I will love you (until the end of time)
“For the next twenty four hours, will you pretend that we’re still in love? That we’re still in a relationship and that it never ended?”
You ask for a moment more, and Bakugou Katsuki gives you a world more.
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pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader
warnings: they are pro heroes in this, reader is bad at feelings NOT bakugou, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, post break up fic, break up make up fic, smut, domestic!bakugou, missing tag
word count: 10,327
a/n: this stemmed out of my own commitment insecurities and my upmost appreciation for the character growth of bakugou katsuki who may not be my favorite character but holds the title for my favorite canon growth. here’s to him continuing to be feral but be a kinder man.
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It’s a bright and sunny day.
There’s no one on the street, nothing to hear except the rumble of cars blocks away, nothing but the sweet chittering and chirping of spring birds calling and dancing for their love.
You inhale sharply, trying to calm your nerves, your wits — trying so desperately to reign in your million emotions while hiding what was so desperate to crack through the surface.
“Please, answer the door…” you whisper to yourself as your knuckles rap, tap, tap, tap, against the clean white door. Your fingers twist by your hips, turning and pulling as the seconds pass by like centuries.
One.
Two.
Three—
“Coming.”
His voice calls from behind the door, and you feel your spine straighten immediately, your stomach melting and bursting with butterflies you had long forgotten could exist.
Your breathing picks up. It’s sharp, short, oxygen failing to fill your lungs as you stare at the opening door.
The first thing you see is tired, confused red eyes.
“K-Katsuki, hey! Nice seeing you here,” you greet him weakly, your lips pulled into an even weaker, more wobbly smile as you look at the man who once held your heart.
Bakugou blinks, his eyebrow furrowing a millimeter — something that would go missing by the untrained eye. It looks as if he’s contemplating what to do, trying to decide if he should slam the door in your face or keep it open. Sure, the two of you had dated for nearly five years, and Bakugou had clearly told you that you were it for him, but he was a prideful man. You couldn’t blame him if he simply slammed the door on you.
“I live here,” Bakugou says slowly, his arms crossing before his chest, and you laugh awkwardly as you try not to look at what was a damning distraction.
“Well, yes,” you say, nerves getting to you suddenly but in a way that makes you want to ramble. “It was stupid of me to say that! I just, well, I got nervous, and you know how I get at times, and I said it without thinking! You live here, duh! This is your house, why wouldn’t you live here! It’s just—”
“Spit it out, dork,” Bakugou sighs, his frown deepening as he rolls his eyes.
Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, you can feel tears welling in your eyes as you look to the floor.
Calm down; you can do this.
“I needed to ask you something, a favor, really.”
You look back up at him, and Bakugou seems to be digesting your words.
“What do you need?” Bakugou decides to allow you to ask, and only one ton of your forty-ton problem falls off your shoulders.
“It’s… it’s going to sound really fucked, but don’t get mad,” you whisper, fingers running up your chest and clutching onto the chain around your neck. “Please don’t feel obligated to say yes either; I’ll take whatever answer you give me.”
“Y/n,” Bakugou stresses, and you shudder slightly.
Inhale for five. Hold for five. Exhale.
“For the next twenty-four hours, will you pretend that we’re still in love? That we’re still in a relationship and that it never ended?”
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A cloud passes over the sun.
The birds stop dancing, the cars go silent.
It’s as if the entire world silences just for you and him, everyone anxious and eager to hear Bakugou’s answer.
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Your gaze is down at his feet. You miss the stiffening of his spine and the bewildered look in his eyes. But that’s okay; his answer is what matters most, anyways.
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“I can do that.”
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10:12 a.m. – 24:00:00 Remaining
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You toe off your shoes by the front door, leaving them next to Bakugou’s neatly placed loafers, and you slide on the guest slippers. You frown slightly at the stiffness of the slippers, but you realize that it’s because they’re not your old ones. The lavender-colored slippers that were once imprinted by your foot, fitting comfortably and perfectly against your feet, no longer resided within his shoe stand.
“Your shift ran late last night?” Bakugou asks as you shuffle in after him. “Why’re you getting home so late?”
You blink, thrown off by that question.
You did have a late night shift yesterday, but on the contrary, you had been let off early, not late.
It takes a second, but you realize immediately what was happening.
The two of you had lived together for so long, and while the life of a pro hero came with timing issues, it involved some beautifully colorful stories the following day. You both recount why you arrived home midday and not at the crack of dawn. Just like old times, it seems.
You smile, mentally thankful that Bakugou was just that good at transitioning and keeping his promises. You take in a deep breathe, still yourself, and respond:
“It was the worst. A kid’s quirk came in, and they panicked; they nearly destroyed the entire block. No casualties, thankfully, but a few injured in the hospital. Full recovery is expected for everyone.”
“I’m surprised I wasn’t called in,” Bakugou hums, he is walking towards the kitchen, and you wonder if he’s already eaten breakfast. You should have brought his favorite food. “Who else was there?”
“You weren’t called in because your quirk would not be of assistance there,” you point out. Everyone knew full well that while Bakugou was a household name due to his sheer power and being number two on the hero charts alongside Deku, he was not made for search and rescue purposes. He’s been called in many times to help, but explosions paired with debris, broken infrastructure, and trembling civilians caused more trouble than help.
Bakugou scoffs slightly, and you easily slip onto a high chair by the kitchen island, watching and feeling still a few embers of awkwardness as he seems to be preparing breakfast. A single meal for just him would now be for two.
“Uravity was there, so was Hawks,” you begin listing names, trying to remember who was on the scene before your exit. “Aizawa-sensei, too, if you can believe it.”
“The lazy bastard is always around when things involve a quirk malfunction and a kid,” Bakugou supplies, and you find yourself nodding in agreement. Despite your old sensei being, well, akin to a grumpy hermit, there was always something unworldly kind and good about him with children.
“Still, I feel like I hardly see him nowadays,” you pout, watching Bakugou grab two porcelain bowls from the shelves and pour in two steaming cups of miso soup.
Your mouth waters as he turns around, placing the murky soup in front of you, there’s plenty of tofu, seaweed, and onions, and you wonder for a moment if he’s still on his bulking diet or not. You hum contentedly, gratefully, as Bakugou hands you chopsticks and another small bowl of white rice and egg.
A simple breakfast.
