He roughly places them in the space in your work section that is filled with other unfinished projects for the agency. Projects from days ago that are yet to be completed. 

“These aren’t any good anymore,” he repeats the sentiment, crossing his arms. You don’t miss the annoyance layered on top of his voice or the subtle foot tapping against the ground. You’re all too used to it. 

You’ve been working for Dynamight and Red Riot’s agency as an engineer for three months now. At first, you almost couldn’t believe you were chosen to work for two of the top heroes in Japan. When you saw the email from their management team, you thought your eyes were deceiving you. Getting hired for their agency was already hard enough, considering Dynamight was quite picky with his employees. But by some miracle, out of all the applicants, he chose you. 

Excitement was an understatement. You were astounded to accept the job position. Working under talented heroes was all you’ve ever wanted. 

However, the moment you set foot into the agency, Dynamight made it his mission to make every part of your job more difficult. You weren’t sure what you did or said, but he had it out for you the first month on the job. He either rejected the designs you came up with or was never happy with them—always demanding a redo. 

Red Riot, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He was welcoming and charming. He never had any complaints whenever he came to you for touch-ups or requests. In fact, he was the only one who ever complimented your work. It’s too bad you don’t get to work with him more often since he’s assigned to another engineer in the agency, which leaves you with a boss (without a doubt) who hates you, and you don't even know why. 

You turn to Bakugou, crossing your arms against your chest. “How many times do I have to tell you to knock before you come in here? It’s a safety hazard.” 

He scoffs, “I don’t give a shit. I just want my gauntlets fixed. You gonna do your job or not, Gears?”

You were starting to think that maybe you two could potentially get along—that maybe you guys started on the wrong foot. Fucking wrong. 

Nothing has changed. He still barges into the workshop when he wants and demands gear with no ounce of respect. 

You’re never one to base a person’s personality without fully knowing them. It’s not like you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into when accepting the job offer. Everyone is aware of Dynamight’s brash and crude behaviour even before his debut as a Pro Hero. But that never wavered your decision. 

Except this time, you’re starting to think he hasn’t changed much from his 19-year-old self. 

“Just put ‘em over there.” You point to the growing support items on the workbench. “I gotta finish fixing Riot’s headgear first.” Another sigh escapes your lips as you run your fingers through your hair, turning back to your work. 

Bakugou’s eyebrows furrowed. “The hell? You aren’t even assigned to Ei. Why’re you doing work for him?” 

Thank god your back is to him because he certainly isn’t going to appreciate the look on your face right now. You stare up at the ceiling, bottling the anger stirring within you before facing him again. 

“First of all, I work for both of you,” you say firmly, “and second of all, I don’t know if you remember correctly, but Yamada took time off to be with his wife and newborn baby. And since we’re the only two in the support department, I had to take over his tasks as well.” So cut me some fucking slack, you want to say.

You try your best to hide your irritation as you’ve always done. You keep your mouth shut and curl into yourself to avoid unnecessary arguments between the two of you. But you’re almost at your breaking point, and Bakugou pushes it every time he visits the workshop. It wouldn’t be long until you would break and cuss him out. You aren’t going to, though. Hopefully.

He must’ve gotten the hint because Bakugou, unlike the many other instances, does not demand that you prioritize him first. Instead, he juts his bottom lip and clicks his tongue. 

“Whatever. Jus’ make sure you fix my gauntlets before my next patrol, ya hear?” 

Huh. No snarky remark. 

You nod. “Yes, sir.” 

He blankly stares at you, a thought behind his eyes wanting to be said, and you wait for it. You wait for the next few words that he will utter, but they never come. Bakugou turns on his heel with hands in the pockets of his hero suit and stomps away without another word. 

You return to the task at hand, but as you are about to pull down your welding helmet, Bakugou stops just by the door. He glances over his shoulder and shouts, “You got shit on your face.” 

The door then slams shut. 

Asshole. 

—

Bakugou’s next visit is not until a week later, when he comes to review the new designs for his hero suit. And as always, no knock or a simple hello. 

You peer up at him from your seat, nervously picking at your nails. He carefully studies the designs. There is no telling what he’s thinking. His expression is caught between a deep frown and lines engraved into his forehead. 

He tosses the papers down. 

Please like them. Please like them. Please—

“Don’t like ‘em.” 

“W-What?” You stand up, slamming your hands against the table. “Why not? It’s a complete upgrade from your old hero costume. I changed the material for better mobility and—”

“I never asked for any of that,” he snarls, “All I wanted were tweaks. You changed the entire thing.” 

“It needed more than a couple of tweaks,” you fire back, leaning into his space. “I don’t understand what the problem is. If you just—”

“I said no!” Bakugou shouts. His deep, maroon eyes stare at you with such intensity and irritation. The room suddenly grows tense and hot. He has never raised his voice so much till now. You look back at him, startled. (His hands curl into tight fists. The more he regards your expression—the hurt—the more regret eggs on him.) “Want them altered before Monday. Bring ‘em to my office when ‘yer done.” 

On his way out the door, he bumps into Kirishima, who greets him with nothing but a toothy grin. “Hey, man—”

“Move it, Shitty hair,” Bakugou sneers, colliding shoulders with him. 

The redhead stays glued to the spot. His gaze follows Bakugou’s figure, confusion plaguing his face. “Uhh, what’s up with Kat?” He shot a thumb over his shoulder as he sauntered to your workbench.  

You groan and hide your head within your arms. “Same thing as usual. Yelled at me and told me to redo everything.” 

“Again?” 

“Yes!” you exasperate, head shooting up. “Again. I don’t know what I did wrong—why he hates me so much.” 

“He doesn’t.” 

“He does.” 

Kirishima’s lips press together, sympathy flickering within him. He sits down in the extra stool next to you. 

“If he did, he would’ve fired you by now, or never hired you in the first place,” he consoles. 

But that’s it—you don’t know why he’s keeping you for this long. If he truly sees something in you, why treat you this way? Why pick a fight and grind your gears? You’ve seen the way he is towards the other employees in the building. He greets the front secretary every morning, even if it is grouchy. His discussions with his assistant are far more civil. Hell, he’s starting to get along with his PR manager despite being a total nightmare. So why is it that he can’t find a moment of peace with you? 

“I’m starting to question my job.” 

“I can assure you that you’re doin’ amazing.” Kirishima places a hand on your shoulder. “Should’ve seen our last engineer. He didn’t even last a week.” 

“I’ve been told.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs, “I tried convincing him to let him stay, but you know him.” 

Yeah, you did. You probably know him more than he knows you. The last few months have allowed you to gather every single tick of Bakugou’s—when to stop before he goes over the edge. You’ve gotten a glance at who he is. (And maybe, you’re starting to think the media held some truth to his character, whether you like it or not.) 

