snow fairy

you coo at her, soft and low, one hand smoothing her back, the other tugging your top higher so she doesn’t get a mouthful of cotton. your smile is patient and achingly sweet, and jude has to look away, has to force his jaw unclenched, because he feels that ache again—the one that never really goes away anymore, just simmers, hot and thick, at the base of his spine.

he’s got it bad, and everyone knows. his teammates snicker behind their hands, subtle as bricks, and he pretends not to see the way they elbow each other when he glances your way. one of them mutters something about “domestic bliss” and jude scowls, shoving his hands in his pockets, but his eyes keep finding you anyway, soft and magnetic, like he’s helpless to stop it.

you look up, catch him staring, and your mouth quirks. you make a face, crinkle your nose at him, and then go back to blowing raspberries on the baby’s round cheek, making her squeal with laughter. there’s a smudge of drool on your collarbone, a little glitter sticker stuck to the back of your hand, and you look so natural, so right, like you belong there, like you were made to do this. jude’s chest goes tight, his pants suddenly too snug, and he shifts on the balls of his feet, staring at the way your arms cradle the tiny, wriggling body, the soft way you shush her, the gentle sway of your hips as you rock her in place.

the worst is when you hand the baby back to her mum and the little thing wails, reaching out for you, her whole face crumpling in protest. you laugh, gentle, and promise you’ll see her again soon, but jude can see the way you linger, fingers brushing over the baby’s fists, the way your eyes go soft and fond and a little wistful. when you stand up, brushing crumbs off your shirt jude’s already there to intercept you, his arm sliding around your waist, tugging you flush to his side.

“you’re really good with them, you know,” he says, voice pitched low, almost a grumble.

you roll your eyes, but your cheeks go warm under his gaze. “they’re just babies, jude. anyone can do it.”

“not like you,” he insists, squeezing your hip, his palm big and possessive. “they love you.”

you snort, elbowing him lightly. “they love anyone who’ll feed them and let them chew on their fingers.”

“nah, not true. you’ve got that thing.” he leans in, nuzzling behind your ear, inhaling the scent of baby powder and your skin and something sweeter, something that’s just you. “like magic, almost.”

you laugh, tipping your head against his shoulder, letting him have his way. “don’t start, jude. i know that look.”

he pouts, full lower lip jutting out, and you want to kiss it away, but you don’t—because you know what he’s after, and you’re not giving in. not today.

“what look?” he says, but he knows. it’s the look he gets every time he catches you with a baby on your hip, or talking to a toddler in that soft, conspiratorial tone you reserve for little ones. it’s the look that says he’s thinking about you all glowing, his hand splayed over your belly, his mouth pressed to your skin, whispering promises into the shell of your ear. it’s the look that says he wants, desperately, to make it real.

you don't get the chance to respond before another baby toddles into your orbit, this one a chubby-cheeked little boy with sticky hands and a drool-soaked bib. his mum waves apologetically from across the lawn, mouthing a thank you, and you just smile, scooping him up with practiced ease, balancing him on your hip. his legs dangle, fat and kicking, and he immediately starts gnawing on his fist, staring at you with wide, adoring eyes. jude hovers by your side, torn between awe and apprehension, gaze fixed on the baby as if he’s some rare, breakable artifact.

you catch his look, arch a brow, and extend the baby toward him. “here,” you say, voice gentle but firm. “your turn.”

jude steps back, palms raised, shaking his head. “nah, nah, i don’t—i’ll drop him or something. i don’t know how.”

you snort, shifting the baby so he’s perched securely in the crook of your arm, then beckon jude closer with two fingers and that knowing smile. “come on, jude. you want one so bad and you’re scared to hold him? it’s not rocket science.” you pat the empty space where the baby’s back will rest. “just support his head. easy.”

he hesitates, glancing from you to the baby and back again, jaw working. then, with exaggerated reluctance, he steps in, letting you guide his arms, arranging them just so. the baby settles into the hammock of jude’s forearms, fat legs kicking against his stomach, and for a moment jude stands frozen, eyes wide, lips parted in concentration.

“see?” you say, brushing his knuckles with your thumb. “you’re a natural.”

jude looks down at the baby, who stares up at him, drool bubbling at the corner of his mouth. jude’s smile wobbles, nervous but genuine, and he rocks on his heels, shifting the baby slightly, careful and gentle.

“what do i even do?” he mutters, voice low enough for only you to hear.

“talk to him,” you say, grinning. “babies love that.”

jude clears his throat, glancing around as if checking for witnesses. then, awkwardly at first, “uh… hi. i’m your uncle jude.” he pauses, glances at you, then back at the baby. “i play football. pretty cool, yeah? your dad’s alright at it too, i suppose. but, you know…” he bounces the baby gently, shoulders relaxing a little. “one day you’ll have to pick a favourite. no pressure, but i do score the best goals.”

the baby stares, transfixed, then lets out a loud, delighted shriek, tiny fists waving in the air. jude’s grin splits his face, all pride and bashful joy, and he glances up at you, as if seeking approval, as if he can’t believe he’s actually doing this.

“see? he loves you already,” you tease, nudging his elbow. “he’s got good taste.”

later on, that evening, you pad barefoot into the bathroom of your shared flat, jude trailing behind, in his boxers and an old t-shirt. he perches beside you at the sink, bumping your hip with his, both of you standing too close in the cramped little space, elbows knocking as you pass the toothpaste back and forth. you make a face at your reflection, tongue poking out, and he grins at you in the mirror, toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth like a lollipop. for a moment, it’s just the soft scrape of bristles and the little fizzing sounds of toothpaste, mouths full, neither of you talking.

you finish first, leaning against the counter to watch him. jude glances over, rinses, and spits, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes flicking down to meet yours, still a little shy from earlier, like you’re holding some secret between you. the memory of him, panic and pride all tangled up, holding that baby like he was made for it—god, you can’t help but smile.

he catches you looking and rolls his eyes, but there’s a flush climbing his cheeks. “what?” he says, voice muffled as he tries to get the remnants of toothpaste out of his mouth.

you shrug, feigning innocence. “nothing. you just looked… right, earlier. with him. like you’d done it a million times before.”

he turns, leans his hip against the counter, arms folded, gaze fixed on your face. “yeah, well. didn’t drop him, did i?”

“no,” you say, grinning. “you didn’t.”

he hesitates, a half-smile twitching at his mouth, and then he sighs, shoulders slumping in that overdramatic way he does when he wants something and knows you know it. “you’re gonna make fun of me,” he says, not quite a whine but close, and you shake your head, stepping into his space, wrapping your arms around his waist, hands slipping under the hem of his shirt.

“i won’t,” you promise, chin tilted up so you can meet his eyes. “swear.”

he fidgets, fingers tracing lazy circles on your lower back, and you can feel the tension radiating off him, the storm of want and hope and nerves. “just—seeing you with them. you know?” he says, voice low, almost sheepish. “the babies. you’re so sweet with them. makes my brain go a bit mad, honestly.”

you snort, trying to keep it light, not letting the moment get too heavy. “your brain, huh?”

he huffs a laugh, leans down to nuzzle your nose with his, and you feel the smile against your cheek. “yeah, well. other parts too.”

you swat at him, but he catches your wrist, holding you close, voice dropping into something softer, more earnest. “i mean it, though. it’s just… you. with a little one. s’like my whole body goes, yeah. that’s it. need that. need you.”

you feel the heat of his words settle deep, but you keep your tone airy, teasing. “bit obsessed, aren’t you?”

he groans, buries his face in your shoulder, and you feel his lips move against your skin. “can’t help it. you’re over there, baby on your hip, all glowy and gorgeous, and i’m just—” he gestures vaguely, eyes squeezed shut in mock agony—“hopeless. honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

you laugh, turning in his arms so your back’s pressed against his chest, his chin settling on your shoulder. his arms snake around your waist, holding you tight, swaying you gently from side to side. you both look at your reflection in the mirror—his broad shoulders, your sleepy eyes, the way you fit together, so familiar and easy.

“you’d be a good dad,” you say, quietly, and you feel him smile, his arms tightening around you.

✦ Shoto never wants to ask for a kiss. He doesn’t want to seem too needy (because he’s very needy). He instead just looks at you with puppy dog eyes and parts his lips, waiting for you.

✦ He absolutely melts if you kiss his scar. If he’s having a rough day he will instantly feel way better if you kiss his scar. To him it means you accept him completely.

✦ Speaking of kissing, when you and him had your first kiss he looked completely calm but he was a nervous WRECK on the inside. He didn’t know what to do with his hands or his face because until that point he hadn’t kissed anyone. It was a bit clumsy at first but still SO sweet. He was extremely gentle with you, cupping your cheeks like you were made of glass, and too afraid to deepen it thinking he would overstep your boundaries. You had to help guide him a little and you couldn’t help but giggle slightly.

✦ You deepened it eventually and his knees went weak. He instantly tilted his head and followed your rhythm.

✦ He had finally pulled back and said “ was that ok?” And he wasn’t even looking at you. His eyes were still on your lips like he was starving.

✦ After that he became a kiss ADDICT. He knows what you like…

✦ His hand always finds yours in public places. He isn’t really into PDA but this is more of a reflex for him. To make sure you’re safe. He likes to stroke your knuckles too.

✦ One of his love languages is gift giving. Whenever you mention a snack you like or a necklace you thought was pretty he surprises you with it the next day. He likes to surprise you.

✦ He does this adorable thing where he traces your palm for minutes on end. And then he brings your hand up to his lips and kisses it.

✦ He’s very gentlemanly. He walks on the busy side of the street for you and lets you use his quirk to warm up. Little stuff like that.

✦ He really likes to shower with you. Not for lust but just so he can gently wash your hair. Or if he had a particularly rough day and is cut up you gently clean his skin. (He definitely kisses you a few times tho)

✦ He likes staying up late with you doing whatever. When everything is quiet and he gets you all to himself. It feels 10 times more romantic than daytime.

✦ He gets moments of lovesickness. He just gets lost in your eyes

✦ “ you’re amazing…you know that? And…so pretty….mm….and mine…” and he’ll lean his head on your shoulder.

✦ you’re his favorite person in the entire world. It’s not even a question.

✦ He’ll lay his head in your lap and let you play with his hair for as long as you want. It’s so soothing to him he’ll eventually fall asleep under your calming touch.

✦ He absolutely hates fights with you. When they eventually happen and you get really upset, he acts like a kicked dog. Trying his best to make it up to you and saying sorry a million times, even after you forgive him. He doesn’t want to be anything like his dad…

✦ Shoto loves planning date nights with you. Seeing you all dressed up for him. Looking absolutely gorgeous. He wants to kiss you right there. His jaw even drops a little

✦ He almost cried when you first said “ I love you.” He never thought anyone could love him and hearing it for the first time melts his heart. He genuinely went speechless and just pulled you into a tight hug.

✦ Shoto loves it when you call him nicknames like Sho or Todo. But only you’re allowed to call him that.

✦ He really takes his time kissing you. He knows how to make you go crazy. Pulling you close slowly, tilting your chin up and smiling softly, and wrapping his arm around your waist. When your lips finally meet he goes slowly, being very tentative and soft, until you part your lips and deepen it. Not stopping until your lips are red and swollen.

✦ He constantly talks about a future with you. Saying he’d make you the happiest girl in the world, and how he’d treat you so well. (He already does tho)

✦ He likes giving kisses more than receiving. Whenever you pull him in for a hug he buries his face in your neck, just breathing you in for a second because he loves your smell, and then he starts kissing your neck and collarbone, in between kisses saying “ I love you.” Until you’re a blushing mess. And he still turns bright pink after kissing you. He always denies it but it’s obvious you made him insane.

✦ He secretly daydreams about you during class. Even though you’re RIGHT THERE in class with him, he always gets too flustered staring. (He still does it tho) Just resting his chin in his hand during long lectures looking all dreamy-eyed.

✦ Shoto will occasionally leaves hickeys on your neck. Whenever he looks at them it reminds him that he belongs to you and you belong to him.

✦ He 100% melts under your touch. Just one little pat on the head and his eyes flutter. And omfg if you ever give him a massage he’s gonna fall asleep.

✦ Shoto’s a hopeless romantic and constantly brings you flowers and small gifts. You always kiss his cheek in return so…win-win.

✦ Shoto gets cuteness aggression from time to time. But it’s very calm aggression. He’ll usually just lift you up in his arms, set you in his bed, and lay on top of you with his face in the crook of your neck, refusing to get up.

✦ He loves making you giggle. No matter what it is, if it makes you laugh the answer is yes.

✦ He’s your number one supporter and is always there for you, and if you ever talk bad about yourself he’ll kiss you until you shut up.

you weren’t expecting your husband to be home today. not at all. if anything, you could’ve sworn he’d be back in at least another three days. but, here he is—standing outside of your house in his navy blue hero costume, adorned with its signature silver-and-red accents. you stand there, mouth agape, and all he does is just smiles; that silly little lopsided smile that only you get the very privilege of seeing. you really shouldn’t be shocked that he’s right there, but for some reason, you definitely need a moment to take him in. your eyes flicker up then down, and then immediately catch sight of the flowers he’s holding. god, this man.

you probably would’ve immediately ran and jumped onto him, straight into his arms as soon as you saw the slightest peek of red and white hair through the frosted glass window in your door, but that’s a little hard to do when you have a very wriggly five month old who you’re holding on your hip. speaking of which, as soon as she catches sight of her dad, she immediately starts talking—and by talking, i mean babbling and saying things that only she could understand.

“hi, my love,” shoto murmurs as he pulls you into him with his free hand—the one not holding the flowers—and kissing the top of your head. the child in your arms whines at her lack of affection, so he leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek, earning a heart-melting giggle from her.

“hi, jesus. sorry, i—god, i wasn’t expecting you. i’d hug you properly, but that’s kinda hard to do right now,” you finally get out, looking down to the wiggly thing on your hip, who’s trying desperately to get her father to hold her whilst still rambling on. “i think she’s trying to tell you how sad she is that you left us both,” you tease, raising your head to look back at him, just to be met with an eye roll.