“Thank you,” you whisper, your smile warm and soft as you grab the bowl and blow softly on the steaming soup.
“And you better eat everything in it,” Bakugou warns, his red eyes warm, his eyebrow quirked as he brings his own bowl up to his mouth. “If you leave anything behind, you won’t get lunch.”
You laugh, “okay!”
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10:37 a.m. – 23:45:39 Remaining
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Breakfast was eaten quietly, the both of you merely taking in each other for the first time in a year. A shared breakfast that had been standard for nearly three years in a row was unfamiliar, foreign. Your gaze had fallen to the table, remaining fixated on the fluffy white rice and egg as you had eaten the miso soup in record time. Sure, your tongue now felt a little numb, a little too raw, but you had missed Bakugou’s cooking. Instant miso was nothing compared to his.
But breakfast has been finished for a bit over three minutes now, and neither one of you has spoken a word since. What would you talk about? What could you talk about? You weren’t sure if doing this was even a good idea! You were the one who ended things; you were the reason why things that were now happening were happening. Why couldn’t you just pretend as quickly as he was? It wasn’t as if you weren’t in love with him still.
Looking up at Bakugou, your lips pulled into a tense purse, your eyes boring holes into his back as he silently washes the dishes. White suds clinging to his forearms and soft ash blond locks brushing against the bridge of his nose. You want to walk over and press yourself to his backside, hold him sweetly as you complain about how he should wash the dishes later, and come to the couch and watch some dumb cartoon with you instead. You want it so badly, but there are lines still drawn in the sand, lines you don’t know how to erase even though for this moment, for the next few hours, they don’t exist.
‘Talk to him!’ you yell at yourself. ‘Talk!’
“Do you have any plans today?” Bakugou asks, his gaze not leaving the sink as he washes off the last porcelain bowl of the soap. “Today’s my day off, so we can do anything you want today.”
“U-Um,” you stumble immediately, flushing at the fact that he had beaten you to the first words. “No? I don’t think I have any plans?”
“Do you work?”
Your fingers pull at your lip in anxiety.
“No, today’s my day off, too.”
“Planning on hanging out with any of your friends?”
You hesitate, watching as Bakugou places the bowl on the drying rack and grabbing a towel to dry his toned arms from the water and soap remnants.
“No, I want this day to be with… I just want to be with you today.”
Bakugou pauses, and you watch as he turns around slowly, looking at you with contemplative eyes as he leans back against the sink. Strong arms never slowing in its mission to dry himself off, but they eventually part, the towel swinging up and over his shoulder, resting there as he crosses his arms again.
There are only a few feet between the two of you, but it feels like miles.
“A stay in sort of day?” he tries again; his blinks are slow, controlled.
“Um, yeah, I guess,” you mumble, your gaze dropping from his, unable to keep the contact going.
“You guess?” Bakugou shoots back, his tone slightly aggravated, his brows furrowed incredulously as you look back up at him with wide eyes. He’s shoved himself off the sink and assumes an intimidating stance, and is just the slightest bit insecure. “You’re the one who came to my door asking for this. I assumed you had some sort of plan, especially since this seems like such a dumb idea, to begin with. I agreed to this, so do something; I’m not planning the entire day, and don’t waste my time.”
“I know that!” you argue back, tears burning at the back of your eyes because you knew that this was only a few minutes in but already going disastrously. But you couldn’t help it; you couldn’t stop things from getting weird and awkward. “I just wasn’t expecting you to say yes! I thought you were going to slam the door in my face or argue with me, not agree! A-And this is all so weird to me! I know I want you to love me, but there are lines in the ground, and I don’t know which ones can be crossed or not because I don’t want to over–”
Warm lips press against yours, and you feel the blood rushing to your head and down your back as all too familiar lips reach you. Bakugou’s hands are warm and big pressed against your hips, and his nose is pushed just a bit too roughly against your cheek, but it’s perfect. It shuts you up, erasing lines you had created in your head as your fingers twist into his hair.
The kiss is almost hilariously innocent despite how roughly the both of you are pressing against each other. Lips without a home for far too long, desperate and overwhelmed at finally meeting yet again.
He pulls away far too soon, and your eyes barely manage to open, something that makes you question when exactly you had closed it. You can’t see anything but Bakugou’s eyes. The brilliant red looks at you with that gleam of pride, the burning love in the red depths that thrilled and scared you. But it’s the uncertainty, the smallest amount of fear in the glazed-over red that makes your throat tighten.
“Wow,” is the only intelligent thing you can manage to say.
“You were rambling,” Bakugou gruffs, warm fingers curling around your cheeks. “It was annoying.”
“Should’ve known the only way to get you to break past the barrier was to start talking non–”
He kisses you again, and only this time, smiles bleed into the kiss.
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12:11 p.m. – 22:01:56 Remaining
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“That SUCKED!” you screeched, watching the transpiring final episode of an old show the two of you had watched together but never finished due to the break-up. “They really ended on that cliffhanger, and then the show got canceled?!”
“Yup.”
“How am I—? What am I—? I’m going to DM the show writers!”
“They won’t respond.”
“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT!”
“It’s been a year since it last aired; you don’t think people haven’t tried?” Bakugou groans slightly as you elbow his ribs in your mass scramble to grab your phone sitting at the end of the couch.
An apology leaves your lips; it was half formed, even less genuine as you looked up the creator’s name on the internet. But your scowl and total concentration disappeared the moment the search went through, and you saw the first article suggested:
HORIKOSHI K. REFUSES TO TELL THE REAL ENDING OF BNHA HERE’S WHY!
“No,” you whisper harshly, and you hear a snicker.
“Yes.”
“Katsuki, why didn’t you tell meee?” you whine, face pressing into his warm chest as his hands find themselves stroking up and down your back.
“Not my fault your dumbass didn’t listen,” Bakugou grunts as you grumble some more.
You pout, your head turning so that you pressed your cheek against his chest, your hand raising until your fingers grazed across his chest as well. You could hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the soft thump, thump, thump you had once listened to daily. Sometimes it was because it was the only thing that grounded you, reminded you that you weren’t the only thing alive. Sometimes it was after passionate affairs, when his heartbeat would be scattered, unsynced, and totally, utterly imperfect that made something flip in your stomach. Sometimes it was to remind you that Bakugou was alive. That he wasn’t dead. That the injuries he came home with, the ones that made you cry and panic hadn’t killed him in his sleep.
