zoerumi is my comfort ship of the polytrix like don't get me wrong I LOVE polytrix (I'm currently reading fics and making mine 🤭🤭) but zoerumi just hits different for moi

One shot, 1.5k ,2k words.

AN:How do i get more people to see my fics?😅💔

“You want me to be your what?” you ask, blinking. Bakugo scowls at the floor like you personally insulted his bloodline. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, jaw tense.

“I said—pretend girlfriend. Just for this weekend. While my mom’s in town.”

You stare. “You want me to fake date you?” A snicker leaves her mouth. He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “She won’t get off my ass about ‘being alone forever’ and ‘being to fucking mean for anyone’ If I show up without someone, she’ll try to set me up with some random girl from her gym class or some shit.”

“And I’m your solution?”

“You’re not ugly,” he snaps. “And we hang out. It’s believable.”

You blink slowly. “Did Bakugo just compliment ME?!”

“Shut up,” he growls, ears turning red.

It starts simple.

He picks you up wearing a black button-down and jeans, hair styled just enough to look like he didn’t try (he definitely did). You sit beside him in the train, your thighs brushing. You expect him to pull away.

He doesn’t. “You nervous?” you tease, nudging him.

“Tch. The only thing I’m worried about is you blowing our cover.”

You scoff. “Oh please. I’m the best fake girlfriend you’ll ever have.”

He mutters something like “Tch whatever.” and looks out the window.

Mitsuki Bakugo opens the door with a hand on her hip, blonde hair up in a messy bun, apron smudged with flour and what might be chili oil. She squints at you before even saying hi.

“So you’re the one he brought?” she says, sharp eyes raking you up and down — not unkind, but definitely assessing. “You got better taste than I thought, Katsuki.”

Bakugo groans. “Ma, can we not do this the second we walk in?”

You offer a polite smile. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Bakugo.”

She waves it off. “Call me Mitsuki. ‘Mrs. Bakugo’ makes me sound like I’m in a damn retirement home.” he turns around and yells toward the kitchen, “Masaru! The kid actually brought someone this time!”

A gentle voice answers from the living room, “That’s great, sweetheart!”

You glance at Bakugo. He’s already scowling like he regrets everything.

You sure can see where bakugo gets his attitude and looks from.

⸻

The table is small but warm — worn wood, wood chairs, a pot of spicy curry in the center. Mitsuki moves fast, refilling glasses, barking orders like it’s a battlefield. “You gonna serve your girlfriend or just sit there like a lump, Katsuki?” she snaps, pointing at the rice bowl.

“Chill the hell out, woman, I got it,” he mutters, grabbing the ladle and dishing food onto your plate.

You try not to laugh at the dynamic. “You two always like this?”

Mitsuki snorts. “Oh, this is tame. Ask him what he did to my oven in junior high.”

Bakugo slams his chopsticks down. “That was one damn time! Already fucking apologized.” he mutters low.

“You nearly blew the damn wall off!” she barks, and then turns to you sweetly. “Anyway. How long have you two been together You and Bakugo exchange a glance. The plan was vague. He looks at you like, well?

You fake a soft smile and lean in slightly. “About two months.”

Mitsuki raises an eyebrow. “And how the hell did that happen?” You’re about to answer, but Katsuki speaks first.

“She’s not annoying,” he mutters. “That’s how.” Your brows lift, but you go with it.

“He walked me home after training. We talked. It just… worked.”

Mitsuki eyes him suspiciously, then turns to you. “So what’s your quirk?”

You explain, and she nods along. “Smart. Versatile. Better than this hothead’s walking bomb act.”

Katsuki huffs. “Tch. My quirk’s top-tier, and you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mister Number-Two-Ranked-Teenager-In-That-Damn-Magazine,” she mocks. “Big deal. Still can’t do your laundry right.” You almost choke on your water. Bakugo slams his cup down, red creeping up his neck.

“You really gotta do this in front of her?”

Mitsuki shrugs. “If she can’t handle a little teasing, she shouldn’t date a Bakugo.”

She narrows her eyes at you.

“You got guts, though. I like that.”

you grin. “Thanks. I like him. Even when he’s a grump.”

Bakugo mutters, “I’m right here.”

⸻

Later, while she’s clearing the table and bickering with her husband about how he loads the dishwasher wrong, Katsuki leans closer.

“You’re way too good at this,” he mumbles. You raise an eyebrow. “What, fake dating?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, almost… tense. “Makes it feel real.”

You open your mouth to answer — but Mitsuki interrupts. “Oi, lovebirds! You staying for dessert or sneaking off to do god-knows-what?”

Bakugo yells back, “We’re not doing anything, you nosy hag!”

she cackles like it’s the best joke she’s heard in years.

You glance at Bakugo. He’s red-faced, glaring at the floor, but his hand brushes yours under the table. Just briefly. You don’t say anything about it. But you feel it.

It’s late. You’re walking through quiet city streets. He hasn’t said a word since dinner. “You okay?” you ask.

He grunts. “You’re a pain in the ass.” You bump your shoulder into his. “You liked it.” He stops walking. You turn and he’s staring at you.

Hard.

“What?” you ask, half-laughing. “Do I have something on my face?” His jaw clenches. His eyes drop to your mouth.

“No,” he says. “Just thinking how easy you made that look. Like it was real.” The air gets tight. Your stomach flips.

“It’s supposed to look real,” you say, quietly. “That was the deal.”

“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t feel like it.” Your breath catches.

He looks away first. “Never mind.” You both say nothing the entire way back. But when you reach your hallway, he stops you with a hand on your wrist. You look down at where he’s touching you like it’s fragile. It’s the softest he’s ever touched you.

“I’m not gonna ask you to keep pretending,” he says, voice low, rough. “But… if any of that felt real to you too…”

You step closer. “It did.” He lets out a shaky breath like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

The he grabs your face and kisses you. It’s not gentle. It’s months of tension, every sarcastic comment, every brush of fingers and late-night walk, every time he looked at you and thought fuck, I like her too much.When he pulls away, he mutters against your lips: