The sparring field, now looking more like a meteor impact site than a training ground, slowly began to empty. The initial adrenaline rush from Katsuki's stunning victory and his subsequent philosophical declaration was giving way to the practicalities of post-battle cleanup and the inevitable aches and pains of a Fairy Tail-style "friendly" bout.
The unconscious forms of Natsu, Gray, and Gajeel were, with a mixture of grumbling effort and surprising tenderness, loaded onto makeshift stretchers fashioned from broken tree limbs and discarded cloaks. Several of the less-injured (or less exhausted) guild members volunteered for porter duty, their expressions a mixture of awe for Katsuki's power and sympathetic concern for their fallen comrades. It was a familiar ritual in Fairy Tail – the triumphant victor, and the procession of the gloriously defeated.
As the somewhat ragged parade made its way back towards the guild hall, Katsuki found himself walking alongside Mirajane. He was still buzzing from the fight, his body aching in a deeply satisfying way, his spirit strangely invigorated. The two-week wait for his armor suddenly seemed less daunting; he had plenty to occupy his time, and plenty of willing (if currently unconscious) sparring partners to help him refine his skills.
An uncharacteristic, almost companionable silence settled between them for a few moments as they walked, the sounds of the stretcher-bearers' efforts and the distant, excited chatter of the other guild members forming a backdrop.
Mirajane was the first to speak, her voice soft, her eyes holding that familiar, knowing sparkle, though now it was tinged with a new layer of respect and perhaps, intrigue. "Well, Dynamight-san," she began, the hero name now sounding less like a tease and more like a genuine, if still playful, acknowledgment. "That was… quite the demonstration. 'Plus Ultra,' you called it?"
Katsuki grunted, a sound that was more affirmation than dismissal this time. He actually found himself wanting to explain it, just a little. "Yeah. It's… the U.A. motto. Means always striving to go further. To be better than you were yesterday. To break your limits, again and again." He looked out at the horizon, a flicker of something – pride? nostalgia? – in his crimson eyes. "It's about never settling. Never accepting that you've reached your peak. There's always another level. Always something more to achieve."
Mirajane nodded slowly, absorbing his words. "A demanding philosophy. But a powerful one. It explains a great deal about your… relentless drive." She smiled. "It's not so different from the spirit of Fairy Tail, in its own way. We too believe in pushing our limits, in fighting for what we believe in, though perhaps our methods are a little more… chaotic, and our motivations often more… emotionally driven."
Katsuki scoffed, but there was no real heat in it. "Emotionally driven just means sloppy and inefficient." He paused. "But… I guess you idiots do have a knack for pulling power out of your asses when your 'nakama' are in trouble. It's illogical. But it happens." He remembered their desperate, coordinated attacks, the way they'd fought to protect each other even when he was clearly overwhelming them. It was still baffling to him, but he couldn't deny its effectiveness.
"Perhaps 'illogical' is just another word for a power we don't yet fully understand," Mirajane mused, her gaze thoughtful. "The strength of bonds, the will to protect… these can be formidable forces, Bakugo-san. As formidable, in their own way, as any explosion."
They walked on, the sounds of the guild hall growing closer. Katsuki found, to his surprise, that he didn't mind the conversation. Mirajane wasn't prying, wasn't judging, wasn't trying to force him into some sappy group hug. She was just… talking. And listening. It was… different.
As they reached the guild doors, Mirajane turned to him, her expression earnest. "Your victory today, Bakugo-san… it was more than just a display of power. You fought with incredible skill, with tactics, with a clear understanding of your opponents' strengths and weaknesses." She smiled. "And, if I may say so, you also showed a surprising… restraint, when it came to the final blows. You defeated them, but you did not seek to truly harm them beyond the necessities of the spar."
Katsuki just shrugged, uncomfortable with the implication that he might have actually cared about not permanently crippling his opponents. "They're more useful as punching bags if they can still get up for another round," he muttered, though even he didn't fully believe his own dismissive excuse.
Mirajane's smile just widened. "Of course." She pushed open the guild door, gesturing for him to enter. "Welcome back, Dynamight. I believe your fan club has grown considerably today."
