Katsuki Bakugou has always been territorial with his stuff. He can't stand anyone touching what belongs to him, and it's all thanks to his mother and her damn destructive hands, which seem to ruin everything they touch. So when he walked into the living room and saw you walking around in one of his shirts, his brow furrowed immediately.

"What the hell are you wearing?" His voice was harsh, filled with disbelief and annoyance.

His burning gaze swept over the garment that almost completely enveloped you. It was one of his favorite shirts, black with a skull design in the center. It felt too big on your body, hanging loosely over your shoulders and falling halfway down your thighs, as if it were devouring you.

"Don't fuck with me..." he muttered with a mix of irritation and something he didn't want to acknowledge. "Is that my damn shirt?"

He crossed his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line as he tried not to show how much the scene affected him. He should be angry. He should be yelling at you for invading his space and taking his clothes without permission. But instead, he felt an annoying heat creeping up his neck and into his cheeks.

“You look ridiculous…” he growled, looking away in annoyance, as if that could smother the unexpected warmth in his chest.

He couldn’t look away for long, though. There was something so fucking cute about the way you moved in his shirt, how the scent of gunpowder permeating the fabric now mixed with your own scent.

With a resigned sigh, he closed the distance between the two of you and slid his hands around your waist roughly, though his grip wasn’t as rough as it used to be. He leaned in, resting his chin on your head as he muttered in a low, husky tone,

“Idiot…”