heidi

His mouth twitches into a frown against your neck. “Stop being dramatic.”

“You weigh so much.”

“That’s fuckin’ rude. And I’m not even on you.”

“You are literally on top of half my body!”

He makes a low, irritated sound at your unwillingness to quietly let him have his way. (Heaven forbid, you think, that you choose not to spend your last moments under his crushing weight.) Stubbornly, his leg hooks more firmly over yours when you try to wiggle away, and his arm tightens around your middle.

“Stop moving,” he mutters.

“Move over.”

“No.”

“C’mon,” you whine, huffing tiredly. “Just move over a little.”

“There’s no space.”

You pause at his words in disbelief. Slowly, you lift your head from the pillow, squinting through the dark room. The curtains are cracked just enough to let a thin line of streetlight spill across the bed, pale and silver over the rumpled sheets. The other half of his bed is empty and untouched, just as you suspected.

Of course it is, when he’s abandoned his own side completely and migrated fully into yours. 

You turn your head to glare at him as you hiss, “You liar.”

He doesn’t even have the decency to look at you as you catch him in his lie. His eyes are still closed, his face still buried in your neck, and his breathing slow and warm against your skin. “Fuck off,” he mumbles. “We’re cuddling.”

“I can’t sleep like this! You’re completely on my side of the bed—”

“It’s our bed,” he instantly corrects, giving you a grumpy look as he cracks one eye open.

“It won’t be for long,” you snap. “I’m going to leave.”

He waits thirty seconds before smugly humming, “Still here, huh? Knew it.”

“Where else am I meant to be?” you hiss, trying to pry his arm off again. “I’m being held hostage here literally against my will!”

He snorts. The sound is small and half-muffled, but you feel it against your skin, and that somehow irritates you even more because he’s clearly enjoying himself. Even despite being disturbed as he tries to sleep (doesn’t he have an early patrol in the morning?), even despite sweating through the sheets with you (and just how is he surviving this heat so unbothered?), even despite being shoved at and scolded (when will he grow a sense of shame?), Katsuki is still having a good time simply because he’s annoying you. 

Your vein all but pops at the smug satisfaction he gets from getting under your skin.

“Katsuki,” you groan, going limp in his hold for one exhausted second. “Please. It’s so hot, and your quirk doesn’t help. Just get off—you’re so stubborn.”

His eyes finally crack open, narrowed and gleaming in the dark. For a moment, he just looks at you—hair messy, expression heavy with sleep, mouth pulled into that signature annoyed little line that it’s always tugged into permanently.

Then he clicks his tongue, offended. “Fine.”

The word is sharp and dramatic, and before you can even feel relieved, he releases you all at once and rolls over onto his back with a huff, taking all of his furnace-like body heat with him. The sudden absence should be a blessing. It is a blessing. You are relieved and can breathe again as cool air slides over your damp skin, and you can finally move freely without his arm compressing your ribs.

But Katsuki, of course, is not done being insufferable.

“So fuckin’ unbelievably rude,” he mutters to himself, purposely loud enough for you to hear clearly. “Always clingy during the day, crawlin’ all over me. Sitting in my lap ‘n stealin’ my food. But when it actually fuckin’ makes sense to cuddle, suddenly it’s a problem.”

You narrow your eyes as you pout, “I am not clingy—and you’re the rude one! It doesn’t make sense to cuddle in this crazy hot weather and die—”

“And if I said that cuddling you would kill me, then you’d send my ass to sleep outside. At least try to hide your fuckin’ double standards.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself. “He’s impossible.”

“I’m right here, too,” he grumbles flatly, turning to you, mildly offended.

You roll onto your side to face him, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him better. His arms are crossed over his chest now, biceps flexed, jaw set tight as though you’ve wronged him. (For someone who upholds the justice system of this country, you think it’s ironic of him to act that way—especially when he’s spent the last five minutes trying to suffocate you with his weight and body heat.)

You narrow your eyes. “Fine,” you click your teeth. His gaze cuts to you instantly as you throw the sheet off your legs. “You wanna cuddle?”

His eyes narrow suspiciously. “What’re you doing?”

“Exactly what you want,” you say sweetly, already moving. “You wanted to cuddle. So we’re gonna cuddle.”

“You—”

You roll on top of him before he can finish. All of your weight lands squarely against his chest as you sprawl over him, dramatically making a point to make your limbs seem boneless. One leg hooks over his thigh. One arm flops across his face. Your cheek smushes against his shoulder, and you make sure to go as limp as inconveniently possible.

Katsuki grumbles instantly, “Get off.”

“No,” you mumble into his skin. “We’re cuddling.”

His chest rumbles beneath you. “This shit isn’t how you fuckin’ cuddle, you damn idiot.”

You promptly ignore him, lifting your head just enough to shove your face next to his ear. Then you fake snore loudly. It’s an obnoxiously exaggerated replica of his own snoring.

Katsuki cringes before shoving at you (with little conviction). “Knock it off, moron!”

You snore louder, fighting back a giggle. His hand comes up to shove at your shoulder, but there is no real strength behind it. Not enough to move you, even though he easily could. Not enough to mean it, because he clearly doesn’t. His palm just rests there after a second, warm and broad against you, while he turns his face away like that might hide the way his mouth is starting to twitch.

You see it anyway—the small shake of his chest as the laugh he is trying very, very hard not to give you escapes against his will. You grin at the sight and snore again, right into his ear.

“Brat,” he snaps, but it comes out strained as he fights back a chuckle.

“Shhh,” you mumble, patting his cheek with the hand still flung half over his face. “I’m sleeping. You’re ruining our cuddle.”

“You’re ruining my life.”

“You’re the one who asked me out, so it’s your fault.”

“Well, I guess even I make mistakes.”

“So mean!” You gasp, lifting your head as you demand, “You’re saying I’m a mistake?!”

This time, the laugh actually breaks out of him. It is short and boyish, and it’s not something a lot of people witness. But you do—quite often, in fact, and you can’t help but melt at how sweet the sound is. Finally, you give in and properly curl against his chest, relieving him of the uncomfortable position your body is in over his upper half. Your eyes meet his, and you stare for a moment at each other before he looks away to the side. 

The tips of his ears are just slightly red, you think—but it’s too dark to tell for sure.

“Just go the fuck back to sleep,” he mutters.

“Sure thing,” you beam as you tuck your face into his neck and fake snore one more time.

Katsuki pinches your side. You laugh into his chest, and this time, when he huffs in annoyance, he does not bother hiding the smile.

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 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 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 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 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?

"Wow," you say. "Babs, I... I don't know if I should have this kind of power."

"No, it's cool. I have dirt on everyone in this family, so really, it's my power. You're the only one who gets to see the vault."

You look at her. "You scare me."

She grins. "Thanks! Anyway, you're free to go. They'll be back from the mission soon, so our job is pretty much over."

The computer beeps. She checks the notification and types back. Then she hums.

"Or, you can, y'know, join us for dinner. Alfred keeps wondering when you'll do so."

You press your lips together. "I dunno, Babs... are you sure? I don't want to intrude."

"You're not. Seriously. And you know what I just found out? Jason will be here too."

Well. That does certainly stop your refusal in its tracks. You haven't seen Jason properly since he returned. You feel a pang of guilt at that; true, he's never at the Manor, at least not when you're around. But you could've reached out by now.

Still, being able to see him again properly is a wonderful opportunity. One you can't pass up.

"Okay," you say. "I'll join you all. As long as Alfred's okay with it."

She rolls her eyes, smiles. "Don't be ridiculous. C'mon."

You follow her to the elevator Bruce got installed for her. In the Manor, most of the family are sitting down to dinner. Damian and Cass are on one side of the table. Bruce is at the head. Alfred is still bustling in the kitchen.

You start to pull out the chair next to Cass, but Barbara startles you.

"That's Dick's chair!" She smiles sympathetically. "Sorry. He's particular. Isn't he, guys?"

"Yes," Cass says. "He's comfortable here."

"I've no idea what you're referring to, Gordon," says Damian. He nods at you. "Hello."

You smile. "Hey, Damian. That's fine. I'll sit next to you, Babs." You sit in the middle of three chairs, with Barbara on your right and an empty chair on your left.

"Hi, Cass. Hello, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce," he reminds you. That's not happening. It feels way too weird to call him Bruce, even though you've known him since Jason was Robin. Just, no.

Cass smiles. "Hello. Glad to have you."

"Where's Tim and Duke?" you ask.

"Thomas is at university," Damian says. "Drake is probably with that idiot clone he calls a boyfriend."

Bruce looks up. "Tim and Connor are dating?"

"Good God," Barbara mumbles.

"Well, yes, Father. They've been dating for quite some time, even shared a room together. Last month, Drake went undercover in Atlantic City and the clone—"

"Old man! Where are you?"

"Jason, just—"

"Shut it, Dickhead."

The grandfather clock swings open, revealing the Cave entrance. Up stomps Jason, followed by Dick. Jason has a smear of purple goo on his forehead, but otherwise is clean. His back is to you.

Jason points an accusing gloved finger at Bruce. "You owe me a new bike, new guns, new gear, new phone, new—"

"Jason, slow down. Why exactly do I owe you new things?" Bruce asks.

"Because Tweedle-Dum here didn't scan the fuckin' spaceship that landed in Syracuse and melted my bike with purple goo!"

"It said it was empty," Dick says tiredly. "How was I supposed to know an abandoned ship would spit goo?"

"Okay, alright, boys, don't fight. Yes, Jason, I'll compensate everything you lost in Syracuse."

"Yeah, you will. And a new fridge." Jason thinks. "And a new TV."

"Master Jason," Alfred begins, walking into the dining room with a dish of roasted potatoes. "You may continue your bargaining with Master Bruce after dinner. Wipe that alien sludge off your face and have a seat."

Jason sighs. "Alf, I appreciate the invite, but you know I don't dine with most of the folks at this table. Gets real fuckin' crowded."

"Master Jason, watch your language," Alfred says sternly. "We have a guest. Behave like the young man I raised you to be."

Jason scoffs. "Who, Barbie? She doesn't—" He turns and stops, staring at you.

You smile, suddenly self-conscious. "Hi."

He swallows, eyes wide. "Hi. Hey."

"Aren't you staying for dinner?" you ask, confused. "Barbara said you were."

"I—" He glances at Barbara, then looks at you. "Uh. Well. I don't really..."

"C'mon, Jay, you guys should catch up!" Dick says brightly, already seated.

Jason's mouth sours as he turns to Dick. You pull out the chair next to you and tap the seat.

"You can sit next to me," you say, looking up at Jason.

He immediately turns back to you, lips parted. "Oh. I—y-yeah. Sure. Thanks."

"Master Jason. The goo," Alfred reminds, raising a brow. "And hang up your jacket."

Jason quickly backs up and bumps into the table corner. He winces.

"Right. I'm gonna... yeah. Be right back."

Jason disappears down the hall. Dick grins wolfishly at Barbara.

"You're amazing," he says.

"I know," she says, shrugging.

Alfred serves the last tray of vegetables, then sits. Jason soon returns, gloves and jacket away and goo-free.

"Did you style your hair, Todd?" Damian asks.

"No. Shut it." Jason scoots in his chair, glaring at his brother. But when you pass him the tray of roast, his expression softens. He smiles at you.

"Thanks," he says, and puts three slices on his plate. "Great roast, Alf."

