Please have an age in bio to be tagged in my fics!
About me || Masterlist Index || Ao3
12 Days to Christmas with Strawb
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ᯓ★ Strawb's Faves
Cherry Waves | Toji x reader | part 1
Best Eater | k. bakugo x reader
get him back! | e.kirishima x reader
DNI if..
ᯓ★ you are below the age of 18, seriously, don't, please respect my boundaries, that's all I ask for, if I see you not being 18+ I will block you, also it'd be easier if you had your age in your bio please, I really don't want minors here
ᯓ★ you are racist, homophobic, biphobic or if you do and support anything against basic human rights
ᯓ★ VERY IMPORTANT: If you have something bad to say, save yourself the embarrassment and don't type it into text! No one wants to see you being an asshole on the internet.
This is a place strictly for fanfiction, fanart, kindness and appreciation. 💕
ᯓ★ you are pressed about ships. If I see any hate towards me or a creator in my orbit I'll be blocking you
Funniest (and weirdest) thing that happens to UA is that at one point your kids with Bakugo get literally transported back to time because of a quirk malfunction and get to see you and him during your high school days
Bonus, it also happens one more time when you’re in your twenties
Maybe she's very pouty like him? I'm just trying things out while drawing ... But I do love the idea of him having a daughter that pouts just like him. She's just a cute little baby, very energetic, very smart but all it takes is something that drives her really mad for her to push out her lip and furrow her brows. And everyone tells bakugo she gets it from him and he's like hell yeah she gets it from me all of you are pissing her off while craddling her into his chest, trying to soothe her temper and all.
She's always pouty in pictures, not liking that you pulled her away from her games to take a photo, not liking that you want her to stand in one spot so you can take another one and she's basically attached to her father. /he/ gets why she's pouty. In fact he's pouting with her
Even better if his other kids are little shy balls of silent energy, nothing like her, but they all resemble bakugo in so many ways
I normally wouldn’t reply to this but like, dude, Im 26 years old writing about getting fucked by fictional men while commuting to work to escape my reality. So literally get off my case.
I’ve been writing since I was 12 years old, back when I didn’t know what x reader was, while hiding away at my grandmas house and forcing my cousin to read it.
At 14 I had a teacher cease my fanfiction writing notebook in class and I had to cry and beg for her not to read it to the whole class, because—one it was in English and I’m not a native speaker and two because it was about Dick Grayson and reader kissing in the Justice league watchtower.
So like any sane person, as I grew older and kept writing my style improved, and I won’t lie and tell you that I’m writing better than I did in 2021, but I am trying to get back to that. All the while im being inspired by other writing styles that I try, sometimes they work out, sometimes they don’t.
Why would I use ai to write for fandom is beyond me, because I simple do not care about notes anymore. I did care about notes when I was 20 but recognition is not what I’m looking for here now. I just want the simple satisfaction of sharing my works in an online space because I like to offer things to fandoms and because I think I’m better at writing than drawing these days.
I do not need to do anything to convince you, because yeah, I could literally post a screen recording of me writing though—i dont want to waste that much of storage on that.
If you don’t like my writing you can block me.
But, genuinely, explain to me how ai could write a gothic Sukuna x reader story that was inspired by a Minecraft arg video that also takes notes from beauty and the beast and the anti gothic- gothicness in Jane Austen’s writing. Or how I had Jungkook catching strays in a Bakugo fic twice. Or add a central cee quote in a Bruce Wayne fic😭
I have this system where I like fics I want to add to my read later list. Then I like more stuff on tumblr and my likes end up a mess and I lose the things I want to read
Mind you— I started a whole ass library blog just for the sake of NOT doing that btw
What’s a girl supposed to do when her jacked boyfriend is covered in grease because he’s fixing his bike with his bare. fucking. hands?
Tags/CW: 18+ MDNI, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, doggystyle, slight mating press, fingering, oral (f!receiving), cvckdrunk reader, hair pulling, switch dynamics, pvssydrunk Jason Todd, semi!public sex
“If you don’t stop working on that bike im gonna bite you”
That makes Jason look.
Fucking finally.
He lifts his head slowly, helmet thrown somewhere you can’t even begin to care for, grease smeared along his knuckles and the edge of his jaw. There’s a pause—long enough that you think maybe he didn’t hear you, long enough for the hum of the massive Batcycle he drives to fill the garage again.
Then his mouth twitches, right at the corner where his scar begins.
“Y’know,” he says, straightening just enough to roll his shoulders, “most people threaten me with guns.”
