Birds of a Feather

You skip right over your own clothes that you finally find, focusing on the other set. Those are Bakugou’s clothes, are they not? Unless you’re going crazy, those are definitely Bakugou’s clothes. Then you look down at the arm curled around you and…and that is definitely Bakugou’s arm. You’d recognize that scar anywhere. You’ve seen it too many times when he shows up to the office in a tight black tank top and leaves his arms out on display. That is Bakugou’s arm, and those are Bakugou’s clothes, so then this must be Bakugou’s bed. 

Which means you slept with Bakugou. 

Bakugou.

Bakugou.

Your heart immediately begins hammering against your ribs.

You slept with your boss, your brain starts chanting in horror inside your head, you slept with your boss, you slept with your boss, you slept with your fucking boss. The thought repeats like a broken record in your mind as you stare blankly at the wall in front of you.

For a moment, you don’t move. Perhaps, if you stay perfectly still, reality will then politely undo itself, and you can forget about this absolutely life-altering mess that you just got yourself into. 

But it doesn’t. The weight of his arm remains around you, and the warmth of his body remains pressed against yours. If you turn around, Bakugou will be right there, (hopefully) sleeping. You try to wrack your brain to figure out how the hell you could have possibly gotten yourself into this predicament, and somewhere behind you, Bakugou lets out a sleepy exhale. The sound alone makes you shiver, and it makes every memory from last night come rushing back with brutal, gut-punching clarity.

The drinks. His friends. The Uber. The elevator ride up. His apartment. Him. 

Everything comes flooding your mind like a wave you can’t escape, no matter how hard you try, and you are drowning. Drowning in guilt, and shame, and disbelief that you could have done this. How could you have done this? You have more self-respect than this, surely. You do. You’re smart and wise and know how to work your way up to the place you’re in now—you’re resourceful and cunning, and you clawed your way into a high-paying position well up the corporate ladder in the hero industry of all industries, and you did it all without a quirk. 

You, a quirkless and overlooked member of this society, despite all the odds, managed to land a place in UA’s business course. Even courses like that—courses so far removed from being a hero—tend to find young, ambitious students who have promising powers to aid in their studies. But you managed to do it with nothing. And you managed to graduate and land yourself a spot in the agency of a hero like Uwabami, and then Riot Grenade, and you are positive that even better things will come later down the road. 

And because of that, you cannot allow this poor choice you made when you weren’t in your right mind to affect anything you’ve built for yourself. Someone like you who has to work three times harder and get recognized a quarter as often. You refuse to let that all go to waste and be for nothing, so carefully—very carefully—you lift Bakugou’s arm.

The movement immediately makes him shift behind you. You instantly stop breathing.

Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake—

A soft snore reaches your ears. You sigh in relief before continuing to pull away until finally, thankfully, you slip out from underneath his arm.

Bakugou grumbles something incoherent into his pillow as soon as you do, face twisting as his arm blindly reaches for the warmth of your body again. You freeze again before quickly pressing your pillow (which thankfully smells like you) into his arms. It placates him. He nuzzles into it and inhales before relaxing. You ignore the deep, piercing ache in your chest at the sight of him and turn to find your clothes, which are scattered throughout the room.

You grab your undergarments first. Then your pants. Then your shirt. Each item you quickly put on after retrieving feels like losing even more tiny pieces of your dignity. By the time you’re dressed, your face burns with shame, but you shove it down to wallow in later. Right now, you need to get out of here, get home, and then be ready for work on time. You are going to go to work and face this head-on and keep your place in that office. 

You glance toward the bed one last time to check on him. Bakugou is sprawled across his mattress, face half-buried in a pillow. His blonde hair is sticking up in every direction, and yet, even asleep, he somehow manages to look unfairly attractive.

You immediately look away.

You need to leave. Right now. And it needs to happen before he wakes up.

When you’ve gathered your purse, and you’ve made sure you look at least semi decent enough to leave his place—you could not be any more grateful that he is the only unit on his floor and no one will see you do the walk of shame—you head for the front door.

One hand closes around the doorknob, and you turn it. You’re just about to pull the door and open it, when—

“You know,” a rough voice says behind you, causing you to stiffen. “I always saw you as a sentimental type that stayed mornings and shit. Not the type to walk out ’n do the walk of shame.”

“Ah,” you swallow, hand still on the doorknob, “I uh…need to go home and get ready. So I’m not late to work.”

“You work for me,” Bakugou huffs. “S’not like I’d care. So…come back to bed. Or whatever.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you mumble. It’s silent. You wince at the thick, heavy silence as it lingers on and on…and on. You almost go a little insane by it, so you’re about to speak up and say your farewells before he beats you to it.

“Why the fuck not?” He sounds a little irritated. More shockingly, he sounds a little upset. He almost sounds like it’s bothering him that you think that snuggling up to him in bed the morning after fucking him is a bad idea. “So what, you just fuck your bosses for the hell of it?”

“No,” you frown, still not facing him.

“Good, I’d hope not,” he huffs, “I’d hope you had a valid reason for gettin’ intimate with me—so come back to bed.”

“I can’t do that, and you know it,” you say, barely audible. 

“I don’t know it,” he hisses stubbornly, “if y’don’t have a habit of gettin’ with your employers, then last night was a special case—in which case, why the fuck are you actin’ like waking up next to me is committin’ some crime?”

Your grip tightens around the doorknob. “It’s not that—”

“Then what is it?”

You finally turn, slow and reluctant, and the sight of him nearly knocks the breath out of you. Bakugou is so pretty in the mornings, wearing nothing but his boxers with messy blonde hair sticking up in every direction, and tired, puffy eyes from just waking up. Even with irritation written plainly across his face, he’s so pretty. 

But underneath all that pretty, there is something there in his expression. Hurt. As though your rejection genuinely wounded him.

“You’re my client,” you say carefully, “and I don’t find it wise to get intimate with my clients, and I certainly can’t start making it a habit, so—”

His eyes narrow instantly. “Bullshit answer.” Maybe he cares—does he care?

“It’s the truth.” He doesn’t care—there’s no way that he does.

“No,” he snaps, voice turning sharp. He cares, he cares, he cares, your mind screams in tandem with your heart. But the truth is, that is still not enough to convince you. “It’s not the truth ’cause it didn’t fuckin’ bother you last night.”

Heat rushes to your face. “That’s not fair.”

“Why?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. You don’t know what to say.

The truth is that you don’t know how to explain it without sounding pathetic. The truth is that you know last night was a moment of weakness that fulfilled your wishful fantasies. For a short evening, you let yourself ignore the truth and live in a dream. A dream where this could be your world, and you could belong in it, and that your world could include someone like Bakugou. Last night had been so easy to justify in the moment. A simple lapse in judgment. An easy thing your drunk mind convinced itself to indulge in and then write off as a mistake, and never look back on. 

But staying with him in the morning changes things. Cuddling with him in the morning in his soft bed will destroy your perfect little daydream. Him asking you to stay in the morning will pop your tiny little bubble. This intimacy in the morning exists outside the excuse of alcohol and lust and a rare bad choice, throwing you into reality. And here, in reality, you know you don’t belong. Not with Bakugou, and not in his world.

“Because,” you grit your teeth.

“Because what?” he asks, impatient.

Your fists clench at your sides as you snap, “Because! Last night was us not thinking! We didn’t think before we did…stuff. But if you think about it, we can’t…we can’t be doing this. You’re…I don’t know, you’re just you!”

“What the fuck does that mean?” he recoils as though you’ve just insulted him. He looks so upset, you almost want to cry. You don’t understand it. How could you have let yourself start to genuinely care for someone so above what you’re allowed to have? How could you set yourself up like that?

