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You open the door, and he catches his balance from losing the stability of resting against the wood. His eyes remain closed as you let him in because if he dares open them and ruin whatever scheme you have going, he thinks hell will break loose. You’ve always had a flair for the dramatics, after all. And he’s not going to risk making the pounding in his head any worse than it already is, so he keeps those eyes carefully shut.

“Good,” you hum, satisfied. “They’re closed.”

“Callin’ me a liar?” He grumbles. “Now what’s this about, hah?”

“Okay,” you giggle, “I got something in the mail. I think you’ll like it,” you coo, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his jaw. He melts fractionally at the touch of your lips. “I think you’ll really like it. Maybe. I hope.”

“If this is a surprise, it doesn’t sound too promising,” he says under his breath. You smack his chest in response, and he practically sulks. “Just sayin’. You don’t sound too confident.”

“Well, you’re a tough crowd,” you huff, “so you never know.”

“Well, you—”

He’s cut off with his hands being taken into yours, being pulled over to your hips. He pauses, feeling bare skin under his palms. Well, some bare skin. There’s fabric there too, but…clearly not a lot. He’s starting to see where this is going, he thinks.

“S’that a new set?” His lips curl into a grin, eyes still obediently closed. “Fuck, princess—of course I’d love this surprise. Why wouldn’t I? Love anything on you.”

“Not exactly the sort of set you’re thinking of,” you hum. “But close.”

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Say please.”

“Please. Happy, you little fuckin’ tease?”

“Okay, fine,” you pretend to sigh, caving. “You can open them.”

His eyes open, and Katsuki is…well, he’s speechless, that’s for sure. He has no brainpower for words. Only enough to keep his eyes trailing over your body as he takes in the sight—and fuck, is it a sight.

Most of the time, when kids wear costumes inspired by him, he thinks they’re little brats. Kind of cute brats that he’s admittedly a little fond of deep down, but brats all the same. This, on the other hand, is not a child’s costume with cheap fabric, nor is it anything of the sort that snot-nosed brats would wear.

No.

This rendition of his costume consists of the upper half of it being basically reduced to a bra—black fabric covered with lace that sits against your skin, while bright orange straps cross over your breasts in the unmistakable shape of his signature X emblazoned across his torso. The matching shorts (that are, by all means, very short) sit high on your hips, trimmed with orange embroidery and sheer black mesh. Dark green garter straps circle your thighs, mimicking the harnesses on his hero costume before disappearing into lace-topped stockings.

He blinks. Once. Then twice. Then again. And then his breath hitches terribly loud.

“Do you like it?” You hum, wrapping your arms around his neck as you press a line of kisses along his jaw. He shivers under your touch. “Thought maybe we could match.”

“S’not gonna help you much in a fight bein’ dressed like this,” he croaks, voice shakier than he has the pride to admit.

“Well, I don’t know,” you grin cheekily, “maybe I’ll drop the villains dead by being the hottest hero around, even if I can’t be the most explosive.”

“No villains are seein' you like this,” he huffs, giving your hips a squeeze as he adds, “I'll kill 'em first.”

“So you admit my costume would make for a banger debut, huh?”

“Fuck, baby, you’re killin’ me here,” he groans, burying his head into your neck. He presses soft, lingering kisses to the skin as his hands trail from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you forward and flush against his body. “M’not even gonna ask where the fuck you bought this, or how you even found it in the first place. Fuckin' crazy is what you are.”

“Nice little website that got advertised to me. There was a Deku version, too—”

He picks you up, making a low, dissatisfied sound in the back of his throat as his fingers dig into your ass, carrying you to the bed. He drops you onto the mattress, hovering over you as he pins your hands over your head. His eyes are dark, glinting with arousal and desire and challenge all at once.

“Oh yeah? Well, good thing for you, sweetheart, you got the real deal right here to prove you bought the better costume.”

Katsuki is no longer all that tired. He has enough energy to make his day just a little longer.

You blink at her with your best innocent look. (One good thing about making it your lifelong hobby to get under Katsuki’s skin is that you’ve learned you’re very good at the innocent look. Exceedingly good.)

“Well, I mean, I know how he feels about me ordering things, so I just wanted to check that it was okay—”

“Hah!? What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Katsuki stares. “How do I feel about you ordering things?”

You shrug sheepishly, feigning, to your credit, a very convincingly nervous look. “I just didn’t want to upset you.”

The look on Masaru’s face twists immediately to heartbreak—like he can’t believe his son would turn out this way. Meanwhile, Mitsuki’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits. Katsuki waves a hand gesturing at you in shock as if to ask, are you seeing this? he stares at his parents helplessly.

“She’s messin’ around, I swear, she always does this—”

“Katsuki.”

“Don’t Katsuki me—I haven’t done anything!”

“You know,” Masaru says carefully, eyeing his son in disappointment, “sometimes people don’t realize they’re behaving a certain way until there are signs. But we have to look at the signs for what they are, son.”

“Dad—”

“No, let me finish.” Masaru holds up a hand. “You’re supposed to be equals in a relationship. If she’s worried about upsetting you over something as simple as ordering a drink, maybe you should ask yourself why she feels that way.”

“Because she’s insane!”

“Katsuki!” Mitsuki hisses, pointing a finger at him as she says, “don’t call her that! The only reason for that is because you’re driving her crazy—look at her! The poor thing! She’s shaking over there, and it’s because of you!”

“She’s not shakin’ for shit! Look—look at her! She’s fighting back a fuckin’ smug little look on her face because she’s—”

Mitsuki suddenly reaches across the table and catches him by the ear. “What have I told you about making girls feel respected, huh? This is why they’ve never liked you! And now one finally does and you’re scaring her off?”

“Ow—you fucking hag!”

She gives his ear a sharp tug. “Language.”

“Ow! Let go, you old—”

You look up innocently, “Please don’t scold him, he’ll be in a bad mood when we get home.”

Mitsuki yanks his ear harder at that, steam practically pouring from her own ears, and Masaru holds a hand to his chin in deep, concerned thought.

“Just what happens at home when it’s just the two of you, huh? Why is she scared about what’ll happen when you’re home?!”

“Nothing! Literally fuckin’ nothing, she terrorizes me at home, if anything! Look with your eyes, you old hag!”

Finally taking mercy on him, you chuckle, reaching over to ruffle Katsuki’s hair. He gives you a nasty side glare, but it softens just a smidge when you lean into his side and kiss his cheek.

“I was only kidding,” you beam at Mitsuki, “I just wanted to make him sweat a bit.”

She looks at you with a cautious gaze, her fingers still tightly wrapped around Katsuki’s poor (and red) earlobe as she asks, “Are you sure you’re not just protecting him?”

“Oh don’t worry,” you hum, patting your boyfriend’s chest as he shakes his head in irritation, “you’d be the first to know if he acts even the slightest bit out of line.”

“I never get a chance to be out of line, cause you’re the bossiest—”

Just then, the waitress arrives with your drinks. She sets yours down first. “Here you go, honey.” Then she places Katsuki’s down. The sour look she gives him could practically curdle milk. “Sir.”

Katsuki stares after her as she walks off, and you giggle as you pinch his cheek affectionately. “We should come back here next week, huh baby?”

“Yeah, if my face isn’t on a wanted poster at the door,” he grumbles under his breath.

You reach over with a cheeky grin, grabbing his drink and taking a sip before taking another from your own glass. After a moment of contemplating, you hum, “I like your drink better. I’m taking it. Here—” you slide him yours as you pull his own glass to your side of the table. “You take that one.”

He turns to his mother and waves a hand. “See?! She terrorizes me!”

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

“Hah?” he snaps, inching closer as he stares into the camera with furrowed brows. You easily ignore him.

“I’ve been meaning to break up with him sooner, but I just didn’t want to handle all the crying and stuff—from him, not me, just to be clear.”

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ cry over your stupid ass video—”

“Unfortunately, he’s a very emotional person. Very clingy, too.”

“I’m not clingy. You’re the one who spams me with texts while I’m on patrol!”

You dab concealer beneath your eyes as he defends himself against every accusation you make, and it becomes far too difficult to hide your laughter. You let out a soft giggle, and he throws you a very offended glare. (Yes, Katsuki is smart enough to know that this is a silly little joke on your part just to be funny. No, that does not stop him from treating this as a serious matter in which he has to protect his dignity. Lucky for you, that only makes for better views.)

“Now, some people might think breaking up with a pro hero wouldn’t be very smart for my brand, but luckily, mine is very easy to replace.”

“Easy to replace?”

You have to look away from him because the expression on his face is making it ten times harder to pretend to take this seriously, and you’re barely keeping a straight face. “There are lots of blonde men in the world, so I’m sure I’ll easily find someone else to fit the role.”

“Who the fuck are you gonna find better than me, huh?” He challenges, particularly irritated by that statement. 

“As you can see, he’s already in denial.”

“Oi! Don’t ignore me!”

“Anger is the next stage of grief.”

The phone is grabbed before you can dab on your blush, and he spins you around, pinning you against the bathroom counter as he gives you a dirty look. You break into a fit of giggles, wrapping your arms around his neck as you press an innocent kiss to the tip of his nose. 

“Hi, baby,” you hum.

He raises a brow. “Don’t hi baby me, dumbass. You make sure you tell that camera that you’ll never dump your boyfriend and that there’s no other man—blonde or not—like him, and—”

You roll your eyes, hands cupping his cheeks as you pull him into a soft, slow kiss, cutting his words off effectively. He melts into you, kissing back as soon as your lips touch his, and you like to think that your silly idea only makes him kiss you a little more seriously. A little more meaningful, just to prove something.

“Don’t worry,” you peck the corner of his mouth, “I was just kidding. I’d never dump someone with pro hero money from the number five spot.”

— — — — —

“Get ready with me to get proposed to by my pro hero boyfriend!”

You beam at your phone camera from your vanity. Behind you, Katsuki is sprawled across the bed, one ankle hooked over the other, scrolling on his phone while sipping on his morning coffee. The coffee immediately goes down the wrong pipe.

He chokes, and a terribly strained coughing fit erupts from behind you. You almost feel bad for disrupting his peace on his day off—almost. 

“Now, the proposal hasn’t been planned yet,” you explain to your hypothetical audience while reaching for your moisturizer, “but I’ve decided I want it to happen today.”

Another coughing fit. “What?”

“Katsuki, are you okay? You’re coughing a lot today. Do you have a cold?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, woman—what the fuck are you up to this time?”

You give him an innocent smile as you say, “Nothing!”

You’ve decided to keep this little game going for as long as you can—a new scheme whenever you can to keep him on his toes. Partially because you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy his reactions, but partially because, truthfully, you think seeing a softer, more human side of Katsuki will do him some wonders in the public eye. And what sort of doting girlfriend would you be if you didn’t take your chances at helping his public image?

“Why do you keep lying to your audience through these stupid videos?” he demands.

You gasp. “Lying?”

“Yes, lying,” he gives you a flat look, eyeing you like you’re crazy for denying the accusation.

“Why would this be a lie?” You challenge. Then, dramatically, you gasp, clutching your chest in mock hurt as you hiss, “So are you saying that you don't want to marry me?”