"You haven't tried it," Alfred says, but looks very pleased.

"Don't need to."

"We're very glad you're here, Jason," Bruce says. "All things considered—"

Jason holds up a hand. "Ah-ah. I'm not here for you, old man. Save the speech for another day."

"And who are you here for, Jason?" Dick asks, propping his chin on his hands.

"None of your beeswax, Dick."

Dick shrugs. Damian begins to talk about an art project in school. You pay the appropriate amount of attention until Jason nudges your arm.

"Hey," he says, nodding at your empty glass. "Didja get something to drink?"

"Oh." Heat creeps up your neck. "Um, no. Sorry. I didn't know where to get the drinks."

"'S okay. Alf doesn't put out drinks anymore 'cause everybody drinks something different. You just help yourself to whatever's in the fridge. I'll get it for ya."

"Jason, you don't have to—"

He holds up a hand, smiling. "C'mon, none of that. You're a guest. Orange Fanta, right?"

You blink. "You remembered."

"Uh." His cheeks go pink. "I mean, yeah. No biggie. I'll be back."

Jason stands. Immediately, the others pounce.

"Are you going to the kitchen?" Dick asks.

"No," Jason says.

"Can you get me another Diet Coke?"

"Todd, if you're going to the kitchen, I would like another lemonade, please," Damian says.

"I just said I'm not going to the—"

"Master Jason, will you please bring this into the kitchen?" Alfred asks, holding up an empty tray.

Jason heaves a sigh. You wince.

"Sorry," you whisper.

He shakes his head and winks. "Nah, 's not you."

Obediently, Jason takes the tray and goes to the kitchen. He returns with a Diet Coke, which he tosses at Dick, who catches it with one hand, and a bottle of lemonade, which he throws to Damian who also catches it with one hand and a scowl. Finally, Jason opens the Orange Fanta for you and gently pours it into your glass, then sets the half-full can next to your plate. He sits down.

"Of course they get special treatment," Dick mumbles into his drink.

The table rattles, and Dick winces, squinting at Jason. The table rattles again, and Jason hisses.

"Boys," Bruce says wearily. "Enough."

"Yeah, Jason," Dick says, sticking his nose up. "Y'know it's my birthday soon. I deserve a brother who doesn't kick me."

"Oh, I'll tell ya what you deserve," Jason begins.

"Are we doing laser tag?" Cass pipes up from the end.

"'Course we are! Everybody's gonna be there." Dick looks pointedly at Jason. "Except my own brother. He refused."

You look at Jason, who's got a nasty glower aimed at Dick.

"You're not coming?" you ask.

Jason's expression melts away when he turns to you. "Uh, I mean—"

"No, he's not," Dick says, pulling the saddest pout you've ever seen. "He said he wanted nothing to do with my stupid birthday."

"Those weren't my exact words."

"They were very close," Damian says.

"Shut—"

"Jason, I can't believe you aren't going to Dick's birthday," Barbara says, shaking her head.

Jason's mouth falls open. "Et tu, Barbie?"

"You should come," you say, touching Jason's arm.

He immediately looks at your hand. You slowly remove it, smiling sheepishly.

"Then we can be a team," you say. "We're playing doubles. I'm horrendously bad at laser tag, but I bet we'd win together. I'd watch your six."

"Leaving them in the lurch, Jason?" Barbara tuts. "So unlike you."

Jason heaves a sigh. "For God—okay. Alright, brother mine. You win."

You beam. "So you'll come?"

"'Long as you and I are a team," Jason says, a little shy.

You bump his shoulder with yours. "Of course."

Dick looks at you. "You should join us for dinner every night."

You laugh bashfully. "Thanks, Dick."

Dinner goes on. Bruce excuses himself early, as do Cass and Damian. Soon, it's the four of you plus Alfred cleaning up after dinner. You and Jason are loading the dishwasher when Jason hisses. He pulls out his hand, revealing a thin red cut on his palm.

"Are you okay?" you ask, hovering worriedly.

"Yeah, 'm fine. I'll take the tray—"

"Jason, no," Dick says, herding him away from the dishwasher. "You have to get that wrapped immediately."

"What are you—dude, it's a tiny cut—"

"Yeah, but there was food on there, and you have no idea what can get into the wound and make you sick," Barbara says seriously. "You need to get it cleaned right now."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Fine, whatever. There's a first aid kit in the closet."

"There isn't!" Dick says, shooing Jason toward you. "Alfred hasn't restocked it. You have to go to the Cave. You should both go."

"Yes, great idea," Barbara says, looking at you. "You have medical experience, don't you?"

"I mean, a little, but—"

"More than us!" Dick says, shoving you both towards the hallway.

"I don't think so..."

"You take care of Jaybird here, he needs that hand," Dick says cheerily, opening the Cave entrance. "Go on, go."

"Christ on a bike," Jason mumbles, and heads down the stairs.

You follow, confused and concerned. The entrance slides closed. Jason goes to the medbay, muttering under his breath as he digs through one of the drawers with one hand. You join him, searching the top drawer for the antiseptic spray.

"Is the cut really bad?" you ask, trying to get a better look.

"No. My brother's just an idiot. Nothin' new."

You pull out the spray, some gauze, and a bandaid. Jason nods in thanks and goes to take it.

"I can do it," you say. "I do have medical experience, after all."

He snorts. "Fine by me."

You both sit on the edge of a cot. You turn to Jason and pull his hand into your lap. He inhales sharply. You stop.

"Is this okay?" you ask.

"Y-yeah. Fine. Sorry. I don't get touched a lot." Jason's mouth screws up. "Ugh. That sounded weird."

You laugh. "It's fine, I know what you meant."

He scratches the back of his neck while you clean his hand. He has big hands. Bigger than you remember. They're deeply scarred and calloused. You rub your thumbs over the pads of his fingers without thinking.

"You got soft hands," Jason says quietly.

"Heh. Thanks. The computer life."

He hums. "I didn't know you were working with Babs."

The guilt swims back full force.

"I know. I'm sorry. I should've reached out, Jason. I-I basically ignored you. Not on purpose! I just... I guess I wasn't sure where we stood and I thought maybe you'd be mad I was working for Batman after everything and I was afraid that we wouldn't—"

"Hey, whoa. 'M not mad." Jason finds your gaze. You frown. "I'm serious. I don't mind that you're working for Bruce. I mean, hell, I do too, on occasion. Mostly I just bitch at him."

You giggle. He smiles. You're still holding his hand. You don't really want to let go. Jason doesn't seem to want to pull away either.

"Well, even so, I'm sorry for not reaching out. I did miss you, Jason. And I'm glad you're back."

He clears his throat, ducking his head. "Huh. Well, I missed you too. And y'got nothin' to apologize for. I could've asked about you."

"Well—"

"Uh-uh, no, I'm the king of self-deprication. Y'can't take that from me," Jason says, eyes dancing with mirth.

You sigh dramatically. "Fine, fine. Can we say that we both could've reached out?"

"That's agreeable. And, uh, while we're clearing the air, I'm so terribly sorry 'bout my dumbass brother."

You tilt your head. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, huh. Hm. Well, funny thing. I kinda had a, um, crush on you, before. And Dick has it in his head that I... that I have a chance now. So... yeah."

"Before?" you ask.

You don't know why you're disappointed. It's not like you knew. Except maybe if you had, you wouldn't have missed out. Maybe you wouldn't have lost so much time.

Jason glances at you. "What... why are you sayin' it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you wish... that I..." He shakes his head. "Forget it."

"Jason," you say, barely a whisper.

He looks at you. His eyes flick to your lips, just for a millisecond. "Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

A beat. Your heart falls.

"Yeah." Jason nods. "Yeah, kiss me."

You heart soars.

You hold Jason's face, still holding his hand. He gingerly touches your neck with his uninjured hand, strokes behind your ear with his thumb. Every nerve alights. You're kissing Jason Todd. The boy you've loved since you were thirteen.

"They did it! They're kissing!"

Jason growls against your mouth. You know it's not aimed at you, but it makes lightning shoot down your spine. Wow.

"'M gonna kill 'im," Jason mumbles.

You smile and pull back, just an inch. "It's nearly his birthday. At least wait till next week."

"Hm." Jason kisses the corner of your mouth. You like him so much. "Fine. Y'know you can convince me of pretty much anything? Wield that power carefully."

You wrap your arms around his neck. Jason braces you with a hand on the small of your back.

He laughs through a sob, a sound broken by wonder. “Oh my god” he whispers, pressing his forehead the slightest bit closer to hers. “Oh my… oh my god.” You’re still lying against the pillows, exhausted, glowing in that incredible post birth haze, watching him with a smile that trembles as much as his voice. You’ve never seen him like this, never this undone, this soft, this purely overwhelmed with emotion. He’s always been expressive, affectionate, warm, but this? This is something deeper. Ancient, instinctual, a love that remakes him. He looks up at you once, just once, and the expression on his face nearly takes your breath too, a mix of awe, gratitude, disbelief, and something like falling in love with you all over again. But then his gaze returns to the baby immediately, because he can’t look away for more than a second without his heart physically aching. “She’s so…” He can’t even finish. Words fail him, dissolve into another quiet, helpless laugh. A tear hits the blanket near her little hand. Then another. He tries to blink them away, but they keep coming. He’s not embarrassed. Not even close. He lifts one hand, the one not supporting her head, and very slowly, very carefully, touches her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Her skin is warm. Silky. She shifts slightly in sleep, her mouth opening for the smallest second before closing again. Dick’s breath catches like someone punched him.

“I made her” he whispers, voice thin and watery. “We made her… she’s ours…” The awe in his tone is almost childlike. He shakes his head, swallowing a sob. “She’s… she’s so tiny. She’s so perfect. I— I didn’t know it would feel like this.” His shoulders tremble. He leans down and presses the lightest kiss imaginable to her forehead, soft, careful, like he’s afraid she’ll break from the weight of his lips. A tear falls onto her skin as he does it, gliding down to the corner of her hairline. Dick gasps sharply and wipes it off immediately with his thumb, whispering, “I’m sorry—sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry—daddy’s just…” He stops again, because saying “daddy” out loud twists something inside him. It’s real now. He is a dad. He is her dad. The idea hits harder than any villain ever has. His whole face softens, melts, his tears falling freely now. “I’m your dad” he says again, quieter. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise. I promise you’ll always be safe.” He doesn’t say it with the haunted weight Bruce used to, the quiet vow forged from trauma and loss. Dick says it with warmth, with certainty, with a love that pours out of him like sunlight, a promise made not from fear, but from devotion. His hand strokes the back of her tiny body in slow, featherlight motions, memorizing her, mapping her. Her breaths are so small they barely move the blanket, but he feels each one. He feels everything. “She’s… she’s so beautiful” he murmurs, voice cracking hard. You smile, exhausted and glowing. “She looks like you,” you whisper. Dick laughs through his tears, the sound crumbling at the edges. “No… no, she looks like an angel.” Then he glances at you again, softer this time. “Like her mommy.” But even as he says it, his gaze is pulled back down to his daughter, like gravity. He can’t stop staring. He can’t believe he gets to hold her.