“It means that us doing this makes no sense! You have no business going after someone like me,” you shoot back, exasperated. “Do you see that? Last night, you sat there with your friends talking about the people you saved, or the new moves you’re working on, or the good old high school memories you share. You’ve all gone through hell and back together. And I was just…sitting there. Listening. And—”

“What, is that it?” he cuts in sharply. “You felt left out over a few innocent conversations about hero work? Do you even hear yourself? You’re above that bullshit. Everyone loved you—”

“No,” you shake your head, voice tightening. “They love you. And they love Kiri. And anyone you both bring, they’ll love them too—because they’re your friends. Don’t get me wrong, they were kind. They did everything right. But you and I both know what I am.”

His brows knit, irritation flashing. “And what the hell are you?”

“I’m just—” you laugh, but there’s no humor in it, “—a random, quirkless girl who types up your social media posts for a living while you and your friends go out and save people. You guys lived through a war after saving everyone, for crying out loud. I have no place in a room like that. With people like them.”

“They’re just fuckin’ people,” he scowls, like you’ve said something genuinely stupid. “They’re just people, you damn idiot. What the hell are you on about? What, you think you’re only half of a person or some shit ’cause you don’t got a power?”

“Wha—no! I never said—”

“They clock in, save people, clock out, and then they live their lives just like you do. What’s there to glorify? Are you dumb? You think heroes need to sit around in capes to have fun?”

“No! I just—”

“Look,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling hard as he forces himself to slow down and gather his thoughts. “I’m not…you’re not—fuck, this is so stupid,” he mutters. “Okay. You’re normal. Nothing special.”

“Wow. Thanks,” you scoff, heat creeping up your neck as you feel extra self-conscious. “I got that—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, cutting you off. “I’m not done.”

You go quiet.

“You’re normal,” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s trying to get it right. “And your life doesn’t have that…that heavy shit like mine does. S’nice—s’not always a bad thing. I don’t wanna come home after a long day of hero things and then deal with more hero crap. I don’t want someone dragging that back with them to me.” He clicks his tongue, jaw tightening. “And yeah, it’s selfish. Cause I’d bring it back to you, so…sorry. Or whatever.”

You blink at that—at the rough, reluctant apology that’s unexpectedly shoved in the middle of his rant.

“But I don’t…” he pauses, sighing, “being a hero isn’t some requirement to sit with me and my dumbass friends in a dumb fucking room. You got that? Nobody gives a fuck about shit like quirks off the battlefield, and nobody’s lookin’ at what power you got before they let you in their company. You just…have to be a person who isn’t fucking annoying. That’s it. It’s not that complicated. You’re the one who keeps making it complicated.”

You stand there, processing his words slowly, one sentence at a time. Your lips wobble, and your vision blurs, and something that sounds like a strangled whimper gets caught in your throat as tears spill over your cheeks. He looks alarmed—fucking horrified and exasperated all at once as he groans and walks over. 

“Now you’re crying?” he huffs in disbelief, “you haf’ta be joking.” Rough and calloused hands—and yet, so gentle and soft—come and grab your face, cradling it as the thumbs swipe at your tears. “You’re gonna drive me fucking nuts, you idiot.”

He kisses your forehead. You let him. Because you need it—need him to care. Care about you. Need to know that caring about you is worth his time and effort. 

“Your world is so different from mine,” you whisper, sniffling, “I just…I don’t know how to be a part of it, Bakugou.”

“It’s Katsuki. And you work in an office that’s two doors down from mine. Are you even hearing yourself?” he rolls his eyes, pulling you into his chest. You tiredly slump right into it. “We’re in the same fuckin’ world. Same air, same sky, same idiots surrounding us—we even piss in the same toilet.”

You let out a watery giggle. “Only you would say that when you’re trying to be comforting.”

“Well, I never have to be comforting anyone, so this is on you,” he scowls, “get out of your head.”

He pokes your forehead with a jab, and you pout, and he closes his eyes as he sees that look on your face, letting out a shaky exhale. Then, without warning, his lips are on yours, kissing you hard and deep and impatient. You kiss back—and it’s needy. It’s just as demanding as his, demanding that he let you into his space and belong. 

And he does. He lets you in, pulling you even closer while he’s at it. 

“I don’t want someone else because if I did, I’d have them in my apartment,” he says plainly as he pulls away. “Simple as that. Got it? And when I want something, I don’t change my mind—you can ask anyone.”

“You’ve never even seemed interested in me, so excuse me if this all sounds crazy,” you tell him warily. 

“Course I have,” he argues, “you’re just fuckin’ dense.”

“Yeah? Why do you want me, then? I need to know,” you demand.

“I have no idea,” he says flatly, looking at you in irritation, “I just do, and it’s annoying. I wish I wanted someone who pissed me off less. And bossed me around less, too.”

You give him a sour look. “Well, I wish I wanted someone a little more sensitive—holy fuck, you suck at this.”

“And you still want me anyway, so what am I losing, huh?” he smirks, looking rather smug. (And then he kisses you again—so sweet, so delicate, you have to wonder if he’s lying. He knows exactly why he wants you, you think.) “So are you gonna have breakfast with me or what?”

You slump back into his chest, hiding your face away as you mumble, “Fine.”

“Oi,” he snaps, “don’t say it like goin’ out with me is a chore.”

“We are not going out, Bakugou,” you glance up at him.

He frowns, very unexcited to hear that, as he says, “I told you it’s Katsuki.” 

“It’s still Bakugou,” you shake your head. 

When he opens his mouth to protest, you cut him off—

“You’ve never hinted that you were interested in me, and you’re still my client and employer, and you have to prove that you’re serious about this,” you say firmly, pointing an accusing finger into his chest, “meaning you have to convince me you’re not just saying stuff out of your ass before you earn yourself a date. And then you can say we’re going out. And then I will address you by your given name.”

“Why does it have to be so damn complicated when we literally fucked last n—”

“Otherwise, this might be considered abusing power in the workplace,” you raise a brow. 

He glares, rubbing a hand over his face before he groans. “Holy shit, are you kiddin’ m—you know what? Fine—I’ll earn that date and show you, you fuckin’ hellcat.”

“Wonderful,” you beam. You detach yourself from his arms as he gives you a flat, unimpressed look. “I like my eggs sunnyside up.”

—

You and Bakugou come into the office later than Kirishima—separately, at least, since you had insisted on going to your apartment and getting ready there properly, despite his deep irritation at the thought of you leaving. But you both walk in not far apart from each other, late by a good thirty minutes. Kirishima does not do a very good job of eyeing between the two of you and hiding his knowing, amused look, so you decide to simply trudge into your office miserably and fight the shame clinging to your skin. 

You fucked your boss last night, and your other boss definitely knows it. Fantastic. 

But you don’t have time to dwell on it because not even an hour into your shift, Kirishima bursts through the door with an envelope in hand as he says in a rushed, almost incoherent sentence: “The-second-semester-ranks-are-here!”

Your jaw drops—that’s rather early. You weren’t expecting them for at least another week and, admittedly, you were counting on having that week to do just the slightest bit more miracle work on Bakugou’s public image. But that is clearly not an option now, so you follow Kirishima into the agency’s conference room, where Bakugou is already seated, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently. 

Do not stare at his arms, you tell yourself. Do not stare, do not stare, do not stare—

“Here,” Kirishima hands you the envelope, “you do the honors of opening and reading them. You’re the one who works hard on managing these ranks, right?”

You absolutely do not want to have to be the one who reads them out loud, because if you failed at your job and let them both slip tremendously, then you will have to verbally recite your failures to your bosses with your own mouth. You don’t want to have to do that humiliation ritual. At least, with Bakugou, you have some reasonable excuses as to why he would fall off the ranks. It’s a given that he’d do that much with or without you. But if Kirishima’s rank isn’t an improvement…

Well. Then you’d be a failure, and your career would be over, and you would be a worthless hire, and everyone within the industry would know it, and your future would be dim, and—

“Just read the damn ranks already,” Bakugou grumbles, glaring at you in irritation as you’re pulled out of your spiralling thoughts. 

Right, you think—it’s now or never. Whether there is good or bad news in this envelope, you can’t avoid it forever, so with a deep breath, you rip the envelope open and pull out the paper, skimming the words on the document. 