“W-what? I didn’t fuckin’ say that—don’t put words in my mouth—”

“So, I guess this video is now becoming a get-ready-with-me to get dumped, because apparently Katsuki wants to break up with me because he fell out of love with me and found someone new. I think he’s been emotionally cheating on me with someone—a sidekick, I’d bet. Always trust your gut, ladies—your gut never lies.”

“Hah?! You—” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face as he exhales tiredly and gives you a dry look. “You know what, that’s right. M’fuckin’ dumping your ass.”

You clap a hand over your mouth dramatically. “Everyone cancel him!”

— — — — —

“Get ready with me to make out with my pro hero boyfriend!”

You beam at your phone camera. But today, for the first time in the history of these videos, there is no Katsuki behind you that is staring at you in disbelief or glaring at you in irritation. Instead, Katsuki is sitting on the bed, looking up from his phone as a wide, smug grin spreads across his face.

“Finally,” he says, setting his phone aside. “You thought of a good one.”

You blink. “Wait—”

“No, no, you can’t take shit back now. You wanna make out with your pro hero boyfriend, so that’s what your video is gonna be, baby.”

“Katsuki—”

He stands, hastily walking over as he says in approval, “Now we’re talkin. I like this video idea.”

He materializes in front of you, easily grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you up before he hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against him. His lips start peppering kisses up your throat and along your jaw as he works his way up to your lips. You melt against your will, giggling a little as you hiss (weakly), “Kats! We can’t…you can’t kiss me yet!”

“And why the fuck not, huh? You got some other boyfriend to kiss? Bring ‘im here, I can fight.”

“I have to get ready first,” you huff, shoving him lightly, “that’s the point of a get-ready-with-me? You have to wait till my makeup is done.”

“What’s the point in that?” He hums, pressing a soft, delicate peck to your lips before he murmurs, “s’just gonna be a waste of all your hard work when m’done with you, yeah baby?”

You shiver at the tone in his voice, pupils dilating as you stare at him. His eyes are twinkling with amusement as he gives you a wolfish grin, reaching over and locking your phone, and cutting the camera off from recording. This video might not end up getting posted at all, you think—this one might just break community guidelines. 

Ending his workday means going home. And if he goes home, you’ll be there. And if you’re there, he’ll be reminded of your nasty argument from the other night. And if he thinks about that argument, he’ll have to face the fact that the two of you are still stubbornly refusing to speak to one another until the other apologizes first. It’s a ridiculous standoff—an unnecessary one, and he knows it. But neither of you seems particularly interested in ending it, and now his own apartment has somehow become the last place he wants to be. Every room feels charged with an uncomfortable tension. The living room is awkward. The kitchen is unbearable. Even lying down beside you at night feels weird, so Katsuki would rather avoid the whole thing if he can help it.

If he gets home late enough, you’ll already be asleep. Then he can shower, crawl into bed, and pretend the situation doesn’t exist for a few more hours. It seemed like a solid plan in his mind, but unfortunately, thanks to fucking Shitty-Hair, he has no choice but to head home and hang up his costume. 

And judging by the lights still glowing through the windows of his apartment, his luck has officially run out. You’re still awake. Of course.

He trudges in, and there you are—sitting stiffly on the couch in the living room, staring directly at him with your arms crossed and an infuriated glare on your face as you fix him with narrowed eyes. Great.

“Do you have any fucking clue what time it is?” you hiss without missing a beat.

Katsuki should’ve known you’d start nagging the second he walked through the door. Hell, he should’ve turned around and just left the moment he saw the lights on instead of coming in.

“S’not even ten,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off. “Would you fuckin’ drop it—”

“You were supposed to be home almost two hours ago!” Your voice rings through the apartment, sharp and incredulous, and Katsuki is so tired. So exhausted. Too exhausted to deal with this nonsense right now, of all times.

“Yeah, well. Now I’m home. There you go.”

The dismissal only seems to make you angrier. Katsuki practically watches the steam start pouring from your ears as you shoot to your feet, hands planting firmly on your hips. And he just knows your voice is about to get louder.

“That’s it?” you practically screech. He fucking knew it. “You’re out on patrol for an extra two hours, and I hear nothing from you—not even a text saying, I’ll be home late. I’ve been sitting here like an idiot, wondering what the fuck happened, or if you’re okay, and all you can say is now you’re home? Do you just get off on being an asshole or something, Katsuki?”

His shoulders tense immediately as he fixes you with an equally hard glare. There goes his wish for a peaceful, conflict-avoidant night. Of course, as always, you have to drag the conflict right to him and drop it at his feet, spike his temper, and make it ruin his evening. A simple shower and a good night’s sleep was all he wanted. But things are never quite that easy—not with you.

Katsuki feels a dull throb start behind his eyes as he shoots back, “What, was your phone broken or some shit? What exactly held you at gunpoint and stopped you from sendin’ me a text and asking, huh?”

Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not laughin’, am I? Definitely no jokes here.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you scowl, and he snorts. There’s no humor behind the sound, however.

“Yeah, that’s real mature.”

“Oh no—you don’t get to tell me about what’s mature and what isn’t. Cause if you wanna talk about what’s mature, it’s not disappearing for two hours and acting like I’m insane for being worried!”

“I wasn’t disappearing, I was fuckin’ doing my job.”

“You were supposed to be done with that job hours ago!”

“Well, I wasn’t!”

“You have a smart little answer for everything, don’t you, Katsuki?” you smile sarcastically, “just think you’re so smart and above it all, huh?”

Katsuki doesn’t know if it’s the headache that’s been creeping on him, or the rage, or the pure adrenaline in his system, but he does know that for a short, fleeting second, all he saw was red. 

“Holy fuck, do you ever listen to yourself?”

Your expression hardens instantly. “No, I think you should listen to yourself. You might hear an idiot if you do.”

The apartment goes quiet. Dangerously quiet. 

“You know what?” he says coldly, “forget this. I’m goin’ the fuck to sleep—I’ve dealt with enough bullshit tonight—”

You throw your hands in the air, exasperated. There is a flash of hurt on your face that makes his chest ache, but the sharp stab of pain doesn’t last for long because as quickly as his heart bleeds, his mind makes him forget. It only lets him focus on the anger and the irritation and the way you’ve ruined his night, just like you ruined the one before. 

“Every single time I tell you something bothers me, you act like it’s a personal attack, and then you just dismiss me like I don’t matter—”

“Maybe I wouldn’t dismiss shit if every conversation with you didn’t turn into a fuckin’ laundry list of grievances you got with me!”

“You only take everything I say as a complaint because you refuse to communicate!”

“Because not everything needs to be a damn discussion like we’re in therapy!”

“Right,” you laugh bitterly. “Silly me. God forbid I expect basic consideration from you.”

Something ugly flashes across his face. He knows it. Katsuki knows that when he’s mad, he turns ugly—he’s always been that way. It’s the only way he knows how to be. For the longest time, he thought you were the only person he could hide it from. That you were the only person he could fight the urge to get ugly from because you are just that special. 

But Katsuki is who he is, and he’s learned that he’s a special kind of ugly just for you.

“Basic consideration?” he barks. “You’re sayin’ I’m not considerate?”

“No, sometimes you fucking aren’t and—”

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich! I break my back every day keeping this city safe—”

“Well, if the city is the only thing you can be considerate for, why the fuck are you even here?”

It’s silent as soon as the words leave your mouth. Katsuki goes completely still. He can feel it the second it happens—the way his expression shuts down. The way the anger drains out of his face and leaves behind something colder. Something worse. Something so ugly, he has to get out of here before you see it and realize he isn’t worth it. Isn’t worth you. 

“Yeah,” His voice is flat. “Why am I here, right? You know, you can just tell me to leave next time, it’d be a lot fuckin’ easier for you.”

“Katsuki—”

“No.” He grabs the strap of his duffel bag that carries his guantlets from where he’d dropped it by the door, throwing it over his shoulder as he bends down to lace his boots up again.

“Katsuki, that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure.”

“I was angry—”

“Clearly, you’re always fuckin’ angry at me. I’m always doin’ something the fuck wrong, aren’t I? Nothin’ I do is enough?”

Stop, stop, stop. His mind is screaming, begging him not to do this. To get out. To leave and fight that hideous part of him down until he’s far enough that you never, ever have to see it.

“Katsuki, don’t do this right now—”

“Do what?” His voice rises more than it should. Stop—stop now. But he can’t. The ugliest of him is already taking surface and showing his truest of colors. “What exactly am I supposed to say here, huh?” You flinch. He needs to fucking stop, but he doesn’t. “Because apparently, when I stay late to save people, I’m an asshole. When I’m home, I’m an asshole. I breathe, I’m an asshole. I exist, I’m an asshole.”

“That’s not—”

“So what’s the answer?” His laugh is bitter and so, so cold that he doesn’t recognize this version of himself. Not with you. He wants to stop desperately, but he can’t. Because Katsuki is an ugly, hideous, despicable person deep down. No amount of heroism on the surface can hide that part of him that’s on the inside, not from you. “Since you’ve got everything figured out, you tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”

“Katsuki, let’s just sit down and—”

He shakes his head. For a second, he wants it to hurt. He wants it to hurt for you. Stop, stop, stop— “Y’know what? I’m done.”

His hand closes around the doorknob, and your voice comes out shaky and panicked as you whisper, “Katsuki, please just sit down and—”

“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ this shit anymore.”

Then he yanks the door open and walks right back out, slamming it hard enough behind him to rattle the picture frames on the wall.

────────────────────────

Katsuki is six when he first asks his father what the fuck the old man even sees in the hag that is his mother. He remembers the conversation vividly. 

“Dad, why did you marry Mom? She’s grumpy and old, and she yells all the time,” little Katsuki asks, crossing his tiny arms over his chest. “Why d’you even like her?”

Masaru nearly chokes on his tea. “Katsuki,” he coughs. “Your mother isn’t old. You shouldn’t say that—it’s rude.”

“But she is,” he huffs. “She smells like an old lady, too.”

“Well, if she’s old, then I’m even older,” Masaru points out, taking another sip. “So that can’t be a very good reason not to like her.”

“Well, she’s mean.”

“She’s not mean,” his father chuckles, thoroughly amused. 

No matter how many times he sees it, Katsuki doesn’t understand it—the way his father gets that dumb, starry-eyed look whenever Mitsuki comes up. She’s always in a bad mood, and if she isn’t, she’s probably due for one within the next thirty minutes. Why his father would choose to marry such a sour lady is completely beyond his six-year-old comprehension.

“She yelled at me this morning,” he sulks.

“You tried to use your explosions inside the house,” Masaru reminds him, leveling him with a pointed look. “We talked about that. Rules are rules for a reason, young man.”

Katsuki pouts harder. His father is supposed to take his side.

“But she still yelled. And it was mean,” he argues back stubbornly. Masaru only smiles into his tea, shaking his head with fond amusement. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Katsuki presses again, “So what do you even like about her?”

The question seems to catch Masaru off guard. He pauses, thinking. “Well,” he says slowly, “she’s funny.”

Katsuki blinks. His father cannot possibly be serious. “Mom?”

“Yes.”

“She’s funny?”

“Very.”

“No, she isn’t,” Katsuki says immediately, deeply offended by the blatant lie.

