Summary: It's Valentine's Day and instead of making Connor dinner you let him fuck your brains out. Babygirl Reader
Dom Connor x afab Reader
Summary: Starts off with sub Connor then he switches.
‧₊˚✧ John Wick x Fem Reader (spicy) ✧˚₊‧
John Wick Yandere Headcanons
Summary: It says in the title duh! Babygirl Reader
Stranger Things: Eddie Munson x Jennifers Body Reader (AU)
Summary: Eddie Munson X Reader (Jennifer's Body reader) You're Hawkins High it girl, along with your best friend, Chrissy Cunningham. However, after a fateful bar fire, you have changed for the worse. Your hunger for flesh can't be quenched until you decide to hook up with Eddie Munson, your long-time crush. (starts in the fall of 85)
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of Violence, mentions of r@pe/non-con, major character death, blood, gore, cannibalism, human consumption. bullying, smut, basically you’re a hot mean girl turned into a succubus who’s had a raging crush on Eddie Munson.
A/N: This story follows the movie's events and continues to season 4. This is a multiple-chapter fanfic. This fic is semi-abandoned. Mostly due to me not knowing if anyone will want to continue reading it. If you do have anythoughts just leave an ask or something.
unofficialbf!katsuki who secretly positions himself in ways that'll make cuddling him convenient... spreading his legs bc he knows you like to slot yourself between em, keeping his arms open so you can crawl right onto his chest... he would never ask you to cuddle, but if you do it all on your own, who is he to stop you? you're so damn clingy, after all!
Seeing you at Shoto’s celebratory get together for reaching second place in the hero ranks should evoke no feelings from Katsuki, right? Even if he hasn’t seen you in three years. Even if he might just want you back a little
Tags/CW: exes to ???, emotionally constipated Katsuki (just how I like it), angst with happy ending, making up, kissing, conversations about sex but no smut, making out in Katsuki’s car, takes place during MHA: more (but I made it a bit fancier), men who yearn are men who earn
The bathroom is too hot.
Steam still clings to the mirror even though Katsuki cracked the door open nearly ten minutes ago, and now every surface still has that damp, sticky feeling that makes his skin itch. The air smells faintly like eucalyptus from the stupid overpriced shaving cream Kirishima convinced him to buy last month, mixed with clean soap and the sharp metallic scent of running water. His apartment is quiet except for the constant buzz of the fluorescent light above him and the rough scrape of the razor dragging slowly down his jaw.
“Shit—Fuck—”
He hisses through his teeth the second the blade catches unevenly against his skin. A sting blooms near his chin, followed by the bright bead of blood surfacing almost immediately.
Katsuki glares at himself through the fogged mirror like the reflection personally pissed him off.
“Great.”
He looks fine. More than fine, honestly, which somehow only irritates him more.
His hair is freshly trimmed, the ash blond strands still slightly damp from his shower, pushed back messily from his forehead. The sleeves of his black compression shirt cling to his shoulders and arms while the expensive button-up he plans on wearing hangs neatly from the bathroom door beside pressed slacks he spent way too long picking out earlier. Even his watch sits carefully beside the sink instead of abandoned somewhere random like usual. The entire thing feels too deliberate. Too polished. Too much like he gives a shit.
Which he doesn’t.
Obviously.
Except his stomach has felt weird since he woke up this morning.
Not nervous. Definitely not nervous.
He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he clocked off hero work or how much time he spent at the gym so he could show off a pump tonight, nor can he try to convince himself it isn’t for the reason he doesn’t want to admit. He just wants to look good.
And that’s it. Simple as it sounds. No reason for him to choke on stuttering breaths.
The razor scrapes harder against his jaw this time as he rinses it aggressively under the sink. Hot water rushes over his fingers, turning the tips of them pink.
The celebration dinner is stupid to begin with, if you ask him.
Shoto gets ranked top two after the downtown incident last month, Endeavor immediately turns it into some flashy media spectacle about family legacy and hero society, and somehow all of Class A gets invited because the public still eats up that “golden generation” garbage years later. Old classmates pretending they all still keep in touch more often than not. The entire thing sounds exhausting.
But you’re gonna be there.
That’s the problem.
For all he cares, it’s been—what? Three years?
Three fucking years since he’s properly seen you.
Not in passing through articles online. Not blurry photos people tag him in accidentally after hero events. Not hearing your name mentioned by Mina or Sero every couple of months when they gossip over drinks.
Actually seeing you.
As in, In person.
Close enough to touch.
Because when him and you were no more, instead of running back to him like you’d always do, you moved out of Japan, got a job somewhere else in the world. You blocked him on all socials, blocked his number —even the agency landline— and for a while, he didn’t care to contact you. He didn’t care to check up on you, because who checks up on someone who said they wished they never met you? He went out of your life as quietly as you went out of his. Not caring if his last words hurt you, like you did.
Katsuki braces both hands against the sink and stares downward as water drips steadily from the faucet. His reflection blurs at the edges from the steam still clouding the glass, turning him into something distorted and unfamiliar.
Pathetic.
The worst part is he doesn’t even know what version of you is walking through those doors tonight.
Maybe you’re angry.
Maybe you barely look at him.
Maybe you’ve become one of those calm, polished heroes that smile perfectly for cameras now, the kind that know exactly how to navigate crowded rooms without making enemies out of everyone in them.
Or maybe you’ll look through him entirely.
That thought digs somewhere unpleasant beneath his ribs.
Fair enough, honestly.
He earns that.
The memory still crawls up on him sometimes when it gets too quiet. Usually late at night after patrol when he’s too exhausted to keep his thoughts from wandering somewhere ugly.
In all honesty he did try to talk to you. Last year, after he found out he wasn’t blocked anymore. But he was angry, vulgar, everything you’ve ever said you hated about him. And for better or for worse you had only told him you knew he’d never change. And he had left it there, not pressing anymore, not needing anymore proof to accept you just weren’t coming back.
Maybe this is why he won’t wear the polished clothes he’s picked out for tonight. Maybe the Nike sweats he tumble dried this morning and a t-shirt will make him look more casual, put together in a way fancy clothes won’t.
Because tonight is casual to him. It should be, at least, amidst picking up Kirishima and Izuku in his new car. He shouldn’t even care that you’re going to be there.
He keeps staring at himself anyway.
Like maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll suddenly figure out why this feels so fucking strange.
The bathroom light washes his skin pale while steam curls slowly around the edges of the mirror, softening the sharpness of his reflection. Katsuki barely recognizes the version of himself standing there sometimes. Not because he looks different—he does, obviously, older and broader and rougher around the edges—but because somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five, the anger inside him changed shape.
Less explosive.
Much more exhausting.
He reaches for the towel hanging off the counter and drags it roughly over his face before tossing it aside. The nick near his chin still stings faintly. Tiny. Irritating. His eyes flick toward the button-up hanging from the bathroom door again, then away immediately.
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
The idea of showing up looking like he spent hours trying to impress you makes something hot crawl up his neck. It feels pathetic now. Worse now, somehow, after standing here spiraling like an idiot for nearly forty minutes over a dinner he doesn’t even want to attend.
Katsuki grabs the hanger off the door and shoves the expensive shirt deeper into the closet on his way back into the bedroom.
Fuck that.
The softer lighting from his room settles easier against his eyes compared to the harsh fluorescent buzz of the bathroom. Outside the windows, the city glows orange and blue beneath the darkening sky, traffic crawling between towering buildings while distant sirens echo somewhere far below. His apartment sits high enough that most nights the noise blends together into background static.
Tonight it all feels too loud.
He yanks open a drawer harder than necessary and pulls out the black t-shirt he wears for training. The fabric stretches tight across his shoulders when he changes, outlining muscle built from years of relentless schedules, combat drills, patrols, sleepless nights at the gym whenever his head gets too crowded to sit still inside his own apartment.
Not for you.
Obviously.
The thought comes so defensive it almost makes him scoff at himself.
The sweats are clean at least. Black Nike joggers fresh from the dryer this morning, soft at the inside, fitted enough that Kirishima once called them “boyfriend material clothes” before Katsuki threatened to blast him through a wall. Casual. Comfortable. Like he isn’t thinking about tonight at all.
Like he didn’t spend an embarrassing amount of time earlier deciding between watches.
His jaw tightens again.
This is ridiculous.
You’re just another person he used to know.
That’s it.
Three years changes people. Hell, maybe you aren’t even the same woman anymore. Maybe you cut your hair shorter now. Maybe you picked up some accent overseas since your Japanese seemed too weird the last time you talked. And— and maybe, like the thoughts that used to consume him before he ever reached out to you last year, there’s somebody else waiting for you back home after tonight, somebody softer than him. Somebody easier. Someone your shared friends know about but won’t let him know of.
That thought lands badly, like he woke a dragon from a millennial slumber. His chest immediately feels too tight for it.
Katsuki snatches his car keys off the counter before he can sit with the feeling any longer.
His hone buzzes again from the kitchen table as he passes by. Probably Kirishima. Maybe Deku. Maybe another last-minute reminder about tonight’s schedule.
He ignores it.
The kitchen still smells faintly like coffee from this morning, dishes abandoned beside the sink because he hasn’t had enough energy lately to care about cleaning immediately after meals. There’s protein powder spilled near the toaster from breakfast. A hoodie tossed over one of the dining chairs. Tiny signs of somebody actually living here instead of the spotless, polished apartment magazines keep trying to photograph whenever reporters sneak glimpses during interviews.
For a second, his eyes drift unconsciously toward the balcony.
You used to stand out there all the time. Especially during storms.
Wrapped in one of his hoodies with your arms folded over the railing while Musutafu lit up below you in blurred neon reflections. You always complained the city looked lonely from this high up.
Katsuki used to think that was stupid. Now he gets it.
His throat feels strangely dry.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath.
The worst part is he genuinely has no idea how tonight’s gonna go.
Maybe you’ll smile politely at him like he’s an old coworker and he’ll have to be casual about greeting you, though he doesn’t want to.
Maybe you’ll avoid him altogether.
Maybe Mina’ll force everybody into some obnoxious group photo and suddenly he’ll be standing beside you for the first time in years pretending his heart isn’t punching against his ribs hard enough to bruise merely at the thought of it all.
Or maybe—
Maybe you’ll just look heavenly good.
That’s the real problem, honestly.
Because he already knows you will.
Not because of makeup or clothes or whatever expensive shit pro heroes wear to these events now. You always looked good to him in ways that annoyed the hell out of him. Half-asleep in his shirts. Sitting on his kitchen counter eating takeout straight from the carton. Yelling at him from across the apartment while he ignored you on purpose just to hear you get louder.
Three years later and his body still remembers stupid things about you automatically.
The sound of your laugh.
The weight of your legs thrown over his lap.
The smell of your peachy shampoo lingering on his pillows after arguments where one of you stormed out dramatically only to come back two hours later.
Katsuki grips his keys tighter.
Nope.
He’s not doing this tonight. He’s not showing up already halfway dragged into the past because of somebody who made it painfully clear they didn’t want him in their life anymore.
That should matter.
It does matter.
And honestly, he understands why you left.
Back then he was still angry at everything. Angry at hero society. Angry at himself. Angry at how badly he wanted somebody and how terrified he is of needing them at the same time. Every conversation between you eventually turned into him snapping before you can get too close to whatever ugly thing sits underneath his ribs.
You called him cruel once.
Not loudly. Not even during a fight.
Just tired.
And somehow that had struck him worse than any screaming ever could. That’s when it clicked to him, that no matter how much you said you saw the good in him, you never truly could. Even if one of your last sentences to him was that you loved him, he didn’t believe you could ever love someone you thought was cruel, someone you wish you never met.
Katsuki locks the apartment behind him harder than necessary before heading toward the elevator.
The hallway lights flicker softly overhead while he waits, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. His reflection stares back at him from the metal elevator doors—broad shoulders, tired eyes, black compression shirt clinging too tightly against muscle that suddenly feels more like armor than confidence.
Casual.
Tonight is casual.
Just old classmates catching up. Nothing more.
Then his phone vibrates again.
EIJIRO: don’t be weird tonight bro
A second message immediately follows; something about sitting shotgun in his new car.
Katsuki stares at the screen for a long moment. Then another vibration.
IZUKU: Kacchan are we still meeting downstairs in 20?
His jaw flexes hard enough to ache.
Because somehow, despite everything, despite all the years and silence and blocked numbers and ugly last conversations—
A part of him still feels twenty-two again. Twenty-two and convinced that no one could love the way he expressed himself.
______
By the time Katsuki parks outside the izakaya, the knot in his stomach has already settled into something meaner. Sharper. Musutafu glows around him and his friends in streaks of reflected neon against rain-dark pavement while a valet moves between cars beneath the izakaya entrance. The place itself is ridiculously upscale even if it is just traditional, all warm golden lighting spilling through enormous glass windows and polished black stone.
Kirishima lets out a low whistle from the passenger seat as he climbs out. “Can’t wait to see everyone.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki mutters automatically, already slamming the car door closed harder than necessary.
Cold evening air immediately brushes against the back of his neck. Somewhere nearby, traffic hums steadily through the city while muffled laughter spills from the izakaya entrance every time the doors open. Izuku smooths anxiously at the sleeves of his suit beside the car, glancing toward the building with that same nervous energy he’s carried since high school.
“Do we think Todoroki planned all this himself,” he starts, adjusting his tie, “or do you think Endeavor hired—”
“Deku,” Katsuki interrupts flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “if you start analyzing anything, i’m leaving.”
“I wasn’t gonna analyze the—”
“You literally were.”
Kirishima snorts loudly beside them, and normally the familiar bickering would loosen something in Katsuki’s chest. Tonight it barely registers because his attention keeps drifting toward the entrance before they even reach it, heartbeat strangely steady in a way that feels worse than panic. Like his body already knows something his brain is still trying to avoid.
The hostess opens the doors with a practiced smile, and warm air immediately wraps around them alongside the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. The restaurant is crowded with heroes, old classmates that are lingering discreetly in sorted tables near the back, all surrounded by polished wood and amber lighting that makes everything glow soft and expensive.
Katsuki barely notices any of it.
His eyes find you almost instantly.
Of course they do.
You’re seated near the center of the room beside the girls, half-turned toward Mina while Ochaco laughs at something across the table. The lighting catches warmly against the side of your face, softening the curve of your expression while gold jewelry glints subtly against your skin every time you move. Your hair is longer now than the last time he saw you in person, falling over your shoulders while one hand curls loosely around a sake glass. You look comfortable there. Relaxed. Like you belong in rooms like this now.
And for one awful second, Katsuki genuinely forgets how to breathe.
Three years vanish instantly beneath the weight of recognition. His body remembers you before his brain does, something visceral and humiliating tightening beneath his ribs before he can stop it.
Fuck.
You look different, but not enough to feel unfamiliar. Older, maybe. Sharper around the edges in the way everybody becomes sharper with time. There’s confidence in the way you sit now that wasn’t fully there before, something steadier beneath your posture. You carry yourself like someone who’s finally learned how to exist without apologizing for taking up space.
Then Mina notices them entering.
“Oh my god, finally!” she calls immediately, waving dramatically across the room. “You guys are late as hell!”
Several heads turn at once.
Including yours.
Katsuki feels it immediately, that split second your eyes land on him from across the room. It happens so fast he almost convinces himself he imagined it. No widening. No visible surprise. No anger flashing across your face. Your gaze settles on him briefly before moving smoothly toward Kirishima instead.
“Oh, Eiji,” you smile warmly, standing slightly from your pillow as the group approaches. “Hi.”
The knot in Katsuki’s stomach twists tighter.
Kirishima grins instantly. “There she is. Damn, it’s been forever.”
“It literally has,” Mina groans dramatically. “This bitch abandoned us internationally.”
You laugh softly at that, embarrassed enough to duck your head slightly.
The sound lands somewhere dangerous in Katsuki’s chest.
Ochaco immediately stands to greet Izuku while the others start talking over each other all at once, greetings and questions colliding noisily together after years apart. You converse with everyone easily. Kirishima gets pulled into a quick side hug while you squeeze Ochaco’s hand excitedly across the table. You ask Izuku about agency work overseas, laugh when Kaminari nearly trips over a table trying to sit down, you smile politely at Jirou when she teases your accent sounding slightly different now.
But Katsuki gets nothing.
At first he tells himself maybe you just haven’t gotten there yet. Maybe it’s awkward. Maybe you’re nervous too and trying to settle into the conversation before acknowledging him properly.
Then Kirishima nudges him lightly with his elbow.
“Oi,” he mutters under his breath, “say hi, silly.”
Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.
His eyes flick toward you again, but you’re already sitting back down beside Mina, smoothing your sleeve absentmindedly while listening to Momo speak. Completely relaxed. Completely normal.
Like he isn’t even there.
Something hot immediately crawls beneath his skin, but it doesn’t feel like anger. Anger would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to understand. This feels uglier than that.
Because you aren’t being cold.
You aren’t glaring at him or avoiding eye contact dramatically or making the tension obvious for everyone else at the table.
You’re just indifferent.
Clean, casual, effortless indifference that makes it painfully obvious you’ve already figured out how to exist in the same room as him without it affecting you at all.
Katsuki pulls form to his seat harder than necessary across from Kirishima, the sharp scrape of the table flinching away from him against the floor briefly cutting through the table conversation. Nobody reacts except Mina, whose eyes dart toward him automatically before flicking carefully toward you.
You don’t even look up.
Jesus Christ.
His chest suddenly feels too tight.
“You look good, by the way,” Mina says suddenly, leaning dramatically against your shoulder. “Like suspiciously good. What the hell are they feeding you overseas?”
You laugh quietly, almost embarrassed by the attention. “Literally just less stress, probably.”
The joke lands casually around the table. Kaminari laughs. Jirou snorts into her drink. Ochaco starts teasing you immediately about abandoning Japanese work culture.
Nobody else notices anything strange about the comment.
But Katsuki does.
Of course he fucking does.
Less stress.
Like loving him had exhausted you so thoroughly that leaving the entire country became the healthiest thing you’d ever done for yourself.
His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the menu sitting untouched in front of him.
“Still working with that rescue agency?” Izuku asks curiously.
You nod. “Mostly disaster relief now, yeah. It’s quieter than here.”
