That's the innate torture of it. Not the flames that scorch you for your sins, or the big red man with horns and a tail. It's the infinity of it all that terrifies. That possesses people to turn against one another, to dictate people by wrongdoings and banish them to an underworld to suffer eternally.

Space is infinite. Eternal, if you wind up in the right business. There's no flames, and the big men with imposing grins and a seat at the thrones have no horns or tails, but it's a special kind of hell. A hell in its own right, a torture so quiet it comes across as appealing to those far enough that they can't hear the screams.

It draws you in with promises until you're so used to floating that gravity makes you seasick and anything but navy skies and twinkling stars burns your retinas. That's how it keeps you, stops you from turning back and once it's got you it never really lets go.

It's why people like you do what you do. It's hard to care about anything when you know it's all infinite, when you know you're one black hole away from sweet relief and the only thing keeping you on your toes is the lack of oxygen and the task at hand.

It's why you march through corridors with a gun strapped to your hip, why you shoulder open a closed door to the room of a board meeting you've been precariously left out of the loop from.

"Agent Lovelace, we weren't expecting you."

"You're going after C-137?"

You're pissed, rightfully so. Being blindsided is one thing, but left out of the loop of a mission you've spent the last decade and a half preparing for is downright evil.

She eyes you as you round the table, gaze narrowed similarly to yours like she's scoping you out for something, biceps bulging through her uniform as she flexes, stretching out the muscle. "We have made plenty progress over the last couple of years, I don't see why we should stop now."

"He'll kill you." Your eyes scan the table, various members of the agency, assassins similar to you, all looking rather unsure. Aside from one, Beth, who sends you a raise of her eyebrows, as if to say 'what the fuck are you doing?'

General Galahan leans forward, eyes closing briefly like she wants to roll them and her muscles seem to relax, realising you won't be a threat. For now.

"You underestimate us."

"You underestimate him. People die believing they can outsmart him, do you get that?" You argue, similarly leaning forward like a challenge, "We need more time. More planning. You said he would be last."

"I said a lot of things when I recruited you, Agent. And if I remember correctly, you had quite a lot to say, too." Her jaw ticks, like her next words are a suggestion for you to be quiet and you find your lips folding in before she even utters them, already knowing. "Do not let your decade old attachments get in the way of your work."

You scowl at her warning, eyeing the rest of the agents, who all seem to avert their gaze, avoiding going head to head with you at a time like this, when this is the subject matter. There's a beat of silence, filled with searing eye contact, like you're both challenging the other to break first, before you're pressing your weapon flat into the table and demanding, "Let me be the one to go."

Everyone's jaws seem to drop in unison, a few gasps and a buffered noise from the General, who shakes her head with authority. "Out of the question. We have already commissioned Beth, You will be a liablity—"

"Let me go. Let me prove to you I'm not."

Your presence is strong and unwavering, enough to have the General rethinking, back straightening like she wants to come up with a better solution, but quickly realising you are one of the most highly trained, it would be an even bigger liability to send any other recruit.

She deflates, clearly giving in and you're quick to snatch up your weapon, which she stops with a hand over your wrist. "Don't fuck this up, Agent." It's simple, a crude order, but it holds an underlying meaning that has you nodding your head in a concrete salute.

"Someone has to pay." You reiterate, a saying coined by the agency that you find settles uncomfortably on your tongue, but it's enough to appease the General, who sends you out with a nod.

-----

Target: Acquired

"Rick fucking Sanchez."

Tufts of blue hair bob lazily upward until you finally get a solid view of the face pressed to the sticky marble bar. Narrowed eyes rake over you and you can't help but let a puff of air pass your nose at the way his slender fingers tremble against the rim of a half empty glass.

"Do- do I know you?"

Metal screeches agonisingly loudly against ceramic flooring and he seems anything but impressed at you taking a seat at the bar stool beside him. The leather is worn and cracks beneath the holsters strapped to your thighs, which he doesn't miss despite the fact he's clearly wasted. You try not to let it bother you. Stick to the script.

"Wow. I've never had the chance to see a Rick in person. Started to think you guys were just a bunch of half-minded clones." Your smile only makes his lip curl over his teeth like a rabid dog, turning to follow your hand as you signal the bartender and a fuscia coloured cocktail is placed in front of you.

"Yeah, well- well now you've seen one, so—" he pauses at the arrival of a belch that seems to bubble in his throat before releasing and for a moment you think he might vomit over the bar equipment the other side of the counter. "—fuck off."

You take in the way he throws back the remainder of what must be some kind of dark whiskey before banging a fist against the bar and a different bartender from before— this one seemingly rather young, though still sharing the deep, violet skin and four arms— scurries over to fill his glass to the brim once more.

"What is it you're celebrating?" He briefly turns to glance at you as if you might actually be serious, but noticing your smirk and laid back appearance only hunches further over the bar and gulps down a few more mouthfuls of liquor.

"Nothing that con- concerns you." It's flat and half-arsed, sarcastic in the way he grunts the words at you like it might be enough to send you on your way, but he's smart enough to know otherwise. You laugh at him and he furrows his eyebrows impossibly further like he wants to throttle you.

"So you're the miserable alcoholic. Shame, I would've liked to meet the farmer."

"I'm not a fucking— I'm not a fucking clone." He snaps like that's the only thing you've said that's personally offended him and you snort, rolling the tip of your finger around the rim of your glass.

"Do you have something against—"

"Are you gonna- gonna cut to the chase, or do you want to- to sit here all night and make fucking small talk?" You expect him delight in the barely conceivable raise of your eyebrows at his outburst, one you know he caught onto, but he only stares at you like this is starting to bore him.

"Forgive me for being polite, I—"

"Let me- let me guess. You're some shittily paid bounty hunter ordered by some high class organisation trying to- wanting to gain my trust in the hopes you can finally kill me, or- or hold me captive in your pathetic little spaceship until you manage to extract what you think is the key to my genius from my brain, but there isn't one so- so you'll never find it and have to run back to your big bad boss with your tail between your legs and explain how you managed to fuck up the best assignment you've ever had- had the pleasure of being given— me."

You're stunned for what must only be a split second before that shit eating smirk reappears like a safety net and his scowl falters enough that you begin to see the cracks in his foundation just from undermining his intellect with a grin. "Jesus, Beth was right. You really are just a paranoid, schizophrenic old man."

"Oh- oh and now what, you're gonna try and tell me you know my space- possibly- clone daughter? You- you're gonna try and hold that over my head?"

"No, actually. Not yours, though that does sound interesting." He scoffs at your reply and you finally take a swig of your untouched drink before finishing, "This Beth killed her Rick before travelling around with his equipment. Turns out she really is your daughter." You joke but to your almost surprise you see his teeth grind at your comment before he fights it off like it might give him away.

"So some sociopathic version of my daughter grovels at the feet of the same people you do. Big- big whoop." he finishes the contents of his drink in one big gulp and scrubs at his mouth with his sleeve before continuing. "Are you gonna take that gun out yet or- or force me to listen to you speak any longer?"

You almost smile at the way he's already caught onto your concealed load of weapons just from a simple conversation at a bar stool. Maybe he really is still as smart as people say. Your feet hit the floor before his do, long spine straightening out until he's towering over you at almost six-foot-five-inches of lanky muscle and for a moment you remember why everybody remains to be so intimidated by him.

"You- you want to have a shoot out in here or you wanna take this into the corridor? I know how- how you people get about taking the lives of innocents and what not." He gestures to the surrounding Zigerions, all enjoying a leisurely night in the underground space bar, and you narrow your eyes.

"You're allowing me to do this?" Maybe it's the old age, or the tragic loss, but the lack of that familiar fight behind his dark eyes curdles within you and drips into the way your fingers flex absently against your holster.

"I'm allowing you the opportunity to- to get this over with so I can- so I can be on my way."

He doesn't flinch when the barrel meets his eye-line, no sign of acknowledgement but a mildly irritated twitch of his lip.

"Alright, let's- let's- come on." He lets out another gargle similar to he had earlier before retrieving a similarly manufactured weapon from his lab coat, except this one looks to have been personalised with various add ons and jagged gadgets cemented to the side of it. "I- I don't really wanna shoot a lady of- of, you know, your calibre, so- so I'm not really sure how to go about this."

"No hard feelings, old man." You shrug, almost smiling, before firing the first shot— a flash of cyan light— that seems to sink into his forehead, barely breaking the skin enough to draw blood, before retracting like it was never there. His pale fingers prick at the barely noticeable dent it left, features contorting into a scowl at your sudden attack and he growls in response, firing a few contrastingly green shots in your direction which you dodge gracefully, sending the two of you dancing toward the back end of the room toward a stage where a live band is playing some kind of alien jazz.

The Zigerions flee their tables, creating a mob toward the nearest exit and allowing you and Rick the space to duck atop and beneath tables, glasses flying toward the floor with a deafening crack and the sounds of trumpets slowly dying as the band desert their instruments of favour of the door. You manage a shot at one of Rick's long fingers, splayed across the top of a table he's ducking under as he fiddles around with something beneath his lab coat, to which he pokes his head just to glare at you. "H- hey not cool! I use those fingers for shit you can't even comprehend!"

You scoff, ducking when he fires another shot at you before leaping across the various empty tables like stepping stones until you're kneeling over his large frame with your legs pressed to the table he's hiding beneath. "I see you don't have your Morty with you. I take it he's finally decided he's done with Grandpa?" You faux pout and he bares his teeth at you, kicking his feet up beneath the table and sending you flying backward with a crash that you only just manage to get back up from, hand clutched to your side and struggling to suck a sufficient amount of air back into your lungs.

He's standing now, lip bloodied —presumably from the shards of glass you had previously rained on one another— and a wide mouthed grin on his face as he huffs and grunts around you, either scoping you out or giving you the chance to make the next move. It's a sick contrast to the way he had started out, his wild hair and blacked pupils indicating he's taking some sort of twisted enjoyment in this and you almost want to kill him on the spot.

You charge forward, giving him the impression you're heading straight for him, which leads him to send a narrowly missed beam of neon light toward you, which lands straight into the wall as you dart upward, using the tables as leverage to throw yourself over him and land behind him— sharp and practiced— gun to his head and your forearm locked around his throat. It makes him bend to accommodate you, which only worsens the humiliation as he fights and struggles, groaning to himself until you yank him hard enough to silence him and his hands fly up in mock surrender. "Alright—" he chokes and you release your grip slightly, "—alright, you fuck- fucking psycho. You—" he's cut off by some unwarranted alert from a device that has you tensing behind him. He groans before pressing a button on his wrist and a hologram, lit up in blue and green, expands in front of your eyes in a way that must be casual for him.

"Dad? Dad? Oh thank god this thing works!"

It's a young blonde woman, one you already recognise and you can see the worrisome pull of her eyebrows through the space technology Rick's using. He sighs, irritably, at the intrusion. "Beth, Beth, sweetie, I- I'm a little caught up with something—" she continues yelling over him about his whereabouts and how worried 'they' all are, something about his supposedly rushed departure that makes him hiss that makes you raise your brows and the sound of a young boy fighting to hear Rick's voice on the other end of the line. "—this isn't a good time!"

