karl :>

Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.

SEEKING CONNECTION

You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.

The ad you eventually submit reads:

Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you — I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.

You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.

Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.

You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.

Adore the way he smells—stale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.

And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.

You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.

Not because the love ran out, because he did.

John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longer—three weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes ‘I don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I know’.

And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.

Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.

Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.

That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.

You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.

You just want someone to see you again.

John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.

He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.

John reads it, and then again.

Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.

Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.

Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love with—the way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".

Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.

Discretion essential.

John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.

And he doesn't confront you.

Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulder—a habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.

Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.

The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.

I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, O’Malley’s on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. — J

Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.

You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistake—a stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.

But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick ‘Be back soon, love’ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.

You read the letter once more.

I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.

Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide you’re going.

Friday night. O’Malley’s.

You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the door—a habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.

You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried again—not the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.

You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.

When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.

You should, but you can’t, and you did say you’re married.

Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.

Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.

John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.

He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.

He spots you and your stomach plummets.

Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.

When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.

He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.

Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.

"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.

"John—"

"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."

You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.

"John, I can explain—"

"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"

Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.

"John."

"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expression—beneath the calm and the performance—that you can't quite read.

It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.

You take his hand, shake it weakly.

His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.

"So. Tell me about yourself."

You stare at him owlishly.

"I—I don't—" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we just—"

"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"

The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.

He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.

"I'm—" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'm—" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."

"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"

"Year four."

"Year four. That's—what, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."

The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.

"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fear—defiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"

"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.

"What branch?"

"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."

"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.

John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.

"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."

Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.

"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."

The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.

Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"

You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.

The second drink loosens something.

Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.

And John—your husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during films—is talking back.

He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.

John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.

He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.

"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.

"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."

"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughing—really laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creased—and for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.

You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.

Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.

His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.

"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yours—"

He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.

"—you probably should've taken this off first."

The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.

"John—"

"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadable—not angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."

Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going to—I would never have—"

"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."

The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.

"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn't—I was just—"

"Don't."

You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.

Guilt.

"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should've—" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and you—"

He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.

"—you shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."

The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.

"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.

"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."

You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.

"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.

John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."

You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.

It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.

Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took this—a dating ad and a Friday night charade—to put that look on your face.

You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.

You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.

You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.

The bathroom shrinks to nothing.

He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.

"John, what are you—"

He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.

His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.

You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.

"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.

"John—"

"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."

His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.

"John, we can't—We're in a pub—!"

"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fully—just leaves them there, tangled between your heels.

"Anyone could—"

"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"

You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.

"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."

His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.

"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."

He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.

"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."

He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.

"John—" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.

He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.

More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.

"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.

Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.

This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.

He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.

"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyes—which had screwed shut at some point—fly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.

The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.

"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."

You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.

He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.

"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know ‘m fucking my wife?"

You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.

"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."

A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.

The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.

"Christ—fuck—" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deep—so deep—and holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.

He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.

"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."

You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.

He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.

He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.

"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."

You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.

"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"

"John."

"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.

"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"

Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.

"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."

He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.

"That's my girl," he replies softly.

He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.

The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.

John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.

Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.

When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.

John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.

Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.

"I will do better."

No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.

You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.

"I know," you whisper against his mouth.

“also i think i’m swearing off dating. it was going perfect with one guy and then he breaks it off because he doesn’t want his business ending up on the podcast…. i haven’t even said anything about him!” you whine, “and now it just looks like i’m proving his point because i’m talking about it but i wouldn’t have if we were still dating.”

the text on the video screams, “YN SINGLE?!”

bakugou taps on your instagram. loads of clips from your podcast pops up. he finds the next video, the one after the last.

“well dms are open if any fine men are interested. when i say fine i mean fine. you also have to be able to keep up with me, handle a little joke,” you laugh.

and bakugou thinks about it for three days. watches more videos of you talking, your goofy opinions, your educated opinions, your real opinions. scrolls through your personal instagram too.

so he does it. he dms you on your instagram because he deems himself a fine man, he can handle a little joke and well, he likes you. a lot.

you’re funny and smart. articulate yourself well. very beautiful. hobbies on your instagram, full group of friends. well travelled and a homebody and social and he’s eager to know more.

@ dynamight: Are applications still open?

it’s fun, bakugou thinks. a good slide into your dms.

but you don’t reply for a week. he thinks he’s been completely ignored. clearly not interested in him and defo not your type. even though you’re both verified so you’ve definitely got the notification. bakugou takes it all on the chin. doesn’t mention it to anybody because it’s a little embarrassing. maybe it’s been buried from all the other dms you’ve received from men.

until he gets a video on his timeline. then the same video sent to him from three different friends.

the words are captioned loud and bold on the video. straight to the point and pure clickbait. well is it clickbait if it’s true? bakugou chokes on his spit, turning up the volume in his work bathroom.

“DYNAMIGHT IN THE DMS?”

“now guys… walk with me here. if you’re dynamight, thee bakugou katsuki, one of the sexiest men in the world, PLEASE don’t watch this clip. i can’t believe you’ve even seen clips of my pod. i swear this isn’t even me!” you ramble into your microphone, tucked up with your knees to your chest for a more casual episode. “okay guys, now that he’s gone, i’ve got to tell you… after last episode when i said can fine men send me dms, why the fuck did dynamight send me one? i was so shocked by it i still haven’t replied. i’ve avoided talking about him here because i do not want to be on that man’s radar. he’s way too gorgeous for me to comprehend.”

you giggle to yourself, “but he dmed me… something about are applications open? the boyfriend ones. now i can’t reply because ive just told everybody but there’s no way i pulled him.”

bakugou watches it leaning against the sink, three times. his smile gets bigger every second till he’s full on grinning at his phone.

you’re joking a little, entertainment for the podcast because you know you’re just as fine as him. though you don’t think your worlds would ever cross?

he decides to make another move.

@ dynamight: I think you’re gorgeous too

commented underneath the video.

an onslaught of likes and comments commence. mostly your fans giving a whole load of keyboard smashes and “yn is going to go insane”.

then he puts his phone down, washes up his hands and checks his appearance in the mirror. wipes his nose and what not.

but he gets lured to his phone again, picking it up and opening instagram to find you’ve replied to his comment.

@ ynpod: @ dynamight i swear i don’t share all my business online

"By two minutes," you replied evenly, placing the files on his desk. "Traffic was heavier than usual."

"Excuses," he scoffed, running a hand through his spiky blonde hair. "Where's my coffee?"

"On its way. I told Hana to make it extra hot today, just how you like it."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Don't tell me what I like. You've been my secretary for eight months, you should know by now."

"I do know," you countered, refusing to back down. "That's why I said it."

