Ice clings to the ground. Gravel glistens when it freezes.
Itâs a silent thief that steals the trust in your soles, and you fear the uncertainty of your own steps when the ground is frozen solid.
The air is always brittle.
Youâll find yourself saying âIâm cold,â through the frostbite that stains your lips blue.
Your fingers will curl into the hem of your sleeves. Already too numb to feel the fabric, but clinging on anyway like youâll find the sun between the threads.
And youâll pretend like you missed his repetition of the forecast.
Your body trembles like you didnât expect the wind that slips through your jumper.
The smoke curling from his lips will pause, and heâll stare at your blanched fingers.
Heâll go on about common sense whilst wearing a knowing expression, and his narrowed eyes will tell you, âI told you so.â
Heâll tell you that youâre going to get sick.
And youâll try to pick out the frost from underneath your nails, waiting patiently for him to expel a disappointed breath.
âI told you it would be cold.â
Rolling your eyes in response like you havenât heard it before.
âReally? I donât remember.â
Like it isnât part of your ritual.
But thereâs nothing unfamiliar about the way he tells you off.
Louder than it needs to be.
Goes on for longer than it should.
But youâll secretly draw his sigh in, capturing it into your lungs like itâs something precious.
Youâll always let the dissonance of his disapproval ring in your ears, because it doesnât get the chance to echo through your skull before youâre met with his jacket. Heâll drape it over your shoulders, goosebumps already rippling through his skin even though he pretends they donât.
It will still carry a bit of his warmth.
It will smell like himâ caramel, cologne and old smoke.
âYouâre impossible.â
Heâll be with a snort, breath visible in the darkness.
âAt least iâm not cold.â
And when you finally head inside, even though heâll mutter about how slow you walk, heâll match your pace and let you steady yourself with his steps.
Heâll slot your hand into his, offering to hold the ice that collected on your fingertips so you donât have to.
So the next time you leave, under-dressed and stubborn in a paper thin jumper, exhausting the admission that youâre freezing again, he already knows that you listen to every word.
The concern disguised as complaints.
The scolding that doesnât burn.
The love he wraps you in to keep you safe.
And you know you donât have to bring a jacketâ because he always does.
Katsuki Bakugo x Vigilante!Reader (Truth Exposer-- Uncovered)
Summary: Your existance haunts his narrative. For a woman who released truth like a pack of wolves -starved, unforgiving- you certainly had a talent from running from it. You were impossible to catch, more impossible to contain. But when your restless feet ceased, what did it mean for the ones that chased?
FIC: Truth Exposer--Uncovered, by Deeversuswords
Case files were pinched between worn down fingers. Not that they had to be held in his palms for him to perfectly recite every fact that was printed in neat letters in the ever-growing folder that drew an outline of your alias, passages trying to grasp your purpose. For somebody who preached truth and exposed everyone else's like it was what you exhaled, you were nothing if but a walking contradiction. Forged by secrecy, hidden under a cleverly crafted persona that had consumed his wakeâ Truth Exposer. Ironic, since you were built from lies. If his eyes left trails where they traced, your name would be worn into the pages of your documents, seared by crimson stare.
Between hero and villain, the line held clear. Written rules that society used to define two worlds. Separated by laws. Drew good and evil. Painted stories in monochromatic visuals.
But it was you.
You who tiptoed the carefully constructed line, drew over it in fluorescent marker. You embedded yourself in it, where morals and ideals became challenges, bent out of shape, moulded into a prism of colour, a rainbow that smeared the black and white that built social order.
You, who was labelled âvigilanteâ, like somehow slapping a title on what defined you, would somehow make sense of what you did. Who you were. Where you were.
You, whoâd left trails, breadcrumbs scattered. Case files built up an image of you, like a picture that was painted from memory, accuracy lacking. But underneath paper and facts-of-case? A shadow that haunted his morality. Tested it.
He sank into the leather of his desk chair, listening to the dramatic groan of mahogany from under his weight. Pinched the bridge of his nose and wiped the blur out from his vision.
Time had barely moved since he last saw you. Clever riddles, that only he could decipher, drew him straight into a building falling in on itself, if only for a glimpse of you. It was fitting: represented troubled history, perfectly designed and a cruel reminder of it. Collapsing beams, glass so frail that it would shatter if stared at for too long, a grim memento that time between you two was scarce. Fleeting. A metaphorical timer, attached to a bomb that, when inevitably would explode and leave nothing but bitter destruction, it wouldnât matter who emerged champion. What good did victory hold, when nothing remained to prove it?Â
No red wire to cut, no escape: it was too far gone for that now. But with finite time - knowing it, living in it, racing against it - came the thought that never faded. Every second counted.
He recalled the way you stood: proud, tall, stupidly invincible even though you werenât. Even through the ridiculous veil you wore, an infuriatingly polyester rendition of his hero costume (adding insult to injury, really) matching a piece of flimsy plastic with eye holes and elastic.Â
A maskâ funny.
Heâd do well to tear it to pieces. Behind it held an identity that evaded him. A near two-year mystery that came with never letting him see the smug look on your face, concealed by polypropylene. Oh, how desperately he wanted to soothe the relentless question holding him hostage, and the ones that followed. What did it look like?Â
Would you still hold his gaze when it wasnât half-concealed by tiny pinholes? Would your lips curl upwards into something reckless and taunting when raw? Would he go as far as trying to draw it out of you?
Fragments of conversation echoed in his skull.
âcongratulationsâ you found what you were looking for.â
âFound what? A bargain-bin mask and your audacity? Iâm here for your truth, not your disguise.â
You simply laughed in response, a hollowed out sound, dry and sardonic. Then your voice droppedâ low, dangerous, almost lost against the sound of a wreckage about to be.
The structure shuddered, crumbling and raining down like twisted confetti, and you didnât even flinch.Â
âYouâre naĂŻve, if you think youâd get it for freeâ but why else would you chase me straight into a collapsing building?â
He tore his gaze from you to acknowledge what looked like the past of a wreckage that would soon become. Held it in his glare, like he could steady what was moments away from caving, to stop it from taking you both with it. Attention, in exchange for a few extra seconds. But if anything, the intensity of his stare seemed to make it tremble further. A low grumble vibrated against his throat. It was well over halfway to turning into remains, anyway.
âEnough riddlesâ I didnât come here to bargain for your honesty. Face me.â
A deliberate pause, undisturbed by the threat of collapse.Â
âMy honesty comes at a price. Tell me, hero..â
He wouldnât forget the way you refused to falter.Â
The way your eyes dared him to stay, even when the ceiling groaned with final warning. And before rubble finally gave way, you left him with a spine-chilling question that rang in his ears.
âHow far will you go to hear it?â
The verses refused to die. A dissonance of challenge, and temptation.Â
Once the rumble of crumbling stone subsided, it didnât take long for his hands to start digging: hesitance wasnât in his vocabulary. Desperate, and possibly futile, tearing apart debris before the dust even had a chance to settle. The image of you, proudly unshaken, defiant, had now been tainted with unease the moment merciless stone had cut through your exchange. You were far from fragile, and it made you stupid enough to believe you were unbreakable.
Now, morbid âwhat ifsâ settled in the backs of his eyelids and had the unwavering intensity held in your posture spoiled entirely rotten. A gruesome vision clung to him, and he wouldnât blink, if it meant facing it.Â
Every piece of debris he clawed at and discarded, failed to uncover what he feared you mightâve been reduced to, dreaded heâd find, echoed a horrifying chorus of blood steeped nightmares that paled his skin. Anxiety couldnât seize himâ not usually, but the terrors that had his fingers seeping red held him hostage to relentless digging. It terrified himâ they were only a step away from the shape reality might take.
Irritation had long shrivelled and dried. Anger ceased. This was pure, unfiltered fear.
Of course, he escaped unscathedâ he was built to withstand collapse.Â
His version of unscathed was twisted to falsehood, though. The angry burden of blue and purple burst through his skin, trickling ichor, but he ignored the blinding pain. His body could heal. With timeâ or a quirk-laced kiss that would marry skin back together.Â
But his heart stuttered to believe that you might be damaged beyond repair.
A case left unsolved, and truth on your lips that would wither alongside you.
Had your last breath been stolen?
He swiped at his desk like he had a personal vendetta against it, palms flickering with tiny bursts of light. Sparks flew. Scorched records and protein bars scattered, littering unassuming carpet.
âYouâd better not be dead, Truthie,â he muttered to himself in the silent suffocation of after-office hours, âour game isnât over yet.â
It would have been easier if you were a villain. Sometimes heâd silently pray for it; because as he uncovered you, finding something that tipped the scale and branded you as evil incarnate meant maybe his heart wouldnât seek you. It would kill the conflict that came with you.Â
Because searching for you was one thing - but seeking you? An option he couldnât afford. Forced to feel. God, did he hate you for it.
