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Izuku had seen Katsuki Bakugou bleed more times than he could count. He had personally witnessed Katsuki walk out of battles that should have ended him. He had seen countless battle reports in his years as a teacher, but none ever prepared him for the ones written about Dynamight.
On the battlefield, the man moved brutally. Charging straight through fire, smoke, and debris as though danger were an irrelevant inconvenience. Katsuki had always been the one who kept going even when everyone else faltered. Cuts, fractures, burns—he carried them the way others carried badges, unbothered by the sight of his own blood soaking into his costume.
Even now, years after the war, after the impossible miracle of dying and then returning to a world that continued without him for several breathless hours, Katsuki remained the same relentless force. A pro hero recognized across the country for his ferocity. A symbol carved out of grit rather than light.
Izuku knew all of that. He had studied Katsuki’s movements on monitors, in old battle reports, in the rare footage Katsuki hadn’t destroyed out of rage. He had learned the pattern of how Katsuki fought—direct, ruthless, strategic enough to seem impulsive. And despite all the scars Katsuki had earned, Izuku had never seen the man hesitate. Not once. Not even when facing All For One, the moment that had rewritten both of their lives.
But there are certain times that reminded Izuku that Katsuki is just as human as any other people out there.
Izuku had grown used to the distant rumble of explosions that signaled Katsuki’s return from patrol. They were never dangerous ones, just the residue of adrenaline he hadn’t shaken off yet and the leftover energy that clung to him after hours of battling villains with the same relentless drive he’d carried since they were students.
Katsuki walked through the apartment door, posture loose in the way only veteran fighters ever managed. His uniform bore evidence of another day spent confronting threats that would have crushed most heroes&ash on his gauntlets, dried blood along the collar, and fresh scrapes across his skin. He moved through it all without a flinch. Pain meant nothing to him anymore. He’d died once and returned to life, scars and bruises were background noise.
Izuku had told himself he understood the man entirely. Years beside Katsuki taught him every visible habit, every rough edge softened only when they were alone. He knew the exact tempo of Katsuki’s breathing after combat, the sound of his gloves dropping onto the entry mat, the way he grabbed water straight from the fridge because resting came later, if ever. But the apartment revealed things patrols never did. Living together peeled away layers even hero work couldn’t touch.
Izuku had been bent over the sofa for more than an hour, surrounded by scattered quizzes and notebooks. The stack to his left had grown steadily while the one on his right refused to shrink, as if multiplying whenever he glanced away. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then continued marking the next page. The living room lamp cast a soft circle of light over the table. Katsuki’s distant shower filled the silence, familiar enough that Izuku barely registered it anymore. This had become their routine, Izuku grading and Katsuki shaking off the day’s exhaustion under scalding water.
He had just started writing feedback in the margin when—
“Izuku!”
The shout tore through the apartment with enough force to rattle the picture frames. Izuku jerked upright, pulse thundering. His pen snapped from his hand and disappeared between the cushions. He didn’t waste a second looking for it. Everything inside him launched forward in one instinctive rush.
Katsuki never yelled his name like that unless something was wrong. It was only natural when Izuku vaulted over the scattered papers, mind already racing ahead of him. Did he collapse? Did an injury reopen? Did he breathe in something corrosive during patrol? Did he ignore symptoms again? Damn it, Kacchan, why didn’t you say anything if something hurt—
He reached the bathroom and slammed a hand against the doorframe, ready to break the door down if needed. It was already open.
And then he froze.
Katsuki stood in the shower, soap sliding down his arms, water beating against his back, steam rising around him. His hair was covered in thick suds and stuck up in uneven spikes, as if he’d been scrubbing it vigorously before abruptly stopping. He looked strong and very much alive, very Kacchan. No blood, no burns beyond the usual lingering marks, no trembling that suggested hidden injuries. Just Katsuki, covered in bubbles and outrage.
Izuku’s mind stuttered. His heart struggled to slow down. “Kacchan, what happened?” He stepped forward, scanning every inch of him again, desperate to find the source of the panic. “Are you hurt? Did you slip? Did something cut you? What’s wrong?”
Katsuki didn’t appear injured. He didn’t even look winded. Instead, he jabbed a dripping finger toward the shower curtain, eyes full of pure hostility. “Do you see that?”
Izuku followed the direction of the gesture, confused. A moth clung to the curtain’s fabric, wings flickering under the steam.
Izuku stared at it. Then at Katsuki. Then at the moth again. Slowly, his frantic thoughts stumbled to a stop. Everything inside him tried to catch up to the absurdity of the situation.
“That,” Katsuki said, voice sharp enough to crack the tile. “Get rid of it.”