“I’m doomed,” you groan again. 

“Let me try talking to him.” He squeezes your shoulder. 

You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. Seriously.”  

“No, I will. I’m gonna talk to him, alright?” he says softly. “Katsuki’s a good guy. He just says a lot of things outta anger—but he’s been trying to be better over the years. N-Not that I’m trying to excuse his behaviour or anything—” 

“I know.” Unlike his sheepish smile, yours is forced. “Thank you.” 

His expression brightens. “Any time. I’m sure he’ll come around, I guess, when he’s ready.” 

“I’ll be six feet under by then,” you joke. 

“Okay, maybe.” 

You both lightheartedly laugh. 

The conversation is abandoned and shifts to work-related things. It’s smoother and easier than what you are left to deal with when it comes to Bakugou. It makes you feel bitter. But a speck of hope remains as you hold tight onto Kirishima’s words. 

He’ll come around. 

—

The sun is just setting, meeting the horizon and shining into the agency. Kirishima and Bakugou’s sidekicks were excused for the rest of the day, and the building is almost vacant. 

Kirishima enters Bakugou’s office despite knocking and receiving no answer. He knows the blonde stays after hours. Talk about a workaholic. 

“What is it?” Bakugou didn’t look away from his computer screen. He continues, chewing the inside of his cheek. He’s in his typical, everyday clothes. Black eyeliner is still smudged around the corners of his eyes, though. 

Kirishima’s back meets the door once it is fully closed. He stands silent for a moment. Bakugou side-eyes him. 

“Spit it—” 

“Could you not give her such a hard time?” 

“The hell are you talking ab—” Then it clicks. “Oh. Gears.” 

“Do you even know her name?” Kirishima lowers his shoulders. 

“Don’t remember.” He lets out an annoyed breath, gaze averted back to his screen. Busy. “That’s what ‘yer here for? Her?” 

The other hero walks up to his desk, hovering over him. “I’m just confused.” 

“Nothin’ new.” 

Kirishima rolls his eyes. “I’m being serious. What’s your deal with her?” he asks, “The first few weeks were fine. But this past month—I don’t wanna say this but, you’ve been an ass.” He tries reading Bakugou, anything that will give him a clue to what is going on inside that brain of his. But no matter how hard he looks into his magnifying glass, he can’t find anything. After years of being friends, he still can’t fully break down the walls that keep Bakugou so guarded. “I get that our last—”

“That idiot wasn’t doing his damn job.” Bakugou abruptly rises from his chair. He circles the desk, reaching for the filing cabinet across the room. “He needed to go.”

“I am well aware,” he replies unwaveringly. He needs to stop being lenient. “But she is.” 

Bakugou slams the cabinet shut. Hard. “You think I don’t know that?” he snaps. He returns to his seat, a new folder right beside his keyboard. 

“Why are you being so difficult then?” 

“How else is she gonna learn if I’m bein’ too easy on her, huh?” 

The redhead stills. So that’s what it is. He should have known that behind every action, every word said—is a reason. Bakugou is not someone who did things on unwarranted grounds. However, his methods are… questionable, but he understands them. Kirishima is relieved. 

He surrenders, falling back onto one of the two chairs in front of Bakugou’s desk. His mouth opens, about to continue on, but then his words fall short when he catches Bakugou’s expression. 

Under the bright fluorescent lights, Kirishima depicts the dust of pink on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Bakugou seems to be unbeknownst to his own reaction because he remains laser-focused on his work. 

The lightbulb in Kirishima’s head turns on. 

Wait a second…

“Um, bro?” he asks, teetering carefully. 

“What?” 

“Do you… like her?” 

Bakugou flushes red. He snaps his head in Kirishima’s direction, eyes widening. “I—What the fuck are you talking about!” he stammers.

Holy shit. Kirishima can’t believe he’s stumbling on his own words. In his 7 years of knowing him, he never did such a thing. Until now. 

“You don't have to hide these things from me, you know? You can talk to me about anything.”

“For fuck’s sake—I don’t like Gears.” 

“It’s okay if you—”

“I don’t!” Bakugou hits a fist on his desk, the impact shaking items out of place. Steam is coming out of his head. 

Kirishima throws his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay—understood,” he chuckles, “but seriously, I don’t think—”

“Drop. It.” 

Yup, not going there. 

“Fine.” He rises from his seat, returning to his full height. “But we’re talking about this sooner or later, whether you like it or not.” 

“Get the fuck out of my office before—”

“—You kill me,” Kirishima finishes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Could you, just, please try with her? You know, get along?” 

“Tch.” Bakugou snaps his chin in the other direction. “Whatever.” 

“Thanks,” he replies. “Okay, see you tomorrow mornin’ then!” 

Kirishima closes the door behind him. With a moment to himself, he couldn’t suppress his cheeky grin any longer. 

Despite Bakugou denying the fact, deep down, Kirishima knows something’s there. He saw it in the way his best friend reacted—so unlike himself. He would’ve brushed him off, told him how stupid he sounded. But he didn’t.   

As Kirishima makes his way out of the building, he thinks about the following days to come and the anticipation of them unfolding excites him. 

—

You come knocking at Bakugou’s office door on Sunday afternoon. 

“You’re late,” he utters the second you walk in. Not a moment to waste. 

Your eyebrows furrow, glancing at the watch around your wrist. 

Bakugou is many things and alongside demanding, impatient is another. 

5:37 PM. 

Shit, he is right. You were supposed to be here seven minutes ago. 

Gulping, you return your gaze to his awfully calm demeanour. Relaxed. That made you uneasy. If he isn’t his usual explosive self, his quietness only troubles you even more. “I’m sorry. I got held back—”

“The designs,” Bakugou interrupts, not caring about the excuse. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. He looks at you with an amount of focus that makes your body go warm. “You have them?” 

“Yes,” you say a little bit too eagerly, “I do.” 

You lay the prints on the edge of his desk. His biceps ease as he reaches for them quietly. He sifts through the several pages, discerning them. His forehead creases and a small pout forms on his lips. 

The silence that settles around the room is nerve-wracking. Your inner thoughts are a beckoning echo as you watch for any indications of disapproval in Bakugou’s face or body language. So far, nothing. 

Your eyes wander down his figure thoughtlessly. He’s wearing a casual black tee today. A regular article in his rotation of clothing, any time he isn’t on patrol, you notice. Moving on, you land on his biceps and go full stop. 

It is no secret that the man is ripped. He’s all muscle from head to toe. Bakugou prides himself on his ability to stay fit and consistent. He makes it known as well and has no shame in showing off. His fans fucking love it and although you hated to admit it, you can’t help but stare too. 

Biceps to be exact—Dynamight’s pair of nice, defined biceps that have scars lingering in every inch of his skin. 