But that didnât stop you from learning the rhythm of his heart and what it took to conduct it.
Still, the thought was enough to cause disgust to coiled in his stomach. It soured the taste you left in his mouth. He hoped it wasnât true: foolish to trust that you werenât.
You radiated fire. Lived in it. Became it. Setting him alight and swallowing his heroism whole, reduced him to what he was: a man trying to survive. You werenât warmth, not even closeâ but heâd rather burn alive than freeze in emptiness.
He would allow himself to get consumed by it, if it proved flames still existed.
Thenâ a soft rap on his window shattered the spiral of his thoughts. If not for the quietness that darkness brought, when his hero agency harboured only him, he mightâve missed it. He ripped back the curtain âquick, sharpâ because intelligence had come undone to irrationality. The chance that it was your finger that tapped glass. A chance that you might be more than just a smudge under broken brick: a chance to see you, again. alive. That was what defined instinct to fly forward and pull fabric off its rings.
It wasnât you that he met, though, only a crumpled note that was unmistakably yours, crudely taped to the window like an afterthought. His world lurched sideways. If this was you trying to clear his thoughts, your own perverse version of comfort, youâd failed dismally. In fact, you were the reason they stayed so clouded.
He ripped it hastily from the pane, and now in an unsteady palm. What he held in his hand was more than scrunched paper. To him, atleast.
It wasnât youâ not your flesh and bones. Not the sight of a heart that still pumped. Even so, it held proof that somehow, you werenât buried under 6 feet of debris and a memory set to fade, forever a tomb of untold whispers. Proof of a soul that still was. You were always a riddle, but one that still had time to be solved.Â
Twisted relief came from it. Written existence. But what good was relief, when aching pain followed; stealing back the exhale that escaped his lungs, and put the hollowness back where it belonged? You were the stubborn weed that bloomed from rotten soil, surviving when it shouldnât have, but did anyway. Your vines had no right to coil around his heart, but dangerous thorns rooted themselves there like they belonged. Alongside it, perfumed petals peeked out from underneath, and kept him intoxicated.Â
He knew all of thisâ knew you were an anomaly that existed and thrived where you werenât supposed to.Â
But that didnât stop him from cradling the note in his fingers like you were it.
Maybe it was because he was still recovering from it ârelief so sharp it felt like a hangoverâ or the fact that sleep became a stranger the moment you disappeared under dust. You lingered in the shadows, and he pressed a flashlight into darkness in hope for the shape of you. But knowing you were somewhere, rather than nowhere?
Youâd pulled him to the brink and left him there. He didnât even need to read what youâd left (though of course he did, and predictably so).Â
âYou searched for me.â
The note, crushed and creased far past forgiveness, carried something more than mockery. It wasnât a taunt. It wasnât bait. It was simply a truth spilled in inkâquiet, sincere, inescapable.
âEven after.â
He hated itâhated the way words reached into him. Somewhere, in the mess of your secrets, skeletons from your closet he tried to drag into the light, the reason for search had shifted. It was still a search for truth: that would never change. But it had become a hunt for you, Investigation turned into curiosity. And he didnât need your handwriting to tell him that. The raw split of his knuckles and gloves he had to have mended because they were torn to shreds. Dirt still embedded beneath his nailsâthey spoke for him.
And scribbled on the bottom, in the same hand, your words stripped him bare regardless:
âGuess my truth means alot to you.â
âââââââ
a/n: A long hiatus (university has stolen the pen in my hands. It's research papers and nothing else, here) I present to you- a fic of a fic!! my love for Katsuki knows no bounds. The reader and Katsuki are plucked from 'Truth Exposer' and a twisted one-shot imagine of them.. and I had so much fun pouring my heart and soul into it. Mainly because this is a tribute to an amazing writer and her wicked fic!! 100% a worth-while read, and some of the subtle jokes in here will only be apparent to the Truth Exposer fic followers. They really are a gut-wrenching, heart-stopping pair, and all knife twists are worth it to watch their relationship blossom. PLEASE give it a read- i'm seriously a fish on a hook.
Truth Exposer--Uncovered, by Deeversuswords Masterlist
Summary: Bitter words and broken ice cream cones. But in heated flames, what matters moreâ pride or paramour?
A/N feels like iâve been gone for soo long !! too busy đ i will be a university student soon but i hope i can keep writing aaa
Shit.
Your feet thudded against the pavement, the feeling of the thrum of your heart against your ribs as relentless as the set of boots trailing closely behind you.
This wasnât how youâd expected your night to go, and you silently cursed at yourself for giving into your late night ice-cream cravings. You longed for the relief of something cold and sweet (everything he wasnât), especially after your last interaction with him had left an especially sour taste in your mouth.
The words were still burning on your tongue. Sharp and volatile, cinching your rough edges.
Youâd exchanged insults, stripping each other to bare forms, heat and heart colliding.
Every one of your insecurities, now weaponised and turned into emotional ammunition, none of them left untouched.
You remember vividly âlike you could forgetâ fight still fresh like unstitched wounds, the after image of his eyes, devoid of affection and replaced with spite, burned into the back of your eyelids.
Doors slammed. Words you both could never take back. The unresolved fight, you tried to bury deep, but rooted in your mind and now blooming in the absence of him.
Your ice cream cone had been forgotten in the commotion; now only a distant memory as you rounded yet another corner, and you silently cursed at the hero hot in pursuit of you.
âSeriouslyâ he couldnât have waited until after I had at least a bite?â
You made a silent vow to yourself, to get even with the hero whoâd so impolitely ruined your night, and made your ice cream splatter across the street as you spun on your heels, practically skidding across the concrete as you dove through an alleyway, scrambling up the fire ladder of the nearest building.
Reaching the top, you swallowed dryly. Your fingers fumbled over your phone, back pressed against the hard brick of the building's top, scrolling hastily through it.
Backups? Hardly any. Contacts? Suffering because of it.
Not much room for loyalty in this type of business.
You clung onto your phone like it held the answers to freedom under your fingertips, your usual ideology of working alone now coming back to bite you hard in the ass.
The assassin you ran into on one of your solo missions? No. Youâd only saved his number to silence his relentless prying. Like you wanted him to think you needed his help.
The frail woman youâd been caught up in a deal with? Not her, either. Admittedly, her business skills were admirableâ but she seemed to lack in every other department.
Your dad? Get real.
And suddenly: like a flashlight in the dark, your eyes fell upon Dabiâs contact information.
âHellfire.â
A fitting name âin more ways than oneâ for the man who existed only to be the bane of your existence. For a clouded moment, you considered conceding, imagining yourself behind bars possibly for the rest of your life. Unfortunately, you actually enjoyed freedom.
âCome on, come on, pick upââ
Click.
The dreaded sound of a low, gravelly voice answered. Cold. Calculated.
âWhat do youââ
âDabi,â You gasped, voice coming out a harsh whisper, âI need backup. Immediately.â
Your usual snarky tone, now replaced with something more urgent. Despite your predicament, you could hear the flick of a lighter, followed by the sound of an inhale. It took practically every ounce of your trained self discipline not to screamâ no, cry, at the sound of his casualty.
âAre you seriously smoking right now? I need help, you barbecued asshole!â
Another pauseâ shorter this time, yet still long enough to make you desperate enough to almost beg him to come and save you.
âHow bad?â
âOn a scale of âI dropped my ice-creamâ and âIâm about to get locked up for the rest of my lifeâ?â You whisper-yelled, uncontrollable and chaotic, âIâm about to be thrown into Tartarus!â
âLocation?â He spoke between long exhales, drawing out the phone call.
âHaru Alley, on the roof of a building. Itâs red bricked, and itâs got a fire escape.â
Pressing the phone even closer to your ear, you could hear the crush of a cigarette underneath an unforgiving boot. You opened your mouth to speak again, trying to coerce him into coming to save you, only to hear the sound of a âclickâ.
Silence.
âFuck sake,â You muttered, shoving your phone back into your pocket in silent resignation. Your shoulders slumped slightly, body tensing as you heard the sound of imminent footsteps to your spot on the concrete roof, and you stood up, feigning confidence and plastering a villainous smile on your face. The door burst open, hinges creaking dramatically.
âGive up, villain. Youâre outnumbered.â
The hero stood in front of your battered figure, and truthfully, your situation wasnât ideal. Climbing up to the roof was an overlooked detail on your part, and even you couldnât hide under the nightâs dark canvas. The nightâs breeze, nipped at your exposed skin, and you caught the sight of your torn clothes, steeped in your own blood.
