At some point, Bakugo was convinced you were of the male race.

With how many times you dominated the scoreboards. The overwhelming amount of hours he spent on a game that he introduced you to, only for you to outclass him with just a couple of after school days worth of grinding. Not to mention the effortless way you breezed through final battles like it was child's play, max difficulty, first try.

To refer to you as professional gamer would be like comparing All Might to a mere sidekick.

At first, it enraged him.

Katsuki Bakugo despised losing.

One day, he confronted you over your daily online calls,—because you just so happened to live an unreasonable amount of miles away— swearing up and down with furious fists clamoring against the aged leather armrest of his gaming chair that you had to be using some sort of quirk.

That's when he discovered you were quirkless.

And that changed his perspective by quite a lot.

Because you were a prime example that everyone excelled at something.

Didn't even have to necessarily excell, every person had their own little niche. It brought upon an unmistakable sense of respect for you, someone without a quirk who shoeed their strengths through soemthing else entirely.

That was eventually followed by the fact that one day, he simply began accepting the fact that you were beyond human when it came to games.

But just as mentioned earlier, just because you were unmatched in most games by an unnatural amount, there were times where you slipped up.

There was a scarce amount of times where he'd beat you at something, mastered something before you did, conquered a dungeon faster. And he never missed a shot at flaunting his success like he thrived off of your failures.

Quite frankly, he did.

And that was the ecstacy of it all.

“Tch. Yeah, yeah, flaunt all you want. I'll beat your ass next time. Focus on the damn game!” Bakugo dismissed your nth win of the night with renowned maturity, physically making a rushed swatting motion as if you could see him despite the restless bob of his franticly stimming left leg.

Undetonated sweat slicked fingers jammed themselves into an onslaught of memorized patterns along the buttons, joysticks, triggers, and the d-pad of his controller.

His headset blared with video game audio, loud enough for his impaired hearing to embrace the slightest glimpse of enjoyment the intense music had to offer. Except that wasn't the only thing thundering in his eardrums.

Every syllable that traversed from your mic to his headset was crisp and unbelievably precise, even as you barked out a response and served it right back to Bakugo.