nayaa.

Katsuki’s sexuality isn’t broadcasted, but it is…relatively well known to the group. Because, when he gets drunk, he likes to kiss, and though he wouldn’t touch any of his friends with a ten foot pole, Katsuki will find someone—germaphobia and all. And Eijirō, whose sexuality is a lot less stable, can’t avoid blaming the fact he has to watch his best friend make out with some random every few months for his inner turmoil. But, that is so beyond the point.

“What?” Eijirō manages to wheeze, and Katsuki’s ears go pink, but he doesn’t falter.

“Y’heard me,” he huffs. Eijirō actually manages to recover.

“I—why…” he says, begs actually, mainly asking himself with palms facing the ceiling. Because, why the hell would he—

“Got a date,” Katsuki crosses his arms like it’s something simple. Eijirō searches his face for anything—panic, regret, drugs—but comes up empty. Katsuki Bakugō is positively, undeniably, normal.

What. The fuck.

“And I—that includes sucking me off, because…”

“Because, I’m fuckin’ shit at it!” Katsuki hollers with balled fists, before his eyes cut to the corner of the room. The redhead blinks. He wants to…practice?

But then, he thinks that this might be an opportunity to figure his own shit out. So, before Eijirō can think himself into a corner, he shrugs:

“Screw it. Sure.”

Katsuki blinks. Like he didn’t expect Eijiro to say yes.

“But u-uhm,” Eijirō claps his hands together like it’ll dispel the nerves, as the position he put himself in begins to register, begins to sink into the marrow of his bones as they rot into something gross. Gesturing vaguely at his flat crotch, he says, “I don—I’m not—”

And Katsuki groans in obnoxious annoyance, throwing his head back and pinching his nose. “Then go ‘n watch porn or some shit, I don’t know—”

“That’s weird!” Eijirō whines, face going hot.

“It’s already weird!” Katsuki bites back, and, well. At least he acknowledges it.

“Weird-er!”

“Fuckin—“ Katsuki grunts under his breath, before storming forward with tense shoulders and dropping on his knees. “Gotta fuckin’ do everything myself. Gotta cook, gotta clean, gotta get you fuckin’ hard—”

“Hey! I clean,” Eijirō pouts, trying to ignore the warm fingers wrapping around the band of his sweatpants. “You’re so mean to me.”

Feeling a tug, he lifts his hips and Katsuki pulls the pants down to his ankles and away, so he can settle between his legs comfortably. Eijirō shivers against cool air, and can’t help but wonder if he had to take them all the way off…

“Someone has to keep you humble,” Katsuki mutters, and runs a palm over his boxers. The redhead exhales, but keeps quiet out of fear that he’ll scare him off. “All you do is leave your gym shit around the house.”

Eijirō is struggling to breathe and Katsuki just…rattles on, berating his roommate for his bad habits and flawed perception like this is a normal Thursday night. The nonchalance of all of this is actually killing him.

“You—fuck—you use my ‘gym shit’ anyways,” Eijirō huffs, trying to stay cool and calm and professional as he grows under the weight of his best friend’s hand. With a sigh, Katsuki props an elbow on Eijirō’s knee and rests his chin in a spare palm.

“Hurry up, Shitty Hair.”

“I’m trying,” Eijirō’s teeth grit and he narrows his eyes with straining hips. “Stop stressing me out.”

With a roll of his eyes, Katsuki reaches into Eijirōs boxers to pull his cock out, leaving him hissing at the contact. His hands are a lot rougher than any of the women he’s been with. They’re calloused, and kind of hurt, but he doesn’t mind the burn. Then, Katsuki spits in his palm like it’s an afterthought, and starts to jack him off with an impatience only Katsuki Bakugō can.

“I—fuck, Dude, holy shit, chill out—” Eijirō pleads, because his thighs won’t stop twitching, and he’s trying to be fine, trying to be cool, but Katsuki won’t stop staring. There’s a vague fascination hidden behind his scowl, and Eijiro slams hands over his eyes when his balls tighten.

“Mm…no,” Katsuki says absentmindedly, but he lets up a little. Though Eijirō’s not sure whether it’s in his favor when he breathes, “Holy shit, Shitty Hair, you’re big.”

Cumming this early would be embarrassing, right?

“Dude, y-you can’t—”

“And, quit the ‘Dude’ shit,” Katsuki’s face contorts into something exhausperated—like it’s something he has been feeling—and Eijirō whines at the loss of his only mental buffer. “‘S weird.”

All of this is weird! All of it!

Katsuki doesn’t just wait until Eijirō’s just hard—he waits until he’s leaking, tip red and angry and throbbing. It’s not fair. Eijirō’s leg starts to bounce with impatience, and his friend, his best friend, notices with a snort. Keeping eye contact, Katsuki pulls his dick forward, kissing the tip before wrapping thin lips around Eijirō and taking him whole. Katsuki chokes, tears welling in the corners his eyes, but doesn’t falter.

Eijirō finally moans properly, hands fisting at his sides to keep them away from blond hair. It’s loud and broken and beyond embarrassing, but Katsuki hums like he likes it. Eijirō’s left staring at the ceiling, chest heaving as he debates every life choice that has led him up to this point. What does he even say? Dirty talk feels weird.

But then, there’s a tug on his balls and Eijirō almost knees him in the face. Katsuki chuckles with particularly rough drag of his tongue.

“W-What,” he asks shakily while looking down, and in biting the inside of his cheek, tries again. “What?”

Katsuki pulls off with a shrug, but his hand doesn’t stop. “Nothin’.”

His voice is rougher than usual, like he swallowed gravel along with him, and Eijirō fails to suppress a shiver. And, Katsuki won’t stop looking at him, which isn’t fucking fair.

“Stop it.”

“Stop wha,” Katsuki asks, stupidly, like he already knows the answer. “Stop suckin’ your dick?”

No. Stop making me feel things.

“N…No,” Eijirō huffs with straining shoulders. His eyes meet Katsuki’s again, before his stomach tightens and his eyes return to the ceiling, counting its cracks and blemishes. “Stop looking at me.”

Katsuki snorts, and though he isn’t able see him, Eijirō feels his eyes burning bright into his chest like a brand.

“Why?”

“Because,” he whines, running a hand over his face. It’s weird. Eijirō doesn’t even know if Katsuki is really practicing, because in his opinion, it just feels like he’s getting his dick wet. Then, Katsuki’s mouth sinks down…down…down, until Eijirō can feel breath below his belly button.

No. No, absolutely not.

But, against his will, Eijirō’s eyes shoot between his legs to see Katsuki absolutely full of him, cheeks hollow and lips where the base of his cock should be. One singular thought rings true in his empty head: I think I love this man.

With a groan and a ‘fuck it,’ Eijirō’s hands card through thick blond hair, scratching at Katsuki’s skull. He moans, so Eijirō does it again, and again. And again. Katsuki begins to move, finally, throat convulsing around his cock, and still watching him with those damn eyes. They begin to water with a cough, and Eijirō finds himself thumbing a tear away before reminding himself to lock in.

“Oh my God,” he groans, throwing his head back. He starts to move Katsuki himself, and he lets him, as his hands find Eijirō’s thighs to steady himself. This is not fair, at all, and Eijirō regrets agreeing to this. Slightly. Definitely not enough.

But then, the warm coil in his belly threatens to snap, forcing his eyes from the ceiling in a panic.

“O-Okay, so,” Eijirō preps himself, nestling into the couch cushions as his grip tightens in Katsuki‘s hair. “So, I’m gonna cum—like soon, an-and I don’t know what you-you’re tryna do ‘bout that, s-so—”

His thoughts stall when Katsuki looks up at him through dusty eyelashes and chucks his thumb back in invitation. Eijirō barely has enough time to debate whether he wants to do this before he’s gasping out a moan, heels slamming into the flooring as he unloads down Katsuki’s throat. The blond’s face scrunches, not in a particularly bad way, as he focuses on swallowing, and swallowing, and swallowing. Eijirōs hips stutter, and he pulls Katsuki’s swollen lips off of him with a broken groan.

“U-Uhm,” Eijirō wavers as regret, shame, and all the other feelings associated with post-nut clarity flood his system. Quickly, his hands leave Katsuki’s hair and return to his sides. “Sorry about that.”

“Yer good,” Katsuki coughs and straightens his hair. Stumbling to his feet and wiping the remaining cum off his lips, he grunts. “Thanks, Idiot.”

“Uh, yeah! Glad to help,” Eijirō cheeses and gives him a thumbs up, but his pants are still down, dammit, and he’s gross and sweaty and Katsuki missed a spot. He watches the back of his friends head as he leaves the room—a head that was just between his legs—hair matted and disheveled by Eijirō’s hands. Eijirō waits until it’s safe, until there’s a closed bedroom door between them, before he throws his face into a couch cushion and screams, because what the fuck.

He will never look at the living room the same again.

He will never look at Katsuki the same again.

Eijirō’s never been deepthroated in his life, let alone by a man, and now, all the neat boxes in his brain that built his understanding of who he is as a person begin to shift. Then shatter.

He couldn’t look Katsuki in the eye for a week.

Dropping everything at a moment’s notice is part of the job. It always has been. He has never regretted being a hero—he’s dreamed about it for as long as he can remember dreaming.

But for the first time, he almost regrets it now. And he wonders if one day, he really will.

Before he can dwell on that uncomfortable revelation, however, he arrives on the scene. Eijirou is dusting debris from his hardened body by the time Katsuki lands, the force of his explosions scattering loose dust around them. Behind him, an office building has been reduced to little more than a skeleton of twisted steel and concrete.

“The fuck happened?” Katsuki gapes.

“Some sidekick’s gone off the rails,” Eijirou sighs. “Soundwave quirk. He’s aiming it at buildings. We’ve barely been getting people evacuated in time.”

“And which dumbass hero hired this fuckin’ jackass?”

“Shindou’s agency,” Eijirou says grimly. “He’s been adamant we can’t hurt the guy. Kid’s young. Just graduated, got licensed, and scouted. We’re trying to figure out what’s...influencing him.”

“You think it’s some outside force?”

“Must be. The kid was at the top of his class at Shiketsu. I think it’s pretty unlikely that a bad apple could maintain that kind of—”

Eijirou cuts himself off when the ground suddenly trembles beneath them. The street cracks, and windows shatter. A deafening boom tears through the air. Both heroes cover their ears and whip toward the source. Half a block away stands a young man in a sidekick uniform.

Katsuki’s eyes narrow as soon as he realizes who the culprit is—it’s the same sidekick from the Billboard Charts. The bastard who kept turning around and shushing him and you.

The sidekick grins, giving Katsuki what he thinks is a sinister, eerie, knowing look. And then the guy’s face melts. It fucking melts. He gapes in horror as he watches flesh drip off of the guy’s face before completely transforming. Skin shifts and features blur. The sidekick’s face vanishes, and instead, your face stares back at him. You. 

Katsuki freezes.

It’s not you. It’s not you. It’s not you. He knows it—of course he does. He left you at your apartment. Dropped you off there himself, and felt you under his own palms. Held you in his lap. Kissed you goodbye at the door. You’re not here, and this...this villain is not you. It can’t be. He knows that logically, but then the villain tilts his head, wearing your smile.

