I think König has a sadness about how easily he scares people, even when he's not on duty or dressed in his work clothes, people rear back at the sheer width of him.
So, if you waited until he was very much dressed up to his "scariest" and went and loved on him, the man would combust.
König comes home from base, full-gear on, still on the phone with Krueger over some annoying, post-mission shit, throwing himself down on the couch.
Before he can begin to wonder where you are, you pad softly across the floor, wearing nothing but his cotton pajama shirt, and sit yourself right down in his lap, wiggling your hips to persuade his thighs apart.
The sight of your bare feet pressed so neatly together on the floor between his giant boots, has him adjusting himself against your ass.
You lean back against his chest, picking his free hand up to press gentle kisses against the back of it.
Nearly naked and purring in complete comfort and trust, laid up against the deadliest looking version of him, on his couch, in his home that you choose to share with him, makes him cum in his pants.
Krueger will not, under any circumstances or orders or offers of bribery, be withholding from the rest of Kortac what sound he heard their colonel make.
pairing: pro bakugou katsuki × quirkless neighbor!reader
cw: she/her reader, reader has implied good relationship with mother, foul mouthed bakugou, fluff with implied nsfw, pining, implied insecurities on both sides.
"Want help with those?" He mumbles so quietly it's drowned out by the elevator.
You try to peek around the bouquet covering your face. It rests precariously in your arms full of bags.
"'m sorry," you chirp, peering at him through a divide in the zinnias and daisies. "Did you say something, Bakugou-san?"
He clears his throat, hoping he doesn't look as awkward as he feels.
"Asked if yah needed help with those, uh...."
"Zinnias!" you finish for him, smiling fondly at your flowers.
Katsuki tries not to fixate on the soft upward curve of your lips. Or the warmth in your eyes when you look at them.
"Some extra get yah flowers?"
He tries for impartial, but can't make eye contact, suddenly very interested in the ceiling.
"Well," you adjust the slipping bag on your shoulder, "My mom isn't an extra."
You hear him make a sound between amusement, and, if you want to indulge yourself in the idea- relief.
"Even when compared to the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight." You beam at him.
It effects Bakugou that the cute girl who lives on his floor knows his entire hero name, in the right order. It effects him a lot. Particularly, in the flow of his blood.
"They're uh," he stumbles, hoping you can't see the flush of his cheeks, "they're pretty."
"Thank you." Short and sweet. "I think so too."
You're quiet after that, though not painfully. From many elevator rides and a handful of parallel trips to the laundry room, you've learned that Bakugou doesn't always fill silences.
He decides on helping you with your bags. But, when the elevator dings and you both step out onto your floor, you start on something new. And he shuts up, because he likes when you tell him things. Even little things, like what you're going to get from the grocery store or what funny thing the doorman said to you today.
Bakugou can't carry on a conversation for shit, but with you, he actually finds it a covetable skill. He wishes he knew what to say, like Eijirou would.
"Zinnias stay alive so long."
You glance between your flowers and his tall, muscular body, clad in his hero suit and looking unfairly good.
There’s something about his demanding presence that always makes you feel the opposite of suffocated. Safe, sheltered from the storm of your reality. Does he know he can do that?
"They'll last until October in a garden, sometimes." You continue. "And the usual bugs don't eat through them! Tough as hell, these ones."
He chuckles, hearing you curse for the first time. It's cute coming out of your mouth.
"I love this shade of orange. Little like a sunset. Which is what August is, kinda- summer's sunset."
You look up with shyer eyes. "I'm sorry," you wince, "I'm rambling now."
Tch. He thinks he would pay you to talk to him.
"You're good. Liked it."
He doesn't say anything more, but you can hear it. And in the quiet of the shared, soft stare you both slip into- you realize.
"'Like you."
Something akin to an arrow on fire shoots up his neck.
"Huh?"
"The Zinnias."
You start picking through your bouquet thoughtfully. He waits. Confused, but patient.
You hold out a flower. Tangerine orange. Loudest in its vivid edges. Bleeding into a softer sun as it travels inward.
"It even has a crown," You point at the core, "like a king," half teasing.
