#“Everytime I wanted the hangout to be at Blasty’s

[catsoupki]

CHP. FIVE | YOU'LL FALL IN LOVE ON YOUR OWN PACE (WITH MY LITTLE THINGS)

SUMMARY: Katsuki has settled into a routine-like dance with you ever since your debut as a hero. He takes care of you like harmonious clockwork, but as he peels layer after layer, he’s caught up with his own tantalising feelings when he finds your blood staining his hands. You teach him, slowly, of what it means to fall in love.

TAGS: pro hero au, fem reader, banter, hurt/comfort

CHAPTER LENGTH: 1,288 | SERIES MASTERLIST

When you wake up, the sight before you is beyond gorgeous. 

Last night, plagued by the heavy sleepiness in the afterglow of sex, you two had tumbled onto the bed before he had the chance to shut the curtains. Now, rays of golden sunlight stroke themselves across Katsuki’s face meekly, as if they’ve afraid of being grazed by the sharp corners of his visage. The ash blond of his hair becomes sandy in colour, edges rounded as he stirs in his sleep. You breathe, and you get lungs full of him— woody caramel sweetness. 

You fight the urge to hold his face with all your might, so much so that your concentration wakes him from his slumber. He looks domestic in the way he slowly blinks to get the drowsiness out of his eyes, eyelids barely staying open as his pupils begin to focus, and you see the moment everything registers in his head, the memories flowing from last night and the view in front of him right now clicking— and he lets his eyes widen and his lips part, before yawning and rolling into the bed again, with you in his inescapable hold. 

Getting up proves to be difficult after that, only with the umpteenth ringing of your alarms that you finally decide it’s time to leave the safe haven and begin your day. 

You can tell he’s in a chirpy mood, despite not being a morning person. The way he shuffles from hallway to bathroom and back, the way he slips on his clothes, they’re all done with less aggression. 

You also cannot deny that your mood has been lifted from the slight change in routine. Your morning run was shorter— two minutes faster than your usual time; when you had your shower at the agency, the cold water hit your back more pleasantly; usually insufferable sidekicks became more compliant, easier to deal with. 

An hour before your first patrol, your manager stalks into your office with a cheshire grin, demanding you to tell her every little detail of last night’s rendezvous with the Nation’s favourite hero. You put up little fight, though you knew you’d tell her someday anyway, you comply and begin the retelling of your favourite story, how careful he had held you in his palms, how loving he had been shampooing your hair, and all the other moments in between that are still burned into your mind as clear as day. 

Your work goes by in a breeze. You find that little inconveniences in your life can be smoothed over by imagining how Katsuki looks when he wakes up, but recalling might be a better word. 

It’s six o’clock, you’re packing up and getting ready to leave the office, your glass desk is wiped clean, shreds of paper thrown away. The door knob is cool when you hold it, you have your earphones in your pocket, for when you finish greeting the passionate interns working overtime out in the hall with tight-lipped smiles. 

The evening sun is particularly orange when it hits the tall potted plants, giving the sacramento leaves a brownish shine; the off-white walls look old, like they’ve already been filled with memories of past owners. When you walk through the corridors and lobbies, you’re thankful that you haven't lost your quirk, your heartbeat, nor your Katsuki. Maybe a few months back, the disappearances of these everyday occurrences wouldn’t cross your mind, they’re regular constants in your life that have made their markings on you— made you a mosaic of them. It strikes you that just as Magnesium is a metal, death is always walking next to you, no matter where you go, he’ll be stepping with you when you cross the road, when you go on the balcony, and when you cook dinner. An inescapable truth that cannot be denied by anyone, not even the most powerful parts of society. 

So when you leave the door of your agency and see a familiar-looking Lexus parked on the side of the road, with that unruly bunch of blond hair that you’ve found yourself too enraptured by, your smile is uncontrollably vehement. 

When Katsuki drives you home, it’s done without a word. You know this path by turn, every street name and every corner is familiar, you know that he’ll strum his fingers against the steering wheel aimlessly while he waits for the red lights to turn green, and when he pulls into his penthouse building’s parking lot, you know that the monthly cost is roughly ¥70000 and that his assistant pays it on the first day of each month. 

You know him, so you’re not surprised when he opens the door for you, his house unfurled and vulnerable in the dimming golden rays, laid bare in front of you, letting you take in all its glory when it’s still daytime, and similarly, you do the same to him, Katsuki. 

You think he had just finished showering before he came to pick you up, the way his hair sticks up is funny-looking, wild in every sense of the word, when he walks past you to grab your bags and shoes to set them down, the woody scent trails after him. You wonder whether you look awkward and out of place, unmoving in the entry with your hands at your sides, covered in fabrics that are dark in an apartment that is warm and next to a person who is bright. 

He doesn’t let you think far, he soon takes your hand in his, and gently leads you to his living room, where your feet drag and thump on the carpet in dull thuds. He leaves you, awkward and out of place, in the middle of the room, in front of the TV and next to the signed All Might poster he framed, he walks over to the— oh, the record player you gave him for his first ‘Hero of the Year’ award. It’s placed neatly on a dark wooden stand, and under it are stacks of vinyls, from local bands to overseas artists that you introduced to him, he clicks it on and gravity takes you with both hands as you put one foot in front of another, stumbling along the rhythm of music. 

Bakugou has always been a hummer, but when he sings to you for the first time tonight, it’s thick and heavy, laced with something he can’t say aloud, it sounds a lot like a confession that soothes over you like a second skin.

In a few, dinner will be served, you two will eat shoulder to shoulder with a quiet chatter, and in between are the whispers and soft spoken words, as if there’s someone eavesdropping behind you, he’ll lean closer towards you as the night settles in, drowsiness and exhaustion will begin to creep onto the way he speaks and into the way he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. 

In an hour, you’ll be hands deep into his sink, scrubbing hard at the dishes while he stands next to you with a torn rag in hand and with a dish rack to his right, he’ll take the two plates and the four chopsticks you hand him, then he’ll place them tidily into the rack, like you’ve been doing this for years— like harmonious clockwork. 

You’ll shower, then his fingers will tease and dance around yours under the sheets, you’ll feel for his callouses, the rock solid proof of his hard work, and you won’t be able to brush lotion onto them, but only snuggle your head closer and tighter and more intimately to his shoulder. 

He’ll learn to say I love you on his own terms, he’s got all the time in the world.