when everyone says that mohans whole plot line in season 2 is showing that she’s going towards geriatrics and therefore her leaving is justified. but season 1 was about proving that she belonged in the ER despite being “slow mo”.
I love Izuchako I really do. They’re the typical high school romance/childhood sweethearts. They’re cute, sweet and homely. They’re exactly what Izuku and Uraraka need after the war; a sense of comfort and hope for a brighter future.
However, Horikoshi absolutely made BKDK queer-coded. Especially in the later seasons, every scene that defines Bakugo as a character, Izuku is there.
In season 6, when Bakugo “moves without thinking” to save Izuku from Shigaraki. AND HALLUCINATES HIMSELF TAKING BABY IZUKUS HAND. When Bakugo’s LAST THOUGHTS in Season 7 are about Izuku and THEIR SHARED FUTURE (“Izuku, can I still catch up to you”).
Okay, I understand saying that Izukus reaction to seeing Bakugos body is natural. I mean your childhood best friend is dead on the ground.
Anyways, Bakugo came back, called himself Kacchan and then collapsed wishing Izuku good luck. Then ran away from hospital and saved your boyfriends ass.
(Don’t get me STARTED on that hospital scene. When it gets translated to dub, I better see “for the rest of our lives”. Mitsuki absolutely mourned her future grandchildren that day.
OHHHHH and Bakugo spending years saving money for Izukus new suit)
Ultimately, Bakugo your closet is glass and we know what your are (AN S TIER YEARNER). Izuku you’re a little better
Why is the class princess always a mess around Bakugo ⋆˚꩜｡
MINORS DNI 18+ .ᐟ.ᐟ
If U.A. ever handed out unofficial titles, yours would’ve been embroidered on a satin banner by now: Class 1-A’s princess.
Not literally, though with the way Mina decorated your side of the dorm hallway in pink fairy lights, it wasn’t hard to imagine, but socially? Totally. Completely. Irrefutably.
Sparkles followed you like loyal sidekicks. Your quirk, Glimmer Bloom, produced tiny bursts of colourful light that sparkled around you when you got excited, which was often.
You didn’t have the brute force of Kirishima, or Todoroki’s icy cool control, or Midoriya’s endless strategy spirals, but you had style, charm, and a hero costume so cute Aoyama nearly cried when he saw it.
You always knew everyone’s birthdays, kept backup lip gloss in your desk for emergencies, and brought pastel cupcakes to study sessions “because morale is important.”
Even Aizawa, tired, eye-bagged, living embodiment of a sigh, softened a millimetre when you cheerfully handed him herbal tea on late training nights. You were sunshine. Glitter. Kisses in human form.
And then there was Bakugo Katsuki.
The reason your sunshine occasionally short-circuited.
He wasn’t new, you’d been in Class 1-A together from the start, but your crush on him? Oh, that was very new. Very unwelcome. And very obvious to literally everyone except him.
Because Bakugo Katsuki existed in his own orbit. Explosive. Sharpened. Always ten seconds from blowing something up, and somehow that only made your heart do embarrassing, fluttery gymnastics.
He walked into homeroom, muscles tense, jaw set, eyes sharp and burning, and your brain just went poof.
Like your quirk misfired from inside your skull.
The first time it really hit you was during sparring drills last month. He’d pinned you, not on purpose, your brain insisted, though who could say with Bakugo, one arm braced beside your head, breath hot against your cheek, growling, “If you hesitate like that in the field you’re dead, princess.”
Princess.
He said it like it was an insult.
You heard it like a prophecy.
And obviously, you squeaked. Out loud. An actual squeak. In front of the entire class. Mina had to physically drag you off the ground after.
Ever since then, well. Things had not improved.
When Bakugo walked by your desk? Pens dropped. Papers fluttered. Your quirk fizzled little heart-shaped sparks that you had to smack away with both hands before anyone saw. When he spoke to you? Your sentences got tangled like ribbon. When he looked at you even a little too long?
Glitter. Everywhere.
“Girl, you’re hopeless,” Kaminari whispered one morning as Bakugo passed your row, shoulders broad beneath his hero course jacket, scowl somehow angelic on him.
“I’m fine,” you lied, smoothing your skirt, heart hammering so loud you swore Sero could hear it from across the room.
“You’re sparkling,” Jirou added dryly without looking up from her notebook.
You slapped your hands against your cheeks to stop the glow. “It's a quirk glitch, okay!”
Bakugo didn’t even turn around, just tossed a low, bored, “Tch. Cut the noise,” over his shoulder, which only made your stomach flip harder.
Bakugo usually sat in the back row, prime territory for brooding, scowling, and muttering insults under his breath, but today, for some cosmic reason you were certain the universe did on purpose, he took the seat directly behind you.
Directly. Behind. You.
You could feel the heat of his presence before he even sat down. Like your body had become some kind of Bakugo proximity sensor. Mina shot you a look from across the aisle like, oh this is gonna be good, and you tried very, very hard to act normal while your heart did full Olympic gymnastics.
Aizawa droned something about rescue strategies and topographical reasoning, and you scribbled perfect colour-coded notes like the good little class princess you were, pink pen, sparkly highlighter, tiny little hearts dotting your i’s.
Anything to ignore the boy-sized furnace breathing a foot behind you. You were so focused you didn’t register the sound at first.
Tap.
You froze.
Tap. Tap.
Your heart jumped sideways. That was a shoulder tap. A Bakugo tap. Bakugo Katsuki was tapping you on the shoulder. You turned around slowly, like if you moved too fast you’d explode.
Bakugo was leaning forward in his seat, arms folded on his desk, expression flat but eyes sharp , like he was annoyed and bored and confused all at once.
“Oi.” His voice was low, rough, rumbling right under your skin. “Lemme see your notes. He’s going too damn fast.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
Instead of simply handing him the notebook like a normal functioning human being, you panicked. And tossed the entire spiral-bound thing backward over your shoulder.
Like a bouquet at a wedding.
Like a sacrifice to the Bakugo god.
It smacked his chest. You slapped both hands over your glossy lips, mortified heat flooding your cheeks. “Ohmygod I'm sorry—” Aizawa didn’t even look up. He’d grown immune to your brand of chaos.
Bakugo caught the notebook in one hand like it weighed nothing, blinking once, twice, slow and perplexed.
“…The hell was that?” he muttered.
But not angry. Not even close.
When you whipped back around in your seat, spine straight as a ruler, staring at the front like your life depended on it, Bakugo just watched you. Not glaring. Not smirking.
Just… watching. You could feel his eyes on the back of your head, hot and questioning, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
Why you always sparkled when he got near. Why you squeaked when he spoke. Why the loudest, chattiest, glitteriest girl in all of U.A. became a speechless mess around him and only him.
And he leaned back in his seat with a deep, irritated sigh that didn’t quite hide the confusion underneath.
“Did I do something?” he whispered under his breath.