“Quieter?” Kaminari repeats incredulously. “Why would you want quieter?”
“Because some people enjoy peace,” Jirou answers dryly.
“Exactly,” you laugh.
And there it is again, that strange feeling pressing heavier against Katsuki’s ribs every time you smile. Because you do seem peaceful now. Not forced. Not pretending. Actually peaceful.
Your posture stays relaxed through every conversation. Your smile comes easier than he remembers. Even your voice sounds lighter somehow, no longer carrying that constant tension that used to sit beneath your words whenever the two of you argued. Back then, loving each other always felt loud. Intense. Like every conversation teetered dangerously close to becoming a fight neither of you knew how to stop once it started.
Now you just seem… calm.
Katsuki suddenly feels too large in his seat. Too rough around the edges for this version of you. His broad shoulders, his obnoxiously loud voice, the constant restless energy simmering beneath his skin all feel painfully obvious in comparison to the quiet ease you carry now.
Mina notices it first.
Her eyes flick carefully between the two of you once. Then again.
Her smile falters slightly.
Because now it’s becoming noticeable to everybody else too.
You still haven’t acknowledged Katsuki properly once since they entered the izakaya.
Kirishima notices next, judging by the awkward way he shifts beside Katsuki before clearing his throat.
“So, uh…” he starts carefully, eyes darting between you both. “Crazy seeing everybody together again, huh?”
“Mm,” you hum politely before taking another sip of your drink.
That’s it.
No tension sharpens your voice. No bitterness leaks through your expression. Nothing about your reaction feels forced or emotional at all. Katsuki Bakugo has somehow become just another former classmate sitting at the table across from yours instead of the man you once shared a bed and apartment and entire future with.
You used to tell each other that by the time you’re twenty-five you’d surprise your friends and old classmates by popping a kid out of the blue in one of these events. You used to laugh at the thought of him flaunting a baby bump on you, dreaming that you’d hide your engagement ring from everyone until it was the right time to announce you’d get married.
In another life, it may have been different.
Instead of that, you and him are forcibly strangers now; the realization settles, once again heavily in his stomach.
At least showing hatred towards him would mean he still mattered enough to ruin your evening.
This indifference feels like being erased entirely.
______________
The longer the night settles around the izakaya, the more Katsuki realizes he completely misjudged what this dinner was supposed to be.
Not some polished, high-class event packed with cameras and stiff hero society bullshit.
Just an izakaya. Despite how fancy it is.
A crowded, noisy, familiar little place tucked between glowing Musutafu storefronts where the tables are too close together and the air smells like grilled meat, fried oil, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke clinging faintly to old wood. Somebody in the back is laughing loud enough to echo over the music while waiters squeeze through narrow spaces carrying trays overloaded with skewers and drinks. Half the group’s jackets are already tossed carelessly everywhere.
Casual.
Comfortable.
The kind of place Class A used to practically live in after internships.
Which somehow makes this worse.
Because you fit into it too naturally even if you’ve missed the majority of it.
Time passes eerily as Katsuki watches from across the table while Mina complains dramatically about agency interns stealing her skincare products, and you laugh so easily at something dumb Kaminari says that for a split second it genuinely feels like no time has passed at all.
Except it has.
He notices it in tiny things.
You don’t interrupt people as much anymore. Back then you used to talk over everyone whenever you got excited, eyes bright and hands moving while you argued passionately about absolutely everything. Now you lean back when people speak, quieter in a way that feels more intentional than shy. You still smile the same, though. That part hits him unexpectedly hard.
Same slight squint around your eyes. Maybe a few subtle wrinkles now, that still manage to look good on you.
Same habit of hiding your laugh behind your drink or your hand sometimes.
It’s awful how quickly he notices all of it.
A waiter slides another round of drinks onto the table, glass clinking loudly against wood.
“Bakugo,” Sero grins from farther down the booth, already flushed pink from alcohol, “you’ve been weirdly quiet all night. You sick or somethin’?”
“I’m always quiet,” Katsuki answers flatly before taking a long sip of beer.
The table immediately erupts.
“That is literally not true,” Jirou snorts.
“Shut up! It is!”
“Me when I lie” Mina snorts.
“You used to start fights with strangers in restaurants,” Kaminari points out.
“Correction,” Kirishima says, grinning, “he used to start fights with strangers everywhere.”
“I remember that guy at karaoke—”
“He deserved it.”
“You didn’t even know him!”
Katsuki barely listens.
Because across the table, you’re smiling into your drink again, shoulders shaking slightly with quiet laughter while Mina nearly falls sideways into Ochaco from laughing too hard.
And you still won’t look at him.
Not really.
Your gaze passes over him occasionally in that absent, polite way people acknowledge furniture in crowded rooms, but nothing lingers. No awkwardness. No tension. No visible effort to avoid him either still, which somehow stings too much.
It’s like you already adjusted to his presence within the first five minutes of arriving.
Meanwhile he feels painfully aware of every movement you make.
The way your rings tap softly against your glass.
The faint crease between your brows whenever you listen closely to someone speaking.
The small scar near your wrist he remembers kissing once while you laid half-asleep across his chest.
His stomach twists hard enough to make him irritated with himself all over again.
This is fucking ridiculous.
“Bakugo.”
His head lifts automatically.
Momo’s looking at him from across the table. “Did you hear me?”
“No.”
“I said,” she repeats patiently, “Shoto wants everyone at his agency anniversary event next month too.”
“Absolutely not,” Katsuki answers immediately.
Kaminari groans. “Dude, you say no to everything.”
“Because everything sounds terrible.”
“See?” Mina points accusingly toward you. “This is why our sweetie over here escaped the country. We’re emotionally exhausting.”
The comment is obviously meant as a joke and the table laughs.
Even you smile.
But Katsuki feels the words land somewhere unpleasant anyway.
Before he can stop himself, his eyes flick toward you.
For the first time all night, you finally look directly back at him.
It lasts maybe two seconds!?
Three, max.
Then, when Kirishima opens his mouth it’s as if he can’t stop being a moron. Like he never could have guessed what the context of ‘time and place’ is. He points at you, then Katsuki.
“Remember when you guys sneaked out during the winter festival and everyone thought you were kidnapped?”
The entire table immediately erupts.
“Oh my god.”
“They were gone for HOURS—”
“Because SOMEONE turned their phones off,” Kaminari wheezes.
“You guys came back looking guilty as hell,” Mina accuses dramatically.
Katsuki feels his shoulders tense instantly. He sees you shrink into a timely creature in your seat.
Back then, you’d dragged him behind the gym building because you were freezing and irritated and insisted his body temperature was “unnaturally useful.” He remembers pinning you against the wall afterward just to shut you up after you laughed at how red his ears got.
He remembers kissing you until neither of you could breathe properly.
The memory hits hard enough to feel physical. Youthful kisses, teenage love— he remembers how it felt when he kissed you first and when he had kissed you then. He remembers making out in your dorm late at night when he should’ve been resting his injuries after the war.
Around the table, everyone’s still laughing.
Except you.
You’ve gone still beside Mina, fingers tightening almost invisibly around your drink before you take another sip.
Then, calmly, casually—
“So,” you interrupt smoothly, turning toward Ochaco and Tsuyu instead, “how’s hero life treating you two?”
Clean cut. Effortless for anyone who can’t read behind your eyes.
The conversation immediately shifts away from the topic entirely.
Like you did it on purpose. Like the memory embarrasses you now.
Katsuki drops whatever sits at the top of his tongue like it stung too much to be spoken out loud. Like he was given a sound reminder that his words are always unnecessary.
___________
Everyone eventually becomes too careless despite the fragility of the situation.
Alcohol warms the tables steadily, loosening voices and posture until conversations start overlapping loudly across the cramped izakaya booth. Kaminari is practically hanging halfway over Sero now while arguing about hero rankings nobody else cares about, and Kirishima’s laugh keeps booming loudly enough to earn irritated glances from nearby tables. Even more empty beer glasses crowd together beside greasy plates streaked with sauce while waiters weave expertly through the narrow aisles carrying fresh rounds of skewers and drinks.
Normally Katsuki would be right in the middle of it all.
Tonight he barely said a word, even if he found himself at your table for some reason.
Because every single time the conversation drifts naturally toward old memories involving the two of you, you choose to redirect it before it can fully land.
Always subtle enough most people probably don’t notice.
But he notices.
Every single time.
When Mina starts retelling the beach trip where the two of you once again disappeared from the bonfire for over an hour, you smoothly interrupt to ask Jirou about her latest music project overseas. When Kirishima almost brings up the apartment you used to share in the heart of the city, you casually wave down the waiter and ask if anyone wants another round of drinks before he can finish the sentence.
And the worst part is how effortless you make it look.
You aren’t visibly uncomfortable. You aren’t tense or bitter or awkward every time his name comes up paired with yours. You navigate around him cleanly, naturally, like you’ve already spent years learning exactly how to exist comfortably in spaces where even if Katsuki Bakugo is present, he can simply be erased.
The notion starts irritating him more with every passing minute. It sits tighter beneath his ribs by the second. Makes his heart beat in fragile, irregular beats.
A doctor had once told him to keep track of arhythmic beats like this.
Tonight he does not. But usually, he does.
Across the table, you tilt your head back slightly while laughing at something Ochaco says, fingers still loosely wrapped around your glass. The soft amber lighting from the hanging lanterns catches against your face warmly enough that Katsuki immediately looks away afterward, jaw tightening hard.
Then your phone lights up beside your plate.
His eyes catch it automatically, assumption quick to replace every spec of vermilion in his irises.
A name flashes briefly across the screen before you casually turn the phone face down against the table.
It’s a nickname paired with a heart.
It could be a friend, but for that he’s unconvinced.
Something twists violently low in Katsuki’s stomach.
Immediate. Sharp enough to genuinely piss him off.
Three years.
Obviously there’s somebody else now.
What the hell did he expect? That you spent years overseas grieving a relationship that ended with both of you saying things cruel enough to permanently carve into each other?
His fingers curl tighter around his beer glass.
Mina notices instantly.
Her eyes flick carefully between him and you before she awkwardly clears her throat. “Okay, wow,” she says carefully, trying to laugh through the tension, “this table energy’s getting kinda weird.”
“Only because your face gets louder every time you drink,” Jirou answers dryly without looking up from her glass.
“No, seriously,” Mina insists now, glancing more cautiously toward Katsuki. “Everybody’s acting strange.”
“Nobody’s acting strange,” you answer calmly before finally looking directly at Katsuki for the second time all night.
And somehow that feels worse.
You really are fine. Not pretending. Not secretly emotional underneath the surface. Fi—ne. Almost too cold.
You are completely, genuinely fine sitting across from him after three years apart.
Something reckless rises inside his chest almost immediately.
“You got somethin’ to say?” Katsuki asks suddenly, attention fully turned to you. “Then say it to my face.”
For once, he manages to keep your eyes in his.
The table quiets.
Not completely, but enough that nearby conversations and clinking glasses start bleeding awkwardly into the silence between your group.
Your brows pull together faintly before rising. “What?”
“You’ve barely looked at me all night.”
“Why would I?”
When you respond, Kirishima visibly winces beside him.
“Bakugo,” he mutters quietly under his breath.
An effort for calmness that pays out fruitless soil. Katsuki barely hears him now that the irritation’s already pushing its way out.
“No, seriously,” he continues, eyes locked onto yours. “What’s the deal?”
The atmosphere around the table shifts immediately.
Mina looks horrified. Izuku suddenly looks like he wants the floor to physically open beneath him—he hasn’t said anything about you up till now. Not on the phone, not in the car when Katsuki snapped like broken glass at every single thing. He didn’t even say anything about you when Katsuki told him that if he treats everyone like they’re special, then no one really is special to him. (When does Katsuki ever get so emotional?)
Even Kaminari goes quiet for once.
You stare at Katsuki from across the table for a long moment, expression unreadable beneath the warm restaurant lighting. Then you blink slowly before setting your drink down carefully against the table.
“…There’s no deal. You made sure of that.”
The calmness in your voice instantly makes his irritation worse.
“You’ve been ignoring me all night.”
“No,” you answer evenly, “I’ve been talking to everyone.”
“Except me.”
The silence afterward settles heavily between you both.
Around the table, nobody moves. The noise of the izakaya suddenly feels distant compared to the pressure building in the booth. You lean back slightly in your seat, eyes finally holding his properly instead of sliding politely past him like earlier.
“What exactly are you expecting from me here, Katsuki?”
The question catches him off guard immediately.
Not because of the words but because of the exhaustion in your tone that has completely replaced anger.
“I dunno,” he answers flatly, defensive before he can stop himself. “Basic acknowledgement maybe.”
You stare at him another second before letting out a small breath through your nose. Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just tired.
“I said hi when you walked in.”
“No,” Katsuki says immediately, “you said hi to Eijiro.”
Kaminari audibly mutters “oh my god, bets. Bets now!” under his breath before Mina immediately kicks him hard beneath the table.
Your fingers tap once lightly against your glass before stilling again completely.
Then, finally, something shifts in your expression.
And it’s not sadness.
Just plain right resignation. Like you’ve already given up.
Because now everybody at the table is looking literally anywhere except the two of you. Kirishima suddenly becomes very interested in his drink. Ochaco stares fixedly at the condensation sliding down her glass. Even Sero awkwardly clears his throat under his breath.
“Fuck yeah, stop playing games.”
You hold Katsuki’s gaze the entire time when you speak again.
“I ain’t got shit to say to you in front of everyone.” You say, bluntly, “but since you say we don’t have to play games, I didn’t ignore you because I hate you,” you continue. “I ignored you because every single time I look at you, I remember the last conversation we had.”
The words land directly against his sternum. Heavy. Sharp like a swirly blade and enough that for a second he genuinely forgets how to respond.
The memory crashes back immediately whether he wants it to or not.
Rain hammering against pavement outside the apartment.
You crying so hard your voice kept shaking despite how badly you tried hiding it.
Him saying things he knew would hurt before they even left his mouth.
You standing there afterward like he’d physically reached inside your chest and twisted something apart with his bare hands.
“I wish I never met you.”
Katsuki remembers that part perfectly.
Worse, he remembers exactly what he said right before to make you say it. Something cruel. Something calculated. Something along the lines of “you’re lying to yourself when you say you love me.”
Because back then hurting each other always came easier than admitting how badly neither of you wanted things to end.
Across the table, your expression remains composed, but now he notices the strain sitting carefully beneath it. The effort it’s taking you to stay this calm. To keep your voice level instead of letting old wounds split open in front of everyone.
“I’m not trying to make tonight uncomfortable,” you continue more quietly now. “I came because I’m back in Japan and I missed everyone. That’s all.”
Everyone.
But not specifically him.
The distinction settles ugly and heavy enough inside his chest that he and everyone else in this room are short of words
The atmosphere around the table changes only when the emergency hero alert rings on everyone’s phones.
Around you, everybody moves at once.
Years of training erase the awkwardness almost instantly. Drinks abandoned. Jackets pulled on. Conversations cut short mid-sentence while tables scrape across wood flooring. The emotional wreckage sitting between you and Katsuki gets shoved violently aside beneath instinct and urgency.
You stand automatically too.
And for one humiliating second, relief floods through you so fast it almost makes your knees weak. Because now you don’t have to stay sitting across from him anymore.
You don’t have to survive whatever expression is currently sitting on Katsuki’s face after what you just said.
You don’t have to keep pretending your heart isn’t beating so hard it physically hurts.
The group spills out into the cold Musutafu night in a rush of noise and movement. Sirens already echo faintly somewhere ahead, reflecting red against rain-slick pavement while civilians stop to stare at the sudden crowd of pro heroes flooding onto the sidewalk.
You breathe in sharply the second cold air hits your lungs.
It helps. Barely. Your hands still feel shaky and so fucking stupid..
Because the worst part—the genuinely humiliating part—is that none of what you said was a lie.
You did ignore Katsuki because looking at him hurts.
But not in the way everyone at that table probably assumed. Everyone, including him, thinks it’s because you stopped loving him.
And honestly that—would’ve been easier.
The problem is, that standing across from Katsuki after three years still feels dangerously close to standing too near an open flame. Like one wrong moment of weakness could drag you straight back into him before you remember all the reasons you left in the first place.
And God—you wanted to.
That’s the pathetic part.
The second he walked into the restaurant tonight, broad shoulders filling the doorway, looking so pretty even if all the boyish charm had abandoned his face for good, while his eyes immediately found yours across the room, something inside your chest reacted so violently you almost forgot how to breathe.
Three years.
Three whole fucking years.
And your body still recognized him instantly.
You hated that.
Hated how good he looked. Hated how familiar his voice sounded. Hated that even now, after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted to walk straight across the room and touch him just to prove he was real. Kiss him so you at least be able to go back to your friends overseas and let them know you got the kiss of closure you’ve been wanting so desperately.
But you knew better now.
You had to know better now.
Because loving Katsuki always felt like standing too close to an explosion and convincing yourself the heat wasn’t burning you alive.
You pull your hair back quickly while jogging after the others down the crowded sidewalk, the heels of your boots striking wet pavement hard enough to ground you back into the present. Neon signs blur overhead while people move aside hurriedly at the sight of pro heroes rushing past.
Beside you, Ochaco glances over briefly.
“You okay?”
The question is gentle enough to make your throat tighten unexpectedly.
“Yeah,” you answer immediately.
Too quickly.
Ochaco’s expression softens in that awful way people look at wounded animals they aren’t sure how to help. That facade that all heroes put on when they’re helping a missing child find their mommy.
You look away to let her go before she can say anything else.
Ahead of the group, Katsuki is already moving faster than everyone else, irritation practically radiating off him in waves while sparks crackle faintly against his palms. The familiar sight hits somewhere deep in your chest with painful precision.
God.
There he is— Still carrying himself like the entire world personally offended him for existing.
And somehow you still love him enough it makes you feel sick.
You wonder briefly if he knows.
If he’s always known and if so, why he’s denying it.
Maybe that’s what made the breakup so unbearable in the first place. Katsuki understood exactly how much power he had over you, and every time he got scared of needing someone that badly in return, he lashed out before you could hurt him first.
________
The robbery cleanup drags longer than expected.
Statements. Damage reports. Civilians needing reassurance. Media helicopters circling overhead long enough to become irritating background noise.