"Grandpa Rick?" another, younger woman's voice calls out, "Is that you?"

"Yes. Yes, Sum-sum, it's me." He rolls his eyes, "Grandpa's pretty- pretty busy right now, so- so why don't we have this little chat when I- when I'm home, hm?"

"Oh, oh he's coming home. Jerry! He's coming home!" Beth rejoices and you notice the way the lines in Rick's forehead deepen. "Okay, alright, I- I'll see you later. I love you, Dad."

"Yeah, yeah, l-love you too, honey, bye." he's quick to shut the entire thing off, to which you kick the back of his shin and send him flying forward with a howl, though he does manage to stay on his feet as he turns to face you and the weapon you have pointed at his forehead.

"That was your daughter?"

His brows furrow, either implying that it's a stupid question or trying to figure out what sort of game you're trying to play. "No, just- just some rando calling me 'Dad.' Now, are- are we gonna finish this, or not?" He rolls up his sleeves, expecting you to take a similar stance, but instead the gun you have raised to his temple lowers until its away at your side and you're studying him with something he's not quite used to seeing in enemies set out to murder him.

"Are- are you- is this a sex thing? Cause- cause I've done the whole badass space lady thing, and- and it's never as good as it's made out to be."

"Go." You tuck your chin toward the exit and he narrows his eyes at you like you're being insane. "Go home to your family, Rick. They obviously need you."

Target: Disengaged

Everything is transactional. Once one flower wilts, another blooms from the soil beside it. Once one navi takes their last breath, a newborn takes their first. It's called Meoauniaea, everything depends on something else for its existence, living at one with nature.

So, what kind of life do you lead when you know you were supposed to die?

Wind soars, clipping ears of carved bone and swiping against war painted skin. Sweat drips from the hairless brow of a young warrior, one that dips and weaves through the skies with a blade in hand. Bodies fall in tandem, opposing navi cry at his arrival, striking fear in the hearts of the unholy like a second coming of the Great Mother herself.

Neteyam is alive. He is beating. Pulsing with the heart of the forest and as the bitterness of sweat and paint enters his open mouth he's sure he's never tasted anything so sweet.

He fires an arrow and the last one falls, leaning back in his ikran until he can spot his brother, head to head with a red and black demon. It dives forward, Lo'ak pulls back, weapon in arms and fires a spray of metal in an unpracticed line down the man's torso. The sound penetrates like an arrow and has Neteyam gritting his teeth. It stretches, body contorting in ways it shouldn't, and falls to the floor below, ikran falling limp with it.

There's a brief moment of uncertainty. A quiet. Everything hums around him like it's supposed to, but something sharp and dangerous bites his spine and within his seconds he's performed a full 180, weapon poised but it's not before a rider draped in red and black pierces his banshee through the abdomen with a precise shot of an arrow and the poor beast fights to stay upright by carelessly beating its wings against the smoke filled air.

He jostles Neteyam, wild movements sending him sliding down the creature's back, but he hoists himself with a firm grip around the saddle and manages to send a retaliatory hit right toward the other bird's eye, which screams and flails in pain.

The demon hisses, slender body curling around the creature until it's legs are locked around the animal's neck as the two of them plummet to the floor and fire another, which plunges into the taut muscle of Neteyam's thigh this time and makes him cry out, hand clutching the wound in order to keep the feathered end of the arrow intact as they near the treeline.

The break of leaves hits him first, battered by branches and debris as he assumes his plummet, one hand still firmly wrapped around the saddle, the only thing keeping them attached as his partner shrieks and cries at every new beat of a tree trunk against its wounds. Perhaps this is it, this is how Eywa will come to finally claim the fate he so narrowly escaped.

But he's still breathing. Broken by the large planes of doc leaves and tangled vines, he hits the floor with nothing but a thud and an animalistic grunt. The hand around the saddle slips and causes the animal to cry in search of him, using the last of his strength to sit up on his hind legs and nuzzle Neteyam's side, forcing him upright on his forearms, to accept that he has cheated death once again.

He strokes along his brother's spine in an attempt to calm him, "Mawey, Tesek." His voice is a gravelly whisper, choked from the thick billows of smoke invading his lungs and winded from the fall. He shrieks again, insisting with another push of his forehead against Neteyam's jaw. He can only shush him, rest his forehead against his, wait for the silence as he falls limps in Neteyam's arms. "It is okay," he tries, but the bitterness of the tears burn the back of his throat. He swallows and tries again, "It is okay, brother. Your spirit lies with Eywa now."

Not many others can possess a luck so cruel.

It's quiet now. A brief moment of tranquility, of the sound of the life slipping from his lifelong friend. As his tears wet the soil beneath, something inside him burns. Something horrid. Something familiar. Something that tastes like salt water and metal and 'I want to go home'.

The soil is still damp beneath his feet when he rises. It squelches, spreads between his toes when he marches, that usual grace swapped for something uncontrolled. Each new step comes with its own seething breath, a new grunt of agony at the pain that trips through his thigh. It's visible in the way his knife cuts through the hanging vines, the tree lines collapsed at his feet and he knows he's close. Can tell by the smell of smoke and the taste of hate on his tongue.

That's when he sees it, slunk behind a tree trunk. His eyes follow the gruesome sight of his own arrow, plunged straight through the eye of a banshee that fights to take its last breaths on the forest floor. Red paint drips from its scalp, it runs and taints the soil beneath it. It's been left to rot, and it's evident in the fact it's still breathing, left to dwell in its misery like a warranted torture. His lips curl into something violent and he forces his eyes away from the creature, from the pained rise and fall of its chest and the familiar yellow feather he crafted himself with his own two hands now tainted with the blood of an innocent.

But that's not what he's concerned about. Slunk behind a tree trunk, is you.

A woman, around his age, wearing the same streaks of red and black as the demon who murdered his friend in cold blood. You're trembling, enough to warrant concern and it should scare him how easy it comes to raise his weapon to you like this. Shaking and injured, hiding behind the trunk of a bananut tree. His arm pulls back, pulling the arrow string taut and he's so close to ending this right here until something cold and abhorrent bubbles from you.

You're laughing. That tremble in your back, the muscles that ripple beneath sweat stained skin. It's a mockery, a sick and twisted display of how out of his depth he is. He notices now, what you're doing with your hands. Pressing into the wounds along your side like it brings you pleasure, smearing the blood across your skin like a trophy and when your eyes finally lock on him everything runs cold.

"Are you going to kill me, kind warrior?" You pout, head tilted in mock submission but something dangerous dances behind your yellow eyes.

He fixes his position, shoulders back and chin pushed high. He doesn't reply and it only seems to fuel you more, slinking upright until you stand at almost equal height, notable even with the distance between you.

"Sorry about your pet." His jaw clenches and your grin only widens, stretching until it's almost uncanny, content with the rise you're getting out of him. "You will find another."

It's sick, how you can talk about this so flippantly. The life of another. Neteyam's lips pull back into a snarl, "You murdered him."

Your smile drops as quickly as it arrived and you no longer make any moves to approach him, "You murdered mine."

He notices your empty sheath, eyes dropping to the way one of your hands is concealed behind your back and shifts his position until he's side-on. This seems to amuse you once more as that familiar grin appears, though your eyes remain trained on his face, "You are good, young warrior." you nod, almost approvingly, and he narrows his eyes, suspecting you as you curl your tail toward his feet. "Not quite good enough, though." you hum, almost to yourself, hand now in front of your face as you study the traces of many others along the tip of your blade. "Perhaps your animal would still be alive if so."

That breaks him. Sends him charging toward you without strategy, retrieving his own blade from his sheath within mere seconds of his bow being placed across his back and the two of you begin your dance. That sick smile you wore is gone, replaced by something animalistic as you make a swipe for his abdomen, which he dodges and returns with a similarly missed puncture to your shoulder.

This continues a dozen more times, a swing and a miss, a grab for a limb that's combated with a strategised kick or a block of a bicep, the two of you moving in tandem with one enough. "Fight harder, tree hugger!" He lands a solid kick to your stomach, which sends you flying back to collide with the rough bark of a tree. It scratches your tainted skin, sweat and paint burns the wound and you growl, raw and untamed, kicking yourself off the trunk and sending you flying straight toward him. You connect with anything but grace and take him down with you until his backs against the moss and your legs are locked around his waist, tail curled around his left wrist, which keeps a tight hold on the blade, and your knee against his right bicep, keeping him pinned despite the way his forearms still manage to lock over yours, keeping you at arms length.

You hiss, dagger inching towards those big, yellow eyes and push harder, closer until your seconds away from gauging out his left and the only thing keeping you at bay is the miraculous amount of fight still left in him.

"An eye for an eye." you pant, readjusting the handle in your grip, and Neteyam growls.

"A leg for a leg."

Your eyes narrow momentarily, confusion etched across your face until they widen with the burn that stretches across your thigh. You look down to find his blade lodged into your muscle, his hand around the woven handle twisting until you're howling in pain. It's short-lived, and rightfully so, cut off by the call of a voice you recognise all too well, shouting his son's name in anguish in the direction of his fallen banshee. An elbow to his nose makes him release in favour of throwing his head back against the moss with a groan, and in moments you're back on your feet, hobbling backward until you have a good look of him spread eagle beneath your feet.

The call comes again, "Neteyam? Where are you, boy?", this time closer and Neteyam can only study the way your thin braids jostle around your shoulders as you turn your head, growling toward the sound like it inconveniences you. Like you would have preferred to kill him.

It's only then, in this brief moment, that he studies you. The thorn-edged vine strapped to your chest like a binding, the pale beads of sweat that roll from you in waves, the blood that trickles down your thigh that almost has him salivating with something far too easy to blame on hate. You turn again, this time to him, and his lips part at the new sensation of whatever's pouring from his nose finally reaching his lips. He welcomes it this time, the metal, and he can tell it doesn't go unnoticed by you, with your big eyes and sunken face, studying him like he's something to remember, like you've finally figured out what sort of title that name holds. But then you're gone as soon as you came, lost to the shadows as if you've always belonged there and the only proof of your being is the carcass of a one eyed creature left unnamed beside him.

The vines part with a 'swoosh', followed by the heavy footsteps of his father, who crouches beside him, one hand around his jaw as he assesses him for injury. "Why didn't you answer your comms? Your brother came back alone, what happened to sticking together—" his hard gaze lands on the arrow protruding from his thigh, and for the first time in years he sees the colour drain from his dad's face. "Jesus christ."

"Neteyam, oh my son!" Neytiri rushes beside him, tears heavy in her throat as she kneels at his feet, hands skimming the wound like she isn't sure what to do with them and Neteyam hisses as she does so, the pain of the flinch evident in his voice. Lo'ak cowers behind her, fear evident in the twitchiness of his shoulders and he's sure Kiri won't be far behind with her pouch of salves and wrap leaves before he makes his way back to camp.

When you were very young, if you'd lost something, your mother always told you to retrace your steps.

Lost your favourite toy? Where did you last have it?

Can't find your sparkly pink bike helmet? Go backwards, we'll go to the park and see if you left it there.