His eyes flick to you—sharp, assessing, amused in that dangerous way that makes your stomach dip. He wipes his hands on a rag, not breaking eye contact and walks towards you in slow strides.
“But sure,” he adds, stepping closer, boots heavy against the concrete. “Biting. That’s totally new.”
You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. Of the heat coming off him. The way his triceps flex when he throws the towel to the direction of the bike, the veins on his forearms pumping with each movement. The fact that he’s still half in work mode—leather jacket open, sleeves pushed up, forearms tense, smelling like motor oil and something so unmistakably him — you’d be crazy not to try to demand his attention. Especially when you’ve done nothing but stare at him for a good amount of, what, forty five minutes now?
“I’m threatening you with a good time, actually.”
Oh that line? Yeah, that usually earns you consequences.
He tilts his head at you like a puppy. “You gonna follow through,” he murmurs, “or is that just trash talk?”
There’s a challenge in it. Not loud. Not cocky. Jason is too soft—despite his massive, enormous muscles—to let himself be cocky with you, but he always indulges you with some sass.
Jason stops a half-step away from you. Close enough that the space between your bodies feels intentional, like he measured it. Close enough that the air shifts—hot, metallic, thick with oil and ozone and the faint bite of gunpowder that never really leaves him. Your fingers trap his chin between them, forcing his jaw to your eye level and you hate it— but you bite your lower lip so hard you feel your skin tingle.
The garage hums around you. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one of them flickering just slightly. The Batcycle ticks as it cools, metal settling, protesting. Gotham presses in from outside—sirens somewhere far off, rain threatening but not yet falling.
Jason’s gaze drops. Not all the way. Just enough to register your mouth. The pause is fraction-of-a-second small, but you feel it anyway. He stills after, jaw tightening like he caught himself mid-mistake.
“What is it?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow up instinctively.
And you can’t help it— your hand comes to slap against his ass so you can make him jump a tad closer to you. Because, really, how can you even be expected to behave yourself while watching him screw nails with his fingers instead of screwdrivers? Thinking how he could be using his fingers instead to toy with your clit; one big, plushy thumb coiling tight circles on you while he fucks you with his middle finger instead of working on that stupid bike.
How can you be prompted to ignore how absolute snug his leather jacket fits, ready to burst at the seams when his bulky shoulders threaten to make it explode? When he could be using the same muscle to hold you against his chest while he fucks you from behind just so he can kiss you?
“Jesus—” His hand comes up on instinct, gripping your wrist, not to stop you, just grounding himself. His thumb presses into your pulse as your mouth already has found his “Someone’s horny.”
For a long moment, you let your lips brush his, your teeth softly grazing between your mouths When he finally manages to take a deeper breath though, you pounce, biting his lip into your mouth. And instead of hissing, Jason draws you even closer, his hips slamming against yours through your clothes.
“Your fault.” you whisper against his mouth.
He lets out a sharp laugh that dies halfway in his chest, but he’s smiling. Wide and unguarded. The kind you only get when he’s forgotten to keep the walls up. Not that he usually has his guards up when you’re around.
His hands come alive then—one sliding up your side, fingers splaying like he needs the contact, the other tangling briefly in your hair before he remembers himself and settles, sweetly for your shoulder instead. The kiss turns sloppy fast, uncoordinated, mouths chasing each other, teeth knocking, breath shared and uneven.
Your intent is to kiss him silly, until both of your chins are absolutely coated in drool, and you absolutely manage to deliver.
The bike behind him gives an irritated whine as one of the screwdrivers he rested on the seat falls to the ground, like it’s been personally offended.
Jason breaks the kiss just long enough to glance back at it, then at you—eyes dark, pupils blown, lips red and swollen.
“…Guess the bike can wait,” he says.
Jason’s gaze flicks to your mouth again—this time he doesn’t stop himself at all. Doesn’t hide it. His breath shifts, deeper now, slower, like he’s trying to steady something that’s already tipped. He wants you so bad when you’re set on freaking him out, it would be insane to try and fight it.
“Fuck—” he starts, then exhales through his nose, frustrated. “If you’re gonna—”
He doesn’t finish that either.
You close the distance for him.
It’s barely anything—just enough that your breath brushes his cheek, your chest almost touching his. You feel him go still again, like a loaded weapon set on a table. Waiting.
“Stop talking Jay,” you whisper. “I need you naked right now or I'm gonna explode!”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s weighing the risk. Like he knows exactly how badly this could end— someone walking in on you, you are in belfry after all— and he’s choosing it anyway.
