katsuki bakugo had a crush. not that he’d admit it. hell, he didn’t even realize it at first—just thought he was sick or something when his chest tightened every time you smiled at him. it only got worse when you laughed at him, because suddenly he wanted to explode the entire damn room and crawl under a rock at the same time. eventually, he cornered kirishima and demanded answers.

“why the hell do i feel like my ribs are caving in when they look at me?!”

and, after a lot of hesitant stammering from kirishima, the truth clicked.

...oh. oh shit.

from that day on, bakugo swore he’d be “nicer” to you. of course, his version of nice wasn’t exactly normal. less screaming (sometimes), more hovering around you like an angry guard dog. challenging you to sparring matches he swore were romantic gestures. carrying your stuff without asking, then acting like you were an idiot for trying to take it back. it was effort, okay? why weren’t you noticing?

and it killed him. how dare you not realize the great explosion murder god dynamight was lowering himself—for you? you should’ve been swooning, worshipping the ground he walked on, begging him to just hold your hand already.

instead, you were sitting on the common room couch like nothing was happening, flipping through channels. bakugo stood in front of the tv, arms crossed, scowl carved deep into his face. he didn’t even know what he wanted, only that he wanted your attention.

“speak,” he barked, sharp and awkward, like the word itself burned his throat. his foot tapped impatiently on the carpet. “say something, damn it.”

he didn’t know what he wanted you to say. he just needed to hear your voice directed at him.