THEY DO IT BEST

CHAPTER 8: KNOW ITS FOR THE BETTER

pairing: aged up!katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

summary: After six intense years in Japan, YN LN has firmly established herself as a renowned gym owner. She's known by many pros for her charm, strength, and boxing abilities. She has a strong support system and amazing friends... her life in Japan was everything she dreamed it would be.

But everything changes one fateful night when a mysterious package appears on her doorstep. No note, no return address—just a plain box wrapped with a single pearly pink ribbon. As she unravels the contents of the box, she’s drawn into a dark, twisted mystery that seems to reach deep into her own past—a past she thought she had buried when she left her old life behind.

wc: 2.8k

warning: Violence, mentions of blood, knives/stabbing.

---

Since the night of the hero gala, you and James had thrown yourselves headfirst into the Moretti investigation. The memory of that evening—the balcony, Bakugo’s wounded expression, and his retreating figure—played on an endless loop in your mind, but you shoved it down, burying it beneath layers of work and sleepless nights.

You’d left the gala alone, and since then, Bakugo had been a ghost. He didn’t show up at the gym during your usual hours, and you hadn’t dared to reach out. You figured he needed space, and honestly, you didn’t blame him. If he hated you, you deserved it. After all, you had rejected him in the cruelest way, withholding the truth under the guise of protecting him.

Now, every waking moment was devoted to unearthing the evidence you needed to take Moretti down. You told yourself it was for justice, for closure, but deep down, you knew it was also for Bakugo. You needed to make things right. To come clean, to apologize for the lies, and maybe, just maybe, to give him a reason to forgive you.

One long, grueling night, James managed to secure access to confidential Japanese case files—likely crossing a few legal boundaries in the process, but you didn’t care. Laws and rules seemed inconsequential when the only thing that mattered was unraveling the threads of Moretti’s web.

The files contained a chilling revelation. The man with the tattoo on his wrist—the one burned into your memory—was linked to a series of brutal murders in Musutafu. Innocent women, each life stolen with a message carved into the crime scenes that only you could understand. The weight of it crushed you, the realization that these killings weren’t random. They were warnings. Moretti was taunting you, forcing you to see his reach, his cruelty, and his power.

The guilt was suffocating. Every face in those files felt like another strike against your resolve, but you couldn’t let it break you. You wouldn’t. The pain was a reminder that you were on the right path, that you had a chance to end this. And now, finally, you had something to go on.

The new information gave you a flicker of hope —a trail of locations and timestamps where Moretti’s men had been sighted. It was the first solid lead you’d had in weeks, and it was enough to rekindle the fire inside you.

Your hero costume still fits like a second skin, the all-black material hugging your body with an almost suffocating precision. The suit’s sleek fabric molds to your frame, firm and supportive—like it’s designed just for you, like it was made to measure. You had always admired the way the costume looked, and now, years later, your vision seemed to reflect everything you had become: strong, sleek, and dangerous. The mask that covered your face didn’t leave much for anyone to see, except your eyes—piercing, determined eyes that told anyone in your path exactly who they were dealing with.

It’s been six long years since you last wore it. Six years of training, of staying hidden, of learning to control a power so dangerous you feared it more than anything. But tonight, slipping into the familiar black fabric and feeling it stretch over your body, you couldn’t help but feel that rush of energy surge through your veins. It never got old. The suit felt like home, like a part of you, and the weight of the mask reminded you of everything you had fought to become—and everything you had left behind.

As you pull on the gloves, the cool metal of your utility belt clicks against the fabric. You can’t help but admire the intricate stitching that runs along your waist, the design perfect down to the finest detail. The fabric is laced with minerals, rare and strong, designed to help control your quirk. The quirk that you never fully trusted.

Your quirk, gravity manipulation, gives you the power to shift and bend forces of weight, to manipulate objects, people, and even entire structures. It’s the kind of power that could move mountains or level them, depending on your emotions. When you’re calm, you have control—but when you’re upset, when anger and fear take hold, your quirk becomes a ticking time bomb, ready to explode. That’s what happened the night you blacked out and woke up with a bleeding head, unable to recall anything.

Training has made you cautious, teaching you to keep your emotions in check. Years of discipline and self-control have allowed you to control it, but you always feared that if you lost that control, everything would come crashing down. But tonight, you hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Tonight, you needed to keep your head.

After weeks of silence, you’d received a tip—a whisper on an old, secured landline that one of Moretti’s men would be at a bar tonight. The man was important, connected, and you needed to know where Moretti was. So you and James decided to follow the lead. He had urged you to involve the pros again, but you quickly shut that down. 

The car in the alleyway feels like a cage, your hands gripping the leather seats as you watch the shadows stretch across the pavement. The waiting game never gets easier. It gnaws at you, especially tonight, knowing that the man you’re hunting could be anywhere. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, the thought of confronting a ghost from your past, churning your stomach.

“How long have we been sitting here?” James asks from the passenger seat, his voice low but edged with a hint of impatience. His eyes flicker toward the bar’s entrance.

“Two hours,” you answer, your voice steady but the tension in your muscles betraying you. You’re not letting your nerves show, but inside, you feel like a coil ready to snap. “He won’t leave yet. We haven’t missed him.”

James glances at you, clearly unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? I can go with you.”

“No,” you say sharply, the word final. “I’ve got this.”

You stare at the bar’s entrance, your eyes narrowing. Isaac. The name rolls off your tongue like poison. Isaac, blonde-haired, with the face of a man who has seen too much. He was Moretti’s right hand for years, and you knew him all too well. His cold, calculating eyes never missed a thing, and his loyalty to Moretti was only rivaled by his ruthlessness.

Your instincts tingle. He’s here. You can feel it. A subtle weight in the air, the tension building in your bones. It’s like a sixth sense, honed from years of practice. You don’t know how you know, but you trust it.

Then, like clockwork, he steps out from the bar, his sharp profile cutting through the neon lights. He stands on the sidewalk for a moment, glancing around before shouting for a taxi.

Your heart pounds. This is it.

Without a word, you unlock the car door and slide out, ignoring James’s muttered warning. “YN, stop! Stay in the car!” His voice is laced with concern, but you don’t hear him. You’re already striding toward Isaac, your body moving with purpose.

Isaac doesn’t notice you at first, too busy fidgeting with his phone, but as soon as he slides into the cab, you’re there. You don’t hesitate. You pull open the door, stepping into the cab with a practiced fluidity that only someone like you can manage.

“Hey, this is my cab!” Isaac barks, but you don’t flinch.

You glance at the driver, your expression cold and unwavering. “We’re sharing,” you say smoothly, tossing a few bills into the front seat. “Take me up the block. Doesn’t matter where.”

The driver, clearly unbothered by the tense atmosphere, nods and shifts the car into drive. Isaac remains blissfully unaware, but that doesn’t last for long. You slide a knife from your belt, its cold steel glinting under the low lights.

“Say one word, and I’ll put this knife through your crotch,” you murmur, your voice laced with venom as you hold a knife to him. 

Isaac freezes, his gaze finally snapping to you. His eyes widen and the realization slowly dawns on him. Recognition flickers in his pupils, and you see the hate burn brighter.

“I always knew you were a crazy bitch.” Isaac hisses, his voice trembling with anger and fear.

“Yeah?” you reply, “well I’m about to get crazier.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but you’re faster. With a swift movement, you grab his chin and force him to look at you. You see the fire in his eyes, the stubborn defiance, but it won’t save him.

“Tell me where Moretti is,” you demand, your tone chilling. “Or I swear, I’ll cut you open right here.”

Isaac snarls. “Fuck you.”

“Okay” Taking the knife you pull it away and plunge it into his thigh, being careful to cover his mouth. 

“Tell me, Isaac,” you growl, “Or is that man-crush of yours so strong you’re willing to lose your dick over it?”

Isaac’s jaw clenches, his eyes flickering with defiance. “You want to know where Moretti is? Find him yourself. I don’t work for him anymore.”

“Bullshit.” You twist the blade deeper into his leg.

“Now fucking tell me, or I’ll send Moretti a gift next,” you hiss, your voice dripping with venom.

Isaac’s muffled whimpers are all you hear as you give him one last warning.

“Fine!” he gasps, “He’s staying at the Musutafu motel, on the outskirts of the city.”

“If you’re lying to me,” you warn, “I will kill you.”

He’s sweating now, breathing hard, his face pale as a ghost.

The cab pulls to a stop, and you yank the knife out of his leg, leaving a pool of blood behind. The driver, still unaware of the tension in the backseat, waits for your next command.

You exit without another word, tossing a few more bills toward the driver before slamming the door behind you. As the car pulls away, you spot a black SUV pulling up beside you. You don’t need to look twice to know who’s behind the wheel.

“Well?” Tucker asks, his voice steady but with an edge of impatience.

“He’s at the Musutafu motel,” you reply, your voice curt and emotionless. You slide into the car, the bloody knife still clutched in your hand.

Tucker notices the weapon, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Don’t ask,” you mutter, slumping back into the seat. “Just drive.”

---

The crime rates had doubled in the past two weeks, ever since word of a serial killer leaked to the public. The Hero Committee had tried their best to keep the case under wraps, but someone in the department had let the information slip.

With the city spiraling into panic, the pro-heroes were stretched thin. So focused on this case, they’d nearly lost sight of everything else unraveling around them.

“Shoto, any updates on James Tucker?” Deku asked, standing at the head of the conference table. His fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose, the telltale sign of an impending headache.

“Not yet,” Todoroki replied, flipping through a folder of old files. “The only intel I’ve managed to pull are outdated case records and images. If Tucker’s gone into hiding, it’s clear he doesn’t want to be found.”

“Why the hell would he be in hiding?” Bakugo snapped, slamming his hands against the table as he rose from his seat. Weeks of fruitless effort were taking their toll, and the tension in the room was palpable.

Bakugo had been more frustrated than usual lately, and everyone unlucky enough to cross his path could feel the searing heat of his anger. His temper, usually sharp and explosive, seemed to have an added edge now, as though something was festering beneath the surface. The smallest inconveniences sent him into a spiral of irritation—training dummies obliterated into smoldering debris, doors slammed with enough force to rattle the entire building, and curt, venom-laced words that made even his closest friends keep their distance.

At the agency, he barked orders more than usual, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. Kirishima, ever the peacemaker, tried to crack a joke to lighten the mood, but Bakugo’s glare silenced him before the words could fully leave his mouth. Mina would whisper to Sero, “What crawled up his ass and died?” only to quickly clam up when Bakugo’s piercing crimson eyes flicked their way.

It wasn’t just work either—his frustrations followed him home. The gym became a battleground, weights clanging loudly as he threw himself into his workouts with a reckless intensity. The punching bag in the corner stood no chance, shredded after one particularly heated session. Yet no matter how much he pushed his body to its limits, the tension inside him never seemed to dissipate.

The truth was, Bakugo wasn’t just angry. He was hurt. And the wound festered deeper than he was willing to admit.

He hadn’t seen you since that night at the gala. Since you’d looked at him with those beautiful, unreadable eyes and told him—what, exactly? That he didn’t matter? That you didn’t feel the same way? It didn’t make sense. The way you looked at him didn’t match the words you said. The way your voice trembled, the way you avoided his gaze—it was like you were running from something. But what?

The questions plagued him, chasing him into his restless nights. He hated not having answers, hated how powerless he felt, hated how much space you were taking up in his head. Damn you. Damn your stupid, gorgeous face and your laugh and the way you felt so perfect next to him that night.

But more than anything, he hated the gnawing feeling in his chest. The one that whispered he might have lost you for good.

“Actually, Kacchan,” Deku interjected, sliding a photograph across the table toward him. “I might have something.”

Bakugo picked up the image, his crimson eyes narrowing as he examined it. The picture showed a young girl, no older than eight, with wide, curious eyes and a small, cautious smile.

“That’s Anthony Moretti’s daughter,” Deku explained. “We found her in an adoption database. She’s here in Japan.”

Bakugo’s eyes lingered on the photograph, his brow furrowing. There was something about the girl that tugged at his memory.

“I’ve seen her before,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

“What? Where?” Deku asked, leaning forward.

“At the gym,” Bakugo replied, placing the photo back on the table. “Y/N is her boxing coach.”

The revelation sent a ripple of unease through the room.

“Who put her up for adoption?” Todoroki asked, breaking the silence.

“It’s anonymous. Adoption records don’t disclose that information,” Deku replied.

“How old was she when she was adopted?”

“She couldn’t have been older than two,” Deku said, flipping through his notes.

“Six years ago,” Bakugo muttered, piecing things together. “Right after Moretti was arrested.” He looked up, his gaze sharp. “What about her mom?”

“There’s no record of a mother,” Deku answered, his tone heavy.

“Dammit,” Bakugo growled, his frustration mounting. “We need to find Tucker. He’s the key to this.”

Todoroki chimed in, hesitant. “Maybe... maybe Y/N knows something about the girl. She might be able to help.”

“No,” Bakugo barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not dragging her into this, and I sure as hell ain’t questioning a kid.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the situation pressing down on them. Time was running out, and with every passing moment, the lines between their responsibilities and their morals blurred further.

“I’ll find Tucker myself if I have to. Got a photo, Icy Hot?” Bakugo demanded, his tone sharp with determination.

Todoroki flipped through his folder without hesitation, pulling out a slightly worn photograph of James Tucker and handing it to him.

Bakugo’s grip tightened around the photo as he stared at it, his blood running cold. His entire stance stiffened, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

He knew this man.

The realization hit him like a freight train, his mind reeling. He’d seen Tucker before—seen him with you.

Everything started falling into place, the fragmented pieces of the puzzle forming a picture that Bakugo could no longer ignore. The explosion. Moretti’s daughter. Tucker. You.

The timeline fit too perfectly to be a coincidence.

Bakugo’s jaw clenched, his crimson eyes narrowing as his thoughts raced. You were connected to Moretti—there was no doubt about that now. But how?

---

TAGLIST: @emmaafinchh @faetoraa @iissza @theasgardianmexican

ᯓ WEBSITES you've been looking for ୨୧

!!! % for editing: 𖥻

★ canva (there's a lot of different templates)

★ photopea (alternative to photoshop)

!!! % for gif making/editing: 𖥻

★ ezgif (a very complete tool to create and edit gifs)

★ bloggif (different old school gif editing effects)

★ picmix (to create blingee type of gifs)

★ glitterfy (to put glitter all over your chosen image)

!!! % for gif text: 𖥻

★ cooltext (burning, glittery and glowy text generator)

★ bloggif text (glitter text generator)

★ gigaglitters (glitter text generator)

★ glitterfy words (glitter text generator)

!!! % for fancy fonts: 𖥻

★ messletters

!!! % to remove background: 𖥻

★ remove.bg

!!! % to pick colors and swatches from a picture: 𖥻

★ image color picker

!!! % for aesthetic symbols and kaomojis: 𖥻

★ amino post

★ emoji combos

★ emoji db

★ kaomoji

!!! % for blinkies, dividers, gifs and stamps : 𖥻

★ blinkies generator

★ @animatedglittergraphics-n-more (blog that posts said content)

★ @graphics-cafe (blog that posts said content)

This had to have been the cutest thing I’ve ever read

happiness flipped on its head

synopsis: a glimpse into a lighthearted evening with katsuki and your son.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

you walk through the door after a long day, the sound of your son’s high-pitched laughter and your husband’s grumbling filling the house.

it’s a sound you’ve grown used to, but every time you hear it, your heart still does a little flip. you know what you're walking into, but it never gets old.

as you step into the living room, the scene before you is exactly what you expected—and yet, it still makes your heart swell.

katsuki, still in his hero suit—his jacket unzipped, the fabric slightly crumpled, and his messy blond hair falling over his forehead—is holding your son upside down by his ankle.

your son is kicking his legs wildly in the air, his small face lit up with pure joy, as if he’s having the time of his life.

