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Katsuki could laugh about it, three months into this whole thing. Into their shared, mostly explosion-free cohabitation, and—
Who would have thought?
That apparently all Katsuki needs—all he’s needed since fucking high school—to calm down was a still sleep-soft Todoroki reaching on the tips of his toes (because he was in slippers and Katsuki was still wearing his hero costume boots) to press soft lips to Katsuki’s forehead, and then telling him, “It’s okay, you did your best.”
So. The first time is an accident. Unexpected variables affected the results. Variables like Todoroki’s silky-smooth hair slightly ruffled from sleep, and the bone-deep exhaustion Katsuki had felt as he slumped into the couch he was, at that point, immensely glad he let Todoroki splurge on because it was fuckin’ soft.
(Todoroki is fucking soft too, that’s the problem.)
But Katsuki tries not to think about it. He might be a rookie still, but he’s steadily rising through the ranks, Todoroki right next to him, and surely—surely your roommate giving you the occasional forehead kiss is fine?
Right?
(Or maybe Katsuki just needs help.)
…
Except—
It doesn’t happen just once. Of course it doesn’t, with Katsuki’s luck. (The kind that makes him suffer even when it’s absurdly good, obviously.)
The second time is—
It’s Katsuki yelling at the stupid pressure cooker Ponytail got them as a housewarming gift. Because of course she went and got the most expensive one she could get her aristocratic hands on, so it has like twenty extra functions no one without a mansion will ever need, and that makes a simple meal a lot more complicated than it needs to be.
So. Katsuki’s in the middle of his ideological conflict with this shitty piece of fancy alloy when—
Suddenly, Todoroki tugs on his wrist. Katsuki didn’t even hear the pretty bastard come out of his room. His room with the giant bed and the silk pillowcases and the makeup desk with his ten-step skincare routine and—
(God, does Katsuki want a good reason to stare into Todoroki’s surprised face if he threw him on that very bed just to crawl right on top of him and touch him everywhere, slow and soft, until he figured out what Todoroki wants. What he wants that Katsuki could give him, specifically.)
“What?” he hisses.
And Todoroki—
Todoroki fucking Shouto just wraps both arms around Katsuki’s neck after successfully making him turn, only to once again press those softsoftsoft lips to Katsuki’s forehead. His sweaty forehead, because he’s spent the last twenty minutes over a hot stove trying to figure out the right way to make a basic meal.
(Katsuki does not win any fights that day. Against Ponytail’s stupid pressure cooker, or against the irregular thrumming of his heartbeat when Todoroki leans close just to touch him softly while smelling like peaches or vanilla or whatever-the-fuck. Offensively soft and pretty and fucking—Katsuki wants to bite him, sometimes. Pay back the affection with his own favorite kind.)
“Better?” Todoroki asks him as he pulls away, and Katsuki goes so red it rivals the tomatoes he’s supposed to simmer gently.
Better, yeah, but not—
Not enough.
…
The third time is—
It’s a fucking travesty, is what it is. Because Todoroki already spent most of his time after work last night trying to make a passable bowl of chicken soup for Katsuki’s sudden cold—fuckin’ interns who stay out until three a.m. and then try to survive on nothing but coffee and still somehow think that’s not going to fuck with their immune system—and now, just as Katsuki is about to leave for work only mildly grumpy and red-nosed, he just.
Todoroki opens his mouth, and says, “Wait.”
So Katsuki does, obviously. Because—and he’s pretty sure the bastard knows this already—Katsuki would do anything for him. Even at his own detriment. Even without the damn—the, you know, the forehead kisses.
But it seems like he’s about to get another one anyway.
So. He tries to swallow. Says, “Yeah?”
And the edge of Todoroki’s mouth twitches, and he says, “It’s almost like I’m your wife, isn’t it? Kissing you goodbye before you leave for work?”
And then he—
He obviously benefits shamelessly from the fact Katsuki is frozen still vividly picturing Todoroki as his wife, and presses yet another damning kiss to Katsuki’s slightly-warmer-than-usual forehead, pushing Katsuki’s hair out of the way with his right hand because he can’t just be pretty and good with his quirk. No, he has to be considerate too. Considerate and smart and funny despite Katsuki’s continued suffering at his affinity for cat puns of all things and—
The point is—
Well. Katsuki is potentially still too feverish to articulate a point out of the tangled mess of feelings in his chest labeled Todoroki Shouto, but he knows one thing with absolute certainty in this blessed moment of reprieve. He wants Todoroki to be his wife. He just—he wants Todoroki to be his.