Izuku blinked. No. There’s no way. That yell—was for this? “Katsuki,” he managed carefully, “you yelled like the building was collapsing.”
“It might as well be.” Katsuki scowled harder. “That thing flew at me.”
Izuku had no idea how he kept his expression straight. “It’s a moth.”
“Yeah no shit, Deku,” Katsuki snapped. “That doesn’t make it less disgusting.”
Izuku opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “You fought All For One,” he said slowly, still trying to process the image before him. “You literally died.”
“That had nothing to do with moths,” Katsuki barked.
Izuku pressed his lips together. Don’t laugh. You can’t laugh. If you laugh, he’ll detonate you out the window. He is naked and furious and you need to stay alive long enough to finish grading. He inhaled carefully. “Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
Katsuki shifted farther from the curtain, looking ready to exit the shower altogether. His expression carried discomfort, as if the moth had personally insulted him. Izuku stepped around him, grabbed a plastic cup from the counter, and approached the curtain slowly. The moth didn’t resist. It fluttered lightly into the cup with minimal coaxing. Izuku kept the cup steady, walked to the window, and set the insect free into the night breeze.
He returned to the bathroom doorway, wiping condensation from his wrist. “It’s gone.”
Katsuki didn’t move immediately. He inspected the curtain from his safe distance, eyes narrowed, as if expecting a horde of replacements. Only after a long moment did he grunt and return under the stream of water. “If another one shows up, I’m calling pest control.”
Izuku rested a hand on the doorframe. “For moths?”
“For whatever the hell is letting them in,” Katsuki muttered. “Doesn’t matter what it is. I’m not dealing with that while I’m showering.”
Izuku nodded solemnly. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”
Katsuki shot him a suspicious look. “Don’t start.”
Izuku raised both hands. “I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re thinking something.”
Izuku couldn’t deny that. His brain was still replaying the moment Katsuki froze in the shower, glaring at the curtain as though it hid an ambush. He’s fought entire armies, but one tiny moth can clear a room. The warmth bubbling in his chest was inconveniently fond.
“I’ll check the windows tomorrow,” Izuku offered, steady and practical. “Maybe one had a gap.”
Katsuki grumbled something under his breath that sounded vaguely appreciative. Izuku stepped back, letting the door close enough for Katsuki’s privacy but not enough to trap the steam. He returned to the living room, sank into the couch, and retrieved his pen from the cushions. The papers waited exactly as he left them.
Apparently, reminders that Katsuki is simply human and is not some resurrected legend patched together by rumor or awe-stricken reports accumulated in small discoveries scattered across the months. One of those discoveries presented itself entirely by accident.
It was Izuku’s first day off in weeks. A rare, blessed morning without students asking for recommendations or colleagues dropping ungraded assignments onto his desk. The apartment was silent in a way that never happened when Katsuki was home. Katsuki had left for patrol two hours ago, leaving behind a faint scent of cinnamon and gunpowder—evidence of the deodorant he pretended not to replace frequently.
Izuku had been planning to spend the day cleaning his notes and reorganizing files for the next semester. But before he could begin, one problem halted everything—his earphones had vanished, probably somewhere between last night’s documentaries and this morning’s laundry.
He checked the living room first, then the kitchen counter, then under the coffee table. Nothing. He replayed last night in his head until his memory supplied the solution—Katsuki’s voice grumbling.
“Deku, I need to borrow your stupid ear things. Mine fell into a sewer while I was chasing a damn villain. Don’t start. I know what you’re thinking, and no, you can’t lecture me about attaching them securely.”
Izuku had handed them over without comment. So they were most likely still with Katsuki.
He paused by the hallway for a long moment, rubbing the back of his neck, debating whether retrieving them was worth risking his life. Entering Katsuki’s room had always seemed unnecessary. Katsuki valued personal space with a kind that suggested a lifetime of defending it, and his boundaries were unmistakably firm. And in a year of living together, not once had Izuku crossed that unspoken line. It wasn’t out of fear. At least, not entirely. It was respect, plain and simple.
But Katsuki wasn’t home. Izuku needed the earphones. Surely Katsuki wouldn’t explode over something this minor.
…Probably.
It’s just a quick search. In and out. He won’t even notice. Please don’t kill me for this, Kacchan.
Izuku hesitated one more second. Sorry, Kacchan, he apologized in his head, as if Katsuki could sense intruders from halfway across the city. Then he turned the doorknob, stepped inside, before tapping the light switch.
He had expected a war zone, since Katsuki always seemed to be in a hurry. He had expected piles of laundry, scattered gear, broken equipment, or maybe even the faint scent of smoke burned into the mattress. Instead, Katsuki’s room was extraordinarily organized. The bed was neatly made. The desk held neatly stacked folders, a sharpened pencil resting across the top. Training gloves hung on a hook near the window, arranged from oldest to newest pair. Well, as expected. Katsuki was much of a clean freak since high school.