His eyes flashed with something—annoyance, maybe even grudging respect. "The reports from last quarter?"

"Right here." You tapped the stack of files. "All organized, highlighted, and summarized as per your ridiculously specific instructions."

Bakugou moved behind his desk, sinking into his leather chair. "Ridiculously specific? That's how we maintain perfection around here."

"Or how we maintain a 90% employee turnover rate," you muttered under your breath, but not quietly enough.

"What was that?" he growled, leaning forward.

"Nothing," you said smoothly. "Just admiring how efficiently you run things."

For a moment, you thought he might actually smile—almost. Instead, he just nodded curtly. "Good. Now get me the meeting schedule for this afternoon. And remind me why I agreed to that charity gala next week."

"You didn't agree," you replied, already pulling up your tablet. "Your PR director signed you up before consulting you, and now you're contractually obligated."

"Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Handle it."

"That's why you pay me the big bucks," you said with a hint of sarcasm.

"If you were paid based on attitude alone, you'd be bankrupt," he shot back.

"And if you were judged solely on people skills, you'd be working at a convenience store."

The tension in the room thickened, the familiar push and pull between you hanging in the air. This was how it always went—sharp remarks, barely veiled hostility, but beneath it all, a grudging acknowledgment of competence.

Just then, his private line rang. He glanced at the caller ID before answering. "Dynamight."

As he spoke, you took the opportunity to really look at him. Bakugou was undeniably attractive, in an intense, almost dangerous way. The hero costume did little to hide his muscular build, but in a suit, he was something else entirely—powerful, commanding, every inch the man who had fought his way to the top.

"…no, that's not acceptable," he was saying into the phone, his voice low and dangerous. "I want the full security detail reevaluated by tomorrow morning. If there's another breach like last week, heads will roll."

You shifted uncomfortably, remembering the incident he was referring to—a villain attack at a public appearance that had nearly turned disastrous. Bakugou had handled it with his usual explosive efficiency, but the aftermath had been hell for everyone at the agency.

"Fine," he said abruptly, ending the call. "Fucking idiots."

"Security issues?" you asked, already making a note to follow up with the security team.

"None of your concern," he snapped. "Just do your job and stay out of mine."

"That's hard to do when your job keeps spilling into mine," you retorted before you could stop yourself.

His eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that when you're in a bad mood, the entire office suffers. And when you're in a bad mood, which is most of the time, I'm the one who has to deal with the fallout."

Bakugou stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Maybe if you did your job right the first time, there wouldn't be any fallout."

"Maybe if you weren't such an insufferable perfectionist, people would actually want to work for you," you shot back, your voice rising slightly.

The air crackled with tension, his eyes blazing with anger. But then something shifted in his expression—a flicker of something else, something darker and more complicated.

"You've got a lot of nerve," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Talking to me like that."

"Someone has to," you replied, your heart pounding. "Everyone else is too scared."

He took a step closer, and you fought the urge to back away. "And you're not?"

"Should I be?" you challenged, meeting his gaze directly.

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a short, harsh sound that held no real humor.

"Fuck," he said, running a hand through his hair again. "You really don't hold back, do you?"

"I believe in honest communication," you said, trying to regain your professional composure.

"Is that what you call it?" he asked, moving around his desk to stand closer to you. "I'd call it insubordination."

"I'd call it setting boundaries," you countered, though your voice was less steady now that he was so close. You could smell his cologne—something spicy and expensive that suited him entirely.

"Boundaries," he repeated, as if testing the word. "Interesting choice of words from someone who crossed the line the moment she walked through that door."

Before you could respond, his phone rang again. With a frustrated sigh, he turned away to answer it, giving you a moment to collect yourself. Your heart was racing, your palms slightly sweaty. What the hell was that?

As Bakugou dealt with the call, you took the opportunity to escape. "I'll go check on your coffee," you said, already moving toward the door.

"Don't bother," he said without turning around. "I've got a meeting in ten. Just reschedule my afternoon."

Without another word, you slipped out of the office, closing the heavy door behind you and leaning against it for support. What had just happened? The tension between you had always been there, but this felt different—charged, dangerous, almost intimate.

Shaking your head, you straightened up and walked back to your desk. You had a job to do, and getting flustered over your boss's mood swings wasn't part of it.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, phone calls, and paperwork. Bakugou was in and out of the office, leaving you to handle the chaos he left in his wake. It wasn't until late afternoon that things finally quieted down.

You were reviewing the final draft of a press release when your desk phone rang. It was Bakugou's private line.

"Dynamight's office," you answered professionally.

"Get in here," he said, and then hung up without another word.

With a sigh, you saved your work and headed to his office. When you entered, you found him standing by the window again, looking out at the city below.

"You wanted to see me?" you asked, keeping your voice neutral.

He turned, and you were struck again by how imposing he was—tall, muscular, with an intensity that seemed to fill the room.

"The charity gala next week," he said, walking toward his desk. "I need you to attend with me."

You blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"As my date," he clarified, as if it were the most normal request in the world. "The PR team thinks it'll look good—humanize me or some bullshit."

You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. "You want me to attend a charity gala with you? As your date?"

"Is there an echo in here?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, that's what I said."

"But… why me?" you asked, genuinely confused. "Surely one of the PR representatives would be more appropriate."

"Because I don't want to deal with some simpering idiot who's going to agree with everything I say," he replied, his eyes fixed on yours. "I want someone who'll actually tell me if I'm being an asshole."

You couldn't help it—you laughed. "You want me to be your date so I can tell you when you're being an asshole?"

A small smile touched his lips. "Something like that."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," you said, trying to regain your professional composure. "It could blur the lines of our professional relationship."

"Professional relationship?" he scoffed, stepping closer. "Is that what you call this constant bickering? The way you challenge every damn thing I say?"

"It's called doing my job properly," you retorted, though your heart was starting to pound again. "Which includes giving you honest feedback when you're being unreasonable."

"Is that all it is?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Just doing your job?"

"What else would it be?" you challenged, though you had a sinking feeling you knew where this was going.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he closed the remaining distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his usual brusque manner.

"You drive me insane," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Always have, from the moment you walked in here for your interview and told me my expectations were 'ridiculously high'."

"You were asking for a secretary with ten years of experience and fluency in three languages for an entry-level salary," you reminded him, your voice barely above a whisper.

"And you were the only one with the balls to call me on it," he countered, his eyes darkening. "Do you have any idea how many secretaries I've gone through in the past two years? None of them lasted more than a few weeks."

"Because you're impossible to work with," you said, though the words lacked their usual conviction.

"Or maybe because they were all scared of me," he suggested, his other hand coming to rest on your hip. "But you're not, are you?"