Then his hand slides from your wrist to your jaw.
He cups your face with a care that doesn’t match his size at all, thumb resting just under your cheekbone. He hesitates there—one last pause, one last chance to pull away.
He doesn’t take it. Of course.
The kiss he gives you is slow. Hungry, but not rushed to its core. Jason leans in like he’s testing the ground beneath his feet, lips brushing yours first, barely there, a question more than an answer. When you don’t pull back, when you lean in too, shoulders dropping like you're melting in his touch, he exhales against your mouth and deepens it.
Warm. Firm. Careful in a way that feels almost dangerous.
His thumb shifts, tilting your chin up, keeping the angle just right.
The kiss breaks for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. "Naked, huh?" he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that you feel in your own chest. You take it upon yourself to kiss the rough pad of his thumb, the coarse skin on the inside of his palm and then, even more carefully, the inside of his wrist "You have any idea how much gear I'm wearing? It’s a process."
He doesn't wait for an answer. His hands move from your jaw to your waist, his large palms spanning nearly the whole width of you. In one fluid, effortless motion, he hoists you up, seating you on the edge of the metal workbench.
The cold bite of the steel against your thighs is a sharp contrast to his body heat. Tools rattle behind you—wrenches and screwdrivers clattering as you’re shoved back into his workspace. Jason crowds into the space between your knees, his heavy boots locking you in.
"You're gonna get grease on your clothes," he warns, teasingly, though he’s already reaching for the hem of your shirt, his eyes dark with a hunger that says he couldn't care less if the whole place burned down around you.
"That’s even hotter," you breathe, tugging at his leather jacket, pulling it off his shoulders.
He lets out a rough, truncated sound—halfway between a laugh and a growl—and dives back in, his mouth finding the sensitive dip of your neck while his grease stained fingers fumble with the buttons of your pants. When his palms finally make contact with your bare skin, the heat is staggering.
He breaks the kiss just enough to strip off his leather jacket completely, throwing it blindly over the Batcycle. He looks like a storm—hair mussed, eyes dark and blown out until the blue is just a thin, electrified ring around his pupils.
You're just a puddle for him really.
"You being in civilians tonight was supposed to be for easy access?" he laughs, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, you hum in response, casting kisses everywhere around his mouth. "Unfair."
“Unfair?” You tilt your head back as his mouth migrates to your jawline, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. “I think it’s a tactical advantage, Jay. You’re the one who’s over-prepared.”
Jason huffs a breath against your skin, a dry, jagged sound as he kisses your earlobe. “Tactical advantage,” he repeats, the words vibrating against your throat. “Yeah. I’ll show you a tactical advantage.”
He reaches back without looking, his large hand sweeping a row of heavy sockets and a torque wrench off the bench. They hit the concrete floor with a series of loud, metallic clangs that echo through the rafters, but Jason doesn't even blink. He uses the cleared space to lean over you, his weight pressing you back into the cold steel until you’re lying flat, your legs naturally hooking around his waist to keep from sliding.
The contrast is dizzying—the freezing metal against your spine and the scorching, solid bulk of him pinning you down.
“You’re gonna be covered in grease,” he mutters again, but this time it’s not a warning—it’s a promise. His hands, rough and calloused, slide under the hem of your sports bra. The moment his palms hit your ribs, you gasp. His skin is searing, and the faint scent of motor oil on him feels strangely right in the middle of this chaos.
He doesn't waste time. With a strength that feels effortless, he tugs the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere toward the darkness of the rafters. His eyes rake over you, dark and possessive, before he drops his head to the valley of your chest, his stubble grazing your skin.
“Jason—” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck.
“I got you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that always makes your toes curl. “Stay right here.”
He pulls back just enough to deal with his own gear. The heavy tactical belt hits the floor with a dull thud, followed by the metallic clack of his holsters. He moves with a frantic sort of efficiency, his movements sharp and hungry. When he finally shoves his shirt off, the flickering fluorescent light overhead catches the map of his body—the jagged lines of scars, the heavy swell of his chest, and the sheer, intimidating breadth of him.
He looks like a wrecking ball in human form, and he’s looking at you with so much tenderness, like he’s more than eager for you to let him do anything to you.
He crowds back into your space, his bare chest slick with a light sheen of sweat as it meets yours. The friction is obliterating—your nipples drag along his chest and for all that’s worth it, you suppress the moan that threatens to spill over. He hooks his hands under your thighs, dragging you to the very edge of the workbench until your hips meet his.
