A/N: I've been apparently ripping out hearts with my other story Radio Silence so here, have some cavity enducing, sweet tooth floof in which Katsuki is often the butt of every joke.


"You swept her off her feet." Silence.

"You took her to dinner." More silence.

"You confessed your undying infatuation with her." Seriously?

He's lost track of just how long she's been at it, grinding away at his defenses in search of answers behind exactly what happened when she left him to his devices with none other than her by his side. He curses whatever look that must have been plastered on his face, erasing what they've come to known as the Resting Bakugou Face™ that he wears each and every morning because it's only when she walked in with him as he opened the shop that this shit started. Her laughter comes as easily as his groan, and he starts to think that his anguish is something she enjoys a little too much.

His head finds his desk a lot quicker than he intends, a pulsing throb that beats against his skull near more of an annoyance than her, but when he remembers flush cheeks, gleeful mirth, a peek of chocolate through squinted eyes and what sounds more like bells than her laughter, it dulls almost instantly. He sees nothing but his hands when he lifts his head from his desk, every line, every divot and even though the feeling has long since passed, he swears the warmth of her skin is burned into his own. He smiles, small but wholly, ignoring how Mina's laughter stops the second he does and focuses more on what he remembershow silk feels against him when he tussles her hair, how much unseen power lies behind her palm when it crosses his shoulder, how her eyes shine even in the dark and when they look at him .

"Oh my god," there is a distinct disbelief in her voice, "you kissed her!"

No, but I fucking wish I did.

"Give it a rest, Pinkie," he hopes she can hear the annoyance because boy is it fucking there, "None of that shit happened. Walked her to the bus stop, that's it." She doesn't look like she buys it, the way her brow raises and her lips curl suspiciously so, and he's spent. "Do I look like the type of sap to do any of that shit?" He would for her, he thinks, but decides not to open that can of whoop ass that would be waiting for him the minute he let that slip, varying degrees of teasing notwithstanding. "You're not you when you're with her, so the jury's out."

Apparently, he didn't need to fucking say it.

When Eijirou barges in, deja vu hits him with the subtlety of a freight train and he forgets his urgency. There are many things he has encountered, many things that would turn him around and have him exiting quicker than he walked in. He's used to this, used to them and everything that comes with it. What he sees as he stands in the shops threshold is not unlike what he sees on any given day—Mina giving Katsuki shit about something or another, Katsuki retaliating with virtually everything that littered his desk (shitty aim, but it's also not like he's actually trying ); It's normal, or at least, as close to normal as they are capable of. Only there's something different about today.

"What's going on?" He didn't come in for this; in trust, there was something that caught his eye and had his feet running the minute he yanked the flyer from the pole. Even as the reason is held tightly in his first, he's suddenly more interested in what the hell has Katsuki so, so…

Well is there even a word for it anymore?

"Oh, nothing. Bakugou's dream girl came in shortly after left us all." Eijirou stands, shocked, from both how Mina just casually drops the bomb that he's missed the elusive topic of their teasing for the second time and by the way Katsuki sputters, babbling incoherently before a string of curses falls from his mouth in the same way they would any given day. "Oh come on!" Eijirou sulks his way to his desk, slouching immediately, "how come I miss all the good shit?" He is brought back to life the moment he realizes there's a story to tell and by the way Mina is absolutely giddy at the idea, it's a good one.

The wheels of his chair squeak harshly when they slide towards him, and Katsuki already fears the last of his thinly held together sanity will all but snap. "So," Eijirou drawls, and the only escape he finds is his head to his desk again, "what did you two do last night?" It comes off more suggestive than it really was, which made the way Katsuki reacted all the more enjoyable. He launches from his desk, cheeks pink (no matter how profusely he denies it) and finds temporary sanctuary behind the threshold of the office that sits behind him, locked and isolated.

At least he would have, had his next client not walked through the door.

She doesn't make it two steps in the door before they flock to her like a moth to a flame. "Jirou, you're not gonna believe this!" And they're off, words falling at a speed he can barely keep up with and he doesn't know how she understands a word they say, with how fast they say it. "Oi, give me my damn client you little shits!" When they finish, they're gasping for air and Katsuki snorts. Serves those fuckers right. He takes his time getting his station prepared, knowing exactly what he will be using and just how much and when she sits, he feels her staring, hard.