You should have pulled away. You should have reminded him of workplace policies and professional boundaries. But instead, you found yourself leaning into his touch, your body responding in ways your mind was screaming against.

"I'm not scared of you," you admitted, your eyes locked with his. "I just think you're an arrogant, demanding, insufferable—"

Whatever you were about to say was cut off as his lips crashed down on yours. The kiss was nothing like you would have expected from Bakugou—it wasn't gentle or tentative. It was hungry, demanding, almost punishing, as if he were trying to prove a point.

Your hands, which had been hanging limply at your sides, came up to grip his shoulders. The fabric of his suit was expensive and smooth under your fingers, but you could feel the hard muscle beneath. His hands tightened on your body, one sliding down to cup your ass while the other tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing heavily. His red eyes were dark with desire, his lips swollen from the kiss.

"This is a terrible idea," you said, even as you leaned in for more.

"The worst," he agreed, before capturing your lips again.

This time, the kiss was slower, more exploratory. His tongue traced the seam of your lips before delving inside, and you met him stroke for stroke. The knot of tension that had been forming in your stomach for months was finally unraveling, replaced by a heat that spread through your entire body.

His hands roamed over your body, mapping your curves through the fabric of your clothes. When his thumb brushed against the side of your breast, you gasped into his mouth, arching into his touch.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips. "You're so responsive."

"Only when I want to be," you retorted, though your breathless tone undermined the defiance in your words.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. "Is that right?"

To prove his point, his hand moved from your hip to between your legs, cupping you through your pencil skirt. You couldn't suppress the moan that escaped your lips as his thumb pressed against your clit, even through the layers of fabric.

"Still only responding when you want to be?" he asked, his voice smug.

"Shut up," you gasped, grinding against his hand.

"Make me," he challenged, his lips finding that sensitive spot behind your ear.

You responded by fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, your fingers clumsy with desire. When you finally managed to undo them all, you pushed the fabric aside, your hands exploring the hard planes of his chest. He was even more muscular than you'd imagined, his skin hot to the touch.

Your fingers found his nipples, and you rolled them between your thumbs and forefingers, enjoying the way he hissed in response. Two could play at this game.

"Fuck," he muttered, his hips bucking against yours. "You're playing with fire."

"I'm not afraid of getting burned," you replied, though your voice was shaky.

He responded by picking you up as if you weighed nothing, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist. He carried you to his desk, sweeping aside the neatly stacked files with one arm before setting you down on the polished wood.

"You're going to be the death of me," he said, his hands moving to the zipper of your skirt.

"Promise?" you asked, your voice laced with sarcasm and desire.

Instead of answering, he captured your lips again in a bruising kiss as he removed your skirt and panties in one smooth motion. The cool air of the office hit your heated skin, and you shivered despite the warmth spreading through your body.

His fingers found your wet folds, sliding through them with practiced ease. "Already so wet for me," he murmured against your lips.

"It's the air conditioning," you retorted, though your arching hips betrayed you.

He laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. "Always so defiant."

"Always," you agreed, your hands working to unbuckle his belt.

When his pants were undone, you reached inside, your fingers wrapping around his hard cock. He was thick and heavy in your hand, already leaking pre-cum from the tip. You stroked him slowly, enjoying the way his breath hitched.

"Fuck," he muttered, his hips thrusting into your hand. "You're good at that."

"I'm good at everything," you replied, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head.

He captured your hand, stopping your movements. "Not so fast," he said, his eyes dark with desire. "I want to be inside you when I come."

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. "Then what are you waiting for?"

Instead of answering, he positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you with the head of his cock. You tried to push down, to take him inside you, but his hands on your hips held you in place.

"Bakugou," you whined, your patience wearing thin.

"Katsuki," he corrected, his voice rough. "When I'm inside you, you'll call me Katsuki."

With that, he thrust into you in one smooth motion, filling you completely. You cried out at the sudden fullness, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Fuck," you breathed, your head falling back.

"Too much?" he asked, though he didn't move, giving you time to adjust.

"No," you managed to say. "Just… move."

He needed no further encouragement. He began to thrust, setting a punishing pace that had you seeing stars. Each stroke hit that perfect spot inside you, building the tension in your core higher and higher.

"You feel so good," he muttered, his lips finding your neck. "So tight, so wet."

"Harder," you demanded, your legs tightening around his waist.

He complied, his movements becoming more erratic as he approached his release. His hand moved between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles.

That was all it took to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your inner walls clenched around him, milking his cock as he found his own release, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.

For a moment, you both stayed like that, panting and sweaty, the reality of what you'd just done slowly sinking in. Then, Bakugou—Katsuki—pulled out, adjusting his clothes as if nothing had happened.

You slid off the desk, your legs slightly shaky as you reached for your discarded clothes. The silence in the office was deafening, broken only by the sound of zippers and rustling fabric.

"That was…" you started, but you didn't know how to finish.

"A mistake?" he suggested, though his tone was unreadable.

"Probably," you agreed, though you couldn't bring yourself to regret it.

He watched as you dressed, his expression thoughtful. "The charity gala next week," he said finally. "Are you still coming with me?"

You looked up, meeting his gaze. "Are you still paying me overtime?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Double time–no, make it triple," he offered.

"Deal," you said, though you knew you were making another mistake. A delicious, dangerous mistake that you had a feeling you'd be making again and again.

As you walked out of his office, you could feel his eyes on you, and you wondered what you had just gotten yourself into. Whatever it was, you had a feeling it was going to be complicated, messy, and utterly irresistible.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

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Unprofessional Conduct Pt.2

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MHA MASTERLIST

WRITING COMMISSION

"Sleep well?" he questions, as if he doesn't know the answer. 

At 10:58, Katsuki hands you your drink, fingers brushing under the curve of the handle. His thighs act as your leg rest, as he trails a hand over the soft skin like it belongs there. 

Katsuki's never mastered sleep, often caught under the spell of racing thoughts during late hours of the night — the one part of his curated routine he can never seem to grasp.

"Mhm" you start, taking a small sip of your tea before you reel back from the heat.

He's already eyeing you, reaching for the mug and blowing on the warm liquid between words, "That's it? Just 'mhm'?"

"You really want to know about how I slept, Katsuki?" you smile, digging the ball of your foot playfully against his thigh, "Don't you already know? I felt your eyes on me"

You get a pointed glare in response as he copies your earlier movement, bringing the mug up to his lips and testing the temperature before he's handing it off to you — another habit he's picked up since being in your presence. 

Katsuki dubs this his second favourite part of the morning. When his shoulders lax at the sound of you. You could talk about anything, from mundane complaints to quiet observations, because somehow your words are a piercing veil over all the noise in his head.