"Um," he falters. Are you giving him a flower? Why would you? And even if you were, they're special to you, so he wo-
"They're the strongest. Like you."
Something desperate falls through Katsuki's stomach.
"And they're the same orange as your uniform. You should have one."
Katsuki's always had words trapped behind his teeth. He'd rather show you. Words are shit. But, this moment requires them. It makes his fists clench.
You're so pretty, standing there, smiling with your teeth. Radiating some sort of fucking angel light. He completely blanks.
"Unless you don't, um, I'm sorry...." You take a step back. It's slight, but he doesn't like how it makes him feel. "Not everyone likes flowers, I guess, and your brand is that you're some big tough guy, so-"
"No," he rushes. No to everything. Your apology; your steps anywhere other than towards him; his stupid fucking public image.
"Give me it." It's brash. A command. You can't speak to a flower like that, he's learned. But before he can worry, you're giggling.
"I'll take that as a yes."
"Shit. I mean...." but it dissolves. He's already shaking his head, smiling with you over his famously uncivil mouth. Blonde locks cast shadows on his handsome face, already loose from a long day on patrol. Cold, windy, lonesome. Nothing like talking to you.
"Yeah. If you're sure." It's quiet. Gentle in its rasp.
"Of course, Bakugou-san."
You might stare a little too long. But, he shows no sign of hating it. You might even be able to think he's in the very same quicksand- for just a moment.
"I'll tell my mother you liked them." You start walking backwards, creeping towards your apartment.
There's a fiddling of keys, and a soft nod of appreciation. "She'll be proud to hear a hero wanted one of her humble creations."
You leave him in the hallway like that, scared you'll say more.
It's not until after the soft, clicking close of your door that Bakugou realizes he never helped with your bags.
He stands there for quite some time, looking like someone's lost dog. Muscles faintly twitching. Eyes soft, but heart anxious.
"She'll be so proud a hero wanted one of her humble creations."
He puts the flower in the prettiest cup he owns and grunts because it still doesn't look good enough to hold it. He needs to get some damn vases.
When it dies, he presses it between the glossy pages of an All Might collectible book, and preserves it as a charm.
He wonders if he should tell you that he keeps it in a pocket of his hero suit. Would you like that he wants it with him every day?
And too, he wonders if he could be good enough to hold another of your mother's creations.
Because, he does want that. Fuck, does he want. He aches something horrible for you and your pretty smile.
It'd be a harder ask, he knows. Knows he looks like a man who could crush a daughters heart between his weaponized hands.
But, he's always wanted a garden. He's always wanted to tend. Maybe, she would understand that.
Johhny is a well trained dog, but a dog, nonetheless.
Raised up real respectful and forced to sit through sunday mass. Not shy of time spent with and around women. His mother and eight sisters taught him well.
He prowls your fence, quietly. Waits for you to invite him in. No growling or whining. It's easy to mistake a restrained dog for a harmless one.
Salivates over you for months, but keeps it behind his lips when he picks you up and drops you off. Doesn't unhinge his jaw until you ask nicely.
So, when your insecurities have you turning off the bedroom lights the first time you sleep together, it's unexpected.
Gone as quick as it came. The flash of something almost menacing in his eyes. A disapproval that flirts with possessive offense.
He turns them on again.
Johnny walks you backwards until your legs brush the bed, head bowing to nose at your exposed neckline. A warm tongue licks a slow, fat stripe up your décolletage and you gasp.
He's so gentle with it. The way his hand caresses the curve of your clothed breast, purposefully avoiding your nipples, toying with you, warming you up. Rough stubble tickles the soft of your neck, blood thrumming underneath skin made hot and sticky from his attentions.
"Think I waited this long to not see yah?"
"Bet you're soft down here too, bonnie thing. Soft and creaming for me? Should we check?"
You don't recall how you got onto your back with two brawny, persuasive hands on your knees.
Age gap FWB!John Price is nothing but fucking trouble, because you both hide behind having commitment issues, but the first time he sees you give some other man a chance, he's at your door with carefully controlled anger behind his eyes.
"Yer goin' to let some kid fumble around with your high-maintenance pussy. That it?"