“‘left you both’, hm? i was gone five days, sweetheart,” he chuckles lowly, in that tone that you’ve been missing way too much, it’s almost pathetic. he sets the flowers down on the entryway table before picking up your child in his arms, gently holding her above his head. he raises an eyebrow at her incessant coos. “uh-huh. i know, i’m awful for leaving both you and your mother alone, aren’t i?” his voice is soft as he speaks to your kid; it never fails to make a love-sick grin spread right across your face.

you decide then that you should probably put your daughter to bed—you were just about to before he showed up, anyway—so you quickly rush off to her nursery and do your best to settle her down as fast and easily as you can, your body practically buzzing with excitement at the thought of your husband being home after so long. she’s a good baby, not one to fuss when it’s time to put her down, and it’s then when she’s asleep that you realise she really does look like her father. they have the same sleepy expression.

by the time you hurry yourself down the stairs, shoto’s already moving towards you, capturing you in a tight hug. you wrap your arms around his torso and bring him in even closer until not even a sheet of paper can fit between the two of you. he mumbles a soft “god, i’ve missed you,” into your hair before pulling back slightly, just enough to finally get your plush lips on his.

i. midoriya

izuku knows something’s up before you say a single word. you trudge into the apartment after a long patrol, shoulders slumped, eyes bloodshot and heavy. you’d typically greet him excitedly the instant you walked through the doors, but today, your greeting comes out hardly above a whisper as you set your bags to the nearest counter. 

izuku looks up from the couch with a small frown. “rough day?” you nod with a sigh and he opens his arms for you without another word, moving over to make room for you on the cushions. you collapse into his arms with an exhausted groan the second you’re close enough, scarred hands quickly finding their way to trace absentminded shapes over your back as the other threads gently through your hair. “let me take care of you for a bit, yeah”

while you go off to take a shower, izuku disappears into the kitchen, making sure that the second you’re out, your favourite meal will be waiting for you at the table, your comfort movie humming in the background. afterwards, he’ll gently brush through your hair as you lean back into his touch, massaging your shoulders with surprising skill after watching a few tutorials. you fall asleep curled into his broad arms on the couch, and he carries you back to bed once the movie finishes, pressing a tiny kiss to your forehead as he whispers, “goodnight, sweetheart.”

k. bakugou

katsuki notices instantly with how quiet you are arriving home, taking off your shoes and haphazardly throwing your bag to the ground without a single word. you walk slowly to the couch and collapse into the cushions with a sigh, hands smoothing over your face. “hell’s your problem?” he grumbles, looking you over with a scowl. his gaze softens incrementally when you answer with silence, clicking his tongue as he stands. “tch, stay there.”

he trudges off to the kitchen without another word, after fifteen minutes,quickly returning with your favourite dinner. without spectacle or making it some big deal, he slides the plate on the coffee table in front of you, muttering, “eat.” when you finish and he notices you still haven’t relaxed, he slumps into the cushions beside you and pats the space between his knees, “c’mere.” 

“what?”

“i said come here,” he grumbles a little louder than the last. you settle in, and he begins working the knots out of your shoulders with surprising gentleness. he mutters in slight frustration under his breath about how tense you are, complaining, “you’ll throw out your damn back if you keep carryin’ stress like this.”  later, he’ll run you a warm bath and shut down any apology you try to give him, saying, “you don’t have to earn bein’ taken care of, idiot.”

s. todoroki

shoto’s oddly skilled at noticing your smaller expressions and tells, so he doesn’t miss the way your eyes look just a touch duller when you finally arrive home. he stands silently at the kitchen island, observing your slow movements and sagged posture with intention. slowly, shoto walks over to you at the door as your sliding your jacket from your shoulders and takes it into his own hands, hanging it carefully on the wall. “you look exhausted,” he says quietly, your only response a forced laugh. 

without another word, he places a hand over the small of your back and guides you to the bathroom, dimming the overhead lights and running you a warm bath. he pours in those bath salts you mentioned you loved once weeks ago, a tiny detail he’d quietly remembered. once it’s all ready, he leaves you with a gentle kiss to give you some privacy.

when you come back, your pajamas are neatly folded for you on the bed, your favourite blanket beside it, freshly washed and warmed with the help of his quirk. a steaming cup of chamomile tea rests at your night stand as well, a lavender scent wafting pleasantly through the air. shoto lays beside you on bed, opening his arms for you to rest comfortably on his chest as his fingers thread gently through your hair. “you don’t have to talk about it,” he breathes, quickly continuing, “just know i’m here, dear.”

e. kirishima

eijirou’s smiling ear to ear the second you get home, excitedly hopping up from the couch to greet you, until he catches that utterly exhausted look across your face, movements slowly and weighed down by some invisible force. his smile fades to concern in seconds, rushing over to you at the door. “what’s goin’ on, sweet girl?” he questions softly, wrapping his arms around your waist the instant you drop your bags.

“just tired eiji—long day.” you say shakily.

he frowns at that, tugging you tightly against his chest as a large hand rubs circles over your back. “not on my watch,” he says with surprising conviction, pulling back to look you in the eyes once more. “how about you let me take care of you for a bit?” he smiles softly, cupping your cheek gently with his hand. 

eijirou winds up ordering from your favourite takeout place as you freshen up in the shower, already preparing blankets and popcorn for a little movie night in. when you get out, he wraps you up in his arms once more, peppering you in dozens of little kisses. eventually, as a movie hums quietly in the background, you fall asleep against his chest, finally entirely relaxed from the day beforehand and eijirou traces shapes along your arms.

t. iida

tenya fully understands your fatigue the second you arrive home with a scowl in place of your usual smile, shoulders slumped and eyes heavy. he rushes over to you in seconds, taking your bag from your hands and slipping your jacket off from your shoulders without warning, saying quietly, “please, allow me.” once your shoes are off, he gently leads you to the dining table and prompts for you to sit, eyebrows twisted in concern. “you should get off your feet for a moment, love.”

the second you sink into the chair, tenya’s moving efficiently throughout the apartment—preparing dinner, drawing a warm bubble bath, folding freshly washed pajames to sit neatly on your side of the bed. he even plugs your phone in for you when he notices it’s nearly dead. when you thank him, he adjusts his glasses and kneels quietly beside you, placing a large hand to rest over your own. “you consistently dedicate yourself to helping others.” he cuts himself off as he places a tender kiss to your lips. “it would be unfair if no one did the same for you.”

later in the evening, tenya dims the lights and sets up a humidifier with your favourite essential oils, settling into bed as he insists on reading aloud while you rest your head against his chest. his voice is steady and calm, each page turning slowly as his fingers comb absentmindedly through your hair. before you drift off to sleep, you hear him murmur almost too quiet to catch, “i hope tomorrow is kinder to you.”

s. aizawa

aizawa’s always been particularly good at reading people without them saying a word, and you’re no exception. the instant you walk through that door with glassy eyes and slumped posture, he silently walks to you in the hall, gently sliding your jacket from off your shoulders as you take off your shoes. “go change,” he says quietly, nodding his head toward the bedroom. 

when you come back wearing your most comfortable clothes, your favourite dinner is already prepared and ready for you on the table, a hot cup of tea sitting just beside it. after eating, you sit quietly next to him on the couch as he reads a book, though he doesn’t get very far once you lean into his side with a small sigh. setting the book down, shouta brings one arm to wrap carefully around your shoulders, thumb brushing in absentminded strokes across your skin. 

➺ i think we all know how touch deprived this baby is. he needs physical touch, and he’s been needing it so desperately for years. he’d practically jump at any opportunity to touch you, or just be touched by you. although yes, he’s typically seen to be cold and distant to people, he is not like that with you. behind closed doors, this man is the clingiest thing ever. more often than not, you find yourself lying down on your bed with his head laying on your stomach, his arms tucked under your torso as he desperately tries to get closer to you.

➺ along those same lines, he’s a sucker for having his scars touched. not just the one on his eye, but every scar that can be seen. again, in bed, at night, whilst you try to fall asleep, you’ll find yourself tracing the familiar scarred tissue on his arms—which originated from countless villains and fights—with such precision, such tenderness, like you’re worried you’ll break him if you press too hard. and he loves it. it lulls him to sleep every time.

➺ his nicknames for you include the usual ‘love’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘darling’, anything cute, really. but, slap a ‘my’ in front of it? you’re melting, and he loves when you do. whenever he implements the nickname into your regular, day-to-day conversations, it’s like a reminder that you’re really his, and he’d like to keep it that way.

➺ you tease each other a lot for very silly stuff. for example, if he ever complains about something small, you’ll go ‘awh, poor thing”, and he’ll just glare at you and tease you back and say ‘yea? well, the other day, were you not just saying this?’ it’ll go on for a while. my guy will have receipts on stand-by; he’s very serious when it comes to being a tease.

➺ dear god, his death glare. literally pierces into your soul. for someone who’s usually so soft around you and the people he truly loves, you really do wonder how the hell he’s even capable of such an expression. but, then again, he is one of the strongest people you’ve ever met, so i guess it checks out. either way, one glare can get you to do his bidding in milliseconds. even just an eyebrow raise gets you rethinking whatever you said no to. he knows how to get you.

➺ if you have siblings, he won’t fully understand the whole ‘siblings are mean to each other as an act of love’ kind of thing. he may see you and your siblings insulting each other to no end, saying things that you’d probably get cancelled for if you said them in public, but he genuinely will not know it’s playful and in good heart (well, i’d hope… right?) and will defend you no matter what. he’ll go on a full tangent, too. your sibling insults your face? “don’t say that. i think you’ll find that their face is perfect, actually.” and will literally start analysing every single feature, pointing out why he thinks it’s so pretty. you have to tell him “sho, siblings do this all the time”, but the boy just doesn’t understand.

➺ i know a lot of people say he’s dense—which he is, don’t get me wrong—but i believe that with you, he’s starting to learn a little more about society. he’ll even quote random tiktok trends; you once found him on the phone to his brother saying “it’s giving material girl”, and you burst out laughing. he couldn’t figure out for the life of him what was wrong with what he said.

➺ the biggest gentleman there is. he’s got everything down to a t—the sidewalk rule, holding your hand, redirecting you if you’re about to bump into something, princess treatment, opens doors for you and gestures you inside first before he enters, even placing his hand on a corner when you bend down to pick something up. this man does not play about his love.

➺ will spoil you to no end. that’s it. no further explanation needed. even if you say time and time again you don’t actually need an item, you’re just looking at it for the sake of looking, he will buy. you’ll find it in your possession by the end of the day.

Izuku Midoriya

The afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the apartment you shared with Izuku, casting a warm, golden haze across the hardwood floors. It was one of those rare, blissful weekends where the universe decided society could survive a few hours without the number-one hero.

No alarms, no sudden villain alerts, no heavy gear clanking onto the floor at three in the morning. Just peace.

Izuku was currently sprawled across the center of your shared bed, a position he had claimed the moment he finished lunch. At twenty-four, he had filled out considerably from his high school days; his shoulders were broad, his frame thick with hard-earned muscle, and his legs seemed to stretch on forever.

Right now, he was wearing a pair of faded grey sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt that said, simply, T-SHIRT across the chest. He was propped up on his elbows, buried nose-deep in a thick notebook full of hero analysis, a stray pencil tucked behind his ear. His messy forest-green curls were completely uncombed, sticking up in every imaginable direction.

You walked out of the bathroom, a freshly laundered outfit draped over your arm. You had a casual dinner plan with some friends in an hour, and it was time to get ready.

You stopped at the edge of the bed, clearing your throat. "Hey, Izuku?"

"Hmm?" He didn't look up from his notebook, his pencil scratching furiously against the paper. "Yeah, honey? Did you find that leftover katsudon? Because if you did, I swear I didn't eat any—"

"I'm not looking for the katsudon," you laughed, tossing your fresh clothes onto the vanity chair. "I need to get changed. Can you step out for a few minutes?"

The scratching of the pencil abruptly stopped.

Slowly, Izuku lowered the notebook. His vibrant green eyes blinked once, twice, as if trying to process a foreign language. Then, a slow, incredibly amused grin began to tug at the corner of his lips. He rolled on his back, sitting up slightly, tossing the notebook onto the nightstand, and lacing his hands behind his head.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice dropping into a playfully smooth, slightly husky register. "Did you just ask me to leave our bedroom?"

"Yes," you said, hands on your hips. "I need to change."

Izuku let out a dramatic sigh, throwing one forearm over his eyes as if he were a Victorian maiden experiencing a sudden bout of the vapors. "The tragedy. Here I thought we were building a life together, sharing a home, and yet… I am banished to the hallway like a misbehaving puppy."

"You are not a puppy, you're a grown man," you said, trying and failing to suppress a smile. "And you're blocking the mirror."

He peeked out from under his arm, his eyes gleaming with sheer mischief. "I am the top pro hero in the country, you know. People pay good money just to see me at a press conference. And here you are, throwing me out of my own sanctuary. Where is the respect for the symbol of peace?"

"The symbol of peace needs to vacate the premises for five minutes," you countered, walking over to nudge his leg. "Come on, out. Shoo."

Instead of moving, Izuku seized the opportunity. With lightning-fast reflexes that came from years of combat training, his hand shot out and gripped your wrist. He didn't pull hard, just enough to throw you off balance, and in the next second, you found yourself tumbling onto the mattress right next to him. Before you could scramble away, his heavy arm wrapped around your waist, pinning you securely against his side.

"Izuku!" you gasped, though you were already laughing.

"Nope. Not moving," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His curls tickled your skin, and his breath was warm against your collarbone. "The bed has a gravitational pull today. It’s a new quirk. Very dangerous. If I get up, the whole apartment might collapse."

"You are so full of shit," you said, twisting around in his grip so you could look at him. His face was right there, close enough that you could count the familiar dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. "Seriously, why are you being so stubborn? I just want to put my clothes on."

Izuku raised an eyebrow, his expression turning decidedly smug. "That’s exactly my point. We’ve been dating for seven years. We’ve lived together for five. I have seen you in sickness, in health, in mud-splattered clothes after a rainy day, and in that one ridiculously oversized All Might onesie you stole from my closet that you think I don't notice is missing."

