and you said we have lots to do before our dinner reservation.”

You turn on your heel, stepping over the clothes on the floor like they’re not even there. Behind you, there’s a long stretch of silence. Then, “...You cannot be serious.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s still standing where you left him, the velvet box clenched in one hand, staring at you as if you’ve grown two heads.

“What now?” you give him a flat look.

He gives you a look right back. “There’s no point in actin’ like it’s still a surprise, idiot.”

You blink, looking almost convincingly confused. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrow as he scoffs. “Don’t start this shit.”

He’s pocketing the ring, though. That dejected look on his face is gone and…and you would almost dare to say he’s fighting back a grin as he walks over to you. You reach for your perfume and spritz your wrists as you hum, “I’m not starting anything. Anyway, do I look okay?”

“Woman, you can’t be real.”

“Katsuki, I’m being very real.” You mimic right back, smiling sweetly at him as you gesture to your outfit. “How do I look?”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Beautiful. You fucking know that—you make everyone else look hideous.”

“Maybe we don’t have to put others down when you compliment me,” you scold.

“I’m just telling it like it is,” he snickers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against him as he kisses you. Hard. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Your lips on his, your body against him, and your head cradled in his palms. You bring your hands up to bury into his unruly tufts of hair, and in a few hours, there will be a cool, metal band on one of the fingers that so regularly tangles into his hair. 

You can hardly wait.

“You’re wasting time,” you breathe as you pull away, lip gloss smeared against your lips and his, “Now we’re twenty-five minutes behind schedule.”

“Then move it, smartass. We’re burnin’ daylight,” he says, and when he drags you through the doors and takes you outside, when the sun hits his skin and his eyes meet yours, you think about how it’s summer. You like it when it’s summer. 

Summer is when Katsuki is going to ask you to be his wife, and summer is when you will say yes. Summer is when you’re going to spend the rest of your life with Bakugou Katsuki.

“i’m not even ‘even’—ing — i’m just... surprised. the hell do you do on all those dates you go on?”

“i told you,” you half shrug, your gaze avoiding his, “i just talk and stuff.”

“see,” he rolls his eyes, tsking lightly, “when someone says ‘and stuff,’ it makes you think they’re having sex.“

the blush across your cheeks intensifies, the back of your neck practically on fire at this point. “i… i’m not doing that either, you weirdo,” you stammer. “what i mean is what i say, you know that.”

he shrugs, yet there's something very thoughtful in his expression now. “i guess i just didn’t know how strong your commitment to honesty was.”

“what does that mean?”

“i just… i dunno,” he shrugs again, “i thought you had game.”

“i have game,” you scoff, “i’m just waiting... for the right person.”

he takes pause. “who’s that?”

“who’s what?”

“the right person.”

“i don’t know,” you mutter, “guess when i’ll meet them i’d know.”

another silence falls between you, this one thicker than before. his mouth opens to speak, before closing, and then opening again.

“what if they’re like...” he cuts himself off with a sigh, “...ah, nevermind.”

you tilt your head, curiosity cutting through your nerves. “like what?”

“like… right in front of you.”

you blink.

“...katsuki?”

“i'm sorry,” he mumbles out quickly, moving to stand, “i don't— just forget it...”

“no, katsuki, please— wait,” you reach out to him, your hand landing on his wrist. you take a breath before continuing, mind grappling to make sense of it all. “are you saying you... like me? like...like me?”

his leg bounces. “yeah,” he admits after a beat, voice lower now, like he’s forcing the words out before he can talk himself out of it, “of course i do. but i get if you don't see me that way—”

“no, no—” you reassure, shaking your head, “i do. i do.”

upon hearing your requital, katsuki swallows thickly. after all these years of pining for you in silence, trying to convince himself to just give up his pointless crush, the words leaving your tongue couldn't sound any sweeter. he glances at you again, eyes flicking to your lips before snapping back up, a flicker of nerves flashing across his face as temptation begins to gnaw at him.

“what... what are you doing?” you find yourself whispering as he leans closer.

“can i kiss you?” he murmurs, “please?”

it feels like your heart may nearly burst out your chest at the question. before you can over think it, you nod.

surprisingly, the lips of your best friend are soft as they brush against yours. the kiss is brief, nervous, barely more than a peck, and nothing like the confident katsuki you know, and yet it manages to send a shock straight down your spine all the same. that being said, it surprises you both when your hands find the collar of his shirt in order to pull him back in for another, and even more when the rush of gravity sends the two of you tumbling down onto the floor.

as the kiss intensifies— teeth clashing, tongues exploring, gasps and moans filling the air, it nearly feels like the newly-discovered jaws of passion might consume you whole. you barely clock the hard on in katsuki's pants pressing against your thigh in the heat of it all — too distracted with how naturally his hands entangle themself into your hair — until he pulls away from you with a groan, the weight's absence discernibly missed as he rests his forehead against yours.

still, you don't bring awareness to it, too busy trying to catch your breath. “i...wow...” you manage, wiping your chin of drool with the back of your hand. “is it always like that?”

he shakes his head, clearing his throat with a rough sound. “it's never been that good for me,” he rasps, before a passing thought crosses his mind, “definitely could be better though.”