Like he genuinely couldn’t understand why Class 1-A’s princess, the girl who practically twirled through the dorm halls, beloved by everyone, effortless sunshine, endless chatter, shut down completely the second Katsuki Bakugo gave her a single shred of attention.
He flipped open your notebook anyway.
The second Aizawa dismissed class, you bolted. Not gracefully. Not regally. Not like a princess.
More like a startled glittery rabbit in platform heels.
You scooped your notebooks and pens into your bag and you squeaked like a chew toy, which made your quirk flicker tiny pink sparks all down the hallway as you fled.
“Oi—” Bakugo tried, voice low behind you, but nope. No thank you. Absolutely not. You were running for your life. You didn’t stop until you were inside your dorm, door shut, back pressed against it, cheeks practically glowing from embarrassment and leftover Bakugo proximity.
Your room, your sanctuary, greeted you in full princess glory.
Pink fairy lights. Scented candles. Fluffy rugs. Heart-shaped pillows. And your huge white bed draped in a cloud of soft blankets that looked like they were crafted from baby unicorn fur.
You threw yourself face-first into the mattress with a dramatic whine.
“Why am I like this,” you groaned into a pillow shaped like a strawberry. You made the world’s most high-pitched noise and buried yourself under your comforter like a glittery mole.
Eventually, you changed into your comfort clothes, a tiny pair of bubblegum-pink satin shorts and a matching cami, silky and soft and very you. And reapplied your lip gloss, because even in panic you had standards, you flopped back onto your pile of pillows and scrolled on your phone to distract yourself.
You were mid-scroll through a video of baby bunnies wearing flower crowns when—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You froze.
No one knocked like that.
Firm. Impatient. Like the person on the other side of the door didn’t knock so much as declare open up. Your stomach dropped. Your sparkles fizzled.
Oh no.
Oh no no no!
You cracked the door open the smallest, tiniest, most microscopic amount and, it was him.
Bakugo Katsuki.
In the dorm hallway. Outside your room. Holding your pink notebook like it offended him.
He looked annoyed. But also weirdly tense? Like he’d been pacing before knocking. His gaze flicked down your body, from your bare shoulders, to your tiny pink satin shorts, and he jerked his eyes away immediately, jaw clenching so hard you could hear it.
“…Why’re you dressed like that,” he muttered.
You squeaked. Again. “It’s bedtime!”
“It’s four in the damn afternoon.”
“Nap time!”
A beat.
He breathed out through his nose like someone fighting God Himself. “Whatever.” He shoved the notebook toward you. “You left too fast. I wasn’t done with your notes.”
Your face went nuclear-level hot. “I’m sorry! I just, you were— I was— brain malfunction— you know—”
He stared.
You wanted to evaporate.
“Do I make you nervous or something?” he asked finally, voice low, rough, strangely gentle under all the gravel.
Your quirk betrayed you instantly. A tiny pink spark popped into existence right beside your cheek. You slapped it away with a mortified gasp.
Bakugo’s eyes widened the slightest bit. Not mocking. Just startled.
And then, God help you, something like a faint, smug smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he’d finally solved the puzzle he’d been chewing on all day. He leaned an elbow braced against your doorframe, stepping just a little closer.
“So that’s it,” he murmured. “That why you bolted? Can’t think straight around me, princess?”
Your breath hitched. Your sparkles flickered like a fireworks factory. Bakugo watched every single one. And he didn’t look confused anymore. He looked dangerous.
In a way that made your heart feel like spun sugar.
Before you could even squeak a protest, Bakugo nudged the door just enough with his shoulder, then stepped inside. One foot. Then the other. And suddenly, he was there, in your room, the scent of him, warm, sharp, faintly explosive, wrapping around you like a slow, impossible fire.
His eyes flickered over your fairy-lit lair, taking in the strawberry-shaped pillows, the pastel chaos, the sheer, unapologetic feminity of it all. His smirk deepened. "Figures," he muttered, but it didn't sound like mockery, more like he was filing this away in some private Bakugo catalogue titled You, Explained.
You backed up until your knees hit the bedframe, gripping the edge to stop your hands from shaking. "You—you can't just walk in here!"
Bakugo shrugged, tossing your notebook onto your vanity where it landed with a soft thud. "Too late." His gaze roamed over you again, lingering on the way your cami strap had slipped down your shoulder, the nervous flutter of your pulse at your throat.
When his fingers twitched at his sides, just once, you swore the air between you crackled.
Silence stretched, thick and sweet and unbearable. Then he stepped closer, boots scuffing against your fluffy rug, nostrils flaring slightly like he was breathing you in. "You know," he said, voice dropping to a rumble that curled your toes, "your sparkles get brighter when I piss you off."
They did.
Right now, they were practically strobing.
"You're imagining things," you lied, but your voice wobbled.
Bakugo scoffed. "Bullshit." He reached out, slow, deliberate, and caught one of your runaway sparkles between his thumb and forefinger.
It fizzled against his calloused skin, leaving behind a faint pink smudge. His grin turned wolfish. "Gotcha."
Your breath stuttered. He was close enough now that you could see the flecks of gold in his crimson eyes, feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Some primal part of your brain screamed Danger!, but the rest of you? The rest of you was leaning in.
Bakugo noticed. Of course he did. His smirk softened, just a fraction, as his gaze dropped to your mouth. "What, no comeback? No glittery speech?" He tilted his head, and oh god, was he, was he enjoying this?
You swallowed hard. "Shut up."
He barked a laugh, rough and surprised. "There she is." One hand came up, hovering near your cheek like he couldn't decide whether to touch you or throttle you. His fingers flexed. "You're fucking ridiculous, you know that?"
The words should've stung.
Instead, they settled warm in your chest. Because Bakugo wasn't walking away. He wasn't even scowling. He was standing in your glitter bomb of a bedroom, looking at you like you were the most fascinating problem he'd ever encountered, and Katsuki Bakugo loved solving problems.
Your quirk betrayed you again, showering the space between you in gold and pink. Bakugo's nose twitched at the sudden brightness, but he didn't back off.
If anything, he leaned in closer, eyes tracking the way the sparks reflected in your wide pupils. "Annoying," he muttered. Then, quieter, "Kinda pretty, though."
The confession hit like one of his explosions, sudden, violent, leaving you breathless. Your knees buckled. Bakugo's hand shot out instinctively, catching your elbow before you could collapse onto your pink comforter.
The contact sent a jolt through you, his fingers branding your skin through the thin satin. You could feel every callous, every ridge from years of detonating his quirk.
"Oi," he growled, voice lower than you'd ever heard it. "Nodding ain't answering. Use your words." He leaned in, close enough that his breath mingled with yours, smelling faintly of caramel and gunpowder.
Somewhere between a threat and a plea, he bit out, "Do you like me or not?"
Your sparkles went supernova.
Pink. Gold. Silver.
They erupted around you in a cascading halo, illuminating the sharp planes of his face in flickering pastel. You opened your mouth, nothing came out but a tiny, mortified whimper.