But the detail that seized Izuku’s attention was the shelf.
Stood against the far wall, a large wooden shelf took up almost the entire right side of the room, filled with manga volumes arranged by series and author. Izuku approached it cautiously, unsure if he was misreading what he saw. These weren’t action-packed, violent, or fantasy-driven volumes Katsuki would be expected to read. These were romance titles—pastel covers, soft artwork, titles featuring relationships, emotional developments, improbable confessions, and dramatic misunderstandings.
izuku stared.
His mind scrambled for explanation, brain stalling for a moment. This can’t be his. Someone must’ve—no, no one else comes here. Did he borrow these? Did he… Izuku stepped closer, scanning the spines. Some series were well worn from repeated reading. Others were newer and pristine. Genres varied from school romances to slow burn workplace stories, to slightly more dramatic titles that Izuku recognized from popular recommendations among students.
He reads… romance mangas?
Izuku crouched and inspected one of the volumes lying sideways atop the rest. The bookmark wedged inside suggested Katsuki had stopped only a few pages before the confession scene. Izuku carefully set it back where he found it, hands hovering as if the books would explode if he touched them incorrectly.
The image of Katsuki, hurling profanity at a moth while soap dripped down his face, resurfaced again. Then it paired itself with the unexpected image in front of him—Katsuki sitting in bed, scowling at fictional characters as they struggled through emotional misunderstandings. The combination was so disorienting that Izuku found himself lowering to sit on the floor, elbows resting on his knees.
A soft laugh threatened to escape, and he covered his mouth instinctively. Kacchan, you read love stories. You won’t open emails from the hero commission, but you’ll sit through forty chapters of emotional development between two anxious protagonists? What is this?
He shouldn’t be amused. He really shouldn’t. But something warm spread through his chest anyway.
A stack of papers on Katsuki’s desk caught his attention next. He approached cautiously, expecting mission reports. Instead, he discovered a small stack of receipts lying near Katsuki’s notebook, each listing manga volume purchases bought last week. Another slip of paper contained handwritten reminders of release dates for future volumes. Katsuki had taken notes. Notes for romance manga. Katsuki didn’t merely read these series, he tracked and invested in them.
Izuku pressed a hand to his mouth. Oh, Kacchan.
He searched the dresser next, hoping to locate the borrowed earphones before he invaded more of Katsuki’s privacy. They were in the top drawer, tangled around a charger. Izuku retrieved them quickly, ready to leave, but found himself glancing toward the shelf again. The rows of pastel covers, soft colors, and gentle titles contrasted sharply with the Katsuki the world believed him to be.
Izuku exhaled slowly before stepping out of the room, turning off the lights as he left.
Izuku had once jokingly mentioned to a colleague that Katsuki was a clean freak, but only he knew how true that statement was. Katsuki didn’t simply maintain hygiene, he conducted it as if it were another form of combat.
Every towel had a designated place, every grooming product had a strict rotation, and every surface in the apartment gleamed because Katsuki refused to tolerate a single fingerprint out of order. Izuku couldn’t deny the benefits of their shared living space, even if he sometimes felt judged whenever Katsuki glanced at his halfbfolded laundry pile.
He supposed it came from years of Katsuki managing an explosive quirk. The distorted heat, the constant sweat, the risk of soot settling on his skin—it forced him into habits that eventually grew into routines. And Katsuki maintained those routines.
Yet Izuku would never have expected the extent of Katsuki’s self care preferences until he witnessed it firsthand.
It started as a simple grocery trip—one of their rare days off together, a necessity since Katsuki refused to let Izuku survive on cup noodles and chips. Katsuki claimed heroes and teachers deserved better fuel than preservatives and artificial flavoring, and Izuku always lost the argument.
Grocery shopping with Katsuki had never been a peaceful activity. Even before they moved in together, running errands with him meant a steady back-and-forth of opinions delivered with unnecessary comments and an earful of lectures.
Now, standing beside Katsuki in the supermarket aisle while the man compared two brands of canned tomatoes, Izuku wondered for the hundredth time how someone who detonated villains for a living could also spend five entire minutes reading nutritional labels in silence. Katsuki narrowed his eyes, exchanged the cans again, and placed the preferred one in the cart. Izuku only hummed and nudged the cart forward before Katsuki could start lecturing him about sodium content.