Masaru laughs, “She is.” Katsuki stares at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Masaru only smiles wider. “She’s honest, too. You always know what she’s thinking.”

“That’s because she says whatever she thinks.”

“Exactly.”

“And she says it loud.”

“That’s true.”

“She says it really loud, Dad.”

Masaru nods solemnly, sighing. “Also very true, son.”

“She should shut up,” Katsuki huffs. His father fixes him with a stern look at that, and he shrinks back just a little. 

“We do not say that about our mother, Katsuki.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes but slumps deeper into his chair all the same. “Fine.”

“Your mother is wonderful,” his father says. “She works hard. She cares about people. She loves our family—she loves us. One day, you’ll see that. And when you do, I think you’ll appreciate her a lot more.”

Katsuki picks at the food on his plate, turning the words over in his head. 

His mother does love him—he knows that much, even if she is annoying. She remembers all the snacks he likes and somehow always comes home with them without him ever having to ask. Whenever he asks for money, she gives him more than he requested—even if it usually costs him an irritatingly painful pinch to the cheek. She wakes up early to bathe him despite complaining about losing sleep because he prefers morning baths to evening ones.

His mother loves him; he knows that to be true. But it’s only true because she is his mother, and he is her son. Mothers love their sons—it’s the rules. Why his father would willingly choose to love that woman remains completely incomprehensible, however, in his mind.

“Mom is super annoying,” he says bluntly.

Masaru’s smile softens. “I suppose sometimes she can be, yes.”

“See?” Katsuki perks up immediately, his entire face screaming, gotcha!

“But,” Masaru continues, “I’m sure I annoy her, too.”

Katsuki deflates on the spot. 

More than that, he simply cannot imagine such a thing being possible. His father is calm and nice and makes good food. Katsuki thinks lots of women would like his father—women who also would not find Masaru annoying. The only person allowed to find Masaru annoying is Katsuki himself, and that’s because his father makes rules that Katsuki has to follow. He thinks he’s earned that right.

His mother, however, has no such excuse.

“She gets annoyed with you?” he asks incredulously.

“Of course. Every day, I’m sure there’s something I do that annoys her at least a little.”

“Then why does she like you?”

Masaru thinks for a moment, carefully choosing his words, trying to explain this odd phenomenon that is love. “Because loving someone isn’t about finding a person who never annoys you,” he says finally. “It’s about finding someone who still sees your value even when you’re annoying. Someone who chooses you anyway. Does that make sense?”

His nose wrinkles immediately. “No.” His father stifles a chuckle when Katsuki adds, “That sounds dumb.”

“Maybe,” Masaru hums, eyeing him with bright, endeared eyes.

“I’m not gonna marry someone annoying when I’m all big. Because I’m smart!”

That earns him a full laugh from his father. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Masaru lean forward and wipe at the corner of his eye. In fact, he laughs so hard he nearly spills his tea. “You say that now,” his father says, setting his mug down, “but that’ll change. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“No, I won’t,” Katsuki grumbles. He doesn’t appreciate that he’s not being taken seriously.

“I think you will, son.”

“I definitely won’t.”

Masaru only smiles. He looks at Katsuki the way adults always do when they think he’s young and silly and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And Katsuki hates that look. He’s smart—excellent, even. Just the other day, he caught his teacher’s mistake during subtraction when nobody else in his class noticed. At this rate, he’s well on his way to being smarter than most adults.

He absolutely knows what he’s talking about.

“Well, we’ll just have to see, Katsuki. If I’m right, you’ll take me out for ramen someday. Deal?”

“Fine,” Katsuki huffs, puffing out his chest confidently. “But you’ll never see that ramen.”

────────────────────────

Twenty years later, Katsuki sometimes wonders if he’s going to have to admit he was wrong and take the old man out for ramen after all.

You are, without question, the most annoying, irritating, vein-popping individual he has ever met. It’s like every decision you make is carefully calculated to inconvenience him specifically.

He has to keep an extra jacket in his car because you never check the weather before leaving the house. He has to double-check your grocery lists before you go shopping because if he doesn’t, you’ll somehow forget the one thing you actually need. He has to make sure you take your vitamins. Every night, he has to remind you to take your makeup off before bed because, apparently, that responsibility has become his problem—and if you wake up the next morning with mascara smeared under your eyes because you didn’t listen to him, then somehow you still find a way to blame him for not wiping it for you.

You are annoying. Every single fucking day, you annoy him. You annoyed him yesterday. You’ve annoyed him today. You’ll annoy him tomorrow. And he’ll tell you exactly that—he’ll call you a dumbass, and tell you to get your life together. Complain about the ridiculous thing you did this time, and accuse you of going out of your way to make his life harder on purpose. But after that, despite it all, he will still love you. 

Twenty years later, now that he’s older, Katsuki realizes he understands what his father meant. That loving someone doesn’t happen because they never annoyed him—loving someone happens because they annoyed him, and he still, despite that, sees nothing but the good.

He loves you. You are annoying and drive him up a wall, but Katsuki knows that you are good. The greatest good that there might ever be, and he might have just ruined it. He probably fucked it all up and lost all the good he had. All the good he’s ever wanted. All the good that he’s wanted to keep for the rest of his life and cherish.

The second the apartment door slams shut behind him, Katsuki regrets it. He regrets being the reason behind that look on your face. That brief flash of panic in your eyes right before he left. That way that your voice sounded when you said his name.

He can’t get it out of his head as he walks out of your building. “Fuck,” He runs a hand through his hair and keeps walking.

The only friends he’d willingly see right now are working, his parents are definitely sleeping (and would ask too many questions he doesn’t want to answer, even if they weren’t), and he is nowhere near calm enough to go back upstairs and just go home.

But his patrol route is still active. So instead of going home and into bed like a normal person who has morning patrol, Katsuki leaves his apartment building behind and heads toward work.

By the time he gets suited up again, it’s almost eleven. By the time it’s midnight, he’s still out. By the time it’s 1 AM, he should call it a night.

Instead, however, he keeps moving. One more block turns into one more street. Anything to keep himself from going home or thinking about the argument. About the way you looked at him. About the things he said. About the shit he ruined for sure.

His thoughts are loud enough in his head, turning him deaf to everything else. He misses things he normally wouldn’t—things like suspicious shadows and warning shouts from another hero.

By the time Katsuki realizes what’s happening for what it is, the villain goes down easily enough—too easily. He curses himself for being so naive, so rash. He’s been fighting as a pro for years. He was a war veteran before he was even a legal adult, for crying out loud. Still, despite all that, the second Katsuki realizes something is wrong, it’s already too late.

The construction site groans around him—metal screeches against metal, and his head snaps upward. All he sees is the upper half of the structure collapsing before he loses his balance and collapses with it. 

“Shit—”

The explosion leaves his palms a fraction of a second too late, and he doesn’t go propelling forward the way he’s supposed to. The half-built building comes down, and Katsuki goes down with it. 

Then everything goes dark.

────────────────────────

It’s 2 AM when you see it on the news. Kirishima sends you a text asking if you’d heard what happened, and by the time you’ve spammed him with messages asking what the hell he was even talking about, he’s gone silent. Something in your gut knows that he’s not answering because he’s too busy rescuing. Too busy being a hero.

Your heart tells you that the person he has to be a hero to tonight just so happens to be Katsuki.

The first report you see hits the news at 2:13 AM. The anchor’s voice is as smooth and polished as ever as she delivers the words that send your whole world crumbling around you. 

“We are receiving breaking reports of a major incident involving Pro Hero Dynamight.”

The footage that floods the screen makes you fall to your knees and muffle your sobs behind a shaky palm—collapsed concrete and emergency responders and heroes rushing in and out of the wreckage. The camera zooms toward the ruined construction site, and Katsuki’s body is nowhere to be seen on the screen. You don’t quite know if that’s a good thing or bad.

“Dynamight was reportedly responding to a villain incident when a structural collapse occurred. We are told he is trapped beneath the rubble. Emergency responders are currently on the scene, conducting rescue operations.”

At 2:37 AM, the hospital gives you a call as his emergency contact. You’re sick to your stomach, not sure how you’ll make the drive there when Kirishima finally texts you again.

Kiri <3: I already told his parents. They’re on their way so don’t worry about it Kiri <3: One of my sidekicks is outside your apartment. They’ll drive you down there Kiri <3: I still have to handle the aftermath and finish patrol so I won’t be there I’m sorry Kiri <3: Keep me updated?

You: Don’t apologize Kiri idk what I’d do without u You: Thank you and pls be safe You: I’ll lyk things as soon as I find out

Kiri <3: Take it easy okay? Kiri <3: He’s come back from worse. It’ll be alright

——

Kirishima’s sidekick gets you to the hospital efficiently, but you are still at your wits’ end by the time you can rush out of the passenger seat and bolt through the sliding doors.

Some part of you is grateful you didn’t have to drive here yourself because you know you would’ve sped dangerously over the limit, missed half the red lights, and probably would’ve gotten yourself pulled over. At the same time, you wish you could’ve been the one behind the wheel, just to get here faster.

“I’m here to see Kats—um, Dynamight,” you say in a rush. “Dynamight…I meant Dynamight.”

The woman at the front desk looks at you with a raised eyebrow, already typing away at her screen as she blandly says, “Valid ID, please.”

You curse under your breath, fumbling through your purse for your wallet, and then fumbling through your wallet for your ID like your hands suddenly don’t belong to your body anymore.

When you practically shove it toward her in your haste, she takes it too calmly for your racing heart and inspects it for a moment. Then looks at her screen. Then back to your ID. Then she types for what feels like an agonizing eternity before she finally hands the card back and says, “Fourth floor, room twelve. He’s stable, but he has some serious injuries that they’ll have to monitor and heal slowly due to his stamina—”

You’re already moving before she finishes. You’re bolting toward the elevators, heart slamming so hard it hurts. The ride up to the fourth floor is torturously slow. When you finally get out of the elevator, you’re halfway down the hallway before you even register the security guard stepping in front of you.

“ID.” Again. Of course. You suppose it is a good thing security is tight for the pro hero unit—even if it does add to your piling weight of anxiety. When you clumsily pull it yet again, he checks it for another cruelly long stretch of time, glancing between the card and the device in his hands before finally saying, “Go ahead.”

You’re already moving.

By the time you reach room twelve, your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself still. For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. Would Katsuki even want to see you? Is he fed up with you? Would you just make his already terrible night even worse?

You aren’t sure.

You don’t know why you’re in the predicament you’re in right now. You don’t know how you got here or why things escalated the way that they did. You don’t know what you do wrong to push his buttons the way you seem to, to upset him the way that he gets. You think you’re doing the right thing—that you’re doing what’s right for both of you—but somehow, you always seem to mess it up. Always seem to say the wrong thing. Always seem to ruin whatever good the two of you have managed to build between you.

But you love Katsuki, and if nothing else, you know that he loves you too, and you need to see him. So you force down the bile in your throat and push the door open. The first thing you notice when you see him is the bandages wrapped tightly around him. One arm heavily secured in a cast. Gauze lining his shoulder and collarbone that makes your stomach drop in a sick, immediate lurch. Machines hum quietly beside him, keeping track of his vitals.