By 11:05, Katsuki wants you closer — especially when he feels the warm grasp of fatigue clinging to every inch of him at the soft lull of your voice — at least that's his excuse.

The mug's plucked from your hands, tea sloshing against ceramics as it's set down on the coffee table — on a coaster, of course. Katsuki spent way too much on this lump of wood to afford scratches, or worse, water rings.

You're settled into Katsuki's lap in the blink of an eye, your front pressed against his — mere inches from each other as you bask in the early morning glow shining through the curtains.

"Any plans for today?" you murmur against his lips, arms snaking around his neck as you make yourself comfortable.

"Do you have plans?"

You blink, "No.."

He smirks, voice honeyed with morning husk, "Then no, my day's clear." By the time Katsuki pries his eyes away from you, it's 11:10. 

Just one more minute. And, instinctively, his eyes are already searching for your lips. 

The pale green flash of the clock on the oven blinks at you tauntingly. "It's 11:11 ."

"Oh, yeah?" warm hands trace your sides, tugging at your waist to pull you in closer, "What's that mean?"

"Shh, stop talking."

He wastes no time — his lips pressing so gently into yours, like if he goes any faster the moment won't last. Each touch of your mouth is deliberate, slow. Your body sinking into his touch. 

The kiss only leaves you breathless, air escaping the both of you through quiet sighs and soft exhales.

In all his life, Katsuki never imagined a future like this, his whole day quietly shaped around the numbers on the clock. 1:11, 3:33 — small moments of his busy life that, somewhere along the way, started to feel like they belonged to you.

You plant a small kiss to the apple of his cheek, already thinking about the day ahead under the soft arches of your shared home. "I'll be back"

A soft smile tugs at the corner of his lips, drifting into the lull that fills the next hour — and, to no surprise of his own, Katsuki's already antsy for 12:12.

© — tokkushin : all rights reserved. all works belong to me .ᐟ pls do not repost/copy, or feed into ai.

a/n: i hope this comes out clearly ... my parents used to kiss on all the angel numbers when i was a kid > < and i think it's cute now even though i thought it was disgusting before ... i was their biggest hater. thank you my dear @kamislop for betaing.... again ❤︎⁠ sigh soft love ... -> masterlist | comments and reblogs greatly appreciated! 💋

breakups are weird. you spend however long devoting yourself to a person and then one day that just stops. all of the talks, experiences, inside jokes? all gone. all for seemingly nothing. all because your heart fell harder than his.

it had been 6 months. not long by usual standards but long enough for your heart to feel safe around him. to skip a beat when you saw his name pop up on your phone next to those silly little emojis that you put there when you saved his contact. to wonder if this was actually the person you were going to build a future with. parts of his last message still ring in your head: “i care for you like a close friend, but i don’t love you” wrapped up in praises. saying that you deserved someone who was going to love you unapologetically.

“he’s a fucking loser,” schlatt’s voice comes through the phone as a fresh coat of tears soaks into your pillow. “just dropped that bomb and then disappeared? didn’t even try to fight for you?”

your head shakes as you sob quietly. you’d called schlatt after your ex had texted you, unsure of what to do. and of course, in true schlatt fashion, he tries to make you laugh. the two of you had known each other since the previous spring, having been introduced by your best friend.

“at least tell me his dick was small.” schlatt says. “was it an innie?”

that gets a laugh out of you. a soft, wet laugh that makes the pain in your chest ease ever so slightly. your face is still in the pillow, but the ache is lessening. after a beat, schlatt speaks again.

“i’m really sorry, doll,” he says gently. “you deserve so much better. he’s just a pussy who got scared when someone genuine came into his life. don’t let him ruin your peace just because he ran from something real.”

that makes you look up at your phone. schlatt’s eyes soften when you look at him, and he gives you a small smile. “there she is.” he says sweetly.

“it was average.” you say softly, voice gravely from sobbing so hard. “it wasn’t amazing but it also wasn’t bad.”

schlatt laughs at that. you don’t mention the fact that he never made you cum, or the fact that you still think about the way he manhandled you (with consent, obviously). you also don’t mention the way he made you whimper. none of that matters now, since he wasn’t ever going to do it again.

“what did i do wrong?” you ask softly. “why does everyone leave?”

schlatt’s heart breaks for you. you look so broken. but even in this state, he thinks that you’re beautiful. he doesn’t know much in regards to your relationship, but one thing that he does know is that he wants to beat this guy to a pulp for making you cry.

“you didn’t do anything wrong, toots,” he says gently. “you did everything right. sometimes people just aren’t ready to be loved.”

***

a week later, you’re over at schlatt’s house with your friend and a few other people. your friend had driven you to schlatt’s for a small get together, but it was mainly to get you out of the house. you’d been throwing yourself into work so you didn’t have to think about anything, but you figure one weekend couldn’t hurt. you hadn’t heard from your ex in a week, so you figure that everything is settled.

drinks flow and you find a spot on the couch when everyone decides to play smash. schlatt sits next to you, offering you a controller. you shake your head, sipping your drink.

“i’d rather watch,” you admit. “i’m not great at smash.”

“watch the master at work,” schlatt says with a wink. “i’ll show you everything you need to know.”

you roll your eyes. you’ve played occasionally, enough to know who you want to play as (kirby), but not nearly enough to consider yourself good at it. schlatt and charlie battle it out, and you watch as schlatt presses the buttons expertly on his controller. it might be the alcohol, or even the lack of sexual contact in over a month, but the way his fingers move makes that heat in your belly burn ever so slightly.

“you’re such a cheater!” charlie laughs as schlatt wins the second game in a row.

“you’re just saying that because you suck.” schlatt replies before turning to whisper to you. “he has no idea what donkey kong’s special move is.”

you giggle, mainly because schlatt cannot whisper at all when he’s drunk, but also because he’s just so close to you. no matter how long you’ve known him, and no matter how many times you’ve hung out, you still get butterflies whenever schlatt gives you attention. even more so now that he knows you’re single.

after the games end and everyone decides to begin to gather their things for bed, you find yourself in schlatt’s office, waiting to use his shower. when schlatt has people over, he always makes them stay the night if they drink. so everyone has their own place to sleep. ted sleeps on the couch, charlie sleeps on the futon, your friends sleep in the spare room, and tonight you sleep in schlatt’s office.

“hey toots,” schlatt smiles as he comes out of the bathroom. “sorry, i had to make sure everything was clean.”

“it’s okay,” you promise. “my brother leaves the bathroom a wreck every time he showers so nothing phases me.”

schlatt looks at you then. really looks at you. the alcohol still buzzes in his system, enough for him to know that asking what he’s about to ask is not the best idea, but he does it anyway.