“Now,” he pants, his forehead dropping against yours, his nose brushing yours in the dark. “About that biting threat.”
Jason captures your lower lip between his teeth, pulling just hard enough to make you whine, before his mouth devours yours again. This time, there’s no hesitation. It’s all teeth and tongues fighting and the heavy weight of him trapping you on your spot.
“Yeah?”
“Let’s see.”
One of his hands stays anchored on your hip, his thumb digging into the dip of your waist to hold you still, while the other slides down, shimmying underneath the band of your cotton panties. His fingers, calloused, scarred, tap their way over your mound, teasing just slightly when he feels the hood of your clit on his pads. His whole hand cups you under your underwear, middle finger circling a tight circle at the sopping entrance of your pussy.
When his thumb finds your clit, the contact is electric—a blunt, heavy pressure that makes your back arch off the cold metal.
“Wet already?”
“Forty-five minutes of staring at you screw nails with your hand baby,” you rumbles, his voice dropping into a low, satisfied vibration against your throat. “I almost bust a nut at the sight.”
And fuck, Jason loves what he hears. He loves when you talk so dirty to him.
His thumb hooks under the edge of your panties, dragging the fabric down just enough to get it out of his way, his palm never losing contact with your skin. He’s being so very delicate; Jason always does delicate even when he’s this far gone. He’s being thorough, his fingers slicking with your heat as he maps out exactly how much you want him, teasing the tip of his finger at your entrance ever so occasionally, until your pussy pulses around nothing but thin air.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound that echoes off the metal cabinets.
Jason is pinning you down, though while his fingers do their work, his heavy thighs forcing yours wider until you’re completely open to him.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. It’s not a question. He can feel the fine tremors running through your thighs, the way your muscles jump under his touch.
He leans down, his mouth finding the sensitive curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. He mirrors the threat you gave him earlier, his teeth grazing over your pulse point, trailing down a biting path on his way to one of your nipples, until you’re whimpering his name.
“If you hadn’t responded to my biting threat I would have dropped to my knees and I'd be begging you to put your cock in my mouth.”
“You wanted my attention this badly?” He pulls back just an inch, his eyes dark, hooding with a dangerous kind of intent. “You’ve got it. All of it.”
He slides two fingers inside you with such blunt pressure that makes your hips jerk upward, seeking more. He’s steady, his rhythm slow and torturous, his thumb never leaving your clit from the moment he finds it, grinding in tight, heavy circles that make your vision go blurry at the edges.
All the while he keeps kissing between your hardened nipples like a man starved.
The garage feels like it’s shrinking; the image of you, on your knees, begging for his cock is enough of a mind game to make him so painfully hard, that he feels his cock throbbing inside his pants. Instead of acting on it though, he’s watching you, his jaw tight, his own breathing coming in jagged, heavy pulls as he watches your face come apart under his hand.
“Jason, please,” you gasp, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his forearms, trying to pull him closer, trying to bridge the last bit of distance.
He lets out a sharp, ragged breath, his forehead dropping against yours again. “Not yet,” he grunts, his fingers curling deeper, hitting a spot that makes your entire body go taut. “I want to see you come on this table before I even think about getting these pants off.”
He increases the pace, his hand moving with almost mechanical precision. And it’s pointless to try to hold it in, he knows every spot that makes you gasp and moan, anyway. Knows when to slow down the pace, or pick it up again. And fuck, he knows that had it been any other day, you would already be pushing his head between your thighs, urging him to suck your clit between his lips.
But the sound your pussy makes for just his fingers tonight?—the wet, rhythmic friction as he fucks them into you—is drowned out only by the blood rushing in his ears and the needy sounds coming from the back of your throat.
Your breath is hitching in short, desperate stabs, your hips stuttering against his hand as the tension coils into a tight, screaming knot in your lower belly, your pussy pulses around his fingers like a vice and then—
Then, abruptly, he stops.
The sudden absence of his touch is like a physical blow beneath the belt. You let out a broken, frustrated sound, your eyes snapping open to find him hovering over you. He’s shaking like you did moments before—not just his hands, but his whole frame. The cool composure he usually wears like armor has completely shattered. His teeth are bared, his jaw worked so tight you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
"Jason—" you gasp, reaching for him, your fingers clawing at the hard muscle of his shoulders. "Don't stop. Please."
"I can't," he rasps, his voice a raw, jagged mess, as his eyes betray his exact words, lowering to where his fingers are toying with your slit. "Fuuuck—I can't just watch you. I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind baby.”