“better?”

with half-lidded eyes, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s still weighing how much to say out loud. eventually he exhales, the sound quiet and decisive.

“…fuck it,” he mutters under his breath.

carefully, his hands slide down your sides, before settling at your hips— the movement more hesitant than sure, intent on giving you every chance to pull away, yet the question is clear, even if unsaid.

can i fuck you?

“oh,” you mumble, your mouth feeling desert-dry while a heat began to pool low in your core. “i... do you have a condom?”

katsuki nods feverishly, thumbs moving to hook through your shorts' belt loops in order to tug them down. “we're not gonna need that for a while though.”

“w-we're not?"

for the first time tonight, you finally see that familiar smirk spread across his face. you've always said he's had the weirdest humor. and yet, you watch attentively as he lowers his mouth to press a soft kiss to your navel, and then to the lips of your cotton-clad pussy— the fabric positively soaked with arousal now.

“don't cover your eyes, okay?"

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The door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall.

“—ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

You whirl around, eyes blazing. “Don’t start with me, Katsuki.”

But he’s already storming into the room like a bomb on legs, ash still smeared across his arms, black tank top clinging to sweat and dried blood. His gauntlets hit the floor with a clang, hard enough to rattle the lamp on the side table. It topples and shatters, neither of you flinch.

“You went in without backup,” he snarls, voice thunderous, pointing a finger at your chest. “You disobeyed my orders. You got caught, and I had to—!”

“You think I wanted you to come save me?”

“Yes!”

Your fists clench. “I had it handled.”

“You were bleeding out!”

“So were you!”

Bakugo crosses the distance in two strides. His hand slams down on the table next to you, knocking a glass to the ground. It explodes on impact. Neither of you look at it.

“I told you not to run in alone. You don’t listen, you never fucking listen—”

“And you don’t trust me!”

The words hang there, hot and sharp and aching.

For a second, silence.

His chest is heaving. Your shoulders are squared, eyes shining with more than fury.

“Maybe I don’t,” he says, low and lethal. “Not when you act like a goddamn suicidal idiot.”

You shove him.

He doesn’t move.

You shove him again, harder this time, your palms flat against his chest. “Fuck you, Katsuki.”

He grins, wide and mean. “You wish.”

You don’t even realize you’ve grabbed the half-full glass off the counter until it smashes against the wall behind him, water and shards exploding like fireworks. He dodged it, of course. Smirking.

Then he’s on you.

You’re slammed into the wall so hard the air punches from your lungs. His mouth crushes yours, wild and furious, all teeth and heat and hate me then fucking take me. You yank his hair, and he groans loud, feral. One hand pins your wrists above your head, the other is already under your shirt, dragging it upward like it offended him.

Clothes rip. You don’t even remember how yours came off. His pants hit the floor. You bite his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he hisses, lips dragging over your neck with open-mouthed heat.

“You think you can pull that reckless shit and just—what—walk it off?” he growls against your skin, voice ragged as his hips press into yours. “You fucking scared me.”

You laugh. “You fucking like it.”

“I hate it.”

“I hate you,” you spit, shoving him again with every ounce of strength you have left.

He doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he grins.

Arms of iron wrap around your waist, and you writhe, fists pounding weakly at his chest. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

His breath is fire against your jaw. “You sure?”

“I said—”

But he cuts you off with a kiss that feels like it’s meant to bruise. Like he wants to brand your mouth. Teeth clash. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, yanking, punishing.

He hisses between clenched teeth. “Fucking do it again.”

So you do, grabbing a fistful of blond and pulling hard. He groans, deep and rough, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You hate that it does. You hate that he knows it too.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” you pant against his mouth.

“And you’re full of shit,” he growls, biting your bottom lip until you gasp. “You come back bloodied and expect me not to lose my fucking mind?”

“I didn’t ask you to care.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Then he lifts you like it’s nothing, like you’re weightless in those stupidly strong arms and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, back hitting the wall with a solid thud. His body presses into yours, every muscle flexed, every inch of him coiled like a spring.

