After the 'cake incident' at the family restaurant – an event that had left him covered in frosting but surprisingly, almost pleasantly, un-enraged – Katsuki finished his breakfast with a renewed, if still bewildered, sense of purpose. He'd dealt with one unexpected situation; now he had to deal with the far more terrifying, far more complicated situation currently asleep in his bed.
As he paid for his meal (and discreetly tipped the flustered but grateful waitress extra for the cleanup), he remembered the hasty note he'd left for Mirajane: "Will come back with food." He'd made a promise, however unintentionally binding. And Katsuki Bakugo, despite everything, was a man who, once he'd committed to something (even accidentally), usually saw it through.
He stopped by a bakery he'd passed earlier, one that smelled particularly enticing, and bought a selection of fresh bread, pastries, and, on a whim, a small, intricately decorated fruit tart that looked like something Mirajane, with her surprisingly refined palate, might actually appreciate. He also made sure to get some good quality tea. He was going to face this situation head-on, armed with sustenance.
As he walked back towards his apartment, the bag of take-out food feeling strangely domestic in his hand, a peculiar thought struck him. He was heading… home. Not to his room in the U.A. dorms, not to his parents' house in his old world, but to this small, rented apartment by the river in Magnolia. And the thought, instead of filling him with his usual rage and resentment at his displacement, felt… surprisingly neutral. Almost… comfortable.
"Huh. Home," he muttered to himself, a frown creasing his brow. "Gosh, this damn guild is infectious." The way they all talked about Fairy Tail being a 'home,' a 'family'… it was starting to seep in, like a slow-acting, incredibly annoying, but not entirely unpleasant, poison.
He reached his apartment building, his earlier panic replaced by a grim, determined resignation. He had to face her. He had to figure out what the hell was going on.
As he approached his door, he noticed Lucy Heartfilia lurking not-so-subtly in the hallway, pretending to examine a potted plant with an intensity usually reserved for rare magical artifacts. The moment she saw him, her eyes widened, and she gave him a strange, almost pitying, yet also incredibly excited, look.
Katsuki just scowled at her. "What are you looking at, Scribbles?" he growled, not breaking stride. He had more pressing matters to deal with than her nosiness. He pushed open his apartment door, paying her no further mind, though he had a sinking feeling she already knew far more about his current predicament than he was comfortable with.
He stepped inside, his senses on high alert. The apartment was quiet, the curtains still drawn, casting the small room in a soft, dim light. And there, still curled up in his bed, her white hair a halo on his pillow, was Mirajane. Still deeply, peacefully asleep.
A wave of… something… washed over him. Not anger. Not embarrassment, not entirely. Just a strange, complex mixture of emotions he couldn't begin to untangle. She looked… peaceful. Almost ethereal in the dim light. And damn it all, she looked incredibly beautiful, lying there in his bed as if she belonged.
He let out a slow, quiet breath. Alright. Time to face the music. Or, in this case, the sleeping She-Devil who had apparently decided to stage a romantic coup in his life.
He placed the bag of food on his small table, then cautiously approached the bed. He stood there for a moment, just looking at her, his usual fierce expression softened by an undeniable, if reluctant, tenderness. He still had no idea what had happened after he'd fainted last night, how she'd ended up here, how he'd ended up shirtless and her in his pajamas (he'd noticed she was wearing his spare set, the ones he'd bought when he first got here, and the thought sent another jolt of confused heat through him).
But yelling wouldn't solve anything. And frankly, he was too tired, and too… something else… to start a fight.
He reached out, hesitantly, and gently touched her shoulder. "Oi. Mira," he said, his voice surprisingly soft, almost a murmur. "Wake up, dumbass. I brought breakfast." He paused, then, remembering the small cake he'd bought (not the one currently adorning his clothes, but a fresh one from the bakery), he added, almost as an afterthought, "…And a slice of cake."
He wasn't sure why he'd added that last part. Maybe it was a peace offering. Maybe it was an apology for… well, for everything. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because, despite the chaos, despite the confusion, despite the sheer, terrifying vulnerability she made him feel, a very small, very confused, and very, very hopeful part of Katsuki Bakugo actually wanted to share breakfast, and cake, with Mirajane Strauss.
The thought was so uncharacteristic, so utterly alien to everything he thought he knew about himself, that it almost made him want to explode. But he didn't. He just waited, his heart pounding a strange, unsteady rhythm, for the sleeping She-Devil in his bed to wake up and face the incredibly awkward, incredibly confusing, and undeniably, terrifyingly exciting, morning after.
---
Mirajane stirred, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips as she slowly drifted up from the depths of a truly blissful, uninterrupted sleep. The first thing she registered was the comforting warmth surrounding her, the soft cocoon of blankets, and a faint, delicious aroma that was definitely not part of her usual morning routine. Her eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, and for a moment, she was disoriented, unsure of where she was.
Then, her gaze focused.
Standing beside the bed, holding a makeshift tray (which looked suspiciously like a slightly singed piece of salvaged wood from one of his previous apartment-related incidents) laden with steaming food, was Katsuki Bakugo. He was dressed in his sturdy work clothes, though they bore the distinct, colorful evidence of a recent, catastrophic encounter with a pink-frosted cake. His ash-blond hair was even more unruly than usual, and his crimson eyes, though still holding their characteristic intensity, were fixed on her with an expression she couldn't quite decipher – a mixture of awkwardness, impatience, and a surprising, almost shy, concern.
"Oi. Mira," he grunted, his voice still a little rough, but lacking its usual aggressive edge. "Wake up, dumbass. I brought breakfast." He gestured with his chin towards the tray. "And a slice of cake."
Mirajane blinked, her mind slowly catching up to the reality of the situation. She was in Katsuki's bed. He was serving her breakfast. Breakfast in bed. From Katsuki Bakugo. The Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight. Who was currently splattered with what looked suspiciously like birthday cake.
A slow, dazzling smile, so bright it seemed to illuminate the dim little apartment, spread across her face. Oh, this was… this was beyond anything she could have ever dreamed. Her audacious, impulsive decision to spend the night (or rather, to be unconsciously cuddled through the night after he'd sleep-stripped) had yielded results far more delightful than she could have possibly anticipated.