He pushes back from the bench just far enough to deal with the rest of his gear, his movements frantic, almost violent in their urgency. His heavy tactical pants and boxers are shoved down and discarded, hitting the concrete with a heavy thud of fabric and metal buckles.
His cock, free of any restraints and oozing in pre-cum, slaps heavy on his stomach.
When he moves back into your space, he doesn’t wait. He can't. He grabs your thighs, his grip bruisingly firm as he hitches your legs even higher over his shoulders, opening you up completely to the dim light of the garage.
He’s huge, intimidating in size, even, and pulsing with a heat that feels like it could melt the steel beneath you. He settles between your knees, the head of his cock catching against your entrance, slicking itself in and along the mess he already made with his fingers.
"Babe, look at me," he pleads, his voice dropping into a guttural growl. “How do you want it?”
You force your eyes to meet his. “Jason, if you don’t break my back with the meanest backshots right now, I swear to fucking god—”
He stops. The calculation in his eyes dies right then and there, replaced by something dark, jagged, and entirely unhinged.
"Screw this," he rasps, the words catching in his throat.
He doesn't just pull his hand away; he drags you off the edge of the workbench. Your feet hit the concrete for only a split second before he’s spinning you around. He shoves you back down, chest-first this time, your palms skidding across the cold steel of the table. The metal bites into your skin, but you’re barely aware of it because Jason is right there like a wall of scorching heat pressing right into your spine.
He kisses your shoulder, the nape of your neck and trails a series of sloppy pecks down your back, his tongue darting out on every single spot, until he reaches your ass. His broad hands spread you open and you arch onto him, moaning in the brattiest tone you can muster, just to urge him.
It only earns you a hard slap on the ass.
"Stay. Right. There," he whispers, his voice a warning and a plea all at once as he darts out his tongue to lick a clean stripe across your pussy, eager to catch the bead of slick that had been threatening to drip down your thighs.
You gulp in utter heat when he moans at the taste, but before you can arch your back further against his face, you feel him get up from behind you.
Jason’s hands return to you with vengeance. He hooks his fingers deep into the soft flesh of your hips, his grip so bruisingly firm it anchors you to the spot and you eel the throbbing tip of his cock pressing against your pulsing pussy. He’s trembling, you’re trembling and you just can’t take it anymore. You just want to cum on his cock for fuck’s sake.
"You want 'mean'?" he rasps, his voice a low rumble right against your ear as his thumbs tug your soaking folds open. "Fine by me.."
He lunges forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, staggering surge.
All air leaves your lungs in a broken, high-pitched cry. He bottoms out instantly, the sheer force of the impact sending a shockwave through your body that makes your elbows buckle against the steel. You barely have time to register the fullness before he’s pulling back—only to drive back in even harder.
He starts with brutal, almost mechanical rhythm. Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound of his heavy boots scuffing the concrete and the rhythmic thud of his hips hitting yours echoes off the rafters. The workbench, heavy-duty as it is, begins to protest. It groans, sliding an inch, then two, across the floor as Jason pours every ounce of him into every hit.
"Jason—!" you sob, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the surface underneath you, knocking over a tray of copper washers that scatter like metallic rain.
"Fuck— you’re so fucking tight, so wet,” he moans, his voice thick with unhinged hunger. “Perfect fucking pussy baby.”
He reaches forward, one hand leaving your hip to coil into the hair at the base of your skull, tugging your head back. He wants to see the way your eyes roll back, the way your mouth hangs open in a silent scream. "I was just... trying to work… And you’ve only been thinking about my dick."
“Yeah, yeah i have. And i still want it in my mouth Jay.”
The workbench screeches against the concrete, harsh and metallic as Jason’s weight and momentum force it back another few inches. He doesn't care about the floor, the tools, or the damage to the shop. He’s focused entirely on the way you’re taking him, on how your pussy squelches and floods around him, on the way your body is being jolted forward with every rhythmic, punishing hit of his hips, every yelp you let out that comes from the back of your throat.
"You want it in your mouth?" he rasps, his voice jagged, unadulterated. He leans down, his chest crushing against your back, his sweat-slicked skin sticking to yours. "Greedy. You’re so fucking greedy."
He doesn't stop. If anything, the pace turns more brutal. He’s delivering on every bit of your 'break my back' request, his hips slamming into yours with a sound like a physical collision. Plop, plop, plop. Every backshot is calculated to bottom out, one gradually harder, faster than the other..