"oi, stop moving around so much!" katsuki warns, his voice rough, yet there's a protective edge to it as he tries to steady s/n.

your son squirms, clearly enjoying every second of his father’s “toughening up” session.

you can't help but smile, leaning against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow, your voice teasing as you watch the scene unfold.

“katsuki,” you say, a playful lilt in your tone, “are you sure that’s safe?”

he shoots you a side glance, but his lips twitch up despite himself. “he’s fine,” he mutters, looking back down at s/n. “I’m makin’ him tough.”

your son giggles loudly, completely ignoring the position he is. he’s in his element, having the time of his life.

“more, dad!” s/n calls out, his little face flushed with excitement, his hands waving in the air like he could take flight.

katsuki raises an eyebrow.

“you’re a little monster, aren’t you?” he asks, but there’s a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. he lets your s/n squirm for a moment before lifting him even higher into the air.

s/n lets out a delighted shriek, his tiny hands stretching out, as if he’s about to grab the clouds. his little voice fills the room with energy, and you can’t help but laugh.

“that enough?” katsuki groans as if exasperated, but the pride in his voice is undeniable. he lifts s/n even higher, causing him to laugh even harder.

the room is filled with the sound of your son's giddy shrieks and katsuki’s grumbling, but it’s clear your son wouldn’t have it any other way.

then, without missing a beat, your s/n’s small hand reaches out toward you. “mama!” he calls out, his voice tinged with desperation, though it’s clear he still wants to play.

you smile warmly, walking over and holding your arms out. katsuki looks at you, an eyebrow raised as he steps back, but there’s a soft smile hidden beneath his usual scowl.

s/n melts into your arms as soon as you scoop him up, his small head resting comfortably against your shoulder. “missed you!” he grins, finally finding his comfort zone.

you kiss the top of his head gently, enjoying the warmth of his tiny form pressed against you.

"now, now, kid," katsuki mutters as he steps closer, crossing his arms.

his usual scowl is still there, but his eyes are soft as he looks at you and your son. “that’s my wife, not yours.”

you smile up at him.

"well, husband, I think you’ve done enough training for today,” you reply softly, holding s/n son with one arm while reaching out to touch his hand with the other. “let’s give him a break, yeah?”

katsuki looks down at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, but his eyes soften ever so slightly.

without saying a word, he steps closer, his fingers brushing against yours before he pulls you into a quick, tender kiss on the forehead.

“fine, you win,” he mutters, but his voice is laced with warmth. you can feel it in the way his hand lingers on your arm, like he’s not quite ready to let go.

but just as you start to relax, you feel a sudden surge of movement. before you can react, katsuki sweeps you up, pulling you off the couch in one smooth motion.

“katsuki!” you laugh, startled, but it’s no use. he’s already got both you and your son in his arms. “what are you—?” you start to say, but katsuki is grinning like a man on a mission.

“time for some fun,” he grins, effortlessly tossing both you and your son onto the bed with a playful, mischievous glint in his eyes.

you squeal as you bounce on the soft mattress, s/n giggling uncontrollably as he lands beside you, his little arms flailing as he falls.

“katsuki!” you protest, but you can’t keep the smile off your face as s/n’s laughter fills the room. you know you’ve lost this battle.

he stands at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching the two of you with an amused smirk. “told you I’m the one in charge around here,” he says, his voice light as he watches his family.

you laugh, shaking your head, even though you're still trying to catch your breath from the surprise.

your son, ever the protector, crawls over to you with determination, his tiny hands pushing against the mattress as he tries to get between you and katsuki, his little face furrowed in concentration.

“stop!” he cries, as if his small body can somehow shield you from your husband’s playful advances.

katsuki, however, isn’t phased in the slightest. he watches his son with a chuckle, leaning down just enough to tickle his sides.

s/n bursts into peals of laughter, his chubby legs kicking in the air, clearly unable to escape his father’s grip. “ahh! no!” your son giggles, trying to squirm away, but the tickling continues relentlessly.

you can’t help but laugh too, your heart swelling with affection for both of them as you watch the playful scene unfold.

but before you can fully enjoy the moment, katsuki suddenly stops, his smirk widening. “you think you can protect her?” he taunts, his tone teasing.

he continues to tickle your son with a bit more vigor, making him roll off the bed in a heap of giggles.

your son’s laughter continues to echo through the room as he tumbles off the side, landing with a soft thud on the floor, still giggling like nothing happened.

“katsuki!” you exclaim, half-exasperated and half-amused, but there’s no real anger in your voice.

katsuki, meanwhile, doesn’t miss a beat. with one swift motion, he crawls onto the bed, his body hovering over yours.

“now you’re mine,” your husband says, but s/n doesn’t let him revel in the victory for long, as he hangs onto katsuki for dear life, letting out his own series of war cries.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

heeppy hoolida

just know if i could crawl on the ceiling on all fours i would

the best right here

CHAPTER 12: KNOW ITS FOR THE BETTER

pairing: aged up!katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

summary: After six intense years in Japan, YN LN has firmly established herself as a renowned gym owner. She's known by many pros for her charm, strength, and boxing abilities. She has a strong support system and amazing friends... her life in Japan was everything she dreamed it would be.

But everything changes one fateful night when a mysterious package appears on her doorstep. No note, no return address—just a plain box wrapped with a single pearly pink ribbon. As she unravels the contents of the box, she’s drawn into a dark, twisted mystery that seems to reach deep into her own past—a past she thought she had buried when she left her old life behind.

wc: 3.2k

an: This was supposed to be 7k words but I decided to split it into two parts. The second part should be out either tonight or tomorrow morning :)!

---

The guard's grip on your arm tightened as he dragged you down the dimly lit hallway. Your shoes scraped against the cold concrete floor, each step echoing in the oppressive silence. You could barely move your leg, the sharp pain forcing you to drag it behind you. The adrenaline that had masked your injury was wearing off, and only now did you fully register the gunshot wound. The bleeding had slowed however as it only seemed to be a deep graze, the makeshift tourniquet holding firm, but it still hurt like hell. 

As you reached a heavy metal door at the end of the hall, you finally broke the silence. “You’re making a mistake,” you said, looking at the guard, who was too busy enjoying the moment to notice the warning in your tone.

The guard scoffed. “It's over for you.”

Without a word, you snapped your arm up, elbowing him hard in the stomach. The guard grunted, stumbling back in surprise. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him hesitate.

Before he could recover, you spun around, using his moment of confusion to deliver a swift kick to his knees. He crumpled to the ground, a shock of pain running up his legs.

You groaned as pain shot through your injured leg as well, nearly buckling under your weight. Instinct kicked in, and you lunged, grabbing the edge of the doorframe to steady yourself. The guard staggered, caught off balance, and you seized the moment. He was strong, but you moved faster. Your breath remained steady, your focus razor-sharp. 

“Not so fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it?” you muttered, crouching down to make sure he wasn’t going to get up anytime soon. You pulled his gun from its holster and threw it into an empty room. Making sure he wasn't able to grab ahold of it. 

As the guard groaned on the floor, still clutching his bruised stomach, you knew you had a fleeting window of opportunity. You couldn’t afford to waste any more time—Moretti would realize what had happened soon, and when he did, he wouldn’t hesitate to send more men after you.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you considered your options. You could run, but that would lead you straight into more of Moretti’s men and with your leg that wasn't much of an option. You had to think strategically. 

You took another breath, forcing your body to calm down. That’s when you felt the familiar, electric surge of power course through your veins—the hum of your quirk. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, focusing on the surge within you. You had to do this without hesitation. Without letting fear cloud your control. When you opened your eyes again, the air around you crackled with raw energy.

The guard had begun to stir, and you didn’t have the luxury of waiting any longer. You raised your hand, palm open, and aimed it at the metal door. In an instant, a concentrated burst of power shot from your fingertips, striking the door with enough force to send it slamming back against the wall. The impact was deafening, the metal screeching in protest.

For a split second, the guard froze, eyes wide in disbelief. But it was too late. The shockwave from the blast had knocked him flat, and the surge of power you’d released left the hallway bathed in a low, humming energy.

You didn’t stop to see if the guard would recover. Instead, you turned on your heel and bolted as fast as you could down the corridor, the lightning-fast pulses of your quirk lighting up the path ahead of you. The air seemed to part as you moved, as if the very fabric of the space had been altered by your command.

You could feel the telltale shifts in the atmosphere as Moretti’s men reacted—footsteps echoing, voices shouting orders, the tension rising. They weren’t far behind.

You fired another blast into the ceiling above, causing the ceiling to concave in on itself. You knew Bakugo would be able to blast himself out of the damage. The shock left the hallway filled with swirling electrical currents, disrupting the security systems that Moretti had relied on to track you.

The alarms went off, lights flickering erratically, and that gave you the opening you needed. With a burst of energy, you dashed into a side room, your quirk’s power surging in waves as you manipulated the energy around you to shield your movement. The air hummed and crackled, your energy wrapping around you like an invisible shield, keeping you hidden from view.

You steadied your breathing, the crackling hum of your quirk a comforting reminder that you weren’t powerless even while injured. The side room you’d ducked into was dark and cluttered with old crates and machinery—perfect for buying yourself a moment to strategize.

You crouched low, listening. The voices outside grew louder as Moretti’s men regrouped. They were searching, splitting into teams, their footsteps echoing in the corridor.

“She’s in here somewhere! Fan out!” one of them barked.

Perfect. Let them spread thin.

Closing your eyes, you focused on the currents in the walls. With your quirk, you could feel the flow of electricity running through the building—security cameras, automated locks, even the guards’ radios.

Reaching out, you latched onto the electrical grid, sending a concentrated surge into the radio frequencies. Sparks flew from the earpieces of the guards in the hallway, causing shouts of confusion and panic.

“What the hell?!”

“Radio’s fried!”

“Is she doing this? Damn it—find her!”

Using the chaos, you slipped back into the hallway, keeping low as you moved. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows, but you used them to your advantage, sticking close to the walls.

The guards were scattered now, their communication disrupted, and their coordination in shambles. One of them turned a corner, his back to you. Without hesitation, you surged forward, using the built-up charge in your hand to send a short snap to his neck. He crumpled silently, and you caught his weapon before it hit the floor.

One down.

You pressed on, your steps swift and deliberate. 

A group of guards blocked your path ahead, their backs to you as they shouted orders into malfunctioning radios. You crouched, pressing your hand to the floor. With a deep breath, you sent a ripple through the ground, the cement flooring collapsing under the guards. It hit the guards like an invisible net, their bodies locking up momentarily before they collapsed.

The air around you buzzed with static, your quirk’s energy crackling in your veins. You didn’t feel tired—yet. Adrenaline and determination kept you sharp, each movement precise.

Then, you heard it: a low hum, deeper and more menacing than before. The building’s systems were trying to reboot. Moretti was smart—he’d undoubtedly built redundancies into his security. You didn’t have much time before the lights stabilized and his men regrouped.

You pushed forward, rounding another corner, and finally spotted a heavy reinforced door at the end of the hall. 

Standing between you and the door was a guard who looked far more formidable than the others—taller, broader, and armed to the teeth. He turned as you approached, his eyes narrowing when he saw you.

“End of the line,” he said, his voice cold.

A smirk tugged at your lips. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

With a sharp inhale, you let your quirk surge to full power. The air around you shimmered, and the hallway was bathed in a flickering, glow.

If Moretti thought his men could stop you, he was about to learn just how wrong he was.

The guard didn’t hesitate, lunging toward you with surprising speed. You ducked under his swing, the massive fist grazing your shoulder before smashing into the wall behind you, cracking the concrete.

“You’re persistent,” you muttered, spinning away and aiming a focused blast of energy at his chest. The jolt forced him back a step, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he grinned—a feral, teeth-baring grin.

“Got some bite, huh? Let’s see how long you last.”

He charged again, faster this time. You dodged to the side, rolling into a crouch and sweeping your leg to knock him off balance. He stumbled, his bulk making him difficult to topple completely, but you weren’t giving up.

“Stay down!” you shouted, sending another burst at his arm. The crackling energy wrapped around him, making his muscles seize. His grip on his weapon slipped, and the gun clattered to the ground. Seizing the opportunity, you kicked it far out of reach.

The guard growled, clearly unwilling to back down. But before he could lunge again, a familiar explosion echoed down the hall. Smoke and debris flew into the air, and a moment later, Bakugo came charging through the wreckage, crimson eyes blazing with fury.

“MOVE!” Bakugo’s shout rang out, and you hit the ground instinctively, rolling to the opposite side of the hall just as a deafening explosion erupted. The blast sent the guard hurtling into the office door with a sickening crunch, the impact cracking the wooden frame.

“Fuck, are you good?” Bakugo was at your side in an instant, his hands cupping your face as his crimson eyes scanned you for injuries, his breathing ragged from the fight.

You pushed him slightly away, though your hand lingered on his wrist, grounding yourself in his presence. “I’m fine,” you assured him quickly, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “Where’s Moretti?”

Bakugo shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know. He bolted as soon as the alarms started blaring.”

“Damn it,” you hissed, clenching your fists. You closed your eyes, trying to focus, to extend your senses outward. “I can’t feel him. Usually, I’d be able to track his presence, but there’s too much interference in the building. Too many people, too much chaos.”

Bakugo growled under his breath, his frustration as palpable as your own. 

“One of Moretti's men told me he was staying at a motel,” you said, your voice low as you motioned for Bakugo to follow you. 

“This definitely ain’t a motel, sweetheart,” Bakugo muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm as his sharp eyes darted around, scanning for any incoming threats.

“Yeah, no shit,” you shot back, rolling your eyes before a thought struck you. “Wait—you weren’t blindfolded when they brought you in.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Bakugo replied, his voice gruff as he gestured down another hallway. “But this place is a damn maze. The only reason I found you was because of the guards. Made it real easy when they started screaming.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Well, we need to move. Moretti knows this place like the back of his hand, and he’ll have reinforcements swarming us any second.”

Bakugo nodded, his jaw tight as he adjusted his gloves. “Tch. Let ’em come. I’ve got plenty of firepower to deal with those bastards.”

Despite the weight of the situation, his confidence sparked a faint smirk on your lips. “I don’t doubt that,” you said, your tone softening. “But we need to be smart about this. If we can get to an exit, we’ll have the advantage outside.”

“Fine,” he agreed grudgingly, though his hands twitched with impatience. “But if we run into Moretti, I’m not holding back.”

“Neither am I,” you replied, your voice firm.

The air in the building was heavy with the scent of concrete dust and smoke, every corner steeped in shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly. Your footsteps echoed faintly as you moved, your senses hyper-alert to every creak of the structure or distant voice.

Bakugo suddenly raised a hand, motioning for you to stop. He cocked his head, listening intently. “Hear that?” he murmured.

You strained your ears and caught it—a low, muffled murmur of voices coming from a corridor to your left. Your heart jumped. “Guards?”

“Most likely,” Bakugo whispered, his lips pulling into a grin that was half anticipation, half menace. “Let’s shut ’em up before they call for backup.”

You grabbed his arm, stopping him before he could rush in. “Wait. We don’t know how many there are or if they’ve got comms to Moretti. If they alert him, we’ll lose any chance of catching him off guard.”

