Skates Over Stick

In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.

It doesn’t work.

They’re everywhere.

Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.

“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”

“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”

“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”

It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.

The outside threat, or them.

Your pills aren’t working.

It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.

No relief. No numbness.

Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.

It’s taking a toll.

“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?

Simon says your name, but you ignore him.

Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?

A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.

Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.

“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”

“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-

Stop.

You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”

“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.

“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.

“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.

“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.

You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.

An infection.

They made you sick.

They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.

Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.

You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.

“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.

“If ye say so.”

You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.

It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.

You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.

Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.

The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.

There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.

The bedroom that’s too large, too open.

It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.

You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.

But it still doesn’t feel right.

That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.

You eye the lamp.

It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.

Better, but still not right.

Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.

Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.

You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.

It should work.

It should.

You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.

The closet catches your eye.

Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.

You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.

It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.

You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.

Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.

Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.

Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.

The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.

You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.

Simon.

Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.

His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this. 

No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.

“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.

“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.

Stop.

Stopstopstopstop please stop-

The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”

That snaps you out of it.

The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals down to their bones. 

You won't let that become who you are. You can't. 

You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.

“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.

“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.

“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.

“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.

“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.

You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.

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

“Because they’re fucking idiots, why else?” He snaps, like that should be the end of the discussion. You think for him, it would be, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re just as stubborn as he is. 

“Oh, my god. This could have been a perfect opport—” you cut yourself off mid-sentence, pinching the bridge of your nose as a groan slips out in frustration. “See? This is exactly what I mean when I say you need to be more media-smart! This was the perfect opportunity to say, ‘Sir, please step away from the fire for your own safety—it’s dangerous. I’ll handle this. Everyone is safe now that I’m here.’And then you’d be praised for your save instead of scrutinized.”

“Why the fuck would I have to tell a grown-ass man to get away from a fire?” Bakugou shoots back immediately. “He’s grown as fuck. That idiot was in my way—and if he got himself hurt, then I’d have to waste my damn time saving his ass instead of focusing on the actual people in trouble.”

It’s exactly what you expected—for him to argue. Honestly, at this point, it would be more surprising if he didn’t argue. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that much. 

With an exasperated groan, you hiss, “Bakugou, do you even bother checking what people say about you? Look at this,” you turn your phone to him, reading the top comment on the video. “‘Why is he always so aggressive?’” You quote flatly. “Next—‘I know he chooses to save people, but why does he act like he hates being there? Oh, this one’s popular too—‘He’s scary as hell, I’d be more afraid of him than the fire.’”

His jaw ticks. You keep going anyway, uninterested in his clearly worsening mood.

“‘We should start calling him the symbol of anger issues,’” you read, then snort. “That comment’s got, like, eighty thousand hearts, by the way.”

“The fuck do they know?” he mutters, irritation bleeding into his voice as he practically sulks. “They weren’t even there.”

“Exactly,” you shoot back, “they weren’t there. This—” you wave your phone for emphasis, “—is what they see. This is all they have to go off of.”

He only huffs, glaring at your phone’s screen like it’s the culprit behind his mess, not his own self or his god-awful attitude. 

“Oh, and wait, my personal favorites aren’t even the comments,” you say dryly. “It’s the headlines.” You tap open another tab and clear your throat theatrically. “‘Dynamight’s Explosive Temper: Hero or Liability?’” You read, glancing up at him.

His eye twitches, but you don’t stop.

“‘Rising Hero Dynamight Under Fire for Hostile Behavior.’”

“That’s—” he starts, visibly bristling. But you cut him off with another headline. 

“And this one—oh, this one’s great,” you continue, voice theatrically sarcastic. “‘Is Strength Enough? Concerns Grow Over Dynamight’s Public Conduct.’”

“Alright, I get it,” he snaps, irritation flaring as he runs a hand through his hair. “A bunch of idiots with too much time on their hands are writing bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit if it’s shaping how people see you,” you counter immediately. “This is your reputation, for crying out loud! This is what brands see, what reporters see, what civilians see when they think about who they trust to save them.”

“I did save them,” he shoots back, glaring. “No one fuckin’ died—no one even got hurt. That’s what matters.”

“It matters, yes,” you agree, tiredly rubbing your temple. “But it’s not the only thing that matters.”

He clicks his tongue, looking away again, shoulders tense. “I was fuckin’ nice to the fire victims,” he grumbles out, “S’not enough for these people?”

“No. It’s not. And being stubborn is only making it harder for yourself,” you say, quieter now but no less firm. “You know it’s not enough. Reporters are annoying and get in the way a lot, I know—but they also get your name out there. You should be using that to your advantage.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there, scowling, jaw tight—like he’s chewing on your words even if he hates the taste of them. Like they’re acrid and bitter on his tongue. But, even if they are, he should take your words more seriously, you think. You’re hired to give him advice that does him favors, after all. 

You never saw yourself getting this far into your career in your mid-twenties.

Here you are, sitting comfortably in your lush, meticulously kept office at Riot Grenade Agency (your own office!) You have your own printer, your own coffee machine, and a window that spans nearly the entire wall, offering a view of the city that still feels a little unreal if you stare at it for too long. The floors are tiled in something undoubtedly expensive, cleaned professionally every week, and you still catch yourself hesitating at the threshold some mornings, like you might track something in and dull the shine. The pay is as good as you’d imagined it would be for an agency that has the names Bakugou Katsuki and Kirishima Eijirou plastered on it, and the paid time off and vacation hours are even more generous than most companies.

Life is good.

Or, at least, it would be—if one half of your clients weren’t so complicated to work with.

You’re not really sure how you managed to land the role of publicist for two of Japan’s most impressively rising heroes—or, perhaps, that’s not entirely true.

Eraserhead—Bakugou’s former teacher and, apparently, a long-suffering advocate for his public image—had all but forced the development, insisting that Bakugou needed a publicist, and fast. The result was a job opening at Riot Grenade Agency that almost seemed too good to be true. No crazy levels of experience required, no thorough list of qualifications to meet. You see the job listing and apply on a whim. You figure you won’t even hear back, if anything.

But, evidently, working under the PR team of someone as synonymous with flawless press as Uwabami has earned you a shiny badge of showing promise, and you get a call back for an interview almost instantly. Sharing an alma mater with the very heroes you’re applying to work for certainly doesn’t hurt your chances, either. UA, outside of its hero course, has the best business track in the country, too. 

Still, if you’re being honest, you think the real deciding factor comes down to something far less merit-based and far more circumstantial. You never expect your first senior-level role to be at an agency this large or this visible (one of the heroes running it is number four on the charts, for crying out loud). You always assume you’ll have to climb a little longer up the ladder, prove yourself a little more, before landing something like this.

But, luckily for you, most people don’t make it very far in the interview process once they meet one of your two bosses—specifically, Bakugou. In fact, most drop out of the process altogether and start looking elsewhere, even if putting Riot Grenade Agency on their résumé would be a shining addition. You’re one of the very few who actually stay long enough to receive an offer at all. At least, that’s what Kirishima tells you.

We’re honestly so lucky someone so capable accepted our job offer, he’d said while touring you around the agency, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Most people kinda ghost us once they meet Bakugou—or they ask for a salary that’s way out of our budget to make up for his…behavior. B-but he’s not so bad once you get to know him! Honest! He’s been my best friend for a long time, so please trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about.

As sweet and likable as Kirishima is, you almost wish you could tell him he’s a liar.

Because Bakugou is definitely just as bad a client to work with once you get to know him. A client that is not going to deter you, of course—but a bad client all the same. It’s month five of working here, and you don’t need to know him any better than you do right now to know that your job will never get any easier than it is. And that’s to say that it is seldom easy. 

But, if there is one thing you’ve learned while working here, it’s that pushing back and fighting Bakugou only makes him take you more seriously. It’s…an odd dynamic, you think—bickering and arguing with your boss of all people all the time. He always pushes your buttons just right—but you push them right back. It’s the only way you find you can get him to cooperate. And you will get him to cooperate—you are most qualified to do your job well.

“Alright,” he groans, still pissy and irritated (like always) as he looks at you with a resigned look, “what, you want me to apologize on Twitter or some shit?”

“Nope,” you shake your head, “we’re doing something else.”

He eyes you warily, like he already knows he’s not going to like it. “The hell do you mean we?”

“Well, you,” you correct, not missing a beat. “Actually, you and Kirishima. You’re going to do an Instagram live for your fans.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. A third time. Then, “…What.”

“Instagram live,” you repeat, like you’re explaining something painfully obvious to a young child. “At the gym, today. You’ll work out, talk a little to the camera—just keep it casual. I think we need to let people see you as a regular person outside of this disaster that Dynamight—” you lift your phone slightly and gesture at the paused video “—has caused. And if all else fails, your fangirls will see your muscles and at least thirst over you, so either way, we win.”

“Fuck no,” he says immediately. “I don’t want to be thirsted over.”

You don’t even blink. “Well, that’s too bad. It’s already scheduled.”

His eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Like hell it is.”

“It is,” you retort calmly. “Kirishima’s already on board. He cleared his schedule for this, so you won’t be backing out.”

“Of course he did,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuckin’ Shitty-Hair would agree to anything.”

“Yes,” you nod in relief at the simple thought of Kirishima, “and thank god for that, because you are blessed to have him as your business partner. He’s going to do absolute wonders for your PR if you stop fighting me for five minutes and let me do my job.”

“I’m not doing some stupid shit on live so a bunch of extras can spam comments,” he snaps.

“You are,” you counter, just as agitated. He pauses at your own attitude. (Only Bakugou Katsuki would be a boss that you could speak to this way and get away with it—he needs it, if anything. It’s the only way things get through that thick skull of his.) “Because right now, those ‘extras’ are the ones deciding whether you’re a likable person or not. And at the moment…” You glance down at the paused screen of his angry face, “...It’s not looking great for you.”

He clicks his tongue, jaw tightening. “I don’t give a shit what they think.”