Katsuki grunted, bracing himself for the inevitable chaos within. But as he stepped into the familiar, noisy warmth of the Fairy Tail guild hall, the orange mark on his hand feeling like a natural extension of himself, he had to admit, grudgingly, that being part of this insane, illogical, 'nakama'-obsessed family… it wasn't entirely without its perks. Especially when those perks involved epic, no-holds-barred brawls and a serene, surprisingly insightful barmaid who seemed to understand him just a little bit more than anyone else in this strange, new world.
---
As Katsuki settled onto a stool at the bar, barking his order for "the biggest damn steak you've got, and a mountain of whatever sides come with it, I'm starving!" Mirajane moved to fulfill his request, her usual serene smile firmly in place. Yet, as she turned to the kitchen pass-through, a series of vivid images, unbidden, flashed through her mind.
It wasn't the image of Dynamight, the terrifying whirlwind of orange and azure destruction who had just dominated three of their strongest mages. Nor was it the image of the arrogant, scowling newcomer who had first stormed into their guild.
Instead, she saw Katsuki Bakugo as she had seen him multiple times now in the quiet, vulnerable confines of the infirmary. She saw him unconscious, his fierce defenses utterly down, his youthful face pale and etched with exhaustion, the lines of pain around his eyes softened in sleep. She remembered the first time, after the Oppenheimer Smash, when he'd been so broken, so utterly shattered, his life force flickering like a dying ember, and Wendy and Porlyusica had fought so desperately to pull him back from the brink.
She remembered the quiet rhythm of his breathing as he'd slept, the surprising vulnerability in the curve of his mouth, stripped of its usual sneer. She recalled gently brushing his sweat-damp, ash-blond hair from his forehead, feeling the feverish heat of his skin, a stark contrast to the icy grip of near-death he'd been in. She remembered the way he'd muttered in his sleep, fragments of words from a world she couldn't comprehend – "Deku… All Might… Number One…" – a litany of names and ambitions that hinted at the universe of loss and longing he carried within him.
She remembered the almost childlike way he'd curled up when the pain medication finally took full effect, a stark contrast to the rigid, aggressive posture he usually maintained. And she remembered the surprising, almost poignant moment when he'd woken, raw and vulnerable, and confessed his inability to return home, the desolation in his crimson eyes a painful thing to witness. Even his more recent fainting spell in his apartment, leading to the "burrito incident," had showcased a side of him – utterly spent, defenses down – that few, if any, in the guild had seen.
Mirajane had tended to him during those times, not just as a guildmate fulfilling a duty, but with a quiet, almost maternal (or perhaps, more accurately, a deeply empathetic older sisterly) care. She had changed his bandages, administered potions, ensured he was warm and comfortable, and listened to the unconscious outpourings of his tormented spirit. She had seen behind the explosions, behind the arrogance, behind the impenetrable wall of fury he presented to the world. She had seen the lost, hurting boy beneath the fearsome warrior.
Now, as she placed a gargantuan, sizzling steak in front of the very conscious, very loud, and very demanding Katsuki Bakugo, who was already wolfing down a bread roll with ferocious intensity, her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than usual. Her smile was still there, but it was different. Softer. Tinged with a depth of understanding, a hint of melancholy, and an undeniable, almost protective warmth that had little to do with his explosive power or his recent, spectacular victory.
He was still a firecracker, a force of nature, a walking, talking explosion. But she had seen the quiet after the storm, the vulnerability beneath the volcano. And that knowledge had irrevocably shifted her perception of him. He wasn't just an exciting, powerful newcomer anymore. He was Katsuki. Lost, hurting, fiercely proud, and desperately, if unknowingly, in need of the very thing he so often professed to despise: connection. Family.
Katsuki, oblivious to her internal reflections, just grunted his approval at the size of the steak and attacked it with gusto. "About damn time! A man could starve waiting for service in this nuthouse!"
Mirajane just chuckled, the sound light, but her eyes, as she watched him eat, held a new, different kind of light. The Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight was a terrifying spectacle. But Katsuki Bakugo, the boy who dreamed of heroes and woke up from nightmares in her infirmary… he was someone else entirely. And Mirajane Strauss, with her own hidden depths and past sorrows, found herself uniquely positioned to understand both.
---
Even as Mirajane's deeper understanding and empathy for Katsuki solidified, a small, incorrigibly human, and distinctly Mirajane part of her couldn't entirely dismiss her initial, fleeting assessment. After all, one could appreciate the profound complexities of a tempestuous soul while also acknowledging that the storm itself possessed a certain raw, untamed aesthetic appeal.