“You done starin’?” 

Oh, fuck. 

He caught you ogling him. Oh my God. Your boss caught you checking him out, fucking idiot. 

“I wasn’t,” your voice a pitch higher. Real convincing. 

He raises an eyebrow at you. He’s totally calling you out on your bullshit. You don’t feed into it, though. You stay composed, almost unbothered, even though you don’t want anything more than to just dig a hole and call it your funeral right now. 

Thankfully, he lets it go and tosses the designs back into the corner you placed them in. “Better,” he says.

You release a breath. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he reaffirms, “think you can start this week?” 

“Definitely.” 

“Good.” He nods, diverting his attention to his computer monitor. 

“Should I let you know when I want measurements done?” you ask. 

“You have my number.” 

“Great. I’ll text you then.” 

You grab the designs and turn your back to him, finally letting your face fall. Relief washes over you, heartbeat returning to its regular pace. 

“Gears,” Bakugou calls out. 

You’re halfway through the door at this point. Your grip on the doorknob tightens as you wince at the nickname. Slowly turning on your heel, you mutter, “Yes?” 

You brace yourself, expecting him to chew you out for something uncalled for. Except—

“Good work.” 

A beat passes. 

The words come out in a low gruff. They feel incredibly out of place on his tongue—unnatural. 

You’re rooted to the spot between his office and the hallway that was a step away. Your trust in your own hearing is wavering. You can’t believe it. For the first time since your employment, your boss praised you. It’s unsettling. 

Even so, you can't ignore the warmth fluttering in your chest. His validation feels good. You readjust your posture, standing straighter. Taller. 

“Of course,” you softly say.

His office door clicks shut as you step outside. The brief moment leaves you questioning Bakugou and his behaviour; you can’t quite pinpoint it. But if one thing is for certain, it is that you left that office beaming with a new sense of motivation that moved you. 

–

You (12:29 PM): Measurements. 3:00 PM tomorrow?  Dynamight (12:29 PM): Meeting at 3.  You (12:30 PM): Thursday @ 3 then?  Dynamight (12:34 PM): K. 

–

You (12:35 PM): Hey, any possible chance I could steal you for 10 mins on Thursday? You (12:35 PM): Need measurements for you and Mr. Bossy Kirishima (1:02 PM): hey! Kirishima (1:02 PM): sorry for late response on patrol haha You (1:03 PM): No worries! I’m sure you’re busy. Everything going good out there? Kirishima (1:06 PM): yeah!  Kirishima (1:06 PM): i just helped a kid grab his cat down from a tree  Kirishima (1:07 PM): (Kirishima attached IMG_0074.png) You (1:08 PM): Omg you guys are adorable (Kirishima liked your message)  Kirishima (1:08 PM): really sweet kid Kirishima (1:09 PM): what time did you want me at the workshop? You (1:11 PM): Around 3?  Kirishima (1:12 PM): any possible chance i could swing by 2:40 ish? Kirishima (1:12 PM): im patrolling with midoriya at 3 You (1:12 PM): Yeah! Shouldn’t be a problem :) Kirishima (1:13 PM): awesome!  (You liked Kirishima’s messaged) 

–

“Hey!” Kirishima exclaims. He greets you with a boyish grin as he makes his way towards you. 

He sure is in a good mood. 

“Hey!” You give back the smile. “Thanks for coming. This really shouldn’t take long.” 

“Of course,” he chirps, “always happy to help.” Good grief. He is so sweet. It’s no wonder he’s ridiculously popular right now. Unlike someone. 

“Where do you want me?” Kirishima asks, surveying your workspace, which is a complete mess. 

It’s not like you’re afraid of being judged. With Kirishima, especially, he wouldn’t, but it’s evident you’ve been stressed this past week. There are materials and several blueprints scattered all over your workbench. Cluttered in some corners, even. It’s painted on your face too; dark circles under your eyes and your untamed ponytail. You’re sure he wouldn’t miss it either. 

“Here is fine.” You tug on his arm, guiding him away from the mess and towards a less crowded area. 

He stays put. “Want me to get rid of my gear?” 

You pause and think about it. Now that you’re studying his hero costume and considering it, his shoulder pads would be in the way when you measure his arms later on. 

You dip your chin. “Yes, if you don’t mind.” 

“Off they go then,” he chuckles.

You set aside the shoulder pads once they were fully off, leaving him in the bottom half of his costume and shirtless. 

“Okay hero, arms out.” You stretch the measuring tape. 

Kirishima is a good listener; throughout the entire process, he follows your directions without any trouble. He fills the silence with light conversation in which you indulge. He bounces from Todoroki’s—Pro Hero Shouto—upcoming Calvin Klein photoshoot that he is looking forward to and the children at the community center he’s volunteering at with Cellophane and Chargebolt. 

You’re about done with the last segments of his measurements when Pro Hero Dynamight strolls in with hands in his pockets and, of course, without knocking. 

You quickly glance at your watch and read 2:50 PM. 

Both of you agreed to 3 o’clock and yet, he’s 10 minutes early. 

“Hey, man!” Kirishima shouts, unfazed. “How was patrol?” 

“Fine,” he replies dryly. He sinks down in your stool, spreading his legs wide and resting his elbows back on the workbench. Like he claims your work area as his. 

“You’re gettin’ your measurements done too?” 

A glare lands on you and lingers there for a while. You’ve picked up on Bakugou’s staring problem a week into the job and even got used to the odd amount of eye contact he makes with you. You’re accustomed to it by now, but there are times you falter and stray from it. You let him win. 

He shifts his glare to Kirishima. “Yeah,” he says. Then he glances back at you, a frown pulling his mouth downwards. A dark, grey cloud roams over his head. He stares as if you’ve… betrayed him somehow. (You tilt your head, beckoning a what? But instead of answering, he averts his attention to the mess around him. Definitely judging. You sigh.)

Kirishima promptly leaves after you collect everything you need from him. You write his measurements down on a list, prepared for Yamada when he returns from his temporary leave. 

“Okay.” You clap as you spin to face Bakugou. “Your turn.” 

You catch the fucking finally he mutters under his breath. He stands up from his seat, acting like he had sat there for a century, which he hadn’t. It was merely 2 minutes. 

“This gonna take long?” he grumbles. He saunters over to where Kirishima had been previously. He reluctantly drops his arms by his sides. 

“Nope!” You step in front of him. It’s then that you finally take in the height difference the two of you share. You practically have to tip your head up at him. 

He rolls his shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.” 

You start with the lower portion of his body and make your way up. Compared to Kirishima, who was compliant and still, Bakugou is a fussy one. He can’t stay still or stop complaining for a second. You try your best to speed up the process so the two of you don't have to suffer for much longer. 

