#morrocanbeeut

"I'm just tryna see the screen..." You playfully remarked. You both know deep down that's not the real reason you're doing this. You start to slowly move around in his lap, intentionally grinding your clothed core against his hard member. This was his breaking point.

A slight grunt emerged from Katsuki's mouth— and his fingers that were controlling his controller, twitched — causing him to miss a target in the game. "Yo Bakugo, you good man?" Kirishima asked. It was unusual for Bakugo to be messing up and even more unusual for him not to be screaming about it.

"You got a fuckin' death wish or are you just desperate for my attention?" Your boyfriend quietly says to you. He grabs your wrist, pulling you to face him in his lap. Your legs are on either side of his waist and your arms on his shoulders — God this couldn't get any better for him. You try your best to hide your smirk as this was exactly what you wanted.

"I'm tryna be fucking nice, but you keep rubbing up on me like a little bitch in heat." Your hands travel to behind his neck as you lightly grasp at his baby hairs, looking deep into his eyes. "Maybe that's what i wanted."

Katsuki abruptly stands up with you in his arms and your legs around his waist. You yelp as you didn't expect the sudden movement, but is paired with giggles. "Extras, im loggin off." He says quickly as an effort to get to ravaging you as quick as possible.

He carried you to his bedroom and drops you onto his bed — your hair is all over the place and your tank top is drooping down to slightly expose your breasts.

He goes over to the side of his room, rummaging through his hero gear. "What are you getting, babe?" You ask slightly confused. What sort of hero gear would help you in your shared sex fantasies — but then again, he's one kinky guy.

"Getting this" The tone in his voice had a hint of confidence and almost smugness as he pulled out a long black strip of fabric.

Katsuki approaches the bed with that familiar swagger, but when his fingers brush your wrist to position it, you feel the tremor there — just barely, just enough to betray how badly he's been wanting this. He clears his throat, rough and low.

"Arms up," he commands.

You obey, stretching your arms toward the headboard. He wraps the thick black fabric around your wrists — once, twice, tight enough to hold but not hurt — and secures the ends to his bedframe with practiced efficiency.

"Too fucking pretty," he mutters, almost to himself. His eyes track from your bound wrists down to your exposed collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the way your breathing has gone shallow. He stands there for a moment, just staring, his jaw working like he's trying to keep himself in check. "No idea what you do to me. Drives me fucking insane."

He turns abruptly, moving to his bedside drawer. You hear rummaging, then the heavy sound of something being set on the nightstand. When he turns back, he's holding a sleek black wand, cord trailing behind it, and a bottle of lube. "Where'd you find that?" You laughed.

"Saw this online," he says, not meeting your eyes as he plugs it into the wall. "Thought it was excessive." He finally looks at you, and his expression makes your stomach flip — hungry, desperate, barely restrained. "Guess we're finding out."

He climbs onto the bed, prowling up your body until he's kneeling between your spread legs. He doesn't touch you yet. Just holds the wand where you can see it, clicks it on. The low buzz fills the room.

"Beg for it," he says, voice dropping to something dangerous. "Show me how desperate you actually are."

"Please," you whisper — perfectly happy to oblige as your pussy is throbbing for him.

"Please what?" He drags the vibrator down your stomach, hovering it over your tank top, not quite touching. "Use your words."

"Touch me. Please, Katsuki."

He smirks, and he finally presses the toy against you — over your clothes at first, the fabric damp already from how worked up you are. The sensation hits like electricity, and you cry out, back bowing off the bed against the restraints.

"Fuck," he breathes, watching you writhe. "Look at you. All that bravado and now you're—" he cuts himself off, grinding his jaw, his free hand coming to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. "Been thinking about this. About you like this. Can't focus for shit when you're around."

He keeps the pressure steady, not moving, letting the vibration build. You're getting close fast — too fast — your hips chasing the friction helplessly. He knows. He can feel it in the way you're trembling.

Right before you tip over, he pulls it away.

A whine tears out of your throat — pathetic, broken. He laughs, low and cruel, but his eyes are blown wide, his own hips grinding down against the mattress like he can't help himself.

"Nuh-uh. Not yet." He adjusts himself in his sweatpants, obvious and unashamed. "You don't get to cum until I say. And I'm not fucking saying."

He does it again. Brings you to the edge with the wand pressed hard against your clothed core, his mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point — then stops. Lets you hang there, shaking, tears pricking your eyes.

"Katsuki, please—" you're babbling now, lost to it, "I'm sorry, I'll be good, please—"

"Sorry isn't gonna cut it." But his voice is hoarse, wrecked. He wants to give in. He yanks your tank top up, shoves it above your breasts, and you feel the air on your skin before his mouth closes over your nipple — hot, wet, sucking hard. The wand presses directly against your underwear now, no barrier, and you scream into the pillow.

"Fuck, look at you," he's muttering against your skin, more to himself than you, "so fucking pretty like this, all mine, taking it so good—" He's grinding against your leg now, rutting against you while he works you over with the toy, his sweatpants still on but you can feel how hard he is, how much he needs this.

You're crying now — actual tears, overwhelmed, the pleasure bordering on pain. He sees it, tracks a tear down your cheek with his thumb, and something in his expression shifts. Softens. Goes almost tender, desperate.

"There it is," he whispers, wrecked. "That's my girl. Cum for me. Right now."

He presses harder, angles the vibe just right, and you detonate — back arching, vision whiting out, his name tearing out of your throat in a ragged scream. He watches you the whole time, unblinking, drinking in every spasm, every shudder.

"That was one," he says, and keeps the vibe on your oversensitive clit.

"Katsuki—no—" you're trying to squirm away, wrists pulling against the fabric, but he's got you pinned with his thighs, his hand on your hip holding you down.

"Three more," he commands, voice rough. "Count them."

The second orgasm hits fast — too fast, almost painful, your body jerking against the restraints. "Two," you gasp out, and he makes this sound — low, guttural, like you're killing him.

"Again."

He draws out the third one, cruel now, edging you again just to watch you beg. You're delirious, barely coherent, just making sounds — whimpers and moans and broken versions of his name. When you finally cum, it's wet, messy, your thighs shaking so hard the bedframe rattles.

"Three," you sob.

"One more," he breathes, and he sounds broken now too, control hanging by a thread. "Give me one more, baby. Be my good girl."

The fourth one breaks you. You cum so hard you see stars, your voice giving out, just silent tears and open-mouthed gasps. He finally tosses the vibe aside, shoves his sweatpants down in one rough motion, and slams into you in one thrust — no warning, no hesitation, filling you completely.