Bakugou’s breathing was still, even. Your eyes continued to look at the handsome dip of his shirt, your finger tracing nonsense against his clothed skin. His warm hands sat on your hips, unmoving but firm. You wanted to look up but felt too hesitant to do it.
Unsure of what would be lost in those deep, dark, red eyes.
Love.
Fear.
Hope.
Rejection.
Acceptance.
Hate.
It could be anything, indeed anything at all.
“Hey,” Bakugou whispers, speaking low in his throat as if to not startle you. You feel heat-hardened fingers brush against the curve of your chin; it was a soft touch, a silent question lingering against the joined skin. “Look at me, dork.”
A shaky breath expels from your mouth, his fingers supporting your head as you tilt it up, but your eyes remain closed, not ready to release that final barrier.
Don’t crumble, don’t fall.
“Oi, calm down, I’m here,” Bakugou softly stresses, and goosebumps spark against your skin when his other hand touches your face again.
“I can’t calm down,” you whispered, voice high and strained, trying so desperately to not crack and break. “Not when things are like this.”
His thumbs pet your cheeks, and you lean into his touch, wanting to freeze time forever.
Let this last forever.
“There’s no reason to cry over the show,” Bakugou says intentionally. It draws your attention away from your actual worries and makes you focus on a lighter, less pressing issue. “You could always bribe the creator with a picture of your ass; I’m sure that’ll win him over.”
Your eyes snap open, and you smack your fist onto his chest, an embarrassed splutter staining your mouth. Bakugou is grinning fiercely, red eyes mirthful and untamed.
“That would be sexual harassment!”
“Harassment, my ass, he’d be so lucky to see it,” Bakugou laughs, hands sliding down to your waist as the incredulous look on your face only grows.
“Bakugou Katsuki! You kiss your mother with that mouth?!”
“And I’ve eaten your pussy with it too.”
“KATSUKI!”
“We could add your ass to that list, too,” Bakugou smirks and rolls his eyes. He looks at your pout, and a devious grin spreads on his face. “And then I could say her-ass-meant the world to me.”
“I– What?! I’m going to– what on earth is wrong with you!”
“Nothing, I’m perfect.”
“I’m going to kill you. I’ve decided.”
“Kill me with that glorious ass of yours, will ya?”
“SHUT UP!”
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3:31 p.m. – 19:41:02 Remaining
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“I need the vanilla extract.”
“You don’t need the vanilla extract.”
“I am trying to do something creative, sir. We are trailblazers, not cattle sheep!”
“Putting it in will destroy the entire cake.”
“But we won’t know until we try!”
“I don’t care!”
So, the two of you liked baking together.
Despite what one may think, watching it from the outside, it was a great stress reliever for both of you. It worked almost the same as sex! It was to no one’s surprise that Bakugou was a great cook. Not only did he often feed most of your former class, but whenever there was a get-together, Bakugou would be in the kitchen alongside Sato and Midoriya. The former because no one had anything on Sato’s cooking side. The latter because he liked being involved and appreciating cooking soon after making candy apples for Eri.
But cooking was not the same as baking.
Cooking wasn’t nearly as messy, although it was as exceedingly complicated. There was no sugar under fingernails or flour highlighting every curve and shadow on your body. No icing dripping from spoons or crushed candy cane on the table.
Cooking was an obligation to living, be it homemade curry or microwavable ramen, but baking was a gift. Not nearly as needed, but far more greatly appreciated.
Kasutera was a deceptively easy baked good to make. A popular fluffy cake that was traditionally baked in a wooden pan. With only four ingredients to its name, it shouldn’t be too difficult to make, or one would think. There were four room temperature egg yolks and egg whites used, seventy grams of sugar, fifty grams of sifted flour, and 25 grams of diluted honey. Typically, after putting together the baked goods, you were to wrap the cake in parchment paper and leave it to cool over the night.
It was an exact recipe, something that even the smallest of mistakes could damage the final product beyond repair, and well, there were more than a few problems here.
First and foremost, Bakugou Katsuki was not a baker; he was a culinary chef, i.e., not a pastry chef. Sure, he was perfect at nearly everything he did, but baking was one of the few things in his life he did not excel in. Cooking was chemistry to Bakugou, there was rhyme, reason, structure, but baking was too free-willed, too open, and disastrously small at the most unexpected moments.
Mix in you, one of the few people in the world that could quickly and simply distract Bakugou, and the fact that most of the time, you forgot what you were doing while being lost in the blaring music. Sift in the information that you loved to dance, and a splash of bullying Bakugou into dancing with you left you with a disaster.
A floury, sugary, sticky disaster.
A disaster you were more than likely making way worse.
“If your dumbass doesn’t get away from my bowl, right now, y/l/n!” Bakugou barks out, twisting his shoulder to block you out from the bowl.
You squawk as you’re shoved away, your hand that carries the vanilla extract unable to reach the bowl.
“Let it happen!” you exclaim, your voice edging a cackle as your other arm wraps across his chest. You’re trying to entrap him, trying to be like a snake around his entire body. “It’ll make this bitch taste so good!”
“Like hell you’re fucking up this recipe, dork! Fucking leave me alone and forget the damn vanilla extract!”
“Lemme put it in, or I’ll bite your arms!
“Don’t be a mosquito– OW, FUCK!”
Your teeth had sunk into the flesh of his left arm, a cackle bubbling up your throat as you placed another bite a few centimeters to the right of the first bite. Three red bite marks now lined his pale, strong arms, and you giggled at the sound of slamming steel before screeching as annoyed, loving red eyes rounded on you.
“You brat!” he bellows, and you panic, dropping the vanilla extract as he tackles you on the floor as you screech his name.
“Lemme go! Stop!” you howl, struggling against his hot iron hold.
Bakugou loomed above you, knees digging into your sides as he grinned fiercely, teeth bared and all. His face is caked in loose flour, and sugar flakes, a circumstance that had occurred when you had playfully (see accidentally, maybe a bit purposefully, depending on who’s answering) crashed a bowl of sugar and flour into his face.