You approach the last bit of the measurements. All you need now are his arms, shoulders, chest, and hands. 

For the first time during the session, you touch him. His entire body stiffens. “Sorry. Could you just—” You gesture to his heavy arms, placing your fingers under his wrist. Lift, please? He complies. “—Thanks.” 

You drag the bright, yellow tape from his hands to the tips of his shoulders. Your skin grazes his every now and then. You feel every muscle and sharp curve. You are well aware of the proximity and how the distance grows smaller and smaller as time passes. You’re also aware of a pair of ruby eyes directed right at you. In your head, a quiet voice repeats whatever you do, don’t look back. 

You, in fact, do look back. 

Fuck. No, you are completely staring back.  

He’s hypnotizing. You instantly get sucked up and don't find yourself diverting your gaze. 

And then he has the audacity to give you that look. The look that isn’t typically laced with hidden annoyance or anger. But the look he gave you when you were explaining the outlines to him this one time, thinking you wouldn’t notice, but you had. The same look you had shared just moments ago when he arrived unannounced, except without the supposed betrayal behind it. 

You inhale sharply. Blood rushes to your cheeks and the tips of your fingernails dance lightly on Bakugou’s skin. 

You surely thought by then, he’s going to be the first to pull away—the first to reassert where you and he stand with one another.

You blink, anticipating that very thing. 

He doesn’t, though. 

Instead, his chest heaves and you watch as he bounces between your lips and eyes. (Unbeknownst to you, his free arm—the one by his side—inches. His fingers slowly latch apart, finding their feeling again. His movements are careful. Hesitant. His index stretches, but doesn’t even scratch the surface of you—even though he wants to reach out. He halts, fisting his hand once more.) 

He clears his throat. You’re suddenly hit with reality and the weight of the situation. You stumble back. 

“I—Um.” You rack your brain for the words. God, why can’t you remember the fucking words? You wipe your sweaty palms against your pants. “I think we’re done.” 

(You aren’t.) 

His jaw clenches. “‘Bout time.” 

You nod. Something both of you can agree on. 

“Your costume will be ready by the end of the month,” you say, “I’ll text you.” 

Bakugou cranes his neck and… is that a pout? You can’t tell from where you’re standing since his head is turned, refusing to look your direction, it seems. Whatever. Doesn’t matter anyway. 

He leaves the workshop the same way he entered: unannounced and grumpy. You wait till he rounds the corner and is fully out of sight to slump over your workbench, elbows meeting the surface, catching yourself. 

–

Bakugou has made an unusual number of visits to the workshop these past few days, and for the following reasons: (1) Gears, want this fixed, (2) I want something that’ll make shit go, (3) to check up on his new suit. 

You’re not complaining or anything. It’s your job after all and you like being kept busy. However, his visits were so random. He’s made more visits this week than he has in months. Not only that (you could be imagining this, but), he hasn’t tried picking a fight with you or found something to moan about. 

Maybe Kirishima had sorted things out with him. 

Whatever happened, you were able to focus and efficiently finish the requested support items for the agency much more quickly. Plus, Yamada finally came back on Saturday morning, showing off cute photos of his newborn baby to you during lunch break. A girl, he gushed. 

He caught himself up with the current tasks in the department, which took half the workload off your shoulders. He collected Red Riot’s measurements from you and went back to being his personal engineer—no longer yours, just Bakugou’s. 

Well, sort of. 

You’re in the middle of mending two pieces of metal when Yamada taps you on the shoulder. You stop, lift your welding helmet, and spin around in your swivel stool. “What’s up?” 

“Hey, so sorry to bother you, but is it okay if you hand this to Red Riot?” He gestures to the series of forms in his hands. “I forgot to give them when I saw him this morning and I would do it myself, except I gotta run and grab materials for his suit.” 

“Oh yeah, of course.” You wave him off. “Don’t even worry. I’ll go and give these to him now.” 

His shoulders relax. “Thank you so much. I owe you one.” 

The fifth floor of the agency is busier than any other floor. You aren’t used to it since you’re holed up on the seventh and rarely step into either Bakugou or Kirishima’s offices. 

When the elevator dings and you step out of the lift, you note that you stick out like a sore thumb in your dirty black tank top and pants. Everyone up here is either in business casual or in their own hero suits. 

In the distance, you spot Bakugou’s assistant, Nishimura, and her heels clicking behind her. She’s preoccupied with her own set of papers in front of her, flipping through them swiftly. She peers up for a second and her expression relaxes when she sees you. As you pass by one another, you two share a smile. 

You approach Kirishima’s office, which is right across the hall from Bakugou’s. The door and window blinds are shut, but you knock and wait anyway. You study the miniature whiteboard hung on the door, with a black dry-erase marker and eraser attached to it. There are a few messages that you know the respective handwritings belong to. 

Be as manly as you can be!!! Written on a whim by Kirishima. 

Meeting at 4 instead of 2. PR manager. 

New gear in! Yamada from weeks ago. 

DIE. His truly, Dynamight. 

You laugh at how much space his message takes on the board, overlapping with some of the other ones. 

“Whaddya need?” 

You squeak, shoulders jumping. You're quick to whip around and the first thing you come face-to-face with is Bakugou’s chest. He’s in his hero suit today, mask pushed back, flattening his unruly blonde hair and revealing his forehead. It’s your first time seeing him like this. (Kinda cute.)

Then you notice the lollipop stuck in the corner of his mouth. Another first. 

You didn’t peg him as someone with a sweet tooth. 

You realize you’ve kept his question up in the air when his brow twitches. Recollecting yourself, you say, “Kirishima. I need to hand these to him.” You hold up the forms. 

(He frowns at the sound of Kirishima’s name easily escaping from your lips. He wonders when the hell you two got so close to being on last name biases.) 

He pops the lollipop from his mouth, glistening in saliva. Cherry flavoured. “Ain’t here,” he grumbles. Lollipop back in. “Out on his lunch break.” 

“Ah.” Makes sense. You glance down at the papers in your hands, flickering back at him right after. You tug on your bottom lip. “You wouldn’t mind if you…” 

He rolls his eyes because he already knows what you’re about to say. He doesn’t let you finish your sentence and steals the forms from you instead. A grin sneakily crawls on your face. “Thank you, sir.” 

He glowers. “Drop the sir crap. Jus’ call me by my family name.” 

It leaves you momentarily speechless. Absolutely off guard. The idea of addressing him as anything other than sir or his hero name feels wrong. But it really shouldn’t. Addressing someone by their family name is completely normal and standard in Japan. You’ve done it your entire life when calling out to your peers, friends, and colleagues. This isn’t any different. 

