Chapter Text
After the flames are put out and the area is contained, my job for the day is done.
A slow morning turned into a busy afternoon, and now my evening is another mystery altogether. I grab my bag from the station van and find myself loitering on the outskirts of the scene. This could all just be a prank. Maybe it’s the newest way we’re getting under each other’s skin?
I stand there, watching and waiting while trying to appear like I’m doing neither. Playing another game on my phone, I’m minutes from salvaging what’s left of my dignity and leaving; then, a blur of storming energy catches my attention.
While I’ve been trying to subtly scope out my surroundings, Bakugo is doing the exact opposite. Thunderous footsteps and a matching scowl make it clear he’s on a mission. His features somewhat smooth out when he sees me but return with a vengeance after a few moments. Stomping toward me, he exudes a surprising amount of aura. Big, strong, and—uh… angry?
“Where the fuck have you been? Walked around the whole building twice only to find you hiding in the shadows?”
My mouth opens and closes. Words decide to play hide-and-seek.
“I… thought, maybe, you might not have been—” Words trail off, and my hands begin making exaggerated circles, trying to explain what my mouth can’t quite do.
“Serious? Sincere? Fucking genuine?” he says, each word dripping with more disdain than the last.
I nod my head, because I guess that’s exactly what I thought—though I'd hoped it was more of a jest and less malicious.
“Un-fucking-believable.” Grabbing my arm right above the wrist, Bakugo leads me away from the scene and toward downtown.
We walk for several minutes before I realize we’re heading toward what citizens call “All Might’s Ugly Hairpiece.” Unfortunately for me, that probably means we’re heading to Dynamight’s Agency. The building was built on the east side of downtown close to seven years ago, and the design choices were… well, choices. Outside, the building is quite avant-garde, with a series of glass shards covering the front. In all honesty, it looks almost identical to one of All Might’s pointy pieces of hair; the building is considered a landmark now.
“Where’s that coffee shop?”
“Right down the road from All Might’s hairpiece.”
My facial expressions must be doing something strange, because Bakugo looks at me, then looks again. “Something… going on over there?” he asks with more concern than I thought him capable of.
I try to smile, but I feel like my tongue just licked a frog. Everything seems wrong.
Stopping us on the sidewalk outside the agency, Bakugo’s eyes trace my face, searching for something specific. “Wanna take you out for dinner, okay? We can go casual, or dress up.” His shoulders lift into a shrug. “Just need to grab some papers and change clothes first.”
He takes a breath, pausing long enough for me to blurt out, “Is this a joke? Or a—a date?”
Blinking at me like he can’t decide whether I’m joking or mentally unwell, Bakugo takes his turn pretending to be an aquatic animal. Instead of offering an immediate response, he takes my hand and walks through the doors of his agency.
“I’m not known for jokes, so I guess that means this is a date, then.”
Tripping over my own feet, I follow where he leads. Straight into the belly of All Might—no, nope. That sounds gross.
I haven’t stepped foot in a full-fledged hero agency since a field trip in second grade. Back then, the building was a flurry of activity, everyone moving at the speed of sound trying to complete a growing list of tasks. It’s either a quiet day here, or agencies operate differently now. A few employees are at their stations, but no one seems rushed. A few “Good afternoon, Dynamight,” and “Welcome back, sir,” are offered, but other than that, I’m pleasantly surprised by how normal everything seems.
The floors are polished to a state I’m pretty sure is impossible to achieve through organic means. The lighting fixtures are dramatic, creating pockets of deep shadow amidst glowing lights. The front desk looks to be about a mile long; I hope more than one receptionist sits here at a time, because it would be a workout to walk the length.
Glass staircases rest on either side of the lobby, sleek silver with frosted glass. The icing on this ultra-modern cake is the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling—a colored glass ball exploding into what looks like thousands of smaller pieces. Not being a connoisseur myself, it’s rare that I’m moved by art, but this almost has a heartbeat. Arguably, it’s not just art, but Bakugo himself captured in refractive, dangling bursts.
This space is so obviously, purposefully curated that I find myself wanting to explore. Walking further into the vast space, I’m struck by just how big of a deal someone has to be to own all of this. Maybe working with heroes daily has skewed my view of them, but seeing office spaces nicer than five-star hotels blows my little mind.
“We just came to pick up some paperwork; need to hurry up if we’re going to make dinner,” comes from beside me. Checking him out in my periphery, I see someone standing tall and proud in the space they call their own.
Good. He should be proud. All of this… his life, legacy, and career—is something he should be able to sit back and appreciate.
Holding my hand out in a gesture of move along then, I follow at a decent pace behind him. Up the stairs, through a set of thick sliding security doors, and into a secondary open space. On one wall sit several elevators, and on the other, what looks to be a bona fide war room. Large tables, projectors, and a pit in the center resembling every NASA film I’ve ever seen.