Their cart filled with vegetables, sauces, rice, fresh meat, and occasional junk that Katsuki allowed with controlled tolerance. A familiar combination of Katsuki-approved healthy ingredients and Izuku’s attempts to slip in snacks. The vegetables stacked themselves neatly beside the meat Katsuki insisted on buying fresh. The small collection of chips Izuku attempted to defend sat near the edge, already judged three times and spared only because Katsuki claimed he needed something to complain about. Izuku
They argued over brands as usual, Katsuki insisting on quality while Izuku insisted on saving money. The bickering drew a few looks from other shoppers, but Izuku barely noticed. He was too focused on keeping up with Katsuki’s decisive pace through the aisles.
When they approached the personal care section, Izuku expected Katsuki to grab his usual shampoo and continue walking. Instead, Katsuki halted in front of an entire wall of hair products. Izuku slowed behind him, unsure whether to speak or wait. Katsuki didn’t acknowledge him. He inspected the bottles one by one, checking ingredients, scanning labels, comparing instructions. Izuku watched the process with amusement. Katsuki wasn’t merely choosing a shampoo, he was curating a routine.
Katsuki’s hand shot out to grab a bottle of argan oil. “Pre-wash,” he muttered, tossing it into the cart. Izuku blinked, uncertain if he misheard. Pre-wash? He hadn’t even known that term existed outside beauty blogs.
Next came a shampoo formulated to prevent dryness, though he wasn’t sure any part of Katsuki’s hair had ever encountered dryness in its existence. Then another brand meant to reduce breakage. A conditioner for repair. A hair mask for weekly treatment. A scalp serum labeled for “strength and nourishment.” Katsuki added each item to the cart, building an entire regimen before Izuku could process the first selection.
Izuku released a slow breath. Kacchan, your hair looks the same no matter what you do. How many products does it take to maintain chaos?
Katsuki finally stepped away from the shelves. Izuku assumed that meant they were finished. Thank god—
They were not.
Without even a second glance, Katsuki moved toward the body care aisle. He examined exfoliants, testing textures with the back of his hand before choosing one. A body wash followed, then a lotion, then a separate moisturizer “for elbows and shoulders,” and finally a body oil he inspected. Katsuki grabbed a deodorant next, one he purchased monthly without fail.
Izuku leaned against the cart, observing Katsuki's growing collection, trying his very best not to look surprised by the sheer number of items Katsuki believed necessary for survival. Am I supposed to know these terms? Why does he need three products that do the same thing? No, don’t ask him about it. He’ll lecture you for thirty minutes.
Just as Izuku thought they were done, Katsuki moved again. Izuku expected a detour toward the food section. Instead, Katsuki marched straight into the skincare aisle. Izuku followed, still unsure why Katsuki even bothered with skincare when his complexion was already clear enough to make people suspicious. The shelves were lined with toners, essences, masks, and creams.
Izuku pushed the cart while counting mentally which assignments he still needed to grade tonight, but he also caught himself glancing at Katsuki’s profile and remembering again that the man never had a single breakout in his entire life due to the benefits of having glycerin he partially inherited from his mother’s quirk running through his blood. Izuku is a hundred percent sure Katsuki doesn't need all the products he had just tossed in the cart.
Katsuki walked through smoke and pollution constantly—meanwhile, Izuku used a basic cleanser and hoped for the best. It felt unfair.
A face wash. A clay mask. Sheet masks. Toner. Hydrating cream. Sunscreen. Two additional items Izuku couldn’t even identify—one in a glass dropper bottle, the other labeled with terminology he suspected required a dictionary. Izuku watched each item drop into the cart and felt his rational understanding of hygiene crumble.
Katsuki finally stopped adding items and turned to him with a raised brow. “Deku, what did you get?”
Izuku’s stomach dropped. He glanced into their cart, then slowly lifted the only item in his hand. A single bottle of 3-in-1 wash—body, hair, and conditioner combined into one. Katsuki stared at the bottle, then stared at Izuku’s face. Izuku felt the exact moment judgment formed.
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “Put that back.”
Izuku cleared his throat, trying to salvage pride. “It’s efficient.”
“It’s garbage,” Katsuki countered. “Throw it away.”
“It works fine.”
“It strips your hair and dries your skin. You’re not washing a car, nerd.”
Izuku clutched the bottle closer. “It smells nice.”
“No,” Katsuki said, voice firm in a way that suggested no room for negotiation. “It’s lazy. That crap doesn’t clean properly. It doesn’t condition anything. It smells like someone tried to hide bad decisions with artificial citrus.” He leaned forward, one hand resting on the cart’s edge while the other reached toward the bottle cautiously, as if touching it might contaminate him. “Why the hell would you put this on your hair? Your curls are already stubborn enough.”
Izuku pulled the bottle back slightly. “It saves time.”