You never see Katsuki hurt like this—he’s always been practically invincible when he’s on the field, always taking things down before they have a chance at even touching him. And then your brain, cruelly, supplies the thought: but he is not invincible. Not always.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, eyes already welling with tears.

He’s looking at you the second the door opens—but his tired eyes soften with relief, just a little, when they land on you. “You came,” he says, voice rough.

“Of course I came,” you say, sharper than you mean to. How could he think you wouldn’t? How far have you let things go that he could genuinely believe you wouldn’t show up for him? “What the hell happened?”

He sighs, almost embarrassed. “Just…work ‘n shit.”

You sniffle, and he lifts his good arm toward you. That’s all it takes. 

You’re at his side in an instant, squeezing into the small space beside him on the hospital bed and curling yourself against his chest. You’re careful not to disturb any of the machines surrounding him, but you can’t stop thinking about how wrong this feels. How you shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now. How he’s the one lying in a hospital bed, yet somehow he’s still the one rubbing your back and soothing your tears.

“I thought you were gonna die,” you sob. “I—I saw the rubble, and Kiri stopped texting back and...and I thought you got crushed.”

“M’not fuckin’ dying, babe,” he huffs, sounding mildly offended. “A stupid building isn’t killin’ me. That’s a dumbass way to go.”

“You don’t know that,” you shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”

“Listen—”

“And I was sitting there watching the news and thinking the last conversation I ever had with you was that stupid fight,” you continue, looking up at him with trembling lips.

His eyes soften. “I know, but—”

“And I don’t care about the argument anymore,” you say, your voice shaking harder now. “I don’t care about being right or winning or being apologized to first—I should’ve texted you, you’re right. You...you probably felt like I didn’t care, but I do. I care so much, and I love you more than anything.”

You take a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady you. Katsuki is trying to wipe your tears away with one weak arm.

“I love you too—”

“I just want you to talk to me,” you sob. “I know I’m annoying, and I nag and scold and get onto you all the time, and I’m trying not to do that as much—really, I am! But I just...I wish you’d tell me things, too. Y’know? I am the one person you’re supposed to do that with, Katsuki,” you add, your voice cracking all over again. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m the last person you want to do that with.”

His expression tightens. “That’s not—”

“And I want us to work because I’ve never liked someone so much—it stresses me out. Because I love you and I want this to work, and the thought of it not working makes me so anxious I wanna throw up, and...and you act like talking to me is harder than getting crushed under a fucking building—”

“Baby.” He squeezes your cheeks together and silences you as he pulls your face closer, pressing a kiss to your puckered lips. “You talk a lot, y’know that?”

You huff at him immediately, tears spilling down your cheeks even faster. “That is so rude, given the—”

“I’m sorry about the fight,” he interrupts. You pause, and he takes the opportunity to keep going, despite looking painfully uncomfortable the entire time. “And for...walkin’ out ‘n shit. That was fucked up. I don’t talk to you like I should. You’re right. S’weird for me, and I hate it sometimes. I don’t know how to just...say shit like you do. Okay?” He sighs. “But m’gonna try more because you’re right—I need to talk to you. But you gotta get outta your head so much—” He gives your forehead a small jab with his finger. You sniffle and swat his hand away with a watery scowl. It earns the faintest grin from him. “We’re gonna work,” he says. “’Cause we do. That’s all there is to it, okay?”

“But—”

“No buts,” he grumbles. “My ribs hurt. Jus’ let me be right.”

A watery laugh escapes you as you shake your head, cupping his bandaged face between your hands. “You’re really annoying sometimes, Katsuki.”

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “So are you. Still love you, though.”

“Me too,” you breathe, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Love you so much.”

He pulls you back down against his chest again, rubbing your back as you listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. You trace small patterns into his shirt. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. And things are okay—they are not beyond repairing. You’ll inevitably annoy him tomorrow, and he’ll annoy you the day after that, but you’ll still work. You will still find a way to keep things good the way they always are.

After a few quiet moments, he mumbles, “Hey.” When you look up, he says, “When m’all healed and shit, you gotta force me to go grab ramen with my old man. On me.”

────────────────────────

Katsuki waits almost a month after being discharged from the hospital before he finally makes the call. He’s been trying to stall it for as long as possible, but Katsuki, even at the tender age of six, has always been a man (or boy) of his word. He’s standing alone on the balcony outside his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear, wondering if it’s too late to hang up before the call goes through.

It rings twice. Then his father’s voice is as gentle and cheery as ever. “Katsuki!” Masaru answers immediately. “Hi, son!”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey.”

His father laughs. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I got discharged, didn’t I? S’been a whole month.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sounding just like your usual self,” his father says. Katsuki can hear the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’.”

“Katsuki, you never call for just nothing.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh—it’s now or never. He can’t keep stalling, and Katsuki is, and always has been, a man of his word. If he promised his father ramen over a stupid bet he made twenty years ago, then he’s going to get his father that ramen. Even if it kills his pride. Demolishes it, even.

“Listen, I was thinkin’...maybe we could grab food sometime.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Masaru hums. “Let me ask your mother when she’s free and—”

“Not the hag. S’just you,” he cuts in, rubbing at his temple.

“Oh?” Masaru sounds amused. “Well, okay. I suppose it’d be nice to spend some time as just father and son. What kind of food?”

Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose. Just say it. Just fuckin’ say it, his mind urges. Just rip the bandage off and say it. Say it. Say the damn word—he grits his teeth and forces out, “Ramen.”

There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stretches on long enough that Katsuki’s eye twitches.

“Ramen, huh?” Masaru finally says, and the way he says it makes a vein all but pop in Katsuki's forehead.

“Old man,” he says warningly, “don’t push it—”

He’s cut off when Masaru starts laughing. “I was wondering when this day would come.”

“Hah? You really kept that shit in your head for twenty years?”

“Of course I did. It was one of my favorite conversations I’ve ever had with you.”

“Why? ‘Cause you love bein’ fuckin’ right all the time?” Katsuki grumbles.

His father’s voice softens as he says fondly, “No. I just wanted you to find someone who made you as happy as your mother makes me. That’s all I wanted, son—for you to understand what being happy is like.”

The conversation is getting oddly sentimental, taking a turn that makes his chest feel strange, and his heart feel far too fragile. He hasn’t felt like this since after the war, and he doesn’t intend to sit with it any longer. So he mutters, “I still think Mom’s annoying. She yelled at me last week, so she never fuckin’ changes.”

Masaru laughs again. “No, she doesn’t.” Then, after a moment, “So, how does Saturday sound for some ramen?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Will my son be paying?”

Katsuki regrets this call more than anything when he says, “Yes. I’m fuckin’ paying.”

“You know, son,” Masaru murmurs, making Katsuki pause, “I’m glad you get it now. You’ve grown into a fine man.”

Katsuki swallows hard. He turns, eyeing you as you sleep soundly in your shared bed, hugging his pillow to make up for his absence. He can only hope that his father’s words are true—that he is a fine man to you, the way his father always has been to his mother. His eyes never leave your figure as he mutters, “Yeah, well…s’not like I had a bad example or somethin’.”

“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.

You have no reason to serve him—Natsuo is a person, a grown one at that, just the same as you. You have no reason to put yourself beneath him, no reason to treat him like there is some invisible line between the two of you that puts him above. You’re his partner—his equal. 

Just let me do it, Natsu, you’ve always argued back, smiling like it’s the simplest thing in the world. There’s nothing wrong with taking care of each other.

It takes time, but Natsuo reluctantly lets you take care of him the way you want to. Lets himself learn that it’s okay if you love him and put him above yourself as long as he does it, too. That as long as he doesn’t demand it from you, doesn’t mistake your kind-hearted doting for weakness, then he’s not becoming the kind of man he spent his whole life despising.)

There is a bag by your seat—he’s been eyeing it since he sat down for dinner. You serve yourself your own bowl slowly, like you’re working yourself up to be brave about something he can’t quite decipher yet. One small inhale, and the bowl is set down. One shaky exhale, and then it happens. It happens with a quick, shuddered breath before you give him a wobbly smile and pull something out of that bag.

A bib, he realizes—you pull it out and set down a small, tiny bib on the chair beside you and murmur, “Next year, we’ll probably need a bigger table. We barely make do with just the two of us on this tiny one, don’t you think?”

He blinks. Once, then twice, and then one more time. He eyes the bib, then your trembling fingers as they fiddle with each other while you stare at him, and he blinks. He blinks, and he blinks again and again, and there’s a small, familiar stinging in the back of his eyes as he just keeps blinking.

He’s blinking back tears—he doesn’t even realize it at first. And then, you’re wiping tears from his cheeks before he can even realize that, too.

“We…?” he asks, voice thin, words suddenly impossible to form. “We…?”

“Yeah,” you nod, laughing a watery laugh as he stares at you dumbly. “I found out this week.”

He looks back at the bib. His mouth opens, then it closes. His hand comes up to cover it, like he’s trying to physically hold in whatever is rising in his chest.

“We’re gonna need a bigger table?” he asks quietly when he finally finds the willpower to form words. (We’re having a baby? is what he means.)

You laugh through your tears, nodding again. “Yeah, we are.” (We’re having a baby, you confirm.)

You’re pregnant. You’re having a baby. And it’s his baby. It’s unexpected, and he’s never planned for this, and…and he’s scared—he’s not sure if he’s old enough, or mature enough, or experienced enough to raise a child. He’s not sure if his schedule can make more time with the limited hours in a day he already has, and all the other things he needs to do, and heaven forbid he ever give his child an ounce less of the attention they deserve, and…and he’s having a baby.

With you.

You’ll be a mother of a child that has parts of you and parts of him, and they’ll be precious and small, and they’ll be his. He’s happy. He can’t imagine not being happy, and yet, somewhere beneath the joy, there’s a quiet and ugly fear that curls in his chest. A fear so instinctive he hates himself for thinking it now, of all times. A fear so instinctive, he thinks he may have been born with it—may have been doomed with it the second he was born into the household that he was.

What if he turns into his father?

Now is not the time to be afraid. Not when you’re looking at him so overflowing with joy, so delighted and hopeful and…and yet, it’s there. Fear has always been there. Fear has always made him wonder if he’s tugged you into his world of pain and misery and some inescapable cycle of doom. But then he looks at you—he looks at the tiny bib sitting beside your plate, and all he can think is that he wants this. He wants this with you, and he wants to do it right. 

He stands so suddenly it should give him whiplash, and you jump a little when he materializes at your side before you can blink. He pulls you into a long, wet kiss—it’s the only thing he can do. He doesn’t have the right words to say, so he settles for skipping them altogether. He kisses you hard and deep, and it’s nothing but sheer adrenaline and willpower that keeps him from collapsing as he continues to kiss you. You kiss him back, of course, giggling as he chokes on a small sob.

His hand lands on your waist and stays there for a second before he hesitates, looking at you like he needs permission. When you take his wrist and guide his hand to your stomach, his face crumples.

“You’re serious?” he asks, and it comes out almost like a breathless laugh.

You nod, smiling widely despite the way your lips shake. “I’m serious.”

He laughs for real this time, pressing his forehead to yours. He keeps his hand there, over your stomach, like he already has something to protect, even if he can’t see it. Even if there’s not really anything there just yet. Because Natsuo is going to be a father—a father to a child who is yours and his. And he is going to be a father who does it right. 