“You pissed me off so bad,” he mutters against your collarbone. “And now I gotta fuck it out of both of us.”

Your head knocks lightly against the wall from the force, but you don’t care.

His grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging into flesh, hard enough to bruise. You rake your nails down his back in response, sharp enough to leave angry red lines in your wake. He growls and bites your shoulder, not gently. Not tender.

You hiss, then laugh, breathless. “You fight like a brute. You fuck like one too.”

He pulls back just enough to glare at you, wild-eyed and flushed. “You want gentle?” His voice is low, sharp with mockery. “Go find someone soft enough to beg for it. I’m not him.”

“I know,” you snap, tugging his hair hard enough to tilt his head back. “You’re just a rabid dog with something to prove.”

“And you’re just a fucking mess with a death wish,” he snarls, slamming his mouth back to yours like he’s punishing you for saying it or maybe for being right.

It’s not a kiss. It’s war. Teeth clashing. Lips bruising. Every scrape of his tongue is a challenge; every drag of your nails across his scalp is a threat.

You bite down on his lip. He rips your head back by the roots of your hair, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Do that again,” he rasps, panting. “I dare you.”

You smile, bloody-mouthed and mean. “Make me.”

He throws you onto the couch so hard the cushions split beneath you. You scramble up like you’re ready to claw back into the fight but he’s already on you, dragging you down by the hips. His palm lands on your ass, open and stinging, and you yelp, half from shock, half from how fast heat spreads from the impact.

“Still mouthing off?” he pants, watching you with something dark and vicious in his eyes. “Keep going.”

You snarl, writhing beneath him. “Harder, coward.”

He delivers. Again. And again. Each slap sharp, brutal, driving the air from your lungs and the breath from your insults. Your fingers curl in the fabric beneath you, your thighs shake with rage and something far more dangerous.

“I fucking hate you,” you spit, eyes glassy, face flushed.

“Good,” he says, dragging his teeth over your throat. “Makes it easier.”

Then he sinks his teeth in hard and you let him, shuddering. 

His laugh is breathless, teeth bared like a wolf in heat. “You like that, huh?” he pants, dragging the head of his cock along your soaked slit, slow just to be cruel. “You like when I treat you like an insane fuckin’ bitch?”

You bare your teeth at him. “You are insane.”

He laughs, low and wild, like the sound is tearing out of his throat. “And you’re fucking wet for it.”

Then he slams into you.

No breath between the words. Just the stretch, the burn, the searing crack of your body locking around him like it’s trying to kill him back.

Your head jerks back, a sharp cry escaping before you bite it down. He watches every twitch of your face with something close to triumph, savage and mean.

“Yeah,” he pants, rolling his hips, deep and ruthless. “Not so loud now, huh?”

You glare at him through your teeth. “You call this fucking?”

His smirk flashes, teeth sharp. “You wanna see fucking?”

He pulls out halfway and drives back in, hard enough to rattle the damn frame. You yelp, clawing at his shoulders, nails digging deep. He groans, but doesn’t slow.

Every thrust is brutal. Like he’s trying to erase your spine from the inside out.

“You piss me off,” he grits, voice ragged, “and then you look at me like that—like you want me to ruin you.”

“I do,” you snap, gasping as he slams into you again. “I want you to wreck me so bad I forget your fucking name.”

He growls and flips you, yanking you up to your knees. Your cheek presses to the shredded cushion. His fingers knot in your hair, yanking your head back, your spine bowed and helpless.

“You won’t forget shit.”

He fucks into you from behind, rough and unrelenting, your thighs shaking, breath catching on every impact. One hand fists in your hair, the other grips your hip so tight it might leave a bruise in the shape of his palm. You hope it does.

“You’ll feel me tomorrow,” he snarls. “Every. Fucking. Step.”

You moan, angry, desperate, and shove your hips back harder.

“Harder,” you hiss, nearly sobbing with the force of it.

“Oh, now you’re begging?” he taunts, laughing dark. “What happened to all that mouth?”

“Still got it,” you bite out. “You just haven’t fucked it shut yet.”

His hand tangles tighter in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arches and your lips part on instinct. He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Then open wide, baby,” he whispers, feral. “Lesson ain’t over.”

His hand slips between your thighs, rough fingers finding your clit like it owes him something. The pressure is brutal, not teasing or soft. Just raw friction, unrelenting and purposeful.

You jolt forward, a strangled sound ripping from your throat.

“Shut up,” he mutters, voice like gravel in your ear. “You act like you don’t want it, but you’re fuckin’ soaked.”

You claw at the cushions, breath coming in sharp gasps. “You’re all bark, Katsuki. All fucking bark.”