"What?" Stare. His fingers close tightly around the bottle of ink in hand and he doesn't know what he can't stand more-the fact that they know, the little traitorous shits they are, or that she knows, because she says nothing as she bores into him, silent and judging. Whatever, he sighs and offers his hand, delighted when she understands because it means he can get to work and leave this shit behind him.

It's a quiet session, one he's not used to but is thankful for. Her line of sight hasn't left him, he knows because he can feel it, but it doesn't matter because the hum of his gun and the music in the background has him all but lost in his mind, in his work and his design. Katsuki draws a swirl and he's reminded of the curve in her smile, he draws a star and is reminded of how her eyes shine under the moon. He smiles, small, unnoticeable, but there and only when he catches it growing does he thin it back out, a line drawn and he focuses on black ink and notes again. He thinks he's gotten away with it.

And then she speaks.

"You're different." Insulted, but…

"The fuck you mean?" Curious.

Because he sees it too, and knows that anyone who knows him can easily pick out the difference in how he is compared to how he was. "You've chilled out," that's one way of putting it, he assumes, "I was wondering what did it; what had you brushing off the little things that normally set you ablaze, thinking before you spoke," she raises her free hand in defense when he shoots her a look, "relatively speaking anyway." Fair, he decides and wonders briefly if she really had this much to do with whatever difference they see in him. "Still, the most impressive difference is this—"

Her finger pokes him in the corner of his lip and he feels where it was curved not even a second before. When the fuck did I start smiling again? Katsuki swats her hand away, rolling his eyes and ignoring her shit eating grin while busying him with her arm because he is not having this conversation again god damnit. He refuses to look at her even as he chuckles, contemplating just how much revenge he's willing to get—there's a whole arm of hers left in his mercy and he could…

But his name is worth much more so he just takes it instead. Damn reputation .

"I'm not going to give you shit like them," she sighs, not with defeat but in recognition because he knows he wears his fury on his sleeve, "it's much too easy to get away with now, anyway."

Just one slip, that's all it'd take. Give her a damn 'S' instead of a treble clef.

"Besides," he thinks she's preparing for the kill and the string of curses that line up at his tongue are ready to fall but when he looks to her, he doesn't let them, "it's good for you—whatever" she gestures vaguely, " this is." There's no thrill of poking fun at his expense, there's no sarcasm, mirth or anything other than genuine surprise and support. Katsuki breathes, finally and the tension built up in his muscles releases with his exhale. "They took the fun out of teasing, anyway."

"For fucks sake Jirou, couldn't let me have it could you?"

Of course she couldn't, he didn't expect her to (or the little shits still giggling in their corners for that matter) but he can't deny that her words ring true as his mind repeats them and for that he lets her be even when she laughs.

Katsuki doesn't get his hopes up, he knows better than that—too many supposed truths turned lies, too many doors that slam shut in his face and he knows this is building up to another dire situation in which he will almost certainly lose, but he lets himself dream because it's all he has left. So he loses himself in the way his hands do what they do best, and he thinks of her with each line he draws because, in some off handed way, the curved lines of every design thereafter will always remind him of her. She serves as a light that illuminates his darkness, if only in times of her choosing and for her, he'd soak every bit of ray she would generously give him.

He smiles, and this time, no one says a word.

xXx

Two o'clock rolls around as he finishes his last series of lines. The shop is empty save Jirou, as it usually is on a Sunday afternoon, the soft vibes of the music louder as it pierces the otherwise qui—Eijirou slams his hand onto his desk, beneath it a single sheet of paper after a resounding fuck echoes off the walls. Mina yelps, dropping the folder in her hand and Katsuki curses, barely catching the bottle of ink that damn near slipped from his fingers.

So much for silence.

Jirou remains unaffected and he is impressed by her sheer fortitude against sound (then again, rock bands will do that to you). "What the whole ass—" and then he sees the paper with a logo that looks suspiciously familiar, "the hell is this?" He knows what it is, in the far recesses of his brain, but he looks for confirmation because is it THAT time already? One look at Eijirou's smirk says all he needs to know. "You know what it is; you competing?" Katsuki deadpans, as if shook that he didn't already know the answer to what he wagers is the stupidest question to date. Of fucking course I am?

He does every year, after all and he'll be damned if the title is lost to him because of something as trivial as attendance. He snatches the paper from under his fingers and scans it, taking in the same information he knows like the back of his hand, and the stuff he doesn't.

