Angie

“hah?” he lifts his head, staring at you in disbelief. “what kind of comeback is that?”

“it’s a valid question.”

“no, it’s not!”

“it is.”

“you’re full of shit.”

a laugh slips out before you can stop it.

“sounds like someone doesn’t know his own ad.”

his eye twitches.

“don’t turn this against me.” he points at you accusingly. “give me that phone.”

“nope.”

“give it.”

“make me.”

the second the words leave your mouth, you regret them. his grin is immediate.

“oh, now you’ve done it.”

“katsuki—”

he lunges across the couch.

“no— katsuki!!”

you squeal, nearly dropping your phone as you scramble away. he grabs for it while you twist out of reach, both of you laughing and shoving each other around the cushions.

“hand it over!”

“never!”

“you watched it twelve times!”

“research purposes!”

“liar!” he barks, already trying to pry the phone from your hands while you laugh again.

He can tell. You’re trying not to stare but as his Bentley winds down the driveway, revealing more and more of the three storey manor, you can’t look away. It is impressive, he will admit. An end of the 19th century Manor. From here, you can see the three wings. A central one where two others flank it on a diagonal, facing the back garden. You drive past the surrounding forest and ancient trees, finally entering the driveway the size of a football field.

“Wow.” Is all you say, blinking and trying not to look too shocked. It doesn't work. The corner of his lips turns up.

“It’s a lot,” he agrees, easing the car into the stone arch of the carport.

“It’s the size of a small country.”

“You’re joking but the property is about the same width as Monaco.” He chuckles and unbuckles his seatbelt. Swiftly, he shoots out of his seat and rounds the car to your side. His shoes crunch rapidly onto the stone pebbles. A trait of yours that Bruce had quickly learnt, you’re independent. You didn’t need him to open the door or pull out a chair for you when you were perfectly capable. You'd gently move his hand away or thank him before reminding him that you could do it. He'd just smile and repeat what he always says: he wants to, it makes him happy to treat you. Proven by the slight satisfaction in his chest when he manages to swing the car door open. With a couple seconds to spare, he even holds a hand out for you.

“I should surprise you more often.” Bruce murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple as you straighten up. With a solid hand on your back, he leads you up the stone stairs in front of the grand door. They swing open without a sound.

You don't have a chance to take in the view of the foyer and grand hall because a man with greying hair steps to the side. His left hand is on the door handle, the other opened like a practised general.

"Hello, Master Bruce." The man nods politely, a polished English accent filling the quiet. "Shall I take you and your guest's coats?"

With nothing out of the normal for the billionaire, Bruce hands him his coat. You don't even notice that you haven't moved, still stuck on the fact that Wayne Manor is well...a manor, and that Bruce Wayne has a butler that greets him at the door and takes his coat. Somehow, Bruce has moved behind you, his hand still on your back but climbing up in a grounding rub. With a gentleness that's slowly starting to coax you out of your reverie, Bruce's fingers brush across your shoulders and slide the soft wool of yours off of you. He hands your coat the butler with a 'thank you'.

"Thank you," you add in, almost forgetting your manners.

"You're welcome." His butler just nods again before disappearing behind one of the antique wooden doors.

With just you and Bruce, you finally look up. Past the waxed herringbone. Past the intricate iron and wood balustrade. Past the neat stair runner. Past the vase of hollyhocks set on a table in the centre of the foyer. Because as your eye travels up and up, and you through the space, you finally take in the scale of the place. This is just the foyer and yet it's bigger than your entire kitchen, dining, and living room combined. Stretching up and beyond it, you can make out the upper hallway whose walls are covered in oil portraits and priceless sculptures. Back on the ground floor, behind an arcade (an arcade is a series of archways usually used to delimit a space), chandeliers drop from the ceiling and light up the massive ballroom. There's a hallway that stretches out to your left. Another to your right. More rooms that are probably even bigger than this one. And, if you squint, you can see a vast stretch of green that seems to blend into the shore and trees.

Finally, your eyes land on Bruce again, and you can only wonder how anyone could call a place this vast and empty his home.

—

The best way to experience Bruce's bedroom is in his bed.

The only downside is that you're pretty sure he's asleep and you need to pee. With a resigned sigh, you slowly peel yourself away from him. His hand, which had been resting on your stomach while you both slept on your backs, is gently placed back down onto the mattress. So far, so good. You carry on your delicate quiet by climbing off of the bed. Not a single creak.

Until your foot catches the ottoman.

"Shi-ow!" You keep your voice down, your whispered yell dulling down into a harsh hiss.

Hobbling on one and a half feet now, you make it another metre before your hip bumps into a side table. A grunt of pain squeezes through your lips. You carry on, your arms out in front of you as you find a wall. In the pitch black, you're mentally cursing Bruce's blackout curtains. Your palms brush up against the fabric wallpaper before finding the doorframe then the knob. With a twist, you push it open and shut it quietly behind you. Turning the light on, the walk in closet blinks to life.

Well, you're the one blinking, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.

In more rushed steps, you cross the room and shut the bathroom door behind you with a soft 'click'. Cool marble and carved wood greet you but you don't really care because you're beelining for the toilet.

Sweet, sweet porcelain.

Once your business is concluded, you wash your hands and splash your face with some water. You also secretly thank Bruce for being responsible and carrying you to the bathroom after your late-night activities to pee and brush your teeth, because now you have a toothbrush and can get rid of any morning breath. The soft shhh-shhh-shhh of the bristles against your teeth are the only sound this early. Or late. You haven't checked the time. Bruce must really be knocked out then.

All clean and bladder empty, you turn off all of the lights you cross paths with as you make your way back into the bedroom.

Just a silhouette in the shadows, Bruce is still flat on his back. With a little more grace than before, you find your way back onto the bed. And in Bruce's arms. He's rolled over, his biceps curled around you in a sturdy cuddle. Warmth emits off of him instantly, his body having heated up fast under the thousand thread count duvet.

"Good morning," he mutters and the sound travels south.

Good morning to you too, Mr. Wayne.

His voice is rich and gravelly, like a dark coffee or the rumble of a motor. Bruce's morning voice is sexy. Of course it is. He's Bruce Wayne. That combined with the lingering scent of sex, sweat, and expensive cologne, means that the memories of last night come crashing down on you. The deliberately slow peeling away of your clothes. His mouth on your pussy, eating you out just until your back arches before pulling away. His hands rubbing your thighs with a smug smile. His deep, stern voice asking telling you to go stand in front of the mirror. The heat that lingers on your skin as his touch maps out every part of you in front of the reflective glass. His weight then settling on top of you, caging you in-between the hard lines of his chest and the delicate pillow tucked under your hips. The stronger wafts of his cologne bringing you closer to the peak as he slings your legs over his shoulders and bends down to mark your collarbones.

With a small rustle, you turn your head towards him.

Fuck, he's back to sleep.

You decide that you don't want to end up staring at the ceiling for the next hour or however many more. Maybe you could get your phone? The one that's in your purse all the way downstairs in the library where he tried to teach you the basics of chess before deciding that sex was a much sexier way to end date night. So, your phone is a no-go. Maybe your imagination could distract you? Possible but considering your two options are replaying last night's events or worrying about the proper etiquette for the current situation, it doesn't sound promising. Should you wake him up? Should you just hide in the bathroom and put on your clothes from yesterday? Leave with a note? A text? A message from Alfred? Head downstairs? In his own house? Without him? Would it be rude to ask for breakfast?

"You're not breathing like you're asleep." You jump out of your skin at Bruce's voice rumbling against you.

"'Cause I'm not."

"Why?"

"Because I'm awake."

"I guessed that," he lightly pats your hip before rubbing the spot there. "Why aren't you going back to sleep?"

"Can't. Too awake."

"I didn't tire you out enough last night?" He chuckles, his voice getting closer as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"Shut up."

"I heard you bump into the wall."

Great. The morning after with billionaire bachelor Bruce Wayne is less romantic and steamy than you would have hoped for. Good job at setting the mood.

"Did you brush your teeth?" The mattress sighs as Bruce leans up on an elbow, slowly blinking down at you. You nod, caught.

"Hm." He just nods in return. "I'll message Alfred to get started on breakfast."

Then, like last night had no effect on him whatsoever, he stands up on steady feet and opens up the curtains. Gotham's early morning sun bathes him in a soft light, bringing out the mussed up black mess of hair on his head and the contours of his abs. With a deep breath and a roll of his shoulders, Bruce sits by you again, brushing the sleep out of your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone carefully and he hums. Leaning into his touch, the two of you start a morning routine full of gentle caresses and mundane habits.

—

Arguments are few and between with you and Bruce.

It helps that you're both so similar. Fiercely independent. Blunt and honest. Reflective and pensive. The two of you don't argue. You debate. Points are made, pauses are taken to fully absorb the other's perspective, and a conclusion is reached. It's organised and then moved past. You've each said what you've had to say. You agree and disagree on certain points. There's a mutual respect and understanding that allows for the both of you to come out as equals at the end.

But not last night.

Maybe it's because you were both at a wit's end. You had a long week juggling work, paparazzi, your personal life, and a wedding planner who can't stop sending you emails. Maybe because you're a woman marrying Bruce Wayne so they assumed that you'd be more eager to pay ridiculous sums for flowers and napkins on your fiancé's dime. Less level-headed. More willing to splurge after noticing the massive rock on your left hand. The paparazzi seem to think so too because you swear this one man had been following you since Tuesday when you stopped by a bakery after work. It made headlines in some trashy magazine 'Future Mrs. Wayne stopping by Sugar & Sprinkles for cake tasting. What flavour will the couple's cake be?'. Every little move you made was now an assumption ready for any looking eye to twist now that you're engaged to a Wayne.