"It's comfortable!" you protested, flushing slightly.

"It looks better on you anyway," he conceded smoothly, a flash of genuine warmth softening his eyes before the sass returned. "But my point stands. What exactly are you hiding from me at this stage of the game? Is there a secret tattoo you haven't told me about?"

"No, I am a person who wants a modicum of privacy to change into a nice outfit without my boyfriend staring at me like I'm a piece of food," you huffed, though your hands had automatically found their way into his messy green hair, gently twirling the curls.

Izuku hummed, clearly enjoying the massage, but he didn't loosen his grip on your waist. "I don't stare like you're food. I stare like you're the most beautiful thing in the room. There’s a distinct difference there, I promise."

"Smooth. Very smooth. Did you practice that line in the mirror?"

"Maybe," he admitted without a shred of shame.

You stared down at him, trying to maintain your best serious face. The truth was, this entire interaction was born from a silly internet challenge you’d scrolled past earlier that morning: Ask your long-term partner to leave the room so you can change, and see how they react. Most of the videos showed boyfriends looking mildly confused before shuffling out, or maybe whining a little.

You hadn’t expected Izuku, the literal beacon of selflessness, to mount a full-scale tactical resistance.

"Izuku, seriously," you said, putting a hand against his broad chest, feeling the steady, calming thud of his heartbeat. "I am setting a boundary. A very temporary, five-minute boundary. Out of the room. Go look at the fridge. Go re-organize your hero figurine shelf in the living room."

"No," he said simply.

You blinked. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean no," Izuku repeated, his tone entirely casual, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with absolute delight. "I'm the Number One Hero, honey. I face down rogue giant villains, international threats, and Kacchan when he hasn't had his morning coffee. A minor zoning dispute over a bedroom mattress isn't going to intimidate me into moving."

"You're abusing your power," you accused, poking him in the chest. "This is a violation of my rights."

"I am currently off-duty," he retorted smoothly, shifting his weight so he could prop his head up on his hand, looking down at you with a thoroughly wicked smirk. "Which means I am just a citizen enjoying his weekend on his bed. If you want me gone, you're going to have to physically evict me. And let’s be honest, sweetheart..." He trailed his eyes down your frame and back up to your face, his grin widening. "...your capture stats aren't quite high enough to move me if I don't want to be moved."

The sheer, playful arrogance of it made your jaw drop. The stuttering, easily flustered teenager from UA had long since evolved into a man who knew exactly how attractive he was, and worse, he knew exactly how to use it to drive you crazy.

"You are unbelievable," you laughed, swatting at his shoulder. "Okay, fine! Look, it was a prank, alright? It was a joke!"

Izuku didn't look surprised at all. Instead, his smirk softened into a triumphant, knowing grin. He dropped his head back onto the pillow, pulling you a little closer against his side. "I knew it."

"You did not know it!" you protested, resting your chin on his chest.

"Oh, please. I've known you for nine years," he said, his fingers gently tracing patterns against the small of your back through your shirt. "Your voice pitched up like half an octave when you asked me to leave. Plus, you had that look in your eye."

"Am I really that predictable?" you mumbled, a little deflated but entirely warm inside.

"To me? Absolutely," Izuku murmured softly, his playful demeanor melting away into that fierce, unwavering devotion that always made your heart skip a beat. He reached up, his large, calloused hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. "But I have to admit, the thought of you wanting to hide from me after all this time? I couldn't let you get away with that. There's nowhere you could go that I wouldn't want to follow."

You melted against him, the initial joke completely forgotten as you leaned into his touch. "You're such a sap."

"Only for you," he whispered, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He tasted faint like the tea he’d had with lunch, and his lips were warm and familiar. When he pulled back, his green eyes were shining. "Now, are you actually going to get changed for dinner, or can I convince my beautiful partner to stay in bed for another hour?"

You glanced over at the outfit waiting on the chair, then back to Izuku.

"Dinner isn't for another hour," you reasoned, shifting to make yourself more comfortable against him. "We have time."

"Excellent decision," Izuku chuckled, reaching over to pull the duvet up over both of your shoulders, sealing out the rest of the world, if only for a little while longer.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Katsuki Bakugou

The digital clock on the nightstand clicked over to 11:14 PM, casting a faint, rhythmic green glow against the dark walls of the bedroom. Outside, the city of Musutafu was a low, distant hum.

Katsuki Bakugo was sprawled across the center of the bed, a massive, unyielding presence of heat and muscle. At twenty-six, the rough edges of his teenage years hadn't softened so much as they had settled into something sharper and more deliberate. He was wearing a pair of black sweatpants, his bare torso propped up against a mountain of pillows, and his eyes—sharp and perpetually calculating—were locked onto a tablet where he was reviewing Pro Hero agency incident reports. His thumb flicked across the screen, a tiny, rhythmic scritch-scratch that was the loudest sound in the room.

You stood by the closet, clutching a soft, oversized t-shirt and a pair of flannel shorts in your arms. The fabric felt cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the ambient heat Katsuki naturally radiated. You’d had a long day, the kind that settled into your bones and made your eyelids heavy, and all you wanted was to shed the restrictive, structured clothes of the outside world and crawl into bed.

You looked from the clothes in your hands to the man on the bed. He hadn't looked up, but the slight twitch of his jaw told you he knew exactly where you were standing.

"Hey, Katsuki?" you called out softly, your voice cutting through the silence.

"Mm." He didn't look up from the tablet. A line formed between his brow, his focus entirely consumed by whatever property damage report he was dissecting.

"Can you step out for a second? I need to change."

The flicking motion of his thumb stopped dead.

For a second, the room was entirely silent. Then, very slowly, Katsuki lowered the tablet, letting it rest against his chest. He didn't move an inch. He just tilted his head back against the pillows, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with a look that was a potent mix of sheer disbelief, heavy-lidded amusement, and a stubbornness that could rival a brick wall.

"The hell did you just say to me?" his voice was a low, gravelly rumble, rough around the edges from lack of use over the last few hours.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, tightening your grip on the pajamas. "I asked if you could step out of the room for a minute. Just so I can get changed."

A slow smirk began to pull at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't his old, explosive battlefield grin; it was the quiet, knowing smile he only kept for behind closed doors, the one that meant he found you completely ridiculous and entirely captivating. He let out a short, huffed laugh through his nose.

"You've gotta be shitting me," he muttered, shaking his head slightly so his messy, ash-blonde hair fell across his forehead. He made absolutely no move to shift his legs or swing them out of bed. In fact, he seemed to sink even deeper into the mattress, anchoring himself. "We’ve been living together for six goddamn years. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed every single night. I’ve seen you in every state of dress, undress, and whatever the hell is in between. And now you’re asking me to vacate my own damn room so you can put on a t-shirt?"

"I'm just tired, Katsuki," you said, though a small smile was already threatening to ruin your serious expression. It was impossible to stay completely stoic around him when he was like this—relaxed and arrogant. "Come on, just five minutes. Give me some privacy."

"No," he said flatly.

"Katsuki."

"No." He picked the tablet back up, holding it in front of his face again, though you could see the glint of his eyes over the top of the screen. "Not moving. Sit your ass down or change right there. I don't give a shit. But I'm not getting out of this bed because you suddenly remembered modesty exists."

"It's called privacy," you argued, taking a step closer to the edge of the mattress. "Sometimes a person just wants to change their clothes without their boyfriend staring a hole through them."

Katsuki lowered the tablet again, this time setting it completely flat on the nightstand. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by that heavy, intense focus he used when he wanted to make a point. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his broad shoulders shifting under the dim light. The movement highlighted the faint, silver scars tracing across his skin—remnants of a life spent on the front lines, a life he willingly left at the front door the moment he came home to you.

"First of all," he started, his voice dropping an octave, honey-rough and deliberate. "I don't stare. If I'm looking at you, it's because you're mine to look at. Second of all, if you think I'm walking out into that drafty-ass hallway in the middle of the night because you're feeling stubborn, you don't know me at all."

"You're the stubborn one," you pointed out, gesturing to his completely immobile posture. "You're like a boulder."

"Yeah? Well, this boulder pays half the rent, and his body hurts from chasing a high-tier villain across three districts today," he grunted, though there was no real heat in his words. He patted the empty space on the mattress right next to his hip. It was a rough command, disguised as an invitation. "Stop wasting time. It's late. Get over here."

You let out a breath, your shoulders finally dropping as the joke ran its course. The sheer weight of his logic, delivered with that immovable, unbothered arrogance, was too much to hold against. A tiny bubble of laughter escaped your throat, and before you could stop it, you buried your face in the soft pile of the t-shirt in your arms, your shoulders shaking.

Katsuki’s brow furrowed. He didn't look angry—but his jaw slacked just a fraction. He looked genuinely, profoundly baffled.

"What the hell are you giggling at?" he asked, his head tilting to the side as he tracked your sudden shift in mood.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you managed to say, stepping up to the side of the bed and tossing the flannel shorts onto the mattress. You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, still breathless from the absurdity of his deadpan refusal. "It was a joke."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Katsuki just stared at you. He didn't blink. The tough, unyielding Pro Hero Dynamight was completely paralyzed by a total lack of comprehension. His brain was visibly trying to process the concept of a "privacy prank" between two people who shared a lease and a bank account.

"A prank," he repeated. It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact that he found fundamentally defective.

"Yeah," you grinned, pulling the oversized t-shirt over your head and letting your heavy work clothes drop to the floor. "I wanted to see if you'd actually leave. You looked so serious reviewing those reports, I couldn't help myself."

"You think that's funny?" Katsuki’s voice was entirely flat, stripped of all its usual gravelly bite, leaving only pure, unadulterated bewilderment. He leaned back against the pillows again, but his arms remained crossed over his chest, his eyes wide and completely fixed on you as you slipped into the comfortable flannel shorts. "You stood there with a straight face and told me to get out of my own bedroom. For a joke."

"A little funny," you admitted, sliding under the heavy duvet and immediately seeking out the radiator-like warmth of his side of the bed. You tucked your cold toes against his calf, eliciting a involuntary twitch from him, though he still didn't break his stunned stare. "You should have seen your face."

"Because it doesn't make any goddamn sense!" Katsuki burst out, his voice rising just a fraction, though it lacked any real malice. He threw his hands up, gesturing to the entire perimeter of the dark room. "What part of your brain thought, 'Hey, let me ask the guy who knows exactly how many freckles are on my left shoulder blade to vacate the premises for a change of clothes'? I thought you’d finally lost your mind from overwork."

"I haven't lost my mind," you laughed, resting your chin on his bare shoulder, looking up at his profile. The green glow of the clock caught the sharp line of his jaw. "You're just too easy to rile up when you're in your zone."

"I wasn't riled up. I was confused," he corrected roughly, though one of his large, calloused hands found its way to the small of your back, his fingers automatically splaying out against the cotton of your shirt to pull you closer. His grip was firm, anchoring you against him as if to prove a point. "There’s no 'privacy' in this house. You took a shower with the door wide open this morning because you wanted to tell me about some dumb cat video you saw."

"That was different. That cat was adorable."

"It's the same damn thing," he muttered, though the tension was finally leaving his shoulders. He reached over with his free hand, grabbing the tablet from the nightstand and clicking it off, plunging the room back into the soft, dim ambiance of the night. He slid down the pillows until he was lying flat beside you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

Even in the dark, you could feel the lingering disbelief radiating off him. He let out another long, slow sigh through his nose, his fingers gently tracing small circles against your hip through the fabric of your shorts.

"A prank," he whispered to the ceiling, shaking his head against the mattress. "Stupid."

"Goodnight, Katsuki," you whispered back, smiling against the warm skin of his neck.

"Yeah, whatever," he grunted, shifting his weight to pull you entirely over his chest, effectively burying you in his warmth.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Shoto Todoroki

The quiet of the late afternoon always felt a little more profound in the apartment you shared with Shoto. Located on a high floor overlooking the bustling, ever-expanding skyline of Musutafu, the space was a carefully curated blend of modern simplicity and traditional comfort. It had taken months to find a place that felt right—somewhere that offered enough security for a rising top hero but still felt entirely detached from the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the Todoroki estate. Today, the setting sun was painting the tatami mats and low furniture in long, striking streaks of amber and violet, casting the living space in a warm, sleepy glow.

Shoto was currently occupying the center of your shared bed, entirely dead to the world of hero duties, agencies, and public relations. At twenty-four, the soft-spoken boy from UA had grown into a man of quiet, commanding presence. He was tall, his frame lean but packed with muscle forged through years of brutal training and high-stakes combat.

Right now, however, none of that formidable aura was on display. He was wearing a pair of loose blue lounge pants and a plain white t-shirt that clung to the broad expanse of his back. He was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, lazily scrolling through his phone, which was displaying a culinary blog about the best hidden soba shops in the prefecture.

You stepped out of the adjoining bathroom. A structured, freshly pressed outfit hung neatly over your forearm, pristine and wrinkle-free. You had a casual dinner reservation with some friends in less than an hour, and the clock was ticking down with unforgiving speed.

You stopped near the edge of the mattress, clearing your throat to break the comfortable silence. "Shoto?"

"Hmm?" He didn't look up from the screen, his thumb sliding across the glass with a methodical rhythm. "The place in western Tokyo just opened up, and its ratings are really good. We should go next Tuesday. I checked my schedule; I only have a minor patrol in the morning. I can be back by noon."

"That sounds amazing, and you know I will never turn down a noodle date," you smiled, walking over to set your jewelry down on the wooden dresser. The metallic clink of your watch and rings sounded loud in the quiet room. "But that's not what I'm talking about right now. I need to get changed for dinner. Do you mind stepping out into the living room for a few minutes?"

The scrolling stopped instantly.

Shoto slowly lowered the gadget to his lap, his head tilting slightly to the side in a manner that was deeply reminiscent of a confused puppy. His mismatched eyes—one a calm, deep grey, the other a sharp, brilliant turquoise—blinked at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated confusion. He didn't look annoyed or slighted; he looked like a scientist trying to solve an equation that defied the fundamental laws of logic.

He slid off his elbow, shifting his weight to sit up cross-legged on the mattress, resting his wrists on his knees. "You want me to leave the room?"