And he fucking freezes, every muscle in his body tight.

“I missed you, Katsuki.” The voice is so sickeningly sweet—sweet in a way that almost feels like it’s a nightmare taunting him. Is he awake right now? Is this even real? 

His blood runs cold as a million thoughts spiral in his brain. Eijirou stiffens beside him. The heroes surrounding the area stand there in confusion.  

“What the hell?”

“Who is that? Did he just…”

“Is that this guy’s ability?”

The villain laughs. And then he changes again. Your features distort, your jaw sharpens, and crimson eyes emerge. The bastard becomes...Katsuki. For one horrible second, he is acutely aware that there are two Dynamights standing in the middle of the street.

Then the fake one lunges.

“Hey—” Eijirou shouts.

The villain slams into Katsuki, and before anyone can react, explosions erupt between them. This...this guy can replicate his quirk? But how? How is he able to mimic his entire face and body, let alone his quirk? Is it someone who knows him? Someone under his nose that he somehow never suspected? But—

The blast swallows both of them. Concrete buildings explode, and the ground caves inward. The two identical blondes disappear beneath a collapsing cloud of rubble. Katsuki groans, standing as he rolls his arm—his shoulder is definitely dislocated. He grits his jaw, inhaling sharply as he sets it back in place. 

The sickening pop echoes through the pocket of rubble.

“Motherfucker.”

When he gets his hands on this bastard, he’s going to regret that. And a lot more. 

How this guy got enough about you to replicate your entire body, Katsuki is going to figure out—how this guy knows enough to understand that taunting Katsuki with you will be a sore spot, he is going to figure out. He will. He isn’t going to let you get dragged into the storm that is him. His life. Not when he just got you to himself (and really, he doesn’t even fully have you just yet—he has to work even more for that.)

The sweat on his palms is tingling as he scans the rubble for this man. He doesn’t even know what he properly looks like. Or is it a woman? It could be. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. But he does know that he needs to take this idiot out and get him detained because whoever this is, they can walk around with your face, and your voice, and they know at least some of what you mean to each other, and he cannot, will not, get you dragged into his mess. He won’t. 

“Katsuki.”

Your voice cuts through the darkness. He stiffens. You sound hurt. No—worse. You sound terrified.

Slowly, he turns his head, and there you are.

Your body is pinned beneath a slab of concrete, and your arm is bent at an unnatural angle. Blood pours from your leg. His heart lurches so violently it physically hurts. Take the shot, his brain screams. Take the fucking shot. But you’re looking at him, looking up at him with wet eyes and trembling lips and a face twisted in pain. And for one awful second, he hesitates.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real—

“Katsuki,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Please. It hurts.”

“Fuck off,” he croaks. Even now, his gauntlets tremble. “You’re not real. I’m not stupid.”

“Are you sure?” you ask softly. “It’s me, Katsuki. You know me.”

His eyes narrow immediately. “You don’t call me that yet, you fuckin’ imbecile.” For the first time, your expression slips. The smile twitches, and the illusion cracks. “You should know your targets a little better than that.”Your face morphs into irritation before melting away again—features dripping and reforming into someone he doesn’t recognize. An old man this time. Wrinkled skin that sags and grey hair. And every injury covering your—no, the villain’s—body vanishes instantly with the transformation, as though they had never existed at all. A healing quirk, maybe? How many people can this bastard become? And by extension, how many quirks can he use? Katsuki forces himself to think instead of charging forward. He’s not some reckless teenager anymore. There is too much on the line now. Too many variables. Too many people. He wishes he weren’t cut off from the others—something his younger self would have scoffed at. But he has too much to consider.

How does hurting this guy affect the people he’s copied? Are they completely separate? Unharmed? He didn’t feel anything when the villain became him, but what if that’s a choice? What if it’s something the bastard can control?

“You know,” the new face drawls, looking at him with a twisted sort of amusement, “I knew she was clinging to you a little too close that night. And that dress matched your costume so well, I mean, c’mon. Were you even trying to be subtle? But it was the way you dragged her out and left—rookie mistake, Dynamight. I...I almost expected you to be a bit smarter than that.”

“Be quiet,” he growls. “Don’t talk about her.”

“I must admit, I thought you were closer than that. But she still doesn’t even call you by your given name?” He chuckles. “My mistake, I suppose. It’s just...the way she was looking at you in the Uber home while she kissed you...” He sighs almost wistfully. “Well, you can’t blame a man, can you? I thought for certain you meant a greater deal to each other. Unless, of course, she means more to you than you do to her.” His grin widens. “How tragic for you, hm?”

The Uber? Was he the driver that night? How did this guy even manage to be—

“My only regret, of course, was that I couldn’t get a chance to leave the Billboard event and become your driver then, too. I would’ve loved to figure out where she lives.” He clicks his tongue. “But I’m sure you understand how it is when you parade around in a hero costume. People pulling you every which way. Cameras. Interviews. Handshakes. Such a shame, truly.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps. “Stay the fuck away from her place. And her, too, while you’re at it, ’cause I’m fuckin’ blowing your ass to—”

“Blow me up?” The old man laughs. “See, that’s the thing about you young heroes. You’re all so lively. So full of energy. You do everything so quickly. You just don’t care to stop and plan things out, do you?” He shakes his head. “Patience is a virtue, you know. Take that as some advice from an elder.”

“That’s enough, you fuckin’—”

He surges forward to grab the bastard, but the old man’s face starts melting again. Within an instant, he’s shrinking. Smaller. Smaller. Smaller. Until he’s no larger than a mouse, having taken on the form of some tiny woman Katsuki has never seen before. The villain slips past the blast effortlessly, almost as though he’d predicted exactly where Katsuki would aim. The force of the explosion tears through the rubble and opens a jagged hole overhead. Light pours into the dark pocket of concrete they’ve been trapped inside. A fucking opening. Katsuki’s eyes widen. Did he...did he plan that? Did he bait him into using his explosions? Use Katsuki’s own temper against him just to create an escape route?

He looks around. The villain is…gone. Fuck, he thinks, panicking. This guy can turn into you. He can turn into you. And he’s escaped. Katsuki let him fucking escape. He let him take advantage of his mind, weaken his senses, and escape. And now he can be out and about and shift into you whenever he pleases and do god knows what with your appearance.

Katsuki makes a small explosion from his palm and propels himself forward to get out and search. The bastard couldn’t have gone far. Unless he has a quirk for that, too. Teleportation. Super speed. Some sort of stealth ability. Katsuki doesn’t know what the fuck he’s working with here. How many quirks this guy can stockpile. How many bodies he can wear. What his limits are between switches. If he even has limits. But he’s going to find him. He will. Despite the dust clogging his lungs, the grit stinging his eyes, and the dull, throbbing ache in his shoulder, he’s going to—

“Katsuki,” Eijirou breathes, appearing beside him in an instant.

He stiffens and jerks away immediately. Eijirou falters, confusion flashing across his face.

“Man, what happened—”

“Who the fuck are you, really?”

“Huh?”

“Prove it. That you’re you. How long did we bet Dunce-Face was gonna pine over Ears before he finally did something about it?”

Luckily, Eijirou seems to understand far too quickly what he means. Eijirou watched that fucking lowlife turn into you. Then Katsuki himself. So Eijirou wisely realizes that Katsuki isn’t asking for the answer—he’s asking for proof. Easily enough, he mutters, “Well, you said he was gonna die a virgin, so—”

“Kay,” Katsuki says, relaxing by a fraction. “Only the real Ei would know that.”

“Well, at least now I know you’re the real Katsuki,” Eijirou mutters, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “So this guy can turn into anyone?”

“I dunno. But me and Hellcat for sure. And some random people I never seen before. But it’s the quirks that are the problem.” His jaw clenches. “The fact that he can fuckin’ copy ’em—as if the faces weren’t enough.”

“We need to come up with some sort of signal so we know who is really—”

Eijirou is cut off by a commotion in the distance. Both of them look up. The sidekick from earlier—covered in dust, grime, and looking thoroughly disheveled—is pinned face-down against the pavement by several heroes.

“Wait, wait, I’m me,” he pleads desperately. “You have to believe me—”

“Turning back into the same guy while you’re covered in filth?” another hero scoffs. “Do you take us for idiots?”

“I swear, I’m—”

“Take him in for questioning,” another interrupts.

Katsuki watches from a distance. The sidekick’s eyes find his immediately. For just a second, something dark flickers across his face. Something knowing and amused. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth before vanishing so quickly that Katsuki almost convinces himself he imagined it. Almost. Something cold settles in his chest. Dread. He immediately starts striding over, fixing the police with a hard, serious look.

“Oi!” he barks. “Don’t let that idiot outta your sight. Not for one fuckin’ second. He’s plannin’ something.”

The officers exchange looks.

“Yeah, that’s the point of taking him in, Dynamight.”

“I’m serious,” Katsuki growls. “Do not let him outta your sight.”

The sidekick immediately recoils.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “I don’t know what happened. One minute, I was leaving the Billboard Charts, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in some abandoned building. You have to believe me!”

“Convenient,” another hero mutters.

“It’s the truth!” the sidekick cries as they shove him into the back of a van. “Please!”

Katsuki watches him carefully. Then he exhales, rubbing his temple. You’re safe, that's all he can think. You’re safe and unharmed, and you’re at home. Not here.

—

TODAY 7:53 PM

Bakugou: hey. dont take the train to work anymore Bakugou: im getting you a driver

Hellcat: What? That’s really not necessary Hellcat: Also I’m not broke

Bakugou: no. this is coming from company budgets not my pocket Bakugou: im serious hellcat this isn’t a joke Bakugou: either you come on company transportation or you don’t come to the office at all

Hellcat: What happened out there?? Hellcat: Are you okay? Hellcat: Something is up just tell me

Bakugou: see u in the office. driver will be outside waiting for you every morning

────────────────────────

Transportation provided by Riot Grenade Agency feels like you are the president of the world. Someone opens the door for you, letting you into a car with completely dark-tinted windows. There is someone who sits in the back to make sure you aren’t being followed, and the driver takes a long route with four left turns just to be sure you aren’t being tailed. 

Whatever happened in that villain attack, it’s spooked Bakugou enough to take your commute to and from work rather seriously. You let it happen for the sake of his worrywart mind—you know enough to know that the villain was detained. Besides, you like being chauffeured around on company money. It feels like an added perk. 

The follow-up from the Billboard Charts event, despite Bakugou’s fit of paranoia, is rather positive. 

Despite it not being Bakugou’s intention (as his intentions were rather petty and self-centered, you like to think), dragging you along with him to the Billboard Chart event brought a good amount of visibility to you. Everyone is still buzzing about the fact that Riot Grenade Agency’s publicist has not only managed to aid with jumping Red Riot four whole ranks at his first official re-evaluation since debuting solo, but also managed to keep Dynamight from slipping before the top twenty, even after the long list of negative incidents bulleted under his name. 

And you intend to milk that advantage this PR has granted you for everything that you’ve got. 