But lost your mind in your twenties? Dickmatised by your boyfriend's best-friend? That would be hard to find a way back from.

You tried retracting your steps. Truly, you did. Rifling through memories like a madwoman, trying to pinpoint the exact moment everything seemed to change. When being sure became something you didn't remember how to be and suddenly all you're left with is questions. Endless questions.

You know when it changed for Izuku. Could see it in his eyes the night this whole misalliance started. Staring at his best-friend balls deep inside of you like it's the most beautiful display of erotica he's ever seen. But you and Katsuki? That, you're not sure you'll ever really figure out.

You look for answers in every interaction, every delusional, harmless display of affection. That stupid, late night cigarette that kickstarted this entire thing.

"Katsuki?"

Spiky tufts of blonde hair, dishevelled by wind and the fact he's clearly been running his fingers through it, turn on you to reveal a moonlit face you'd grown to find a strange comfort in over the last 5 years.

"What're you doing out here? You don't even smoke."

The pack between your fingers trembles slightly in the wind. It's bitter enough to warrant a jacket, which you left inside, but just warm enough that the liquor swirling your stomach is enough to keep you from shivering. He eyes the open box, silent in his judgement and you roll your eyes, taking a cigarette between your lips as you fumble for a lighter.

"Quit judging. We don't all deal with our stress by punching the shit out of people for a living."

You're closer now, leaning over the railing beside him as you light the end over the high rise balcony of this fancy, new apartment. Yaoyorozu and Todoroki's house warming party. Though, really it's more Yaoyorozu's, and Todoroki disappeared half way through the night, probably to lock himself in the nearest guest room and avoid socialising altogether. Clearly, you and Katsuki can relate.

He eyes the cigarette between your lips, the way your sticky gloss leaves a pink residue around the paper as you pull it from your mouth and exhale a long puff of smoke. It's hard not to wonder what he's thinking when he looks like this— all cool and collected and mysterious. He turns back to the busy streets below before replying, "Deku buying you the cheap shit now?"

"Hm?" You hum, taking another drag as you study his face from this angle.

"The cigs." He motions toward the paper between your lips with his shoulder, eyes on you once more, "They're not the ones you like. You smoke camels."

You stop mid exhale for a moment, turning the steadily burning cig over in your fingers like you're only just realising that for yourself for the first time too. "Oh. I guess you're right." full exhale, "I picked up the nearest pack to the counter on the way here. Didn't really have a lot of time, you know how Izuku gets about being late."

He hums in acknowledgment at this, a shared experience for the two of you. Except, Katsuki's probably been dealing with Izuku's compulsion to being on time for a lot longer than you have.

There's a beat of silence. Comfortable silence. Cosy silence. The kind you don't often find when Bakugo's around. It leaves you time to study the side of his face, the jagged scar across his cheek that glows in the pale light of the moon and you notice how relaxed his jaw is for once. Just loose enough to soften around the edges, which makes him look almost inviting. You think he looks beautiful like this, mull over the urge to tell him. As friends, of course. You're not sure why you don't.

"You didn't answer my question." You tap the ash over the balcony, avoiding those crimson eyes and the almost definite scrutiny in them. That's just how Katsuki is. Always observing. Always to himself.

"What's that?"

"Why're you out here all alone?" You eye with something dangerously close to concern that makes his chest squeeze uncomfortably and for a moment he almost looks winded as he looks back down onto the amber flashing of the traffic lights down below.

"Not my kind of party."

"No party is your kind of party." you laugh, sweet and melodic, and he glares at you. You hold your hands up in mock surrender, "Not my fault you hate everyone." You sway, only really because the balls of your feet are really starting to hurt in these heels but he watches you like he's ready to catch you if you fall. You know he would, too.

"I don't hate everyone." The grumble he talks in isn't very convincing, which he can tell by the raise of your eyebrows, so he doubles down. "I don't hate you."

You scoff, but it holds no malice, just that light-hearted banter between old friends. "You tolerate me because you love Izuku."

A snort, "See, another person I don't hate."

"So the only two people you don't completely hate are me and your childhood best-friend?"

He pretends to think about it for a second before replying, "Your sister's okay." You really laugh at that— the hearty, unashamed kind— leaning over the railing like a madwoman, head thrown back against his bicep kind of laughter. Katsuki only scrunches his nose, "What's so funny?"

"The only other person you could think of was my sister?" You're wiping invisible tears from the corners of your eyes and he thinks you're being a little dramatic, but he doesn't point it out.

"She's. . .funny." He tries to defend, but it doesn't even sound convincing to his own ears and he cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth. You only laugh harder, doubling over until your hands are on your knees and you're practically folded in halve over a joke he didn't even mean to make.

"You've met her once! And all she did all night was make fun of Izuku!"

He simply rolls his eyes, but you don't miss the way the corners of his mouth threaten to pull up into a smile. "Yeah, okay, laugh it up. At least you won't catch me on the front page of a newspaper." Another giggle from you, one that has him wondering if it's always been so easy to make you laugh, and if so why hasn't he heard that kind of laugh from you before?

"Wow, okay. Here you go with the whole 'You're too nice (Y/N), don't talk to strangers (Y/N)' lecture again." You roll your eyes, but your smile doesn't leave.

"Maybe I'm sick'a savin' you." He grunts, and you audibly gasp.

"That was one time! How was I supposed to know that guy wasn't actually looking for the nearest phone box?"

He shakes his head, "He was wearin' a fuckin' balaclava."

"We were outside the club! It was dark!"

"You're just lucky I was standin' outside."

"Oh yeah, my knight in shining armour." You tease, leaning further toward him again just to poke him in the side, which he winces at. You furrow your brows, and he clearly doesn't want you to ask by the way he's shuffling a little further away and avoiding your eye. "Are you hurt?"

"It's nothin'. Just a little scraped up from my last fight."

"Let me see." You press, moving closer until your hands are bunching up the hem of his sweatshirt and he's stopping you with two hands on your wrists.

"I'm fine, don't worry about it."

"I don't believe you." You mumble, pushing the hem further until you're able to catch a glimpse of the blackened skin of his torso. You gasp almost immediately, shoving his clothing further up until he's practically shirtless in front of you, typically pale skin bloomed in shades of yellow, purple and straight up black as he grunts and winces with the strain of the movement. "Fuck, Katsuki, have you had anyone take a look at this?"

"You're lookin' at it right now, aren't you?" If you weren't so concerned, you would've shoved your fingers into his sides over his ability to give such a snarky comment while you're just trying to help.

"You could have internal bleeding, how long have you had this?" You look up at him, eyes wide and brows furrowed, and he knows he doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve this kind of doting, nor the painstakingly gentle glide of your fingers across his abdomen. Featherlight touches lighting sparks across his skin, and if he weren't so focused on the light flooding in from the party still very much in full swing behind you he might have let you do this for as long as you wanted.

But then the doors are sliding open, noise pollution spilling into the quiet cocoon of space the two of you had made for yourselves away from it all and a familiar mess of green curls is stumbling out. So Katsuki does what he does best, he pulls away.

"Baby!" Izuku drawls, attaching himself to your side like he hasn't seen you all night and in seconds it seems you've managed to forget all about Katsuki's injuries. "Been lookin' for you everywhere. Thought you ran away." He mumbles into your skin, nose pressed to where your neck meets your jaw and you laugh— that same mirthful giggle as before— and he knows he deserves even worse for the way his ow smile drops at the scene in front of him.

"I've only been out for like ten minutes, Izu." You chuckle, nails running over his scalp the same way they had run over Katsuki's skin moments prior and he wonders what it would feel like to know you meant it.

"Too long." He sighs, body falling limp in your hold like it's the best thing he's felt all night, which it probably is. You let him breathe you in for a moment before you're catching Katsuki's awkward gaze over the thick block of muscle that is your boyfriend and pushing him upright with a smile that's anything but the slightest bit annoyed at his inebriated behaviour. Just quietly amused, like this whole thing is endearing for you.

He only seems to notice Katsuki when he stands to his full height, eyes lighting up the same way they always did when he was faced with his best-friend and he's quick to pull him into the embrace, mumbling an excited "Kacchan, you're here too!" as he holds the two of you in an uncomfortably close, three-way hug and you're left a tangle of limbs on your friends' balcony.

"Get the fuck off me, nerd." He struggles, but you just smile and wrap your arms around the two of them, like this is the most normal thing you've done all night and he knows deep down if the two of you let him he'd stay here forever. It's only when Bakugo mumbles, "You're crushin' your girlfriend." that Izuku lets up, releasing the two of you from his sweaty embrace in favour of swinging his arm around your shoulder as he sparks up whatever random conversation his drunken brain seems to want to have and the two of you are left shooting eachother lopsided smiles over how adorably drunk your boyfriend is.

But that was normal. At least, you try to convince yourself it was. Glancing over at that familiar mess of curls as it snores a blissful symphony of exhaustion beside you.

You sigh, sitting up and scrubbing your hands across your face. You'd have to look closer. Closer to when this all began and you find yourself circling back to the same night over and over, the night all these fruitless fantasies solidified into something real.

"Bakugo! You showed up!"

Kirishima was one of Izuku's many friends that you decided to love wholeheartedly the first time you had met him way back in university. He had started the conversation with fussing over how in love the two of you were, how you were all Izuku seemed to talk about for the last six months and how excited everyone was to finally be able to put a face to the name. The two of you bonded over your shared affection toward the freckle faced boy pretty quickly, which soon blossomed into a valuable friendship over the years.

Bakugo, however, didn't seem so pleased to see him.

"Yeah, whatever, Shitty hair. I'm not staying for long."

That familiar grumble only made the red head erupt into hearty laughter, slapping an arm around the irritated blonde as he drags him to the private table Mina made sure to book in advance for such a large party.

He spots you and Izuku first, curled up against eachother in the wide booth as you nurse the edge of a half empty wine glass, the drink sparkling in the dim, yellow light. Izuku holds what looks to be some kind of fruity cocktail, which Bakugo refrains from making any sort of comment on as he slides into the booth beside you, that same, lint covered hoodie sliding up his forearms as he glides them across the sticky table.

"Kacchan! How did it go?" Izuku sits up, leaning across you to converse with his friend, who slouches back against the booth like he wants to be anywhere else right now.

"Kicked his ass. The dumb extra gave all that talk just to get knocked out second round."

The table erupts in cheers, a few of the girls holding their glasses up in celebration of his win and he looks down at his grazed knuckles as if to avoid the attention.

"Man, I wish we coulda seen it. Future heavyweight champion Bakugo Katsuki!" Denki cheers once more, waving his glass that spills over the marble tabletop and Sero gets up with a grumble in search of a napkin.

"You didn't give him too hard of a beating though, right?" Mina asks, sliding in to claim Sero's empty spot across the table from the three of you. "I mean, you still let him get up after?"

"Nah. Kid's six foot under. Showed up to invite you guys to the funeral." He jokes, but his face remains sat in that same old scowl despite it.

"I wouldn't put it past you, Bakubro. Sometimes you turn into a beast in the ring." Kirishima returns with a tray of shots, placing them on the table and offering the first to Bakugo, who politely declines.