She watched him devour the steak, his movements economical yet filled with a barely contained energy, even in an act as mundane as eating. The harsh lines of his face, usually set in a scowl or a snarl, were softened slightly by the focused intensity of his hunger. The play of muscles in his arms and shoulders as he cut the meat, the way the guild hall's lamplight caught the sharp angles of his jawline, the unruly shock of ash-blond hair that seemed to defy gravity with the same stubbornness he himself possessed…
Mirajane allowed herself a tiny, almost imperceptible internal sigh, the kind one makes when appreciating a particularly fine piece of dangerous, exquisitely crafted art. Yes, he was a walking, talking explosion of anger and unresolved trauma. Yes, he was a logistical nightmare for the guild's repair budget and a constant source of near-cardiac arrest for its more timid members. Yes, he was emotionally constipated and probably needed years of therapy (which Fiore, alas, was rather lacking in).
But, purely on a superficial, aesthetically observant level – the kind of observation one might make about a particularly striking thundercloud, or a beautifully dangerous predator in its natural habitat – Katsuki Bakugo was, undeniably, rather… arresting. Not in a pretty, conventional way. No, his was a beauty forged in fire and fury, sharp edges and raw power, a compelling intensity that was impossible to ignore.
And the truth was, he was hardly around. He'd either be off on some ridiculously dangerous, multi-day monster-slaying marathon, or recovering in the infirmary from said marathon, or, as today, briefly gracing the main hall before likely vanishing again to pursue some new, explosive agenda. Those moments when he was actually present, visible, and not actively trying to incinerate something (or someone), were fleeting.
So, Mirajane, with the quiet, self-assured pragmatism that often lay beneath her sweetness, made a small, internal resolution. While she would continue to offer him guidance, support, and the occasional (much-needed) reality check, and while she would certainly keep his deeper vulnerabilities a closely guarded secret, it also didn't hurt to simply… appreciate the view when the opportunity presented itself. A little bit of harmless eye candy, especially of the rare, explosive, and unexpectedly complex variety, could brighten even the most chaotic of days in Fairy Tail.
She refilled his water mug, her smile perfectly serene, betraying nothing of her multifaceted internal observations. "More potatoes, Dynamight-san? You seem to have… inhaled the first batch."
Katsuki just grunted, his mouth full, already eyeing the remaining portion of his steak with predatory focus. He was completely oblivious to the subtle, appreciative, and entirely private cataloging of his aesthetic merits occurring just across the bar. And Mirajane, a master of hidden depths and subtle amusements, intended to keep it that way. It was her own little secret, a tiny perk of managing the most explosive (and unexpectedly captivating) new member Fairy Tail had seen in a very long time. She would certainly enjoy it, in her own discreet way, when she could. After all, even a (former) She-Devil deserved a little visual stimulation now and then.
---
The enormous steak, consumed with the speed and ferocity of a starving wolf, did wonders to replenish Katsuki's energy reserves and soothe the lingering aches from the epic spar. The cheers and backslapping from his guildmates had eventually faded as they moved on to other forms of revelry, and a comfortable, if still noisy, rhythm had returned to the guild hall. Katsuki, however, felt the familiar pull of exhaustion returning, not the bone-deep weariness of near-death, but the satisfying fatigue of a day well spent pushing his limits and asserting his dominance.
He pushed his empty plate away, grunted a terse "Thanks for the grub" in Mirajane's general direction (which, for him, was practically a sonnet of gratitude), and slid off the barstool. His immediate, singular goal: his apartment, his bed, and several hours of uninterrupted, glorious sleep.
He navigated the guild hall, ignoring the few lingering attempts to engage him in conversation or congratulate him again on his victory. He just wanted to be horizontal. He reached the massive front doors, pushed them open, and stepped out into the cool Magnolia night.
The walk back to his apartment was uneventful, the town quiet and peaceful. He reached his door, his mind already half-asleep, already anticipating the blessed relief of his pillow. He fumbled in the pockets of his sturdy work clothes for his key.
Nothing.
He tried another pocket. Still nothing.
A frown creased his brow. He distinctly remembered having it. He wasn't careless with things like keys. He patted all his pockets again, a growing sense of irritation beginning to prickle through his fatigue.