You feel him shake — actually shake — as he bottoms out, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Fuck, fuck, you're so tight, so perfect, been thinking about this—" He's rutting into you now, hard and deep and uncontrolled, the bed slamming against the wall. "Can't—fucking—hold it—"

He grabs a fistful of your hair at the base of your skull, yanks your head back to expose your throat, and bites down hard — claiming, marking — as he spills inside you with a groan that sounds torn out of him, hips stuttering, his whole body going rigid.

He collapses on top of you for a second, breathing hard, then immediately pushes himself up — unties your wrists with trembling fingers, massages the marks, presses gentle kisses to the red lines the fabric left behind.

"Okay?" he asks, voice soft now, stripped of all the dominance.

You can't answer. Just nod, weakly, still twitching.

He smirks, but it's fond, satisfied. He draws you into his chest, wraps his arms around you, tangles his legs with yours. "Yeah. That's what I thought." A pause. His hand traces lazy patterns on your hip. "Do it again tomorrow. I fucking dare you."

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You cried out, back arching, fingers tangling in his hair. He was rough — teeth grazing, stubble burning, the leather of his gauntlets cold against your inner thighs. He groaned against you, the vibration making you twitch, and the sound was desperate, like he'd been starving for this all night.

"Fuck, you taste good," he breathed, looking up at you, red eyes blown wide, mouth wet. "Been thinking about this. About you in my bed, touching yourself, getting off without me."

"I'm sorry—"

"Not sorry yet." He pushed two fingers into you, curled them, sucked your clit back into his mouth. You came screaming, thighs clamping around his head, and he didn't stop — kept working you through it until you were shaking, pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive and babbling.

He finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still in full gear, hard as a rock in his pants. "Now," he said, standing, shoving his gear down, "I'm gonna fuck you until you actually are sorry."

You try to pull away. His grip tightens.

"Katsuki," you whisper, "I need to pee."

"Don't care." He hauls you backward with embarrassing ease, your body sliding across the sheets until you're flush against him. "Stay."

He's warm. Uncomfortably, impossibly warm, like lying next to a furnace. You know it's his quirk, the nitroglycerin in his sweat keeping his baseline temperature higher than normal, but in the cocoon of blankets with the heater still kicking, it's almost too much. Almost.

"You're burning up," you murmur, but you don't pull away.

"You're cold," he counters, which is a lie. You're sweating now. But he says it against the back of your neck, his mouth finding your pulse point with the lazy precision of muscle memory. His arm bands around your waist, heavy and possessive, and you feel it then. The hard length of him pressed against your lower back, insistent and unapologetic.

"Seriously?" You can't help the laugh that escapes. "It's six in the morning."

"So?" He doesn't open his eyes. His hair is a disaster, you know without looking. Spiky blond strands sticking in every direction, crushed flat on one side from the pillow. He hasn't brushed his teeth. He probably smells like sleep and anger. "Problem?"

"You've got morning wood and suddenly you're possessive?"

"Not suddenly." His hand slides down your stomach, slow and proprietary, stopping just below your navel. "Always. Just too tired to pretend otherwise."

There's something intoxicating about him like this. Defenses down, filters off, the prickly edges of his personality dulled to a blunt, sleepy hunger. Daytime Katsuki would snarl and posture. Daytime Katsuki would make you beg, would fight for dominance, would turn it into a competition. But this version, the one that exists in the gray space between dreams and consciousness, is honest in a way that startles you.

His fingers drift lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, and you catch his wrist. "Katsuki, we have that meeting at eight. We need to shower, eat, I still need to…"

"Shut up." He nudges his hips forward, grinding against you, and you feel the full-body shudder that runs through him. "Five minutes. Give me five fucking minutes."

It's not a request. It's not even really a demand.

You turn in his arms, facing him, and his eyes slit open. Crimson and hazy, pupils blown wide. He looks wrecked already, lips parted, breath coming in shallow pants, and you haven't even touched him yet.

"You're a mess," you whisper, reaching up to smooth his hair. It springs back immediately, defiant.

"Don't care." He captures your mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and no technique, messy and uncoordinated, his tongue sweeping in without preamble. He tastes like sleep, like the mint toothpaste from last night faded into something uniquely him, and you should care about the morning breath, about the drool on his pillow, about the fact that you both desperately need to shower, but you don't.

You don't care at all.

His hands are everywhere. Rough, impatient, pulling at your underwear until the fabric tears. You gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, growling low in his throat.

"Off," he grunts, shoving the ruined fabric down your legs. "Now."

"Impatient…"

"Been dreaming about you," he cuts in, the admission rough and halting. "All fucking night. Couldn't get deep enough to forget." His hand finds you, fingers sliding through your folds with shocking confidence for someone barely conscious, and he groans when he finds you already wet. "There you are. There you fucking are."

"Katsuki…"

He rolls on top of you, settling between your thighs with the weight and heat of him blanketing you completely. His elbows bracket your head, caging you in a sanctuary of warmth and muscle, and he stares down at you with an intensity that belies his exhaustion.

"Look at me," he demands, even though your eyes are already locked. "Don't close your eyes. Want to see you."

He tears your underwear off with a grunt of impatience, the fabric giving way under his rough hands. The cool morning air hits your exposed skin, making you shiver, but then he's sliding down your body and his heat replaces it. His mouth leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh. He nudges your legs apart with his shoulders, settling between them like he belongs there, and you feel his breath ghost over your sensitive flesh a second before his tongue is on you.

"Fuck," he mumbles against your skin, the vibration making you jerk. "Already wet. Knew you would be."

His first lick is slow, deliberate, from bottom to top with the flat of his tongue, and your head falls back against the pillow with a moan. He's messy about it, unhurried, his stubble scratching your inner thighs as he works you open. He circles your entrance with the tip of his tongue, teasing, before pushing inside, fucking you with shallow strokes that have your hands flying to his hair, gripping the spiky blond strands.

"Katsuki," you gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily, but his hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you still.

"Stay," he orders, his voice rough and muffled. "Let me. Been thinking about this."

He drags his tongue up to your clit, circling it with lazy precision that has you whimpering and rocking against his mouth despite his grip. He sucks the sensitive bud between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, and your vision whites out, your back bowing off the bed. The pleasure is sharp and intense, building too fast, and just as you're about to tip over the edge, he pulls back.

"Don't," you beg, your voice breaking. "Don't stop, I'm so close—"

"I know," he says, looking up at you with those hazy crimson eyes, his chin shining with your arousal. His expression is smug even through the sleep-heavy haze, that familiar arrogant tilt to his mouth. "That's why I'm stopping. Want you out of your mind before I let you come."