His fingers tremble as he brushes one tiny fist, so impossibly small compared to his palm. When she curls her hand around the tip of his finger , uncoordinated, instinctive, Dick completely loses it. A full sob leaves him, sudden and quiet and raw. His knees nearly buckle even though he’s sitting. He bends over her slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes closed tight as he cries and laughs at the same time. “She—she’s holding my finger” he whispers like it’s the most unbelievable thing in the world. “She’s holding my finger. She—she trusts me.” The sound he makes next is soft, strangled, pure emotion. He wasn’t prepared. Not for this. Not for how absolutely, overwhelmingly he loves her already. Not for how his heart feels like it’s expanding too fast for his chest to contain. He presses another kiss to her forehead, another to her tiny fist, another to her cheek. “I love you” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I love you so much. I didn’t know I could love like this.” He gently rocks her, the motion natural, instinctive, as if he’s been doing this his whole life.

Every time she twitches or sighs, his breath catches like he’s witnessing a miracle. “I’m gonna protect you. I’m gonna take care of you. You’ll never be alone. I promise.” He pauses, taking another shuddering breath he barely manages to pull in. “You’re my little girl.” The phrase, spoken aloud for the first time, seems to break him more than anything else. He closes his eyes, a new wave of tears spilling out, and lowers his forehead so it nearly touches hers, not quite, still careful, always careful, just close enough to feel her warmth. The nurse asks if you want to hold the baby again. Dick doesn’t even hear her. His world is a pink blanket, a tiny heartbeat, and the smallest, most perfect girl he’s ever seen. When the nurse repeats herself, Dick finally looks up, slowly, reluctantly, as if pulling himself out of a dream. His cheeks are wet. His eyelashes dark with tears. He looks dazed, euphoric, completely gone. You smile gently. “Dick… you can keep holding her.” Something in him softens even further, the impossible happening all over again. He looks at you with a love that could light every shadow Gotham has ever known. “Are you sure?”

“She looks perfect where she is.” His breath shakes. He nods. And then he looks down at his daughter again, and his voice comes out as a whisper, raw and tender and overflowing. “Hi, baby girl… Daddy’s right here. I’m not going anywhere.” And for the rest of the night, hours and hours that feel like seconds, Dick Grayson holds his newborn daughter like she’s the first and last miracle he’ll ever need, falling in love every time her tiny chest rises against his arm. He never stops crying. He never stops smiling. He never lets her go.

The apartment is warm in that soft, afternoon sun kind of way, light pouring through the blinds in golden stripes, catching dust motes in gentle floating patterns. It’s quiet except for the occasional car in the distance, the hum of the heater, and the gentle cooing sounds coming from the small blanket spread out on the couch. Dick sits cross-legged in front of her, his knees touching the edge of the cushion, his elbows resting on his thighs as he leans forward like he’s staring at the most precious treasure he’s ever seen in his life. And he is. His daughter lies on her back on a soft pink blanket, her little hands waving aimlessly in the air, her legs kicking so enthusiastically that one foot almost, almost, catches him in the chest, and Dick laughs softly, catching the tiny socked foot between two fingers and giving it the gentlest squeeze. “You are way too strong” he tells her with exaggerated seriousness, his eyes sparkling with that warm blue glow they get only when he looks at you or the baby. “You’re gonna knock me out one of these days.” She kicks again, harder, like she’s testing him, and Dick lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh—! You did! That was an attack! Ah! Critical hit!” She squeals in response, not quite a laugh, but something bubbling at the edges, something that tells him she’s close. He feels it like electricity. He is already smiling so big his cheeks hurt. “Ohhh, you think that’s funny, huh?” he murmurs, lowering his face closer to hers until their noses are barely an inch apart.

“You are so lucky you’re cute” Her arms flail again, one hand smacking lightly against his chin, and Dick freezes in exaggerated shock. “You hit me” he whisper-yells. “The betrayal” But his smile is impossible to hide, the kind that curls slow and wide, softening every sharp line in his face. He looks younger like this, softer, happier than he has ever been. He leans even closer, brushing a kiss to her cheek. Just a small one. And the sound she makes, a little high-pitched chirp, lights something on fire inside him. “Oh my god” he breathes, voice cracking slightly even though he’s laughing. “You’re too much.” He kisses her again. Then once more, lower this time, right at the edge of her little jawline where her cheek meets what is unmistakably, adorably, multiple layers of baby neck rolls. “Look at this,” he whispers to you even though you’re just standing at the kitchen counter, watching with your heart basically melting into a puddle. “Look at this tiny marshmallow. Look at these rolls. How—how is this allowed?” He gently pokes one of the soft folds, his finger sinking into the plushness, and the baby kicks her feet and lets out another excited squeak.

Dick’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he says softly. “You like that, huh?” He brings his mouth to her cheek again, this time letting his lips linger for just a moment before he pulls back. She reacts instantly, her face scrunches, her little fists clench, and then… The laugh happens. That first laugh. That tiny explosion of sound, bubbling and bright and startlingly loud for such a small body. It hits him like a truck. Dick freezes. His eyes go wide. His mouth falls open. “Did you—” The baby laughs again. Bigger this time. Loud. Joyful. A full belly laugh, her whole body curling inward as if the happiness is too much for her little chest to contain. Dick’s hand flies to his heart and he gasps like someone just delivered him the meaning of life. “Oh my god” He’s laughing immediately, one hand covering half of his face, tears threatening, chest shaking as the joy hits him all at once. “Oh my god, baby girl, was that—did you just—?” She laughs again, louder, a high-pitched baby cackle that seems to echo in the tiny apartment like sunlight bursting through clouds. Dick completely breaks. His laughter becomes helpless, breathless, bordering on tears. “No—no, you can’t—” He bends over her, completely undone, forehead dropped to the blanket beside her tiny arm as he laughs so hard his shoulders shake.

“You can’t do that to me! I’m not built for this level of cute!” The baby’s arms wave wildly, her mouth open, her laugh rolling out again and again like she’s showing off. Dick lifts his head and stares at her with the expression of a man witnessing a miracle. “I’m gonna die” he says, voice cracking, laughing again. “You’re actually gonna kill me. I’m gonna die from cuteness and the coroner is gonna put it on the report.” She kicks her legs so hard her socks nearly fly off, and Dick’s eyes sparkle with something so warm, so pure it makes your throat tighten. He leans down again, slower this time, eyes locked on hers, and whispers, “Okay. If you liked that… I’ve got something even better.” And then he lowers his mouth to her belly. He blows the softest raspberry, his lips buzzing gently against her tiny stomach. She screams in delight, a full shriek of joy that cracks into another belly laugh so contagious that you start laughing too even from across the room. She wiggles, kicks, and squeals, her whole body convulsing with uncontrollable happiness. Dick pulls back with a scandalized gasp. “NO. NO WAY. That’s illegal. You are way too cute. I’m filing a complaint.” Then he dives in again, this time making a ridiculous growling noise as he kisses her tummy, raspberries mixing with exaggerated chomping sounds. The baby can’t handle it. She is losing her tiny mind, laughing so hard her face turns red, her nose scrunches, her tongue sticks out, her eyes disappear in happy little crescents. Dick breaks again, laughter erupting out of him in a pure, uncontrollable sound that fills the entire room. He lifts his head and wipes his eyes, he’s crying from laughing, but also crying because he loves her so much he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I can’t—” he gasps, breathless. “I actually can’t. How is this real? How is she real?” He wiggles one finger at her belly, teasing her with the threat of another raspberry, and she kicks in excitement, anticipating it. Dick’s grin stretches to full brightness. “Oh, you know what’s coming.” He swoops down and kisses right under her chin, where her neck rolls are thickest and softest. “Nom nom nom—oh noooo, the rolls! The rolls!” She squeals and bursts into laughter again, louder than before, her tiny hands smacking his hair, her legs flailing with joy. Dick laughs so hard he falls sideways onto the couch, clutching his chest. “I’m—oh god—I’m GONE” he sputters, wheezing between laughs. “I’m never going to be the same. I’m ruined. I’m destroyed. I belong to this baby now.” He rolls back upright, scooping her carefully up into his arms, pressing her against his chest. She’s still giggling, small hiccupy laughs that shake her whole body. Dick kisses the top of her head, tears at the corners of his eyes, and whispers into her soft hair, “I love you so much, sweetheart. You have no idea. No idea what you do to me.” He pulls her back enough to look at her, brushing her chubby cheek with his thumb. “That laugh…” he says softly, voice thick with emotion. “Daddy’s addicted. You’re gonna get anything you want. Anything. I’m done for.” She grabs his nose between two tiny fingers. Dick freezes. Then bursts out laughing. “She got me,” he tells you, deliriously happy. “She got my nose. My baby girl owns me.”

He gets up, shuffling over in his sweats. He undoes the four locks and opens the door to reveal... you.

"Uh, hey," he says, cracking the door wider. "Everything okay?"

It's late. You shouldn't be out now, even if the sun hasn't gone down yet.

Jason frowns when you sway in the doorway and don't respond.

Then you flash him the sweetest smile he's ever been on the receiving end of. Wow. Sure, Jason's seen you flash your pretty teeth before. But not like this. And not at him.

"Hi, Jaylove. Hi."

"Uh." He watches you walk right past him, into his apartment. He shuts the door. "Hi... What's goin' on? You alright?"

You turn to face him. "Why wouldn't I be? After all, you're here."

"What?"

You walk to him and take his hands in yours. Jason's eyebrows rise.

"Hey...?" Jason says, looking at your joined hands. You lace your fingers together.

"My prince," you say happily. "Your eyes are beautiful. Like emeralds. And you have a beautiful mouth. Your whole face is beautiful. I'd like to paint you."

"Are you on drugs?" Jason releases your hands to hold your face. He gently pushes your eyelids up to inspect your pupils. You just smile.

"I feel high when you touch me," you say. "Just being near you is drug enough."

Yeah, Jason's now feeling a healthy amount of paranoia. It's not that you don't stop by or that you're not nice. No, you're the sweetest creature Jason's ever had the pleasure of meeting.

But wanting to touch him? Thinking he's beautiful? Calling him your prince? Either you're drugged or he's died again and found paradise.

Then again, he probably wouldn't still be in Gotham if this were paradise. You'd definitely be here, though.

"Right. Your eyes are fine." Jason lets go of your face. "You sure you didn't take anything? Drink anything? Run into anyone?"

"I drank tea," you say, gazing up at him. "And I petted a fat orange cat. Don't you want a cat?"

"I surely do. You drank tea?"

"Mmhm. It was almost as amazing as you."

Jason nods and takes your hand. "Okay. We're going to the Cave."

"How come?" you ask, but you don't protest as he leads you out and into the elevator.

"Because I wanna make sure you're okay," he says, pushing the button labeled one. You're definitely not okay, but he doesn't want to worry you.

"Oh." You lean against Jason's arm. He stiffens and looks down at you. You just burrow into his side. "'Cause you love me?"

Breath catches in his throat. You can't mean that. Do you even know what you're saying? No, impossible.

You look up when he's silent for too long. "Jay-Jay? Didja hear me?"

"Yeah," he says slowly. "Yeah, I did."

You look at him, big eyes sweet. "Don't you love me too? I love you."

Jason swallows hard. "I, um, don't think you're in your right mind."

Your lip quivers. Oh, God. No, please don't cry, please don't—

"You don't love me?" you ask, tears welling.

"I do love you," Jason says quickly, panicking at your distress. "I do. Shit. Please don't cry, honey. I do love you."

You frown, cheeks wet. "You're just saying that! You hate me!"