"Where the fuck is my key?!" he muttered, his voice a low growl. He didn't remember losing it. He'd had it when he'd paid the landlady for the next month's rent just before… before the big spar. He wracked his brain, trying to recall his movements.
Then, a horrifying, infuriating memory surfaced. The faint, fuzzy recollection of collapsing in his apartment, of Natsu's idiotic face looming over him, and then… the "burrito incident," as Mirajane had so delicately (and infuriatingly) put it.
"Fuck," he hissed, a vein throbbing in his temple. The key. He hadn't had it when he woke up in the infirmary this last time. Of course. Those morons, Natsu and his idiot brigade, must have…
His eyes narrowed. They wouldn't have just left it lying around. And they certainly wouldn't have been smart enough to think of putting it back in his pocket after they'd manhandled him out of his own damn apartment like a sack of explosive potatoes.
"Wait," he growled, realization dawning with a sickening, infuriating clarity. "The burrito thing… Of course, those assholes don't have it. They probably… they probably gave it to her."
Mirajane.
The serene, smiling, all-knowing, infuriatingly competent barmaid who seemed to have her delicate, manicured fingers in every damn pie in this guild. Of course, Team Natsu, in their infinite wisdom and collective lack of brain cells, would have entrusted his apartment key to her. Probably with some idiotic explanation about him being "unstable" or "prone to fainting spells."
A fresh wave of exhaustion, mixed with a potent dose of pure, unadulterated annoyance, washed over him. He was locked out of his own damn apartment, after a day of epic battles and near-total expenditure of energy, all because a group of well-meaning idiots had decided to play "wrap the Bakugo" and then pawned off his key to the guild's unofficial queen bee.
He let out a long, suffering groan that was almost a roar of pure frustration. He turned on his heel, his desire for sleep warring with his intense irritation. He was going to have to trudge all the way back to the damn guild hall, find Mirajane, and demand his key back, probably while enduring more of her infuriatingly gentle teasing about his "adventures."
"This goddamn guild," he seethed, stalking back through the darkened streets, his fatigue momentarily forgotten in the face of this new, bureaucratic, and utterly Bakugo-esque Purgatory. "Can't even pass out in peace without it turning into a damn committee meeting and a lost-and-found situation."
His bed, his pillow, his blessed oblivion, seemed further away than ever. And he had a strong suspicion that Mirajane was going to make him work for that key, one way or another.
---
Meanwhile, back at the Fairy Tail guild hall, Mirajane Strauss was indeed in the final stages of her nightly closing routine. The raucous energy of the evening had long since dissipated, leaving behind the familiar, comforting scent of spilled ale, woodsmoke, and lingering magic. Most of the guild members had staggered, sung, or been carried off to their respective homes, leaving only the echoing quiet of the vast hall.
She hummed a soft tune as she wiped down the last of the tables, her movements efficient and graceful. And yes, a small, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips. Lucy had, with a great deal of flustered apology and whispered explanations about "Bakugo-burritos" and "preventing accidental explosions in his sleep," entrusted Katsuki's apartment key to her earlier that evening. Mirajane had accepted it with her usual serene composure, assuring Lucy it was "no trouble at all" and that she would "see it safely returned to Bakugo-san at the appropriate moment."
The "appropriate moment," in Mirajane's subtly mischievous mind, hadn't quite arrived yet. She hadn't forgotten to remind Katsuki about his key when he'd left earlier, sated and sleepy after his post-spar feast. Oh no. She had simply… allowed the natural course of events to unfold, anticipating, with a delightful flicker of amusement, that his exhaustion and single-minded focus on sleep would likely lead to this very predicament.
"Oh yeah," Mirajane thought, a tiny, internal giggle escaping her. "It's all coming together now." This was a perfect, harmless opportunity for a little… interaction. A chance to see the formidable Dynamight slightly flustered, perhaps even a touch dependent. It wasn't malicious, not at all. Just a little bit of innocent fun, a way to further chip away at his formidable defenses and perhaps, just perhaps, nudge him a little further into the chaotic embrace of their Fairy Tail family. She was, after all, very good at logistics, and managing the social integration of volatile newcomers was just another, more delicate, form of resource management. Now, she was definitely going to have her fun, one way or another.