Bakugo's smirk curled slow like smoke. "That's what I thought." His thumb brushed your inner wrist, just once, rough enough to make you shiver. "Fuckin' ridiculous," he muttered, but his grip gentled.
Before you could process, he spun you both, your back hit the mattress, his knees bracketing your hips, palms planted on either side of your head. The fairy lights caught the molten gold in his irises as they dragged down your body.
"You're really wearing this shit just to sleep?" His voice scraped raw over the satin clinging to your thighs.
You arched up instinctively, bad idea. His knee slid between yours, heat searing through the thin fabric. His breath hitched when your sparkles rained onto his shoulders.
"Still not talking?" Bakugo's fingers traced the strap slipping down your arm. "Fine." His palm smacked the mattress beside your head. "Up. Now."
You scrambled upright, pulse hammering where his touch lingered. Bakugo sank onto the edge of your bed like he owned it, legs spread, arms crossed. That look, half challenge, half hunger, sent your quirk into overdrive.
Pink motes swirled between you like fireflies trapped in syrup.
One eyebrow arched. "Straddle me."
Your mouth dried. "W-what?"
"You heard me." His boot hooked around your ankle, dragging you forward until your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his thighs. "Unless you wanna keep being a coward."
The first brush of denim against your inner thighs nearly short-circuited your brain. Bakugo's hands clamped on your hips before you could bolt, fingers digging in just shy of painful. His smirk turned feral when your sparkles burst against his collarbones.
"Look at you," he rumbled, "all glitter and no guts." His thumbs stroked the dips of your hips through the satin. "Gonna run again?"
You shook your head frantically, curls bouncing, then froze when his gaze dropped lower.
Bakugo smirked. "Bet you're pink everywhere, huh?" The words scraped out like gravel and honey. His grip tightened. "Bet your fucking cum sparkles too—"
Your hands flew up to slap over his mouth, face burning hotter than his nitroglycerin sweat. "Shut up!"
Glitter erupted from your skin in panicked bursts, peach, blush, rose, illuminating the way his irises dilated behind your fingers.
He laughed against your palms, the vibration traveling up your arms like livewire electricity. His tongue darted out, wet, scorching, licking a stripe across your fingertips before you could yank away. "Tastes like sugar," he rasped, watching your breath hitch with predatory satisfaction. "Knew it."
You scrambled , thighs clamping around his waist in the process, horrifyingly intimate. Bakugo's nostrils flared. His palm slid up your spine, fingers tangling in the fine hairs at your nape.
"Deny it," he challenged, breath hot against your ear. "Say your slick isn't glowing right now."
Traitorous warmth pooled low in your belly. Your quirk betrayed you again, shimmering pulses radiating from beneath the satin shorts pressed against his abs. Bakugo's grin turned downright carnivorous.
One calloused thumb hooked under the waistband. "Prove me wrong," he dared, dragging the fabric down an inch, just enough to reveal the first hint of pearlescent wetness catching the fairy lights. His exhale punched out ragged. "Fuck. It is pink."
You whined, thighs shaking, sparkles refracting in the sweat beading along his throat. Bakugo groaned, a rough, punched-out sound, and hauled you flush against him. His teeth grazed your pulse point. "Gonna ruin me, princess."
The first tear of fabric echoed obscenely loud as his claws shredded through your camisole.
Pastel ribbons fluttered to the bedspread like cherry blossom petals, too soft, too feminine for the way his hips canted up against yours.
Your back arched when his mouth closed over one peaked nipple, tongue swirling the glitter beading there. Bakugo grunted, the sound reverent and filthy, when luminescent streaks smeared across his cheekbones.
"Told you," he panted against your sternum, fingers working your shorts past trembling hips. "Fucking sparkly everywhere."
The last coherent thought you had, before his teeth sank into you again, was that Mina owed you new pyjamas.
Bakugo flipped you onto your back with a single rough shove, your thighs spreading instinctively beneath his hips as he loomed over you, pupils blown wide.
His smirk sharpened when your sparkles erupted again, golden, frantic, illuminating the predatory hunger in his expression. "Pathetic," he growled, but his fingers trembled where they gripped your waist.
"Coulda had Deku fawning over you like some damn prince." His knee pressed higher between your legs, dragging a whimper from your throat. "Instead you're here—" his palm slid up your ribs, "wrapped around my fingers—" his thumb brushed your nipple, "glowing like a fucking firework."
You arched into his touch, tremors wracking your spine when his free hand yanked your ruined cami straps down your arms.
The sound of fabric tearing filled the room, too loud, too obscene, but Bakugo didn't hesitate. He leaned in close, lips grazing your ear as his knee pressed harder. "Say it," he demanded, voice guttural. "Say you picked me."
Your hips jerked involuntarily when his teeth scraped your collarbone. "I—" A spark burst against his eyelid, making him blink. "I picked you!"
Bakugo exhaled sharply through his nose, half triumphant snarl, half shuddering groan, before surging forward to capture your mouth in a kiss that tasted like victory and nitroglycerin.
His tongue mapped every inch of you with single-minded focus, as if cataloging the way your breath hitched when he bit your lower lip just shy of painful.
When he pulled back, your sparkles had formed a perfect halo around his disheveled spikes. His chest heaved as he dragged a thumb through the glitter smeared across your cheekbone, then licked it clean with a low hum.
"Mine," he declared, fingers tightening possessively on your hips. "Every fucking shimmer."
Somewhere beyond your glitter-clouded haze, you registered the dorm hallway outside, the distant laughter of your classmates, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
The complete antithesis of the boy currently pinning you to silken sheets with his weight and the molten promise in his gaze.
Bakugo noticed your distraction immediately. His palm cracked against the headboard beside your ear, making you jump. "Eyes here, princess."
When you obeyed, trembling, he smirked, all sharp canines and wicked intent. "Good girl." His free hand slid between your thighs, callouses catching on sensitive skin. "Now let's see how loud you sparkle."
The first press of his fingers drew a whine from your throat, high and broken. Your quirk responded instantly, pearl-pink luminescence spilling over his knuckles, dripping onto the rumpled satin sheets beneath you.
Bakugo's breath stuttered. "Holy shit," he rasped, watching the glow spread between your legs with something akin to reverence. His thumb circled once, twice, drawing out another pulse of light that clung to his skin like liquid glitter. "Fuckin' perfect."
You arched off the bed when he crooked his fingers, nails scraping down his biceps as your sparkles rained across his chest. Bakugo growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you where your bodies pressed together, and increased the pace, his rhythm merciless.
"That's it," he goaded, lips brushing your temple. "C'mon, light up for me."
The pressure built dizzyingly fast, your thighs clamping around his wrist as the room flickered gold and rose. Bakugo's breath hitched when your back bowed off the mattress, his name tumbling from your lips in a desperate plea.
Right before you shattered, his mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing your moans as your quirk detonated, a supernova of color refracting through the fairy lights, painting his skin in shimmering streaks.