"Kid? He's 25 years old, John."
He doesn't snap. He doesn't pounce. And he certainly doesn't yell.
John backs you into your kitchen with the slow, intense practice of a large cat when it hunts, until your back kisses the island counter.
Then he drops to his knees and messes up the hem of your little date night outfit with his big, calloused fingers- and looks up at you.
"I need you to pay attention, okay, sweetheart? And stay upright."
"What do you think you're do-"
"Reminding you" his chest rumbles "of the difference between 35 and 25."
cw: she/her reader. friends to lovers. suggested cheating, but it's something else.
When Johnny came back from deployment, even more bright-eyed and ruddy-cheeked than usual, and told you he'd found himself a boyfriend, you figured it as good a time as any to confess your 15 years of unrequited love. Lie it to rest.
Your best friend can enjoy his newfound happiness from a respectful, knowing distance- and you can move on.
It was tough, at first. The way he gawked at you. New, horrible territory. Things between you had never been awkward.
But, the tension was short lived before he got another call. Your ever-loyal dog of a man, answering to his new whistle. You did not watch him go.
Then, it was somewhat easier to breathe. Somewhat easier to bawl on your couch to your comfort movies and mope around the grocers without fear of his pitying, puppy dog eyes.
What you had not accounted for, in this whole healing process, was his banging at your front door the same night he got home.
Only a season had passed. Not long enough to mourn 15 years. You figured he'd give you more time. He's a caring person, your best friend.
But, only Johnny's knock sounded like that. And only Johnny would turn up at this hour, theatrics and all hell.
He's soaked to the bone, eyes twinkling with something offensively alive.
"Do you know what time it is?"
"'course not. Thoughtless fucker, I am."
His jokes always made you laugh. Now, you only keep frowning. Briefly, he considers sitting down at your slipper-clad feet and begging.
"What do you want, MacTavish?"
You try to look angry. 10 feet tall. Not in love with him, anymore.
"None of that. I'm yer Johnny."
Your eyes widen, stinging wet.
"I could slap you. Do you have any idea h-"
"Simon wants to meet my girl."
The rain falls hard and messy on your awning, a clatter of confusing reality, made louder with the door open and him in it.
You lose your bite in the sadness.
"I-" you whisper, "I'm not sure I'm ready to meet him."
You take your nail between your teeth, shuffling your feet.
"Don't you think this is a little mean, John? That you're being mean to me right now?"
He slides down the side of your door, pooling at your feet as you yelp in surprise.
Big, gray eyes, pleading.
"Mean he wants to know you. Told him everything. Our life together as wean. How bonnie yah are. How I still feel about yah. 's how I feel about him."
"How you... still feel about me?"
He kisses your ankle. Big, warm hands on the skin of your calves. You gasp, but don't draw back.
"Never didn't love yah back, bonnie."
And he looks so ridiculous, this virile, burly mass of man, on the ground, in your tiny doorway, in the middle of the night, that you really start to cry.
"I don't understand, Johnny." Four months of heartbreak, fat tears and snot. "Why wouldn't he be jealous of me, then?"
He looks back up at you. And when you make eye contact, and he doesn't say anything, lightening cracks across the sky.
Bakugou has all the tools to be a perfect driver. On paper, his driving test from youth says he is, on all objective skill accounts, a perfect driver. This does nothing at all, of course, for his characteristically obvious predisposition to road rage.
You, equipped with an iced coffee and chosen playlist of the day, set your vehicle to cruise at the legal speed limit for the downtown city street.
You can't be bothered to get a speeding ticket, or to be rushed in general. If the man in the obnoxiously tangerine, polished, luxury sports car behind you wanted to be somewhere sooner, he should have left sooner.
If he wanted a passing lane, he should have gotten on the highway. He should have not taken the four-way stop ridden routes that drive through the heart of the city in no consistently predictable amount of time. That's his problem.
From what you can make out of his facial expression in the review mirror of your car, he's not in the mood to drive "scenic route" speeds. You cannot make out, however, the way he's watching you have your little jam session, swishing your ice coffee, pretty lips singing along to a song he's already identified.