“You might not,” you say. “But your sponsors for your agency do. Your ranking does. And since it’s, like, quite literally my job to make sure you don’t tank all three of those things because you can’t stop calling people idiots on camera, you’re going live. And you’re going to give people a reason to find something likable in you on live. Unless you have a better idea, which then, I’d love to hear it—and no, a half-assed Twitter apology won’t cut it. An apology from you is hardly an apology at all, anyway.”

He glares at you as he opens his mouth to argue, but…for once, he can’t seem to come up with anything. You give him a semi-smug look for just a brief second.

“Just thirty minutes,” you reassure. “You don’t even have to be nice. Just…don’t be actively hostile, okay? Kirishima will handle the rest.”

“Fuck…fine,” he groans, then cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale. “This is so stupid.”

“Well,” you shrug. “You did this to yourself.”

He supplies you with a hard scowl, shoulders tense. “If this turns into some cringey shit, I’m gonna end it,” he rubs a hand over his face.

“No, you won’t,” you say firmly.

His head snaps back toward you as his hand drops. “Like hell I won’t—”

“You won’t,” you repeat, already turning back to your desk like the conversation is over, resuming reading through emails, “because I’ll be watching, and if you so much as hover your finger over the end button before the thirty minutes are up, I will personally make sure your next few brand deals and interviews are a living nightmare.”

“You’re the most annoying woman I’ve ever met,” he mutters. “A fuckin’ hellcat.”

“I know I am. And you’re going on live in two hours,” you respond instantly, not even looking at him as you start typing on your keyboard.

—

@ Dynamight is live.

When you get the notification that Bakugou is live, two hours later—exactly on time, to your surprise—you’re watching it from your office. Your phone is propped up against your computer in front of you, the live pulled up on your screen while you try to watch and do some work at the same time. The comments flood in fast enough that they blur if you look too long. 

You’d expected to be greeted by a grumpy, agitated Bakugou on the screen, causing more chaos. Instead, the screen opens on Kirishima’s face, too close to the camera, with a bright, charming grin as his sharp canines flash you.

“Okay, okay, it’s on!” he beams, pushing the phone back so it stays in place steadily. The gym comes into view behind him, the weights, mats, all of their equipment—and then the phone falls forward with a thud, and the screen goes black. “Oops,” comes Kirishima’s soft mumble. 

You giggle. If only Bakugou were naturally this easy to be fond of, it would make your life so much easier.

LMAOOOOO

omfg his little oops??? so adorable 

HE IS SOOOO CUTIE

Oh my god I love him

MY MANNNNNN CANNOT BE THIS ADORABLE

You read the comments as fast as you can while Kirishima adjusts the phone back in place again. As soon as he’s back in frame, you look off to the side—and there is Bakugou. Arms crossed in a black tank top, shaking his head at Kirishima. He looks like he’d rather die than participate in this voluntarily, but you don’t care as long as he dies after he does it.

Your eyes flick to the viewer count. Climbing fast. Good, you think, fantastic.

“What’s up, guys!” Kirishima waves at the camera like it’s a FaceTime call with friends. “I know we’ve never done something like this before, but I think this could be a fun new thing to do from time to time. Katsuki and I are just training today—nothing crazy. Thought we’d hop on for a bit.”

The comments immediately explode.

IS THIS REAL?? THEY’RE REALLY LIVE???

did he just call him katsuki? that is SO cute

KIRISHIMA HIIIIIII I WANNA BE UR GF

WHY IS DYNAMIGHT JUST STANDING THERE LIKE THAT

IS THIS GONNA BE A REGULAR THING???? PLEASE LORD SAY YES

You snort as you read the comments and lean back slightly, watching carefully as Kirishima turns the phone a little toward Bakugou. “Say hi, man!”

Bakugou just huffs. “They can fucking see me, can’t they?”

You close your eyes for a second. Here we go, you think tiredly. Bakugou is going to ruin this before it even begins. You’re going to have to think of a plan B. You’re running out of plans. But Kirishima just laughs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world when faced with Bakugou’s temperament. “That’s his way of saying hi.”

You open your eyes, relieved as you read the incoming comments.

LMAO NOT HIM TRANSLATING FOR DYNAMIGHT

red riot is so done with him i bet lollll

Dear god someone get me in that room with them now

I can take both of them. And not in a fight

“Alright,” Kirishima says, clapping his hands once. “Let’s work out! You always start a workout with warm-ups! Nothing intense, just get your body ready.” He sets the phone down at an angle that catches both of them. “Start simple,” he continues, doing a few forward lunges, “like this. It’s just waking your joints up.”

Bakugou clicks his tongue immediately, rolling his eyes as he brings his knees to his chest while he does his own stretches. “You’re making it sound like a damn kindergarten class. Gonna talk them through nap time too?”

OHHHH HE CAN TALK ME THROUGH IT ALRIGHT

by the time we’re done, a nap is what we’re gonna need >:)

OH MY GOD THOSE CALVES

Kirishima laughs good-naturedly. “Well, some people skip this step and then complain they’re sore. So just in case.”

“Tch.” But Bakugou steps forward anyway, to your surprise, before he says, “You idiots skipping warm-ups are just asking for injuries.”

Kirishima smiles at the camera with a wink. “That’s his version of asking you not to get injured over a simple mistake. He’s worried about you all.”

Bakugou glares at him. “Am not! And don’t narrate me.”

“How else will they understand you?” Kirishima snorts.

they’re actually so funny together 

HE’S WORRIED ABOUT ME GETTING INJURED <3

Yoooo why isn’t he yelling?? i was expecting yelling

Kirishima shifts them into something simple. “Okay, next—some push-ups. C’mon, show them how to do some push-ups, man.”

Bakugou stares at him for a short moment, sighing like he’s annoyed at the concept of doing push-ups—an exercise he does every single day, no less, you think with a scoff—before dropping down next to Kirishima to join him.

AHHH WE GET TO WATCH THEM DO PUSH UPSSSS

Those BICEPS

i bet those arms would look good holding our baby. let’s have a baby <3

“Don’t flare your elbows like an idiot,” Bakugou says flatly. “Keep them tight or your shoulders are gonna hate you later.”

Kirishima laughs mid-rep. “See? He cares.”

“I don’t care,” Bakugou snaps immediately.

“Aw, but you just gave them advice! So sweet!”

“I gave instructions, you moron.”

“Because you care!”

“Tch—would you shut up, you shitty-haired idiot?”

“C’mon, man, my hair is cool! Right, guys?”

It’s cute, you think—the bickering. You yourself don’t see this side of Bakugou, let alone his fans (that you’re still shocked even exist). In fact, you don’t see any side of him other than that grouchy one that hates to see you coming into his office with more news on what brand deals and photoshoots and interviews he needs to do for the week. The least irritated you’ve ever seen him is when he’s serious about something at the agency, and even then, he’s exactly that—serious and all business. 

You’ve…never actually seen Bakugou be casual, never seen him do something simple like work out in a tank top as he bickers with his best friend. Nor have you seen him crack a small smile as he snorts at something stupid Kirishima says. Nor have you seen him grunt as he switches from doing push-ups to hip thrusts in a gym while he sweats a little—

Stop, you hiss to yourself in your mind. This is your boss. You’re no better than those shameless fangirls. But—you will admit, you’re more than a little thrilled as he decides to do them for the sake of PR. The comments are, as you expected, just as ecstatic to watch him. 

CRUSH ME WITH THOSE THIGHS BABEEEE

oh my god look at the veins on his arms

FUCKKKKK SOMEONE TELL ME HOW MUCH WEIGHT HE’S DOING I NEED TO KNOW IF THAT’S HEAVIER THAN ME

Those weights should be ME bro

Before you know it, the thirty minutes are up, and Bakugou is grabbing the phone as his sweaty face comes into frame up close. You pretend not to notice the way his hair clings to his flushed face or the way he’s breathing a little labored as he says gruffly, “Kay. That’s it for now—we gotta finish up and get to patrol so—hey! Why the fuck are you weirdos talking about my veins?” he snaps. 

From the side, Kirishima calls, “Girls like that, bro!”

“I don’t give a—” he luckily catches himself mid-sentence, cuts himself off, and sighs, giving the screen a tired look. “You people need to stop being weird. Goodbye.”

Live Video Ended.

Bakugou is no longer on the screen, but you still stare at it for a second longer, sitting there as you remember the way his arms flexed and his hips moved while he thrusted those barbells. The image is still fresh in your mind. Then, as if waking up from a trance, you blink and shake your head, inhaling sharply.

“Okay,” you murmur to yourself. “This was good. That went well—better than expected.”

Suddenly, your phone lights up with a message. 

TODAY 5:34 PM

Bakugou: did you watch the whole thing 

You: Sure did. Had to make sure you didn’t slack off You: You did good though! I think you deserve to enjoy your weekend for this great work

Bakugou: wtv. i just did what u said Bakugou: i’m not doing that again btw. they keep saying weird shit in the comments

You: Well… You: They loved it so you’re gonna be doing more of this for your image I fear You: I’m sure you’ll get used to it :)

Bakugou: u really are so annoying holy fuck Bakugou: hellcat

You’re smiling at your phone. 

It takes you a second to realize it, but when you do, you notice in mortification that you’re fucking smiling at your phone like an idiot. Your boss is a few floors down, working out in the fancy little gym he’s made for himself in his fancy little building that he’s built off of his fancy little paychecks, and you’re smiling as you text him as if…as if what?

As if nothing, you tell yourself. You can smile at your phone when your boss is being pleasant. Pleasant people smile at each other when they talk—although you doubt Bakugou ever does any smiling ever when he texts you, but that’s more of a Bakugou-specific thing. He never smiles. 

This is nothing. It will always be nothing. Bakugou is rough and harsh and uninterested in everyone around him, and he’s leagues beyond you in a world you could never hope to be a part of. You’re quirkless, for crying out loud. He’d never take you seriously past the media advice you give him for the sake of a paycheck and the sake of his public image, and that’s about it. A few hip thrusts and one nice, pleasant thirty minutes of watching him be himself outside of the hero world is not going to change the fact that he is your hellish client who signs your checks. 