Katsuki, fueled by a potent cocktail of exhaustion, irritation, and the dawning, horrified realization of his predicament, stormed back through the quiet streets of Magnolia. The cool night air did little to soothe his frayed nerves. He reached the Fairy Tail guild hall, his earlier fatigue momentarily overridden by sheer, incandescent annoyance.
He shoved open the massive doors, ready to unleash a tirade, only to find the vast hall nearly empty and dimly lit. The fires in the hearths were banked low, casting long, dancing shadows. Most of an overturned chairs had been righted, the lingering scent of stale ale a testament to the earlier revelries. It was eerily quiet.
And there, by the main entrance, her hand already on the latch of one of the great wooden doors, preparing to lock up for the night, was Mirajane Strauss. She turned as he entered, her expression one of mild, perfectly feigned surprise, though her eyes danced with an undeniable, knowing amusement.
"Bakugo-san?" she said, her voice soft in the stillness. "Back so soon? Did you forget something? Perhaps… your overwhelming desire for a midnight snack?"
Katsuki's eye twitched. He stalked towards her, his footsteps echoing unnervingly in the near-empty hall. He was tired. He was pissed off. And he was in no mood for her gentle teasing.
"My KEY, barmaid!" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He jabbed an accusatory finger in her direction. "My goddamn apartment key! Don't play dumb with me! I know those idiots gave it to you after their 'burrito' stunt!" He spat the word 'burrito' like a curse. "You're the last one here, locking up. So, hand it over! Now! Before I decide to test just how explosion-proof these damn doors really are!"
He was tired, yes. But he was also Katsuki Bakugo. And being locked out of his own sanctuary, especially due to the meddling of others and the perceived machinations of this infuriatingly serene woman, had pushed him right back to the brink of explosive irritation. His patience, already worn thin by a day of epic battles and accounting errors, was now non-existent. He just wanted his key, his bed, and for the world to leave him the hell alone for at least eight hours.
Mirajane, however, merely smiled, that infuriatingly calm, sweet smile that always seemed to precede some form of gentle, soul-destroying torment. "My, my, Bakugo-san," she said, her voice like silk, though her eyes were practically incandescent with suppressed laughter. "Such… passion. Over a little piece of metal." She held up a small, familiar-looking key, dangling it playfully from her fingertips. "Is this, perhaps, what you're looking for?"
Katsuki's eyes narrowed. "Give. It. To. Me."
Mirajane just hummed thoughtfully. "Well, now, that depends, doesn't it? Keys are rather important things. One wouldn't want them to fall into the wrong hands… or be used to, say, enter an apartment only to find oneself unexpectedly… burritoed again." Her smile widened. "Perhaps a small… discussion… is in order before this key changes hands? About the proper etiquette of ensuring one's neighbors aren't driven to such desperate measures of textile-based immobilization in the future?"
Katsuki let out a sound that was somewhere between a roar of pure fury and a sob of utter exhaustion. This woman was going to be the death of him. And she was clearly enjoying every single, infuriating second of it. His bed seemed a million miles away.
---
The sight of his key, dangling so tantalizingly from Mirajane's fingers, coupled with her saccharine, infuriatingly playful refusal to simply hand it over, was the absolute last straw for Katsuki's utterly depleted reserves. His grand plans for a furious tirade, for perhaps a small, door-rattling explosion to emphasize his displeasure, even his immediate, desperate need for sleep – all of it short-circuited.
His vision, which had been focused with laser-like intensity on the key and Mirajane's amused face, suddenly swam. The floor beneath his feet seemed to tilt and sway like the deck of a ship in a storm. The last vestiges of adrenaline, which had been propping him up through sheer, stubborn willpower, drained away as if a plug had been pulled. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of blurring lights and encroaching darkness.
"You… damn… witch…" he managed to rasp, his voice a faint, failing whisper, his accusatory finger wavering. That was all he could manage before his legs buckled, his eyes rolled back, and the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, defeater of monsters, victor of epic spars, and connoisseur of high-quality demolition, pitched forward, unconscious once more.
This time, however, there was no hard floor to meet him.
Mirajane, who had been anticipating some form of explosive outburst, was momentarily surprised by his sudden, silent collapse. But her reflexes, honed by years of dealing with Fairy Tail's various… incidents, and perhaps by a deeper, more instinctual protective urge where Katsuki was concerned, were lightning fast.