"Just for five minutes," you said, smoothing out the fabric of your clothes against your arm, trying to maintain an air of practical efficiency. "So I can change."

Shoto stared at you for a long, agonizingly quiet moment. His face was entirely deadpan, though a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away to anyone who knew how to read him. "I live here."

"I know you live here, Shoto."

"And we share this bed."

"We do. Every night."

"And I have seen you without clothes on," he stated. His voice was completely level, delivered with the casual, devastating frankness that only Shoto could manage—the kind of tone most people reserved for discussing the weather. "Multiple times. Last night, for instance."

A sudden, fierce wave of heat rushed straight to your face. You reached over, grabbing a discarded throw pillow from the armchair, and tossed it straight at his head. "Shoto! Don't just say things like that so casually!"

He caught the pillow effortlessly with his left hand without moving an inch. A small, rare smirk broke through his usual stoic expression, a flash of pure boyish mischief that made your stomach do a frantic flip. "I'm just stating a fact. I don't understand the sudden eviction notice. Is there a specific protocol I violated?"

"No, there's no protocol," you groaned, walking over to nudge his knee with yours, exasperated but completely charmed. "I'm just running late, and if you stay in here, you're going to distract me. Out. Go read about your noodles in the hallway or the kitchen."

You expected him to huff, press a quick, lazy kiss to your cheek, and finally wander out to the kitchen to wait for you. That was the standard trajectory of your playful bickering. But as the silence stretched across the sunlit bedroom, you realized the playful spark in his mismatched eyes had vanished, replaced by something heavier.

Shoto didn't move to get up. Instead, his posture stiffened. The thumb that had been loosely tracing the edge of the throw pillow went completely still. He set the pillow down beside him with agonizing slowness, his movements suddenly devoid of the relaxed, domestic warmth from just a moment prior.

When he looked back up at you, the faint trace of amusement was entirely gone. His gaze searched your face, intense and entirely unblinking, trying to read a subtext that wasn't actually there.

"Are you uncomfortable around me?" he asked softly.

The question hit the quiet room like a physical weight. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its teasing edge and returning to that quiet, fiercely guarded tone he used when he was distressed.

"What? No, Shoto, of course not—"

"Because if I have crossed a line, or if you feel like I have been overstepping your privacy, you can tell me," he interrupted gently, though his words carried a desperate undercurrent of self-reproach. He stood up from the bed. He didn't look angry; he looked profoundly unsettled. "I know I'm not always... perceptive. Fuyumi tells me that I can be dense about domestic matters. If my presence is bothering you while you get ready, I'll leave."

He took a step backward, away from you, toward the bedroom door.

You froze, the fabric of your dinner outfit suddenly feeling heavy in your hands. The prank—a silly little social media trend you’d seen earlier that week about treating your long-term partner like a complete stranger just to see their reaction—had backfired. You had anticipated a laugh, a stubborn refusal, or maybe even a playful eye-roll.

You had entirely forgotten that Shoto Todoroki, despite being a formidable pro hero who could level battlefields with a wave of his hand, still carried the fragile, hyper-vigilant heart of a boy who always assumed he was the one at fault. Because of his past, because of the rigid, clinical isolation of his upbringing, he took boundaries with an almost painful level of seriousness. If you asked for space, his default instinct wasn't to think you were joking; it was to worry that he had somehow caused you discomfort or distress.

"Shoto, wait," you said, reaching out a hand, but he was already stepping into the hallway.

He stopped just past the threshold, his hand resting on the frame of the sliding door. He looked back at you over his shoulder, his expression a mask of stoic compliance that broke your heart. He looked exactly like he did when he was suppressing his own feelings for the sake of someone else's comfort.

"I'll be in the living room," he said, his voice entirely too polite. "Take your time."

"Sho, stop," you pleaded, dropping your clothes onto the armchair and stepping quickly across the room.

He stayed perfectly still as you closed the distance between you, though his mismatched eyes flickered down to your bare feet, then back up to your face, filled with a quiet, anxious longing.

You reached out, wrapping your fingers around his left wrist—and gently tugged him back into the bedroom. He didn't resist, allowing himself to be pulled back into the space, but he kept a careful, tentative distance, as if waiting for permission to exist in your perimeter again.

"It was a joke," you confessed softly, looking up into his troubled eyes. "It was just a stupid prank, Shoto. I'm sorry."

He blinked, the rigid line of his jaw softening just a fraction. "A prank?"

"Yes. There’s this silly trend online where people ask their partners to leave the room to change, just to see how they react. I thought... I thought you’d just argue with me or tease me like you usually do. I didn't think you'd take it seriously." You let out a soft sigh, sliding your hand up from his wrist to cup his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your palm, and you felt the slight tension in his muscles begin to melt under your touch. "I am never uncomfortable around you. You could never overstep your bounds with me, Shoto. I love having you in here. I love sharing everything with you."

Shoto stared down at you, processing your words with the methodical deliberateness that defined him. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the distant hum of the Musutafu traffic far below.

Then, a deep, shuddering breath escaped his lips. The invisible armor he had put up in the hallway completely crumbled. He let his forehead drop forward, resting it against your shoulder with a soft thud. His broad shoulders slouched, all the tension bleeding out of his large frame at once as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

"Don't do that again," he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin.

You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him tightly against you. Even when he was relaxing his weight into you, he was careful not to crush you, balancing his strength with a practiced tenderness. "I won't. I'm so sorry, love. I didn't mean to make you think you did something wrong."

"I thought..." He paused, his breath warm against your collarbone, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. "I thought you were growing tired of me. Or that I had done something to make you want distance. I know I can be... overwhelming."

"You are perfect," you corrected fiercely, running your fingers through the soft, split-colored strands of his hair, untangling the messy fringe at the back of his neck. "You are the easiest, most comforting person to be around. I wanted to play a trick on you because you're usually so unbothered, but you just had to go and be the most adorable, sweet boyfriend on the planet and ruin my fun."

Shoto let out a low, vibrating sound that was half-sigh, half-chuckle. He slowly lifted his head, looking down at you from a mere breath away. The vulnerability in his eyes was staggering, but the anxious cloud had entirely lifted, replaced by a soft, melting warmth that made your chest ache with affection.

A genuine, beautiful smile had broken across his face—the kind of smile that didn't make it to the media cameras, reserved exclusively for the quiet confines of your shared apartment. He reached down, his hands anchoring firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest until there was absolutely no space left between you.

"If it was a prank," he whispered, his turquoise and grey eyes locked onto yours with a sudden, playful intensity, "then I don't have to leave."

"No, you don't," you laughed, resting your hands on his broad shoulders. "But I really do need to change, Shoto. I'm going to be late for dinner."

"Let them wait," he murmured, leaning down to press his lips to yours.

The kiss was slow, deep, and utterly possessive, a silent reassurance that whatever brief insecurity had sparked in his mind was entirely gone. His hands warmed against your back, his left side radiating a comforting heat that seeped into your skin, effectively erasing any lingering chill from your shower. When he finally pulled back, his thumb traced a gentle path across your lower lip, his gaze heavy and entirely devoted.

"I'll help you pick out your jewelry," Shoto offered as he finally let go of your waist, though he didn't move more than a step away. He walked over to the dresser, picking up the watch you had set down earlier, turning it over. "But no more pranks like that. My heart can't handle your internet trends."

"Deal," you smiled, walking over to retrieve your outfit from the armchair, completely basking in the warm, amber glow of the setting sun and the quiet, unbreakable comfort of the man who shared your life.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hitoshi Shinso

The bedroom door 'groaned on its hinges, a slow, agonizing protest that perfectly mirrored the posture of the man slumping through it.

Hitoshi Shinso looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backward, and then perhaps run over by a vehicle. His hero costume was half-undone—the heavy, specialized capture scarf already draped like a dead snake around his left forearm, his dark purple hair standing up in even more catastrophic, gravity-defying spikes than usual.

He dropped his gear bag with a heavy, metallic thud that vibrated through the floorboards of your shared apartment, let out a sigh that sounded like a tire deflating, and face-planted directly into the mattress.

"Welcome home," you said, looking up from the dresser where you were currently rummaging through a stack of clean clothes.

A muffled groan was his only response. His voice came out thick, scratched raw from a night of shouting commands and baiting villains into talking. "If anyone asks, I died in the line of duty. Tell the agency to bury me in something soft."

"Rough patrol, huh?"

"A villain with a quirk that turns pavement into marshmallow fluff," Hitoshi muttered, rolling onto his side so he could blink up at you with one bleary, exhausted eye. "Do you know how hard it is to maintain a serious, intimidating hero presence when you’re actively sinking into strawberry-scented marshmallow? My boots are ruined. I need a shower, but moving requires muscles, and mine have gone on strike."

You chuckled, pulling a soft oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from the drawer. You held them against your chest and looked at him. "Well, you can hibernate in a minute. But first, do you mind stepping out for a second? I need to change."

Hitoshi didn’t move an inch. He just stared at you. The exhausted, dead-on-his-feet hero vanished, instantly replaced by the insufferable, sharp-tongued tease you had managed to fall in love with.

"I’m sorry," he muttered, his voice dropping into that low register that usually made villains freeze in terror but had a very different effect on you. "Did I walk into the wrong apartment? Because I could have sworn my name is on the lease, and that the person currently standing in front of me has been seen by me in far less than a pair of sweatpants."

"Hitoshi," you said, warningly, though a blush was already creeping up your neck. "Out. Just for two minutes."

He slowly raised his eyebrows, a deeply unimpressed, deadpan expression washing over his tired features. He didn't blink. He just let his head drop back onto the pillow, propping himself up slightly with one elbow as if he were settling in to watch a particularly unconvincing street performer.

"Two minutes," he repeated, flatly. "You’re kicking me out of my own bedroom—well, our bedroom—so you can change a shirt. A shirt that, if memory serves, is actually my shirt from when I was in UA."

"It's about privacy," you said, trying desperately to keep your face completely serious. You clutched the clothes tighter to your chest, leaning heavily into the bit. "Modesty is important, Shinso. We need boundaries in a healthy relationship. Now, please. Step into the hallway."

Hitoshi let out a short, breathy puff of laughter that was pure, unfiltered sarcasm. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, right where his voice changer usually pressed into his skin, leaving a faint red mark.

"Modesty," he muttered, the word tasting like a joke on his tongue. "Right. Because last weekend, when you accidentally locked yourself out of the bathroom while conditioning your hair, you definitely screamed for my help with the utmost modesty."

He leaned back further, a slow, knowing smirk finally breaking through his exhaustion. The shadows under his eyes didn't look quite as heavy now that his brain was actively engaged in picking apart your terrible execution of a prank.

"You’re doing a bit," he stated, his voice returning to its normal, casual drone. "You have that look on your face."

"I am completely serious," you insisted, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. "I just want some privacy. Is that so much to ask from my partner? A little respect for my personal space?"

Hitoshi sighed, a long, dramatic sound, and deliberately spread himself diagonally across the entire bed. He stretched his long legs out, utterly ruining your neat presentation of the duvet.

"If you wanted me out of the room, you should have just told me you ordered takeout and it's getting cold," he said, closing his eyes. "At least then I’d have an incentive to fight the gravity currently pinning me to this mattress. But this? Asking me to stand in the hallway like a punished schoolboy while you put on sweatpants? Please. I have a severe caffeine deficiency. I am legally exempt from participating in whatever Instagram trend you’re trying to replicate right now."

"It's not an Instagram trend!" you argued, though you were losing the battle against your own smile.

"Oh, really?" Hitoshi opened his eyes, fixing you with a piercing gaze. "Then what is it? A psychological experiment to see how fast you can induce an aneurysm in a tired pro hero? Because it’s working."

He shifted, propping his chin in his hand.

"Let's analyze the logic here," he continued, his tone dripping with that classic, dry wit that had once made his UA classmates want to shake him. "We have been dating for four years. We share a closet. The veil of mystery, my love, has not just been lifted—it has been shredded, burned, and the ashes were scattered over this very floor."

You crossed your arms, the clothes bunched up under your elbows. "You're a real drama queen, you know that?"

"I'm a realist," he corrected smoothly, a faint, genuine warmth softening the sharp edges of his smirk. "And realistically, I am too tired to stand up, let alone walk five feet to the door, turn the handle, stand in a drafty hallway, and wait for a cue that is inevitably going to end with you laughing at me."

He reached out, his long, pale fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, tugging just enough to make you shift your weight.

"Come here," he murmured, his voice losing some of its sarcastic bite, replaced by the deep, heavy drag of exhaustion. "Stop playing games and give me a reason to stay awake for another fifteen minutes. My brain is fried."

You finally let the serious facade drop, letting out a proper laugh as you tossed the clean clothes onto the desk chair. You stepped closer to the bed, looking down at the messy, crumpled form of your boyfriend. For all his sharp words and lazy deflections, the grip on your wrist was warm and grounding.

"Fine, you caught me," you admitted, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "It was a prank. I saw a video of someone doing it to their partner to see if they'd actually get offended or just confused."

"And what was the expected outcome?" Hitoshi asked, closing his eyes again as he dragged himself upward, shifting his body until his head was resting comfortably in your lap. He let out a contented hum, his sharp features relaxing completely as you automatically brought a hand up to weave your fingers through his messy, tangled purple hair. "Were you hoping I’d get all flustered and apologetic? 'Oh, I'm so sorry, let me give you your space!'" He mimicked a high-pitched, panicked voice that sounded absolutely nothing like him.

"Maybe a little," you teased, gently tugging at a particularly stubborn knot near the crown of his head. "A little chivalry wouldn't kill you."

"Chivalry died when I walked through this door," he muttered, leaning into the touch of your fingers. "Besides, you don't want chivalry. You want a reaction, and I am far too smart to fall for the oldest trick in the book."

"You're just lazy."

"I am strategically conserving my energy," he corrected, his voice growing fainter as the comfort of your lap and the rhythmic stroking of his hair began to take their toll. "There's a difference. Now... shut up and let me pretend the world doesn't exist for an hour."

You smiled down at him. "Okay, Nighthide. Sleep."