“You crybaby,” you sniffle.

“Yeah,” he snorts, pinching your nose lightly, “I’m the crybaby, huh?”

Natsuo is twenty-three, and he is going to be a father.

————— TWO MONTHS.

You want to have a baby shower.

It’ll be small, you promise him—just some friends, your parents, and…and Natsuo’s family too, you add hopefully.

Natsuo knows Fuyumi would be hurt if he didn’t invite her. He knows Shoto would make time for something like this, too, even as number two on the hero charts. He can’t imagine leaving his mother out, either, but that almost certainly means his old man will hear the news.

He hasn’t spoken to Enji in years. Hasn’t seen him, either. He doesn’t intend to change that any time soon—or ever, for that matter. His father won’t be invited, and he knows no one will give him a hard time over that, but he still can’t help the bitterness that rises at the thought of it all. The way, even now—even after years of cutting him off—Enji still finds ways to exist in every important moment of Natsuo’s life simply by being impossible to erase.

But Natsuo intends to give you your baby shower. It’s the least you deserve, after all.

He gave you no wedding ceremony. Just a day in court where the two of you signed papers and made everything legal, and then a dinner at a restaurant he had to save up for weeks to afford. And you were happy, of course. So happy just to be his officially on the documents, so excited to share a meal with him for the first time as husband and wife. So content with everything he could give you, as long as he was okay.

You shouldn’t have been content with just that, he thinks sometimes.

You should have wanted a wedding. A guest list. A beautiful dress and flowers and a cake. A day where everything was about you, where your family cried happy tears, took too many photos, and told you how beautiful you looked.

But Natsuo couldn’t afford that then. And he’s not sure that even if he could now, he would ever want one. Because by the time he can afford a wedding, it would only make him miserable to have one. To stand there and watch your side of the room be filled with normalcy—with parents who love each other, and relatives who laugh too loudly, and old family friends with fond stories of little you. And then, when he looks at his side, he’ll watch it carry all the ruin he has spent the last few years trying to outrun.

No matter how much you love him, how much you accept him, there is nothing normal about Natsuo’s family. Your parents would see it. Your friends would too. They would see the man you married as the son of a hero who was a fraud. As the brother of a man who killed thousands and nearly tore a nation apart. It wouldn’t matter that Natsuo wants nothing to do with any of it. It wouldn’t matter that he spent his whole life trying to separate himself from it all. The name Todoroki would still follow him. His blood would still tie him to everything he hates.

A wedding ceremony would only force him to stand in front of everyone and confront everything he is not and everything he can never be for you. So he chose not to have one at all, and you accepted that without hesitation because it was what he wanted.

You’ve always accepted his petty, ridiculous needs. You settled for a single day in court and a meal he barely afforded as your wedding, and somehow you smiled through all of it like you had been given something precious. You’ve always done what he’s wanted, and if you want a baby shower, then he is going to give you a good one.

Fuck Enji if he hears about it and knows he’s having a baby. Enji will have nothing to do with this baby if Natsuo has a say in it, and he does, so—

“Natsuo,” you huff, poking his bicep.

He startles out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

“You need to wash your hair,” you frown, eyeing the bleach that’s been sitting on his scalp. “You’re going to fry your hair off. The alarm went off.”

“Oh, right,” he shakes his head and turns off the phone blaring in the distance, walking to the bathroom sink and turning the faucet on.

Natsuo remembers the first time he dyed his hair—he must have been twelve. Big brother Touya’s birthday had just passed, and he missed his older brother more than ever. The red streaks in his hair were getting harder and harder to look at—they reminded him of his father, who may as well have killed his brother. Who let Touya die, and just continued as if nothing had changed. Who just kept training and training his golden child until the boy would fall over in tears and throw up. His father, whose red hair and flames haunted him, whose face, out of all of his siblings, Natsuo resembled the most.

He realized for the first time, then, that he hated him. Hated his father’s red hair and his long nose and his wide frame. Hated how everyone told Natsuo that he was taking after his father more and more as the days passed—how he was big for his age just like Enji was, and he might have his mother’s eye color, but those eyes were undeniably Enji’s.

He hated every second of being Enji’s son, and he hated everything that reminded him of that sickening fact. So he bought the hair dye—Enji never cared to look at what his money was spent on, anyway. He dyed his hair—Enji never paid attention to what Natsuo did, and if he had, he clearly never cared to say anything. He made sure another red strand was never seen again—Enji never existed on his scalp if he believed it hard enough. 

And if he believed even harder, maybe Enji never existed at all.

“You ever think about whose hair our baby will get?” you ask, setting yourself to sit on the bathroom counter beside him as he rinses the bleach out of his hair. Your legs swing, and he eyes the mismatched socks on your feet for a moment and smiles.

“Yours, I hope,” he mumbles, grabbing a towel to dry off the dripping wet strands before inspecting the mirror. White, silvery locks, just like his mother. Enji never existed. At least, not in this way.

“Yeah, but I like yours,” you murmur. “You’ll never have to worry about looking too old—your hair won’t ever change.”

He snorts, giving you an amused look. “You want our baby to have my hair so it never grays?”

“I want our baby to have the best of our combined features,” you beam. “This would be a fabulous feature to have.”

He thinks about the possibility of a child with his hair. Maybe your eyes. And then it hits him—those stupid red strands might sit on his precious baby’s head, proof that Enji existed after all. He feels bile rise at the thought. Could he hate his baby’s hair? The same hair he’s hated on himself? He doesn’t think so; he doesn’t think he could hate anything about his child.

And that makes him more nauseous. Would he learn to love something that proves of his father’s existence? Proof of his father tainting his baby and their innocence and—

“Natsu,” you hum, pulling him out of his thoughts again. You tug him to stand between your legs, still seated on the bathroom counter. He complies, hands resting on your thighs as he gives them a little squeeze. “It doesn’t matter what the baby has—but I hope they have some of you.”

He smiles. He forgets Enji ever existed. You are all that exists to him now.

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, leaning down and kissing your jaw. “You’re a big old sap.”

“That’s so not true—”

“And it’s cute.”

“You think so?” You wriggle your brows. “Am I the cutest in the world?”

“In the universe,” he laughs, nodding in confirmation. “Our baby is gonna be one hell of a looker if they take after you.”

“Oh, stop,” you swat his chest playfully.

He laughs again—and all that exists is you.

————— FIVE MONTHS.

Your little apartment is quiet for the most part when it’s night—of course, the heater knocks every so often through the walls, and there’s the distant hum of traffic below, but it’s peaceful white noise, and it has all but lulled you to sleep as your breathing slows beside him.

Natsuo is not going to fall asleep anytime soon tonight.

He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, one hand tucked beneath his head while the other rests over you, palm spread atop your stomach. It’s become a habit lately. He doesn’t even think about it anymore, just reaches for you in the dark until his hand finds the once-smaller curve that has begun to show more and more.

His son is there. His son. He’s found out you’re having a boy—his first child is going to be a boy, just like his father’s was.

The thought of having a child still scares him enough that it constricts his chest so tightly, he thinks there’s no more room left for his lungs. It’s not because he doesn’t want this child. God, he already loves that baby more than anything he’s ever known. But wanting a child and being responsible for one are two very different things, and Natsuo has spent months realizing how little he knows about what fathers are supposed to be like. The cruelty of bringing a life into this world and not being what it needs from him is a cruelty he has always promised he’d be above.

He turns his head and looks at you. Your face is half-buried in the pillow, just barely awake as sleep starts to pull you under. You’re warm against his side, one leg thrown over his, one arm sprawled across his chest. You trust him so completely that it hurts. It hurts to think that who he is might one day be the very thing that betrays that trust. That sooner or later, he’ll find out he cannot outrun the kinds of curses that cling to people like his family.

He brings his hand to hold yours, thumb brushing back and forth over your knuckles. You hum at the gesture, eyes still shut. Before he can overthink things, or before the shame can rise and talk him out of saying anything, he hears himself speak to you in the dark.

“I don’t want him to have my last name.”

You stir immediately, rousing from your half-sleep state. “Hm?” You lift your head a little, blinking at him blearily.

Natsuo swallows. It suddenly feels stupid. You’re tired—pregnant, and exhausted, and it’s probably too late at night for a conversation like this. Too vulnerable a discussion to have at this hour. But he’s already said it, and you love him too much to let him sit with it for a whole night and leave him to wallow in his thoughts.

“The baby,” he says quietly. “I don’t want him to have my name.”

You’re silent for a moment, trying to understand where this is coming from. Then, softly:

“You’re saying…you want him to have my last name?”

He nods, swallowing thickly.

“Are you sure?” you press.

That question nearly makes him laugh—of course, that’s what you’d ask. Not why? Not what brought this on? Not what will people think? He smiles, ever so slightly, at how easily you deal with him and his nonsense, and he looks back at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he breathes as his throat tightens. “I think I want that.”

“He’s your son, Natsu,” you murmur. It’s your name, too, is what you mean. As if he could ever be anything more than that disgusting name. 

“I keep thinking about school,” he says quietly. “People heard that name and had this idea of who I was before they knew me. And my teachers acted weird, and the parents of other kids stared too long when they picked them up. It just sucked—and then they’d ask about him. What it’s like to be Endeavor’s kid. How cool it must be. Fucking pissed me off.”

You stay quiet. He grits his jaw.

“I hated it. It’s like no matter where I went, he was there first. Even when he wasn’t around. And then, even when I stopped talking to him, everyone still knew who the hell I was because of that name, and now it’s not even always a good thing to people. Not with everything that’s happened. I can’t let our kid deal with that same thing.”

Natsuo has always hated being Endeavor’s son—he doesn’t quite remember when it started. Maybe when he was a kid, maybe when he realized his father was only a father by title and nothing more.

Natsuo is five. He’s at his friend Haruto’s birthday party, and it’s the first birthday party he’s ever been invited to. His mother kneels by the front door before she leaves, straightening the little collar of his shirt, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Be on your best behavior, Natsu.

He grins so wide his face hurts. I’m always good, Mommy.

Her face softens. Of course you are. You’re my good boy, Natsu.

Then she’s gone, and Haruto grabs his wrist and drags him inside before he can even wave goodbye.

The house is much smaller than his, but…it’s somehow nicer. He likes it better here already. Of course, there’s no big brother Touya or Mommy or Fuyumi here, but still, he likes this house better. There’s laughter everywhere. The walls are filled with pictures of Haruto and his little sister. There are drawings hung on the fridge, and this house is nice and happy, and he quickly knows that he likes it better than his own house.

Natsuo doesn’t know what to do with that.

He stands in the doorway of the living room, clutching the gift his mother picked out, when Haruto’s father appears. Haruto’s father is tall. Not as tall as Natsuo’s father, but tall enough that Natsuo has to tilt his head back to look at him.

The man smiles at Natsuo, and then it grows even wider as his eyes land on Haruto.

“There you are!” he laughs, scooping Haruto up under the arms when the boy runs at him. “Birthday boys are supposed to help me carry the drinks, remember?”