With a grace and strength that belied her slender frame, she moved, dropping the key and stepping forward in a single, fluid motion. She caught him just as he was about to crumple, his dead weight surprisingly heavy. She managed to hook an arm under his shoulders, preventing him from a full face-plant, though it was a near thing. He slumped against her, completely unresponsive, his breathing shallow but even. Out cold. Again.
Mirajane found herself supporting the unconscious form of Katsuki Bakugo, his spiky ash-blond hair tickling her cheek, the faint scent of ozone, sweat, and something uniquely, intensely him filling her senses. The vast, empty guild hall was silent save for their breathing.
A slow, complex smile spread across her face. It was a smile of exasperation, of tenderness, of profound amusement, and yes, a definite, undeniable spark of… enjoyment. His bed, which had seemed so close, was now indeed another million miles away for him. But for Mirajane? Oh, this was just… perfect.
"Oh, Katsuki," she murmured, her voice a soft, almost purring whisper against his hair, the use of his first name slipping out with an easy, possessive familiarity in the privacy of the deserted hall. "You do make things so wonderfully… interesting."
She shifted her grip, expertly maneuvering his surprisingly solid, muscular frame until she could support him more comfortably. He was a dead weight, but she was stronger than she looked. Much stronger.
"Now, now," she cooed softly, as if speaking to a particularly volatile but ultimately endearing pet. "Fainting at a lady's feet, twice in as many days? Such drama. Such passion." Her eyes gleamed with a mischievous light that would have sent shivers down the spine of anyone who truly understood the depths of Mirajane Strauss's playful sadism. "And after I went to all the trouble of preparing for our little… 'chat' about keys and appropriate neighborly conduct."
She looked around the empty guild hall, then back down at Katsuki's unconscious face, peaceful now, stripped of its usual fierce scowl. A plan, delightful in its simplicity and its potential for future… leverage… began to form in her mind.
"Well," she sighed, a theatrical sound of put-upon martyrdom that was entirely feigned. "I suppose I can't just leave you here on the floor, can I? That wouldn't be very hospitable. And the infirmary beds are probably getting rather tired of your company."
With a surprising surge of strength, she began to half-drag, half-carry him towards the bar area, a thoughtful, almost predatory glint in her eye. The infirmary was too predictable. His own apartment was currently inaccessible (thanks to her). But there was a rather comfortable-looking, out-of-the-way sofa in the small lounge area behind the bar, a place usually reserved for staff or for guild members needing a quiet moment away from the usual chaos. A place where he would be entirely under her supervision when he eventually, inevitably, woke up again.
"Yes," Mirajane decided, her smile widening into something that was both angelic and utterly terrifying. "A nice, long, uninterrupted rest. Right here. Where I can keep a close eye on you." She paused, considering. "And perhaps, when you awaken, we can have that little discussion about responsibility, and the proper way to request things from a lady who holds all the keys… and all the cards."
She chuckled softly to herself, the sound echoing faintly in the vast, empty hall. Oh, yes. Mirajane Strauss was going to enjoy this. Every last, sweet, infuriating, and utterly captivating moment of it. The Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight was, for now, entirely at her mercy. And her mercy, as many in Fairy Tail knew, could be a wonderfully creative and thoroughly entertaining thing. His bed was indeed a million miles away. And his key? Well, that was safe in her pocket, right next to her carefully laid plans for his awakening.
---
With Katsuki's unconscious form now artfully arranged (or perhaps, more accurately, strategically deposited) on the surprisingly plush sofa in the secluded lounge area behind the bar, Mirajane Strauss found herself with a rare, uninterrupted opportunity. The guild hall was locked, the rest of Magnolia was asleep, and the object of her… considerable interest… was completely at her mercy, dead to the world.
She pulled up a small stool, settling beside the sofa, and simply… observed him. The harsh, flickering lamplight from the main hall cast long, dancing shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the stubborn set of his mouth even in sleep, the way his spiky ash-blond hair fell across his forehead. Stripped of his usual explosive aura, his scowl, his aggressive posturing, he looked… younger. Almost peaceful, though a faint frown line remained, a testament to a life lived on the razor's edge.
Her gaze, usually so serene or playfully mischievous, now held a different quality. It was a complex tapestry of emotions and thoughts, a silent monologue playing out behind her sapphire eyes.