"Don't use my hero name to command me," he mumbled, his breathing already slowing down. "That's my gimmick..."

Within seconds, the deep, even rhythm of his chest told you he was out cold. You stayed right where you were, abandoning the clothes and the prank entirely, content to just be his soft place to land.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Touya Todoroki (Dabi)

The mattress dipped under a sudden, heavy weight that smelled distinctively of cheap tobacco and scorched leather.

Touya didn’t bother changing out of his clothes. He just dragged his long, lanky frame across the sheets, propping his back against the headboard with a rough, grating sigh. His dark coat was slung somewhere near the front door, leaving him in his fitted white tank top. The silver staples holding his jaw and collarbones together glinted under the dim, buzzing lightbulbs of the hideout’s bedroom. He looked thoroughly wrecked, a faint trail of grey ash still dusting the sharp line of his collarbone.

"You look like shit," you said, not turning around from the warped wooden dresser where you were pulling out a clean shirt.

"Feel like it too," Touya rasped. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration that always sounded like it was scraping against sandpaper. He dragged a scarred, patchwork hand down his face, the pale blue of his eyes peering out from between his fingers. "Some low-tier hero thought he could corner me in an alley. Had a water quirk. Kept dousing my sparks. Fucking irritating."

"Did you kill him?"

"Left him a little crispy around the edges," he muttered, a cruel, lazy smirk tugging at the staples around his mouth. "He won't be playing with hoses anytime soon."

You pulled a soft, oversized t-shirt and loose shorts from the drawer, turning around to face him. "Glad you made it back in one piece. Now, do me a favor and step out for a minute? I need to change."

Touya didn’t blink. He just stared at you, his heavy eyelids drooping as that lazy, wicked smirk widened into something altogether filthy. He didn't make a move to get up. Instead, he slid a bit further down the mattress, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're joking, right?" he grunted, a low chuckle rattling in his throat. "We’ve been sharing this cramped box of a room for six months, and suddenly you’re getting shy about a little skin?"

"I'm not getting shy," you sighed, shifting your weight. "I just want to change into my sleepwear without you staring holes through me with those creepy blue eyes."

"Creepy?" He let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. "Get real. You love these eyes. Especially when they're looking at you from a hell of a lot closer than this." He leaned his head back against the wall, his gaze dropping deliberately from your face, tracing the line of your throat, down to where your hands were clutching the fabric. "Besides, why the fuck should I leave? I'm exhausted. My legs feel like lead, and frankly, watching you strip down is the only decent entertainment I’m gonna get tonight."

"Touya, out," you said, your tone firming up, though the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you. "Two minutes. Go smoke a cigarette on the fire escape."

"Nah. It's raining," he said smoothly, not shifting an inch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack, flicking a tiny, bright blue flame alive with the tip of his thumb. He didn't light a cigarette; he just watched the flame dance along his fingers, reflecting in his pupils. "Tell you what. You want me gone, you’re gonna have to physically drag me out. And we both know how that ends. You get close enough to grab me, and I’m tearing those clothes off you myself."

"You're disgusting," you said, but there was a tremor of amusement in your voice.

"I’m a villain, sweetheart. Disgusting is in the job description," he muttered, letting the flame die. His voice dropped into a rough, intimate register that made your stomach do a sudden, sharp flip. "But if you're gonna stand there holding those clothes like a shield, you're just wasting time. Let me see what I’m working with tonight."

"You aren't 'working' with anything tonight, you're covered in soot and alleyway grime," you countered, taking a step back as he suddenly swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The boots hit the floorboards with a heavy thud. Touya stood up, his tall, dangerously thin frame uncoiling like a snake. He didn't walk so much as prowl, closing the distance between you before you could even register the shift in his energy. The heat radiating off him was immense—a constant, sweltering aura that always made the air in the room feel thick and suffocating.

He stopped right in front of you, the scent of burnt leather and smoke hitting you full force. He was filthy, his skin smudged with carbon, but his eyes were burning bright.

"Soot washes off," he murmured, his hand coming up to cup the side of your neck. His skin was rough, a mix of smooth, unburnt flesh and the rigid, gnarled texture of his purple scars. His thumb dragged lazily along your jawline, leaving a faint grey smudge on your skin. "And a little sweat never hurt anyone. In fact, I remember you screaming my name pretty loud the last time we got a little dirty in this bed."

The sheer intensity of his gaze was enough to melt whatever resolve you had left, but you bit the inside of your cheek, determined to keep the joke alive. You leaned back slightly against the edge of the dresser, your hands still holding the folded pile of clothes against your chest like a barricade.

"You're tracking ash all over the room, Touya," you muttered, looking down at his boots, then back up to his face. "And I'm serious. Go wait in the hallway. Just for a couple of minutes. I want some privacy."

Touya’s eyes narrowed, the lazy smirk fading just a fraction into an expression of sheer, unadulterated amusement. He didn't drop his hand from your neck; instead, his thumb continued its slow, rhythmic stroke against your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the raw, terrifying power humming just beneath his skin. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips.

He let out another low, rattling laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and directly into yours. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"

"I'm not lying," you insisted, though the proximity was making it incredibly hard to keep your voice steady. "I just... I want to change in peace. Is that so much to ask from my boyfriend?"

The word boyfriend usually made him scoff or roll his eyes—he preferred terms that were a little more dangerous, a little less domestic—but tonight, it only seemed to fuel his stubbornness. He tilted his head, his electric blue eyes boring straight into yours, stripping away every single layer of your defense. He knew you. He knew every twitch of your eyebrows, every shift in your posture, and the exact tone of your voice when you were actually upset versus when you were just trying to get a rise out of him.

"You're pulling something," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute certainty. "I don't know what kind of stupid game you're playing, but you picked the wrong night to try and trick me, sweetheart."

"It's not a game," you tried one last time, though the corners of your mouth were already betraying you, twitching upward.

"Yeah? Then why is your heart beating so fast?" Touya’s hand slid down from your jaw, his long, scarred fingers wrapping loosely around the side of your throat, feeling the rapid, telltale pulse. His grin turned triumphant, wicked, and entirely self-satisfied. "You're throwing a tantrum because I came home late, or you're just trying to see how long it takes for me to lose my mind. Which is it?"

You stared at him for a beat, realizing the jig was completely up. There was no out-smarting a guy who spent his entire life reading people's worst intentions in the shadows. With a defeated sigh, you let your shoulders drop and relaxed against the dresser, the fake sternness completely melting away.

"Fine. You caught me," you admitted, a genuine laugh finally breaking through. "It was a prank. I wanted to see if you'd actually leave or if you'd just get annoyed."

"A prank," Touya repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, mock-offended growl. He stepped even closer, his lanky frame effectively pinning you between his body and the heavy wooden dresser. The heat rolling off him was like standing next to an open furnace, making you dizzy in the best way possible. "You think it's funny to try and kick an exhausted, aching villain out of his own bed after he just spent the last three hours dealing with a glorified fire hydrant?"

"A little bit, yeah," you teased, tilting your chin up defiantly. "You're usually so dramatic, I thought you'd storm out and pout."

"I don't pout," he hissed, though there was no real heat behind the words. His blue eyes softened into something deeply possessive, his gaze dropping to your lips. "And I don't leave this room unless I'm taking you with me. You should know that by now."

"I do know," you whispered, the playful banter shifting into something much more intimate. You let go of the clothes in your hands, letting them drop carelessly onto the dresser behind you. You raised your arms, looping them around his neck, ignoring the faint scent of ash and the rough texture of the staples against your skin. "You're still filthy, though."

"I told you," Touya murmured, his hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity. He lifted you easily, setting you down on the edge of the dresser so you were at eye level with him. "Soot washes off. And right now, I have a much better idea of how we can both get clean."

He didn't wait for your response. His mouth slammed into yours with a rough, hungry desperation, his tongue sliding past your lips to claim you completely. The taste of him was always the same—bitter tobacco, and an underlying sweetness that belonged solely to you. He kissed you like he fought: aggressively, and leaving absolutely no room for escape.

Your fingers tangled in his stark white hair, pulling him closer as the heat in the room spiked, the ambient temperature rising with his mood. Touya groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding up under your shirt, his rough, scarred palms sending shivers straight down your spine as they pressed against your bare skin.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his breathing was ragged, his blue eyes dark and wild. He rested his forehead against yours, the slow smirk returning to his lips.

Without breaking eye contact, he slid his hands back down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the dresser. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, holding on as he carried you out of the bedroom and into the adjacent bathroom. He kicked the door shut behind him, the sound echoing in the space just before he shook off his boots and stepped into the spacious shower enclosure, reaching out blindly to twist the handle, clothes and all.

The blast of lukewarm water hit you both instantly, plastering his white hair to his forehead and drenching both of your clothes in seconds, but it did nothing to cool the sudden, fierce heat between you. Touya pressed your back against the tiled wall, the cool stone a sharp contrast to the blistering warmth of his body. He rasped, his thumb brushing against your wet lower lip, "I don't think you realise how much trouble you're in."

You leaned your head back against the tiles, a defiant, breathless smile touching your lips as the water streamed down your face. "Then stop talking and show me."

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Shota Aizawa

The yellow glow of the desk lamp was the only thing cutting through the heavy, quiet darkness of the bedroom. It illuminated a pile of student essays, a half-empty mug of black coffee that had gone cold hours ago, and Shota Aizawa.

He was slouched in his chair, his shoulders hunched in a way that would make a physical therapist weep. His capture scarf was draped over the back of the seat like an oversized, exhausted snake, and his signature black apparel was unzipped halfway down his chest, revealing the wrinkled grey t-shirt underneath. His long, black hair was tied back in a messy, haphazard bun, though several stray strands had escaped to frame his face.

The only sound in the room was the humming of the air conditioner and the rhythmic, dry scratch of his red pen against the paper.

You stepped out of the bathroom, a stack of clean pajamas held tightly against your chest. You looked at him, then at the bed, then back to his hunched form.

"Hey, Shota?" you said softly.

The pen didn't stop. "Mhm."

"Do you mind stepping out for a few minutes? I need to change."

The scratching of the pen paused. For a second, the room was completely silent. Then, Shota slowly tilted his head back, letting it rest against the top of his chair. He didn't turn around to look at you. He just stared at the ceiling, his eyes blinking slowly in the dim light.

"Say that again," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

"I asked if you could step out into the hallway," you repeated, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "Just for five minutes. I want to change into my pajamas."

Slowly, deliberately, Shota rotated his chair. He rested his elbows on his knees, intertwining his fingers, and fixed you with a flat, entirely unimpressed stare. His expression was completely blank—the face of a man who had faced down high-tier villains, survived near-fatal injuries, and dealt with a class of chaotic teenagers for nearly every year for the past decade, and yet found this specific request to be the most baffling thing he had encountered all his life.

"You want me," Shota said, gesturing vaguely to himself, "to leave my own bedroom. Where I am currently working on mid-term evaluations. So you can take off your clothes."

"Yes."

He stared at you for a long, agonizing beat. He didn't blink. "Why?"

"Because I want some privacy?" you offered, though it sounded weak even to your own ears.

Shota let out a long, slow breath through his nose—a sound that was half-sigh, half-scoff. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his dark eyes tracking the way you were clutching the pajamas like a shield.

"(f/n)," he sighed. "We have been living together for over nine years. We share a lease, a bed, and a cat that currently prefers sleeping on your chest over mine. I have seen you at your absolute worst and best."

He paused, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, a dry, deadpan edge cutting through his voice. "More importantly, I have seen every single square inch of your body. Multiple times. In varying degrees of lighting. There is absolutely nothing hiding under those clothes that is a mystery to me. So, logically speaking, making me get up, walk out into a cold hallway, and stand there like a stranger while you put on a t-shirt is a massive waste of energy."

"It's modesty thing," you argued, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks despite yourself. "Can't I change without you staring for once?"

"I'm not staring. I am grading. If I wanted to look at you, I would. But right now, Bakugo’s complete disregard for property damage is taking priority. You changing in the corner is not going to distract me."

"So you won't look?"

"I didn't say that," Shota murmured, his hand dropping back down. A tiny, almost imperceptible quirk appeared at the corner of his chapped lips—the closest he ever came to a smirk when he was this exhausted. "If you're going to stand there and make a production out of it, I might glance over. It’s a habit. Hero training. I'm conditioned to notice sudden movements in my peripheral vision."

You bit your lip, trying desperately to keep your face straight. The prank was supposed to evoke some sort of dramatic sigh before he begrudgingly dragged himself out of the room. Instead, you were getting a full-blown, deeply logical lecture on the mechanics of his peripheral vision and the sheer inefficiency of walking ten feet to the hallway.

"So you're absolutely refusing to give me privacy?" you asked, taking a step forward and puffing out your chest in mock offense. "Shota, I am shocked. Truly. Where is your chivalry?"

Shota’s gaze drifted from your face down to the stack of clothes you were holding like armor, then back up. He didn't look flustered in the slightest. If anything, the slight marks under his eyes seemed to heavy further with profound exhaustion.

"My chivalry quota went down when I agreed to let you take over three-quarters of the closet," he said smoothly, picking his red pen back up and twirling it between his calloused fingers.

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours with terrifying intensity. "If you're trying to prove a point, you're failing. Logically, what is your end goal here?"

"I just think a gentleman would respect my boundaries," you huffed, trying to suppress the giggle threatening to bubble up in your throat.

He let out a low, gravelly chuckle—a sound that vibrated straight through your chest. "Boundaries. Right. The same boundaries that involve you kicking me in your sleep to steal the blankets? Or the boundaries where you regularly use my lap as a footrest without asking while I'm trying to review case files?"

"Those are different," you said quickly. "Those are... relationship perks."

"And standing out in a freezing hallway while my coffee dies a second death is a relationship penalty," Shota countered, his voice dropping into that smooth, commanding tone he used when he was shutting down a class argument. "I’m not moving. If it bothers you that much, change in the bathroom. The light is already on, and it requires zero expenditure of my energy."

You groaned softly, realizing that breaking his stubborn logic was going to take a bit more effort. "But the bathroom floor is cold, Shota! And I want to change here. Why are you being so difficult?"

