Mirajane moved with the silent grace of moonlight itself, her footsteps making no sound on the worn wooden floor of Katsuki's small apartment. She approached the bed, her heart beating a soft, steady rhythm, a quiet counterpoint to the deep, even breaths of the sleeping young man before her.
He looked so different like this, utterly divested of his usual explosive aura, his fierce scowl, his aggressive, almost vibrating energy. Here, in the stillness of sleep, he was just… Katsuki. The sharp edges of his personality softened, the raw power banked, leaving only a surprising, almost poignant vulnerability. The moonlight streaming through the small window cast his features in a gentle, silver glow, highlighting the surprising length of his dark lashes against his pale skin, the stubborn set of his jaw even in repose.
The thin blanket had indeed slipped, leaving one of his shoulders and a good portion of his muscular arm exposed to the cool night air. With a tenderness that would have shocked anyone who only knew her as the former She-Devil, Mirajane reached out, her fingers intending to gently draw the blanket back up, to ensure his comfort.
Her hand hovered for a moment, then, almost involuntarily, her gaze was drawn to that errant lock of ash-blond hair that had once again fallen across his forehead. It was a small thing, a trivial detail, but it seemed to encapsulate his stubborn, unruly spirit. With a soft, almost unconscious sigh, she reached out, her fingers feather-light, to brush it away.
Her fingertips made the barest contact with his skin, warm from sleep, a fleeting touch meant to be as unobtrusive as a falling petal.
And then, the world tilted.
In a movement so swift, so instinctual, it bypassed all conscious thought, Katsuki's hand shot out from under the blanket, his reflexes, even in the deepest recesses of sleep, still preternaturally sharp. His fingers, strong and calloused from countless explosions, closed around Mirajane's wrist with a surprising, unyielding strength.
Mirajane froze, her breath catching in her throat, her heart leaping into a frantic, panicked tattoo. He's awake! was her first, terrified thought. She braced herself for the inevitable explosion, for the furious roar, for the accusations and the incandescent rage.
But no explosion came. No roar. No angry crimson eyes snapping open.
Instead, with a low, contented sigh that rumbled deep in his chest, a sound so utterly unlike his usual repertoire of aggressive noises it was almost shocking, Katsuki… pulled.
He didn't yank. He didn't thrash. He simply… drew her closer, his sleeping mind apparently registering her presence not as a threat, but as something… comforting. Something desirable.
Before Mirajane could process what was happening, before she could even think to resist (not that she necessarily wanted to, a treacherous part of her mind whispered), she found herself being gently but inexorably drawn down towards the bed, towards him.
And then, with another soft, almost purring sigh, Katsuki Bakugo, the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, the human inferno, the king of aggressive independence, did the single most unexpected, most bewildering, most heart-stoppingly tender thing Mirajane could have ever imagined.
He hugged her.
Still deeply asleep, his actions driven by some profound, unconscious need for comfort, for closeness, for perhaps the lingering, dream-like memory of a gentle presence and a soft kiss, he wrapped his strong arms around her, pulling her snugly against his warm, solid body. One arm settled around her waist, the other around her shoulders, tucking her head beneath his chin. He nuzzled his face into her hair, his breathing evening out again, a soft, contented sound against her ear.
And then, he proceeded to cuddle.
Mirajane lay there, frozen in his embrace, her mind a complete, short-circuited blank. She was effectively trapped, held fast by the surprisingly gentle, yet undeniably strong, grip of a sleeping Katsuki Bakugo. Her cheek was pressed against the warm, firm plane of his chest (still clad in the infirmary pajamas, she distantly registered), his chin resting atop her head, his scent – that unique, intoxicating blend of ozone, sweat, and something indefinably, intensely him – enveloping her.
This was… This was not in any of her plans. This was not teasing. This was not subtle manipulation. This was… something else entirely. Something terrifyingly, wonderfully, and overwhelmingly intimate.
Her heart, which had been pounding with panic, now seemed to melt into a puddle of warm, liquid confusion and a dawning, dizzying delight. He was… cuddling her. Katsuki Bakugo. Cuddling. Like a… like a giant, explosive, and surprisingly affectionate teddy bear.