He pushes two fingers into you without warning, curling them to find that spot that makes you see stars, and his mouth returns to your clit, sucking hard. You cry out, your hands gripping the sheets, your body trembling as he works you with fingers and tongue, driving you higher and higher only to back off again, keeping you teetering on the precipice. He's relentless, his free hand pinning your hip down when you try to grind against his face, his grip bruising and possessive.

"Please," you sob, tears pricking at your eyes. "Katsuki, please, I can't—"

"Can't what?" He looks up at you again, his lips swollen and wet, his hair sticking up in every direction. "Can't take it? Too much for you?"

"Need to come," you whimper. "Please let me—"

"Not yet." He withdraws his fingers slowly, watching your face as you clench around nothing, and brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that vibrates through your core. "Need to taste you properly first."

He goes back in with renewed enthusiasm, his tongue flattening against you, licking broad stripes that have you thrashing against the mattress. He moans into your flesh, the sound desperate and hungry, like he can't get enough, like he's starving for you. The vibration pushes you closer, your orgasm building again, and this time he doesn't stop. He sucks your clit between his lips and fucks you with his tongue, his nose pressing against your pubic bone, and you're coming with a scream that tears from your throat, your body convulsing, your hands gripping his hair so tight it must hurt.

He doesn't let up, working you through it, lapping at you until you're oversensitive and pushing at his shoulders. "Stop," you gasp. "Katsuki, stop, I can't—"

He pulls back with a satisfied smirk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good?"

"Fuck you," you breathe, still trembling.

"Planning on it." He crawls back up your body, kissing you deep so you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and metallic and intimate. He rolls onto his back, taking you with him, and you find yourself straddling his hips, his cock hard and hot against your ass. "But first," he grunts, his hands guiding you down, "your turn."

You slide down his body, your hands braced on his thighs, and take him into your mouth. He hisses through his teeth, his head falling back against the pillow, his abdominal muscles jumping under your palms. "Fuck. Fuck, just like that."

He's thick and heavy on your tongue, tasting like sleep and salt and him. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, your tongue tracing the vein on the underside of his cock, and he groans long and low, his hips bucking up before he catches himself. "Sorry," he mumbles, his hand finding your hair, not guiding, just holding. "Fuck, sorry, you just—your mouth—"

You pull back slowly, swirling your tongue around the tip, tasting the bead of pre-cum there, and he shudders, his fingers tightening in your strands. "Don't tease," he warns, his voice cracking. "Not this morning. Too close already."

You ignore him, taking him deep again, your hand working the base of what you can't fit, your other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently. He curses, a stream of filth falling from his lips, his hips thrusting up into your mouth in small, uncontrolled movements. "Good girl," he breathes, his eyes half-closed, watching you with that heavy, possessive gaze. "So fucking good for me. Taking all of me like that. You little slut, you love this, don't you? Love having my cock in your mouth first thing in the morning."

You hum your agreement, the vibration making him groan and grip your hair tighter. You set a rhythm, bobbing your head, your tongue working the underside, your hand twisting on the upstroke. He's panting now, his chest heaving, his skin flushed and gleaming with sweat. You can feel him twitching in your mouth, getting closer, and you double your efforts, wanting to push him over, wanting to taste him.

"Stop," he gasps suddenly, tugging at your hair. "Stop, I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"

You pull off with a wet sound, your hand still working his base, and look up at him. His face is wrecked, his eyes blown wide, his lips parted as he pants for breath. "Want you to," you say, your voice rough. "Want to taste you."

"Not like this," he grits out, his hands under your arms, hauling you back up his body. "Want to come inside you. Want to feel you around me when I do."

He kisses you again, filthy and deep, his tongue sweeping through your mouth, his hips bucking up against you, his cock sliding through your folds, teasing, seeking. "Need to be inside you," he demands against your lips, his voice desperate and raw. "Now. Please."

The please does you in. You reach between you, guide him to your entrance, and sink down onto him with a moan that tears from both your throats.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck, you feel…" He cuts himself off with a shaky exhale, his hips twitching in small, aborted movements like he's fighting for control. "So fucking good. Always so fucking good for me."

He starts moving. Slow, rolling thrusts that hit deep, that grind against that spot inside you with devastating precision. He's not rushing, despite what he said about five minutes. He's savoring, his eyes half-closed, his expression slack with pleasure, and you realize with a jolt that he's still mostly asleep. Operating on instinct, on need, on the pure animal part of his brain that knows you belong to him.

"More," you whisper, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Katsuki, please…"

"Got you," he mumbles, his rhythm picking up. "I've got you. Just… just let me…"

His hand finds yours, their fingers intertwining, and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head. The gesture is tender and possessive all at once, and he fucks you with increasing urgency, the bed creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the quiet morning air.

"Close," he grits out, his hips stuttering. "You close? Tell me you're close."

"Yes… yes, I'm…"

"Come with me." It's not a request. It's a command, delivered in that rough, sleep-thick voice. "Now. Right fucking now."

He reaches between you, his thumb finding your clit, and presses down hard as he thrusts deep. So deep you see stars. Your orgasm crashes over you without warning, a wave of pleasure that has you crying out, your body clamping down around him, your back arching so hard it hurts.

He follows immediately, burying his face in your neck, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he groans long and low, spilling inside you with a shudder that wracks his entire frame.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. He stays buried in you, his weight heavy and grounding, his breath hot against your skin. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, slowly evening out, and you run your fingers through his hair, petting him back toward sleep.

"Five minutes," you whisper, "turned into twenty."

"Don't care," he mumbles, already drifting. "Worth it."

You should get up. You should shower, dress, prepare for the day. But his arms tighten around you, his grip possessive even in sleep, and you know he won't let you go without a fight.

he turns his head slowly. raises one eyebrow. the spiky blonde eyebrow that you want to kiss for some unhinged reason. everything about him makes you feral. its a problem.

"the tv is over there," he points. "im over here. youre looking at me."

you shrug. "youre prettier than the fish."

he scoffs but you see it. the little pink creeping up his ears. the way his lip twitches like hes fighting a smile. bakugo katsuki pretending he doesnt love when you say stuff like that. pretending he isnt fully aware that youve been plotting to jump him since you got here three hours ago.

"youre fucking weird," he mutters turning back to the screen.

"you love it," you say.

"whatever."

but you're already moving. youre already sliding across the couch cushions like a gremlin because you have no self control. none. zero. youve been dating for eight months and the novelty should have worn off but instead its gotten worse. you see him and your brain just goes static. just white noise and the word mine repeated on loop.

you drape yourself over his lap. face down. your cheek pressed against his thigh. he doesnt even flinch anymore. this is routine now. you being a menace is just part of the daily schedule.