Bruce is tired too. The CEO of Wayne Enterprises has been doing the mental math on expanding his conglomerate to other parts of the world, balancing the wants of global politics and the average consumer, and reading report after report on company performance. Add Batman on top of that and he's nearly dead on his feet. The Penguin has something planned but with a lack of proper rest, he can't fit the last pieces of the puzzle together. This other superhero, Superman, has just found out of his existence and won't leave him alone. It's the third time this month the meta-human from Metropolis has approached him with a friendly smile and his cape billowing in the wind like a bright red target. While the paparazzi have stopped bothering him years ago thanks to his lack of response as well as his legal team, his PR team keep on reminding him of the expectations of Bruce Wayne now that he's engaged. Happily engaged, but the extra people in what's supposed to be your private relationship is starting to get a bit grating.

Which is what the two of you ended up arguing about.

Now, the day after the fight. The Manor's hallways seem to stretch even further. Quiet, lined with artwork that makes the air stale. The remnants of the prior tension echo on the wood panelling. You had just glared at him, exaggerating that the silence that stretched down the East Wing of the Manor. He stared back at you, unmoving. You knew it's wasn't going to end well. He knew it too. But both proud and stubborn, the two of you didn't have it in you last night to compromise. You both wanted to win. You both needed a win. Something to pick you up at the end of the long, frustrating week you've had.

And neither of you are fully in the wrong. You know that you and Bruce need to slow down on the wedding planning. The both of you need it. You need a breather between the media and the stupid wedding planner, before you start resenting this wedding planning or even Bruce. Bruce needs the break too, as much as he doesn't want to admit it. His mental load is at its extreme and he can't take any more on. But he has a point with leaving the wedding planner sort through a few things and come back to you two later. They're being hired by Bruce Wayne for crying out loud. That doesn't mean bothering his future wife. It means making the whole wedding thing as seamless as possible.

But instead it ended in you taking one of the cars to drive back to yours in downtown Gotham while he retreated to the cave.

Dick doesn't like the quiet of the Manor. It's why he's been giving Bruce the cold shoulder all morning. He hates the stillness in the air. How life seems to stop and freeze in the presence of the Wayne ancestral halls. It's nothing like the circus. Nothing ever stayed immobile for too long. Tents were put up and brought down at sunrise and sunset. Animals and acrobats never stopped moving. Crowds roared and vendors had their own cacophonies of sounds. All the Manor had were its inhabitants. Alfred, although the butler seems to be incapable of making any involuntary sounds. No matter how hard Dick tries to scare him. Bruce, but grunts and hums don't count. Especially when Dick thinks that he drove you away with his arguing. And you, you added life. Your shoes would click down the hallway. You didn't make it your life's mission to be stealthy like the other two. You laughed, stumbled, bumped into things, and made the house creak. He missed it. He missed knowing that at the sound of the usually well-oiled doors opening, you'd pop your head in and make his days a little brighter, noisier.

"Hey, chum," he doesn't even glance up from his book when Bruce walks into the library. "You want to go into town and get some ice cream at that place near the cinema?"

Dick aggressively flips the page. He pointedly ignores Bruce's approaching footsteps.

"We can get a scoop of sorbet while we're there. Maybe bring it to someone."

Another page flip.

Then, he remembers. You like sorbet. Slowly, Dick lifts his eyes to meet his adoptive dad's. With a dramatic sigh and a sharp snap shut, the book gets put down and he's already beating him to the door.

Hours later, when the three of you walk back into the Manor after an afternoon of ice cream and the park, Dick finally feels like things are going back to normal. He can hear you muttering with Bruce from the open door of the library's second floor. You're debating which book to read with him before bed. There's your laughter, somehow finding something Bruce said funny. Somehow. Then, when his eyes drift shut, sleepy from the boring 'History of the Modern Wheel' the sounds of your footsteps on the creaking wood floors lull him to sleep.

—

The first thing you hang up in your side of the closet is your wedding dress. Zipped up and safely tucked away. Before your foot catches on something, sending you stumbling around the walk-in. You look down and around you at the dozen or so boxes surrounding your feet. Twelve more to go.

Sneakily, a familiar hand finds its way around your waist, settling on your hipbone. You tilt your head up and find Bruce. A habit of his entering and leaving rooms without a single sound. There's a little gleam in his blue eyes meaning he's got something on his mind.

"I meant it when I said I could move my stuff over. I don't wear half of these things anyway." His chin points to his side of the walk in closet. The smaller side. Not that it's lacking in any way though. It's still big enough for his watches, belts, socks, shoes, pants, suits, tuxedos, seasonal wear, and everything in between with room to grow.

"And I told you that I have plenty of room." You remind him, doubting that you'll be needing any more space. It falls on deaf ears though. Bruce sees an opportunity to give you something and he will take it. You speak before he can charm his way into getting what he wants: giving you whatever you want. "So, no. Just help me unpack."

With a nod that comes almost too quick, you regret not being more suspicious when he crouches down and opens up the first box.

Not too long later, your side is full and you haven't even made much of a dent in the wardrobe. Never mind that because your husband is already herding you to the study like you're a prized sheep. The heavy wooden door pushes in and you notice the new layout. What used to be his large and heavy desk in the centre of the room is now gone. Instead, the aforementioned desk is on the right while a matching one is on the left. Both standing over the same rug with their mirroring pairs of armchairs and desk lamps.

"Bruce?" You raise an eyebrow at him. He has the gall to look proud. "Why on Earth did you put a second desk in here?"

"It's pretty self-explanatory." His hand rubs your waist before leading you along to your desk. Complete with your own row of bookshelves behind it.

"I don't need a desk. At least not here. If I ever want to work from home, I can do it in the dining room or the library." You feel the guilt ebb up to the surface as you take in the meaning of the action. You're Mrs. Wayne now. One half of the Manor's owners. You get your own desk. Your own closet. This place is yours even if you only married into it.

"You shouldn't have to work at the dining table." He tuts, gentle leading you to sir down on the chair. A very nice and very comfortable leather chair.

"I don't need to take up half of your study."

"Our study," Bruce corrects, leading against the desk while he rubs your hand. "Plus, it suits you Mrs. Wayne."

"Oh, does it?"

"Perfectly."

When you glance up from your laptop's screen two months later and see Bruce as equally tired of his own work, you can't help but chuckle under your breath. Working across from him, having a space where the two of you can focus, and be professionals in your own right at home is nice. But the quick glances and giddy half-smiles are what convinces you that your place is here. At at a desk across from your husband, a routine of comfort and passing around printer paper so boring and mundane that it just makes sense.

—

There aren't many things in the Manor that are normal. But the plastic plates you bought are one of those things.

It all started a few months ago when you and Bruce brought a skinny little Jason to the Manor. He was wide-eyed and jumpy. Every time Bruce cleared his throat. Every time a piece of silverware clattered onto the floor. Every time you sighed just a little too loud. For Jason, the Manor was a ticking bomb. One wrong move and he was convinced that whatever dream he was in, he'd be ripped right out of. It took time to get him where he is today, even if it still rips your heart out to see him so shy and so scared in what should be his new home. But the plastic plates helped. It got dropped on the floor? Wouldn't even chip. The design faded away in the dishwasher? No one really likes Batman anyway. Jason didn't have to worry about his knife making a horrible scratching sound. It was cheap, it was durable, and it made him feel less like a kid in a museum.

You watch how comfortable he seems to be with the new tableware. as he sets the plates out for breakfast. Dick gets the Superman plate. Bruce gets the Robin plate. You get the Batman plate. Jason gets the Wonder Woman plate.

Turning back to the stove, you flip another pancake and pile it onto the stack. Dick is still in his room, probably asleep like any other normal seventeen year old. Bruce is juicing some oranges and carrots. And Alfred is enjoying his day off. It's all a quiet hum as the fog and dew wake up the Manor's grounds.

Until your eldest crashes in and slumps across the breakfast table.

"I just put those plates down." Jason frowns, his personality always coming out around Dick.

"Thanks." Dick mumbles, curling his Superman plate around his arm.

"Dickhead." Jason mutters and joins your side at the stove. Bruce just glances up, shaking his head with a soft smile.

"Rough night, chum?" Your husband sets the pitcher of juice onto the table and rubs Dick's back.

"Teen Titans." He mumbles against the wooden surface.

"Hm." Bruce nods and pours him a glass.

On your side of the kitchen, you and Jason ignore them. Ever since his arrival and him noticing your lack of consuming of any substance, Jason has stuck by your side. Your little sidekick for anything, really. Primarily in the kitchen whenever Alfred was busy with something else. You hand him the ladle as he pours out another pancake. A nice little circle that sizzles on the butter. Neatly, he sets it back into the bowl and you then hand him the spatula. He likes it. Cooking something. Making something yummy and warm and fresh. He times it perfectly, waiting until the biggest bubble pops before he flips it onto the over side. He doesn't sneak in a bite or steal an entire pancake. He just waits and lets them cook.

With a full plate, you let Jason carry it over to the other two. He settles it in the centre before taking a seat next to yours. You slide in with a jam that Dick likes, reminding him of when the circus toured in Eastern Europe, and some maple syrup. Everyone digs in. Dick piles his plate high. Your husband gives you a small thank you as you serve him a few pancakes while he pours everyone some juice. And Jason hunches over his plate protectively. The four of you move in an easy quiet, the sound of chewing and the early morning birds waking up the kitchen.

"How was Maths with Mr. Bouyer this week?" Bruce asks Dick while wiping some stickiness off of Jason's face.