Haruto squeals when he’s lifted. Kicks his legs. Laughs louder when his father blows a raspberry into his cheek. And something in Natsuo stills—he stares, good and hard and long. He tries to remember the last time his father kissed his cheek or lifted him like that. Isn’t that mommy’s job? Isn’t that what Haruto’s mother is supposed to do? Aren’t mothers supposed to be the ones who offer things like this? That’s what Natsuo has always believed for his five years of life.

Natsuo is five, and his father has never picked him up just because he wanted to. His father has never smiled like that just by seeing him. His father has never looked at him as if seeing him walk through the door made the whole room brighter.

Is there something wrong with his father? Is Haruto an extra good boy in a way that Natsuo isn’t? Is—

“Natsu?” Your hand cups his cheek, and the bedroom you both share materializes back all at once. The dark. The soft hum of the heater. The blanket tangled around his legs. Your face inches from his, brows drawn with concern. His breathing is shallow. He didn’t even notice it changing. Your thumb strokes over the tense line of his jaw. “You blanked out on me.”

—and Natsuo blinks hard before he realizes.

Natsuo is twenty-three, not five.

His father has not been in his life for four years. He has a wife now. A baby on the way. A home of his own that, despite being small, is warm and cozy and nice. And still, all it takes is one thought, and he is five years old all over again, standing in Haruto’s living room that is somehow nicer than his, and realizing that other boys his age are loved differently by their fathers than he is.

He swallows, throat painfully dry. And because the memory has left him feeling more restless than he wants to admit, he turns his face into your palm and closes his eyes. You shift closer, your hand moving to his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone delicately.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “What were we saying?”

“You want our baby to have my name,” you say carefully.

“Well,” his voice comes out rough, “the name could be ours. You know?”

Your brow furrows. He turns to look at you again, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression that he knows makes your chest ache. Natsuo is always causing so much trouble for you. So much burden to carry and deal with, even though he’s tried cutting it all off. He doesn’t know why he can’t just carry the weight by himself and stop crushing you under it.

“Our name?” you ask, confused.

“I want to take your name too.”

He’s been thinking about it for a long time now. He never let you take on his last name and marry into the Todoroki family. He would never insult you like that. Never force the curse that seems to cling to that name onto your shoulders when you lived such a harmless, peaceful existence before he came along and selfishly took that all away. He couldn’t add more hardship to the peace he has already destroyed.

You’re so very quiet for a moment, he thinks you might have just finally hit your limit. Might have just finally decided that you are over this bullshit that he keeps bringing onto you and all the ridiculous heaviness he seems to always drag along into everything. For a second, he looks ashamed of having said it—he almost expects you to laugh or tell him he’s being dramatic. That of all his unreasonable, broken little requests that you quietly agree to because you love him too much to say no, this one is just too absurd to entertain.

Instead, you just smile.

“If you want, yeah,” you hum. “I’ve always wanted us to have the same last name. If this is what you want to do, I’m happy.”

“I know it’s stupid,” he says quickly, but you cut him off.

“It’s not stupid,” you frown. “I think you should do what you want, Natsu. If it makes you feel good, then it’s not stupid.”

He exhales shakily. “You think so?”

You smile at him, sleepy and warm and impossibly kind. So patient and adoring, he wonders how love like this could exist for someone who came from no love at all.

“Yeah,” you yawn, curling into his chest. He wraps his arms around you instinctively, the weight of you against him familiar and safe. You’re safe, and it’s because of him. That’s good. “Plus, if you have my name, I can say I’m like the man of the house, or something, huh?”

He laughs, chest lighter than air. “Yeah,” he chuckles, kissing your head. “I suppose you could.”

————— EIGHT MONTHS.

You and Natsuo argue tonight. It’s his fault, of course—and now he’s faced with the reality that he cannot even be a husband to a pregnant woman, and yet, he dares to imagine himself as a father to a child. Dares to imagine himself guiding a little human and instilling lessons, and principles, and discipline to raise a functioning member of society.

How ridiculous of him to believe he could do something like that. How ridiculous when he snapped at you over something so stupid. You’re pregnant—pregnant with his child, carrying his baby, suffering all of the things you endure just to bring his son into this world, and you ask for cake from the convenience store a few blocks away. Sure, it’s almost midnight, and it’s raining a little, but you deserve your fucking cake.

But Natsuo can hardly be a husband, let alone a soon-to-be father, so he snaps at your request.

He’s tired from a long day at work, and he’s stressed from trying to apply to a position with a higher salary now that he’s a bit more experienced, and it’s raining and cold, and it’s winter—despite having a quirk of literal ice, Natsuo’s body feels more like it’s suited for heat. Imagine that. Yet another curse he’s been inflicted by his bastard of a father.

So he snaps.

It’s almost midnight. Can it not wait until tomorrow?

It comes out louder than he intended, sharper, and the second the words leave his mouth, his stomach twists. Because Natsuo is not kind. Not like Fuyumi or Shoto or his mother, who endure and endure and endure despite being thrown to the ground and then some. He is not kind, nor is he patient, and he has the temper of his father. So he says words with the same cadence as the man who raised him on harsh yells and snarled words that he’d cower behind his sister and listen to. He yells because it is only inevitable that Natsuo cannot be a husband, let alone a father.

He can’t believe he spoke to you that way. He knows it was only a matter of time. He would never speak to you that way. It’s only in his nature to do so. He can’t fathom hurting you like this. He is only the byproduct of his upbringing, and the truth is that he is the son of a violent, abrasive man.

Natsuo remembers being little and understanding, before he could barely even form words, that the whole house bent around his father’s mood. If Enji was angry, everyone knew. His poor mother and the way she couldn’t decide whether to sit quietly and take it, if only to avoid the repercussions, or to say something for once and end his father’s boiling hatred and rage. He remembers his father’s towering figure and that terrible, booming vibration of his voice on the walls. Not even Fuyumi’s hands over his ears were enough to keep the sound from invading his eardrums.

He wonders if you felt that same vibration through your body today, when his voice bounced off the walls and came straight at you. He wonders if you saw that same hatred that exists within him, as if it were just another limb. He wonders if you see him for all he truly is—all he was ever raised on, and eventually, inevitably, undeniably meant to be.

Natsuo stands abruptly, too hot in his own skin, and storms off before you can say anything. Before the man he is doomed to be takes surface, and he hurts you the way he is cursed to hurt the people around him.

The bathroom feels small. It’s suffocating. It’s what he deserves.

He grips the sink and stares at himself in the mirror, breathing hard. He hates that he can see it—the way he has his father’s blood pumping through his veins and the way his father is half of who he is. Hates that no matter how old he gets, his face still betrays him in the worst moments and reminds him where he comes from. No matter what, his father is still there, waiting beneath his skin, so cruelly and sinisterly patient enough to come out just when Natsuo is weak and on his knees and ready to crumble.

His hands shake against the sink.

You’re pregnant. Pregnant with his baby, and he got angry over some fucking cake. Some cake that would take him all of twenty minutes to drive down and get. He could have thrown a hoodie over his head, could have endured that fractional moment of walking in the rain from his car to the store’s entrance. He could have gotten you your cake and taken care of you because you are carrying his child, and because he loves you for it. Not because he expects you to just silently do it as if it were your duty.

But Enji is his father, and Natsuo is Enji’s son. They are angry, livid men—they hold onto their grudges and stubbornly keep them in their pockets, clutching them in their fists wherever they go. Their hatred never goes away.

The door opens with a low creak. Natsuo stiffens as soon as it does, and when he turns, you’re already standing there in the doorway, dressed in one of his old shirts for bed. Your face is softer now. The hurt has faded into concern.

You are always so concerned for him—always shoving down your needs to do what he needs instead. You are so much like his mother, it makes him nauseous. Makes him taste the acrid burn of bile on his tongue. You are so much like his mother, and he is so much like his father, and this is who he was always inevitably meant to be—his father’s son, who will hurt another man’s precious daughter like it is nothing. Like she is nothing.

You frown as you look at him. “Natsu, baby,” you say quietly, reaching to touch him.

He flinches, and your hand pauses in the air. He looks away immediately, ashamed. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“I know, I know you are, so please—”

“I…I don’t know why I got so…” His voice catches. “Why was I so angry?”

You step inside, gently draping yourself against his back, cheek resting on his shoulder. “You had a long day, okay? It happens—all couples have their moments.”

“But no one gets that mad over cake, do they? You can’t sit there and tell me there’s not something seriously wrong for me to get all—”

“Natsu, come on—you’re being hard on yourself. I’m sorry too. It’s the middle of winter, and it’s cold and rainy outside. I shouldn’t have brought it up that late—”

His head snaps up. “Don’t apologize. Don’t do that. Don’t ever say sorry to me, ever.”

“Hey,” you smile gently, poking his cheek. “I know you think I’m perfect—and you should, of course. But even I make mistakes. Just the kind of mistakes that perfect people like me make.”

He loves you so much. Only you could cheer him up so easily, and he fucking loves you. So painfully bad. He loves you and loves you and loves you, and he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, but he’ll figure it out because he wants to love you. Wants to be capable of love. Wants to have a household where laughter bounces off the walls and not cold, harsh yelling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’ll go get you your cake right now—”

“I would really like it if we went to bed,” you kiss his cheek. “Will you come to bed with me?”

His eyes are wet now, tears gathering despite how hard he’s trying to hold them back. “We should talk about this.”

“We just did,” you point out gently. “But if you have more to say, then I’ll listen, baby. So—”

“I’m just like him,” he blurts abruptly.

You look at him with disbelief instantly. Before he can even comprehend it, you put both hands on his face and pull him toward you.

“Natsu,” you say, firm and strict. “You were grumpy, and you snapped at me over some cake. That hurt my feelings, yeah—that was mean of you, and I’m just a girl. Don’t do that again. But I’ve snapped at you way worse for far less, okay? Mistakes happen, baby, so don’t do this to yourself.”

He tries not to do this. But he does. Every time, he does this again and again and again. And you deal with him. Deal with his baggage and his odd requests and his emotional breakdowns and the ridiculous little ways his mind spirals over nothing. It’s nothing—he should have apologized and bought you your cake. He should have fixed it and promised to be better. He should have been a good husband and not left it all up to you to come and mend and piece together.

Because it never really changes, does it? It never goes away.

Natsuo has tried—he’s tried to make it all go away. For his mother, his older sister, and his little brother. For you. For himself, even. For the sake of being happy, so he can enjoy his life, and maybe, if he does, it’ll make things easier for the people around him that he loves. He’s tried to make it go away despite all the fucked up shit he carries around with him—or maybe drags along, if anything, since it clings to him no matter how hard he works to rip it off. He’s tried to make it go away for so long, so many days and weeks and years, and it never fucking leaves him. Not really. It clings to him like a second skin, a skin that resembles his father far too closely.

He sees his old bastard of a father everywhere he sees himself. Hates his own reflection for it. Hates looking into mirrors, and back at pictures, and realizing he has the same jaw, the same nose, and that same look in Enji’s eyes when he’s deep in thought. That same awful, curled snarl they both wear when they’re angry.

Natsuo hates being angry.

He hates how easy it is for him to be angered, and how long he can hold onto it once it’s there. He hates that out of all his siblings, he is the only one who has his father’s rage. He is nothing like his loving, beautiful older sister, who gives and gives and hopes it will somehow undo the damage. He is nothing like his kind, growing little brother, who chooses every day to be better than the cards they have been dealt. They are both so much like his mother—so clearly her children in the way they share her resilience, in that quiet willingness to forgive no matter what they endure that Natsuo has never understood.