“did your ex ever make you cum?”

the words hit you like a brick. you look up at schlatt, face heating up. he doesn’t look demanding. he looks curious. you figure there’s no harm in being honest, so you answer.

“no,” you reply. “the only time i came was when i was using my vibrator on myself while he lay next to me watching me.”

schlatt’s jaw works. “he never made you cum?” he asks. “is he stupid?”

you shrug.

“has anyone made you cum?”

you look up at schlatt again and shake your head. “only i have.”

schlatt takes a step forward, closer to you. goosebumps rise on your skin.

“did you make him cum?” he asks.

you nod. “a few times.” you say, trying to shut up but the words keep coming. “he took my virginity.”

schlatt makes a low sound in his throat. he takes another step toward you. you step back out of habit, only for your legs to hit the bed in schlatt’s office. your cheeks are on fire and you let out a soft gasp as schlatt steps even closer. his breath fans out over your lips.

“so what you’re telling me is,” schlatt pauses. “that nobody has ever given you an earth shattering orgasm?”

you shake your head, and you feel your clit twitch as schlatt lowers his head. his breath is at your ear now.

“you’ve never fallen apart against someone as they fuck into you?” he continues, lips gently brushing against the shell of your ear. “never been praised as you scream someone’s name?”

you shiver. “n-never.” you whisper.

“that’s such a shame,” schlatt replies, hands finding your waist. “i bet you sound so good when you cum.”

a whimper leaves your lips as schlatt pulls you closer, his hard cock pressing against your lower belly.

“i do.” you breathe. “i really do.”

“yeah?” schlatt teases. “you think we should find out just how good you sound?”

you nod. how could you not? you’re practically dripping into your panties at this point. you want nothing more than for schlatt to pin you to the bed and make you scream his name.

“you want that baby?” schlatt asks, a large hand reaching to cup your face. “you gotta use your words if you want me to fuck you.”

“please,” you breathe. “please fuck me. please make me cum. i need it.”

“you need it, huh?” schlatt asks, smirking at you. “tell me more about what you need, pretty girl.”

“need you to, uh…” you gasp as schlatt gently pushes you back to the bed, lips attaching to your neck. “oh god.”

“i didn’t tell you to stop,” schlatt smiles against your skin. “tell me exactly what you need.”

“need you to make me cum. touch me and finger me and bite me.” you beg, fisting the sheets. “fuck me until i can barely remember my own name. choke me.”

as you babble away, schlatt’s hand goes to your neck. you gasp as he squeezes gently.

“oh would you look at that,” schlatt smiles. “i have a cute little masochist on my hands, huh?”

you nod, the corners of your mouth quirking up as he squeezes harder. god, you love this. no thoughts about anything important. only being able to think about the pleasure that’s coming is what keeps you going.

“why don’t we get these clothes off, hm?” schlatt hums as his free hand goes up your shirt.

you slip your shirt off and schlatt wastes no time in groping your chest roughly. you moan as he pushes you down, lips going back to your skin. he kisses down your jaw to your neck, nipping at your collarbone. he goes all the way down your chest, down your stomach and to your waist.

“may i?” he asks. you nod.

“yes please.”

you press your hips up as schlatt gently pulls your pants down. you can feel the damp spot starting to form on your panties. schlatt gently brings his fingers between your legs, finding your clit with ease. you jolt as he presses against it, a startled moan leaving your lips. your hips move slightly as you ache for more.

“you’re soaked,” schlatt chuckles. “getting all wet from someone towering over you?”

you just moan in response as schlatt’s free hand goes to your thigh. his other hand is gently rubbing circles along the wet fabric of your panties. your skin feels like it’s on fire. all you can think about is how fucking good it all feels.

“i bet you taste amazing,” schlatt says softly, mainly to himself.

“you should find out.” the words leave your lips easily, but you surprise yourself.

schlatt looks up at you, eyebrows raised. “you better ask nicely,” he says.

“please,” you breathe. “taste me.”

schlatt pulls your panties down quickly, leaving them hanging off of your foot. he wastes no time before diving in. you gasp as his tongue spreads you open, harsh suckling on your clit. fingers gently slipping inside of you makes your back arch. nothing has ever felt like this before.

“oh my god!” you gasp. schlatt hums against you, sending electricity up your spine.

he pulls back, fingers still inside of you. “god, you’re so tight.” he sighs with a smile. “gonna have to stretch you out if i wanna fit my cock inside you.”

your cunt flutters over his fingers at the realization. schlatt smirks as he presses against the spot that makes you cry out. he leans over you, forehead pressed against yours.

“you wanna have my cock inside you?” he asks. you just nod.

“more than anything.” you plead.

schlatt’s fingers leave your pussy, and you almost whine about it. but not before schlatt gently slaps your cunt.

“turn around, ass up.” he orders.

you do as you’re told, because fuck if it isn’t hot as hell being bossed around. you watch as schlatt climbs onto the bed, cock already in hand. you nearly drool at the sight. it’s thick and leaking.

“ready baby?” schlatt asks. “i’ll go in slow.”

and he does. you feel every inch of his cock as it slides into you. it’s torture, really. you want nothing more than to be pressed into the mattress, crying out as schlatt makes you cum over and over. but you’ve also never been this full before. even when you use your dildo it isn’t as intense as it is right now. schlatt bottoms out, his heavy balls resting against your dripping cunt. you can barely take it anymore.

“please,” you beg. “fuck me. i need it.”

“you need it, huh?” schlatt asks, reaching down and yanking your hair. “tell me just how bad you need it.”

“i need it so fucking bad,” you moan. “i wanna cum on your cock. i wanna feel you pounding my pussy while i scream your name.”

schlatt’s surprised at the filthy mouth on you, but who is he to deny someone like you? he wants this just as bad as you. he’s held back with previous partners because he didn’t want to hurt them. but you? god, he wants to put you through the mattress.

“this is your only warning,” schlatt starts, leaning down and whispering in your ear. “i fuck hard.”

the way your pussy clenches on his cock is confirmation that you’re okay with it, but he needs to hear you say it. needs to hear you beg for it.

“words, whore.” he grits out, the restraint growing thinner. “tell me you need it.”

“i need you to fuck me. you won’t hurt me.” you reply. “fuck me as hard as you want, i can handle it.”

that’s all schlatt needs to hear. he pulls back just far enough for only the head of his cock to still be inside you before he rams back in. you gasp, eyes growing wide. your ex didn’t fuck you like this. frankly his cock didn’t even reach the places that schlatt’s is right now. schlatt fucks you hard and deep, with slow, deliberate thrusts. the head of his cock brushes against the spot that makes you see stars, and the fire in your belly sparks to life. if he keeps going like this, you won’t last.