"Aw, come on, Bakugo! This is your first night out with us in like. . .forever!" Mina whines, and Denki nods beside her.

"You won the fight man, now's the time to let loose a little!"

"If Kacchan drank each time he won a fight, this would be an intervention." Izuku chimes in beside you, taking a sip of his drink with his free hand that isn't slung over your shoulders.

Katsuki gives a nod of approval beside you, but you lean forward to push a shot glass each in front of the three of you. One orange, one green and one bright purple with little shimmers floating around inside. "I'm sorry we didn't get to come watch, the least you could do is celebrate the win with us." You suggest, urging him to take his pick.

He thinks for a moment, lips pursed like he's mulling it over before muttering, "Fuck it." and making a grab for the orange glass, downing it in one without waiting for you or Midoriya to take yours alongside him.

The table erupts in cheers again, watching like giddy teenagers as Bakugo swallows hard, face screwing at the bitter taste of the hard liquor disguised as 'sweet' on the menu.

"(Y/N) the Bakugo whisperer! Teach me your ways!" Kirishima laughs, hand slamming the table a few times as you shrug, a coy smile painting your lips.

"Maybe I'm just better than all of you." You tease, fingers wrapping around the pink glass as you nudge Izuku to take the vibrant green beside it, sharing a glance before downing each of your shots in sync with one another.

"Yeah," Bakugo coughs, still processing his own drink, "or maybe she's the only one with a fuckin' brain."

"I dunno, she's been with Midoriya for. . . how many years?" Denki jokes, earning him an elbow from Mina.

You smile at the mention, fingers interlocking with his against your lap, the denim skirt you're wearing riding up slightly with the movement. "Five. Next week."

"Ugh! You two are like. . ultimate couple goals!" Mina gushes, face pressed to her hands against the table like she's witnessing true glory up close.

Izuku smiles at that, turning to press a kiss to your cheek and pull you a little closer to his side, which in turn has the whole table erupting in childish coos. "To many more." He practically beams, retrieving his original glass just to clink it with yours against the table and take another swig, which you return.

More cocktails, a few rounds of karaoke and a boat load of shots later and everyone seems to have found themselves their own little space in the crowded bar.

It's late, probably later than it should've been, and Katsuki has to continuously remind himself that he's supposed to be 'letting loose' and to relax his shoulders each time they wind up by his ears.

He's drunk. Not wasted, he offered to be the sober driver because he didn't trust either of you to make it home in one piece, but enough to feel the tingle in his fingertips as they rest against the thighs of his jeans in the bar stool he's found himself perched upon. Beside him, Deku's humming along to some cheesy pop song he doesn't think he's heard before, umpteenth drink in hand as he sways slightly with every new melody that blasts through the crackly speakers.

You're not far. Maybe about a metre or two away, bent over the bar as you point at the row of colourful bottles behind the barman, dictating which one you'd like to choose for your next round, which you graciously offered to provide for the two boys. Your two boys, as you called it.

It was funny, being called yours. Izuku didn't seem to mind, of course he didn't. He was yours. Had been since the day he sat next to you in his first aid course, vital for becoming a teacher, though you had been pursuing nursing at the time.

Katsuki only became yours by association. He was Izuku's, he knew that. Didn't need to be said, nor addressed. He just was, always had and always would be. Things worked out that way, worked just fine and didn't need to be messed with. But then you came along, and suddenly there was a new person to not completely hate. A new person to laugh at his rude, and probably inappropriate, jokes. A new set of tastebuds to try all his cooking. A new set of his hands to clap and a voice to cheer his name in the stands of a boxing ring. A new place in that cold and withered heart of his to be filled.

You became part of him, because you were part of Izuku. And now, the three of you were part of eachother. He thinks maybe you all share part of the same soul, which he would never admit out loud, because if anyone asked he didn't believe in that corny shit. But he did. Seeing you and Izuku it was hard not to believe two people could be made for eachother, and he thinks maybe you were kind of made for him too.

So hell, if you wanted to claim him as yours, he wouldn't stop you. As long as he got to exist in your guys' orbit.

You shoot them both a smile over your shoulder as you wait for the drinks to be prepared, that same drunk flush in your cheeks he knew meant trouble even on a good day. You're tapping your nails against the bar, waiting patiently like the good girl you are, when a familiar intro has your entire body lighting up.

"Oh my god! It's our song!"

You're darting over to take one of Izuku's hands in yours, pulling him to his feet with no complaints as you fight to take Katsuki's in your other. He lets you hold it, but doesn't budge, shaking his head. "No way. I'm stayin' here."

"Kacchan! Don't be boring! You love this song!" Deku pouts, arm wrapping around your waist on instinct to toy with the hem of your cropped shirt.

"You love this song. I suffer through it every time I give you two a ride because I have to."

"I see you tapping your fingers against the steering wheel every time it plays!" You argue, nodding along with Izuku.

"That's a nervous habit." He grunts, fiddling with the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

"No, that's a nervous habit." You correct, motioning toward his fingers, which quickly flex into balled fists at your acknowledgment. "You tap when you enjoy things!"

"I don't." He practically growls, but the blush across his cheeks gives him away almost immediately and Deku's already dragging him to his feet with a lot more force than you had.

"You so do!" He laughs, already beginning to sway with you as he drags Katsuki with you as collateral. "You tap your feet every time you listen to Foo Fighters!"

It's loud on the dance floor, cramped with sweaty bodies and the three of you have to shout to hear eachother now. "I like the drums!" He tries to argue over the sound, but the two of you have slipped into your own little world, dancing hand in hand to the beat of your favourite song.

He's too stiff too dance. Surprisingly uncoordinated despite his profession, so he settles for watching the two of you instead. You're so close you may as well be part of eachother, chests bumping with each bounce of your heels and laughs mixing into one breath as you twirl and spin around one another. Deku takes your hand in his, extending his arm to spin you once or twice before you're collapsing back against his chest, head thrown back in that same joyful laughter as the night on the balcony.

This goes on for a few more songs and a few more rounds of shots, which Katsuki declines under the excuse of him driving, until he's herding the two of you into his vehicle at god knows what time and grumbling about making sure you get home safe.

He helps you into the backseat, tries to with the help of Deku, who's still reasonably sober compared to you— a mess of flailing limbs and wet kisses pressed to your boyfriend's chubby cheeks as they box you into the backseat.

Katsuki's just about to round to the drivers side, Deku in tow with the passengers seat before you're grabbing him by his collar and begging him to stay with you.

"Don't leave me alone, Izu. Sit with me." You whine, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and he looks a little embarrassed at how publicly you're seconds away from groping him in front of his best-friend, but Katsuki just nods, urging him to join you, which he does, like the dutiful boyfriend he is.

The car rides filled with awkward silence as Katsuki tries to focus on the road, on anything but the way you're practically straddling Izuku in the rearview mirror, legs slung over his lap and your tongue hot against his neck as you sigh into him, sweet little murmurs about how cute he is, how much you love him. All the things that should be done in private.

"Baby, we're in the car." Deku mumbles when you try to turn one chaste peck into multiple open mouthed kisses, practically salivating over him before you've even made it to your side of town.

"He doesn't mind." You whisper, teeth running along his throat in a way that makes him stifle a groan. "Do you, Kacchan?" You lean forward, into the front seat and Bakugo has to grit his teeth to stop himself from swerving off the road.

It's the first time you've called him that. The first time you've called him anything besides his government name and something about it being Deku's name for him that you're using makes his stomach flutter.

His lack of answer is enough for you, and you're plopping yourself right back into Izuku's lap and pulling him in by his hair for a sloppy kiss. "See? I told you. He's a good friend, he doesn't mind."

A good friend. God, if he was a good friend he wouldn't be fighting so hard to stay in control just from watching the two of you like this. Wouldn't be driving one handed just so he can keep adjusting his jeans to make sure neither of you catch a glimpse of the bulge that's threatening to rip out of his zipper. Wouldn't be driving the speed limit just so he gets to keep the two of you in his backseat for longer.

He unlocks the door with a button from the drivers seat when he pulls up outside your shared apartment. Nothing but a soft 'click' of the lock opening to say goodbye. But that, obviously, isn't enough for you.

You're stumbling around to the passenger seat window, knocking on the glass and begging him to roll it down just so you can lean into the glorious smell of his leather seats a little longer and take a deep inhale, sighing out that, "Your car smells so good, Kacchan. Smells like you."

He buffers for a moment. Flexes his hand on the steering wheel and eyes Deku over your shoulder through the passenger seat window like he's asking for permission to accept the compliment.

"Could you help me get her upstairs?" He asks. A genuine favour from his best-friend, for your boys to help put you to bed and he'd be a real asshole if he said no.

So he helps lumber you up four flights of stairs, eventually opting to carry you bridal style up the last two after you and Midoriya nearly rolled down the second. You're babbling the whole time, running your nose along his hairline and taking slow breaths like he's a pack of camels and you're trying to get in as much smoke as possible before he burns out.

"Izu says you smell good, too. Says he likes keeping your sweatshirts 'cause they smell like you. Isn't that cute, Kacchan?"

He ignores you because he doesn't know what else to do. Because Deku's got his back to him, practically marching up the stairs and he can almost feel the scarlet of his cheeks from here. Because a good friend wouldn't embarrass him by acknowledging this. And he's trying so hard to be a good friend.

He only places you back on your feet when you touch down on the floor of your shared apartment and the doors safely closed. Only takes his hands off your waist when he's sure you can stand. Deku still won't make eye contact, and he thinks maybe this is his punishment for letting things carry on so long in the car.

But then you're pressing your face to his chest, nuzzling against him like you've forgotten which one's which and sighing into him, "We love y'so much, Kacchan. You know that, right?"

He rubs a hand over your back. Doesn't know why. Trails his fingers through the ends of your curls and even pulls one around his finger just to feel it bounce back like it was never there. Like this will all be a distant memory tomorrow morning and you'll go back to being his best-friend's girlfriend. That this will have never happened.

Deku's watching him now. Not angry, just quiet. Eyes glassy and kiss-bitten lips parted like he's seeing him for the first time. Like he's watching some sort of puzzle fall into place and suddenly the warmth of your body pressed against him is gone and you're trailing back to Izuku, running your nails over his scalp the way you had before and pressing sloppy kisses to his jawline.

Katsuki thinks he should leave. Knows he should. But he doesn't, stands there like he doesn't know where to put himself, holding eye contact with his best-friend while you lick a long stripe from his jaw to his cheek and break into that familiar grin.

"He can stay, can't he, Izu?" You hum, shooting Katsuki an assessing glance before whispering, "I think he wants to watch."

It's so fucking twisted, which must be why he stays. Must be why he watches you palm his best-friends cock through his jeans, wishes it was his. It's why he obeys when you tell him to, "Sit.", legs spread wide across your sofa as you clamber yourself into his lap, Izuku right behind you, hands trailing your side like he's been waiting for this as you run your nose along his Kacchan's jaw.