A loud throat-clear has me following Bakugo again, this time into the elevator. We go up to the sixth floor. The panel has eight floors listed, so I’m a little surprised that "Lord Murder Whatever" doesn’t take residence in the penthouse suite.
When the doors open, Bakugo leads me out with a hand resting on the small of my back. He directs me to an almost immediate left. If I was expecting opulence, I’d be horribly disappointed. Where downstairs is drama, the sixth floor is the forgotten stepsister.
A long row of file folders sits on the wall, followed by a thick wood door that looks better suited for a principal’s office than a rising Top 10 hero. Through the door sits a very large desk and not much else.
Stepping into the room, I run my finger along the aged corner of the wood.
“This was All Might’s original desk.”
Breathing in so quickly my lungs can’t adjust to the influx of oxygen, I cover my mouth as sputtering coughs escape me. “All—All—Mi…ght’s?” Holy fucking shit. The greatest hero in Japan’s history sat at this desk. If this wood could talk, It’d be a national security threat.
“He gave it to me when I started the agency. Old man’s sentimental; told me he wanted me to feel the weight of the job when I sit behind it.” An embarrassed scoff leaves his lips. “I was a little shit back at UA. I think he needed me to know that decisions mean something. Every day I go out, people’s lives are at risk. Every day could be someone’s last if I fuck it up too badly.”
Not knowing what to add, all I can do is step closer and place a hand on his arm. Pressure is something we can all understand; the difference is that most of us don’t have the same level of scrutiny those at the top do.
I don’t exactly know why I do it, but I step closer and wrap both my arms around Bakugo in a hug. I rest my ear against his sweet smoke-smelling hero suit, praying this little action doesn’t ruin all the effort we’ve put into getting along.
A deep sigh leaves his body, and I squeeze my eyes shut, positive he’s about to push me away. Instead, my body is wrapped in maybe the most secure hug I’ve ever felt. One arm is slung tightly over my lower back, and the other keeps my head pressed against his rapidly beating heart. I didn’t pay close enough attention before, but I would swear it’s faster now.
“Bakugo—”
“Katsuki. Not Bakugo when it’s just you.”
Clearing my throat and nodding as much as his arm allows, I continue, “Katsuki, would you like to get dinner with me?”
Something between a growl and a laugh escapes him. “Well, since you asked so nicely—I expect you to pay now.”
Belly laughs unexpectedly escape me. Maybe… just maybe, putting out fires set by Katsuki isn't so terrible after all.
Six Months Later…
Bakugo lies behind me, brushing his fingers through my tangled hair. Another day, another fire to put out—and could you guess who started it?
Surprisingly, not Katsuki this time. When he arrived on-scene as crowd control, Kat was vibrating with glee that Todoroki was responsible for the roaring flames.
“Fucking knew Half-and-Half would do this shit one day. Always getting on to me… wait till I text the group chat—”
And text them he did. Honestly, it was in pretty bad taste for him to be taking photos of the fire while giggling somewhat manically.
The two of us end our days alone in my relatively shitty apartment, existing and coexisting without the need to fight the world or each other. I’m not sure what I was expecting when I agreed to date Katsuki, but it wasn't low-key homemade dinners and quiet cuddles on the couch. For as loud as he is, he’s equally reserved in his private life.
A few weeks into dating, I asked why we never fight. His response had been simple: “I fight all day long; I don’t want to fight with you.”
Understanding exactly what he was saying, all I could do was squeeze his hand.
Quiet sounds from a nature documentary and the feeling of his hands rubbing my scalp have my eyes drooping. I don’t need my heated blanket anymore; Kat runs warm, and my water-dense body tries to absorb every last bit of his energy.
A kiss pressed to the top of my head has my eyes opening. When did they shut?
“You getting sleepy, baby?” he mumbles into the back of my head.
Grunting out something that could be pro or con, I shuffle my body backward until my backside rests in the cradle of his hips. Wiggling to get comfortable, I stop abruptly when I feel the hard press against me and hear a hiss from Katsuki.
Suddenly, I’m not so sleepy anymore. I try subtly rotating my hips in circular motions. Gripping my waist in both of his palms, we work together toward a common goal. It doesn’t take long before we both tire of the position, and Kat rearranges us so I’m straddling him on the couch.
Leaning down and gently brushing my lips across his, I’m not at all surprised when he pulls me flush against him. Closer and tighter, one hand tangled in my hair and the other pulling my lower half to move with his. Lips, tongues, and teeth become difficult to separate.
He pulls away just enough to pant against my lips, “Fuck, you make me feel like I’m on fire.”
Smiling, and fisting his hair in my hands, I whisper, “Yeah? And what would you do for water?”