“oh fuck,” you moan, burying your face in the pillow. it’s both too much and not enough.

schlatt reaches around and finds your clit, rubbing circles on it gently. you cry out, hips twitching. you’re barreling towards an orgasm. you think. you’ve never cum from being fucked before.

as schlatt fucks you, he sees your phone ringing. a facetime call. an evil thought crosses schlatt’s mind. if this dude thinks that he can just decide to be done with you on a random tuesday, he can do this. schlatt reaches over, accepting the call. his thrusts get angrier as who he assumes is your ex pops up on the screen. his eyes widen as he sees you getting fucked.

you scream out as your orgasm slams into you. your toes curl as you fist the sheets. you’re so lost in the pleasure that you’re drooling.

The pro hero Dynamight has never felt so stressed until now. Sure, he has gone on several hero missions that threatened the safety of the world and nearly ended up on death's door multiple times, but the weight of those could not compare to the turbulence of emotions currently raging in his fragile heart.

He had gone through the plan so many times, more than he can count and more than the routine checks he does on his trusty hero equipment. He cycled through the plan the moment he wakes up, at least three or four times during patrol, once when he kisses you on the lips as soon as he gets home and another five times when he's cuddled up to you in bed, ready to end another exhausting day. Yet Bakugo can never quell that flicker of unease and worry that he might mess up something no matter how thorough he is, and that unease only continues to stirs his churning gut until he feels physically sick.

But Bakugo can't let you catch onto his strange behaviour, and so he forces out a million dollar smile and strikes up a quiet conversation with you after the two of you have placed your orders.

Big mistake. Because each time you respond to him with that bright smile and twinkling laughter, he falls in love with you all over again and grows even more nervous. You defy all manners of logic and physics until Bakugo becomes incapable of explaining why he is in love with you. He just is.

Bakugo films you with his eyes, burning each precious moment into a memory film tape in his mind. His hand underneath the table swipes over the box in his pocket, the box that contains the ring. It weighs down heavily on him like a lump of steel and the nerves catch up to him again as Bakugo swallows nervously, mentally running through the plan again.

He had definitely done all the preparations beforehand. He secretly met your parents, bringing them gifts as he asked them for your hand in marriage since he wants to be the ideal son-in-law after all. He measured your ring finger with tape one night when you were fast asleep so that he could get a ring that fits you perfectly and didn't trust his own measurements so he did it two more times just to be sure. He booked the most expensive beauty packages at hair salons and spas under the guise of you look like you could do with some pampering, and then accompanied you to do your nails. All of his meticulously crafted preparations were all for this night, a single night he had, to propose to you.

Like the perfectionist he is, Bakugo needs it to be perfect. But he's an idiot, a fool in love, and he spoils his own proposal in the dumbest way possible.

The waiter attending to the two of you is clearly a big fan of Dynamight. It's written all over his face each time he smiles widely and naturally as he serves Dynamight. The moment he turns to you, however, the smiles fades immediately and is replaced by sheer annoyance like you're a fly that is buzzing around Dynamight. He doesn't even bother asking you if you'd like a refill of your wine which pisses Bakugo off more than it should. You just exhale quietly through your nose with an amused smile.

"Oi." Bakugo snaps when the waiter doesn't address you with honorifics. "That's Mrs Dynamight for you. If you keep up that shitty and flippant attitude of yours, I'm going to complain to the manager."

You stare at Bakugo in complete disbelief as he continues ranting angrily, chastising the waiter who has turned paler than a ghost before sending him away and still oblivious to what he uttered. When the waiter disappears and it's just the two of you once more, you chuckle quietly. "What did you just say?"

"What?" Bakugo raises an eyebrow at you, stabbing his fork into the cut of beef on his plate. "I just said he's a snivelling bastard. And no, I don't want hear that I'm too harsh or whatever."

"No, what you said before that, Kats." You tap your hand on the back of his hand lightly with a grin, your perfectly manicured nails shimmering underneath the chandelier's golden lights.

Bakugo furrows his eyebrows, wondering why you're beating around the bush instead of getting straight to the point. "I just said—"

And he stops.

You know Bakugo's good at controlling his panic. He'd mask it with his usual anger and fiery shouting since that is natural to him while he works through a solution in his mind. But for the first time in forever, you see the raw panic slip into his crimson eyes, the sheer terror that breaks out on his face and the parting of his lips as he tries to deny it.

But his voice doesn't come out. He sits there and stares at you with quivering lips like a blubbering goldfish.

"Mrs Dynamight huh?" You muse, smiling to yourself and your voice snaps him back to reality.

"I didn't say that." Bakugo firmly denies in a raspy voice before he squints at you, trying to appear annoyed to mask his panic. "Y-Your hearing is worse than mine even though I'm the one with the explosion quirk. Stop putting your music at a high volume before you actually go deaf, dumbass. Wouldn't want you becoming unable to hear my I love you's."

Your smile widens at the typical Katsuki Bakugo manner to shift the harmless blame. You decide to play along because Bakugo is sweating buckets opposite of you and you pretend you don't know anything about the proposal as you scrunch up your face into a faux sulk, poking Bakugo in the chest. "Hey, I do not blast my music at high volume. If anything, I'm going deaf from all of your excessive yelling."

And with that, you smooth over the awkwardness and save Bakugo from embarrassing himself even further as the two of you banter lightly about who is the louder one (which is obviously Bakugo, duh), the quiet night dragging on.

The hour finally arrives. Bakugo settles the bill with one swipe of his card after the two of you have eaten your fill. He takes your hand into his and guides you towards the elevator. Instead of going to the ground floor, he presses the button for the highest floor instead.

"There's a nice rooftop garden." Bakugo murmurs, his warm ruby eyes roaming all over your outfit for tonight, classy and timeless, before he breaks into a loving smile and gently kisses you on the cheek. "You look stunning tonight, love."

You smile naturally as you fix the lapels of his suit with nimble fingers. "You too, sweetheart." You whisper, and that's all Bakugo needs, really, as the elevator ascends steadily. It comes to a steady halt, doors sliding open soundlessly to reveal the vast rooftop garden stretching underneath the starry night sky. Golden lamps burning quietly are set in a path straight towards the clearing in middle of the rooftop garden that is covered with scattered rose petals and encircled by flower shrubs.

You step out of the elevator as the night gale tickles your cheeks, jaw slowly falling at the length of Bakugo's proposal preparations before your eyes fall upon cork boards propped up just behind the sea of rose petals with several rectangles attached to it.

