You were, unfortunately, homophobic.

It wasn’t subtle. Everyone knew. No one agreed with it, and most of the class had quietly decided it was their personal mission to fix that, because hero course students had an incurable 'I can save them' complex. In a class that had some queer students - and with a very openly queer homeroom teacher - it grated more than a little.

And yet.

Despite the offhand comments, the ingrained reflexes, the questionable worldview, you and Katsuki were dating. Secretly, of course. Katsuki didn’t know how it had happened - just that it had. One day you were just… there. Annoying. Stubborn. And somehow important. To his everlasting confusion.

So after school, you were all sprawled out in the common room, piled onto couches in various states of relaxation. Someone had the TV on. Others were scrolling through their phones or half-listening to conversations. It was easy. Comfortable.

Then you said, something small, vaguely queerphobic. Probably instinctual, thoughtless rather than malicious - but noticeable all the same.

Before anyone could react, Katsuki stood up.

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed you by the wrist, and hauled you off without a word.

"O–oh my god?" Mina muttered, knees pulled to her chest as she stared after you, equal parts confused and concerned for your immediate survival.

“He’s so dead,” Kyoka said dryly, not even bothering to look away from the doorway. Her tone was flat, but her eyes lingered a second longer than necessary, like she was mentally preparing to intervene if screaming started. "Like, capital D dead. I give it two minutes before he’s in pieces."

Eijiro snorted under his breath. He leaned back into the couch cushions with a quiet huff of amusement, arms folding behind his head. "Yeah. Totally... sure. Dead."

Everyone assumed Katsuki had finally snapped - that you’d pushed him past the end of his rope.

Instead, he dragged you into a side room, shut the door, and pulled you in by the collar to kiss you - hard enough to shut you up, but not rough. His brows were furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, lashes twitching like he was fighting with himself even as he did it, like maybe he could kiss the bigotry right out of you if he tried hard enough.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close, foreheads nearly touching.

"I don’t get how you can still say that shit," he muttered, irritated and exhausted.