And then you pause—why are you thinking so heavily on this? Why are you even thinking about him like that? It’s not like one thirty-minute session of watching him be a little more carefree and a little less cranky could make you suddenly see him as anything other than that crabby blonde who can make things explode for a living—right? 

Right, you decide. You are immune to petty crushes because of shallow things like thighs and muscles, and you are especially immune to crushes on your boss. Especially when your boss is fucking Bakugou Katsuki, who yells at things whether they breathe or they don’t. 

You are immune, you tell yourself. Very, very immune.

────────────────────────

Despite your…conflicting feelings (that you’ve definitely shoved aside) about the workout live, it turns out to be one of your finer ideas. 

Bakugou continues to show up trending in the media quite often after that—and, to your prideful pleasure, it’s instead for positive things. Well…if you consider thirsty edits of him on the internet a positive thing, that is. Which, when compared to the other option of him chewing a reporter out, you do. In fact, you like to think that you are, in your humble opinion, maybe even deserving of a hefty raise and perhaps, if you’re lucky, a thank you.

But you’re realistic. You take the positive attention he’s getting as a win, and don’t concern yourself with hoping for the thank you that you know is not coming. He’s definitely aware that your idea was fabulous, though, and that satisfaction is enough to keep you at peace (and rather smug, too).

You spend the better half of your weekend surfing the web after typing his name into the search bar of Twitter and TikTok, and then another portion of it going down an unexpected rabbit hole of Bakugou x Reader fanfiction that his stans on Reddit swear left and right are the AO3 must-reads. (You’re not entirely sure how you stumbled across this rabbit hole, but you are not above admitting you’ve discovered that some people evidently produce the most gut-wrenching and life-altering literature for free, and it almost feels unfair to read it without compensating them. Never mind that it’s literature about your boss and his cock and how he uses it—that’s unimportant.)

By Monday morning, he’s in your office bright and early, begrudgingly starting his day by going over the events you have planned for the week so he can work his schedule around them—or rather, his assistant can. If there’s one person who must have a harder job than you in this agency, it must be his personal assistant.

“Your following went up a great amount after that live, by the way,” you tell him once you’re done going over everything.

“Like I care,” he grunts, “just means more spam in my comments.”

“You know, I have to say. It’s a miracle your fangirls like you so much,” you respond with a snort. “You’d think that with your attitude, people would find you unfuckable. But there’s actually a very impressive selection of x-reader fanfics for you.”

“Hah?” He looks at you, bewildered as he pauses from walking out of your door. “What the fuck is that?”

“Fan-written fiction?” You explain to him with a straight face, lifting a brow. “But the kind where it’s immersive for the reader, you know? So all the women—and men, too, honestly—who want to fuck you can read creative literature that vividly sets the scene for them.”

He looks horrified—scratch that, he looks absolutely disgusted. Your composure cracks at his face, your lips wobbling as they strain not to tug into a smile, and Bakugou…well, Bakugou is not flattered that people like to fantasize about his stroke game. Not even a little.

“The fuck sort of…you call that shit literature? Huh? Who the fuck is spending their free time writing that sort of bullshit? And it’s about me?”

“Yup,” you nod. Then, like the headache that you strive to be, you pull out your phone and scroll a bit. “Here—this one in particular is very popular. I was skimming through it.”

He does a double-take. “Wait—you read that…that fuckery?”

“I skimmed it—pay attention, I just went over that. And, it’s because I got curious when I came across a Reddit thread after I searched your name. Searching your name online is part of my job,” you snicker. “They were recommending which ones were worth reading in there. This was my personal favorite scene.”

“I don’t need to hear your fuckass favorite—”

You interrupt him as you give him a sickeningly smug look before clearing your throat and starting to read aloud: “Bakugou was generously endowed, and you could feel it. Pressed against your thigh, you could feel the sheer size of him. ‘Oh, Katsuki,’ you gasped, ‘you’re so big, baby.’ He responded with a low chuckle as he said, ‘Yeah, you feel that, princess? Feel how hard my—’”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” he hisses, stomping over and snatching your wrist as he tugs it away so you can no longer read from your phone. His ears are crimson, his face painted with a shade of pure shame you didn’t think was possible on Bakugou Katsuki of all people. But it’s there, and you take great pleasure in it—especially when his voice comes out strained as he says, “Is this even legal? Writing fuckin’—fuck, I don’t know—erotic-ass shit like that about a real person?”

“I assure you, it is,” you nod. “We didn’t even get to the really juicy part. There’s a scene where you and y/n—”

“Who is y/n?” he squints, pure confusion written all over his face.

“It’s like the placeholder name,” you say, waving your hand with a shrug as if that should explain everything. “It stands for ’your name.’ So whoever’s reading can just mentally insert themselves. It’s supposed to make it more immersive.”

Bakugou stares at you like you’ve just personally offended him—maybe even his entire lineage, if anything, with the way he seems so beyond appalled.  

“…That makes zero sense,” he scoffs. “They can’t just put in their fucking names? They type out dumb ass placeholders?”

“No, you’re missing the point,” you snort, not bothering to hide how much you’re enjoying yourself at his expense. “They’re writing it for others, not just themselves. You’re like…the fantasy. And everyone who reads it is the main character in their minds.”

“I’m not anybody’s fuckin’ fantasy,” he snaps immediately. 

“Oh, you absolutely are,” you grin. “There are thousands of people online who would disagree with you. Passionately.”

“Yeah? Well, they’re all fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, crossing his arms. Then, after a beat, he straightens up as he narrows two accusatory eyes at you. “And you. Why the hell were you reading that in the first place?”

“I told you, I was curious,” you shrug innocently. “I couldn’t really envision anybody wanting to romance you—Kiri, I understand. But you…made no sense, so I wanted to see what people were writing. Or rather, I wanted to see the appeal, if you will.”

You say that simply to be annoying—and it clearly works more than you’d bargained for, because he absolutely bristles at your words, glaring at you like you’re two seconds away from being fired where you sit. You like your job, you do—but this…well, this would almost be worth losing said job. This momentary rush of pure euphoria as you watch his jaw clench and his eyes blaze with thinly veiled agitation, is all you care about right now.

“That’s not romance, you dumbass,” he shoots back. “That’s—” he gestures vaguely, clearly at a loss for words, “—that’s some purely deranged shit.”

You hum, pretending to consider that. “I don’t know…some of it was pretty well-written. The plotlines can get pretty complex and—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“I’m just saying,” you continue anyway, your grin turning devious, “my only critique would be that your characterization is a bit off in a lot of them. They make you way more of a smooth talker than you actually are.”

His eye actually twitches. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you shoot him a cheeky, antagonizing look as you shrug innocently, “You would not be this much of a charmer in reality. I don’t even think you could say ’princess’ without sounding like you’re constipated.”

There’s a split second where he just stares at you, and you can see his thoughts written clearly on his face—first processing, then shocked, then offended, and then something else you can’t quite pin down. But you can’t take the time to dwell on it because it’s gone as fast as it came, and he’s giving you a challenging look that screams, you’re on.

“Keep talkin’ like that, Hellcat,” he mutters, grabbing your wrist and tugging you forward as he bends closer and looks you right in the eye, “and I’ll show you exactly how ’out of character’ I can be.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—he is so…attractive when he grins like that. You are going to die on the spot, you think. 

To your absolute credit, you manage to blink up at him, your grin unfaltering. “Oh? Like a reenactment?”

He levels you with a small, determined smirk as he says, “If that’s what you wanna call it, princess.”

And oh, does he say that word so smoothly—like a low, sing-song purr that gut punches you for a fleeting moment. But you gather yourself impressively fast, just before he can really be sure his words had any effect on you as you hum, “Well, you’d better get to reading so you know the script.”

With that, he pulls away and strides out of your office, leaving you standing there as still as a statue while you will your heart rate to come down to a humanly normal speed. You try to ignore that weird, tingling feeling at your wrist where his fingertips dug in just a few moments ago, and that absolutely baffling lump in your throat as you swallow thickly. 

You’re immune to him, you tell yourself—you are.

—

Twitter: Katsuki Bakugou just made a post

Katsuki Bakugou @ DynamightOfficial · 20m who the hell is y/n and why are people writing weird ass stories about me. stop that shit immediately 🗨2.5K comments  ⇄40K retweets  ♡174K likes

top replies:

kacchan addict @ bakugouswife4ever · 10m HELP??? WHO SNITCHED FESS UP 😭😭😭 🗨128 comments  ⇄540 retweets  ♡8.2K likes

Katsuki’s Lover @ explosionkink · 8m “who the hell is y/n” IM CRYINGGGGGGG 🗨64 comments  ⇄1.2K retweets  ♡15.6K likes

Dynamight Daily @ greatexplosionmudergodupdates · 7m Waiting for the day he learns about the yaoi too 💀 🗨32 comments  ⇄890 retweets  ♡12.1K likes

WRITING COMMS OPEN @ katsukisbabie · 6m not you discovering x reader fanfiction im so frieddddd 🗨12 comments  ⇄210 retweets  ♡6.7K likes

STEPONMEDEKU @ izookoo · 5m WAIT CAN SOMEONE SHOW HIM AO3 LMAOOOO 🗨9 comments  ⇄480 retweets  ♡9.8K likes

ANGRY BLONDE LUVR @ angryblondeconnoisseur · 4m nah cuz he really said “stop that shit” like we were gonna listen to him 😭 🗨14 comments  ⇄650 retweets  ♡11.2K likes

Katsuki’s little lamb @ explosiondaddymight · 4m katsuki can i be your irl y/n please daddy 😍😍😍 🗨6 comments  ⇄390 retweets  ♡7.5K likes

–

Messages: 1 new unread message

TODAY 7:52 PM

Bakugou: wtf is a yaoi

You: Google is free you know

Bakugou: ya as if i trust this shit to be in my search history

You: Ever heard of incognito mode ?? 🫩 You: Also don’t forget you and Kiri have a photoshoot tomorrow morning You: Please don’t be late. I’m serious 

Bakugou: 👍

──────────────────────── 

Today is not the day for Bakugou’s nonsense, especially not so early into the day—so as soon as you find him, you’ll kill him. 