“Thank you all for applying to be sidekicks at this agency,” you hum, flashing the group a bright smile. A solid handful of recently licensed heroes sit before you—fresh from graduation and undoubtedly searching for the opportunity that will launch their careers. “As you all know, this agency is co-owned by none other than Japan’s most explosive—literally and figuratively—hero, Dynamight. And I firmly believe that if you can handle being his sidekick, then you can handle just about anything the hero world throws at you.”

A few nervous laughs ripple through the room.

“So here’s the deal,” you continue. “If you can prove to me that you’ll work efficiently alongside him, then I’ll treat your reputations and public images with the same care and attention that I give my actual clients. The position comes with a minimum two-year contract if you’re selected, though we’re absolutely open to negotiating a longer term if that interests you. Or you can sign on for two years, and renew it once it’s over if you don’t want to commit that long just yet. But, if, at the end of your contract, you decide you’d rather go out on your own and try a solo career, that’s perfectly fine too.”

You clasp your hands together, face turning more serious before your next promise.

“If you’re selected for this position, then for those two years, I intend to build your names and reputations throughout the industry as though you were already established pros running agencies of your own. You’ll receive the same level of effort, care, and opportunities from me that my paying clients do. But make no mistake—I am still your superior in this agency, so I expect you to conduct yourselves accordingly. Keep in mind that when your contract is over, if we part ways on good terms, you’ll leave this agency with industry contacts, professional experience, and a very generous recommendation that I will personally send wherever it needs to go.”

Your grin widens slightly.

“So I really hope none of you take this opportunity for granted.”

Just as you finish explaining, the door to your office swings open.

“Oi! Hellcat, Eiji says you got some shit I need to sign for tha—” Bakugou cuts himself off mid-sentence. His eyes sweep across the room, taking in the handful of aspiring heroes seated in front of your desk. He blinks once. Then twice. “...Who the fuck are all of you, and what are you doin’ here, huh?”

You smile. Honestly, his timing couldn’t have been better.

“Bakugou,” you say pleasantly, “excellent. You’re here.” The applicants collectively stiffen at the sight of him. “These are some potential sidekicks I’ve selected for interviews. Instead of having you conduct that process yourself, I’ve decided to handle it. The candidates who advance past the interviews based on my judgment will work alongside you in the field for a one-week trial period. If they can keep up with you, we’ll consider them for the position.”

A beat passes. Bakugou looks at the applicants. Then, at you. And then his lips tug into a dark, satisfied grin as he realizes that not only have you managed to find a way to hire people professionally, but you’ve also set up an opening for him to weed out the people he actually wants to keep. An opening for him to find someone who actually stands a chance of hoping to surpass him. 

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, amused. “Good luck with that, then.”

You sigh, but your eyes brighten at his clear positive reaction to the news. “Thank you for those incredibly inspiring words of encouragement.”

“What? If they’re scared already, then they ain’t cut out for the job. Anyway. My paperwork?”

“I’ll have your assistant drop it off at your desk in a bit.”

“Fine.” He turns toward the door, but pauses just before grabbing the handle. Looking over his shoulder, he adds, “Oh, and one more thing. If you’re gonna be my sidekick, then you’d better be prepared to beat me.” His red eyes sweep across the applicants. “Otherwise, you’ve got no place here.” A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Only the best step foot in this agency and stay.”

And with that, he leaves as the door clicks shut behind him. For a moment, the room remains silent. Then you look over the candidates. The nervousness from earlier is all but gone, and it has been overtaken by something else entirely. Determination. Challenge. There are more than a few bruised egos from his words. Several of them are staring at the closed door with the sort of heated expression that tells you they’re already imagining proving him wrong.

You hide your smile behind your hand.

You think you’ve found yourself a rather promising batch of applicants—a batch that is very, very eager to prove Bakugou wrong.

────────────────────────

It’s a rare, miraculous day when Bakugou earns himself what you’re certain will be a considerable jump in the fan-favorite rankings—and, for once, it has absolutely nothing to do with your efforts.

Pro Hero Deku has made his official debut two weeks after the Billboard Chart event, and Dynamight’s generous involvement in the return of one of the country’s greatest heroes has become a wildly popular topic. People are thrilled that Deku has returned to the world of pro heroism. You, meanwhile, are simply thrilled that Bakugou seems to be in the best mood you’ve ever seen him in because of it. His performance reflects the fact that his greatest rival—and by default, greatest motivator—is back in the scene. (Though you wisely refrain from mentioning that fact aloud. The last thing you need is for him to immediately revert to his natural state of perpetual grouchiness and tank his recent increase in good PR.)

It’s a Monday morning when Bakugou pulls into the parking lot of Riot Grenade Agency in a shiny, brand-new, undoubtedly expensive Porsche just as you and Kirishima are approaching the front entrance.

You stop walking. Kirishima lets out a disbelieving huff.

“He really got it.”

“Huh?” you ask, furrowing your brows.

“He’s been eyeing this car for a while,” Kirishima says, shaking his head. Despite himself, his eyes remain fixed on the vehicle as he admires it. “I didn’t think he’d actually buy it this impulsively.”

It is a nice car. Nothing you could ever hope to afford, of course, but you’ve never particularly cared for that sort of extravagant purchase anyway. Still, you can’t help but admire it—and, more than that, feel a small sense of pride on Bakugou’s behalf. He works hard, and you know that better than anything.

“You losers just gonna stand there and gawk?” Bakugou steps out casually, looking entirely too pleased with himself. The smug grin that appears when Kirishima shoots him a half-hearted glare only makes it worse.

“You got it without telling me?” Kirishima all but whines as he walks over to inspect the sleek black finish. “That’s fake.”

“Shut up,” Bakugou rolls his eyes. “You’ll live.”

“You gotta gimme a ride.”

“Absolutely not.” 

The refusal is immediate, and Kirishima is visibly not pleased. “C’mon! That’s totally not fair!”

“Shut your face, you shitty-haired freak.”

“I’m gonna harden and poke holes through the roof, then.”

“Hah?!”

Before Bakugou can detonate the entire parking lot, you step between them with a sigh. “Now, now, children,” you say tiredly. You sometimes wonder if your full-time job is public relations or internal conflicts. Perhaps a little bit of both, against your will. “This is a well-respected agency. You don’t want people seeing you bicker like brats and getting the wrong impression, do you?”

“The only brat here is Katsuki,” Kirishima pouts. “He gets one nice thing, and suddenly he’s too spoiled to share. Only-child syndrome.”

“You don’t have any siblings either, hair-for-brains, so fuck off,” Bakugou shoots back. “You’re the one who can’t handle not gettin’ your way.”

“Okay, how about this,” Kirishima bargains smoothly, “I won’t poke holes in the roof if you come to dinner on Friday—and give me a ride since we’ll leave together.” Then he turns toward you. “Are you sure you don’t wanna come with us?”

The dinner in question is Class A’s celebration for Todoroki’s placement as number two in the Hero Billboard Charts. Kirishima has invited you several times already. So has Mina—who now texts you semi-regularly. Each attempt has been met with a polite decline. Bakugou never adds much whenever the topic comes up, but the lingering look he sends your way every single time is enough for you to know—he wouldn’t mind your presence. Not even a little. Something tells you he’d be a little more willing to join if you were there. (It’s just a small hunch that you have.)

Still, you decline.

Even with all the ways you’ve gradually become entangled in Bakugou’s life—and, by extension, the lives of the people closest to him—you can’t quite bring yourself to attend a reunion meant for a former class. A class that trained together, and fought together, and grew up (albeit too fast) together. They have formed bonds through experiences you will never truly understand, and you can’t justify tagging along like you have a place in that room.

Not too long ago, the thought of not belonging would have sent you spiraling. They would have left you dwelling on the distance between your world and Bakugou’s until it became impossible not to let it mess with your head. But strangely, they don’t bother you anymore. Your mind does not play that cruel game it loves to start when you think about whether or not being involved with someone like pro hero Dynamight makes sense for someone like you—instead, you are content with declining an invite and making peace with the fact that you are different. He still likes you for it, after all. 

“I’m good, Kiri, really,” you hum. “But thank you. You guys have fun!”

“M’not going,” Bakugou says instantly.

“You will if you like your new car’s roof,” Kirishima practically sings. The blonde sends him a seething look in return.

You giggle before adding, “Just please make sure you both don’t do anything that will end up on the news when I wake up Saturday morning, though. I don’t want a worse workload next week.”

“She’s talking to you,” Kirishima gives Bakugou a taunting look, “she’s just saying it to both of us so you don’t feel singled out.”

“I’ll fuckin’ explode you to bits—you want that, Dumb-Hair?”

“I’m going inside,” you sigh tiredly at their antics—and then, you give Bakugou a hard, warning look. “This week, the sidekick candidates I’ve selected will do their trial periods with you on the field. I expect that you will decide to keep at least two of them, because I really went through a lot of trouble to find you some good fits. Got it?”

He grumbles, crossing his arms. Kirishima turns to you instantly. 

“What about me?” He whines, “How come he gets special treatment and gets you to do the searching for him? Is it because he’s bribing you? Is that what this is? You’re picking favorites already?”

Your face flusters at his loaded words—and, judging by the slight amusement in his gaze, he knows exactly what he’s doing. “What?” You squeak, “N-no! That…that’s not it, honest! Bakugou is just more hopeless when it comes to this than you, so…”

“Hopeless?” The blonde does a double-take. 

Kirishima huffs, “Yeah, yeah. Pretty soon, you’ll be tanking my rank on purpose to help your boyfriend get ahead.”

“He’s not my boyfriend! And I would never do that—”

“As if I need her help to beat you, you Shitty-Haired freak! Fuck off—”

Kirishima grins a toothy, smug little playful grin before he walks inside and leaves you and Bakugou standing there alone while you both try to defend your honor. After a moment of silence, you huff and cross your arms as you turn to face him. 

You give him a warning look as you hiss, “You better find a good sidekick in one of those candidates because look at the position you put me in, asshole.”

“Me?! What, so I held you at gunpoint when we were—”

You walk off, shutting the door to the front entrance behind you and cutting him off mid-sentence. It’s going to be a long workday. 

—

TODAY 10:41 PM

Bakugou: hey. hellcat Bakugou: u home?

You: No I’m at the airport

Bakugou: wait what Bakugou: where are u going this late??? Bakugou: are u by urself????????

You: Lol relax I’m kidding. Yeah I’m home You: Why do you ask?

Bakugou: oh. good Bakugou: ofc u would be home by urself on a friday night Bakugou: i’m coming over in 5

You: What does that even mean????????? You: Also you can’t just come unannounced whenever you want You: It’s considered impolite. Just so you know

Bakugou: well i just announced it right now. see u in 5

—

Bakugou knocks on your door in five minutes on the dot. You open it instantly—you decide there’s no point in overthinking if that makes you look like you desperately waited for him (which, you did) because if you wait, then you’ll overthink if your apartment is tidy enough or if he’ll think you live in an absolute war zone. (Curse him for showing up at the last minute when you least suspect it.)

Your door swings open, and Bakugou brushes past you immediately. No greeting. No explanation. Not even a kiss—not that you kiss him regularly enough to expect one, or anything, but…still. All you get is a sulky-looking Bakugou. Which is not to be confused with grumpy. He can grump and sulk at the same time, sure, but they are two very different versions of Bakugou. You have enough experience to know that much.