He scowled but didn’t pull away. “Fine. Got a plan, genius?”

You nodded. “I’ll take the lead. My quirk can handle this quietly. You stay back, but if things go sideways—”

“I’m blasting the hell outta everything,” he finished with a smirk, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Exactly,” you said, your lips quirking up for a brief second before you pushed forward.

Sliding silently along the wall, you peeked around the corner. Three guards stood clustered near a door, their weapons slung casually over their shoulders. 

Drawing on your quirk, you exhaled slowly and let the power flood your senses. The world around you dimmed, leaving only the vivid threads of the guards’ presence—their heartbeat rhythms, the faint electromagnetic signals of their equipment.

One step forward. Another. The shadows seemed to ripple around you, swallowing your form as you closed the distance.

The first guard didn’t even see you coming. A quick strike to his neck dropped him silently to the floor. The second turned, his eyes widening, but you twisted his weapon out of his hands and knocked him unconscious with the butt of it in one fluid motion.

The third managed to let out a strangled gasp before Bakugo was suddenly there, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him into the wall. “Where’s Moretti?” Bakugo growled, his voice low and deadly.

The guard stammered, his face pale. “I—I don’t know! He’s somewhere upstairs in the west wing. Please, that’s all I know!”

Bakugo sneered and slammed him against the wall one more time for good measure before letting him crumple to the floor. He turned to you, his expression unreadable. “West wing, huh? Guess we’ve got a direction now.”

You nodded, already moving. “Let’s go. The longer we wait, the harder this gets.”

“Damn right,” Bakugo muttered, falling into step beside you. His presence was solid and reassuring, a blazing force that matched your determination.

“Shitty Hair went for backup—if he figures out where we are, they should be here soon,” Bakugo muttered, his eyes scanning the hall for any signs of movement.

“If Kirishima wanted to keep his balls, he would’ve gone straight to the place I told him to,” you shot back.

“What?” Bakugo stopped, turning to look at you.

“When we were in the car, I made him promise that if anything happened, he’d find Milly and protect her,” you explained, your voice steady.

Bakugo’s sharp crimson gaze fixed on you, a flicker of realization crossing his face. “I knew you didn’t kill her,” he muttered.

“I’m a hero, not a monster,” you replied, your tone firm but quiet.

“A hero, huh?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged, keeping your focus ahead. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you bring up over coffee. ‘Hey, I used to be a hero, faked my death, and took down some major villains.’ Doesn’t make for casual conversation, does it?”

“Tch.” Bakugo’s hands clenched at his sides, tiny sparks crackling in his palms. “And your quirk?”

“Nothing special.” you shot back, glancing at him over your shoulder. “And besides, my quirk’s not flashy like yours. It’s subtle. Perfect for staying under the radar—which was kind of the whole point after Moretti.”

He scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “Subtle, huh? Looked plenty flashy back there when you were knocking people out left and right.”

You sighed, stopping in your tracks to face him. “Katsuki, this isn’t about my past. This is about stopping Moretti before he hurts anyone else. We can have the ‘what else haven’t you told me’ talk later, but right now, we don’t have time for this.”

His jaw worked, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then he huffed, running a hand through his ash-blond hair. “Fine. But don’t think for a second we’re done with this conversation.”

“Noted,” you said, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you turned back down the hallway.

The west wing loomed ahead, the corridors narrowing and the air growing colder. You could feel it—a sense of finality hanging thick around you. Whatever awaited in the next room, it was clear you and Bakugo would face it together, unresolved tensions and all.

The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit and eerily silent apart from the faint hum of electricity. Bakugo stayed close, his footsteps heavier than yours as his crimson eyes darted around, searching for any sign of an ambush. You could feel the tension radiating off him—part frustration, part adrenaline—but there wasn’t time to unpack that now.

“You said you can sense him,” Bakugo muttered, breaking the silence. “What’re you picking up?”

You stopped, closing your eyes for a moment and focusing on the energy around you. It was chaotic, scattered—a mix of fear, anger, and desperation from everyone in the building. But there, buried beneath it all, was a faint, unmistakable pulse.

“He’s close,” you said, your voice low. “Two floors down, east wing. He’s not alone.”

Bakugo grinned, the kind of feral, dangerous grin that made villains tremble. “Good. The bastard won’t know what hit him.”

As you moved toward the nearest stairwell, you caught a glimpse of motion in the shadows ahead. Without hesitation, you grabbed Bakugo’s arm and yanked him back just as a barrage of bullets ricocheted off the walls.

“Shit!” Bakugo hissed, throwing up his hands and sending a concussive blast toward the shooter. The explosion rocked the corridor, and when the smoke cleared, the guard was sprawled unconscious on the floor.

“That was reckless,” you muttered, already moving to secure the guard’s weapon.

“Worked, didn’t it?” Bakugo shot back, his tone dripping with defiance.

Rolling your eyes, you pressed on, your senses sharp and your quirk humming faintly under your skin. More guards appeared as you descended the stairs, but Bakugo’s explosions and your precision made quick work of them. The two of you moved like a well-oiled machine—despite the unresolved tension, your instincts as fighters meshed seamlessly.

By the time you reached the east wing, the air felt heavier, charged with something darker. Moretti was close—you could feel his presence like a storm on the horizon.

Bakugo glanced at you, his fiery gaze meeting yours. “This is it. You ready?”

You nodded, your jaw set. “I’ve been ready for years.”

He smirked, stepping ahead and cracking his knuckles. “Then let’s end this.”

---

TAGLIST: @emmaafinchh@faetoraa@iissza@theasgardianmexican@cax-per

@nombakugoswife1

This is so felt lmao

I'm so sorry for being dead. I'm stuck studying for an accounting exam on Thursday 😭

fashion killa

chapter one ; close my eyes

[ nsfw ] — smut (18+) ; bakugou katsuki x reader

word count: 18,773 — read on ao3

tags: strangers to lovers, friends with benefits, pro hero bakugou katsuki, explicit language & sexual content, aged-up characters, porn with plot, model!reader, slight angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, bakugou is a soft yearning idiot who i want to eat up, not beta read!

summary:

Fashion Week was supposed to be simple—walk the runway, collect your check, and, if all went according to plan, spend the night with Pro Hero Dynamight. Just a little fun. Nothing more. But getting rid of Bakugou Katsuki proves to be harder than slipping out of a too-tight sample size.

Or, in which a one-night stand with one of Japan’s most famous men turns into a relentless game of cat and mouse—and the worst part? You don’t hate it.

notes:

shoutout to iris van herpen and my palestinian queen bella hadid (and also the dsquared2 show that inspired this whole ordeal). also i have nothing and didn’t know anything of the fashion industry, this is all my own research and the fact that one of my closest friends is a fashion designer, so she gave me lots of info as well lol.

anyway thank you in advance for reading and enjoy! :D

This cannot be happening.

You sit still in the chair, trying to focus as the makeup artist applies the last stroke of color to your lips, but your mind is spiraling. The air in the backstage area of the runway feels thick, suffocating even, as the weight of what’s happening presses down on everyone. Models are pacing, stylists frantically adjusting outfits, and designers whispering in tight circles with wide-eyed panic. You can practically feel Minase’s stress radiating off her as she rushes back and forth, trying to salvage this nightmare.

This isn’t just a minor hiccup in some small-town fashion show where you could brush off a wardrobe malfunction with a laugh and a wave. This is Fashion Week, and for Tsukiyo, this is the show that could make or break careers, and for Minase, the designer behind the brand, this was her moment to be presented as a luxury label. A game changer. All the top names are in attendance: Pro Heroes, celebrities, actors, business tycoons, and even other top designers. The pressure to deliver is suffocating.

But now? Everything is on the verge of collapse. 

The issue? The final outfits don’t fit. None of the models, including you, can slip into the custom garments. Even worse, Shirane—the model scheduled to close the show in The Siren Dress—is nowhere to be found. It’s a disaster. For something like this to happen at any show would be bad, but during Fashion Week? During a show of this magnitude? It’s a professional catastrophe.

Amanai, sitting next to you with her hair half-curled, whispers, “What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Her voice trembles slightly, as if she can’t believe the magnitude of the chaos around her. You glance at her through the reflection in the mirror.

You shrug, careful not to move your face too much as the makeup artist continues. “Don’t have a clue.”

Her eyes widen, and you know what she’s thinking. She doesn’t have to say it out loud. We’re fucked. And it’s not just the brand. It’s you. All of you. Even though the mistake seems like an issue with the tailoring, the models would inevitably be blamed. It’s always like that. In fashion, when things go wrong, the blame rolls downhill.

Minase calls for a last-minute huddle, and you all gather around her, her expression desperate but not yet defeated. “We’re going to make this work,” she says, her voice sharp with tension, though there’s a glimmer of resolve in her eyes. She has to make this work, for her own sake, and for the brand.

“We’re cutting out some of the outfits,” she announces, taking a deep breath. “We’ll only walk our most important pieces. Each model will only wear two instead of four. It’s going to shorten the show, but that’s the best we can do.” Her words come out in a rushed cadence, like she’s barely keeping it together. “Every tailor, designer, and stylist will focus on those pieces—make sure they fit.”

You see a ripple of uncertainty pass through the team. It’s a risky move, but it might be the only option left.

Minase continues, “And I need someone to close the show in The Siren dress. Shirane is out, and we don’t have time to wait.”

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of The Siren Dress. Everyone knows that dress. It’s the showstopper, the pièce de résistance of the entire collection. A shimmering, liquid silk masterpiece that drapes across the body like water, constantly shifting between hues of sapphire and deep amethyst under the lights. The structured shoulders, adorned with sculpted, ethereal fins, make the wearer look like some mythical sea creature. The waist is cinched with a belt encrusted with jeweled seashells and pearl-studded starfish. A long, sheer chiffon cape flows from the back, dotted with crystals that catch the light like glimmering drops of water.

It’s the kind of dress every model dreams of wearing. It’s not just a fashion statement; it’s an event.

Without thinking, the words shoot out of your mouth. “I can do it!” 

For a moment, everyone pauses, the weight of your words hanging in the air. You’re not sure where that surge of confidence came from, but the opportunity is too good to let slip by. This could be your moment—your big break.

Matsumoto, one of the designers, scoffs. “Honey, you don’t fit into that,” he says, dismissing you with a wave.

You narrow your eyes at him, your temper flaring. “I thought Tsukiyo was all about body positivity and bold, avant-garde design,” you snap back. “Don’t pull that body image crap with me. I can and will fit into it if you let me.”

The silence that follows is deafening, all eyes turning to Minase. Matsumoto opens his mouth to argue, but Minase cuts him off before he can say another word.

“I don’t care who wears it as long as it fits and it’s walked with confidence,” Minase says, her voice sharp, eyes locking onto you. “If you can make it work, get into the fitting room. Now.”

Without a second thought, you jump to your feet and rush to the back, your heart racing in your chest. There’s no guarantee that the dress will fit, but you have to try. This is a golden opportunity, and you’re not about to let it slip through your fingers.

The fitting room is a whirlwind of activity, stylists and tailors rushing around in a flurry of fabric, pins, and thread. The dress is waiting for you, gleaming under the harsh lights like a pool of liquid gemstones. The second you lay eyes on it, your nerves spike again, but you push them down. You can do this.

With the help of a few assistants, you begin slipping into the dress. The fabric is cool and smooth against it your skin, molding to your body like a second skin. The sculpted shoulders fit snugly, and as they fasten the waist, you breathe out a sigh of relief—the dress, miraculously, fits.

You look at yourself in the mirror, the chiffon cape trailing behind you, catching the light as it moves. For a moment, you barely recognize yourself. You look powerful. Ethereal. Like a siren rising from the depths of the ocean, ready to lure the world in with a single glance.

Minase comes storming toward you with the same intensity she’s had all day, her expression tight and determined. “Move,” she snaps, and you instinctively step aside. She circles you like a hawk, her eyes narrowed as they sweep over every inch of the Siren dress. You stand there, holding your breath as she inspects the fit. “Walk,” she commands.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you take a tentative step, then another, feeling the way the liquid silk of the dress clings to your body, draping elegantly with each movement. You wait for the dreaded sound of a seam ripping or fabric pulling, but to your immense relief, the dress holds perfectly.

Minase exhales sharply. “Good! Now change out of it and get into the Garden of Eden Ensemble. You need to walk soon!”

For a moment, you blink, processing her words, but then you snap into action, knowing that every second counts. The assistants swarm around you as you’re carefully helped out of the Siren dress. The fabric slips away from your skin, and your nerves are still buzzing as you think about the next outfit. The Garden of Eden Ensemble—another showstopper.

As they pull the new garment over your body, you feel the semi-sheer corseted jumpsuit hug your figure. The corset cinches you in tightly, but not uncomfortably, and you admire the intricate vines and embroidered florals that snake across the fabric. Cascading down the pants, the appliquéd leather tendrils give the impression of nature overtaking you, rooting you into the world of Tsukiyo. The golden sequins adorning the sleeves shimmer as you move your arms, catching the light in a way that transforms the entire look into something ethereal.

The assistants adjust the flared pant legs, smoothing them out as the last of the laser-cut leather appliqués falls into place. You catch your reflection and pause, marveling at the ensemble. It’s dramatic yet elegant, bold yet delicate. It feels like something ancient and powerful, as though you’ve stepped out of a mythical garden, draped in both beauty and danger. And it fits. It fits perfectly.

With your hair and makeup touched up once again, the backstage frenzy whirls around you, but you remain focused. Your heart is racing with the anticipation of what’s to come, knowing you’re about to step into the limelight, where all eyes will be on you.

Before long, you, Amanai, and Hanari are sneaking glances through the curtain, peering out at the audience as the previous group finishes their walk. The front row is lined with Japan’s elite: business moguls, actors, musicians, and, of course, Pro Heroes. You’re searching for someone in particular, but your friends are already losing their composure over another sight.

“Holy shit, Shoto is there. Oh my God… he’s so hot,” Hanari breathes, her eyes glued to the Pro Hero in the front row.

You follow her gaze to Todoroki Shoto, and you have to admit—he looks good. The gray and white patterned blazer he’s wearing fits him like a glove, subtle checkered details giving his outfit a refined, yet textured look. The embroidered brand logo adds a touch of luxury, while his white shirt contrasts crisply against the structured blazer. The wide-leg black trousers add a relaxed, modern silhouette that somehow manages to still look impeccably polished. His black platform shoes complete the ensemble, giving him a chic, almost ethereal appearance.

“He’s so dreamy,” Hanari whispers, as she adjusts her own outfit, The Cyber-Baroque Suit—a stunningly tailored black ensemble with holographic lapels that ripple under the lights. The intricate silver filigree embroidery across the blazer is opulent, and the monogrammed velvet panels along her flared pants add the finishing touch of sophistication.

“Yeah, wow… those trousers really show off his long legs,” Amanai chimes in, her voice low and appreciative as she adjusts the three-dimensional ruffles of her Mirage Dress. The futuristic design hugs her body in all the right places, the sheer mesh and metallic fabric shifting between emerald and gold. She looks like a walking masterpiece, her high collar glinting with iridescent stones.

You hum noncommittally, eyes scanning the front row again. “Think you can hook him in today?” Amanai teases with a sly grin.

But you don’t take the bait. Instead, you let a mischievous smile tug at your lips as your gaze finally lands on him. “No… my eyes are on the grumpy one over there.”

Bakugou Katsuki. Pro Hero Dynamight. 