"You're so lonely, Kacchan. So sad and lonely. We want to help you." You whisper, and he thinks he feels tears brimming his lash line, eyes falling shut as the first one falls, cascading down his cheek, only to be lapped up by your hot tongue against his skin. "'S okay," you coo, carding gentle fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp just right in a way that makes him preen, groaning to the touch, "You don't have to cry. We've got you."

Your fingers bunch the hem of his sweatshirt, lifting it over his head and he doesn't fight. Raises his arms and lets you pull it off, only to be thrown somewhere and surely be kept by the two of you. The bruise is healing now, more yellow than purple, almost green in places, but still tender enough to warrant care and you are oh so careful with him. Sliding down until you're on your knees between his legs, pressing kiss after kiss along the lean muscle of his abs, across the blood-rushed skin and his head lolls back against the sofa, only to be caught by Izuku's hands in his matted hair, keeping him upright.

"Stay awake, baby. We can't take care of you properly if you don't keep your eyes on us." He chastises, but his voice is so fucking gentle. So fucking sweet and Bakugo thinks this must be some kind of fucked up mind game, some cruel trick to mock him for how badly he wanted this.

"I'm sorry." He chokes out, voice thick with tears but Izuku only shushes him, hand rubbing over his hairline to push his sticky hair from his forehead and run his thumb over the silvery scar there.

"You don't have to be sorry. You never have to be sorry. Not with us."

He nods, because what else is he supposed to do. Glassy eyes trained on the only constant he's ever known as he lets his girlfriend run her tongue over the waistband of Katsuki's jeans. He feels like he's floating, the only part of his body he's still in control of being his hand flexing at his knee. Tensed, like he so desperately wants to make a grab for your hair, and Izuku think it's adorable how much he holds himself back for fear of overstepping a line that isn't even really there anymore.

Does Katsuki know he wants him to fuck you? He fights a grin at the thought. His dumb, fucked out best-friend all flustered when he realises that he's allowed to have this. That he'll willingly give it to him.

Still, he does find it a little inconsiderate that Kacchan's the one getting all the attention. After all, it's him that splits you open almost every night. His cock that you crawl home to, his name that you whisper while you sleep, his couch in the apartment he bought you on the first viewing just because you said you liked the windows, and now Katsuki's about to be the one to claim your mouth first on that very same couch.

All it takes it two firm taps against your shoulder and you're stilling almost immediately, fingers tucked in Katsuki's belt loops as you pull back to look up at your boyfriend, a dopey grin on your face. He smiles, running a soothing hand across your cheek and tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear— "Why don't you show him how you do it first, hm? Don't wanna overwhelm him."

You blink up at him a few times— these slow, loving, cat-like blinks— ping ponging between his face and Katsuki's crotch as if mulling the idea over in your head before a wicked smile spreads across your face and you're turning to face him, hands already pawing at his zipper. He laughs, stroking a palm over your scalp to rest at the back of your head as you smile up at him, giddy with anticipation. "Let me sit down first, baby." He takes a seat on the opposite couch, leaving nothing but a small, hickory coffee table between the three of you and pats his thigh expectantly, "C'mere."

You perch in between his knees like this is the only thing you've been waiting to do all day and you almost purr when he caresses your jaw. "Open." He commands, but it isn't rough. Just firm, casually dominating in a way that's almost out of character for him. You obey, even going the extra mile to slide out your tongue and tip your head back. He presses his thumb against the muscle, pushing it flat against your chin with a hum, "That's it. Good girl. Little wider, sweetheart."

You always get like this when you drink. All soft and pliant, begging to be fucked dumb. To be bossed around so that tired little brain of yours doesn't have to put in any work. It's funny really, jarring almost and he gets off on the idea of how stunned Kacchan must be right now. How untoward this must be for him. To see you, the headstrong loudmouth you are, knelt between his knees like a fucking house pet and letting him guide your mouth over his cock.

It's not always like this. Sometimes he's the one kneeling, which is equally just as fun, but it's what makes times like this always so special. They don't come often, so when they do, who is he to deny his sweet girl of what she so desperately needs? What kind of boyfriend would that make him? And now that you have an audience he's only all the more intent on thoroughly pleasing you in front of your guest.

It's messy when you swallow his cock. Drool peeking down the sides of your lips, pooling at the tufts of bright green hair at the base of him and you moan over him when his hand finds the base of your hair, fingers curling through the strands, a gentle reminder that he's there. "Doin' so good, sweet girl. You're so beautiful. So perfect." His hazel eyes twinkle at you, round with adoration and Katsuki nearly chokes on his own tongue when they land on him, "Isn't she, Kacchan?"

His knee jumps, "Yeah. Yeah, she's— she's great." His chest heaves, voice tight like the air burns and Midoriya's brows furrow, unsatisfied.

"Great? Is that—" he moans, loud and unfiltered, when you constrict around the tip of him, never breaking eyes until he's ready to continue. "You can do better than that. I know you can."

"I don't—" he grits his teeth, eyes screwing shut as he presses his feet hard against the parquet flooring in the effort to steady his legs, "Fuck, what do you want me to say?"

He smiles at that, eyes falling back on you, head tilting to the side in that unashamed admiration of the girl beneath him. "I think you're making him nervous, honey." he addresses you directly and you look up, humming in acknowledgment before releasing him with a 'pop.' You sit up a little higher, turning to Katsuki with a wet chin and wide eyes, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before looking back up at Izuku like you're waiting for permission for something. He nods, chin tucked toward Katsuki, "You can help."

You're up in seconds, leaning down to give your boyfriend a passionate kiss, tongue slipping into his mouth and your fingers curling around his jaw before your eyes lock on Katsuki.

They're different now. Smaller, no longer wide with love but narrow with something else. Lust, maybe. Or maybe this is a punishment. A reckoning. Karma for all the late night phone calls, the stolen brushes of skin in dimly lit classrooms, the silent claim he's kept over your boyfriend since they were children that never really went away. Not even after you, not even while craving you just as badly. Whatever it is, you look you're about to eat him alive, and he thinks— knows he's going to let you.

You grip his chin with two fingers and his entire being shifts, world spinning on its axis like your touch has just given him every reassurance he needed to be okay with this now. Just for now. To have his cake and eat it too.

You straddle him again, thick thighs bracketing his hips and he fights off a groan at the heat of your skin through the denim. "Do you want me to help you, Kacchan?" It's a simple question. So fucking simple, but his brain short circuits. He blinks, dumbly, and you pout at him. "We don't have to do anything—"

Two strong hands grip your hips, keeping you flush to him, panic set in the intensity of his hold. "No. I— shit." His voice breaks, he tries to bite it back. "I wanna fuckin' ruin you." The admission flies out of him and his lips set like he wants to drag it back in as soon as it leaves, but your entire body seems to lit up at his confession, head turning over your shoulder to shoot Izuku a look that reads as slightly amused. He nods, slow and convincing, from his position on the couch and it's only then Katsuki registers the steady stroking of his hand over his cock.

You lean in, hands braced against his shoulders and lips brushing his ear with a lazy smirk, "I think it's going to be the other way around."

Izuku always fucks you well. He's slow, considerate, intent full with his touches. Pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you with practiced hands after a particularly long and trialling day.

But katsuki? Katsuki fucks like he wants to do damage.

Hips rutting against yours with so much force the couch scrapes across the floorboards a little with each thrust, filling the room with creaks and slaps of wet skin against skin as he groans over you, "Wanted to do this for so long. Fuck, bet you wanted this too, didn't you? Couldn't fuckin' help yourself." His hot breath fans your face with each pant, eliciting spark-like tingles across your skin and all you can do is nod and reach for him, nails scraping along his back in a way that makes him arch his spine, burying himself into you that little bit deeper.

"Shit, you're so tight. Couldn't wait to get me like this, huh? Bet it's all you two freaks think about each time he fucks you." He's babbling, totally pussy drunk and it comes out more volatile than either of you could have expected when he stepped through the front door. "Does he like seeing you like this? Like watching you cream on another man?" Izuku is still sitting directly opposite the both of you, but he hasn't been directly acknowledged by either of you, save for the way your eyes flick to the hand pumping his leaking dick every so often, since Katsuki first slipped it in. You mewl, which isn't a direct denial, but Katsuki still smirks above you, crimson eyes dropping down to watch the way you quiver around him before flitting back up to your face. "Or is it just me? Only me that gets to fuck this pretty pussy while he watches?"

"Just— just you. Only you."

His jaw goes loose, swollen lips parted as a guttural groan rips from his throat. "Yeah, fuckin' right it's only me." a particularly hard thrust knocks the air from your lungs, "Only me."

He's confident now. Cocky just from the way he's got you, dumb on his cock, and it's enough to have him turning over his shoulder with a shit eating grin, addressing Deku directly with, "You watchin', nerd? Look at how fucked out she is, all dumb on my cock." he mutters, turning back just to run his eyes over the way your tits jump with the stuttered breath you take in at his humiliating words.

Izuku smirks, uncharacteristically smug for him. "I think she likes you, Kacchan."

He laughs, breathy and hoarse, "Ya fuckin' think? Clenchin' me like her life depends on it."

You remember now, how something had shifted deep inside your gut. How those boys, your boys, had shifted your entire being.

You think you find it now. Here, in this memory. Of Katsuki between your legs, and Izuku by your side. The best of both worlds, both of your worlds, in one place.

You realise that nothing is lost. Nothing was ever really found. That this was there all along, from the day you were seated next to that bushy browed, green haired boy on the first day of first aid training way back in University. You might not have officially met Katsuki then, but deep down you know you had. That in knowing Midoriya, you knew him too. Because it's not possible to love one without loving the other.

synopsis: bakugo hasn't been himself since the war, and you come up with a plan to get him back to his usual hot-headed self involving all things he hates: birthdays, surprises, and distractions.

genre: smut with plot, fwb to lovers (brief), established relationship (toward the end), bakugo being his usual emotionally congested self :<

warnings: p in v, mentions of breeding, rough sex, sex on camera, i talk about bakugo's injuries sustained from the war but not in detail

a/n: i actually hate this and this was written to be released in april for bakubros birthday but im trying to finish off drafts in the hopes of curing my writers block so just take whatever this is

emotionally congested and traumatised bakugo i love you pls come home

Katsuki Bakugo hated distractions.

He had a goal to reach, the same clear mission he'd be on since the first time his palms bubbled with those familiar fireworks, and he'd be damned if he let anybody take that away from him.

Which is why, he could never quite understand his peers obsession with relationships.

It seemed to be all everyone spoke about once they hit sixteen. Like a switch being flipped, suddenly conversations about training strategies and recent villain attacks became promposals and walks to class, which eventually became cam girls and instagram models and the preface of being able to feel the touch of a woman before they turned 19. It seemed to be all anybody thought about, their sole reason for every change of appearance, every gym session, every niche interest they thought would make them look cooler for whatever woman they hoped to impress.

Each and every one of his peers strayed from their goals, or at least in Katsuki's mind they had. Too focused on their love lives to deal with the task at hand, becoming the fucking best.

And the worst part? It wasn't just the guys.

For months, girls with barely enough brain cells to string coherent sentences together when in his presence had been throwing themselves at him— lining the halls with their doe eyes and perfectly pouted lips, practically on their knees in the hopes he might spare them an odd glance.