“That’s not saving time,” Katsuki countered while reaching for a conditioner from the shelf. “That’s asking for trouble.” He placed a proper cleanser next to it and then pointed at a stack of moisturizers. “You don’t even use lotion. Your skin looks like it’s trying to retire early.”
Izuku stared at the cart now containing not just Katsuki’s products but a small pile quietly accumulating at Katsuki’s insistence for him. “Kacchan,” he tried, keeping his tone even, “I’m not buying an entire store.”
“You don’t have to buy an entire store,” Katsuki said. “You just need to stop using that thing.” He nodded toward the 3-in-1 bottle as if it was a threat.
Izuku scanned the shelves helplessly, wondering which product wouldn’t bankrupt him. “Kacchan, no one needs twelve different items just to shower.”
Katsuki scoffed. “You clearly do.”
Izuku stiffened. “My skin is fine.”
“It’s dehydrated.”
“It’s perfectly normal.”
“It needs help.”
Izuku inhaled through his nose, maintaining composure. “Kacchan, you’ve never had a breakout in your entire life.”
“Because I take care of myself,” Katsuki snapped. “And I’m not letting you walk around with shit quality products ever again.”
Izuku attempted logic. “Your quirk keeps your pores small.”
“My quirk doesn’t do everything. You still need a routine.”
Izuku tightened his hold on the 3-in-1 bottle. If I surrender now, he’ll never let me hear the end of it. But if I argue, he’ll drag me through ingredients until I cry.
“Kacchan, really—”
“Put that monstrosity down.” Katsuki lifted the bottle out of Izuku’s hand and set it firmly on the shelf. “We’re getting real products. Ones that don’t smell like expired fruit.” He then placed several more items in the cart.
Izuku rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I didn’t realize my hygiene routine was such a crisis.”
“It is,” Katsuki replied without hesitation. “If you’re living with me, you’re not using garbage.”
Izuku’s lips twitched, but he forced them still. If he laughed now, Katsuki would accuse him of something and prolong this entire lesson. “Fine,” he conceded. “Pick something that doesn’t smell too strong.”
Katsuki paused, studied him, then gave a short nod that carried unnecessary pride. “Good. You’ll thank me later.”
Izuku looked at the cart filled with an entire ecosystem of products and thought quietly, I’m not sure about that, but I’ll survive. He adjusted the cart’s direction and started toward the next aisle while Katsuki walked beside him, apparently satisfied that he had prevented a hygiene disaster.
They continued down the aisle together, Katsuki inspecting products with fierce scrutiny while Izuku trailed behind him with grim acceptance. Their cart was nearly overflowing with hair oils, serums, creams, and enough grooming supplies to fill an entire bathroom cabinet. Food only contained probably one fourth of the cart. Izuku didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.
But when Katsuki looked over his shoulder and said, “You should take care of yourself too.”
Kacchan, you’re impossible. And I’m the one living with you. Another small reminder, another quiet detail proving Katsuki Bakugou was human in ways only Izuku was allowed to see.
Izuku spent most mornings at U.A. moving between buildings, checking schedules, reviewing lesson plans, and keeping track of which training zones were booked by which classes.
Today was supposed to be simple. Observe Aizawa’s joint training session at the USJ, offer support where needed, and return to grading before the first year recommendations arrive on his desk. He took the path behind the main building, a wide walkway shaded by old trees the school refused to cut down.
The campus had always been generous with its environment, and that extended to the animals that wandered freely through the grounds. Stray dogs lounged near the gardens, cats slept on sun warmed benches, flocks of birds nested near the gym roofs. Izuku once saw a ferret curled beside Present Mic’s shoe during lunch. Creatures simply lived here, as if U.A. had become a sanctuary for anything searching for safety.
Izuku often kept a small can of animal food in his locker, an old habit from early in his teaching career. Feeding strays became a part of his routine, something uncomplicated in days otherwise filled with danger assessments and young students learning how to control powers that could level buildings.
He adjusted his bag over his shoulder and continued toward the USJ, already anticipating Aizawa’s flat criticism if he arrived late. He rounded the corner near the storage shed and slowed, noticing movement near the far edge of the yard. At first, he expected to see faculty or one of the maintenance staff crouched beside their usual group of campus cats. Several shapes gathered in a loose circle, tails flicking, ears twitching with curiosity. Izuku took a few steps closer, preparing to greet whoever was feeding them—then stopped abruptly.
Katsuki.
Huh.
Izuku blinked once, then again, because the scene didn’t match anything he expected. Katsuki crouched in full hero gear, gauntlets detached, boots planted firmly on the pavement.
His posture wasn’t tense, it was relaxed in a way Izuku rarely saw outside their apartment. Three cats gathered directly in front of him, eating tiny treats from his gloved hand. Another cat rubbed along Katsuki’s shin, leaving stray fur and demanding attention. A fifth stretched comfortably against his boot, its entire body draped over the leather as if Katsuki existed solely to serve as furniture.