He’s seated next to Todoroki, a sharp contrast to the icy elegance beside him. Bakugou is all sharp lines and rugged edges, wearing black pleated trousers with a cropped double-breasted blazer that boasts a subtle black-on-black plaid pattern. The mock-neck top beneath it shimmers faintly with the brand’s monogram, catching the light just enough to add some sparkle without being ostentatious. His boots are chunky, giving him a commanding presence, and his arms are crossed over his chest, his scowl directed at the runway as if he’s daring anyone to disappoint him. His hair is wild, spiked in every direction, adding to his unapproachable, badass demeanor. But to you? He looks irresistible.

“God, what I’d do to fuck that man,” you murmur, your voice half dreamy, half sinful. Your mind wanders as you imagine what it would be like—his hands gripping your hips roughly, his voice low and gravelly in your ear. He’s all fire and aggression, and you can’t help but think he’d be the same in bed—intense, hard, and maybe a little reckless. “He’s so grumpy, I bet he fucks like that too. All rough and hard and—”

“Oh, it’s our turn!” Amanai suddenly interrupts, pulling you back to reality. You all scramble into position, quickly wiping away the smirks and giggles to adopt your most professional expressions. Time to focus.

One by one, the models step onto the runway. Hanari first, then Amanai, and finally you. The second your foot hits the glossy floor of the runway, the world narrows into a single point of focus. The noise of the backstage chaos fades away, leaving only the sound of your heels clicking against the floor and the steady rhythm of your breathing.

You walk with purpose, your back straight, your chin held high. The Garden of Eden Ensemble sways with your movements, the golden sequins on your sleeves catching the light as you pass under the bright spotlights. The cascading vines and floral embroidery shimmer against your skin, and you feel like a living, breathing masterpiece. You embody Tsukiyo’s vision—elegant, mysterious, and impossible to ignore.

And then, you feel it. Bakugou’s eyes are on you, burning into you with an intensity that sends a thrill down your spine. You don’t look directly at him, but you know he’s watching—scowling, probably, but watching nonetheless.

Good. Let him watch.

As you finish your walk and reach the end of the runway, you pause for your final pose. The lights hit you perfectly, illuminating the intricate detailing of the Garden of Eden Ensemble. You stand tall, chin up, and let the confidence settle over you like armor. The audience is transfixed, eyes glued to you, but you can only focus on one thing—getting through this without stumbling, without faltering. You’ve made it this far, and nothing can go wrong now.

One beat. Two. And then you turn, walking back with steady, deliberate steps. Each click of your heel against the floor seems to echo, reverberating in your chest as you remind yourself not to rush. You can feel the weight of everyone’s gaze, especially Bakugou’s, and it sends a shiver down your spine. His presence alone is magnetic, even from across the room, and it fuels your determination to make the rest of this night flawless.

You breathe out a sigh of relief when you step off the runway and into the controlled chaos of backstage. Immediately, the assistants are on you, their hands quick and efficient as they usher you toward the fitting room. There’s no time to dwell on the success of your walk; you still have one more challenge ahead—slipping into the Siren Dress, the centerpiece of the evening, the dress everyone will be talking about.

As you’re led into the fitting room, your heart is pounding again. The assistants are already preparing, gathering the delicate fabric, the intricate shoes, and the headpiece that will complete the look. There’s no room for error now, and the stakes are even higher. The Siren Dress is more than just a gown—it’s the dress. The one that will define the show. The one that will define you tonight.

The assistants help you out of the Garden of Eden Ensemble, their hands quick but careful, unhooking the corset and sliding the fabric off your body. The cool air hits your skin, but you barely notice it. Your mind is racing with thoughts of the next walk—how you’ll need to move with even more grace, more confidence, and, most importantly, without breaking your heel or tripping. The last thing you need is a disaster in front of all those eyes.

One of the assistants hands you the Siren Dress, and as you take it in your hands, it feels almost too precious to touch. The silk is as smooth as water, shifting between sapphire and amethyst as it catches the light. With their help, you carefully slip into it, the fabric clinging to your body like it was made for you. The sculpted shoulders sit perfectly in place, the bejeweled starfish and seashells gleaming against your waist.

You can feel the dress transform you as you look in the mirror. It’s almost like you’ve become someone else—someone more dangerous, more alluring. The cape, sheer and embroidered with delicate crystals, trails behind you like a whisper of the ocean, shimmering with every tiny movement.

But there’s no time to admire yourself just yet. The assistants quickly move to change your hair and makeup. Gone is the ethereal, garden-inspired look. In its place, they craft something bold and powerful. Your hair is slicked back, sleek and wet-looking, as if you’ve just emerged from the sea. The makeup is darker, sultrier, with smoky eyes that intensify your gaze and shimmering highlights that mimic the glint of water under moonlight. Your lips are painted a deep plum, a color that complements the shifting hues of the dress.

It’s a transformation—one that fits the Siren Dress perfectly. You’re no longer just a model. You’re a siren, ready to lure anyone who dares look too long.

As the final touches are made, you catch a glimpse of yourself again. This time, the power of the look hits you harder. You barely recognize yourself. The confidence that comes with the dress is intoxicating. You look like you could walk out there and command the attention of every single person in the room.

Minase rushes toward you, her hands deftly adjusting the last few details of the Siren Dress herself, making sure each fold of fabric falls exactly where it’s supposed to. She pulls back, inspecting you with the critical eye of someone who knows this moment can make or break the show. She takes a deep breath, her gaze softening for just a second, but her tone is firm when she speaks. 

"Listen," she says, leaning in slightly as if imparting a secret. "The lights will dim, and when you see the green LED lights flicker, that’s your cue. Walk it with confidence. Make sure everyone in that room sees the best of you and the dress. And your final pose? Make it perfect. Ethereal. I want them to see the siren in you—mystery, allure, power." 

You nod, the weight of her words settling into your bones. "Got it." Your voice is steady, but inside, your nerves hum with the anticipation. This is it—the moment everything has been leading up to. You force yourself to take a deep breath, calming the racing pulse in your veins. As soon as you exhale, the assistants guide you toward the front, positioning you for the final walk.

Several people backstage wish you luck, their voices mixing into the background noise, but your focus is narrowing. Amanai and Hanari catch your eye, both sending you a thumbs-up. You can’t help but smile and return the gesture, even as adrenaline courses through you. Their support is comforting, but nothing will ease the pressure until you step out there.

And then it happens. The runway lights dim, casting the space into an almost otherworldly shadow. The energy in the room shifts, becoming electric with expectation. The green LED lights flicker, a soft sea green glow that signals the beginning of your walk.

This is it.

You step out onto the runway, and instantly, all eyes are on you. The silk of the Siren Dress glistens under the low lights, shifting between deep sapphire and amethyst with every step. It’s mesmerizing, like watching water ripple under the moonlight. The cape billows softly behind you, catching the air just enough to give the impression of movement—like you’ve just emerged from the depths of the ocean. You can feel the eyes of the audience glued to you, captivated by the way the fabric clings to your body, the way it flows with your movements.

Your heels click against the floor in a rhythm that feels powerful, almost like a heartbeat. You keep your chin up, your gaze forward, walking with the kind of confidence that you know will hold their attention. This isn’t just about looking beautiful—it’s about commanding the room. You can feel the dress moving with you, every stitch, every embellishment, perfectly accentuating the curve of your waist, the strength of your stride. The bejeweled starfish and seashells at your waist catch the light with every sway of your hips, glittering like treasures pulled from the ocean floor.

Your heart pounds, but your movements are smooth, deliberate. The dress does half the work, its liquid silk reflecting the greenish hue of the LED lights, making you look like you belong to some mythical, underwater world. You can feel the collective gaze of the crowd, not just watching, but consumed by the vision you present.

As you approach the end of the runway, you prepare for the final pose—the one that will leave a lasting impression. You stop, turning your body slightly, angling the dress so that the light hits the flowing cape behind you. You tilt your head just so, letting your hair catch the light, your makeup gleaming with a soft, ocean-like sheen.

For a moment, you don’t just feel like a model on a runway. You feel like the siren itself—untouchable, ethereal, alluring beyond reason. The final pose you strike is exactly what Minase wanted—an image of elegance and mystery. Your gaze is soft yet piercing, like the pull of the tide, drawing the audience in closer, daring them to step further into your world.

The crowd falls silent, the air thick with awe. You can feel the power of the moment, how the dress and the atmosphere merge into something transcendent. Every eye in the room is on you, and not just because of the dress—it’s the way you own it, the way you move in it, as if it was made solely for you. 

And then, with one last glance, you turn, your cape sweeping behind you in a final graceful movement. You walk back, just as confident, the weight of your success settling in. You didn’t just wear the Siren Dress—you became it. As you step off the runway and disappear back into the chaos of backstage, the noise of the audience erupts, but you’ve already let it fade into the background. 

Your heart is still racing, but this time, it’s with exhilaration. 

You did it. You nailed it.

By the time the show ends, your phone is a constant stream of notifications—texts, calls, social media tags. You slip into the sleek black car waiting for you outside the venue, already scrolling through your phone, a grin spreading across your face. Koizumi, your ever-diligent agent, has been flooding your inbox with everything you need to know—articles, social media posts, pictures. The buzz surrounding your appearance is growing by the second, and from the looks of it, you’re the talk of the night. 

As the car smoothly cruises through the city, you scroll through the images and headlines. It’s a whirlwind of praise: Stunning. Bold. Unforgettable. Every headline gushes over the Tsukiyo show and, more specifically, your walk in the Siren Dress. The way you owned the runway—confident, mysterious, and undeniably sultry—has people talking. You pause on a video clip someone posted on Instagram, watching yourself in the dress as you glide down the runway, every inch of you exuding power and grace. Even in a video, you can feel the magnetism of the moment.

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Everything fell into place, from the last-minute fitting to your flawless walk, and it paid off in spades. Minase, no doubt, will be getting completely shit-faced with her team, celebrating the success of Tsukiyo’s first major show as a luxury brand. And you? You’re basking in the afterglow, savoring the feeling of triumph.

The car pulls up to the afterparty venue, and you smooth down the sheer nude gown you’ve changed into for the occasion. The dress is a showstopper in its own right—ethereal yet sensual, with a structured corset that accentuates your waist and a sweetheart neckline dripping in shimmering crystals. The illusion mesh gives a tantalizing barely-there effect, leaving just enough to the imagination while still offering the elegance of a high-fashion gown. The train of soft tulle trails behind you as you step out, the gown sparkling under the flashing lights of the paparazzi.

As you’re escorted out of the car, the bright flashes momentarily blind you, but your bodyguard is quick to guide you through the frenzy of photographers and fans clamoring for a shot. The atmosphere is electric, the air buzzing with excitement, but your focus remains calm and poised. You’ve done this before, and tonight, the energy feels different—bigger. You can feel the eyes on you, the way the cameras snap feverishly, as if you’re the centerpiece of the evening.

Inside the venue, the chaos outside fades away, replaced by the dim, luxurious ambiance of the afterparty. Glittering chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm golden glow over the room. The space is filled with people—designers, models, celebrities, influencers, and industry bigwigs, all sipping champagne and celebrating the success of the night. The air is thick with laughter, congratulations, and the clinking of glasses, but even here, you can feel the buzz surrounding you.

As you make your way through the crowd, more than a few eyes follow you. You catch snippets of conversation—compliments, admiration, whispers about your performance tonight. The gown you’re wearing only adds to your allure, catching the light with every step you take, making you look like you’re dripping in stardust.

You take a moment to breathe, letting the excitement wash over you. This is your night, and you’ve earned every second of it. From the chaotic backstage moments to the runway and now the afterparty, you’ve proven that you belong in this world of high fashion and luxury. The satisfaction of it all swells in your chest, but there’s still one thing left to look forward to—the promise of the evening’s encounters. 

You smile to yourself as you move further into the venue, your eyes scanning the room. This night is far from over.

As you make your way over to the bar, the familiar click of your heels echoes softly against the marble floors, mingling with the low hum of conversation around you. The afterparty is in full swing, a swirl of dim lighting and glittering gowns, but your eyes are drawn to Amanai and Hanari sitting comfortably near the bar. You slide onto the stool next to them, finally allowing yourself to take a breath. Ordering a cocktail, you exhale slowly, letting the tension from the night slip off your shoulders.

Amanai grins, her sleek red dress shimmering under the warm lighting as she turns toward you. "So," she begins, the glint in her eyes matching the playful edge in her voice, "how’s it feel to be the talk of the town?"

You bite your lip, but the grin that spreads across your face betrays any attempt at modesty. "Real good," you admit, letting the satisfaction settle into your tone. 

Hanari, dressed in a short black number that shows off her legs, snorts in amusement. "Of course it does. But hey, you earned it. You looked like a dream out there in that dress—total showstopper."

"Thanks," you say with a genuine smile, appreciating their compliments. You take a sip of your cocktail, savoring the cold, sweet taste on your tongue. "But we all did great. It just so happens that I stole the show tonight."

The three of you laugh, the sound mingling with the clink of glasses and chatter surrounding the bar. The conversation flows naturally, shifting from the success of the night to the grind of fashion week. There’s talk of the upcoming shows, the long hours, and the relief you all feel knowing that the week’s end is just around the corner. It’s been a brutal few weeks, and the fatigue is starting to set in, but tonight's success is a much-needed burst of energy.

Throughout the conversation, various people stop by to offer congratulations or small talk. You exchange pleasantries with Iwasake, the business tycoon from the IwasaKe restaurant brand, and Katoaka Megumi, a famous actress. Kijimuta Satoshi, another model you know, drops by briefly—he’s charming, cute in a way that feels effortless, but your mind isn’t on any of them.

Because for the past eight minutes and forty seconds, you’ve felt someone’s eyes on you. His gaze is heavy, unmistakable, and even though you haven’t looked directly at him yet, you know exactly who it is.

Amanai, sensing the shift in your focus, leans in closer, her voice low and conspiratorial. "There’s someone who’s been staring at you from across the room for a while now."

You smirk, swirling your drink lazily in your hand. "I know," you murmur, your voice equally low, but you don’t look. You don’t need to. Instead, you fold one leg over the other slowly, feeling the material of your gown brush against your skin in a way that feels almost deliberate.

Finally, you allow yourself the indulgence of looking up, locking eyes with Bakugou Katsuki. His intense, ruby-red gaze meets yours, and you don’t miss the way his jaw tenses, his fingers gripping the glass in his hand just a little tighter. He's standing with Pro Heroes Pinky and Chargebolt, looking like he’s barely tolerating the conversation happening around him. His usual scowl is etched into his sharp features, but there’s something else simmering beneath it—something that flickers across his face when your eyes meet. The tension between you is palpable, electric, but you break the gaze first, letting your lips curl into a subtle smile before looking away.

And just like that, the game begins.

You toy with him from across the room, your actions casual, but intentional. You let your gaze linger on him when you laugh at something Amanai says, your lips curling in amusement as if you’re sharing a private joke with him. Occasionally, you lift your glass to your lips, letting your eyes flick to him just in time to catch his. He watches you, his eyes trailing over your form, his gaze never wavering for long even as he tries to keep up with his friends’ conversation.

At one point, you let a wink slip, knowing full well he catches it. His reaction is subtle—a flicker of something in his eyes, a slight twitch of his lips—but you notice it. It’s all part of the game, the unspoken tension between you crackling like a live wire. He flits his gaze between his friends and you, like he’s trying to ignore you but can’t quite pull it off. And you? You’re reveling in it, in the push-and-pull of your silent exchange.

Amanai leans closer, her curiosity getting the better of her. "So… what’s the plan for tonight?"