"Ugh," your teenager rolls his eyes and slumps into his seat. "I have no idea how he's even still allowed to teach. All he does is lecture us on maths for two hours. He doesn't even give us exercises or homework to practise any maths."

"How-"

"I don't know!" Dick cuts your husband off with an exasperated gesture. "I'm gonna fail the IB all because of some stuck up teacher who thinks that he's lecturing in some prestigious college when it's actually a bunch of teenagers at Gotham Prep. Like dude, no one cares so just do your job."

"Wow," you blink.

"Hm." Bruce agrees. "I'll have a word with the school next week."

"And you, Jay?" You turn towards Jason while Dick shoves another pancake into his gob. "How was your book report?"

"Good," he smiles. "I got an A+. And then Lory thought that it was cool that I got an A and she shared her animal crackers with me."

You share a proud smile with Bruce.

—

The Manor is dead. Ever since Jason has passed and Dick needed his own space, the Wayne Manor has died. You and Bruce still live there, but it's just a space to take shelter. Not a home.

It's hard, staying indoors. Walking past the hallway that led to Dick or Jason's bedrooms. But you have to do it daily now.

Cassandra showed up into your lives not looking for parents but for a way out. You still didn't understand out of what, but neither of you were going to deny her a safe space to live in. So she took the third bedroom down that corridor. You let Cassandra settle into life at the Manor. That often meant the fourteen year old disappearing on the grounds during the day and coming back inside for a quiet lunch or snacks. She didn't linger in the library like Jason used to or run down the halls like Dick. She'd just give you and Bruce your space until it was time for bed. Then, like a routine you hadn't even noticed you were doing, you and your husband would read to her before going to sleep. It started when the two of you learnt that Dick had no formal education. Not that you could blame him when the circus was always moving and much more interesting than a classroom. But you needed to fill the gap. You and Bruce didn't want your kids to fall victim to the million word gap.

She didn't speak much, if at all. Just a series of nods and head shakes. But you could tell she was trying, even if it was hard. She'd mouth the words you and Bruce would read to her. She'd take an extra second to scan the kitchen's pantry, tilting her head curiously at the spice labelled 'adobo' that had remained untouched in a thin layer of dust. And, she'd linger in the greenhouse reading the rusted iron plaques.

You had caught her one Saturday morning, crouched down between the leaves.

In a pair of gardening gloves and jeans that had seen better days, you came into the abandoned greenhouse with two goals in mind: clear out the weeds, and to find something to do instead of work and grieve. The Laura Wayne greenhouse and botanical gardens seemed like the perfect place to do so. Untouched when the former Mr. and Mrs. Wayne passed then neglected again when Jason joined them. The intricate glass and ironwork was stained with rain and mud. Inside, the designed planter boxes for exotic plants were hidden by dead branches and dried leaves.

"Cass?" You approach her slowly, moving to crouch with her. "What're you doing, honey?"

She lifts her head up, her big brown eyes scrunched up as she focuses.

"Reading." she finally says, voice soft.

"Yeah? Is it interesting?" You take a glove off and brush a strand of black hair behind her ear. The braid you tied for her at the breakfast table is already drooping.

She just nods, a small finger coming out to trace the letters. JASMINUM POLYANTHUM, Many-Flowered Jasmine. You look at the mess of dirt and branches. Not a single chance you would've guessed it was that by looking at it.

"I'm going to do some gardening," you put your glove back on and straighten up, "do you want to join? I have an extra pair of gloves."

Cass gives you a small nod accompanied by an even smaller smile. You hand her the gloves and the two of you get to work. By sunset, there's a wheelbarrow and trash bags full of dead soil and plants on the outside of the greenhouse. You had managed to scrub down most of the windows while Cass polished the plaques. By her side, she had taken the notebook and pen you brought down, taking her time to neatly write out every plant that used to be there.

She jots down another one, squinting between the letters carved out on the iron and the pen in her hand. You keep on scrubbing at the glass and cobwebs.

"Mrs. Wayne, Miss Cassandra," Alfred's voice pulls the two of you out of your focus. "I believe the two of you are done for the day."

You share a look with Cass, gaging her reaction. Her, like your husband, doesn't give anything away. Of course.

"There is lemonade and sandwiches on the south balcony. I will take care of disposing of all of this." The butler holds the greenhouse's door open even wider while his steady gaze and tone leave no room for argument. With a sweaty sigh, you toss your gloves into your basket and Cass does the same. Your knees pop as you stand, your 30s definitely not loving being crouched over all day. With your hunger finally catching up to you, you and Cass don't have the second thought to glance back at Alfred, and miss his fond smile and shake of his head.

—

"I'm Tim Drake. I've been watching your family for a few months now. Not in a creepy way. Technically I'm your neighbour, just a forest and property over."

You blink, stunned by the eleven year old who just climbed into library through the window. He, like somehow all of the children that have found their way into your lives, has a head of black hair. His blue eyes remind you of Bruce, Dick, and Jason but there's a frantic exhaustion that only your husband seems to permanently carry. He's holding a few things. A backpack, a rope, and a bicycle helmet. He's got knee and elbow pads on and a scuff on his shin.

"Bruce is Batman, right? Well, I know he is but I just wanted to let you know that I know. You've also taken in a girl. I don't know her name, haven't figured that out yet."

You don't move. He looks harmless. A cute little kid. But his cadence is eerily similar to the once Bruce has when he's verbally sorting through a case. Fast, focused, and mostly for himself.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," you get out of your chair, wincing when it hits the bookcase behind you. "Just give me a second?"

At his small nod, you nearly race down the hallway for Bruce. Opening the sitting room's door with too much energy, you find your husband watching a movie with Cass.

"Is everything okay-"

"There is a random child in our study who's been stalking us and knows that you're Batman."

Bruce pauses then nods, just once. Then he stands up, tall and stable versus your panicking heart. He makes it to the door and settles a hand on your waist.

"Give me a few minutes, okay?" His voice drops to that soft timbre he usually speaks to you in when he wants to help you calm down.

"Okay."

Thirty minutes later and sick of waiting in the unknown, you head back to the library. Sat by the fire in on a leather sofa, Tim is curled up in a blanket with his gear by Bruce's feet. He doesn't seem to care that you've walked in, or that Cassandra has silently followed in behind you to settle by Bruce's side. He just keeps on talking.

"So yeah. They didn't want to get an abortion and had me. They're at a dinner party right now. In Switzerland. They won't be back until next week." Tim tugs on a loose thread. "Anyways, I tracked your patrol routes with Killer Croc's and the water levels of the sewers keep on rising. I'm guessing there's something there."

And Bruce just responds as if this is normal. And for him, maybe it is.

"He's been unwell," your husband nods, his Batman voice gravelly. "It's not easy being him."

"Yeah, I've been looking at different kinds of therapy-" and you stop paying attention because all you can see is a neglected little kid that fits in just like the three others, mirroring and interacting with Bruce in a way that feels natural. He doesn't look out of place surrounded by heavy books and tall shelves. He doesn't even bat an eye at the ridiculous wealth of the Wayne Manor. Not at the marble fireplace or at the 16th century bust on a pedestal in the corner. He just carries on talking with the same eccentricities as Bruce, finally finding someone who can understand him.

—

Jason's back.

He's now eighteen, scarred, a couple inches taller than Bruce, and still the scared little boy you took in all those years ago.

But he's back for vengeance on Bruce.

All day he's been tormenting your poor husband. With already a few strands of grey making a rare appearance in his dark hair, you suspect that he'll have a few more by the end of today. Jason's been scaring Bruce all day. At breakfast, he got Tim to help him with a hologram of him, making Jason's ghost haunt the halls. Bruce choked on his coffee. After lunch, when Bruce was just in his study looking over some papers, he got Cass to grab his ankles. Batman let out an embarrassing yelp. Mid-afternoon, Jason kept it simple by hiding behind a wall in the grand hall and jumping out at Bruce. Your husband had to redirect his punch last minute.

Even during a halloween party, he hasn't stopped.

Excited screaming and giggling bounce off of the tall ceilings of the ballroom. The two of the city's orphanages are celebrating their halloween at the Manor. Kids of all ages dressed in whatever costume they could afford or make fill up the room. There's a few older kids sticking by the buffet table, enjoying some warm food. The younger ones haven't stopped moving since they arrived. As if they were transported to another world, they hide behind pillars and inspect every inch of the Manor's ballroom like it's a giant dollhouse. Two kids are waving their fingers through the fog being emitted by the cauldron in the corner. Some are playing hide and seek behind fake cobwebs. There's a Dracula chasing a unicorn with a giant fake spider.

You watch on, in a black dress and witch hat while Bruce and Alfred make sure everything is going smoothly. Cass and Tim are busy distributing candy, dressed as two bats. Dick will pass by later, before he's headed to a Teen Titans halloween party. He sent a text about Discowing that all your kids groaned at.

And Jason is nowhere to be seen.

It's only an hour later when Bruce makes a speech that gets interrupted by giggles and excited raucous does he appear again. The room has gone dark, a single light shining on Bruce. Jason's by your side again sporting a satisfied grin.

"Jay, what did you do?" You don't have to glance at your son to know that he's planned something.

"Shh. B's giving a speech." You can hear the humour in his voice.

"Thank you for coming tonight. We hope you had a great time and stocked up on lots of candy," Bruce pauses, having expected the excited screaming at the mention of candy. "It was a pleasure celebrating with you all tonight. Happy halloween-"

A loud boom of thunder cuts through the air and makes the room jump. Lightning strikes the sky outside and a bat swoops from the ceiling. Bats that are supposed to be fake. Your husband startles at the winged creature, flinching just little before he composes himself and walks off of the makeshift stage. More bats descend, and the orphanages' caretakers hurry with getting the kids out of there before one gets scratched or bitten.