Your eyes immediately dart downward toward the numbers. And then—

Oh. Oh, thank god.

Dynamight — #15.

Red Riot — #12.

You’re saved. Your career is secure, and your reputation in the corporate world is intact. At the very least, you won’t be jobless. Kirishima has improved, and Bakugou…well, you already knew you were dealing with a drop, but it’s not nearly as catastrophic a drop as you were expecting. Honestly speaking, you’re relieved—which feels horrible to admit, even internally, but it’s the simple truth.

You’ve certainly had a number of successful PR stunts to help him, but the overwhelming reality is that Bakugou has had one too many negative moments in the media. After the last few months of increasingly aggressive interviews and viral clips of him insulting reporters and civilians, you genuinely prepared yourself for the possibility of him dropping below the top twenty entirely.

But fifteen feels like a miracle. Fifteen is easily salvageable. The tension leaves your body so abruptly that it nearly makes you dizzy.

“What?” Kirishima leans forward immediately. “What is it?”

You blink down at the paper once more just to make sure you didn’t somehow hallucinate the numbers. But they’re luckily still there, and your shoulders visibly sag with relief before you can stop yourself.

Bakugou notices instantly. “The hell’s with that face?” he asks sharply.

“Well, before I get into the numbers, I just want to start by saying that all things considered, these rankings are very much on the better side of the coin! Which I think is fabulous news, I would say—”

Bakugou’s eyes narrow immediately. “Just read the damn thing.”

You clear your throat and straighten the paper in your hands. “Red Riot has risen from rank sixteen to rank twelve.”

Kirishima practically lights up. “No way!” he laughs, slapping both hands onto the table. “Seriously? That’s so awesome—four is a huge jump when you’re in the top twenty, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you nod, unable to stop a small smile from pulling at your mouth. “That’s a really impressive increase—this’ll be amazing for the agency.”

“Holy shit,” he breathes, grinning brightly—that same toothy, charming smile so easily spreading on his face. “I can’t believe it.”

Bakugou simply scoffs, still keeping that agitated, grumpy look on his face. But you know him well enough by now that you can see the way tension falls from his shoulders fractionally at his friend’s good news. And his agency’s, for that matter. 

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue. “Good for you.”

Kirishima snorts. “Don’t sound so bitter.”

“I’m not fuckin’ bitter!”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’ll kill you, hair-for-brains.”

You quickly continue before the two of them derail entirely from the matter at hand. “And…” Your voice weakens just slightly as you wince in advance for this blow you’re about to deal. “Dynamight has dropped from rank four to rank fifteen.”

It’s silent. Bakugou stares at you, processing your words from across the table while Kirishima winces loudly enough to be heard. “Oof,” he mutters.

Bakugou’s head instantly whips towards Kirishima as he glares at him. “Oof?” he repeats dangerously.

“W-well, it’s not the worst, of course, but…I’m just sayin’, man, eleven spots is a little rough.”

You can practically see the vein pop in the blonde’s forehead as he hisses, “Shut the hell up! You think you’re better than me?”

Honestly, you expected the yelling. And the irritation. Maybe even an explosion. What you’re not prepared for is the way Bakugou huffs and leans back in his chair with an annoyed scowl, arms crossed. Like he already knew. Which…to be fair, he probably did if he wasn’t particularly dense. And he isn’t. Everyone has more or less been expecting a drop in Dynamight’s rankings. It’s always just…been a matter of how badly the drop would be. 

“Hey, it’s not so bad. Thankfully, you didn’t drop below the twenties, so this is way better than what I was preparing for,” you blurt before thinking. Both men look at you. You immediately want to die—that sounded way better in your head. “I mean, like,” you cough awkwardly, trying to recover, “obviously rank fifteen is still very respectable, so I just think it could be worse! N-not that I think it should be worse or anything—”

“You thought I was gonna drop below the top twenties?” Bakugou interrupts incredulously.

“No,” you lie instantly. “Never!”

He stares at you, lips curling into a rather betrayed scowl. Your face grows hotter. Kirishima bursts into laughter.

“Oh my god,” Kirishima wheezes, “dang, Katsuki. Our own publicist thinks you should be lower!”

“I don’t think that!” you sputter quickly.

“You absolutely do,” he practically giggles. He’s taking more pleasure than you thought in the fact that his literal business partner’s market value has dropped a tad.

“I was just…preparing for all possible outcomes. It’s my job,” you defend weakly.

Bakugou scoffs, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “So what,” he says, eyes fixed directly on you, “you thought I was gonna fall below all the fuckin’ losers on those charts, huh?”

“I didn’t say that,” you huff, rolling your eyes, “I just had some rough estimates based on my knowledge, okay? But it’s not like I’m unhappy to be wrong.”

“Of course you were fuckin’ wrong,” he snaps bitterly, sulking as he gives you a dirty look. “Don’t lump me in with those other idiots on the charts—I’m better than them.”

Beside him, Kirishima scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as he listens, probably choosing to keep his mouth shut from what he really wants to say. It’s probably for the best that he does. Despite it all, there’s a visible sort of excitement he’s trying very hard to suppress.

“Twelve’s pretty good though, right?” he switches the topic back to him earnestly. You nod enthusiastically in confirmation.

Bakugou reaches over and snatches the paper from your hand to see things for himself. “Fifteen,” he repeats flatly.

Kirishima winces yet again. “Hey, but look at it this way—”

“Only way to look at it is I fuckin’ dropped eleven spots.”

“Well, yes,” Kirishima laughs nervously, “but to be fair, you do kinda threaten civilians sometimes.”

“Hah?”

“Yeah,” you agree with a sigh, “in fact, you imply bodily harm pretty frequently,” you mumble before you can stop yourself.

Bakugou’s eyes snap toward you instantly. And it’s awful, really, how you feel when he looks at you. How different it is now to have those eyes on you, no matter where you are. Those eyes that saw every inch of you and roamed every patch of skin they could land on. Those eyes that rolled back from pleasure when you—

You quickly stop yourself. You cannot think about how you spent last night in his apartment. Or how you woke up in his bed. Or how he kissed you half-conscious against his kitchen counter while you tried to make coffee as he made breakfast, grumbling into your mouth about you’re movin’ around too much.

You cannot think about him like that when you are sitting across from him in his office building. For work.

“Jus’ ’cause I say shit doesn’t mean I actually mean it,” he sulks yet again, “these people are such fuckin’ morons for believing everything they hear.”

Kirishima snorts. Bakugou crumples the ranking paper and throws it at him. It bounces uselessly off Kirishima’s shoulder, and you sigh—you’ll be needing that again later to read the reports, so now you have a perfectly wrinkled piece of paper to work with.

“Look. Objectively speaking,” you begin carefully, slipping into your best professional tone, hoping that it’ll soothe him if you sound like you mean business, “these rankings are not disastrous. Red Riot moving from sixteen to twelve is excellent for agency visibility, and fifteen is still a strong enough placement to maintain current sponsorships.”

Bakugou does not take much soothing to that. “Strong enough?” he growls.

“You know what I mean.”

“You seem pretty relieved,” he says bitterly, “why the hell are you relieved over me droppin’ rankings?”

You don’t know if he’ll like your answer. Telling him that it’s because you expected worse, that you spent half of last week drafting backup proposals in case sponsors started pulling out, that seeing fifteen is a miracle compared to the thirties you were expecting, doesn’t seem like it’ll put him in a particularly good mood. And he’s almost always in a bad mood as it is.

“I’m relieved the damage wasn’t more severe,” you answer professionally. And then, a little more genuinely, “Plus, your rank is not indicative of your actual skills. But, I’m sure you realize by now why the press is so important.”

Bakugou gives you a deep scowl for what feels like the millionth time. 

Kirishima, on the other hand, is entirely too excited by his own success and grins brightly as he nudges his friend’s elbow. “Don’t worry, bro! My twelve will definitely get us some good press,” he beams. “C’mon, that’s pretty manly of me.”