Katsuki didn’t shove them away. He didn’t scowl or curse at them. He fed them, his expression unreadable but undeniably calm.
Izuku felt his mind struggle to reconcile this image with the Katsuki known across the country—the explosive pro hero feared by criminals and admired by civilians. Dynamight, who could tear through steel and emerge from battle with smoke clinging to his skin. Dynamight, who survived resurrection and still charged forward in every mission. Dynamight, known for intensity, ferocity, and impossible durability.
And yet here he was, surrounded by cats that clearly adored him.
Izuku watched from a distance long enough to collect himself before stepping forward. His footsteps alerted Katsuki, who looked over his shoulder sharply. The cats didn’t scatter. Instead, they shifted their positions, some curious about the new arrival.
Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “The hell are you doing here?”
Izuku stopped a few paces away, lifting both hands in a gesture of peace. “I’m on my way to the USJ. Aizawa’s running a joint session.” He tried to keep his tone even, but he felt the edges of amusement pressing against his ribs.
You feed stray cats. You kneel down in full hero gear and let them climb all over you.
One of the cats stepped toward Izuku and sniffed his boot before wandering back to Katsuki, as if drawn to him specifically. Katsuki clicked his tongue and reached into the small pouch at his side, pulling out more cat treats. He offered them, completely unfazed by the creatures crowding him.
Izuku’s gaze dropped to the pouch. “Are those… specifically for them?”
Katsuki gave a short grunt. “Saw them hanging around few months ago. Looked hungry.” He didn’t elaborate further, but he didn’t need to. Katsuki didn’t do pointless things. If he was feeding them, it meant he had been doing this repeatedly.
Izuku stepped closer, though he kept his distance from the cats who clearly had chosen their favorite human. “You never mentioned this.”
“Why would I?” Katsuki stroked the nearest cat behind the ear once, rough but deliberate. The cat leaned into the touch with a low purr, and Katsuki didn’t recoil. If anything, he looked almost resigned to the affection despite the frown etched on his lips.
Izuku took in the sight carefully. Katsuki in his combat boots and armored vest, crouched among a patch of strays that trusted him completely. The contrast hit Izuku harder than expected. You’re terrifying on the battlefield, but animals walk straight to you.
Katsuki fed another treat to a small orange kitten hovering near the back of the group. “You gonna stand there breathing loud, or did you come here for something?”
Izuku steadied his voice. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“You think I can’t be on school grounds?” Katsuki shot him a short look before refocusing on the cats. “Finished patrol early. Figured I’d drop something off for Power Loader.” He didn’t explain what “something” was, and Izuku didn’t press.
One of the cats bumped its head against Katsuki’s arm, interrupting whatever he planned to say next. Katsuki muttered something under his breath that sounded like reluctant approval before scratching the cat lightly along its neck. The movement wasn’t exactly graceful, but it wasn’t hostile either. The cats accepted him completely.
Izuku folded his arms, not bothering to hide the warmth building slowly behind his ribs. “They really like you.”
Katsuki glared. “They’re animals. They like food.”
“Yes,” Izuku said slowly, “but they don’t treat everyone like this.” He nodded toward the cat draped across Katsuki’s boot. “They look comfortable.”
Katsuki glanced down at the cat sprawled over his footwear, sighed, and made no effort to move it. “It sat there on its own,” he muttered defensively.
Izuku tried not to smile. You’re trying so hard not to look soft, but you’re surrounded by cats who chose you. You’re not fooling anyone. Not me, at least.
If only Izuku could snap a picture. But he's pretty sure Katsuki would blow his phone into pieces the second he'd fish it out of his pockets.
Katsuki reached into the pouch again until he found the last few treats. He distributed them evenly, ensuring the smallest got a share before pushing himself to his feet. The cats immediately followed him, some meowing, some weaving between his legs. Katsuki didn’t trip, but he clearly came close. “Quit that,” he barked, though even the bark lacked real force.
Izuku stepped closer. “You take care of them often?”
Katsuki adjusted his gauntlets with a shrug. “When I’m around. They remember where food comes from. Not difficult.”
The cats began to disperse, some returning to the shade, some wandering toward the garden where sunlight pooled on cement. Katsuki brushed stray fur off his gloves, then turned toward Izuku with his usual scowl. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll blast your eyebrows off.”
Izuku lifted his hands slowly. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“You’re thinking it.”
Izuku held his breath for a moment, trying to stop the smile threatening to appear. “I’m not planning anything.”
Katsuki gave him a long, suspicious stare before walking past. Izuku fell into step beside him, trying to keep his composure while the sound of fading meows echoed behind them.