Today is your birthday—which, Kirishima so kindly remembered, greeting you with a cup of your go-to coffee order and a bouquet of flowers as soon as he sees you. He’s so sweet, you almost cry on the spot—you’ve never had such a thoughtful boss before. It lifts your spirits about working on your birthday as soon as you walk into the building, where he and Bakugou will be modeling for their ad. Some expensive athletic wear brand you don’t really care for, but a good opportunity to get their names out there more, all the same. An angel like Kirishima, giving you a tight hug and an affectionate head pat as he wishes you happy birthday, is almost enough to keep you in a good mood that distracts you from the fact that Bakugou is apparently still not out and ready for his photos. Almost. 

Unfortunately for you, you’re going to have to spend your birthday pissed and exhausted over Bakugou Katsuki. Which is like most other days, of course, but you wanted a break today of all days. 

He’s been changing for twenty minutes now—and you think that’s just absurd because he has to take off more clothes than he actually has to put on. The photo shoot scheduled for today is of athletic wear, and he’ll be shirtless for these basketball shorts he’s doing his ad for. It’s pretty fucking simple to put on. But no—he’s taking forever and a year, and the cameraman is getting antsy, and he has his afternoon patrol right after this, and you have a list of emails to answer that’s longer than Bakugou’s history of internet scandals. 

They task you to grab him. Kirishima gets too busy with his own shoot to go check, and Bakugou’s assistant stayed back to handle other matters in the office, so it’s just you. Fucking hell. 

To fucking hell with this shoot and to fucking hell with your job and above all, to fucking hell with Bakugou. You’ll quit after this stupid photo session. You’ll stay just long enough for your next paycheck, and then you’ll dip—you’ll get a nice, cushy remote job as a social media manager or something and tweet promotional content for a living from your bedroom. Sure, the pay might be cut a bit, but you’re content with being just comfortable; it’s not as though you’re dead set on living like a wealthy, privileged person. Just enough to have a decent apartment on the safe side of town is good enough. Just that much is fine. 

That’s right. This is all fine—you’ll make it through this shoot as soon as you find Bakugou (because where the fuck is he?) and then you’ll get yourself an easier job and life will be good. 

As soon as you find Bakugou. 

“Bakugou—” you go to jiggle the doorknob of his changing room—not with the intention to open it, but just to give it a quick shake and get his attention so he knows you’re on the other side. That’s all it was meant to be. Just a small twist, enough for the handle to rattle against the lock and announce your presence without you actually going in.

How were you supposed to know the door was unlocked? (Because, really, who the fuck goes to change and leaves the door unlocked?)

As soon as you twist the doorknob, expecting it to catch and stop after that tiny movement, it gives way completely instead—and the force of your unsuspecting twist sends it all the way down, the latch slipping free. The door swings open before you can stop it, and your own momentum propels you forward.

You stumble into the room where Bakugou is…half fucking naked.

Any part of him that’s…particularly explicit is covered, thank god—but he’s in nothing but skin-tight, black boxers. He’s shirtless, sockless, fucking everything-less apart from those boxers, bent forward as he’s pulling the basketball shorts he’s modeling over his ankles. He pauses, just as shocked as you, as you burst in.

He looks at you. You look at him. And then you’re looking at each other—and admittedly, your eyes are not really doing you any favors as they scan over his figure. Your eyes are working completely against you. Your eyes are autonomously going against your wishes and throwing you under the bus, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them.

At least, that’s what it feels like, because no amount of self-control seems to be enough to stop fucking staring at his abs. 

“O-oh my…” You trail off before turning your head forcefully to the side and looking away as you stutter, “I-I’m sorry I didn’t…you were…I was…a-and…who on Earth doesn’t lock the door when they’re changing?”

“Who the fuck just barges into someone’s changing room is the better question,” he counters gruffly, pulling the shorts easily over his hips as he straightens up. You still refuse to look at him even as you know he’s decent—well, as decent as he can get. His bare chest alone practically feels like you’re seeing him nude, if you’re being honest. 

And that should be enough—more than enough—to stop your spiraling mind. It should be.

Because this is your boss, and you should absolutely not have the hots for your boss simply because he’s semi-exposed. Your insufferable, foul-mouthed, temperamental boss who yells at reporters and snaps at fans and makes children cry and argues with you like it’s his full-time job to do all that instead of being a hero. This is not a situation where your brain should be short-circuiting over the fact that he looks—

Oh god. You feel nauseous as you realize he looks good. 

You swallow hard, still staring resolutely at the wall like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. It’s not even like you haven’t thought he was an attractive man before. You have. Obviously. You’re a functioning adult with eyes, and you can understand when someone is objectively good-looking. And because the universe is fond of jokes, they made Bakugou unfairly attractive—objectively so—while coupling him with that shoddy attitude of his. You’ve certainly acknowledged in your head that he’s rather easy on the eyes; it’s not like this is the first time. 

But this is…very different. Because now that you’ve seen him so…exposed, your brain refuses to unsee it. The broad cut of his shoulders. The way his muscles flexed when he straightened, shifting under his skin so tightly. The sharp lines of his torso, all lean strength and definition, like he was carved to be God’s favorite. Even just the brief glimpse of him bent forward, and the way everything moved…

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, as if that’ll help keep your mind from getting creative. (It doesn’t.) Now your imagination is filling in the gaps you didn’t let yourself look at. And that’s worse.

You clear your throat, trying to forcibly drag your thoughts back into something normal, something professional, something that doesn’t involve you mentally cataloguing the exact shape of your boss’s abs like you’re committing it to memory for later.

This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.

He’s just…he’s just a guy. A rather annoying, loud, obnoxious, and infuriating guy who, unfortunately, happens to look—

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Don’t finish that thought. 

Good—he looks very good. 

No! Stop thinking! Think about other things! Other things! Anything!

He looks so fucking hot.

Quit it!

Damn, does he even have to work out? His abs must be genetic.

Your mind is battling back and forth with itself, and distantly, you realize if you don’t say anything soon, you’ll only make things worse for yourself, so you force yourself to turn to him and talk.

“That was an accident,” you say genuinely, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah?” He gives you a crooked grin, almost like he’s smug about the fact that you’re in this predicament. “You accidentally check people out often, Hellcat?”

Bakugou is not a dense person—that is the most irritating thing about him. You can’t fool him with anything, so you know that he’s caught on to the fact that you’ve stared at his body, and you know that he’s fully aware it’s had at least a small amount of influence on your current state of mind. 

Still, you’re stubborn. And you don’t like the idea of him hearing firsthand from you that yes, you took a moment to eye him, and yes, it was quite a satisfying eyeful, so you scoff and give him your best glare. It’s far more weak that you’d prefer.

“I was n-not checking you out,” comes your rather clumsy retort, “I was literally just…shocked and unprepared, and I froze while I was processing what…I was looking at…and…”

“Processing my physique after barging into my changing room,” he snorts. “Surprised we’d see someone without clothes in a changin’ room? You’re even more of an idiot than I thought.”

“I wasn’t trying to barge in,” you snap, and you know you sound too flustered to be taken too seriously. But what can you do? “They sent me to get you. Which, by the way, what’s taking you so fucking long?”

That seems to break him from his momentary fit of amusement as he realizes you’re here to collect him, practically against his will, to do the very thing he has adamantly been against doing since you brought it up. You don’t understand why Bakugou has to insist on making every little thing a difficult matter—standing in front of a camera is the easiest way for him to be likable. He doesn’t even have to talk. And yet, there is always some sort of pushback, no matter what you suggest.

“I have real shit that requires my attention,” he grumbles, “you know—a real fuckin’ job? A job that I don’t know…demands I be a hero instead of standing under hot lights to pose like a half-baked idiot.”

You shoot him a withering glare at his sarcasm. “So you just, what? Sat here for twenty minutes keeping everyone waiting? Wasting their time so you could stand around and think about your real job?”

“No, you damn moron,” he snaps, “I had a phone call! It was fucking important.”

“Oh,” you blink, pausing. “About hero stuff?”

He doesn’t really give you anything apart from an incoherent grunt, but you’ve learned to read him well enough that you understand this is him confirming your hunch. And avoiding it, too. Which only makes you press.

“What happened?” you tilt your head. 

Bakugou supplies you with an irritated scowl as he huffs, “As if it’s any of your business.”

“Well, it’s not like I don’t know almost everything about your hero stuff,” you argue, “I’m quite literally your publicist, so I have to make sure I know things so they get out there in a good light and—”

“This isn’t to do with my hero shit,” he groans. “Just keep your nose out of—”

“Did something happen to another hero?” you ask in concern. “Are they asking you for advice or something—oh my god, no. They, like…cannot go to you for advice,” you shake your head. “Is it a friend? What happened, a scandal? I’ll literally help them for free, just please don’t offer them a solution on what to do—you’re the last person anyone should ask for advice on—”

“Would you shut up?” he cuts you off, rubbing his forehead as though you give him a headache. (You think you probably do. And you’re fine with that.) He gives you a mildly betrayed look as he huffs, “And just because I have an attitude here and there doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know how to clean up messes—I just hate it when it’s me doing the cleaning shit.”

“Here and there? That’s quite an understatement,” you scoff. “So someone is in a mess? I’m serious, I’ll offer them a free solution this once. They must be in a real pickle if they’re coming to you, of all people.” 

“No!” he groans, pinching his nose in agitation, “holy fuck, you are so persistent—no one is in a mess! Okay? I’m getting fucking Deku a fucking support suit with his old quirk so he can be a hero and shit. And people are pitching in to pay for it, so I have to keep track of who’s giving what, and it’s a whole fuckin’ thing.”

You pause. 