“Hello to you, too. Thank you for interrupting my Friday evening. How lovely to have you!”

“Tch. You’re not doin’ shit on the weekend. Boring ass life.”

“How rude!” (He is, of course, not wrong—but you won’t let him disrespect you in your own home like this. Not when he’s standing in the unit that you pay for with the paycheck you work very hard to earn. The paycheck that is really only as hard as it is because he happens to make your job hard.)

The door clicks shut behind him. He kicks off his shoes, walks past you, drops onto your couch, and proceeds to slump onto the cushions with a heavy thud. You remain standing for a moment, waiting for something—anything—to happen. Nothing does. He says nothing, and you’re beginning to get worried.

“Okay,” you sigh. “What happened?” 

Silence. 

“Out with it—c’mon, what did you do?”

He glares over at you. “Why d’ya automatically think I did something?”

You narrow your eyes. “You always do something.”

Bakugou narrows his eyes right back, and now grumpy Bakugou is making an appearance alongside the sulky version of him. Not your preferred company on a Friday night. “No, I don’t.”

You walk over with a sigh and sit beside him. Or rather, you attempt to sit beside him. The second you get close enough, his arm hooks around your waist and tugs you firmly against his chest without warning, pulling you into his lap.

You yelp.

“Jus’ wanted to see you,” he mutters quietly. So quietly, you almost miss it—but luckily, you don’t. And your heart immediately starts beating harder in your chest.

“I think that’s very sweet,” you say cautiously, “but there’s clearly something up with you. You…you know you can tell me what’s on your mind, right?”

He sighs, letting out a heavy, almost miserable breath as his chin settles onto the top of your head, and his arms hug you closer. Tighter. And you like it—you like feeling like this. Like he needs you when something is clearly wrong. You dare to let yourself believe you’re what he needs when there is something that is bothering him, and you’ve never felt an ache in your chest quite like this to fix something for someone. 

“Long night,” he mutters.

“What happened?”

“Nothin’.”

“Hey,” you poke his forehead. His lips curl into a deeper frown. “C’mon, you have to give me more than that.”

“S’nothin’.”

“Did somebody piss you off at dinner?”

“No.”

“Did you run into an overbearing reporter?”

“No.”

“Did Kirishima eat his CalorieMate in your car and get crumbs in it?”

“...Yeah. Fuckin’ asshole.”

You smile, giggling a little. Bakugou doesn’t find it as amusing, but he doesn’t even make the effort to scowl deeper when you laugh at his expense. And that’s what finally convinces you that something is definitely wrong. Your hand finds his, and his fingers immediately intertwine with yours. The motion is so automatic that it makes your chest ache worse.

“C’mon, stop pretending like it’s nothing,” you say softly, “you’re usually better at pretending things don’t bother you. Did you run into a fan who crossed some boundaries?”

“No.”

“Is there something from tonight that’s gonna be on the news and make my job harder? I’ll find a way to undo the damage, if that’s what’s bothering you—it’s what you pay me to do. Yeah?”

You cradle his face as you press a kiss to his nose. That softens him a smidge, but he’s still staring ahead, not meeting your eyes as he mumbles, “Nothin’ with the press. Quit worrying.”

“Hey,” you force his face to turn to you. Reluctantly, he meets your gaze. “You can trust me—you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“So let’s hear it,” you peck his lips. 

He kisses back briefly before sighing, slumping back as his head falls against your couch with a thud, and he throws an arm over his face. “I asked the nerd to join the agency today.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You asked Midoriya to join Riot Grenade?”

“Yeah.”

You blink. “...And?”

For a moment, he says nothing. Still hiding behind the arm lying across his face and stubbornly trying to avoid his problems. You feel like you’ve pressed enough, so you’re almost about to tell him that it’s okay, and he doesn’t have to say anything when—

“He said no. He’s gonna keep teachin’, ’n stuff and just…do hero shit on the side.”

“Isn’t that good?” You press, gently tugging his arm off of his face to reveal his expression to you. He stares up at your ceiling blankly. “He seems happy with the cards he’s been dealt. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He says it almost glumly, so you raise a brow. He huffs before letting out a long groan and rubbing his face. “I just…I thought things would be the way they were when we were kids. I thought we’d start competin’ ’n stuff again and…and—fuck, I don’t know. I’m better at improving shit when I have that fuckin’ nerd to win against.”

“Oh,” you say softly. Now you understand. 

Bakugou isn’t a conventional hero—you’d be a liar if you tried to argue that he is. He’s not sweet or charming, and he certainly doesn’t soothe people with carefully chosen words. Those are all things that make your job incredibly difficult and your strategies infinitely more complicated. But they are who he is, nonetheless, and who he is is not a bad hero. He’s far from that. You know a hero with potential when you see one.

For better or for worse, he is unapologetically himself, whether that is on the field or off it. He does not know how to present a polished version of himself to the world, nor does he have any interest in learning. He says what he means, and he means what he says, and he leaves everyone else to deal with it. You wouldn’t ask him to lie about who he is, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has never made your job easy—not even after growing strangely fond of you.

The hero world is more than raw power and flawless victories. It is vulnerability and compassion and throwing your humanity into the open so that people will trust that the human that is within the saviors before them, will be human enough to do what is right, even when it’s hard. And Bakugou will do what is right. Every time, over and over, without a doubt, he will do the right thing. But he won’t show that he is delicate, or that his feelings are tied to the same fragility that all people are tied to, no matter how powerful he is on the exterior.

But somehow, when Midoriya is involved, it comes more naturally. You’ve seen it—even as a mere teenager who observed him on the sidelines, even as a side character who could do nothing but watch as he fought tooth and nail for a fight that should not have been his. Midoriya has always had a way of dragging the human out of him on the battlefield, no matter how much he hated it—pushing and prodding at him until the better parts of him step forward, whether he intends them to or not.

Midoriya will push Bakugou to improve. And he will do it in the way that he is comfortable. In the way he is natural. In the way that keeps who he is intact and doesn’t force him to tolerate the annoying, bothersome strategies on the media that make him palatable to people—that market him as enough to do the right thing when he has always done it all along.

He scoffs when he sees that look in your eyes, grumbling, “S’not that big of a deal, I was just—”

“Don’t be sad, baby,” you hum. 

Baby. You honestly don’t mean to say it. It slips out so naturally when you’re fixated on making him feel better that it almost scares you. It should scare you, but your mind can’t focus on the things it should—not when there is Bakugou to focus on. Hearing the name makes him stiffen for a moment until you lean in and kiss his nose. 

He wrinkles it, huffing. “M’not fuckin’ sad. The damn nerd can do what he wants.”

“You seem a little sad,” you murmur, cradling his face. Your thumb brushes over his cheekbone, and you are stunned, as you always are, at how beautiful Bakugou is. He is the afterglow of a blinding light—the soft, hazy colors that your eyes focus on after the explosion.

“I’m not sad—quit fuckin’ saying that,” he grumbles.

Despite what he says, he’s certainly not happy about being turned down by Midoriya, and you can sense the faint traces of melancholic acceptance creeping in around the edges of a reality he won’t admit bothers him. His goals and his hopes did not turn out the way he imagined they would. And perhaps that is not all bad—perhaps things were always meant to unfold this way, and he was always going to find a way to do what he’s set his heart on regardless. But he will still need the time it takes to properly accept it.

“I think, whether he joins your agency or not,” you kiss his jaw, “Midoriya going pro is enough. Yeah? He’ll still be a good rival for you—and you did a really nice thing getting him that suit. You’re a good person, you know?”

You kiss his cheek, and he flushes under your attention. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m some kid,” he snaps—there’s no real bite to it. His hands dig into your hips and pull you closer despite his words. You’ve gotten used to speaking his language—his words may say one thing, but his actions always say another, and you’ve become fluent enough to understand what everything truly means. 

When he says, stop that, it translates to, you make me feel vulnerable. When his hands tug you closer, he is saying, please don’t leave—not when only you can make me feel this way.

So you kiss his nose, his lips, his chin, the Adam’s apple along his throat. He swallows thickly as you do. Gently, you whisper, “Can’t have you being sad on me. I’ll make you less sad.”

“M’not sad,” he clicks his teeth. “But how do you plan to do that?”

“Hm,” you grin, pecking his lips once more before slowly pulling away and crawling your way down between his legs. His breath hitches as you do, his legs parting to make room for you while he swallows thickly at the sight of you there. “I have an idea or two.”

“Yeah?” He croaks.

“Mhm,” you breathe.

His sweatpants boxers are easy to pull down and discard—he lifts his hips for you without protest, and you waste no time pressing kisses along his inner thighs the way he’s always done for you. His cock is slowly, with every press of your lips, hardening between his legs.

There’s pre cum leaking at the tip when you finally reach and touch him, making him let out a soft, shaky breath as your thumb smears at the dribbling slickness at the head of his cock before you coat his length with it and give yourself a lubricant. His head falls back, and he lets out a low, deep groan from the back of his throat as you stroke him.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunts, “m’gonna need to be sad more often.”

“I thought you weren’t sad,” you raise a brow.

He looks down at you and gives you a sly grin. “I’m fuckin’ devastated. S’that gonna get me anything special?”

“You don’t have to be sad for anything special,” you murmur, kissing his tip before your fist slowly drags up and down along his length.

His eyes flutter shut, and his lips part as he lets out soft groans as your hand slides over his velvety skin—when you take the time to trace over a thick vein, he lets out a particularly long moan and jolts his hips a little at the sensation. You watch him eagerly as you take in his reactions—as you watch him bite his lip and scrunch his face when your fist squeezes a little tighter at the tip, and as you watch him breathe harder and pant when you twist your hand at the base.

Your hand moves for long enough that his breathing is labored, but when you finally switch it for your mouth, he chokes. He’s salty on your tongue—your lips surround him before you slowly sink down on him, inch by inch, until your nose is practically brushed against his pelvis. You think for a moment, when you look up at him from behind slightly watery eyes as his tip hits the back of your throat, that Bakugou is the only person you would do this for. Get on your knees and take care of him like this only because he is sad for an evening. That he is the only one who is worth doing this for. That he is the only person you’ve ever wanted to really do this for. 

If it were some time ago, you’d sit and wonder if he’d even want this from you. If a man like him, who is surely what everyone wants, who is surely deserving of someone as good and worth it as he is, would ever settle for you and what you have to offer. 

Now, though, you think that after all this time, after all the people he’s surely met and surely could have had, he’s picked you to be here because you give him something he cannot find elsewhere. That he picked you to come to when his mind was heavy because you are able to lighten the load of his thoughts. It’s a good feeling—you like being what he needs. You like it because he is what you need, too, and you also like the way he makes you feel when you are with him. Next to him. Cared for by him. Wanted by him, too. You like how he makes you feel about yourself, and the way he teaches you to stop making yourself little to make room for all of his big. 

You like existing with Bakugou Katsuki. He has infected your heart with a disease that you once thought you were immune to catching from him. But you are infected all the same, and you think that you don’t mind that you are sickened by him—not as long as he is there to take care of you and treat you for the rest of your life. 