Jason shakes his head. "No, no! Oh, never, I could never hate ya, honest! I was just... um, this is the first time we've said it to each other, y'know? I do love you. Have for a long time now."

He strokes your cheek with his thumb, soaking up your tears. You sniffle but accept this, nodding.

"Oh. I'm sure I've told you that I love you before. I love you so much, Jason. I'll never love anyone the way I love you."

God, this is fucking torture. As the elevator reaches the ground floor, Jason takes a deep breath, lets you link your fingers with his, and leads you out to the street. The universe is intent in never granting him a normal night. Noted.

There's no way you're in your right mind. Jason's figured this from the start. But that doesn't make the way you look at him, like he's anybody worth looking at, any less painful.

He pulls out his phone, shoots a quick text to Dick. ETA 10 min.

Dick responds two seconds later. What's up?

Possible Code 12.

Jason pockets his phone, running through potential reasons for what did this to you. Ivy's not wreaking havoc tonight, as far as he knows.

Meanwhile, you're in another world, humming and holding his hand. Jason's thought about this many times, holding your hand and taking you for rides, you adoring him, hugging him, kissing him. He's nothing if not a masochist.

"Okay, sweetheart," Jason says, and you immediately turn to him, like a flower showing its face to the sun. Jason is no one's sun, though. He's more like the worm under your boot.

"Hm?" you ask, stroking his arm. Jason does his best to be normal about it.

"We're gonna, um, go to the Cave. You okay on my bike?"

You glance at his bike, and there's a tinge of apprehension on your face. Jason reaches for your shoulder, stops, then forces himself to touch you. You're not going to recoil from him, not in this state. And he's not doing it for himself; he's only touching you so that you'll let him take you to the Manor and figure out what's what.

He's not a bastard for holding your shoulder, right? He's doing it just so that you'll be safe.

(It doesn't matter. Jason knows he's a bastard for being in your life at all.)

You lean into him when he touches your shoulder.

"Never been on your bike, Jay," you say.

"I know. But I swear to you that you're safe. You know I'd never let anything happen to you, right? Never."

You nod. "Yeah. You always look out for me. 'S part of why I love you so much."

Good God. Jason's going to be a ball of self-hatred for the next millenia over this.

He puts his spare helmet on you, helping you fit the chin guard underneath.

"Okay?" he asks.

You give him a thumbs-up. Jason smiles and puts his own helmet on.

"You gotta hold on real tight, okay? As tight as you can. Don't worry 'bout hurting me."

"Mmkay!"

He helps you mount the bike first, then follows. As soon as he's on, you wrap your arms around his middle and smush your helmet into his back.

How long has he dreamed about this? Taking you on late-night rides, feeling you pressed against him, squealing as he floats through traffic (he'd never speed the way he does when he's alone; Jason doesn't give a shit about his own body, but your safety matters).

"The bike is loud, so I'm not gonna hear you if you say something, but if you want me to stop, tap my shoulder three times, okay?"

"Okay, Jaylove." You squeeze him in what's clearly a hug. "Ready."

Jason's not sure he is. It's been a long time since anyone's touched him, much less someone he's head over heels for. You're so trusting, it makes him ache. Jason's just glad he's the first jerk you laid your eyes upon instead of the magic you're under pushing you into the arms of someone dangerous.

He starts up his bike. Jason's had guests on his bike before, mostly his brothers and, once, the old lady who runs the tea shop down the block.

He's never had a lovely thing like you snuggled up to him, clinging to him. Jason feels rabid. He feels like he needs to be shot and put out of his misery.

He follows all of the road rules so you won't be scared. You don't tap his shoulder or shake, so Jason figures you're fine. He's good. He's being good for you.

Jason slows as he goes down the ramp to the Cave entrance. He stops at the mouth of the Cave and dismounts first, pulling off his helmet.

"You alright in there?" he asks, offering his hand.

You wrap your arms around his neck and Jason wobbles as he recalibrates and snakes an arm around your shoulders instead and helps you off that way. He removes your helmet. You blink at the new light, then look at him, moony-eyed once again.

"I was kinda scared," you admit. "But I trust you, Jaybee. Always."

"Got you here in one piece, didn't I?" he says, winking at you.

"Uh-huh!"

Jason sees what you're going to do before you try. He sees the way you look at his lips, how you rear back, ready to leap and kiss him.

He redirects you immediately, preferring that to making you cry again. He hates it when you cry. Your soft mouth lands on his jaw instead.

Jason smiles, strained. You're annoyed at the fact that you missed, and Jason can see that you're about to try again when Dick and Tim come into view.

He's never been more thrilled to see his brothers.

"Fellow bretheren," Jason says. He knows his voice is thin. "Funny seein' you here."

You're briefly distracted and wave to be polite. But then you force Jason's left ear to your level and catch the lobe between your teeth.

Holy fuck. Jason nearly buckles at the sensation. He's never understood the ears as an erogenous zone before—now he gets it. He's ashamed of how heat pools in his gut as you nip his ear.

Jason balances you with an arm around your waist, gingerly trying to both hide his reaction and separate you. He accomplishes neither. Tim's eyebrows are at his hairline; Dick's mouth is open, no doubt ready to make a smart-ass comment.

"Well, it's nice to see you two so... affectionate," Dick says, holding back a grin.

Jason rolls his eyes. "I need you to run tests. They showed up to my door like this, all over me."

"Yeah, that is weird," Tim says.

"Thank you very much for that, Timbit," Jason grumbles. You kiss under his ear and weave your fingers through his hair. Jason manages to get your hands off, but your mouth is still firmly planted on his neck. He clears his throat. Normal!

"I dunno, Jason," Dick says. "It's not that weird. People fall in love every day."

And, okay. Jason can do teasing. He can even do borderline psychotic remarks. That's part of having siblings. He's made a few in his day. They've all stabbed or shot each other.

But now Dick is just being cruel.

Jason scowls. "Take their blood so we can fucking get this over with. They're clearly under a love spell."

His scathing tone surprises Dick, but it really startles you. You've moved away from his ear (Jason is both relieved and disappointed) and return to cradling his arm. You're alarmed by his reply.

"Jaylove?" you ask. "What happened? Are you mad?"

Jaylove? Jason sees Tim mouth. He forces himself to focus on you, be gentle for you.

"Hm, no, not mad at ya, sweetheart. Sorry 'bout that. But we need to run some medical tests on ya, 'kay? Can we do that?"

"Sure," you chirp, linking your arm with his.

Dick and Tim slip into Work Mode. Jason appreciates that. His nerves are frayed. He senses a self-destructive episode coming on after you're cured. Maybe he'll throw himself into a bar fight tonight.

"Symptoms?" Tim asks, going to the computer.

"Being in love with me," Jason says dryly.

"Besides that. Any physical symptoms like dizziness or nausea? Recklessness?"

"No, didn't notice any sickness. Not reckless; they did everything I said." Jason swallows, says the next part quietly, fearfully. "Probably jump into the Hudson if I asked."

Tim nods sharply. Dick prepares to draw your blood. Again, you're apprehensive. But Jason soothes you, pets you, and you're leaning into him like a cat in its favorite patch of sun as Dick takes your blood.

"I wanna get married," you say as red fills the second vial.

Dick shoots him a sympathetic look. Jason looks away.

"Soon, honey," Jason says, ignoring how his stomach's a pit.

He didn't think about love or relationships when he came back. Didn't care, not when he had revenge to plot.

But after all that was over, after he met you, after he found a reason to keep living, Jason started thinking about it.

And what he realized is that he's never getting married.

By choice? Yes, sure. Jason loves pretending he has a choice in anything. Sure, he chooses to abstain from marriage, like normal people out there do. But really, he avoids attachment because it wouldn't be fair to anyone. He knows he's not made for that. His death made him unsalvageable. It's a miracle he's here at all. How dare he ask for more?

And inside, he chokes on a vine of hatred for everyone else who can find someone. Who's capable of loving and being loved. It even, to Jason's shame, has reared its head at you, whispered in his ear about how you're not damaged, so of course you'll find someone one day. Of course you'll leave him eventually. It would be stupid of him to hope otherwise.

"When?" you ask as Dick starts on the third vial. You don't even notice. Dick could probably drain you dry as long as Jason's in front of you. "When can we get married?"

"How 'bout next month?" Jason says without thinking. He would. He'd marry you tomorrow.

You think about this for a moment, then nod. "Yes, that would be good. I've always wanted a fall wedding."

"Yeah? I always liked the idea of marrying in the spring. All the flowers."

"No," you say. "Pollen's out. You'd be sneezing your head off."

Jason laughs, then wants to cry, because you know that he's allergic to pollen.

"Yeah, y'right," he says, voice thick. "Fall wedding's better."

"Alright, all done!" Dick says, forcefully cheerful. He removes the needle and puts a Bandaid on the inside of your elbow. You rest your head on Jason's arm. Jason tries not to boil himself in a fire of misery. You probably won't even remember this.

Dick watches you both, then tugs your hand. "Hey, you mind helping me fill out some info? For the tests."

Your mouth shrivels. You look at Jason, and he can't believe he's your North Star, magic or not.

"I don't wanna leave Jason," you say.

"He'll be right here," Dick says quickly. "Won't leave your sight for a second. But I need your help."

"Just for a minute?" you ask.

Dick nods. "One minute."

You sigh and turn to Jason. "I'll be right back."

Jason nods, tries to smile. "Sure. I'll be here."

He'll be here. Forever and ever and ever...

Wait a second. Tea. Jason jolts.

"Tim. They said they drank tea. Could be something there."

"On it," Tim says. "Dick, we need a mouth swab."

"Right." He turns to you. "Can I—"

"No," you say, and march back to Jason. "You said a minute."

Jason would laugh at the pout on your face, the way you plop yourself next to him and curl around him like he's a new toy. He would laugh. If he could find the humor.

Dick looks at him. Jason sighs.

"Honey?" You hum. "We just need one more test, yeah? Q-tip on your tongue. Not the most pleasant, but it'll be quick. Promise."

"Okay," you say immediately, hugging his arm.

Jason knows it's a spell, or maybe a lab-made chemical. But he's still awed by how quickly you acquiesce. How you show no worry when Dick approaches because Jason's right there, patting your hand.

Dick swabs your mouth. You cough three times after, most of your body on Jason.

"Interesting how they're not lustful," Dick says.

"What," Jason says.

"Okay, the ear thing was..." Dick shrugs. "But it's not mindless. It's actually the most reasonable love spell I've ever seen. Like, their desires for you don't feel manufactured, they feel—"

"Don't," Jason snaps. "Don't fuckin' say it."

Dick holds up his hands. "It was just an observation. You've seen Ivy's pollen doses. This one seems different."

"Fine. Ivy's taking a break from the orgies. Doesn't mean this is real."

Jason's not stupid enough to hope.

"It can't be Ivy," Tim says, and Jason almost startles. He forgot Tim was there, so wrapped up in you. "No reports of Ivy attacks. And the substance, whatever it was, wasn't inhaled. It was injested."

You wrap your arms around Jason's neck and smush your face against his. You're warm and smell good. Jason feels feral.

He holds you with a hand on your back, mind turning.

"Sweetheart," he says. You hum. "You said you drank tea after work. Where exactly did you go?"

"Dunno," you say, spacey. "Went into a tea shop that's never been there before. And an old lady invited me in. She said I looked so sad. And I was, Jaybee! How did she know?"