You take another sip of your cocktail, letting the cool liquid slide down your throat before you answer. "To get laid," you say, voice low but certain, your eyes sliding back to Bakugou as he shifts his weight, his stance still tense. "With grumpy over there."

Amanai arches a brow, intrigued. "You really think you can pull that off? From what I’ve heard, Dynamight doesn’t do hookups."

You grin, the challenge only fueling your resolve. "Don’t you think I can pull it off?"

She laughs, shaking her head in amusement. "So, you’re betting on yourself?"

"Of course," you say, your tone confident, almost teasing. "He’ll be here."

And you believe it. There’s a magnetic pull between you and Bakugou tonight, something more intense than mere attraction. It’s the thrill of the chase, the slow burn of his attention on you, and the anticipation of what might happen once you finally close the distance. You can feel it in the way his eyes linger on you, in the unspoken tension that’s been building between you since the moment you met his gaze.

After finishing your cocktail, you rise from your seat, the weight of Bakugou’s gaze practically burning into your back. You make sure to sway your hips just the right amount, exaggerating the curve of your body as you walk past his table, your smile curling with a wicked hint of satisfaction. You can feel his eyes on you before you even glance back, and when you do, you catch his red eyes following every step, his expression unreadable, but the intensity is there. It makes a thrill shoot through you.

Before you disappear into the bathroom, you flash him a wink, and when you return, you strut back with the same confidence. This time, you meet his gaze head-on, raising a brow in amused challenge. Bakugou doesn’t look away, his eyes dark and focused as if he’s sizing you up, while Pinky and Chargebolt wear ridiculous grins, nudging each other as they catch on to the silent exchange happening.

When you sit back down, Hanari leans in, voice a little breathless. “He’s been eyeing you all night, you know. And—holy shit, he’s coming over.”

You blink in surprise but quickly compose yourself, smiling. Sure enough, Bakugou is reluctantly being dragged over by Pinky and Chargebolt, his expression locked in a scowl, face flushed in what looks like frustration—or embarrassment. Either way, he’s not pleased; you can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the stiffness in his walk, the sharp look in his eyes.

“Hi!” Pinky exclaims as she sidles up next to you, her energy bubbling over. “Ashido Mina!” She introduces herself with a bright smile, and then gestures to the two men behind her. “And this is Bakugou Katsuki, and that’s Kaminari Denki.”

You return the smile, your voice calm and smooth. “Hi, nice to meet you all.” You shake each of their hands, but when Bakugou’s turn comes, you let your hand linger in his just a second longer. His palm is warm, his grip firm, and when your eyes meet, you hold his gaze, your lips curling up slightly. His eyes narrow just a fraction, but he doesn’t pull his hand away until you do.

Mina beams, completely oblivious to the charged exchange. "You all were incredible in the show! Seriously, that was amazing.”

Amanai is the first to respond, her grin wide. "Thanks! We're just glad everything went smoothly."

Hanari nods along. "Yeah, shows like this can be hit or miss. It’s always nerve-wracking, but tonight… tonight was a hit."

Kaminari chimes in, his eyes wide with admiration. "That last dress you wore? Wow. It was incredible!"

You smile, a touch of pride in your voice. “I’m glad you liked it. It was an honor to wear it.” But even as the conversation continues, your attention is on Bakugou, who remains oddly quiet. You catch his gaze more than once, and each time, there’s something simmering behind those sharp red eyes, something fierce and unreadable.

Before you know it, Ashido and Kaminari start whispering between themselves, exchanging a knowing glance with Amanai and Hanari. Then, almost as if on cue, Ashido grins and says, “We’re gonna leave real quick!” before they all whisk each other away, leaving you alone with Bakugou.

You don’t miss the wink that Ashido shoots at Bakugou as she leaves, or the way Kaminari smirks. Bakugou’s scowl deepens, his fists clenching at his sides, clearly irritated by their not-so-subtle departure. But now it’s just the two of you, and the tension between you feels different, more palpable. 

You glance up at him, your lips curling into a smile as you trace your finger around the rim of your empty glass. “So…” you drawl, letting your voice drop just a little, soft and teasing. “Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?”

You don’t expect the reaction you get. Bakugou, known for his unshakable confidence and explosive temper, flushes bright red. The color spreads across his cheeks and up to his ears, and he clears his throat, looking away from you for a brief second before barking at the bartender. “Oi! Two drinks—one for me, one for her.”

You suppress a laugh, amused at how flustered he seems. The bartender moves quickly, and soon enough, two fresh drinks are placed in front of you. Bakugou grabs his immediately, taking a long, almost aggressive sip as if it’ll calm the heat in his face.

Leaning closer, you let your fingers trail over the fabric of his blazer, the soft texture under your fingertips. “I like your outfit,” you say, your voice smooth, letting your gaze roam over him appreciatively. “You look good in it.”

He stiffens beneath your touch, his eyes flicking to where your hand rests on his chest before quickly darting back up to your face. He mutters something that sounds like “Thanks,” his voice low and gruff, but it’s hard to tell if he’s embarrassed or annoyed. Maybe a bit of both.

You take a slow sip of your drink, savoring the taste. “Aren’t you going to tell me I look good too?” you tease, your voice light, but there’s a glimmer of challenge in your eyes as you look up at him through your lashes.

Bakugou’s scowl deepens, and for a second, you think he’s going to snap at you. But instead, he meets your gaze, his eyes roaming over your figure in a way that feels both intense and unguarded. There’s heat in his stare, a flicker of something you can’t quite place, but it makes your heart race.

“You know you look good,” he grumbles, his voice gruff and low, and for the first time tonight, there’s a hint of sincerity in it. He’s not saying it because he has to—he’s saying it because he means it. And that makes it all the more satisfying.

You smile, satisfied, and take another sip of your drink. “I do know,” you admit, your voice playful, but there’s an undercurrent of something more. Something electric between you, buzzing in the air.

Bakugou looks at you, his gaze sharp and unwavering, and you can tell he’s trying to figure you out. You can almost see the gears turning in his mind, wondering how to handle whatever this is between you. But you don’t mind the wait—because you know, eventually, he’ll come to you.

“So, what did you think of the show tonight?” you ask, swirling the drink in your glass, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Bakugou shifts, his large frame looking awkwardly out of place for someone so naturally confident, and mumbles, “Was good.” He takes another sip, avoiding your eyes like they burn him.

It’s not enough. You want more from him. You want to see if you can push him past this gruff exterior. 

“Was it up to par with your parents’ fashion line or does it still need some work?” you tease, knowing exactly what button to push. 

His reaction is immediate—his scowl deepens, and his eyes snap to you with that fiery intensity you expect from Dynamight. “How the hell do you know ‘bout my folks?” His tone is sharp, defensive.

You raise an eyebrow, a slow, amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I think it’s very well known that your parents are in the fashion industry, Pro Hero Dynamight,” you purr, letting the title roll off your tongue with playful emphasis.

His eyes narrow at the sound of his hero name coming from your mouth. “Don’t call me that,” he grumbles.

“Why?” you ask, the innocence in your tone belied by the mischievous glint in your eyes. “It’s your name, right?”

“Yeah, but—” he begins, looking like he’s struggling to explain why it bothers him. It’s clear he’s uncomfortable with the way you say it, like you’re peeling back the layers of his persona, getting under his skin. He cuts himself off, gritting his teeth.

“But what?” you continue, leaning closer, enjoying how you’re making him squirm. “You don’t want me to call you th—”

He snaps, “You’re mouthy, y’know?”

And just like that, the tables turn. The playful, teasing atmosphere shifts, and you cock your head to the side, smiling slowly. “You know, the more you speak, the less I wanna sleep with you.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, and his face turns a deep shade of red. He stumbles over his words, clearly caught off guard, and it makes you laugh—a warm, melodic sound that fills the space between you. You reach for the toothpick in your drink, slowly biting down on the olive, making sure he’s watching, and when you wink at him, you can practically feel him tense.

He’s trying so hard to keep his cool, to play it off like he doesn’t care, but his body betrays him. You feel his leg stiffen under the table as your foot grazes up his calf, and the way his grip tightens on his drink doesn’t go unnoticed.

He’s incredibly cute when he’s flustered.

“Who says I wanna sleep with you?” he eventually mutters, his voice low and gruff, but there’s a nervous edge to it.

You raise an eyebrow, playing with the toothpick between your fingers before shrugging nonchalantly. “I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been eyefucking me all night, but hey, that’s just me.”

His eyes widen again, and he shoots you a sharp glare, though it lacks the usual bite you’ve seen from him on the news or in interviews. It’s like he’s trying to gather himself, trying to regain control. “I fuckin’ haven’t!” he protests, his voice a little too loud, a little too defensive.

You smirk, leaning back in your seat. “You have.”

“Haven’t,” he mutters, looking away again, taking another swig of his drink like it’ll hide the redness creeping up his neck.

You hum softly, tilting your head as you watch him closely. “Right, right… so you don’t wanna fuck me?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and you can see the wheels turning in his head, his mouth opening and closing like he’s searching for the right words but coming up short. For someone who’s always so quick to snap, always ready with a retort or a growl, Bakugou is fumbling right now, and it’s adorable.

Finally, he grumbles, “You dunno shit about me, so…”

“No, I guess I don’t,” you sigh, leaning in closer again, your lips dangerously close to his ear, voice soft and teasing. “But I’d like to learn.”

You lean in a little more, the warmth of the bar, the buzz of the room, and the tension between you making the air feel thick with possibility. Bakugou is staring at you, trying his best to hide the way his eyes drop to the curve of your chest when you lean forward, and it makes your grin widen. His lips are slightly parted, and the flush that stains his cheeks isn’t just from the alcohol. 

You don’t make it easy for him. 

Eventually, the inevitable happens. 

You and Bakugou end up in a secluded part of the venue, the tension between you building until it spills over, sparked by the alcohol, the heat of the moment, and the way you know exactly what you’re doing.

You don’t bother with the obvious locations—the storage rooms or the bathrooms that others might use. No, you’re smarter than that. You lead Bakugou through the hallways with ease, turning corners with confidence, giving him a glance over your shoulder every now and then, your hips swaying with purpose. His eyes are glued to you, and you can feel the heat of his gaze on your back. When you reach the private bathroom, you grab his hand and tug him inside. The door shuts with a solid click as you lock it, sealing the two of you in this private world.

And then, without hesitation, you kiss him.

The moment your lips meet, there’s a heat that sears through both of you, but it’s not wild at first. His lips are soft and warm, moving against yours in a way that’s almost tentative. You deepen the kiss, and it’s slow at first—wet and slick as your tongues meet, sliding against each other in a way that makes you dizzy. You can tell that this isn’t something Bakugou does often. His movements are hesitant, a little shy, almost unsure of himself. He’s awkward in a way that’s endearing, and it makes your heart race.

But you? You’re more carefree than him. Nothing about this feels awkward to you, and that seems to comfort him, ease him into the moment. His hands come up to tangle in your hair, fingers fisting gently as he pulls you closer, and the kiss grows hotter, deeper. He breaks away for a moment, panting softly against your lips, his breath hot and shaky. “Hah—” he exhales, his eyes half-lidded and hazy as he looks at you.

You take advantage of his hesitation, running your fingers up his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath his blazer. Your fingers trail up to his face, brushing his hair back off his forehead, before you pull him in for another kiss. This time, it’s more urgent, more desperate, and you can feel him relaxing into it, his body pressing closer to yours.

It doesn’t take long for the kiss to escalate. His hands roam your body, and before you know it, you’re being pushed back against the bathroom mirror. The cold glass presses against your back, a stark contrast to the heat of Bakugou’s body against yours. His hands are everywhere—skimming up your thighs, pushing your dress up over your hips, while his mouth moves hungrily against yours.

You gasp when his fingers find the waistband of your underwear, tugging it aside, and when his fingers brush over your wet folds, he makes a choked sound against your lips. His breath is ragged, his touch clumsy but insistent. Your own fingers work at his belt, fumbling in your haste to unbuckle it. You manage to free him just as his fingers slide inside you, and you mumble a single word against his lips: “Start.”

When he finally enters you, the sensation is overwhelming. He fills you completely, every inch of him sliding inside you with an ease that makes your head spin. You gasp, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer as he starts to move. His pace is steady but hard, his hips rolling into yours with a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

Each thrust pushes you further against the mirror, the cool surface a grounding sensation as you cling to him, moaning softly into his mouth. The sound of his hips meeting yours echoes in the small space, mixing with the ragged breaths and soft groans that escape both of you. It’s raw, primal, and perfect.

Bakugou isn’t gentle, but he’s not rough either. His movements are driven, urgent, but there’s a carefulness to the way he holds you, like he’s trying to make sure you’re comfortable, even as his need for you grows more intense with every passing second. His hands grip your thighs, lifting you higher against him, and your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him even deeper.

He groans against your lips, the sound muffled as his mouth finds yours again in a desperate kiss. His body trembles slightly as he thrusts harder, and you feel like you’re melting into him, the pleasure building with every movement, every kiss. His face buries into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing against your skin as he loses himself in the moment.

And you, you’re barely holding on. The pleasure is overwhelming, and you arch against him, trying to take him deeper, feel more of him. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as the tension inside you coils tighter and tighter, ready to snap.

When you finally come, it hits you like a wave, your body trembling violently as you moan into his ear, the sound broken and breathless. Your head falls back against the mirror with a dull thud, your body shaking as the pleasure courses through you, leaving you feeling weightless, like you’re floating.

Bakugou follows soon after, his movements growing sloppier as he thrusts into you one last time, his body trembling as he comes with a low, guttural groan. You can feel the warmth of him spilling into you, his hips lazily rolling against yours as he rides out his release, his body sagging against yours as the intensity of the moment begins to fade.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sounds are your heavy breathing and the faint hum of the venue outside the bathroom. Bakugou presses a soft kiss to your lips, and you hum in response, your breaths slowly returning to normal as the world around you comes back into focus.

“That was nice,” you finally breathe out, a smile playing on your lips.

He grunts, his usual gruffness returning as he huffs, “Ain’t bad.” His teeth graze your jaw, a playful nip that makes you laugh softly. 

You guide his face back to yours, kissing him again, slower this time, savoring the moment. His lips are soft, and you can feel the slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he kisses you back, his body still pressed close to yours. For all his bluster and harshness, there’s something undeniably sweet about the way he holds you now, in the aftermath of it all. It’s like the tension has finally eased, and all that’s left is the warmth between you. 

Bakugou’s grip tightens slightly on your hips, and when you pull back to look at him, you see the faintest hint of a smile on his flushed face. His eyes are softer now, the usual scowl replaced by something that feels almost like contentment. 

"Ain’t bad at all," he mutters again, shaking his head like he can't believe what just happened, but there’s no bite to his words. Just admiration. 

You grin, brushing a stray lock of his hair off his forehead as you catch your breath. "Took you long enough to figure that out, Dynamight." 

He groans but doesn’t argue. Instead, he just leans in for one more kiss.

You go two more rounds after that.

The first time, you’re bent over the counter, your palms flat against the cold marble as Bakugou’s hands grip your waist, his fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. Your face is pressed into the smooth surface, cheek cool against the stone as his hips snap into you from behind, his movements strong and steady. His breath is hot on the back of your neck, ragged and uneven as he mutters low curses under his breath. You bite your lip to stifle your own moans, your body arching back into him instinctively, the feeling of him filling you up over and over making your mind foggy with pleasure. 