By the time everything finally settles, the sky above Musutafu has turned that heavy shade of black and blue. The streets are quieter now, washed silver beneath streetlights while exhausted civilians slowly reclaim the sidewalks. Neon signs remain glowing in the background of it all.
Katsuki feels wrung out.
Not physically, though. Physically he’s fine. His heart, at least, has finally stopped palpitating. It’s everything else which isn’t his heart that's clawing at the inside of his chest that’s making him tired.
After an agonizing thirty minutes of broken communications on splitting the bill with everyone else, he gets dragged into easy conversation.
“Alright, alright,” Kaminari groans dramatically while stretching his arms over his head. “I’m officially declaring tonight cursed.”
“You declare everything cursed,” Mina replies instantly.
“Because everything is cursed.”
Kirishima snorts beside them while Izuku adjusts the strap of his gauntlets. “At least nobody got seriously hurt.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki mutters distractedly, digging his car keys from his pocket.
His mind hasn’t stopped replaying the familiar sound of your voice through your conversation for the past twenty minutes. The kind of familiar that dug straight under his skin and stayed there.
Katsuki hates how much those words affected him. Hates that part of him wanted to turn around and ask what the hell that tone meant after everything that’s happened between you before leaving for his hero duties.
Instead, he shoved it down where everything else goes. The pit of his dropping stomach.
The group behind him, after enthusiastically rejoicing and pleading for even a sight of his car, reaches the parking structure entrance together with him, footsteps echoing faintly through the concrete levels while fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Mina’s still talking about how good the food was. Kirishima’s half-listening while Denki complains loudly about tomorrow’s paperwork.
Normal. Everything feels painfully normal again.
Izuku has already left to chase after Ochaco. Katsuki gets to go home with one less friend to lash out on and half a heart.
“Later, man,” Kirishima says to a far away Izuku raising a hand.
Katsuki barely listens while waving him off with a lazy flick of his hand.
Then he sees you. And every thought in his head immediately cuts clean in half.
You’re standing beside his car. leaning against it casually. Not waiting in some cinematic pose.
Just there.
Hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket while cool garage lighting spills softly across your face. You look tired now. More tired than you did at dinner. Hair slightly messy. Faint smudges of eyeliner still near the corners of your eyes.
Real. That’s the first thing that hits him. Just you. Waiting for him.
Kirishima notices you first from the whole group.
“Oh, hi.”
Mina stops talking.
Denki’s eyes widen slightly before darting rapidly between both of you like he accidentally walked into live explosives.
Katsuki’s pulse kicks hard once against his ribs and his neck.
You look at him quietly before speaking.
“…Can we talk?”
Simple words. Calm voice. And somehow they hit harder than that joke of an argument earlier.
Nobody moves for about two seconds. Then Katsuki clicks his tongue sharply without taking his eyes off you.
The concern. The don’t blow this up worse look sitting all over his face.
“Tch,” Katsuki mutters. “I’m not gonna start shit in a parking garage.”
“That’s not super reassuring when you phrase it like that,” Mina says.
You huff out the faintest breath beside the car—almost a laugh.
The sound catches Katsuki off guard badly enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically. Because he forgot for a second what it sounded like when your amusement wasn’t forced. He’s forgotten what it was like when he used to make you laugh, being so caught up in the destruction of it all.
Kirishima notices too. Something in his expression softens before he finally sighs heavily and throws his hands up. “Alright, alright. We’re leaving.”
“But if either of you commits emotional crimes,” Mina warns dramatically while walking backward toward the elevator, “I’m intervening.”
“You say that like you’re emotionally qualified to help anybody,” Katsuki shoots back automatically. “Or like you have to wait around here.”
“See? This is why therapy should be mandatory for heroes!”
The elevator doors of the garage close over the sound of Denki cackling.
And then they’re gone.
Silence settles almost immediately afterward. Not awkward exactly.
The parking structure hums quietly around you both, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while distant traffic echoes faintly from outside. Somewhere farther down the level, water drips steadily from a pipe into concrete.
Katsuki shoves one hand into his pocket to stop himself from fidgeting.
You still haven’t moved from beside his car.
Up close now, he notices the exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes properly. The careful composure from dinner looks thinner somehow. Like tonight finally wore through it.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then—
“You really think I hate you?” you ask quietly.
The question lands so directly he almost flinches.
Katsuki’s jaw tightens automatically. “You ignored me for four fuckin’ hours.”
“I ignored you because I was trying not to ruin my own night.”
That catches him off guard enough to shut him up briefly.
You look away first, arms folding tighter across yourself.
“I spent three years trying to get over you,” you admit quietly. “Do you understand how humiliating it is that seeing you again almost reset all of it instantly?”
Katsuki feels something sharp twist low in his chest.
Because your voice still doesn't sound angry. It sounds like you’re simple frustrated with yourself.
“I didn’t know what version of you was gonna walk into that restaurant tonight,” you continue. “And honestly? I was scared that if I talked to you normally for even five minutes, I’d forget why we broke up in the first place.”
The parking garage suddenly feels too small, too warm. Katsuki stares at you, heartbeat starting to thud harder beneath his ribs again in a way that has nothing to do with fighting anymore. He starts thinking of every single moment today where his thoughts remained the same as yours.
You laugh softly then, but there’s no humor in it.
“And the worst part is,” you murmur, eyes dropping briefly toward the concrete floor, “I still wanted you to come sit next to me. I keep thinking I want the goodbye kiss that I never got. I can never fully leave you behind and I think it’s just because I don’t want to. Last year when you messaged me, I found myself excited at the thought of us getting back together.
The words hit him harder than any fight tonight did.
Just honest enough to split something open clean down the middle.
Katsuki stares at you like he genuinely forgot how to move for a second. Because he’d prepared himself for anger; —resentment, perhaps. Even the mischellanious instant where you’d be maybe telling him you moved on and he was pathetic for still carrying pieces of this -you- around like shrapnel under his skin.
He didn’t prepare himself himself for this right now in any of his overthinking scenarios.
You standing in front of him at nearly two two in the morning, exhausted and vulnerable and still admitting you wanted him back once too. The million dollar question is: do you still?
The fluorescent lights of the parking lot above you the two of you flicker faintly. Somewhere deeper in the garage, a car alarm chirps once before falling silent again—Katsuki barely hears any of it.
“When I saw your message,” you continue more quietly, “I remember staring at my phone like an idiot for an hour before answering.” A weak laugh leaves you. “My friend literally had to pry it out of my hands because I kept rereading it.”
His chest tightens painfully.
Because he remembers sending that message.
Sitting alone in his apartment after patrol with alcohol burning down his throat while he typed and deleted different versions of I miss you for nearly twenty minutes before settling on something colder instead. Something easier.
“Why would you fucking unblock me?”
Pathetic.
“You sounded angry,” you admit softly. “But I still kept hoping maybe underneath it… maybe you missed me enough to try again.”
Katsuki looks away sharply, jaw flexing hard.
He did.
That’s the worst fucking part.
He remembers pacing around his kitchen waiting for your replies like his life depended on them. Remembers the stupid spike of hope every time his phone buzzed. Remembers ruining the entire conversation because the second things started feeling vulnerable again, panic crawled viciously straight up his spine and turned everything mean.
Same old him as always.
“You told me I never changed,” he mutters roughly.
Your expression shifts slightly at that. Not regret exactly. Something sadder.
“Because you hadn’t.”
The honesty stings immediately because part of him knows you’re right. Back then he’d still been treating love like a fight he needed to win before somebody could abandon him first. Katsuki drags a hand hard down his face before laughing once under his breath. Bitter. Exhausted.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Probably deserved that one.”
Silence settles again after that. Raw, void of the hostility every other silence between you tonight. However, this time, the hostility of any previous silence between you tonight, is missing. Everything is raw and open like an oozing, fresh wound.
Had that been the case, he’d known better of.
You’re still standing near his car with your arms folded tightly across yourself like you’re physically holding your own chest together. Katsuki notices your fingers trembling slightly against your sleeves.
You’re nervous.
That realization hits unexpectedly hard too. Because he also forgot what it felt like knowing he could still affect you like this.
“I hated you for a while,” you admit suddenly, voice quieter now. “Or—I tried to, at least, at least.” You shake your head faintly. “I wanted to, anyway. It would’ve made moving on easier.”
Katsuki doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t trust himself to.
“But then stupid things kept happening,” you continue, eyes unfocused now like you’re talking more to yourself than him. “I’d hear someone laugh like you at work and my whole day would get weird after. Or somebody would burn coffee and suddenly I’d remember your apartment.” Another soft, embarrassed laugh. “There’s this hero overseas that yells exactly like you during meetings. I almost walked out the first time because I started tearing up.”
Something dangerously warm starts spreading low in Katsuki’s chest.
Not ego. Not satisfaction.
Something worse—Hope.
Small and so fragile and so, so terrifying. and plainly—
You finally look back up at him then, expression open in a way he hasn’t seen in years.
“And honestly?” you say quietly, “I think part of me kept waiting for you to come after me.”
That one nearly knocks the air clean out of him.
Because he wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
He remembers standing in airports during patrol assignments wondering what country you were in. Remembers opening your chat box dozens of times— knowing which one it was simply by how many weeks ago was your last conversation— just to close it again before typing anything. Remembers seeing your name finally appear in his Instagram chat box instead of ‘User’ and feeling his stomach drop so hard he had to sit down.
But wanting something and knowing how to hold onto it were always two different things for him.
Katsuki swallows hard before speaking.
“You said you wished you never met me.”
Your face changes instantly. Pain flickers there, between your worried brows so quickly he almost misses it.
“I know.”
“You meant it?”
“No,” you answer immediately.
Too fast for it to not be honest. Katsuki would crack up a cocky smile if the sound of its admission didn’t hook directly beneath his ribs.
You inhale shakily afterward, eyes dropping again.
“I said it because I wanted to hurt you back,” you admit. “And because you’d just spent an hour making me feel stupid and calling me a liar for telling you i loved you.”
The words land heavy between you both. Katsuki feels nausea twist unpleasantly in his stomach because he remembers that night perfectly now more than any other time.
Not just the fight.
Your face.
The way you looked at him like you were begging him to give you one reason to stay softer with each other instead of turning everything into a bloodbath.
And he had spectacularly failed, spectacularly.
“You really thought I didn’t love you?” you ask suddenly, quieter now.
And since the answer to your question is humiliating, Katsuki’s throat feels tight.
“…Yeah.”
You stare at him for a long moment after that. Then you laugh again, but this time it sounds closer to heartbreak.
“Katsuki,” you whisper softly, “I moved across the world and still couldn’t stop loving you properly.”
That one hurts.
Not in a bad way.
Worse.
Because suddenly all three years between you feel unbearably visible at once. Every missed call never made. Every airport not boarded. Every message typed and deleted. Every lonely apartment. Every night spent pretending this wasn’t still sitting unfinished between you both. It never actually had to be that way.
Katsuki looks at you standing there beneath harsh garage lighting with tired eyes and shaky hands and too much honesty spilling out at once and realizes, with horrifying clarity, that if you were to claim your goodbye kiss; if you so as kissed him right now, he genuinely doesn’t think he’d survive it quietly.
Neither of you says anything for a while after that.
The parking garage hums quietly around you, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in uneven intervals while rainwater drips somewhere deeper in the structure with slow, hollow echoes. The city outside has started slipping into that strange hour between night and morning where everything feels softer around the edges. Traffic is thinner now. The distant sounds of Musutafu blur together into something low and tired beneath the concrete silence.
Katsuki can hear your breathing.
Not because the garage is particularly quiet, but because he’s standing too close to you again after three years and his body keeps locking onto every tiny thing automatically.
The way your shoulders rise slightly every time you inhale. The faint tremble still lingering in your fingers. The exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes.
You look nothing like the polished, untouchable version of yourself he built up in his head over the past few years. Standing here now, you just look human again.
Real enough to ache over.
To you… Does he look that way too?
“Let’s go, I’ll take you home.” Katsuki shifts his weight once before dragging a hand through his hair roughly. “We should probably get outta here before Mina decides to come back and interrogate us.”
The corner of your mouth twitches faintly. “That implies she never actually left.”
“She’s probably hiding behind a concrete pillar right now.”
“She absolutely is.”
The tiny bit of shared amusement loosens something dangerously fragile between you both.
Katsuki unlocks the car with a sharp click of the key fob. Then you glance toward the passenger side before looking back at him again, uncertainty flickering briefly across your expression like you’re second-guessing whether this is a good idea.
Honestly, he’s wondering the same thing.
Because every second around you tonight has felt like standing near something unstable with no self-control left to keep his hands off it.
Still, he opens the passenger door for you anyway.
You hesitate only a second before climbing inside.
The interior of the car smells faintly like leather, rain, and burnt caramel coffee from whatever drive-through Kirishima dragged him through earlier this week. Soft dashboard lights glow low against the dark while droplets of rain slide slowly down the windshield overhead. The city reflects across the glass in blurred streaks of neon and gold.
Katsuki rounds the front of the car slowly, pulse thudding heavier with every step.
By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the air inside already feels too warm.
You’re sitting angled slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely across yourself while the glow from passing streetlights softens the side of your face. Your makeup’s mostly worn off by now. There’s still a faint smear of eyeliner and mascara at the corner of your eye.
He has to physically stop himself from reaching over to wipe it away.
Silence settles again, but it’s different inside the car.
The enclosed space presses everything tighter together until even breathing feels too noticeable.
Katsuki rests one hand against the steering wheel without starting the engine. “So what now?”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose before leaning your head back against the seat. “I don’t know.” you sigh “I didn’t really think this far ahead.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Me neither.”
Rain starts tapping lightly against concrete again. Thin at first. Then steadier.
Your eyes drift toward the sound automatically. “It always rains when we talk about serious shit.”
Katsuki snorts softly before he can stop himself. “That’s because you always picked fights during storms.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
A small laugh escapes you then, quieter than before but real enough that something in his chest twists painfully around it. God, he missed that sound. Missed sitting beside you while conversations slipped this easily between silence and teasing without either of you forcing it.
A newer realization scares him a little; It would be so easy to fall right back into this. Too easy.
You turn toward him slightly then, knees shifting against the seat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Tch. You usually do anyway.”
Your eyes narrow faintly at the automatic attitude, but there’s no real heat behind it now. “Why didn’t you come after me?”
The question settles heavily into the space between you both.
Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.
Outside, headlights slide briefly across the windshield before disappearing down the garage ramp. He watches the reflections fade instead of looking directly at you.
“Didn’t think you wanted me to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Of course it isn’t.
You were always annoyingly good at pulling honesty out of him even when he fought it.
Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose before speaking. “Because I thought if I showed up and you looked happier without me…” He laughs once under his breath, rough and humorless. “Didn’t think I could handle that. It’d just fucking prove i’m hard to love and you’re better without me.”
The space between you afterward feels fragile.
When he finally looks over, your expression has softened into something unbearably tender.
Fuck, fuck—Fuck.
“You’re an idiot,” you murmur quietly.
There’s no cruelty in it. Maybe a tad of acceptance. A smear of sadness.
Your eyes flick downward briefly then back to his face, and suddenly Katsuki becomes painfully aware of how close you’re sitting. The center console feels too small now. The air feels thick with old history and exhaustion and everything neither of you managed to bury properly.
His gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop it.
He notices immediately when your breathing changes.
Slight.
Barely there.
But enough.
The tension inside the car shifts all at once after that.
Not explosive and immediate, like he’s used to. It’s slow and dangerous. Like something pulling tighter inch by inch.
Katsuki’s fingers flex once against the steering wheel. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”
Your throat moves subtly when you swallow.
“You first.”
Fuck. Shit!
The flirtiness in your tone hits him hard enough to feel somewhere low in his stomach.
Rain streaks slower down the windshield now, blurring neon lights outside into smeared ribbons of color while the heater hums faintly beneath the dashboard. The whole car feels suspended outside time somehow. Separate from the rest of the city. With nothing left to do but park at the side of the road, Katsuki swerves the steering wheel towards his new direction.
When he shuts off the engine, you’re the one who moves first.
Barely.
Just enough to lean a little closer and more tentative toward him. You’re giving him room to pull away if he wants to.
Katsuki doesn’t. Neither pull away, nor want to.
His hand reaches for your face almost automatically, rough palm settling carefully against your jaw like muscle memory never left him at all. The contact pulls a shaky breath from you instantly, and that sound alone nearly destroys whatever restraint he still has left.
He kisses you before he can think too hard about it.
And it feels exactly like coming home to something he convinced himself no longer existed.
Warm.
Familiar.
Devastating.
You make this tiny broken noise against his mouth the second the kiss lands properly, fingers grabbing instinctively at the front of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. Katsuki feels his entire chest cave inward around the feeling of you kissing him back just as desperately. His lips ache with buzzing numbness and he tries his very best to even remember the steps to a kiss he’s trained to fit perfectly into.
Three years of missing each other crashes together all at once inside that kiss.
His other hand slides against your waist, pulling you closer over the center console while rain drums steadily overhead. Your lips part against his almost immediately, breath shaky and uneven as the kiss deepens into something messier. Hungrier.
Katsuki kisses like he’s starving.
Always has.
Like every emotion he doesn’t know how to say properly gets forced violently through his hands and mouth instead.
You remember that instantly.
He feels it in the way your fingers tighten against him. The way your breathing starts breaking apart every time he kisses you harder. The way you lean into him like you missed this just as badly as he did.
When you finally pull back for air, neither of you gets very far.
Your forehead rests shakily against his while both of you breathe the same recycled air inside the dark car. Katsuki’s hand is still cupping your jaw. Your fingers are still twisted tightly into his shirt.
With one swift movement, Katsuki’s hand forces your jaw right into his, your lips slamming against each other's once again.
The kiss turns rough immediately.
Not careless —Never careless with you.
Katsuki’s just overwhelmed by the sheer force of finally having you this close again after years spent trying to convince himself he could survive without it.
Your breath catches sharply against his mouth when he kisses you deeper this time, fingers twisting harder into the front of his shirt while the center console digs awkwardly against your hip from how far you’ve leaned toward him. Rain continues sliding steadily down the windshield outside, blurring neon lights into streaks of gold and red across the dark interior of the car.
Katsuki barely notices any of it anymore.