Baking was a good stress reliever for both of you. Most of your days were filled with protein shakes, gluten-free chips, and bento boxes with an unholy scale for only healthy protein and iron-filled products. Baking allowed for leeway for something not as bland, something sweeter, and delectable. But the both of you commandeering an intricate art often left you both less than clean.
“You get away from me right now!” you threaten, your arms struggling and failing to throw his weight off of you.
“Or what, y/l/n?!” Bakugou sneers playfully, his nose nearly brushing against yours. “You gonna throw me off you? Kick my ass? I wanna see you make me get off you.”
You fluster with his words, face screwing up as you can only see his victorious, feral grin.
“You’re an asshole!” you spit, squirming as his lips press against your jaw.
“Yeah?”
His lips press to the spot right below your earlobe, and for a moment, you can’t find your voice. “Y-Yeah, a big one too!”
“I guess I should apologize for that, then, huh?” he chuckles, and your eyelids flutter as you look up at Bakugou, who stares down at you with nothing but pure adoration and love. And it’s real, it’s true, and you want nothing more but to sink into the floor with him forever.
“You should,” you respond in a whisper. “Take responsibility for your actions.”
“Mm,” he whispers back, already leaning in. “When don’t I?”
And like a chocolate piece on a hot stove, you absolutely melt when his sugar-dusted lips press against yours.
There the two of you stay, for a few minutes or maybe much, much more, letting your lips press and move against each other. At some point, the hands that once held you down were now entwined with yours, a gentle weight now as your free hand pressed to the small of his back.
It was perfect.
Your finger rose off his back and the rare quirk you had activated, allowing for the vanilla extract to lift delicately off the table and move it towards the bowl.
“You better put that shit down.”
You groan.
“Nothing gets past you, huh?”
It takes a bit longer, a bit more bickering, a few more kisses to distract the other, but eventually, the batter is poured into the wooden pan. You put the pan into the oven, and you nod to Bakugou, who looks content with the final product.
There are forty-five minutes on the timer, and the both of you remain silent for some time, watching the cake begin to bubble slowly with the rising internal temperature.
“You know, I haven’t baked in a while,” Bakugou admits, leaning against the island with his arms crossed again. You look at him in a bit of shock, but you’re also not shocked at all. He wasn’t one to eat unhealthily, to consume something that wouldn’t benefit him entirely. You were one of the few people who could healthily chip away at his defenses, but you still feel a pit in your stomach at the confession. “Don’t get it wrong; it’s just not the same when it’s just for yourself.”
You smile, albeit weakly, and shrug, “I’m sure if you brought some to Midoriya or Kirishima, it would have been practically the same.”
“And let those leeches in on my baking skills? Like hell I want to hear Izuku say dumb shit like ‘I want some cake from Kacchan because Kacchan is sugoi’ every day. Or have Kirishima draining my bank account trying to get him enough cake to satisfy that boulder.” Bakugou rolls his eyes, his voice mocking Midoriya’s voice for just a moment before his shoulders lose tension. You continue to stare, unable to look away as he turns to you. “More than anything else…” he pauses, unsure if he wants to admit his truth. But the Bakugou who holds back his feelings and keeps things away has long ago been dead. “I only wanted to bake with you.”
It’s both everything and nothing you wanted to hear. A confession so pure that it both lifted you up and condemned you, and the only thing you could think of was why did you do it? Why did you leave him all that time ago?
You open your mouth, ready to talk, but your stomach growls loudly, and you flush at the traitorous sound.
“Of course you’re hungry already,” Bakugou sighs, but there’s a soft look on his face. “Let’s go eat, dork. We haven’t been out in a while for dinner, huh.”
And for some reason, those words bring tears to your eyes. They may have fallen from your eyes and descended from your cheeks, but you can’t tell; you can’t feel them. This isn’t real, just a little thing to make you feel better, nothing except you being entirely selfish.
It’s not real, but for now, for the remainder of your twenty-four hours, it’s enough.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
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6:31 p.m. – 16:41:52 Remaining
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The truth about Bakugou Katsuki’s hands is that they’re actually not that sweaty.
You’ve seen the fan forums, the interviews, the accidental doujin, and had been forced to read fanfic about Bakugou while in America. You knew that the entire world assumed that Bakugou Katsuki’s hands were practically its own little ecosystem with how sweaty they got. And while it had been the truth up until he got into UA, the ultra intensive hero course had trained him to learn how to make his hands sweat on command.
So while yes, most of the time, his hands were warm and sweaty, it was because he chose for them to be as such. But when he was off of patrol, when he wasn’t Great God of Explosion Murder Dynamight, his hands were dry. Sure, they were rough around the edges, warmer than most of the human population, but they were thin, long, and completely dry.
So as the two of you walked down an all too familiar alleyway, with his palm pressed against yours and his fingers laced between yours, the nervous, cold sweat that graced his skin made you nervous… nervous in a good way, you think.
Just near the outside barrier of Hamamatsu was a small alleyway. It wasn’t dirty, wasn’t too crowded, nor was it too sketchy. A small stream of people constantly moved in and out of it, most notably during lunch and dinner hours.
Halfway between the opening and the end of this alleyway was a single slot, a quite literal hole in the wall for a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. If you walked by it too fast, too in a rush to get from one end to the other, you would most definitely miss it. But if you were, say perhaps, a pro hero, tackling a villain at the end of the fight and crashing through the curtains of the small restaurant, you would never miss it.
The small hole in the wall had no name to it, but it was family-run, with only one thing on its menu: mapo tofu.
The place was run by an elder Chinese immigrant couple, the husband and wife duo having no issue with the hours they worked because they loved doing what they did. Their mapo tofu was undeniably the best in the city, perhaps the entire country – Bakugou could better argue that one – and their portion sizes were never lacking. Especially never with Bakugou as he had been the hero who crashed into the restaurant and single-handedly repaired all the damages he had created on top of becoming a regular.
You let out a shaky breath, looking at the lean, muscular back of your twenty-four-hour love. He was dressed simply in black pants and a black shirt, something so simple yet entirely dizzying to take in. It made you nervous; it made you feel like you were back on your first date with him.
So Bakugou’s hands were a bit sweaty, your stomach was in knots, and he pushed back the red curtains to enter the hole in the wall.
The lights were as dim as you remembered them to be, the white noise static of the two fans they had at the slightly stained bench because they didn’t have an ac system still the same, and paired with the reruns of Chinese Dramas on the small TV behind the counter, made you nostalgic. Made you feel as if the past year had not happened.