"I don't know, honey," Jason says quietly, even though he has a suspicion. He's never letting you walk home alone again.

Tea shop. That's what he gets for trying to be a good Samaritan. How dare she drug you?

"Hm. Well, she gave me a tea sample, said it would make all my problems disappear. Then I petted her cat named Darcy. Like that book you like!"

God, Jason just wants to hug you tight and kiss your face. It's awful of him to think of you as cute in your state, he knows.

"Track their routes," Jason says. "They take two different ones home. One crosses Bank Street, the other goes over the bridge."

"I'd call you a stalker but I really have no right," Tim says, fingers flying over the keyboard.

"No shit," Jason mumbles, letting you play with his fingers.

"Jason," Dick says quietly. He glances at you, then at his brother. "If it's too much, we can sedate them."

"No. We don't know how it'll react to the tea. It's not Ivy's brew."

Dick frowns. He knows Jason's right. Jason knows he's right.

"Okay, I got something. Magic signatures from a building on Tenth Street," Tim says. "And I think I'm onto an antidote."

"I'll check it out," Dick says, going to suit up. He looks at Jason. "Are you-?"

Jason nods. "I'm fine. Go."

So Dick does. Tim is able to make an antidote within the hour. He gives it to Jason who injects it into your neck. He feels guilty even though this is what’ll cure you. You wince at the pinch but you don't so much as whimper, endlessly trusting.

"They'll probably crash soon," Tim says, out of your earshot. "I don't know if you should risk the bike."

Jason sighs. Tim's right, and it makes him all the more agitated that his brothers have been helpful and even kind of nice during the whole thing.

You're going to crash soon. Jason has no choice but to bring you up to the Manor.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says, taking your hand and standing.

"Where're we goin'?" you ask, yawning.

"Goin’ t’bed, honey. Aren't ya tired?"

"Hmm. Mmhmm."

"Yeah, thought so."

Jason leads you up the stairs and out of the Cave. He helps keep you steady as you trip up the stairs. He's tempted to just carry you, but he feels like that might be overkill.

Once at the top of the stairs, Jason stops. Swallows.

He hasn't been up here in a while. He slept in his room once after he returned, after a nasty encounter with Scarecrow.

"Wanna sleep in your bed, Jay," you mumble, cheek against his arm.

Jason sighs. "Yeah. Okay, love."

You go to his room. It's clean, as usual—Alfred never let it get dusty. Jason had hoped that if you ever saw his room it would be in much different circumstances. Normal circumstances.

But, well. Here you are.

"Hmm, 's nice," you say as Jason pulls back the bedspread and helps you out of your shoes. You start to take off your pants and he panics.

"Uh! Uh, baby, maybe keep the pants on. You might get cold."

You frown in confusion. "Doesn't feel cold."

"Yeah, but, whew, Alfred blasts the AC! Jus' keep 'em on."

Jason cannot handle seeing you in your underwear. He draws the line there.

"'Kay," you say, and flop onto the sheets. You wiggle around, getting comfortable.

Jason sits in the fat armchair in the corner of the room. Immediately, you sit up.

"Why're you over there?" you ask, eyes wide.

Oh, boy.

"Oh. I was, um, gonna read for a bit. I'll come in in a while."

Your lip trembles. No—

"Don't leave me, Jaybee. Don't leave! Stay with me. I love you!"

Jason rubs his forehead. "Honey—"

"You hate me! You do! I annoy you." Tears gather in your eyes.

Jason hurries to the edge of his bed, climbing in in his jeans and socked feet.

"No, no, love, we covered this. I don't hate ya, hm? Where'd ya get a silly thing like that?"

You quiet as he scoots in beside you. Then you throw most of your limbs over him. Jason stiffens.

"Just got scared," you say, and kiss his chest. "Promise you won't leave?"

Jason breathes in. Breathes out.

"Yeah. I promise."

And he stays.

You wake up with a faint headache and a dry throat. Sunlight peeks through the blinds. You feel warm and safe and well-rested, despite the slight pains.

You stretch, expecting air. Instead, you touch skin. You open your eyes.

Oh. You're in a bedroom.

No, scratch that. You see framed pictures of the Bats, books on shelves.

You're in Jason Todd's childhood bedroom. With the aforementioned tucked under your arm and leg.

You jerk away so hard, you land on the carpeted floor below.

Jason's up instantly, head poking over the bed. His eyes widen.

"Shit! Y'alright? C'mere."

He gets up and practically scoops you into a standing position. Your brain short-circuits: big strong man strong big good nice. Then you recover.

"Um," you say. "Uh. Hmm. Hi."

Jason smiles tightly. "Hey."

"What... how-?"

"Right. How much do you remember?"

You try to think. You remember walking home, drinking tea, an affectionate orange cat. You remember hands on your face and your stomach swooping on a motorcycle and a gentle voice. So gentle.

"You were magicked," Jason says quickly. "It was a, uh, tea shop. Dick's checking it out. You, um, came to me and I took you here and you got an antidote and you didn't want me to, um, leave. So, yeah. Sorry."

You tilt your head. "Why are you apologizing, Jason?"

He sighs. "Just 'cause."

You have no idea what that means. But you feel like Jason's telling you a very condensed version of what happened.

"What was the magic?" you ask.

He winces. "Love spell. You thought you were... in love with me."

Jason says it like he's the one who charmed you. Like he's ashamed of it.

"Oh," you say. Well, you certainly didn't need a spell for that to happen.

"Yeah." Jason's staring at your and his shoes by the door. "But everything's fine now. I can take you home. Dick and Tim'll take care of the tea shop witch."

He doesn't wait for a response, darting to the door and slipping into his shoes. You rush forward and close the door as Jason opens it. He looks at you in confusion.

"Jason," you say softly. "What happened?"

"Whaddya mean? I told you."

"Jason. I've known you for three years. You think I don't know when you're not telling me something?"

He looks at his feet. One of his socks has a hole in the toe.

"There's nothin' to tell," he mumbles. "Magic stuff. Happens all the time. Business as usual."

You frown. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Jay. I admittedly don't remember a lot."

Jason's expression is relief but there's a heaviness to his shoulders. "Well, 's for the best, really. Magic messes with your head."

"Did I make you uncomfortable, Jason? Not letting you leave and—God, I can't imagine how I was on the spell."

He shakes his head fervently. "No! No, no, my God, no. You didn't—you could never—I mean, I wasn't... fuck. No. You didn't make me uncomfortable."

"If you're sure," you say.

He nods. "Hundred percent."

Jason doesn't sound like he's lying. You're pretty good at detecting it, especially when it comes to his feelings.

So why is he acting weird?

Well, duh. A love spell. You probably freaked him out, especially since you really do love him.

"I hope we can still be friends," you offer.

Jason turns to the door.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "'Course we're still friends."

It shouldn't make you ache. Jason's perfectly in the right to not reciprocate how you feel. How can he reciprocate something he doesn’t even know exists?

"You, uh..." Jason scratches the back of his neck. He faces you once more. "You said last night that you were sad. When you were coming home. I just wanted to say, y'know... you can talk to me. 'Bout anything."

This will make all of your problems disappear, she had said. It'd tasted like kombucha—you hadn't had a lot of faith.

Jason begins to open the door. You slide in front of him and slam the door shut with your back. He steps back in surprise.

"Wh—"

"I have to tell you something!" you blurt.

Jason stills. "Okay."

"I adopted you a cat," you say.

He squints. "What?"

"Well, she's still at the shelter but I put her on reserve. Of a sort. I have a friend who works there. She's black and white and likes to cuddle and has two different colored eyes but she can't see very well. Her name is... whatever you want to name her. Because she's yours. And I think you'll love her."

He nods slowly. "I, uh, thanks. Thank you. I was thinking about adopting a—"

"I was sad last night because I kept thinking about how you're gonna love this cat I got you but you'll never love me, and how that's the fucking worst feeling in the world."

You've stunned him silent. Shit.

Seconds tick by. A minute. Two minutes.

"Okay," you say, wanting to jump out of Jason's two-story window. "I'm gonna go drop off the face of the Earth now. Bye."

You open the door. Jason closes it by caging you against it.

And then he kisses you.

Jason pours everything into the kiss. He's not a perfect kisser but it's good. It's magic. He holds your face completely, shuts out the entire world. Kisses the breath out of you.

Yes, you could go on. It's fantastic. It's fireworks. It's sunbeams.

When you reached him, his gloved hand found yours immediately. “You are—” he began, but words failed for a fraction of a second. Damian Wayne rarely stumbled over words. But tonight, the sight of you was enough to rob him of composure. “—utterly, sinfully exquisite.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head, your voice a low purr. “Careful, my love. You’ll make me blush. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

His lips curved. “On the contrary, I find the idea thrilling. I would flay the stars themselves if they dared outshine that blush.”

Across the room, Tim choked on his drink.

“Are they—are they okay?” he muttered, glancing at Dick, who was watching with a mixture of amusement and mild alarm.

“Define okay” Dick said under his breath.

Bruce, ever stoic, merely exhaled through his nose and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘I should’ve known she’d encourage this side of him.’

But you and Damian didn’t care. You moved through the party like a dark waltz, two shadows perfectly synchronized. You laughed quietly at the way his fingers lingered at the small of your back, how his gaze burned when someone else dared to compliment you.

When one of the Gotham socialites, a man too bold for his own good, approached with a champagne glass and a smile that reeked of entitlement, Damian’s jaw tightened.

“Miss, I must say, you look—”

“Careful” Damian interrupted smoothly, his tone dangerously polite. “You are addressing my heart in human form. Choose your words wisely.”

You laid a hand on his arm, eyes glinting with amusement. “My darling, do behave. We wouldn’t want to make a scene.”

He turned to you, lowering his head so that his lips brushed your ear, his voice a dark whisper that made your pulse flutter. “But you know how much I enjoy making scenes with you.”

“Mm” you replied softly. “And I enjoy watching you try to restrain yourself.”

Tim groaned from the bar. “They’re flirting or threatening to kill each other, I can’t tell anymore.”

“It’s both.” Cassandra said simply, sipping her drink, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. “They like the tension.”

And oh, there was tension. The kind that lingered in every word, every glance, every subtle touch.

Later that evening, after the guests had begun to drift away and the music had softened to a ghostly hum, you and Damian found yourselves alone on the grand balcony overlooking the manor gardens. The moonlight painted your faces silver, your shadows intertwined across the marble.

He stood behind you, arms circling your waist, his chin resting against your shoulder. His voice was low, smooth as smoke. “You know,” he murmured, “if I could trap this night in a bottle, I would keep it, so I could watch you haunt it forever.”

You turned slightly, smiling with that soft, dangerous affection that only he ever saw. “And what would you do, my love, if I refused to be trapped?”

He smirked faintly, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. “Then I’d follow you into whatever chaos you created. Torture me if you must, but I would die before I let you go.”

“Mm. Such devotion. You almost sound sincere” you teased, though your voice softened at the edges.

“I am” he said simply. “You are my chaos. My muse. My destruction. And I have never been happier to be undone.”

Your heart stuttered, just once, before you turned in his arms to face him. The look you shared could have set the night on fire. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as if memorizing the shape of your smirk.

“And you,” you murmured “are my favorite mistake.”

He laughed quietly, a deep, genuine sound that vibrated through his chest. “Then I’ll make sure you never regret it.”