"Katsuki…" she breathed, her voice soft and husky with sleep, savoring the way his first name felt on her tongue in this new, impossibly intimate context. She pushed herself up against the pillows, clutching the blanket to her chest, though she was acutely aware she was wearing his spare pajamas, a fact that sent a fresh wave of delighted warmth through her. "You… you brought me breakfast?"
He scowled, though it was a half-hearted, almost embarrassed expression. "Yeah, well, I said I would in the damn note, didn't I?" he mumbled, avoiding her gaze, his cheeks tinged with that adorable fierce-shy blush she was rapidly coming to adore. "And you were still passed out. Figured you'd be hungry. So, eat up before it gets cold, you lazy She-Devil."
He awkwardly placed the makeshift tray on the bed beside her. It was piled high with fresh bread, pastries still warm from the bakery, a small pot of tea, and yes, a perfect, glistening slice of fruit tart. And despite his gruff words, despite the cake catastrophe currently adorning his clothes, there was an undeniable, almost painstaking care in the way he had arranged it all.
Mirajane's heart did a little flutter-kick. He was trying. So hard. In his own explosive, awkward, and unbelievably endearing way, he was actually trying to be… considerate. Domestic, even. The thought was so overwhelming, so wonderfully, terrifyingly sweet, that she felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes.
"Oh, Katsuki," she said again, her voice thick with emotion. She reached out, her fingers gently brushing against his cake-splattered arm. "This is… this is lovely. Thank you."
He just grunted again, pulling his arm away as if her touch had burned him, though his blush deepened. "Just eat, damn it. Before Natsu smells it and crashes through the damn wall."
But Mirajane was already beaming, her earlier exhaustion completely forgotten, her spirit soaring. She picked up a warm, flaky croissant, her eyes sparkling as she looked at him, at this fierce, explosive, surprisingly tender young man who had, in the span of a few chaotic days, completely and utterly captured her heart.
She was in his bed, wearing his pajamas, about to be fed breakfast (again, in a way) by him. He was covered in cake, blushing furiously, and trying his absolute best to pretend this was all perfectly normal.
Mirajane Strauss was absolutely, unequivocally, and deliriously loving it. Every single, explosive, awkward, and wonderfully, terrifyingly perfect moment of it. This was better than any dream. This was Katsuki Bakugo. And he was, in his own uniquely chaotic way, hers. And she, it seemed, was most definitely his. The implications were staggering, the future uncertain, but right now, with a warm croissant in her hand and a cake-splattered, fiercely shy Dynamight by her bedside, everything felt… just right.
Mirajane took a delicate bite of the croissant, her eyes never leaving Katsuki's face. He was still standing awkwardly by the bed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking like he desperately wanted to be anywhere else but simultaneously, magnetically, drawn to stay. The fierce blush was still prominent, but beneath it, she could see the flicker of his usual, more assertive personality trying to re-emerge from the depths of his romantic bewilderment.
She chewed thoughtfully, then a playful, mischievous glint sparked in her sapphire eyes. This new, endearingly flustered Katsuki was a delight, but she also missed the fiery, arrogant Dynamight she'd first been so captivated by. Perhaps… perhaps she could coax him out a little?
She put down the croissant and looked at him, her expression a carefully crafted blend of innocence and invitation. "Katsuki," she said, her voice soft and a little teasing. "This is all so lovely. But… you know…" She paused, then gave him a sly, sideways glance from beneath her lashes. "It would taste even better if… if you fed it to me. Like you almost did yesterday. When you were being your usual, wonderfully… forceful self."
Katsuki blinked, his scowl returning with a vengeance, though the blush on his cheeks still stubbornly refused to fade completely. "Forceful?! What the hell are you talking about, woman?! I wasn't being forceful! I was… I was…" He trailed off, unable to articulate the chaotic mess of his emotions from the previous day.
"You were being you," Mirajane supplied helpfully, her smile widening. "The Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight. The one who doesn't take no for an answer. The one who knows what he wants and just… takes it." Her gaze was a direct, playful challenge. "I rather liked that Katsuki. He was… very persuasive."
Katsuki stared at her, a vein throbbing in his temple. Was she… was she mocking him? Or was she… flirting? With him? After he'd fainted twice, been burrito-wrapped, confessed his romantic ineptitude to a grumpy old healer, and was currently covered in birthday cake? This woman was certifiably insane. And infuriatingly, addictively, captivating.
A low growl rumbled in his chest. The "Fierce x Shy Mode" was a confusing, exhausting place to be. But her challenge, her deliberate provocation, it was like a spark to his Quirk. It was familiar territory.
"You think I'm not forceful now, huh, She-Devil?" he snarled, though there was a new, strange undercurrent to his aggression, something less about pure rage and more about… proving something to her. He snatched up the slice of fruit tart from the tray with a surprising, almost aggressive, delicacy.
He then, to Mirajane's delighted surprise, actually relented. His scowl was firmly in place, his blush still evident, but there was a new, almost swaggering confidence in his posture as he held out the fork laden with a perfect bite of tart.
His voice, when he spoke, was a gruff, reluctant imitation of… something he'd probably heard in one of Deku or Kaminari's stupid pre-Quirk Era cartoons, a phrase so out of place, so utterly un-Bakugo, that it was almost surreal.
"Ah…" he grumbled, his gaze darting away for a second before fixing back on her with a fierce intensity. "…Open your mouth. Here comes the… the airplane!"
He even made a vague, swooping motion with the fork, his expression a comical mixture of extreme reluctance, fierce determination, and utter, mortified embarrassment at the sheer idiocy of what he was saying and doing.
Mirajane's eyes widened, and then she dissolved into peals of helpless, delighted laughter. It was a beautiful sound, like wind chimes in a summer breeze, and it echoed through the small apartment, momentarily washing away all the awkwardness, all the tension. Katsuki Bakugo, attempting to feed her with an "airplane" motion, while looking like he was about to spontaneously combust from sheer self-consciousness… it was the single most adorable, most hilarious, most Katsuki thing she had ever witnessed.