There was no one else at the bench, and you smiled softly up at Bakugou as he moved out a stool for you to sit on.
“Bakugou?! Y/l/n?! Is that both of you?!” a shrill voice exclaims, and you watch in slight fear and overwhelming past yearning as an older woman with salt and pepper hair shuffled out the small door that separated the kitchen and the dining area.
“Obaa-chan!” you exclaim meekly. Bakugou merely nods his head in greeting. “It’s been so long!”
“More like too long!” she exclaims with a frown, and you can do nothing but apologize in complete embarrassment. “Do you realize how long I’ve been waiting for the two of you to return here together? A whole year! You can imagine my surprise when I found out that you two had broken up, but the unimaginable pain I felt when you never showed back up, y/l/n!”
Your face burns at the accusation and the slight mental recognition that you never returned in fear of running into Bakugou.
“All those years of saying you were my best customer, bah!” she shakes her hand exaggeratedly, leaving you to sit in your shame as she pulls out her small notebook and huffs before smiling widely. “Now, will you two lovebirds be having your usual together.”
Bakugou snorts, “yeah, we are.”
“Hm, Bakugou ordering for the two of you… don’t tell me something disastrous like your first date will happen again,” she sighs, shaking her head and waving her hands. “Don’t stain my tabletop again!”
And even though you were embarrassed and a slight bit mortified, you couldn’t help but smile at that memory.
The two of you had been eighteen at the time, fresh out of school, ready to tackle the world. He had surprised you by asking you out. You hadn’t initially found Bakugou and his feral personality attractive, but three years was enough time for it to grow on you, and you had accepted your then good friend’s invitation.
Bakugou had taken you here for your first date. His hands had been so sweaty that he refused to let you even brush the back of his hands. He had stepped away from you, not too far away that people would mistake you as strangers, but too far for anyone to assume there was any sort of romantic affiliation.
Bakugou’s ears were burning red, and he refused to respond to your conversation, which made it awkward and completely one-sided. He had even failed to respond to your congratulations on the inspiring debut he had, which you knew made him at least smile. Still, the two of you ended up in the shop, where the two owners had looked at the both of you with kindness and slight confusion as Bakugou seriously was beginning to sweat buckets.
You had ordered one of the two options they served, and Bakugou stiffly nodded in response to if he wanted his so far “usual.” And as if the night couldn’t have gotten any worse, Bakugou managed to spill the entire fresh and hot plate of mapo tofu all over your new skirt.
He had been so sure that you would have left at that very moment, but instead, you had only laughed, bringing up how you were ready to see if this really was the calm and collected Bakugou Katsuki you’ve known for three years. Bakugou began to apologize, face never lifting from the floor as he recounted every error he had made that night, practically scrutinizing himself under a microscope. But, you had easily found out that day, a great way to shut the great Bakugou Katsuki up, was to press a sweet kiss to his cheek.
“It’s been a weird first date, one for the books, really,” you had laughed softly, grinning as wide red eyes locked with yours. “But, I don’t think I’d trade it for the world.”
To be young, eighteen, and naive all over again.
“I liked our first date,” you say, sitting down to Bakugou’s left, your hands still entwined as you smile. “Imperfectly perfect.”
“No such thing,” Bakugou grumbled, the first date still a sore spot for him. “It was a mess.”
“And yet, here we are!” you sing, grabbing two pairs of chopsticks and placing them before the two of you. You set your free hand to your chin, stroking it sagely. “Perfection doesn’t mean correction.”
“And what incorrect moron told you that?” Bakugou sneers, but there’s an almost exasperated, entertained look in his eyes.
“Only the best one.”
“Kaminari?”
“Precisely.”
Unlike your first date, this small interaction released the once again built tension, and you laughed as Bakugou’s eyes rolled back into his head. Eventually, your two plates were brought out by the elder couple.
Mapo tofu with grilled eggplant and rice for Bakugou, mapo tofu with cucumber salad, and rice for you. And for the first time in over a year, you ate the best mapo tofu you’ve ever had and could only fawn and coo over the texture and taste as Bakugou simply shoved the food in his mouth. Too content with the taste to even attempt to get you to shut up.
But you ate, and he ate, your pinkies joined beneath the bench, a silent weight between the two of you. The elder couple eventually shuffled back into the kitchen when a phone began ringing, and the two of you were alone again.
You began talking as you did all those years ago. Catching him up on the other sidekicks at the agency you were at, complaining about the little old man who always called in to help with the most mundane things. You talked about your parents, how they were doing, and how you set up a vacation for them. Bakugou caught you up on his life, how not much had changed except that Izuku crashed at his place for a bit when he had been thrown all the way through his apartment building, ironically enough, during a villain fight.
The world was calmer than it was when you were high schoolers. You felt that most of it came from the fact that Midoriya and Bakugou were facing all villains at the source of their problems, enlisting their agencies’ help to correctly facilitate them into the world.
It went from work stuff to simply what weird memes you had seen recently, what trend you wanted Bakugou to try out. And somehow, everything between you, everything terrible and stiff, melted for good.
Bakugou looked at you with warm eyes; the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile as he pointed out the chive on your chin. Before you could react to tear off the chive, he had surged forward and his wet warm tongue pushed against your skin to the squawk you made in return.
“Idiot,” he had said too fondly, and you, in a moment of weakness, of contentedness and warmth that this day had so far brought, cracked.
“I missed you… so much, Katsuki.”
He looks at you like you grew a third head as if trying to come to terms with what you said. Bakugou sighs, his head dropping, and a humorless chuckle escapes him.
“Ya know, I missed you more.”
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Bakugou pays for dinner, his back turned to the married couple as you bow in thanks and promise to continue coming back with Bakugou.
Your hand shyly joins with his; you had taken full notice of his right hand being shoved deep within his pocket and the left hanging stiffly at his side. It was Bakugou’s way of requesting to hold hands without having to say it. He may not be totally emotionally constipated, but the man was a tad bit shy.
So you take hold of Bakugou’s warm left hand with your right one, and your left-hand finds comfort against the inner part of his elbow. With a bright smile aimed at him and a soft, tinged pink scowl at you, the both of you resume back into the world.