Hell City Tattoo Fest, and what a fucking time it is.

A Battle Royale only with ink stains, needled guns and some of the most wicked designs from some of the most wicked minds—his included and he's damn proud of it. Preliminaries are uneventful, a few days max and when done there is twelve artists that remaintwelve who are worth their weight in ink and that can stand toe to toe with the best. Bracketed out into six pairs to start, they are left with three days' worth of creative reign within instrumented guidelines, red skin, curses aplenty, varying shades of color and lines and shapes redesigned and redefined until there are three sole artists who are above all else.

Then the real fun begins.

They have control after near a week without it and they take full advantage. They choose their model, they choose their prompt and for three days, they lose themselves in their tradeno rules, just art. At least, until they are at the mercy of the panel who judges them and their chosen work. Katsuki shudders, recalling just how vicious they can be and though it's to be expected, it doesn't make it any easier to deal with. It's a messy fight, both in medium and in general, horror stories deriving from past competitions of manipulation and sabotage notwithstanding, but a battle he will always be ready to fight.

Katsuki pins the flyer to the board littered with various reminders, old posters, and other bullshit he should really clean off and leans against his desk, admiring the brazen letters that spell out their prize. It's larger than previous years he notes and he swears it'll be his, theirs.

"You think they will be there?" The question doesn't hold the normal bounce his words tend to have for good reason. They are always a sore subject in the shop, and just in general if Katsuki's honest. "Probably," because if the bragging rights, showboating and the overall bullshit these competitions have to offer doesn't reel them in like a fish to bait, that damn prize will. Katsuki grips the end of his desk and fears it'll crack; with them going, anything could happen. He recalls a year where Eijirou's chance suffered at their hands and he knows the worry stems from it even still.

"You have something in mind? " Eyes are on him as the gears in his head turn. It has to be big this year, redemption for Ground Zero despite their victory in the end, for shitty hair despite how he rose above it and any opportunity to rub his charred face in another defeat by his hand, ink based or otherwise, is an opportunity too good to pass up.

"Of course."

He doesn't, not yet any, but he doesn't need to know that.

Eijirou laughs and that makes the blatant lie worth it. "Sure you do." Maybe he's more easily read than he thinks, swatting his hand away when he nudges against his arm. "It'll come to me, Shitty Hair." And it will, because it always does.

"I'm not worried," Mina's grin is infectious if nothing else, "Bakugou would never let someone take the title from him without a hell of a fight." She's not wrong; he'll scrape together a win by tooth and nail if he damn well has to because the feeling that comes with a victory absolute, when defeat follows him no matter how fast he runs means more to him than the material attachment that comes with it.

It's the proof that he is capable of something great, even when by all other reason (and reasons with no backing, he adds with enough acidic venom to melt a surface) he is thought to be worth nothing more than failure. It's the one time a year he can go in front of the world, strut his shit, toss both middle fingers in the air and tell everyone who ever doubted him exactly where they can shove it.

He'll be damned if that's taken away from him.

When the time comes, they send Jirou off with a wave, freshly inked and protected by clear wrapping that spans the length of her arm, watching until she's safely to her car and all but speeding off with the promise of a visit in the near future. Eijirou doubles back, nearly taking his desk down with him. "Where're you off to in a hurry?" She watches him, amused, and he only answers when his desk is clear and his bag is packed. "Meeting the guys," he starts, double backing for his keys, "but I have to pick up a friend first."

"Oh?" Her interest is piqued, head tilted to the side, questioning. Katsuki watches in silence, brow rose, because oh shit. "Yeah," his hand reaches for the back of his neck, off handed, "she's not familiar with the spot, so I'm taking her."

She? Oh shit is right.

Katsuki's eyes flicker from Mina, to Eijirou and back to Mina. She's quiet as she brushes the comment off, unusually so and when she turns to pack her things, he swears he sees an ounce of envy in gold but says nothing. Now's not the time, so he leaves it alone against all better judgement. "You guys want to come?" Eijirou is cautious in the way he asks, eyes trained on her because he notices it too, her quipped silence even as she finds interest in everything but him.

"Class." Okay then.

"Pass," Katsuki spits out, not quite taking his eyes off her, "gonna hang back for a bit though." Or at least, that was the plan before whatever this was started happening. He watches the way Eijirou folds, not quite sure what to say next but wanting to say something because the silence is too loud and it doesn't belong. He says nothing, doesn't even try to pick her apart and Katsuki has a mind to smack him.