You hollow your cheeks, sucking around his cock and bobbing your head up and down along his length, and he answers the gesture with a long, throaty moan as his hand settles on the top of your head. He doesn’t force you down on him, doesn’t make you follow the pace he sets for you. He’s gentle with you—cups the back of your head like you are special and fragile, and that he is lucky to have you there. 

“Ngh…shit, sweetheart,” he bites his lips. His unruly, blonde hair is dampened from the sweat, clinging to his forehead a little as he stares down at you with bleary, lust-hazed eyes. They darken when they land on your parted lips, and the way they surround his cock as it disappears into your mouth with every time you swallow him. “You’re…you’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this—c-can’t believe you’re real.”

Your tongue presses along that thick vein along his length that you’ve memorized by now, tracing it with pressure from your muscle as you take him down your throat, and he responds with a sharp gasp. 

He’s close. You can tell—you’ve learned his telltale signs by now. How his cock twitches. How his eyes scrunch, and his bottom lip gets tugged between his teeth. How he forgets what to do with his hands, roaming them along your head and then the couch cushion and then his hair. 

You move faster, taking him down your throat as your head bobs along it with a quicker pace that he’s started to match a little without realizing, through small upward bucks of his hips. Once. Twice. Finally, one final thrust of his hips into your mouth, and he’s scrambling to pull you off to your surprise as he curses under his breath. 

“F-fuck, m’close, dammit—”

He pulls out of your mouth just fast enough that his hand replaces where your lips were, stroking himself quickly and desperately as the first few ropes of cum spill from his tip and coat along his fist. It makes a mess along his shirt, and you’re sure afterwards he’ll be sulky about that—but for now, you’re too focused on the beautiful man in front of you to be too worried about that.

He groans your name as he falls apart. Breathes it like a prayer as praises fall absentmindedly from his tongue like they’re his subconscious, instinctual default. Words that speak of you with reverence. That think about you, you, you—and how he really sees you.

So perfect. Fuckin’ beautiful. Don’t deserve you. Make me crazy. Can’t get enough. That’s what you hear between soft groans and choked words. That is what his mind, when blissed out and out of his control, thinks of you. High praise and deep desire. 

And you are disease-ridden by this festering feeling in your heart for Bakugou—it spreads quicker than you can hope. It’s already spread far, far along every organ and into your veins. You couldn’t hope to slice yourself open and discard the parts that he’s affected. There’s too much, and you wouldn’t survive losing those parts of yourself—not now that they’ve been touched by him.

So you stay disease-ridden. And you hope you will survive this disease that you are too scared to name. Too scared to call it for what it is in case speaking it out loud will make your heart stop altogether. 

“Shit, Hellcat,” he pants when he’s come down from his high. You stare at him with wide, glassy eyes, lips swollen and coated in your spit and his pre cum. It’s messy, but you don’t mind it. Not if it’s him. “You’re crazy.”

“Why’d you pull away?” You tilt your head, pouting slightly. “You could’ve—I don’t…I wouldn’t have minded, you know. If you…uh, finished, like…without pulling away.”

His face flushes a bit of a darker pink, but he still snorts in amusement at your words, humming as his hand reaches to cup your cheek. You lay your other cheek against his thigh, letting him stroke your face with a calloused thumb as he admires you. 

“Wasn’t sure if you wanted to,” he shrugs, “s’alright. Still felt good.”

“Next time, don’t pull away,” you huff. “I wanna make you feel good all on my own.”

“S’that an offer for another round in the future?” He grins.

You give him a tired, exasperated look, and he laughs—it’s more boyish and less rough than anything you’ve ever heard from him. Your heart squeezes at the sound, and you know, you know more than anything that he has afflicted you with a terminal, forever case of this disease you are suffering at his hand. 

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t feel like a disease at all. 

“You’re the worst,” you hiss.

“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. Then he tugs you upwards, pulling you to climb onto his lap as his hands grip your waist and he mumbles, “C’mere. My shirt’s ruined, so I gotta take it off.”

“Then take it off,” you breathe.

“S’only fair if you take yours off, too.”

“Mine isn’t ruined,” you raise a brow, and he rolls his eyes before he leans in and bites your chin lightly—you shriek in shock.

“Quit bein’ so fucking difficult all the time, you damn idiot.”

“Are you still sad?” You ask, letting his hands trail under your shirt and glide over the bare skin of your back. He hums, slowly lifting your shirt over your arms.

“Nah,” he grins. “Never sad when I got this all to myself.”And then he kisses you sweetly, even despite the fact that he can probably still taste himself on your mouth, and you think you’re unwell. Sickened by him and his touch and his smile and everything about him.

It’s the best you’ve ever felt, somehow. 

When he pulls away, he murmurs, “S’been long enough. Can we just say I earned that date and do things the right way now?”

You hum, shifting on his lap to fiddle with the end of his shirt and pull it over his arms in return. You’re no longer scared. You’re going to take the fall and trust that he will be there to catch you. This disease will not kill you—not if it is Bakugou who is caring after you. “Fine—maybe if you’re good this coming week, I’ll finally take my chances and give you a shot next Saturday.”

“Take your chances? You’re the one who got on your knees for me willingly and—”

“You’re hotter when you talk less. We should fix that.”

He gives you a disgruntled look when you pull him into a kiss again, but he complies, nonetheless, and you think that he can cozy himself up in your heart like a virus for just a little bit longer.

(You won’t let him see it, but you’ve never looked forward to a Saturday like this before.)

────────────────────────

You should have known that when things get good for you, it’s really just a sign that they’re about to get particularly bad. It’s like a short high before you black out. You wake up, and every good memory is nothing but a dream, and you have been thrust back into reality. 

Bakugou and you are from two separate worlds, and you were never meant to mesh. You should have known that.

When the headlines come, he refuses to talk to you. Refuses to say anything, or explain himself, or give you any sort of reasoning or context. He doesn’t even argue with you. Just completely shuts you out—you don’t understand it. You thought things were getting good. Better than good. That you were getting somewhere with him. That you had earned a place beside him. 

Every headline is relentless:

Pro Hero Dynamight Under Investigation Following Altercation With Shishikross

Witnesses Report Dynamight Initiated Attack Against Fellow Hero

Questions Raised After Dynamight Confronts Shishikross During Ongoing Villain Investigation

Hero Commission Requests Statements Following Dynamight Incident

Dynamight Faces Scrutiny After Public Clash With Pro Hero Shishikross

“What is the meaning of all this?” You storm into Bakugou’s office. 

He closes his eyes and exhales sharply, like you’re annoying him. Like your presence in his office is a nuisance, and your attempts at your job that he hired you to do are an inconvenience to him. 

“Meaning of what?” he asks flatly. 

“You know what!”

“Don’t speak in codes, woman,” he snaps. 

You stare at him, bewildered. This is not Bakugou. Not your Bakugou at least—not the one you’ve gotten to know and see and feel and…and be with. The one who fights to keep you by his side and show you that you’re supposed to be there. That it wasn’t some fluke accident that you got there in the first place. 

“Why did you attack another hero?”

“I fuckin’ didn’t. Got it?”

“There’s video evidence,” you cry, exasperated. “How am I supposed to mediate this? I can’t even write a statement if you don’t give me any context, and people have been contacting me left and right for a statement! Do you have any idea what your temper has gotten you into this time—”

“It wasn’t my fuckin’ temper,” he slams his hands on his table, standing up. You flinch, and he doesn’t even seem to notice. “I already gave my statement to the hero commission, and they’re lookin’ into it. They’re the only ones who need to know what’s happened, and they cleared me to continue work, didn’t they? So fuckin’ drop it and leave me alone.”

“Tell me what’s happening,” you demand, walking over and pointing a finger into his chest. “And tell me the truth!”

“You don’t need to know,” he fires, “I already told you, everyone who needs to know, knows. So just mind your damn business and—”

“Mind my business? This is my business—I literally get paid to make it my business! Hello? You pay me to help you keep your image up, or did you forget that? And you think that this is helping your image? How do you ever expect to claim that number one spot you want so badly like this—”

“I don’t care to be number one this fucking way!” he snaps. You pause, looking at him in confusion as he frustratedly clenches his fists and glares at you. “I’m gonna be the number one hero because I’m strong and capable and can save every damn person who needs saving—I’m gonna beat every fuckin’ villain that gets in my way and stop those idiots because I win. That’s what I do. This fuckin’ bullshit of buying my way to the top with brand deals and cheeky posts and stupid performative shit is beneath me!”

You blink, processing his words. 

Bakugou is, despite the critiques he often gets, a good hero. You’ve always known he was a good person at heart. He fought a war and died and then came back just to fight some more, for crying out loud, and he’s only thrown himself into more danger since then to keep at it. He’s never hurt anyone he’s meant to save, or put them on the back burner as a side priority in favor of being a flashy, successful, wealthy pro. He saves them so dedicatedly, like saving them isn’t enough—he has to save them with his all. He’s worked so hard and so relentlessly to get where he is, and it’s because he wants to be the best at what he does: using his quirk to stop idiots who use their own quirks for shitty, fucked up reasons that disrupt peace. 

You know those things to be true because you see him, and you know him, but you’ve never actually heard directly from him his own thoughts on his job, and how he approaches it, so you can’t help it when you say, “You’re an actual idiot—I never saw that coming from you.”

He bristles as he growls, “Hah? The fuck did you just say—”

“You think people are going to trust you to save them because you’re fucking strong?” you glare up at him, “huh? Is that it? You think you’ll just prove yourself to be the strongest man out there, take out all the bad guys, and everyone will just accept that you’re the best man for the job?”

“Of course—”

“You know what I would think,” you interrupt, “if some strong ass guy was just there, beating everyone he fought? If he proved himself as the best and the strongest? I’d think, geez, wouldn’t it be fucking awful if this guy decided to be a villain? If he just decided one day to do as he pleases and hurt people? That would suck—he’d be strong enough to get away with it, wouldn’t he? And look—you beat a fucking hero up! So now what do you think people will think, huh?”

His veins all but pop as he snarls at you, almost hurt and offended, “What’re you saying, huh? You think I’m capable of bein’ a villain, s’that it?”

“I know you’re not. But people don’t know you,” you hiss, “They just know you’re a guy who’s strong and can fight. Why should they trust you? Especially with a headline like that? Slapping on the title of pro hero doesn’t make you a good person—you saw that for yourself. You have to earn people’s trust by showing them who you are.” 

Bakugou does not take your job seriously—despite the way he has grown fond of you by chance, and despite the undeniable respect that he has for you, you have never been naive enough to think that it means he sees your profession as anything more than an extra source of nagging that he has to deal with. You know plenty of people like Bakugou who share the same mindset about your job. People who only see you as a strategic means to market others and make them seem likable, taking advantage of trends and good media and whatever else it is that you can get your hands on. 

You don’t mind that he doesn’t see it as the most useful thing in the world. You love your job. You’re good at it, and you’ve wanted it since you were a kid. 

You realize all too soon into your childhood that you’re no hero. That a quirk never manifests in that useless body of yours, and you’re frail and weak compared to someone who has power running through their veins. Your genes had decided that you were weak. You couldn’t save anyone if you tried, not even yourself—you are the kind of person that can only be saved. You can only cling to hope that someone will be there to make up for your shortcomings, watching out for you since you cannot do it yourself.