You know Bakugo is proposing to you tonight, but you didn't expect it to be so nostalgic. You soon realise, as you continue staring with a fluttering heart, that those aren't just mere rectangles.

They're polaroids.

Every single polaroid the two of you have taken together no matter the location or time, each depicting a memory sealed behind film. Your heart burns with nostalgia as you let Bakugo lead you towards the sea of rose petals, your eyes transfixed to the board of memories.

Bakugo watches you quietly with a tenderness he cannot dissolve. He's certain that you're recalling each memory of the journey the two of you have embarked on as your glance shifts from polaroid to polaroid and sure enough, you're recalling each and every single precious moment like it just happened yesterday.

This is when we first went on a vacation… this is when he gave me the scare of my life after being admitted into A&E… this is when we sat at a convenience store eating their food and talking until 2AM….

The list of memories goes on and on until you finally reach the abrupt blank space at the end of the corkboard. Struck by fondness from the trip down memory lane, you point at the blank space and turn towards Bakugo. "What is this space for?" You ask dumbly, momentarily forgetting why Bakugo told you to dress up for tonight.

His smile widens. Without another word, he gets down onto one knee and pulls out the box before opening it, presenting the diamond ring to you that glitters just as vividly as the tears that wells up in your eyes.

a/n: writing really slowly because i just picked up the korean novel and webtoon 'got dropped into a ghost story, still gotta work' after being influenced by my IRLs and now i can't stop reading it.

His gaze barely wavers from one spot on the dance floor, scowl permanently etched on his face as the sight forces him to sip his drink. Your eyes follow his, every inch of you praying he wasn't on guard for some woman tucked between the writhing bodies.

Instead, you catch a glimpse of three men as dangerously out of place as he is — you can only imagine that they're his friends.

They look too grown to be here. broad shoulders shoved in dark button-ups, watches glinting beneath the flashing lights while they stumble over their own feet — flirting with women who cling to them like accessories.

The redhead of the group looks towards the blonde in his drunken stupor, yelling that "he's got another one coming" — yeah, they're his friends alright.

And he does — two at that. 

Two women in short dresses brushing their fingers over his inked arm. he's respectful, but certainly not fazed — barely sparing them a glance as he nods along. 

The conversation doesn't last a minute longer; the two of them sent off with a scoff and flat expressions, already scanning for their next target.

Mina's eyes are already on yours when you turn toward her, reaching for your drink as she smiles in his direction. 

"Looks like it's now or never," she says.

Your breath catches when you're met with crimson eyes staring back, taunting and expectant — like he's been watching you longer than you realized.

He's waiting.

The glass in his hand does nothing to hide the smile on his face, light catching on the crystalline rim as he watches you expectantly. Every step feels like a beckon, willing you with the glow of his irises and the slight spread of his legs to come just a little closer.

Like you're the one being tested.

The booth feels like the only quiet spot in the club. Music and drunken chatter dulling out from your senses — until suddenly all that's left is him.

He's bigger up close. Veins trace his forearm under the low light as he swirls his drink. your eyes catch on the brazen ink — thick, intricate lines curling over every muscle.

"I like your tattoos" you say, elbows resting on the table as you try to ignore how suddenly out of place you feel.

His mouth twitches into a toothy grin, scowl once dominating his face all but gone as it's replaced by a sharper look — he's intrigued.

"Yeah? you like them?" he leans back, eyes dragging over you before it flicks back up to your face, "Means a lot coming from a pretty girl like you."

"Hm" you hum, smile matching his even as you falter under the weight of the new pet name, "They're… hot" 

He lets out a quiet exhale, almost a laugh. 

"The tattoos?" he tilts his head "… Or me?" 

He doesn't wait for your answer. Instead, he trails a thick finger over the skin, pushing his sleeves high enough to expose the ink disappearing beneath his shirt.

Your hand reaches out before you can think, barely grazing his arm before—

"Careful," he warns, voice husky beneath the music, a roughness that hits your ears at just the right tone to make your thighs squeeze, "Some of these are older than you, pretty"

That does it.

"Really?" you tease, fingers now fully tracing the outline of his tattoo, "Is that supposed to scare me?"

You don't miss the way his eyes widen just slightly — gaze flicking to his friends who've seemingly been paying no mind to him all night — before they land on your lips.

"You tell me."

© — tokkushin : all rights reserved. all works belong to me .ᐟ pls do not repost/copy, or feed into ai. ART WAS FOUND ON PINTEREST, pls lmk who the artist is

a/n: new layout i’m playing around with, im not 100% sold but bare with me 🙂‍↕️ - @lonelyfooryouonly ... lwk gonna use the taglist the next time i post

⟡

the first time sero hanta ever decides to show up early, he’s stuck waiting at a theatre with an angry bakugo at his side.

not to say the fiery blond isn’t usually angry. but this time said anger comes with heat: he’s grinding straw between his molars so hard plastic cracks between his teeth. his feet tap like it’ll make time go by sooner. it doesn’t.

“i’m gonna kill that damn shitty hair.”

“we’re the ones who’re thirty minutes early.”

“shut the fuck up.”

dumb dog sero hanta does as he’s told. katsuki stews a little longer, neck rash red, phone clicking locked & unlocked till he decides he’s had enough—or till the anger reaches his bladder. “‘m going to the bathroom, watch my shit.”

katsuki doesn’t bother waiting for a reply. his hands shove in his pockets as he makes his way to the bathroom, phone tucked firm between sero’s palms. sero hanta knows better than to hold it with anything less than an iron grip. but then it buzzes—& almost cartoonishly, the phone hops & skips before settling between his fingers

sero sees the notification before he can pretend otherwise.

mine🫀: mina and i are otw

mine🫀 : hope we’ll make it. this girl can NOT drive.

sero muffles a snort. the text holds truth, mina cannot, in fact drive. he recalls the time she picked him up to go to the beach and—wait.

is that text from y/n?

he’s quick to take a picture, send it to the ‘inBESTigators 🕵️🔍’ GC. before he can even close his phone & resume playing saint, kiri’s response comes in.

ripped riot 🔥: could be a typo

ripped riot 🔥: like ‘mine’ could be short for miner

pikachu ⚡️[replying to ripped riot 🔥] : are we deadass

sero’s about to type a response of his own before the familiar heavy steps of steve maddens sag at his ears. katsuki’s back, jaw tight & angrier than ever.

further investigation will have to wait.

BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #3.

observed by — denki kaminari

‘when the fuck did bakugo get funny?’

⟡

autumn break means thanksgiving shopping & black friday sales that make twelve dollar products drop to eleven ninety-nine. denki’s shopping for snacks, kiri needs energy drinks & you’re here for produce. katsuki is here because you all need his membership to get into costco.

something isn’t right.