You remember Deku—or rather, Midoriya is how you remember him. How could you not? It’s hard to think sometimes that Bakugou and his old classmates were in your year—that you roamed the same hallways at the same time as these war veterans before any of you could even so much as legally drink. It’s hard to think that a boy, so young and so promising, would so easily give up his powers for the sake of saving others. But then again, is it really? Is it really that hard to believe something like that? It’s not, is it?

These people—Bakugou, Midoriya, and their peers. They gave up their youth and their innocence so readily, didn’t they? It could have even been their lives and dreams, potentially. They went into it all knowing it was all on the line willingly, of course. You’re not sure why you still ponder on it, why you’re still shocked sometimes. It’s just who they are—why they are so good at their jobs and why things have changed to be the way they are now. 

“That’s…” you trail off, voice soft as you look at him carefully, “that’s actually so sweet.”

He gives you a sharp, yet uncomfortable glare. “Why are you acting all shocked like I can’t do nice shit—and don’t look at me like that. I’m just trying to beat that damn nerd so we can settle once and for all that I’m a better hero than him—losing his damn stupid power isn’t stopping me from winning.”

You smile a little at his outburst, shaking your head. Deep down, Bakugou is thoughtful—of course, he is. He’s got to be a pretty fucking thoughtful guy to go rushing into burning buildings and collapsing rubble to save people, that’s a given—but he can be thoughtful in other ways, too. Ways like this that speak so loudly that he cares. That people matter, and they matter to him. 

You wonder what it must be like to matter to him. And then you stop. No—you absolutely cannot think about things like that. They’re not for you to wonder. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave, shoving that weird feeling in your chest down again, “why don’t you prove you’re not a loser some other time? A time where you’re preferably not on the clock and keeping people waiting, maybe?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes before walking past you and leaving his changing room. You follow behind him because you have no other option but to lead him to his awaiting photoshoot. Then, just before he reaches where the photography team is exasperatedly relieved to see him, he turns over his shoulder and says gruffly, “You can take the rest of the day off—you’ll still be paid and stuff. S’just a buncha pictures. Ei and I will be fine. And, uh…happy birthday.”

He walks off, and you stand there in shock at his words…and is that your heart…that’s beating like that?

No, you think resolutely, it’s not. Because you’re immune to him—you’re sure of it.

—

The photoshoot does well. Bakugou and Kirishima are on the cover of a rather popular sports magazine that makes fans go crazy on the internet. There are endless posts on Twitter and Instagram of the same screenshot over and over again, everyone lusting over pro heroes Dynamight and Red Riot. 

Kirishima is as charming as ever, flustered in that cute, humble way that would of course be second nature to him as he says, “Wow, Uwabami was right! You really do know how to network your way into some crazy good opportunities! I’ve never had people go so crazy over any brand deal I’ve done! Or been on the cover of something that’s a big deal, either.”

It’s hard to imagine that, even despite having such big names for themselves so early before their careers even launched, Kirishima and Bakugou are still new enough that they are novices in the pro world. Still climbing their way to the same level as others, and still working through things like having big enough names of large-scale companies to advertise them.

“Don’t be fooled. She’s just tryna make us appealing to crazy fangirls who write weird shit about us erotically,” Bakugou snaps, glaring at his screen as he looks at himself. 

Kirishima looks at you, rightfully confused. You give him a tired, exasperated look that begs him to just drop it, so he graciously does. 

“Well, Bakugou,” you roll your eyes, “your social media engagement has gone up drastically, and you’ve gained a very good number of followers,” you finish, tapping your screen as you scroll through the analytics. “Engagement and brand inquiries are up—this is what I call a success.”

“Hah?” Bakugou scoffs, “A success ’cause a bunch of idiots won’t stop staring?”

“Yes,” you say flatly. “The staring they do is bringing your agency a nice hefty check.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It’s profitable,” you correct. “Most of Kirishima’s fan base are males who find appeal in the fact that his brand is manliness, so I figured we could use that brand to our advantage to appeal to more women, too—everyone loves a good, chivalrous, and handsome guy who will save them. And as for you…well, I guess if nothing else, a good body makes up for the lack of a stellar personality.”

Bakugou absolutely simmers in rage as you say that, about to open his mouth when his agency partner cuts in. Kirishima laughs, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances between the two of you. “I mean…look at the positives, man. People are talking about us everywhere.”

“They’re not talking about anything important like our fucking work,” Bakugou grumbles. “It’s all ‘oh my god look at his abs’—”

“—Which, for the record, are doing wonders for your brand,” you cut in smoothly.

He shoots you a look. “Don’t talk about my abs like they’re a damn marketing strategy.”

“They are a marketing strategy,” you deadpan. “A very effective one, apparently.”

“Oi!” comes his sharp reply, “You—”

“C’mon, Katsuki,” Kirishima grins, “the more good press we have, the more people might want to apply to be your sidekicks! You could really use a few, man. If you’re not going to stop yelling and scaring them off in the interviews, then this might be the only way.”

“I don’t think he understands the concept of good press being a benefit,” you cut in, “maybe we can draw him a diagram to explain it.” 

Kirishima stifles a chuckle as Bakugou sends you a warning glare.

“I’m not stupid,” the blonde snaps.

“That’s debatable,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Hah? I fuckin’ heard that.”

“Good.”

Kirishima lets out a laugh, stepping in before it escalates further. “Okay, okay—look at this way, we’re not losing anything, so we’re winning, right? That’s what matters. At this rate, we might jump a few places on the hero charts by the time second-semester rankings are out. As long as we stay in the lead ranks for a good while after our debuts and don’t fall too much, we can establish our agency better and get called for serious cases more often. That’s the end goal.” He turns and flashes you an easy grin before adding, “Which, if we reached it, would be thanks to you—you did great with this. You’re the best publicist we’ve ever had!”

“Hellcat is the only publicist we’ve ever had, hair-for-brains,” Bakugou grunts bluntly.

Kirishima asks dumbly, “Hellcat?”

You ignore Bakugou and wave Kirishima off lightly, though there’s a small flicker of satisfaction you don’t quite hide. “Just doing my job.”

“Yeah, but still,” Kirishima insists. “You made things improve for him.” He jerks a thumb toward Bakugou. “That’s not easy.”

Bakugou scowls. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Kirishima snorts, giving Bakugou a look. “You know what it means.”

“Tch,” is all the angrier half of the two says. 

You shake your head, glancing back down at your phone as more notifications roll in. “Well, regardless, we’re in a decent place right now with Bakugou’s image. I’ve already got a few follow-up ideas lined up—nothing that requires too much effort from you, don’t worry,” you add quickly, glancing at Bakugou before he can protest. With a little luck on your side (and his cooperation, maybe), you think he can stay in the top twenty for the hero chart’s second-semester rankings.

“So I’ll be doing more annoying shit,” he mutters.

“Yes. For job security,” you correct.

“Job security for you, maybe. I don’t need this shit to be good at my job and keep it.”

“Actually, it is for you,” you shoot back, “considering my job only becomes more necessary the more people collectively decide you’re unbearable.”

He scoffs. “I don’t care what they decide. As long as I always win and come out on top, I’m doing my job and savin’ everyone—that’s what they should fuckin’ focus on.”

“Whatever.” You only sigh, giving up on reasoning with someone like Bakugou. As long as he does what you tell him to in the public eye, you can handle his private meltdowns. It’s bearable enough so long as your damage control actually works. Before you can walk off to your office, Kirishima suddenly straightens, like he’s just remembered something.

“Oh—hey,” he says, looking at you. “We’re grabbing drinks tonight with some of our old classmates! You should come along.”

You blink, caught a little off guard. “Oh, um…me?”

“Yeah,” he nods, so easy and warm and charming. You sometimes wonder how it is you haven’t fallen for someone like Kirishima yet. “It’s nothing big, just some of us hanging out to take a breather. You’ve been working with us nonstop—you deserve a break too, y’know? Drinks are on us! Plus, I think Mina really wants to meet you—I tell her about you a lot!”

You hesitate, glancing instinctively toward Bakugou like you might need his permission. You don’t know why. For some reason, it feels like it’s only not intruding if he doesn’t seem to think so. He’s already looking at you as soon as your eyes wander over to him.

“Don’t look at me,” he mutters immediately. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

Kirishima laughs. “Don’t worry about him! Katsuki doesn’t mind. You should come,” he insists with a grin. “It’ll be fun.”

You huff a quiet breath, shaking your head just slightly—but there’s a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “…Okay,” you nod. “But if this turns into me managing your behavior off the clock—”

“It won’t!” Kirishima promises quickly.

Bakugou snorts. “No promises, Hellcat,” he says, almost like a challenge. And for the first time today, he looks just the slightest bit enthused, as if making your life hard is the one thing he has to look forward to.

You sigh. “Fantastic.”

And yet, despite it all, you’re already a little excited. But not because of him, or because you’ll get to see him off the clock. You’re immune to being excited about silly things like that. Very much so.

────────────────────────

Drinks with Bakugou and Kirishima and some of Class A from the Hero Course is…well, it’s something.

These people were in your year. They attended the same school as you and roamed the same halls that you did. You’ve seen them in passing between classes, or during lunch, or at school events. Yet somehow, it still doesn’t feel quite right sitting at a table with them. You’re sitting with Hero Course alumni, after all—and not just any Hero Course alumni, either. Alumni who fought in a war and survived it. And you, despite attending the same institution, despite being the same age, are merely a quirkless woman who graduated from Class I of the Department of Management.

A simple business student who twiddled her thumbs while these people trained to become the next generation of heroes.

It’s pathetic, in a way—they laugh and exchange absurd, outlandish stories about their jobs and the rescues they carry out, brushing them off with so much ease, it makes your head spin. And you listen, swallowing down your shock behind sips of alcohol and trying to hide your awe. 

It’s normal to them, you tell yourself. It’s normal in the world they live in, one entirely different from yours.

Even being a publicist for heroes and witnessing aspects of what they deal with firsthand is not enough to prepare you for the sheer casualness with which they discuss their experiences. You listen as they reduce things that sound life-altering to you into mere small talk.