"An… an airplane, Katsuki?" she managed between giggles, tears of mirth forming in her eyes. "Oh, my dear, explosive boy… what is an airplane?"
Katsuki froze, the fork hovering halfway to her mouth, his fierce expression faltering into one of genuine, utter confusion. "Huh? What do you mean, 'what's an airplane'? It's a… a flying machine! Big metal bird! Carries people! You… you guys don't have airplanes here?" He looked genuinely bewildered. It was such a basic, ubiquitous concept in his world.
Mirajane, still chuckling, shook her head. "No, Katsuki. We have airships, of course, powered by Lacrima. And some mages can fly, like you, or Natsu with Happy. But… 'airplanes'?" She tilted her head. "The only time I've heard of something like that is in stories about… Edolas. The parallel world. They apparently have strange, non-magical flying contraptions there called 'blips' that sound a bit similar, but…"
Katsuki stared at her, the piece of tart forgotten. Airships. Lacrima. Edolas. Blips. His mind, which had just been struggling with the complexities of romantic gestures and playful teasing, was now suddenly confronted with yet another stark, jarring reminder of just how alien this world truly was. No airplanes. A concept so fundamental to his reality was completely foreign here, relegated to tales of other dimensions.
The realization, on top of everything else, was… a lot. He looked down at the fork in his hand, at the piece of fruit tart, then back at Mirajane's still-amused, but now also slightly concerned, face.
"Oh," he said, his voice flat, the earlier playful (if forced) energy draining out of him. "Right. Edolas. Magic. No damn airplanes." He let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of two entirely different universes. "Guess 'here comes the flying explosion-powered dumbass' doesn't have the same ring to it, huh?"
The mood had shifted, subtly but undeniably. The playful intimacy was still there, but now it was tinged with a fresh layer of Katsuki's underlying displacement, his otherworldliness. Mirajane's laughter died down, her expression softening with empathy. She reached out, her fingers gently closing over his hand, the one still holding the fork.
"No, Katsuki," she said softly, her sapphire eyes meeting his, serious and sincere. "It doesn't. But…" Her thumb gently caressed the back of his hand, right over his orange Fairy Tail mark. "…'Here comes Katsuki, with breakfast'… that has a very nice ring to it indeed."
She smiled, a small, genuine smile, and then, gently, she guided his hand, and the fork, to her lips. This time, there was no teasing, no games. Just a quiet, shared moment of understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the vast, strange gulf between their worlds, and the fragile, tentative bridge they were, somehow, beginning to build between them, one awkward, cake-splattered, airplane-less breakfast at a time.
---
Mirajane finished the bite of fruit tart, her gaze soft and thoughtful as she watched Katsuki process yet another jarring reminder of his displacement. The earlier playful mood had indeed shifted, replaced by a quieter, more contemplative intimacy. She could see the familiar flicker of frustration and loneliness in his eyes, the constant, underlying ache of a world lost.
She squeezed his hand gently before releasing it. "Katsuki," she said, her voice practical but kind, deliberately steering the conversation back to more immediate, solvable problems. "Go change your clothes. You can't very well go around all day looking like a… a very enthusiastic bakery accident, can you?" She gestured towards his frosting-and-cake-splattered work attire with a faint, teasing smile, trying to lighten the mood.
Katsuki looked down at himself, as if just remembering the state of his clothes. He scowled. "Uh…" he began, then stopped, a new, more pressing, and entirely mundane problem dawning on him. He ran a hand through his hair, his expression shifting from existential angst to a more familiar, frustrated annoyance. "I… I don't have any other damn clothes."
Mirajane blinked. "What do you mean, you don't have any other clothes? Surely you didn't come to this world with only one outfit?"
"No, I had my U.A. uniform, but that got wrecked on day one," Katsuki grumbled. "Then I bought that first set of Heart Kreuz gear, the one that you," he shot her a pointed look, "are currently holding the funds for its replacement because it also got obliterated. And then there was the work stuff you gave me, which is what I'm wearing now, and it's currently covered in… in goddamn birthday cake!"
He threw his hands up in exasperation. "All my Jewel, every last damn piece I earned from those ten psycho-hunts, went to the down payment for that five-million armor! And you're holding the rest of my money, remember? The 'impressive bonus'?" He said the last part with a sarcastic edge. "The cash I had on hand this morning? I splurged most of it on this damn breakfast," he gestured to the tray, "and for that kid at the restaurant whose cake I apparently wore!"
He looked at Mirajane with a mixture of frustration and dawning, helpless realization. He was, for all intents and purposes, broke again, at least in terms of readily available cash. And he had no spare clothes. He was trapped in his frosting-covered attire, in his own apartment, with the woman who had kissed him senseless and was now unwittingly pointing out his rather dire sartorial predicament.
Mirajane stared at him, her initial amusement at his cake-splattered state giving way to a mixture of sympathy and a dawning, almost horrified, understanding of his current financial (and wardrobe) insolvency. She had, in her focus on his larger earnings and the Heart Kreuz commission, completely overlooked his immediate, day-to-day needs. And he, in his single-minded pursuit of his ultimate armor, had apparently spent every last readily available Jewel.
"Oh," she said softly, her cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment at her own oversight. "Oh, Katsuki. I… I hadn't realized. You mean… you truly have nothing else to wear right now?"
Katsuki just glared at her, his expression a thundercloud of frustration. "What do you think, genius? Think I enjoy looking like a Jackson Pollock reject painted with frosting?!"
A long, awkward silence descended, broken only by the distant sounds of Magnolia waking up outside the window. Katsuki was stuck. He was broke (at least in terms of pocket money), he was covered in cake, and he had no clean clothes. And he was currently sharing his small apartment with the woman who was technically his banker, his sometimes-caretaker, and, as of very recently, the person who had laid a very definitive, very passionate claim on him.
Mirajane looked from his cake-stained clothes to his frustrated, blushing face, then back to the spare set of his pajamas she was currently wearing. An idea, practical, slightly mischievous, and perhaps just a little bit… domestic, began to form in her mind.
