⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆ Bakugou Katsuki x fem reader ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆
To you, heavy with intoxication and shamelessly reckless, it seemed as though sensual music was pouring from the very walls. In reality, it was just your battered old speaker blaring — your downstairs neighbor banged on the radiator a couple of times before giving up, realizing it was pointless. The singer’s sultry voice lured you to the center of the room—you wanted to sway your hips, toss your hair, melt into the song about tender love and jealousy.
The pulse of the melody matched your uneven breathing — alcohol had been whispering through your veins for hours, blurring the edges of reality, turning your room into a neon-lit dance floor of drunken fantasies. Out of nowhere, neon lights stabbed your vision, mirrors reflected hazy violet glows, and you were catastrophically giddy — until your gaze landed on Bakugou, your sober and very displeased bodyguard, brooding in the corner. His aura of irritation shattered your carefree mood like an axe splitting wood — mercilessly, into splinters.
The lamp cast soft, hazy shapes across the walls, making your tiny room feel unnaturally large — or was it just the alcohol warping space? You slumped against the wall with a drunken grin — oh, how nice, the cool surface soothing your burning cheeks. Your head spun, thoughts trickling like a slow, careless waterfall into nothingness. Nothing matters. Nowhere to be. No one to bother you…
Except Bakugou. Oh, he bothered you. Not with words, just his presence alone. His gaze burned your skin like midday sun, like the spark of a firework — sharp, searing. He sat in his corner, a silent judge of your revelry, and for some reason, it only made you want to dance more wildly.
Bakugou wasn’t just looming — he had you by the scruff like a misbehaving kitten, saying more with his silence than words ever could. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.
"Don’t look at me like that, Katsuki! I don’t wanna sober up… C’mon, dance with me?"
Stumbling but stubborn, you reached for the volume knob — louder, louder, your grip on sanity slipping further. The rhythm was intoxicating, your body moving on its own, legs blissfully numb. Your mind floated in a sweet, toxic haze — while Katsuki glared daggers at you. He definitely wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of hauling your drunk ass home from whatever bar you’d celebrated who-the-hell-knows-what in.
"Fucking idiot," Bakugou thought, watching your clumsy movements. "Could’ve at least warned me you were planning to get wasted. Now I’m stuck cleaning up."
But even through his irritation, he couldn’t look away — something about your looseness, your stupid, reckless abandon, hooked him deeper than he’d ever admit.
"Bakugoooo, dance with me!" you purred, swaying toward him.
"Dance by yourself!" he barked back. You just laughed.
Right now, his name wasn’t Katsuki Bakugo — it was Displeasure Incarnate. A deep scowl cut between his brows as you staggered dangerously close to the sharp edge of the dresser. Finally, with an exaggerated eye-roll and a grunt, he slapped his palm over the offending corner. Damn it all.
Of course, you didn’t notice. In your drunken haze, you thought he was reaching to change the song. With a delighted squea — too energetic for someone this plastered —you grabbed his wrist and hit skip on the speaker.
The music shifted — slow, heavy bass thrummed through your chest, pulling you into a lazy spin. You swayed, but your legs betrayed you, forcing you to grab at walls, furniture — Bakugou. The alcohol’s effects were shifting: where it had once buzzed through you, now it dragged at your limbs, weighing down your eyelids.
But you weren’t about to surrender.
"Oooh, such a sexy song! Hey, I wanted to waltz with you, Katsukiii… Wait, no—hic!—ugh, stupid hiccups! I meant, like… a striptease? No — waltz! A waltz!"
Bakugou watched your flailing with the expression of a man sentenced to suffer the consequences of someone else’s fun. His irritation was etched into the tight line of his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders — and then, just to test him, you grabbed his hands and planted them on your waist.
The blond flushed to his roots. His throat went dry, palms sweating instantly.
"The hell is she doing?!" His mind short-circuited, little explosions popping behind his eyes. Your touch burned through him, your gaze too trusting, too close.
He was used to your sober sarcasm, your sharp tongue, the way you bickered until you were both hoarse. But now? You were looking at him like he was —
What was he to you, anyway? You called him a friend, but since when did friends cling like this? Since when did you drunk-dial him first to whine? Since when did you grope his knees in a taxi, cackling like a lunatic? Not very fucking friendly.
Doubt flickered in his eyes, and Bakugou stiffened. Enough. It was past midnight, and you still wouldn’t quit. He’d laugh at you tomorrow when you woke up mortified.
"Dance? Hell no! Turn this shit off, now!"