The night air is warm and light, brushing and blowing against your cheeks and neck as the both of you assume the concrete sidewalks. You can’t say exactly what you’re talking about with Bakugou, you know you’re bickering, but you’re unsure about what. It’s nothing real enough to care about, but just a facade to keep the other one talking because continuing to say that you missed each other would only cause a brief spout of pain.
Besides, lovers don’t recount how much they missed each other with pain. It’s supposed to be teasing, joyous, obnoxiously in love.
“The cake should be cooled by the time we get home,” Bakugou says, stopping the rhythm of your argument. “We can have a slice, clean up our place, and then do whatever you want before going to bed.”
“Like…” you give a moment of pause, the power he gave you with the implications of activity before bed is too warm on your tongue. “...give you that haircut I want you to have?!”
“Absolutely not!”
“But an undercut would look so good on you!”
“I don’t care about how good it would look on me. If you buzz off half my hair, just buzz off the rest of it! It’s stupid otherwise!”
Your jaw drops, offended by your boyfriend's still stubborn stance on the entire haircut discord. But your attention is drawn away when Bakugou seems to stop, his gaze far ahead, attentive, forlorn, jealous. You blink, confused. And when you follow his line of sight, you figure out why.
There’s a couple far ahead; one of them has sunk to their knees, a small velvet box presented to the other as something small glints with undeniable power. The other one, the one being proposed to, seems shocked, taken off guard, and is crying as they too collapse to their knees, nodding their head and kissing the other. Your stomach churns, and your fingertips turn sweaty and cold.
Westerners and their public proposals…
And for the first time since it happened, since you let him go, you think of that black velvet box hidden in his sock drawer. Tears begin welling up in your eyes, and you scoff slightly.
“Public proposals are too much, h-huh.”
And Bakugou continues looking at them, a faraway gaze to his face, a future that hadn’t happened etched into the frown of his.
“Yeah…”
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9:55 p.m. – 13:17:01 Remaining
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Alternative music is echoing off the walls, filling every open space in Bakugou’s home as the both of you clean up the mess you two had previously made. You’re wiping down surfaces, and he’s cleaning the floor. The both of you performing an old but well-known dance as you expertly avoid each other’s cleaning flow but interact enough to leave soft and often wet kisses against exposed skin.
Soon every lingering speck of sugar, flour, and dust is eradicated from the house. The counters are spotless, the floors gleaming and clean. The cake is left lying unassumingly on the counter as forgotten slices are abandoned on plated beside it.
The dishes are left drying on the dish rack, and you have your cheek pressed to Bakugou’s chest as the two of you sway to the music that’s playing. It’s almost hilarious how the both of you are swaying to screamo Japanese music, but it’s nice, pleasant, familiar.
You follow Bakugou’s lead, letting him spin you around, dip you down low and slow.
And like the last thread snapping, holding a mountain of weight, you fall into him, letting go completely.
A new song plays, one in English at that. Your English was far better than most of Japan’s population, you had Present Mic to thank for that, after all, but songs were something you sometimes had issues with understanding. The tone and intonation and the stringing of words in often colloquial and ungrammatical terms left you tongue-tied and confused. The words mean nothing to you, and only confuse you with the set rules you knew.
“Who’s this?” you ask as a powerful voice fills the house, you can’t quite keep up, but the voice sounds sad, almost forlorn. But you know it isn’t quite alternative music; it’s too gentle, as if someone were to slap you out of a terrible state.
“An artist named P!nk,” Bakugou responds, his cheek resting against your head. “She has a powerful voice.”
“Like the color pink?” you ask, grinning at the small fact. He only grunts in affirmation. You continue to listen to the song, trying to decipher the lyrics based on the instrumentals and the shake in her voice. “I like her.”
“Me, too,” Bakugou mumbles.
The song continues, and you close your eyes, absorbing it all as he continues to sway the both of you in the small corner of his kitchen Bakugou’s chest rumbles with his humming. You tune in to him, the song becoming nothing but background static as he speaks the lyrics.
“So say you’ll stay with me tonight… ‘cuz there’s so much wrong…”
It’s a lyric, you know it is, but it leaves your heart skipping beats, and your breathing stops. You pull away from his chest, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear the hammering of your heart right now. Bakugou looks at you with a sad look, his eyes speaking to you with emotions you had once sworn you never wanted to see again, and for a moment, this song is about the two of you, a power ballad written for you and him.
Red eyes burn right through you, and you know twenty-four hours can never be enough with this man.
You want him, and you know you should have never let him go.
And with shaky, sweaty fingers, you grip the collar of his shirt and bring him down for a questionative kiss. It’s soft, almost a ghost of a kiss, a pathetic need and request to make sure you weren’t overstepping as if you hadn’t already this entire night.
But Bakugou Katsuki never half-assed things, never left a thing unanswered, and certainly never did anything he didn’t want to do, and answered your kiss with nothing that could make you self-doubt your actions or his.
Your lips pressed against Bakugous in shaky gasps, claiming burning strides, and exhilarated untamed puffs. His fingers sat on your hips, pressing you closer, rising up the bare skin of your back. Your heart roared in your ears, blood rushing to your face and down below as you pull him closer, eliminating space and time between the two of you as you need to be claimed, needed to be reminded of the physical love you had with him.
Puffy, spit-slicked lips slide and glide against one another, tongues pushing and prodding, twirling and licking into each other’s mouth. You tremble, unsure if the heavy, overwhelmed breathing is coming from you or from him. But you need more; you won’t stop now, not even if the world around you burns and crumbles to the floor.
Bakugou’s shirt is thrown off first, and somehow, your bra is off before your shirt.
Hot, rough fingers pinching and rolling against your pert, begging nipples.
“M-More!” you moan into his mouth, hot, needy, and desperate.
“Bedroom, now, fuck, please,” he pleads breathlessly, too weak to even begin the first steps.
So, you take the first step. It’s more of a stumble, your mind mush and unable to decipher which foot took the first twitch. But Bakugou, ever the hero, catches you, pressing your stomach flush against his hips. And like a once perfect dance routine that has gone unpracticed for years, decades even, the both of you begin clumsy, faux confident steps towards a closed white door.
His mouth meets the curve of your neck.
Your shirt hits the floor.
His belt melts within the shadows of the floor.
Your fingers twist and pull at his hair.