A tiny, hysterical giggle threatened to escape her, but she managed to suppress it, not wanting to risk waking him, not wanting this strange, surreal, and utterly enchanting moment to end. She could feel the steady beat of his heart against her ear, a strong, rhythmic counterpoint to her own frantic pulse. She could feel the warmth of his body, the surprising softness of his sleep-rumpled hair against her cheek.
He shifted slightly in his sleep, his arms tightening around her just a fraction, pulling her even closer, as if seeking reassurance, seeking comfort. He let out another soft, contented sigh, a sound that sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated warmth right through her.
Mirajane Strauss, the former She-Devil, the master manipulator, the serene and composed barmaid of Fairy Tail, lay there, cradled in the unconscious, cuddling embrace of the guild's most volatile and explosive member, and found herself… utterly, completely, and irrevocably lost. She didn't know what this meant. She didn't know what would happen when he woke up. She only knew that in this strange, unexpected, and profoundly intimate moment, with Katsuki Bakugo's arms around her and his steady heartbeat a lullaby against her ear, she felt a sense of rightness, of belonging, of sheer, unadulterated, terrifying happiness that she hadn't felt in a very, very long time.
The plans, the teasing, the subtle games – they all seemed to fade away, replaced by the simple, overwhelming reality of his warmth, his closeness, his unconscious, undeniable affection. And as she slowly, hesitantly, allowed herself to relax into his embrace, a tiny, soft smile touched Mirajane's lips. This… this was definitely going to make things even more interesting. And she wouldn't have it any other way.
Nestled in the unexpected, warm embrace of a sleeping Katsuki, Mirajane found herself in a state of suspended disbelief and dawning, tender amusement. His arms were strong around her, his breathing deep and even against her hair, the earlier tension in his sleeping form completely gone, replaced by a profound, almost childlike relaxation. She lay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, terrified of waking him, of shattering this fragile, surreal, and utterly enchanting moment.
The moonlight painted silver stripes across the small room, illuminating the peaceful, almost boyish cast of his features. She could feel the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart against her, a comforting, grounding sound in the stillness of the night. She found herself idly tracing the pattern of the simple cotton fabric of his pajama top with a fingertip, a small, unconscious gesture of affection.
And then, he began to talk.
Not the loud, aggressive roars or the sharp, cutting insults she was accustomed to. Not even the flustered, mumbled whispers of his "Fierce x Shy Mode." This was different. This was the soft, slurred, and utterly unguarded cadence of deep sleep, words bubbling up from the unfiltered depths of his subconscious, from a place below the anger, below the shyness, from the core of Katsuki Bakugo himself.
His first words were a low, contented mumble, a sound of pure, unadulterated comfort. "…Mmm… warm…" He snuggled closer, his arms tightening around her just a fraction, his face nuzzling deeper into her hair. Mirajane's heart did a little flip-flop. He thought she was warm.
Then, a faint frown creased his brow, even in sleep. "…Damn Deku… always muttering… gotta be… Number One…" The familiar names, the ingrained ambition, still present even in his dreams, but without the usual venom, more like a deeply ingrained habit of thought.
Mirajane listened, fascinated, a small, tender smile playing on her lips. This was a rare, unfiltered glimpse into his mind, his true preoccupations when all his waking defenses were down.
He shifted again, his breath ghosting across her temple. "…Armor… gotta be… strong enough… can't… break again…" A flicker of the vulnerability she'd seen before, the fear of his own destructive power, the desperate need for control, for invulnerability.
Then, his voice softened further, taking on an almost wistful, confused tone. "…Shiny… like… like stars… but… orange? Makes no… damn sense…" He seemed to be struggling with a concept, a memory. Mirajane wondered if he was dreaming of his Fairy Tail mark, or perhaps something else entirely, something from his lost world.
A longer silence followed, and Mirajane thought he might have drifted back into deeper, dreamless sleep. She allowed herself to relax a little more, nestling into his warmth, her own eyelids growing heavy.
But then, he spoke again, his voice so soft, so unexpectedly gentle, it made her breath catch.
"…Smells good… like… like sunshine… and… damn strawberries…"
Mirajane's eyes flew open, her heart suddenly pounding. Strawberries. He'd mentioned strawberries before, hadn't he? In that brief, chaotic moment after she'd kissed him at the bar, when he'd been so flustered, accusing her of being the blurry figure from his dream. Had he truly, on some subconscious level, registered the scent of her strawberry shampoo? Or perhaps, the faint, lingering taste of her lips?