“You’re insufferable,” Bakugou mutters. “Everyone get back to work—there’s still shit to do in this agency.”

With that, he walks out of the conference room and into his office, the door slamming and making you wince. You sigh deeply. Of course, just when you allowed yourself to think that perhaps…perhaps you could enjoy whatever this is you have with him, something is thrown in the mix to make it seem impossible. 

Bakugou is probably at his wits’ end with you—partly because he seems rather unhappy that you expected worse from him and partly because…well, you made him do all those things against his will that he hated to keep his rank afloat, and it’s still not something he’s satisfied with. Though you supposed he’d never be truly satisfied with something that isn’t the best—but still. He strives for nothing less than improvement at the very least. 

Before you can dwell on it for too long, however, there’s a hand on your shoulder, and you look up to be met with Kirishima’s kind smile. 

“Don’t take it too hard,” he says gently. “He knows as well as I do that he didn’t drop any lower than he did, all thanks to you. Frankly, I think if we had anyone else filling your spot, he’d have dropped worse. If he’s frustrated, it’s with himself—trust me on that.”

Your lip wobbles a little. It’s so stupid. But hearing it from Kirishima—who is not just your boss, but the best friend of this man you have…complicated feelings for—means a great deal more than you’re willing to admit. 

So you nod slowly, giving him a small, watery smile. “Thanks, Kiri,” you murmur. “Really.”

“Of course,” he closes his eyes and beams, “anything for my amazing publicist! You’re half of why I even jumped like that. Can’t have you thinking you did anything less than spectacular!”

“No,” you chuckle, “no, I think you did that yourself. It was your hard work that did that. You do some really great hero work out there.”

“Yeah, it was my hard work—but it was yours, too,” he says easily. “People only trust me so I can do that hero work because of you and the proper reputation you’ve helped me build. You’re awesome!”

With a light squeeze to your shoulder, he’s off, walking to his own office and leaving you there to ponder over his words. After a few moments, you set your shoulders back and stand, sighing before you pick up that crumpled-up paper to get to work. And you have a lot of work to get to.

You’re going to get Bakugou back up in the top ten—if it’s the last thing you do.

────────────────────────

Despite Bakugou’s initial reaction to his ranking dropping, he surprisingly doesn’t let it interfere with…whatever this is between the two of you. Your budding relationship, you suppose. You return to your normal routine for the most part, but now, you suppose there are some added perks. Bakugou is, shockingly, not the type of person to play mind games when he’s interested in someone. Now that you know he likes you, and now that he more or less has confirmation that those feelings are reciprocated, he’s almost painfully straightforward about it.

So when he says, once the workday finally ends, “Oi, Hellcat. You’re comin’ to the event,” you pause mid-step.

“Huh?”

He gives you a flat look. “The Hero Billboard Charts. They announce the top ten heroes and shit there every semester. We gotta go, don’t we?”

“Oh,” you realize. Then you wince. Bakugou absolutely despises public appearances, and you’re sure he’ll hate this one, especially now that he’s dropped from the top ten, but this is one event that even he can’t avoid. “Yeah…you’re gonna have to attend that.”

“Tch. Yeah. Figured as much.” He twirls car keys in his fingers. “So you’re comin’ with me.”

You blink.

It’s not entirely uncommon for agency members to attend those events as plus-ones, but it’s usually sidekicks or field staff—not publicists. Not people who are on the corporate side of things. You brush off the thought that Bakugou doesn’t even have sidekicks, and the fact that it is quickly becoming the next nightmare issue you’ll have to solve for him professionally. For now, the only thing you can focus on is the idea of attending an event centered around the nation’s top heroes, and how it makes your stomach twist. 

You absolutely cannot picture yourself there among them.

“I can’t attend that,” you protest immediately.

Bakugou gives you a hard look. “You’re makin’ me sit through it, so I’m makin’ you do it too. Fair ’n fuckin’ square.”

“Bakugou, can you not be stubborn for, like, half a day?” you scowl.

Naturally, he only scowls right back. “No. I can’t.”

“I can’t attend that event! It’s for heroes,” you insist. “And besides, I don’t have anything fancy enough to wear to something that huge, and I’m not dropping that kind of money for one night just because you’re being petty and sulky. Some of us don’t have the same amount of disposable income as—”

“Done,” he shrugs, grabbing your wrist and dragging you along behind him. “I’ll get you somethin’ to wear. That settles it.”

You sputter indignantly. “W-what? No—no, it does not settle it! I’m not just going to accept a dress from you, and you can’t—”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s…” You nearly trip trying to keep up with him. “That’s expensive!”

“So?”

“So normal people care about that!”

“I’m not normal,” he snorts. “I’m better than the normal extras you’re used to. Besides. Spoilin’ you is the first step to earning a date with you or whatever the fuck.”

That flusters you into silence. 

Apart from being a deeply smug thing to say, he’s right. He is not normal, and he is technically better than most normal individuals at most things. He is too skilled and successful not to be, so when he says that, you can’t even argue with him. But that’s also why you shouldn’t accept this lavish treatment—he should not be wasting his time and money on getting you a dress when you are too normal. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb when you attend this event, high-end dress or not. Attending alongside him will probably do him even more harm than good when people see the plain, boring publicist he has tagging along, and the media puts you under a microscope. 

But Bakugou is nothing if not stubborn and demanding. He drags you into his car, and there’s a quiet, short drive to a nearby boutique that is far too fancy and far too luxurious for you to even know about its existence. You open your mouth to continue protesting, but he’s already shoving open the glass doors of the absurdly upscale boutique before you can formulate another complaint.

Immediately, once you get a look around, you want to leave.

Everything inside is sleek and pristine and intimidatingly expensive. Dresses hang along the walls in neat rows beneath warm lighting, and the employees somehow look elegant enough to belong among the merchandise itself. One glance in passing at a price tag hanging off a dress nearly sends you into cardiac arrest. You might have to sell a liver just to afford one of these, and even then, you’re not even sure your liver would be worth as much as someone who is in peak condition—like a hero. Your liver must be worth half of that of an average, quirk-having individual. 

“Bakugou,” you whisper harshly, trying to tug him back toward the entrance, “I can’t afford to even breathe in here.”

“Good thing you’re not buyin’ anything then,” he says flatly. “Just hold your breath.”

“That is not a good thing!”

Before you can protest any more, a sales associate approaches the two of you with a bright smile as she says, “Welcome! How may I assist you both today?” She visibly dims the second Bakugou turns his sharp eyes at her—you don’t even blame her. He isn’t the most inviting client, you’d know that firsthand.

“We need somethin’ for the Billboard event,” he says bluntly as he jerks a thumb toward you. “For her.”

As soon as he says it, suddenly every eye in the vicinity is on you. Heat crawls violently up your neck. Billboard event…Dynamight…dress shopping with a girl…you can almost see the puzzle pieces clicking into place on everyone’s face as they stare at you, and you want the ground to swallow you whole from all the pairs of eyes that are hyper-focused on you and Bakugou. Luckily for you (and mainly for Bakugou, if you’re honest), this establishment is high-end enough that there is a strict no filming policy hung by the front, so you don’t have to worry about images of you two being released on the tabloids in a few hours.

Before the sales associate can say anything, another older woman comes in and says, “Ah! Katsuki, hello. Let me assist.”

Katsuki? Does she know him?

Before you can ask, or ponder on it any longer, the new woman takes a moment as she looks you over. If she has any thoughts, you can’t tell what they are by the time she throws on her best smile and says, “Let’s see, do you have a particular silhouette or color palette in mind?”

You open your mouth uselessly, then close it. Silhouette? Bakugou takes the chance to answer for you. “Somethin’ pretty.”

Well. That’s certainly helpful. But, even as it is, the associate smiles knowingly. “I believe we have a few options that may work. Come, along—come, come!” She claps her hands and turns, and you are left with no choice but to jog along behind her as Bakugou trudges beside you. 