"Well," she began, a thoughtful, almost teasing glint returning to her sapphire eyes. "It seems we have a bit of a… laundry situation, don't we? And a distinct lack of immediate funds for a shopping trip." She paused, then her smile widened, sweet and just a little bit predatory. "Perhaps… while your clothes are… indisposed… you wouldn't mind borrowing something of mine? Or rather," she corrected herself, her gaze dropping pointedly to the pajamas she was wearing, then back to him, "something of yours that I happen to be… currently occupying?"
Katsuki stared at her, his brain struggling to process the implications. Her borrowing his clothes? Him borrowing… what? This was getting more complicated, more intimate, and more terrifyingly, confusingly domestic by the second. His quiet morning of trying to process waking up next to her had just taken another sharp, unexpected, and very, very Mirajane-esque turn.
Katsuki stared at Mirajane, his mind still trying to catch up with the rapid-fire succession of romantic bewilderment, existential crises about airplanes, and now, this sudden, deeply personal wardrobe emergency. Her suggestion – that he borrow something of hers, or rather, something of his that she was currently wearing – hung in the air, laden with implications that made his already overheated brain feel like it was about to melt.
He scowled, his fierce blush, which had momentarily receded during the airplane discussion, returning with a vengeance. "That… that sounds intimate," he finally managed, the word feeling thick and awkward on his tongue. He then narrowed his eyes, a flicker of his usual aggressive suspicion returning. "And intimidating. What the FUCK are you talking about, woman?"
He fixed her with a deadpan stare, his crimson eyes trying to pierce through her infuriatingly calm, slightly amused expression, searching for the hidden meaning, the trap, the inevitable teasing he was sure was lurking just beneath the surface. Was she suggesting he wear… her clothes? The thought was so absurd, so utterly outside the realm of anything he could comprehend, that it almost made him laugh. Almost. Or was she referring to the pajamas she was currently occupying? Which were his pajamas? The logistics of it, the sheer, unadulterated awkwardness, made his head spin.
Mirajane just chuckled, a soft, musical sound that did little to alleviate his confusion or his suspicion. She leaned back against the pillows, looking entirely too comfortable and self-possessed for someone who was essentially a hostage in his bed, wearing his clothes, after having kissed him senseless.
"Intimate, Bakugo-san?" she purred, her sapphire eyes sparkling with that familiar, dangerous mischief. "Perhaps. Intimidating? Only if you're easily flustered by… practical solutions to unexpected laundry crises." She gestured vaguely towards his cake-splattered attire. "You can't very well go to Heart Kreuz in that to inquire about your five-million-Jewel armor, can you? It might undermine your image as a fearsome, all-powerful warrior just a tad."
She paused, letting her words sink in, then her smile widened, becoming even more infuriatingly sweet. "And as for what I'm talking about… well." She looked down at the simple cotton pajama top she was wearing – his pajama top – then back at him, her gaze pointed and deliberate. "You do have another set of these, don't you? The ones you were wearing when you… ah… so dramatically fainted at my feet in the guild hall last night, and which I so kindly laundered for you while you were enjoying your beauty sleep?"
She conveniently omitted the part where she had been the one to remove said pajamas from his unconscious form before bundling him onto the lounge sofa. Some details, she decided, were best left unsaid, at least for now.
"They should be dry by now," she continued, her tone all innocence and practicality. "Clean, comfortable, and certainly less… 'birthday party explosion'… than your current ensemble." She then tilted her head, her expression one of pure, angelic helpfulness. "Or, if those are not to your liking, perhaps while your work clothes are… soaking… you wouldn't mind terribly if I lent you something? I might have a spare tunic or perhaps a very loose-fitting pair of training trousers at Lucy-chan's apartment. Though," she added, her eyes dancing, "they might be a tad… snug on someone of your… impressive build. And possibly a rather… startling shade of pink."
Katsuki just stared at her, his deadpan expression slowly morphing into one of horrified disbelief. His pajamas. His other set of pajamas. The ones she had… laundered for him. While he was unconscious. The implications of that, the sheer, unadulterated domesticity of it, the casual intimacy it implied, hit him with the force of a delayed-action explosion.
And then, the mental image of himself, Katsuki Bakugo, the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, squeezed into a pair of Mirajane's (or worse, Lucy's) possibly pink, definitely too-small training trousers…
A strangled sound escaped his throat. He didn't know whether to laugh, scream, or just spontaneously combust from sheer, overwhelming mortification.
This woman. This infuriating, terrifying, and undeniably captivating She-Devil in (his) pajamas. She was playing him. Expertly. Ruthlessly. And damn it all, a very small, very confused, and very, very flustered part of him was starting to suspect he didn't entirely mind being played, as long as she was the one pulling the strings.
"You…" he finally managed, his voice a choked whisper. "…are enjoying this way too damn much, aren't you?"
Mirajane just smiled, a radiant, unrepentant, and utterly victorious smile. "Enjoying what, Katsuki-kun?" she cooed, deliberately using the even more intimate honorific, her eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated delight. "Ensuring my… favorite… explosive hero is appropriately attired and comfortable? Why, it's the least I can do."
Katsuki just groaned, burying his face in his hands again. His quiet morning of trying to process waking up next to her had just officially devolved into a masterclass in Mirajane Strauss's unique brand of psychological (and sartorial) warfare. And he had a sinking feeling he was losing. Badly.
Katsuki was still reeling from the mental image of himself in pink training trousers, his face buried in his hands, trying to process the sheer, escalating absurdity of his morning, when Mirajane, never one to miss an opportunity to press her advantage, delivered another, even more devastating, verbal blow.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial, and utterly mischievous whisper, her sapphire eyes practically incandescent with playful delight. "Ooh, Katsuki-kun," she purred, her breath ghosting across his ear, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. "You know… while you were having your nice, long, restorative nap last night… you were talking in your sleep."
Katsuki froze, his hands still covering his face. Sleep-talking? He didn't sleep-talk. Did he? A cold dread began to seep through his mortification. What the hell had he said?