When he kissed you, it was slow and consuming, the kind of kiss that made time bend. The wind caught the edges of your gown, and for a moment, the two of you looked carved from the same shadow, two beautiful, terrible creatures perfectly matched.

Down below, Dick whispered to Tim, “They talk about torturing each other like it’s foreplay.”

“Because it is for them.”

Inside, Alfred simply sighed. “At least Master Damian has found someone who shares his… intensity.”

Back on the balcony, Damian broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours, whispering with that familiar mix of reverence and wickedness, “Cara mia, you drive me to madness.”

You smiled, eyes half-lidded, your tone a dark velvet. “And yet, you never seem to mind.”

“I never will.” he promised. “If madness means you, I’ll embrace it.”

You reached up, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw. “Then perhaps, my darling, we should let the night swallow us whole.”

He took your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “After you, my love. Always after you.”

And as the last candle flickered inside the Manor and the moonlight bathed you both in silver, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only two souls hopelessly, beautifully, dangerously entangled in their own brand of devotion.

Somewhere inside, Dick muttered, “Okay, they’re terrifying.”

But Damian only smiled against your lips and whispered one last thing meant only for you.

“Let them be afraid, beloved. They’ve never known a love worth fearing.”

The morning after the Wayne Halloween Gala, Gotham was still sleeping under a soft layer of fog, but Wayne Manor was already awake, or at least trying to be. The sun hadn’t even fully breached the skyline when the first voices began to drift through the manor halls, carrying the familiar mix of amusement, exasperation, and barely concealed disbelief that only the Batfamily could muster.

In the kitchen, Alfred was serving breakfast with his usual composure, the calm eye in a storm of chaos. Bruce sat at the head of the table, stoic as ever, reading something on his tablet. To his right, Dick was stirring his coffee like a man trying to dissolve confusion instead of sugar, while Tim was slouched halfway over the counter, dark circles under his eyes. Cass was perched cross-legged on the countertop, nibbling toast and looking entertained by everything.

And then, the door opened.

Damian walked in, pristine as ever, wearing a dark turtleneck under a sharp vest, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. You followed a step behind him, dressed in black silk pajamas with a long robe trailing after you, looking like you had stepped straight out of a dream, or a victorian ghost story. Your hair was still loose, and your expression was calm, collected, and faintly amused.

The entire table froze.

“Morning” you said, your voice smooth as honey and just as dangerous.

“Good morning” Alfred replied warmly, unfazed, sliding a cup of coffee toward you as if he’d been expecting you to descend from the shadows at any moment.

Damian, meanwhile, moved with calculated ease to pull your chair out before you sat down.

He didn’t even ask. Just the smallest, quietest gesture of devotion. When you thanked him, his lips brushed your knuckles in a manner so natural it made Tim blink.

Dick leaned toward Tim. “Okay, so… this is serious, right?” he whispered.

Tim just stared. “Serious? Dick, she literally called him her ‘little fiend’ last night in front of Bruce.”

“Yeah, but he liked it.”

“He smiled, Dick. Damian smiled. That’s terrifying.”

Damian’s head tilted slightly. “I can hear you.” he said without looking up, his tone calm but edged with threat.

You smirked faintly, glancing at the boys. “He does have excellent hearing, darlings. Be careful, mockery is such an unattractive trait.”

Cassandra bit back a laugh behind her mug. “You’re fun.” she said softly, grinning.

You raised your brow with a smirk. “So I’ve been told.”

Bruce finally lowered his tablet, sighing in that way that said he’d already accepted this chaos as part of his life. “Damian.”

“Yes, Father?”

Bruce’s jaw flexed. “Explain.”

Damian folded his napkin neatly. “Explain what, exactly?”

“This.” Bruce gestured vaguely between you two, as though your entire existence as a couple defied the laws of his understanding. “You two spent the entire night talking about torturing each other, you scared at least five donors into leaving early, and at one point, someone swore they saw you carve your initials into her wine glass.”

“I was marking my territory.” Damian said evenly.

Tim dropped his fork. “You what—”

You reached over, calm as a cat, resting a hand on Damian’s arm. “He was being sweet” you said, smiling just enough to make Tim visibly shiver.

“He told me he wanted to leave a mark that would last longer than the glass itself.”

Dick blinked slowly. “Okay, that’s… definitely poetic. In a kind of please-don’t-kill-me way.”

“She inspires poetry.” Damian said without shame, tone smooth and absolute.

Cass was clearly enjoying every second of this. “He’s obsessed.” she said matter-of-factly, sipping her tea.

Damian turned to her with no hesitation. “I am. Entirely. And why should I not be?”

You smiled at him, softly this time, dangerously, with that slow, magnetic pull that could bend anyone weaker than him to your will. “You do have a talent for devotion, my love. It’s almost frightening.”

“Almost?” he murmured, lips curving. “You wound me.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “I’m sorry, I just, Damian, why is it always the goth girls? Every single time. Why do you keep going after the ones who look like they could literally stab you?”

Damian’s expression didn’t flicker. “Because,” he said smoothly, “I respect a woman capable of killing me.”

Dick spat his coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s his mother’s son” he muttered.

You smirked, tilting your head, your voice a whisper of silk. “Oh, he’s safe. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Tim echoed, his voice breaking an octave higher than usual.

You sipped your coffee delicately. “I only draw blood when I’m bored.”

Cassandra snorted into her toast.

Damian turned his head toward you, a flicker of adoration and pride in his eyes. “You see why I adore her.” he said simply. “She’s chaos dressed in couture.”

You hummed contently. “And you, my darling, are the storm I always hoped to weather.”

The rest of the table just stared.

Dick whispered to Bruce, “You think this is like… healthy?”

Bruce didn’t even look up. “For them? It might be the healthiest thing Damian’s ever done.”

Tim groaned. “Okay, but what happens if they break up?”

Cassandra shrugged. “Someone dies.”

“That’s not—” Tim started, then stopped. “Actually, that’s probably accurate.”

You turned your head toward them with that serene, unblinking calm. “We don’t intend to part” you said softly. “There’s something quite eternal about our kind of madness.”

“Eternal.” Damian echoed, his voice dropping lower, like a promise. “And mutually destructive, if we’re fortunate.”

Bruce exhaled sharply. “Please don’t say that with a smile.”

But Damian did smile, that rare, dangerous curve of his lips that carried something almost feral underneath. “Don’t worry, Father. She’ll kill me with affection, not blades.”

“Only if you behave” you murmured, brushing your fingers down the back of his neck.

Tim set down his coffee, defeated. “You two are… something else.”

“Thank you.” you both said at the same time, voices perfectly in sync.

Dick looked between you and Damian, then grinned helplessly. “Okay, but admit it, they’re kinda perfect for each other.”

Cass nodded. “It fits. He needed someone like her.”

Bruce groaned quietly into his coffee. “God help us all.”

You leaned closer to Damian, your smile dangerous and affectionate all at once. “I rather think the opposite, darling. We’re far beyond help.”

Damian’s hand found yours under the table, fingers intertwining effortlessly. “Precisely why I love you.”

And the room fell silent again, not out of awkwardness, but because for a brief, haunting moment, they could see it: the way he looked at you like you were his religion, the way your smile softened just for him. It was dark, yes. Unconventional. A little terrifying. But it was real.

Dick finally broke the quiet. “You two are actually kinda… romantic, in a supervillain way.”

Damian turned his head slightly, lips curling. “Romance is a matter of perspective, Grayson.”

You smirked, raising your coffee cup in a mock toast. “To perspective, then. And to the art of loving dangerously.”

Damian clinked his glass softly against yours. “To us, beloved torment.”

“Always, my little fiend” you replied.

And as the others looked on, confused, amused, maybe even a little envious, it was hard to deny the truth of it.

Damian Wayne and the gothic woman at his side were like fire and smoke, like poetry and blades, two souls too intense for the world around them.

Sigh. In your defense, the only reason you’re calling this early in the morning is because Gotham Gazette interns sit around doing nothing until at least ten a.m., and you urgently need to talk through car insurance options after your insurer politely suggested that living within city limits of Gotham “adjusts your risk profile.”

Also, because your friend once hooked up with a woman who swore she’d spent an entire weekend in Bruce Wayne’s penthouse, only to later admit she never made it to the bedroom with him and mostly just drank expensive wine in a room with too many windows.

Which, honestly, still counts.

“Also,” your friend adds –uh-oh– suddenly casual in a way that immediately raises every internal alarm you have, “I’m gonna be on this podcast next weekend.”

You pause mid-task, phone wedged between your shoulder and cheek while your free hand continues to dig through a drawer that has never once contained what you were looking for. “Okay?”

“An exclusive podcast.”

Your fingers slow, skepticism creeping in before you even realize it. “Why do you sound ominous?” you drag your words, already bracing yourself.

“With Bruce Wayne.”

You stop rummaging. The drawer stays open, accusingly empty.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

She hums, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Yeah, yeah. It’s like—very low-key. Very invite-only. Very Gotham-esque. He’s apparently doing this whole ‘approachable billionaire’ thing because he’s funding this new healthcare program.”

You snort despite yourself, shifting your weight until your hip hits the counter. “That sounds fake.”

“It is fake,” she agrees immediately. “But the money is real.”

That tracks. You lean back against the counter, exhaustion settling in your bones even though it’s barely morning. “Why are you telling me this.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line. Too long. Long enough that you know you’re not going to like what comes next.

“Because,” she says brightly, “you should come.”

“No. Way.”

“Yes way” she says “You don’t even know why yet.”

“I don’t need to.”

She gasps like you’ve wounded her, dramatic as always. “I need you there.”

“For moral support?”

“No.”

You roll your eyes, staring at the chipped edge of the countertop. “Emotional grounding?”

“No.”

“For—”

“Because you’re pretty.”

You close your eyes, already regretting touching your phone today. “That is so not a reason.”

“It absolutely is in Gotham,” she says. “Everyone there will be either aggressively interesting or aggressively rich. I need balance.”

“I am not set dressing for Bruce Wayne’s podcast. I don’t have clothes that look good enough for that!” You push off the counter, pacing now, irritation sharpening into something defensive.

“You’re not set dressing,” she corrects without missing a beat. “You’re ambiance.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, thumb and forefinger pressing like that might physically squeeze out the headache forming there. “And what,” you ask slowly, carefully, “exactly would I be doing?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Just… being there. Existing. Making him notice.”

“That sounds like a trap.”

She laughs. “Relax. Worst case scenario, you get free drinks and a story no one believes.”

You think about car insurance. About Gotham. About the fact that Bruce Wayne already feels like an inevitability you’ve been dodging via paperwork and gossip.

“I might be working this weekend though!”

“Girl!? Where? Bershka? I’m linking you to Bruce fucking Wayne right now.”

“Dude…”

“Dude! Hellooooooo Billionaire? Man of the year for 10 years in a row?”

“…Fine,” you say, reluctantly. “But if he makes eye contact with me, I’m leaving.”

She squeals. “Yay, i’ll come pick you up so you won’t be leaving!”

“God,” you mutter, hanging up. 

_________

The podcast is not where you expect it to be.

Which is to say, it’s not in a studio. It’s not even pretending to be accessible. It’s set inside a renovated industrial space downtown that used to be something illegal, then briefly artisanal, and is now apparently media. Exposed brick, polished concrete floors, lighting so soft it feels intentional, and just enough plants to suggest a PR team has been involved.