He spent most training sessions telling himself if one more airhead girl tried to spark up a useless conversation with him, he would have no choice but to blast them so far that he would never have to suffer through being in their presence again.

Hopefully It would warn off the others too.

That was, until you came along.

For the first time ever, Katsuki was head to head with someone just as cut throat, just as prideful and possibly just as sharp tongued as him.

It was safe to say his superiority complex took a hit.

And to make it worse, despite you being all those things— there wasn't a malicious bone in your body.

People didn't dislike you. They envied you, put you on a pedestal and actually wanted to be your friend. Kids your age didn't cower at the sight of you or roll their eyes whenever you'd share an opinion.

If he were able to dig deep enough, he would've known that was probably what ticked him off the most. And in truth, that was also kind of what drew him to you in ways he fucking hated himself for.

Mostly, it was the challenge that had initially excited him. The prospect of being able to conquer you, to prove this was just another obstacle on his way to being the best and that if he satiated this undying need he had for you, that he would be able to go on with his life as normal and the sight of your glossy lips as you berate him over something stupid burnt into his retinas each and every night would be one he'd never have to see again.

After a few years of back and forth, he learned that to be impossible.

You weren't something to be conquered. You stripped him of everything he thought he knew he was and introduced him to things he didn't know he could be.

One being, your quiet little fuck buddy whenever you felt like giving him the time of day.

It was humiliating.

He had practically spent the entirety of your freshman year of college sneaking in and out of your dorm room, often at night, sometimes day— sometimes you even went as far as to drag him into the empty locker rooms while your class mates worked their asses off in the gym just a wall away.

"Be quiet." he had hissed at you, though he never really wanted you to be. "Those dumbasses get to hear even one noise out of you and I'll—"

You smiled, daring, as you roughly made work of removing his tie. "You'll what, Katsuki? Blow them up for being subjected to hearing us fuck?"

He cringed. "Shut up." He hated the way you always used that word. It made his skin crawl with shame, and even more so want, despite never being able to place a finger on why.

It didn't matter. He supposed he fucked out any rogue feeling he had each time he saw you.

He delighted in the way you'd cave for just a moment. The split second where you'd fully give into him— nails clawing at his back and fingers tangled in his hair. That solid block of distance you always kept between the two of you finally melting away for just long enough he could taste the intimacy.

"Only me that makes you feel like this, huh?"

"Only I get to feel this pussy."

"Whose pussy is it?"

Me. Me. Me.

You had been absolutely sure he just loved the sound of his own name at the time. Unbeknownst to you, it had always been much deeper than that. He never just wanted you to be his, he wanted to share one another. How fucking pathetic.

When the arrangement between the two of you reached its tipping point, Katsuki was sure you'd run.

"The fuck's this?" he had asked, picking up a neon pink post-it-note from atop your desk.

He always stood awkwardly by the door whenever you let him in, scanning your plain old dorm room like it was his first time being there. Force of habit, or the fact he was still equally amazed you even welcomed him in.

This time the small piece of paper had actually caught his eye, and now he was standing in your door way, note in hand, glaring at you like you had done something horrific.

"What?" you laughed him off, cross legged on your single bed and still scribbling down equations from your study session with Mina.

"Who wrote this?"

His question was simple, but you squinted at him like he had asked something impossible.

"Does it matter? It's a post-it-note."

"I know what the fuck it is."

"Then why are you so interested in it?" you scoffed, turning back down to pretend to be focusing on your notebook.

"You're getting this soppy crap from some extra and I'm not supposed to be god damn interested in it?"

He was closer now, threatening to blow the thing into smithereens with the way his hand was shaking around it, displaying the lengthy combination of digits (obviously that of a phone number) and a love heart sketched across the bottom.

"How do you know it's from a guy?"

He stilled.

He really wasn't joking. You couldn't play this one off with your wit, nor could you distract him with some mindless sex and pray he ignored whatever this was between the two of you just a little longer.

Your sigh felt like a knife in Katsuki's throat. He was absolutely certain this was it, and when you readjusted your position atop the bed time had to have stopped. . . at least that's what it felt like for him.

"Katsuki." you called, tone laced with a little warning, or exasperation. He was never very good at knowing.

You weren't Japanese, at least not fully. Foreign to the concept of calling people by their last names, in fact you yourself considered it a little rude when they all seemed to only recognise you by your surname. You had always called him Katsuki, adamant it was 'your way of showing respect despite disregarding Japanese customs' and found it a little kiss-ass-y to refer to one of your peers the way you had only ever been raised to address elders.

He didn't mind, though at first he liked to pretend he did. The only issue was that it made it impossibly harder to read you, having to focus on your tone alone rather than by which name you called him.

So, he just stood there. Waiting for the final blow. Waiting for you to tell him you were finally fed up with him and kick his ass to the curb.

"You're pulling that face."

His eyes snapped into focus, actually able to take you in like he had been avoiding it the last few minutes in the hopes it would sting less if he didn't see the words leave your mouth.

His lips were pulled into a thin line, almost like he wanted to bite them out of nerves but couldn't let himself fall apart that much. His crimson eyes had been following floating shapes, but now they were completely locked on you and god you could see everything in them.

It wasn't unusual for him to look like this. It was the kind of face he pulled whenever you knew you had cut a little deep for him. Though, this time was specifically raw. So raw it made your chest feel a little tight and your eyes threaten to fog over. It was like he had stripped himself naked in front of you, which ironically would have held less intimacy between the two of you by that point.

The entire time you focused on analysing him, Katsuki was studying you. You were cautious, but you weren't weary. No part of you was ever afraid. Your lips were pursed in something he couldn't put his finger on, but your posture proved open and relaxed.

He was never quiet for this long. Not in times like this, not to anyone else. Typically, by now he would be creating a borderline fire hazard in his palms and threatening to light the whole complex on fire. But he never did that around you. He simply stood there and took it, allowing you to say whatever you wanted to him and knowing he would still walk away after if that was what you wished.

It was a little unnerving, to say the least.

"Are we just going to play sleeping lions the entire time you're here?" you cocked your head to the side, desperate to pry an answer from him.

"Is this you tryin' to break up with me?" he whispered, eyes to the floor, his usual gruff voice seeming to bubble up his throat like he had been trying to cage it in for the last 5 minutes.

For the first time ever, he had actually managed to render you a little speechless. You had no idea how he had come to that conclusion, but you didn't question that this all made sense in his tiny little brain and lack of ability to determine social cues.

"Katsuki, look at me."

All you could do was smile, beckoning him toward you with open legs and a purposefully hiked up skirt, allowing himself to stand between them as you swung them over the edge of the bed and made quick work of prying the belt from his jeans.

He didn't fully remember, but he knew that night ended with your cheek pressed to his impressively toned chest, babbling cock drunk nonsense about how amazing he was until he was really starting to believe it, more than some act he put on in order to become number 1.

And he knew he had grumbled something along the lines of— "The next dumbass that tries to impress you with a shitty piece of paper will have me to deal with."

To which you had replied, "You know that note was from a waitress at Lunch Rush trying to get me to tutor her daughter, right?"

It didn't matter. He was knocked out before you even got the chance to finish your sentence, snoring softly into your hair like even in sleep he wanted to inhale you.

Your first spout of PDA afterwards had partially shocked everyone. Not that the two of you had spent months sneaking around, no that was common knowledge. Mostly that Bakugou was allowing somebody to touch him in front of multiple sets of attentive eyes, and that his usual scowl was dialled down to about a 7, indicating he was a little pleased.

It wasn't anything huge. Just a little hand holding and some close proximity between the two of you in the common rooms. You truly didn't think it was that big of a deal, so when a few of the girls came to you out of concern for you, it was safe to say you were shocked.

"We just. . .wanted to make sure you were okay." Momo added, glancing at the girls around her who nodded in agreement, all smiling at you like you were about to break.

You raised an eyebrow, laughing a little awkwardly as you scanned the group, finding each and every one of them shared the same pitiful expression.

"Is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

"No, no! No reason!" Momo quickly covered, smiling so hard you thought her cheekbones might burst through her skin.

She was then interrupted by Jirou, who was lazily participating in the entire ordeal— "They're worried you've developed some kind of Stockholm syndrome from being around Bakugou so much."

A couple of the girls turned to swat her in various places, but you just blinked at them. It was. . a lot.

You weren't sure how to feel. Grateful for their concern, but deeply offended they would even entertain the thought of you being so. . weak.

There were a few long beats of silence, save for the continuous sparking of Jirou's tired wires, before you finally spoke.

"Thanks for the concern, guys. But really, it's not needed."

Mina was quick to cut in, stopping you from elaborating any further— "Are you sure? I mean, you've gotta be some kind of insane to torture yourself like that."

Her tone was a little humorous, though you could feel the truth laced behind her words and it rubbed you a way you didn't like. It was one thing for them to assume you were incapable of making your own decisions, but to think you lacked so much self respect they saw it as you torturing yourself for his benefit really drove you over the edge.

"The only thing I would class as torturing myself is staying anywhere near this conversation."

Now, years later, he still excited himself in watching you stand up for yourself. He enjoyed not having to play hero for once, not once having to swoop in and protect you, let alone ever defend your honour.

He was dispensable to you, and some odd part of him cherished it. Like the time he had with you was worth more knowing it wasn't something that was vital to you, it was simply because you enjoyed it.

When graduation came around, part of him was sure that you would break it off then and there. You were always going on about how the two of you should be able to experience things on your own, not chained by the weight of one another.

But you didn't.

In fact, the two of you applied to the same hero agency; as did the rest of your friends. (mostly yours, though they all seemed to have some compulsive obsession in making him believe they were his too.) You weren't even disappointed that the two of you got in. You actually celebrated his achievement, not allowing it to strip any worth from your own accomplishment just because he had also passed the entrance exam.

So, of course, when his birthday rolled around, you would be sure to make it one of the most special he had to have had in years.

Except birthdays with Katsuki were especially hard because, birthdays? Massive distraction.

Not only that, but the typical birthday has all things Katsuki hates. Parties. Celebrations. Balloons. Banners. Cake. Alcohol, which would be specifically difficult plan around considering it's his twentieth, and worst of all, surprises.

Every dumb party or poorly decorated cake you had conjured up over the years— of course, never without the help of others— had turned into a fire hazard within minutes.

Katsuki hated birthdays, he hated surprises, and he hated that everyone was always so set on finding an excuse to party rather than focusing on climbing the ranks, like they were supposed to.

So, you decided you would gather a few ideas about what he might want to spend the day doing while it was just the two of you.

"Your birthday's next week."

He turned to give you a look— like, 'We both know it is, why are you bringing it up all of a sudden?'

You stroked your legs against the bed a few times, to which he noticed the way the greatly oversized t shirt you were wearing rode up your thighs. He almost got the pleasure of forgetting what you were talking about altogether.

"Well, you're not gonna spend it alone, are you?"

"No." he grunted, turning back to the mirror to adjust the collar of the black polo he had just thrown on. "I'm spending it with you. Like I've done every other year since I was eighteen." he explained, matter-of-factly.