“U-umm,” you stammer. “I was thinking…maybe something on the more simple—”

“Not simple,” Bakugou interrupts immediately.

You glare at him. “But I like simple.”

“You can’t dress like a boring corporate worker everywhere you go.”

“Well, I don’t know if this is going to come as a shock to you, but I actually am a boring corporate worker!”

The associate tries (and fails) to bite back a laugh.

The next thirty minutes are spent trying on dress after dress after dress. Bakugou makes himself comfortable on a bench in front of the dressing room, legs spread as he slouches against the wall, and the associate brings you what you assume are the current trending styles in formal attire. You wouldn’t know—the fabrics alone of the dresses you’re trying on are way above your pay grade. You feel like you’re committing a crime just touching them.

More shockingly, than anything, however, is how picky Bakugou happens to be when it comes to women’s fashion. He’s dissatisfied with practically everything the woman suggests and has you try on.

The first dress earns a dismissive grunt. “Too poofy.”

The second doesn’t meet his standards, either. “Ugly color.”

The third, he wrinkles his nose. “You look like you borrowed a dress from somebody’s aunt.”

“You’re probably annoying her,” you scold him through a hushed whisper when she takes back the newest batch of dresses you’ve tried on, heading off to grab a few more. “If you keep saying no to everything, she’s not going to want to help!”

“Tch. Doubt it. She knows my mom.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“My mom’s a designer,” he rolls his eyes, “she’s dragged me here more times than I can count. Fuckin’ old hag always had me carry her shit while she ran errands.”

The sales associate giggles while handing you another dress as she hears the tail-end of your conversation. “How’s Mitsuki doing lately?” She asks.

Bakugou rolls his eyes again. “Same as ever—nagging and screaming all day.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” she hums

You feel a weird tug in your heart. A weird tug that wonders what Bakugou’s mother is like and how his relationship with her is and what sort of life he was raised in. He seems agitated when he mentions her—his eyes are practically rolled to the back of his head, and his lips are curled into a deep frown, but still. There is clearly some form of exasperated fondness in his voice and a spark in his irises from the mention of her. Despite how much he acts like he is trying to hide it, Bakugou is blunter about his endearment than you initially thought.

Now that you know how to read him better, you know affection when it’s written on his face, and there is affection for his mother that makes you ache, to your surprise, for a glimpse of him that is more than hero costumes and bedsheets and office tables. You want to see him exist beyond that—in his childhood home and enduring his mother’s hands on his cheeks and on the photos there must be of him on the walls.

And then you brush the thoughts off with a slow exhale. When—if—there is a day like that, it will come. For now, you focus on the dress you are going to need.

The associate, turning back to you, murmurs, “I have a feeling this one might be a good choice,” as she gestures at the new dress she’s handed you to try on.

You look at it, frowning because you highly doubt it with someone as picky as Bakugou being there to give his opinions, but you take the dress into the fitting room anyway and try it on. And you realize why she seems to think he’ll like it as soon as you put it on—it’s the same deep green shade as his gauntlets. The fabric drapes smoothly over your frame, hugging your waist before flowing down into a long skirt that brushes your ankles. The neckline is modest enough to be event-appropriate, but the back dips lower than you expected, exposing just the perfect-sized strip of skin. The sleeves are sheer, delicate things that gather at your wrists, embroidered with subtle metallic threading that catches the light whenever you move.

It’s beautiful. It’s the first dress you’ve tried on that you not only feel confident enough in, but…but also makes you almost want to attend the event just for the chance to wear it.

The second you step out, Bakugou freezes. He doesn’t even pretend not to stare—just lets his eyes drag over you slowly as the door swings open. You step out in the dress, and he goes unusually quiet. Your stomach flips as he looks, and looks…and just looks. He says nothing. Then, after blinking, he seems to break from whatever trance he’s in and clears his throat, huffing as he crosses his arms and looks away from you instantly.

Suddenly, all that confidence washes away, and you’re left feeling very self-conscious—maybe he hates this one the most and is absolutely speechless at how you can make just about anything look bad.

“You hate it, don’t you?” you blurt, “I make every dress look weird, don’t I—”

He turns to the associate and says, while interrupting you, “This is the one.”

She brightens immediately. “I was thinking the same thing! The color suits her beautifully.”

Your face grows hot under the scrutiny as they both turn and stare at you while they nod their heads in approval. Not long after, with some minor alteration measurements she takes, the dress is paid for, and your address is listed for the upcoming delivery as soon as all the alterations are complete.

You walk out with him, walking to his car as you fiddle with your fingers. “Um, thank you…for the dress. Really—I love it. But, I probably won’t have anywhere else to wear it after this event, so you really didn’t have to waste so much money—”

“Jus’ wear it for me now and then,” he grins smugly, opening his passenger door for you. His canines look particularly sharp as he smirks and says, “’Cause I think we could make some good use out of it, Hellcat.”

—

TODAY 6:47 PM

UNKNOWN NUMBER: hiiiiiiyaa my little networking babe UNKNOWN NUMBER: its me mina. pinky!! u rmr me right? UNKNOWN NUMBER: kiri gave me ur number hope its ok to text u!

You: Hello! Of course it is, please feel free to contact me any time you see fit, and I’ll try and get back to you as soon as I can!

UNKNOWN NUMBER: omg totally no need to be so formal and serious with me nooo UNKNOWN NUMBER: we’re friends ok??? 

You: Right sorry haha I just thought maybe you messaged me for business related things

UNKNOWN NUMBER: well maybe i will soon enough ;) UNKNOWN NUMBER: ANYWAY!! did blasty buy u a dress yet for the billboard thing UNKNOWN NUMBER: he better have. i gave him until today before i took matters into my own hands

You: Yes he did actually You: You were in on that?

UNKNOWN NUMBER: girl LOL u dont even know UNKNOWN NUMBER: he asked me what size i thought u were. he was just gonna buy u some dress and hand it to u until i told him off UNKNOWN NUMBER: he is so lame sometimes UNKNOWN NUMBER: BUT im so glad ur coming we’ll have a good time!!! see u there ;)

You: Yes, I’m sure we will! See you there

(New contact saved: Mina <3)

────────────────────────

The Hero Billboard Chart JP Event is a flashy place to be. 

Of course, it would be grand—you always knew that much as inevitable, but it’s quite literally flashy. There is camera after camera after camera flashing and blinding your eyes with bright lights as they photograph every individual they can who walks into the building. 

Riot Grenade Agency has been generously sponsored by a private transportation company in exchange for an Instagram story highlighting them (courtesy of your resourceful networking), and you, Bakugou, and Kirishima pull up to the entrance in a sleek, black car with a driver who will be waiting for you all when you’re done. It makes things rather simple this way in case you have to leave in a rush, as heroes often tend to.  

Your dress fits you nicely with the alterations, and you think you’ve fixed yourself up to accessorize it and look semi-respectable enough that standing next to Dynamight and Red Riot of all people doesn’t make you look like a complete joke. Still, when you walk out—sandwiched between Kirishima in front of you and Bakugou behind you, the two of them trying to shield you from annoying, pressing reporters who have caught on all too quickly that your dress matches Bakugou’s hero costume—you’re already overthinking your appearance.

It isn’t until you’re inside, and Mina has found you instantly, that you feel better. 

She pulls you into a bone-crushing hug and says, “Oh, look at you! My networking babe looks stunning! Did you buy this gorgeous little piece off of Mister Dynamight’s card?”

Bakugou gives her a hard glare. “Shut your trap, Raccoon-Eyes. She got the dress. S’all that matters.” He gives you a proper once-over now that you’re standing and not cramped in the back seat of a car, and his eyes linger over your cleavage for a second before he huffs and looks away. “Looks good, by the way.”

Your face feels hot as you mumble, “Thank you.”