You’re no hero. But you decided a long time ago that maybe, if you tried hard enough, you could still find a way to make use out of your existence and help heroes in some other way. You decided a long time ago that even if you cannot offer anything meaningful yourself, then perhaps you can at least aid someone else in offering what they can. 

Your heart just yearns for the things that it does—bleeds for it. It’s yearned to be a hero since you were young, but you’re no hero, and you will never have the chance to be. You know that better than anyone. But you could still be a part of their world in some minor, partially useful way. You could help, even if it’s behind the scenes and not worthy of any real praise. You could be the small cog in the machine that makes weak people like you stare at the television screen and feel like someone is there to do what you cannot do for yourself.

You sigh deeply, rubbing your hands together as you mumble, “Look, I know your job is more serious than acting like some internet personality. I get it—I’ve never been on a battlefield like you or risked my life, so I can’t really speak, I do get that. But people need to know you care—”

“Exactly,” he says bluntly, “you can’t speak. You’re not on that battlefield, and you should stop stickin’ that nose into matters about the battlefield. That’s not for you—got it? Just go back to your office and figure out some brand deals and call it a fuckin’ day. For fuck’s sake.”

“Is that all you think of me?” You hiss, tears collecting in your eyes. He falters for a moment—a moment so fleeting, you almost wonder if you imagined it. “That’s all you think I am, just some person who—”

“I think you’re takin’ up too much of my time, and I’m fuckin’ busy. And—”

“You know what, you’re right,” you laugh, but it’s humorless, and the tears have already started streaming down your face for you to maintain the facade of being uncaring. “I’m taking up too much of your precious time, and I’m clearly not worthy of that time, so let me just know my place, right?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth—”

“You have fun figuring this out,” you interrupt. “Since you’re so fucking smart and above all this.”

The door to his office shakes the walls with the force of your slam behind you, and you pretend like you don’t see the way everyone turns to look at you as you wipe your tears and stomp to your own office, slamming yet another door for a second time.

────────────────────────

It’s been three days, and you’ve still yet to talk to Bakugou. 

Well, in person, at least—everything gets handled by emails, and you intend to keep it that way. You’ve even looked for other job listings here and there, to your shame. Every time you do, though, you think about Kiri and the disappointment that would surely paint over his face, and you quickly leave the tab. 

“Miss,” one of Bakugou’s new sidekicks nervously gets your attention and breaks you from your thoughts. You force a tight smile, looking up to meet his gaze expectantly as he says, “Pro Hero Pinky is outside the building—I saw her on my way in. She wants me to tell you she’d like a word.”

“Oh?” you hum, tilting your head. “Did she say why? She usually texts me if she wants something.”

He shrugs. “Not really sure. She did say she forgot her phone—and she asked for you specifically. I think it’s about Mister Dynamight’s recent scandal...n-not that it’s my business, or that I’ve been paying attention to it or anything—I would never do any digging, p-please believe me—”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head as you hold up a hand.

Ah. So Mina must be here to talk about Bakugou’s latest bout of stupidity. You can’t really say you’re shocked. Part of you is relieved that Bakugou has such good friends. The other part only finds itself growing more irritated with him on their behalf.

Here is Mina—genuine enough, sincere enough, concerned enough—that she would come in the middle of her workday just to speak to you about his career. Cares enough to forget her phone in her haste. And then there is Bakugou—who shoves aside everyone trying to help him, who never meets anyone halfway, not even you, his publicist, who was hired specifically to help his reputation and has somehow become his...lover?

(No, not quite. You think you cannot call yourself that. Not yet. But what is the word for someone who is more than a friend and less than a lover? You are not entirely sure.)

“No worries,” you smile kindly. The sidekick visibly relaxes, his shoulders slumping. “I wouldn’t blame you even if you were doing some digging. You are associated with Dynamight during all this, after all. I’d be concerned if I were you, too. In any case, thank you for relaying the message. I’ll go see her now.”

You give his shoulder a gentle squeeze on your way past him, taking the elevator down to the first floor and walking out through the agency entrance. Sure enough, Mina is outside waiting for you. Relief immediately floods her face when she spots you approaching.

“Oh my god,” she sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Thank god. I was starting to think you weren’t gonna come.”

You blink. “Oh, sorry if I took too long—”

“I have so much to talk to you about,” she says, grabbing your hands. “I’m worried about Bakugou.”

Fondly—and painfully—you think about how lucky Bakugou is. To have people who care like this. To have people who show up like this. To have people he brushes aside so easily and still have the knowledge that they will always be there waiting for him.

“I’m glad you wanted to talk,” you sigh. “I can’t get through to him. So maybe...maybe if someone who understands him better spoke to him...”

“C’mon,” Mina says immediately, tightening her grip on your arm. For a moment, her expression turns unusually serious. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

“But it’s still the middle of my workday—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she laughs. “He’s not gonna say anything to you. Especially not if I get onto him. Relax, just come with me.”

You hesitate, but only briefly. It’s Mina. Even if your career somehow suffered from disappearing for an afternoon—which it wouldn’t—Mina would never let anything happen. So you nod. She beams instantly and quickly guides you away from the agency, steering you toward a waiting car parked farther down the street.

────────────────────────

“Where the fuck is Hellcat?” Katsuki stalks through the agency floor, already feeling a vein throbbing in his temple.

Eijirou sighs from where he’s leaning against a desk. “I dunno, man. I’ve been looking for her, too. She was here earlier. I’ve got emails I forwarded that I need her to look at and—”

“She’s with Miss Pinky,” one of his sidekicks pipes up.

Katsuki blinks. (He forgets the kid’s name. He really needs to get better about that.) “The fuck do you mean she’s with Raccoon-Eyes?”

The sidekick visibly wilts. “Well, Miss Pinky was outside when I came in and...a-and she asked me to send her down and...I-I just thought it was important and—”

“Unbelievable.” Katsuki throws up a hand in disbelief before turning toward Eijirou. “D’you hear this shit? She’s stealing our employees from under our noses, and our other damn employees are helpin’ her do it.”

Eijirou pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s not stealing your publicist.”

“What’s next?” Katsuki continues. “We wire her our fuckin’ payroll, too? Help fund her agency while we’re at it?”

Eijirou sighs. “You should call her.”

Katsuki grunts. “Yeah.”

Eijirou looks exhausted. Just as exhausted as Katsuki feels. And even though Katsuki knows Eijirou understands, knows he doesn't mind helping shoulder the burden right now, the guilt still settles heavy in his chest. This mess is Katsuki’s. Not Eijirou’s. But it’s taking a toll on both of them. On the agency. On every person around him. Not telling you the truth is taking an even worse toll on Katsuki, though. Not just because you'd know how to fix this PR nightmare—Katsuki just hates lying to you.

He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t fucking get it. How the hell did that creep get out of police custody? And since when did Katsuki think so emotionally? He’s better than that. Smarter than that. But he remembers so vividly the rage that flooded his veins when Shishikura—or whoever the hell had been wearing Shishikura’s face—looked him dead in the eye and whispered, that publicist of yours really is lucky having someone to look out for her, huh? Getting her a driver and bodyguards. Tell me, does she call you by your given name yet?

He still remembers the way his palms had started tingling. The way his hands had shaken. Still remembers knowing, with every fibre of his being, that if he didn't stop that bastard right there, things weren't going to end well. That they might not end well for you. He can't imagine that. Can't imagine a world where you're hurt, and he's forced to watch it happen. Can't imagine letting something happen to you right under his nose when he knows he can do something about it. Can't imagine caring about anything else in that moment except getting the bastard detained again and under better watch—under his watch—until he's locked away somewhere so far from you that he can never, ever reach you again.

But Katsuki failed. Again. He keeps failing and failing and fucking failing. Failed to keep the villain contained. Failed to figure out who he really is. Failed to stop him before he got close enough to learn about you. And if Katsuki can't keep you safe, then he has to keep you at arm’s length. No matter how much it hurts. No matter how much it tears him apart to watch you cry over someone like him. He won't—can't—let you get dragged into this while he figures it out. Not you. Never you. You're better than this. Better than him.

He pulls out his phone and dials once. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. A third time. Voicemail. Fourth, then a fifth. Voicemail.

The dread settles low in his stomach. Something about this feels wrong. His instincts are never wrong—they have kept him alive for too many years to ignore them now. No matter how pissed you are at him, you would never ignore him this many times, would you? Something, his gut is telling him, is seriously wrong.

He forces himself to relax. It’s just Raccoon-Eyes. She’s probably filling your head with some stupid advice. Ignore him, and make him sweat! That’s probably what she’s telling you right now—some girl-talk bullshit. Yeah. That’s all it is.

He dials Mina’s number instead. She answers on the first ring.

“Blasty-babe,” she sings. “And what might I help the great Dynamight with in the middle of his very busy day?”

“Cut the shit,” he snaps. “Send Hellcat back to the agency. We’ve got too much work to do.”

Silence. 

Then, Mina’s voice comes through the line, a little too convincingly confused when she says, “What?”

Katsuki frowns. “Quit playin’ dumb.”

“Katsuki,” Mina says slowly, “what do you mean exactly by send her back?”

“She’s with you, isn’t she? One of my sidekicks said you came by the agency and asked him to send her down.”

The silence that follows is wrong. It feels wrong—wrong, wrong, wrong. Something is so seriously, awfully, sinisterly wrong. The hairs on the back of Katsuki’s neck stand up. Across the room, Eijirou notices his expression change, and his own grows anxious.

Mina’s breath catches from the other end of the line. “Blasty,” she says quietly, “I haven’t seen her since the Billboard Charts.”

Katsuki’s blood runs cold. “What?”

“I’m at my agency,” Mina says, voice rising with panic. “I haven’t left all day. I was never at your agency.”

The world seems to narrow. The noise of the agency fades. Katsuki feels like the world is spinning, and he can’t keep his balance. A twist in his gut is telling him that there is something terribly wrong, and his gut is never wrong. Never. 

And for the first time in his life, Katsuki finds himself wishing—desperately, stupidly—that it was.

as always if u enjoyed, comments and reblog tags are really appreciated!!! i loveee to hear ur thoughts!!!

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

Which means you slept with Bakugou. 

Bakugou.

Bakugou.

Your heart immediately begins hammering against your ribs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You immediately look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Because,” you grit your teeth.

“Because what?” he asks, impatient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wha—no! I never said—”

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

“No! I just—”

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

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

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

You go quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh, thank god.

Dynamight — #15.

Red Riot — #12.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not fuckin’ bitter!”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’ll kill you, hair-for-brains.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you lie instantly. “Never!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know what I mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────────────────────────

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

You blink.

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

You absolutely cannot picture yourself there among them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

“So?”

“So normal people care about that!”

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

That flusters you into silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is not a good thing!”

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

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

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

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

Katsuki? Does she know him?

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

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

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

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

“Not simple,” Bakugou interrupts immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tch. Doubt it. She knows my mom.”

You blink. “Huh?”

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

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

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

“I’d expect nothing less,” she hums

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

TODAY 6:47 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(New contact saved: Mina <3)

────────────────────────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! That bastard has to apologize—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up, both of you,” he snaps. 

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

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

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

You giggle, shaking your head in fond amusement.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?” You do a double-take. 