âYeah? Well youâre outmatched,â You retorted, arms up defensively as you prepared to engage in a fightâ something youâd been hoping to avoid. You cringed internally at your response, and your feet subconsciously moved back in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable.
He stepped closer, cuffs aimed directly at your wrists, your usual feigned confidence now faltering. The least of your worries was saving face; every one of your synapses firing in an attempt to think your way out of the situation youâd found yourself in.
Thenâ a sudden flash of heat.
Blue flames surged through the air, fanning out from on top of the rooftop. The familiar scent of ash and cheap cologne hitting your nose all at once.
Dabi. His gaze, sharp and deliberate, scanned your figure.
âYouâre late,â You said dryly, masking the exhale of your relief with a scoff, and his usual guarded expression softened slightly at the sight of you: torn fabric draped over you, hair cascading past your shoulders, tangled. He slung your arm around his shoulder like it was instinctive, dangerous flames fanning out behind him, concealing his figure and your own.
It spilt out around you, and you knewâ it wasnât just a distraction. It was a warning.
âIâm here, arenât I?â
The blaring of sirens, now drawing closer to the commotion, only served as a reminder that you two hadnât escaped. Not yet.
Not from the heroes. Not from each other.
But under the cover of raw flames, ripping through the night like vengeance given form, he took a moment to steady you.
âYou scared the shit out of me,â He said, firmly planting his calloused hand on your waist, grip firm and grounding. His words, as heated as his fire, laced with something elseâ something softer. âDonât ever call me like that again.â
âNoted. Next time Iâll send a text.â
He scoffed, grumbled, muttered incoherently, and slung a barrage of concerns disguised as insults at you. The air was still burningâ heavy and suffocated.
But even so, his hand stayed firmly on your side. Protective. Possessive. Unmoving.
His own version of an apology: one left unspoken, yet the type of gentleness that met your waist through his fingertips, branded with a type of regret that didnât need to be said through words.
Fire no longer burning, but smoke hanging in the airâ heavy, thick, suffocating.
Wounds stitched, but not healed.
A beat went by, tension now so thick you were sure you could tear through it with your bare hands. And then, he spoke; words clear like a command, and even so, still carrying the type of delicacy he saved only for you.
âNext time, we won't run from this shit.â
You knew he wasnât talking about the heroes.
âI can handle the fight. What I canât handle is your silence.â
You grimaced, remembering the door youâd slammed shut, the sound of his pained voice calling out to you, muffled through the wood. Hurried feet carrying you away from him in an attempt to escape the torrent of insults exchanged and the perpetual burn in your bones.
âIâm sorrââ
âI donât need you to be sorry. I need to know youâll always come back.â
He didnât need your apologies; he needed your stability. He needed to know that despite every fight, youâd still be there.
You looked up at him, his eyes reverently searching yours. His expression, calculated, yet carrying a sense of desperation. For you, maybe. For your reassurance.
âYouâre where my heart belongs to, Dabi.â
He knew. You knew.
Honesty was the only language you both wouldnât dare to butcher. Because despite everything; the way you hurt each other when youâre scared, the way you fought with him over shit that doesnât really matterâ you know heâd still come and save you, every time.
PAIRING â Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki/Vigilante F!Reader
RATING â Explicit
CONTAINS â heavy angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), mutual pining, slow burn, eventual smut, moral ambiguity, cheating (not between katsuki/reader), unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, grief/mourning, dark themes (past abuse, stalking, kidnapping, torture, quirk trafficking), violence, swearing, open but hopeful ending, dual pov (mostly reader), no use of y/n â married bakugou katsukiânot to readerâand has a daughter too â characters are in their late 20s
SUMMARY â Running away would be the sensible thing to do. Getting as far away as possible from him, the one person whoâs your ticket to losing your freedom. Not searching for him out of stupid curiosity and showing up at the last place you should: his house. They say curiosity killed the cat, but yours seems to always end up as the key unlocking doors that should probably stay locked. Because when you open the door to Bakugou Katsukiâs life, itâs not a loving marriage, not a happy family of three you find, but falsity, forced duty, and a dark secret that threatens his very own life. Bakugou Katsuki, the pro hero tasked with catching you and your downfall. And you, the vigilante exposing ugly truths for a livingâhis salvation.
â„AO3 LINK // â„AO3 CHAPTER LINK // â„TUMBLR CHAPTERS LIST
CHAPTER SUMMARY â Katsuki goes dress shopping with you.
CHAPTER WARNINGS â n/a
WORD COUNT â 3.5k
Katsuki didnât waste time on wishes. They were mere possibilities at best, selling daydreams built on things no one could control. Goals were different. Simple. A clear set-and-go until achieved, driven by effort and execution.
For twenty-eight years, heâd lived that way and had no intention of changing.
But as he stole a glance at you, he wished he didnât understand why his heart felt so full and empty at the same time. Wished he still struggled to figure out what his feelings meant, or what to do about them. The uncertainty made it easier to pretend something wasnât what it was.
Knowing and trying to accept that this might be all heâd ever have with you felt like torture. Despite everything, you kept him at armâs length when it was clear he didnât want you to. He was all in. His mess wasnât just yours, and those bastards auctioning people werenât yours alone to deal with. You needed to let him be there.
He could cross the line, burn every boundary to ash to change your mind because he knew. He knew that a part of you, at the very least, would give in.
But he wouldnât.
You deserved better.
âOi. Got any idea where youâre goinâ?â he asked, shrugging off the throbbing ache in his body. Everything kind of fucking hurt. Worth it, he told himself as his fingers felt for the thin box in his pocket.
âWill you stop following me if I say no?â you asked, your nose scrunching up in that annoyingly cute way that got to him.
âNo.â
âGo figure.â You rolled your eyes. âWhat next, picking out my dress too?â
âThink you can handle my tastes?â he challenged.
Wear red.Â
The creepy invitation came with that one instruction. Youâd already pointed out how weird it was. Last time, everyone except Madam had worn black, so why the hell were you supposed to match the evil hag?
Everything about it screamed fuckery. One more reason for his gut to roil in dread.
You paused mid-stride and sized him up. âInappropriate.â But you were considering it, lips pursed, brows low.Â
His brain was already imagining the kind of dress heâd want you to wear. Fitted to your curves, absolutely. He was too insatiable not to want to feel everything, and to let you feel it, too. Heâd give you that power. Let you hold it over him. Shame would be denying you the chance to know how fast you could take him from zero to a hundred without even trying.
âFine. Choose it for me,â you declared. âWhat better way to look at my absolute worst?â
His eye twitched. âYour worst?â he bit out. âMy tastes are impeccaââ
You sped away from him.
âHey! You little shit, hold up!â
You tossed him a sugary smile over your shoulder, like he was some mutt eager for a bone to chase, and dashed for the escalator.Â
He tsked. Blew out a sigh as you beelined upward on the empty side, not giving a single fuck about the weird looks landing on your back. He pulled a disgruntled face when you waved at him from the top, then took off after you.
The place was packed. Thanks to his job, crowds grated on his nerves. Most people were in the way, oblivious, spaced out, or glued to their phones. Tempting to bulldoze through them, but he was supposed to stay low-profile. No attention. None. He was lucky the jacket heâd snatched off the gym floor had a hood because otherwise, he wouldâve blindfolded himself with his sweatband and nagged you into dragging him to the first store that sold caps, claiming eye sensitivity or some shit.
Still, people looked. Who wouldnât stare at someone storming up the escalator three steps at a time and sprinting through the mall like a lunatic?
Katsuki allowed himself a half-grin as a wild thrill skated down his spine. Risky. But it didnât matter, not unless someone got a clear look at his face. And with you so obsessed with keeping his identity secret, he was more than fine.
Even the stunt heâd pulled with his Quirk earlier, heâd made sure to cover his tracks. Dropped into the parking lot, slipped through the rows of cars, hopped over the fence, escaping the scene.
Maybe someone had seen Dynamight. But who could say for sure? Heâd zoomed in so fast, it was mostly smoke.
Explosions? Couldâve just been a fire quirk.
You shot another look over your shoulder, coat flapping around you, and caught his eyes. The exhilaration lighting up yours hit him like a sucker punch.
You were into this.
Anticipation coiled tight in his gut. His heart thudded harder in response.Â
Fuck.
He was into it too. Mental cat-and-mouse was good, but thisâthis was next level. The physicality of it, the undeniable fact heâd touch you, struck a rawer part of him.Â
Katsuki caught you right before you could veer around the corner, toward the food court. He grabbed at your coat and drew you back into his arms that locked tight and pressed you against his body. And you let out this ridiculous noise as you squirmed, something between a squeak and a groan. Your lame attempt only made him tighten his grip and mock you.