Izuku didn’t usually return home before sunset on a weekday, so stepping through the front door while the afternoon light still filtered through the windows felt strange. His schedule had unexpectedly cleared. Aizawa dismissed the training review earlier than planned, and the faculty meeting ended without the usual pile of follow up tasks.
He had texted Katsuki about the change, though knowing him, Katsuki probably ignored it while focusing on whatever he had decided to tackle during his day off.
Izuku placed his bag down near the shoe rack, easing his weight onto the floorboards without producing noise. The habit had never left him—months of combat training, stealth movement, and split-second strategy back when he was still in high school had conditioned his body to move quietly without effort.
Multiple colleagues had joked about his approach being too silent. Even All Might once told him he moved like a threat the moment he stopped intentionally making noise. Izuku took the comment as both a warning and a compliment.
He stepped further inside, the quiet of the apartment comforting after several hours spent correcting students’ mistakes in battle form and quirk control. He expected to find Katsuki sprawled on the couch or reorganizing the kitchen again, something he did whenever he felt restless. Izuku intended to get a cup of water first before changing clothes, so he rounded the corner toward the kitchen with the same light stride he used during patrols.
Then he saw him. Katsuki stood by the counter, headphones covering his ears, shoulders moving with a beating rhythm. His fingers tapped against the air, mimicking the movements of drumsticks. The motions weren’t random, they followed some internal tempo he clearly knew well, and he repeated them enough that Izuku suspected this wasn’t an occasional habit.
He hummed under his breath, carrying a firmness that hinted at the vocal lessons Katsuki’s mother once forced on him when he was younger. Katsuki was not deaf toned and Izuku was well aware. Izuku had heard the singing only a few times in their childhood and rarely in adulthood, so hearing that familiar undertone again after so many years struck him deeper than expected.
Izuku remained still near the doorway, observing without interrupting. Katsuki continued the sequence without breaking rhythm, pivoting slightly as if he were standing in front of real drums. When he turned around fully, his gaze collided with Izuku’s. Then his reaction was instant—Katsuki jerked backward, nearly stumbling against the counter while snatching the headphones off his head.
“What the hell, Deku!?” Katsuki barked, pointing the headphones at him as if they were a weapon. “How long have you been standing there? Use your damn footsteps like a normal person!”
Izuku straightened, forcing his composure to hold. His smile threatened to break through, but he kept it contained as much as he could. “Long enough to see you enjoy whatever you were listening to,” he replied. “And I wasn’t creeping. You know I walk quietly. You’re the one who didn’t hear the door.”
Katsuki scowled with full force, cheeks slightly flushed either from embarrassment or annoyance of the fact that of all people, Izuku had been the one to witness such scene—Izuku couldn’t tell. “Don’t watch people without saying something, how ‘bout that?”
Izuku lifted his hands with a mild shrug. “You were enjoying yourself. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Bullshit,” Katsuki snapped, grabbing the closest utensil. He launched the fork in Izuku’s direction like someone who had been throwing objects at him since childhood. Izuku sidestepped smoothly, letting the fork clatter harmlessly against the nearby cabinet. “You freak people out.”
Izuku exhaled slowly as Katsuki grumbled to himself, turning away to coil the headphone wire around the device in a more aggressive manner than necessary. Watching him retreat into that defensive posture pulled at something in Izuku that had grown more familiar over the years. Izuku stepped closer, reaching out to pick up the fork Katsuki had thrown and placing it on the counter.
“You know,” Izuku said, “you’re good at it.”
Katsuki paused, shoulders rigid. “Shut up,” he muttered without turning around. “Don’t make it weird.”
Izuku allowed a small smile this time because Katsuki’s back was turned. “I’m not making it weird. I’m just stating a fact.”
Katsuki didn’t respond, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. Izuku reached for the fridge, grabbed his water, and let the quiet settle between them. It wasn’t awkward, rather it felt domestic in a way Izuku still wasn’t entirely used to experiencing. Katsuki tapped a finger against the counter, the leftover rhythm from his imaginary drumming still lingering in his movements.
Izuku drank, watching him from the corner of his eye.
Katsuki huffed eventually and glanced at him with reluctant irritation. “Stop staring.”
Izuku nodded, though he didn’t actually stop. “Okay.”
Katsuki clicked his tongue and turned away again, ears noticeably red.
And Izuku, notebook forgotten in his bag near the door, quietly cherished yet another detail about the man he had chosen to come home to.
Izuku noticed the time only when he glanced at the microwave clock after finishing his own paperwork. The numbers glowed past midnight, reminding him that Katsuki had promised to stay awake a little longer to finish the mission reports he’d been assigned.