"Jason." You turn to look at him.

"Okay," he sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I wasn't expecting them to all come alive."

Your family spend the next hour trying to shoo the bats outside without getting infected.

—

Ding dong. Ding dong.

The Manor's formal living room smells like pine, cinnamon, and snow. Christmas music plays from a record player on a console table, one of Bruce's old records spinning. There's a pile of neatly and not-so-neatly wrapped presents under the tree. A solid pine tree from the forest just outside decorated in silver tinsel and crystal ornaments. Wreaths, pine needles, and mistletoe line every door and window while a fresh layer of snow piles onto the foot of white outside. On the central sofa facing the hearth, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Stephanie are all piled on. Each in their own versions of festive pyjamas. For your eldest, it means a hideous and tacky Christmas sweater along with the silliest slippers he could find, Rudolph with bells. Jason opted for a green hoodie and some plaid pyjama pants. Duke doesn't mind joining Dick in his chaotic fashion choices because his sweater is as equally appalling and his slippers just as eye-catching. Steph just settled for her usual pyjamas and slapped on a Santa hat.

On the other couch adjacent to them are Cass and Tim. Cassandra's in the nutcracker knit you and Bruce got her last Christmas, curled up with a mug of tea and a pillow on her lap. Tim's in a mishmash of clothing, none of which actually belong to him. Bruce's pyjama pants, Cass's t-shirt, Dick's clogs, and Jason's sweater.

On an loveseat where Bruce insists that you remained glued to his side, your husband is in his usual silk pyjamas and fluffy cotton robe. There's a slight scruff on his jaw and a content look in his eyes seeing everyone here. His arm is around your shoulders, watching your kids and wards exchange gifts and throw crumpled up wrapping paper at each other.

"For you," he murmurs softly, handing you a velvet box. He presses a sweet kiss to your temple as you open it. You gently unfold the delicate wrapping paper and set the lid of the box down, revealing...a wonky tray. Just a simple ceramic tray with a glaze that created spots on the surface.

"Thank you," you smile, pressing a kiss to Bruce's stubbly cheek despite being extremely confused.

"It's for your jewellery." He explains, his hand rubbing yours. "I know you have too much to fit in the tray but you always leave your wedding ring and necklace out. Thought I could make you something for it."

"Oh, I can definitely tell that you made it." You chuckle.

—

New year, new...kid?

You and Bruce weren't expecting a ten year old on your driveway as the new year starts. The two of you have just returned from watching the fireworks from the Wayne Enterprises rooftop, giddy and tired. You kissed at midnight, Bruce said something cheesy about spending another year by your side with his arms around you. You kissed again, smiling against each other's lips.

And now there's a ten year old boy sat on the stone steps with a scowl surrounded by heavy leather suitcases.

"Your home is simple, father." He says before either you or Bruce can get out a hello.

Father? Already? You mean, you and Bruce have eventually heard a 'mom' or 'dad' come from each of your kids. But father? Within the first few seconds of meeting?

The new addition doesn't notice or care about your surprised faces because he's standing up and dusting himself off with impeccable posture. Olive skin, green eyes, and eyebrows just like Bruce's. If you didn't know any better you would've assumed he was some long lost biological child. Yet again, all of your kids somehow ended up all looking uncannily too much like Bruce despite not a single one sharing his DNA.

"I'm Damian Wayne Al Ghul. Your son." He announces, tilting his chin up with conviction. You stare down at the ten year old looking far too regal for the Manor's stone steps and manicured front garden. His bags surround him, leather that looks like it dates from decades ago, sitting on the ground like a makeshift throne. The only light comes from the iron lamps shining behind him, casting his shadow down the pebbled driveway.

"My mother has sent for me to live with you. Talia al Ghul."

—

A/N: I’m in a Bruce Wayne mood idk why.

Also, I wanted to change the design of my Wayne manor build in the sims but there’s no infinite lots which sucks. I even bought Paralives to see if there was one but it’s too small (probably should’ve googled it instead of just buying the game but hey at least it’s not EA taking my money). Considering I want to add a private beach, a forest with horse or walking trails, a small secondary home for Alfred, a large driveway with a car port, stables, a botanical garden, a pool, the manor and its three wings, a lookout point on a trail, and a greenhouse. I think I might have to lock in with AutoCAD and rhino or get into revit…😭 (Or just hope that TwistedMexi finishes their Create A World mod soon enough. I'm so excited for it)

I haven’t read any Tim Drake comics or anything about his origins but I checked Reddit and apparently his parents are alive so…that’s confusing. Anyways, I made his parents rich assholes who never wanted a kid but didn’t abort because it’s against their values so Tim has sort of emotionally latched onto Bruce. I feel like it's an explanation that makes sense but doesn't force them into witness protection, yk? Also Cass is older than she probably would've been when taken in by bruce because I needed her to stay closer in age to Jason than Tim. Comics say she would've been 8 when going to bruce but it confused my timeline too much.

Your feet moving fast so the strangers didn't attempt to strike up a conversation with her or worse, you.

No pregnancy book or course could prepare you for the amount of random conversations you had with strangers about your daughter everywhere you went.

From small compliments and encouraging words to evasive questions about her potty habits and your birthing experience. You couldn't escape. Every day before you left the house with her, you mentally prepared yourself.

With freedom close ahead and the checkout stands just a corner away, you were giddy with the idea of leaving the store.

The look and shine in your daughter's eyes made you twitch with horror. Her smile spreading wide as she raised her fist, a loud "Hi!" rang out.

Her little hand waving through the air as she repeatedly greeted a figure that stood just close enough for her to make eye contact with.

You gave a small smile towards the stranger, quickly trying to shush your daughter. "Don't bother him baby, he's busy shopping." You tried to say, hoping to drift her attention away from the tall figure stiffly staring back at her.

But your daughter was persistent, getting louder with each greeting as she tried to lean in closer in the strangers direction, pushing herself against the cart to try and get their attention.

Her voice erupting into giggles as the stranger finally gave a small wave back, your daughter bouncing in her seat in excitement.

As you tried pushing the cart away, hoping she was now satisfied, you could sense the unshed tears and wobbling lip as her adorable face scrunched up.

"Hi?" She stuttered, her bottom lip shaking as she raised her hand again. The stranger getting farther away as you tried to leave.

A small whimper sounded out, making you freeze in your step as you tried to console your baby. Your lashes blinking with tears as she looked over your shoulder, staring at the figure, waiting for him to return her greeting again.

Without turning around, you could feel the person approaching. Your baby reaching out towards him as her cries got quieter.

You glanced over your shoulder, looking up at the tall man that now came into your view. His stoic face gave away nothing, but his eyes showed hesitance as he slowly brought up his hand.

A silent question as you two made eye contact.

With a small smile and a squirming baby he reached his hand out, letting your daughter wrap her chubby hand around his larger finger.

Her cries silencing as she giggled, her grip tight as she pulled and played with his scarred hand.

Her random baby talk sounding coherent as she squealed "hero!"

“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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

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

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

“Yeah, that’s real mature.”

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

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

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

“Well, I wasn’t!”

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

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

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

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

The apartment goes quiet. Dangerously quiet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Katsuki—”

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

“Katsuki, that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure.”

“I was angry—”

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

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

“Katsuki, don’t do this right now—”

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

“That’s not—”

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

“Katsuki, let’s just sit down and—”

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

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

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

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

────────────────────────

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, she’s mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“She’s funny?”

“Very.”

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

“And she says it loud.”

“That’s true.”

“She says it really loud, Dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom is super annoying,” he says bluntly.

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

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

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

Katsuki deflates on the spot. 

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

His mother, however, has no such excuse.

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

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

“Then why does she like you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you will, son.”

“I definitely won’t.”

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

He absolutely knows what he’s talking about.

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

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

────────────────────────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit—”

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

Then everything goes dark.

────────────────────────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re already moving.

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

You aren’t sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen—”

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

His eyes soften. “I know, but—”

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

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

“I love you too—”

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

His expression tightens. “That’s not—”

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

────────────────────────

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

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

“Yeah, yeah. Hey.”

His father laughs. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

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

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

“Nothin’.”

“Katsuki, you never call for just nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Will my son be paying?”

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

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

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

Loneliness greets Damian as he steps foot in the Bat Cave. The chilling kind that makes his bones grind together in discomfort, and carries a silence that Damian should’ve been used to by now. But he isn’t, and the only greeting he receives when entering the cave is the resounding patter of his dress shoes hitting the pavement. 

The exhaustion of the double life begins to catch up to him faster than he’s imagined. The type of tiredness that seeps deep into his bones and cries out every time he slips on the cowl. In the instances when his fists are bloody and the charcoal beneath his eyes bleed further down the cowl, Damian Wayne grieves your soothing hands. 

He reminisces of the soft palms that used to tend his aching muscles after long nights. It's an array of painful memories that grip him by the horns late after midnight, and sometimes when he's busy cuffing up a thief whose hair color resembles yours, his mind rushes back to the first time you’d kissed him. He'd worn the Robin emblem with so much pride back then, and his love ran so deep that he would have let you sink your claws right through his chest if you’d wanted to. 

The Batcomputer casts a dim light upon Damian’s frowning face, monitors turning to life upon the clock of a button. When he’s done, he stays sitting before the screens a little longer with the hope that someone is going to worry for him. The time at the bottom corner of the computer screens 03:40 when Damian ultimately shuts it down. There was no one left but him in the manor to worry about anyway. 