Because he is his father’s son. He always has been, no matter what he does to change it or tear it away from himself. He’s five, he’s twelve, he’s twenty-three. And Natsuo is his father’s son. He’ll die as his father’s son the same way he was born.

It never really changes. It never goes away.

But you are there—you are always there. You are the one thing that he has that hasn’t been tainted by his father or the shame that clings to his family. You are the one thing that he has that his father has not yet taken from him. That he has not fucked up by being his father’s son.

And you are wiping his tears as you cradle his face, as you kiss his forehead and his nose and his wobbly lips, as you whisper, it’s okay, Natsu. It’s okay—you aren’t like him at all.

“M’sorry,” he croaks. “I…I’m sorry I ruin everything and c-can’t be what you need a-and—”

“You’re exactly what I need,” you tell him as you shake your head, smiling and grabbing his hand.

It’s so much like his father’s. They have the same wide hands with the same long, bony fingers and the same square nail beds. It scares him so much. Scares him that his hands are capable of doing the same things as his father’s, and that your face is capable of looking as broken as his mother’s.

“I’m not,” he shakes his head. “I’m…I can’t do this. I’ll fuck it up—”

“You won’t, Natsu,” you say, still smiling. Like he is worth smiling for. “You’re good. Okay? You’re gentle and sweet, and you make sacrifices. You pay attention, and you do things without asking, and you listen. You give, and you hardly know how to take. You’re everything I’ve always wanted, and you’ve always been what I’ve needed. You’re the best thing I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t do this with anyone else.”

He’s crying.

He cries for himself and for who he always has to be for the rest of his life. He cries for who he could have been if it weren’t for the unfair cards life dealt him.

He should be calling his father. He should be asking him what it takes to be a man for his family. How to care for his pregnant wife and their growing baby. How to be a doting father to an infant, and what to do if they won’t stop crying. How to be patient with a toddler and survive the bratty, terrible twos. How to be kind to a young child and teach them right from wrong with compassion. How to be fair with a teenager and how to weather their rebellious, stubborn years. How to watch them become an adult and learn how to let go when they don’t need him anymore. How to do it all right, so his child—his baby—grows up to be his pride and joy.

But he can’t.

He’s never had those things, and he doesn’t know how to do them either. And he can’t call and ask because the person who was supposed to teach him chose instead to beat his mother, may as well have killed his brother, tore away his sister’s joy, and ingrained nothing but isolation into the only brother he has left.

So he cries. And you wipe his tears, because you are the one good thing he has, and the only thing in his life that hasn’t been touched by Enji and burned bitter.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, sniffling as he buries his head into your neck. “I’m barely figuring out how to do things with you.”

“You’re doing things perfectly with me,” you rub his back slowly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he sniffles. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“I don’t want to hurt you and ruin our family.”

“You’d never.”

“I don’t want to make our son scared.”

“I think he’ll feel quite safe around you.”

“I don’t want to be bad,” he finally admits, voice cracking.

And you are the one good thing he’s ever had. The one good thing that keeps him together and quells his anger and teaches him to be something else outside of being his father’s son. You are the one thing that makes him good at being something else, and he is reminded when you whisper, “You’re never bad, Natsu. You’re only ever good to me.”

“I’m scared,” he says, looking at you desperately. “I don’t know how to be a father, and I’m scared. I don’t want to be selfish and…and not even realize it, or be an asshole and get angry all the time and ruin everything, and—”

“It’s okay,” you cut in gently, cradling his face before he can spiral any further. “I’m scared too.” Natsuo’s breath catches. You brush your thumb beneath his eye, wiping away the wetness there before it can fall. “I don’t know how to be a mother either. I’ve never done this before. But I didn’t know how to be a girlfriend either, remember? Or a wife. I figured those out.”

A small, shaky laugh escapes him. “You were always a good girlfriend. Maybe too good—you shouldn’t have dealt with all the things you did.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “I was young and immature sometimes—you just love me too much to say it out loud. Good thing, too. I’d send you to the couch.”

“I have no doubts,” he laughs, wet and soft.

“But I’m here because I had you, and I’ll be okay when the baby is here because I’ll still have you. And you’ll be okay because you’ll have me. We’ll have each other, and then we’ll have our son too. We’ll figure it out as we go.”

He stares at you, eyes red, breathing uneven. He can’t say anything—can’t bring himself to admit that he’s afraid he’ll never figure it out. But you’re confident in him—so scared, yet so confident, he wonders if he’d be doubting you if he doubted your conviction.

“We’ll be good parents,” you say, so easily, like it’s a fact and not a hope. “Probably embarrassing ones. I think I’ll be a little more strict than you.” 

That earns the tiniest huff of air from him, a ghost of a smile. You smile at that. 

“And you’ll be the one sneaking him snacks when I say no. You’ll pretend you’re not, but you’re terrible at lying, so he’ll absolutely know which parent to ask when he wants something.”

His mouth twitches wider despite himself. You lean your forehead against his, returning his smile. And he loves you so much, so, so much, he can hardly believe love like this could exist for someone who came from no love at all.

“You’ll probably let him stay up too late if he says he’s not tired. You’ll teach him how to break my rules without me noticing, and then I’ll catch you both in the act. And you’ll be the one in more trouble because you’re the adult, and you should know better than to break my rules.”

It’s so easy to envision it when you put it like that. So simple to picture this future of yours that you believe is possible with him. So painfully ordinary. So mundane. So normal and like everyone else. It’s everything he’s always wanted—a normal fucking family. Just a life. A small, regular one that he shares with the people in his house. A house that they make into a home. A home that he has always wanted and never believed he’d get to have.

His hand slides down protectively over your stomach. “Yeah, but I’m gonna mess up.”

“Of course you will, silly,” you whisper. “I will too. But we’re the adults, so we’ll apologize to set a good example, and stuff. Nothing worse than someone who never apologizes—we can’t let our son grow up to be one of those men.”

He laughs, tears spilling over before he can stop them. “Yeah, I guess we can’t,” he mumbles.

“I don’t let my husband be one of those men,” you hum, kissing his nose, “so no way I’d let my son be, either.”

He presses his forehead to yours as he closes his eyes. “Yeah, you do keep your husband on a tight leash, don’t you?” he murmurs.

Natsuo is twenty-three. He’s a husband—in fact, he’s your husband, and he’s done it right so far. You have loved him for years and years, and you’ve stayed happy all this time. It’s been because of him. He has kept you happy as his wife.

“What can I say?” you grin. “I’m the man of the house.”

His chest feels lighter as he pulls you into the deepest kiss he might have ever pulled you into.

Natsuo is twenty-three. He is his father’s son, but he is also his son’s father. He’s going to do it right, and you’re going to watch him be all the things he’s promised you he’ll be.

“You know,” you hum, your shoulder bumping lightly against his as the waves roll in and out beside you, “I didn’t think you were into sappy things like beach walks by the shore and stuff.”

He gives you a flat look. “This is the sorta shit you want. I’m just makin’ that cliché stuff you fantasize about happen, idiot.”

“You don’t like holding my hand while the sun sets, Katsuki?” you gasp, offended, tugging like you’re trying to pull your hand free.

He tightens his grip immediately, ears flushing pink. “Just keep walking, woman.”

You laugh softly, letting him keep you right where you are.

The sun dips lower, gold and orange bleeding onto your skin as the ebb and flow of the water washes over your toes every now and then. Your fingers stay laced with his, thumb brushing absently over his knuckles like you always do—and he thinks it’s now or never.

His chest tightens.

“Listen.”

You look over, eyes brightening. “Yeah?”

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t,” you say, smiling just a little.

He exhales hard through his nose. “You’re kinda making this shit hard for me.”

“No. I think you’re just stalling.”

“I’m not stalling.”

“You are.”

“I said I’m not.”

“Oh yeah? Then why’d we stop walking?”

You laugh as you ask, giving him that fond, endeared look that makes his chest hurt. (He loves you so much it hurts. Feels like his chest keeps expanding to make room for every reason why and you keep giving him more and more that he can’t fit. It makes it burst painfully every time.)

“…Just shut up and listen,” he clicks his tongue, then lets go of your hand. He takes a step back, reaching into his pocket. And it’s now or never, he tells himself.

It’s now. And it’s not going to be never if he has something to say about it. (He does.)

Your breath hitches as he pulls away, and now his heart is beating so loud he wonders if you can hear it over the ocean. God. You make him think he’s about to lose his mind.

His fingers are reaching into his pocket. The box, to his relief, is still there. He’s still a bit traumatized by the thought of it being gone—that much is clearly possible considering this morning. He grips it hard, takes a deep breath, and pulls it out. And before he can overthink it, before he can second guess a damn thing, he drops down onto one knee.

“Katsuki,” you breathe, tears already gathering in your eyes.

“Don’t start crying,” he mutters, opening the box. “Cry after the pictures. Raccoon eyes will kill me.”

You giggle—and it’s a sweet, watery little thing. Fuck. He loves it so much. He loves you so much. He loves and loves and loves and it’s hard to do anything else when you’re there.

The ring glints in his hands, and he pauses for half a second. Katsuki likes to think he has a good chance of hearing you say yes. He knows you’ll say yes. He’s not stupid. You’ve been waiting all fucking day to be asked and he’s smart enough to see it. But you deserve something good, something that’s the best—and he’s already gone and fucked things over. He can’t help but wonder if he even deserves to hear yes like this, if he deserves you and your love when he’s giving you nothing but a mess and—

—and then he looks up, and your eyes have never been brighter as they’re glassed over like that. It’s now or never, he decides. Mess or not.

“I had a whole plan for this,” he starts, scowling faintly. “It was s’posed to be smoother—I didn’t account for losin’ the damn ring like a moron this morning.”

A soft, small giggle slips out of you. He huffs. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.”

“I would never laugh,” you lie poorly.

He fights back a fond grin of his own. “You already laughin’, liar.”

You giggle again, smiling through tears. It’s so beautiful, your smile—and suddenly, his own eyes almost feel like…like they’re watering too. He fights back that stupid sting in his eyes and exhales, dragging a hand briefly over the back of his neck before steadying himself again.

“I had this plan,” he croaks.

“I know,” you whisper.

“I’m not done talking,” he huffs, pouting slightly. You close your mouth instantly, still smiling. “Jus’ shut up and listen.”

You nod quickly.

“I still have this plan. I’m gonna wake up, and you’re gonna be there. And then we’ll have breakfast, and you’re gonna almost drive me fuckin’ late because you have no sense of time. And then I’m gonna go to work and think about your dumb ass all day. And then I’m gonna come home, and you’re gonna be there.”

Your breath trembles. His stupid eyes blur.

“That’s my plan,” he continues. “I’m gonna wake up every day and love you. You’re gonna be in my space, usin’ my stuff, complaining about everything—”

You let out a shaky laugh, and the tears gathered in your eyes slip down your cheeks. He blinks his own god forsaken eyes and fights back that fucking stinging that’s driving him nuts.