“Oh my god,” says Katsuki, placing both hands over his face and completely ignoring the fact he’s an adult and a pro hero and he literally almost died a few times before even being legally old enough to drink. Because—
Todoroki is more important than all that, obviously.
“Is something wrong?” asks the completely clueless object of Katsuki’s affections. All of them, in no specific order and at maximum intensity.
“You,” says Katsuki, only to immediately panic and crush Todoroki to his chest when his face falls.
“Me?” Todoroki asks, voice muffled into Katsuki’s chest.
“Yeah,” Katsuki admits. It’s easier like this, without those captivating eyes staring at his bared soul. “Can’t go around saying shit like that, ba—halfie.”
“What did I say?” Todoroki asks, like he truly doesn’t fucking know.
Katsuki makes a sound too much like a whimper. “Wife,” he says emphatically. “You called yourself—”
“Oh,” Todoroki interrupts. “I was joking. I’m sorry if it bothers you.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Katsuki says, and nothing after, because he’s great at open communication like that.
Todoroki seems pleased, though. Whatever he sees on Katsuki’s face when Katsuki finally lets him go must settle his worries. “Okay,” he says. “Have a good day at work, Bakugou.”
(But—Katsuki’s traitorous mind fills in the right word. You know, like a loser. Husband, he thinks, and doesn’t even—can’t hate himself for it. For wanting it. For wanting Todoroki. Husband and wife. God, that’s—)
So. Katsuki flees. To the safety of a long shift and no pretty-eyed even prettier boys trying to erode his iron will with fucking forehead kisses and—and words reserved for married couples.
…
Still, Katsuki isn’t known for patience.
And he’s always liked actions more than words. Or—had an easier time blowing shit up than trying to talk about it, probably. So. When he gets back from work, Todoroki is already cuddled up on the couch under approximately three separate blankets holding a cup of freshly-made tea, and Katsuki just.
Well.
It scratches the familiar itch. Saying, “Oi, half ‘n half,” only to march over to Todoroki’s cozy spot in the middle of their couch, cup those soft cheeks with both palms, and kiss him squarely on the mouth.
Todoroki gasps. And then—and then, when Katsuki doesn’t let up, only tries to kiss him more, he opens up. Blooms like a delicate flower cupped in Katsuki’s rough palms. The prettiest and most precious of them all.
(Katsuki’s, hopefully.)
When Katsuki finally needs to breathe too much to ignore it, he opens his eyes to Todoroki looking at him like Katsuki just did what he’d been waiting for for far too long.
“You know,” he says, like he’s sharing a well-guarded secret, “the reasonable next step was lingerie.”
For his own wellbeing, Katsuki doesn’t ponder on that. “What?” he asks. “You were trying to seduce me, halfie? With forehead kisses?”
Todoroki shakes his head. “With affection,” he corrects. “But Momo—she said lingerie couldn’t hurt.”
Katsuki laughs. Almost blurts out I love you, you idiot. But he settles for returning an overdue favor. “I think,” he says, “that’s for the wedding night. Right? You gonna be a dutiful wife, sweetheart?”
Todoroki’s eyes widen. “You want me?” he whispers, almost like he’s awed. “Like—like that?”
And Katsuki—
Well, Katsuki wants to kiss him until he’s flushed and breathless. But maybe his pretty boy needs the verbal confirmation first. “Course I want you,” he says. “Everyone does. I was just—being selfish and hoping I’d win. That I’d get to have you without even asking.”
It’s a miracle, really. Undeserved and too soft. The way Todoroki says, “You already do,” like Katsuki is somehow all he’s ever wanted in return.
So. Katsuki kisses him again. Nothing else he can do. He’s got a lot of overdue kisses to give to Shouto. A whole vault of them, meticulously categorized and deposited. Accruing interest since he was sixteen and too angry to know the difference between wanting what someone has and wanting them.
And of course he wants Todoroki. Who wouldn’t?
(That’s the amazing bit. That Katsuki gets to have him. Him and his cheesy forehead kisses.)