Alfred's long gone and Damian bears the scar like a fresh wound, he's yet to even accept his late father. It’s always hard to accept falling down from the summit. The blood son, a true Wayne, the young prince heir to the infamous League of Assassins and Wayne Enterprise. And despite all the titles that Damian had borne in his life, he still believes there was no better title than being yours. 

Your nemesis, your friend, your boyfriend, your fiance. Damian's existence orbits around you, It's fun to belong when everything already belongs to you. 

When you'd first met Damian, it hadn't exactly been love at first sight. Disdain ran mutual between the both of you. He was that bratty, arrogant, snobby boy who thought everyone had to play by his rules. And you were that annoying, over-the-top girl who did nothing but stand in his way. Rivalry quickly grew into friendship, despite how much Damian always denied it.

Then one random day, between the changes in the pitch of his voice and awkwardly growing limbs, Damian made the mistake of glancing at you. It was as if years of denial and restraint had suddenly slipped away, and there, standing in the middle of his door frame he would once grumbled about, he thought you to be the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid his eyes on. 

No more of that childish girl who’d try to better him at everything, no more of that bratty boy who  lived to prove that he was better than you. Then when you’d finally gathered the courage to kiss him because you knew he’d never have the balls, one clawed hand holding a death grip around the collar of his Robin suit, he’d practically melted against you.

His arms were laying stiff against his body and it took all of your restraint not to laugh into his mouth. You were only 17 then, but you’d already known that Damian was it for you. He wasn’t the best boyfriend, had never been and would probably never be, but he tried and he did it for you, and you loved him through and through. 

Unfortunately, all good dreams have an end. 

For years of your life, you were brought to believe that you’d been good for nothing but living off of scraps and that goddamn cat suit. Selina had taught you that Gotham didn’t need you as much as you needed it, so what’s a kid must do to survive? At 15, much to your disdain, Damian started teaching you there was more to life than just surviving. 

You didn’t need to live off of scraps, you could thrive alongside Gotham. And so you did, for the next 15 years as you stayed by his side. Protecting Gotham like he himself once couldn’t have even imagined the thought of. You’d been there with him through everything. Through his siblings leaving, through his father, through Alfred. 

You’d both been playing dress-up in costumes that carried responsibilities far too heavy for children of your age to bear. In the end, you’d grown tired of playing the same, tiresome game of heroes, and your priorities started shifting. Now, you wanted to play house. 

Sometimes when Damian lies awake late at night in the manor’s master bedroom, which he’d moved in shortly after Bruce’s passing, he imagines the feeling of your palms rubbing warmth back into his shoulders. He’d been sitting on the edge of Bruce’s king sized bed, staring vacantly into the wall like it would erase all the misfortune that had occurred in Damian’s life. He could still remember the heart aching sensation of your arms snaking around his neck, feeling the weight of your knees sinking into the mattress right behind him as you held him in your embrace. If he prays hard enough, he can still recall the temperature of your body against his as you pressed your chest against his back in silence. 

He’d only sighed then, but you’d known, like you always did when it came to him, that this grief was eating at him. You couldn’t undo the past, couldn’t go back and save Alfred and Bruce or even bring back Titus, couldn’t change his upbringing or his lineage, but you’d be there for him through it all. As the sobs wracked his body in a violent heap, you’d simply embraced him tighter. He could still recall the feeling of your lips against his tear-stained cheek. 

The grandfather clock chimes behind him as the door slams shut, a once-unusual silence falls heavy upon the manor. The walk from the study to Bruce's room is filled with ghosts in the form of picture frames, Damian keeps his head down during the entire walk to the bedroom to avoid meeting the familiar faces nailed onto the wall.

He walks a little faster when he knows he’s nearing that picture that Alfred had hung of you kneeled down, embracing Titus. 

That night like many others, sleep eludes Damian. And like all other nights, he finds comfort in bloody fists and charcoal coated eyelids. When he finally sheds his clothes for the night, he does his best to ignore your ring that you left on his bedside table, and he feeds his soul with that spicy tang of bourbon to knock himself out into a dreamless slumber.

—

Damian crowds your every thought as you lay on the sofa in your apartment. Below, Gotham bustles alive with noise. You can hear your neighbor yell at her husband through the thin walls, and for the fifth time this week, it slowly drives you crazy. You try to distract your mind to stop yourself from drifting back to Damian and the argument you last shared. 

But no matter how hard you try, the TV slowly drifts into static noise in the back of your head, and serves the sole purpose of illuminating the room in a faint cast. The kettle brewing in the kitchen drowns to the furthest part of your mind, and soon that damned scarf you'd been trying to complete for the past month slips past your fingers and onto your lap.

Your phone buzzes on the sofa beside you, and you have to fight yourself not to hope too hard. Damian’s most definitely not coming back, he said it himself. He'd chosen Gotham over you and your future, and yet, you couldn't rid yourself of the love you held for him. It burns as strong as it did since you were nothing but children.

Your neighbors are getting louder now, a baby whines and then all you can hear is the infant's wailing. Your phone buzzes again. 

It’s 7 notifications in when you finally decide to pick up the phone. You find that they’re all texts from the same guy. Carter Brooks, the rising Hollywood star that started hitting you up after reading the scoop about yours and Damian’s split. 

He’s a pretty handsome dude, sure he’s got nothing on Damian, but he’s got those silky blonde strands that could entice just about anyone to run their hands through. Oh, and you’d definitely not seen those abs in the trailer of his upcoming movie. 

It’s a painful minute that passes by as you stalk his socials and compare his pictures to your memories of Damian. You reread the messages from your notifications center without opening his chat yet. You end up concluding that he seems like a sweet dude, and moreover, he seems like he really wants to know you. You’re not sure you’re thinking straight when your thumbs press onto the notification and onto his chat. 

By the time your eyelids start to flicker shut and your thumbs can’t seem to keep up with your words, you find the apartment complex to have been slumbered into a quiet silence. What was supposed to be a quick text turned into a 3 hour conversation and a promise to let him take you on a date. 

When you finally drop your phone onto the coffee table and pull up the blanket to your nose, you notice that the noise from the other side of your wall has drowned out, and that it’s been 3 hours since you’ve last had a heart aching thought about Damian and your apparently wasted years. 

If Damian wouldn’t pick you, then you’d find someone who would. 

—

Plot: it's7 months after and you're dating someone new, Damian drowns himself in work and alcohol. He finds out that you got cheated on as much as the entire news and shows up in front of your door. You're already humiliated enough. 

Damian can physically feel his heart halt to a stop as he reads the newspaper that morning. Time passes in a fury, and it had already been 7 months since you’d ended things between the two of you and that Damian had chosen this city above you and your dreams. 7 months of fighting this urge to contact you, despite this persistent ache, Damian believes that you’re better off without him. You deserve far better than a man who has dragged you on a hell ride for years only to give precedence to the very thing that’s destroying him night after night.

 Damian knows he’ll crumble to his knees and beg for forgiveness in a pitiful act the second he sees you again. It is selfish and it is all the most pathetic but it’s everything that makes him your Damian. 

His fingers clench onto the newspaper so hard that he’s crumbling the paper all the way to the middle of the page. The sound of his dress shoes resound around the big office room in a continuous tap. He's carpeted the floor, and yet, anxiety bounces all around him. 

Emerald iris retraces the headline over and over again to find a flaw, a mistake, and yet all he finds is the sting of the truth. 

“Ex Mrs.Wayne reveals new relationship with star Carter Brooks with a passionate entrance!” 

The picture on the front page rubs him in all the wrong ways when he realizes that the smile you wear on your face is meant for another man. You look as ravishing as the day you walked out on him, even got your hair done and a new pretty black dress he knows you nagged your new boyfriend for. The thought makes him want to throw up. You’d never never have to beg a day in your life with him for such trivial things, he’d buy you everything you’d ever desire. 

It’s selfish, but the muscles in Damian’s neck tenses when he shifts his focus to him. He’s got his grimy right hand clad in your ringless left hand, and he’s sports the smile of an all victorious man. 

At some point, Damian’s office door opens without his knowledge. His assistant tells him something about a meeting and an hour that his brain shuts out as his eyes trail on your hand in that Carter Brook guy’s one. Damian doesn’t hear the door shutting behind her, and doesn’t notice the effort she’s put in her appearance today. He definitely doesn’t notice the way her smile falls when he doesn’t pay an ounce of attention to her.

Instead, he’s got his brain stuck on how the entirety of the article flaunts your maiden name like you hadn’t been Mrs.Wayne to the entirety of Gotham for years now. Sure, with the way things had gone by, Damian hadn’t really had the time to make it official, but to the eyes of the Gothamite, you’d been Mrs.Wayne long before he even kneeled before you. 

That evening, Damian didn't even wait until dinner to pour himself a drink. 

—

The relationship doesn't last very long. It takes you all your might not to scratch up his face as you find him with another woman in your home. It's nothing scandalous, you don't catch him fucking her in your own bed while you're meant to be at work. You don't find underwear that's clearly not yours in the washing machine while doing laundry. No, instead you find Carter cooking her a meal in your kitchen while she cozies herself in your spot, on your own goddamn sofa. She's got her eyes fixed on your TV while she watches some comedy Carter has been talking your ear off about.  

You're not surprised to find out how little it affects you to see her on your couch making herself at home. Sure, she's got that perfect voluminous blowout and a figure you'd have killed yourself for when you were 17, but the thought of Carter betraying you doesn't hurt as much as it should have. You don't have a hard time figuring out you've never really loved the man, and there's no need to assume that he's always felt the same way. 

The only reason you feel yourself getting wound up is the thought that for weeks, if not months, he'd been fucking that 2-dollar-whore on your furniture without your knowledge. You shudder thinking about all the times you've sat up in their mess, and it suddenly makes you even more mad knowing that he'd probably fucked you right after doing her in your own home. 