& denki’s not talking about how the price of cheetos have somehow gone up. he’s talking about the fact that katsuki stands firm behind you, hands in pockets as you show him fruit. that’s fine—bakugo’s always been able to tell which apples are good & which aren’t.

but no apple evaluation requires katsuki to lean in that close.

and denki’s pretty sure there’s nothing funny about granny smiths either.

so why the fuck are you giggling ?

kaminari’s eyes flit to katsuki’s. if he was any other classmate, he’d say katsuki was bored. lips tight, eyes neutral, jaw slack. but denki’s no other classmate. he recognizes that twitch in his brow. the bob in his jugular.

katsuki is pleased. at least, denki thinks—no, swears he is. but just to be safe, he chooses to call in an actual katsuki expert. kirishima’s fatass is trying yet another free sample. for the sake of peace, denki chooses not to comment & instead goes straight to business.

“yo, kiri—i’m not seeing stuff, right? is bakugo not smirking and making y/n laugh??”

kirishima, in true fatass fashion, responds with a mouth filled with mini tacos. “I down’t see ‘t”

“bro. chew.”

“I don’t see it,” kiri gulps. “don’t you think we should respect their privacy?”

“we’re at a costco??”

but kaminari drops it. if the katsuki expert himself says there’s nothing, there’s obviously nothing.

right ?

BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #4.

observed by — literally everyone

‘katsuki and y/n are definitely dating. oh, and kiri’s getting kicked from the group chat.’

⟡

mina ashido is not playing around.

the rest of the gang isn’t either. kaminari’s flipping through a scrapbook titled ‘PHOTOGRAPHICAL EVIDENCE.’ sero’s screenshotting group chat messages that sound too fond to not be affectionate. kirishima’s got his laptop open, looking over ‘evidence spreadsheets’ he swears aren’t empty.

but they are. and mina, rivaled only by sherlock himself, notices.

“kirishima, cell B-4. what’s written in there ?”

“I—uh, cell? what do you—“

“aha—” mina shuts her book. she’s towering over eijiro now, hands on her hips & glare so sharp it melts kiri like—well, acid.

“you’re not really doing anything.”

sero lifts a brow. kaminari gives the stink-eye.

“matter of fact…” mina continues, “you haven’t done anything. compiling evidence. listening in on on their convos. you haven’t done anything we’ve asked you to.”

“yeah,” sero quips. his phone’s in his lap now. “matter of fact, you always had some excuse about why you couldn’t.”

“matter of fact,” denki joins, “you’re always trying to deny evidence. talking about us ‘being delusional’.”

oh, kirishima’s in trouble now. blood in his jugular. tar in his throat. “I—“

mina can’t make up what happens next.

The door opens. It’s katsuki—not surprising—they’re literally all seated in a circle on the mat in his dorm. plans to hang out & just chill today—the usual. kiri is bakugo’s roommate. getting in isn’t a fuss.

but you’re right beside bakugo.

and your finger’s in his belt loop.

mina blinks. you haven’t noticed them yet. you look all calm and pretty, lashes low, eyes glued to your phone screen. your finger’s looped around the belt-hole like you’ve done it a thousand times before, and—

is that katsuki’s hoodie?

“what the fuck are you losers doing here?”

kiri’s already scrambling to defend the situation—something about she & the others showing up an hour early, he didn’t know, don’t blast us all—but mina’s not listening. she’s wondering if the refractive index of light is so strong it somehow made it look like katsuki gave your hand a light squeeze before tapping your hand off his jeans.

you’re still quiet behind him. hair all cute, jam-pink cheeks, fawn freckled & doe-eyed. kiri and katsuki are going back and forth. sero’s joined in. kaminari’s farted because he thinks no one will notice.

“y/n, is that bakugo’s hoodie?”

you can hear a pin drop. and another fart from kaminari.

“no, it’s—“

“it’s mine.” katsuki steps forward, hands in pockets & posture lazy like he didn’t say something scandalous. “got a problem, pinkie pie?”

“i could never.”

katsuki hums. he tugs you gently by the palm, door clicking shut behind him with the kick of his shin. he trudges toward the group, right hand in his pocket, left in yours—and he murmurs a quiet sit in your ear before doing a once-over.

“what’s all this?”

“evidence.”

“homework.”

“not evidence.”

tongue click. “evidence of ?”

“the refractive index of light.”

“you and y/n dating.”

“not you and y/n dating.”

“uh-huh,” katsuki picks up a photograph. he recognizes the scene: you’re tucked in his side, showing him something on your phone while he leans too close to be considered casual. you’re giggling here. cute.

he pockets it. “you guys are a bunch of fuckin’ idiots. and you—“ he turns to kirishima,

“no, no bro listen,” kirishima’s palm rests on his neck, an apologetic glance in your direction before he answers, “I did try to get them to leave you guys alone. they wouldn’t listen!”

“aha! so you were a traitor!”

bakugo glares. mina shrinks.

a muffled giggle pierces the silence. then a snort. & now you’re full on laughing—

“oh my god,” you sniffle, “you guys know we were literally gonna tell you, right?”

“tell us when?” sero speaks up, long moved away from kaminari. “it seems kiri here already knew about it.”

bakugo grunts. “why do you idiots think you’re here?”

oh.

bakugo takes a seat beside you. sero’s avoiding eye contact. kaminari’s avoiding the cheetos. mina bites her lip. you’re leaning over katsuki’s thigh now, photo evidence flip-book in your hands. you’re pointing out familiar photos while laughing & shaking your head, and bakugo’s looking back with a gaze so soft that mina doesn’t know how she didn’t see it sooner.

“i think we owe you two an apology.”

katsuki’s got his fingers twisting your knuckle. “y’think?”

sero, mina, and denki all look towards each other.

“we’re sorry.”

“for what?”

“for stalking you guys.”

“and not trusting that you’d tell us.”

“and being idiots.”

katsuki hums, satisfied. but he’s not done yet. he leans back on his palms before gently poking your hip. “should we forgive ‘em?”

“maybe. if they can send some of these photos.”

bakugo nods, turns to mina. “you heard the missus.”

“girl, take the whole book. like—seriously. omg.”

you hug it towards your chest, and mina can tell bakugo’s fighting a smile.

“right. and since you guys know now, you can all leave.”

the three protest. kiri interrupts. “i think it’s for the best. it’s been a long day.”

“that includes you, shitty hair.”

“huh—what?! this is my room too!”

“don’t care,” katsuki tugs you up with him, grip gentle, palm flat against your back as he steers you towards his bed.

“and didn’t ask,” he glances over his shoulder, “all of you, out.”