“I’m not messing up this plan. Because you’re it, okay? You’re it for me and I love you. I’m not going to stop—you’re the only person I can stand all the time and you don’t drive me insane…usually. And you’re worth it. I’m gonna take care of you no matter what, and I’ll make sure you got what you need all the time. Because I love you. And I’m not stoppin’—ever—so you get used to it.”

You’re sobbing silently now. His voice is trembling. And now his stupid eyes are being traitorous because there’s a tear that slips down his cheek that he scowls and scrubs away with the back of his hand quickly. You throw your head back and laugh loudly at that, and fuck. Katsuki loves you. He loves and he loves and loves.

“Marry me,” he says softly. It’s the softest he’s ever heard himself. It’s borderline a plea, really—he might as well be begging.

But you beam, so bright and so happy—all because of him. Because of him and this mess that he’s offering you. It’s enough to make you smile like that, and that’s enough for him.

“I will,” you nod, “I’m gonna marry you and ruin your life for good.”

“Can’t wait,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes playfully before letting out a soft snort as he closes his eyes and adds, “for good. Yeah?”

“For good,” you nod.

The ring slides on—safe and secure this time—and Katsuki did not get shot down. You said yes. And he loves you. He loves and loves and loves and you love too.

He stands up, pulling you flush against him, closer than close as he cups your face and cradles it while his mouth presses against yours. That lip gloss he likes on you is smearing onto his lips and he’s pretty sure he just swallowed down your tears (definitely not his own) as he kisses you hard.

“I love you, too, by the way,” you whisper between rushed, desperate kisses. “Love you so much.”

“Good. You better,” he mumbles back.

Katsuki likes to think that his shot at a good future with you is pretty solid. He’s a mess, and you still didn’t say no. Things are looking pretty great for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’ll probably take one later—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lazy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fucking best that he’s got. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Katsuki,” you try to warn. 

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

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

Nothing. Still absolutely fucking nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

“Yup. Nothing to worry about.”

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

“I was stretching.”

“Katsuki.”

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

“Warming up for what, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see right through him. 

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

“Nothing fucking happened. Who said anything happened?”

“Something definitely happened.”

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

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

“I’m not lying—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Katsuki. Baby.”

He slumps back and sighs.“What?”

“You’re scaring me a little.”

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

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

He still says nothing.

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

“S’not the watch,” he mumbles.

“Then what is it? Tell me.”

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

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

—————

Katsuki is lying to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh—it hits you all at once. Oh. 

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

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

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

Katsuki goes completely still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can see that.”

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

“I’m painfully aware.”

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

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

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

“You were planning to propose?”

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

“Katsuki.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck are you saying—”

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

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

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

“What now?” you give him a flat look.

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

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

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

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

“Woman, you can’t be real.”

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

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

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

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

You can hardly wait.

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

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

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

Katsuki: calm down you brat. here Katsuki: and who the hell said i was taking my shirt off for anybody?

He sends the picture—cropped from the neck down, all broad chest, flexed arms, and the hem of his shirt lifted just enough to show a strip of skin where his abs are.

Three dots appear instantly.

You: why did u crop ur face u jerk You: nice abs lemme lick them You: when are u coming home???? You: come home the kids miss you

Katsuki: we don’t have any damn kids

You: we could always change that ;)

He lets out a quiet laugh at that, rolling his eyes fondly as a soft flush of pink paints the tips of his ears. He’s typing his response with a stupid fucking grin on his face, forgetting his surroundings for a moment as he focuses simply on talking to you.

Katsuki: don’t embarrass yourself loser Katsuki: i’ll be home in an hour. love you

You: love you too baby. and ur abs. but mostly you

“Yo, Kacchan,” Denki calls, instantly making that stupid grin on his face drop. “Who are you texting, smiling like that, huh?” he teases, raising a knowing brow.

Katsuki glares daggers at the fucking idiot, scowling as he pockets his phone and gets back to finishing his set.

“No one, you fucking bastard—worry about yourself.”

“Ah, young love,” Hanta chimes in. “Y’know, if your girlfriend has any friends, you should introduce a guy—”

“Would you idiots be quiet?” Katsuki hisses.

His ears are flushed a soft pink again—he can feel the heat creeping up to them, and he focuses on lifting his weights faster just to avoid his friends’ knowing stares. Friends not for much longer, of course, he thinks to himself. They’re lucky he even settled for the word friends at all, and now he’s going to revoke the title altogether.

“Next time, let me be in the picture,” Denki whines. “My abs are just as nice—tell her to set me up with someone who’ll stalk me and ask me for gym pictures.”

“Fuck off you dunce-faced fucking freak—”

“Ask her if anyone she knows is into thighs,” Sero adds, interrupting. “My thighs are my selling point.”

“Shut the hell up before I kill all of you.”

———

“Your freakish stalking is causing me strokes,” Katsuki grumbles as he walks through the front door.

You giggle, immediately wrapping your arms around his neck while his curl around your waist, pulling you flush against his still slightly sweaty body.

“Why?” you ask sweetly. “Get all shy when I ask you for pictures?”

“As if,” he snorts, giving you a sly, arrogant little smirk. “I like seein’ your dumb ass act like a fool. It’s those idiots that give me headaches.”

“Oh?” You drag the word out, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “So you did like me begging for shirtless pics? You like the attention?”

“I liked you humiliating yourself,” he corrects smugly.

“Hm. I don’t know, Kats—I think you cropping your face told me everything I needed to know.”

“And what’s that?” He raises a brow as you grin, poking the tip of his nose.

“That you were blushing.”

“I was not blushing,” he scowls. This of course, is said while he blushes, and you give him an amused little cheeky grin.

“Aw, baby,” you coo, squeezing his cheeks together as he gives you his best glare. (It’s not a very good one, considering the predicament he’s in with his face in your hands, but he’s nothing if not stubborn.) “How cute—you like my attention that much?”

“Keep talking,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. “See what happens, idiot.”

You grin wider. “What, will you stop sharing your location with me? I’ll just stalk you in other ways. I’m creative.”

“I’ll bet,” he snorts, “you fucking freak.”

Before you can get another word in to retort, he dips his head and kisses you hard—warm and familiar and a still little mean in the way only he can manage. He pulls away just when you go to deepen it, making you huff with a pout. You glare at him when he pulls away at first, but your eyes melt into something softer when his thumb brushes along your side.

You’re both a little breathless as he looks at you, admiring your flustered face.

“You’re sweaty,” you mumble, “go take a shower.”

“I got better things to do,” he hums.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Well.” He kisses you again, quicker this time, pulling away so his lips can attach themselves to your neck. “Someone wants to have my babies, so I got my fuckin’ work cut out for me.”

Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.

And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class 1-A routine meet-up.

If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?

That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.

You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.

You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.

“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.

You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.

“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”

“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”

Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else. 

If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”

“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.

“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.

You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.

Huh.

You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.

As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.

First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.

And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”

“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”

He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”

Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.

At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”

You pause.

“What?” you blink.

He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”

You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”

You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.

“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”

“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.

Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”

“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.

You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.

“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.

His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.

The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.

He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.

“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.

”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.

”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.

His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.

”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.

”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”

You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”

You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?

You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”

”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.

”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”

Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.

Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.

The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.

Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.

It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.

The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.

Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.

But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.

That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.

And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.

You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.

The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.

(If anything, you hope it will.)

You clear your throat. “So.”

He doesn’t look at you. “So?”

“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.

He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”

“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”

Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.

Holy fuck.

“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?

“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”

He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”

“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”

“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”

“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”

“He said you don’t take breaks.”

“I don’t need breaks.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”

That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”

You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” he mutters.

Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.

For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.

The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.

He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”

You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”

“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.

“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.

Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”

You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”

“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”

“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”

He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”

You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”

If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.

He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.

So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.

“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”

“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”

You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”

“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”

“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”

“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”

“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”

“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”

“So then what’s the big deal?”

You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”

Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”

“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”

“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.

It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“W-what?” you stutter.

“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”

It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.

Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little. 

But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.

If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares. 

Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you. 

—

When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”

You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally. 

Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember. 

He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is. 

“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”

“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”

“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”

“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”

He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive. 

“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.

He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”

“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly. 

“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”

“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”

He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”

“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”

“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”

“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”

“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”

You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.

“Hah?” he grunts.

It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple. 

“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”

Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”

You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”

“Then what is?” he shoots back.

You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”

Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.

You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.

“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”

“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”

He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”

“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”

Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)

But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”

And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.

But then he takes you by surprise.

“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”

You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”

Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.

“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”

All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.

“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile. 

He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.

“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.

You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.

“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.

“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”

You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.

“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.

He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too. 

You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.

“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.

What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same. 

So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.

“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here. 

“You’re still staring,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.

“Then stop staring.”

“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”

“I think you were staring.”

“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”

“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”

“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”

You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”

“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”

You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”

“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.

You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”

It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded. 

He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was? 

You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.

“Bakugou—”

“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.

You blink. “What?”

“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it. 

And then he leans in.

He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you. 

You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so. 

And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.

Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”

“You just kissed—” 

You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”

You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.  

And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly. 

It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.

It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do. 

“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”

“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.

He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”

He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.

“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.” 

He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance. 

“Hey—”

“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”

Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple. 

“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored. 

Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.

He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts. 

You nod quickly as you breathe heavily. 

He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”

That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles. 

“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”

“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”

He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.

“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—

“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”

“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”

He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.

It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.

Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”

“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”

“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”

“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.

And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.

Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.

Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.

You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.

“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.

You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.

“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.

“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”

“Then do it, baby.”

You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.

You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”

When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.

“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”

He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”

He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”

“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”

“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.

“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.

“Eat you out?”

“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.

He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.

Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”

“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”

“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”

“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff. 

To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”

You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”

In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.

It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely. 

And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him. 

And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”

“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts. 

It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him. 

It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything. 

At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy. 

You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks. 

You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over. 

“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.

“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back. 

Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive. 

You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him. 

“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused. 

“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”

You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit. 

“Be quiet,” you warn.

“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”

“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”

That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”

He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient. 

For him—just for him, you’ll be patient. 

“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”

“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving. 

It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good. 

“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”

“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”

Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips. 

Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily. 

“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”

“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”

“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”

“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”

“Only me, huh?”

“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you. 

Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more. 

Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to. 

You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for. 

“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it. 

“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”

“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”

“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”

He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.

It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.

It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him. 

“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”

“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say. 

“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”

And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it. 

“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”

“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble. 

He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more. 

You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.

—

When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.

Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).

One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”

You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him. 

“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”

“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”

“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.

He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”

“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”

“Nope,” you answer easily. 

You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question. 

“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”

You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you mumble. 

“Great. Go out with me, then.”

You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”

“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”

“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”

“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”

“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”

“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”

Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.” 

“That was a demand, not a question.”

“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”

“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki. 

—

One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡

Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready

Ochaco: absolutely! 

Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap

Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys. You: holy fuck. guys… You: i slept with bakugou last night

Mina: WHAT?

Toru: WHAT?

Tsu: WHAT?

Kyoka: WHAT?

Momo: WHAT?

Ochako: WHAT?

Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW

You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN

Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too

Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P 

You: [ one attachment ]

Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK

Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!

Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO

Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him

Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?

Toru: never lol let’s be real

You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him

Mina: oh god it begins

Toru: she’s already making excuses for him

Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??

Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?