Panting, you went boneless against the sheets. Bakugo pulled back just enough to examine his glitter-coated forearm with a satisfied smirk.
"Told you," he muttered, licking a stripe up his palm where your glow lingered. His eyes darkened at the taste. "Fuckin' addicting."
Then, before you could recover, he flipped you onto your stomach with a single rough shove. "Round two," he announced, kneading the back of your thighs. "And this time—" his teeth grazed your shoulder blade, "I'm gonna make you sparkle loud enough to wake up the whole damn dorm."
Your whimper dissolved into the pillows as his hands spanned your waist, the promise in his touch searing brighter than any quirk.
Bakugo exhaled sharply through his nose when your sparkles flickered against the dark fabric of his belt, already half-undone, the leather slack against his hips.
His fingers trembled, just once, before he yanked it free with a sharp metallic rasp that made your thighs clench. You turned your face into the strawberry pillow just as his palm smoothed down the curve of your ass, possessive and rough.
"Look at me," he growled, thumb hooking in the ruined satin clinging to your hips. When you hesitated, his teeth grazed the nape of your neck. "Now."
The first stroke of his cock against your thigh sent a jolt through you.
Hot, heavy, glistening with the same iridescent slick your quirk left on his fingers. He hissed through clenched teeth, muscles taut as he pumped himself twice, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet of your room.
Your name tore from his throat when your sparkles burst against his knuckles, pearlescent streaks painting his forearm. "Fuck," he rasped, thumb smearing the glow across your hipbone. "Gonna ruin you."
The initial stretch burned, blissful, aching, as he pressed in with a groan that rattled your ribs. Your moan fractured against the pillow when he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, every ridge and vein slotting into place like you were made for it.
Bakugo's breath came ragged against your shoulder blades, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he adjusted to the vice-like heat.
"Move," you gasped, arching back against him. His answering snarl sent sparks skittering across the sheets.
He set a punishing pace immediately, each thrust punching little glittering whines from your throat. The headboard rattled against the wall in time with the wet slap of skin, Bakugo's palm splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned.
His other hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to see the way your sparkles clung to his sweat-slicked collarbones. His teeth found the shell of your ear as the first real pulse of your orgasm lit up the room, gold, pink, incandescent, his groan reverberating through you like a detonation. "Fuck, there it is—"
Your muffled scream dissolved into the strawberry pillow as he fucked you through it, his rhythm turning erratic, brutal. Bakugo's hips snapped forward once, twice, before his grip on your hair yanked your head back entirely.
His lips crashed against yours just as he spilled deep inside you, hot, pulsing, his broken moan swallowed by your mouth. Your quirk responded in kind, pearlescent streaks erupting between your joined bodies, painting his abs in liquid starlight where they pressed flush against your ass.
He didn't pull out.
Just collapsed atop you with his full weight, his rapid-fire heartbeat thudding between your shoulder blades. His fingers traced idle patterns through the glow smeared across your thighs, sticky-sweet and still faintly luminescent.
When you shifted, his arm banded tighter around your waist. "Stay," he grunted against your nape, an order softened by the way his lips lingered on your sweat-damp skin.
Outside, someone's laughter echoed down the hallway, oblivious to the way Bakugo's teeth grazed your pulse point, marking, claiming, as his hips gave one last lazy roll.
Your fingers tangled with his where they rested on your stomach, sparking tiny pink flares at the contact. Bakugo huffed, annoyed, fond, before biting your shoulder hard enough to make you yelp.
"Quit it," he muttered, but his thumb stroked over your knuckles anyway. The fairy lights cast shifting shadows across the walls as your breathing evened out, his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath warming the spot between your wings where his palm rested.
Heavy. Present.
"You're staring," you mumbled into the pillow, skin prickling beneath his gaze. Bakugo scoffed but didn't deny it, calloused fingers trailing down your spine in a slow, proprietary sweep that left glitter in their wake.
His lips followed, hot, insistent, branding each vertebra as he moved lower, pausing to nip at the dimples above your ass with a sound suspiciously close to a growl.
You squirmed, thighs pressing together reflexively, but he wedged his knee between them with effortless dominance. "Bakugo—"
"Katsuki," he corrected against the small of your back, the vibration skating down to where your bodies were still joined. His tongue swiped over a particularly bright sparkle clinging to your hip.
"Say it." When you hesitated, his teeth dug in, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to make your breath hitch. "Now."
"K-Katsuki," you stammered, flushing when he hummed approval against your skin. His lips curved into a smirk you could feel as he kissed lower, the swell of your ass, the crease of your thigh, each touch deliberate, lingering.
He exhaled sharply through his nose when your quirk reacted instinctively, dusting his cheekbones in gold. "You're—mmph—gonna be insufferable in class tomorrow, aren't you?"
Bakugo paused mid-bite, lifting his head just enough to pin you with a look that simmered with wicked promise. "Gonna sit way the fuck closer behind you now," he admitted, voice rough with satisfaction.
His fingers kneaded the supple flesh of your thighs, leaving faint pink smudges where your glow clung to his fingerprints. "Watch you squirm every time I breathe on your neck."
You whined, pressing your burning face into the mattress. "No—that's too embarrassing!"
His laugh was dark, thrilled, vibrating through your ribcage as he licked a stripe up your spine. "Don't care." His palm smacked your ass, once, sharp, drawing out another burst of sparkles. "Shoulda thought of that before you let me in your bed, princess."
The nickname shouldn't have sent heat pooling low in your belly again. Bakugo seemed to sense it anyway, his groan was half exasperation, half arousal as he rolled his hips lazily, still buried inside you.
Your choked moan disappeared into the pillows when his teeth found your earlobe. "Round three," he decided, voice dripping with sinful intent. "And this time," his hand slid around to your front, fingers pressing lightly against your clit, "I'm making damn sure every extra in this school knows who you sparkle for."
Your protest dissolved into a broken gasp as his touch reignited the embers of your pleasure, Bakugo's name tumbling from your lips in a litany that only spurred him on.
Outside, the dorm settled into evening quiet, completely unaware of the way the blond menace behind you was rewriting every rule of engagement between you with each possessive thrust, each glimmering kiss.
❥you & bakugo won’t say you’re dating, but there will be signs
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #1.
observed by — mina ashido
“y/n says she and bakugo aren’t dating. but i swear i caught them playing footsies during study hall.”
⟡
mina assumes it’s a trick of the light.
sero’s stalking hot moms on facebook. denki & kiri are trying to start a fire with a comically large magnifying glass. & when mina sees bakugo tickle your ankle with the toe of his sock, mina’s quick to assume the sight’s caused by the refractive index of light through the magnifying glass or whatever mumbo-jumbo they learned during last tuesday’s physics class.
but it happens again.
and this time you giggle.
and so mina has no choice but to accept magnifying glasses cannot bend sound.
mina puts on sero’s eyeglasses. they’re purely decorative, but she feels more intuitive regardless. she buries her nose between CGP’s A-Level biology guide & pretends she isn’t observing the way your eyes glint anytime you manage to nick katsuki in the shins.
bakugo’s face is stone still.
to the untrained eye, he’s simply solving calculus questions a mile a minute. but then he grunts.
mina doesn’t miss the way he grins when he nabs you in the thigh.