He's kind of really killing your vibe, though, driving so aggressively, not leaving your bumper any fucking room to breathe for another two miles.
When an accident outside the Marriot valet causes a full stand-still in traffic, you decide to give this rich asshole a piece of your mind.
He watches with the smuggest, most slappable smirk on his face as you get out of your car, slamming the driver's side door and lowering your sunglasses to make clear eye contact.
Katsuki chuckles, amused to find such a punk attitude radiating off someone in horn-rimmed glasses and a bulky pink coat, looking like some nerd friend of Deku's. Some cute, flustered librarian.
"Hey, hotshot. How about you get off my ass?"
He cocks his head to the side, so clearly, shamelessly checking you out that it makes you falter for a second, something turning over in your belly.
your folks always ask tomura for help with their electronics when the two of you visit for holidays.
between their laptop or their cell phone or their ipad, something always needs lookin' at. pre-emptively apologizing to him in the car on the way over becomes a habit, but he always says he doesn't mind. it gives him something to do that feels natural.
in fact, the first time there's nothing that's blinking too many colors or making a weird sound or eating up your mother's phone battery, he slips into a mild episode of tachycardia.
his palms are sweating when your grandma hands him a glass of water. "guess you'll just have to let us love on yah the whole time," eyes wrinkling at the corners with her smile, "sorry, son."
"'s no problem," he mumbles, but looks a little like an animal in headlights.
when your grandpa tells you that "you got a good one with him," tomura's face goes furiously red.
he can't remember the last time he was a good one. or that he was wanted somewhere without serving a purpose, without having to earn his place in it constantly. sacrificing something. offering more than himself.
"what do i do with my hands?" he whispers into your neck while you're pressed together on the living room couch.
medically discharged!johnny jumps unhappily from job to job after the head injury. if not fired within a few months, he finds some bullshit reason to quit. and when the pint money gets low, he finds a new one.
he does his job with all the passion and integrity of a man who does not want to be alive. johnny had a job, and he was good at it. he was exceptional at what was taken from him. it was his whole life. then, it wasn't.
the sun in the sky goes unfelt by his skin. big feet barley lifted when he walks, shuffling loudly everywhere, like a pouting child. a massive amount of devotion, scorned. a life of stand-up work ethic, discarded. people whisper about his head, he knows, but it's his heart he really lost.
working the office at some medium grade apartment complex proved to be of some difficulty on the busier days. all the overlapping noises frustrate him and he was never made for paperwork behind a desk. they send him out to give those guided tours, most often.
on a good day, johnny has retained his signature charm. glimpses of boyish charisma like occasional sun beams through the clouds of scotland. it helps his head to be 1-on-1 with someone. and his supervisor, though quietly surprised, enjoys the amount of applications his tours seem to turn.
and with a bonnie thing like you, he's bound to be on his best behavior. johnny can be good. johnny can tamp down the rain in his ears and focus. the sound of your pretty voice following the door chime, something about a "1 bedroom" and "july" while you speak to the receptionist.
johnny can give you the look around. it's no problem. he holds an umbrella over your head on the walk between buildings while you fuss with heated cheeks about how "he really doesn't have to."
oh, but he does.
you don't know how long it's been since he's had anything light the kindling in his hollowed out chest. you smell so nice. you laugh at his jokes and make smart little retorts. walking so closely to him underneath the umbrella- his hand would fit perfectly in the small of your back.
you flit around the model apartment, chirping about where you'd put things, where you could make do. he tails your movements, smiling warmly. it might be a little alarming, if he wasn't so ridiculously pretty. his presence, woolley, like a flannel placed over your shoulders. johnny feels safe, stable.
when he hears about where you currently live, something clicks in his head, like orders. cocks in his pants, like a gun.
the water heater doesn't work? there's a mold problem? the door barely locks? and your landlord, "he won't fix it. he won't fix anything."
that just won't do. in fact, johnny doesn't think this 1 bedroom is right for you, either. no. not large enough.
where will you spread your wings, bonnie? you should be somewhere you can paint the walls, nail things down, have a nice little fireplace. somewhere you can nest.
somewhere that sounds a lot like his cabin, that he already owns.