"I am the definition of low-maintenance," he muttered, turning his chair a fraction of an inch back toward his desk, though his eyes remained fixed on you. "You're the one initiating a logistical nightmare for a five-minute task. Change, don't change, or sleep in what you have on. But do it quietly. I have ten more essays to get through before I can even consider closing my eyes."

You stood there for a moment, watching him. The dim yellow light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the faint, pale scar beneath his right eye. He looked entirely immovable, a solid anchor of sheer apathy against your antics. It was maddening how well he knew you, and even more maddening how utterly immune he was to being rattled in his own space.

"Fine," you sighed, letting your shoulders drop as you took a couple of steps toward the edge of the bed. "But if I catch you peeking, I'm not getting you coffee tomorrow."

"A risk I'm willing to take," Shota murmured, already lowering his pen back to the margins of a terribly formatted essay.

You turned your back to him, unbuttoning your shirt slowly, deliberately creating rustling fabric sounds to see if he'd actually look. In the quiet of the room, every slide of cloth felt magnified. You glanced over your shoulder.

Shota hadn't moved an inch. His red pen was moving in sharp, decisive strokes, slashing through a particularly horrifying sentence. He was completely dialed in, his focus terrifyingly absolute.

With a small smile, you finally let the act drop, slipping into your soft pajamas and letting out a contented sigh as the warmth settled in. You tossed your discarded clothes into the hamper by the door and padded softly across the carpet, stopping right behind his chair.

Without a word, you leaned down, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck and resting your chin on his shoulder. He smelled like old paper, bitter coffee, and the faint, comforting scent of mint.

Shota didn't flinch. He just leaned back slightly into your touch, his head tilting back just enough to press against your cheek. The tense line of his shoulders softened, just a fraction, under the weight of your embrace.

"Done with your performance?" he asked, his voice low and private in the dark room.

"Yeah. You're no fun to prank."

"Good. Pranks are irrational," he said, though his free hand reached up to gently clasp your forearm, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle against your skin. "Now let me finish this."

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Keigo Takami

The late-evening sun was dipping just below the horizon, painting the sky outside the high-rise apartment in bruised shades of purple and gold. Inside the bedroom, the atmosphere was soft, quiet, and warm.

Keigo Takami—known to the rest of the world as the razor-sharp, perpetually moving Number Two Hero, Hawks—was currently reduced to a heap of golden-blonde hair and oversized crimson wings on the center of your shared bed. His heavy, fur-lined hero jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, leaving him in just his tight black undershirt and baggy cargo pants. He was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, lazily scrolling through his agency phone with one hand. His massive red wings were half-unfurled, spilling off the mattress like a plush, feathered comforter, a few loose primaries twitching rhythmically.

The soft click of the bathroom door opening drew his attention.

You stepped out into the bedroom, clutching a folded pile of oversized pajamas tightly against your chest like a shield. You paused by the edge of the dresser, looking at him, then down at your feet, trying your absolute best to channel a sudden, intense wave of bashful modesty.

"Hey, Keigo?" you called out softly, keeping your voice just hesitant enough to pique his interest.

Keigo didn't even look up from his phone screen, a lazy, habitual grin already tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, gorgeous? What's up?"

"Do you mind... stepping out into the hallway for a few minutes?" you asked, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "I need to change into my pajamas."

The silence that followed was immediate, but it wasn't a shocked silence. It was the heavy, loaded silence of a predator watching a particularly amusing prey animal walk directly into a trap.

The scrolling motion of his thumb stopped. Slowly, Keigo rolled over onto his back, burying his head into the plush pillows while his enormous wings flared outward, spanning nearly the entire width of the king-sized bed. He tucked his hands behind his head, his golden-blonde hair flaring out in messy, sleep-tousled spikes. When he finally looked at you, his amber eyes were bright, narrowed, and absolutely gleaming with a dangerous, playful mischief.

"Step out?" Keigo repeated, his voice dropping into a low, honeyed purr that sent a compulsory shiver down your spine. He tilted his head, his sharp, bird-like gaze tracking the way you were white-knuckling your pajamas. "Into the hallway? Of our own apartment?"

"Yes," you said, trying to maintain a straight face. "Just for five minutes. Please?"

Keigo let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his wings puffing up with pure amusement. He didn't look flustered; he looked like Christmas had come early, and you had just handed him the wrapping paper.

"Babe, I say this with all the love in my heart, but you've got to be kidding me," he chuckled, rolling effortlessly off the bed. He drifted over to you, his movements terrifyingly fluid, his bare feet making absolutely no sound against the hardwood floor. Before you could even blink, he was standing directly in your space, close enough that you could feel the radiating heat of his wings.

He leaned down, bringing his face level with yours, those dark, dramatic markings around his eyes crinkling as he grinned. "You want me to leave? Now, why would I do a silly thing like that when the view in here is about to get so much better?"

"Keigo, come on," you whined, taking a half-step back, though your back immediately hit the solid wood of the dresser. "I’m being serious. I want some privacy."

"Privacy?" He echoed the word like it was a foreign concept, a soft, teasing lilt in his tone. He reached out, a single, warm index finger hooking under your chin to gently tilt your face upward. He didn't press, but the sheer weight of his presence was overwhelming. "Sweetheart, we’ve been dating for years. I’ve literally carried you out of the shower when you were too tired to walk. There isn't a single part of you that I don't know by heart."

He stepped even closer, his chest nearly brushing against the pajamas you were holding. His crimson wings curved forward, wrapping around the two of you like a plush, secluded tent, effectively cutting off the rest of the bedroom and trapping you in a cocoon of soft feathers and amber warmth.

"In fact," Keigo whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips for a lingering, agonizing second before darting back to yours, "if you're feeling a little shy tonight, I can think of a dozen ways to help you get those clothes off. And none of them involve me standing out in a drafty hallway like a rejected puppy."

Your heart gave a violent, traitorous thud against your ribs. This was the problem with trying to prank a man who lived and breathed shameless confidence. You had expected a whine, or maybe a dramatic complain about how unfair you were being. Instead, he had turned the tables so fast you had whiplash, turning a simple request into an open invitation for a masterclass in flirting.

"It's a modesty thing," you tried to argue, your voice wavering slightly as the blush you had been trying to fake suddenly became very, very real. "Can't I just change without you staring?"

"Who said anything about staring?" Keigo hummed, his free hand sliding down to rest against the dresser right next to your hip, effectively pinning you in place. "Staring is for strangers. I prefer appreciating. There’s a distinct artistic value to it, you know? And besides, as a pro hero, it's my civic duty to remain vigilant and observant of my surroundings at all times."

"I am not a villain, Hawks," you grumbled, using his hero name to try to inject some authority into your voice.

It backfired immediately. Hearing his hero name only made his grin widen, his eyes darkening with a sudden, wicked heat.

"No, you're much worse," he murmured, leaning in until his lips were just brushing against the shell of your ear, his warm breath hitching your pulse. "You're a distraction. A highly dangerous, devastatingly beautiful distraction. And right now, my situational awareness is telling me that you are wearing far too many layers."

His hand shifted from the dresser, his long, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the edge of the pajamas you were clutching. He didn't pull, but the subtle, teasing tension was there. "Come on. Let me help. I can have you out of those clothes in fifteen seconds flat. Five seconds, if I use the feathers, but I think a personal touch is much more romantic, don't you?"

The sheer, unfiltered audacity of him was too much. The heat in your cheeks was reaching a boiling point, and the tight, suffocating grip you had on your pajamas was slipping because your hands were starting to sweat. You could feel the vibrant energy radiating off him, the absolute certainty that he had won this little psychological warfare.

You broke.

"Okay, okay! Stop! It’s a prank," you burst out, your shoulders slumping as you let out a loud, defeated groan. You pushed your hands against his chest, trying to create some distance, though it felt like trying to move a mountain draped in feathers. "It was just a joke."

Keigo froze. For a split second, his brilliant, fast-processing mind actually sputtered to a halt. Then, slowly, his head tilted to the side as his eyes searched your face, looking for the punchline.

"A... prank?" he repeated.

"Yes! A prank!" you huffed, hiding your flaming face behind the stack of pajamas. "I saw this thing online where people ask their partners to leave the room so they can change, just to see if they get flustered or upset. You were supposed to complain, or look confused, or at least feel a little awkward! You weren't supposed to... overwhelm me!"

The silence returned, but this time, it lasted for only three seconds before Keigo completely lost it.

His entire body shook with mirth, his massive crimson wings flaring outward and ruffling in his amusement, sending a small gale of wind through the room that stirred the curtains. He leaned his forehead against your shoulder, his golden hair tickling your collarbone as he laughed so hard his chest heaved against yours.

"Oh my god," he gasped, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he finally looked up, his face flushed with genuine delight. "You were trying to fluster me? Sweetheart, love of my life... I am a public figure who gets hit on by reporters for a living. You're going to have to do a lot better than asking for a little privacy if you want to rattle my cage."

"I see that now," you muttered into your pajamas, feeling incredibly foolish but unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. "You're shameless."

"Guilty as charged," Keigo beamed, finally stepping back just enough to give you some breathing room, though his wings remained curved around you like a protective barrier. He reached out, gently tugging the pajamas down from your face so he could look into your eyes. His expression had softened, the teasing glint melting into something incredibly warm, fond, and deeply devoted.

"But hey, for the record?" he murmured, his thumb reaching up to gently wipe a stray strand of hair away from your forehead. "I highly appreciate the effort. Even if it completely backfired."

"Shut up," you laughed softly, leaning your head against his chest.

Keigo wrapped his arms fully around you now, burying his face into your hair and inhaling deeply. His feathers settled, wrapping tightly around the two of you, shutting out the rest of the world until it was just the two of you in your own little crimson universe.

"Next time, just ask me to help you change," he whispered roguishly against your ear, unable to help himself. "I promise I'll be much more cooperative."

"Don't push your luck, bird-brain."

fin-

There are a few reasons why it’s a fabulous time of year, in his humble opinion. For one, he fights best in the heat, making this his peak season for pro work. For another, your students are on break, which means so are you, which means Katsuki can finally take you on the long-awaited trip he’s been promising. Most importantly, though, summer is your favorite season, and that’s enough reason for him to like it with you. 

Then a shriek cuts through the room, pulling him from his thoughts before he can even sit up and properly rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Kats!” you cry, voice pitched high with panic. “There’s a spider on the sink! Wake up!”

“God dammit, woman,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he rises from bed and pads over to where you are. “You teach kids how to be heroes for a living, and something as dumb as a spider gets you all fucked up?”

“Don’t start,” you hiss. “Just get the thing out of here, I don’t—oh my god! Katsuki, it’s moving! Hurry!”

He sighs, gently nudging you out of the way before grabbing a napkin and scooping up the (very) small arachnid. He tosses it into the trash as you let out a sigh of relief.

“There,” he grumbles. “Quit squealing now.”

“Thanks, baby,” you beam, turning to wrap your arms around his neck. You press a kiss to his lips, and he happily returns it. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he mumbles, pulling you against his chest. “Shower yet?”

“No, I’ll probably take one later—”

“Perfect. You can join me,” he says with a satisfied grin.

You give him a flat look. “I just did my skincare for the morning. I’m not washing it all away—”

“Let’s get this off’a you,” he says, promptly deciding to ignore you as he lifts your shirt over your head. You sigh in defeat (though you never really put up a fight anyway), groaning as your shirt goes flying, followed by your bra, and he can’t help the smirk of victory that spreads across his face.

“You’re super annoying,” you tell him seriously. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. “And you’re a fuckin’ idiot. Wanna exchange some more facts while we’re at it?”

It’s summer. Katsuki enjoys summer. He likes the warm weather, the extra time you have on your hands, and the way the two of you can spend a few days somewhere nice and far away from everything. You don’t bring along papers to grade. He doesn’t check his emails during the rare paid time off he’s taken. His paychecks finally come in handy for a nice, well-accommodating hotel room. No one interrupts when he wants you to himself.

There’s no reason not to love summer. Katsuki looks forward to it every year. He fights long, bothersome fights with villains and delinquents out there through the cold winters and tells himself that if he works hard now, he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor when the warm weather rolls around. It’s the only thing that gets him through long days at the agency, or the stupid interviews and social bullshit that his publicist forces him through. 

All of it endured for this. This singular, peaceful week and a half with you by his side, enjoying his life without any other nonsense for once.

Katsuki likes summer—and he’s going to like it a hell of a lot more when he puts a shiny ring on your finger when you say yes to being his wife in just a little bit.

“Here,” you hand him your body wash, “if you’re going to waste my freshly applied skincare, you better make it worth my while. You do the work.”

“Not a problem—anything for my lazy fuckin’ sunshine. You deserve to be pampered,” he agrees smoothly, chuckling when you throw your loofa at his chest. 

“Lazy?”

“S’what I said,” he hums easily. “Glad to know your ears still work.”

“You take that back, you asshole—mmph!”

He cuts you off with a kiss. It’s a good fucking kiss, he thinks. Warm water is cascading down his back, you’re in his arms and pressed against his chest, your arms are looping around his neck, there’s a scenic ocean view from the small one-way window next to both of you, and your nails do that thing that he loves with the hair at the nape of his neck. This is all that he wants. 

Katsuki can get used to a life like this—in fact, he already is used to a life like this. Ever since you moved in with him two years, three months, and twelve days ago (not that he’s been counting), he’s spent every morning waking up and moving through his routine with you woven into it. 

You in his bathroom, your toothbrush tucked beside his. You at his table while he slides breakfast onto your plate. You in his kitchen, wearing your stupid little apron while you cook as he comes home roughed up after patrol. You on his couch after dinner, legs tucked beneath you as you grade assignments. You in his bed, dragging the blanket he kicked off right back over the two of you while you shiver and complain.

Katsuki is used to this life. He fucking loves it, even. He wants it for the rest of his days. He wants you tangled up in his space, threading yourself through every corner of his existence, and he wants the comfort of knowing the next day will look the same.

So he’s going to marry you. He’s got it all figured out.