“You should ask him to take you shopping again and then tell me, and I’ll pull up,” she whispers to you—very loudly, of course, and with direct eye contact with the agitated blonde who is standing right there. “Then, I’ll sneak in my clothes with yours, and we can both dress on his card!”

You giggle alongside her as Bakugou growls at her taunt, shoving his hands in his pockets while he gives her a warning scowl. Mina takes it to no heart whatsoever, and you wonder how many years of friendship have been built beneath that comfortable taunting and bickering that flows so easily between them. How close they had to get during school and stay after it, too. How much a bond can strengthen when you fight things like life-threatening battles and brain-altering wars together. 

You don’t think Bakugou carries any feelings for Mina, nor do you think she has any particularly romantic thoughts of him, either. But a part of you cannot help but wonder how much more things between you and him might make sense if you were like Mina—if you knew him the same way Mina did and met him through the same circumstances. If you were here as a hero on an invite rather than as a publicist as a plus-one.

But you don’t have too long to dwell on that before you’re being ushered to your seats as the ceremonies begin, so you let Bakugou guide you to where there are three chairs reserved for you, him, and Kirishima. You’re once more sandwiched between the two of them—and you’re getting the sense that this was a calculated decision based on how adamant Kirishima seems to be about staying where he is when you offer to switch with him so he can chat with his best friend. 

Just what do they think is going to happen in here, you wonder to yourself—how terrible of events are they hypothetically preparing for that you cannot even sit down in a chair without them both surrounding you? Then again, you suppose that a building with the nation’s best heroes all in one place might be the ideal gathering for someone to attack if they were confident enough that they could actually face all the best heroes. You try not to dwell on how useless you are, that the two of them have to plan in advance for your safety, by just accompanying them.

By the time the stage lights are flashing and the room is dimmed, you spot the newest number two—Todoroki has grown quite a lot since the last time you saw him. The roundness of his young face has fully become an older, sharper version of himself, and his physique is taller and broader than it once was. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper to Bakugou, “do you think you can introduce me to Todoroki after this? I want to meet him.”

His jaw seems to grit at the question alone, but when he senses the awe in your voice, he all but growls. “What business do you have with fuckin’ Icy-Hot?”

“One time, when I was still working with Uwabami, he and Creati were doing an ad with her. This huge light from the set we were on was going to land on my head, but he rushed in and saved me,” you explain with an enthusiastic whisper. “It was so cool—I’ve never seen his ice so up close! I didn’t even get to say a word before they were dragging him back, though, and then I didn’t see him after, so I’d really like to thank him. Though I bet he doesn’t remember someone like me,” you let out a shy laugh. 

Bakugou stares at you with hard, unimpressed eyes. You shrink back at his gaze—right. You must sound particularly pathetic to him. 

“The fact that you had to be saved by that Half-and-Half bastard is an insult,” he grumbles, “don’t be a fuckin’ idiot ever again.”

“How was that my fault?” you huff. “Besides—”

“Shh! This is a ceremony here—have some decorum!” Someone—probably a sidekick since you don’t even really recognize him—in the row in front of you turns to glare at you rather agitatedly. The ceremony has already begun, and you didn’t even notice, too busy speaking to Bakugou. You shrink back in embarrassment as you let out a quick, nervous apology. 

Bakugou tenses as soon as you go, glaring bloody murder at the back of the head in front of him. “Oi!” he calls—and you’re mortified, reaching for his hand as it moves to grab at the stranger’s shoulder. 

“Hey!” you whisper, stopping him, “what are you doing?”

“M’not lettin’ some fuckin’ idiot talk to anyone from my agency like that! Does he not know who the fuck we are? You can’t just take that—”

“Shh,” you try to placate his temper, “just drop it.” The man was a tad bit more rude than he needed to be, that much is true—but still. You know better than to let Bakugou get worked up in the middle of an event that is literally hosted by the very people who decide his rankings. 

“No! That bastard has to apologize—”

“C’mon,” you plead. Then, before you can overthink, you take his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles. He seems to relax on instinct as soon as you do. “Let’s just leave it, okay?”

He sits there and stares at his hand in yours for a moment, lips curled into an unhappy scowl, before finally, after a moment, he caves. “Whatever,” he grunts—sulking, but undeniably complying. 

His hand stays like that in your grasp for the rest of the event, as the top ten heroes each say their pieces in ascending order on the stage. He doesn’t pull away and…and you cannot really bring yourself to let go, either, even if the gauntlets make it a little awkward of a position.

Finally, when it’s Todoroki’s speech, you lean in a little closer. (You don’t even realize the way Bakugou’s hand tightens around yours as soon as he notices it.)

“Thank you for your support. There are a lot of heroes working just as hard as I am, so I’ll continue doing my job to the best of my ability and try to live up to the expectations placed on me.” He pauses. “That’s all.”

You huff out a small laugh, murmuring, “Not a lot of words, that one, huh?”

Kirishima pipes in from the side, “Katsuki, you should be more like him! Maybe if you spoke less, people would like you more.”

“That would save me quite a workload, wouldn’t it?” You snort, agreeing. 

“Shut up, both of you,” he snaps. 

The man from earlier, sitting in front of you, turns and hisses, “Shh!”

And before Bakugou can practically knock his head off his shoulders, you gently pat his chest and murmur, “We’re only joking. I like my workload.”

He’s all but pouting as he eyes you with a nasty side glare and slumps back in his seat, sitting and seething at not just the blow to his pride, but the irritating asshole sitting in front of you that he can’t even tell off thanks to you. 

You giggle, shaking your head in fond amusement.

—

To your absolute delight (and Bakugou’s complete irritation), Kirishima manages to grab Todoroki and bring him to where you’re standing as he congratulates his former classmate, giving you the perfect opportunity to talk to the number two hero. 

“Hi…Shoto? Can I call you that? I know it’s, like, your hero name and stuff, but…I don’t know, it’s kinda weird calling you by your first name. Sorry, maybe that’s a dumb question, huh?”

“No,” he says politely, “Shoto is fine. It’s my hero name.”

“Ah, right,” you laugh nervously, “right, right. Of course it is—so uh, anyway! I think you definitely don’t remember this—you probably save, like…I don’t know, hundreds of people a week, right? And this was a while ago, but I used to work with Uwabami and—”

“You stood under that broken light, I remember you,” he nods in thought. “You might have taken some serious brain damage if that hit you.”

“Yes!” You nod animatedly, “That was me…clumsy me, huh? Standing under that light. Good thing I didn’t get brain damage thanks to you!”

“Yes, I think it’s good your brain is okay,” he nods seriously. Then, just as seriously (and genuinely), he asks: “Your brain is okay, right?”

“Are you fuckin’ dense?” Bakugou asks from the side. 

You give him a sharp look, and he all but pops a vein as you continue speaking. “My brain is perfect—again, all thanks to you! I never got to say anything that day—you were too busy. Totally understandable, by the way! But yeah…I just wanted to say thank you for saving me. And my brain. Oh, and congratulations on being number two! That’s a crazy impressive rank to have so early into your career!”

“Thank you,” he nods, smiling. “Please keep your brain safe.”

“Will do!” You beam as he’s grabbed by another crowd of people. “Lovely to meet you!”

He can only afford you a small, polite nod before he’s whisked away, and you’re left with Bakugou, who is glaring after his former classmate’s figure. 

“He’s so nice,” you sigh, “he’s so awkward, but it’s charming.”

“He’s a fuckin’ idiot, is what he is,” he glowers.

“You think everyone is an idiot,” you snort. Then, teasingly, you hum as you elbow his side, “You should consider being business partners with his agency. Guy like him will do wonders for your image, don’t you think?”

That seems to be the wrong thing to say. Seriously wrong, because he scowls and saunters off towards the exit as he grunts, “Event’s over. M’goin’ the fuck home.”

Without thinking, you run after him. “Wait! You haven’t even said bye to Kiri, or Mina, or the others from—”

“Doesn’t matter. I see ’em enough already.”