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #2.
observed by — sero hanta
‘bakugo swears y/n isn’t anyone special to him. so why the hell does he have her contact saved as ‘mine?’
⟡
the first time sero hanta ever decides to show up early, he’s stuck waiting at a theatre with an angry bakugo at his side.
not to say the fiery blond isn’t usually angry. but this time said anger comes with heat: he’s grinding straw between his molars so hard plastic cracks between his teeth. his feet tap like it’ll make time go by sooner. it doesn’t.
“i’m gonna kill that damn shitty hair.”
“we’re the ones who’re thirty minutes early.”
“shut the fuck up.”
dumb dog sero hanta does as he’s told. katsuki stews a little longer, neck rash red, phone clicking locked & unlocked till he decides he’s had enough—or till the anger reaches his bladder. “‘m going to the bathroom, watch my shit.”
katsuki doesn’t bother waiting for a reply. his hands shove in his pockets as he makes his way to the bathroom, phone tucked firm between sero’s palms. sero hanta knows better than to hold it with anything less than an iron grip. but then it buzzes—& almost cartoonishly, the phone hops & skips before settling between his fingers
sero sees the notification before he can pretend otherwise.
mine🫀: mina and i are otw
mine🫀 : hope we’ll make it. this girl can NOT drive.
sero muffles a snort. the text holds truth, mina cannot, in fact drive. he recalls the time she picked him up to go to the beach and—wait.
is that text from y/n?
he’s quick to take a picture, send it to the ‘inBESTigators 🕵️🔍’ GC. before he can even close his phone & resume playing saint, kiri’s response comes in.
ripped riot 🔥: could be a typo
ripped riot 🔥: like ‘mine’ could be short for miner
pikachu ⚡️[replying to ripped riot 🔥] : are we deadass
sero’s about to type a response of his own before the familiar heavy steps of steve maddens sag at his ears. katsuki’s back, jaw tight & angrier than ever.
further investigation will have to wait.
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #3.
observed by — denki kaminari
‘when the fuck did bakugo get funny?’
⟡
autumn break means thanksgiving shopping & black friday sales that make twelve dollar products drop to eleven ninety-nine. denki’s shopping for snacks, kiri needs energy drinks & you’re here for produce. katsuki is here because you all need his membership to get into costco.
something isn’t right.
& denki’s not talking about how the price of cheetos have somehow gone up. he’s talking about the fact that katsuki stands firm behind you, hands in pockets as you show him fruit. that’s fine—bakugo’s always been able to tell which apples are good & which aren’t.
but no apple evaluation requires katsuki to lean in that close.
and denki’s pretty sure there’s nothing funny about granny smiths either.
so why the fuck are you giggling ?
kaminari’s eyes flit to katsuki’s. if he was any other classmate, he’d say katsuki was bored. lips tight, eyes neutral, jaw slack. but denki’s no other classmate. he recognizes that twitch in his brow. the bob in his jugular.
katsuki is pleased. at least, denki thinks—no, swears he is. but just to be safe, he chooses to call in an actual katsuki expert. kirishima’s fatass is trying yet another free sample. for the sake of peace, denki chooses not to comment & instead goes straight to business.
“yo, kiri—i’m not seeing stuff, right? is bakugo not smirking and making y/n laugh??”
kirishima, in true fatass fashion, responds with a mouth filled with mini tacos. “I down’t see ‘t”
“bro. chew.”
“I don’t see it,” kiri gulps. “don’t you think we should respect their privacy?”
“we’re at a costco??”
but kaminari drops it. if the katsuki expert himself says there’s nothing, there’s obviously nothing.
right ?
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #4.
observed by — literally everyone
‘katsuki and y/n are definitely dating. oh, and kiri’s getting kicked from the group chat.’
⟡
mina ashido is not playing around.
the rest of the gang isn’t either. kaminari’s flipping through a scrapbook titled ‘PHOTOGRAPHICAL EVIDENCE.’ sero’s screenshotting group chat messages that sound too fond to not be affectionate. kirishima’s got his laptop open, looking over ‘evidence spreadsheets’ he swears aren’t empty.
but they are. and mina, rivaled only by sherlock himself, notices.
“kirishima, cell B-4. what’s written in there ?”
“I—uh, cell? what do you—“
“aha—” mina shuts her book. she’s towering over eijiro now, hands on her hips & glare so sharp it melts kiri like—well, acid.
“you’re not really doing anything.”
sero lifts a brow. kaminari gives the stink-eye.
“matter of fact…” mina continues, “you haven’t done anything. compiling evidence. listening in on on their convos. you haven’t done anything we’ve asked you to.”
“yeah,” sero quips. his phone’s in his lap now. “matter of fact, you always had some excuse about why you couldn’t.”
“matter of fact,” denki joins, “you’re always trying to deny evidence. talking about us ‘being delusional’.”
oh, kirishima’s in trouble now. blood in his jugular. tar in his throat. “I—“
mina can’t make up what happens next.
The door opens. It’s katsuki—not surprising—they’re literally all seated in a circle on the mat in his dorm. plans to hang out & just chill today—the usual. kiri is bakugo’s roommate. getting in isn’t a fuss.
but you’re right beside bakugo.
and your finger’s in his belt loop.
mina blinks. you haven’t noticed them yet. you look all calm and pretty, lashes low, eyes glued to your phone screen. your finger’s looped around the belt-hole like you’ve done it a thousand times before, and—
is that katsuki’s hoodie?
“what the fuck are you losers doing here?”
kiri’s already scrambling to defend the situation—something about she & the others showing up an hour early, he didn’t know, don’t blast us all—but mina’s not listening. she’s wondering if the refractive index of light is so strong it somehow made it look like katsuki gave your hand a light squeeze before tapping your hand off his jeans.
you’re still quiet behind him. hair all cute, jam-pink cheeks, fawn freckled & doe-eyed. kiri and katsuki are going back and forth. sero’s joined in. kaminari’s farted because he thinks no one will notice.
“y/n, is that bakugo’s hoodie?”
you can hear a pin drop. and another fart from kaminari.
“no, it’s—“
“it’s mine.” katsuki steps forward, hands in pockets & posture lazy like he didn’t say something scandalous. “got a problem, pinkie pie?”
“i could never.”
katsuki hums. he tugs you gently by the palm, door clicking shut behind him with the kick of his shin. he trudges toward the group, right hand in his pocket, left in yours—and he murmurs a quiet sit in your ear before doing a once-over.
“what’s all this?”
“evidence.”
“homework.”
“not evidence.”
tongue click. “evidence of ?”
“the refractive index of light.”
“you and y/n dating.”
“not you and y/n dating.”