Nevertheless, Carter doesn't hear the sound of your heels clicking against the floorboard as you walk up to him. His little girlfriend surely does, but that frightened look on her face tells you she's not going to ruin your surprise entrance anytime soon. Carters too busy with his face shoved into the rosemary scented fumes above the stovetop to notice that the woman standing beside him isn't who he thinks it is, and when he turns to you with that bright smile, ready to sling an arm around who he thinks isn't you, you can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body. 

“W-wow there darlin’, someone came home early.” He's stuttering up his words as he's talking to you, sweating in a way that tells you it has more to do than with the heat of his cooking. There's a paleness to his face that wasn't there when he was cooking for two, now, he's got to plate the table for an extra guest he clearly wasn't expecting to see this early on tonight. 

“Jaimie here was helping me do inventory, y’know they've been making me do a lot of overtime lately.” You can feel the woman's eyes trailing you fixedly as you round up to Carter, he's got the audacity to lean in to kiss you as if he wasn't using your own apartment to play house behind your back with another woman. You waste no time dodging his stupid advances at calming you, pushing two palms against his chest to send him back. It's not enough force to send him toppling onto the kitchen island, but it's enough to have him trip over his own feet, back landing against the countertop softly. 

He looks shocked that you haven't killed him yet, and a part of him worries when his gaze catches against your array of kitchen knives, and most importantly that you haven't yet brought up the elephant in the room. 

The woman, who you've learned to know goes by Jaimie, ogles you like you've grown three heads as you walk through the kitchen and into the living room to sit on the sofa beside her. She notices the way you promptly ignore her and mistakes it for shock and heartbreak. Denial. 

Instead, you grab the remote from beside her and change the channel mundanely like you hadn't just caught your boyfriend and his apparently coworker “doing inventory”, as he says. You wonder if they've done it in your store room, and the thought makes you want to dump all of your produce in the trash. You can feel her stare burning holes into the side of your face, and for a second, you wonder if she feels guilt. Or shame. 

Probably shame. 

Jaimie opens her mouth to say something, but the look you cast at her is enough to shut her off. You don't need a half-assed excuse or an apology. You knew that she knew. Your relationship with Carter was all over the news when you decided to make things public only 1 month after you’d both started dating. Foremost, you doubt she's even an ounce sorry. If you hadn't caught them in your house, you doubt she'd have even a pretence of respect or shame in your regard. 

A minute of awkwardly tense silence passes by before you hear Carter sigh loudly in the kitchen, his work shoes clacking against the floorboards before you inevitably hear the door shutting behind him with a loud boom. Jaimie, who's probably trying not to kill herself with the embarrassment of being abandoned by Carter in his girlfriend's home, clasps her fingers together in an attempt at soothing her nerves.

The sight makes you huff as you turn your head to look at her, prompting her to raise her own back at you. “Need help finding the door, sweetheart?” Sarcasm rolls off your tongue as she stares you in the eye, and she doesn't even give you a second before she's shuffling off your apartment in her dainty heels, muttering apologies under her breath you're not really sure are even meant for you.

The door shuts close for the third time tonight and you allow yourself for the first time since you've entered your home to breathe. Even though you're not sad about Carter himself, there's this feeling that tugs at your chest as you think of everything that just went down. Your own boyfriend has been seeing this woman behind your back. They've been in your home and God knows where else. Has he been seeing her since you guys started dating? Since he's been texting you? Were you not good enough for him to be loyal to you? Were you not enough? 

Your inner turmoil lasts for a good 45 minutes as you stare into the now black screen of the TV, and you come to the conclusion that no, maybe, you aren't enough. Because if you were, you'd never have gotten cheated on, and more importantly, if you were, Damian would have never chosen a city that’s inevitably going to kill him too over the woman who has cherished him since before she even knew she did. 

The night ends with you writing down a list of things you'd spend your weekend doing. Deep cleaning, the food bank, and probably crying yourself to sleep. You end up booking a hotel room that night. You're not sure you want to sleep in your bed ever again. 

—

It doesn’t take long for your name to feature in the hottest scoop yet again, and the press wastes no time profiting from the scandal. Just a week from then, yours and Carter's face are plastered onto thousands of magazine copies that sell out by evening. You can't even turn on the TV without finding your names all over the news. There's this humiliating feeling burning at you through your gut the longer you think about it, now that your breakup went public, everyone knew that you weren't good enough of a woman to keep.

You're not sure what to do besides wallow in your pity and drown yourself in the endless articles written about the scandal, because one day you're sure you'll kill yourself worrying about what they're saying about you.

For the first time in an entire year, Damian Wayne feels something other than nothingness. Instead, he feels that youthful anger rise in his veins as he reads the daily scoop. The same anger he used to harbour at only 10 years old while other kids his age were busy scraping their knees falling down from swinging up too high and living up their childhood. 

Damian doesn't drink that night, the sight of your face on the headlines intoxicates him much faster than the bottle of whiskey sitting on his desk. How could anyone deceive a creature as dazzling as yourself? He would've never done this to you, Damian thinks to himself. He couldn't even bare the thought of betraying the same girl who had remained by his side even when times got rough and his tongue got loose. Back when he couldn't quite grasp the concept of friends and made sure to keep you at arms length, you were the only one who hadn't given up on him.

And when he'd grown confused between who he was and who he wasn't anymore, you helped him understand without ever making him feel weak for being vulnerable. You were the only person in this damned world that understood Damian further than he understood himself, and he'd ruined it. Just a year and a half ago, he’d gotten down on one knee and slid a ring on your finger, and then you’d grown tired of playing dress up. Tired of fighting crime in dark alleys, tired of patching up Damian after making him promise that he'd be careful tonight, tired of that dead look in his eyes after he'd pushed himself past his limit again.

He could still remember the feeling of your palm against his knee, stabling and soothing, as you bore your heart out to him. Your new dreams, a family, a home. A real, stable home. Children. He could tell it was all genuine as you spoke to him. The unusual furrow of your brows, the way your lips trembled as you spoke to him. It was selfish, something you'd both avoided speaking of in the past because it was still a scar that hadn't healed properly. 

And yet, as you sat before him, you'd chosen him to be part of this dream. You'd chosen him to better the wrongs of the people who'd walked this path before the both of you. Because you weren't your parents, and you'd be damned if you'd ever be like them. 

But he couldn't. He'd never repeat the same mistakes as his father had. Would never drag a child into the same path he'd been forced to take. And you being you, had never asked him to choose between Gotham and you, you wanted him to. You wanted to matter enough to him that it didn't come as an option but as a decision. But he didn't, and in the end Damian had lost the thing that mattered the most to him.

Somewhere along the line, the dreamless sleep began shifting into images of you playing in the sand with two toddlers that shared your features. And every single time he’d wake up, a part of him would grieve the life he never even had. He’s tried blaming it on his guilt, but deep down, he knew it was because he’d warmed up to the idea. 

No longer did the thought of having children into this fucked, twisted world repulsed Damian like it once had. No longer did the thought of beholding a family with you feel unattainable. No, because he'd grown and warmed up to an idea that once wasn't his. Now when he pictured the future, it came with a dream and the faces of two children plagueing his very thought. Damian no longer had anything to live by but his dreams, and you were in every single one of them. 

And yet, how do you ask the woman whose heart you've shattered and aspirations you've dismissed to start over? Damian's not exactly sure how, but that night as he tosses the newspaper into the hearth, he places the unopened bottle back into the cabinet. The car keys of the mobile that once belonged to his father burn in his pockets, but he's got a place to be, and a dream to save.

—

Humiliation still picks at you until morning. You haven’t been taking care of your hair, which now sits messy in your head, and you haven’t gone out to breathe in some fresh air besides your balcony’s in 4 days now. At first, it was because you hadn't needed to, now it was because you were too embarrassed to face the people. You’ve been ordering takeout ever since Carter left your home a disgusting reminder of his betrayal, and even facing the delivery guy felt shameful. 

You’re scared to turn on the TV or glance at your phone because you know they’re still talking about you. You know that your face is still on the cover page of all magazines and it makes you hate yourself that you’re known as the woman who's not enough, it eats you up until you make yourself throw up. 

On the other side of the city, Damian’s in the comfort of his father’s black Porsche. He’s got no worry beside your own because he knows that the media love him, son of the late billionaire playboy, the media craved him. He spent enough time last night reading the articles to know that you’re not as lucky. 

He’s already got his assistant dealing with the press to take them down, but he knows you well enough to assume that you’ve already read them all. 

On the passenger seat, he’s got a bouquet of your favorite flowers he hopes will be enough of a peace offering for him randomly showing after a year of no contact. He’s a fool, but he’s got dreams and a drive and he still remembers the way to your apartment like the back of his hand. He’s wearing that cologne you’d always jump on him for, maybe, because he’s a little delusional that it’ll make you want to kill him a little less. 

The sports car sticks out like a sore thumb in your neighborhood, and in seconds, the photographers crowding the entrance of your apartment notice him. One of them steps so close to him that Damian’s urging to knock that camera out of his hands. Flashing lights blind him in a way he knows will end up as yet another scoop by tomorrow morning. 

Damian pushes past them with a huff, grumbling under his breath as he ignores their questions about you and him. In the crowd, a news reporter that’s been camping by your apartment complex for a day now asks something about you two getting back together and his heart starts thumping a little faster. The glass doors shut behind him with the click of a lock and the security officer shoots him an exasperated look. 

Because it wasn’t enough that he had to stop these borderline maniacal reporters from entering the complex, now the one and only Damian Wayne just  had to show up at the door and shake up some more attention. 

