hello everyone! this is my very first post and my first time writing fan-fiction i really hope you all enjoy as much as i enjoyed writing it! please feel free to comment or give me tips for all of this! i can’t wait to hear what you think 🩷 please be nice 🥺
Collateral Damage💥
Katsuki Bakugou x Fem!Reader
warnings: angst, arguing, mature themes, emotional hurt/comfort
word count: ~2.6k
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Part One: The Match That Burned Everything
The smell of smoke and ash clung to Katsuki’s hero costume long after he’d stripped it off, but it was the tension in his jaw that you noticed first.
You’d watched the joint training exercise from the observation deck. Watched him get countered — twice — by a third-year. Watched his explosions get neutralized mid-air by a quirk that absorbed kinetic energy and redistributed it. Watched Katsuki Bakugou, the most aggressively competent person you’d ever met, get benched on a technicality in the final round.
You knew the look on his face when he came through the common room door.
You should have let him go upstairs.
That was your first mistake.
“Hey.” You set down your textbook and pulled one leg up onto the couch, offering him the space beside you. “That third-year’s quirk was genuinely broken. You almost had him in the second round —”
“Don’t.”
The word landed flat. Clipped. A warning.
You heard it. You just didn’t listen.
“I’m just saying it wasn’t a skill issue, it was a matchup problem. Even Todoroki would’ve struggled with —”
“I said don’t.” He moved to the kitchen, yanking the refrigerator open with more force than necessary. “I don’t need you to explain what happened to me like I’m a child who needs consoling. I know what happened. I was there.”
You blinked. “I wasn’t explaining it to you, I was just —”
“You were coddling me.” He turned around, water bottle in hand, jaw tight. His eyes were the color of burning embers — red and furious and looking for somewhere to go. “Sitting there with that face like you feel sorry for me. I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity, Katsuki, it’s called being supportive —”
“Supportive.” He laughed, and it was the ugliest sound you’d heard from him in months. Sharp. Humorless. “Right. Following me around. Watching my fights like you’re waiting for me to fall apart so you can swoop in. That’s not support. That’s babysitting.”
The word landed like a slap.
“Babysitting,” you repeated quietly.
“You hover. You always hover.” His voice was rising now, filling the kitchen, filling the space between you until there was nowhere for it to go except directly into you. “Like you don’t think I can handle my own life without you watching over my shoulder. I don’t need a keeper —”
“Then say that,” you said, and your voice cracked at the edges in a way you hated. “Say ‘I need space’ like a normal person instead of —”
“Instead of what?”
“Instead of tearing into me for caring about you!”
The silence that followed was brutal.
Katsuki’s expression didn’t soften. If anything it locked down harder — that wall slamming into place behind his eyes, the one he built when he felt too seen, too close to something real.
“Maybe,” he said. Very slowly. Very deliberately. Like he was choosing each word as a weapon and selecting the sharpest ones. “You should care about something that actually wants it.”
You stood there.
Just for a moment.
Long enough for that sentence to carve itself somewhere permanent. Long enough to feel it settle into your chest like something with weight and edges.
Then you picked up your textbook from the couch. Walked to the stairs. Kept your footsteps even.
“Goodnight, Katsuki.”
You didn’t slam your door. You didn’t cry in the hallway where anyone could hear.
You sat on the edge of your bed in the dark and pressed your palm flat to your sternum like pressure could stop the feeling of something quietly breaking.
Care about something that actually wants it.
You’d given him two years. Two years of learning his silences and his triggers and the specific way he needed to be loved — carefully, without hovering, without smothering, but consistently, always there. You’d learned when to push and when to step back and when to simply exist beside him without asking for anything in return.
And he’d taken all of it and sharpened it into something he could throw at you.
You sat in the dark for a long time.
Part Two: What Silence Builds
Three days.
That’s how long you waited.
You told yourself you were giving him space. That was true. You were also telling yourself that he would come to you — that he would knock on your door with that jaw tight and those eyes doing their complicated thing and say I shouldn’t have said that in the grudging, effortful way he said hard things.
He didn’t come.
Day one, you ate lunch at a different time. Day two, you took a different route to class. Day three, you stopped waiting entirely and texted Yuna instead.
Yuna was a support course third-year with an apartment off-campus and a friend group that laughed loudly and didn’t discuss hero rankings over dinner. She’d been trying to get you to come to her Friday nights for months.
I need to be somewhere that isn’t here, you texted.
Get over here, she texted back.
Her apartment smelled like candles and takeout and felt nothing like the dorms. Her friends were loud and easy and nobody looked at you like they were calculating anything. You sat on her couch and felt your shoulders come down from around your ears for the first time in three days.
Ren was Yuna’s friend from general studies. Quiet, dark-haired, with an easy smile that asked nothing from you. He refilled your drink without being asked and listened when you talked and laughed at the same moments you did, and being around him was effortless in the way that things were effortless when there was nothing at stake.
You went back the next Friday. And the one after that.