"what are you doing," he says flatly.

"being comfy."

"youre being annoying."

"same thing."

he exhales through his nose but his hand settles on your back. big and warm and heavy. you want to purr like a cat. you might actually. dignity left the building months ago.

the documentary keeps playing. something about pressure at the bottom of the ocean. seems fitting. you feel like youre being crushed by your own attraction. dramatic but true.

your hand finds his knee. traces little circles there. innocent enough. you can feel him tense.

"stop," he says.

"stop what?"

"that. whatever youre doing."

"im just existing."

"youre existing loudly."

you tilt your head to look up at him. hes still watching the tv but his jaw is tight. his eyes are doing that thing where theyre trying to look anywhere but at you and its so funny. so cute. you want to bite him.

"kat," you whisper.

"no."

"you dont even know what i was gonna say."

"yes i do. you have that voice. that stupid voice you do when youre horny."

"im always horny."

"exactly. my point."

you sit up suddenly. straddle his lap before he can stop you. your hands go to his shoulders and his finally snap to you. red eyes wide. his hands catch your waist automatically because he always does. always catches you even when hes pretending to be annoyed.

"we have a problem," you tell him.

"youre the problem."

"im serious. i think i have a condition."

"what condition."

"being obsessed with you. clinically. like i should see a doctor."

his mouth twitches. "youre ridiculous."

"im so serious right now. i cant focus on anything. i saw a tiktok earlier about some girl saying her boyfriend is too hot and she cant get anything done and i felt so seen. i commented 'real.' i meant it with my whole chest."

"you need therapy."

"maybe. or maybe you need to accept that your girlfriend wants you 24/7 and thats just her brand now."

he rolls his eyes but his hands are squeezing your hips. pulling you closer without him even realizing. you love that. love when his body does the talking because his mouth is too busy being a tsundere disaster.

"youre heavy," he lies.

"because im crushing you with my love."

"thats the cringiest shit youve ever said."

"and yet youre not pushing me off."

he cant argue that. youre both looking at each other now and the documentary is just background noise. white noise. you can see his chest rising and falling faster. see the way his thumbs are rubbing against your sides.

"youre actually insatiable," he says but his voice is lower now. rougher.

"only for you. youre literally my type. blonde and angry and built like a god. i won the lottery and now i have to collect my prize constantly. its economics."

"thats not how economics works."

"it is now. i just invented it."

you lean in. your nose brushes against his neck and he shudders. actually shudders. the big bad bakugo reduced to putty because you breathed near him. the power you wield is terrifying.

"we were supposed to watch the whole documentary," he says weakly.

"and we will. after."

"after what."

you dont answer. you just kiss his throat. right there where his pulse is hammering. he tastes like sweat and that stupid expensive body wash he uses and something thats just him. youre addicted. actually addicted. someone should study you.

his hands slide up your back. one cups the back of your head. fingers in your hair. not pulling yet but you know he wants to. know hes holding back because once he starts he doesnt stop and youve got him right where you want him.

"youre gonna be the death of me," he mutters.

"what a way to go though."

"shut up."

"make me."

he does. he tilts your head back and kisses you hard. teeth and tongue and that desperate energy he always has when he finally gives in. like he was holding his breath underwater and youre the surface. you make this embarrassing noise into his mouth and he swallows it. greedy. always so greedy once he stops pretending.

your phone buzzes somewhere. probably a tiktok notification. probably something youll scroll past later while sitting on his lap in a different position. your camera roll is just pictures of him sleeping and screenshots of your own tweets about how hot he is. youre unwell. happily unwell.

he breaks the kiss to breathe and you immediately go for his neck. sucking a mark there because youre possessive and he lets you. he always lets you. wears your marks like jewelry. like proof.

"you're actually crazy," he breathes out. his hands are under your shirt now. warm against your skin.

"for you? absolutely."

"please never say that again."

"fr fr."

"im breaking up with you."

"no you're not."

"no," he agrees and kisses you again.

the documentary is still playing. something about bioluminescence. how some creatures make their own light in the dark. you think about that later when youre tangled in his sheets and hes tracing patterns on your back. how you feel lit up from inside whenever hes near. how hes your light in the dark even though hed hate that analogy.

"youre thinking something cringe," he says against your hair.

"im thinking i love you."

"thats not cringe."

"you love me too."

"obviously. i put up with your bullshit."

"romantic."

"shut up."

you don't. you never do. you just kiss his chest and tell him about the fish documentary you didnt watch and he pretends to care while playing with your hair. and later when you're both hungry and ordering pizza you'll stare at him across the room and he'll catch you and call you a freak and you'll agree.

because you are. you're a freak for him. unapologetically.

and when the pizza comes and he answers the door in his sweatpants and messy hair you'll take a picture for your private story with the caption "look at him"

you've got it bad. the worst case of down bad syndrome anyone has ever seen. and he loves it. loves you. even when you're crawling into his lap during movie night for the hundredth time.

especially then.

"stop smiling," he says without looking at you.

"im not smiling."

"you are. i can hear it."

"thats just my face."

"your face is annoying."

"youre annoying."

"yeah," he agrees. "we both are. perfect match."

"And blindfold me," you added, your voice steadier than you felt. "Only if you want to. I just thought... maybe we could try something different."

The silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. Katsuki had always been careful with you, despite his explosive reputation. In private, away from the eyes of classmates and colleagues, he was almost painstakingly gentle, as if he were afraid his rough edges might cut you if he wasn't vigilant. You'd felt the restraint in him, the way he held himself back even in his most passionate moments, and you'd wondered what might happen if he stopped holding back.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said finally, his voice low and rough.

"You won't. I'd tell you to stop if it was too much." You reached out, taking his hand in yours. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, and you felt the subtle tremor in his fingers. "I trust you, Katsuki. Completely."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw the war raging behind those sharp red eyes, the desire to possess, to dominate, to take everything you were offering, warring with his deep-seated fear of his own intensity.

"Okay," he breathed out, the word barely audible. "Okay. But you tell me if it's—if I'm too much. Promise me."

"I promise."

He nodded once, sharp and decisive, and pushed off the bed. You watched him rummage through his closet, emerging with two black silk ties, one wider than the other. He stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at you with an expression you couldn't quite read, and for a moment you thought he might call the whole thing off.

"Arms," he said, his voice cracking slightly on the word. He cleared his throat and tried again, firmer this time. "Give me your arms."