(Except it is. It’s different because it’s him. You would be stepping into a part of his personal life—one that hasn’t been explored before. And the two of you do not dabble in each other’s lives outside of work. Outside discussions of gear and suits.)

“Okay… then you have to stop calling me Gears.” 

“Don’t think so.” 

“W-What!” you blurt, which earns you a couple of stares. “That isn’t fair.” 

“Like hell it isn’t,” he scoffs. His tongue circles his red lollipop, sliding across and landing in the opposite corner. “I get to call you whatever I want.” 

“Well, I don’t like it.” You sound like a child complaining about the vegetables on their dinner plate. 

But Bakugou is amused by it. He has no shame in scanning you up and down, soaking up your improper attire and sweaty skin. In fact, he goes on longer just—lingering. 

He looms slightly forward, whispering, “Too bad. Deal wit’ it, sweetheart.” 

A sudden prickly, warm sensation rises from your neck. The pet name rolls off the tip of his tongue well. Too well. He tries to hide the smirk after seeing your reaction. 

“Fine.” Your teeth grit. “Then I’m still gonna call you sir, sir.” 

“Not happenin’—” 

“Won’t you look at that!” Another voice emerges. Both your heads steer in the direction it's coming from. A big head of red comes into view. Bakugou mumbles fucking Ei. “Why isn’t it my two favourite pe—”

“Do you mind?” Bakugou sneers. “‘Yer disturbin’ everyone around you.” 

“Oops.” Kirishima scratches the back of his head, slowing down his pace. “That’s my bad.” 

The blonde shakes his head and quietly curses something along the lines of unbelievable. He returns your space as the idiot to his left squeezes himself in. Whatever was there moments ago had popped. 

Kirishima watches as the carpet floor seems to pique your interest all of a sudden and his best friend’s mood turns sour. 

“Am I interrupting something?” The question is mostly directed towards Bakugou. It’s not apologetic, though, but rather almost teasing. He grins at him innocently. 

Bakugou tchs and slams the forms against his chest. Kirishima catches them before they can spill out. Both of you follow his figure as he stomps into his office and the door thuds. 

“What just happened?” he asks you now. 

Your gaze resides at Bakugou’s shut office and the picture in your head of the upset expression on his face, asking yourself the same thing. 

—

The following days are especially busy with the adjustments and the due date for Dynamight’s hero suit coming up. 

The time is nearing midnight and the atmosphere in the workshop grows slow and soft. You’ve been so ridiculously busy that you lost track of time. Yamada had already left and bid you goodbye mid-conversation with his wife on the phone. 

You rub at your eyes tiredly, letting out a yawn. A sequence of them follows after that. You’re starting to feel the weight behind your eyelids. 

You shake your head. No! I need to finish this before I… go home…

The world goes dark. 

You aren’t sure how long you doze off for, but the next thing you know, you are roused abruptly and a pair of strong hands are on your shoulder blades. A pretty face in front of you, too. 

“Oi, Gears!” he shouts, “You awake?” 

Your groggy state only allows you to discern his messy blonde hair and ruby eyes (you like so much) to know it’s Bakugou. There’s no mistaking it’s him. Carefully, you raise your head and scan your surroundings. 

“Sir—I, what are you doing here?” 

He groans, “told you to stop with the sir bullcrap and—I was headin’ out.” 

(That doesn’t explain why you're here, you want to say.) 

“Mm,” you hum, “that’s nice.” 

Bakugou looks at you like you’re some sort of child again. A child who’s been robbed of their nap unjustifiably. Not that you were nodding off—just taking a break. Yeah, a small break. 

“D’you even know what time it is?” You peer up to the ceiling for an answer. But his patience runs thin and tells you, “it’s one in the mornin’.” 

You deflate. “Oh.” 

“Go home.” 

“No, I can’t.” You scavenge for your tools, lost somewhere on your desk after nodding off. Where is it? “I need to finish your costume and—” 

Bakugou grabs your wrist, steadying you. He forces you to pay attention to him and stop what you’re doing. “Go home,” he commands and ensures there’s no room for you to object. He means it. “I’ll drive.” 

You immediately sit up. “Oh no, that’s okay. I—” 

 “‘M driving you home,” he states again, grip tightening, “do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes, sir.” You gulp. 

He scowls at the sir, but he’s too exhausted to fight with you on it. He settles and jingles his car keys out of his pocket. “Get up. ‘M not dragging your ass down to the parking lot.” 

As much as you hate it, you listen and follow him to the elevator that leads to the basement floor. You’re hesitant when you enter his car because, well, it’s a fucking Porsche. The interior is designed in black leather and fancy technology that you don’t even want to begin explaining. To say you feel out of place is an understatement. 

Bakugou turns the engine on, releasing a smooth rumble. (You turn stiff as a board when he leans in and an arm comes around your seat, reversing out of his parking spot. You can smell the amber cologne that radiates off of him. Suddenly, you’re really interested in the material used for this car.) 

He passes you his phone and tells you to punch in your address. From the agency to your apartment is a 20-minute drive. 

“I could’ve taken the train home.” You exhale. 

He props his elbow on the window, leaving one hand on the steering wheel. “I’m aware.” 

“You still offered to drive me home.”

“And you’re still complainin’.” 

“I just didn’t—” You sink into your seat. “—wanna be an inconvenience.” 

Bakugou goes quiet now, disappearing into the same stillness that Masutafu holds. He taps his fingers against the wheel. (He’s contemplating—what to say to you. He finds it hard with you, especially. He never knows what to say because he doesn’t want to fuck it up.) 

“It’s on the way to my place,” he says, “‘S not a big deal.” 

(It’s not. His apartment is on the other side of the city, but he isn’t going to tell you that.)  

Still, you feel bad—or maybe it’s the fact that this is completely awkward. Catching a ride from Bakugou feels like a friend thing, something he’d do for his close circle. 

You are neither of those things. But you wonder what it would be like. 

You have seen the many sides to Bakugou. You’ve seen his heroic side on the news after every major victory; you’ve seen him in work mode, buried in his own pile of paperwork (which he bitches about); and you’ve caught glimpses of his calm and collected side, which many do not know. Tonight, you are beginning to think you are unravelling a new one. 

He switches the radio on to fill in the in-betweens that the two of you don’t seem to take up. He’s surprisingly not picky and settles for the first one that plays. Bakugou continues to drum his fingers and stare into traffic. 

(You inch closer to the window, wanting that distance again. He notices.) 

“You cold?” 

You turn your head, blinking at him. “Oh. Um, no. I’m fine.” 

A beat passes.

Then another. 

(You are far too focused on everything else but him that you miss his watchful eye. He admires the way you crane your neck to get a better look at the stars. He opens his mouth but fails to utter a single word. Bakugou tries again; fails once more. His knuckles turn white, teeth grinding.)