To you, the things you hear from Bakugou and Kirishima are extraordinary—they are unique aspects of your job that feel surreal no matter how many times you hear them. To them, it’s just simply their everyday reality. Another day. Another incident. Another thing to move on from once it’s over. They don’t sit and dwell on the magnitude of these events the way that you do. They don’t linger on the weight of them. They simply live through it all and continue forward as though it is the most natural thing in the world.

And here you are, sitting across from these people, sharing a drink as though you have a place among them at this table. 

“Oh my god, by the way,” Pinky—or rather, Mina, as she’s reminded you many times to call her instead—turns to you as she exclaims, “I totally saw that magazine ad you had the boys do. You’re, like, a total networking babe, aren’t you? Ugh, it’s seriously so hard getting big brands to do deals with newer heroes like us. Even if we debut high, we’re just not popular enough yet to pull the numbers and sales they want.”

“Oh, well,” you smile bashfully, “it’s not really much credit I can take, honestly. I worked with Uwabami, and she’s really big in the media sphere, so…I just had a few contacts willing to work with me again because they knew me through her. B-but I really didn’t do much. I think they mostly did it to stay in her good graces more than anything else—”

“Oh, hush,” Mina waves her hand dismissively. “That’s exactly what I mean—you’ve got all the good connections. You should come work for me instead of those two lame little no-goods.”

“Hah?” Bakugou glares. “No-goods? Shut your trap, Raccoon-Eyes, ’cause the only no-good little—”

“C’mon now,” Kirishima laughs, placing a hand on the blonde’s stiff shoulder. “Mina can’t afford our darling publicist anyway. Miss Number Thirty surely can’t match the pay grade of Number Four and Number Sixteen,” he says with a charming sort of smugness. You wonder how he does it—how he manages to sound so proud while still being such a good sport about it. There’s no real bite behind the taunt, and Mina clearly takes it for exactly what it is: friendly banter.

She only giggles, looking just as smug as she counters, “Well, let’s see how high those rankings stay with Blasty over here being a huge grump everywhere he goes. He’s gonna explode his career before he explodes any more villains.”

“I’ll kill you, you pink-faced freak,” Bakugou snaps.

“Well, anyway,” she turns to you earnestly, “if you ever expand into managing multiple clients, you should totally take me in. I might not pay exactly the same as these two losers, but I’m way less damage control and a way better time. Give it some thought, m’kay?”

“Sure,” you nod shyly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You can’t have Hellcat,” Bakugou hisses. “You think I’m gonna let you get your slimy fingers on my agency’s employees? I’m not losin’ to you, Pink-Face.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Mina huffs dramatically, looking at you with playful concern. “He must already work you right to the bone, but he calls you insults, too? A sweet little babe like you deserves way better than our angry little Blasty-Boy calling you a hellcat,” she sings with a grin thrown in Bakugou’s direction.

Bakugou practically simmers with irritation—and for the first time that night, you let out a genuinely carefree laugh.

“Well,” you chuckle, “he definitely doesn’t give me any free hours of downtime at the office, that’s for sure.”

“We treat her well!” Kirishima insists. “We’re totally awesome clients, aren’t we?”

He flashes you a bright, toothy grin. Kirishima is so charming. You can’t help but think the same thing over and over and over every time you talk to him. And you talk to him a lot. Every day, for that matter. Sometimes, you wonder if you try to convince yourself that he’s perfect and sweet and exactly the sort of man you should want so that…

…Your eyes drift naturally toward Bakugou.

They always seem to do that. Whenever you think about Kirishima, your mind somehow circles right back to Bakugou instead. You can’t pinpoint why. Why it almost feels subconscious, instinctive—as though thinking about Kirishima is some traitorous act that must immediately be corrected by redirecting your attention back to Bakugou.

And he’s already looking at you. Almost as if he’d been waiting for you to turn toward him. Almost as if he’d been staring the entire time and never looked anywhere else. His dark red eyes narrow slightly, expectant as he waits for your answer to Kirishima’s question.

“Yes,” you breathe, looking directly at Bakugou. Look away, your mind screams. Your body remains perfectly still as you murmur, “I love the agency. It’s not always easy, but…it’s worth the effort.”

Bakugou downs the rest of his drink in one smooth motion, the second the words leave your mouth. And by the time you finally manage to tear your gaze away from him, forcing yourself to focus on anything—anyone—else, you’re met with an even more dangerous look.

Mina is staring at you with something predatory. Devious. Almost too knowing, as if she knows something not even you do.

“Fine, fine,” she exhales theatrically, throwing her hands up. “Have it your way. Your little…partnership is safe from me—but only for now.” Her grin sharpens as she points between Kirishima and Bakugou. “But make sure you treat her right…or you never know. Someone else might come along and show her a good time.”

—

By the time drinks are over, most of the Class A heroes you spent the night with are at least somewhat tipsy.

Kirishima, ever the good-natured guy, is still sober enough to herd Mina and Kaminari into the back of the Uber he called, taking on the (quite difficult-looking, if you’re honest) task of escorting them both home. Sero is particularly wasted, but his assistant is already waiting outside in a car to pick him up.

Which leaves only you and Bakugou.

It’s awkward standing there alone with one of the two men you work under, the cool night’s breeze brushing against your face as you fumble through your purse for your phone. And then—

“Oi,” he huffs, the slightest slur clinging to his words. “You gettin’ an Uber?”

“Y-yeah,” you mumble, looking up at him in mild surprise the moment he speaks.

“We can share one,” he grunts, already pulling his phone out and typing something into it.

“B-but—”

“Jus’ be fuckin’ quiet,” he mutters.

Bakugou’s apartment building isn’t far from yours. You only know that because, in the past, you’ve had to have original copies of contracts mailed directly to his address over weekends so he could physically sign them and send them to sponsors. And admittedly…you’re nosy. You searched up the building afterward out of curiosity. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of place a hero who debuted at number four almost immediately, and became successful enough to open his own agency with his best friend so early into his career, even lives in. 

If that makes you a creep, then so be it. 

Your curiosity had won out, and well…you come to find that he lives in a very nice building. Exactly the sort of building you’d expect someone like him to live in. It’s on the way to yours, too. And although your own apartment building is far from unimpressive, it certainly doesn’t compare to his, so somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re quietly grateful that his stop will come first.

The Uber arrives shortly, and despite Bakugou always being a seemingly violent and abrasive man, he is, as you have always undeniably known, a good person. His parents have instilled in him the ethics of chivalry because he holds the door open for you, and helps you in with surprisingly gentle hands on your wrist and the small of your back as you struggle to climb into the back of the car. He is still himself, of course, so he doesn’t do it without scoffing a little at your drunken hobbling about, but it hardly holds any real bite.

The car ride is painfully quiet at first.

Not peaceful—never peaceful because the universe would never grant you peace when you are with Bakugou, so the entirety of the beginning of the car ride is charged. Charged with some weird, invisible force that never existed before, but it’s undeniably there. It makes the air feel suffocating for you, almost like you’ll choke on the tension. You try to distract yourself with the city lights that smear across the windows in long streaks of gold and white, but Bakugou sits beside you in the back of this cramped, ridiculously tiny two-back-seater car, and he almost takes up more space than he physically should.

Even slouched slightly back, even half-drunk, he is a presence that is impossible to ignore.

You keep your hands folded in your lap. He keeps one elbow resting near the window, phone in his other hand, as his screen dimly lights his face while he scrolls. The driver hums softly to the radio up in the front. Neither of you says anything, and the car ride is painfully, agonizingly silent.

It could be normal. It could feel like just a regular ride home after a long night out with a coworker. These things happen—these things are normal, everyday occurrences for people. You shouldn’t be an exception. 

But you are.

It feels not even the slightest bit normal every time the car takes a turn, and your shoulder brushes his. It feels not even the slightest bit normal when he shifts around and tries to get comfortable with his long legs in the cramped back seat, and his knee grazes yours. It feels not even the slightest bit normal when heat is radiating off of him, and you can smell the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with a distinctly sweet smell that’s uniquely his.

You dare to sneak a glance at him eventually—and he’s already looking at you. Your eyes widen in shock when you see him, equal parts because he’s undoubtedly caught you sneaking a look over at him, and equal parts because he’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s looking at you.

“You’re breathin’ too loud,” he mutters finally. A rather weak excuse.

“I am not breathing loud,” you whisper back automatically, giving him a small glare.

He’s quiet for a moment—something he never is when you’re bickering with him. Then, almost softly, almost fondly, “Yeah, you are.”

Your breath catches a little at that. You’ve never heard his voice like that and…fuck. It’s doing something odd and beyond your control in your head. The chemistry of your brain feels like it’s being altered, and suddenly all you can think about is him, him, him. His voice. His arm brushing yours. His knee bumping into you. His smell. His warmth radiating off his body. 

Him, him, him—Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.

The car hits a red light abruptly—one that the driver seems to be wholly unprepared for, and stops at rather sharply as he hits his brakes a little too late. Your face moves to smash into the seat in front of you, and your reflexes are too dulled by the lingering buzz of alcohol in your system to keep yourself from rushing forward. Bakugou exhales sharply through his nose, and his hands are already reaching forward to you so he can gently cradle your face and keep it from slamming forward. Even drunk, his reflexes seem as sharp as ever, and your brain chemistry seems to alter more.

Him, him, him—Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.

“Oi,” he slurs, “watch it. You’ll break y’re nose, Hellcat.”

Your face turns to look at him, still in his hold. You see him. Him and his dark, hazy eyes. Him and his pink, flushed cheeks. Him and his slightly damp, sweaty hair. And your brain chemistry is altering as you take in the sight of him. All this time, he’s been haunting you with that brash, hardness that is somehow, to you, more charming than the sweet, caring gentleness of someone like Kirishima. All this time, when you see him be this way and that, you’ve shoved down that festering sense of attraction because you were immune.

But your brain has rewired, and your body is no longer the same. You’re not immune anymore. You’re fully out of your mind and body, yet fully in control when you lean forward—and he willingly meets you halfway as soon as he realizes your movement, his senses as lightning fast as ever. 