âThat all you got? Was kinda easy.â
âTell that to the time you spent searching for me and failing,â you retorted, glaring at him over your shoulder.
His ribs expanded, but with more than the quickened breathsâamusement. You loved biting at his ego by bringing up his failed commission, but seemed to forget he knew your real identity before your first face-to-face meeting. If you ever asked âwhyâ, he hoped itâd be once he was a free man; Katsuki didnât think he could lie.
He huffed a short laugh. âGot you in the end.â
âLucky,â you muttered, and it was like stupid Cupidâs arrow plunged into his heart, once again.
Pretty. Breath stealer. Unfair little thing.
What were you doing to him?
Did he ever look at someone else the way he looked at you? Because it could be ten times, a hundred, or a million, and he was enthralled. You had him every damn time, messing with his head. Sometimes enough to make him forget he was a man trapped. Would you even stick around once he wasnât anymore?
Would you give him a chance? Let him try to be your ending?
His heart kicked weakly against his ribs. It wanted badly, and wondered what went through yours when you were this close. He could feel itâthump-thumpâthrough the layers of clothes.
How many of its beats were for him, and how many were from running?
Katsukiâs gaze dropped to your lips because clearly, he hadnât tortured himself enough.
Idiot.
Just because he wanted it didnât mean heâd get it. Maybe that was for the best. His idea of freedom wasnât the same as yours. His came with strings. Responsibilities.
He was a dad. Soon, a single one too.
âCan you let go?â you asked, but the softness in your voice seemed to ask the opposite.
No. But his arms dropped to his sides, and he shuffled back a step. âSince Iâm pickinâ your dress, how about you follow me?â
âShouldnât you ask about my budget?â
His brow arched. Time to slip back into his default setting, where he was less of a fool and more of a bastard. âShouldnât you consider Iâll swipe my card just to piss you off?â
âHa ha, very smart. So it can show up in your account records.â Your hand landed on his shoulder. You patted it twice. âWhy donât you pull your hood down too? Let everyone know who you are. And who youâre with.â
Rolling his eyes, Katsuki snatched your forearm and dragged you after him, ignoring your muttered protests. He was well off, that wasnât a secret, but no one knew how well off he really was. Or had access to see. Better that way. It was no oneâs business. And big money attracted the wrong kind of attention. He had enough headaches as it was.
Brand store after brand store, and he was sure he looked like he was two seconds away from throwing up. Disdain crawled across his face as the familiarity of names and logos left a bad taste in his mouth. At least once, Katsuki had walked into one of them and swiped his credit card for wife-on-paper. Her icy eyes sparkling with delight used to be a reason for pride. Heâd liked spoiling her.
Now, only the urge to eat glass rose whenever she forced him to pay. The only thing heâd buy her all by himself was a one-way ticket to a high-security prison on the other side of the planet.
âDo us a favor and hush,â you told him minutes later, spine straightening as you strode into the luxurious store like you owned it.
Katsuki frowned when the security guards gave you a once-over. Then him.
He shot them a glare and followed after you.
The store wasnât big, but it made up for its size by being polished to perfection. Clusterfucks of lightbulbs dangled from the ceiling, casting glossy light over the minimal furniture, sleek black metal racks, and mannequins dressed in formal wearâdresses, suits, and all that rich-people nonsense he also indulged in. Worse than some. Katsuki had caught the taste for custom shit.
âAre you looking for any specific style, Miss?â
He glanced away from the floor-length, sparkly purple dress on the mannequin and toward the staff member. Props to her. Compared to the two at the entrance, she was doing a better job keeping the mask on.
You and him looked out of place as hell in your casual clothes, especially him, dressed like a walking gym ad.
You smiled delicately at the woman. âNot a specific style, but a specific material. Something flowy, like silk.â
Silk?
Fuck you. And fuck him too.
As if it wasnât bad enough that your good girl act was already toying with his head. Knowing the truth behind it made it feel like a goddamn power trip, dangerously addictive. And now you had to go and feed his selfish thoughts revolving around red on you with that sinful, sexy visual.
Not that it mattered. You could seduce him in neon yellow, and heâd still give in to you.
Through the lusty haze creeping into his brain, he heard you say, âThank you. Iâll let you know if I need any more help.â The sound of your poised tone kissed, feathery light, on his skin, heating the veins underneath. Then you turned, eyes finding him, and his hands flew into his pockets to pinch at his thigh.
Hell yes to pain. Hell no to springing a boner like some hormonal teenager because his hopeless crush granted him attention.
He was a grown-ass man, damn it. With far too many unresolved needs and urges.
âIs that your taste? Sparkly, tight, high slit on both sides?â you asked, stopping beside him with a critical glint in your eye, studying the purple dress.
Katsuki swallowed down the honesty rising in his throat and brushed past you. âMove it, princess. Timeâs tickinâ.â
He headed for the metal rack lined with red dresses, hearing your shoes squeak as you hurried to match his pace. Your fingers grazed his.
âPick something short,â you whispered. âI need room to move. In case ofâŠyou know.â
You were killing him.
While he sifted through the options, you stood too close. Every so often, your hand would brush the fabric of what he picked, feeling it between your fingers. It distracted him. Filthy thoughts ran rampant in his head. The stolen glances at you, snippets he filed away in his secret mental collection.
Your hands on his skin. Your fingers wrapped around him. Your nails leaving crescent moons and dragging scratches down his muscles.
âAre you coming with me to the changing rooms?â you asked as he draped one last dress over his arm. Stupid brain processed it like an invitation.Â
âSomeoneâs gotta play butler for your princess ass.â
You jumped in front of him, blocking his path, and thrust your arms forward. âGive them to me.â
Katsuki snorted in your face, then sidestepped. âNah.â As if heâd let you carry themâcarry anything. What the hell was his strength for?
He headed straight to the last changing stall, dropped the pile inside, and flopped down on the small couch in front of it. You spared him no glance, but pouted and rolled your eyes as you stormed in, kicking the door shut. His knee started to bounce.
That damn attitude of yours was making animal. If he ever got the chance, heâd so fuck it right out of you.
Resting his forearms on his spread legs, Katsuki fixated on the bottom of the door. Your faint shadow moved, and the rhythm of his heartbeat ticked up. You were about to parade red dress after red dress until he chose one, deeming it worthy. His self-restraint, his patience, his nervesâall of it would do well to behave through this self-made hell.
The circumstances kept whatever was between you and him simmering low, but damn if it didnât feel agonizing at times, having it slowly boil instead of exploding into a blaze.
What would even happen when it finally did?
Would both of you survive the shockwave, or completely disintegrate?
His attention was drawn to his ring finger, the faded imprint of the wedding band still there. A stain that refused to disappear, no matter how many times he washed and scrubbed. He avoided wearing that worthless piece of metal unless wife-on-paper or the public was involved. The sight of it alone twisted his stomach.
But her attempts to get with him, more frequent now, were the reason he went out of his way to minimize breathing the same air as her. Heâd rather lock his dick away than touch her again. Nothing in this could make him want her beyond the empty gestures they put on for show.Â
The things that once stirred his interest left him indifferent now.
She would snap at some point, when the mountain of rejection reached its peak, and as much as he told himself he was ready, he wasnât.Â
The door to the changing stall creaked open.
His head snapped up.
You leaned against the doorframe, nose and mouth twisted in disappointment, and gestured vaguely toward the oddly shaped dress. âNo, right?â
âNah. Next.â Your body sagged with relief. âOr maybeâŠâ he trailed off, a slow grin appearing on his face. You were too much fun to tease. To play with.
âYou can do worse than this. Next!â
The door slammed shut.
Time passed. None of the options were cutting it, and your frustration with his pickiness finally boiled over. He found flaws in every single one. The red wasnât the right shade, the shapes and cutouts were weird, and the light hit the silk all wrong.
âI shouldâve never let you pick. Weâre down to the last one, so it better be the one,â you hissed, fumbling with the slit of the dress. âAre you actually this picky, or doing it on purpose?â
âWhatâs your bet?â
âPicky. Your patience is too short-fused to bother when there are other ways to piss me off.â
âSmart girl.â The rasped praise flowed off his tongue with ease, and he savored the flicker of surprise flashing across your face.
âInappropriate.â
It was. It fucking was.
But this time, the fault wasnât his. Youâd stopped and stood between his spread legs, hands on your hips, daring him with a murderous glare to say it wasnât the perfect one.Â
Staring up at you, Katsuki breathed in your subtle scent teasing his nose, and a downpour of desire flooded his veins. Hot. Carnal. A sin begging to be committed. His fingers flexed against the velvet couch as he drank you in like the thirsty bastard he was.
