You love messing with your boyfriend.

You and Katsuki have been together for years—long enough to know exactly what gets under his skin. Everyone knows he’s easy to piss off, and you? You live for it. There’s something so satisfying about pushing his buttons, watching that slow, dangerous burn light up in his eyes. You love when he yells at you. It’s loud, it’s dramatic, it’s so him. it turns you on waaayyyy more than it should—and it always ends with his hands on your waist, his mouth on yours, and some broken thing he’ll have to fix later.

It’s a game. One you’re way too good at.

Sometimes it’s harmless—stealing his hoodie, teasing him in front of Kirishima. Other times, it’s a little riskier—like walking past him in the dorm hallway in one of his old shirts, acting like you don’t know what you’re doing. You always know.

Today, you’re in the kitchen together, half-heartedly making ramen. He’s focused, slicing up the meat, and you decide it’s the perfect time.

“That’s not how you do it,” you say, all smug as you reach over and snatch the knife from his hand.

You start cutting like you’ve got it under control—even though he’s the one who taught you how to make this in the first place.

He freezes for a second, eyebrows twitching. Then he scoffs, snatching the knife back. ”Yes it is, dipshit. You don’t even know what you’re doing.”

There it is. That spark. That edge in his voice.