“It’s a one-word answer. Me or him?”

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

“Good. Come on.”

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

“W-wait, what about Kiri—”

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

“But—”

“Jus’ be quiet.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop kissing me, then,” you huff.

“You’re fuckin’ kissing me.”

“No, you’re kissing me—”

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

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

“M’not.”

“Don’t lie to me, either.”

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

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

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

“Why,” you practically pout.

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

“That’s hot,” you wink.

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

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

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

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

“Are you done yet?” you ask.

“No. Wait. You’re bein’ impatient.”

“Because you’re taking forever.”

“Then do it yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

“There. M’done,” he mutters. “Happy?”

“Very. Pay attention to me now.”

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

“I think you like that,” you note.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Kirishima.”

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

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

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

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

“What could it possibly fuckin’ be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How bad?”

Another pause as Bakugou listens. Then—

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh, grinning. “That’s a lie.”

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

“I’ll count on it,” you hum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eye twitches, but you don’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you won’t,” you say firmly.

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

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

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

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

—

@ Dynamight is live.

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

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

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

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

LMAOOOOO

omfg his little oops??? so adorable 

HE IS SOOOO CUTIE

Oh my god I love him

MY MANNNNNN CANNOT BE THIS ADORABLE

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

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

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

The comments immediately explode.

IS THIS REAL?? THEY’RE REALLY LIVE???

did he just call him katsuki? that is SO cute

KIRISHIMA HIIIIIII I WANNA BE UR GF

WHY IS DYNAMIGHT JUST STANDING THERE LIKE THAT

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

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

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

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

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

LMAO NOT HIM TRANSLATING FOR DYNAMIGHT

red riot is so done with him i bet lollll

Dear god someone get me in that room with them now

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

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

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

OHHHH HE CAN TALK ME THROUGH IT ALRIGHT

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

OH MY GOD THOSE CALVES

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

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

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

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

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

they’re actually so funny together 

HE’S WORRIED ABOUT ME GETTING INJURED <3

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

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

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

AHHH WE GET TO WATCH THEM DO PUSH UPSSSS

Those BICEPS

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

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

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

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

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

“I gave instructions, you moron.”

“Because you care!”

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

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

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

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

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

CRUSH ME WITH THOSE THIGHS BABEEEE

oh my god look at the veins on his arms

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

Those weights should be ME bro

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

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

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

Live Video Ended.

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

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

Suddenly, your phone lights up with a message. 

TODAY 5:34 PM

Bakugou: did you watch the whole thing 

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

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

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

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

You’re smiling at your phone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

────────────────────────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Twitter: Katsuki Bakugou just made a post

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

top replies:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

Messages: 1 new unread message

TODAY 7:52 PM

Bakugou: wtf is a yaoi

You: Google is free you know

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

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

Bakugou: 👍

──────────────────────── 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As soon as you find Bakugou. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.

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

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Don’t finish that thought. 

Good—he looks very good. 

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

He looks so fucking hot.

Quit it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” you tilt your head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s stupid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oi!” comes his sharp reply, “You—”

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

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

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

“I’m not stupid,” the blonde snaps.

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

“Hah? I fuckin’ heard that.”

“Good.”

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

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

Kirishima asks dumbly, “Hellcat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. For job security,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It won’t!” Kirishima promises quickly.

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

You sigh. “Fantastic.”

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

────────────────────────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Your eyes drift naturally toward Bakugou.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Which leaves only you and Bakugou.

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

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

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

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

“B-but—”

“Jus’ be fuckin’ quiet,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

The car ride is painfully quiet at first.

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

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

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

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

But you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

“Do it,” he huffs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No—to send you plummeting.

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you—”

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

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

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

That’s all he needs to hear.

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

“So perfect,” he breathes.

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

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

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

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

He hums in satisfaction at the sound.

“That...do that again,” you plead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You decide to savor it.

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

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

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

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

“Stop,” you protest weakly.

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

“Just move already, Baku—”

“Katsuki,” he corrects immediately.

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

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

And he’s gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?” he croaks. “Safe?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” he snorts. 

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

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

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

“Go the fuck to sleep,” he yawns.

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

It wasn't an uncommon sight for people to see you like this—you attached to him one way or another. Whenever you would wade through a crowd, you'd have a fistful of his jacket in your hand as he guided you forward. If there was a party and the environment was rowdy, eagle-eyed residents would spot you in a corner sharing earphones, listening to your own music.

"'Shiya, are they firing me?" You scooped up some of the pudding, bringing it close to his lips. He hummed in deep thought, letting you feed him.

"They wouldn't try," he finally responded. "They know what would happen if they did."

Your heart fluttered a little, making you bite the inside of your cheek to prevent a smile. After getting to know him for a while now, you've come to realize that only one word could fully describe your relationship: subtle.

He wasn't as big on PDA as you were, but he wasn't averse to physical touch as well. He wouldn't let you sit on his lap in public, but you'd feel his touch on your lower back whenever you were wandering around. He wasn't overtly jealous, but he didn't not care either. He was protective in the sense that he wouldn't make a scene. And it's in instances like this where his love for you really shows.

"Oooh, you're so hot when you're scary like this," you teased him, offering him another spoonful. He rolled his eyes, though a small smile played at his lips. He was silent after that for a few more minutes. You frowned a bit at this. Something was off.

"You gonna tell me what's on your mind?" you asked softly, placing your chin on his shoulder. Subconsciously, he leaned his head towards you.

"We're playing tonight, right?"

"Uh-huh. What about it?"

"They're putting us into separate groups this time." His eyes shifted towards you, trying to read your reaction.

Your eyes widened just a bit, surprised but not fully. In the past, you and Chishiya have come to expect that they'll use your relationship as a target. It was impossible for the militants or Hatter to have gotten a whiff of your plan to steal the cards, but a storm was about to come if they were trying to get rid of you first—and then presumably Chishiya.

You hummed, taking the last bite of pudding. Chishiya was still studying your expression. Truthfully, he wasn't worried about sending you off alone. He knew what you were capable of—your intellect and quick thinking were among the biggest reasons why he fell for you in the first place. It was who you were going to be grouped with that he was worried about.

"Well... I guess we had it coming," you stated plainly. You heard him scoff next to you. You quirked an eyebrow. "Is the great Shuntaro worried about little, old me?"

"Yes."

He moved so that he was facing you. Honey brown eyes bore into your own, his lips pinched in a thin line. The sarcasm died on your tongue, and you noticed how his knee was restlessly bouncing.

"I want you to come back here alive and well." It was a demand more than a request.

You took his hands gently into yours. "Of course I will. I'll always find my way back to bother you."

────୨ৎ────

"Where's your jacket?" Kuina gestured towards him with the lollipop. "Don't tell me you forgot it."

"It's with ___," he replied cooly.

Kuina tensed a little at your name. She knew about the separation ploy. Even further than that, she knew you were getting sent to a hearts game. She shifted from one foot to another, eyeing Chishiya carefully.

Upon first glance, he seemed aloof enough. His face was perfectly blank, eyes sharp. It was his hands that gave him away. He was repeatedly digging his nails into the tip of his thumb.

"I'm sure they'll be okay," Kuina murmured, nudging his shoulder. "They're tougher than everyone else thinks."

On the other side of the city, you were cozying yourself up in Chishiya's jacket as you leaned against the wall. The car had brought you to a mall, which had already unnerved you since it may mean you'd have to be quick on your feet. Large game zones always meant more physicality. The usual table filled with phones was also scattered with various weapons. Knives of various sizes, an axe, a baseball bat, dumbbells. All melee.

You've already armed yourself with the switchblade Chishiya made for you. You didn't want to risk carrying anything heavy around, especially not in a hearts game. You never knew if you'd need to run.

You eyed your "teammates," five militants you recognized to be under Niragi's posse. They couldn't have made it any more obvious that they were sending you to the wolves.

You rolled your eyes as they leered at you. It was one more minute before the game started, and your attention was drawn to a burly man accompanying an elderly woman. He was wearing a tank top reminiscent of Aguni's. He donned two full sleeves of tattoos and a row of piercings on his left ear.

Would've fit right in Aguni's faction if it weren't for the way he gently spoke to the woman.

Her crow's feet deepened when your eyes met. You gave her a small smile and a polite nod. She bowed lightly to you, mirroring your smile. You knew that part of Chishiya's protocol was to never look out for others, but god, you could already feel the guilt gnaw at you.

Just then, the familiar chime sounded, followed by the game announcer's voice.

"Registration has closed. There is a total of eight participants. The game will now commence.

Difficulty, 8 of Hearts. Game, Virus.

Clear condition: Find the antidote before the timer runs out.

Rules:

All players are Infected. Being Infected when the timer runs out will result in elimination. To be cured, players will need to find the antidote hidden in the shopping center. There is only one.

To administer the antidote, please place it in front of your phone camera.

Players are not allowed to exit the venue.

Players are allowed to use weapons.

Players will have 30 minutes before game over."

Almost immediately, the phones lit up with a timer counting down. There was palpable tension in the room, like all eight of you simultaneously held your breaths. Eight of you and only one antidote.

You could already see the gears turning in the militants' heads. Less people meant a larger chance to be cured. The one who went for the axe—Akira, you've come to remember his name—had a wolfish grin. Slowly, you inched yourself closer to the pair of newcomers.

The man already looked distressed, saying something inaudible into the old woman's ear. He froze when you came into view, his eyes narrowing at you. Before he could speak, you cut him off with a harsh whisper.

"Stay clear of them."

"Hey Kenji, aren't you Number 78?" You heard Akira speak behind you.

You subtlely nodded to the doors on the far left, an entrance to the grocery. Lots of shelves meant lots of places to hide. Lots of places to search. The tattooed man nodded in understanding, clutching the elderly woman's arm. Slowly, you led them farther and farther away from the armed men.

The militants were all focused on each other now. Akira was eyeing Kenji with a smirk. He was shorter, newer to the Beach. He took a cautious step back when Akira inched closer to him.

"I'm just double-checking, because if you aren't worth shit then that means I can do this."

You walked faster, breaking into a sprint when you heard the thick "thwack" of metal colliding with flesh. The body fell to the floor with a muted thump, followed by jeers and yells from the four remaining men.

"Don't look back!" You shouted at the pair. You led them into the supermarket area, winding around shelves and freezers. You finally stopped in your tracks when it was silent once more.

"How did you know they were going to..." The man trailed off, rubbing the elderly woman's back as she panted.

"I came here with them. Not really friends, more like begrudging workmates," you explained, catching your own breath. You stuck a hand out at them, introducing yourself.

"I'm Minato. This is my mother, Chiyo." Minato shook your hand firmly. Chiyo smiled at you once more, bringing her hand to her mouth before slowly turning it down.

"She's saying 'thank you,'" Minato said. You shrugged, moving to look around you.

"I think we should look around for now. We'll cross the bridge when we get there," you huffed, vaguely referring to the elephant in the room. Minato looked only half convinced, though nodded nonetheless.

The three of you moved together in silence, wary of the other men who may still be alive. At worst, it will still be the four of them. If, by some miracle, they were smart enough to work together, you'd have to face all of them if they decided they wanted to play the violent way. At best, it would be just Akira, or whoever would overpower him. After that, it would boil down to you, Minato, and Chiyo—something you did not want to think about for now.