All he can focus on is you.
The warmth of your mouth.
The familiar way you melt and tense at the same time whenever he kisses you too hard.
The shaky inhale you keep failing to steady every time his thumb brushes beneath your jaw.
His chest feels unbearably tight.
Because this isn’t nostalgia anymore.
It isn’t just memory. You’re actually here. Actually kissing him back with enough desperation that it almost hurts.
A strained sound escapes him before he can stop it, muffled against your lips while he pulls you even closer over the console. His hand slips from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling carefully at the base of your neck like he physically cannot stand another inch of distance between you both.
You break the kiss first this time, but only barely. Only enough for more air.
Your lips still brush his when you speak.
“Katsuki—”
His name falls apart halfway through your breath, soft enough that he nearly loses whatever remains of his self-control entirely.
Because you still say his name the same way.
But now he knows it means something. He can accept it means something.
Katsuki’s forehead presses hard against yours while he tries and fails to regulate his breathing. The inside of the car suddenly feels too hot, thick with condensation and recycled air and of unresolved feelings collapsing violently into each other all at once.
“You gotta stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters hoarsely.
Your brows pull together faintly. “Like what?”
“Like you and i will—” He cuts himself off immediately, jaw tightening hard enough to ache.
The words refuse to come out cleanly.
You stare at him for a second too long after that, your expression softening into something that almost looks painful.
“Katsuki,” you whisper quietly, “I literally just told you I couldn’t move on.”
Yeah. He knows.
And somehow hearing it still doesn’t feel real.
“But if we y’know—now,” he coughs “maybe you’ll regret it.”
His eyes search your face automatically like he’s trying to find evidence that this is temporary. That you’ll wake up tomorrow and realize kissing him again was a mistake. That eventually you’ll remember all the reasons loving him became unbearable in the first place.
The fear must show somewhere across his expression because your hand suddenly lifts toward his face.
Your fingertips brush against the side of his jaw where the faint razor burn still sits from earlier tonight, and the tenderness behind the touch nearly destroys him more effectively than the kissing did.
“Katsuki, are you talking about sex?” you murmur softly, whispering the last word extensively.
A weak huff of laughter leaves him despite himself. His lower lip pouts out.
“You always get this line between your eyebrows whenever you get shy like this.”
Your thumb smooths unconsciously against the spot moments later like muscle memory. Katsuki feels his stomach twist painfully around the familiarity of it.
God.
He missed this.
Not even the kissing specifically. Not even the sex. (And he’s missed these two plenty)
Just this.
You knowing him so instinctively that his body reacts before his brain catches up.
“I wouldn’t regret it. I’ve wanted it so much even though I was convinced it’d never happen again. I can’t regret doing something that I want to do.”
Your words settle heavy enough in his chest that suddenly he needs to kiss you again before he says something humiliating.
His mouth crashes back against yours harder this time.
You make another soft noise into the kiss immediately, one that sounds dangerously close to heartbreak, and Katsuki swears he feels the sound straight through his ribs. His hand tightens carefully at the back of your neck while your fingers slide upward into his hair, slightly damp strands catching between your knuckles.
The angle is awkward across the center console.
Neither of you cares.
Your knee bumps clumsily against the gear shift while Katsuki leans further toward you, broad shoulders pressing you deeper into the passenger seat unintentionally from the sheer force of how badly he’s kissing you now. Every breath between you feels uneven. Messy. Shared.
Three years disappears frighteningly fast like this. Just temporarily drowned beneath the overwhelming relief of finally touching each other again.
Katsuki feels your hand trembling slightly where it cups the side of his face.
The realization makes him pull back barely enough to look at you.
Your lips are swollen now. Eyes glassy beneath the dashboard glow while your breathing comes apart in shallow bursts that mirror his almost exactly. Then your expression shifts suddenly, something vulnerable flickering across it fast enough to make his chest tighten again.
“What if we do this again?” you ask quietly. “What if we try again and it ruins us worse this time?”
The question lands hard because it’s real. Not dramatic or hypothetical. You’re genuinely afraid. Because it’s been over three years since you’ve kissed, even more since you were intimate with each other, since you held an actual conversation.
And honestly? So is he.
Katsuki stares at you in the dim car lighting while rain taps softly overhead, your fingers still resting against his jaw like you’re scared to let go completely.
Then, slowly, he turns his head just enough to press a kiss against the center of your palm,vermillion eyes locked in yours..
The gesture feels strangely vulnerable coming from him.
“I think,” he says roughly afterward, eyes still fixed on yours, too sceptical, “it already ruined us the first time.” His thumb brushes carefully against your waist, then, sensually across your ribs “Didn’t stop either of us from wanting it again.”
It feels strangely fragile now that the adrenaline of finally kissing each other has settled slightly. Not awkward exactly. Just painfully real in a way neither of you can hide from anymore.
Neither of you seems fully willing to let go first.
You look mentally exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and bleeds across the surface of your skin; heart beating fast, eyes wide open and desperate. Katsuki, for worse luck despite it all, probably looks the same.
Your eyes drift downward briefly before you let out a small breath through your nose. “This is probably a terrible idea.”
Katsuki huffs quietly. “Yeah.”
“But I really don’t care right now.” you admit “do you?”
“Hell nah!”
Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //
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Since you’ve had a rocky pregnancy, Katsuki doesn’t want to leave you and go to Tokyo to help with an emergency villain attack, when you’re due in two weeks. Or alternatively, the one where you wake up in a hospital bed with Mitsuki holding your hand, again.
Tags/CW: pro hero!Bakugo, married couple, disgustingly in love, reader is pregnant, hurt/comfort, mentions of injuries and trauma from past ones, Katsuki cries at the sight of his daughter, momma (in law) Mitsuki is mothering again, fluff fluff and s'more. Pt.1
As of today, the number of times youve woken up in a hospital bed to Mitsuki Bakugo holding your hand has added up to two. It isn’t an odd number, though, for some reason, it’s strange that it’s happened twice.
You knew there’d be complications when you got pregnant. Doctors had told you so, after almost getting split in half during the war in your teenage years. One of the medics had told you it was a miracle you survived at all. Another doctor later explained it in colder terms—extensive abdominal trauma, nerve damage, reconstruction complications. Pregnancy would be difficult. Dangerous, maybe impossible.
You remembered being seventeen when they said it, wondering why you had to care about a pregnancy in your teenage years to even begin with. You had blamed misogyny, fetishisation, anything that you knew doctors operated with in the back of their mind, because surviving what you did, learning to walk and talk again at such a tender age did not align with wanting to rock a baby bump anytime soon.
Years later, and only after your last name had been changed to Bakugo as well, when you actually got pregnant, every appointment carried this awful sense of inevitability. Like everyone in the room was waiting for your body to fail some final exam it had already cheated death to pass.
Bedrest.
Monitoring.
Blood pressure scares.
Pain you pretended wasn’t getting worse because you knew the exact look Katsuki got when he was afraid.
What you couldn’t grasp back then—between extensive physios and two abdominal surgeries to remove scar tissue, you totally understood now.
Your gyno had suggested —no, demanded— you give birth via C-section, and at first you had been adamant about pushing through natural labor.
Stubbornness came naturally to you.
Unfortunately, so did denial.
You remembered sitting in that painfully bright office while your doctor pinched the bridge of her nose hard enough to leave marks.
“You are not understanding me,” she’d said slowly. “Your body has already undergone catastrophic trauma. Labor could rupture the remaining scar tissue internally.”
And you, arms crossed over your swollen stomach, had replied, “Women give birth every day.”
The silence afterward had been horrific. Your doctor looked one second away from sedating both you and your husband.
Beside you, Katsuki had gone deathly still. Extremely quiet. The kind of quiet that only happened when fear lodged itself somewhere too deep for shouting to reach.
He’d nearly crushed your fingers with how tight he was holding them when the doctor informed you it would be life-threatening, mostly because you wouldn’t listen.
You remembered finally glancing at him then.
At the dark circles under his eyes from weeks of sleeping lightly beside you in case your blood pressure spiked again.
At the way his jaw stayed clenched so often lately it probably hurt and the sweat gathered in his palms where they wrapped around your hand like if he loosened his grip for even a second, something terrible would happen.
And then he said it.
So quietly it almost hurt more.
“I don’t give a shit about the birth plan.”
The room went still.
Katsuki stared straight ahead when he spoke again, voice rough and frighteningly controlled.
“I don’t care if they cut me open too while they’re at it. I don’t care if your mom cries about the experience or if extras online say natural shit is more meaningful or whatever the fuck.” His grip tightened. “You dyin’ is not an option.”
You’d never heard him sound genuinely scared before. Not during villain attacks. Not during injuries. Not even during the war.
Fear on Katsuki Bakugo looked ugly because he constantly fought it so hard. It came out clipped and sharp-edged, buried beneath irritation and control until the cracks showed anyway.
And suddenly, sitting there in that office, you understood something horrible. He had already watched you almost die once. He had stood beside your hospital bed for endless nights, skipping studying, pushing through his own catastrophic injuries. He had memorized the sound of machines breathing for you. Already lived through the waiting, even when he had been told you wouldn’t make it, because to him, memorizing your face seemed like a potential relic.
The possibility of doing it again—this time while loving you even more than he had at seventeen—was destroying him slowly from the inside out.
His thumb rubbed absently over your knuckles.
A nervous habit. One he only had with you.
“I can live without being a dad,” he muttered finally. “I can’t live without you.”
After that doctor’s appointment Katsuki almost never left your side during the rest of the pregnancy.
Not in an overbearing way.
But after everything your body had already survived, he operated like someone waiting for disaster even during ordinary moments.
He learned medication schedules better than you did. Timed your contractions during false alarms with military precision. Argued with doctors until they stopped sounding dismissive. Rubbed your feet while glaring at you because your blood pressure was climbing again and you still insisted on folding laundry yourself.
He slept lightly beside you every night. One hand always remained somewhere on you. Your stomach. Your hip. Your wrist. Like reassurance worked both ways.
It got worse during the final months; You caught him staring at you sometimes– Before you went to sleep, or while you were reading a book, tucked carefully under a fuzzy blanket in the living room while he was supposed to be cooking. It felt like he was checking if you’re still breathing.
The C-section had already been scheduled. Your doctors barely entertained alternatives anymore after your last scan. Too much scar tissue. Too much risk. Your body simply wasn’t built to endure prolonged labor safely after the war injuries. And at one point you had reluctantly agreed, because you weren’t a seventeen year old stubborn head anymore, pushing through healing processes just so you could join high school with your classesmates anymore. It was simply because you wanted your baby, you wanted to raise your little girl with Katsuki, because you didn’t want to be the reason he’d be alone in this world.
And most importantly, because you didn’t want to imagine a life where Bakugo got to grow old without you.
Everything was planned carefully.
Controlled.
Safe.
And maybe that’s why the universe decided to ruin it.
-----------
The call came at 3:12 in the morning. Katsuki swore the second his phone rang. Instantly alert, though pushing back the wave of annoyance that washed through him.
Hero work trained people into recognizing certain calls before they even answered them.
He sat up beside you immediately, one hand already reaching for the phone while the other touched your thigh absentmindedly, grounding himself before he even spoke.
“What.”
Silence, then, “What do you mean Tokyo?”
You pushed yourself upright slowly against the pillows, still half asleep. The apartment was dark except for the streetlights bleeding through the curtains in pale orange strips.
Katsuki listened for another few seconds before dragging a hand down his face.
“How bad?”
Your stomach tightened uneasily by pure instinct.
Years of being a pro hero taught you how to recognize the atmosphere surrounding emergencies. Even over the phone, urgency carried differently.
Eventually, Katsuki hung up, leaving you silent on the other side of the bed, groggy eyes that could barely open through the thickness of sleep, desperately trying to watch him and every expression he made.
“There’s been an attack in Tokyo,” he muttered. “Evacuation’s fucked. They need extra hands.”
You frowned immediately. “Then go.”
His expression hardened.
“You’re due in two weeks.”
“Katsuki.”
“I’m serious.” he grunts, sheepishly.
You almost smiled despite yourself.
This had become normal lately—him acting like stepping more than ten feet away from you would cause immediate catastrophe.
And you can’t say you hate it. Because it has turned your Katsuki into a clingy thing. You can’t even lie to yourself and say you don’t enjoy the way he’s always touching you— or cuddling up to you.
Now, much like every other day, he shifts his weight, big arms coming to wrap around your sleepy form, dragging you into a big cuddle in the middle of the bed. Your husband nuzzles his nose to the side of your neck before he lets out a sleepy groan.
You have to fight the bulge of his bicep to even move your lips to speak, “You can’t ignore a city-wide villain attack because I’m pregnant.”
“Watch me.” He says, placing a soft kiss to the curve of your neck.
You snort softly. The words vibrate against your skin, low and rough with sleep.
You huff out another laugh despite yourself, trapped comfortably beneath the weight of Katsuki as he all but folds himself over you. Pregnancy had somehow turned one of the most aggressive men alive into something embarrassingly clingy in private.
Not that anybody would ever believe you.
The Number Two Hero, face buried in your neck at three in the morning, refusing to get out of bed because his pregnant wife looked too comfortable.
You shift slightly in his arms, trying not to laugh when he immediately tightens his hold in protest.
“Katsuki,” you mumble, voice muffled against his shoulder as he kisses exposed skin. “Tokyo is literally on fire.”
“Tch. They got other heroes.”
“You are other heroes.”
“That sounds like a them problem.”
Another kiss.
This one slower, softer.
His large hand slides instinctively over the curve of your stomach beneath your shirt, thumb rubbing absent circles there like muscle memory. You feel him pause for half a second when the baby shifts.
Every single time, his expression changed when that happened.
Still wonder.
Still disbelief.
Still that quiet softness he only ever let exist around you.
“You feel okay?” he asks again, sleep-heavy voice quieter this time.
“There it is,” you murmur. “Question number four.”
“Didn’t answer it the first three times.”
“I was falling asleep, but yes, I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Katsuki.”
He finally lifts his head enough to look at you properly.
Messy hair.
Heavy eyes.
Permanent stress line between his brows that had only gotten worse throughout the pregnancy.
You knew exactly why he hovered so much lately. Why he touched you constantly. Why he checked if you were breathing when he thought you were asleep.
The war had carved fear into both of you differently.
You carried yours internally.
Katsuki carried his like a weapon pointed at the universe, constantly painted all over his body in scars that will never fade.
“You’re overthinking again,” you whisper, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw.
His eyes narrow immediately. “I’m literally always right.”
“You once tried to convince our doctor you could ‘sense’ if my blood pressure was dropping.”
“I was right.” he grunts.
“You were lucky.”
“I have instincts.”
“You have anxiety.”
That finally earns a reluctant snort from him.
“Katsuki, i’ll be fine. I promise.”
For a moment, neither of you move. Then Katsuki, as if you’ve magically convinced him, loosens his grip around you. He bats the sleepiness away from his eyes with a long blink and sighs as he’s getting his body up from the bed.
He gets dressed in his hero suit quickly, efficiently moving through years of practice and emergency tension that never boils down to anything other than anxiety.
The entire time though, he keeps looking back at you.
“You sure you feel okay?”
“Yes.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Katsuki, if you ask me one more time, I’m divorcing you before the baby gets here.”
“That’s not funny.”
And there it is again. Fear. Quick and ugly beneath the irritation. Not even hiding itself when his lip pouts out. Katsuki doesn’t appreciate these types of jokes now anymore than he ever did.
You soften immediately. “I’m okay.”
He exhales hard through his nose, his eyes scrunching shut.
Then he crosses the room, crouching carefully in front of you, and presses his forehead against your knee.
The position alone almost breals your heart.
The Number Two Hero.
Explosions in his palms.
Entire cities trusting him to save them.
And here he is, visibly struggling to leave his pregnant wife alone for a few hours.
His hand slides over your stomach gently.
“Call me if anything feels off.”
“I will.” you hum.
“I mean it, even the Dynamite emergency line.”
“I know.”
Another pause. Then, quieter:
“You’ll be okay without me for a bit?”
Something about that question makes your chest ache.
You threaded your fingers through his hair lightly. “Go save Tokyo, hero.”
His mouth twitches reluctantly against your leg. But he kisses your stomach before standing.
Then he kisses you.
Once.
Twice.
A third time like he still wasn’t convinced.
And when he finally leaves, the apartment feels too quiet afterward.
You try sleeping again. You really do.
But something restless lingers under your skin.
Around four am a storm starts outside. Rain taps softly against the windows. The kind of heavy springtime rain that made the city sound far away. Your mind only travels to Katsuki, the way he’s probably too grumpy over the fact he had to have traveled to Tokyo with Kirishima’s sidekick’s teleportation quirk and how anxious he’s going to be if he hasn’t dealt with the attack by the next few hours.
Your mind travels through every possible scenario. Him getting hurt, what the villain even might be on about; Because things have changed in the past few years. Society had slowly stitched itself back together after the war, scar tissue forming over old wounds the same way your body had. Less villains appear, less catastrophes are caused, but the stakes of collateral damage are always high when city-wide attacks happen.
Eventually, you waddle into the kitchen, mostly because pregnancy insomnia has become your own mortal enemy.
A true hero always has one, but apparently for you, it’s your own daughter these days.
You open the fridge, eager to think of something to cook for breakfast and curse slightly under your breath —That’s usually been Katsuki’s job the past few months, to which you’ve never had any objection, secretly liking the way he spoils you rotten.
However, because you still think of yourself as a fierce woman who doesn’t need to be dependent on her husband for food, you settle for making yourself some rice paired with the sides Katsuki has meticulously meal-prepped in separate containers in the fridge.
The fridge is absurdly organized. Every container labeled neatly in Katsuki’s sharp handwriting. Prepared vegetables. Protein portions. Side dishes stacked with aggressive precision. The top shelf entirely dedicated to snacks your doctor recommended because apparently pregnancy had transformed you into someone capable of crying over strawberries at midnight.
Katsuki loves, mostly, through acts of service and you will not deny him of it, even if right now he’s three hours of driving away.
The rice cooker clicks closed softly while rain continues against the windows. and once you turn your back to the counter, the apartment glows dim and warm in the passage of that early morning darkness that slowly seeps into the orange gleams of dawn, though today, it’s through distant cracks in bruised, rainy clouds.