Your lips touch his, and then he kisses you. He’s kissing you, and you’re kissing him back. For a second, you don’t even move—then your hand is on his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling it toward you with a force that isn’t familiar to your body. You never exert this sort of force for anything, but he somehow rewires your body.

The city outside keeps moving as if nothing has changed at all, but your body has been altered by the very fabric of its being, only registering one thing—him, him, him. Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.

When you finally break apart, it’s only barely, and only because the car has slowed slightly, turning and shifting routes. Your eyes dart to the rear view mirror for a millisecond, meeting the gaze of the driver who is staring at you as you kiss the man beside you, and you fluster as soon as you do, moving to inch apart from Bakugou. But he growls quietly under his breath, hand moving to cup the back of your head and pull you back in, and your senses return to that weird, unfamiliar state that only registers him.

He kisses you, and you kiss him back. And it’s just him, him, him.

You only part a second time because you need to for air. He clicks his tongue, but he complies, watching you as you catch your breath. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Your heart drops for a moment as you wonder if he regrets it—but it doesn’t sound like regret, and you relax just as quickly. As soon as you do, the car slows again. You realize all too fast that this is his stop.

And just like that, it’s over. Him and his lips and his hands and his body against yours. It’s over as Bakugou opens his door before you can even properly process it, getting out of the car to leave and go home and leave you…and then he turns. To you. Looks back at you as he stares expectantly.

There’s a beat where everything stills. The driver doesn’t move, not saying anything. Bakugou doesn’t move, not leaving. The car doesn’t move, not creating distance between you and this man. And then—

“You comin’ or what?” he asks, impatient.

And your answer—lightning fast in a way you never knew was possible for your reflexes, especially so in this hazed form—never fully makes it into the form words. Instead, you’re easily stepping out of the car after him, like it’s that simple. He shuts the car door, barely glances back at the Uber as the car pulls away, and then starts walking without checking if you follow.

And you follow him, of course, you do. You follow him into his fancy building and into the fancy elevator, and the elevator doors barely even have time to close before it starts again almost immediately. Bakugou’s hand is on you first, roughly pulling you in like he hated that there was never any distance in the first place.

You go back to kissing him just as fast as he returns to kissing you.

Your back hits the elevator wall with a soft thud, and you barely register the cool presence of it through your shirt, or the way his warm mouth doesn’t leave yours. It’s messy. Kissing him is messy in a way that makes your head spin—breathless, slightly impatient, all hot breath and the occasional clack of teeth on teeth as you kiss each other with clumsy, drunken fervor. It’s as if neither of you can quite slow down enough to care about anything else, not when your minds are influenced by nothing but alcohol and want.

The elevator moves. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think that you should stop.

You don’t, though. You don’t want to, not even a little.

When the elevator slows, he doesn’t pull away. When the doors open, neither do you. You should separate, but you don’t. Not fast enough, anyway, because the doors are shutting and Bakugou is cursing under his breath as his hand fumbles quickly and just barely manages to hit the button to open them again. He looks exasperated as he hastily walks towards his floor, grabbing your wrist and tugging you along. As soon as you step onto the floor, he has you pressed against the wall—you have just the quickest second to see that his door is the only door on this level. 

Go figure, you think. (What are the chances, you have to wonder, that you would be about to drunkenly fuck your boss in his literal penthouse? You might just consider buying yourself lottery tickets after tonight’s odd stroke of luck.)

But it’s a good thing, in any case—if anyone were to see you like this, there would be no pretending this wasn’t a shameful sight to be caught in. You’re kissing him roughly like you’re two desperate teenagers and not grown adults as you inch toward his door, still stumbling as every few steps turn into another collision, another continuation of stealing breath and swallowing spit and breaking whatever sense of professionalism used to exist between you.

Bakugou doesn’t let go of you once. His hands are roaming over your hips and your waist and gliding up your spine before settling for cupping your face, pressing you into the door at his entrance. You’re laughing against his mouth at one point after you bump into the doorknob and it digs into your back, earning an amused hum from him when you hiss in pain and smack his chest. 

Finally, he fishes his pockets for his keys and opens the door with clumsy, impatient movements. He gets the door unlocked without fully parting from your mouth, and even when it opens, neither of you properly stops. You stumble inside together, the door clicking shut behind you, and you are still kissing him when your back meets the wall of his apartment. 

You’re finally able to find your voice when his lips pull away from yours to attach to your neck as you whisper, “B-bakugou—”

“Tch,” he scoffs as soon as you say his surname. “Jus’ fuckin’ say Katsuki. S’weird when you use my last name.”

“But—”

“Do it,” he huffs.

Then his mouth is latching to your neck, sucking against a particularly sensitive spot that, of course, he finds easily, and you have no choice but to whimper, “Katsuki,” as your legs wobble. 

He likes the sound of that. You can tell as soon as he stills at the sound of his given name on your tongue that it drives him insane, and when he bites down on your neck a little harder in response to it, you think you’ll use his liking to your advantage. 

Kissing people and hooking up on occasion aren’t new experiences for you. What is a new experience for you, however, is doing them with your boss, who also happens to be a well-known public figure—an important, well-known public figure, in fact. Part of your mind is chanting over and over that this is not a good idea. That smart, wise people who value their self-preservation and their livelihood don’t do things like this. That if you had an ounce of sanity, you would realize that you’re setting your future, your stability, and possibly your heart, all up for failure. 

But the alcohol in your bloodstream is not listening to your brain. It’s picking and choosing the things it wants to listen to—it hears the racing thoughts of, he’s attractive, and chooses to focus on that, rather than the more reasonable thoughts of, he’s also your employer.

When Bakugou moves his lips to slot against yours again, and his hands creep down to your ass to pull you closer, your mind doesn’t think to put a stop to this before it’s too late. Instead, it thinks to send signals to every muscle in your body so that you jump and hook your legs around his waist. 

He catches your weight easily. You’d expect nothing less from Japan’s current number four hero. When he quickly strides over to his bedroom, tossing you onto his bed, all you can think about for a moment is the way people would kill to be where you are right now. That the people leaving those thirsty, desperate comments under his posts that you manage would do anything to swap places with you, but they can’t. They can’t because you are here, in his arms, under his body, and lying on his bed. 

Sober you would be crippled by the anxiety of trying to decipher whether or not you deserve to be where you are instead of someone else. Drunk you is deeply thrilled to be here, so your hands trail over to his hair, and in a fit of bravery, they tug on his messy, blonde strands. They are softer than they look—you’ve always wondered how they felt. You’re happy to satiate your curiosity. The feeling of you pulling at his hair earns a low, satisfied groan from him as soon as you do. 

“Fuck, do that again, Hellcat,” he mutters against your lips, words still a little slurred. 

You mumble back, “M’starting to think you’re a masochist. S’this why you always make problems for yourself in public?”

“Maybe I jus’ like makin’ problems for you,” he grins.

And then you tug at his hair again, and his eyes flutter shut as he lets out a quiet grunt, burying his head in the crook of your neck. His lips continue pressing small kisses to your skin—anywhere they can find purchase along your neck and the juncture where it meets your shoulder. You can feel the outline of his cock through his pants—hard, and heavy, and hot. Even through the fabric, you can feel the heat of him as he presses against your core.

Your mind is still a blurry haze, so you don’t know who starts moving first. Somewhere between your wandering fingers in his hair and the slow trail of his lips across your skin, your clothed cunt grinds against the erection in his pants, and suddenly you’re both moving in tandem against each other. The outline of his length drags against your clit, and the friction of him gliding that heat along your core over and over and over again makes your thoughts even less coherent.

All you can think is good, good, good—he feels so fucking good against you, rubbing his cock against you even while you’re both fully clothed.

“Fuck, that’s nice,” he breathes, the words broken apart by labored pants as he rolls his hips against you.

You whine. “M-more, Katsuki,” as you buck your own hips upward, trying to match his pace and feel him against you harder.

It’s a sloppy, desperate mess—him grinding against you while you do your best to move with him, chasing better friction, more pressure, more of everything. He’s big—you can tell even without seeing him. Just from the drag of his cock alone, you can tell the bulge in his pants is impressive. Just like everything else about him. Of course, you think. Of course, everything about him, right down to what’s in his pants, is impressive. You wonder if there’s anything about him that isn’t. But you can’t bring yourself to be too annoyed by it—not when your clit aches for him to press harder against you, to slide faster along your pussy as it drenches your panties and, likely, your dress pants along with them.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet,” he chuckles. “Can tell without even takin’ anything off. Want me that bad?”

“And you’re so fucking hard,” you shoot back, trying to fight the heat rising in your face as you huff, “I can feel that, too. You’re the one who wants me.”

“Yeah,” he hums, leaning in to press hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. He doesn’t even try to deny it, just says, “I do.” Then, his lips brush your skin once more. “Feel that?” He rolls his hips harder against you as he says it, and the heavy, thick heat of him presses into you. You clench around nothing, aching for something to fill the emptiness inside you. “Feel what you do to me?”

“Katsuki, please,” you breathe, panting as your bodies move with increasing desperation, both of you chasing the building pressure between your legs and the tightening coil in your stomachs. “N-need you. Please.”

“Damn it,” he hisses, closing his eyes at the sheer desperation in your voice.

And it’s because you’re so desperate that you fall apart before he does. The pleasure has been building and building and building, and all it takes is one final roll of his hips—one last drag of his cock over your clit—to send you over the edge.

No—to send you plummeting.

Your walls spasm around nothing, fluttering uselessly with nothing to clench around, no matter how badly they need it. The pressure snaps, and pleasure floods through every nerve in your body. You go still beneath it, overcome by the force of it as a broken whine of his name falls from your lips, entirely incoherent.

“That’s it,” he breathes shakily, slowing the rock of his hips so that it still works you through your pleasure, but slows down the orgasm that is creeping up on him, too. “That’s it—you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cum. Say my name like that again, Hellcat.”