You extended your wrists toward him, and he took them gently, almost reverently, his touch feather-light as he wrapped the wider silk tie around them. He was being too careful, you realized—treating you like something fragile that might shatter. The binding was loose, barely restrictive, and when he finished knotting it, he immediately checked the circulation, his thumb brushing over your pulse point.

"Too tight?"

"No," you said softly. "But you can make it tighter. I'm not going to break, Katsuki."

He adjusted the knot, pulling it snug enough that you felt the pleasant pressure, the slight restriction of movement that sent a thrill through your core. When he was satisfied, he reached for the second tie, the blindfold.

"Last chance," he murmured, hovering over you.

"Do it."

The silk settled over your eyes, and he tied it behind your head with careful precision. Darkness swallowed you whole, and immediately your other senses sharpened—the rustle of fabric as he moved, the sound of his slightly elevated breathing, the warmth of his body radiating near yours.

"Fuck," he whispered, and you heard the awe in his voice. "You look—you're just lying there, all…" He trailed off with a shaky exhale.

You waited, listening to him pace at the foot of the bed, his footsteps uneven, hesitant. Minutes ticked by, and you began to worry that he'd frozen up, that the weight of what you'd asked was crushing him.

"Katsuki?" you prompted gently.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here." The mattress dipped as he climbed onto the bed, and you felt his presence hovering above you, the heat of him palpable even without touch. His hand found your ankle, wrapping around it with that same careful gentleness. "I'm gonna—I don't know what I'm doing here."

"Yes, you do," you said, turning your face toward the sound of his voice. "Stop thinking so hard. Just… feel."

He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing idle circles on your ankle. Then, slowly, his grip tightened. Not painfully, but possessively. The shift was subtle at first, a gradual relaxation of the rigid control he always maintained.

"You really want this?" he asked, and there was a new edge to his voice, something darker threading through the uncertainty.

"I really want it," you confirmed, arching your back slightly, offering yourself up to him in the darkness. "I want you to take what you want. Use me."

A low sound rumbled from his chest, not quite a growl, but close. His hand slid up your leg, rough and claiming, no longer tentative. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave, rough and commanding.

"Spread your legs."

You complied, parting your thighs, and he made that sound again, hungrier now. His hands moved with purpose, shoving your shirt up your torso, his palms hot against your skin. He wasn't being careful anymore—his touch was firm, almost bruising, and you gasped at the sudden intensity of it.

"Look at you," he muttered, and you felt his breath ghost over your stomach, then lower. "Already falling apart and I haven't even touched you properly."

"Katsuki—"

"Quiet." The command snapped through the air, sharp and electric. "You don't speak unless I tell you to. You wanted me to take control? Then fucking submit."

Your breath hitched, arousal flooding through you at the sudden shift in his demeanor. This was the Katsuki you had glimpsed in his most unguarded moments, the predator beneath the careful lover, and he was finally letting himself off the leash.

His mouth descended on your inner thigh, biting hard enough to leave a mark, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed. He didn't relent while his teeth dragged against your skin, his hands pinning your hips down when you tried to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

"Stay still," he growled against your flesh. "You wanted this. You wanted me to do whatever I want, so take it."

You forced yourself to go pliant beneath him, your hands tugging uselessly against the silk binding your wrists. The helplessness of it, the complete surrender of control, had you dizzy with need.

He worked his way up your body with brutal thoroughness, leaving bites and bruises in his wake, marking you as his. When he reached your chest, he shoved your shirt and bra out of the way, exposing you completely to the cool air of the room. You felt his gaze like a physical touch, heavy and devouring.

"Perfect little tits," he said crudely, and then his mouth was on you, sucking hard, his teeth grazing your nipple until you were whimpering beneath him. "So sensitive. You like this, don't you? Like being my helpless little toy."

"Yes," you gasped, unable to stop yourself, and he pulled back abruptly.

"I said quiet," he snarled, and then his hand came down on your thigh, a sharp slap that made you jerk against your restraints. The sting bloomed into heat, and you bit your lip to keep from moaning. "You don't get to make noise unless I say so. You don't get to come unless I let you. You're mine right now, every part of you. Mine to use, mine to play with, mine to break."

His words washed over you like molten lava, burning and exquisite. You nodded frantically, your ability to speak stolen by the sheer intensity of his dominance.

"Good girl," he purred, and the praise sent a shiver through you. "Now let's see how wet you are for me. Bet you're fucking dripping, aren't you? Bet you love being tied up like a present, waiting for me to unwrap you and use you however I want."

His hand slid between your legs, shoving your underwear aside, and he groaned when he found you soaked.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathed. "You are a mess. Look at this, absolutely soaked just from being tied up and ordered around. You little slut."

The word should have been insulting, but coming from him—in that rough, reverent tone—it was pure heat. You felt his fingers circle your entrance, teasing, not entering, just gathering your arousal and spreading it over your sensitive folds.

"Please," you whimpered, unable to help yourself.

"Please what?" He sounded amused now, confident in his power over you. "Use your words, slut. Tell me exactly what you want."

"I want you inside me," you begged, your voice breaking. "Please, Katsuki, I need you—"

"Need me?" He laughed, low and dark, and then two fingers plunged into you without warning, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your blindfolded eyes. "You need me to fill this tight little cunt? Need me to fuck you until you can't remember your own name?"

"Yes, yes—"

He set a brutal pace, his fingers working you with expert precision, and you could hear how wet you were, the obscene sounds filling the room alongside your broken moans. He didn't let up, driving you toward the edge with relentless efficiency, and just as you teetered on the precipice, he withdrew completely.

You cried out in frustration, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes behind the blindfold. "Katsuki, please—"

"Not yet," he said, and you heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of his belt hitting the floor. "I want to feel you around me when you come. I want to feel you squeezing my cock like the desperate little slut you are."

The bed dipped as he positioned himself between your legs, and then his hands were on your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. He didn't ease in—he slammed into you in one thrust, filling you completely, and you screamed at the sudden stretch, the overwhelming fullness of him.

"Fuck, fuck, you're so tight," he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "So fucking perfect. Taking all of me like you were made for it."

He didn't give you time to adjust. He pulled back and thrust in again, hard and deep, setting a punishing rhythm that had the bedframe rattling against the wall. You were completely at his mercy, unable to see, unable to touch, only able to feel as he used your body for his pleasure—and yours.

"You feel that?" he grunted, his hips snapping against yours. "Feel how deep I am? You're taking every inch, baby. Such a good little cockslut for me."

His words were filthy, degrading, and they sent you spiraling higher. You could feel the coil tightening in your belly, the pleasure building to unbearable heights.

"Katsuki, I'm gonna—"

"Not yet," he snarled, his hand wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, claiming. "You wait until I say. You come when I let you, understand?"