Raccoon Eyes helped him pick the ring—it’s exactly what you’d want, according to her. Apparently, she has access to the Pinterest board you’ve had for years. Ponytail Girl took you to get your nails done—something pretty and dainty and perfect for the photos. He was strictly warned not to propose unless your cuticles were in flawless condition. Pink Cheeks dragged you out to pick up a few new outfits, as if you didn’t already have enough clothes. Still, if Katsuki gets to see you in something new, he’s not about to complain. Flat-Face and Shitty-Hair even looked over his speech.

Well. It’s as close to a speech as he’s going to get. Katsuki doesn’t do stupid, sappy bullshit the way people insist he should. It wouldn’t be him. He’s going to tell you what matters off the top of his head—the things he’d never forget. He’s going to tell you that he loves you, and he’s not going to stop. That he’s going to take care of you no matter what. That you’re the only person on this planet who doesn’t drive him up a wall. That you’re worth keeping, worth never letting go of, so you better get used to it and just marry him already.

But since Kirishima insists that Katsuki at least go over the main points first, he sends the idiot a few bulleted outlines just to get him off his back.

More people than Katsuki would prefer already know that this is going to happen. It was supposed to be just Kirishima and Mina, and that was it. Kirishima simply because—well, the annoying bastard is decent enough at advice when it comes to this kind of thing, so Katsuki allows it. Mina simply because he needed someone to approve the ring, and he sure as hell wasn’t going shopping with his hag of a mother.

But the pink-haired fucking gossip ends up running her mouth, and suddenly, everyone comes to him with an opinion of their own.

She’ll be mortified if you let her get engaged with bare nails! 

You can’t let her repeat an outfit for the pictures. They have to be special!

Kirishima says you’re gonna wing your proposal??? C’mon, man, you have to plan what you’re going to say, you gotta make this good!

Katsuki has put a lot into these plans. Took you to that resort across the globe you’ve always wanted to visit, planned out your nails and outfit to match so that the pictures come out flawless, practiced the stupid speech that he didn’t need with Kirishima and Sero against his will, and he’s going to make this proposal good. Better than good. The greatest. Because that’s what he does—he does things the best, and it’s going to stay that way because that’s what you deserve. 

The fucking best that he’s got. 

“Baby,” you pull away from his lips, holding a hand to stop him when he leans back in for more. He grumbles when you do, displeased, and you laugh as you murmur, “As much as I would love to shower with you forever, we have places to be.”

“Yeah, and we got all day to be places,” he insists, hands wandering past your bare hips, grabbing a handful of your ass, and squeezing. 

“You said we’d explore,” you whine, “and I wanna do it before all the other people get there and busy everything up!”

“I’ll shove ‘em out the way,” he offers, grinning when you giggle. 

“Maybe some other time,” you snort, “maybe when you’re not in Japan’s top ten hero rankings and always land on the news. Then, maybe, I’ll entertain that lovely idea of yours.”

“Never let me have any fun,” he complains playfully, grinning as he leans back in to kiss you again. You kiss him back, and fuck—Katsuki wants to be here forever. He never wants summer to end, and he wants this for the rest of his damn days. 

He almost wonders if retiring this young is a plausible option for him when you slip your tongue into his mouth and run it against his. 

His cock is half hard already—he can feel the way it presses against you, and you move your thigh, bringing it up to rub against him and make him groan. He rolls his hips for a moment, grinding against your skin as he grows to full hardness. He doesn’t have to touch you to know that you’re dripping between your legs, not because of the shower but because of him. And he takes a little bit of pride in that. In knowing that just him and his lips on yours is enough to turn you into a pliant, needy mess in his arms. 

“Katsuki,” you try to warn. 

“Jus’ let me have my fun,” he smirks, “you know you want it. We have time.”

—————

The shower takes a bit longer than expected. But not too long—you and Katsuki are still on schedule for the day he’s planned, so he’s not worried. 

You’re still in the bathroom getting ready when Katsuki is getting dressed. He grins to himself at the thought of you doing your makeup and dolling yourself up just for him. He’s going to kiss you senseless with that lip gloss of yours smeared all over his mouth once you let him slide the ring he picked onto your finger.

He reaches into the pocket of the last pair of pants he wore to grab the small box that currently holds the most valuable thing he owns. His old hag of a mother nagged him not to keep it on him like that—that he’d lose it, or accidentally expose it, or absentmindedly throw it through the wash. He doesn’t listen, of course. Mainly because he never listens to the hag, but also because he refuses to keep that ring anywhere but within reach of his own two hands. He needs to know it’s there at all times or he’ll lose his damn mind.

So, like he always does, he grabs yesterday’s pants and reaches into the right pocket, ready to move the familiar velvet box into the pocket of the pair he’s wearing now.

Except when he reaches in, the pocket is empty. He stills. His pocket is fucking empty. 

No, it isn’t, he thinks, trying to keep a level head—it’s in there. Of course, it is. There’s nowhere else it’ll be, so he just needs to check again. His fingers sweep through the pocket again, slower this time, then harder, pressing into the seams as if the box might be tucked into some hidden corner of fabric. Some secret pocket within his pocket that was always there, and he just never noticed. 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Katsuki curses under his breath and checks the left pocket. Then the back pockets. Then he turns every single pocket he’s got inside out. Then he gives the pants a sharp, thorough shake like his life depends on it.

Nothing. Still absolutely fucking nothing.

From the bathroom, you’re still humming softly to yourself, the faucet running for a moment before clicking off. Your makeup bag zips open, then shut. You’re completely, blissfully unaware of his growing dilemma. 

His pulse spikes so hard it feels like there’s an explosion behind his ribs.

No. No, no, no. He had it. He confidently knows he had it. Last night, before bed, he checked for it—just like he always checks for it. He remembers the shape of the box against his palm. Remembers putting the pants over the chair. Did he take it out? No. He wouldn’t do that. Would he? Did he? He can’t think straight, his mind a busy swarm of worst-case scenarios and nightmare possibilities. 

“Babe?” you call through the bathroom door. “Is my lip gloss in my purse? Can you check? I don’t think it’s in my bag.”

Shit. The last thing he needs right now is you coming out while he searches for this fucking ring that he knows he had in this room as of last night before bed. Where the hell could it have gone within the few hours he slept? It’s a ring. Sure, weird and unnatural things happen—he causes explosions at will with his palms, for crying out loud, but it’s a damn ring. Weird and unnatural enough things do not happen that his ring could have grown legs and run off. 

“No!” The answer comes out far too loud. He cringes when he hears his own voice and clears his throat. “No, baby, s’not here. Keep lookin’.”

Silence for a beat. Then, “Um...okay?”

Katsuki drops to the floor and looks under the bed. Nothing but dust and an old pair of slippers from previous guests. He checks beneath the chair, under the dresser, behind the nightstand. He yanks the sheets half off the mattress, searching for the familiar sight of velvet that he knows deep in his heart is not going to be there, lying between wrinkled sheets.

But he checks anyway, and sure enough, nothing. His breathing turns shallow.

“Babe, I found my lip gloss,” you call, “right under my nose, too. It was in the bag that I was looking. I think I’m going crazy.”

“That’s good, baby,” he says, not paying proper attention, “you wear that gloss.”

If only he could find what he’s looking for, too—he really will go crazy if he doesn’t. 

Maybe it fell in the suitcase. That has to be it—right? He lunges for the luggage, unzipping it so fast that the zipper almost rips right off from his force. Clothes get flung over his shoulder in frantic handfuls—shirts, pants, socks, boxers, toiletries, charger cords. Still no box. From the bathroom comes the pop of a makeup compact closing. You’re still humming, still taking your sweet time as you get ready, and he really hopes that you’ll take a long fucking time today. He’ll never, ever complain about you taking long ever again if you just take as much time as you need today, of all days, when he needs you to, for once. He needs you to continue having no clue that the single most important object in his life has apparently vanished into thin air.

Katsuki straightens, hands flying to his chest as he tries to force air into his lungs. 

Think, moron, he says to himself in his head. He had it yesterday. He fucking knows he had it yesterday. He paid for lunch and felt it in his pocket after. He felt for it in the elevator on your way back to your room. He felt for it before bed. He always checks every chance he gets.

So it has to be here. It has to be.

It has to be, because if he somehow lost the ring meant for you—the same ring he spent months choosing, the same ring he’s supposed to slide onto your finger today—he might actually tear this entire hotel room apart with his bare hands, floor by floor, room by room, until he finds what’s his.

“Katsuki?” you call again, a little concerned this time as you hear him rummage around. “You okay out there?”

He stares at the disaster zone already forming around him, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“Fine, sweetheart,” he forces out. “Just couldn’t find my watch, s’all.” Then he drops to his knees and starts searching the floor all over again.

“Lost something too, huh? Feels like everything’s going missing today,” you laugh from the bathroom. 

No kidding, he almost says. And then, because apparently the universe needs to hate him more than it already does, the bathroom door clicks open.

Katsuki’s head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

You step out looking beautiful—you are so, so painfully beautiful. You and your pretty new outfit with those pretty little nails and those pretty lips that are glossy exactly the way he’d imagined they’d be when he’d get to kiss them. You look so perfect, so ready to be asked to be his wife—and yet, here he is. No ring, and his plans all but turned upside down.

Your gaze drifts over the room he’s practically destroyed, glancing at the overturned suitcase, the sheets half-hanging off the bed, the clothes strewn across the mattress, the pockets of his pants from last night inside out, the drawers wide open, and Katsuki crouched on the floor near the nightstand with his expression looking like he is one second away from going unconscious.

You blink once. Then twice. Then you walk over to him.

“Oh no,” you say, frowning, “you still didn’t find your watch?”

He rises to his feet so quickly that it almost makes his head spin. “Nah. Got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup. Nothing to worry about.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Then why were you on the floor?”

“I was stretching.”

“Katsuki.”

“Just warmin’ up and getting my blood flowing—what’s so weird about that?”

“Warming up for what, exactly?”

“For the day,” he says, giving you his best face that says, isn’t it obvious? Like you asked a stupid question, and you’re the one who’s being weird. 

You stare at him for a long, silent moment, then glance down at his empty wrist that most definitely doesn’t have the watch he claims to have found. He wants to kick himself—you’re seeing right through his frantic lie. 

“Okay…” you say slowly, “so then why aren’t you wearing your watch if you found it, Katsuki?”

His eye twitches, and his jaw grits, and he just really wants to go home if he’s being honest. Summer is over. It’s ruined. There’s no going back from this, so he might as well just give up for now. He’ll try again next year—he’ll be more prepared and listen to his old hag of a mother for once and swallow his pride to admit she was right. All he wants to do is just go home and sleep for a week and forget this whole thing ever happened. 

“You sure are askin' a lotta questions this morning,” he says tightly.

You take a few slow steps toward him, studying his face. He knows he looks awful—that you’ll see right through him and his cracking composure. His jaw is tight. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. His breathing is just slightly off. He’s avoiding looking directly at you, which alone is enough to tell you something is deeply wrong. And you know him better than anyone. Usually, he’s grateful for it—but sometimes, at times like this, he couldn’t hate it more. 

You see right through him. 

“Katsuki.” Your voice softens. “What happened?”

“Nothing fucking happened. Who said anything happened?”

“Something definitely happened.”

“Nothing happened,” he repeats, firmer this time. “I’m fine. Room’s gonna be fine—room service’ll clean it. Everything’s fine. We’re leavin’ in five.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you argue, giving him a rather defiant look. He knows that look—that look that’s as stubborn as he is himself. You’re not going to drop this. 

“I’m not lying—”

“You are. Bakugou Katsuki, don’t take me for a fool, you hear? I’m not an idiot, so just tell me what’s going on, or I’m not leaving this hotel room.”

He rubs a hand down his face and turns away from you before you can see the panic written all over him. The despair. The heartbreak, truly—he’s absolutely devastated. If he leaves this vacation without the certainty that you’re going to be his wife, he thinks he might not even live long enough to make it to next summer so that he can try again. He’ll die of heart failure before then.

And it has to be summer. He refuses to go back home and squeeze some proposal into a random weekend just for the hell of it. It has to be perfect. It has to be meticulously planned. It has to be your favorite season, with the best plans and flawless execution. It has to be everything you deserve and more. It has to happen when the two of you can actually celebrate it together—not spend one night happy only to be thrown right back into your whirlwind lives the next morning with patrol this and extra lessons that.

And he was so close—so fucking close to making it happen. 

You’re here, you’re dressed, you’re absolutely perfect, and you’re ready to go. But he doesn’t have the ring. How could he be so useless that he couldn’t even keep a single ring safe? 

This is the most helpless he’s ever felt—the moment he’s been planning for months is slipping right through his fingers like sand. The reservation he made. The beach spot he picked out. The speech he definitely did not need and definitely did not rehearse in the shower like a fucking loser. Every part of today has been planned down to the second, and now he can’t even follow his perfect plan because he doesn’t have the one thing that matters.

You know him well, and just like he figured you would, you’ve pieced together that something is seriously wrong as you move closer, voice gentler now. “Hey. Kats, look at me.”

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t say anything. Your hand grabs his and tugs him towards you as you hug him from behind, rubbing up and down his abdomen in that soothing way that you always do. He melts against his will. 

“Katsuki. Baby.”

He slumps back and sighs.“What?”

“You’re scaring me a little.”

That makes him deflate even more. “Don’t be scared. S’nothing to worry over.”

“Well, I always worry over you, and I especially worry when you leave our hotel room a disaster scene,” you poke his belly. 

He still says nothing.

Your voice softens impossibly more. “Baby...just tell me what’s wrong. We can figure it out together—I’ll buy you a new watch if that’s what you’re sad over. It’s a watch! I know you liked it, but hey—material possessions are temporary, okay?”

“S’not the watch,” he mumbles.

“Then what is it? Tell me.”

For a fleeting second, he almost does. He almost tells you and just gets it off his chest, almost blurts the whole thing out, almost says: I lost your ring. I lost the ring I was gonna propose with, and I ruined everything. You’d know what to do. You’d make it better. You’d fix it like you always do. But he doesn’t want you to fix it—he wants to make things good for you, for once. You’re always fixing his fucking mistakes. Always dealing with his disasters and dealing with his nonsense. Katsuki knows he’s not easy to deal with. He knows you’re a saint for putting up with him. So he sighs, ready to swallow down the words, tell you everything is fine, and make sure you have a good time tonight—and for the rest of this trip, too, for that matter. 