“uh-huh,” katsuki picks up a photograph. he recognizes the scene: you’re tucked in his side, showing him something on your phone while he leans too close to be considered casual. you’re giggling here. cute.
he pockets it. “you guys are a bunch of fuckin’ idiots. and you—“ he turns to kirishima,
“no, no bro listen,” kirishima’s palm rests on his neck, an apologetic glance in your direction before he answers, “I did try to get them to leave you guys alone. they wouldn’t listen!”
“aha! so you were a traitor!”
bakugo glares. mina shrinks.
a muffled giggle pierces the silence. then a snort. & now you’re full on laughing—
“oh my god,” you sniffle, “you guys know we were literally gonna tell you, right?”
“tell us when?” sero speaks up, long moved away from kaminari. “it seems kiri here already knew about it.”
bakugo grunts. “why do you idiots think you’re here?”
oh.
bakugo takes a seat beside you. sero’s avoiding eye contact. kaminari’s avoiding the cheetos. mina bites her lip. you’re leaning over katsuki’s thigh now, photo evidence flip-book in your hands. you’re pointing out familiar photos while laughing & shaking your head, and bakugo’s looking back with a gaze so soft that mina doesn’t know how she didn’t see it sooner.
“i think we owe you two an apology.”
katsuki’s got his fingers twisting your knuckle. “y’think?”
sero, mina, and denki all look towards each other.
“we’re sorry.”
“for what?”
“for stalking you guys.”
“and not trusting that you’d tell us.”
“and being idiots.”
katsuki hums, satisfied. but he’s not done yet. he leans back on his palms before gently poking your hip. “should we forgive ‘em?”
“maybe. if they can send some of these photos.”
bakugo nods, turns to mina. “you heard the missus.”
“girl, take the whole book. like—seriously. omg.”
you hug it towards your chest, and mina can tell bakugo’s fighting a smile.
“right. and since you guys know now, you can all leave.”
the three protest. kiri interrupts. “i think it’s for the best. it’s been a long day.”
“that includes you, shitty hair.”
“huh—what?! this is my room too!”
“don’t care,” katsuki tugs you up with him, grip gentle, palm flat against your back as he steers you towards his bed.
“and didn’t ask,” he glances over his shoulder, “all of you, out.”
summary: when pete won the long walk, the prize he asked for was for the major’s beloved daughter as his wife… an eye for an eye, for ray. but his plans to make your life a living hell slowly come to an end as he realizes his growing feelings for you won’t let him hurt you anymore.
content warning: minors dni, mentions of violence, mentions of wanting to hurt reader, grief, female bodied reader, fingering, unprotected sex, choking, biting, a bit of book!pete.
author’s note: english isn’t my first language so please be nice! the beginning is very very angsty but this is what happens when you go through a traumatic event so keep that in mind.
word count: 3345
You thought you were safe. Different, better than the others. Because of all the children the major had, you were the only one he accepted. All those bastards crawling on the floor in front of him for a bit of attention, while you shared the same home as him, called him dad, lived a normal life. You thought you were safe, until a man you’ve never heard of said the few words that ruined it all… Until your own father, the man you looked up to despite all the terrible things he’s done, sealed your fate.
You saw it on tv, how he didn’t even hesitate, how he sold you to that man full of spite, anger and revenge, without a second thought. First, there was the shock of being dismissed so easily, of being seen as nothing but a special prize, a trophy. Then came the wrath, crushing your heart into so many pieces… And finally, the sadness, finishing the job. But above all, there was fear — Because you’ve seen the fire in that man’s eyes, the silent promise of making your life hell just for being the major’s daughter. A daughter he would proudly show around because of how smart you were, how talented you were in so many fields… A daughter he ultimately sold to the devil.
He didn’t even have to wait to collect his prize, as he said he wanted to marry you now — Smart bastard. So when the major got home, all he told you was to pack your things fast, because your future husband was waiting outside, standing in the rain, surrounded by soldiers — just in case —. Vision blurry by tears that wouldn’t stop, you still managed to see him as you stepped outside. Tall, built like a truck, face hardened by a thousand pains. He stared at you like he was about to break you — And in this very moment, you felt it all. The grief, sorrow, the desire to avenge himself and his fallen friends. He couldn’t get the major because it would have been too easy… So he picked you instead, hoping the major would beg for him to spare you. But he didn’t. Didn’t even show a sign of discomfort, of sadness… Because you were nothing to him. You were a bait, just an other rabbit that would allow him to run faster.
The wedding you dreamt of as a child, flowers surrounding you, loved ones sat on decorated benches, love and affection filling the air, was replaced by the rain, the cold night and the priest doing his best to end the ceremony faster. There was no bouquet of flowers, no pretty dress and no dim light… Just his bleak stare, an old ring he would wear that was way too big for your finger, a kiss that conveyed nothing but pure disgust, and the name of your husband — Peter McVries.
You can’t even remember the drive back “home”, soldiers dropping you off to that miserable apartment that became yours. Numb by your endless silent cries, fear embraced your entire body as the door slammed shut behind you. He wouldn’t even look at you anymore, standing right in front of his couch, unable to sit down. Days of walking — no, it didn’t even start with the long walk. Pete spent a lifetime of running away from things… Yet he knew his life changed, probably for the worst, when Ray died… No, when he was murdered right in front of him. Ray could have won — Should have won, not him. How stupid he was, to walk again, not turning around soon enough… Maybe he was his friend’s murderer, after all.
And you stood there, your bag at your feet, unable to say something… And chaos began. Things started flying across the room, his screams echoing in your ears as his fist sank in the nearest wall. Shivers covered your skin as you watched in terror, knowing oh so well that trying to interfere, saying something would cost you way too much… Yet you did. As Pete was about to punch a window, your trembling hands grabbed his wrist, in a pitiful attempt to make him stop. But you’re nothing against the strength of a man that seemed to have lost everything, and soon enough, your entire body crashes against the ground.
“Don’t fucking touch me ever again.” He spat, tongue like poison.
These were the last words he said to you, in days. Weeks. And that was also the very last time Pete hurt you, even if he didn’t mean to. The pain was too real, the anger was too fierce for him to handle. Yet, you could swear you saw a glint of regret in his eyes as he watched you fall on the ground, trying your best not to cry.
The cohabitation in the tiny apartment was terrible, to say the least. And you wondered why he wouldn’t just buy a pretty big flat with all that money he won from the long walk… Wondered why he kept working such an ungrateful job while he could just rest and spend his days just the way he wanted. Pete would wake up early in the morning, come back home late. He would eat what you cooked, by himself, not even sparing you a glance, then sleep on the couch as he would refuse to share a bed with you. Sometimes he would break a thing or two, letting his frustration out, but never raising a hand on you. And sometimes, you even wished he would hurt you physically — Because it would mean that he sees you. Because you couldn’t endure a life of loneliness and ignorance. So sometimes, you’d try. To talk to him, to ask him about his day… You’d spend hours in the kitchen cooking delicious meals, hoping for a faint smile, for a glance… Something. Anything. But all you were met with was a wall so thick it wouldn’t crack. Grief ate him whole, and left absolutely nothing behind.