"Yes," you sobbed, the denial making every thrust feel more intense, more desperate. "Yes, yes, please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come," you begged, your voice raw. "Please, Katsuki, I can't—I need—"

He shifted his angle, hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, and his free hand found your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles. "Then come," he commanded. "Come for me right now, you dirty little slut. Come on my cock."

The permission sent you crashing over the edge, your orgasm tearing through you with violent intensity. You screamed his name, your back arching, your body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you. He didn't stop—if anything, he fucked you harder, chasing his own release, his grip on you bruising and possessive.

"That's it, that's it," he growled, his rhythm faltering. "Take it, take everything, fuck, I'm gonna—"

He buried himself to the hilt, his body going rigid above yours, and you felt him pulse inside you as he came with a guttural groan. He collapsed onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was your mingled breathing, slowly evening out. Then, gently, he reached up and untied your blindfold, letting the silk fall away. You blinked against the sudden light, your eyes finding his face above you.

He looked wrecked—hair matted with sweat, eyes blown wide, lips swollen from biting them. But there was no trace of the nervousness that had plagued him at the start. In its place was a satiated confidence, a possessive satisfaction that made your spent body twitch with aftershocks.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice rough but tender now.

"Hey," you whispered back, smiling up at him.

He reached up and untied your wrists, massaging the circulation back into them with gentle strokes. He pressed kisses to the red marks the silk had left, his touch infinitely careful once more.

"Was that—" He paused, clearing his throat. "Was that okay? Did I go too far with the—"

"It was perfect," you assured him, reaching up to cup his face. "You were perfect."

He turned his head to kiss your palm, his expression softening into something vulnerable and warm. "I was scared," he admitted quietly. "Of hurting you. Of wanting too much."

"I know. But you listened to me. You trusted me to tell you what I needed." You pulled him down for a kiss, slow and sweet. "And I loved every second of it."

He made a low, satisfied sound and settled beside you, pulling you into his arms. "Next time," he murmured against your hair, "I'm gonna make you beg for longer."

Tonight you'd walked in on him by accident. You'd forgotten your phone in the bedroom and swung the door open without thinking, and there he was. Standing in front of the mirror. Shirtless. Staring at his own reflection like he was looking at a stranger.

He'd moved fast. Grabbed a pillow off the bed and held it against his chest, eyes wide and wild. "Get out," he'd snapped, but his voice cracked on the second word.

"I'm sorry," you'd said, backing away, heart pounding. "Katsuki, I didn't mean to—"

"Just get out!"

So you did. You stood on the other side of the closed door and listened to him moving around, frantic, pulling on clothes, and then silence. Heavy silence.

That was two hours ago.

Now you were sitting outside the bathroom again. He'd gone in twenty minutes ago to "brush his teeth" and hadn't come out. The light was still on. You could hear him breathing in there, slow and measured, like he was trying to calm himself down.

You knocked softly. "Hey."

No answer.

"Can I come in?"

"Go to bed," he called back, but he sounded tired. Not angry. Just tired.

"I'm not going to bed while you're in here hiding from me."

"I'm not hiding."

"You've been brushing your teeth for twenty minutes."

Silence.

You pressed your forehead against the door. "Please. Let me in. Or come out. Something."

A long pause. Then: "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because." His voice got small. "Because you'll look at me."

"Katsuki." Your throat felt tight. "I always look at you. I love looking at you."

"Not anymore," he said. "Not… not this."

You tried the handle. Locked. "Open the door."

"No."

"Katsuki, open the door or I'm sleeping out here."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

A minute passed. Two. You heard him moving, then the lock clicked.

You pushed the door open slowly.

He was standing by the sink in his sweatpants, no shirt, arms crossed tight over his chest. He wouldn't meet your eyes in the mirror. He looked younger somehow. Smaller.

"Hi," you said softly.

"Don't," he said. "Don't be nice to me. I can't… I can't do this if you're nice."

"Do what?"

He finally looked at you. His eyes were red. "Pretend like it's okay. Pretend like you don't see it. Like you're not disgusted."

Your breath caught. "I'm not disgusted. Why would you think—"

"Because I am!" He uncrossed his arms and gestured at his chest, at the scar that twisted pink and raised across his skin. "Look at it! It's fucking gross! It's all… it's wrong. It's not supposed to be there."

You looked. You let yourself look, really look, for the first time since the bandages came off. It was jagged, pulling the skin tight in places, disrupting the smooth muscle underneath. It was new. It was a mark of survival.

"It's not gross," you said quietly.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

He laughed, but it was bitter. Broken. "I used to be… I worked so hard. Every day, my whole life, making myself strong. Making myself perfect. And now…" He touched the scar with two fingers, tracing it like he was still trying to understand how it got there. "Now I look like this. And you have to pretend like you still want me. Like you don't mind having to look at it."

"Katsuki." You stepped into the bathroom, close enough to touch him. "I don't have to pretend anything."

"Bullshit."

"It's not bullshit." You reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away, and rested your hand on his waist. He didn't move. Just watched you with wary eyes. "I don't want you despite the scar. I just… want you. All of you. Even the parts you're angry about."

"I'm not angry," he said, and then his face crumpled. "I'm scared. I'm scared you're going to stop wanting me. I'm scared every time you look at me you're going to see this instead of… instead of me."

Your heart cracked right open. You stepped closer, sliding your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. "Never," you whispered. "I'll never stop wanting you. You're still you. You're still the man I fell in love with. You're still strong and brave and annoying and perfect."

"I'm not perfect anymore," he said into your hair, his arms finally coming up to hold you back.

"You never were," you said, and felt him huff a wet laugh. "You were always a disaster. Now you're just a disaster with a cool scar."

"Cool?"

"Very cool. Very battle-worn. Very 'I saved the world and all I got was this lousy scar.'"

He pulled back to look at you, and there was the tiniest smile trying to form. "You're an idiot."

"Your idiot," you corrected. "Now come to bed. Let me show you how much I still want you. Let me prove it."

He hesitated, biting his lip, looking down at himself like he was trying to decide if he could bear it.

"Trust me," you whispered.

He nodded, small and uncertain. "Okay."

Here’s the extended scene you can drop right in where Part Two starts:

You led him to the bedroom with your hand in his, walking slow, giving him every chance to change his mind. He didn’t. He followed, breathing a little fast, his fingers tight around yours.

At the edge of the bed, you stopped and turned to face him. You kept the lights on. You wanted him to see that you weren't afraid of seeing him.

"Can I take these off?" you asked, tugging at his sweatpants.

He nodded, throat working.