Off the shoulders, the dress wrapped itself around your curves, flared slightly at the waist, and ended mid-thigh. Flawless red, complementing your skin and driving him insane. He hadnât even seen the back yet.
âTurn around,â he said.
You regarded him for a tense beat, brows lifting in challenge. Then, slowly, you did a half pirouette. âAgain, inappropriate, by the way. But fair. I did stare at your ass back then.â
âHeh. Did you stare at my dickâŠtoo?â Katsukiâs lungs seized as his eyes fell on your back. The view was nice. Crisscrossed thick ribbons formed a bow at your lower waist, butâ
âNo. Your ass had me drop-dead before I could.â
Unease speared him. He couldnât even register your response, let alone come back with something cocky. He stood, hands finding your sides. Gentle. Careful. It wasnât like him. He didnât touch like this. Didnât handle things like they might break into a thousand pieces.
Under his fingertips, you went rigid.
Small, scattered scars marked the skin of your back.
Questions crushed his mind like an avalanche slamming into mountain rocksâhard, fast, suffocating.
What the hell happened? Did someone hurt you? Who? Was it an accident? What kind? How?
âTruthie,â he muttered.
You twisted at the waist, almost mechanically. Swallowed hard. Squinted over your shoulder at what he was looking at. âAh. That.â A shaky laugh escaped lips that were about to lie; he knew that. âDonât mind them. Just an accident. Many, many years ago.â
He wanted to believe you, to take your words at face value, but the surrounding air thickened with your discomfort, cloying his chest. There was so much more to the story. An accident, or not, it hurt you badly enough to scar.
Something violent twisted in his gut.
âCaused by someone?â
âMe.â The urgency in your voice contradicted. âCaused by me,â you repeated. âI was pretty clumsy as a kid. I stumbled and fell into this glass cabinet we had in the living room.â
You caused nothing, but were involved. You fell into something made of glass, but probably not at home. And you werenât clumsy as a kid, his investigation proved it.
He grunted out a quiet âMhm,â and let his eyes linger. The scars took shape; fallen stars carved into your skin. They didnât make you any less stunning. Quite the opposite. His own body bore scars as a testament to battles fought and survived.
One day, maybe youâd tell him of your battles too.
âHow were you as a kid?â you suddenly asked, luring his attention back to you.
It threw him off for a second, but the answer came easily. âA damn brat. Always gettinâ into trouble when no one watched.â
Your face scrunched up cutely. âHow is that any different from now?â
He pinched your sides, causing you to squeak and try escaping him. But the secrets stirring deep within refused to let you go just yet. He pulled you back, where it felt rightâclose to his body, caught in his hold.
Silence pressed from all sides, save for the wild rhythm of your heart vibrating through it. Katsuki felt it beat through your back and into his chest, calling his own to match it. And in a way he couldnât explain, they synchronized. One unit. Beating in surreal tandem.
You peered at him, mouthâwhich he had a mad urge to claim as hisâfalling open as if to speak. No sound came.
âHow pissed you gonna get if I rip the tag off and pay?â he asked.
âYou can forget about being my ticket out, whatever that means. You still havenât told me.â Â
Your head dipped slightly. âToo busy getting hard?â
âHardâhuh?âÂ
His dick twitched, thrilled to be acknowledged. Seriously? Heâd been so far up in his own head, he forgot heâd been horny less than thirty minutes ago.
âSue me,â he grumbled with a shrug, no longer caring he was caught red-handed. âYou look hot in that damn dress.â
You whacked at his hand, cutting him a pointed look. âThanks, but no thanks. Youâre married, and Iââ
âOn paper only,â he snapped, âin case that ainât obvious yet.â
You shoved away and spun to face him, probably about to launch into some speech about how that didnât excuse him from ogling or getting hard. He couldnât take it. His patience was shot, frustration already scorching a path through him.
He spoke first. âDonât start with that shit. I know what youâre gonna say. Inappropriate. Risky. Immoral. Whatever the hell. Iâll be at the entrance.â
His exit was swift, necessarily fast. He was too damn close to saying or doing something stupid. The only promise he ever made to wife-on-paper was to stay and play house for Yuaâs sake. Nothing else. When she took his name, she knew his heart was stone-cold where she was concerned.
Was what he was doing with you cheating? By the worldâs rules, definitely.
He didnât care. What mattered was his line, and he wasnât crossing it. Ever. You had nothing to worry about.
No touching you the way he burned to. Not even if you begged him, down on your knees, tears in your eyes.
You deserved more. Deserved better than being some dirty little secret he fucked behind closed doors because in front of the world he was bound to someone else.
Katsuki Bakugou who feels like heâs always seen, but never percieved x Fem!Reader who sees him
Bakugo stood in the common room, back pressed against the peeling paint and arms crossed over his chest defensively, posture sharp and unforgiving. Laughter echoed around him, and he hid under the indestructible walls he built, reinforced with fight and fury.Â
He sometimes felt like a paragraph in a story belonging to somebody else. Meaning branded in each line, messy in ink but words carefully chosen, lost to uncaring glances and left half-read. Words written too hard, pressed into paper like it might make his passages matter more.
Anything that didnât fit the narrative of his headline âloud, abrasive, explosiveâ skimmed over thoughtlessly.
But it was you.
It was you who read between the lines of his sloppy handwriting that looked careless, but held detail.
You who traced the letters meticulously.
It was you who took to him, highlighter in hand: not trying to fix the bleeding ink or the ripped pages, neon affection just appreciating what was there.
You just stood beside him. Paying attention. Observing. Studying him like you were being graded.Â
He never said thank you. Not out loud, anyway.
But his gratitude manifested in its own katsuki-branded way. Like a line he wrote in pencil and erased, but the faint marks still etched into the page. Barely discernible, yet still there.
It was evident when his signature scowl and hardened eyes, softened when they met yours, which were always so deliberate every time you looked at him. Intentional.
When he could yell at you, but wouldnât, like a grenade he held but never pulled the pin on.
And he wasnât sure what he liked moreâ the feeling of being noticed, or the fact that it was you noticing him.
⥠Katsuki Bakugo
âč In collapse (Fic of Truth Exposer-Uncovered)
Shorts,
âč Late night Flashlight
âč Salt and Caramel
âč Green shell, Red shell, Blue shell
âč Fall down, get back up
Even shorter,
âč Training alone, together
âč Loud, and louder
âč Skincare's important, y'know?
⥠Shoto Todoroki
âč Strawberries, and something sweeter
Katsuki Bakugou x Fem!Reader in a secret relationship
a/n: no smut !! only pure fluff here :P
It started off as a knock.
A gentle tap against the door, fist hitting the wood in search of a set of notes from a class youâd missed.
In first year, it was occasional; unfamiliar to him, yet there was something oddly addictive about the way youâd knock. Call out his name softly, treating it like it was porcelain.
In second year, it became more frequent; no longer searching for notes, careful knocks laced with something softer.
Now in third year, itâd spiralled into something more. It was practically second nature to you: your eyes always returning to the same spot on his door. Worn down by the repeated rap of your knuckles against the wood. Branded with you. For you.
And in return, youâd tailored a knock specifically for him. Once, twice.
He opened it instinctively, and you repeated the usual routine of quietly slipping into his dorm, slippers shuffling along the carpet under the cover of the darkness, as he closed the door behind you, concealing everything that you two had delicately forged together.
âAlmost thought youâd forgotten, dumbass.â
âLike I ever could.â
This hour was saved for you two. Raw confessions and tender kisses, woven between the fabric of secrecy. A side of him, tucked underneath all of the layers of his hostility and guarded walls, ones only you were allowed access to. Because you never broke down his wallsâ never forced your way through them, just patiently waited, letting them corrode on his own terms.
In truth, keeping your relationship a secret was Katsukiâs idea. Heâd asked you, voice unsteady and sheltered under the quiet hum of the moon. You remember the way his fingers splayed possessively over the bare skin of your stomach, fingers unusually twitching as he asked you.
âI just donât want anybody to know.. âBout us. Feels like an invasion of privacy.â
He knew what it mightâve looked like. But it wasnât because he was ashamed of you âquite the opposite, actuallyâ but because deep down, he was afraid. To him, admitting to his classmates he was in love with you felt like surrendering to vulnerability. Even more so, worry knotted tightly in his chest at the thought of something you had built bare handed, together, molded by whispered admissions, would shatter if anybody else found out. Because this hour, contained within his dorm room walls, was designed only for you two.