It’s desperate, damning, impatient, and you’re weightless when the back of your knees hit his mattress. He follows you down, face dark and cloudy as he’s back against your mouth, claiming you, consuming you. Your lips throb as Bakugou bites into them slowly, teasingly. Nails dig into each other's flesh, a desperate need to mark, claim, a pathetic reminder of each other’s existence to each other.
Each breath you take racks your ribs with burning embers, and each time Bakugou mindlessly curses, your vision goes dizzy, hazy.
All you can smell is caramel; all you can taste is him.
And for a second, everything is normal, everything is perfect.
Your panties are bunched at your knees, his fingers are gripping at your inner thighs, and he pulls away and stares.
Red eyes scour your body, taking in every scar, every fold as if for the first time, and his eyes lift up and reach yours. Bakugou looks at you like you’re someone who matters, someone he would watch the world burn down for, and as red eyes scream three words at you, you’re the first to put them back out into the world.
“I love you,” you whisper, tears coming to your eyes. “I love you so much, Katsuki.”
His head drops, shaking with concealed emotions, but not for a moment do you have any sort of doubt. It’s simply love.
“And I’ve never not loved you.”
Somehow those words take your breath away, and when his eyes raise to meet yours, you’re back on him.
Lips slow and sweet; moans soft and breathless.
Your fingers roam the planes of his back, nails trekking down the scars and the muscles, only digging in when his dick presses deep into you for the first time in a while. It’s a silent arch of your back, ‘I love you’s mumbled into salty sweat skin, and sloppy unreaching kisses. But he pushes into you at a slow speed with strong strokes, shifting your body up the bed, until your jumble of nerves are worked out, and your ankles are wrapped around his hips as you plead for more in the words of: “I love you, so please, please – fuck – I love you.”
His warm hand takes yours and buries it in the pillow above your head, and the warm thrumming heat soothes you completely.
“I love you,” you confess.
“I love you,” he accepts.
And when he spills into you for the first time that night, his tears against your throat and your tears against your cheeks remind you that it’s real.
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5:01 a.m. – 5:11:28 Remaining
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Truthfully, you had forgotten how long you and Bakugou could have sex without wearing out. Most times, the two of you were too tired to go more than two rounds; a second-round was questionable at that. But, when your days off aligned, and you were blessed with two days off together, some sessions lasted the entire day.
While not that ambitious, being able to last five hours was not a feat to dismiss. You hummed softly as you sank into clean sheets, something Bakugou undoubtedly changed when you had stepped into the bath before him. He had joined you there, after all.
The clean sheets were nice, cool to your naked skin, and gentle to your nose.
And even nicer was the body pressed to your back as Bakugou held you softly, nose buried into your scalp, finger grazing your figure. You hum, enjoying his gentle caress as he continues to hold you silently.
You wanted to be like this until the end of time.
Content.
Happy.
Loved.
“Why’d you do it?” his voice mumbles, tone detached, and body tensed for the rest. “I’ve thought of everything I could have done wrong… I know I wasn’t perfect, and I can be hard to handle at times, but nothing I put together made sense.”
You pulled away from his arms, choosing to sit up as you looked at Bakugou.
He remained on the bed, eyebrows furrowed and gaze locked on the spot you once were, as if fixated on a ghost. It’s silent as you try not to let tears well up in your eyes, and you look at him, your heart breaking.
Bakugou breathes heavily out his nose, his eyes closing for a moment before he opens them, turning to you.
“What did I do wrong?”
And all you can do is laugh.
“Nothing… you did nothing wrong.”
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Bakugou sits up, and you can feel him pressed to your side, fingers wiping away tears you failed to keep back.
“I knew you always had some goal with us,” you begin, voice weak, and you gaze unable to meet him. “So much of your life was planned, and while you h-had to edit some things, you always got the most important part of what you wanted in the end. Be a hero, be greater than All Might… you’re not someone who half-asses things or even allows intimacy with people who don’t mean anything to you.”
“I know what I want,” Bakugou confirms, voice small, confused, but desperate to understand.
“And it’s so good you know what you want!” you exclaim, looking at him as you continue to cry. Bakugou looks at you, trying to keep quiet, and merely wipes more tears away. “I wish more of us were like you in that regard, but it scared me when it came to our relationship.”
“Why?” he presses, placing a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand.
You sniffle, watching the softness of his face and wishing you could take a picture of how he was right now. Your fingers turn and wrap around his, and Bakugou looks at you with clear eyes as you press a long, lingering kiss to the curve of his knuckles. You pull away, dry tongue wetting dry lips.
“Because at eighteen, you thought I was enough for the rest of your life… and at eighteen, I thought I was just a phase for you.”
“Y/n…”
“Funny enough, it took me until I was twenty-two to realize that you were it for me too, but I could never admit that to myself… I was weak, too young and stupid, and when everyone has an opinion over relationships that begin in high school, I became insecure.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Bakugou asks, frowning, but eyes hurt and aching. “You know I was always there to talk.”
“I couldn’t, I dunno why,” you confess, feeling childish and dumb. “I can’t say I was going to tell you, but then one night…” you pause, nothing that there was no coming back from this confession, the single admittance that caused your downfall with the love of your life. “I came across the engagement ring you had bought.”
Bakugou froze, and you looked up at him, shock and humiliation painted on his face like an open wound.
“You saw it?” and the way his voice sounds so hollow defeats you.
“I saw the box, not the ring itself,” you pathetically sob, palms of your hands digging into your eyes. “I knew it was a ring because of the receipt, but I knew if I saw the r-ring, I could never deny you.”
“You knew I was going to propose?”
“Yeah…”
Your hiccups and choked cries are the only things that are heard, and you can only curl in on yourself as you can only imagine the extensive emotions flickering on your lover’s face.
But warm arms surround your form, pulling you in close as your heart lodges in your throat. His warm breath blows against your neck, and you tremble.