You pushed them down and he stepped out of them, standing naked in front of you for the first time in months. His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to cover himself but was stopping himself. You could see his chest rising and falling fast, the scar pulling slightly with each breath.

"You're beautiful," you said, meaning it.

"Stop," he said, but there was no heat in it.

"Make me." You stepped close and put your hands on his waist, then slid them up, slow, giving him time. You felt him tense when your palms got to his ribs, to the bottom edge of the scar. You didn't rush. Just kept moving upward until your hands were on his chest, right over the raised skin, your thumbs brushing over it.

He shuddered. Closed his eyes.

"Feel that?" you whispered. "That's your heart. Still beating. Still here. Still mine."

"Yours," he repeated, voice rough.

You leaned in and kissed his shoulder, then the top of the scar. He flinched, just barely, but didn't pull away. You kissed again, lower, following the jagged line down across his pec. You kissed every inch of it, soft presses of your lips, letting him feel that you weren't avoiding it. That you weren't disgusted.

When you got to the end of it, near his ribs, you looked up. He was watching you with dark, wet eyes, his mouth slightly open.

"Still okay?" you asked.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, don't stop."

You kissed lower, down his stomach, feeling the muscle jump under your lips. You went to your knees in front of him and looked up, waiting for permission.

"Please," he whispered.

You started with your hands first, wrapping your fingers around him, feeling the heat and weight of him. He was already hard, flushed dark, and he groaned when you touched him, his hips jerking forward instinctively before he caught himself.

"Sorry," he panted. "Sorry, I just—"

"Don't apologize," you murmured, and leaned in to press a kiss to the tip.

He made a sound like he'd been punched, his hand flying down to grip your hair. Not pulling, just holding on. You licked a stripe up the underside, slow, tasting the salt of him, and he groaned again, louder this time.

You took him into your mouth slowly, inch by inch, letting yourself adjust to the stretch. He was thick, heavy on your tongue, and you could feel his pulse beating against your lips. You pulled back, hollowing your cheeks, then sank down again, taking more of him.

"Fuck," he gasped, his thighs trembling. "Fuck, baby, your mouth—"

You moaned around him, the vibration making him curse, and started a rhythm. Hand working what you couldn't fit, mouth sliding wet and tight over the rest. You looked up at him, wanting him to see you, wanting him to watch you love him like this.

His eyes were blown wide, dark with want, his mouth hanging open as he panted. He looked wrecked already, and you'd barely started.

"So good," he breathed. "So fucking good, you're so—fuck—"

You swirled your tongue around the head, catching the bead of precum there, and he jerked, his grip in your hair tightening.

"Gonna come," he warned, his voice strained. "Baby, I'm gonna—"

You didn't pull off. You kept sucking, kept working him with your hand, and he came with a shout, his hips bucking up into your mouth, his whole body going rigid. You swallowed around him, taking it all, milking him through it until he was whimpering, oversensitive, tugging gently at your hair to get you to stop.

You pulled off with a wet sound, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and looked up at him. He was staring down at you like you'd hung the moon, his chest heaving, his skin flushed pink.

"Come here," he rasped, reaching down to pull you up.

You stood and he immediately started undressing you, his hands clumsy with urgency. He pushed your shirt up and you lifted your arms, letting him strip it off. Then your pants, your underwear, until you were naked too, pressed skin to skin against him.

He groaned at the contact, pulling you flush against him, his hands roaming everywhere. Down your back, over your hips, up to cup your breasts. He ducked his head to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, and you gasped, your hands flying to his hair.

"Katsuki—"

He switched to the other side, laving attention on you until you were squirming against him, feeling how he was already getting hard again, pressed against your stomach.

"Bed," he mumbled against your skin. "Now. Need you."

You let him guide you back onto the mattress, let him settle between your thighs. He hovered over you, looking down at your body with reverence, his hands tracing patterns on your skin like he was memorizing you.

"You're perfect," he whispered. "So fucking perfect."

"So are you," you said, reaching up to touch his scar again, light, letting him see that you weren't avoiding it even now.

He caught your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing your palm. Then he was kissing down your body, your throat, your collarbones, your breasts. He took his time, worshipping you, making you feel every brush of his lips.

When he got to your hips, he paused, looking up at you with a question in his eyes.

"Yes," you breathed, knowing what he was asking.

He spread your thighs wider and settled between them, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then higher. He licked a slow stripe up your center and you cried out, your back arching off the bed.

"Easy," he soothed, his breath hot against you. "I've got you."

He set in with his mouth, his tongue working you with skill that came from knowing your body, from years of learning exactly what you liked. He sucked on your clit, two fingers sliding into you, curling to hit that spot that made you see stars.

"Oh god," you gasped, your hands gripping the sheets. "Katsuki, please—"

He didn't let up. He kept the pressure steady, relentless, driving you higher and higher until you were trembling on the edge. He added a third finger, stretching you, his tongue flicking fast and tight over your clit, and you came with a scream, your whole body shaking, your vision going white at the edges.

He didn't stop until you were pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive and whimpering, and then he crawled up your body, kissing you deep so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

"Want to be inside you," he panted against your lips. "Want to feel you around me. Can I?"

"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, please, I need you."

He lined himself up, the head of him pressing against your entrance, and pushed in slowly. Inch by inch, filling you up, stretching you perfectly. You both moaned, the sound tangling together, and when he was fully seated he stopped, resting his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

"More than okay," you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Move, baby. Please."

He started slow, rolling his hips in deep, deliberate thrusts that hit you just right. You held onto his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, and he groaned, picking up the pace.

"Fuck," he gritted out. "You feel so good. So tight. So perfect for me."

"Harder," you begged, and he obliged, snapping his hips into yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

He shifted his angle slightly and you gasped, your head falling back. "There," you panted. "Right there, don't stop—"

"I've got you," he promised, keeping that angle, driving into you again and again. "I've got you, I'm right here."

You were climbing fast, the pressure building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every thrust. He was panting above you, his hair falling into his eyes, his chest slick with sweat. You reached up to touch his scar again, and this time he leaned into it, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Love you," he gasped. "Love you so fucking much. All of you. Every part."

"Love you too," you cried out, feeling the edge approaching. "Katsuki, I'm close—"

"Come for me," he urged, his hand sliding between you to press against your clit. "Come on my cock, sweetheart. Let me feel you."

His fingers worked you in tight circles, his thrusts getting harder, deeper, and you fell over the edge with his name tearing from your throat, your body clamping down around him, your vision going spotty. He followed right after, burying himself deep and coming with a groan that sounded like your name, his whole body shuddering above you.