You lose yourself in the moment, in the way he feels so solid behind you, and then you go one more round (completely unplanned, but it happens when you pull him in for another kiss, and suddenly he’s lifting you up against the wooden door, and before you know it, he’s inside you again. Your legs are wrapped high around his waist, your back sliding against the door as he thrusts and—)

When you finally stumble out of the bathroom, you’re grinning like you’ve just won a game. Your legs feel wobbly, but you manage to smooth down your dress, fix your hair, and quickly touch up your makeup in the reflection of the door. The mischievous smile on your lips is impossible to hide, especially when you glance over your shoulder and see Bakugou a few steps behind, still flushed, his hair slightly tousled, trying to pull himself together. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you see the mixture of amusement and embarrassment on his face, though he does his best to mask it behind his usual tough exterior. 

You blow him a playful kiss, letting your lips curl into a teasing smirk, and wink at him before stepping back into the crowded party. His eyes follow you as you weave your way through the sea of people, the heavy tension between you still lingering in the air. 

You breathe in deeply, letting the excitement of the evening wash over you, and for a moment, you can’t help but chuckle to yourself.

What a day it’s been.

────────────────────────

You don’t expect to see Bakugou again so soon. Musutafu is a big city, and despite the overlap between the worlds of hero work and fashion, they still feel distant from each other. It’s the kind of encounter that you assume will remain a one-off, a memorable night tucked away between busy schedules and public personas.

But you meet him again.

Fashion Week passes in a whirlwind. The shows, the parties, the late nights, and flashing cameras—it's all a blur of glamour and exhaustion. You remember the fun, the thrill of strutting down the runway, and, of course, the spontaneous, heated night with Bakugou. Yet, as all good things must, Fashion Week comes to an end, leaving you with a brief window to rest. 

Three days off is all you’ve got before your agent, Koizumi, shuffles you back into work. There’s a perfume campaign for Hakutō, and then shoots for Tsukiyo, Ryūmon, Chanel, and Dsquared2. It’s a hectic schedule, a small price to pay for working with such prestigious brands, but the pressure is unrelenting. You love your job, though, and you’ve worked hard to get here, so you can’t complain too much. For now, though, all that stress can wait—you’ve got groceries to handle.

Dressed in your most comfortable clothes, you stroll out of the store, bags in hand. The mid-March weather is crisp and refreshing, the kind of cool breeze that makes you feel alive without biting too hard. Musutafu is buzzing this afternoon. Salarymen rush to their next appointments, students walk home from school, and you spot a few pro-heroes patrolling the streets, keeping the peace.

And that’s when you see him.

Pro Hero Dynamight, standing across the street, his imposing figure unmistakable. His gaze locks onto yours, and your steps falter for just a second as surprise flickers through you. You weren’t expecting to see him here—especially not in this part of the city. You know the patrol routes around your neighborhood, and Bakugou certainly doesn’t belong in this jurisdiction. There’s a mixture of amusement and curiosity bubbling inside you as you smile, adjusting the weight of your grocery bags before making your way toward him.

Bakugou notices and, with a scoff, starts walking in your direction too, that familiar scowl set on his face. You can’t help but tease as you approach him. "From what I know, this area is usually covered by Wash or Ingenium. So, what are you doing here, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight?"

His brow arches slightly, and he lets out a dismissive grunt, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Don’t go thinkin’ too much, idiot. My patrol areas just switched for now."

"For now, huh?" you echo, your smile widening as you catch the slight annoyance in his tone.

"Yeah, for now," he mutters, his arms crossing over his chest as if to block you out. His stance is casual but defensive, like he's waiting for another smart remark.

You laugh, a soft sound that pulls his attention despite himself. "Alright, Mr. 'For Now,' how's it going?"

"'M good," he replies, his eyes flicking away for a moment before locking back onto yours. "Your fashion shit’s done, right?"

You nod, feeling a small thrill that he remembers. "Yeah, all done. I’ve got a few days off before it’s back to the grind. You know—photoshoots, campaign stuff, you know, the usual. I know it’s not exactly your favorite thing."

His face scrunches up in a scowl at the mention of photoshoots, clearly disgusted by the thought. "Photoshoots ain’t my thing. They’re annoyin’ and pointless. Too transparent."

"To you, maybe," you say, raising a brow at him. There's something almost endearing about how he expresses his dislike so bluntly, not bothering to sugarcoat anything. "I wouldn’t mind doing a photoshoot with you. You’d look good next to me." You pause, letting the teasing smile spread across your face as you lean in just a little. "Besides, I’ve already seen your dick. I don’t think it can get more transparent than that."

He chokes, the words seemingly stuck in his throat as his face flushes crimson. His reaction is so instant, so visceral, that you can’t help but laugh, the sound echoing around the busy street. "Relax," you say, waving your hand as if to brush the moment off. "It was just sex, nothing to get your panties twisted over."

Bakugou’s expression darkens, his jaw clenching, but he stays quiet, mumbling something under his breath that you can’t quite catch. His eyes dart away from you, as if he’s trying to focus on something else, anything but you.

You sigh softly, feeling a little bad for rattling him, but not enough to stop. "Well, it was nice running into you again, Bakugou. See you around," you say lightly, stepping around him and continuing on your way. As you walk past, you glance back over your shoulder, giving him a playful wink.

Bakugou stands there for a moment, watching you go, that scowl still etched into his face. But there’s something else there too, something you can’t quite place—a flicker of interest, of something unresolved. He doesn’t say anything as you walk away, but you can feel his eyes lingering on you, that tension from before still simmering between you, even now.

As you disappear into the crowd, you can’t help but think that you’ll be seeing him sooner than either of you expects.

Of course, you’re right.

You start seeing him everywhere. At first, it feels like a coincidence. You catch Bakugou during your morning runs, passing him on patrol as you loop through your favorite jogging route. Then, you spot him at the gym, his gruff exterior barely softening when you make a passing comment about his form. Even at the grocery store, you bump into him, his presence becoming strangely consistent. 

But it doesn't stop there. When you head back to work—whether it’s a photoshoot for a campaign or an editorial shoot—Bakugou’s name keeps popping up. You’ll catch glimpses of him patrolling nearby or overhear a few crew members mentioning how they saw Pro Hero Dynamight passing by. 

It’s like he’s following you, though you can’t be entirely sure. It’s a strange feeling—a cat-and-mouse game, but there’s no clear intention behind it. Why is he always around? What does he want? Is this all because of that one night? The bathroom? The sex?

It’s baffling, and despite your cool exterior, it unsettles you a little. You’re not used to people like him sticking around, especially after something so casual. It wasn’t supposed to be more than a fleeting encounter, but here he is, popping up in the oddest places.

You chalk it up to coincidence. There’s no way Bakugou’s going out of his way just to see you. He’s busy, you’re busy—it’s bound to happen in a city like Musutafu. Right?

Then comes the Ryūmon shoot.

You’re walking onto set with Koizumi who’s rambling about the day's plans. His voice is quick, barely giving you time to process the details. “This campaign is huge,” he says, scrolling through notes on his tablet. “You’re paired with a famous Pro Hero—really big name, should give the shoot a lot of exposure.”

You nod, half-listening, focusing more on getting your head into the game. Campaign shoots are always a mix of excitement and pressure, especially for high-end brands like Ryūmon. The label’s creative direction is sharp and bold, with a reputation for creating powerful imagery that makes a statement. You’ve worked with them before, so you’re comfortable with their style.

But as you step onto the set, your steps falter when you see him.

Bakugou. Standing there, his broad arms crossed over his chest, wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his muscular frame. His face is pulled into its usual scowl, clearly not thrilled to be here as the creative director, Hanada, and photographer, Tamazaki, discuss details with him. 

You exchange a quick glance with Koizumi, who looks back at you in mild surprise, but you’re too focused on Bakugou to address it. You didn’t expect this. At all.

As you and Koizumi approach, you greet Hanada and Tamazaki with handshakes, professional smiles exchanged as you quickly fall into the rhythm of working with them again. But your gaze keeps flickering to Bakugou, and finally, you extend your hand toward him.

He takes it, his grip firm, the skin of his palm rough. “Didn’t know you were gonna be here,” he mutters as he releases your hand.

You raise an eyebrow, unable to resist teasing him. “I thought photoshoots weren’t your thing. ‘Too transparent,’ or did I get that wrong?”

He huffs, his eyes narrowing just a little as he crosses his arms again. “Ain’t my thing,” he admits, but there’s an edge to his voice, almost like he’s begrudgingly accepting his fate. “But… Ryūmon’s cool. And my agent’s been on my ass about marketing. That’s it.”

“Right. Just your agent,” you say with a smirk. “Nothing to do with me saying you’d look good next to me in a shoot, huh?”

Bakugou’s lips twitch into a slight frown, and he grumbles under his breath, refusing to meet your gaze directly. You laugh softly, feeling a small victory at getting under his skin. “Well, I guess we’ll be working together today. I’ll try not to be too much of a distraction.”

His eyes finally flicker to yours, and for just a moment, there’s a flash of something unspoken—an acknowledgment of the tension that’s been building between you ever since that night. But it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by his usual stoic expression.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he mumbles, but the faint flush on his cheeks betrays him, making your grin widen.

Before you can tease him further, the producer interrupts, ushering both of you toward hair and makeup. You exchange a brief glance with Bakugou, and despite his gruff exterior, you catch a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. It’s clear this isn’t his scene—the world of high fashion and photo shoots is far from what he’s used to. 

As you settle into your respective chairs, stylists buzz around, fixing your hair and touching up your makeup with practiced precision. Ryūmon’s high fashion shoots are known for their bold, avant-garde looks, and you can already tell this one will be no different. The brand draws heavily from Japanese mythology, particularly dragons, blending traditional motifs with cutting-edge, sculptural designs. It’s one of your favorite labels to work with, and you can feel the excitement building as the stylists prepare you for the first look.

When you finally step into the fitting room, you’re handed the first outfit: The Storm Dragon Dress. It’s a masterpiece, the fabric heavy in your hands but ethereal once you slip it on. The dress clings to your figure, the stormy blue silk rippling like water with every movement. The silver embroidery, depicting a dragon soaring through clouds, glimmers under the soft lights, and the chiffon sleeve flows dramatically behind you like a dragon’s wing. The slit up the side reveals just enough skin to be daring without losing the elegance, and the intricate 3D-printed dragon spine running from your collarbone to your back adds an edge of power to the otherwise feminine silhouette.

You glance in the mirror, adjusting the delicate lace panel on the side, and for a moment, you feel like you are the dragon—the embodiment of power, grace, and danger all at once.

But when you turn around, your breath catches.

Bakugou is standing there, dressed in The Oni Dragon Suit, and you can’t help but stare. The deep charcoal of the suit contrasts sharply with the crimson dragon motif woven across the lapels and down his back, and the structured, pagoda-style shoulders give him an air of command that feels both fierce and regal. The gold clouds embroidered on his high-collared shirt glimmer under the light, and the laser-cut dragon scale details on the sides of his trousers catch your eye, adding a subtle but intricate element to the look. The obi belt, sleek and glossy, pulls the entire outfit together, accentuating his broad frame.

He looks sexy.

You approach him, your smile teasing as you take in the sight of him. “You look good. Different, but good.”

He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment, but you catch the faint flush creeping around his ears. “S’just a stupid outfit,” he mumbles, but the way his fingers flex at his sides betrays the slight nervousness he feels being out of his element.

You grin, finding his awkwardness endearing. Cute.

It’s not often that Bakugou feels out of place—he’s usually so sure of himself, whether on the battlefield or in everyday life. But here, in this world of high fashion, he’s not the explosive, confident hero that the world knows. He’s more reserved, more uncertain, and seeing him like this only fuels the tension between you.

The producer calls you both over, signaling the start of the shoot, and you step in front of the cameras, slipping into your role with ease. Modeling is second nature to you, the poses and expressions flowing naturally as Hanada and Tamazaki direct the scene. The camera clicks, capturing every angle, every movement, and you fall into the familiar rhythm of the shoot.

But Bakugou? He’s stiff, his body rigid and his jaw clenched. You can tell this isn’t his comfort zone, and the awkwardness is written all over him.

Between takes, you lean in close, your voice soft so only he can hear. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just think of it like a mission.”

He glances at you, his eyes narrowing in that familiar Bakugou way, but there’s a hint of vulnerability in his gaze. “Easy for you to say,” he mutters, but he uncrosses his arms and adjusts his stance, trying to loosen up.

The shoot continues, and slowly, Bakugou starts to ease into it. His movements become less rigid, his posture more relaxed, and the scowl on his face softens, just a little. He’s still far from fully comfortable, but there’s a shift in the air—a subtle change that makes the chemistry between you two even more palpable.

With each shot, the energy builds. The space between you becomes charged, every subtle touch or glance sending sparks through the air. You find yourself leaning into him, positioning your body closer to his as the camera clicks, capturing moments that feel electric. There’s a tension simmering beneath the surface—an undeniable pull between you that neither of you can ignore.

And Bakugou feels it too.

His eyes flicker toward you between takes, the heat in his gaze unmistakable, though he quickly looks away whenever he catches you watching him. But you don’t miss the way his breath hitches when your hand brushes against his arm, or the way his body tenses ever so slightly when you stand just a little too close.

The camera continues to click, capturing each moment, each subtle shift in energy. And with every shot, it becomes clearer: there’s something between you—something that neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge, but it’s there, undeniable and growing stronger with each passing second.

And this is only the first outfit.

As the producer calls for the second outfit, you’re whisked away for another round of hair and makeup. The next look is even bolder than the last. You slip into The Phoenix Samurai Suit, feeling its weight on your body as the stylists adjust every detail. The dark navy brocade shimmers under the soft lights, the silver dragon embroidery standing out against the fabric. The jacket, cropped and fitted, accentuates your figure, while the exaggerated sleeves give the outfit an almost otherworldly flair. Beneath it, the sheer high-neck blouse feels delicate against your skin, the gold cloud motifs intricately embroidered to represent the celestial power of the dragon.

The pants are structured with layered leather panels, cinched at the waist by an obi-style belt, which is adorned with a hand-painted dragon’s eye at the center. It feels like armor, like a second skin—a balance of elegance and power. You glance in the mirror and see a warrior looking back at you. The ensemble speaks of strength and grace, a fusion of tradition and modernity that makes you feel like you’re stepping into the role of a mythic legend.

Bakugou steps out beside you, now wearing The Inferno Dragon Streetwear Look. The fusion of high fashion and streetwear is striking, the leather bomber jacket molded to his broad frame, embossed with dragon-scale patterns that add a tactile, 3D effect. The embroidered crimson dragon wrapping around his shoulders looks like it’s ready to spring to life. Underneath, the black mesh turtleneck with flame-like cutouts gives him an edgy, raw appeal that complements his usual intensity. His slim-fit cargo pants, with segmented knee panels resembling samurai greaves, are finished with straps and metallic accents, all inspired by katana hilts.

He looks every bit the modern warrior Ryūmon seeks to embody—regal, dangerous, and undeniably powerful.

“Not bad,” you say, giving him a teasing glance, but this time you see the way his gaze lingers on you, longer than before. It’s subtle, but his eyes flick down over your form, taking in the details of your outfit. There’s an unspoken tension in the way he looks at you, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Same to you,” he mutters, his tone gruff, but the slight flush on his cheeks is back again.

With every new outfit, the shoot grows more intense, more electric. The photographers have you and Bakugou posed together in close proximity, your bodies pressed against each other, your arms interlinked. The touch of his hand on your waist, the feel of his breath on your neck when you’re standing so close—each moment feels charged, simmering with a tension that has been building since the start.