You breathe his name just like that. Katsuki, Katsuki—fuck, Katsuki.

Every ragged cry of it makes his pupils dilate, his gaze fixed on you with pure hunger as he drinks in the sight of your parted lips and glassy eyes while you come undone because of him. When you finally come down from your high, he stills his hips, breathing hard through a clenched jaw as he fights the urge to keep moving. His cock twitches in his pants, and you know—you can tell he was close.

“Why didn’t you—”

“I need to be in you. To fuck you,” he cuts you off, one hand hooking into the waistband of your pants as he looks at you almost pleadingly.

His eyes are wide—a darker shade of crimson than you’ve ever seen them, and yet, somehow filled with awe all at once. As though the sight of your blissed-out face has turned his world upside down in the span of a few fleeting moments.

You nod immediately, whispering, “Yes—please, fuck me.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He’s stripping you bare before you can think twice—your pants and underwear first, then your shirt tugged over your arms. When only your bra remains, his hands shake ever so slightly as he cups your breasts through the fabric.

“So perfect,” he breathes.

Are you? Is that a line he says easily when he’s bedding someone? Something that slips off his tongue without a second thought? You might have dwelled on it longer if you were sober, but your mind is hopelessly scattered. Instead, it fixates on the fact that Bakugou has just called your tits perfect, and now he’s unclasping your bra to free them.

The second your breasts spill free, your bra is tossed somewhere onto the floor, forgotten.

One breast is instantly in his mouth. His lips latch onto it greedily, tongue circling your pebbled nipple while his teeth graze it just enough to make something tighten low in your stomach. His other hand—large and warm and rough, yet impossibly gentle all the same—cups your other breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple between them until a whimper slips from your throat.

“Oh,” you breathe, a sharp moan spilling from your lips.

He hums in satisfaction at the sound.

“That...do that again,” you plead.

A low chuckle rumbles out of him as he switches sides, leaving nothing neglected. From where he’s buried against your chest, he watches you with hungry, satisfied eyes, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he grunts as he finally pulls away—but not before pressing a lingering kiss between your breasts. “You’re beautiful, y’know that?”

“And you’re still wearing too many clothes,” you deflect, cheeks burning as you reach for the hem of his shirt and tug.

His grin turns instantly smug. “Yeah? Then do somethin’ about it. Aren’t you always bossin’ me around anyway?” He raises a brow. “What? Too shy now?”

You shoot him the kind of glare you keep reserved exclusively for him before yanking the shirt over his head.

Despite running a large agency that only seems to grow in reputation and prestige with every passing month, Bakugou often shows up to the office in nothing more than a t-shirt and black pants if he’s not wearing his usual hero suit. In his casual attire, if his face weren’t instantly recognizable, you’re fairly certain most people wouldn’t even realize he’s one of the owners on any given day.

He lets you peel the shirt away, revealing the broad expanse of his torso. And those abs.

The sight drags you right back to that day of the magazine shoot—to the embarrassment and thrill that had twisted together in your chest when you’d first seen him so bare. Miles and miles of skin stretched taut over thick, sculpted muscle. That’s what he is: smooth, pale skin wrapped tightly around hard-earned muscle.

Only this time, you can touch him, and you wonder if this is the universe’s belated birthday present to you. As though being denied the chance to touch him on your birthday is somehow being made up for now.

You decide to savor it.

Even through your haze, your fingertips trail slowly and deliberately over his abdomen, watching the muscles flex beneath your touch as his breath catches. A shiver runs through him. For a moment, those dark, lust-heavy eyes follow the path of your fingers across his skin.

Then he decides he wants more than this. More than your hands. More than a few fleeting touches. He wants all of you, and when his tip lines up with your entrance, you know he intends to take it.

Your eyes flutter shut as he slowly inches past your folds, the blunt head of his cock stretching your soaking entrance open to accommodate the sheer girth of him. It’s a tight fit—you feel the faint burn of him splitting you open, but you take him easily enough, your walls slick and welcoming around him. He’s gracious enough to give you a moment to breathe once he’s fully bottomed out, panting above you with his jaw clenched tight as he waits for some sign that you’re ready.

“S’fuckin’ tight,” he rasps. “S’like this pussy was made just for me—fit right in, huh?” You flutter around him at the words, and he lets out a low, gravelly chuckle.

“Stop,” you protest weakly.

He grins, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead as he murmurs in a husky voice, “Guess you’re not all that great at bossin’ me around, huh? Where’d all that feistiness go, huh, Hellcat?”

“Just move already, Baku—”

“Katsuki,” he corrects immediately.

You grab his cheeks and pull him into a long, messy kiss. He returns it instantly, melting into your mouth with a groan that vibrates against your lips. When you finally pull away, he huffs his displeasure, but you cut him off before he can complain.

“Katsuki,” you murmur, breathless. “Please move. I want you to fuck me already.”

And he’s gone.

The second the words leave your mouth, he’s cursing under his breath and grabbing your hands, pinning them above your head as he laces his fingers through yours. His hips draw back from where your bodies meet, his cock nearly pulling free of your heat before he snaps forward again, slamming his hips down and sinking deep into your walls.

The tip presses against a spot inside you that makes your vision go white. A sharp gasp tears from your throat, your back arching beneath him as pleasure crackles through your body. Above you, Katsuki groans—a rough, broken sound—and you can tell the sensation affects him just as much as it does you.

He sets a good pace, roughly rolling his hips and thrusting into you with precision—you’re painfully reminded how athletic he is just by watching the twitch and flex of his muscles as he exerts himself to bully his hard, aching length into your cunt without so much as stuttering his tempo. And you’re so full—so filled to the brim with him and his thick cock and the way the heat of him drags along every inch of your folds. He carves into you, molding your pussy into the shape of him, and you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to make anyone else fit like this. 

(You realize that the thought of anyone else in his position now makes you sour—a scary realization, too, so you shove the thought out of your head entirely.)

“God, you take me so well, Hellcat,” he groans, “m’gonna make this pretty cunt cum for me all over again—you can do that, right?”

“Yes,” you slur, “yes, fuck—wanna do it again.”

“That’s a good girl,” he hums, kissing your jaw. “See? You can be so sweet when you’re not tellin’ me what to do. Want you like this all the time.”

“You get off on being yelled at,” you say in between whines as the head of his cock brushes against your sensitive spot over and over, drilling into you and fitting right into the spot you need him to fit. “You like it when I tell you what to do, liar.”

He grins—lets out a dazed, amused little smirk that looks better than any smile you’ve ever seen from him. Something about the flush on his cheeks and the sweat clinging to his forehead when he’s sunken into your cunt makes him all the more ethereal to look at. 

“Maybe I do,” he mumbles, “s’not like you’re ever gonna stop bein’ the fucking hellcat that you are. Might as well get used to your shit.”

Like this, when he is fucking into you, desperately chasing the friction of your tight walls clamping around him, you feel like it is possible to belong where he is. Like this, when he kisses you hard and presses his tongue against yours, you feel like it is possible to give him what he deserves, even despite your shortcomings. Like this, when you are under him, and he is looking at you like you are unearthly beautiful, you dare to let yourself believe that you, in this body, as you are, is enough. 

You are enough despite the blood in your veins and the codes in your DNA telling you that you have nothing to bring to the table. No flashy quirk, and no useful power that will make you an equal. You are enough just by the eyes that meet his and make the tips of his ears hot, and you are enough just by the fingers that glide along his back and bring goosebumps to his skin. You are enough because you are what he wants, and he does not weigh your worth by the power that does not exist in your bones. 

“Shit,” he curses, moaning low and breathy, pulling you out of your scattered thoughts, “shit, m’so fuckin’ close.”

“Me too—m’gonna cum. Cum with me, Katsuki, please.”

One thrust, then two, and then his thumb moves to roll over your clit in harsh circles, and you’re falling apart again. Your first orgasm, you toppled over the edge, falling and falling in a slow descent until you hit the ground. This one, you are crushed by the weight of force instead, feeling your body sink heavily into the mattress as your bones turn to lead. The feeling of euphoria fills every vein and makes your body still, unable to move as you do nothing but lie there and take it. 

And when you feel him twitch in your cunt as it flutters around him, you whisper, “N-no, inside—please, inside,” as you feel him about to pull out and leave you empty. 

“You sure?” he croaks. “Safe?”

“Yes,” you nod, barely able to move your head. It’s still heavy and incoherent. “Yes, yes—please.”

One more thrust—a sloppy and unrhythmic thrust, at that—and Bakugou is spilling into you. His seed is thick and hot and fills you up in short ropes that paint you white as he twitches inside of you. 

He breathes out your name. Not Hellcat. Not some insult he doesn’t mean when he’s annoyed like idiot, or moron. No, he sighs out your name as his body is lost to pleasure, and fuck—it is the most delicate you’ve ever heard your own name sound. He says it like it is a fragile, precious word, saying it like he ought to worship it.

When he comes down from the height of his pleasure, he slumps over your body, sweaty and heavy and yet, so comforting. Skin meets skin, and your heartbeat is pounding in rhythm to his own erratically pumping heart. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, kissing your collarbone, “you…you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me dead.”

“I think it’s the other way around,” you wrinkle your nose. “You’re heavy. M’gonna get crushed to death.”

“Shut up,” he snorts. 

He rolls off of you, though, and your mind can focus on little else besides the fact that he is warm. So, so warm, and he smells so, so sweet when sweat clings to his skin. You can’t help but drift closer to him the second he settles onto the empty side of the bed, curling against his chest and chasing that familiar warmth, that faint scent of burnt sugar, as you bury your face against his skin.

An arm wraps around you immediately, caging you in the heat that radiates off him. Somewhere between slow, heavy blinks and the fleeting moments before sleep finally claims you, you register sheets being pulled up around you. Soft lips press against your forehead.

“Don’ hog the blanket,” you mumble tiredly.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” he yawns.

You think you roll your eyes. You’re not entirely sure. The only thing you know is that you are sinking into sleep and into him, and you could not claw your way out even if you wanted to.