He ignores the man and shoves a healthy amount of cash in his hand as he heads for the stairway. Damian’s learned since young that money ruled everything and everyone in Gotham, and he’d be doomed, because he was blessed with it. 

Carefully polished dress shoes drag him up onto your floor, he decides he’s too anxious to wait in the elevator. He’s impassive, but his act starts to unravel the second his feet draw closer to your door. Number 76, he remembers. He’ll never forget, never you. 

His hand moves faster than his brain, and before he’s realized, there’s two knocks resounding against your door. Inside the room, you’re at war with yourself by the time the sound reaches you. Perched against the glass, you feel the past year catch up to you in a flash. Downstairs, the money hungry, fame-hunting reporters are out to get you. You’ve lost the love of your life just a year ago over your own selfishness and yet, you can’t seem to be able to keep a man for the sake of it. 

There’s that heart-clenching sorrow that grips you so hard you can almost physically feel your chest caving in. Just a year ago, you would’ve never imagined that you’d have ever fallen this low. You feel like you’re constantly drowning in this black hole that’s pulling you back in no matter how hard you try to swim away. It’s something you don’t know the name of, or won’t name, because acknowledging that you’re not okay just makes everything so much worse. 

Another knock shakes you up from your spiraling as you finally turn your gaze away from the mass of people waiting impatiently for you below. You’re not sure who’s waiting for you at the door, but as long as it’s not Carter or that damned side piece, you think you’ll be fine. 

On the other side of the door, Damian’s hand tightens upon the bouquet as he hears the locks turning from inside. He thinks about how unsafe it is that you’re being guarded by a simple lock, and how safer you’d be at home with him, at the manor. Finally, the door pushes open, and Damian gets to witness the exact moment you realise that he’s anyone but who you could’ve expected to be knocking on your door. 

“Damian” your words fall short on your lips as you stare at the man before you. He still towers over you in that way that makes you go weak in the knees. He looks so put together, hair gelled back in those spiky little strands of hair you’ve always loved and his suit clinging to his muscular form. But amongst everything, you don’t miss the dark circles that cup the lower part of his eyes, or that almost exhausted look in his eyes. There’s a break in his normally perfect stance, and your heart races when you notice the slight hunch of his shoulders. 

Along your inner monologue, you notice the way Damian’s eyes stay fixed on you in all of his silence, and you unfortunately remember how dishevelled you look. Your hairs a real, unwashed mess on your head that’s got flyaways sticking up in all positions. The hoodie and sweatpants you’re wearing aren’t the most flattering piece of clothing as they swallow your figure whole. You revel in the fact that you’ve at least taken the time of day to shower and brush your teeth amongst your little self-depreciating ritual you had going on for the past days. 

“I’ve seen the articles,” You bring up a hand to brush your hair into place but his words stop you short in your movement. The pit in your stomach nearly triples in size and you’re sure that with a little more shame, it’ll burst out your body and swallow you whole. Embarrassment boils in your gut because you know that he’s seen the things that people are saying about you, and besides, the scandal in itself is nothing really to pride yourself in.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you Damian. You show up at my door a year after we split and now you’re here to make fun of me?” the words take him aback, and if you didn’t know Damian well enough, you would have missed the imperceptible way his eyes widened. 

“You don’t think I'm embarrassed enough already?” Damian opens his mouth to retaliate but he backs down with a pained expression, like what you’ve said was really the nail in the coffin. That gloomy look on your face invokes a feeling in Damian’s chest that he’s been used to feeling this past year. He can tell that you haven’t been taking care of yourself like you once prided yourself in, and it’s not hard to see how quickly the past year seems to be catching up to you.  

“I am not here for any of that” the worsts come out of his mouth with a coldness you didn’t know he could ever even mutter at you, and it makes me you feel even impossiblely more horrible than you already do. Damian can tell he’s losing this war but he doesn’t relent. “You’re aware that I would never ridicule you, no matter what the circumstances are.” 

There’s a flash of shame that washes over your features as Damian realizes he’s sinking himself further into the hole he dug himself in. This time, instead, he takes a minute to breath and thinks thrice before speaking. 

“I apologize.” it comes out weak, but you don’t break eye contact or interrupt him. You’ve always been so good to him, even when he didn’t deserve it. 

“I apologize for not choosing you when all you have ever done was put me first. I’ve never meant to make you feel undervalued, or second to anything.” Damian’s eyes never leave yours as he bears his heart out to you. You realize, with the way his hands hold a distant tremble around the bouquet, that he’s laid bare and vulnerable to you in a way he’s never been before. It’s new and different, and Damian Wayne hates different, but he pushes through because that’s his way of telling you that you’re far more important to him than his own discomfort. 

If it came to it, he’d change himself a hundred times just to have a chance at being yours again. 

“You’re my everything,” the way he whispers your name nearly brings you to your knees, but you manage to catch yourself before you can even move, and Damian still flinches all the same, ready to catch you. “And I never imagined how hurtful it would be to lose you until I did. 

You can see his lips parting as-if to start apologizing again, but this time you beat him to it. 

“No, it was selfish of me to ask that of you,” you’re wrong and you both know it, because you’ve never really asked anything of him, but Damian doesn’t interject because hearing your voice speak to him so softly after a year of radio silence soothes him. And deep down in his mind, the one that only sees  rights in your wrongs, he knows that you have been selfish. But you weren’t perfect, and Damian would always love you like you were. 

“I know how much it means to you Damian, I would never ask you to abandon Gotham for me” you know you’ve been selfish before, you’d never asked, but you had deep down expected him to stop along you. To allow himself to settle down with you without having to wonder if he’d come back to you injured or worse. You wouldn’t raise your children with a half-absent father, and Damian wouldn’t leave Gotham behind because at some point of his life, that was all he’d known. 

Normalcy as such had become so foreign to Damian that he’d alienated it from his future. How could he ever raise children and be Batman all at once? He couldn’t bear the thought of ever becoming like his father. He had to be better, and ‘better’ to Damian had once meant giving up on such dreams. 

“But I would, I would in a heartbeat for you, Hayati.” his voice drops an octave as he whispers that word he’d always call you by. Devotion swims in his pupils as the bouquet now hangs upside down in his grip, half forgotten. 

“But it’s not what I want, you need Gotham just as much as it needs you. I was upset because I couldn't look past my own selfish dreams to see your fears, but I see it now, I see you.” Damian knows he doesn’t deserve you, it’s something he’s thought about multiple times in the past, but to have you stand in front of him and say that you’d renounce on something you had hoped so hard for in a distant future ruins him. It almost makes him want to retrace his steps back home because you are so much more deserving of what Damian has ever offered you. 

“I’m not scared anymore, not when I think about doing it with you. There hasn’t been a night since you left that I have imagined a future without you and felt anything but agony” the apartment complex falls silent under his words. Behind you, the herd of reporters or photographers drown under the weight of his confession. Your eyes droop down to the floor because you can’t handle looking him in the eyes as he bares his soul to you. 

Silently, you allow yourself to bask in the words you’d spent hours praying to hear just about a year ago. Your victory comes with no dramatics or surprise party, but the warm words of a man you thought was going to haunt you for the rest of your life. There was no future for you if it wasn’t with Damian. So now, as he stands before you and confesses this change of heart, your words log in your throat, unable to escape. 

“So if it’s still something you dream of, I’d love to be a part of your future.” Damian whispers, and there’s a ball forming in your throat the more the seconds go back. The irrational part of you fears that somewhere along the line, he’ll change his mind again or regret ever agreeing to doing this with you. Damian doesn’t give you a minute more to spiral, he’s a man on a mission, and tonight, he’s bringing you back home. “Tell me what you want, I'll give you everything, Habibiti.” 

You don’t think about it very long, or very hard. The reasonable part of you hollers at the back of your mind, but it’s ultimately shut down by irrationality. Sure, he’s hurt you before, but you were no saint either. The thoughts of you and Damian happy, together again, completely overshadow the images of you crying alone in your apartment a week after the split. You think that for once, you’re allowed to be irrational to let yourself be happy. 

You've done a whole year of thinking and Damian’s done a whole year of drinking on your account, you’re not sure you can last another moment as the man you’ve pictured the rest of your life with stands in front of you, at your doorframe.  

Your resolve comes crashing alongside your heart, it feels like for the first time in forever, you can finally breathe without that suffocating feeling crushing your lungs. You choke down on a sob before you can even stop it, and Damian wastes no time catching you before you fall. 

Your arms lock around his neck with no hesitation, face stuffed in the crook of his neck like you’ve done a thousand times before. His arms wrap around your waist and the back of your shoulder, the bouquet falls from his hand with little to no care, and the petals scatter into your apartment. It’s the last thing on his mind as he relishes in the smell of you. For, he’d buy you a whole garden if you asked. 

Tears drip from your eyes and onto his skin, dripping down to the collar of his shirt. Damian’s lost in the feeling of you when he feels you muttering something incoherent against his neck. The hand resting your shoulder moves up to cup the back of your neck, gently pulling you off his neck. He tilts your head up to meet his insistent gaze, filled with a love you were once so used to seeing. 

“I just want my ring back,” the whisper sails across his skin and melts his tougher exterior like warm butter. You don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth tilt slightly upwards, and the hand on your waist tightens its hold on you. Damian doesn’t say anything and he stares you in the eyes, like he’s reading all the way through your soul, and you let him because for the first time in a year, you’re staring at more than just the memories of him in the form of photos you couldn’t get yourself to erase. 