Surprisingly, you agreed. You understood.
âI get it, Kats. Whatâs said here, stays here.â
And goddamn, he couldnât love you any more than he did in that moment. His kiss, so tender and grateful, communicating that he loved you in a way that words couldnât, pressed against your lips. Like you were something sacred, a silent prayer left unspoken, but didnât need to be said.
Even so, your relationship, living in the threads of his sheets, frayed and weaved itâs way into every other part of your lives. Knowing looks shared between you from across the classroom, softened with the quiet whispers that nobody else knew about.
Heâd slide you coffee milk across the table in the morning, having spent the previous night in his dorm, when he noticed the sunken purple under your eyes, the consequence of a million repeated âfive more minutes,â and late night talks.
You werenât his lock screen, but you were his home screen; a discreet vow that you were his, and you held the key to his heart.
And in the quiet of the night, heâd hold onto you, like he was afraid youâd slip through his fingers, silently taking you in. Like he was committing every one of your features to his memory.
âI donât wanna stop holding you, dammit.â
âIâm not letting go any time soon.â
He loved you. He chose you. every time, quiet and fierce. Written in small gestures that were imperceivable to all who werenât you.
Like an explosion under water. Real. Raw. Reserved for you.
Katsuki Bakugo, whoâs a âbar soap works fine,â x Fem!Reader whoâs a 20 step skincare routine enthusiast
Heâll protest at first.
Scrunch his nose in disgust, his hand shooting out to grab your wrist when your own extends out to his face, clear liquid running lazily down your fingers. But when you look up at him with those damn puppy dog eyes, he freezes. The way youâre looking up at him, pouting innocently, your voice coming out more like a plea then a challenge, heâs rendered helpless.
âlet me moisturise your face, kats.â
His grip on your wrists loosen, sighing softly at the irresistible sweetness in your voice.
He caves when you smileâ one of warmth and familiarity, his resolve disappearing instantly.
âfuckingâ fine, do it before I change my mind.â
And the way you practically squeal in delight only serves to make his head spin faster. heâll huff and puff as your hands delicately smooth over his face, the cold serum on your fingertips coating his skin.
âYour skinâs dry,â
You comment harmlessly, and he tenses, maybe out of annoyance, or possibly embarrassment.
But at the reassurance of a soft kiss pressed to his jaw, he relaxes again, letting himself lean into your touch as your fingers run over his dangerously chiseled features.
âYer ticklinâ me.â
His eyes fluttering closed as he grumbles, but he doesnât pull away.
Once youâre finished, your palms wrap around his cheeks, squishing them together as you turn your attention to his now slightly glistening face in the mirror.
âSo pretty.â
He grumbles in response, feigning annoyance in a futile attempt to conceal the blush creeping across his cheeks, but his hands still snake around you, finding solace on the skin of your hips.
His eyes follow suit, gaze fixated on the reflection of you and the sight of your hands still on his cheeks, like heâs trying to memorise this moment. you.
He presses a deliberate kiss to the side of your forehead.
this may be a very small scale achievement on tumblr wise but i am so grateful to everyone whoâs been supporting me and my writing !! i was originally so nervous to start posting but the love iâve recieved and the moots iâve made has made my heart swell up so much đ thank u to everyone â€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïž i hope i continue to write things that resonate with you !!
a/n: my first time writing comedy! it was so fun coming up with dialogue for Katsuki. My reqs are open btw!!
You knew he was the very definition of strength. Unmatched in power, and annoyingly so; like the way thunder crushes silenceâ loud, fast, and final. Often times, getting paired up with Bakugo during training usually signaled imminent danger (youâd even caught Mineta one time before the fight, praying silently).
Everybody in the class knew: Katsuki Bakugo remained undefeated in anything you could label to be a competition.
But the day you rushed into the common room, juggling a set of controllers and a wii console, youâd unleashed a new type of battlefieldâ one filled with banana peels and power-ups.
âI brought this from homeâ I thought we could all play together!â
You gleamed, and your classmates gathered around the TV screen like blind dogs in a meat market. It wasnât until a few rounds in, when Kaminari was desperately trying to gain any semblance of control back over his kart (your group had made a pact to knock him off course any chance you got) that Katsukiâs interest finally piqued. His competitive nature kicked in when he overheard that Mina was in first place. He lumbered over, hands shoved in his pockets as he muttered about how, âitâs just a dumb fuckinâ video game.â
But he couldnât deny that buried under tightly knitted brows and hostility, he felt a sense of strange intrigue. He slammed his ass down onto the sofa, still grumbling about how straight-forward the game looked: press forward and go. He snatched the controller out of Kaminariâs hand despite his protests.
âYou canât even fuckinâ steer. Iâm gonna show you how itâs done.â
You picked Mario, Mina picked Rosalina, Kirishima as Funky Kong and Katsuki, unsurprisingly as Bowser.
When the countdown started, Katsuki was already mashing the buttons in aggravation, his kart engine immediately sputtering as everyone hurtled past him. The irritation on his face only grew more as he started the game off nearing last place. He flung a string of obscenities and harsh insults at everything (banana peels, and even an item box at one point) in his path.
It wasnât until Baby Peach struck lightning, causing him to swerve off course and crash into a wall that he finally exploded, his hands crackling with pure hatred. Kirishima was laughing so hard he couldnât steer straight, wiping tears out of his eyes.
âDamn baby shouldnât even have a license!â He yelled, only causing Kirishima to laugh harder, clutching his stomach as he swerved off the track for the umpteenth time. Your gaze flicked between your kart, Mario cheerily speeding down the course, and his own. He seemed to be everywhere except on the track.
âHaving fun?â You asked amused, nudging him gently, but he could only grunt in response, far too engrossed in the game to spare you any of his attention. Large calloused hands gripped the controller, like tightening his hold on it meant his kart would accelerate faster. His thumb, permanently indented with the A button as he screamed âFUCKING GO!â at the screen, leaning in to focus better. His face was now inches away from the screen, expression hardened with the type of concentration he saved for when he was fighting the toughest villains. His growls were indistinguishable from those of Bowsers.
âHeâs even threatening NPCs,â Mina commented, yet equally not pulling her focus from the screen.
It wasnât until the last round, when the mocking comments dwindled, the tension growing higher as the game neared its end, that Katsuki had actually somehow managed to brute-force his way back up to 1st place, despite his poor start to the game. To him, this was no longer a simple video gameâ it had spiralled into a competition of pride. ego. honor. A score to be settledâthat he really was undefeated champion in class 1-A.
Youâd realised; throughout the game, Kirishima, Mina and you had been fighting tooth and nail with each other, whilst Katsuki had somehow managed to force his way past you. It was like clockwork; there seemed to be an sudden unspoken understanding that now, the goal wasnât to win. It was to make Katsuki lose.
Mina started first; hurling a blue shell into the air, unable to bite back her laugh as she heard the sound of impending danger and the flash of a blue shell on Katsukiâs screen, followed by an explosion that rivalled his own. You couldnât deny the priceless look on Katsukiâs face as his kart flipped into the air, Bowser helplessly flailing in his arms as he dropped at least 4 places was absolute comedy.
The attack didnât stop there.
Kirishima had already begun following closely behind him, a deadly halo of red shells whirling around him, his grin evident as he released them, zeroing in on Katsuki. He barely had time to react, his kart reaching no more than a few pixelated metres before being tossed into the air again, his place in the race dropping considerably. Mina pulled her focus from her screen momentarily to bask in Katsukiâs despair.
âDAMN YOU SHITTY HAIR!â
He yelled, trying desperately to make up the growing distance between them, accelerating as fast as he could.
And that was when youâ in your blue overalls and red hatted glory, like a final card in a crumbling deck, sent a shockwave of green shells his way. Each one skilfully released, darting through the track and hitting his kart in ruthless succession.
It was an insult to injury, really.
He growled, screamed, mashing the buttons with more force as if that somehow could reverse the damage the three of you had caused, but to no avail.
Mina placed 2nd.
Kirishima placed 4th.
You placed 6th.
And there sat Bowser, the all-powerful embodiment of authority and vigor, his character, tears streaming down in a dramatic waterfall onto the track, moments away from the finish line.
12th place.
It was funny, at first. Hilarious, evenâ You, Kirishima and Mina, simultaneously erupted into cheers, high fiving each other in triumph. You were cheering like youâd won the lottery: there was a twisted satisfaction in that, even though none of you had actually placed first, making Katsuki lose was an even greater victory.
But the brief moment of success was short lived when you actually looked at Katsuki. The murderous expression on his face was all that you needed to see before the three of you scrambled up from the couch, clawing your way to the door for a chance at survival. It wasnât long before sparks flew from the palms of his hands, emitting a glow that could only be described as deadly.