He lunged for the speaker. Silence crashed over the room, dousing you like ice water. Without the music, your ragged breathing and pounding heart were deafening. Sweat-damp strands stuck to your forehead, your cheeks flushed, your body uselessly drunk.
Reality crept back in, hammering your skull with the realization that you could barely stand. Bakugou loomed over you in the dim light, and suddenly, you felt small.
"Goddammit… You’re piss-drunk, and you still wanna dance? You’re gonna puke, and guess who’s cleaning it up? Not you."
His hands slid from your waist to your shoulders — firm, not rough, forcing you to focus through the fog. His responsibility for you pricked like a mosquito, trying to pierce your drunken armor. You stared at him, but were you even seeing him? His lips moved, but your ears were stuffed with cotton. Your brain supplied only one thought: “Wow… Katsuki’s so damn pretty, even when he’s mad…"
Bakugou, oblivious to your admiration, was still lecturing. He was fuming, every inch of him tense — why were you so…
Clueless. Naive. With those big fucking eyes— how was he supposed to stay mad?
"Listen up, brat. You’re a drunk vegetable now, so you’re gonna drink water and pass out. Tomorrow’s gonna suck — prepare yourself."
It was clear you weren’t processing anything. And why were you looking at him like that? Lips parted, eyes wide and trusting — something twisted in his chest. Unfamiliar. Annoying. He looked away sharply.
"Go the fuck to sleep. Now."
Steel laced his voice. He yanked your sheets straight, fluffed your pillow with aggressive precision. You crawled into bed with a pout, limbs tangling in the blankets.
Bakugou watched, counting to ten in his head. How did he always end up babysitting drunk idiots?
The mattress dipped as he sat beside you. Unbelievable — you had the nerve to pout when he was indulging you!
"Fine. But if you don’t sleep immediately, I’m leaving."
Your shoes hit the wall with a thud — he’d tugged them off gently, then thrown them like they’d personally offended him. The blanket was tucked with military precision, which you immediately kicked off. Useless struggle.
"Sleep, damn you," he muttered, his voice softening against his will. "Lucky I put up with your drunk ass at all."
The nightlight bathed the room in warm shadows, your face almost peaceful in the glow. Almost innocent. He stood, reaching for the switch.
“Just be sober by morning, dumbass."
You grabbed his sleeve with surprising strength. “Stay with me… You’re cozy!"
Bakugou froze, thanking every god that the dark hid his burning ears. What kind of nonsense was that? You were his friend — since when was he cozy? Last night, you’d tried to kick him in the shin!
“Have you lost your damn mind?!" he snapped automatically. “I’m not lying here with you! The fuck’s wrong with you?!"
His words said one thing — his traitorous legs said another, carrying him back to the bed. Whatever. If he left, you might choke on your own vomit. Someone had to watch you.
“Fine. But if you don’t pass out in two seconds, I’m gone. Got it?"
His jacket hit the chair with a thump. He flopped onto the blanket, careful to keep distance — just in case.
“In case she pukes on me," he decided, satisfied with his logic.
“Idiot…" he grumbled at the ceiling.
“Idiot… sleeping now…" Your voice was slurred, exhaustion finally winning. The alcohol pressed down, heavy and warm.
Bakugou shifted, ready to bolt the second you were out. “Just stay still," he told himself. “Leave when she’s asleep." But your warmth beside him, your breath against his neck — when had you ever been this close?And why didn’t it feel wrong?
“The hell’s wrong with me?"
Sleep took you slowly. First, your hand slipped off the pillow, brushing his shoulder. Then, instinctively, you curled toward his heat. Bakugou stiffened when you nestled against his side, your breath steadying against his collarbone. Finally asleep.
He lay like a statue. Every exhale against his neck sent a pulse through him. His ears rang, cheeks burning. Your body fit too well against his. And against all logic, his arm slid around your waist.
“Drunk idiot," he whispered — no bite, just something aching and tender. An admission.
Maybe it was time to stop pretending you were just friends.
His fingers traced your side through the fabric, pulling the blanket up like a shield against the cold. His ruby eyes gleamed in the dark, fixed on your tranquil face. This quiet, this closeness — it felt right, in a way he couldn’t explain.
Tomorrow, he’d curse himself for this weakness. He’d rage at the lines he’d crossed. But tonight, wrapped in darkness and your trust, he didn’t care.
Guess you were done playing friends.
© 2025 proxyxxx — do not copy, translate, modify or steal. I see everything.