“But—” You’re running after him (and his annoyingly long legs that take huge steps) as he marches off to where the car from earlier is waiting for you all in the back parking lot of the building. “Bakugou, wait! What has gotten into you?”

He stops. Abruptly, he stops, turns, and levels you with a firm, hard look. You almost feel like shrinking under his gaze, but you’re used to it enough by now that you only take a step closer.

He grits out, “You wanna be his publicist or mine?”

“Huh?” You do a double-take. 

“It’s a one-word answer. Me or him?”

“You, of course,” you furrow your brows, “I was only joking about—”

“Good. Come on.”

With that, he yanks you into the car and grunts at the driver to drive to your address. 

“W-wait, what about Kiri—”

“He’ll get a ride somewhere. He’s old enough.”

“But—”

“Jus’ be quiet.”

You listen. For the rest of the car ride, you’re quiet. When the car stops at your apartment, you’re quiet. When he climbs out of the car with you and dismisses the driver with a nod, you’re still quiet. It’s not until he’s followed you up to your floor and you’re outside your door that you turn to him and finally work up the courage to say something. 

“Not that…” you clear your throat, “not that you’re not allowed in my home, but what is it exactly we’re uh…doing here?”

He studies you. His gaze is hard, his eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is set. You don’t understand. You don’t understand what it is that’s making him so…so different. He’s as grumpy and prickly as he always is—he’s not being particularly rude or cold, but something about him feels so…so guarded. And you don’t get it. 

Finally, he reaches for your jaw, angling it and pressing his mouth against it heavily. His mouth is hot and heavy against yours—the pressure of him pressing kisses against it is unlike the way he’s kissed you before. This isn’t fast or clumsy or needy or even sweet. This kiss is firm and slow, and he takes his time to make sure you can feel him against your mouth. When he pulls away, you’re pressed against your door, and his arm is caging you against it while the other is busy holding your face with his hand. 

“What’s so great about that Icy-Hot bastard?”

“What?”

“What sort of idiot is so amazed by some fuckin’ ice? You’re tellin’ me you were so amazed ’cause you never seen his ice so up close?” He scowls as he quotes your words from earlier. 

Finally, it clicks—he’s jealous. A feeling you honestly thought Bakugou was immune to, if you were being honest. But he’s only human, after all. A person, even if a rather larger-than-life sort of one. You never took him for someone who would be jealous over something as trivial as a few jokes about PR—you’re sure he’d have been jealous of Kirishima a long time ago if it were just that. 

So then, why is Todoroki such a sore spot? You can’t figure it out—

“You’re not gonna need anyone to save you from here on out,” he brushes his hands over your hips, gliding them behind you to the small of your back before pressing you forward against his chest. “M’gonna fuckin’ be the one who saves you if your dumbass needs saving. Idiot.”

Ah. So that’s what it is—you should have known. Of course, he wouldn’t be jealous of Todoroki’s temperament or his looks or his rank or anything of that sort. Bakugou is…well, rightfully too confident for petty feelings of inadequacy over that. He knows you like him, and he’s not threatened by trivial things such as someone’s charm. You are here with your breath hitched at the simplest touch from him—he is certainly not lacking in his own form of appeal.

But there is only one thing that he is equally rivaled by Todoroki. And that is saving people. They are both strong and capable, and you think, even on their best days, they would end with a draw if they fought. Todoroki being the one to save you, to be your hero, is a loss that Bakugou is not happy to be a good sport about. So you reach forward, cupping his cheeks as you kiss along his jaw. 

“Of course, you will,” you grin as you peck his lips, “maybe I should get myself into trouble a lot. Have you come save me and be my hero—that’s my new strategy to get your rank up. Solid plan, huh?”

He snorts, hands roaming over your hips as he squeezes them and pulls you impossibly closer against him. “Mmh,” he hums, kissing along your jaw and trailing down to your collarbone. “Leave it to you to come up with stupid fuckin’ ideas. Give me a damn headache.”

You pull him by the shirt to come kiss your lips again, and you can’t help but feel so ridiculous standing there in that extravagant dress when he is in his hero costume. All heroes show up to the event in their costumes—seeing as you don’t have one, Bakugou opted for getting you the next best option. The nicest dress you’ve ever owned. And wearing it now, in front of him as his gauntlet-clad hands roam your body, you wonder why he would ever feel jealous over someone like you of all people. Someone who is not worth his jealousy.

But he doesn’t seem to think that—he seems more interested in getting inside your apartment, instead. 

“Open that damn door,” he grumbles against your mouth. 

“Stop kissing me, then,” you huff.

“You’re fuckin’ kissing me.”

“No, you’re kissing me—”

“Open the fuckin’ door before I explode it open.”

You give him a warning look before you reach into your purse and grab your keys. He eyes the little cat on your keychain and snorts, earning a glare from you. “Don’t laugh at my sushi cat.”

“M’not.”

“Don’t lie to me, either.”

“You drive me fuckin’ nuts,” he shakes his head—and he’s smiling. He’s smiling, and his eyes are a rare shade of soft that they only ever are around you. And you think for a moment that, even despite not having a hero costume to wear to an event like the Billboard event the way that Bakugou does, perhaps you’re worth smiling over and being jealous for. 

When your door opens, and you both stumble in, his arms around your waist as he kicks your door shut, he barely has the patience to make it to your couch before he’s collapsing back against it, pulling you onto his lap. You let him pull you onto him, straddling his hips as you cup his face and kiss him harder. 

“Wait,” he grunts after a moment—you’re hardly in the mood to listen, so you ignore him. But his hand grabs your wrists and holds them for a moment firmly as he says, more serious this time: “Wait.”

“Why,” you practically pout.

“Let me take the gauntlets off. They’re dangerous.”

“That’s hot,” you wink.

Bakugou rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Real hot until you lose an arm.”

“Then I could sue you for loads of money,” you wink.

He looks at you incredulously. “You are the worst headache I’ve ever had.”

He shifts you off his lap just enough to work on the bulky gauntlets strapped to his forearms. The familiar clicks of buckles and clasps fill your apartment while you sit there impatiently, watching him.

“Are you done yet?” you ask.

“No. Wait. You’re bein’ impatient.”

“Because you’re taking forever.”

“Then do it yourself.”

You immediately reach for one as you hum, “Well, if you insist—”

“Don’t touch anything,” he levels you with a firm look.

You snatch your hand back, pouting as you huff, “Then why’d you say it? Jus’ wanted to feel them.”

“See?” he says, clicking his teeth. “Headache. I just said they were dangerous.”

A few moments later, alongside some healthy arguing back and forth, both gauntlets are resting safely on your coffee table. The second he’s finished, you barely have time to grin before he’s pulling you back onto his lap.

“There. M’done,” he mutters. “Happy?”

“Very. Pay attention to me now.”

“You’re a fuckin’ brat,” he says—and he sounds rather happy about it, so you like to think he’s not complaining. 

“I think you like that,” you note.

He doesn’t deny it as his hands settle onto your waist, and yours slide into his hair. The kiss that follows makes your body feel like it’s overheating, lighting on fire, and combusting. You wonder if everything Bakugou touches does that—if he can make anything that comes in contact with his hands explode, and not just that sweat he produces. It’s warm and familiar, being touched by him like this, being kissed by him like this. Even if the last time you kissed him was technically only your second time, and kissing him isn’t anything that’s really familiar to you at all, it still feels like it is. Like it’s only natural for you to do so. Like you only know this—him and his lips.

At some point, his shirt is peeled off and tossed messily over the floor. Your dress is unzipped and halfway pulled down your body as his hands cup your breasts and squeeze with a satisfied hum when you gasp and arch into him. 

“You like it when I play with these, huh?” He hums, smirking.

You give him an incredibly scandalized look as you sputter, “N-no, I do not! Stop saying…weird things!”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see,” he chuckles. “I think you’re a liar.” Just when he reaches to undo the clasp of your bra, his phone starts ringing.