“S’nothing, okay? C’mon, we have a good time ahead of us—I’m one hell of a planner, baby,” he says as he turns, pulls you into his arms, throws on his best smug grin, and kisses your forehead. 

—————

Katsuki is lying to you. 

You know that he is. When you come out of the bathroom and see your hotel room an absolute mess, you know something weird is up. Katsuki hates messes—hates when something is out of place for longer than five minutes. He grumbles about your stray hoodies thrown about the apartment and the way you have so many pillows on the bed just to toss them to the floor when you get ready to sleep. He huffs when you don’t clean as you cook and save everything for the end, messing up the kitchen to make one meal. He gives you a flat look when you have empty coffee cups in the cup holders of your car and throws them all away himself with an exasperated shake of his head. 

Katsuki hates messes. He’s not messing up your room, then leaving it a mess without cleaning up unless something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.

But he won’t tell you. You know he won’t tell you until he decides that he can, and sometimes, he might even decide that it will never happen. Getting Katsuki to tell you anything before he decides to is like pulling teeth—except you’ve never met such a stubborn fucking tooth that won’t budge. 

When he tells you, S’nothing, okay?, and turns around to give you a kiss on your forehead as if that will just make you forget, you’re mildly insulted. But he’s on vacation, too—he’s on the rare time off that he lets himself take once a year for a week and a half at most, and you want it to be good for him. Need it to be good for him. You need him to have a good time and enjoy himself because summer, with you, is the one time he lets himself be selfish and do what he wants. He ignores phone calls and emails, and he even sleeps in after staying up late. 

You know he’s lying, but you decide if that will keep him happy, if just for a week and a half, then you’ll let him lie and hide the truth and forget about whatever it is that’s got him so panicked. 

“You’re sure it’s nothing?” You kiss his jaw. 

He relaxes, shoulders slumping as you drop it. “Yeah, I’m sure. Now let’s go. You look hot, by the way—m’gonna rip that skirt right off’a you when we get back.”

“Don’t even think about it,” you huff, “Ochako spent a long time planning this outfit. She’ll be so sad if it doesn’t make it back.”

Ochako has never been so particular about your outfits before—you’ve never shopped with her at such fancy stores, either. She is never one to spend money on excessively expensive things, but for some unknown reason, she’d insisted that your dream vacation spot requires just as dreamy of a wardrobe, and you let her entertain her whims. A part of you wonders if it’s because she’d never dare take herself on such a nice trip or wear such nice clothes even if her paycheck now more than allows it of her, so you let it happen for the sake of allowing your friend to indulge a little, even if it’s not for herself. 

Katsuki huffs out a rather strained chuckle at your comment. “Leave it to Pink Cheeks to ruin my fuckin’ fun,” he grumbles. But he’s distracted. You can tell. “She hangs out with that nerd too much.”

You’re just about to correct him for what feels like the millionth time over the years—their names are Ochaco and Izuku, Katsuki. You’ve known them long enough to get it right by now. 

But then your eyes focus on the floor behind him at something. Your blood runs cold when you squint and get a better look—because if you’re not mistaken, and you’re pretty sure you aren’t, you’re looking directly at a tiny velvet box half-hidden beneath the edge of the dresser.

Your eyes flick from the box to the inside-out pockets on the pants that lay about. To the overturned suitcase. To the half-stripped bed. To the sweat at his temples. To the look in his eyes that feels like the world is ending over something he refuses to tell you about. And then back to the small velvet box peeking out from beneath the dresser. 

You have a sick feeling you know exactly what’s in the box—and suddenly, it all feels so…so obvious. How did you ever miss it? The way Yaomomo insisted on getting your nails done together. How she insisted on picking for you what to get, on matching your nails to hers—oh please, let’s just match this once together! The way Mina seemed so interested in your rings, trying them on as she rummaged through your jewelry and asked, oh my gosh, I think we’re the same size…what’s your ring size? The way Ochako grabbed your hands and stared at your nails as she’d complimented them with such satisfaction before planning your outfit accordingly—you have to have at least one fancy outfit for the trip, don’t you think?

Everything clicks into place so suddenly, it almost leaves you breathless.

The way he’s so panicked. The way he tore your room upside down. The way, even before all of that, he insisted on this trip being so carefully planned. 

Oh—it hits you all at once. Oh. 

Your heart gives one hard, dizzying thud against your chest. Then it starts pounding so loudly, your ears feel like they’re ringing. 

Katsuki is talking, saying something about how you need to grab a jacket and the air will be chilly when the sun sets at the beach, and he’s not going to share his like he always does this time. “Hey,” he huffs, “are you even listening—”

You step around him quietly, paying him no mind. He stops mid-sentence, brows knitting as he watches you crouch near the dresser. Your fingers reach beneath the edge of the wood and come back holding the little velvet box. And just like that, silence drops over the room—his words cut off mid-sentence. 

Katsuki goes completely still.

You straighten slowly, box cradled gently in your palm like something fragile and delicate. Like the wind will blow it away if you’re not careful. Like you can’t bear to lose this one thing you’re holding. His face drains of color as it pales, and his shoulders sag as if someone cut the strings holding him upright.

For the first time since you’ve known Bakugou Katsuki, for the first time in the years and years you’ve loved him and seen him through every lens and angle possible, he looks utterly, completely, spectacularly defeated.

You glance at the room again—at the chaos, the evidence of a frantic search, the proof of how badly he’d been spiraling trying to find this box that he’d been carrying around for you. Then you look back at him. At your Katsuki—your angry, grouchy, gruff Katsuki who loves you so carefully, so delicately, so effortlessly, he teaches you a whole new side of love that you never knew of. 

Your chest aches with fondness, and your eyes feel that familiar sting at the back of them that you try to fight back. 

You take a step closer, voice quiet as you murmur, “Kats...” Another step. One more. He’s stiff, and his jaw is clenched as he keeps his gaze fixed on the box in your hands. You lift the box slightly between you. “Is this what you were looking for?”

His eyes close as he lets out a shaky breath. A rough exhale leaves him through his nose, and you’ve never quite heard him sound so helpless. 

“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely, rubbing his temple. “I…fuck—yeah, sweetheart. That’d be it.”

You fight back a watery smile. “It was under the dresser.”

“I can see that.”

“I think you were too frazzled and missed it.”

“I’m painfully aware.”

“It’s okay—it happens to the best of us, baby. We all lose things.”

His eyes crack open into a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You wanna keep rubbin’ it in or are you done?”

You can’t help it—you laugh softly, stepping into his personal space and bringing a hand against his chest, rubbing slow circles. His heartbeat is still pounding wildly beneath your palm.

“You were planning to propose?”

He looks away immediately. “No. Who the fuck said that—you see a box and think I’m gonna get on my knees for you? Don’t get so confident—”

“Katsuki.”

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Can’t you just let me have this? Fuck—yes, I was going to propose. Happy? Wanna hear my speech too, just so you’re in the loop?”

“I mean, if you’re offering,” you shrug playfully.

His head slumps forward to your shoulder as he hugs you close. Hugs you tight and close like the proximity is the only thing keeping him together. “Be quiet.”

You turn your head and kiss his temple, letting him stay like that for a few moments before stepping away. Before he can protest as you pull back, you lift his hand and place the small box carefully into it, curling his fingers around it.

“Here,” you murmur. “I found your watch.”

“What the fuck are you saying—”

“Put your watch on and hurry up, we’re already twenty minutes behind schedule, and you said we have lots to do before our dinner reservation.”

You turn on your heel, stepping over the clothes on the floor like they’re not even there. Behind you, there’s a long stretch of silence. Then, “...You cannot be serious.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s still standing where you left him, the velvet box clenched in one hand, staring at you as if you’ve grown two heads.

“What now?” you give him a flat look.

He gives you a look right back. “There’s no point in actin’ like it’s still a surprise, idiot.”

You blink, looking almost convincingly confused. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrow as he scoffs. “Don’t start this shit.”

He’s pocketing the ring, though. That dejected look on his face is gone and…and you would almost dare to say he’s fighting back a grin as he walks over to you. You reach for your perfume and spritz your wrists as you hum, “I’m not starting anything. Anyway, do I look okay?”

“Woman, you can’t be real.”

“Katsuki, I’m being very real.” You mimic right back, smiling sweetly at him as you gesture to your outfit. “How do I look?”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Beautiful. You fucking know that—you make everyone else look hideous.”

“Maybe we don’t have to put others down when you compliment me,” you scold.

“I’m just telling it like it is,” he snickers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against him as he kisses you. Hard. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Your lips on his, your body against him, and your head cradled in his palms. You bring your hands up to bury into his unruly tufts of hair, and in a few hours, there will be a cool, metal band on one of the fingers that so regularly tangles into his hair. 

You can hardly wait.

“You’re wasting time,” you breathe as you pull away, lip gloss smeared against your lips and his, “Now we’re twenty-five minutes behind schedule.”

“Then move it, smartass. We’re burnin’ daylight,” he says, and when he drags you through the doors and takes you outside, when the sun hits his skin and his eyes meet yours, you think about how it’s summer. You like it when it’s summer. 

Summer is when Katsuki is going to ask you to be his wife, and summer is when you will say yes. Summer is when you’re going to spend the rest of your life with Bakugou Katsuki.

READ THE PROPOSAL HERE!

Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.

And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.

Class A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class A routine meet-up.

If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?

That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.

You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.

You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.

“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.

You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.

“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”

“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”

Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else. 

If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”

“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.

“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.

You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.

Huh.

You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.

As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.

First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.

And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”

“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”

He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”

Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.

At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”

You pause.

“What?” you blink.

He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”

You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”

You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.

“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”

“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.

Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”

“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.

You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.

“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.

His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.

The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.

He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.

“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.

”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.

”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.

His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.

”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.

”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”

You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”

You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?

You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”

”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.

”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”

Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.

Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.

The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.

Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.

It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.

The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.

Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.

But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.

That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.

And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.

You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.

The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.

(If anything, you hope it will.)

You clear your throat. “So.”

He doesn’t look at you. “So?”

“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.

He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”

“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”

Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.

Holy fuck.

“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?

“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”

He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”

“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”

“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”

“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”

“He said you don’t take breaks.”

“I don’t need breaks.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”

That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”

You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” he mutters.

Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.

For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.

The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.

He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”

You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”

“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.

“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.

Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”

You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”

“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”

“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”

He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”

You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”

If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.

He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.

So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.

“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”

“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”

You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”

“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”

“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”

“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”

“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”

“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”

“So then what’s the big deal?”

You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”

Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”

“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”

“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.

It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“W-what?” you stutter.

“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”

It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.

Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little. 

But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.

If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares. 

Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you. 

—

When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”

You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally. 

Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember. 

He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is. 

“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”

“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”

“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”

“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”

He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive. 

“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.

He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”

“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly. 

“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”

“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”

He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”

“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”

“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”

“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”

“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”

You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.

“Hah?” he grunts.

It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple. 

“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”

Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”

You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”

“Then what is?” he shoots back.

You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”

Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.

You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.

“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”

“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”

He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”

“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”

Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)

But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”

And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.

But then he takes you by surprise.

“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”

You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”

Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.

“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”

All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.

“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile. 

He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.

“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.

You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.

“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.

“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”

You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.

“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.

He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too. 

You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.

“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.

What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same. 

So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.

“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here. 

“You’re still staring,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.

“Then stop staring.”

“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”

“I think you were staring.”

“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”

“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”

“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”

You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”

“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”

You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”

“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.

You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”

It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded. 

He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was? 

You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.

“Bakugou—”

“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.

You blink. “What?”

“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it. 

And then he leans in.

He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you. 

You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so. 

And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.

Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”

“You just kissed—” 

You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”

You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.  

And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly. 

It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.

It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do. 

“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”

“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.

He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”

He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.

“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.” 

He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance. 

“Hey—”

“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”

Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple. 

“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored. 

Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.

He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts. 

You nod quickly as you breathe heavily. 

He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”

That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles. 

“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”

“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”

He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.

“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—

“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”

“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”

He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.

It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.

Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”

“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”

“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”

“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.

And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.

Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.

Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.

You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.

“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.

You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.

“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.

“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”

“Then do it, baby.”

You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.

You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”

When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.

“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”

He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”

He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”

“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”

“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.

“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.

“Eat you out?”

“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.

He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.

Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”

“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”

“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”

“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff. 

To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”

You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”

In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.

It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely. 

And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him. 

And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”

“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts. 

It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him. 

It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything. 

At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy. 

You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks. 

You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over. 

“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.

“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back. 

Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive. 

You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him. 

“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused. 

“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”

You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit. 

“Be quiet,” you warn.

“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”

“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”

That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”

He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient. 

For him—just for him, you’ll be patient. 

“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”

“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving. 

It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good. 

“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”

“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”

Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips. 

Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily. 

“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”

“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”

“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”

“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”

“Only me, huh?”

“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you. 

Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more. 

Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to. 

You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for. 

“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it. 

“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”

“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”

“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”

He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.

It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.

It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him. 

“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”

“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say. 

“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”

And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it. 

“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”

“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble. 

He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more. 

You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.

—

When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.

Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).

One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”

You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him. 

“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”

“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”

“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.

He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”

“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”

“Nope,” you answer easily. 

You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question. 

“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”

You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you mumble. 

“Great. Go out with me, then.”

You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”

“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”

“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”

“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”

“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”

“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”

Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.” 

“That was a demand, not a question.”

“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”

“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”

Class A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki. 

—

One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡

Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready

Ochaco: absolutely! 

Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap

Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys. You: holy fuck. guys… You: i slept with bakugou last night

Mina: WHAT?

Toru: WHAT?

Tsu: WHAT?

Kyoka: WHAT?

Momo: WHAT?

Ochako: WHAT?

Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW

You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN

Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too

Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P 

You: [ one attachment ]

Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK

Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!

Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO

Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him

Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?

Toru: never lol let’s be real

You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him

Mina: oh god it begins

Toru: she’s already making excuses for him

Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??

Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?