Before she could fully process the implications, he continued, his voice now tinged with a surprising, almost boyish, shyness, even in his sleep.
"…Pretty… like… like those damn fireworks… but… not so loud…"
He was dreaming of her. Or at least, of sensations, of images, that were undeniably, unmistakably associated with her. The warmth, the scent of strawberries, the vibrant, explosive beauty that was, in its own way, a reflection of his own power, but tempered with a gentleness he clearly found… captivating.
Mirajane felt a blush, fierce and sudden, rise in her cheeks, even in the darkness of the room. He thought she was… pretty? Like fireworks? The comparison was so uniquely Katsuki, so unexpectedly poetic in its explosive imagery, that it made her heart ache with a strange, new tenderness.
He sighed then, a deep, contented sound, and his next words, murmured with a profound, almost heartbreaking sincerity, were the ones that truly shattered Mirajane's carefully guarded composure.
"…Mine… She said… mine…" A pause, then, with a soft, almost wondering sigh, "…Okay…"
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a demand. It was a simple, quiet statement of acceptance, a subconscious acknowledgment of her bold declaration, stripped of all his waking bluster, his fear, his confusion. Just… okay. A simple, profound, and utterly disarming surrender to the idea of belonging to her, of being claimed.
Mirajane lay there, tears welling in her eyes, a silent, joyous sob catching in her throat. This was it. This was him. The real Katsuki Bakugo, hidden beneath layers of anger and pain and fierce pride, finally, in the unguarded sanctuary of sleep, admitting what his waking mind was still too terrified, too confused, to fully embrace.
She gently, carefully, tightened her own arms around him, holding him close, her cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. She didn't care if he remembered any of this when he woke up. She didn't care if he went back to being an infuriating, explosive man-child. She had heard it. She knew.
And in the quiet stillness of that moonlit room, with Katsuki Bakugo muttering his sleepy, heartfelt acceptances into her hair, Mirajane Strauss knew, with a certainty that resonated to the very core of her being, that this fierce, broken, beautiful boy was, indeed, hers. And she, in turn, was, and always would be, his. The explosions, the arguments, the chaos – it would all come later. But for now, in the quiet intimacy of shared sleep and whispered dream-truths, there was only this. And it was more than enough. It was everything.
The profound peace of Katsuki's sleep-talk confession, the quiet intimacy of their shared embrace, was a fragile, beautiful thing. Mirajane lay there, cradled in his arms, her heart overflowing with a tender, possessive joy, listening to the soft, even rhythm of his breathing, convinced he had finally drifted into a truly deep, undisturbed slumber.
She allowed her own eyes to close, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips. This was… perfect. Unexpected, surreal, but undeniably perfect.
Then, Katsuki began to stir.
It wasn't a violent movement, not the thrashing of a nightmare, but a subtle, restless shifting within her embrace. He mumbled something incoherent, a low growl that was more discomfort than anger. His brow, which had been smooth and peaceful, furrowed slightly.
Mirajane tensed, her eyes snapping open. Was he waking up? Her heart began to pound again, a frantic drum against the backdrop of his steady heartbeat. Oh, please, not yet, her mind silently pleaded. She wasn't ready for him to wake, not like this, not with her in his arms, not after what she'd heard, what she'd felt.
He mumbled again, louder this time, the words still slurred but with a discernible note of… complaint. "…Too… damn… hot…"
His body, even in sleep, seemed to radiate an incredible internal heat, a byproduct of his Quirk and his supercharged metabolism. The small, enclosed space of the lounge sofa, combined with the shared body heat and the blanket she had (perhaps a little too enthusiastically) tucked around them earlier, was apparently becoming… uncomfortable for him.
And then, with the same shocking, instinctual, and utterly unconscious efficiency he displayed in battle, Katsuki Bakugo began to undress himself. In his sleep.
Still firmly holding Mirajane in his cuddling embrace, he started to fidget, his free hand (the one not currently wrapped possessively around her waist) fumbling with the buttons of his infirmary pajama top. His sleeping mind, apparently registering only the sensation of being "too damn hot," had decided on the most direct, logical solution: remove the offending layers.