For a little while, things feel strangely normal. Domestic.
Safe.
You lean with your back against the counter while waiting, one hand absentmindedly rubbing over your stomach when the baby shifts again. Your baby faintly kicks where your hand is, and you come to think that you might miss this once she’s born.
Katsuki speaks to her every chance he gets all day long, and she, simply by listening to his voice, turns and kicks inside your stomach even more so than she does when you attempt to do the same. Unfortunately, you’ve already sensed how much of a daddy’s girl she’s going to be
“Baby girl, you’re just like your father,” you mutter tiredly. “Keeping me awake for no reason.”
Another kick answers you immediately.
You snort softly, then pause entirely.
A strange tightness curls low in your abdomen.
You freeze.
“…Ow.”
The sensation isn’t sharp exactly. Just uncomfortable.
Your first instinct is annoyance more than concern. Pregnancy had become an endless cycle of aches lately anyway—back pain, hip pain, breast pain, pressure, soreness. Existing in your own body felt like a full-time job.
You shift your weight carefully against the counter and the pain fades momentarily.
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself.
False alarm, most probably.
Would Katsuki have scolded you for sitting up while the rice cooker works? Yes he definitely would have, however, he’s not here, and you have the freedom to finally exist in this house without having to lay down comfortably for once.
Go figure.
The rice cooker eventually finishes with a soft click.
You busy yourself plating food, deliberately ignoring the lingering unease crawling slowly up your spine. Katsuki’s paranoia had become contagious enough lately without you feeding into it too. Still… Your hand drifts unconsciously toward the kitchen counter when another tight cramp rolls through you. This time though, it’s stronger.
Your breathing stutters.
The plate clinks softly against the marble as you set it down too quickly.
No.
No, no. Fuck—Not now.
Your C-section isn’t for another —what?— eleven days?
You stand completely still, waiting for the sensation to disappear, thinking that this is too unfair, too cliche; the second Katsuki leaves, after you’ve promised him you’d be okay, things simply go downhill.
Thunder rumbles in muted tones from outside, all while the rain mellows down.
And then, when another surge of pain washes down the cold sweat in your sine, warmth suddenly spreads down your thighs.
Your brain doesn’t process it immediately. Not until you look down, at least, and you see water slowly dripping onto the kitchen floor.
Your entire body goes cold.
“Fuck!”
You stare blankly at the small puddle beneath you like if you wait long enough, reality will correct itself.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Your doctors specifically said this wasn’t supposed to happen. And to top that, they had not prepared you for anything like this happening.
You’ve entered your eight month like, a few days ago, and this. is. not. normal!
Panic crashes into you all at once. You grab your phone off the counter with shaking hands, speed dialing Katsuki’s phone, only for the call not to go through.
You try again. Then again. Then once more.
Fuck, maybe that villain attack has seriously jabbed communication signals.
You wonder if Katsuki has realised by now.
“Shit, what do i do,” you breathe shakily, tears stinging unexpectedly at your eyes.
Another contraction hits before you can think further.
This one hard enough to force you forward against the counter with a broken gasp.
Pain wraps viciously around your abdomen.
There’s only one person you can call that will answer for sure— Mitsuki.
---------
Your eyes drag heavily; the upwards path of grogginess until they’re halfway open. Your loose gaze catches blurs of the room you’re in. The light that casts through what looks like a window, white sheets that rest stiff under your hands that lay still next to your body.
It still feels like you’re positively dreaming.
Your hearing is clearer than your vision for what feels like a moment too long. Birds are chirping somewhere distant, traffic burps and crashes outside, but the loudest sound is the constant, steady beep-beep-beep of what looks like a monitor next to you.
For a few more disorienting seconds, your vision refuses to cooperate with you, everything around you reduced to pale blurs and washed-out light.
There’s a dull ache buried deep inside your abdomen, muted enough that it almost feels distant, like your body is keeping it behind glass for now until you’re awake enough to fully process it.
You blink slowly.
The room sharpens little by little around the edges.
Your eyes shift toward it sluggishly, catching sight of an arrangement of balloons and teddy bears beside your bed before your attention drifts elsewhere entirely.
Someone is holding your hand.
The realization reaches you before recognition does.
Warm fingers wrapped tightly around yours, almost stubbornly so, like whoever’s attached to them had been afraid to let go even for a second. Your gaze follows the arm upward slowly, vision still swimming slightly, until it lands on the figure slumped awkwardly in the chair beside your bed.
Blonde hair slightly flattened on one side.
Reading glasses shoved carelessly into the collar of a blouse.
Arms crossed tightly even in sleep.
Mitsuki.
Your brain struggles to understand the image at first. Not because it’s impossible, but because it feels strangely familiar in a way that immediately makes your chest ache. Your body flashes past images behind your eyes. Images of another time, another day, where Katsuki’s mom was younger, wearing an even more concerned expression on her face.
It’s crazy to think that life has brought you in this same position twice already.
The thought drifts through your exhausted mind sluggishly, almost detached, before memory suddenly crashes back hard enough to make your stomach twist.
The puddle under your feet in the kitchen.
The storm outside, muted by the second.
The sharp, tearing pain in your abdomen.
Then— white walls all blur together with a car ride. In the back of your head someone’s still shouting for blood products.
Your breathing catches.
The movement must tug against Mitsuki’s grip because her eyes snap open almost immediately, years of raising Katsuki apparently training her into sleeping lightly during emergencies. For a second she just stares at you, visibly trying to process the fact you’re awake, before something complicated flashes across her face so quickly you almost miss it.
Relief.
Pure, eye-brightening relief.
“Oh thank God,” she breathes, voice rough and cracked around the edges like she hasn’t spoken properly in hours.
You try to answer her, but your throat burns violently the second you inhale too sharply. The only sound that comes out is embarrassingly weak, more exhale than actual word.
Mitsuki is already moving before you can attempt again. “Easy, honey, don’t try talking yet.”
You chuckle at her, your mouth tugging to the side.
Deja-vu.
This time, you don’t ask for your mom.
Her chair scrapes softly against the floor as Mitsuki stands, reaching immediately for the plastic water pitcher beside your bed. Even half-conscious, you notice little things automatically. The wrinkling of her clothes. Smudged mascara gathered faintly beneath her eyes.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the sheets while she carefully presses the straw toward your mouth. The water tastes cold and metallic and overwhelmingly artificial, but you drink anyway because your body feels scraped hollow from the inside out.
The second your throat hurts less, panic rises all over again.
“Kats-Katsuki?”
The name catches painfully in your throat.
Mitsuki exhales through her nose immediately, already anticipating the question before you even finish asking it. There’s something almost fond in the expression that flickers across her face, despite how exhausted she looks.
“He’s alive,” she says dryly. “I finally got a hold of him a while ago and he’s on his way.”
A weak laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quickly interrupted by the ache in your abdomen. The movement sends a sharp soreness pulling through your middle and suddenly you become painfully aware of your body again. Heavy limbs. Tender skin. The awful, empty exhaustion sitting inside your stomach.
“M’baby—”
The words come out slurred and cracked, but Mitsuki understands instantly.
Her expression changes immediately, softening in a way that almost hurts to look at.
“She’s okay.”
Your entire body stills.
“She’s okay,” Mitsuki repeats more firmly this time, squeezing your hand tighter before you can spiral any further. “They’ve got her in NICU because she came early, but she’s breathing on her own. Doctors said her lungs are strong.”
For some reason, that’s the thing that nearly makes you tear up. You think of your baby, all alone, for god knows how many hours smothered by tubes. Wanting to go see her immediately, your hand instinctively drifts downward beneath the blanket before Mitsuki catches your wrist gently.
“Don’t,” she mutters. “You’ll freak yourself out.”
Which means there is something there to freak out about.
Probably bandages.
Maybe stitches. Not like that’s something you haven’t seen on you before.
Your face must betray some of the panic rising inside you because Mitsuki’s grip softens almost immediately afterward.
“You have to wait for your doctor to come check up on you before you do that. We don’t want you ripping your stitches.”
You hum in response.
“The surgery went fine,” she says quieter this time. “You scared the absolute shit out of everybody in the room, but it went fine.”
Everybody.
Your mind immediately conjures up the image of a seventeen year old Katsuki in a hospital waiting room instead of going to school and somehow that feels more horrifying than any surgery itself.
Still, you nod in response to her, your dry lips transforming into a pout that could only compare to one of her son’s. It looks almost ridiculous on your exhausted face, like your body is trying to remember how to be human again and only managing fragments of personality.
“Can we call Katsuki?” you ask, voice rough around the edges. “I wanna tell him I’m okay.”
Mitsuki doesn’t answer immediately.
That alone tightens something in your chest.
She studies you for a second—longer than necessary, like she’s deciding how much truth you can handle in your current state. Her thumb rubs once over your knuckles, grounding, deliberate.
Then she exhales through her nose.
“Of course sweetheart,” she says finally. “Just know he did get a little hurt during the attack. I urged him to go get checked up before commuting.”
“Hurt?”
Mitsuki nods once, lips pressing into a thin, controlled line. “Yeah. Nothing life-threatening. Before you start spiraling.”
It doesn’t stop the instinctive spike of panic anyway.
Your fingers twitch against her hand.
“Yeah,” she presses her lips into a concerned line “But he’ll tell you all about it after he sees you’re alive and well. He went frantic when I told him what happened.” she sighs “I swear you two—no, three now— are bound to give me a heart attack.”
“But he’s on his way, right?” you repeat.
“Yes.”
The word lands heavy, real in a way nothing else has since you woke up.
There’s a pause. A long one at that.
The kind where your body starts catching up to your brain in uneven pieces. Pain in your abdomen, dull and distant. The IV in your arm. The sterile smell that clings to everything. The fact that you are here, in a hospital bed again, and somehow still alive enough to ask questions.
Your daughter exists.
Your daughter is alive.
Katsuki is alive.
That thought should be simple. But it really isn’t.
Because none of it feels simple anymore. Not when you wanted, no, dreamed of having your daughter with Katsuki by your side. You’ve both already missed her first breath, her first cry, possibly even her first feeding.
Maybe you should have talked Katsuki out of going to Tokyo earlier. Hold him in your arms a little longer before he left. Because Mitsuki makes no actual move to pull her phone out to call him, and your paranoia convinces you she’s positively lying right now about him being okay.
Mitsuki shifts slightly in her chair when a loud sob chokes out of your mouth, watching your face like she’s learned how to read the smallest fractures in it over the years. There’s something exhausted behind her eyes too, but it’s the kind of exhaustion that’s been carried too long to complain about.
“You don’t have to hold it together right now,” she says, quieter.
It shouldn’t make anything break further than what it is already. But it does.
Your breath comes out corrupted, broken.
“I’m not—” you start automatically, then stop, because there’s no point lying to her. Not when she’s sitting there holding you like she already knows every version of you that exists. Not when you start to violently sob on the spot.
A beat passes.
Then you whisper, through muffled crying, smaller than before, “I just want to see him and the baby. I need them to be okay.”
Mitsuki’s expression softens in a way that almost hurts to look at.
“You will, sweetheart" she says simply. “Soon.”
Her hand doesn’t leave yours.
“Let’s call Katsuki, okay? Please don’t cry to him on the phone or his heart will combust.”
_________
By the time the door finally opens, the room already feels like it’s been holding its breath too long.
You’ve drifted in and out of that strange hospital haze where time stops behaving like it’s supposed to—light through the blinds shifting without meaning, machines humming steadily beside you like the only thing in the world that still understands how to be consistent. Your doctor passed by a while ago to check up on you and let you know that everything is going fine, despite the unfortunate turn of events. She answered all of your questions about the NICU patiently and informed you that your baby girl is fine. That other for her premature birth, there’s no other reason for her to stay in the NICU.
When Mitsuki was allowed back into the room, she eventually settled into the chair again, though not quite the same way as before. Less slumped now, more alert, like she’d decided exhaustion wasn’t something she was willing to fully submit to yet.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway, quick but controlled, each one placed with intention that doesn’t quite match urgency, but doesn’t fully escape it either.
The door clicks only a few minutes after. It’s soft, almost carefully reluctant.
Though your body reacts before your mind catches up.
And then he’s there.
Katsuki Bakugo. Your husband.
Clean and out of his hero costume.
That’s the first thing your mind registers, oddly enough.
Not the fact that he’s here. Not the fact that he made it back from Tokyo at all. But that he looks like someone who refused to bring the chaos of that city into this room with him. Hair still slightly tousled from travel, but not matted or wild. Skin washed of soot and debris, loose hoodie that somehow feels too big even over his enormous muscular frame, slouchy joggers. Even the sharp edges of him feel temporarily contained, like he forced himself through a reset somewhere between here and wherever they let him clean up. He’s holding an arrangement similar to the one near your bed. Flowers —roses— in orange and pink tones, the cutest teddy bear you’ve ever seen, and the baby hospital bag you two had already made a week ago.
Still, that put together image doesn’t hide everything.
There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that doesn’t belong to rest. A tightness in his jaw that suggests he hasn’t fully stopped moving since the attack ended. And his eyes—those always impossibly red eyes—snap to you immediately and don’t leave.
For a moment, he doesn’t come closer.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stands there in the doorway like the simple fact of you existing in front of him is something his brain has to recalibrate around.
Like maybe he wasn’t sure you still would be.
Then something in him breaks forward.
Not violently. Not like a rush. More like a controlled collapse of restraint, as if every part of him that was holding distance finally gives up at the same time.
He crosses the room in a few long strides, stopping only when he reaches your bedside. Even then, he hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—like he can’t decide what kind of contact won’t feel like too much or too little.
His free hand finds yours anyway.
Warm. Steady. Real. And then he kneels by your bedside, pushing back the very obvious wince of pain that scrunches up his face. His everlasting steadiness is what almost undoes you.
Because it’s not frantic anymore. Not panicked. He’s just here and he’s anchoring himself through you.
His thumb presses once over your knuckles, subtle, almost unconscious, but his grip tightens immediately after like he’s afraid letting go even slightly would make the entire day collapse again.
“Babe! You’re awake,” he says.
Not even a question, but it still carries disbelief under it, buried so deep it almost sounds like irritation instead of relief.
Your throat tightens as you manage a small, rough breath. “Yeah. Hi!”
The sound is enough to shift something in him.
His jaw flexes once, sharp enough that you notice the faint bruise along his cheekbone move with it. He looks like he wants to say something immediate and sharp and defensive, like anger is the only language his body knows how to start with when fear gets too close.
But it doesn’t come out that way.
Instead, he moves to place a kiss on your forehead, before his voice drops.
“You scared the hell outta me.”
It’s quieter than you expect. Less explosive than usual Katsuki. More stripped down than you’re used to hearing from him.
Your fingers curl faintly against his. “I’m sorry,” you murmur instinctively, tears already taking the form of drops at the ends of your eyes..
His reaction is immediate.
“Don’t,” he cuts in, too fast, then forces a breath through his nose like he’s trying to reset himself. “Don’t apologize for that. It’s not your fault.”
Silence settles between you again, heavier now that he’s here to fill it.
His eyes flick over your face properly for the first time, scanning like he’s checking for damage he can’t quite name yet. Not just injury, but absence. Like he’s still half convinced he’s going to look at you wrong and realize this is some delayed aftermath of a nightmare.
Behind him, Mitsuki shifts slightly, watching without interrupting, arms folded in that familiar posture of someone who’s already lived through too many emergencies to overreact to the current one.
Katsuki exhales once, slowly and controlled, but it doesn’t fully settle.
“I got thrown across the city and impaled on this ruin and they wouldn’t let me go until they patched me up,” he mutters, like the entire sequence of events is just an inconvenience in his schedule. “Kept telling me to wait.”
There’s a beat of silence.
It lands wrong in your brain.
Your grip tightens instantly around his hand.
“Impal—” your voice cracks, half exhausted, half horrified, half already furious. “IMPALED, Katsuki?! How can you say that so casually?”
His gaze snaps back to you immediately, like your reaction is the only thing in the room that actually matters.
“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, almost reflexively defensive. “It wasn’t through anything important.”
“That is not comforting!”
Mitsuki makes a sound behind him—something dangerously close to a sigh of long-suffering resignation.
Katsuki barely acknowledges her.
“I said I’m fine,” he continues, like repetition will make it fact. His thumb presses a little harder against your knuckles, grounding himself more than reassuring you. “They fixed it. I came here. End of story. Your water breaking the second I leave you alone is far more important.”
“End of story’?” you echo weakly, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “You don’t just say you got impaled and then move on like it’s paperwork.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s offended by your tone more than the injury itself.
“It is paperwork.”
“That is not—” you cut off, breath catching as your body reminds you very abruptly that laughing and yelling are both bad ideas right now.
You wince, hand instinctively moving toward your abdomen.
The reaction is immediate.
Katsuki’s entire posture changes. Just instant recalibration.
His grip tightens, but not in panic—more like instinct, like anchoring you before you can drift too far into discomfort.
“Hey,” he says, voice dropping slightly. “Don’t move like that.”
“I’m not the one who got impaled,” you mutter weakly, still trying to recover your breath.
“Yeah, well,” he shoots back immediately, eyes flicking over your face again in that same careful scan, “you’re the one who underwent birth and surgery.”
Katsuki leans in slightly closer to you now, right until his head rests faintly over your chest. His fingers, thick and scarred and worried, shuffle the lightest touch against yours. You stare at the connection; how your palm fits against his as your hands lay flat against each other’s, how Katsuki smoothly moves and caresses the back of your hand, finally, inside the vastness of his.
Then, after he reaches your face to plant chaste kisses everywhere on your lips, he marks the trails of your palm, tenderly, with his pointer finger.
“What did your doctor say?” he asks, voice dropping. “I still haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”
The shift is subtle, but it changes the air completely.
Your chest tightens—not from pain this time, but something softer, heavier.
“She said I’m alright, that I'm in no danger. And our baby is in the NICU,” you say quietly. “She’s stable. Just… monitoring.”
For the first time since he arrived, something like uncertainty actually breaks through his expression.
Not fear exactly. Something more complicated. It finds purchase in tiny specs of his face; in between the dents in the middle of his furrowed eyebrows, the twitching corner of his lip. You’ve known Katsuki long enough to see the mask he’s put on right now, slipping away from him.