You go through a few more outfit changes, each one more dramatic than the last. The stylists adjust your hair, makeup, and accessories as you slip into each new look, the energy between you and Bakugou growing with every shot. His movements become more fluid, his poses less stiff, and there’s a natural ease in the way he touches you now—a hand on your lower back, fingers brushing your arm. But it’s the intensity in his eyes that catches you off guard the most, the way they burn with something unspoken every time you look at him.

By the time you’re both dressed for the final look, you can feel the tension ready to snap.

You’re wearing The Dragon Empress Gown—a masterpiece of obsidian silk and crimson embroidery. The coiling dragon wraps around your torso and slithers down your leg, shimmering in the light. The structured shoulders fan out like dragon wings, giving the gown an almost armor-like quality. The skirt is adorned with laser-cut leather scales, arranged in a cascading effect, and the high neckline, decorated with gold filigree resembling dragon whiskers, adds an air of regality. You feel like a queen—powerful, commanding, and untouchable.

But then Bakugou steps into the frame, and it feels like everything else fades.

He’s dressed in The Black Tide Suit, a deconstructed tuxedo in jet black with fluid, wave-like embroidery. The shimmering silver threads catch the light, symbolizing the dragon’s connection to water, and the iridescent dragon-scale texture on the lapels adds a subtle elegance to the look. But it’s the back of the suit that stands out the most—the embroidered dragon skeleton design, glowing under the studio lights, giving the outfit a haunting, ethereal quality. The sheer high-neck top with metallic ink kanji flows seamlessly into tailored pants with a wrap-style waist inspired by traditional hakama.

He looks incredible, a dark, powerful force next to you, and you can’t help but feel the heat between you spike as the shoot continues.

The poses become more intimate. You’re pressed against him, your back arching as his hand settles on your lower back, firm but almost possessive. The camera clicks, capturing every moment as your hand slides up to his chest, your fingers brushing the fabric of his suit. His breath hitches slightly, just enough for you to notice, but he holds his composure, his jaw clenched as his gaze locks onto yours.

You’re guided toward a prop couch for the next series of shots, your legs stretched out over his lap, his hand resting on your ankle as you lean back. The proximity is intoxicating. Every touch feels deliberate, and it sends a pulse of energy through you, like a low hum of electricity running beneath your skin.

And then comes the final pose.

You’re seated on his lap, your body angled toward him, your faces mere inches apart. The heat between you is undeniable now, your lips so close they’re almost touching, your breath mingling with his. His eyes are dark, intense, and for a brief moment, the rest of the set seems to disappear. It’s just you and him, the air thick with unspoken desire. His hand slides up your thigh, just grazing the fabric of your gown, while your fingers brush the nape of his neck.

The tension is suffocating, every moment feeling like it’s about to break. You can feel his pulse under your touch, rapid, like yours, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll close the distance—if he’ll kiss you right here, right now.

But the camera clicks, breaking the spell.

It’s intoxicating, the way he affects you—how just being close to him sends your heart racing. You’ve danced around this chemistry for so long, but now it feels like it’s right there, teetering on the edge. 

One more push, one more touch, and everything could unravel.

After the shoot wraps up, you find yourself back in the dressing room, changing into the clothes you arrived in. The weight of the shoot, the tension between you and Bakugou, still lingers in your chest like an unspoken question, hanging in the air. You say your goodbyes to the staff, thanking them for their hard work, but your mind is elsewhere—on him.

You meet Bakugou near the entrance of the building, and you’re ready for the inevitable moment where the tension between you two flares again, where the unspoken electricity in the air crackles. But before you can say anything, Bakugou breaks the silence.

“You hungry?” he asks, his voice gruff, casual, like nothing’s been brewing between the two of you all day.

You blink, surprised at how quickly the tension dissipates in that moment, but then a smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah, I could eat. All I had was some toast this morning.”

He gives a quick nod, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his hoodie. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, jerking his head toward the parking lot.

The ride is quiet but not uncomfortable. 

There’s a strange calm between you two now, as if the earlier intensity has settled into something quieter, simmering just beneath the surface. He drives you to a small, tucked-away izakaya, the kind of place you wouldn’t have found on your own—a private, intimate setting that feels almost out of place considering the day you’ve just had.

The atmosphere inside is warm and inviting, the kind of place where you can just let go and relax. The food is good, the kind of comforting, hearty dishes that hit the spot after a long day. Bakugou is surprisingly good company, much more relaxed outside the pressures of the shoot. As you sip on your drink—though Bakugou sticks to water, being the responsible one behind the wheel—the conversation flows easily.

He talks about his hero work, the grind of it all, but there’s a lightness to the way he complains about his sidekicks or how his friends drag him to karaoke once a month. There’s a surprising openness to him when he talks about his hobbies, like hiking and cooking, things you wouldn’t have expected from someone who carries such a tough exterior. You find yourself leaning in as he talks, listening intently, laughing when he grumbles about how no one can keep up with him on the trails or how no one can cook worth a damn in his agency.

In return, you share pieces of yourself—stories about your family, your work as a model, and how the industry can be cutthroat but also rewarding. You talk about your friends and hobbies, and somehow, the conversation becomes easier, more comfortable, like you’ve both dropped the walls that had been up all day.

At some point, though, you don’t even realize how close you’ve leaned in. It’s subtle at first, but the space between you both shrinks with each laugh, each glance. The atmosphere shifts, the casual conversation laced with that same tension you’d felt all day. Your faces are so close now, his breath warm against your lips, your fingers resting on the table dangerously close to his.

Then, it happens. 

A brush of lips, barely there, so brief you’re not sure if you imagined it. But the spike of heat between you is undeniable. You can see it in the way Bakugou’s eyes darken, the way his lips part slightly like he’s about to say something, but he pulls back at the last second. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, a quiet exhale escaping him as he shifts in his seat.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and charged. For a moment, you’re sure something will happen, that this tension will finally snap. But instead, Bakugou clears his throat, his eyes darting away for just a second. He lets out a tch, and mutters, “Calm down,” under his breath.

You almost laugh in relief, though it feels like there’s something else too, something lingering between you that hasn’t quite been resolved. You quickly find another conversation to latch onto, both of you pretending like that near-kiss didn’t just happen, though the air still hums with that unresolved energy.

But as the drinks continue to flow for you, and you laugh and talk more, the buzz of alcohol starts to hit you. Your mind feels lighter, your inhibitions lower, and when Bakugou finally offers to drive you home, you agree without thinking twice.

And now here you are, in the plush backseat of his sleek, expensive car, parked in an empty lot, the windows fogged up from the heat between you. 

The scent of sweat and sex fills the confined space, heavy and intoxicating. Your sweatpants and thong are discarded somewhere on the floor, forgotten in the frenzy of lust that overtook you both.

You're straddling Bakugou's lap, your body pressed flush against his as you ride him, your hands gripping his broad shoulders for balance. His hands are on your hips, guiding your movements as you bounce on his cock, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to make you shiver. His face is flushed, lips parted as low, trembling moans slip from his throat, each sound sending a thrill through your already trembling body.

His hips rut up to meet yours, every thrust pushing him deeper inside you, hitting a spot that has you gasping for breath. Your own sounds are high and breathy, escaping in little moans and whimpers as you press yourself closer to him, your chest brushing against his as your lips meet in a wet, slow kiss. It’s a desperate, messy kiss, all heat and need, his tongue sweeping against yours as he groans into your mouth.

His hand slip beneath your hoodie, fingers tracing up your back as he pulls you even closer, your bodies impossibly tight together. His thumb circles your clit, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body that has you arching into him, a breathless moan escaping your lips as your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss.

“Shit,” you moan, voice catching on the word as your hips roll, chasing the friction. You can feel the heat building, your climax creeping up on you, and when Bakugou’s thumb presses harder against your clit, you fall apart with a cry of his name on your lips.

He’s right behind you, his grip tightening on your hips as he thrusts up into you, his moans growing louder, more desperate. His hips jerk, and with a low, trembling groan, he comes inside you, warmth flooding you as his body shudders beneath yours. His thrusts slow, his head falling back against the seat as he pants, his chest heaving with each breath.

For a moment, neither of you moves, both of you caught in the aftermath of your release. The car is quiet except for the sound of your heavy breathing, the windows still fogged, the air thick with the smell of sweat and sex. You press your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his as you both come down from the high.

It's inevitable, you think. 

The tension, the chemistry—it was bound to snap eventually. You just didn’t expect it to happen like this, in the backseat of his car, in some forgotten parking lot. But now that it has, you’re left wondering what comes next, as the reality of what just happened settles over you like a heavy blanket.

After the haze of sex in the backseat of Bakugou’s car, you find yourselves in the quiet space of your apartment. 

There’s no more rush, no hurried touches or frantic pulling at clothes. This time, it’s different. You take your time, savoring every moment as if the weight of what’s between you has finally snapped, allowing you both to indulge in something more primal, more intimate.

You start by stripping each other slowly, each piece of clothing removed with deliberate hands, revealing the warm, soft skin beneath. His hands roam over your body like he’s memorizing it, every curve and dip. And you do the same to him, your fingertips trailing over the ridges of his muscles, the planes of his torso, the powerful lines of his body that feel both foreign and familiar. 

When you finally tumble into your bed, it’s like a slow burn that turns into a roaring fire. Bakugou’s mouth is on your neck, pressing hot kisses against your skin, each one igniting a spark inside you. His lips travel lower, trailing over your collarbone, biting gently as his tongue soothes the sting. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding over your hips, pulling you closer as if he can’t get enough of the feel of you against him.

Then, his mouth finds the swell of your breast. He bites down gently, sending a sharp shock of pleasure through your body, before his tongue circles your nipple, soothing the bite. His lips curl around the sensitive bud, sucking softly, and your back arches into him, a soft moan slipping from your lips. But he’s not done. He’s only just begun.

He moves lower, kissing down your stomach, each press of his lips drawing you further under his spell. And when he finally reaches the apex of your thighs, his breath hot against your skin, you’re already trembling with anticipation. His nose presses into your mound, inhaling deeply, before his tongue slips between your folds, licking into your swollen, slick sex. The sensation is electric, and you fall apart immediately under his touch.

His tongue circles your clit with precision, slow and teasing, then fast and relentless. You can’t help the sounds that escape your lips—high, breathy moans that fill the room as your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. You feel your body unraveling, every nerve alight with pleasure as he works you expertly with his mouth, building you up higher and higher until you reach the peak.

When you come, it’s with his name spilling from your lips, a broken, needy cry. Your body trembles violently, legs quaking as the waves of pleasure crash over you, and Bakugou doesn’t stop. His tongue continues to lap at you, coaxing every last tremor from your body, licking you through the aftershocks.

He climbs back up to meet your lips, and you kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue, the heady mix of desire still burning hot between you. The weight of his body presses against you, comforting and safe, yet there’s still a raw, desperate edge to the way his cock presses against your entrance, already hard again, throbbing with need.

He slips inside you easily, the warm, wet slide of him filling you in a way that feels so good, so right. Your body welcomes him, molding around him as he thrusts deep, but this time there’s a desperation to his movements that you haven’t seen before. His hips snap up into you hard and fast, driving deep inside with each thrust, like he’s chasing something only you can give him. His hands curl around the back of your knees, pushing your thighs wider apart so he can move easier, plunging deeper into you, every stroke hitting the perfect spot inside that has your breath catching in your throat.

You cling to him, your hands settling around his biceps, feeling the hard muscles flex beneath your palms as he fucks you with unrelenting intensity. Your moans grow louder, higher-pitched, spilling from your lips in needy cries as your head falls back against the pillow. The pleasure is overwhelming, crashing through you in waves, and you can barely keep up with the sensations that Bakugou is drawing out of you.

He’s lost in it too, his own sounds spilling from his lips—grunts, groans, and low trembling moans that send a thrill down your spine. You look up at him, and he’s a vision; an Adonis of rippling muscle, his body slick with sweat, his face contorted in pure pleasure. His hair is tousled, his lips parted, and his eyes—half-lidded and dark with lust—are fixed on you, watching every reaction, every twitch of your body beneath him.

It’s like something has shifted, an unspoken understanding that’s been reached. The tension that’s been building between you for so long has finally broken, and all that’s left is this—this raw, desperate need for each other. His thrusts grow harder, faster, his body driving into yours with a relentless pace, and you’re teetering on the edge again, your body so close to breaking apart for him.

You feel the build-up of pleasure coiling tight in your core, and when it finally snaps, it’s overwhelming. Your entire body tenses, your back arching off the bed as you come with a loud, high-pitched cry, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. Your nails dig into his skin, clutching him as if he’s the only thing grounding you to the earth.

Bakugou isn’t far behind. His grip on your thighs tightens, his thrusts growing erratic as he chases his own release. And when he finally comes, it’s with a low, trembling moan, his hips stuttering against yours as he spills inside you, filling you with his warmth. His body shudders, collapsing slightly against yours as he pants, trying to catch his breath.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sounds in the room are your labored breathing and the faint rustling of the sheets. You lie there, tangled together, bodies still trembling from the intensity of it all. It feels like something has shifted between you two—like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. But in this moment, with the weight of Bakugou’s body pressing against yours, his heartbeat steady against your chest, it doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

If anything, it feels like a beginning.

The night is a blur of sweat, skin, and soft gasps as you go four more rounds with Bakugou. 

Each time, you unravel each other in different ways—bodies tangled, exploring every inch, every sensation. The intensity between you two doesn’t fade, even after hours of pushing each other past the edge of pleasure.

The first round has you back on top. You ride him with purpose, your hips grinding down as Bakugou watches you with heated, half-lidded eyes, his hands gripping your waist tightly, guiding your movements. His quiet groans encourage you, and the fire between you only grows hotter. After that, you’re on all fours, your back arched as he takes you from behind, his fingers digging into your hips while you press your face into the pillow, muffling your moans. His pace is relentless, driving into you with precision, and you feel every stroke in the pit of your stomach.

When you switch positions again, you find yourself on top once more, but this time it’s slower, more deliberate. You press your chest to his, exchanging lazy kisses as you roll your hips in a steady rhythm. His hands slide up your back, and your lips part only to let soft, breathless sounds escape. Then, Bakugou takes control one final time, flipping you onto your back. Your legs wrap around his waist as he thrusts into you deeply and slowly, the air thick with the shared heat of your breaths. His mouth captures yours again, lips brushing lazily, and his pace, though deliberate, is more intimate, almost tender. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, holding him close as the room spins from the intensity.

By the time you both finally collapse in a sweaty, breathless heap, you can’t tell if you’re still vibrating from the aftershocks or just from the sheer energy between you. It’s late—or early, you can’t be sure—but eventually, you both fall into an exhausted sleep.

In the morning, you wake to the familiar sensation of Bakugou’s cock pressed against you, his hips slowly grinding against yours. You’re still half-asleep, your body heavy with exhaustion but slowly stirring with arousal as he lazily ruts against you. The warmth between you two grows as you tease each other awake with lazy touches and soft groans, bodies still pressed close from the night before. When you turn your head and meet his lips in a kiss, it ignites something in both of you again.

Bakugou slips inside you easily, his hips moving in slow, languid strokes. His forehead rests against yours, eyes half-closed as he rocks into you, and you respond with soft, breathy sounds of pleasure. It’s gentle this time, more relaxed but still charged with that unspoken heat. You come with a quiet, sharp keen, your body trembling under his touch, and he follows soon after, his own release a deep, low groan that rumbles from his chest.