Mirajane froze, her eyes widening in a mixture of horrified disbelief and a sudden, jolt of pure, unadulterated panic. This was… This was NOT part of the plan! Cuddling a sleeping, vulnerable Katsuki was one thing. Having him unconsciously strip while still holding her in a death grip was an entirely different, and infinitely more… complicated, scenario.
His fingers, surprisingly nimble even in their unconscious state, managed to undo the top few buttons of the pajama shirt. He then began to tug at the fabric, trying to pull it over his head, all while still maintaining his surprisingly firm cuddle-hold on Mirajane.
"K-Katsuki?" Mirajane whispered, her voice a strangled squeak, though she knew it was probably useless. He was clearly still deeply asleep, operating on pure, primal instinct.
He grunted in his sleep, a sound of frustrated effort, as the pajama top got momentarily tangled. Mirajane found herself in the utterly surreal position of being half-smothered by a pajama-clad, sleep-stripping Katsuki Bakugo, who was now muttering something about "damn… itchy… restrictive… bullshit…"
Her mind raced. What was she supposed to do?! If she tried to stop him, she might wake him, and the ensuing explosion of mortification and rage would likely level the entire guild hall. If she did nothing, he was going to end up… well, considerably less dressed, while still clinging to her like a giant, overheated limpet.
The pajama top, with a final, determined tug, came off over his head (and, by extension, partially over hers, momentarily plunging her into a darkness that smelled strongly of antiseptic and Katsuki). He then tossed the offending garment somewhere onto the floor with a sigh of sleepy satisfaction.
Mirajane found herself pressed against his now bare chest. His skin was incredibly warm, almost feverish, radiating that intense, internal heat she'd noticed before. She could feel the hard, defined muscles beneath her cheek, the steady, powerful beat of his heart now even more pronounced, more… immediate. Her own blush, which had faded into a soft, contented warmth, now returned with a vengeance, blazing across her skin.
This was… This was too much. This was beyond anything she could have anticipated. He was warm, yes. Very warm. And very… bare. And still very much cuddling her with an unconscious, unwavering determination.
He shifted again, nuzzling his face back into her hair, his breathing evening out, apparently satisfied with his current level of de-clothed comfort. He let out another soft, contented sigh, his arms still securely around her.
Mirajane lay there, her heart hammering, her mind a complete blank, her body caught between the desire to bolt and an equally powerful, utterly traitorous desire to… stay. To just… melt into his warmth, his strength, this impossible, intimate, and ridiculously compromised situation.
"Oh, sweet mother of all magical mishaps," she thought, a hysterical giggle bubbling up inside her, threatening to escape. "What have I gotten myself into?"
The night, which had already been a rollercoaster of unexpected emotions and stolen moments, had just taken another sharp, terrifying, and undeniably exhilarating turn. And Mirajane Strauss, for all her power, all her composure, all her centuries of demonic (and barmaiding) experience, had absolutely no idea how this particular chapter of the "Katsuki Bakugo Experience" was going to end. She only knew that it was going to be memorable. And probably require a very, very strong cup of tea in the morning. Assuming they both survived until then.
The situation was, to put it mildly, untenable. Mirajane lay there, trapped in the warm, surprisingly strong, and now significantly less-clothed embrace of a sleep-stripping Katsuki Bakugo. Her mind, usually a whirlwind of strategic thought and subtle calculation, had ground to a halt, overwhelmed by the sheer, escalating absurdity of it all.
She could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin, a primal warmth that seeped into her own chilled limbs. She could feel the hard planes of his chest against her cheek, the steady, reassuring thrum of his heartbeat a counterpoint to her own frantic pulse. His scent – that unique, intoxicating blend of ozone, sweat, and something intrinsically, powerfully him – filled her senses, making her head spin.
Every instinct screamed at her to move, to disentangle herself, to escape this ridiculously compromised, incredibly intimate predicament before he woke up and the inevitable (and likely catastrophic) explosion occurred. Her reputation, her composure, her very sanity, seemed to be on the line.
But then… there was Katsuki.
He was so deeply, peacefully asleep, his usual fierce defenses completely down. The arm around her waist was possessive but not restrictive. The way he had nuzzled into her hair, the soft, contented sighs he emitted… it was all so uncharacteristically gentle, so vulnerably trusting. It tugged at something deep within her, something that went beyond amusement or even affection, something that felt almost… protective.