You hover near the entrance while your friend signs in with the kind of confidence that suggests she’s done this before. And she has, just not with a freaking billionaire in the building. You, meanwhile, are acutely aware of the fact that you are wearing the only outfit you own that could be described as “effortless,” which is deeply unfair because it took you forty-five minutes and one minor breakdown to achieve.

What is also very unfair is your friend saying “Girl what the fuuuuck are you wearing.” Because your outfit, is… Its–

It’s simple, really, more than you’d like to admit. A vintage DKNY denim skirt that you dug out of your mom’s closet years ago, a black bodycon shirt that screams Shein (which is unfair because you got it with your employee’s discount at Bershka), an oversized leather jacket you bought at a thrift store and tall cowboy boots. 

At least you did yourself a favor and visited a hair salon, for the first time in your life that is and that is only because your very cheap and very work from home hairdresser was booked, so you could get a haircut and a blow out.

As for make-up? You think that 60 second TikTok video of Uk girl glam has actually turned out good.

“Relax,” your friend murmurs, flashing her name at the clipboard girl. “You look great, I'm only joking.”

You don’t believe her, but you follow anyway.

The room hums with low conversation and expensive restraint. Everyone looks like they’ve been curated. Journalists pretending not to be journalists. Influencers pretending not to be influencers. People who smile too easily and laugh just a second too late. You immediately clock the aggressively interesting and the aggressively rich, and realize—horrifyingly—that your friend was not exaggerating when she told you all about what to expect when entering on your ride here.

You are, in fact, ambiance.

Free drinks are already being passed around, which feels less like generosity and more like a preventative measure, as an employee shows you to the room the Podcast will be recorded. You take one out of self-defense and position yourself on a couch near a high table, determined to remain unobtrusive. Existing. Balanced. Invisible.

It almost works.

Then the energy in the room shifts.

It’s subtle—no announcement, no dramatic entrance—but conversation softens, especially between your friend and her mentor, attention bending inward like a tide pulling back. You don’t turn right away, because you refuse to be that person.

What did Central Cee say in one of his songs? ‘It gives me the ick when girls are trying too hard to impress the guys’ Yeah yeah yeah, you’re not doing that.

You still know.

Bruce Wayne moves through the space like someone who is used to rooms adjusting around him. Not rushed. Not slow. Just inevitable. He’s dressed simply, infuriatingly so, like he’s deliberately trying to undercut the myth while benefiting from it anyway. Dark jacket, perfect pair of jeans, open collar, sleeves pushed just enough to look human.

Approachable billionaire or the opening lyrics of Lana Del Rey’s Blue Jeans, whatever it is, It’s, well, fake, but well-funded.

Your friend makes a noise beside you that sounds suspiciously like victory. “See?” she whispers. “Told you.”

You glare at her, smiling through words you mutter under your teeth. “If he makes eye contact with me, I’m leaving.”

She grins, already halfway gone, pulled toward the podcast setup and the cluster of people orbiting Bruce like it’s instinctive. You’re left standing with your drink and the sudden, unpleasant awareness that this man—this concept—is now in the same room as you.

You do not look at him. Or actually, you do, but very, very subtly.

You focus on your glass. On the condensation sliding down the side. On the fact that Gotham insurance premiums are probably higher within a five-block radius of wherever Bruce Wayne currently stands.

It’s only when someone laughs nearby—low, controlled, unmistakably his—that you realize something has gone very wrong.

Because you haven’t been looking at him, per se.

But he’s been looking at you.

__________

The podcast itself is exactly what you expect and somehow worse. First of all, it’s boring!

Everyone has settled into their seats with the careful choreography of people who know they’re being observed. Microphones gleam. Water glasses sit untouched. The host, your friend’s mentor, who by the way is trying to dethrone Vicky Vale, smiles like this is the most natural thing in the world—to be casually hosting Bruce Wayne while pretending this isn’t a career-defining moment.

You sit off to the side, technically audience, but functionally? Furniture.

Bruce Wayne speaks the way you imagine he would: measured, polite, saying just enough while revealing absolutely nothing. He talks about healthcare access, community investment, the importance of sustainability in Gotham’s infrastructure. Every sentence is smooth, sanded down, PR-perfect. Approachable billionaire, right on cue.

You try not to watch him too closely. You fail. Repeatedly. 

It’s not that he’s doing anything remarkable. It’s that he listens when other people talk. Tilts his head playfully. Holds eye contact just long enough to feel intentional. Laughs softly at the right moments, like he’s in on a joke no one else has heard yet. You hate that it works.

Momentarily it makes you wonder, is Bruce Wayne really easy, or does he have infinite game?

The latter is a possibility you refuse to actually consider, but since the thought has already spawned into your head, you refuse to let it actually dwell.

When the host announces a short break, the room exhales as one mass. People stand immediately, gravitating toward Bruce with drinks in hand and practiced smiles. Your friend shoots you a look from across the space—wide-eyed, thrilled, this is it—before she’s swallowed whole by the orbit.

You take that as your cue to flee.

The bathroom you tuck yourself into is mercifully quiet, cool tile and soft lighting, the kind of place designed to calm rich people down. You wash your hands even though you don’t need to, staring at your reflection like it might offer guidance. You look… fine. Normal. Too normal to be here. You dab at a nonexistent smudge under your eye and tell yourself that leaving early would be completely reasonable, if you had a way to leave, that is.

Sighing, you turn to go back to the studio, and before you even take another step you walk straight into a chest.

A very solid chest. As in, body builder solid chest.

“Oh—” you start, instinctively stepping back.

“Sorry—my fault,” a voice says at the same time, low and polite and unmistakably his.

You freeze. Then slowly, you look up.

Bruce Wayne is standing in front of you in the bathroom hallway, hands already raised in surrender like he’s afraid you might accuse him of something. Up close, he’s taller than he looked seated, broader too, less polished somehow. There are faint shadows under his eyes, like sleep is an ongoing negotiation he keeps losing.

For half a second, neither of you speaks.

Then he smiles, a little crooked, like he’s aware of how ridiculous this is.

“Hi,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m—well. Bruce.”

As if there were another option.

You blink once. “Oh… I know.”

Oops, you said that out loud.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, clearly relieved you didn’t say Bruce Wayne? like this was a meet-and-greet. “Right. Of course you do. That was… optimistic of me. And you are?”

You smile despite yourself while giving him your name, something small and polite that you hope reads as pleasant stranger rather than person internally spiraling. Your feet shift almost without permission, body already mapping out an exit route that does not involve further humiliation.

He hesitates, then gestures vaguely around you. “Not exactly the most glamorous place to meet someone,” he says. “I usually aim for rooftops or charity galas. Bathrooms are new territory.”

“That explains the ambiance,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows lift, amused. “See? You get it.”

Then—before you can fully process what’s happening—he reaches gently for your hand. It’s not abrupt, not presumptuous. He waits just long enough for you not to pull away. His grip is warm, careful.

He bows his head slightly and presses a brief, polite kiss to your knuckles.

What the fuuuuuuuck!? No one has ever kissed your hand upon meeting you! Not once. Not dramatically, not jokingly, not even as a bit.

Okay, yes, aaalright. Bruce Wayne has game. Is it outdated and probably free-trialed by half of Gotham? Absolutely. Is it also stupidly charming and deeply, aggressively old money? Unfortunately, also yes.

“For what it’s worth,” he adds lightly, “I promise I’m usually less awkward than this. The setting’s throwing me off.”

Your brain short-circuits, you’re sold, unfortunately. You are suddenly, painfully aware of your promise.

‘If he makes eye contact with me, I’m leaving.’

And also, veeery unfortunately, Bruce Wayne is looking at you like he’s already decided you’re worth staying for.

Too bad for him! Because a normal rich guy? You got it. Rapper? Athlete? You got it, you think. But world wide famous billionaire —because has this been mentioned enough?— who is like, a decade older than you? You don’t think you got it.

You clear your throat, finally finding your voice somewhere behind your ribs. “Well,” you say, shifting your weight back toward the hallway, “this has been… very on-brand for you Mr Wayne, but I should probably—”

You gesture vaguely past him, toward freedom. Or at least toward pretending this didn’t just happen.

Bruce straightens slightly, registering the movement immediately. Not alarmed, not offended—just attentive in a way that feels unfair. “Right,” he says, nodding once. “Of course. I didn’t mean to corner you, but call me Bruce.”

He steps aside to give you space, which only makes you feel worse about leaving.

You take the opportunity anyway, slipping past him with what you hope reads as polite urgency. The exit is right there. You can already picture it: rejoining your friend, grabbing your coat, vanishing into the upper Gotham outskirts like a responsible adult with self-control.

You make it exactly three steps.

“Hey—uhm, wait.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s just enough.

You stop despite yourself, cursing internally as you turn back. Bruce hasn’t followed you, hasn’t closed the distance. He’s still standing where you left him, hands loosely at his sides, like he doesn’t want to push.

“I was wondering,” he says, and there’s a hint of uncertainty there now, like this wasn’t part of the plan. “If you’d want to… get to know each other a little better.”

Your brain helpfully supplies here? now? in the bathroom hallway? but you keep that to yourself.

“I don’t usually—” you start, then trail off because you don’t actually know what you don’t usually do. Talk to billionaires? Accept invitations framed like this? Sabotage your own exit strategies?

He smiles, small and reassuring. “Neither do I,” he says, and somehow you believe him. “I mean—like this. I’m better in neutral territory.”

“Neutral,” you repeat, skeptical. “Is that what this is.”

He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that feels disarmingly human. “Fair. I was thinking dinner. Or a walk. Somewhere without microphones or… sinks.”

You glance past him again, your escape route still very much available, still calling to you. This was supposed to be simple. A drink, a podcast, a story no one believes. Not this. Not Bruce Wayne looking at you like you’re a choice he’s actively making. Plus you don’t have the clothes to go on dinner with him.

You sigh, defeated, because of course you do. “You realize I was trying to leave.”

“I know,” he says easily. “That’s why I asked before you got away.”

There’s no pressure in his tone, no expectation. Just an offer, held out and waiting and suddenly you’re think of how fast can Shein ship a dress to you.

“I’m not very interesting,” you say, half-warning, half-defense.

Is it like 21 days? Do they do emergency situations?

His smile widens just a touch. “I don’t believe that.”

And that’s the moment you know you’re in trouble.

The space between you shifts.

Nothing obvious happens. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach for you again, doesn’t say anything else right away. And yet the air feels heavier, like the moment has decided to linger whether you want it to or not.

You become acutely aware of where you’re standing. Of how close he is without actually being too close. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated, not trying to be impressive, but probably insanely expensive. However, he’s close enough that if either of you leaned forward, even slightly, it would stop being hypothetical.

You clear your throat again, the sound louder than you expect in the quiet hallway. “You don’t know me,” you point out, because logic feels like a good anchor.

“No,” he agrees, then repeats. “But I’d like to.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes it feel less like a line and more like a decision already made. He shifts his weight, just a fraction, enough that his shoulder brushes the wall behind you, subtly narrowing your escape without actually blocking it.

You notice. You hate that you notice, but he’s too huge to ignore either way.

“And if I say no?” you ask, testing him, testing yourself.

His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen slightly, attentive. “Then I let you go,” he says. “And I’d be disappointed.”

The honesty of it hits harder than anything smooth ever could.