Mirajane's voice continued, soft and sweet as poisoned honey. "Such interesting things you dream about, my dear Dynamight. All sorts of… ambitious pronouncements." She paused, letting the suspense build, then, with a perfectly feigned innocence, she began to recite, almost word for word, the fragments of his unconscious monologue she had so carefully committed to memory.
"'Mmm… warm…'" she began, her voice a perfect imitation of his sleepy mumble. Katsuki's ears began to burn.
"'Damn Deku… always muttering… gotta be… Number One…'" She chuckled softly. "Still so driven, even in your dreams."
Katsuki wanted the floor to swallow him. He could feel his face flaming, a heat that had nothing to do with his Quirk.
"'Armor… gotta be… strong enough… can't… break again…'" Her voice softened slightly, a hint of genuine empathy lacing the teasing. "So much pressure you put on yourself, Katsuki."
He gritted his teeth behind his hands, his humiliation mounting.
"'Shiny… like… like stars… but… orange? Makes no… damn sense…'" She tilted her head. "Were you perhaps dreaming of your lovely new guild mark, dear?"
He let out a strangled groan. This was torture. Absolute, unadulterated torture.
And then, she delivered the killing blows, her voice dropping to an even more intimate, almost caressing whisper, her eyes sparkling with triumphant amusement.
"'Smells good… like… like sunshine… and… damn strawberries…'" She leaned even closer, her warm breath tickling his ear again. "My shampoo does have a hint of strawberry, you know. Such a discerning nose you have, even in your sleep."
Katsuki felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. He was going to die of sheer, overwhelming mortification, right here, in his own damn apartment, in his cake-splattered clothes, while the She-Devil in his pajamas recited his most private, unconscious thoughts.
"'Pretty… like… like those damn fireworks… but… not so loud…'" Her voice was a purr now, laced with a dangerous, possessive warmth. "Such a poet, Katsuki. Comparing me to fireworks. How… explosive. And surprisingly accurate, don't you think?"
He couldn't take it anymore. This was beyond teasing. This was a full-scale assault on his dignity, his sanity, his carefully constructed emotional defenses. He had to make her stop. He had to shut her up. And in his current state of flustered panic and burgeoning, confusing affection, only one, incredibly reckless, and utterly impulsive solution presented itself.
With a roar that was more frustrated animal than articulate human, Katsuki lunged.
He didn't aim for an explosion. He didn't aim for an insult. He aimed for her mouth.
His hands shot out, not to hurt, but to capture. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her towards him with a force that surprised them both, his earlier shyness completely obliterated by a desperate, overwhelming need to silence her, to reclaim some semblance of control, to perhaps even… express the chaotic, terrifying, and undeniably potent emotions she had stirred within him.
And then, he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It wasn't hesitant. It was a kiss born of pure, unadulterated frustration, of mortification, of a desperate need to shut her the fuck up, and, somewhere deep beneath all of that, a raw, undeniable, and fiercely possessive desire. It was a messy, chaotic, almost bruising kiss, a clash of teeth and a tangle of tongues, a desperate, wordless argument that tasted of strawberries, desperation, and the lingering sweetness of the fruit tart she'd been eating.
Mirajane, who had been thoroughly enjoying her verbal torment of him, was momentarily stunned by the sudden, aggressive shift. Her eyes flew wide, her teasing monologue cut short by the unexpected, forceful press of his lips against hers. For a split second, she was too shocked to react.
Then, as the initial surprise faded, as the raw, undeniable passion of his kiss registered, as she felt the desperate, almost frantic energy pouring off him, a slow, triumphant, and utterly ecstatic smile spread across her face, a smile that was hidden by the fierce press of their mouths.
He was kissing her. To shut her up, yes. But he was kissing her. With a ferocity, a desperation, a raw, untamed passion that mirrored her own hidden depths.
This… this was even better than she could have possibly imagined.
Her arms, which had been resting in her lap, snaked around his neck, pulling him even closer, deepening the kiss, meeting his frustrated passion with her own brand of delighted, possessive fire. The playful teasing was over. The game had just entered a whole new, exhilarating, and infinitely more dangerous – and delightful – stage.
The half-eaten breakfast lay forgotten on the makeshift tray. The sounds of Magnolia outside the window faded into insignificance. There was only this. The clash of lips, the tangle of limbs, the silent, explosive language of two volatile, passionate souls finally, catastrophically, and wonderfully, colliding.
Katsuki Bakugo had tried to shut Mirajane Strauss up with a kiss. What he hadn't anticipated was that she was more than willing to let him try. For a very, very long time.
The kiss, which had begun as a desperate, frustrated attempt on Katsuki's part to silence Mirajane's relentless teasing, had quickly escalated into something far more intense, a raw, chaotic confluence of pent-up emotions, unspoken desires, and the undeniable, explosive chemistry that crackled between them. Mirajane, far from being silenced, had met his ferocity with her own brand of delighted, possessive passion, her arms wrapped around his neck, her body pressed against his, returning his kiss with an ardor that left him breathless and reeling.
Time seemed to lose all meaning. There was only the press of their lips, the tangle of their limbs, the frantic, intoxicating rhythm of their shared breath. Katsuki's mind, which had been a whirlwind of mortification and frustration, was now a blank, consumed by the sheer, overwhelming sensation of her – her softness, her strength, the taste of strawberries and something uniquely, addictively Mirajane.
But even in the throes of this unexpected, all-consuming conflagration, a tiny, rational (and perhaps, deeply ingrained, U.A.-instilled) part of Katsuki's brain eventually began to flicker back to life. This was… a lot. This was happening in his apartment. In the middle of the morning. And Mirajane… Mirajane had a job. A responsibility.
With a monumental effort of will, he managed to pull back, just slightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his lips throbbing, his entire body humming with a strange, unfamiliar energy. He was still holding her, she was still clinging to him, their faces inches apart, their eyes locked in a dazed, heated stare.
He needed to say something. Something to break the spell, to regain some semblance of control, to acknowledge the sheer, mind-bending insanity of what had just transpired. But his usual vocabulary of curses and insults felt… inadequate. Inappropriate, even.