“You—” he clears his throat, catching your attention. All eyes are on him now. (He hides this well: you make him nervous). “You’re not shit.” 

You squint. “Thanks?” 

“That’s not—fucking hell—” He scratches the back of his head, irritated. “Not what I meant. Not what I wanted to say.” You give him a moment to collect himself and his thoughts. He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. He exhales. “M’sorry for bein’ an asshole.” 

That isn’t what you were expecting. Your heart beat steadies as you listen. 

“Wasn’t fair to you,” he goes on. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you. Jus’ tryna do your job. I see that now. M’sorry.” 

His sincerity doesn’t go amiss. His apology touches something inside of you. You want to ignore the flutter in your chest. 

You muster up the courage and throw a small smile in his direction. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, “I appreciate it.” 

Bakugou gets you home safe and sound. He parks right outside the apartment, the engine humming low. No one moves an inch. The two of you sit there quietly, waiting on who’ll make the first move. 

Too bad you can’t keep your mouth shut and say, “Well, this is me.”

“Yeah.” 

“Thanks for going out of your way to do this.” 

“Told you already, your place was on the way.” (Yeah fucking right.) 

You shrug. “Doesn’t make me feel any less guilty.” 

“Well, quit it.” He scowls. “Don’t make this weird.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t start with that either.”

“S—”

“Gears.” 

“It’s a reflex!” 

“Jus’ get out of the damn car.” He waves you off and you chuckle in return, shaking your head. 

“Yes, sir.” You step outside the passenger seat, but linger and poke your head in one last time. You grace him with a smile that stretches across your face. “See you tomorrow, Bakugou.” 

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah, whatever. See ya.” 

Your gaze follows his car as he disappears around the corner, leaving you on the sidewalk with a million thoughts running through your head. Your hand grabs at your chest, feeling the perpetual thud of your heart. 

For a long while, standing under the lit sky, you think about the numerous sides to Dynamight—to Bakugou. 

(And maybe, you’re starting to think the media held some truth to his character, whether you like it or not.

You were wrong. To the contrary belief, Bakugou is fully capable of not being an asshole. Tonight, he cracked open a door for you. A small glimpse of the world he lives in that is completely off limits to the rest of society. You like this side that you were starting to learn more and more about—that subtle kindness he tries too hard to hide. 

You want to know the person behind the crude behaviour and big gauntlets.) 

–

You (1:43 AM): Thank you for the ride home Dynamight (1:43 AM): It was nothing  You (1:43 AM): Still, I really did appreciate it You (1:43 AM): And the apology  Dynamight (1:44 AM): It’s the right thing to do, ain’t it?  You (1:44 AM): Yeah You (1:44 AM): So does this mean we’re good?  Dynamight (1:44 AM): Yeah Dynamight (1:45 AM): We’re good  You (1:45 AM): No more calling me Gears then? Dynamight (1:45 AM): No You (1:45 AM): Fine You (1:45 AM): I tried  Dynamight (1:46 AM): Clearly not hard enough  You (1:46 AM): 👎 Read 1:46 AM. 

You (1:58 AM): Goodnight Bakugou Dynamight (1:58 AM): Night Gears (You liked Dynamight’s message)

–

It was safe to say that Bakugou was exhilarated about the suit you designed for him. Not that he said anything out loud, but his blissful grin and confidence were all you needed to know he was content about it. 

And thank fuck. You were at constant war with yourself the entire month, trying to perfect every single detail. You pulled a couple more late nights (in which Bakugou interfered many times and drove you home on those occasions. He lectured you in the car, saying, gotta take care of yourself. You tried not reading too much into it.) and your hard work paid off. 

He told you the same good work he said back in his office that day. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing it. 

–

Something’s shifted between you and Bakugou. It’s a subtle one, but it’s clear that your dynamic has changed. Both of you indulge in banter and you entertain the little comments he spits at you. 

For instance, his visit on Tuesday afternoon. 

You had just gotten off your lunch break, so it was probably around 3 PM. There was a knock at the door. 

“Come in!” you yelled over the loud noises in the workshop. Metals clanging and the rhythmic hammering of steel. 

A tall, toned figure emerged from the doorway, sauntering in. You paused and raised your welding helmet. 

“You knocked?” you uttered in disbelief. 

Bakugou scowled. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You never knock.” 

“Ain’t a big deal.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back on your desk. 

(Oh, but it was. For you at least.) 

Dismissing him, you moved around him, sorting through tool boxes and drawers for materials. Still messy and in a disarray. You act as if Bakugou wasn’t even present at the moment. Like he wasn’t watching you like a hawk. Watching your every move. 

Maybe you should’ve asked him what he was doing here in the first place. But you hadn’t because, unlike him, you’re patient. 

“You ever plan on cleaning this place?” Bakugou said with his voice laced in disgust. He scanned his surroundings, scrunching his nose. “‘S a fuckin’ mess in here.” 

“Don’t you have paperwork to be doing?” you bit back. 

“Don’t you got gear to be fixin’?” 

You spun to face him. While you narrowed your gaze at him, he returned a teasing smirk. He knew he won. 

Scoffing, you wandered to the spot beside him and reached for your to-do list. As you jotted notes down, you mumbled, “What do you want? Have something for me to fix?” 

“No. M’gear’s fine.” 

“What is it the—ugh, no. Don’t tell me you’re here to complain about something again.” 

His posture went rigid. “Dammit, I just said—” he groaned, “no. And I don’t fucking whine about shit.” 

“Yeah, you do actually.” 

“‘Yer askin’ to be fired.” 

“Would be doing me a favour actually.”

“That’s it!” 

He chased after you as he spewed out profanities and threats, which only made you laugh even further. Yamada observed from the corner of his workspace, grinning to himself. He wiped it off as soon as Bakugou noticed. He instantly returned to his work. 

Then today. Friday. 

Both of you are alone in the workshop. He keeps you company as you do work—a stool pulled up next to you, just watching. He’s eerily quiet. 

It’s difficult to zone in on the task in front of you, especially with the careful gaze on you. You feel like you’ve been put under a microscope. Sweat rolls down your temple. You pretend it doesn't bother you (or the fact that your heart beats a pace faster than the last). 

“Not that I don’t mind the company,” you say half-distracted, “but you’ve been coming up here more frequently.” 

Under the table, he spreads his legs wider. His knee jerks and touches yours. 

“What, ya keeping tabs on me now?” 

“Just a simple observation.” 

His tongue clicks. “Yeah, a fuckin’ stupid one.” 

“I’m just saying—” You grab the wrench. “—I feel like I’m seeing you almost every day.” 

Bakugou twists his mouth to one side and squints at you. “Well, no shit. You work for me.” 