Your phone vibrates in your hand, startling you. A message from your friend lights up the screen: WHERE ARE YOU. You don’t look at it again.

Bruce glances down instinctively, then back up, lips curving like he already knows the answer. “Your friend?”

You nod. “She has terrible timing.”

“She’s going to be a good reporter. She seems enthusiastic.”

“That’s one word for it.” Insane is the other, but you are, in fact, ten times more insane than her for considering accepting an invitation to dinner with Bruce Wayne of all people.

He smiles at that, then lowers his voice—not to be secretive, but like he’s aware of how close the walls are. “I don’t usually do this,” he says, and for once it doesn’t sound like a cliché. “I don’t approach people without an exit plan.”

“And yet?” you murmur.

“And yet,” he echoes. His gaze drops again, not lingering anywhere inappropriate, just enough to feel… intentional. Like he’s cataloging, not consuming.

Your pulse ticks up when you catch his eyes scanning your whole body up and down, traitorous thing as it is.

“I should go back,” you say, even as you don’t move.

“I know,” he says again, softer this time. “But before you do—”

He reaches into his jacket pocket slowly, giving you every chance to object. Instead of a phone, he pulls out a simple card. No flashy design, no unnecessary information. Just his name and a number.

He holds it out between you, not touching you, not insisting. “In case you decide you want dinner,” he adds, almost casually. “Or a walk.”

Your fingers hover for a moment before taking it, skin brushing his just barely. The contact is brief, but it lands heavy, like a punctuation mark.

You look down at the card, then back up at him. “And if I don’t?”

His smile is faint but sincere. “Then I’ll assume you escaped successfully.”

Something about that makes your chest feel tight.

You tuck the card into your bag, meeting his eyes again. “You’re very confident for someone who just got rejected in advance.”

He leans back slightly, giving you space at last. “I’m patient.”

Abort mission! Abort mission immediately! Why are your thighs crying in the middle right now? Is it because you’ve been getting no action? Or is it because Bruce Wayne is actually making your belly churn under the belt?

You scoff lightly, forcing the sound out before your brain can short-circuit completely. “And how will you know I'm calling? I’m not giving you my number!”

His mouth curves, slow and knowing, like you’ve just said something amusing rather than defensive. “I have my ways.”

You stare at him, heart doing something deeply inconvenient in your chest. “That’s ominous.”

“Only if you plan on hiding,” he replies easily, eyes flicking to your bag where the card disappeared, then back to your face.

The silence stretches again, thicker now, charged with all the things neither of you are saying. You suddenly feel very aware of how close he still is, of how his attention hasn’t wavered once, like he’s already memorized the shape of this moment.

You straighten, clinging to composure like a life raft. “I should really go back,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the podcast area. “Before my friend sends a search party.”

He nods, stepping aside fully this time, the path clear at last. “I’ll be there,” he says. “Trying very hard not to look.”

You snort despite yourself, shaking your head as you move past him. “You’re terrible.”

“I’ve been told,” he replies, warm and unapologetic “But you’re beautiful.”

Low fucking blow!

As you walk away, if that's considered walking and not olympic speed run, you don’t look back. You refuse to. You focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on breathing normally, on pretending your pulse isn’t still fluttering under your skin and that you didn’t just get extremely turned on by just meeting lil old easy Bruce Wayne.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work // the second image in the banner is my own edit, do not steal!

A/N: You have no idea how funny this fic is to me, or how much fun i had writing it. The title gives me the giggles too, as it's a byproduct of one too many intagram reels watched. (If you liked this im gonna write smut for pt2 btw)

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

And there was nothing new about it. The sex, anyways. He enjoyed it. He liked the closeness, the heat, the release that felt both physical and mental. And, of course, he liked that it felt good.

So he wasn’t sure why all of a sudden it felt like his chest was being crushed.

It all happened too fast. One second his eyes were fixed on your, watching, hands firm on your hips, his breath steady, synced with yours like for just a moment the two of you were one. And then his breath stuttered. His throat felt like something had wrapped around it and pulled tight. The air felt thick, sticking like he was choking on molasses.

He blinked hard, trying to wipe it away, but it did nothing to put the room back in place, it only continued to blur around the edges. Your sounds – the pretty whimpers, and soft, breathy gasps of his name – sounded distant, like the sound was traveling through water to get to his ears.

It sounded far away. Too far away. Too far.

No, no, no —

He tried to force himself out of it, tried to force himself to think his way back to reality, to figure out why this was happening.

You’re home.

He latched onto the thought, mind digging its claws into it.

Apartment. Bedroom. Bed.

He could feel the sheets under his back, the weight of you on top of him, the smell of the room. He went through it all. Everything he could see, hear, smell, feel. The whole bit. None of it seemed to help.

No blood. No bruises. All my limbs.

His eyes darted down to your body, a quick, – an almost tactical assessment. And you were fine. No signs anything was wrong with you. No sign you were in pain, or in danger. Nothing was wrong. If anything, you seemed to be enjoying yourself. Completely unaware of what was going on in his mind and body. No fault of yours, of course.

She’s okay.

You’re okay.

So why did he feel like this ?

Was it because he had you on top ? No. That couldn’t have been it. He had you ride him all the time. He liked it. Very quickly it had become one of his favorite positions. Laying back and watching you use him to make yourself feel good, grabbing your hips to fuck into you when you got too tired.

He’d never had an issue with it before. He loved it.

His grip on your hips tightened before he realized it, nails digging a little too hard into the skin, leaving behind shallow half-moon shaped indents in the soft flesh. The sting made you flinch, small and sharp.

“Stop –”

The word tore from his throat, felt like it was dragging glass along the muscle and tissue inside it. He pressed down, slowing the roll of your hips against his.

“I need you to stop –”

The panic in his voice, the way it shook and cut through everything else, had you scrambling off him in an instant. No hesitation, no question. Just moving, leaving cold where your weight and warmth had been.

Jason stayed where he was, laying flat on his back, wide eyes fixed on the ceiling. His chest rose and fell too fast, each breath caught on the way in and burned on the way out. His body felt wrong, like it wasn’t really his anymore.

The room felt off, like it had gotten smaller and smaller around him.

“Jay …” Your voice was careful now.

He felt the mattress shift next to him as you moved, felt you get closer before he actually saw your hand reaching out towards him. And something in his chest spiked, his body moving before his mind could.

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could reach him. Too tight, he hadn’t meant it to be.

“Don’t –” He gripped on you loosened, but he didn’t let go, still holding you away. “Please don’t touch me right now.”

The request came out rough, but not angry. He wasn’t angry, he was scared. And his body had a bad habit of mixing the two up.

Confusion flickered over your face, your brows creasing, but you didn’t argue, didn’t push at him. You lowered your hand, bringing it back to rest in your lap.

“Are you okay ? Did I do something ?”

Jason only shook his head, the motion small and quick, and you weren’t sure which of your questions he was answering. He didn’t elaborate.

He forced himself to sit upright, dragging his hand down his face before pushing his sweat damp hair back off his forehead. His skin felt too tight, and every touch felt like he was being stabbed. Everything in and around him felt wrong.

He shifted to the edge of the bed, planting his feet against the carpet. His chest was still tight, breaths still burned, the world still felt small. He didn’t understand it.

“I need –” He swallowed hard, “I’m just … gonna go shower. Real quick.”

He didn’t wait for a response before getting up.

The lock on the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, followed by the sound of the running water.

He stepped in the shower before it had time to warm up, letting it hit him cold.

It helped.

A little.

For a second.

He pressed his forehead against the tile wall, letting the water run down his face and back. His heart was still racing, everything still felt too wrong, and too loud. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“What the hell ?”

He didn’t move to grab the soap, didn’t wash his hair. He didn’t do anything but stand there.

You’re safe.

He knew that. There was no threat, no danger. Nothing was happening, to him or to you. So why did he feel like there was, why was his body reacting like he was in some sort of crisis ?

Why did it feel like the world had him pinned down, stripped bare, with no way to get away —

His chest squeezed again.

He forced himself to breathe in, held it until his lungs burned, and let it out.

Again

Again

Again.

He’d never admit how long it took him to even out his breathing, to force the panic into something quieter. Not gone, not by a longshot. But quieter.

He still didn’t have an answer when he shut the water off.

He dried himself off quickly, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, tying them low around his hips. When he left the bathroom, hair still dripping onto his forehead, the bed was empty. For a second that made the panic feel sharp in his chest again.

Then he heard the quiet sounds of movement, the faint click of ceramic. He followed the sound down the hall to the kitchen. He found you at the counter, your back to him, dressed in a pair of soft underwear and a bra. Your hair was messy, shoulders relaxed in a way that showed him you weren’t upset.

You were just waiting. Always waiting.

Jason stepped up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back against him. His chin found your shoulder, taking its usual spot there.

You were making tea, and he could tell by the smell of it and the cup you were using that you were making it for him, not yourself. He watched your hands as you stirred honey into the cup, using that tiny spoon he always cracked jokes about. The one that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse, not a kitchen drawer.

You reached for the wooden salt jar next, stirring a pinch in with the same spoon. He remembered he cringed when you first showed him that. Now he can’t stand taking his tea any other way.

“‘M sorry …” He muttered against your cheek

Your free hand came up, fingers brushing against his jaw. It made his breath catch, softer this time. 

“No need to be sorry, Jaybie.” You assured him “Are you okay ?”

He shifted, tucking his face into the crook of your neck, pulling his shoulders in. A failed attempt to make himself smaller.

“Don’t know what happened” The admission made his mouth feel like it was full of sand and stones. “I’m sorry”

You didn’t rush to answer, letting the quiet linger comfortably as you finished his tea.

“It’s okay” You said gently, “You don’t need to know. Sometimes things just –”

“Don’t.” He didn’t mean to cut you off, and he didn’t mean to sound so snappy either. He forced himself to take a breath, forced his body to relax into yours before he tried again.

“I’m sorry. Just … Don’t do the feelings thing. I can’t –” He took another breath when he caught his tone again. “Just not right now.”

“Okay.” You nodded, “Habit.”

Apology.

Jason hummed against your skin.

Acceptance.

“Did you finish ?” He asked after a moment of quiet

“No.” You answered, no hesitation, no embarrassment or shame. Just a fact.

“But that’s okay.” You added, “I don’t need to finish every time”

Jason grunted against your skin, and that was enough to tell you that he did not agree with that statement.

“We can try again,” he suggested. But his tone was cautious, like he wasn’t quite sure.

And you picked up on that. Of course you did, it was how you were, how you’d always been.

You turned around in his arms, he raised his head to let you move, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours once you faced him.

“Hey …” Your hands came up, holding either side of his face between your palms. You tilted his head up until his eyes were on yours. It took more effort than he’d like to admit to hold them there.

“We don’t have to” You continued, “We can. But only if you’re okay.”

He was quiet for a while. Checking in with himself, his teeth biting into the skin inside his cheek as he thought it over.

He felt better. A little. Not good, but better

But there was still that lingering feeling. Something biting under his skin. There was a quiet squeezing in his chest still that hadn’t fully gone away, like a memory only his body seemed to remember, that his mind couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Maybe tomorrow ?” He whispered. He paused, letting out a soft, slow exhale. “Yeah … Yeah, maybe tomorrow.”

You smiled, bringing his face to yours to press a firm, gentle kiss against his cheek.