And as you were about to give up, to accept a miserable life you felt you didn’t deserve, a faint light glimmered right before your eyes.
Wednesday evening, a day just like the others. The door opens to a visibly exhausted Pete, and you know oh so well what it means — No question, no wrong move. So you silently put his food on his plate as he gets rid of his shoes, fear suffocating your heart, trying not to look at him. And as you were about to turn around to head back in the kitchen, you see it — The book on the table. New, bought from the nearest library, probably. Confusion took over your face as your eyes meet his, and for the first time in what felt to you like an eternity, disgust seemed to have left his being entirely.
“You’ve been reading the same three books since you’re here, just wanted to give you something new.”
You stand there, frozen, for a minute, as Pete sits down to eat his meal. Gently, you finally gather enough courage to take the book in your hands, the fear of damaging it so big you’re being excessively cautious. Not only was this a new book, but this was also from your favorite author… And that in itself brought tears to your eyes. Truth is Pete would look at you, only when he knew you wouldn’t catch him red handed. When you would read, cook, dust the furnitures. And the more he looked at you, the more he realised how fucked up he was. How messy of him it was to marry you without your consent, how selfish he was to tear you apart just because you happened to be the daughter of a man he despised. We don’t choose our parents, Pete knows that more than anyone… Yet he picked you, an easy prey, to make himself feel better.
“Thank you, thank you so much,” your voice cracked, as you stormed in the kitchen, to hide your tears.
From then, things slowly started to get better… Slowly, but surely. Sometimes it would be a book waiting for you on your nightstand in the morning, sometimes a bouquet of flowers. Sometimes some cash to spend wherever you wanted… One time he even gifted you a dress. Pete would still struggle to talk, but you started to eat dinner at the same table as him, and that itself was a blessing. He was tolerating you around, and that was everything you needed in this very moment.
And while you were getting better, while your happiness was finally settling in, Pete, on the other hand, was fighting his inner demons. He had to remind himself, every single day, that he wasn’t betraying Ray. That Ray would have wanted him to live a happy life, not to drown in revenge and spite. The plan was so easy to follow — Steal the major’s sweet daughter from him, make her life a living hell, then ravish on her pain and tears. You made his life a living hell. With your pretty smile, the way you treated him so nicely with good meals and sweet attentions here and there when he ignored you, treated you like you didn’t even exist. You made it hard for him to hate you, always trying to please him, talk to him, making sure he has a lunch to bring at work, preparing his clothes for the day ahead… How could you be so kind to someone like him? That very thought haunted him, devoured his soul until all he had in mind was you.
So when he got home that night and he saw you with that pretty dress he bought you a week ago, something in him snapped. The warmth of your smile, the way you were waiting for him just like you’d do every day, it was all too much yet not enough. He didn’t even remove his shoes, bolting towards you right before crashing his lips on yours. Startled to say the least, it took you a few seconds to realise what was going on, Pete’s arms tightening around your hips in a futile attempt to keep you close — Futile, as you would not go anywhere. Your hands quickly find their way to his hair, gently tugging on it as your own lips moved in sync with his. Soon enough, his hands grabbed your behind, lifting you from the ground so your legs could gently wrapped themselves around his waist. His kiss was desperate, full of something you quite couldn’t put your finger on, yet you were more than eager to give anything you had to give to him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered in between kisses, leading you to the bedroom, leaving his shoes behind. Sorry for being a monster. Sorry for ruining your life.
All you did was nodding, almost aggressively, too lost in the warmth of his embrace, the passion in his kisses, to even think of refusing his apology. Pete gently dropped you on his bed, swiftly positioning himself in between your legs, his face disappearing in the crook of your neck. Inhaling your scent, his teeth sank in your flesh, tongue lapping at the skin. Eyelids fluttering shut, your back gently arched against the mattress as your nails dug into his shoulder blades, a sweet moan escaping from your lips as his hips started rolling against yours.
“Pete, make me yours, please,” you didn’t want to sound so desperate, but here you were. And when he raised his head to take a look at you only to be met with this pretty face of yours, almost begging for him to mark you in ways that made him painfully hard, he knew he was damned to be yours for the rest of his life. Something he would gladly agree with.
“Don’t ask me things you could regret.”
His hand gently fell on your cheek, thumb caressing it with so much softness you thought was impossible coming from him. The adoration in his eyes, the soft kiss he pressed on the tip of your nose… You’re glad humans aren’t able to melt because you’d already be a puddle of wax.
“I won’t, I swear… So make me.”
An other kiss, full of lust and desire, only coming to an end when Pete decided it was time for him to get rid of his shirt — A sight for sore eyes. He was all muscles, a few scars here and there, the most beautiful thing God has created, if there’s one. Lost in the contemplation of the man standing right before your eyes, you only came back to your senses when you felt his fingers skilfully unbuttoning your dress, your breast now free from its confine. Pete sucked in a breath, his lips latching on your right nipple, his hand slipping in your panties.
The gasps you let out was music to his ears, his middle finger collecting your wetness as his lips and tongue worked magic on your breast. The back of your head sank in your pillow, hips stuttering at the feeling of his fingers on your most intimate body part. Pete stared at you while pushing his middle finger in you, watching for any sign of discomfort, teeth gently nipping at your nipple, leaving rosy marks here and there. His thumb found your clit with ease, toying with your little bundle of nerves so diligently you’re already shaking and moaning his name. It’s too bad you’re too far gone to notice the smirk on his lips, holding onto him for dear life as his two fingers bump against your sweet spot.
“You’re loving this, angel?”
You can barely hear him, overstimulated by his lips on your skin, his fingers pumping into you like his life depends on it, and his thumb still toying with your clit. Tears prickling the corner of your eyes, your body is shaken by a multitude of little spasms, stars dancing across your vision.
“Oh Pete, I’m so so close—”
And it crashes over you. Hits you like a truck. Waves of pleasure that has you tipping over the edge. Your orgasm hits you with so much strength you feel you’re about to pass out, broken cries echoing in the bedroom. And Pete doesn’t miss a single second of this glorious show. The disheveled look on your face, the way your back arches and the tip of your nose scrunches in delight.
“That’s it, let go,” Pete murmurs, fingers of his free hand caressing your inner thighs, attempting to calm you down. Embarrassment takes over your cheeks as you realise how fast and easy it has been for him to have you come undone — A few minutes, at most… And he finds it very amusing.
“Still want me to go ahead?”
You nod, one hand on his chest, the other in his hair. Slowly, he pulls his fingers out of you, his free hand cupping your face to make sure you’re looking at him.
“You have to use your words, I’m not doing anything without you telling me I can.”
Suddenly, you feel so small. The hint of authority in his voice, the way he wouldn’t stop staring, after weeks of avoiding you. It’s embarrassing, how you want to close your legs because it made you even more wet.