"Gotcha," there's a brief moment where he rounds his desk and just lingers, debating as her back remains towards him; "I'll catch you later then." He leaves it at that and with a curt nod makes his way out of the shop, downcast and none the wiser as to why. He's gone and it's still too damn quiet.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you kid."

She's fiery, righteous, with a wit just as daring as his sometimes but never has she been cold and fuck was it off-putting. Mina tosses a glance over her shoulder. "I'm not jealous." He scoffs and when she glares, he does it again. "Right," he rolls his eyes as dramatically as physically possible and hopes to god she sees it, "and your face is twisted to hell for the fun of it." Just because Eijirou didn't see it doesn't mean he didn't.

But he really should have seen that paper ball coming.

He gives her the benefit of a spot on mark (because he'll never admit he didn't see it, you can pry that truth from his cold, dead hands) the crinkled piece bouncing off his chest and onto his desk. It takes her by surprise at first that she actually stuck the attack and he sees the way cold eyes and thin lips both widen and part. "Oh shut up, dick." It takes a moment before her lips curl and he finally relaxes when they do. "Come on, Pinkie, " he reaches for her, arm open with invitation and she falls underneath as he walks her to the door.

These moments are far and few—where he lets them win, where he lets them fall apart and where he takes the mantle of strength for them. He doesn't say anything as he walks her to the door but she doesn't expect him too. The way he grips her shoulder and lets her use him as an emotional balance says enough. He is a series of walls, but every now and again he will let one down and give them the chance to climb.

Katsuki tucks her in her car and when she rolls her window down to thank him, he ruffles her hair because the emotions are too damn much today. "Quit being so damn dramatic," there's a curse on her tongue, he can feel it, "you know you're the only one for him."

Well maybe she didn't know, if the way she freezes and her cheeks darken is any indication.

He chuckles when she rolls up her window and laughs when she drives away without so much as a peep, taking in the breeze until he's back in the shop. The building is empty and he revels in the peace, thoughts running much faster than his feet could ever hope to carry him but he makes it to his desk, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper and placing it on top. He has no idea where to start, but he knows, as always, it'll come to him.

xXx

If he wasn't so damn distracted, he'd have remembered to grab his wallet.

He only remembers because he felt like he was forgetting something to begin with and after a run down of necessities, Ochako reminds him of what should have been the top of his list. Eijirou takes a hard right on a street he knows well, headed back for the shop with a promise of a quick visit, to which she doesn't mind and he's thankful.

He can see Katsuki's car right where it always is, sighing in relief because that means he doesn't have to fumble with his keys because the door is still open. Eijirou pulls in to a familiar spot, not quite understanding why her eyes grow wide and the faintest smile twists onto the corner of her lips. When he gets out, she does too; it throws him off but he turns back to grab his keys, saying nothing because it's not really that big a deal—it's a well known shop, he's sure she's heard of it and maybe she's curious. When he makes it to the door, he doesn't expect her to walk in ahead of him as if it's something she's done before.

He leasts expects Katsuki to look as stunned as he does when he finally looks up.

"Hello, Katsuki."

He's just as stunned, if not more than Katsuki is.

"You're—you're back?" Because after a year of longing for her to appear and she never does, the world decides that he gets all of her for two days back to back. It's a joke, he decides, a figment of his imagination. It has to be. But her smile is all too real, her presence all too familiar and he doesn't care how Eijirou stares at her, then to him, then to her again with a look that he'd otherwise question because she's really here. "Is it so surprising?" Actually yes, but he's not going to say that out loud. Instead he laughs, and Eijirou is sure that he's been replaced because Bakugou does not laugh.

"You really have a knack for coming in when shop's closed, don't you Round Face."

"What can I say," her hand finds her hip, "best things happen after hours."

Holy fuck, he's red.

He's no longer in the room, at least not to them, and he takes their distraction as opportunity to figure out just what the hell is going on. Katsuki's answers come light, airy, near breathless when Ochako speaks and she's comfortable around him he notices, odd in itself for many reasons—it takes him and Izuku four times the amount of time it takes him to get her to feel like she does now and Katsuki is not the easiest person to deal with, to handle, to understand.