He laughs cruel. “That so?”

He thrusts harder, fingers still working you with vicious precision, and your body bucks, involuntary, your teeth sinking into your arm just to stop yourself from making noise. It doesn’t help. 

“Ohhh, that’s what shuts you up,” he breathes. “You’re trying so hard not to fucking scream.”

Your whole body is trembling, fury tangled with need, molten heat pooling low and dangerous. You hate how close you are. Hate that it’s him.

He leans down, tongue dragging along the side of your neck before he bites, just hard enough to hurt. His hips keep slamming into yours like he’s trying to drive the point home with every stroke.

“I’m gonna make you come so hard you see stars,” he growls, breath hot against your ear. “And you’re still gonna call me a fucking bastard after.”

He stays buried in you for a beat longer, hips grinding deep, panting like he’s run ten miles and is still starving. Then he pulls out with a hiss, glancing down at the mess between your thighs like it’s proof he won.

“You’re not done,” he growls, voice sharp as a blade.

Then he drops onto the couch, legs spread, chest heaving, sweat gleaming down his neck and crooks two fingers at you.

“Get the fuck on top of me.”

You glare at him. Wrung out. But your pride’s not dead yet.

“I don’t take orders.”

“You do from me.”

Your legs are shaking. Your thighs are soaked. But you stalk over anyway, because the only thing worse than letting him win is backing down now.

He watches you climb into his lap like it’s the fucking main event. His hands settle on your hips firm and bruising but he doesn’t guide you.

No. He waits.

Because he wants to see you do it yourself. Wants to watch you break yourself open on him.

And you do.

With a low hiss, you sink down, inch by inch, back arching as the stretch hits all over again. His head drops back against the couch with a growl, fingers digging in, but he still doesn’t move.

“Go on,” he pants. “Show me how much you hate me.”

You ride him like it’s punishment. Like every thrust is a slap, every grind a spit in the face. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your teeth bare, breath coming in ragged gasps as you fuck him the only way you know how, hard. Desperate.

His mouth is everywhere, teeth on your throat, tongue on your collarbone, lips dragging over the sweat on your skin like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

“You look so fucking good,” he mutters, voice hoarse. 

You moan. You hate it.

“Say it,” he pants, hand coming up to grip your jaw. “Say you want me.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Wrong answer.”

He slaps your ass sharp and stinging. You gasp, riding him harder in retaliation and he groans, eyes rolling back for half a second before they snap back to yours.

You grip his hair and yank, hard enough to make him snarl.

“Look at you,” you sneer, rolling your hips slow and cruel just to feel him twitch inside you. “All big and angry and leaking because I won’t shut the fuck up.”

His hands clamp on your hips instantly, bruising, fingers digging so hard it almost hurts, almost.

“You’re runnin’ that mouth real brave for someone sittin’ on my cock,” he growls, teeth flashing as he snaps his head forward again. “Keep talkin’. I dare you.”

You lean down, lips brushing his ear, voice slick and taunting. “What, gonna fuck me stupid about it?”

You grind down hard. “Too late.”

He snarls and bucks up into you, sudden and violent, making you gasp despite yourself. His grip tightens, locking you in place like you’re not goin’ anywhere.

“Say that shit again,” he rasps. “Say I don’t fuck you right.”

You laugh breathless, wrecked, and roll your hips again, slower this time, dragging it out just to be mean. “You fuck like you fight,” you pant. “Sloppy and desperate.”

He surges up, hands sliding up your back to fist in your hair, pulling you down to his mouth. Not a kiss, a bite. Teeth scraping your lip.

“Desperate?” he spits. “You’re the one shaking.”

You bare your teeth right back at him. “Because you don’t know when to quit.”

His laugh is low and vicious. “And you don’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

He slams up into you again, hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, and you curse loud, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Fucking—Katsuki—”

“Yeah, baby,” he pants, voice wrecked and raw, “say my name while I fuck the fight out of you.”

Your body arches, taut as a bowstring. Heat coils like a knife between your hips. He sees it and grabs your jaw again, forcing your eyes on his.

“You gonna come for me?” he demands, chest heaving. “After all that mouthing off—you’re gonna break on my cock?”

You shudder. “No.”

His hands slide lower, thumbs digging into the meat of your ass, spreading you, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“You’re gonna break your own rules ridin’ me like this,” he pants. “Talkin’ all that shit while you squeeze me like you’re scared I’ll disappear.”

You lean back, giving him a full view, flushed skin, heaving chest, defiant eyes. “If you disappear, I’ll just find someone who fucks harder.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes go dark.