You groaned, tipped your head back and let it hit the pillows behind you. He made a sharp turn to give you a look that read equally as terrified you didn't want to spend any time with him and equally as furious about it.

You sat up a little straighter, "It's not that I don't enjoy spending your birthday with you! It's just that. . . don't you wanna do anything else this year?"

He pretended to think for a moment before turning back to the mirror and fussing about with his hair; "No."

You were silent for a moment, quietly studying him. His right arm weighed a little heavier than the left, still not fully recovered from the injuries he sustained. It twitched weirdly around his head, like he had to think a little harder in order to will it to move, always slower than the left one.

It made your heart tug a little. Mostly you were grateful for how soft he became after the war, but part of you missed the obnoxiously loud boy you knew, whether it was just a front for the anxious, insecure teenager he truly he was or not.

You wished there was a way you could try to break him out of whatever shell had formed around him now, until your invisible little lightbulb sparked with an idea.

"What're you smirkin' at?" he grumbled, crimson eyes boring into you through the reflection in the mirror.

"Oh nothing, sweetie." you waved him off, unable to hide the pure devious excitement for what you knew you had planned for him.

He was about to protest before you shut him up with a compliment on his hair and shot him a wink, to which he grumbled something under his breath despite the obvious glow of pride in his cheeks.

"You want to surprise him?"

"Yeah, I mean seriously, don't you remember how it went last time we tried to do that?"

"He nearly melted my sound system." Jirou grumbled.

You nearly squealed, pointing a finger in her direction as if to say she had the correct idea— "Exactly why we should surprise him!"

The group all took turns blinking at each other before turning to you.

"Have you lost your mind?" asked Sero, who had stayed mostly silent for the entire interaction.

You sighed, a little at a loss and unsure of how to explain your most-definitely-insane plan to them. "He's just been so. . .tame since. . ." you trailed off, their solemn nods of understanding enough for you to continue without touching on such a hard subject for all of you. "I just wanted to do something that would bring him back for a day."

Everyone was silent for a few moments until Kirishima was the first to speak up— "She's right. We all know Bakubro's been in his head way too much for way too long." he explained, moving to stand next to you, swinging an arm round your shoulder as if to show he was on your team. "Plus, it probably couldn't hurt the guy to let off a little steam."

The rest of them seemed to roll over the idea in their heads before eventually each one agreed.

Mina was the next to step forward, clasping her hands together and an unmistakable grin on her face— "Alright, what do you need us to do?"

Mina was appointed party organiser, keeping the troops in line and ensuring everything was completed to perfection while you took it upon yourself to distract Katsuki long enough to give them time to set up.

When you met him right outside his final meeting before lunch, he was a little skeptical, knowing it was on brand for you to have something torturous planned for him on his birthday. But, when you offered to take him to his favourite Sichuan place downtown all suspicions seemed to float away at the smell of spicy noodles and deliciously flavoured broth.

He was busy scarfing his own food down when he noticed you weren't really eating, glued to your phone with a slightly 'i'm-stressed-but-not-trying-to-ruin-your-day-by-showing-it' look on your face.

He placed down his chopsticks, mouth still full of noodles, and aggressively wiped the orange stains from the sides of his mouth on the back of his fist. When you still didn't look up from the screen, he grumbled, making a swipe to snatch it from your hands which you quickly dodged, clutching it against your chest.

"No phones at the table." he disciplined you about manners through a mouth full of food, ironic.

You sighed, placed it face down on the table. "I know, baby, I'm sorry."

"What's up?" he swiped at his mouth again before pointing at you, circling your expression with his finger, "What's the face?"

You sat a little straighter, hand flying to your cheek to pat it a few times and make sure there was certainly nothing funny sticking to your makeup.

"What face? I'm not pulling a face."

"Oh yeah? You look like you're about to explode."

"Like, in my pants?" He didn't look amused, so you caved a little into giving him a real and well thought out excuse. "Sorry, the girls are kind of blowing up the group chat. Ochako and Izuku broke up again." Although you typically didn't condone lying, this situation seemed fitting. Plus, was it really lying if she had given you permission to use her name?

"No shit, let me read!" he jumped up, making another grab for your phone and this time you didn't make it in time, watching in horror as he leaned back in his chair and punched in the password.

You had to think of a good excuse and quick, but somehow all your panic left you with was; "You can't go on my phone!"

He furrowed his eyebrows at you over the screen, "Why?"

"Mina's nudes are on there!" you practically screamed for the entire restaurant to hear.

That was enough for him, making him fake gag and throw the phone back against the table, giving you time to shove it deep into the bottom of your purse as he made it clear how disgusting he thought the two of you were.

You managed to avoid any other hiccups right up until the two of you were making your way back across town, hand in hand, under the assumption the group would have finished setting up the apartment by now.

That was until you got an urgent text from Kirishima reading,

Kiri: MINA SAYS DO NOT BRING BAKUGO HOME YET

Kiri: SHE WILL TEXT WHEN EVERYTHING IS READY.

So, you pivoted.

You nearly knocked Bakugo right off his feet with the way you spun on your heel, bracing yourself with two hands against his broad chest. You pushed onto your tip toes, pretending to get a really good look at something behind him over his shoulder.

"Hey, did you see that ice cream place we passed on the way up here? I could kill for a mint choc chip right now!"

Before he could even reply, you were barrelling back the way you came and dragging him with you.

"I thought you said you wanted chocolate chip, why are you staring at the menu for so long?" he grumbled, hands stuffed in his pockets and a mean look on his face. You were beginning to irritate him, and you were living for every second.

"I'm just double checking that's what I want."

"It's not double checking if you do it more than twice. You've been over the same five damn ice cream flavours a billion times!"

"Well, what if I change my mind?"

"You have 10 seconds."

"Alright, alright! I'll have one large strawberry please." you said, turning to the worker, who was equally just as exasperated.

Each comment was a tick in the glorious time bomb that was Katsuki Bakugo, and some slightly sick part of you couldn't wait to finally see the end result.

When the two of you had started on your journey again, happily lapping at two ice cream cones, you made a purposeful show of frowning every so often, even adding a pathetic little sigh here and there.

He ignored you for a while, just shooting you looks from the corner of his eye to make sure you were in no real discomfort, until he got tired of the noise and was forced to indulge you.

"What is it?" he snapped.

"My ice cream isn't that great."

"You spent 10 minutes choosing the damn thing just for it to be not that great?"

You took another lick just to validate your parking, before shaking your head and pulling the thing away from you. "Swapsies?"

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Come on, Katsuki! Your one looks so much better!" you whined, extremely dramatic.

He looked at you in disbelief for a moment before grumbling, "Fine. Whatever. Take it." and practically shoving the thing into your hand, watching as you happily licked the melted drips from the side of the cone.

When you made it to his apartment, you gasped so loud it nearly gave him a heart attack. "What now!?" he snapped, throwing his arms up and letting them smack back down at his sides.

"I don't have the key!" you pouted up at him, giving your best, most polished, show of puppy dog eyes.

"I have them. You don't ever carry the keys because you lose the fuckin' things any chance you get!" he explained, snatching the metal from his pocket and jangling it in your face a few times.

"Oh. You're right. I forgot." you hummed, stepping back to allow him to shove them into the door, muttering to himself about what an imbecile you were.

You held your breath as you watched him shoulder open the door, kicking his shoes off by the mat and running a hand through his thick hair, leaving it to stick up all funny in the comfort of his own home.

There were a few beats of silence while you waited in the doorway, bag still slung over your shoulder and shoes still tied tightly to your feet, awaiting the final blow.

He shot you a look like he was about to ask what the hell you were playing at before clouds of confetti and the annoyingly loud sounds of party poppers rained through the air.

"SURPRISE!"

Each and every one of you shouted in unison, a couple of the group making their way toward Katsuki, who stood still, allowing brightly coloured streams and pieces of confetti to dance around him before settling on his shoulders.

"Happy Birthday, Bakubro!" Kirishima congratulated, smacking his friend on the back a few times with a force that made him grit his teeth.

He scanned the room, finding Deku and Uraraka perfectly happy in their own little corner of the room, arms around one another and smiling back at him like nothing had happened. Mina and Denki holding the battered ends of streamers that were now smoking out that familiar smell of chemical misery Bakugo hated so much. Sero was still placing the final pieces of tape on a large banner that read; 'Happy B-day Dynamite!' with a bunch of poorly drawn explosions, and Jirou was just about to click a large vinyl into place on the disgustingly large sound system she had plugged into almost every single outlet in the house.

It was all too much.

Katsuki Bakugo hated parties. He hated celebrations. He hated his birthday. And most of all he hated surprises.

It was some sort of colourful scene from hell and he wanted to bury his head in the floorboards and die right then and there.

You, however, were biting your lip, awaiting the explosion you had been so desperately seeking all day. A twitch of his lip into a nasty snarl made you a little hopeful, but instead of one of his usual outbursts, he said nothing.

Instead, he let Jirou press play on the stupid DJ set she barely knew how to work, the sounds of cheesy-pop-dance music ringing out through the house, and accepted his fate.

You had thrown him a surprise party, and he was about to suffer through it without an ungrateful word to be spoken because if that's what you wanted, then he would endure it for you.

He felt your arms snake around his shoulders, placing a gentle kiss against the skin just above his collar— "You don't hate it?"

He took a deep breath through his nose before speaking, "It could be worse."

You frowned, which made him more than confused. Why did you look disappointed that he wasn't throwing a fit? Was that what your goal was?

"You don't look happy." he stated, an observation.

"I am, I just didn't expect you to be so. . .okay with all of this."

He shrugged, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. "These nerds put all this effort in, might as well keep my trap shut."

"Keep your trap shut?" you couldn't help but cringe. It was the most un-bakugo thing to ever come out of his mouth and, to be honest, you felt a little sick hearing it. "I cannot believe you just said that."

Had he really lost that much of himself? Would it be impossible to return to?

"What're you talking about? This is what you wanted, isn't it? A party?" he shook his head, unable to quite wrap it around what you wanted from him. A few years ago you would've scolded him for being so unappreciative of the people around him, and just a couple days ago you were whining about him wanting to spend his birthday alone.

"No! I wanted you to lose your shit and melt Jirou's stupid sound system! Or blow up the confetti! Or flip the entire drinks table on its' head!"

He still looked a little confused, and with your patience wearing thin you couldn't help what came out next; "I just want my boyfriend back. The one who would never 'keep his trap shut.'"

You didn't know why, but you felt the sharp pricks of tears beginning to well inside your eyes, and your chest felt unexplainably tight as you frowned up at his pale, beautiful, pained face.

It was so much you couldn't take it. You didn't know when your feet started to move but in moments you were shut away in Bakugo's bedroom, back to the door and spouts of uncontrollable sobs racking your body as you fought to keep your knees from buckling.

It wasn't long before there was a knock on the door. Of course, you had made your way to the bed by this point. Curled up in a ball atop the carefully tucked and smoothened covers, still trembling in the aftershocks of tears.

The door opened without a reply. You didn't need to look to know who it was, or to know he made sure everyone had left pretty quickly.