“I wanna see her,” he says immediately.
There’s no hesitation in the words. But there is in everything else.
His grip on your hand tightens again, almost imperceptibly. His gaze flicks briefly toward the door, then back to you, like he’s trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have a clean answer.
“But,” he adds, quieter, rougher, “if your doctor said she’s small. And early. And I’m not—”
He stops.
His jaw tenses hard.
“I’m not good at… that shit,” he admits reluctantly, like it physically pains him to say. “Not like I'll be able to hold her while she’s in there but, y’get me.”
You blink slowly at him.
“Katsuki,” you murmur.
“Babe, it’s my fault, i should have been here and then this wouldn’t have happe—”
“Do you want to go?” you, voice quieter now. “Or should I go first and— and tell you what it’s like?”
The question lands differently. Careful.
Like you’re trying to give him control over something he himself feels completely unsteady about. Your fingers tighten weakly around his. And Katsuki doesn’t feel like he can do that, honestly. Let you go in there alone. You know him well enough that you know what answer he’s going to give you next”
“I want to see her,” he says softly. “With you.”
“But I'm kinda stitched up,” you laugh, muffling a happy cry that escapes you “you’re gonna have to carry me”
That does it.
Something in his expression shifts—just slightly, but enough. You notice his own eyes tearing up. Like that answer was the only one that would’ve held him together.
______
After a full day of spending a ridiculously long amount of time convincing your doctor that, yes, you can get up —because you’re a hero whos gotten up from way worse— a nurse eventually helps disconnect a few monitors while Mitsuki hovers nearby pretending not to supervise every single thing happening in the room.
You settle for a wheelchair since everyone gets in your case about walking.
Katsuki barely leaves your side during any of it. Even when he steps back to let the nurses adjust you carefully upright, one hand stays anchored somewhere against you—your shoulder, your arm, your waist—like he’s terrified you’ll disappear the second he loses contact.
The hospital robe feels too light against your skin.
Your body feels heavier than concrete.
Every movement pulls strangely through your abdomen, soreness wrapped tightly beneath layers of medication and exhaustion. You would never admit this to your doctor but you don’t fully understand how people survive childbirth and then continue existing like normal afterward. It feels vaguely fake. Like your organs have been rearranged by interns.
“You okay?” Katsuki asks for maybe the fifteenth time in the span of ten minutes.
“No,” you mumble honestly.
He snorts quietly through his nose, crouching slightly beside the wheelchair while the nurse locks the footrests into place.
“Good. Means you’re conscious.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
His hand finds yours again immediately afterward anyway.
The NICU floor is quieter than the rest of the hospital.
The lights are dimmer here, voices lower, footsteps gentler somehow. Everything beyond the secured doors feels carefully contained, like the entire wing exists in a state between fear and hope. Through the windows of nearby rooms, you catch small glimpses of incubators, exhausted parents, nurses moving steadily between machines.
The closer you get, the quieter Katsuki becomes.
Not outwardly.
He still answers the nurses. Still thanks people in his own clipped, awkward way. Still pushes your wheelchair himself despite being told multiple times someone else can do it.
But you feel it.
The way his thumb keeps rubbing absentmindedly against your wrist.
The way his shoulders slowly tense again.
The way his breathing has gotten subtly shallower.
By the time the nurse finally stops outside one of the rooms, Katsuki looks more nervous than you’ve maybe ever seen him in your life.
Which is absurd, considering this is the man who once fought the worst villain in history through half a collapsing city with a broken broken body and a destroyed heart.
The nurse smiles softly at both of you before speaking quietly.
“She’s right over here.”
And suddenly your own heart feels too large for your chest.
The room is warm.
Warmer than the hallway.
Machines hum softly beneath the low lighting, steady little beeps scattered throughout the room like artificial heartbeats. There’s a faint sterile smell beneath everything, but underneath that too—something softer. Powder. Clean blankets. New life.
Your eyes immediately find her.
Tiny.
That’s the first thing your brain can process.
Tiny.
So impossibly tiny it almost doesn’t look real.
She’s bundled carefully inside the incubator, wrapped in a soft hospital blanket with little wires attached delicately against her chest. Her face is scrunched slightly in sleep, tiny mouth parted just enough to show uneven little breaths.
Your hair color paints her teeny strands of hair, save for a few platinum patches.
Not much. But enough.
Your breath catches so hard it hurts.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Beside you, Katsuki says absolutely nothing.
You turn your head slightly toward him and nearly break apart at the expression on his face.
His expression is unreadable. Like he’s terrified
Of her and just how small she is.
His eyes don’t leave the incubator for even a second, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of her immediately in case the universe changes its mind and takes it all back.
The tiny rise and fall of her chest. The shape of her nose. The little crease between her brows that already somehow looks familiar.
“That’s…” His voice catches abruptly.
You actually see him swallow around it.
“That’s our baby?”
Something hot burns behind your eyes immediately.
You nod shakily, unable to stop staring at her either.
“Chihiro,” you whisper softly. “Right?”
You and Katsuki had agreed on the name years ago.
Back before marriage.
Back before pregnancy complications and surgeries and after war scars and the terrifying realization that loving someone this much could genuinely ruin you if the world touched them wrong.
Then his hand suddenly tightens painfully around yours, like reality hit him all over again at full force.
His other hand drags hard down his face, covering his mouth and nose.Muffling the sound that escapes him.
Not enough that you completely miss it. Just enough that he can pretend you did.
Your chest aches so badly it feels impossible to contain.
You watch his throat work again before he lets out a shaking breath and steps carefully closer to the incubator, movements slower than you’ve ever seen from him before.
And then your daughter stretches suddenly in her sleep, one tiny hand flexing weakly beneath the dim NICU lights.
Katsuki visibly stops breathing.
His eyes widen just slightly.
Like even that tiny movement was enough to completely destroy whatever composure he had left.
“Yeah, fuck she looks so much like you,” he says quietly, voice cracking so roughly it barely sounds like him at all. “Shit, yeah…”
His fingers twitch helplessly at his side before he finally reaches toward the incubator, hesitant in a way that would feel almost unreal coming from him to people who don’t know him.
“…Chihiro, babe.”
Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
“Holy shit, she’s thick!” Denki gasped, eyes wide and glued on the way your ass rippled and recoiled in the video playing on Katsuki’s phone. His fat, long dick pumping in and out of your wet, puffy cunt from behind as the both of you made the most lewd noises. Of course, Katsuki Bakugo was being cocky as ever and showing off his “skills” and his pretty girl. Well, his situationship. He knew you’d be super pissed, but he couldn’t help it. Plump ass, soft skin, thick thighs and a pretty little face and eyes plus an amazing personality. Why wouldn’t he show off?? Nothing else filled the boyish, dimly lit room of Kirishima but your pretty, pornographic moans, groans, wet squelches and one of the boys occasional “shit” or a dragged out “damnnn” that fueled his ego like gasoline. He knew what he was doing. Showing you were all his, showing that they could look but never, ever touch. You bounced your ass back so obediently, ass jiggling with each movement as you whimpered and cried as he talked you through it. Your fat pussy lips swallows his dick whole with each pull out and aggressive slam back in, he fucked you so so good, calloused hand snaking up towards the top of your back, tracing your pretty spine tattoo then reversing back to your back dermals. So sexy. He swears he could just bust admiring how you sexy you looked. Hair splattered over your neck and manicured hands reaching back to pry at his pelvis to try get him to slow down, pretty, pink and charmed frenchies picking at his skin before he quickly gripped your wrist, punctuating his action with a hard thrust making your cry out. He quickly turned off his phone with a smirk before moving to put the stupid sports documentary back on Kiri’s TV as if nothing happened. “I swear, you always get so lucky—dick!!” Denki groaned and punched his arm as Kirishima hummed in agreement. “There’s no way YOU got a girl bro.” Kirishima shook his head in disbelief. despite watching the clips, he still couldn’t believe Katsuki Bakugo was in a relationship. “Yeah, she’s my lady. so what?” He frowned before shushing them with a quick threat, forcing them to focus on the show.
Bakugo has a lot of bruises and scars on his body.
Like whole lot, but is it bad that you kinda find it sexy?
He’s a hero and his training only gets more vigorous so it’s natural for him to have a few marks along the way as evidence of that, and he doesn’t care much for them. Bakugo takes care of his body despite the fights he has to go through so his marks usually fade or become small enough to forget.
However, ever since high school graduation he has a very distinct bruise on his shoulder blade all the way down to his bicep, that one never really went away despite the amount of pressure placed on it with ice and compression, it was even more prominent than the one of his face and arms. It’s red and purple hue only grows deeper on days where he works a little too hard, leaving him uncomfortably sore, and today was one of those days.
You noticed him using his left arm to reach things, sucking and hissing between his teeth when a sharp pain hits him from certain angles. When you walked over to grab his protein powder for him he mumbled a thank you. He was more sore than usual.
Never really walking on eggshells with Bakugo, you seemed to have hesitated asking about your idea to massage him. Just for the remainder of the evening. He deserved it.
Surprisingly, he didn’t hesitate after your suggestion.He looked at you and immediately surrendered with a soft/gruffy “Sure.”.
You took his warm hand to lead to the bedroom, feeling it slowly getting damp, a common occurrence when he touches you and it only makes you hold it firmer.
You let him take off his tank top with ease, his right breast flexing a little made you bite back a smile. His body was littered was small tattoos and bruises to pair. The semi permanent one is darker though.
“Lay on your tummy, please.”
He pushes out a weak laugh at the term “tummy”, but does as told allowing you to rest on the back of his butt and begin your magic.
You knew you were doing a good job when he was doing small groans and hisses, “Feels good?”
“Mm.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” You roll your palms deeper into his lower back, feeling his muscles finally relax, “You deserve it, baby.”
Your comforting words were like a weighted blanket on Bakugo, you always found a way to make him relaxed even if his body refuses to do so. When you tap him to roll on his back you could see the sleepiness in his eyes, “Y’good?”
He does a small yawn and stretch and reaches his arms to pull you chest to chest, kissing your forehead firmly he groans, “I’m good.”
“Good.” You giggle sitting up from his weak grip, “Let me just rub this part okay? I’ll be gentle I promise.”
Bakugo shut his eyes tightly, already anticipating on some slight pain when you apply pressure on his knotted shoulder, and you took notice. So instead you just kiss it.
His eyes open from the soft touch and see you pecking his shoulder down to his arm. Bakugo would be a liar to say he wasn’t getting turned on a little bit from how cute you looked and how good your lips felt on his skin, but he didn’t want to interrupt. You felt the small knot on his shoulder and kissed it firmer before gently massaging it with your hand, he hisses a little and you kiss his shoulder again.
A part of him wants to question you, but he suspects this is your way of helping with his massage. But he didn’t really want you to stop, so he kept his left hand land on the bottom of your butt and just fell further into the pillows with his eyes slowly pushing him to sleep.
The moment you looked up, lips getting a little swollen from so many kisses your big boy was fast asleep and relaxed, but before you could go to get up he grabbed you to lay on top of him on his left side.
He’s still sore, but not as much thanks to you. Hopefully you’re willing to give him more kiss massages.
like yes, he's the first one to notice when someone is crushing on one of his friends—calls kirishima a dense moron for not noticing mina's cues sooner—but when it comes to his own situation, at the fact that you've been hopelessly in love with him since you've two been in diapers?
oh, the blonde is as dense as they come.
maybe it's the fact that you've been clingy with him since day one that he's so indifferent, or maybe it's the fact that he's so accustomed to your presence itself—that he sees no point in chasing you away like he does the others.
you stuck to his side like glue. bakugo was used to you... that when you suddenly weren't there anymore—giggling in response to the idiots jokes across the classroom—he caught his gaze drifting over to you more than he'd like.
it's not even as if you've cut ties with him, still consistently annoying the hell out of him throughout the week, yet, it wasn't like before. you had more friends now, we're more popular with the new upper and underclassmen.
you didn't necessarily change, but... he did.
the blonde started listening more intently to your rambles, crimson eyes zeroing in on facial features that have slowly matured over time, his own expression uncharacteristically relaxed—tender.
he started paying more attention to the way you lit up when he subtly complimented you, started noticing how your smile widened whenever he looked your way, squishy cheeks eventually puffed up with glee.
he started feeling weird, a slight fluttering sensation coursing through his veins once your eyes met—though he'd constantly disregard it as nothing more than mere figments of his imagination, or better yet, lack of sleep.
katsuki bakugo is good at a lot of things... except for romance.
which is why—he didn't think much of it when he snatched your hand into his, tugging you backwards against his chest and far far away from the extra he didn't recognize in front of you.
the blonde could tell from a mile away that this wasn't an ordinary conversation; coy smile, casual tone, and leaning against the locker besides yours...?
whoever this asshole was has other intentions, that's for damn sure, and for whatever reason—katsuki didn't like it, not one damn bit.
"back the hell off." he glares, not even waiting for a response before turning around, calloused hand sliding down from your wrist to your palm, leading you straight down the hall and out the building.
your brows raise, heart racing as you stumble close behind, mind reeling with emotions. "k-kacchan?! what was that all about...?!"
he scoffs, fuming with determination. "the bastard was obviously flirting with you, idiot." he glances back at you, eyes narrowed. "don't tell me you didn't notice."
"well, i kinda got the vibe but..." you pause, tilting your head ever so slightly. "you didn't have to save me or anything, i had it covered."
"tsk—i know that." he clicks his tongue, expression sour, facing forward once more, faint mumble escaping him. "...just didn't like it."
you blink. "hm?"
"...'ts nothing." he continues, voice calmer compared to a few seconds ago. "just—" he huffs, hand letting go of yours to stuff back within his pocket. "—stay close to me so it won't happen again, got it?"
thump thump. thump thump. thump thump.
the air seems to get knocked right out of you, eyes twinkling with newfound hope—excitement. it was the first time he verbally invited you to remain within arms reach, to stay close, and you hoped... you sure hoped, it wasn't the last.
you immediately lighten up, nodding vigorously with high spirits, suddenly latching onto his forearm with a familiar squeal of pure joy. "uhn!"
he tries to fight it off, he really does, but something with the way your warmth seeps into his—diminishes his stubborn pride. his heart does a full on somersault, the tips of his ears flushing a bright cherry red, palms sweaty.
yet he doesn't make a move to shove you off, simply letting you cling to him—just like you've always have. "...idiot."
katsuki bakugo is good at a lot of things... except for romance.
like yes, he's the first one to notice when someone is crushing on one of his friends—calls kirishima a dense moron for not noticing mina's cues sooner—but when it comes to his own situation, at the fact that you've been hopelessly in love with him since you've two been in diapers?
oh, the blonde is as dense as they come.
maybe it's the fact that you've been clingy with him since day one that he's so indifferent, or maybe it's the fact that he's so accustomed to your presence itself—that he sees no point in chasing you away like he does the others.
you stuck to his side like glue. bakugo was used to you... that when you suddenly weren't there anymore—giggling in response to the idiots jokes across the classroom—he caught his gaze drifting over to you more than he'd like.
it's not even as if you've cut ties with him, still consistently annoying the hell out of him throughout the week, yet, it wasn't like before. you had more friends now, we're more popular with the new upper and underclassmen.
you didn't necessarily change, but... he did.
the blonde started listening more intently to your rambles, crimson eyes zeroing in on facial features that have slowly matured over time, his own expression uncharacteristically relaxed—tender.
he started paying more attention to the way you lit up when he subtly complimented you, started noticing how your smile widened whenever he looked your way, squishy cheeks eventually puffed up with glee.
he started feeling weird, a slight fluttering sensation coursing through his veins once your eyes met—though he'd constantly disregard it as nothing more than mere figments of his imagination, or better yet, lack of sleep.
katsuki bakugo is good at a lot of things... except for romance.
which is why—he didn't think much of it when he snatched your hand into his, tugging you backwards against his chest and far far away from the extra he didn't recognize in front of you.
the blonde could tell from a mile away that this wasn't an ordinary conversation; coy smile, casual tone, and leaning against the locker besides yours...?
whoever this asshole was has other intentions, that's for damn sure, and for whatever reason—katsuki didn't like it, not one damn bit.
"back the hell off." he glares, not even waiting for a response before turning around, calloused hand sliding down from your wrist to your palm, leading you straight down the hall and out the building.
your brows raise, heart racing as you stumble close behind, mind reeling with emotions. "k-kacchan?! what was that all about...?!"
he scoffs, fuming with determination. "the bastard was obviously flirting with you, idiot." he glances back at you, eyes narrowed. "don't tell me you didn't notice."
"well, i kinda got the vibe but..." you pause, tilting your head ever so slightly. "you didn't have to save me or anything, i had it covered."
"tsk—i know that." he clicks his tongue, expression sour, facing forward once more, faint mumble escaping him. "...just didn't like it."
you blink. "hm?"
"...'ts nothing." he continues, voice calmer compared to a few seconds ago. "just—" he huffs, hand letting go of yours to stuff back within his pocket. "—stay close to me so it won't happen again, got it?"
thump thump. thump thump. thump thump.
the air seems to get knocked right out of you, eyes twinkling with newfound hope—excitement. it was the first time he verbally invited you to remain within arms reach, to stay close, and you hoped... you sure hoped, it wasn't the last.
you immediately lighten up, nodding vigorously with high spirits, suddenly latching onto his forearm with a familiar squeal of pure joy. "uhn!"
he tries to fight it off, he really does, but something with the way your warmth seeps into his—diminishes his stubborn pride. his heart does a full on somersault, the tips of his ears flushing a bright cherry red, palms sweaty.
yet he doesn't make a move to shove you off, simply letting you cling to him—just like you've always have. "...idiot."
katsuki bakugo is good at a lot of things... except for romance.
"I used to chase butterflies as a kid, never thought you'd give them to me for free"
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff
You used to chase butterflies as a kid.
Not metaphorically, not in some poetic exaggerated way, but literally, like running barefoot across uneven grass, arms outstretched, laughing breathlessly as you tried to catch something soft and fleeting, something that always seemed just out of reach no matter how fast you ran or how carefully you crept up behind it. You never caught one, not really, just brushed the edges of wings once or twice before they slipped away again, light and untouchable, leaving you with nothing but the feeling of almost.
You hadn’t thought about that in years.
Not until him.
