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Bakugou hated presentations.
He could level a mountain, outrun half the pro circuit, and blast through reinforced steel, but put him in front of a room full of wide‑eyed first‑years and suddenly his palms got stupidly warm. Not sweaty. Warm. There was a difference.
Uraraka, of course, was glowing.
Not literally, but close enough. She stood beside him on the stage in U.A.’s main lecture hall, waving cheerfully at the incoming class as if she hadn’t been up until two in the morning finalizing their slides. Her smile alone had half the room leaning forward.
Bakugou crossed his arms and scowled at the crowd. “Alright, brats. Listen up. We’re here to talk about social media and hero rankings. Don’t screw this up.”
Uraraka elbowed him lightly. “Katsuki. Be nice.”
“I am nice,” he muttered.
The students laughed. Traitors.
Uraraka clicked to the first slide: Visibility vs. Value: Understanding the Ranking System.
She spoke with that calm, warm confidence she’d grown into over the years. “Your rescue numbers matter. Your patrol consistency matters. Your community work matters. But the public only sees what gets posted. And sometimes… what gets posted isn’t fair.”
Bakugou’s jaw tightened.
He knew what was coming.
Uraraka continued, “For example, my youth‑quirk program has helped over three hundred kids this year alone. But because it’s not flashy, it doesn’t trend. Meanwhile—”
A hand shot up in the audience. “Miss Uraraka, is it true the tabloids said you gained—”
Bakugou’s explosion rattled the projector.
“ASK THAT AGAIN, AND I’LL LAUNCH YOU INTO THE STRATOSPHERE.”
The student shrieked and ducked. Uraraka sighed and patted Bakugou’s arm like she was soothing a very angry chihuahua
“Katsuki, breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Then breathe quieter.”
More laughter. Bakugou glared at all of them.
Uraraka stepped forward, voice steady. “Comments about a hero’s body, any hero’s body, are inappropriate and irrelevant. Your worth isn’t measured by paparazzi headlines. It’s measured by the people you save.”
The room went quiet. Respectful.
Bakugou felt something warm twist in his chest. Pride. And maybe a little awe. She always knew how to command a room without raising her voice.
He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Flashy quirks get attention. Mine sure as hell does. But if you can’t handle interviews, or you blow up at reporters—” he ignored Uraraka’s pointed look, “—your ranking tanks. So don’t be idiots. Train your quirk and your public face.”
Uraraka nodded. “Balance matters. And support each other. Hero work isn’t a solo sport.”
Bakugou grunted. “Unless you’re me.”
She nudged him again. “Katsuki.”
“…Fine. Not even me.”
The students laughed again, but this time Bakugou didn’t mind.
Their shared apartment was quiet when they got home, with soft lighting, the faint scent of Uraraka’s favourite tea, and the comfortable hum of a space lived in together.
Uraraka kicked off her shoes and stretched with a groan. “That went well.”
Bakugou snorted. “Those brats almost made me commit a felony.”
She padded over, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You did great.”
He rolled his eyes, but his hands found her hips automatically. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
She looked up at him, eyes warm, cheeks soft from smiling all day. He brushed a thumb along her jaw, irritation from earlier melting into something gentler.
“You handled that body‑comment crap like a pro,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t have to, though.”
Uraraka leaned into his touch. “It’s part of the job. And I’m not alone.”
Bakugou’s chest tightened again. Damn her.
He pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair. “If anyone talks about you like that again, I’ll—”
“You’ll breathe quietly,” she teased.
He huffed. “No promises.”
She laughed, bright, warm, the sound that made every bad day tolerable. Bakugou kissed her temple first—quick, instinctive, like his body moved before his brain caught up. Then her cheek, slower, lingering just long enough to make her breath hitch. And when he finally pressed his mouth to hers, everything in him softened in a way he’d deny until the end of time.
But he didn’t pull back.
Not yet.
Not when she melted into him like she always did. Not when her hands slid up his chest and curled into the fabric of his shirt. Not when the warmth of her lips made something deep in him unclench.
He broke the kiss only when he needed air, resting his forehead against hers. She was still smiling, small, shy, the kind of smile she only ever gave him.
And that was when the anger from earlier, the stupid comment, the tabloids, the way people talked about her like she wasn’t a damn hero, came roaring back.
He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks. “Listen,” he said, voice low, rougher than he meant. “You don’t let any of that crap get in your head. Not one fucking word.”
Uraraka blinked, surprised by the intensity in his tone. “Katsuki—”
“No.” He shook his head, jaw tight. “I’m serious. You’re—” He swallowed, searching for words that didn’t come easily. “You’re the best damn hero I know. You save people without needing explosions or flash. You work your ass off. You care. And you’re—”
His voice caught. He hated that.
“You’re perfect,” he finished, barely above a whisper.
Her eyes softened, but he wasn’t done.
“They don’t get to talk about you like that. They don’t get to make you feel small. They don’t get to twist something stupid like weight into a headline.” His hands slid down to her waist, holding her like she might drift away if he didn’t anchor her. “You’re damn strong. You’re fucking gorgeous. You’re everything they wish they were.”
She let out a shaky laugh, touched and flustered all at once. “Katsuki… you don’t have to—”
“I do.” He leaned in, brushing his nose against hers. “Because you matter to me. More than rankings. More than interviews. More than all that fucking noise.”
Her breath hitched again, but this time it wasn’t from the kiss.
Bakugou kissed her forehead, slow, reverent, like he was sealing the words into her skin. “You’re mine,” he murmured, “and I’m damn lucky for it.”
Uraraka’s arms tightened around him, her face buried against his chest. “I love you,” she whispered.
Bakugou closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her sink into every place he’d ever felt sharp or angry. “Yeah,” he breathed, pressing another kiss into her hair. “I love you too.”
And for the rest of the night, he kept her close, hands gentle, voice soft, every touch a quiet promise that no headline, no comment, no idiot with a camera would ever make her doubt her worth again.