You fall silent for a brief moment as you focus on fastening a bolt. After a try, you continue. “I know that but…” You slightly shift your body so you face him directly. “I don’t know, it’s just, uh, I thought you’d be busy doing hero work an’ stuff.” 

From the corner of your eyes, you see that he’s about to open his mouth to say something, yet pauses. He momentarily thinks. 

“Never heard you complain a damn thing about Ei visiting.” 

You halt. 

What? 

Confusion settles in your gaze now, completely taken aback. He stares at you carefully and deeply, like he’s trying to ensure his very words never leave. He moves closer. Your legs begin to split apart as he invades your space. You gulp. 

“I’m not complaining that you’re visiting.” 

“Sounds like it.” 

“It’s different with him.”

“Oh yeah? What, is it some dumb crush then?”

“What? No!” you peep, “We’re friends.” 

You’re not sure what could have possibly made him think that. You have never thought of Kirishima that way. Your relationship with him is strictly platonic. Sure, he does make those occasional visits to the workshop in his free time, but not for the reasons he thinks they are. 

(He knows that. Doesn’t he?)

A cloud of doubt hangs over Bakugou’s head. “You sure ‘bout that?” 

“Yes, I am.” You drop the wrench on the table. You cross your arms, studying him. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t.”

“Hm. Kinda sounds like you're jealous.” 

That sends him over the edge. He inches slowly and closes the distance. In moments like these, you have learned not to shy away from him because you know he’ll push and tug harder. It’s just who he is; never one to back down from a challenge, especially if he is determined to see it through. 

“And what if I am? What’re you gonna do ‘bout it?” He looks at you—like, seriously looks at you. You realize that his words are buried in truth. It’s embarrassing how quick it is for your hard exterior crumbles to dust from a single look. But maybe he’s had that effect on you all this time. 

The ambiance in the workshop gradually fades into the background. A tingling, warm sensation dances across your skin and you can feel it radiating off him too. 

You tread carefully, tiptoeing the tightrope and ask, “I–I don’t know… are you?” Because you truly do wonder—you wonder if Katsuki Bakugou cares as much as you do. 

“You tell me, sweetheart.” There’s that pet name again and he whispers it like a hymn. 

Your breath shudders at the soft touch of his fingers. His thumb glazes over the tip of your knee, rubbing back and forth repeatedly. His other hand wanders to your knuckles, eventually tangling your fingers together. You completely melt. 

It’s like that time you took his measurements, or the time in front of Kirishima’s office. Too close for comfort. 

He inches, your noses touching. 

You swallow again, nervously. “What’re you doing?”

His red irises don’t abandon your lips and instead of answering the question (you know the answer to), he says, “Want me to stop?” 

You shake your head before you can say anything. 

Bakugou squeezes your knee. You can feel the sweat accumulating under the palm of his hand. Is he as nervous as you? 

The tension sits for long and every thought of yours is gone. It’s hazy and you have no control over your body anymore. Bakugou takes the last leap, his pink, puffy lips just hovering above yours and all he has to do is—

The doors yank open, rattling and causing a violent slam against the wall. 

You immediately pull away, putting distance between you two. The warmth that hugged you instantly withered away. There aren’t long, calloused fingers that intertwine with yours anymore, or the soft touch of his skin stroking against you. 

Yamada walks in. He pays no attention to you, nor to Bakugou. He carries a pile of boxes that stretches way above him. He’s clearly struggling, but pretends like he isn’t. 

He hasn’t seen anything. Not the intimate moment shared between you and Bakugou. Not the mere kiss that almost happened. But you feel like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t be doing. 

You break. 

You abandon your side of the workshop and jog across the room. Bakugou’s confused by your sudden escape. His nose crinkles as he watches you greet Yamada with a clumsy hi, need help with those! He doesn’t miss the relieved expression on your face when the other engineer agrees. 

You take one box from him, readjusting your grip to the weight. It’s as heavy as you expected, but you manage. Yamada directs you to place them next to the other piles of new shipments near his desk. You follow. 

Bakugou disappears at some point. You hear the door slam on his way out as he leaves without a word. He curses under his breath, but you’re not anywhere close to hearing what he said. 

Your muscles ease, feeling much lighter than they were before. However, your heart still opens and closes—waiting. Yamada is spitting about a new support item design, though his voice is muffled in your brain. You can’t focus. Your attention keeps turning back to the shut door and the fingertips that scratched the surface of you. You wonder, if Yamada hadn’t walked in—if you hadn’t pulled away as you did, would Bakugou have followed through like promised? 

You can only wonder. 

—

Kirishima admits he can be… slow at times, but he’s attentive and a good friend. He knows that much. So, when a certain blonde can’t keep his eyes off you, or observes how you go out of your way to avoid Bakugou—a gear cranks. 

He sniffs out that something happened between you two. He doesn’t know the what or the when, but he has the evidence to back it. For instance, two days ago, he and Bakugou were in the break room, grabbing snacks. You absentmindedly strolled in and as soon as you spotted Bakugou, you froze. Kirishima couldn’t even get a hello out before you turned on your heel and walked out. The scowl on Bakugou’s face was apparent. He never pointed it out. He didn’t want it to seem like he was prying and typically, he isn’t the nosy type. With that said, it doesn’t mean he couldn’t give Bakugou a little push. 

Anyway, that’s what good friends do: offer guidance. 

Bakugou and Kirishima are on their afternoon patrol, surveilling the streets of Tokyo. A different post from their usual routine, but crime in the city has increased and the Safety Hero Commission needed civilians to feel as safe as possible. 

Beside him, the redhead glances at Bakugou. He’s pulled out his phone, checked his messages, and sulked at least a couple of times now. Kirishima decides to go for it. 

He clears his throat. “You okay?” 

“M’fine.” 

“You haven’t stopped checking your phone since we left the agency.” 

The blonde shoves his phone deep into his pocket like he’s denying the fact. “It’s nothin’,” he grumbles. A poor lie. 

“Did you guys get into an argument again?” 

Guys, as in you and him. Bakugou side-eyes him. 

“She tell you?” 

“So you guys did argue?” Kirishima presses. 

Bakugou’s nose flares. “No. We didn’t—she—nothing fucking happened.” 

(Because nothing did. Almost.) 

They continue walking down the street and Kirishima waves to a group of fans who shout his hero name. He flashes a big, sparkling grin. Bakugou avoids it altogether. 

“What happened then?” Kirishima asks through his teeth.

“None of your damn business.” 

“Did she find out?”

“About what?”

“That you have a crush on her.” 

Bakugou stops dead in his tracks. He snaps his head at him, revealing his flushed, rosy cheeks. 

“I’m not a fucking—kid who has some dumb school crush,” he grits, but to Kirishima, it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than him. But Bakugou’s a 22-year-old who is fully capable of comprehending his feelings, let alone romantic ones. At least, that’s what he believes. “And no, wasn’t that,” he finished. 