And she was tired. So, so tired. The emotional rollercoaster of the past few days – his near-death, his confession, the epic spar, her own stolen kisses, his subsequent panic and her gentle pursuit, and now this… it had taken its toll. Her own eyelids felt heavy, her thoughts becoming slow, syrupy.
The warmth emanating from him was… nice. Comforting. Like being curled up by a powerful, if unpredictable, fireplace. The steady rhythm of his breathing was a surprisingly effective lullaby.
A tiny, rebellious thought whispered in the back of her mind: What if… what if I just… didn't move? Just for a little while? He's asleep. He won't know. And it's… it's actually rather… comfortable.
The logical, sensible part of her brain screamed in protest. This was insane! This was reckless! This was Mirajane Strauss, the former She-Devil, willingly cuddling with Katsuki Bakugo, the human hand grenade!
But the tired, emotionally overwrought, and perhaps just a little bit lovesick part of her, the part that had been so deeply touched by his sleepy confessions, by his unconscious affection… that part just sighed, a soft, yielding sound.
"Oh, to hell with it," she thought, a wave of weary, almost giddy recklessness washing over her. She couldn't fight it anymore. She couldn't fight him anymore, not when he was like this, so unconsciously, disarmingly sweet.
Slowly, hesitantly, Mirajane allowed her own tense muscles to relax. She let her head rest more fully against his warm, bare chest. She let her own arm, which had been awkwardly pinned, settle more comfortably around his side. She matched her breathing to his, a slow, steady rhythm.
She cuddled back.
It was a subtle shift, a quiet surrender to the inevitable, to the overwhelming pull of exhaustion and a strange, new, and terrifyingly potent emotion. She didn't cling, didn't press. She simply… allowed herself to be held, to share his warmth, to find a moment of unexpected peace in the heart of the storm that was Katsuki Bakugo.
The last coherent thought that drifted through her mind before the tide of sleep finally claimed her was a hazy, contented image of two very different, very volatile forces of nature, finding a moment of unlikely, unconscious, and utterly inappropriate, solace in each other's arms.
And as Mirajane Strauss, the serene barmaid, the fearsome demon, the woman who had just thrown all caution (and possibly her reputation) to the wind, drifted off to sleep, nestled securely in the embrace of a shirtless, sleep-talking, and surprisingly cuddly Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, the first pale rays of dawn began to creep into the silent, unsuspecting Fairy Tail guild hall.
The morning, when it inevitably arrived, was going to be… biblical.
Mirajane's decision to seek out Katsuki's apartment, driven by a complex mixture of concern, curiosity, and a burgeoning, undeniable affection, had been made in the quiet solitude of the late night. She had been discreet, her movements silent, her focus entirely on the explosive young man who had so thoroughly upended her usually well-ordered existence. In her preoccupation with Katsuki himself – his unlocked door, his deep slumber, the subsequent and entirely unforeseen 'cuddling incident' – a small, but crucial, lapse in her usual meticulous attention to detail had occurred.
She hadn't thoroughly scanned the surrounding area for potential observers. She hadn't considered that, even in the dead of night, the riverside apartments, being relatively close to the guild and a popular spot for late-night strolls or quiet contemplation, might not be entirely deserted.
And Lucy Heartfilia, as fate would have it, had been having one of those nights.
After the day's extraordinary events – the epic spar, Katsuki's "Plus Ultra" declaration, the dramatic confession-and-kissing scene at the bar, Katsuki's panicked flight, his subsequent emotional breakdown and consultation with Porlyusica, and then his exhausted return – Lucy's mind had been buzzing. Her novel, the one she poured all her hopes and dreams and romantic aspirations into, was crying out for new material, and the saga of Katsuki Bakugo and Mirajane Strauss was shaping up to be a potential masterpiece of angsty, explosive, and unexpectedly tender romance.
Unable to sleep, her imagination firing on all cylinders, Lucy had decided to take a late-night walk along the Bisca River, hoping the cool air and the gentle sounds of the water would help her organize her thoughts, to find the perfect words to capture the raw, chaotic emotions she had witnessed. Plue, her faithful celestial spirit, trotted happily (and jiggly-ly) beside her.