So, he opted for the most mundane, most practical, and therefore, in this context, most utterly Bakugo-esque observation he could muster.
He tapped her lightly on the shoulder, a surprisingly gentle gesture, his voice a hoarse, breathless rasp.
"Oi… Mira…" He cleared his throat, trying to inject some of his usual gruffness into his tone, though it came out sounding more like a bewildered caress. "…You're… uh… you're late for work."
The statement, so prosaic, so utterly at odds with the passionate inferno that had just engulfed them, hung in the air, a tiny, absurd island of practicality in a sea of romantic chaos.
Mirajane stared at him, her sapphire eyes still wide and luminous, her lips swollen and kiss-bruised, her breath coming in soft, quick pants. Her own mind was still reeling, her senses filled with the taste and feel of him. For a moment, his words didn't register. Work? What was work? There was only Katsuki, and this… this glorious, terrifying, wonderful thing that was happening between them.
Then, his words finally penetrated the haze of her passion-fueled delirium. Work. The guild. Her responsibilities as Fairy Tail's premier barmaid and unofficial den mother.
A slow, dazed blink. Then another.
A tiny, almost hysterical giggle escaped her lips. She looked at Katsuki, at his earnest, cake-splattered, thoroughly-kissed, and now suddenly very practical face, and the sheer, beautiful absurdity of it all just… broke her.
She threw her head back and laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated, joyous delight, a laugh that was so infectious, so filled with a giddy, reckless happiness, that even Katsuki found a reluctant, bewildered smile tugging at the corners of his own lips.
"Late for work?" she finally managed, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. "Oh, Katsuki Bakugo, you… you kiss me like the world is ending, you declare me yours (or at least, very shyly inquire if I'd be willing), you let me feed you breakfast in bed, and then you remind me that I'm late for work?" She shook her head, her smile radiant, her eyes sparkling with an affection so profound it almost took his breath away again. "You are… you are truly, magnificently, one of a kind."
She leaned forward, not for another passionate kiss this time, but to press a soft, quick, and incredibly tender peck to his still-tingling lips. "Yes, my dear, explosive, and surprisingly punctual hero," she whispered, her voice filled with a warmth that made his heart ache in a way that had nothing to do with injury. "I suppose I am. And it's entirely, wonderfully, your fault."
She gently disentangled herself from his embrace, though her fingers lingered on his arm for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "Alright. Duty calls. The guild probably thinks we've eloped, or that you've finally, officially, blown me up." She stood, a little unsteadily, a captivating picture of disheveled grace in his oversized pajamas. "But don't think this conversation is over, Katsuki Bakugo. Not by a long shot." Her eyes held a promise, a challenge, and a depth of affection that made his stomach do another series of those confusing, exhilarating flips.
Katsuki just watched her, still a little dazed, still trying to process the whirlwind of the past few minutes. He had kissed Mirajane Strauss to shut her up. And somehow, in the process, he had reminded her she was late for work. His life, he was rapidly discovering, was never, ever going to be simple again. And damn it all, a very large, very confused, and surprisingly hopeful part of him was starting to think that might not be such a bad thing after all.
The aftermath of their passionate, if somewhat chaotically initiated, kiss left a tangible charge in the air of Katsuki's small apartment. Mirajane, with a lingering, affectionate smile and a promise of continued "discussions," finally, reluctantly, acknowledged the pressing reality of her guild duties. Katsuki, still reeling but with a strange, new sense of… something… settling within him, just nodded dumbly.
"Right," Mirajane said, a practical glint returning to her eyes, though the softness of her recent emotions still clung to her like a perfume. "Clothes. We both desperately need a change of clothes. You, my dear Dynamight, still resemble a Jackson Pollock painting rendered in confectionary. And I," she looked down at herself, clad in his oversized infirmary pajamas, a fond, slightly embarrassed smile playing on her lips, "am perhaps not presenting the most professional image for Fairy Tail's premier barmaid."
Katsuki grunted, finally snapping out of his daze. The cake. Right. He was still covered in it. And she was wearing his pajamas. This was… a situation. "Yeah, well, you still haven't given me back my other damn set," he grumbled, though there was no real heat in it, just a familiar, almost comfortable, belligerence.
Mirajane chuckled. "Patience, Katsuki. First, you need something that isn't… edible. And I believe I left a spare dress at Lucy-chan's last week. A quick detour is in order for both of us, it seems."
And so began the slightly surreal process of extrication and re-attiring. Mirajane, with a final, lingering glance at Katsuki that made his ears burn, slipped out of his apartment to retrieve her own clothes from next door. Katsuki, left alone for a moment, stared at his reflection in the small, cracked mirror he had. He looked… like he'd been dragged through a bakery backwards, then thoroughly kissed by a very enthusiastic (and slightly demonic) angel. His hair was a mess, his eyes were still slightly dazed, and the faint, sweet scent of strawberries seemed to cling to his skin.
He quickly, almost violently, stripped off the cake-splattered work clothes, then, with a grimace, located the infirmary pajamas Mirajane had so "kindly" laundered for him. They were clean, at least. And they were his. He pulled them on, feeling slightly less like a walking disaster, though the indignity of wearing pajamas in broad daylight still rankled.
Mirajane returned a few minutes later, looking fresh and composed in a simple but elegant day dress, though the lingering blush on her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes betrayed the morning's earlier… excitements. She handed him a small, neatly folded pile. "Your other pajamas, Bakugo-san. Freshly aired."
He snatched them without a word, stuffing them into a sack. He then looked at her, then at himself, then back at her. "Alright. So, we both look slightly less like we've been through a food fight and a make-out session. Now what?"
"Now," Mirajane said, her smile bright, "we head to the guild. I am, as you so astutely pointed out, rather late. And you, my dear, need to deposit your earnings and perhaps… acquire some less… destructible everyday attire before Heart Kreuz finishes your masterpiece." She paused. "Unless you intend to live in pajamas for the next two weeks?"