Neither of you moves. It vibrates insistently from his pants’ pocket, the sound endlessly ringing through your living room. Finally, you sigh, reaching over to pull it out for him and glance toward the screen.

“It’s Kirishima.”

Bakugou doesn’t look very happy. “He’s probably just callin’ about his ride home. Just ignore it.”

“Maybe you should answer? What if it’s important?” You mumble.

“He’s a grown man, he’ll figure somethin’ out and get home on his own. Now c’mere.” He grabs his phone from your hand and tosses it beside him, the call ringing out and ending. He’s tugging you closer as he kisses your jaw and grabs your bra clasps to undo them. The clasp comes undone, and he slides the undergarment off, freeing your tits for him to see. His eyes darken, and he hums at the sight of them—you can feel the growing bulge in his pants under you. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he breathes. 

Except just when he reaches to touch you, the phone immediately starts ringing again. You both turn your heads and abruptly stare at it. This time, Bakugou groans.

“What could it possibly fuckin’ be?”

“I think it’s important if he’s calling you again,” you bite your lip.

“I know,” he grumbles, “Ei never calls twice—just spams me with texts if he’s tryin’ to get my attention for non emergencies.”

The third ring hasn’t even finished before he snatches the phone off the couch and answers. “What is it?” he says gruffly.

The response on the other end, whatever it is, instantly wipes the irritation from his face. You watch the shift happen in real time. It’s like all the relaxation and ease in his posture is flushed out of his body and replaced with something more rigid and tense. Something more serious and important. 

Bakugou sits up straighter. “Wait—what the fuck do you mean?”

A pause. His jaw tightens as Kirishima speaks again through the phone. You can hear the sound of his voice, muffled, but you can’t make out what he’s saying, even though you try. You do make out a few words, though—attack, serious, civilians, really strong. You have a sneaking suspicion that you know why he’s called.

“How bad?”

Another pause as Bakugou listens. Then—

“Kay, I’ll be there in five—just lemme grab my gauntlets.”

He hangs up, and you already know the answer before you ask. “Is it a villain?”

He sighs, rubbing your arms slowly up and down as he says, “Yeah.” He drags a hand down his face and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “M’sorry, Hellcat, I’ll make it up to—”

“It’s okay,” you smile softly, leaning to kiss his nose. “I know it comes with your big hero job. You promised Kiri it’d be five minutes, so you should hurry.”

You slide off his lap, and he stares at the ceiling for a second. Then another. Finally, he mutters, “I hate this job.”

You laugh, grinning. “That’s a lie.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he grins a little. He stands and reaches for his shirt on the floor, sliding it on before grabbing his gauntlets, pulling them up his arms, and clicking them in place. “We’ll continue this some other time.”

“I’ll count on it,” you hum.

You walk him to your front door, and as Bakugou reaches for the handle, he pauses just long enough to turn, pull you in for one last quick kiss, and murmur, “If this ends up on the news, be sure you watch me kick ass, yeah?”

And then he walks out, and you close the door after him, murmuring quietly to yourself (because you’re not yet brave enough to say it to him where he can hear), “Be safe, Katsuki.”

next chapter will be a bigggggg rip for reader. rip reader you were a real one

It was almost embarrassing to talk with your boyfriend about something your friends have been obsessed with lately, not even daring to admit to them that you've tried it before but it just wouldn't happen. Of course, dear Katsuki enjoyed watching you squirm and suffer in front of him, trying to let him know what exactly you wanted. 

"So… You want me to help you take a piss?" He asked amused, causing you to burn up with the way he put it, a long sigh escaping your lips 

"It's not…peeing you dimwit…but yes," you stammered as your eyes drifted down to your lap out of embarrassment. 

All you could hear was a soft chuckle that came from the blonde, followed by rustling of the sheets as he moved around. When you dared to look up again he sat against the headboard, legs slightly spread and mischief written across his face 

"Are you gonna sit there forever or will you let me play with you?" He asked in a teasing way, patting the empty space in front of him. 

You looked at him with wide eyes, not expecting him to be so willing to do it right away but you simply nodded before crawling over to him. 

Once you were nestled between his thighs your lips crashed onto his in a passionate kiss while your hands were busy taking your shorts off. 

"Everything," he hummed as he tugged on the hem of your shirt, wanting to have you completely bare against him. 

When you finally settled between his legs, your back resting against his chest, he hooked your legs over his own to keep them spread wide, a small "tsk" escaping his lips when you tried to close them at first. His soft lips came to nibble at your neck, slender fingers snaking towards your chest to knead your chest. 

Soft mewls escaped your lips when he rolled your nipples between his fingers and it made him chuckle. 

"You're so needy," he teased and pressed his hardened length against your back to let you know that he was just as needy, but his goal was clear, to get you to make a mess all over his hand and bed. 

You were so lost in the pleasure his hands provided to your nipples that you barely noticed how one of his hands slid further down between your legs. A small slap to your glistening cunt pulled you back to reality with a squeak.  

"Mhh… better pay attention," he mused and let a finger slide between your slick folds. 

As he slowly circled your clit, you let your head fall back onto his shoulder, fully relaxing into him to allow the pleasure to take over your body. With skilled fingers he quickly built up this all to familiar heat in your lower abdomen. 

Katsuki chuckled deeply when he took his hand away right before the knot was ready to burst, leaving you a whimpering mess. The cruel treatment made you want to whine and close your legs to create at least some sort of friction, but closing your legs was impossible with the way his own held yours open. "Patience, my sweet" he whispered, soft lips connecting to your neck once again as his fingers came up to your mouth. 

"Open up," he ordered and you knew better than to deny him, so you allowed him to push his fingers into your awaiting mouth, cleaning up his fingers as you sucked gently before swirling your tongue around them. 

With a pop he released them from your mouth and bit down on a sensitive spot on your neck before speaking again 

"Such a good girl for me. Enjoying to taste yourself, hm?" That cocky bastard, you thought to yourself, but your mind quickly went blank the second you felt the tip of his finger circle your dripping core, eagerly awaiting him. 

The way his fingers curled upwards against your sweet spot had you seeing stars, the squelching sound almost drowned out your soft moans and whimpers. 

Right before you had the chance to get your sweet release he did it again - removing his fingers to leave you clenching around nothing, chasing an orgasm that wouldn't come. 

"Kats, please… Need to cum," You whined desperate, hating it when he edged you, but he turned your head slightly to the side to kiss your temple.

"You're too impatient, you little brat. You wanted to make a mess, right?" He questioned as if he knew exactly what he was doing, smirking when he saw you nod. 

"Then take it like a big girl," he hummed before pushing his fingers back inside of you to work you up a few more times. 

When you suddenly started to stiffen up he hummed softly into your ear, knowing exactly that you feel the pressure of what's about to follow 

"Don’t think so much, just let your body take control." His voice gently reassured you when he brought his free hand up to play some more with your nipples, while his fingers harshly massaged your sweet spot. 

As if his words were all you needed, you came with a silent scream, clear liquid squirting out of your cunt and wetting the sheets as your eyes rolled back in your head. The sensation was unlike anything you’ve felt before. Katsuki's fingers kept rubbing your clit in fast circles to make this orgasm last even longer. However, the second you calmed down, he plunged his fingers back inside once again.  

"Look at the mess you made, you naughty girl. Wet the whole bed," he groaned and his pants felt painfully tight against him now, but he wanted you to do it again - needed you to. 

You were whining his name so sinfully when your head rolled off his shoulder to watch his fingers disappear into your needy cunt as another orgasm hit you. Another wave of clear liquid sprayed out of you as Katsuki moaned in your ear from how tight you were squeezing his fingers. 

Once you caught your breath, he rubbed slow, lazy circles on your bundle of nerves to help you ride the high out and chuckled softly at how you squirmed around from the overstimulation.  

"You better not tap out now baby. Gonna do it again around my dick, yeah?" His words resembled an order,  more than a question and all you could do was nod, addicted to this newfound pleasure.