And then somehow—somehow—that was exactly what it felt like now.
Not the running part.
The almost part.
Because the first time you realized your chest felt tight, strange and fluttering and annoyingly persistent, was the first time Katsuki Bakugo snapped at someone across the training field, voice sharp and cutting, temper flaring like it always did, loud enough to turn heads and draw attention in that way only he could manage.
Everyone else had flinched.
You didn’t.
You just stood there, watching him, something unfamiliar settling in your chest, something that didn’t feel like fear or irritation or even annoyance, but something lighter, restless, like wings brushing against your ribs from the inside. Butterflies.
It was ridiculous.
You knew it was.
You were, by all reasonable standards, completely aware that Bakugo was difficult, and loud, and aggressive, stubborn to a fault, the kind of person most people learned to avoid rather than approach, but somehow that didn’t stop you.
If anything, it made it worse.
Because you liked it.
You liked the way he spoke like everything mattered. You liked the way he never held back, never softened himself for anyone, never pretended to be anything less than exactly what he was. You liked the sharp edges, the intensity, the way he carried himself like the world had something to prove to him.
You liked him.
Which was, admittedly, a problem.
Because crushing on Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t just inconvenient—it was borderline humiliating.
You kept thinking it.
Especially now.
Because of course, out of everyone in the dorm, it had to be him you ran into when you stepped outside for air, the night quiet and cool, the faint hum of the city in the distance while the rest of the building settled into that late-hour calm where most people had already gone to bed.
Bakugo was leaning against the railing, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere far off like he was thinking about something or maybe nothing at all.
You hesitated for half a second.
Then walked over anyway.
“You’re gonna catch a cold out here,” you said lightly, stopping beside him.
He didn’t even look at you.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay, tough guy.”
“Tch.”
You leaned your elbows against the railing too, staring out into the dark, letting the silence sit for a moment longer than necessary, it wasn’t awkward, it was just… quiet.
Comfortable, in its own strange way.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.
And there it was again.
That feeling.
God, you were so annoying.
“I used to chase butterflies as a kid,” you said suddenly.
Bakugo didn’t react immediately.
Just blinked once, slow, like he was processing whether he actually heard that right.
“…What.”
You didn’t look at him.
“Never thought you’d give them to me for free.”
Silence.
Then—
“What the hell does that even mean.”
You smiled slightly to yourself, resting your chin against your hand.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not ‘nothing,’” he said, finally turning his head toward you, brows drawn together in that familiar annoyed expression. “You just said it like it means something.”
“It does.”
“Then explain it.”
“No.”
He stared at you.
You could feel it. The weight of it.
“…You’re messing with me.”
“Maybe.”
“Tch. You’re weird.”
You shrugged.
“Yeah.”
He turned back to the railing, but you caught the way his shoulders shifted slightly, like he wasn’t entirely dismissing it, like it stuck just enough to bother him.
Good.
You let the silence settle again, the night air brushing softly against your skin, and for a moment you thought maybe that was it, that you’d said your weird little line, he’d brushed it off like always, and things would go back to normal.
Crushing on someone like Bakugo wasn’t something you built expectations around, it was something you kept to yourself, something you let exist without needing it to turn into anything more.
But then—
“…Say it again.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“That thing,” he muttered, not looking at you this time. “About butterflies or whatever.”
You turned your head, studying him for a second, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
“You want me to say it again?”
“I didn’t say I want you to,” he snapped quickly. “I said say it again.”
You hummed softly, pretending to think about it.
“I used to chase butterflies as a kid,” you repeated, a little slower this time, a little more deliberate. “Never thought you’d give them to me for free.”
Bakugo clicked his tongue under his breath, like the words annoyed him—but he didn’t interrupt this time.
Didn’t dismiss it right away either.
“…So what,” he said after a second, glancing at you again. “You’re saying I make you nervous or something?”
You tilted your head.
“Do I look nervous?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Then not that.”
“Then what.”
You hesitated.
Just for a second.
Because suddenly it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.
“They’re… good butterflies,” you said quietly. “Not the bad kind.”
He went still.
Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But you did.
Because you were looking at him.
And for a second, just a second, he didn’t have a comeback ready.
Didn’t brush it off.
Didn’t snap.
He just looked at you.
Then—
“Tch.”
He looked away, jaw tightening slightly like he didn’t know what to do with that.
“…That’s stupid.”
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter—
“…You’re still weird.”
“Yeah.”
He shifted slightly against the railing, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck in a small, almost unconscious movement.
“…You say that every time you see me or what?”
You laughed softly.
“Only when it feels like that.”
“…And it feels like that a lot?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Just looked at him, the corner of your mouth lifting a little.
“…Maybe.”
Bakugo huffed under his breath, shaking his head slightly like you were hopeless.
“Idiot.”
But he didn’t walk away.
Didn’t even look as annoyed as he usually did.
If anything, he stayed right there beside you a little longer than he needed to.
And when you glanced at him again, just to check—He was already looking at you.
Synopsis: Bakugo doesn't know how to get your attention, and he doesn't want you to notice him for his brute ways—leading him to posting things on his story that he hopes you'll be interested in.
You've never noticed Bakugo's lingering gaze towards you in class—well how could you? You'd never know unless you have eyes at the back of your head since he sits behind you. Then again, you didn't notice either when his voice goes softer when talking to you during group projects.
He initially thought you were just dense, but you noticed immediately when someone from the support course started crushing on you—so why have you not noticed his crush on you?
He couldn't help but get lost in his thoughts as he stared at the ceiling of his dorm room. Maybe he's already blown his chance because you saw him as some sort of brute.
For what may be the first and only time, Katsuki Bakugou, one of the most promising student-hero in Japan, felt caught up because of a crush.
It was so stupid. He's not the type of guy to bottle up his emotions. If anything, he's the opposite with his explosive personality. It felt so restrictive to stay quiet about his thoughts.
He isn't asking for much. Just a glance, a smile, and maybe a conversation. The smile doesn't even have to be towards him! Just a smile in his direction!
Maybe... Maybe he doesn't even like you! Yes, yes—he's just a little infatuated right now.
He thought about it for a moment, if he could get advice from someone.
Shitty-hair probably doesnt have any experience with girls.
Pikachu might have some, but he'd die before going to that guy for advice.
Mina? Nah she would tell you.
"Everyone's so goddamn useless," Bakugo groaned as he burried his face in a pillow, pushing so hard one might mistake it for suicide by suffocation.
Oh who was he kidding... He totally has a crush on you.
In a beat his phone buzzed with a notification. He didn't immediately check it, taking his sweet time suffocating himself out of sheer frustration.
Finally, he lazily opened his phone to see—and boy does he regret not checking sooner.
It was a notification of you and your like to his Instagram story—which is him playing the drums to a song in the background.
: I like that song too!
Bakugo quite literally felt his world quiet down for a moment, as if presenting him with a chance, a solution on how to get closer to you.
It felt embarrassing, almost—to try and get your attention through posting on social media. But hey, a guy's gotta try.
Bakugo read your chat through the notification over and over, contemplating on what to reply. He can't seem too desperate, but he can't push you away either, but he also can't be bland. How annoying!
Finally, he opened your chat to reply. His hands hovered over the keyboard for a while before hitting send.
Dynamight: i dont like that song. it was Pikachu's idea to cover it.
Yikes, too cold.
: Oh that's a shame.
: Well, you didn't seem like the type of guy to like that kind of genre anyway.
He stared at your chat longer than he should've. A minute passes—he wants to keep your conversation going for longer, but he's out of replies.
It'd be suspicious if he started asking questions or be too nice... But then again, he does want you to notice him.
Dynamight: tf is that supposed mean?
Dynamight: you should stop listening to crappy music
Forgive him, he's racking his brains to not sound desperate.
: What's your idea of good music if your taste is so superior?
Bakugo chuckled as he read your reply. He might be going insane, but he swears he could hear your voice through the screen.
Dynamight: *spotify playlist link*
Dynamight: no need to thank me for blessing you
Since you noticed him via that Instagram story, he started posting more and more.
It was subtle at first, just the usual stuff he'd add to his story. An ugly picture of his friends, a game, a manga page he found cool.
Then it started to become... Performative.
He heard from Mina that you liked sunsets, so he started posting them more often. All the little things that reminded him of you went to his story. Even the random flowers he walked pass in the streets.
Along with that, he started posting more pictures of himself, at the gym, during drills, and random fitchecks—hoping dreaming you'll compliment him.
The bakusquad definitely noticed the change, especially Mina, who was more observant and better at reading people than the others. They all had their suspicions—but they were all sure on one thing—Bakugo was trying to get someone's attention. The question they couldn't find the answer to was: who?
You, however, didnt seen too interested, as you'd only like his stories once in a while and never reply.
Bakugo was going insane trying to think of what would get you attention. He tried posting drum covers again to artists he knows you like, yet to no avail, his effort were met with only a like.
Even in class it was almost the same. You and him weren't close at all, but in a class of only 20 students, it shouldn't be that hard to have an interaction.
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't overthinking it sometimes. That maybe he was too rough and arrogant in your first chat, that maybe he had driven you away.
If so, he was done! If you're not going to notice him with all the effort he was making, maybe you're simply not interested.
That was it, he's not going to post anymore stories or be performative for your attention. He felt stupid he even tried that method in the first place.
A week passes and instead of his usual story every other day, it reduced to basically zero. No one can pinpoint the reason, but it's visible Bakugo has become more irritable in class—not until report cards were issued and his grades was on top.
He randomly posted it on his story—his report card with scores all above 90, and kirishima's, with scores better than his previous grade. He captioned it "hardwork pays off. Even though tutoring @RedRiot was harder than actually studying."
He felt pretty proud of himself, and for once, he posted something not for anyone's attention but rather, his own gratification.
Barely an hour passes after he posted his story when he gets a notification... From you.
: Dude, you gotta tutor me!! Im actually failing T°T
Maybe Bakugo hasn't gotten over his little crush afterall.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ shoto is frustrated because he cant breed you. (not proofread)
The air was thick with the smell of sex, your mingled scents fillings the room as Shoto relentlessly plowed into you. You just started birth control, since you and shoto like it raw. You didn’t mind going on birth control. But.. shoto did.
Yeah, filling you up with less worry is great! But.. he wants to breed you. He wants to see you full and glowing with a swollen belly.
“Mmph.. pretty..” he mumbles at your flushed face, holding your thigh high as he slapped his pelvis into your pussy, his cock rubbing all your most delicious insides. “M-Moore… Sho… oohh goood..” you beg, tits jiggling with each harsh thrust. You look into his eyes and see the furrow of his brow.
“Sh..sho..?” He huffs out, leaning down to take your firm nipple between his lips. Your back arched into him as he sucks on your perfect tit, exhaling loudly and laying your thigh in his shoulder. His tongue circled the nub and it made him drool. He looved your body. Loved your tits.
After he breaks from your nipple with a wet pop! he looks up at your eyes. “Wanna breed you.. wanna.. haa.. full you with cum till.. theres no choice but for your uterus to take it…” he mumbles.
Your jaw falls slack, staring at his blown out mismatch eyes. “Why birth control… i.. i wanna nngh fuck— i wanna make you a mother.. the best mother..” He licks up your sternum, and licks over the decorative purple marks he left you a while ago, before starting on a new one.
You honestly never knew he wanted a child with you so bad. Maybe it was just a heat of the moment thing but— oh it made you feel insane. “Y-You want wanna f-fill me sho?” He nods quickly, his pace quickens.
“We… could be better parents.. good ones.. aah.. tight— your tiight.” You hold his neck and kiss his lips harsh, your tongue running against his lips and circling his own wet muscle.
Shotos hand travels down, finding your clit and pinching it, making you jump arch with a loud moan. “Ohh shit!! Sho.. i.. i want your.. haannghh.. b-babies!! Please..” Your words in such a lewd tone made his cock leak profusely, coating every inch before even reaching climax, though he was getting there.
He pressed on your clit with his thumb, eliciting a twitch if your hips. “Want to.. see you glowing.. breasts full.. nnn..” his head drops down, either out of shame of his fantasy, or from the overwhelming feeling he was experiencing. He felt really good. Your moans and whines didn’t help.
As he quickly shifts his angle, you realize just how close you’re getting. “Sh-Sho..! I-I’m gon— aahhh!” His hands lifted your hips up even higher, making his weeping cock go in as deeep as it could. He was kissing your cervis in the most eye rolling way, sobs escaping your throat.
“Pleasepleaseplease.. take take take.. i want.. i want you to take it..” as his fingers circles your clit more, all it took was one more pinch for you to completely fall apart. Your pussy squeezed him like a vice, spasming and drenching him in your juices and cum. It didn’t take him long to follow suit.
With just a few thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt and groaned into your collarbone. Shotos seed never seemed to end, the cum filled you to the brim, and tried to drip out despite the angle. As he panted into your skin, he stayed glues to you, wanting it to take even though he know’s the likelihood.
“I..I don’t want you to.. take birth control..” he mumbled into your chest, it made you giggle. “Well… haa.. sho if i stop.. i wont stop getting pregnant!” He turns his head, kissing your jaw.
“I’d like that..”
a/n: i should stop writing fics at night .. but i wrote this one quick. lowk self indulgent but its cus im on day 23 of my period!? (i spoke to my doctor dw…) and i just want shoto to breed me..
content : the tiktok trend where gfs record their bfs being all clingy without them knowing , pro-hero bakugo caught lacking , domestic fluff , one use of y/n
katsuki bakugo was not the affectionate type. at least that's what everyone thinks. so when mina tells you about a harmless tiktok trend that came up on her fyp, one where girls record their unknowing boyfriends being clingy, you couldn't resist trying it.
the apartment was quiet, it was late and the city lights bled softy between the curtains, all while the hum of traffic was somewhere far below.
you were both in bed. well, technically, bakugo was on top of you--thankfully not too heavy, just close. one arm was around your waist, the other was tucked under your back, all while his face was buried in the crook of your neck. his breath was warm against your skin and you could only assume his eyes were closed, he was relaxed in such a way that made it seem like he had no intention of moving for the next decade. these were the nights you loved, when he was free from patrol and all his hero duties.
it was rare to have this kind of stillness and you were sure many, many people would be baffled that the number five, pro-hero dynamight could exist like this.
"you're warm," he muttered into your neck, voice rough and sleepy from the long day.
you smiled while your fingers brushed lazily through his untamed hair.
and, if it was even possible, he pressed closer.
it was such a sweet, simple moment that you almost felt bad about the phone that you held above him. it had been recording for a few seconds now.
it was just for a trend mina had shown you earlier (and, of course, you have absolutely no intention of sharing it to anyone), but it was something stupidly cute to torture him with.
"he doesn't know when you're recording." she'd said. "that's the whole point."
you laughed lightly, "seems kind of mean."
well, bakugo definitely didn't know.
he shifted slightly and lovingly tightened his hold on you. then, his voiced dropped a little and he drawled out the words, "don't move."
"i'm not moving," you whispered in return, amused.
"good."
there was a pause. you almost didn't want him to see the camera and ruin the moment.
his hand flexed slightly at your waist as if he was checking that the moment was real, that you were real.
"stay here." he mumbled into your neck.
"you're clingy." you teased gently. even after all this time, he still gave you butterflies.
"shut up." he said, though there was no bite to it, only comfort.
his head sank deeper into your neck again and, for a moment, you thought he'd fallen asleep like that. his breath was so quiet and steady and the weight of him felt so familiar now, it made your heart ache a little.
then he murmured a little absentmindedly, "love you.." it was so soft that you almost missed it. your fingers paused in his hair, all the while the other hand kept the phone steady.
you had a small, more-than-content smile. "yeah, i know."
he hummed like that answer satisfied him.
then, bakugo shifted his head upward a little and pressed a soft kiss to your jaw.
that's when his sleepy, crimson eyes caught the dim light from the corner of his eye.
"what is that..." he muttered sleepily.
you stared at the ceiling when he shifted his head slightly, just enough to look up... just enough to see your phone... still recording.
the second bakugo fully registered what he was seeing, his eyes locked onto the camera and he jolted.
honestly, jolted is a bit of an understatement. the blond practically jumped back off of you so fast that the blanket shifted, then his hand snapped up instinctively like he was about to detonate the room out of pure reflex.
"WHAT THE HELL-"
he was already halfway from falling off the bed, glaring up at the phone then back to you like you had betrayed him more than anybody ever had.
you could already hear denki's stupid voice saying, "good one y/n, it could get, like, twelve million views."
"the hell is this!?"
you wheezed a little, "it's just a trend-"
"A TREND?"
"yes!"
"I'LL CREMATE YOU." at that, you lost it. you fell back onto your pillow and laughed, all the while he just sat there with messy hair and looking at your phone like it was the worst villain he'd come across. "DELETE IT NOW."
"i was gonna-" you tried to speak, still laughing, "i was literally gonna-"
"I'M NOT BEING RECORDED IN MY OWN DAMN HOUSE." he barked out and turned his head away, acting like he could escape embarrassment that way.
from somewhere deep in your laughter, you managed to speak, "you were being cute."
at that, he whipped his head back. "DON'T CALL IT THAT!"
"you're ashamed of love, katsu." you teased as your hand went out to pull him back into bed, the other hand putting your phone down.
despite his yelling, he leaned into your touch without fight. though before he could lay down, he leaned across you and grabbed your phone and threw it onto his side of the bed. you had to restrain yourself from calling your boyfriend dramatic.
then, he grabbed the blanket and yanked it up over the both of you. it looked like he was trying to erase the entire incident from reality.
"...whoever gave you this idea is dead." he muttered.
you were still smiling into his shoulder when he finally settled back down. he was a little grumpy and flushed, refusing to look directly at you now. but his hand still found your waist again anyway.
i just want to say how thankful i am for all the likes, comments, and reblogs. i just started this blog and it truly is so exciting and means a lot! also, if you send in a request, i got it but it might just take me a moment! (i'm graduating in 3 weeks and then i'm all yours) <3
tag list : @paleepeaches (lmk if you'd like to be added!)
cw: tipsy bkg, head (m) (ikr how crazy), fluff, smut, established relationship. probably typos. i’ll add borders later.
“where…,” there’s a soft slam of your front door, keys being thrown on the table and boots being kicked off. a light stumble with a swear tacked on at the end. “where are you?”
