Inspired by getgreeroam TikTok
Bakugou Katsuki never admitted to jealousy. He found it pathetic an emotion for extras who didn't know their worth. And he knew his. He was the Number One Hero. He had clawed his way there with blood, smoke, and sheer force of will. What did he possibly have to be insecure about?
Nothing. That's what he told himself. So when you walked into his gala in the dress he bought for you and the entire room shifted, something primal dragged its claws up his spine.
The fabric clung exactly the way he remembered when he’d chosen it. The color against your skin. The cut of it. The straps rest so innocently on your shoulders. That dress wasn't for her.
It was for him. He saw the way heads turned. The way conversations stuttered. The way men who had never earned the right to even breathe the same air as you let their gazes linger.
Smoke curled faintly from his palms. He smiled through it. Charmed the sponsors. Nodded at the press. Laughed at something he didn't hear. All while cataloging every pair of eyes that dared to settle on you for more than a second.
Jealousy wasn't weakness. It was instinct. And instinct told him one thing Mine. He almost made it through the night. Almost.
But then you adjust the straps on your shoulders, slowly, deliberately. Your lashes lowered when you looked at him, and your voice dipped just enough to be dangerous. “You know this comes off so easy.”
The last fragile thread of restraint snapped. A spark cracked from his palm controlled, contained but his jaw tightened like he was seconds from detonating the entire city block.
He crossed the distance in three strides. When he kissed you, it wasn't gentle. It was starved. Like he'd been holding his breath all night and you had oxygen. All that jealousy, all that possessive fire he refused to name poured into it fierce and consuming and unashamed.
The city disappeared. There was only his hands at your waist. His mouth claiming yours. His voice, rough and wrecked against your ear when he murmured your name like it was something sacred.
Right here. Against the car. Against him.
Exactly where you belonged.
The next morning, sunlight spilled across your skin.
You stood in front of the mirror, fingertips grazing the faint constellation of purple along your neck marks blooming like poetry written in a language only he spoke.
His reflection appeared behind you, shirt half-buttoned, grin sharp as ever.
“Don’t bother.” You reached for concealer. He caught your wrist.
With his thumb, he wiped the makeup away, tilting your chin to admire his work like it belonged in a gallery. “I put those there for a reason” he said, voice low, satisfied. His eyes met yours in the mirror burning, unapologetic.
“Let everyone see.”