Katsuki scowled. "Hell no." He needed clothes. Real clothes. Not super-armor, not yet, but something he could wear for everyday jobs, for training, for just… existing, without worrying about it disintegrating if he sneezed too hard or got into an impromptu brawl (which, in Fairy Tail, was a daily probability).
"Right," he said, a new resolve forming. "Guild first. Then… clothes. But not that five-million Jewel bullshit. Just… normal stuff. Something that doesn't cost more than a damn house."
And so, the two of them, Katsuki Bakugo in his (second-best) infirmary pajamas and Mirajane Strauss in her fresh day dress, finally left his apartment, the door now securely locked (Katsuki had made very sure of that).
They walked towards the guild, a comfortable, if still slightly charged, silence between them. But as they neared the merchant district, Katsuki suddenly stopped.
"Wait," he said, looking towards the familiar sign of Heart Kreuz Tailoring. "Before the guild. Clothes. Now." He couldn't face another round of teasing from his guildmates while looking like he'd just rolled out of bed after a very long, very strange night. He needed to reclaim some semblance of his usual intimidating image.
Mirajane raised an eyebrow, surprised by his sudden detour, but she didn't object. "Sensible, Bakugo-san. Though I thought you were saving all your funds for the… masterpiece?"
"I am," Katsuki grunted. "But I also have that 'impressive bonus' you so conveniently remembered I had. And I'm not spending the next two weeks looking like a damn hobo or a hospital patient." He gestured towards Heart Kreuz. "They must have some… simpler stuff. Non-magical, even. Just… sturdy. Something that'll last more than five minutes around me, without needing dragon scales or phoenix feathers."
Mirajane smiled, a genuine, approving smile this time. "An excellent idea, Katsuki. Practical, and financially prudent. I'm sure Heart Kreuz can accommodate a request for… shall we say… 'robust civilian wear'."
And so, their path to the guild took a slight, but significant, detour. Katsuki Bakugo, armed with a portion of his unexpected financial surplus and a newfound determination to be appropriately (and durably) attired for his everyday explosions, headed into Heart Kreuz, Mirajane at his side, ready to acquire some clothes that were, for once, not designed to withstand the apocalypse, but merely the daily rigors of being him. It was a small step towards normalcy, in a life that was rapidly becoming anything but.
---
Stepping into the refined, almost reverent atmosphere of Heart Kreuz Tailoring with Mirajane Strauss at his side felt… different for Katsuki this time. Previously, he'd been a solitary, demanding force, commissioning an artifact of unimaginable power. Now, with Mira beside him – Mira, who had kissed him, who he had awkwardly fed breakfast to, who was currently wearing his (other) pajamas, and who had just been informed that he was, in fact, hers – the dynamic was… complicated.
The ever-composed head tailor looked up as they entered, her gaze, as always, sharp and appraising. It lingered for a fraction of a second longer than usual on the two of them, noting Mirajane's presence, Katsuki's (still slightly cake-flecked) infirmary pajamas, and the almost palpable, if unspoken, energy that shimmered between them. A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of… something – surprise? amusement? professional discretion? – crossed her features before she schooled them back into their usual serene neutrality.
"Ah, Bakugo-san. And Lady Mirajane," she greeted them with a polite inclination of her head. "An unexpected pleasure. Are you here to… further discuss the material tolerances for your… primary commission, Bakugo-san? Or perhaps Lady Mirajane requires a consultation?"
Katsuki scowled, acutely aware of the tailor's subtle scrutiny, and the even more subtle, almost smug little smile playing on Mirajane's lips beside him. He hated feeling like he was under a microscope, especially when it came to… whatever the hell this was between him and Mira.
"Neither, you damn fabric-witch," Katsuki snapped, his usual abrasive defense mechanism kicking in, though it felt a little hollow even to his own ears. He gestured dismissively at his pajama-clad form. "I need clothes. Real clothes. Not that five-million-Jewel indestructible monstrosity you're taking your sweet time building. Just… everyday stuff. Something sturdy. Something that won't make me look like I just escaped a damn asylum or a kid's birthday party gone wrong. And I need it now."
The head tailor raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Everyday attire, Bakugo-san? For… less strenuous activities, I presume?" There was a hint of dry wit in her tone.
"Yeah, less strenuous," Katsuki grumbled. "Meaning, stuff that only has to survive my regular, non-apocalyptic explosions, not me trying to punch a hole in reality." He then, with a surprising (for him) display of almost business-like efficiency, proceeded to "inquire" – which, in Bakugo-speak, meant bluntly stating his requirements for several sets of durable trousers, reinforced tunics, and a sturdy, practical jacket, all in dark, no-nonsense colors, preferably made from materials that didn't require rare monster parts or ancient magical rituals to maintain. He also, much to Mirajane's silent, amused surprise, managed to haggle with a ferocity and cunning that would have made a seasoned merchant proud, leveraging his status as a 'high-value future client' for the super-armor to secure a surprisingly reasonable price for the 'mundane' items.
During this surprisingly adept negotiation, he also, with a casualness that belied the underlying impatience, asked about the progress on his main armor. "And that other thing… the big one… you still saying two more weeks? After I brought you the whole damn pile of cash upfront?"
The head tailor, who had been rather impressed by his unexpected bartering skills for the everyday wear, consulted a complex-looking chronometer and a series of arcane-looking material requisition forms. She tapped a long, elegant finger on a particular entry.
"Actually, Bakugo-san," she said, a rare hint of… something that might have been grudging admiration in her voice. "Your… rather emphatic and financially persuasive insistence during your last visit, combined with a fortuitous early arrival of the Solarium Steel shipment and a particularly productive all-night enchanting session by my senior thaumaturges (who were, I believe, somewhat… motivated… by the prospect of not incurring your future wrath), has allowed us to expedite the initial fabrication phase."
She looked up, meeting his intense gaze. "We have managed to shave some time off the projection. Your primary suit… it should now be ready for its initial fitting and preliminary stress-testing in… one week."
Katsuki blinked. One week? Not two? They'd actually managed to cut the time in half? A slow, dangerous, and incredibly satisfied grin spread across his face. "One week, huh? Good." He'd still have to be careful in the meantime, but one week was a hell of a lot better than two. His methods, however abrasive, apparently yielded results.