"How are we even supposed to know what it looks like?" he asked you as you took off items from the shelves, digging around for anything that may be useful.

"Maybe our phones will light up when we come in contact with it?" you answered non-commitally.

You scanned your surroundings, seeing only half-off banners and posters offering discounts. "Under 40% off!" one of them read.

"What if it's not here?"

You turned around to look at them before peering around the shelves to glance at the entrance of the grocery. "Then we'd have to go out. You wouldn't happen to have anything you can defend yourselves with, would you?"

Minato gulped, shaking his head. He placed a hand on Chiyo's shoulder. "I'll be back, mama. I'll just look for things we can use. Take care of her while I'm away, okay?"

You assured him with a nod, carefully leading Chiyo to stand behind you. At least Minato was willing to trust you enough to leave you with his mother. The worry over betrayal was erased, for now.

You looked on as the seconds flew by on your phone. You've spent about 15 minutes in the shopping center, and you still have two whole floors left to investigate. You racked your brain, trying to think of the most efficient way to solve this.

You can't split up. Chiyo would be vulnerable, and Akira wouldn't hesitate to attack an old woman. Survival always came first in the Borderlands, sometimes more than humanity. If you went as a group, you'd risk having the timer run out. And even if you did find the antidote, what then?

That was when you heard the sliding doors part open. A small ding ran through the supermarket. You stuck close to the shelves, craning your head to see enough of the entrance. Chiyo followed suit.

Akira stood in the middle, face splattered with blood, a trail of crimson coming from the blade of his axe. He gripped it tightly, boots heavy on the tiled floor.

"___!" he called out. "I know you and your little friends are here!"

You looked around, still not seeing Minato. Akira walked aimlessly in your direction. You put a finger against your lips before gesturing to Chiyo. You'd have to go around and hope you'd meet Minato outside. Shakily, she hobbled towards the back aisle, silently making your way to door.

"I just want to talk!" Akira bellowed, hitting a display in one big swoop. Cans fell to the ground in echoing clatters. If Minato didn't know Akira was here, he sure would now. "You left so fucking fast a while ago!"

Akira swiped at the shelves, sending products toppling to the floor. From the corner of your eye, you saw Minato across the cash registers. He was kneeling down, pressed against one of the ledges. The end of a fire extinguisher poked out of his arms. He frantically pointed to the exit. You shook your head stubbornly.

"No, you'll break your mama's heart."

He shuffled on bent knees until he was a good distance behind a rampaging Akira. He stood up, bringing the fire extinguisher above his head. In front of him, Akira brought his eyes up, just in time to see their reflection in one of the freezer doors.

He spun around, bringing the axe across Minato's chest. Minato jumped back, shielding himself with the fire extinguisher. The axe blade broke through the metal, sending a steady puff of smoke out with a high-pitched wheeze.

"Stay close to the wall!" You lightly pushed Chiyo back before running towards Akira. You had gotten your blade out, swinging it at his neck. He jerked his head back, the blade cutting through his cheek instead. Minato got hold of the fire extinguisher again, smacking Akira in the side with it.

The militant stumbled back, but his grip on the axe was tight. He caught himself on one of the shelves and swung back at you. Minato shoved you out of the way, making you collide with one of the cashier stands. You smacked your head on the conveyor belt ledge, room spinning as you held yourself up.

"Under maintenance," the sign stuck on it read.

Unsteadily, you straightened up once more, seeing Minato on the ground as he clutched the side of his thigh. The fabric of his pants was torn, blood gushing out of the deep cut. Akira towered above him, extending his arms high above his head for the killing blow.

You swiftly grabbed one of the cans from the ground, chucking it at him. Bullseye, square in the face. He staggered backward, letting out a pained cry. You dragged Minato away from him, adrenaline pumping in your ears. Your vision wasn't fully clear yet, but you dove for the axe.

You had managed to grab the handle closest to the blade, but Akira's hand shot out to clutch the other end. The two of you fought, trying to wrench it out of each other's grip. He had you pinned against one of the cash registers, struggling to press the bladed end into you.

"You think lover boy would cry if I brought back your corpse?" he sneered at you through a toothy grin.

Just then, a blast of smoke hit him. With your remaining strength, you pushed off the axe handle, sending Akira flying back. Chiyo held onto the fire extinguisher, emptying it on a coughing Akira. You brought your arm around your face, burying your nose in the jacket's cotton. With your free arm, you dug around, blindly feeling the floor. Finally, your fingers came into contact with your switchblade.

Just as the smoke ran out, you lunged at Akira, plunging the blade into his sternum, just a little to the left. Exactly where the heart was, as Chishiya taught you. You retracted the blade, pushing it back in deeper. Akira limply struggled beneath you, mouth gaping in a wordless taunt. Eventually, he stopped moving.

You got up, wiping the blood off your blade using your shorts. You turned to Chiyo, who found her way to Minato. She was trembling as she pressed her hands against his wound. Below her, he gritted his teeth in pain. Panicked, you glanced at your phone. Seven minutes.

You swore, briskly walking up to them.

"Give me your phones. I'll find the antidote and—"you made eye contact with Minato. "I'll scan it using Chiyo's."

"How will we know you won't use yours?"

"Then I'll take her with me."

He chuckled humorlessly. "And leave me here?"

"Would you rather have all of us die?" you retorted, furrowing your brow. You could faintly hear the seconds tick down on your phone. For a moment, it was just you and Minato holding eye contact, challenging one another. It didn't look like either of you was budging soon.

"If I would scan using my phone, I would have left you by now." His brow furrowed deeper, mouth open with an argument that died on his tongue. Chiyo pressed Minato's cracked phone into your hands.

She smiled tearfully at you, repeating her gesture of thanks. You tilted your head towards her. With one last glance at Minato, you stood up.

"No! Mom! Give her yours! Mama!"

Minato's voice faded behind you as you made your way back to the center of the mall. You frantically looked around. Kenji's body was sprawled near the table. Another body was near one of the potted plants, at the landing of the escalator.

You forced your breathing to slow down. Chancing at one more look at your phone, you figured you had 5 minutes. You slowly spun around, taking in your surroundings.

Your eyes scanned the shopfronts, the banners, the posters tacked on the columns.

"Under 1,000 yen!"

"See us under the food court!"

"Selected items under 5, 000 yen!"

You brought your gaze back to one of the escalators, a piece of paper taped on its side.

"Under renovation."

Under.

It hit you.

You scrambled back to the phone table. Trying your best to avoid the pool of blood, you knelt down and peeked underneath. Sure enough, a 2x2 QR code was taped underneath. Below it was a red cross.

You positioned Minato's phone underneath it, angling the camera to line up with the code.

"Come on, come on," you pleaded.

Finally, the phone buzzed. Yours did as well. Confused, you brought both phones out, placing them on the ground.

"Antidote administered. You won!"

────୨ৎ────

Back at the Beach, Chishiya stood next to Kuina. They were on the balcony overlooking the entrance, waiting for time to trickle slowly as group after group came back. Everyone except yours.

Niragi and his group of "friends" perched around the couches, revelling as the night stretched on and you still haven't arrived. He tilted his head in Chishiya's direction, a mocking smirk on his face.

He tapped his fingers repeatedly on the balcony, letting out a long sigh. "Why aren't they back yet?"

"I don't know, Chishiya."

"They should be back by now. The games never take this long."

"Maybe they're driving back right now? Maybe it's an endurance game?"

Chishiya scoffed. "It's a hearts game. You don't need endurance for that."

"Well, I don't know, Chishiya, okay? I'm worried too," Kuina glanced at him, grimacing in irritation.

As if on cue, you walked breezily through the large doors. Chishiya's eyes widened at the sight of you. Dark red seeped into his jacket, your sleeves, especially, soaked with them. A large bloodstain was spattered over your t-shirt, flecks of scarlet stuck on your chin and cheeks. You glanced around, face blank. When your eyes met, your mouth broke into the biggest grin.

You sprinted towards him, Chishiya walking briskly to meet you halfway down the steps. Before he could get a word out, you wrapped him up in a tight hug. His arms snaked around your frame, pressing you against him.

"What took you so long, you idiot?" he mumbled against your neck. To your surprise, he gently cradled your face in his hands, pressing his lips softly against yours. You hummed, beaming as he pulled away.

Kuina folded her arms, proudly watching you both. She sneaked a glance at Niragi, a deep scowl on his face. This made her laugh under her breath.

"I told you I'd be back," you knotted your fingers in between his. You smoothed down the worried crease between his brows. You giggled, accidentally transferring some of the blood onto his skin.

"Sorry about that. I guess we'll both need to shower." Chishiya rolled his eyes as you winked teasingly at him.

Kuina moved towards you, embracing you as well. "Jesus, that worried the fuck out of me. What happened to you?"

"Don't worry, it's not mine," you referred to the blood. "I had to drop some friends off on the way."

The three of you started to make your way back to your room, Chishiya's hand gripping your waist firmly.

"Oi!" Niragi called after you. You groaned, turning halfway to him. You cocked a brow.

"What the fuck did you do to my boys, huh?"

For a moment, you contemplated what you would answer. You could tell the truth, tell him his "boys" mindlessly went after each other for a cure that needed to be activated only by one person—logic they missed out on. You could lie and act tough, bluff that you killed them yourselves. You glanced at Chishiya, his mouth formed in a content grin.

"I didn't do anything. They were too dumb, that's all. Just like you."

── 🂺 bonds with you by playing mind stimulating games like shōgi. he sets up makeshift pieces with bottlecaps, anything he can find.

── 🂺 something that's also out of character for him is… handholding. something so ordinary, so human, that it kind of embarrasses him how much he enjoys it.

── 🂺 he is not physically affectionate. half the time you wonder if he even considers “this” as a real relationship. still, he allows certain things: your head against his shoulder. your hand sliding into his, without him pulling away. a light pat on your back as if congratulating a teammate. once, after surviving a brutal game that nearly killed everyone, he even wraps an arm around you briefly.

── 🂺 kissing is always on your side. chishiya does not initiate. not once. you’re often unsure, in fear of coming off as too pushy. when you finally lean in, he accepts it without hesitation, his lips stay completely still at first, letting you take the lead, until he finally presses back lightly, and over too quickly.

── 🂺 his idea of reassurance is deadpan and unintentionally cruel. "statistically, you are not a bad bet."

── 🂺 arguments don’t exist. or rather, you argue, he makes observations. chishiya enjoys teaching you through provocation. he makes a claim he knows you will argue with, just to see you fight for your perspective.

── 🂺 he often teaches through questions—never a direct answer or easy handout. if you struggle, he prods you with hints that force you to think. when you finally reach the conclusion yourself, he leans back, satisfied, "there it is."

── 🂺 you talk about the future sometimes. he never says "we." but rather, "when you leave this place, what will you do?" never if. always when.

── 🂺 chishiya never expected it to last. he thought you’d get tired of his evasions and tendency to deflect.

── 🂺 your relationship is his favourite paradox: it doesn’t make sense for someone like him to want it, and yet it’s the one thing he doesn’t plan an exit strategy for.