✉️ delivered to: rueville mailbox !
handy man : katsuki bakugou x fem!reader notes from the writer : fluff, 0.5k words
the first warning sign is the toolbox.
it’s sitting in the middle of your living room like a threat, surrounded by screws, wires, and one very tense pro hero who absolutely refuses to admit defeat.
“katsuki,” you say slowly, “you do know you don’t have to fix the heater yourself, right? we can just call—”
“no.” bakugou doesn’t even look at you. he’s crouched on the floor, forearms flexing, forehead creased in pure hostility toward an innocent metal panel. “i told you i got it.”
“you’ve been saying that for two hours...”
“and i meant it.”
you cross your arms and lean against the counter, watching him glare at the heater like it owes him money. the apartment is cold enough that you can see your breath. bakugou is in a fitted black shirt, hair tied up, grease on his cheek, knees spread in that concentrated, stubborn way that means he will literally die before calling a professional.
he fiddles with a wire. the heater makes a sound somewhere between a dying cat and a small explosion.
you wince. he pretends he didn’t hear it.
“katsuki,” you try again, “professionals exist for a reason—”
“i’m a professional.”
“you’re not an appliance guy.”
he finally looks up, scowling. “i could be.”
you raise an eyebrow. “oh? since when?”
“since right now,” he snaps, turning back to the panel like he’s offended you even questioned his new career path. “how hard can it be.”
you open your mouth to list about eighteen reasons why this is, in fact, extremely hard. but before you can—
clank.
he’s dropped something. on purpose? by accident? unclear.
“what was that?” you ask.
“nothin’,” he lies instantly.
Which is interesting, because whatever he dropped is currently rolling across the floor, making the saddest little metallic rattle you’ve ever heard.
You watch the screw (you think it’s a screw?) do a full lap around his foot before it finally stops.
“…Katsuki.”
He doesn’t turn around. “It wasn’t important.”
“Katsuki.”
“Stop sayin’ my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you think I don’t know what I’m doin’.”
You bite your lip. Hard. Because the alternative is bursting into laughter, and you’ve seen what happens when you laugh at him mid–task. Last time he tried fixing your curtain rod, he threatened to “remove the rod entirely” and then got it stuck in the drywall.
“Okay,” you manage, voice trembling, “if you’re so confident, what step are you on?”
There’s a long, heavy silence.
Finally, he mutters, “…the heater part.”
You lose it. Just— lose it.
A snort escapes before you can stop it.
Bakugou freezes.
Slowly, he stands. Turns. He looks like a final boss: dust in his hair, grease on his cheek, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed like he’s about to declare war.
“You laughin’ at me?”
“No,” you wheeze, absolutely laughing at him.
He steps forward.
“Keep laughin’,” he warns, voice low, “and I’ll shut you up.”
You grin, entirely unafraid. “Promise?”
There’s a beat. His eye twitches.
Then he grabs your waist, pulls you flush against him—covered in dust, frustration, and stubborn determination—and kisses you like you’re the thing he can fix after all!