Katsuki complained earlier that he hated writing them, but he refused to let anyone else draft the details for him. Something about accuracy and incompetence. Izuku expected to find him still awake, possibly pacing around the coffee table while cursing at the documents.
Instead, the living room had fallen quiet except for the soft buzz of the heater. When Izuku stepped out of his room for a glass of water, he found Katsuki collapsed on the couch in a position that nearly made him question the laws of anatomy. Katsuki had somehow fallen asleep with his back twisted at an angle and one leg dangling off the edge. His arm rested against the couch cushion while his head tilted against the armrest with no visible support.
Izuku stared for several seconds, trying to understand how a person could lose consciousness in such a configuration.
When he moved closer, he saw the blanket meant for Katsuki lying on the floor, bunched into a heap near his boot. The papers Katsuki had been working on were scattered across the coffee table in a disorganized mess. Izuku raised both eyebrows at the sight and let out a quiet breath. He said he needed another hour. He didn’t even make it thirty minutes.
Izuku crouched slightly, observing Katsuki’s steady breathing before deciding it wasn’t worth waking him. No one ever woke Katsuki willingly when he reached this level of exhaustion. Izuku had learned that lesson in the most painful way possible.
Katsuki once blasted him in the face while still half unconscious, leaving a red patch that lasted the whole morning. Another time, Katsuki’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the hair, tugging so sharply Izuku nearly toppled over the coffee table. Katsuki apologized later only because Izuku wouldn’t stop laughing about it, but the warning stood.
So Izuku moved carefully. He lifted the blanket from the floor and draped it over Katsuki, covering his shoulders and pulling it down to his legs. Satisfied for the moment, Izuku went into the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and returned to the living room.
When he stepped back, the blanket was once again on the floor.
Izuku stopped walking, staring at the blanket in confusion. He hadn’t been gone long. Katsuki hadn’t made a sound, yet the blanket had somehow ended up in the exact same spot. Izuku sighed quietly and picked it up again. He placed it over Katsuki a second time, tucking it around his torso before crouching near the coffee table to gather the loose papers.
Several sheets had drifted onto the floor, some under the couch. Izuku collected them one by one, stacking them neatly and aligning the pages so Katsuki wouldn’t accuse him of messing with “his system.” He straightened the pens and pencils scattered across the table as well, sorting everything without disturbing Katsuki’s notes. As he reached to place one last sheet onto the pile, he heard a faint rustle behind him.
He turned around. The blanket was back on the floor.
Izuku stared for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose. I should have expected this from someone who sleeps like an overturned chair.
He picked up the blanket for the third time, draping it over Katsuki again. Instead of leaving, Izuku remained beside the couch this time, watching carefully. Katsuki didn’t move at first. His breathing stayed even, his arm twitching only slightly as he shifted deeper into the cushion. Then, after several seconds, his leg jerked upward and kicked the blanket off his body, sending it sliding onto the floor.
And so it wasn’t an accident, Izuku confirms. He really kicks the blanket off. He has done it twice already, maybe even more before Izuku came in.
He probably thinks blankets are plotting against him.
A quiet laugh escaped him before he caught it. He bent down to grab the blanket again, lifting it gently and spreading it across Katsuki’s body. This time, he tucked it more securely around the sides, slipping the edges into the inner curve of the couch so Katsuki couldn’t easily dislodge it. The fabric stayed in place even when Katsuki twitched again, though it rustled slightly. Izuku waited a few seconds longer to confirm whether Katsuki would manage to kick it off again, but the blanket held firm despite Katsuki’s asleep protest.
Izuku allowed himself a small smile as he stood upright. The living room lights cast a soft glow across Katsuki’s hair, highlighting the signs of exhaustion in his face despite how deeply he was sleeping. Izuku took one last look at him before turning toward the switch.
Izuku didn’t expect the adjustment of living with Katsuki to become an ongoing collection of domestic scenes. He thought, foolishly, that after decades of friendship, however chaotic and uneven their history had been, he had already learned everything relevant about Katsuki Bakugou.
He knew his explosions, his temper, his discipline, his strange ability to push himself past every natural limit. He witnessed Katsuki at his strongest and at his most wounded. He’d held Katsuki’s hand the night they thought he wouldn’t wake again, and he’d stood beside him when he opened his eyes the next morning as if nothing could keep him down. Izuku assumed all of that meant there was nothing left to uncover.
He was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Every small discovery carved out another reminder that Katsuki was still human. Still capable of surprising him. Still capable of habits he’d never admit to anyone else. These moments were private, tucked away from the public image Dynamight maintained. Izuku often thought about that, usually when walking home from work after a long day.
Even now, after so many years, I’m still learning who he is.