âCOME BACK HERE YOU DAMN EXTRAS!â
And thatâs how the night endedâ Katsuki, defeated, yet you bearing the cost.
You know deep down Katsuki struggles within himself. Not because heâs weak, because heâs too strong.
He fears sometimes, that maybe heâs just too loud for anyone and that his words get lost against the sound of his screams.
Itâs written in the moments between fight and fury, when heâs being told to âcalm down,â but not really listened to.
Youâre the only one doesnât try to quell his flamesâ you fan them.
When everyone tells him he pushes himself too hard, you push him harder.
Not because you want him to break: because you know he wonât.
With you, he feels understoodâ you know that sometimes itâs not the silence he craves; itâs the noise.
Youâre the only one whoâll hand him a megaphone when heâs yelling and yell beside him.
wanted to write a small short where ur encouraging his loudness, because maybe thatâs what he wants sometimes: to be unapologetically loud, and understood for it
Summary: You and Katsuki are like day and night; but the thought that your differences could tear you down instead of binding you together haunts you.
a/n: strap in! this one i wrote a little longer as I got super into it. lmk what you think đ
You remember the stunned silence of your classmates as youâd broken the news that you and Katsuki were going on a date. The perpetual smile on your face that your classmates had gotten used to seeing, bright like the first bloom of spring, unchanging as you casually mentioned that you and Katsuki were âplanning a date at the observatoryâ.
Anybody within earshot of the conversation was instantly blindsided, the classroom rippling with silent shock. Jaws agape. Incoherent stammers. The sound of Kaminariâs spirit taking flight, followed by the thud of his lifeless body against the desk and bubbles forming in his mouth. The bomb you just dropped, hanging heavily in the air, effortlessly weaved into conversation like you hadnât just changed their fundamental beliefs of how the world works. It took a moment for everyone to comprehend your words (they were sure theyâd somehow managed to induce a group hallucination). Even Todorokiâs stoic expression wavered slightly, etched with surprise as he tried to maintain his indifference.
You remember it all too vividly: like throwing a lit flame into a gas tank, every one of your classmates simultaneously erupting into roars of âno fucking way!â and âexplain everything!â and âthis is just a late April foolâs joke, right?â. The constant string of questions as to how or why you two were dating, now inescapable like an airborne virus youâd unknowingly released.
You canât say this wasnât half expected: it wasnât exactly a secret that you and Katsuki were polar opposites. Even your quirks disagreed with each other.
Tenderness embroidered on your heart, hostility branded on his.
But even so, despite the brave smile feigned at your classmates, nothing could really alleviate the sting of over-hearing your classmates describe your relationship which was sure to end up like âa hammer falling on glass.â
So when the date youâd so helplessly been looking forward to rolled around, the knot in your chest was indistinguishable from excitement and dread.
Whether it was the constant, subtle doubts of your classmates gently reminding you that âyou might not be the best fit for each otherâ, or the fact that you two had already spent an entire day deciding on a suitable meet-up place that youâd both enjoy for your date only served as a reminder that you two really had no common interests.
âAre you fuckinâ alright?â
The sound of Katsukiâs gruff voice broke through the worry induced state you were in, your distant gaze focusing on him as you snapped back to reality, falling back in step with him as you walk alongside the edge of the observatory.
âHuh? Oh, rightâ, you respond, clearing your throat. âIâm fine, thank you.â
You lied smoothly, not wanting to bring the mood of the date down (it was already in the guttersâ you were hardly responsive, and even accidentally ignored him at one point), but you just couldnât help but dwell on the thoughts that plagued you. Words of your classmates echoing in your ears: âtheyâre like oil and waterâ.
âAre you sure? Cause your brain clearly checked out 5 minutes ago.â
âDo you think weâre not.. Alike.. Enough?â
You ask finally, the words finally bubbling up enough in your chest to spill over. His brows furrow, not out of annoyance, but out of concern (which isnât really discernable from each other on his face, anyway), jaw tightening at your words.
âWhat the fuck does that mean?â
âI mean.. Just look at us, Katsuki,â
You say, eyes flicking between the two of you. His vermillion eyes follow suit, scanning your figure, which is dressed in a vibrant display of colours, hues of pink and orange entwined across your body. And then to his own outfit, resembling what could only be compared to a black hole. He couldnât deny the fact that to anybody else, the pairing probably looked odd. Your outfit practically emitted light, whilst his consumed it.
But âand it was something he didnât know how to admit to youâ the fact that you were so damn different from him made him drawn to you in a way he couldnât quite understand.
To him, you were the epitome of serenity. Even his noise fell silent beside you, and he wondered how somebody could carry themself with such delicacy.
With you, he learnt that patience could rival brute force.
âWeâre different. So what?â
He responds nonchalantly, like heâs aware of the fact, but not bothered by it.
âMaybe weâre too different.â
He grunts in response, hands still shoved into his sides like heâs trying to find the right words to respond in his pockets.
âMaybe we are,â he starts, and you worry at how he could be so casual over something you canât seem to shake. âMaybe it ainât such a bad thing.â
You pauseâ physically pause, your body coming to a halt at his words. You feel your words catch in your throat. Not knowing how to respond, or even how to react.
âYouâve taught me shit Iâve never thought of, yâknow? Itâs.. refreshing.â
He grumbles, stopping in front of you. His voice lacking its usual sharpness; no cocky quip on his tongue. No trace of sarcasm or a smart remark like expected.
âI never thought of it like that.â
Youâd never considered that he feels the clash between you two âlike flint and steelâ and enjoys the sparks. Embraces them. Truthfully, despite your differences, you canât deny that it's so compelling to be around somebody whoâs so unapologetically loud; like he knows he deserves space and isnât afraid to take it. Every blunt remark he makes; met with a warm smile of understanding and genuine appreciation.
âWeâre like salt and caramel."
His words come out clear; spoken like a hymn, intentional and carrying a quiet power that makes you unravel. Because even though the fact that the pairing of you two is unexpected, thereâs something so magnetic about the way you two are so incongruous.
Sometimes youâd hear explosions ringing out from the battle ground, and later heâd come back to the dorms, the same damn black tank top he always wore clinging to his broad figure, damp with nitroglycerin and sweat.
so when he came up to you, like a hurricane on a clear day, you could only stammer in response when he asked you train with him.
it felt like a declaration âatleast to himâ that you somehow had caught his attention, and held it long enough for him to consider training alongside you.
there was always something oddly intimate about the way heâd look at you and grumble âagain,â when you sparred with him. humour woven into assault and shared moments disguised with attack.
and despite never seeming to break down his unbreakable defence, youâd unknowingly broken through something else.
Summary: Youâre one of the weakest members in your class. You always have been; constantly suffering from injuries. But today, the weight of last place finally drags you down enough to your breaking point after a rough training session.
Heâs seen you countless times in training sessions, battles, even during exams.
You always appear from the training ground, bloodied and bruised, perpetually injured and limping, rivalling Midoriya for attention from recovery girl.
Itâs always some sort of injury with you. Always grunting, hissing if you move too suddenly or if Mina hugs you a little too tightly. Maybe itâs a nasty bruise you received on your arm after taking a particularly nasty hit from Kirishima. A gash on your leg from being a little too ambitious and swearing you can totally take on 3 people at once. A split lip, maybe, or just generally coming back from training sore, your hand rhythmically rubbing over your joints as you try to relieve the pressure in them that never really goes away.
Youâll stand up, legs wobbling slightly, shaking your opponentâs hand and bowing deeply to them, and theyâll encourage you that maybe next time youâll get them. A string of compassionate ânice try!â and âyou were so close!â from your classmates always following you from the training ground to the bench.
But despite your body, seemingly in un-ending pain, your pride never seems to take a hitâ smiling through blood stained teeth.
Youâll always stand up; proud and tall, and even if somebody cut your legs off youâd probably laugh it off and learn to walk upside-down on your hands.
But something about himâ that hot headed boy, undeniable in power, stamina and capability. something you know you donât really haveâ it makes your composure crumble.
You know; deep down, youâll never be like him. He stands tall (taller than you) always emerging victorious.
Because despite the fact that your unwavering confidence match each other, heâs got something more than just a stubborn heart. something youâre afraid you might never have. actual strength.
You sometimes feel like a dandelion in a hurricane, clinging desperately to your seeds against the harsh winds.
And in this training session, youâve taken a particularly nasty hit. Not just to your body; to your ego.
An organised fight between class 1A and class 1B had left pretty much everybody in a bad state, but you had taken the brunt of the fight, essentially rendering you a pile of broken bones and spilled blood.