Later, after a shared shower that feels as intimate as the night before, you’re in the kitchen making breakfast. It’s a simple, traditional Japanese breakfast—rice, miso soup, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables. Bakugou, surprisingly, helps you with ease. He moves efficiently, chopping vegetables, setting things up, his movements deliberate and practiced. It’s oddly domestic, the two of you working side by side in your kitchen.

But there’s a tension in the air now, a shift that you can’t ignore. Bakugou is quieter than usual, his usual gruffness replaced by something heavier, something unspoken. You notice it in the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you aren’t looking, the slight furrow in his brow as if he’s turning something over in his mind.

And you know what he’s probably thinking. The question hangs in the air between you, thick and heavy—what the hell are you both doing? Is this just sex? Or is it something more? It’s the kind of question that’s impossible to avoid after a night like that, after the way he touched you, the way he kissed you. The way he’s still looking at you now, with that guarded expression, as if he’s not sure if he’s crossed a line.

To be honest, you don’t have an answer. You like him—Bakugou’s a lot nicer than you ever gave him credit for. He’s attentive, he listens, and he’s definitely cute when he gets flustered. And yeah, the sex is fantastic. But do you want more than that? A relationship? Or are you fine with keeping it casual, just taking things as they come? More importantly—is he?

You glance at him as he sets the table, his movements still stiff with that unspoken tension, and wonder if he’s wrestling with the same questions. His face is set in his usual scowl, but there’s something softer in his eyes when they meet yours. Something uncertain.

As you both sit down to eat, the conversation from last night feels miles away. The comfortable flow has been replaced by this underlying heaviness, like you’re both waiting for the other to speak up. Neither of you does, though. Instead, you both focus on the food, the clatter of chopsticks the only sound between you.

But it’s not enough to keep you from thinking about it. About how easily this could be more than just a casual fling, how easy it would be to fall into something deeper with him. How nice it would be to have this, him, all the time. But you also know that there’s no going back if you cross that line, and you’re not sure if either of you is ready for that conversation just yet.

After breakfast, you finally gather the courage to speak.  

"Look… yesterday was—fun?” you begin, your voice a bit quiet, “I don’t really know. It felt like something building up just… snapped, and it happened. And I don’t know what you think, but for me, I don’t think I’m ready for anything serious. A casual thing could be nice—maybe some sex when we both need it—but I’m not looking for a relationship right now—of course, I don’t expect you to feel the same! But I just wanted to be honest, because… you don’t really seem like the type for casual.”  

Bakugou’s gaze lingers on you, heavy and unblinking, as he processes your words. The quiet between you both feels thick, the clatter of dishes now muted as the weight of your confession sinks in. His expression is hard to read at first—his usual scowl deepens slightly, his brows knitting together as he lets out a low breath. His jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker away from you for a second, but then they’re back, locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s angry. Bakugou has never been one to hide his emotions, and you brace yourself for a harsh reaction, something explosive or gruff. But instead, he surprises you with how quiet he stays. His lips part as if to say something, but then he closes them again, thinking.

Finally, he shifts in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, the tension in his shoulders evident. He grumbles, his voice low. “You’re right. ‘M not really the type for casual shit.” His words are blunt, but there’s a vulnerability to them, like he’s laying something out for you, raw and unfiltered. His eyes narrow, but not in anger—more like he’s trying to understand his own feelings as much as he’s trying to understand yours.

He leans back slightly, running a hand through his messy hair, his fingers raking through the strands in frustration. “Look, I ain’t gonna lie—last night was good. More than good. But I’m not lookin’ to be some hookup either. I don’t do this kinda shit with just anyone.” His voice is quieter now, his tone more serious, the usual brashness dialed back.

You nod, biting your lip, feeling the weight of his words. There’s a part of you that knows what he’s saying makes sense—Bakugou isn’t the type for casual flings, not really. There’s something deeper beneath that tough exterior, something he guards fiercely, and last night probably cracked that armor more than either of you expected. But at the same time, you’re not ready for anything more. Not now. Not with your life the way it is.

“I know,” you say softly, your voice carrying a hint of uncertainty. “That’s why I wanted to be upfront. I don’t want to lead you on, and I don’t want things to get messy.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrow again, and he lets out a slow exhale through his nose. “Messy, huh?” He scoffs lightly, shaking his head as if the word bothers him. “Yeah, well... I don’t want that either.”

Another beat of silence passes, and you both sit there, the weight of the conversation hanging between you like a heavy cloud. You feel the urge to reach out, to close the gap somehow, but you don’t know how to. It feels like both of you are standing on the edge of something, unsure whether to step back or plunge forward.

Finally, Bakugou leans forward, elbows on his knees, his expression softer now, though still guarded. “I don’t know what I want either,” he admits quietly, his voice rough, but honest. “But I’m not interested in half-assed shit. If we’re gonna do this, even if it’s just casual, I need to know it’s not just a fling to you. It can’t just be ‘when we need it.’” His words are firm, but not demanding. It’s more like he’s setting his boundaries, telling you what he needs in order to even consider continuing this thing between you.

His gaze softens, and he looks at you, eyes searching for some kind of answer, some kind of reassurance. “‘M not sayin’ we gotta make it somethin’ serious right now. But I’m not gonna be some afterthought either, got it?”

The weight of his words hits you, and you feel a pang of guilt. You hadn’t meant to make him feel like an afterthought, but you also know you can’t offer him more than what you’re ready for. Your heart is torn between wanting to keep things simple and casual, and knowing that with Bakugou, nothing is ever truly simple.

You nod slowly, meeting his gaze. “I understand,” you say quietly. “I don’t want to treat you like that either.” There’s a pause as you gather your thoughts. “Maybe… maybe we just see how things go? No labels, no expectations, just… see where it leads?” You’re offering a middle ground, something that doesn’t box either of you into anything too rigid, but still gives space for things to evolve naturally.

Bakugou studies you for a long moment, the intensity in his eyes making your chest tighten. He seems to weigh your words carefully, his expression hard to read. Finally, he lets out a low grunt, leaning back in his chair. “Fine,” he says, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “But no bullshit. If this starts feelin’ like somethin’ more, we talk about it. None of that avoidin’ shit, got it?”

You can’t help but smile, a small, relieved laugh escaping you. “Yeah, I can do that. No bullshit.”

Bakugou’s lips twitch into something resembling a smirk, though it’s still weighed down by the seriousness of the conversation. “Good,” he mutters, his eyes softening as he finally relaxes a bit. 

The tension between you two begins to fade, replaced by a quiet understanding. There’s no clear answer to what you’re doing or where this is going, but at least now you’re both on the same page, willing to figure it out together, step by step.

And that's how it starts, in a way—this unspoken agreement between you and Bakugou that neither of you quite knows how to define. 

The ‘casual but serious’ arrangement feels like a tightrope you're both carefully balancing on, avoiding labels but knowing full well that there's more simmering beneath the surface. It's a strange dance, but somehow, it works for both of you.

You try to keep things low-key. Going out to dinner happens maybe once a week, but mostly it's at your place or his. It's better that way, safer. The press doesn't need to get wind of what this is—whatever it is. You like the quiet comfort of your homes, anyway. No need for paparazzi pictures splashed all over the tabloids, fueling rumors neither of you wants to deal with. The phone calls and texts between you become a daily routine. He texts at odd hours, whenever he can between missions or patrols, and you find yourself waiting for the sharp ping of your phone more often than you’d care to admit. It’s nice, though—comforting in a way you didn’t expect. It’s casual, but not… detached.

And the sex? That’s another thing entirely. The first time after your conversation is awkward, neither of you quite sure how to navigate the shift. But once you both relax into it, it becomes just as natural as everything else. You’re still unraveling each other, still finding those little things that make the other one tick. 

But what surprises you the most is Bakugou himself.

For all the media portrays him as some rough, domineering figure—the grumpy Pro Hero who takes no nonsense from anyone—it couldn’t be farther from the truth in bed. He’s surprisingly shy, almost vanilla in a way that catches you off guard but also warms you to him even more. You notice how he likes to keep things intimate, how his favorite positions are ones where he can see your face, feel the closeness of your body against his. It’s endearing, how vulnerable he lets himself be with you in those moments, and you can’t help but melt at the way he looks at you—eyes soft and filled with something unspoken, something that contradicts this whole idea of casual.

But life is busy. 

His work as a Pro Hero never stops, and your modeling career is just as demanding. April is packed. Haute Couture Week castings for the Fall/Winter season in July take over your life, and Vogue Japan has you booked solid for various shoots. You hardly have a moment to breathe, let alone think about where things are heading with Bakugou. 

You miss his birthday, stuck overseas for campaigns in the Middle East and the USA. But you call him late at night, your voice soft and warm as you wish him a happy birthday.

He’s grumbling on the other end of the line, telling you about the surprise party his friends threw for him. His voice is rough, low, and it sends a shiver down your spine as you imagine him in bed, leaning against the headboard, the phone pressed to his ear. You picture him, shirtless, the faint glow of his bedside lamp casting shadows over the defined lines of his body. Your fingers itch to trace the scar that cuts through his right cheek, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. You miss him. You miss his warmth, his teasing grins, the way he bites at your cheek or shoulder playfully.

It hits you, then. This wasn’t supposed to be more than casual, but your heart has softened. It’s a dangerous realization, one that sits heavily in your chest as you end the call. You’ve crossed a line somewhere along the way, and there’s no going back.

When you finally return to Musutafu after Golden Week, you head straight to his apartment. You show up with a small cake and the gift you got him while you were away. The smile that pulls at his lips when he sees you makes your heart flutter, even though he tries to hide it with a gruff, “The hell is this?”

“We’re celebrating because I couldn’t be here, idiot,” you say, setting everything down on his counter. He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue, letting you sing him a belated birthday song. The way he cuts the cake with a bemused smile, the way he lets you smear a bit of frosting on his cheek—it's all domestic, intimate. You lick it away, and he grumbles under his breath but grins, pulling you closer, his hands warm on your hips.

When you hand him his gift, his eyebrows raise, skeptical. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he murmurs, but there’s curiosity in his voice. He opens the box, and you watch as surprise flickers across his face. Inside is a bracelet—a sleek, edgy piece made of polished white gold spikes. It’s rebellious but refined, a mix that suits him perfectly. His fingers run over it, and he lifts his gaze to you.

“It’s a bracelet,” you explain with a grin. “You told me you used to drum, and you listen to rock music sometimes, so I thought it’d suit you. I even had something engraved.”

Bakugou glances down, turning the bracelet over in his hands until he spots the inscription inside. His lips twitch as he reads, “For my favorite grump.” He clicks his tongue, flicking your forehead in mock annoyance, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Idiot,” he mutters, but the flick is soft, playful. You yelp, flicking him back, and he grins before bumping his forehead gently against yours. “Thanks,” he mumbles, his voice softer than usual, and the way he says it makes your heart do a dangerous little flip in your chest.

You lean in and press a kiss to his lips, something light and affectionate. “You’re welcome. Happy belated birthday again.”

He pulls away just enough to slip the bracelet on, turning his wrist this way and that to admire it. “Good?”

You nod, smiling. “Perfect.”

The smile he gives you is something else. 

It’s like the sun breaking through clouds after a storm, blinding and warm, and it makes your heart stutter in your chest. In that moment, something shifts. This casual thing—this thing you’ve been so carefully trying to keep from getting too serious—it’s melting into something more. 

Something real. 

That night feels unlike any other you've shared with Bakugou—no, with Katsuki. 

It's softer, more intimate in a way that makes your chest ache. The intensity that usually simmers between the two of you, the raw passion that explodes like his quirk, is still there, but it's gentler this time, quieter. His touches linger longer, like he's memorizing the feel of your skin beneath his fingertips. His kisses are soft, almost reverent, and there's a warmth to his touch that makes you feel molten, like liquid gold melting beneath him, consumed by the slow burn of his affection.

Katsuki is different tonight. 

It’s in the way his voice trembles when he breathes out, "Katsuki, call me Katsuki." His voice shakes, something vulnerable in it that you've never heard before. His thrusts are deep but slow, as if he's savoring every moment, drawing it out for as long as he can. You feel his breath hot against your neck, his lips brushing your skin like a whisper, and the plea in his voice catches you off guard. 

You let your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw, pulling his face closer, until your lips meet in a kiss that’s both soft and needy. "Katsuki," you gasp against his mouth, the name slipping from your lips in a way that feels both intimate and fragile. It’s as if saying his name like this changes everything, like it’s cracked open something inside of him—and maybe even inside of you.

In the aftermath, the weight of what just happened lingers between you, but instead of pulling away, Katsuki does the opposite. 

He pulls you closer, burying his face in your shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around you. He’s clingy, which still surprises you, but it’s also sweet in a way that makes your heart clench. His breath is warm against your skin, his lips pressing soft, languid kisses along your shoulder and the back of your neck. He fits against you perfectly, like two puzzle pieces finally finding their place.

The room is quiet, bathed in the low glow of the city lights filtering through the window, and you find yourself smiling as you feel Katsuki’s hand splayed wide against your stomach, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your skin. You can feel the weight of him, solid and warm, his chest rising and falling against your back. 

And as the minutes stretch on, the two of you start to talk, your voices hushed, the air between you heavy with contentment.

You tell him about your trip—about the campaigns in the Middle East and the USA, the long flights, the jet lag that’s still clinging to your bones. You share little stories from the shoots, the people you met, the things that made you laugh. As you speak, you play with his fingers, tracing the lines of his knuckles and the calluses from his years as a hero. His hand is so big compared to yours, and the quiet, tactile connection feels grounding, as if you're tethering each other in this moment.

He listens, his thumb occasionally brushing your skin, a small gesture that feels more intimate than anything else. When you laugh softly about how glad you are to be home, he presses a kiss to your shoulder, his lips warm and lingering. 

Katsuki tells you about his patrols, how there was a cross-country mission he had to go on recently, but it was quick—just a few days. He tells you about the surprise birthday party his friends threw him and how he’d wanted to kill them at first, but ended up secretly enjoying it. His voice gets a little gruff when he mentions his parents, how they’re off on some luxury trip in Indonesia, but there’s a fondness in his tone when he talks about his mom ‘nagging him’ to take a break himself. 

"She’s been on my ass about it for weeks," he grumbles, and you laugh, imagining the dynamic between them, his mother as fiery as he is. It’s endearing to hear him talk about them, and you can picture the way he probably rolls his eyes every time his mother brings it up.

Katsuki continues to press soft kisses against your skin as you talk. Sometimes it’s your neck, sometimes your shoulder, sometimes he turns your head just so, capturing your lips in a quick, sweet kiss before returning to the conversation. There’s something incredibly tender about the whole moment, the way he’s touching you like he doesn’t want to let go, like he’s soaking in every second of this quiet, intimate moment with you.

You can feel the warmth of him seeping into you, the rise and fall of his chest against your back, and it feels safe. It feels right. The softness in the air, the way your voices are so low, barely above a whisper, as if you’re the only two people in the world right now. It’s more than just physical at this point. There’s something deeper brewing, something that scares you because it’s not supposed to be like this. This was never supposed to be more than casual, but here you are, melting into his touch, smiling against a pillow that smells like him, your heart doing strange, dangerous things.

And the worst part? Katsuki seems to feel it too.

When he kisses your cheek one more time, pulling you even closer, his fingers threading through yours as you both fall silent again, you realize that this casual arrangement you’ve tried so hard to keep may not be so casual anymore. The line between casual and something more has blurred, and neither of you seems to want to acknowledge it just yet. But as Katsuki presses another kiss to your skin, holding you tighter in the soft quiet of the night, you can’t help but wonder if that line was crossed a long time ago.

And maybe you’re both too far gone to go back.

anyways him