“You’re such an idiot, y/n,” he whispers, and you can feel his tears against your shoulder. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Katsuki–”
“No, it’s my turn to talk,” he interrupts, and you nod pathetically. “You are the most pathetic, infuriating woman in the world. First off, how dare you ever assume that I have my life planned out and that I’ve kept to it with minor editing. Do you think the plan I had in middle school is the one I stuck to? I damn well hope not, or else I haven’t changed at all. I don’t care about rankings or titles because a positive outside perspective doesn’t mean I’m a good person, much less a hero. I sure as hell never thought I would ever become friends with Izuku again after childhood, much less being partners on the field! I wanted to be the undeniable victor, but perfect victory isn’t something attainable. If I was the same, I’d be like Endeavor pre-High End Nomu. You were something I was never sure about until I realized that you were everything I needed and more.”
“Katsuki…”
“Don’t be putting your shitty opinions in my mouth when you never asked for them, okay?! I want you because you make me feel and behave in ways I don’t understand, but in ways that I like. And sure, you’re a major pain in my ass and in my heart at times, but you’re stupidly more than worth it. You are my everything, and no fucking insecurity of yours is going to defeat me, ya hear? You wanna break up, crush my heart, that’s fine, but do it because you don’t love me… don’t… don’t do it because you’re scared.”
And as his breathing turns erratic as tears, he hides so poorly, streams down his face, your dry lips kiss them away. Wordless apologies with every point of contact.
“I’m sorry, Katsuki, please forgive me.”
“Marry me.” he snaps instead, red puffy eyes look up to you, and blood surges to your face.
“W-What?!”
“Marry me,” Bakugou says again, softer, not so much a command, but a question. “I’m done with this dating shit; I want you as my wife.”
You squeak, hands covering your mouth as the word wife echoes and rings so prettily in your ears. “B-But we need a marriage license, a-and a witness?! We can’t just get married!”
“Why the hell not? Fuck the license and a witness. I don’t need another single damn person in the room when I marry you, and the government recognizing it don’t mean shit.”
“But you always follow the rules!” you shriek, watching as Bakugou shuffles with his bedside cabinet. “No way this is real right now. No… you don’t want this; you shouldn’t want this!”
“You tryna say you won’t marry me?” Bakugou asks, turning around, eyebrows furrowed and fury flaring. “If you won’t marry me, just say that instead.”
You gape at Bakugou, your eyelashes fluttering as you blink, tears flood your eyes because even though you know this shouldn’t be happening, you can’t deny him anymore.
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Sometimes… it’s okay to be selfish.
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“Bakugou Katsuki, it would be an honor to be your wife.”
He smirks.
“Good.”
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Under the light of the slowly unawakening sky, the two of you exchange secret vows to each other as he slips your dream engagement ring on your finger in favor of a wedding band. You have to be creative with his ring, opting with using an old metal chopstick he still used and using the joint power of your quirks, forge a small silver band. There are pitchy giggles, chuckling sighs, and sloppy kisses that don’t ever stop.
It’s messy and weird. The both of you promise each other nothing but a lifetime of happiness and love, through sickness, health, joy, and pain, to bringing in a future life and till death.
You were his, and he was yours.
And it was perfect.
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“Watch the sunrise with me, my husband?” you ask, curled between his arms, gaze on his faze instead of the illuminating windows.
“Anything for you, my wife.”
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10:11 a.m. – 00:01:02 Remaining
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You stare at Bakugou’s sleeping face.
Twenty-four hours of playing lovers, and the two of you ended up married. You smile, amused and entirely anguished at your year of playing pretend… that he didn’t matter, that you didn’t care.
You missed the way he looked years younger when he slept. One of the only times he wasn’t constantly thinking of the weight of the world on his shoulders or how he could continue to be his best for those who needed him.
He was such a good man…
You could only hope he would forgive you.
Your fingers trace the soft curves of his jaw, and you lean in close to press a soft kiss to his mouth.
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00:10:00
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“Thank you for giving me all of your love,” you whisper, face burying into his neck. “You were my favorite hello, and my hardest goodbye. I love you, dummy… don’t hate your wife too much, o-okay?”
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00:05:00
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You breathe out softly, snuggling deeper to his chest.
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00:03:00
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“You’ll be amazing; you always are.”
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00:01:00
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And with a whisper of: “fuck… god, I love you,” you breathe in the caramel musk one last time and let your eyes close.
Happy.
Content.
In love.
Thank you…
00:00:00
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When Bakugou opened the door last morning, he didn’t expect to see you. For a sick, small moment, he thought maybe it was some prank show, and Present Mic and Camie would appear out of nowhere screaming: ‘YOU JUST GOT PUH-RAAAANKKKKKEEEDDDDD!”
But there was uncertainty, fear, and guilt lingering in his eyes, and Bakugou pushed away that thought immediately.
Your request was weird, he had to admit, but it wasn’t hard to pretend to be in love with someone who still had his entire heart. He was stiff at first, unsure how to truly just go back to the way things were, and he probably fought with you more times than necessary, but you were someone who trapped their thoughts and feelings deep down, even when trying to be selfish.
Somehow the twenty-four hours broke away at barriers, and finally, the truth spilled out.
And best yet, he went to bed calling you his wife.
Nothing could get him down.
He woke up a bit past 10:30, the feeling of your body pressed against his making his heart ache in a pleasant, perfect way.
“Good morning, my wife,” he whispered against the crown of your head.
Nothing.
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“C’mon, wake up. We both work tomorrow, dork,” he tries again, voice a tad bit desperate.
Nothing.
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Sirens were soon heard coming at full speed towards Bakugou’s house, and when the paramedics entered the room. He laid on the bed, holding your limp body, numb and crying.
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35:11:00 Before
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“...this was… the worst quirk to be hit by, y/h/n,” the doctor says with nothing but disgusting, dripping sympathy and guilt. “Even with Eraserheads help, we can’t stop its effect on you. The kid doesn’t know how to stop it either.”
“W-Wow,” you can’t help but laugh, somehow feeling incredibly light, as if a black hole had consumed you, given how you were falling apart at the seams. “How long do I have?”
“...you have fifteen hours to be with the one person you want to spend your last twenty-four hours with.”
“Thirty-nine hours max… understood,” you repeat back, hollowly.
“And I stress this, y/h/n, don’t tell the person about the quirk affecting you. It seems that if you tell the person, the twenty-four hours are used up immediately.”
“That’s fucked,” your voice cracks and the tears on your face are silent.
“I’m so sorry…”
“It’s okay; it’s no one’s fault.”
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“Do you know who you’ll spend it with?”
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“Do you think it’s selfish to spend it with someone you love, even if you hurt them before?”