Part of her was still marveling at the sheer, unadulterated power she had witnessed earlier that day. The way he had taken on Natsu, Gray, and Gajeel – three of their strongest – and not just held his own, but dominated them through a combination of raw force, tactical brilliance, and seemingly limitless stamina. It was awe-inspiring, terrifying, and undeniably thrilling. He was a true force of nature, a whirlwind of destructive potential barely contained within a human form. And that power, that untamed energy, was undeniably… captivating.
Then there was the professional curiosity, the logistician in her. How did his Quirk truly work? This 'nitroglycerin sweat' – was it a finite resource, or did it regenerate as rapidly as his battle rage seemed to? And his 'Explode' magic, the azure flames, the frictionless propulsion – where did that come from? Was it truly something he'd developed since arriving in Fiore, or was it a latent ability awakened by his interdimensional transit? The questions were fascinating, the implications for his potential growth staggering. He was an anomaly, a puzzle she longed to understand, to categorize, perhaps even to… nurture, in her own unique way.
Overlaying all of that, however, was a deeper, more personal current of thought. She remembered, with a clarity that was almost painful, his raw, broken confession by the lake after the Oppenheimer Smash – "I can't go home!" The desolation in his voice, the sheer, unadulterated grief of a world, a life, a future violently stolen. She had seen that pain, felt its echoes in her own carefully guarded heart, which knew its own share of loss and sorrow. Beneath the explosions and the arrogance, there was a profound loneliness, a desperate yearning for something he believed was irretrievably lost.
And that, perhaps, was what truly fascinated and drew Mirajane Strauss. Not just the power, not just the mystery, but the vulnerability he fought so hard to conceal. She saw the scared, angry boy lashing out from behind the impenetrable fortress of the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight. She understood, on a level few others could, the desperate need to project strength when one felt most broken.
Her fingers idly traced the outline of the key in her pocket. Yes, she would tease him when he woke. Yes, she would leverage this situation for a little harmless fun, perhaps extract a grudging apology or a more polite request. It was her nature, after all, to play, to gently manipulate the strings of the chaotic little world around her.
But as she looked at his sleeping face, at the faint scars – old and new – that crisscrossed his skin, at the way his hand, even in sleep, was curled into a loose fist, ready to strike, a different kind of plan began to form. Not just a plan for amusement, but a plan for… integration. For connection.
He'd said he'd "try" this family thing. He'd accepted the guild mark. He'd even, however awkwardly, shown a flicker of consideration for Erza. These were small steps, monumental for someone like him. Perhaps this latest fainting spell, this period of enforced proximity and (eventual) reliance on her for his key, could be another small nudge. A way to show him, in a non-threatening, almost playful manner, that it was okay to lean on others sometimes. That Fairy Tail, in all its infuriating, chaotic glory, truly was a place where even the most explosive, independent souls could find a measure of acceptance, and perhaps, eventually, even solace.
A soft, almost tender smile touched Mirajane's lips. She reached out, her touch feather-light, and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her fingers lingering for just a moment on his temple.
"Sleep well, Katsuki Bakugo," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the silent guild hall. "You've certainly earned it. And when you wake… well, when you wake, we'll see just what kind of new explosions – literal and metaphorical – you bring to our little family."
She settled back on her stool, content to watch over him, a guardian angel with a mischievous streak and a very interesting set of plans brewing. The night was long, and Mirajane Strauss was a very patient woman, especially when the potential for entertainment, and perhaps even a little bit of healing, was so deliciously high.
The silence of the deserted guild hall deepened, broken only by the soft, rhythmic breathing of the unconscious Katsuki and the faint, distant sounds of Magnolia settling into the deepest hours of the night. Mirajane continued her vigil, the initial amusement and strategic planning slowly giving way to a more profound, almost contemplative stillness.
She watched the rise and fall of his chest, the way the faint shadows played across the sharp, almost aggressively defined features of his face, now softened, unguarded in sleep. The usual inferno of his presence was banked, leaving behind an unexpected, almost startling, vulnerability. He was, in this moment, not the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, not the terrifying force of nature who could level mountains and annihilate dark guilds, but simply… Katsuki. A young man, impossibly far from home, bearing burdens and scars, both visible and hidden, that would crush a lesser spirit.