Her path had taken her, as it often did, past the small block of apartments where both she (sharing with Juvia) and Katsuki resided. She'd known he was back, had seen him trudge wearily towards his room earlier. She'd felt a pang of sympathy for him, and a thrill of anticipation for whatever romantic entanglement was clearly brewing between him and Mira-nee.
And then, she had seen it.
A flicker of movement in the shadows near Katsuki's building. A slender, graceful figure, cloaked in the soft moonlight, moving with a familiar, almost ethereal silence. Lucy had recognized her instantly, even from a distance. Mirajane Strauss.
Lucy's heart had given a little leap. What was Mira-nee doing here, so late at night, heading towards Bakugo's apartment? Her writer's instincts went into overdrive. This was it! This was the next chapter!
She had ducked behind a large, overgrown rosebush, Plue huddling beside her, her eyes wide with anticipation. She had watched, with bated breath, as Mirajane had approached Katsuki's door, paused for a moment, and then, with a quiet, almost furtive glance around (a glance that, unfortunately for Mirajane, had not been quite furtive enough to spot a determined novelist concealed in the shrubbery), had slipped inside. The door had clicked softly shut behind her.
Lucy had clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. Mirajane! Sneaking into Bakugo's room! In the middle of the night! The implications were… staggering! Scandalous! And utterly, wonderfully, novel-worthy!
She hadn't stayed to see what happened next. That would have been too intrusive, even for her. But the image was seared into her mind: Mirajane, the picture of grace and composure, acting with a secrecy and perhaps even a hint of… romantic clandestine intent, that was so deliciously out of character (or perhaps, so perfectly in character for the hidden depths Lucy was beginning to suspect her friend possessed).
The gossip! Oh, the glorious, juicy gossip she now possessed! She wouldn't spread it maliciously, of course. Lucy wasn't like that. But she would definitely be discussing it in hushed, excited tones with Levy and Cana first thing in the morning. And her novel… oh, her novel was about to get a very passionate, very dramatic, and very, very interesting new subplot.
Mirajane Strauss, in her moment of tender, sleep-deprived, Katsuki-focused lapse in judgment, had forgotten one crucial rule of Fairy Tail: nothing, absolutely nothing, stayed secret for long, especially when Lucy Heartfilia and her insatiable quest for literary material were involved. The morning after the cuddling incident was not just going to be biblical; it was going to be meticulously documented, analyzed, and probably, eventually, fictionalized with a healthy dose of romantic embellishment. And Lucy couldn't wait to start writing.
---
Sunlight, warm and insistent, pierced through Katsuki's eyelids, dragging him reluctantly from the depths of a profound, dreamless slumber. He groaned, a low rumble in his chest, and tried to burrow deeper into the unexpected softness beneath him. Wait. Softness? And… warmth? A warmth that wasn't just his own internal furnace, but something… else. Something decidedly, and confusingly, feminine.
His eyes snapped open.
The first thing he saw was a cascade of long, white hair, spread like spun moonlight across the pillow beside his. The second thing he registered was the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of a slender form nestled snugly against his side, an arm draped possessively across his bare chest. The third, and most mind-shatteringly incomprehensible, thing was the serene, peacefully sleeping face of Mirajane Strauss, her lips curved in a soft, almost angelic smile, currently occupying his bed. In his apartment.
Katsuki's brain, which had been enjoying a rare state of blissful, post-exhaustion shutdown, instantly short-circuited, then rebooted with the force of a catastrophic system error.
"UHHHHH?!" The sound that ripped from his throat was not a roar, not a snarl, but a strangled, incredulous croak of utter, bewildered shock.
His heart, which had been beating with the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep, instantly kicked into overdrive, hammering against his ribs like a trapped Howitzer Impact. He scrambled backwards, or tried to, but his limbs were still heavy with sleep, and Mirajane, even in her unconscious state, had a surprisingly tenacious cuddle-grip. He ended up in a tangled, awkward heap against the headboard, staring down at the still-sleeping woman in his bed with an expression of absolute, unadulterated horror.
"THE FUCK HAPPENED?!" he hissed, his voice a ragged whisper, terrified of waking her but equally terrified of the implications of her presence. His mind raced, a frantic, chaotic scramble through the hazy, fragmented memories of the past… however long it had been.