“Then what?”

“Can we not talk about this while we’re on patrol? This shitty city’s busy as hell.” 

They finally round the corner, disappearing from the group of teenagers. Kirishima jogs to catch up to him and matches his pace. “Fine, fine. But I don’t think you guys can go on like this for any longer.” 

“Stop talking.” 

Kirishima laughs. “I’m sure she’s feeling the same way. I think you should try talking to her.” 

The thought rests in Bakugou’s mind. The idea had crossed his mind several times since then. Every time you two pass each other in the hallways and briefly make eye contact, all he wants to do is pull you into the nearest closet and demand the answers out of you. But he doesn’t. He lets whatever game you guys are playing go on until one can’t. 

(Right there and then, he decides it’ll be him.) 

— 

Yamada left the workshop an hour ago and you were supposed to as well. But you couldn't go home without checking everything off on your to-do list. There’s one last tweak you need to make on this support item before you can call it a day. 

You blow out a tired breath as you stare into the city’s landscape. For once, it’s at a standstill and traffic pauses. The sun meets the horizon, spewing hues of orange, red, and yellow onto the sky’s canvas. They seep into one another, mixing and becoming a vibrant gold. You lose yourself in it, completely oblivious to—

“You busy?” 

Dynamight. 

He leans against the doorframe, chest puffed and arms crossed. His expression is tight. That makes you uneasy. 

You shake your head. “No, I’m not.” 

He steps forward, making his way and invading your territory. You remain rooted in your spot. He stops a few feet from you. 

A storm’s brewing within him. You can tell. His closed body language and deafening silence are a dead giveaway. 

His forehead pinches, deliberately choosing what he’s going to say and how. 

“The hell’s goin’ on with you?” he asks, but it’s more accusatory than inquiry. 

Your heart pounds. 

“What’re you talking about?” 

He takes a step closer.

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” 

“Know what?” 

“That you’ve been avoiding me like the damn plague!” he snarls, scratching his throat. 

His gaze deepens, turning into something dangerous. A series of goosebumps crawls along your skin and follows down your spine. 

You shrug. “I’ve been busy.” 

“Busy doing what exactly?” He cocks his head—challenging you. 

“What’s it look like?” You gesture to the many gadgets and materials lingering around your workstation. “I’m busy making shit for you.” 

Bakugou scoffs. “We both know that ain’t the real reason.” 

“Oh, but it is,” you say, shifting to turn your back on him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” He doesn't give you the chance. He catches your wrist and swiftly pulls on it. 

That distance is far gone now. Bakugou’s touch is warm, sizzling on your skin. But it’s also rough and tenacious. Your back hits the workbench and he cages you in, arms on either side of you. His body leans forward. Your head jerks. 

“Tell me why the fuck you’re avoiding me.” 

“I’m n—”

“Don’t even try to say you haven’t because you have!” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you spit with anger this time. 

Bakugou barks out a laugh. “Oh, so that’s what we’re doing? You’re jus’ gonna fuckin’ pretend like we almost didn’t—” Your eyes finally meet and they hold contact. “—didn’t kiss the last time we were together?” 

“Yes!” you exasperated. “Because it’s driving me crazy and I don’t know what to do.”  

“I’m drivin’ you crazy? You’re drivin’ me nuts with your little lingering looks and fuck me eyes.” That makes you go silent, completely taken aback. Bakugou doesn’t miss it for a second and steals the opportunity. “Yeah, you don’t think I notice?” 

“Fuck you.” 

It takes a lot to get a rise out of you, but for Bakugou, it doesn’t take a lot. He grinds your gears as much as you grind his. He enjoys doing this, doesn’t he? He likes knowing that he can get under your skin so easily, like you're in the palm of his hand. And he confirms it when he dips his chin and tilts it back up, revealing a smirk. He finds this entertaining. 

“You gonna deny it?” he says lowly. You don’t answer—you refuse to give him any more than he already has. Yet, that doesn’t stop him from pushing it further. You must not have been paying attention all too well because his fingers graze your skin where your pants fall right below your waist. He strokes his thumb back and forth deliberately. Then, his hand creeps under your tank, testing the waters. You hold your breath as his nose brushes against yours. “Tell me no and I won't, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

Your head knows what is right; say the words or even give him a sign of rejection. But your heart tells you a different story. It beats a different tune, a different song. You can’t help but listen. 

You glance down at his lips, flicker back, and that’s all he needs. 

The kiss isn’t as rough as you imagined it would be; it’s soft and careful. He pulls you by the waist and a breathy gasp parts from your lips. He groans and grumbles fuck. He tugs a little harder, desperate now. His other hand travels from your hair to your jaw. 

You’re on fire. You mirror his actions, creeping your own fingers under his loose shirt and feeling him up and God—his stomach is pure muscle. You scratch at it like a clingy feline wanting attention. 

He responds. Bakugou hoists you up, roughly setting you down on the workbench and making room in between your legs. 

You pull on his hair, muttering, “Bakug—”

“Katsuki,” he says in between kisses, “Fuck, call me by first name. Wanna hear you say it.”

“Katsuki,” you gasp. You make his name sound like prayer and it’s music to his ears. He wants you to say it a thousand times over until it’s all you ever know. 

He brings you as close to the edge as he can, gripping his fingers underneath your knees. You arch into him and wrap your arms around his neck. Both of you are chest-to-chest, practically living in each other’s skin and yet, it doesn’t feel enough. 

Katsuki strays away from your mouth and trails down your neck. He tilts your head to the side, wanting to gain more access to it. You happily throw your head back and dig into his scalp. You say his name again in a plea. 

“So fuckin’ cute.” He places a kiss below your ear. “You don’t know how—” A kiss on your collarbone. “—Long I’ve been waiting for this—shit keep moving your hips like that, baby. Fuck.” 

You do as he says. “How long?” 

“Since you walked in ‘er with that bratty mouth of yours.” Teeth indents mark the surface of you. 

“Hey!” you squeal. 

Katsuki laughs against your neck, nuzzling into you deeper. “You’re mine now, ya hear?” 

“Don’t think your PR manager is gonna like the amount of marks you—“

“Shuddup. Like I give a shit.” 

“This is really unprofessional.” 

“You serious? ‘Yer gonna fucking say that right before I stick my dick in you?”  

It’s your turn to laugh now. “I was kidding.” 

“You better. Sick ‘n tired of playing these games with you, sweetheart. Aren’t you?” 

There were a lot of things the two of you disagreed on in the beginning. But now? You no longer hold onto the rope that tied you to this tug of war. You pull him close and meet his lips.

“Yes, I am,” you breathe.