You told yourself it was just friendship. And it was — mostly. But there was something underneath it that you recognized and didn’t examine too closely.
The third Friday, you had too much wine and the conversation drifted close and Ren looked at you with a question in his eyes that was clear and uncomplicated.
You thought about Katsuki.
You thought about care about something that actually wants it.
You thought about twelve days of silence.
You made a choice.
It was the worst decision you’d made in two years, and you knew it approximately four minutes into making it. Not because of Ren — he was kind, he was careful, he checked in with you, and none of that was the problem.
The problem was that it wasn’t him.
You went home at 2 a.m.
You sat in the shower for a very long time.
Part Three: Kaminari’s Cousin
Katsuki heard it at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday.
He’d been managing. That was what he told himself — he was managing. Six-hour training sessions that left him too physically exhausted to think. Cold showers. Protein. Sleep that came eventually if he was tired enough.
And then Kaminari sat down at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal and said, in the carefully casual tone of someone who knew they were handling something volatile, “Hey, so. My cousin was at some apartment in the city last Friday… He saw you-know-who. With some guy from general studies. They left together around —”
The chair scraped back.
Katsuki stood in the middle of the kitchen with his jaw locked and something horrible twisting in his chest.
It was the feeling of something being taken.
Part Four: Livid
He didn’t go to the apartment.
He went to your door.
He knocked twice.
You opened it in sweats, textbook in hand, looking like a normal Tuesday evening. The normalcy of it infuriated him.
Then you saw his face and went very still.
“Katsuki —”
“Was it him.” His voice was dangerously controlled. “The general studies guy. Kaminari’s cousin saw you. Friday night. Was it him.”
“Yes.” Quiet. Steady. “Yes. It was.”
The silence was suffocating.
The argument spilled out between you — raw, ugly, and honest. All the hurt, the fear, the mistakes.
“I was trying to figure out how to fix it,” he said, voice rough.
“I didn’t need the right way,” you shot back, eyes burning. “I needed you.”
The tension snapped.
Katsuki surged forward, slamming the door shut so hard the frame rattled. He grabbed your wrist with bruising force and backed you against the wall, his other hand slamming into the plaster beside your head hard enough to crack it. His eyes were wild, body radiating heat. Real fear shot through you.
“Katsuki, you’re scaring me—”
“Good.” He pressed in closer, caging you in completely. “You should be scared. You think you can just give my pussy away and I’ll smile about it?” His hand left your wrist to fist tightly in your hair, yanking your head back. “After two fucking years?”
The confessions kept coming — jagged and desperate — but the jealousy burned hotter than everything else.
“I’m in love with you,” he growled against your mouth. “But right now I want to fucking ruin you for anyone else.”
You should have pushed him away.
Instead, you pulled him closer.
“Then do it.”
Katsuki lost it.
He ripped your sweatshirt off, the fabric tearing. Your sweats and panties were shoved down roughly and kicked aside. He freed his thick, heavy cock and spun you around, slamming your chest against the wall.
“You’re still dripping,” he hissed, dragging the head of his cock through your soaked folds before thrusting into you in one brutal, punishing stroke.
“Fuck—!” you cried out at the harsh stretch.
He didn’t wait. He fucked you hard and vicious, hips snapping with savage force. One hand stayed fisted in your hair, the other gripped your hip so tightly his fingers dug into your skin. The wet, filthy slap of his cock slamming into your cunt filled the room with every violent thrust.
“This what you needed?” he snarled in your ear, biting down hard on your shoulder. “Needed me to fuck that loser out of this sloppy pussy?”
“Yes—god—harder!”
He railed you mercilessly, balls slapping against your clit, cock driving so deep it bordered on pain. “Say it. Say whose cunt this is.”
“Yours—Katsuki—it’s yours—fuck!”
You came hard, walls spasming around him as your legs shook. He growled and kept pounding through it until he buried himself to the hilt and came with a guttural moan, flooding your pussy with thick, hot ropes of cum.
For a moment, only ragged breathing filled the room.
Then the rage cracked. He pulled out slowly, turned you around, and his expression shifted — the violence bleeding into raw regret as he saw your tears and the fresh marks on your skin.
“Shit…” His voice broke. He cupped your face with shaking hands. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. The thought of him touching you made me lose it.”
You kissed him, still trembling. “I know. I’m sorry too. It didn’t mean anything. It was always you.”
The anger drained away, replaced by aching love and need.
He walked you to the bed, laid you down gently, and pushed back inside you — slow and deep this time, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
“I love you,” he whispered, rolling his hips in a steady, intense rhythm. “I’m never letting you go again.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. This round was desperate but reverent — grinding, claiming, full of soft curses, apologies, and promises. You came again moaning his name, and he followed right after, filling you once more as he buried his face in your neck.
Afterward, he held you tight against his chest, stroking your hair.
“No one else,” he murmured. “Never again.”
“Never again,” you agreed.
You stayed tangled together, sweaty and spent.
“We’re going to be okay,” he said quietly.
This time, you believed him.
— end —