what bakugou does when you're angry
The slam of the apartment door was less a sound and more a physical event, a shockwave that traveled through the floorboards and vibrated up Katsuki's spine where he was leaning against the kitchen counter. He didn't startle. He just slowly, deliberately, set his glass down, a predator recognizing the specific, furious frequency of his mate.
He heard you before he saw you—the sharp, agitated clicks of your heels on the hardwood, the furious rustle of you tearing your jacket off. Then you appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, and Katsuki felt a slow, predatory grin stretch his lips. Your face was a gorgeous, thunderous red. Your eyes, usually so soft and warm, were flashing with lightning. You were magnificent.
"Let me guess," he drawled, pushing off the counter to stand at his full height, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement was casual, but his eyes were sharp, hungry, drinking you in. "The imbeciles at your office decided to breathe today?"
You pointed a trembling finger at him, but it wasn't an accusation. It was a conductor's baton, ready to lead an orchestra of rage. "Don't even get me started on breathing," you seethed, your voice already tight with strain. "They've moved on to more advanced forms of stupidity."
He let out a low, appreciative chuckle. "Oh? Do tell." He leaned his hip back against the counter, a picture of relaxed interest, but his blood was already running hotter, thicker. He could feel the first, pleasant stirrings of his cock, a slow, heavy awakening in response to your fury. He loved this. He loved the fire in you, the way your passion wasn't a gentle flicker but a goddamn inferno.
"I was in a meeting," you began, starting to pace, your movements sharp and agitated. "A meeting that was supposed to be about the Q3 budget allocations. Simple. Direct. No room for interpretation."
Katsuki's smirk widened. He knew exactly where this was going. You hated wasted time more than anything.
"But no," you continued, your voice rising with each word. "Mr. 'I-Think-I'm-A-Visionary' Henderson decides to hijack the entire hour to talk about 'synergy' and 'paradigm shifts' and other bullshit words he probably learned from a TED Talk at three in the morning!"
"Mhm," Katsuki hummed, his gaze dropping to your mouth, watching the way it formed around your sharp, beautiful curses. He was getting hard now, a steady, thick pressure building against the fly of his jeans. He made absolutely no effort to hide it. Let you see. Let you know what your righteous anger did to him.
"He wasted forty-five minutes!" you practically shouted, throwing your hands up in the air. "Forty-five minutes of my life that I will never get back, talking in circles about 'disruptive innovation' when all we needed to do was approve the goddamn printer paper budget!"
"Sounds like a real visionary," Katsuki commented, his voice laced with sarcasm and something deeper, something darker. He shifted his weight, the subtle movement pressing the fabric of his jeans tighter against his growing erection. The friction was a delicious, tantalizing tease.
You stopped pacing to glare at him, your chest heaving. "That's not the worst of it," you snarled, and his entire body thrummed in anticipation. This was it. The real fuel for the fire. "After that masterpiece of time-wasting, he turns to me—me, who's been sitting there trying to steer the conversation back to reality—and he says, and I quote, 'Sweetheart, why don't you go make the coffee? The men need to talk strategy.'"
The air in the room crackled. Katsuki's smirk vanished, replaced by a look of intense, focused lust. His eyes narrowed, his pupils blowing wide. Sweetheart. From that pompous windbag's lips, directed at his woman. The possessiveness that roared through him was so potent it was almost painful, and it was all tangled up with the raw, unadulterated need that had been building since you walked through the door. He was fully, achingly hard now.
He watched you, mesmerized. The flush on your cheeks, the fire in your eyes, the way your hands were clenched into tiny, furious fists at your sides. You were a goddess of wrath, and he was your most devout worshipper.
"I swear to god, Katsuki," you spat, your voice trembling with the force of your rage. "I almost flipped the entire goddamn table. Who the fuck does he think he is? What century is this? I don't need to be dismissed and patronized by some overpaid, under-brained—"
"Keep going," he cut in, his voice a low, rough command. His eyes were locked on yours, burning with an intensity that made your breath catch.
You faltered, your tirade skidding to a halt. "What?"
"I said, keep going," he repeated, taking a step away from the counter. He slowly palmed himself through his jeans, a blatant, unashamed gesture that made your heart hammer against your ribs. "Tell me what you wanted to do to him. Don't leave anything out."
Your anger momentarily short-circuited, replaced by a dizzying wave of heat. You stared at him, at the blatant arousal in his eyes, at the confident way he was stroking his own cock right in front of you. "Are you—are you even listening to me?" you yelled, a fresh wave of indignation washing over you. "This isn't funny! I'm furious!"
"Oh, I'm listening," he purred, closing the distance between you. He stopped just short of touching you, his body heat radiating off him in waves. "Believe me, I'm listening to every fucking word." He reached out, not to touch you, but to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles brushed against your cheek, and you shuddered. "I love it when you get this mad. All fired up. It's the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen."
His words were gasoline on a fire. "You're unbelievable," you breathed, but the fight was draining out of your voice, replaced by a shaky want. He was so close, the scent of his skin and the faint, caramel hint of his sweat filling your senses.
"Tell me more," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Tell me how you were going to put him in his place."
And that's when you broke. The dam of your anger crumbled, and the torrent of your desire came flooding through. You grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him the last few inches toward you, and crashed your lips against his. It was a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue and unspoken fury. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction, and kissed you back just as hard. His hands were suddenly everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your back, fisting in your hair to hold you exactly where he wanted you.
He walked you backward, pinning you against the cold surface of the refrigerator. The contrast between the chill at your back and the searing heat of his body in front was electrifying. He broke the kiss, panting, his forehead resting against yours.
"See?" he rasped, his eyes wild and red. "All that fire. All for me." He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel the rigid length of his cock straining against his jeans. "This is what you do to me. This is what your passion feels like."
"Katsuki," you moaned, your head falling back against the fridge as his mouth found the sensitive skin of your neck. He didn't kiss; he claimed, biting and sucking, marking you as his.
"Say my name when you're that mad again," he growled against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip the backs of your thighs. "It sounds like a fucking prayer."
With a grunt of effort, he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried you away from the kitchen, not toward the bedroom, but to the living room, to the large couch. He lowered you down onto it, following you, covering your body with his own.
He didn't bother with finesse. He shoved your skirt up around your hips, his fingers hooking into your panties and tearing them away with a sharp, decisive rip. The sound made you gasp, a sharp, thrilling sound of surrender.
He looked down at you, his expression feral, triumphant. "Wasted time," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble as he fumbled with his own belt. "Let's not waste any more."
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