He remembered the spar. He remembered declaring "Plus Ultra." He remembered the guild hall, the steak, Mirajane's infuriatingly knowing smile, her bold kiss, her even bolder declaration. He remembered his own mortifyingly shy responses. He remembered fleeing in a blind panic, seeking refuge with Porlyusica. He remembered the awkward return, the exhaustion, the desperate need for sleep. He remembered making it back to his apartment, collapsing onto his bed…
And then… nothing. A complete, total blank.
"How long was I out?!" he muttered, running a hand through his already impossibly spiky hair, his eyes wide with a dawning, terrible dread. He had no memory of Mirajane coming here. No memory of… of this. "Because I do NOT FUCKING REMEMBER HOW SHE GOT IN MY BED!"
His gaze fell to his own chest. He was shirtless. The infirmary pajamas he'd been wearing when he collapsed… where were they? He looked around the small room wildly. His work clothes from the day before were in a heap on the floor. The pajama top he vaguely remembered sleep-stripping off while cuddling… Mirajane? (The memory was a hazy, dream-like fragment, but it now carried a horrifying new context.) …was also on the floor.
He was shirtless. She was in his bed. He had no memory of how this had transpired beyond a certain point last night (or was it the night before last?).
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. Had he… had they…? No. Impossible. He would remember that. Wouldn't he? His mind was a confusing, terrifying blank slate.
He looked back at Mirajane. She sighed softly in her sleep, a contented little sound, and snuggled deeper into the pillow he had just vacated, one hand reaching out as if searching for the warmth he had just removed. She looked… infuriatingly peaceful. Utterly innocent. And completely, undeniably, in his bed.
Katsuki's mind reeled. This was a disaster. A catastrophe. A level of personal, emotional, and potentially reputation-destroying chaos that made even his Oppenheimer Smash look like a minor firecracker incident.
He had to get out of here. He had to figure out what had happened. He had to… He had no fucking idea what he had to do.
He carefully, silently, began to extricate himself from the bed, moving with the stealth of a seasoned ninja, terrified of waking the sleeping She-Devil beside him. Every creak of the bedsprings, every rustle of the sheets, sounded like a thunderclap in the otherwise silent room.
He finally managed to get to his feet, standing there in his pajama bottoms, his heart still hammering, his mind a whirlwind of confusion, embarrassment, and a dawning, terrible suspicion that Mirajane Strauss was, quite possibly, the most dangerous, unpredictable, and terrifyingly captivating creature he had ever encountered.
He needed answers. He needed clothes. And he needed a very, very strong cup of something that wasn't herbal tea. The day had barely begun, and Katsuki Bakugo's life had already been turned completely, irrevocably, and quite possibly wonderfully, upside down. Again.
Katsuki stood there in his pajama bottoms, the cool morning air of his small apartment doing little to calm the frantic thumping of his heart or the chaotic whirlwind in his mind. Mirajane was asleep in his bed. Mirajane. In his bed. The reality of it was still struggling to compute.
His first instinct was to bolt, to run, to put as much distance between himself and that room, that woman, that incredibly confusing, terrifyingly enticing situation, as humanly (and Quirk-assistedly) possible. But then, a strange, unfamiliar counter-instinct surfaced. He looked back at her sleeping form, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the way the sunlight through the window seemed to make her white hair glow. She looked… peaceful. Vulnerable. And, damn it all, surprisingly… right, there in his bed.
He let out a ragged sigh, a sound of profound internal conflict. He couldn't just leave her there without a word. That felt… wrong. Even for him.
With a reluctant, almost grudging tenderness he didn't know he possessed, he gently pulled the blanket, which had slipped down during his panicked escape, back up over her shoulders, tucking it in carefully. His fingers brushed against the silken softness of her hair, and a jolt, a spark, ran up his arm, making him snatch his hand back as if burned.
He needed to get out, to clear his head. But he also needed… to come back. The thought was as surprising to him as finding her in his bed.
He spotted a stray piece of parchment and a stub of charcoal he'd used for some rudimentary calculations earlier. He scribbled a hasty, almost illegible note, his hand still shaking slightly:
"Left for a walk. Will come back with food. – K.B."