“ I want you to go ahead, please,” you plea, eyes begging for mercy.
It takes absolutely no time for him together rid of his own jeans and boxers, then your dress and panties… That he almost ripped in the process. With his cock in his hand, Pete sits back on his heels, the leaking tip brushing against your puffy lips. It has you shivering, tiny chills covering your flesh as you prop yourself on your elbows to watch it all. One hand on your waist, the other guiding himself, he pushes himself into you little by little — And it takes everything in him not to snap his hips against yours and ruin you. You’re so tight, velvet walls gripping his cock like a vice. Pete groans, finally bottoming out. It’s like he stole all the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless. It stings, and you felt like you are split open, but oh god does it feel good.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” His brows furrow, and he’s glad when you ask him to stay still a bit so you can adjust, because I would have burst here and there. When he sees your head gently tilting to the back, Pete can’t resist anymore — The palm of his hands against the mattress, his teeth find their way up your exposed shoulder and neck, biting and marking the flesh until it turns purple.
“Please fuck me hard,” you sigh, moans falling off your tongue as he relentlessly marks his territory. He pulls out, almost entirely, before slamming back in, rough and merciless — pulls the most erotic cry off you as you start moving your hips beneath him. And he soon realises he has to snake an arm around your waist to keep you steady, the other still on the mattress to prevent himself from falling on you. Pete feels intoxicated as he rocks his hips against yours, faster and faster, the shameless moans thumbing out of your mouth keeping him going.
He can’t keep his eyes off you, obsessed by the way your face shows all the emotions you’re going through, how your eyes widened when his cock bumps against that very spot that has you shaking under him. He tried — so hard, to stop looking at your neck, how naked it feels without his hand around it, how beautiful it would look with his fingers applying the right amount of pressure… But he’s losing that battle, and, without stopping his merciless thrusts, his fingers wrap around your pretty throat, just enough to knock the air off your lungs.
You’re just so pretty like this, almost gasping for air, eyes rolling at the back of your head, choking on a cry. Your hand on his, you want him to know it feels so good, the other gripping the sheets to not lose the fragile thread that ties you to the reality. And when he angles his hips just right, pistoning in and out of you, pupils blown wide, you’re done for.
“Oh God, I—”
Wildfire spreads through your entire beauty as you reach your second climax of the night, even more devastating than the last. For a moment, you can’t see, can’t hear — Can only feel the unmanageable amount of pleasure that strikes you. Your entire body almost convulses under him, a silent cry leaving your parted lips as you feel your walls tightening around him, making it harder and harder for him to keep thrusting. His hand grips the sheets, leaving your throat as his hips stutter when he releases his fluid inside you, painting your walls white in a deep groan. So much it’s already leaking out of you, pooling in between your legs.
Eyes glassy, breathless, it takes a moment for you to come off your high. The first thing you feel is gentle kisses pressed against your whole face — Your half closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, your forehead, your cheeks, then your lips… And you can’t help but smile sheepishly, your arms now wrapped around his neck. Your eyes meet his, and in this very moment, you’re sure everything will be alright.
“May I share this bed with you tonight ?”
His voice is low, like he doesn’t want to bother you — Like he’s scared you would say no. So you lift up your head from the pillow, tenderly pecking his lips.
Whenever Piers looked at Chris, he looked into the sun. If only he listened to his Ma’s advice: don’t look into the son my boy, you’ll lose your pretty blues (it’s ironic that he became a sniper - even more so that the virus concentrated within his right eye: as i said, irony).
Lanshiang was almost beautiful, with its tapestry of colour and roaring towers. The stench of blood was a mild setback. Chris’ sacrifice attitude burnt like a supernova - one Piers couldn’t help but follow.
He always knew Chris would arbiter his death, just as he always knew he’d never hate him for it. To follow the sun was to make your own salvation - to hold the sun in your hands was an appointment with the Reaper. Finn was this how you felt?
Yet Piers had apparently lived long enough. Long enough to rid the sun of his title. Does anyone revere a single star as much as the Sun? All Piers had done was make sure Chris didn’t burn himself, what did he do to deserve this? I’mnotreadyI’mnotreadyI’mnotready.
He wasn’t ready. This virus burnt where Chris had warmed.
Oh boy did Piers fall like Icarus. He didn’t laugh or scream. He let the sun go and made damn sure Chris would escape.
A moon can never orbit a star. Yet alone become one.
the sun cast soft golden light through the thin curtains of porco galliard's room in the barracks—rare warmth for a place that usually smelled like dust, metal, and discipline. but today, none of that mattered.
porco lay on the couch, one arm curled protectively around you, your head tucked beneath his chin. a worn-out blanket covered you both, tangled somewhere between lazy naps and stolen peace. for once, the world was quiet. no shouting officers. no training drills. no looming threat of titans or war.
just you two.
porco's breathing was slow, his jaw unclenched—a rare sight in itself. and you, wrapped up in his warmth, let yourself melt deeper into him. if heaven existed, it probably felt like something similar to this.
the sound of the door knob twisting tingled in your ears. the oak door creaks, indicating that it was open.
"porco, we need to go over the—"
zeke's voice was cut off mid-sentence.
in the doorway stood marley's top warriors: zeke jaeger, pieck finger, reiner braun, and colt grice. four different reactions, yet the same look lingered in their eyes.
the look of disbelief.
porco didn't stir. neither did you.
pieck was the first to recover, a slow smirk creeping onto her face. “well, isn't this adorable,” she murmured, leaning against the doorframe.
reiner blinked, dumbfounded. only the thing that came out of his mouth was a short and quiet, "huh?".
colt immediately looked away, face burning red. “we- we should've knocked.” he mumbled, clearly traumatized by the domesticity.
zeke just stood there, raising a brow and folding his arms. “didn’t know porco even had a soft side,” he said dryly. “fascinating.”
you creaked an eye open. glancing at the door to view the warriors.
"porco, we forgot to lock the door.." you muttered into his neck, tightening your arms around him.
porco finally stirred, quickly propping his head up, his eyes squinting at the figures by the doorway. "..oh for fuck's sake." he sighed, agitated.
“don’t get up on our account,” pieck said sweetly, waving her hand. “we’ll let the lovebirds get back to it.”
the door closed with a gentle click, you groaned, burying your face more in porco’s neck. “we’re never going to live that down.”
porco sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “yeah… probably not.”
but after a pause, he sighed and tightened his arms around you.
every once in a while it hits me like a truck that in resident evil, when you find Enrico injured, you get different dialogue depending on if you're Jill or Chris.
If you're Jill, he's calmer and tries to explain. If you're Chris, he straight up calls him a double crosser and tries to shoot him.
Which, never made sense to me because he knew that Wesker was the double agent.
Then it all fucking clicked when I realized that implied Wesker and Chris we're so close, Enrico assumed that if Wesker was a double agent, obviously Chris must be too send post
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