“bedroom!” you call, sitting on your bed to pull up your large pyjama t-shirt to the tops of your thighs and opening your tub of vanilla body cream.
your response gets an incoherent mumble across your flat as there’s more shuffling down your hallway. a jacket being tugged off and… something else?
bakugou katsuki’s head pops through the doorway first. droopy eyes, wrinkled black t-shirt (he did leave here with a jumper so you wonder where that is) and no trousers (jumper is probably where the trousers are).
“did you lose your clothes outside?” you laugh as strong thick legs wade their way towards you.
he moves like a zombie with his fluffy messy hair, slow walk with his arms out to you.
the six foot four pro hero shakes his head at you sloppily, towering over your frame for a second before dropping to his knees between your legs. he rests all his body weight on you, exhausted.
you watch him enamoured, like he’s a dog just trying to show he wants some attention. he circles his arms around your waist and his head drops on your lap, snuggling into you tightly.
“took them off by the door. you don’t like my jeans on your bed.” he breathes, closing his eyes, “you smell so fuckin’ good.”
you opt to creaming your arms instead.
“did you have fun tonight then?” you offer, dipping your fingers into the cold cream and slathering it over your arms. bakugou holds you despite your movement, pecking the bare skin of your thigh.
the man grunts, a slow lift and quick drop of his shoulders in a shrug.
“sparky is investin’ in a stupid cocktail company. he wanted us to try them all,” he sounds disgusted by it, “they were all disgustin’.”
you’ve got a tipsy katsuki tonight. you smile down at him, pushing his hair off his forehead to get a proper look at his face. bakugou looks up at you, innocent and pitiful but you know he’s anything but.
“how many did you have?”
“three?”
“you little lightweight.”
he opens his mouth to push his top row of teeth into your thigh. you splutter when it tickles, shoving his head off you. together you eye the imprint of his teeth as he sits back on his ass on the floor. just in his underwear and a tshirt.
“they were high percentage cans. too goddamn high,” he huffs, eyes flickering over your body, “you just showered.”
you nod, resting back on your arms behind your body. you’ve finished moisturising, you’ve done your skincare and you’re practically ready to roll into bed.
but it’s not often you get a drunk or tipsy bakugou. he hates drinking, was one of the first things he mentioned when he met you because he heard it was a dealbreaker for some. it definitely wasn’t for you, especially when he said he just hates how slow and out of control it made him feel.
“you’re like an ‘88 first edition gold rimmed mint all might winter suit card,” he rambles, standing up to push you back into the bed with all your confusion.
“what?” it’s times like these when you remember you’re dating a nerd.
he grabs your hips to push you up the bed so he’s got enough space to seat his body between your legs and rest his forearms by your head. you open your legs wider, letting his head sink into the crook of your neck.
you feel him inhale again as if he’s a wolf scenting you.
“it’s the best card you can get, rare as hell. less than twenty were made and it’s out of the old card material before that company went out of production,” you circle your arms around his shoulders, listening. bakugou, speaks into your neck, kissing after every couple words. “i’ve got one of the cards. ‘ts in my office.”
you lock your legs behind his back.
“okay…” you drawl, brushing your fingers through his hair looking up at your ceiling with a frown, “now what’s that to do with me?”
bakugou freezes, resting on his forearms to look at you properly. you make his heart ache, a sharp pang in his chest and he grunts. your face has a glossy shine to it, the t-shirt you’re wearing (which is one of his) is fresh out the dryer with that cotton smell and you’re holding him just as tight as he’s holding you.
he doesn’t realise he’s looking at you like he’s confused that you’re confused.
“comin’ in here was like openin’ a rare pack,” he sniffs and when you’re still frowning he continues, “you ready for bed after a shower is my favourite you. seein’ you is the same feelin’ as when i got that card.”
it’s soppy and silly.
“and that card is so rare and so are you. i have you and i’ve got that card.”
you nod slowly in understanding and a small smile lands on bakugou’s cheeks.
“you’re saying you love me a lot,” you reply, pouting your lips out for a kiss which he quickly responds to.
“i’m sayin’ more than that baby,” he whines but it only makes you laugh, “im sayin’ you’re rare and only i get to see you like this and i’m the fuckin’ luckiest motherfucker in the world.”
“you’re a soppy nerd when you’re drunk, katsuki,” you slap your hand over his mouth before he can reply, “but that’s really cute. i love you too.”
“‘m bein’ romantic. that card sells for thousands,” he whispers when he presses his lips against yours again but this time he opens his mouth and tilts his head. you copy, letting his tongue swirl with yours. minty fresh toothpaste with maybe a pina colada from him at the back. your body heats when the kiss gets messier, a moan releasing from the back of bakugou’s throat. when your legs tighten around him, that’s when he gives in, letting the full weight of his hips rest between your legs.
you inhale when you feel him, hard and heavy, both covered by your underwear.
“why were you hiding from me?” you say as he runs his lips down your jaw. you’re reactive now, body jolting on its own, sighing softly from his thickness resting on your ass cheeks to your clit.
“‘t’s fine if you don’t wanna fuck. you’re goin’ to bed.”
“you can’t call me the best pokémon card ever and expect me to not want you,” you laugh to yourself and bakugou rolls his eyes.
“stop pissin’ me off. wasn’t talkin’ about fuckin’ pokémon,” he curses but he can’t help but kiss you again, right on your smile with your arms tangled around his neck.
though you’re clearly pressing him into you, lifting your hips to feel him.
bakugou’s completely aware of how much bigger he is than you. in size, in height, in power and yeah, even his cock. it’s because of all those factors, why he prefers for you to initiate, to stop him feeling like a raging beast pulling a princess from her tower.
he can’t get his hands off you, now sneaking up your t-shirt to feel your hips, then your waist and your soft breasts. you’re smooth, a layer of that cream you just put on. good enough to eat with that vanilla smell.
“‘ki,” you breathe and he jolts his head up, “what do you want from me?”
bakugou wouldn’t say he’s a horny drunk. well he’s hardly ever drunk for one so he wouldn’t say he’s an anything drunk since he doesn’t have enough data. but you came up in his mind more than usual while he was drinking with the boys and then his walk home. and he just said, this is his favourite you, after a shower and ready for bed. his rare all might card.
“don’t ask me that,” he grunts, but he starts grinding down into you without meaning to. you react like a flicker of a flame, soft moans from your throat. “what d’you want me to do?”
“why’re you so stubborn?” you arch your back and bakugou’s greedy hands pull your top up to under your neck. your whole body exposed to him, minus your tiny little underwear bottoms.
“‘cause i’m the one that came in here drunk and all over you.” but he’s speaking to your body like you’re a meal he needs to get his hands on yesterday. “fuck. fuck, you’re so beautiful.”
“take your clothes off,” if you have to be in charge here, so be it.
your boyfriend listens, digging his knees into the mattress as he grabs the fabric at the back of his neck and yanks it over his head. you hum in appreciation, drifting your fingertips over his toned muscled chest. you point to his underwear.
“those too. off.”
bakugou inhales sharply but listens, pulling the tight fabric down his legs and your mouth practically waters when his appendage slaps against his chest. his cock is right in your face as you lay back.
“it’s up to you, baby. don’t wanna pressure you,” he warns, cupping his heavy balls for some release.
you know for a fact your underwear is stained through, especially when he throws his head back with a sweet curse.
“i know, i know. you’re so handsome, katsuki,” that gets him looking back at you. your face, then your tits, then back at you.
“what?”
“you’re so gorgeous. i’m lucky to have you too.”
“fuck,” he can’t stop swearing, taking hold of the base of his cock and squeezing. “i don’t think i can fuck you, i’ll come as soon as i’m inside.”
it’s honest and a little cute, a smile blooming on your face. you take the pause to pull off your t-shirt, throwing it off the bed.
“that’s okay—,”
“‘t’s not. ‘m not usin’ you like that.” he shakes his head sharply, enough to know you can’t change his mind on it.
“what if i want your dick in my mouth?” and you show him how as you sit up on your bed and he still rests on his shins. you’re at the right height to slide it in your mouth.
you press a kiss to his cockhead, licking up all the pre and pressing your cheek his length. “‘ki?”
you give him these round, shiny innocent eyes that hold the stars. bakugou feels as if he can’t hold a single thought in his head.
“you just cleaned up, ‘m all dirty—,”
“katsuki, let me.” you push and he twitches against your cheek, “i really want to.”
it’s not often you give him head compared to how often he gives you head. bakugou is never one to ask for it and you rarely want to give it even though he always asks to be between your legs. you asking to suck him off is another rare card, a fucking ‘99 gold rimmed—
“okay, baby,” he murmurs, moving all your hair out of your face and behind your shoulders.
“don’t touch my head,” you warn and bakugou nods his head rapidly, adjusting his hand to your cheek.
he’s on edge, holding his breath as you, his perfect, beautiful fucking girlfriend holds his cock with a single fist. then you hold the rest with your other hand, pointing it to your lips.
“i’m gonna come quickly. i already fuckin’ know i am—,”
“that’s fine, ‘ki honey,” you soothe, “just tap me when you think you are.” you lick around his sensitive tip with your tongue then you swallow as if you’re giving him a taste test. “not bad,” you whisper to yourself.
then you get started. removing one hand to sink yourself onto his cock, just as far as you can go without choking. when his tip his hits the tightness at the back of your throat where saliva has gathered, bakugou groans, holds the underside of your jaw.
“sorry, fuck, sorry baby,” he grunts every few seconds, apologising for simply being a man aroused.
you bob your head, swirling your tongue around what you can and pressing your thighs tightly together.
you’ve never been a fan of giving head but once in a while the want bursts through you, the power of having him under your command. this big groaning man falling apart because of you.
and katsuki is always a good listener. careful with you. makes sure not to buck his hips and you can tell he wants to because he bites down on his bottom lip. he doesn’t stop with the noise and he never pushes your head down.
“so fuckin’ good,” he whines, throwing his head back. you sharply suck, your hand at the base of his cock squeezing tightly. his moan is crumbled, choked on every sound trying to escape, “tryna kill me? babygirl.”
you pull off him for a second, stroking him in the meantime as you wipe your nose. you’re just about to wipe your eyes when bakugou swipes his thumbs under them both.
“you’re my beautiful girl.”
your moment of control falters a little, as you become focused on one aim and one aim only. your boyfriend’s pleasure and that’s all.
“kiss?”
he ducks down, hand on your chin as he stuffs his tongue in your mouth. he takes control of the kiss, like he’s giving you mid sex aftercare, making sure you’re okay because you had his cock in your mouth for a few minutes.
“doin’ so well, baby.” he speaks into your mouth, nibbling on your bottom lip before letting it snap into place.
that’s enough, pushing him off you so you can take his cock back.
you’re faster now, less careful about being comfortable, especially when you’re able to sneak your fingers beneath your panties to press onto your clit.
your lips and cheeks suction around him, tongue flat on his underside. bakugou’s eyes widen, staring down at you. “holy fuckin—,”
his hand cups the nape of your neck though he doesn’t move you.
“shit, any more and i’m gonna come,” his deep grumbling voice gets pitchy, unable to keep levelled, “i really… oh shit baby.”
you place your hands on his hips to help guide your head. it’s loud, the sound of your spit and the friction of him. your small whines every time you rub sweetly on yourself and bakugou, his grunts take up the whole room.
he taps your shoulder lightly, “i’m gonna now. i’m fuckin—,”
you slow down as he does, ropes of the stuff pouring down your throat. you let it all happen, laying a palm flat on his chest as the man above you grunts your name like he’s cursing you to damnation. he definitely isn’t.
when he’s done he slides out of your mouth and you hop up to your bathroom to spit.
when you return only a few seconds later, bakugou is laying back on your bed with his arms open. two thick biceps wrap you up in a cuddle.
“i haven’t forgotten about you. lemme see your panties.”
with your cheek pressed against his pectorals, you playfully roll your eyes.
“how do you want me to show you?” you say, cheek smushed.
“sit on my face? or you lay back and i eat you?” he looks funny from this angle, lifting his head to look down at you. cheeks flushed and heartbeat still racing to come down.
“i’ll sit on you.” you begin to sit up but pause, hitting his shoulder, “don’t look so happy!”
bakugou adjusts his body, hands finding your waist as you shuffle up. his smile could light up a city, “i’m lookin’ like you just accepted my offer to sit on my face. what’s with you tonight?”
you pout, sitting on his upper chest, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“you don’t usually ask to suck me off. you usually say no to sittin’ on my face. today’s my lucky fuckin’ day.”
it’s true, you always moan it’s too intimate but letting him eat you any other way.
you shrug softly, pulling off your underwear and throwing it in his face. bakugou’s a dog with a ball, grabbing the fabric and stuffing it under his nose.
Katsuki who could count on one hand the amount of times he’d experienced a wet dream. So why now, at his grown age was he waking up to his boxers being drenched in his own cum? Why was he dreaming about you the night before a huge mission?
Katsuki who’s trying to get through his regular morning routine, but he just can’t seem to get his mind off it. The dream had just felt so real, so real that he was honestly starting to question if it was a dream or not, if you’d pop out from some unseen space telling him that it was just a joke. But no, his boxers were not soaked for nothing.
Katsuki who’s unfortunately paired up with you. Along with Denki, Sero and Shoto. But that’s irrelevant. He cannot for the life of him look you in the eyes. He’s genuinely trying his damn hardest to pretend you don’t exist; and it’s lowkey pissing you off. You’ve got a job to do so why the hell is he acting so childish.
Katsuki who’s actually just enraged when he sees Denki wrapping an arm around your waist, sure it’s playful; but there's no way in hell you’d align yourself with someone like that. So why the hell were you laughing and not shoving him off? After everything you two had done together. After a night of pure bliss together, after he’d bent you over in so many different positions. There was no way you could’ve forgotten the feeling of his balls hitting your clit with every thrust. No way you could’ve forgotten the feeling of his cum spilling out from between your legs, the feeling of his pushing it right back in, starting up the third round of the night. Oh. Right. It was just a silly little dream he had.
Katsuki who sat there sulking in jealousy. Jealousy he had no right to possess. He had no claim over you, so why the hell was he getting so upset over this small little thing? It’s when he sees Denki try to lean in for a kiss that Katsuki decides he’s done watching this little show play out. He’s done watching Denki try to flirt with what was his. Or at least the girl he wanted to belong to.. He’s still blatantly ignoring you when he drags Denki away from you. Muttering something about needing to get in just a little closer, even though your group was only on watch for now, still waiting for the signal. “Dude, why’d you do that! I was so close!” Denki whines. Katsuki can’t respond with anything other than a huff.
Katsuki who spends the mission with a watchful eye on you. Though the whole time is just a constant replay of his dream. The sounds of your moans drowning everything else out. So much so that he doesn’t even hear the signal. Only feeling a hand grasping his arm and attempting to pull him forward. When he looks? It’s you. And he feels his whole body heating up. And no, it’s not his quirks doing. He watches you rolling your eyes, as you let go and hurry off to join the others who had left the two of you behind. He’s stuck for a moment. Trying to wrap his head around the severity of the situation, then he’s readjusting the raging hard on in his pants before following after you. This was going to be a long day.
you pushed the glass door to katsuki’s office shut behind you a little harder than intended.
the sound made him glance up from his desk immediately, crimson eyes sharp beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the agency. he still had half his costume on, gauntlets discarded somewhere on the couch, ash-blond hair messy from a long shift.
“don’t slam shit,” he muttered.
you folded your arms tightly across your chest. “then stop acting insane.”
that got his attention.
katsuki leaned back in his chair slowly, jaw already tense. “insane?”
“yes, insane,” you shot back. “he’s literally just a friend, katsuki. i don’t get what the big deal is.”
katsuki clicked his tongue and dragged a hand down his face before shoving his chair back. it screeched loudly against the floor as he stood.
you hated how intimidating he could look without even trying.
bakugo prowled toward you, his movements lethal, controlled, like a predator circling its prey. the heat in his eyes wasn’t just anger anymore. it was something darker, something hungrier.
“just a friend?” his voice was a low, dangerous growl, fingers digging into your hips as he yanked you against him.
“you let him touch you like this?” a rough squeeze of your ass, claiming, possessive. “let him get this close?”
his knee shoved between your thighs, forcing them apart. his breath hot and raging against your ear.
“did he make you wet too?” a cruel grind of his thigh against your aching core, his lips curling into a snarl. “bet he didn’t. bet he couldn’t.”
one hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. his teeth nipping at your throat, marking you.
“only i get to have you like this,” he breathed, filthy, dominant. “only me.”
his other hand ripped at your clothes, shoving fabric aside to grope bare skin, fingers deliberately rough as they slid into your panties.
“fuck...soaked already?” a dark laugh, his fingers curling inside you without warning. “pathetic.”
but the way his cock twitched against you said he loved it.
“tell me,” he demanded, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder. ”did he even try to fuck you? or was he too much of a weak little shit to handle you?”
his thumb rubbed your clit in tight circles, sending shocks of pleasure through you.
“answer me.”
a command, not a request.
you hated how your body obeyed him, hated how easily he ruined you.
“n-no,” you whimpered, wriggling against his hand. “he didn’t—ah, god, he didn’t—”
your voice was a wreck, your thighs shaking around him.
“of course,” he purred, his grip tightening on your hair. “he was too much of a coward to try. too damn scared.”
katsuki’s lips curled into a predatory smirk as he watched you unravel beneath him, his fingers working you with a ruthless precision that left no room for escape.
“too fucking weak to even think about touching what’s mine.”
his fingers curled deep inside you, hitting that spot that made your vision blur, just as his thumb pressed down hard on your clit.
“but me?” a dark chuckle, rough with lust. “i’ll ruin you for anyone else.”
and then his mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking, marking you up where everyone would see.
“mine,” he snarled against your skin, fingers fucking into you with punishing strokes. “say it.”
your back arched, a broken moan tearing from your throat as he dragged you closer to the edge.
“y-yours!”
“damn right.”
his free hand yanked your chin up, forcing you to meet his blazing red eyes.
“and i don’t share.”
then his lips crashed into yours, swallowing your whimpers as his fingers finally pushed you over the edge, your body clenching around him, shaking apart in his grip.
katsuki watched you fall with a satisfied smirk, his own arousal pressed painfully against you.