"You still cryin'?" he asked, quietly. To anyone else, it would've seemed a little insensitive, but you knew your boyfriend's long winded aversion to emotion meant he struggled with this field of relationships. You appreciated the effort.

A sniffle.

You could hear him opening his mouth to speak by the wet click of his tongue, before closing it again and making his way toward the bed.

The feeling of the covers jostling under his weight made you grip the pillow a little tighter, burying your cheek in the fabric. He sat there for a moment and you could feel how skittish he was, his fingers dancing over your form like he wasn't too sure whether it would be appropriate to touch you or not.

"You still want me to melt that sound system?" the joke was a little distasteful, but you smiled anyway.

"No." you huffed, turning to face him and giving him a perfect view of your patchy makeup and puffy eyes. "Come here."

You made a silent offer of opening up your arms to make space for him to slot himself beside you, your legs entangling together in one single form as the two of you seemed to fade into one another. You ran a nail across his scalp and he sighed, leaning a little further into the touch and bumping your jaw with the tip of his nose.

"I'm sorry for what I said." you started, but he shushed you with a kiss to the spot where your jaw met your ear, muttering a cue for you to shut up.

"You're right." his gruff voice tickled your earlobe, "'guess I haven't been myself for a while." another kiss, "didn't think you'd miss me being such an ass, though."

"You were much more than an ass, actually." you sighed, craning to your neck to grant him further access to shower you.

"Oh yeah?" he grinned, catching a particularly sensitive spot with his teeth and making you gasp. "'Thought you liked it."

"Maybe just for a little while— then you can go back to kissing mine."

He growled at this, playful but still enough to light that familiar fire in your tummy, tackling you flat onto your back and slotting himself between your legs.

"You think I kiss your ass, huh?"

You bit your lip, a coy smile painting your face and cocked your head to the side paired with a little shrug, affirming your answer. He stayed above you, calculating his next move for a few seconds. The air was sweltering with anticipation and he noticed you starting to get a little jittery when he felt your thighs twitch against his.

"Spread 'em, you little brat."

So you did just that, locking your legs around his hips and barrelling him toward you, pulling him so hard into the kiss that both your teeth knocked together and made him hiss. He hated getting his teeth hurt.

His hands were in your hair, on your chest, around your neck, anywhere and everywhere they could reach in such a short amount of time, pinning you to bed with almost his entire weight as he kissed you like he was trying to suck your voice box from your throat.

You grasped his collar, keeping him stationed at your lips for almost too long, eventually having him fighting to pull away for air and licking the underside of his teeth to try to dull the throb there from you nearly knocking them clean out.

"You want it that bad, huh?" his hand had made its way to your mouth, bullying it open with ring and middle finger and using your saliva to coat them in a sufficient amount of lubrication while his other was frantically ripping open the fly of your jeans.

You strained, helping him a little with his fingers still lodged down your throat by lifting your butt up momentarily and shoving the pants down your thighs, allowing him to throw them the rest of the way off before climbing back up to meet your lips.

You felt the cool wetness of his fingers swipe against your thigh a few times, trying to get an accurate enough grip of your panties in order to push them to the side. You huffed, a little impatient that he was taking so long, before the loud rip of lace and smack of elastic breaking made you gasp in disbelief.

"Seriously? Those are my favourite ones!"

"You have a thousand other pairs." he grumbled, throwing the remnants of your underwear somewhere around the room and readying his fingers at your entrance by swiping them through your folds a few times, gathering just a little extra lubrication directly from the source.

You stifled a moan when his fingers buried themselves, wasting no time before they were curling against that spongey spot inside of you. He flicked his wrist once more, making sure he was stretching you deep enough before moving them in and out at a pace that was almost relentless to start off with.

"Katsuki, wait—"

He scoffed in reply, taking your cry as incentive to keep pushing, holding the twitch in your back down with the flat of his palm splayed out against your abdomen. "Quit squirmin'."

He kept this up for a while, fingers retracting and stroking inside of you methodically, before pulling the rug right out from under you and stopping completely.

You sat up on your elbows, an 'are you fucking serious?' look on your face, but he shoved you back down with a rough hand to your chest so that he could focus on the task at hand; that being freeing his aching cock from his jeans.

When he finally did, you delighted at the tiny gasp he let out as it came up to slap against his belly, precum painting the thick strip of hair there and making him fight to swipe a little from the tip, not particularly fond of the idea of having to use a condom.

"Fuck sake." he muttered as more seemed to pool at the tip when you couldn't help but reach out a hand and grasp him right at the base, the feeling of his girth fitting so perfectly in your hand being absolutely unmatched at this moment in time.

He allowed you to have him for a moment, but once you began to actually pump your hand on him a few times, he was growling and smacking your hand away— "Hands off."

You looked up, a little bewildered, but obeyed nonetheless, relaxing back against the pillows and awaiting his next action/instruction, whichever it may be. It was definitely freeing the way he always took so much control in times like this, allowing you to enter auto pilot after a long or particularly trialing day.

When he was finally finished, he bent down to place a hungry kiss to your lips, one hand cupping your jaw so gently you thought he might have already caved. He pulled back for just a second to take you in, before coming right back to the kiss, but you were already stopping him with the way you were practically ripping his shirt halfway off his body.

He chuckled, audibly cocky. "So fuckin' impatient." He helped you the rest of the way by sitting back and pulling it over his head, discarding it some place else and relishing in the feeling of your hungry eyes roaming over him.

He was still a little short, barely pushing 5,10, but god did he make up for it in build. He was pure muscle, so ripped he looked photoshopped. It was like his body had been carefully crafted rather than achieved through actual hard work and dieting, perfectly lean in just the right places while others, ones he had to hone to while fighting, were bulky and strong. His torso was long enough to display all 8 abs (you counted), which disappeared into the prominent v line he sported and typically beneath a loose hanging pair of sweats, though of course right now that wasn't the case, which you were practically over the moon about.

"You could take a picture, it'd last longer." he hummed, thumb jutting out to lazily circle your clit as he gave you all the time in the world to gawk over him a little longer.

You went a little tongue tied at the feeling but tried to force out a reply anyway, "Don't worry, I've already got plenty."

His eyes snapped up to yours at this, a devilish smirk on his face and you could tell an idea had just popped into his head. The warmth from his thumb left you and you whined, watching him dart over to the nightstand and snatch his phone. He quickly unlocked it, punched on the flash and hit record.

"What're you—" you started, but he shushed you, gripping the length of his cock and swiping it through your folds a few times as he stares through the lens of the camera to make sure he had gotten a sufficient angle.

You couldn't help the way your back arched into him, drawn to him like magnets, and the only thing keeping your stomach from reaching his being his hand returning to splay across your abdomen, palm applying just enough pressure to have you fluttering around him as he finally pushed all the way in, bottoming out inside of you like he belonged there. And in truth, he kind of did.

He had always owned this part of you. This quiet intimacy, the love behind your walls. It's evident in the way he doesn't rush, just savours it for a moment. The gasps you each let out as he slips it in, the goofy little smiles you give each other as he bottoms out, his hand across your stomach because he wants you to feel it. Feel him inside of you, feel the closeness of it, and you don't run from it anymore.

Almost like he's remembering where he is outside of your twinkling eyes, he looks back through the camera and readjusts the phone, making sure you're back in frame before he begins pumping in and out of you.

It's reasonably tame at first, slow and sensual little rolls of his hips, only accompanied by soft sighs from you and a face of pure concentration from him as he holds the camera angled straight at the way he slips in and out of you, already slick with you.

Until you're scratching at his abs, whining and batting your eyelashes at him and he knows you want more. So, he pulls out, retracting until it's just the tip and then pushes in with more force than before, startling you with a shock that quickly melts into pleasure as you moan out for him.

"Fuck! Kats, feels so good."

"Yeah? You missed me being mean?" Crimson eyes beg for answer through his furrowed brows and your eyes trace the light hairs across his top lip as he bites across his bottom.

You nod, quickly. "Want you to be cruel, Kats. Want you to ruin me."

That's enough to flip a switch in him, and in seconds you're flipped over on all fours, phone long forgotten beside the two of you as he's using his free hand to pin your arms behind your back, while the other presses your head into the mattress as he slides back into you at full force.

You cry out, back arching and legs kicking just to feel some type of relief from the immense pleasure, but he's relentless. Barrelling into you with grit teeth and his palm across your head, unforgiving because, "This is what you wanted, isn't it? Fuckin' begged for it. Planned a whole goddamn surprise party just so I'd fuck you right." You try to shake your head, but he only presses harder, leaning over until he's blocking all the light and all you can do is watch him with foggy eyes. "Coulda just asked, baby. Would've given you anything." It's a sweet confession, despite the circumstance, and you mewl in reply, already too fucked out to form words.

"You know I'd do fuckin' anything for you, yeah? Know I'd fuckin' kill for you." You can barely breathe, the only thing keeping you grounded being his hand around your head. It's all too much, in that delicious, mind numbing way and you want to tell him you'd do the same, that you'd give anything to see him happy, but it's impossible to even get a full breath in with the way he's fucking you.

His hand around your wrists is used as leverage, yanking your backside upward until you're practically dangling mid-air, suspended upon his dick like a trophy and he uses the new angle to barrel deeper. Your eyes must've been barely visible, rolled into the back of your head and you think you might be drooling across the pillows, but you're too far gone to mind.

"Gonna put a baby in you. Make sure everyone knows you're mine. No more fuckin' surprise parties then, huh? Not when you're swollen with my kids. My pretty fuckin' wife." His voice is a growl behind bared teeth, sweat dripping from his brow and abs flexing as he tries not to spill inside you so soon.

God, if this were any other time you'd chastise him for suggesting such a thing, but right now all you care about is how quickly you're being hurled toward release, that familiar coil drawing tighter. He can tell by the way you're clenching him, leans down and pushes you farther with his finger circling your clit and his lips against your ear, "Want you to cum on my dick, baby. You gonna do that for me? Yeah?" If you could nod, you would, but that familiar heat is crashing over you in waves and you entire body goes rigid as you cum, hands flexing in his hold and ass pushed flush to his pelvis as you cry out for him.

You collapse against him, and he's not far behind, pulling out and jerking himself, "Shit, baby. So beautiful. Love you so fuckin' much.", moaning until he's finishing in hot ropes across your back and the two of you fall into a sweaty pile across the bed.

You try to roll, find a towel or some old t shirt to wipe yourself off, but he's pulling you down with his arm locked tightly around your middle and pressing kisses behind your ear. "Katsuki! You'll make a mess!" You try to arch your back a little further from the bed, hoping the covers remain clean, but he only pulls you closer until you're flush against him and he's grumbling in your ear.

"Doesn't matter. Jus' lay down for a sec."

You know that tone of voice all too well. The exhaustion behind those slurred words and the sweetness of the way he's nuzzling into your hair, an unguarded display of affection that's indicative of what's to come next.

"Kats? You awake?" You turn over your shoulder, only to be faced with pouty lips, parted with quiet snores leaving him and those beautifully long lashes of his pressed to his cheeks.

You smile, content. At least some things had stayed the same.