He scoffs, fists balled so tight his knuckles turn white as you emerge, scanning your battered figure, muttering under his breath about how youâre âso damn stubbornâ and how you ânever give it a fucking restâ. His crimson eyes burn into you as you awkwardly limp past him, narrowly avoiding his gaze as you concentrate on trying not to let the throbbing pain in every one of your cells youâve obliterated make you cry out in pain.
And today, the never-ending pity of your classmates and the clockwork of their usual ânice triesâ sting more than any injury youâve sustained. because itâs true; you did try. you tried so hard you put your body on the line, woven between life and death to prove you could be something, and yet the only thing you earned from the fight was a participation prize of pats on the back and the familiar return of the stench of your own blood.
Youâre not like himâ youâre not strong enough.
so you sitâ no, you slump down, warming the bench as you hold yourself together with plasters and bandages. shoulders hunched over like youâre trying to curl up and disappear into thin air.
because not only has he seen you, heâs watched you, countless times in training sessions, battles, and even exams. Losing. like itâs pre-determined, written in the pages of a book you havenât opened yet, and you can already feel the pity of your classmates before the fight even begins.
It stings more than anything; someone, just out of reach, so close, yet so damn far, watching you repeatedly take loss like a permanent tattoo on your forehead.
You donât even realise there are tears running down your cheeks when he grunts and launches a tissue packet at you, small drops of water landing into your lap. you cup a tissue over your face, trying to catch your tears and self-esteem as they pool into the tissue, becoming a wet pile of mush in your hands. Something in his hardened gaze turns from irritation to a semblance of concern as he slams his ass down next to yours, the bench creaking dramatically as he does so.
âthe fuck are you crying for?â
he mutters, his voice coming out low like heâs afraid somebody might hear him actually utter any words resembling worry for you. you donât respond for a split second, his frustration becoming abundantly clear when heâs met with a small sniffle.
âjust.. shut up and stop crying, damn it,â
he mumbles, and you almost laugh at his poor attempt at comfort.
âi wish i was like you.â
the words come out of your mouth before you can stop them, biting back a curse at your stupidity for saying anything as he turns to you, nose scrunched in disgust and brows knitted tightly together. itâs too late, now, so you continue.
âI wish I was strong like you. youâve got so much powerâ a great quirkââ
âYouâve got something too, alright?â
He mutters, teeth gritted and grinding together like it pains him to let the words escape his mouth.
âwhat do you mean?â
you ask quietly, voice still unsteady like youâre afraid heâs going to blow you to pieces âeven more piecesâ for just asking.
âPersistence.â
For a moment, you feel as if your heart has physically stopped in your chest, sobs cut off as his eyes flick over to you and the tissue packet that lays sideways in your lap.
âyouâre always standinâ back up after you get thrown to the ground, damn it,â
he continues, the words thick and clumsy on his tongue. you look to him with blurred vision and he doesnât look back, his own eyes moving away from you a little too quickly. but as you continue to study his face, you see the way sincerity is tucked into the angry forehead wrinkles on his face and how his brows soften ever so slightly.
âyou think?â
you whisper, and he glares daggers into you as you actually have the guts to doubt his words.
âwould you just stop being fucking stubborn for once and actually listen?â
he growls out, and youâre sure you can see steam emanating out from his ears.
âyou fall, you get back up. thatâs what makes a good hero.â
your lips curl, and you purse them together as you try to contain the strange sense of acknowledgement you feel. the proudness in your body ebbing away the pain laced in your cells as he sits beside you, telling you that he pays attention to your relentless efforts.
âKatsuki Bakugo, are you actually being nice to me?â
âno.â
âso are.â
âlike i said: fucking stubborn.â
Itâs not an insult. Itâs a statement.
and for some reason, you find strength in his words.
ââââââââ
my first ever bakugo one shot BAHAHA he would defo throw a tissue packet at you if you were crying
Summary: You and Shoto Todoroki share a sweet moment during your breakfast.
the morning sun, rising steadily, shone through the large pained glass in the dining hall. the sunlight kissed your delicate features, as if the world itself wanted to greet you with a bright new day, your hair neatly brushed through and styled reverently. it cascaded down your shoulders like a dark waterfall.
For you, the vibrant medley of fruits in front of you wasnât uncommon. it was normality. It was a display of attendance, diligence and royalty.
You chewed slowly, as if the set routine of the same careful selection of fresh fruits that you indulged in each morning was boring you. It certainly didnât help that you were sat at the head of the table, extending down the dining hall, is empty. Every single seat was placed one after the other in a long, uniformed row, each one precise. perfect. too perfect. too.. vacant.
Your eyes flicked over to the boy with two-toned hair, the only other living organism in the room, standing proudly with his hands behind his back at the arched wooden door.
unwavering, not even for a second.
He feels your gaze on him, his jaw tightening imperceptibly as he maintains his usual emotionless demeanour. It was hard to read his tight-lipped expression, indiscernible from disfavour and contempt, watching him from such a distance.
âShoto,â you say, breaking the silence. Your voice echoing slightly and almost being lost in the vastness of the hall.
He looks over to you, his usual stoic expression, laced with ice, softens ever-so-slightly as he hear you call for him. He holds his chin in the air, straightening his back slightly as he turns to you, his heterochromatic eyes meeting yours.
âCan i assist you, princess?â he responds, his voice devoid of any emotion.
You swallow a grape, slow and deliberate, as your gaze burns into his, like youâre trying to gage a reaction. a breath. a twitch. anything.
âsit.â
there it is. even from here, the way his eyebrows raise up, blinking in surprise at your direct order, as if heâs trying to comprehend the word that you so confidently spoke.
âdid i hear you correctly, princess?â
âyou did.â
despite the subtle, surprised expression on his face and the way he tenses at your words, you smile warmly, as if you havenât just set his head spinning. he shuts his mouth thatâs slightly agape, to prevent it from dropping any further.
âit would be improper of me.â
âso be improper.â
it isnât a command; itâs an offering.
he hesitates for a moment, unsure whether to continue standing by the door or to actually listen to you, but against his better judgement, his feet move towards you, taking a seat at the table.
a beat passes by as he sits there awkwardly, unsure of what comes next, before his large calloused hand reaches out to the cornucopia, picking up a vibrant strawberry, delicately running fingers over the seeds. he looks at it like itâs made of porcelain. like itâs the most beautiful thing heâs ever seen.
youâre almost jealous at the way heâs inspecting it so intently.
âsee something you like?â you say, voice laced with an undertone of amusement as he practically drools over it.
âiâve never eaten a strawberry before,â he responds, the admission of his statement making your brows raise slightly. but as he pops the entire thing âgreen stalk and allâ you canât help but let out a small laugh as you hear it crunch in his mouth, his head whipping to yours.
âyouâre not supposed to eat the stalk,â you explain, watching his eyes light up as the sugar and light acidity mingle in his mouth, before falling slightly at another crunch of the stem. Itâs almost incredible, something so simple and familiar to you could make such a reaction of Shoto Todorokiâ the embodiment of composure and stolidity.
âstrawberries are a rare delicacy, your highness,â he says soberly.
you understand. something so simple and familiar, something so common to you; an indicator of your high status. of your privelage. you pause, a pang of guilt surging through you as you pull another one out from the bunch.
your hand extends, quicker than you can stop yourself, a strawberry in front of his parted lips, the brilliant red dangling in-front of him like fish bait. his brain short circuits. part of him wants to never let this moment go: your hand, your hand, outstretched towards him, beckoning him to take it. but part of him screams out duty, responsibility, the fact that you two will neverâ
âopen up.â
his heart thrums dramatically in his ribcage at your words, your innocent lips tugging up in a smile so contagious he feels he might burst into a mirage of flowers.
and you wait. a breath you donât realise youâre holding, heavy in your chest, arm still hovering in the air, dainty fingers wrapped around the strawberry. for a moment, you wonder if youâve overstepped a line you definitely should have not crossed.
but then he leans down. head bowing slightly as his lips wrap around the tip of the strawberry, and you feel slight resistance as he take a tiny bite.
youâre sure he can see you tremble, your fingers gripping tighter around the strawberry, drawing juice from the base of it and dripping sugar down your hand. your face heats up, tinted a red so bright it almost rivals the glossy strawberry between your fingers.
he smiles. actually smiles. a pure, unconditional smile, corners of his mouth pulled up and eyes gleaming.
âitâs sweet.â
âit is.â
and somehow, both of you are sure this moment is sweeter than any strawberry.
âââââââ
I hope you enjoyed reading !! my 2nd one-shot ever and i tried to include more dialogue đđ