He didn't sign 'Dynamight.' That felt… too much, too performative for this strange, intimate, and utterly bewildering situation. He propped the note against the pillow beside her head, then, with one last, long, confused look at the sleeping woman who had so thoroughly derailed his life, he grabbed his work clothes from the floor, dressed with frantic, fumbling haste, and practically fled his own apartment.
He needed air. He needed distance. And he definitely needed breakfast. He found himself, almost by instinct, heading towards the same small, unassuming family restaurant where he'd eaten before, the one that smelled of home cooking and uncomplicated normalcy – something he desperately craved at that moment.
He ordered a massive breakfast platter, hoping the food would ground him, would help him process the impossible reality of waking up next to Mirajane Strauss. He was halfway through a pile of sausages, his mind still replaying the morning's events in a loop of horrified disbelief and dawning, terrifying excitement, when it happened.
A small family – a mother, a father, and a little girl who couldn't have been more than six or seven – were navigating the crowded restaurant. The little girl was proudly carrying a small, brightly decorated birthday cake, her eyes shining with excitement. As they passed Katsuki's table, a boisterous patron at a nearby table suddenly stood up, bumping into the little girl's father, who in turn, stumbled into his daughter.
The cake went flying.
And, as if guided by some malevolent, pastry-loving deity, it landed squarely, with a wet, splattering thud, all over the front of Katsuki Bakugo's clean (or at least, recently donned) work clothes. Pink frosting, chocolate sprinkles, and a substantial amount of sponge cake now adorned his chest like some bizarre, edible Jackson Pollock painting.
Silence descended upon the restaurant. The little girl's eyes welled up with tears. Her parents froze, their faces paling in horror as they recognized the recipient of their daughter's airborne confectionary. Katsuki Bakugo. The explosive, terrifying newcomer from Fairy Tail, the one whose departures from the guild often involved minor earth tremors and shattered windows. His aura, even when he was just sitting and eating, radiated a latent, predatory intensity that made sensible people give him a very wide berth. They looked like they were expecting him to detonate.
Katsuki slowly, deliberately, put down his fork. He looked down at his cake-splattered front. Then, he looked up at the terrified family, at the little girl whose lower lip was now trembling uncontrollably.
And then, Katsuki Bakugo did something that no one in that restaurant, least of all the little girl's parents, could have possibly anticipated.
He smiled.
It wasn't his usual arrogant smirk or his terrifying battle grin. It was a small, almost hesitant, surprisingly gentle smile. He reached out, slowly, and gently patted the little girl on the head, his large, calloused hand surprisingly tender against her soft hair.
"Sorry, kid," he said, his voice, usually a harsh rasp, now softened with an unexpected kindness. "Looks like my clothes ate up all your cake." He then reached into his pocket, where he still had a substantial amount of his leftover Jewel from the Kraken hunt (Mirajane hadn't managed to confiscate all of it for his savings account, thankfully). He pulled out a thick wad of high-denomination notes.
"Here," he said, peeling off ten crisp, 10,000 Jewel notes – a veritable fortune for a child's birthday cake. He pressed them into the little girl's small, frosting-sticky hand. "Go buy yourself another one. A bigger one. With extra frosting. It's for your birthday, right?" He'd seen the candles. "Happy Birthday!"
The little girl stared at the money, then up at Katsuki, her tear-filled eyes wide with disbelief. Her parents looked like they were about to faint from sheer shock. The other patrons in the restaurant, who had been bracing for an explosion, just… stared, their mouths agape.
Katsuki Bakugo, the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, splattered with pink frosting and chocolate sprinkles, was smiling, patting a child on the head, and handing out vast sums of money like some kind of benevolent, if slightly terrifying, birthday fairy.
He just winked at the little girl, then turned back to his own, now slightly less appealing, breakfast, trying to scrape off the worst of the cake with his napkin. He was still confused, still flustered from his own romantic entanglements, but some things, it seemed, were simple. A kid's birthday was ruined. He could fix it. It wasn't Plus Ultra. It wasn't even particularly Dynamight. It was just… the right thing to do.
And as the little girl, her tears forgotten, began to beam, clutching her unexpected birthday fortune, Katsuki Bakugo, for a fleeting, unguarded moment, felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with his Quirk, and everything to do with a simple act of unexpected, uncharacteristic kindness. This day was already shaping up to be weirder than he could have ever imagined.