“Say that again,” he says quietly. Dangerously.

You don’t hesitate. “You heard me.”

He snaps.

He thrusts up hard, again and again, forcing broken sounds out of you, hands locking you down like he’s punishing you for every word.

“Yeah?” he snarls between thrusts. “You gonna say that while you’re fuckin’ dripping all over me?”

You choke on a laugh, body trembling. “You love it.”

“I fucking hate it,” he growls, then bites your throat like he’s lying.

Your nails rake down his chest, leaving red marks, your hips snapping back harder to meet him. “You’re obsessed,” you pant. “Can’t even breathe without trying to ruin me.”

He grips your jaw again, forcing your eyes to his. His voice drops, filthy and raw.

“You let me,” he rasps. “You climb on me like this and still wanna pretend you don’t need it.”

You kiss him hard, all teeth, and whisper against his mouth, “Make me stop, then.”

His growl is feral.

He slams you down into the cushions, your spine arching from the force, and before you can spit another word, he’s on you, chest to chest, teeth bared, breath hot as a furnace.

One hand fists in your hair, the other pins your wrists above your head, holding them down with bruising force. His hips are relentless, snapping into yours over and over, no rhythm left, just rage and want and something else he won’t name.

“You think I can’t break you?” he snarls into your mouth. “You think I don’t know how to fucking ruin you?”

You glare at him, panting, flushed. “Try harder.”

His eyes flash like a livewire. “Oh, I am.”

He fucks into you harder and you feel it, in your bones, in your chest, in your throat where the scream is caught. His mouth crashes to yours again, not violent this time, but hungry. Starved. Like he’s been trying to hate you enough to forget how badly he wants you.

But he can’t.

And you feel it in every ragged thrust. Every stuttered breath. Every tightening grip.

“You’re still shaking,” you whisper, biting his bottom lip between words. “You’re fucking trembling.”

“So are you,” he growls, voice splintering.

His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and furious. His grip on your wrists loosens barely, just enough for your fingers to tangle in his hair again, tugging until he groans through his teeth.

“I can’t—” he pants, hips stuttering, “I can’t stop.”

You kiss him again, messy and wild, dragging his lip between your teeth.

“Then don’t.”

His whole body shudders like you just pulled the pin on him. He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged, moaning your name like it’s been torn from him. Not a slur. Not a curse. Just your name, desperate and guttural and real.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he rasps, voice raw against your skin. “You show up half-dead and still act like you don’t mean anything to me.”

You freeze.

The words crash into you harder than anything else tonight.

But he doesn’t stop. His hips grind deep, dragging you into the edge with him.

“I hate how bad I want you,” he mutters, like it’s a secret, like it’s a sin. “I hate how you look at me like you’re not scared of a damn thing.”

You breathe out wrecked, cracked open. “I’m not.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

His are shining. Not kind. Just fucking honest.

“I know,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. “That’s what scares me.”

Then you both break.

Together.

The tension snaps like a livewire as you come, back arching, hands twisting in his hair, lips parted in a breathless moan you can’t bite back anymore. He follows with a growl, voice hoarse as he spills inside you, hips pressed tight, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish the second he lets go.

His fingers trembling where they still clutch your skin.

“…fuck,” he mutters after a long moment, voice cracked and low. “You’re a goddamn nightmare.”

You huff a laugh, short and breathless. “Funny. I was just thinking you’re my worst habit.”

His grip tightens reflexively, not pulling you closer, just making sure you don’t go anywhere. “You don’t quit,” he says. It’s not an insult. It’s an admission.

“You don’t either,” you shoot back. “If you did, you wouldn’t look at me like that.”

His jaw flexes. “Like what.”

“Like you’re already mad about the next time I scare the hell outta you.”

A beat. Then a crooked, dangerous smile tugs at his mouth. “Damn right I am.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “So what, you gonna yell at me again?”

“Yeah.”

“Lose your mind?”

He exhales through his nose. “Every time.”

You smile soft, mean, inevitable. “Good.”

He snorts, then leans in, stopping just short of your lips. Close enough that you feel his breath. Close enough to dare you to pull away.

“You’re not allowed to disappear on me,” he says quietly. “You hear me.”

You don’t answer with words.

You close the distance.

The kiss isn’t rough. It isn’t gentle either. It’s slow and claiming, like a promise neither of you knows how to say out loud, mouths fitting together with the kind of certainty that pisses you both off.

When he pulls back, his forehead bumps yours.

“Mine,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s already settled.

You smirk. “Obsessed.”

“Yeah,” he replies, stealing one more quick kiss, sharp and sure. “You love it.”

You do.