—

The second you tell him you have no intentions in sleeping in your apartment that night, Damian’s quick to pack you a duffel bag of essentials. It feels so intimate being back in your space, things that are so mundane but feel so special that you’re allowing him back into this part of your life, like grabbing a handful of underwear from your drawer to provide for your stay with him. 

It makes him feel bashful like he’s 17 all over again. 

Once he’s done, he meets you in the living room using the entry mirror to fix yourself the best you can. You both use the fire exit at the back of the building to evade the curious crowd blocking the main exit. You barely make it to the car without being noticed, and the sound of your laughter as you run to the car to take cover from their evasive cameras nearly makes Damian trip in his steps. 

The ride back to the mansion is spent in silence, and for the first time in a year, silence doesn’t feel like a punishment for his wrongdoings. Damian can feel the burn of your eyes of the side of his face as you stare at him, he doesn’t comment on it or admit that he’s noticed you staring, but deep down, he relishes in the feeling. He hopes that soon enough, you’ll feel comfortable enough to connect your phone to the carplay again and blast your favorite songs Damian always pretended he hated. 

Once you arrive, Damian opens your door and walks in front of you to unlock the door, but his steps come to a halt when he feels your hand snaking in his empty one. He’s got your duffel bag on his other shoulder and you can almost repaint the picture of him carrying your stuff into the mansion when you’d first agreed to move in with him. It already felt like that was a lifetime ago.

The door unlocks with a twist of his key and his hand tightens around yours as he pulls you inside. The Wayne Mansion has lost all of its soul without you, there’s an almost eerie silence that falls onto the both of you as you step in. The house is dark and full of ghosts that haunt Damian’s every move. But with your hand in his, the voices finally quiet down before falling silent. 

All he hears is the sound of your breathing and his heart pounding against his ribcage. 

He drags you up to the bedroom and breathes a sigh of relief when he finally places your duffel bag on the bed. Emerald eyes follow you carefully as you sit down on your side of the bed like you’ve never left, familiarity picking at his chest. His eyes quickly shift from you and to the ring on his bedside table. Before Damian can even make a move, you’re sat up before him, asking him if he can bring you something to drink. 

He’s back just as quick as he left with a glass of water for you, and by the time he makes it back to the room, the sound of the shower resounds all the way until the hallway. 

The door’s closed and your clothes are still carefully folded in the bag, now at the foot of the bed. He’s not sure how far he’s allowed to push the limits with you, how much he’s allowed to see and touch now that you’re his again. He also notes that he didn’t even get the time to give you a clean towel of your own from the wardrobe before you rushed in, he guesses that you’ve already taken one, because you know where they are.

This was your house.

This Is your home. 

Damian’s not sure how long he’s spent standing up, staring at the bathroom door, but he quickly get answers to his questions as the door opens with a twist of the knob. His feet remain glued to the carpeted floor as he watches you emerge from the room. Your hair’s wet and clinging down to you, finally clean. Your skin is shining under the ceiling light and most importantly, you’ve got his towel wrapped around you. 

It’s nothing but a towel, but the sight of you wrapped up in his things nearly brings him down to his knees. A drop of water drips down your hair and down your cleavage and suddenly he's fighting a war with himself. You’re approaching him like a predator chasing its prey and he lets you, he needs you all up in his space before he loses his mind. 

In the corner of his eyes, Damian doesn’t miss the absent shine of the ring on his table. Before he can fully turn his head and investigate, your palm settles on the side of his face. You’re perched on your toes to reach him, and the sight of you smiling up at him does it for Damian.

The cold metal of your engagement ring cools his cheek and his resolve completely slips. You feel his lips on yours before you can even comprehend that he’s leaning down, and his hands are all up on you. Gone is that restraint he was trying so desperately to keep up since you’d embraced him at the apartment, Damian doesn’t care to be chivalrous when his top lip encases your bottom one. 

Your hand slides up to tangle in his brown tuffs of hair, earning you a brief huff. The movement causes the towel to unravel at the top and slide off your body unceremoniously onto the floor. Damian makes no move to help. The sudden chilliness makes you gasp in surprise as you throw an arm down to try and rescue your - his - fallen towel. Damian wastes no time shoving his tongue down your mouth, and suddenly you need both arms gripping his arms in order to keep yourself up. 

There’s nothing romantic in the way Damian’s tongue lapped against yours. Nothing sweet to a desperate man’s kiss. It makes you weak in a way that you almost forget that you’re bare in his arms, but the thought does little to bother you. Damian, on the other hand, is completely aware. His hands draw you in and explore your body like he hasn’t already mapped the area hundreds of times before. 

The clock ticks 00:00 by the time his suit joins his towel on the floor. Your legs bracket his hips and he’s completely lost in the feeling of you, it’s carnal, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You know by the strain in your lower stomach that you’ll wake up tomorrow morning with no regrets and a limp to your walk. Nothing matters anymore when you feel Damian’s fingers intertwine with your ring-clad ones, warm breath tickling your neck. 

In the end, the sheets are all crumbled and you’ve managed to push off the entire wall of decorative pillows to the floor. You end up on your back somewhere along the way, the bed groans, the frame bumps against the wall and Damian finishes with a deep groan that has your nails scratching at the expense of his back. 

The satin sheets welcome you back into its embrace when your arms fall limp back to your side. It's warm and it's soft and it’s the type of intimacy you grieved so hard when you were in the arms of another man, but now you’re back and Damian’s buried so deep you’re sure you’ll feel the ghost of him until tomorrow morning. 

By 00:47, you’re tempted to glance outside to make sure the Porsche hasn’t transformed into a pumpkin. It feels almost too good laying in his arms that you’re convinced you're living a fantasy. Damian’s chest heaves up and down under your palm, and for the first time in a year, you sleep tight in the arms of your lover.

-

Also, he’ll be closer to nature that way and can be his inner Snow White in peace.

No zoos, definitely no zoos. But you both do end up visiting a couple of wildlife sanctuaries. By the end, you’ve successfully gotten 200 pictures of Damian getting his cheeks pulled at by a monkey.

Definitely see Damian as the type of guy that dresses like a local to the point where people know you’re tourists only because of you. Also because you’ve dragged him through hundreds of local shops and now he’s got his hands full of bags.

Damian is the type of man on vacation that doesn’t bother leaving space in his suitcase because he knows he’s only bringing back MAX 3 souvenirs.

He keeps his second suitcase empty for you.

Vacations with Damian quickly turn passionate because he enjoys the fact that no one is here to bother or interrupt the two of you. No work, no saving Gotham, just uninterrupted time with you in a foreign bed.

He’ll give you the night of your life and leave you limping but still expect you to be up and running by 5:30am sharp because you guys have a hike that needs doing.

Damian pretends like he didn’t plan much when whole time he was hunched up on the Batcomputer night and day trying to plan the best vacation for you.

He’s had to fight his family not to intrude your trip, but he doesn’t tell you that much because then you’d feel bad and in turn it’ll make him feel bad. You already know how it’ll end, and next thing you know, the whole family would be there cramping up your cabin.

Vacation with Damian Wayne includes feeling bummed out on your beach chair because every woman in the vicinity is staring at him since the second he slipped his shirt off.

You can’t blame them, setting sun rays shinning on those delicious abs, there’s even drops of water dripping down to his v-line and you lowkey have to restrain yourself not to bone him in front of all these women.

Queue a confused Damian as to why you’re sulking at him for ‘being too hot’. He rolls his eyes at first but then he starts thinking that he’s actually ruining your trip and pulls you to his lap.

In front of…everyone.

You’re ashamed that Damian had to go out of his comfort zone just to appease your childish sulking, but there’s something so satisfying in the way the women roll their eyes at the sight.

Also, your back against his brick-wall of a chest feels amazing and you’re not sure you care about anything else at that moment.

Damian’s utterly embarrassed when you ask some grandma passing by to take a picture of you both along the shore with your digital camera, but the sight of you so giddy makes up for it.

She did take killer pictures though.

Damian does everything. From surfing, to jet skiing, to parasailing. You’ve got to have a strong heart to date someone like Damian.

Vacation with Damian means seeing that side of him that he rarely shows, even to you. He’s relaxed and offguard and it makes your heart swell all the most.

He definitely ends up befriending the local cat and HAS to end up saving one animal while he’s there.

Also, you have to fight him not to bring back every damn stray he sees back to the manor.

You’re not sure how you’re supposed to fit 6 dogs, 2 cats and one huge fuckass iguana back in the jet, but apparently that’s something you’re supposed to figure out.

“Don’t worry about it” becomes your favorite line on vacation. There’s nothing too expensive for Damian Wayne, and nothing too heavy that those beautiful muscles you’re currently drooling over can’t carry back to the room for you.

Damian opted out of a tour guide so you both could take all your time exploring. Also, so he could stop at every single point of interest to sketch them out.

He definitely sketches you secretly every time your eyes are lost on the horizon. He even writes little notes at the bottom like “She’s entranced by a toucan, might have to get her one back home” or “ Fell in a river slipping on a mossy rock after i told her 15 times to be careful. Still looks beautiful as ever, even with algae in her hair.”

If you two aren’t already married yet then Damian would definitely consider proposing to you on holiday. He doesn’t want to do anything half-assed though, so when you do end up going back home, he’ll spend the next months planning the best trip for you and start looking into rings.

Don’t expect to spent the whole day lazing about though. Even if Damian means to be relaxing, his routine makes it so that he’s never idle for too long.

If you want to spend one day resting up in your rental, don’t be surprised when he’s gone by 5am to go hiking or at the closest gym.

Anyways…just make the mental image of Damian with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh. He’s got sunglasses on and the sunset’s hitting his complexion perfectly. You’re surrounded by greenery and you’re absolutely in love.

-