Bakugou Imagines

Ten minutes

"stop fuckin' taking pictures—"

"i'd say this one's a keeper," you snort, holding your phone out for bakugou to look at. he reaches forward to snatch at the device, but you move it away just in time, snickering to yourself as you stare at his off-guard expression.

"quit it," he growls, warning you with a glare. you don't pay him any mind, hoisting yourself to sit on the bathroom counter as you swing your legs and watch him (attempt) to tame his hair.

"i can't, it's your first interview," you say excitedly—he doesn't really seem to extend the sentiment—and then you reach forward and pinch his cheek.

his eye twitches, and so do your lips.

"fuckin' bullshit," bakugou grumbles, "you know how productive heroes could be if they didn't act like movie stars? bullshit."

it's the first interview since bakugou's gone pro—and you're just a little bit proud even if you don't exactly admit it. you think it's a good opportunity to make a name for himself (he believes otherwise) and he thinks it's a waste of time (you argue he says that about everything) and his manager thinks he's got no choice.

so—through a lot of grumbled curses—bakugou katsuki throws on his best shirt, sprays on his best cologne, and puts his best effort into doing his hair—which only springs back to its usual spiked mess in a few moments.

"maybe you should invest in a hair stylist. i don't think i've seen your hair lay flat since best jeanist—"

"would you give that a rest?" he scowls, slamming down his comb and crossing his arms in frustration. his top buttons are undone, and his hair's a mess, and now his hands are sweating, and he has to leave in thirty minutes—and it's safe to say that bakugou is not having a good time.

this isn't the hero stuff he signed up for. he clenches his jaw, and your expression softens just a little.

"c'mere," you say gently, holding out an arm to gesture him over. he blinks for a moment, contemplates whether or not to trust you—it's not like you've given him much of a reason to so far—before he sighs and slots himself between your legs.

"this is bullshit," he mutters.

"you said that already," you chuckle, pressing a sweet kiss to his jaw. he feels honey trickle from your lips and seep into his skin, melting into the pent up rage and lulling it down.

you tend to have that effect on bakugou—and sometimes, you still chuckle when you remember the way kaminari's jaw dropped the first time he witnessed your hand lay on the blonde's chest and effectively quiet him down.

"well, i'm sayin' it again," he says gruffly.

"on the bright side, if people think you're hot, they might make those fun little thirsty edits of you and i'll get to enjoy quality content—"

"i'm calling my manager to cancel," he interrupts, reaching over to flick your forehead as he shakes his head. you throw your head back and laugh, and if you didn't know any better, you'd almost miss the ghost of a smile on bakugou's lips—one he's clearly trying his best to fight back.

"i'll make one for you, katsuki. don't worry."

"if you ever say 'don't worry,' that's enough reason for me to worry," he snorts, and then his hands rest on your hips, your arms slot around his neck, and your foreheads meet. he's down to twenty minutes until he has to leave, but neither of you really care as his lips hover over yours. "you're so damn annoying."

"and cute, right?"

"no."

you pout, huffing a little at his denial, and this time, he laughs. and it's a rather pretty laugh—boyish and charming and just a little gruff. not a lot of people get to listen to the sweet melody that is bakugou katsuki's laugh, but you have it on repeat—and you don't think it's a song you'll ever be getting tired of.

"i'm cute," you insist through pouty words and a halfhearted glare. he smirks, biting your cheek playfully as he snickers.

"maybe just a little. that's all you're getting, though," he offers as a truce.

"so you think i'm cute, huh?" you flutter your lashes at him teasingly, and for once, bakugou thinks his heart's not strong for these stupid fucking emotions that stir up as you stare at him like that. it's not something he's used to—and it's not something he can master.

but he thinks as long as you're here, the stars in your eyes and the sun dripping from your fingertips, he'll keep trying until one day he gets it right.

"sure, i do," he agrees (a little too easily, you note), "i think you're pretty fuckin' adorable when you shut up."

you roll your eyes, shaking your head as he snickers at his supposed victory, and then with a touch as gentle as the gaze in your eyes, your fingers thread through his hair. you don't try to tame the strands, just move them to lay smoothly in their usual direction.

"there," you hum, "perfect."

"pretty sure that's not how hair looks when it's done."

"that's how your hair looks when it's done. yours defies the laws of physics."

"name the first law," he raises a brow. and bakugou's never really taken himself as a guy who's meant for love that's gentle in that sickeningly cheesy way—he's never taken himself for that weird slow dancing stuff his parents did in the kitchen, or the shameless kisses those annoying couples did in hallways, or those extravagant displays of love in those cheesy movies.

but all things considered, as he stares at his reflection in the mirror with his hair as good as it'll get and your warm smile as your body curves against his, he thinks maybe he's got his own kind of gentle.

the kind that comes in the form of you.

"i'd love to talk physics with you," you press one kiss to the corner of his lips, and they almost tug into a soft pout (as close as a pout gets with someone like bakugou), "but you have to go."

"do it right," he says gruffly, but there's an edge of pleading, bordering right on desperation in his tone.

you smile knowingly, and you give him what he wants.

"what, you mean this?" and then your lips meet his—fully this time, and he feels this sick, twisting feeling in his gut.

it's the kind that screams at him to pull you into the kitchen and slow dance with you as you giggle like his parents did growing up. but for now, he lets you pull away, let's you reach past his collar and button the top few buttons of his shirt as you smooth down the fabric with a soft, content little smile.

"yeah, that," he mumbles, "keep doin' that." and then his lips are back in yours, and he's down to ten minutes until he has to leave, but you don't seem to mind as your arms tighten around his figure and pull him just a tad bit closer.