And as she looked at him, truly looked at him, stripped bare of his explosive defenses, a wave of emotion, complex and potent, washed over Mirajane. It was more than just empathy for his pain, more than just admiration for his strength, more than just amusement at his volatile nature. It was something… softer. Something warmer. Something that made her own heart ache with a strange, unexpected tenderness.
"Gosh," the thought formed, unbidden, in the quietest corner of her mind, a thought so raw and honest it almost startled her. "He's so damn vulnerable like this." The contrast between his waking ferocity and this sleeping defenselessness was almost… heartbreaking. And in that raw vulnerability, there was an undeniable, almost painful beauty.
The air in the small lounge seemed to grow warmer, thicker. Her gaze traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, still set in a faint, stubborn line even in unconsciousness. The urge, sudden, unexpected, and overwhelmingly powerful, rose within her. An urge she hadn't consciously acknowledged, had perhaps even actively suppressed amidst her playful teasing and strategic considerations.
"I want to kiss him."
The thought was a whisper, a dangerous, exhilarating spark in the stillness of her heart. It was reckless. It was unprofessional. It was probably, given his temperament, monumentally ill-advised. He would likely explode – literally – if he ever found out.
But in the deep, silent intimacy of that moment, with the rest of the world asleep and only the flickering lamplight as a witness, the urge became an irresistible tide. Her carefully constructed composure, her playful detachment, her role as the serene, all-knowing barmaid – it all seemed to melt away, leaving behind only Mirajane Strauss, a woman with her own hidden depths of passion and longing, drawn to the fierce, broken, beautiful soul lying unconscious before her.
Slowly, hesitantly, as if moving in a dream, she leaned closer. Her own breathing hitched, her heart pounding a wild, frantic rhythm against her ribs. The scent of him – ozone, sweat, a faint, lingering trace of smoke, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Katsuki – filled her senses, dizzying her.
Her gaze flickered from his lips to his closed eyelids, fringed with surprisingly long, dark lashes. He looked so young, so unguarded. The temptation was a sweet, agonizing ache.
And then, with a courage born of a desire that was as terrifying as it was undeniable, Mirajane did.
She leaned down, her own long, white hair falling like a silken curtain around them, creating a small, intimate space in the vast, empty hall. Her lips, soft and hesitant at first, then growing bolder with a surge of emotion she could no longer deny, met his.
It wasn't a demanding kiss, not a conqueror's claim. It was a whisper of contact, a breath of warmth, a silent acknowledgment of the complex, confusing, and overwhelmingly powerful feelings he had stirred within her. It was a kiss of empathy for his pain, of admiration for his untamed spirit, of a dawning, dangerous affection for the vulnerable boy hidden beneath the explosive warrior. It tasted of a thousand unspoken things – of loneliness and longing, of fierce pride and hidden sorrow, of the faint, metallic tang of his recent battles and the even fainter, sweeter promise of something… more.
For a timeless moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. There was only the soft press of her lips against his, the shared warmth, the silent, secret communion in the heart of the sleeping guild.
Then, just as slowly, just as hesitantly, Mirajane pulled away. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining with a mixture of exhilaration, tenderness, and a touch of dawning, delicious trepidation. She looked down at Katsuki's still-unconscious face. He hadn't stirred. He remained lost in the depths of his exhaustion, blissfully unaware of the profound, impulsive, and utterly transformative liberty she had just taken.
A shaky breath escaped her. She had done it. She had crossed a line, a boundary she hadn't even consciously known existed until this very moment. And there was no taking it back.
A slow, secretive, and utterly unrepentant smile spread across Mirajane's face. This… this changed things. Or perhaps, it simply acknowledged what had already begun to change within her. The Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight was still a fascinating, terrifying puzzle. But Katsuki Bakugo… Katsuki Bakugo was now something else entirely.
She gently brushed a stray strand of his hair from his forehead again, her touch lingering, no longer just observational, but filled with a new, tender possessiveness. "Sleep now, my little firecracker," she whispered, her voice husky with unspoken emotion. "Because when you wake up… oh, when you wake up, things are going to be even more interesting."
And as she settled back onto her stool, her heart still pounding, her lips still tingling, Mirajane Strauss knew, with a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying, that her plans for Katsuki Bakugo had just taken a very sharp, very personal, and infinitely more complicated turn. The game, it seemed, had just become a great deal more captivating.