After, he collapsed next to you, pulling you against his chest immediately, tucking you under his chin. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, right there under the scar, and you pressed a kiss to it.

"Okay?" you asked softly.

"Yeah," he breathed, his voice wrecked. "Yeah, I'm okay. Better than okay."

You smiled against his skin, tracing lazy patterns on his chest, right over the raised line of the scar. He didn't flinch this time. Just held you tighter.

"Love you," he mumbled, already half asleep.

"Love you too," you whispered back. "Scar and all."

Your phone said 5:58. You opened your laptop. Closed it. Opened it again. Checked your notes for the thousandth time even though you knew exactly what they said.

At 6:03, the door opened.

Bakugo walked in like he owned the place, which was hilarious because it was a public library and he looked like he'd never voluntarily entered a building with a "quiet please" sign in his life. His bag was slung over one shoulder. His tie was gone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows like he'd been fighting or working out or just existing aggressively. He saw you immediately. Didn't pause. Just walked straight over and dropped into the chair across from you, the legs scraping against the floor loud enough to earn a look from the librarian.

"You're here," he said. It wasn't a greeting. It was an accusation.

"You're late," you said back.

"Three minutes." He pulled out a notebook that was mostly empty except for some angry scribbles on the first page. "Doesn't count."

"Three minutes totally counts."

"Not in my world."

"Your world sounds fake."

He looked up at that, one eyebrow raised, and you realized you'd just talked back to Bakugo Katsuki like he was a normal person. Like he wouldn't potentially explode your laptop for being annoying. But he didn't explode anything. He just made a sound that might have been a laugh if it came from anyone else, and opened his laptop. It was ancient. Dented on one corner like he'd thrown it at a wall. Probably had.

"So," you said, because someone had to start this disaster. "Crisis communication. I made a list of case studies we could use. I was thinking Kamino Ward because there's so much material, or maybe the USJ incident because we have firsthand accounts from our class, or—"

"I picked Hosu," he said.

You blinked. "You what?"

"Hosu. The incident." He didn't look up from his screen. "I already wrote the intro. It's in the shared drive."

"You wrote the intro. Without me."

"I got bored."

"You got bored so you did my job?"

"I did my job." He finally looked at you, his expression flat. "You're doing the analysis section.

 You're bad at intros.""I'm bad at intros?"

"Your last essay started with 'Since the beginning of time, heroes have existed.'"

You felt your face get hot. "That was one time."

"It was last month."

"It was a rough draft!"

"Sure." He pulled up the document and turned his laptop to face you. "Read it. Tell me it's worse than 'since the beginning of time.'" You read it.

It wasn't worse. It was actually good. Clear and sharp and weirdly engaging, which didn't make sense because Bakugo Katsuki communicated primarily through yelling and explosions. But here he was, writing about media strategy like he actually understood how people thought.

"Fine," you said, sliding the laptop back. "Hosu. But I'm doing the media analysis. You're bad at tone."

"I'm bad at tone?"

"You write like you're threatening someone."

"Maybe I am."

"To who? The teacher?"

"To whoever reads it." He leaned back in his chair, and you noticed the way his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Just... pleased with himself. "You scared?"

The question hung there. You should have said yes. Everyone was a little scared of him, even if they pretended otherwise. He was loud and sharp and his hands literally sparked when he got mad. But you thought about yesterday. The rooftop. The way he'd listened even while he was walking away.

"No," you said. "Just annoyed."

"Good." He turned back to his laptop. "That would've been boring." You opened your mouth to tell him he was the most insufferable person you'd ever met, but your stomach growled. Loudly. In the quiet library. You froze.

Bakugo looked up. "Was that you?"

"Shut up."

"You didn't eat dinner."

"How do you know what I did or didn't do?"

"Because you're sitting here with no food and your stomach is making noises like a dying animal." He reached into his bag and pulled out two packages of gummies. The expensive kind from the convenience store near the dorms. The ones that actually tasted like fruit instead of melted plastic.

He threw one onto the table in front of you.

"I didn't ask for—"

"Take it or don't. I don't care." He was already opening his own bag, not looking at you. "But you're going to sit here and complain for two hours and I don't want to hear your stomach the whole time." You picked up the bag. "This feels like a bribe."

"It's a transaction. You showed up. I showed up. We're both stuck here. Snacks make it less miserable."

"That's almost nice."

"Don't get used to it."

You opened the bag and ate two at once. They were definitely better than the vending machine ones you'd been planning to get later. "New rule," you said, chewing. "If we're doing this for a month, we need actual rules."

"Rules."

"Yeah. Like... no exploding things."

"I don't explode library tables."

"You exploded your desk in homeroom last week."

"That was different. The pencil was wrong."

"The pencil."

"It was the wrong pencil."

You laughed. You couldn't help it. He glared at you, but there was no heat in it, and after a second his mouth did that twitching thing again like he was trying not to smile. "Rule two," you said. "No doing my sections without asking. I actually want to learn this stuff, not just copy your notes."

"Fine."

"Rule three. If you're going to be mean, be funny about it. Unfunny mean is just bullying."

He stared at you. "Who says I'm ever funny?"

"Nobody. That's why it's a rule."

"You're annoying."

"You're annoying. We're even." You pointed at his laptop screen. "Is that Comic Sans?"

He slammed it shut. "No."

"It is. You're using Comic Sans."

"It's readable."

"It's giving clown."

"Clowns are terrifying," he said, and you laughed again, and he didn't tell you to stop this time.

You worked for an hour. It was weirdly easy, which was annoying. He'd read something aloud, you'd add a note, he'd argue about it, you'd find a compromise. He tapped his pen against the table when he was thinking. You hummed under your breath when you were concentrating. Neither of you mentioned the other person's habits.

At 7:45, he stood up suddenly, his chair scraping back. "Done for today," he said, packing his bag.

"We didn't finish the outline."

"Tomorrow." He slung his bag over his shoulder. "Same time. Don't be late."

"You're telling me not to be late? You literally walked in three minutes after—"

"Tomorrow," he said again, and walked away.

He didn't say goodbye. He also didn't say he wasn't coming back. You watched him go, then looked at the table. The empty gummy bag. The pen he'd left behind. The notes he'd scribbled that actually made sense.

Mina ❤️

well????

you

he's weird

Mina ❤️

weird good or weird badYou thought about the gummies. The Comic Sans. The way he'd looked almost proud when you said you weren't scared of him.

Weird, you sent back. Just weird.

Then you packed up your stuff, grabbed the pen he'd left, and walked back to the dorms with something that felt uncomfortably close to anticipation.

Tomorrow. Same time. You'd be there.