With his immediate wardrobe needs addressed (he selected several sets of dark, practical, and thankfully non-magical attire, which the tailors promised to have ready for him after a quick fitting), and the timeline for his super-armor pleasantly advanced, Katsuki, now feeling considerably more in control of his situation, finally allowed himself to be steered towards the exit by a quietly smiling Mirajane.
He changed quickly in one of Heart Kreuz's fitting rooms, emerging in a new set of sensible, dark grey trousers, a black tunic, and a sturdy, dark blue jacket. He instantly felt more like himself, the lingering shame of the pajamas and the cake incident receding slightly. He looked… formidable again. Like Dynamight.
"Alright," he grunted, flexing his shoulders in the new jacket. "Feels better. Now, let's get to the damn guild before those idiots actually do burn it down."
They left Heart Kreuz, the bell chiming softly behind them. The sun was higher now, the day well underway. Katsuki, freshly (and sensibly) clothed, his ultimate armor now only a week away, and with the… complicated but undeniably intriguing presence of Mirajane Strauss at his side, felt a surge of his old, explosive energy. The morning had been a chaotic, emotional mess, but things were, perhaps, finally starting to look up. Or at least, they were about to get a whole lot louder.
---
Back at the Fairy Tail guild hall, the absence of Mirajane Strauss from her usual post behind the bar had not gone unnoticed. It was well past mid-morning, a time when Mira would typically be in full swing – expertly managing the breakfast and early lunch rush, doling out jobs, mediating minor disputes (often with just a well-aimed, deceptively sweet smile), and generally keeping the guild's chaotic energy from boiling over into outright anarchy.
Instead, today, the bar was being manned, with a surprising and somewhat alarming degree of inefficiency, by Makarov Dreyar himself. The diminutive Guild Master was perched precariously on a stack of crates to reach the taps, his usual wise and authoritative demeanor replaced by a flustered, slightly overwhelmed expression as he fumbled with orders, got drink requests mixed up, and generally created more chaos than he quelled.
"Now, now, who ordered the fermented yak milk with extra chili flakes?" he'd call out, peering over his spectacles at a sea of confused and slightly terrified faces. "And did someone say they wanted their boar steak… blue? As in, the color blue? Or just very rare?"
To assist (or perhaps, to mitigate the impending disaster), Makarov had "volunteered" several other guild members, much to their chagrin. Wakaba Mine found himself reluctantly washing tankards, his usual cloud of smoke tinged with the scent of soapy water and despair. Macao Conbolt was attempting to make change, a task that seemed to involve a lot of head-scratching and borrowing from Cana's perpetually (and mysteriously) refilling booze fund. Even Elfman had been roped into carrying heavy barrels, muttering about how "manning a bar isn't manly, but helping the Master IS!"
The regular patrons, and those guild members not currently press-ganged into service, were bewildered. Where was Mira-nee? It wasn't like her to be late, let alone completely absent without a word.
Meanwhile, in a quieter corner of the guild, huddled around a table laden with empty teacups and a shared sense of delicious, scandalous intrigue, Lucy Heartfilia was holding court. Her audience consisted of Levy McGarden, Cana Alberona (who was, for once, more interested in gossip than her drink), Juvia Lockser (who was listening with wide, slightly horrified eyes, occasionally muttering about "Mira-san's bold tactics with Gray-sama's rival-friend!"), and a few other female mages who had a keen appreciation for romantic drama.
"And then," Lucy whispered, her voice hushed but her eyes shining with the thrill of a novelist who had just struck literary gold, "I saw her! Mira-nee! Sneaking into his apartment! In the middle of the night! She looked so… so clandestine!"
Levy gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Mira-san? With Bakugo-san? Are you sure, Lu-chan?"
"Positive!" Lucy insisted, her voice dropping even lower. "I was right there, hidden behind the rosebushes by the river! She even looked around to make sure no one was watching before she slipped inside! And then this morning, when he came back all… cake-splattered and flustered, demanding his key… and then the confession! And the kisses! Right there at the bar! You should have seen it!" She's lying, she's blowing things out of proportion from her writing spree.
Cana let out a low whistle. "Damn. Our Mirajane doesn't do things by halves, does she? Straight from zero to 'You're MINE!' and hand-feeding him steak. That explosive kid didn't stand a chance." She grinned. "I won a fortune on that second betting pool. Who knew Bakugo had a shy streak a mile wide under all that dynamite?"
Juvia was practically vibrating with a mixture of shock and romantic excitement. "Mira-san is so brave! To claim such a volatile man! Juvia wonders if such tactics would work on Gray-sama…" She trailed off, a dreamy, calculating look in her eyes that made Lucy and Levy exchange nervous glances.
"But what happened after she went into his room last night?" Kinana, one of the quieter guild members who had a soft spot for Mirajane, asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Were they…?"
Lucy blushed furiously. "I don't know! I didn't stay to watch, that would be… improper! But… when he came back to the guild this morning, looking for his key, and then when Mira-nee herself finally showed up, looking rather… radiant and a little flustered herself… well, one can only imagine!" She fanned herself dramatically with her hand. "The romantic tension was thicker than one of Elfman's protein shakes!" She's lying, but her imagination took things too far.
The girls giggled, their imaginations running wild with the possibilities. The story of Mirajane and Katsuki was rapidly becoming the hottest piece of gossip in Fairy Tail, fueled by Lucy's eyewitness account and the sheer, unbelievable audacity of it all. They were already speculating on wedding dates, on what their combined super-moves would be called, on whether their children would inherit Mirajane's demonic powers or Katsuki's explosive personality (or, terrifyingly, both).
And as Makarov continued to valiantly (and disastrously) attempt to manage the bar, completely unaware of the high-level romantic intelligence being disseminated just a few tables away, the anticipation for Mirajane's (and Katsuki's) eventual return was reaching fever pitch. The guild members sensed that a significant, perhaps even seismic, shift had occurred in the lives of two of their most formidable, and now, most captivatingly entangled, members. And they couldn't wait to see the aftershocks.