His side steps them to his desk, watching carefully. Katsuki is relaxed in his chair, full attention on her and whatever it is she's saying. They're soft, his eyes, hopeful he decides and looking at her in a way he's never seen. There isn't the same strain in her voice he has come to know when she speaks with someone outside of their trio, the same hesitance that comes with someone who is almost afraid to trust.

Katsuki reaches for his desk as her head tilts in laughter and pulls something from his drawer. It takes Eijirou a moment of strained eyesight to see just what it is—a paper with less than admirable, but still utterly Katsuki's, drawings and doodles. Something rings familiar in his head as he watches her reach for it, not missing the way the blonde holds his breath when their fingers touch, the way her eyes fly to his because she noticed it to, the way her hand lingers before she takes it away and studies the page, laughter filling her once again and how his smile is lazy and so full of everything it never is.

Wait. Wait.

His arms wave frantically behind her back, catching Katsuki's attention instantly. Do I ask out loud? He hasn't thought this far ahead, the realisation too big a bomb drop to have planned for. Katsuki waits, brows furrowed, eyes back to her when she prompts and back to him when she looks away. Eijirou points sharply at her back, and he fears if he were closer he'd have shot straight through her. Is this her?! He hopes he's read, because the words fall silently from his lips at a speed he doesn't think could be caught.

But it has, and he was red.

Not a fucking word, is what he wants to say but can't, but how Eijirou shoots his hand up in surrender, he knows his eyes say it for him plenty. He's too fucking giddy in how he prances around silently in confirmation that he's finally met The Girl™, Ochako none the wiser and Katsuki reaches for something, anything, out of instinct because it's all but muscle memory at this point—his way to fend off the teasing and the indignation that'll soon follow after.

But he chills out, reaching for Ochako's shoulder when he looks at the clock nearby and remembers the time. "Hey, were gonna be late," he reminds, feeling guilty when they both look to him, a flash of something passing through both of them he can't quite place—sadness? Or perhap maybe disappointment.

"Where're you headed?" Katsuki can't stop the question despite how it's none of his business, but he decides it's the only way to placate the worry that comes with the fact that she is the girl he referred to earlier, sending Mina into a fit and that she is the girl, the one who's plagued his thoughts and filled him with dreams, that he's with now.

Eijirou reads him like a book; he places his fist in the air in wait, something they do, have done, to communicate in their own way that it's okay, whatever it is and that they're in their corner, always. It takes a moment, but Katsuki bumps back with his own and Eijirou breathes. "Izuku and I found out Ochako's never seen the stars on the beach at night, so we decided to meet the guys and make a thing out of it." His eyes grow because wait, Deku fucking knows her too?

"Remember those friends I made because of your advice?" He does, fondly because she took what he said to heart and it only clicks after the fact when there's a shit eating grin spread wide across Eijirou's face. "Guess they are pretty decent after all." It's gone, the grin, faded at the jab and Katsuki takes up one of his own. "More than decent," she pokes him in his chest and he takes it, surefire teasing aside, "and you're pretty awesome too."

Right, because he's her friend. She said it herself.

"Sure you don't want to come?" Eijirou asks again, with a whole new understanding and a whole new level of meddling, Katsuki thinks. But he can't, no matter how much he wants to, because responsibilities and all that shit. "Pass," and he stares at the blank page on his desk because it's basically taunting him now, "but you should get Pinkie." He stares pointedly at Eijirou until it clicks, because you need to set the record straight Shitty Hair, and Eijirou agrees.

He heads for the doors, Ochako in tow with a destination set. She doesn't cross the threshold immediately even as Eijirou does, instead looks back to him because she saw the blank page on his desk, and somehow knows what is keeping him there, if not for the reason why. "You know, Katsuki," she starts, eyes drifting to the sky as it begins to fade into the hues of the night, "if you're looking for inspiration, you can always find them in the stars."

He's paralysed by the way she looks on, lost in thought and as striking at the first time she walked through those same doors. He's in trouble, he knows it. "They hold everything after all—hopes, dreams, wishes, wants." She looks to him and he can't fucking breathe. "They could hold the answers to your art block too."

God damn, was she perceptive.

Katsuki drags his eyes away from her, finding the blank page with ease and suddenly the world spills onto it—lines, shapes, colors, everything . When his head snaps back to her, eyes wide she only smiles and walks through the door, away from him but leaving every part of her behind, in his hands.

On that page.