He’s hitting you so bone-deep that your vision is going hazy at the edges, your forehead bumping against the cold steel of the bench with every fuck of his cock into you from behind.
“Please, Jay—please—”
“Please what sweetheart?” he whines, his voice dropping into a guttural, dark register.
He adjusts his grip, both hands now bracketing your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of your belly to anchor you as he pulls back nearly all the way—before slamming home again. “You want me to stop? Or you want me to finish what you started?”
He doesn’t give you time to answer. He’s a storm of muscle and heat behind you, his breathing coming in jagged, desperate hitches. Every time he bottoms out, you feel the vibration of it even in your teeth. Your pussy slick, a swollen mess working around him, begging for the release that’s coiling tighter and tighter in your gut.
“I’m gonna cum.”
“Yeah baby, come on my cock,” Jason kisses the back of your neck “just like you wanted.”
Jason lets out a sound that’s close to a groan, his fingers bruising your hips as he delivers three final, punishing thrusts—each one deeper, meaner, until he’s buried to the hilt. He stalls there, his entire frame going rigid, a choked-off shout tearing from his throat as he finally spills into you, his weight collapsing onto your back.
The garage is silent for a heartbeat, save for the hum of the lights and your shared, ragged gasps. Then, Jason pulls out with a wet, lingering sound of ‘plop’ that makes you whimper, the sudden loss of him feeling just a little overbearing right now.
Before you can even try to catch your breath, his hands are under your armpits, hauling you up and spinning you around. He doesn’t let your feet touch the ground; he just hitches your thighs over his shoulders and settles himself between your knees, his length still hard, still weeping, and looking absolutely lethal under the flickering fluorescent light.
He looks wrecked. His hair is a mess, his eyes are blown out to black, and he’s looking at your mouth with a terrifying sort of focus.
“You said you wanted it,” he rasps, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip to pull it down. “Show me.”
He doesn't wait. He crowds into you, his leaking tip pressing against your lips while you’re literally folded in half. He watches you, his jaw tight, waiting for you to wrap your tongue around his pulsing cock.
He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek before sliding down to trace your lower lip—the one he’d bitten earlier. It’s swollen, pulsing, and parted as you pant for air.
"You said you wanted it," he rumbles, his gaze dropping to your mouth. He isn't asking, like he usually does; he’s giving you exactly what you literally begged for.
Jason looks down at you, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair once more—not to pull, but to guide.
"Well?" he murmurs, a new challenge sparking in those blue eyes. "I'm not gonna be the only one who's distracted. I want you thinking about the taste of us all fucking day."
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.
A/N: if you liked this just know this is GK!Jason, give than man some love UGH I love him.
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but comments are the fuel my heart needs to keep pumping fics like this
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
Katsuki has already turned seventeen by the time you wake up from your coma. Despite the late nights he spends at the hospital by your side, when you wake up, he is inevitably, at school. You wake up to Mitsuki Bakugo holding your hand.
Tags/CW: Bakugo x fem! Reader, high school sweethearts, estab! relationship, hurt/comfort, mentions of injuries, reader in a coma after the war, class 2-A is a soft menace, mom (in law lmao) Mitsuki is mothering, spoilers for season 8.
Despite it being hard to accept at the state you find yourself in, or even realise it at first, Mitsuki is the one by your bedside when you wake up.
For a second you’re convinced you’re dreaming. The room is too bright, the sheets too stiff, and Katsuki’s mom is sitting there like she fought her way past three nurses and a steel door just to sit and stare at you. Which, knowing her, she probably did.
Her arms are crossed, but her foot is tapping like she’s been waiting a long time. Like she’s been worried. And that solemn look on her face is screaming an apology you don’t recognise yet.
“’Bout time,” she mutters, voice sharp but thin around the edges. “You scared the hell out of us, kid.”
Your throat tightens as you glance, puzzled, around the room. It’s empty, aside from Mitsuki's chair, your bed, and the iv attached to the tender inside of your elbow. No friends, no parents, not a begrunting boyfriend… just Mitsuki and a hospital room you don’t recognise.
In a swift movement, she clasps your hand inside her palms. “I’m sorry sweetheart. Your parents couldn’t make it to Japan yet.” she says and you blink at her.
The lump in your throat starts bubbling in pain. Your lip quivers next, eyes watering at the fraction of a second. The moment you try to move, the dull ache in your ribs reminds you why you’re here in the first place.
“I’m so sorry,”
You try to speak, but find your lips feel like they’re glued together. It hurts when you pry them and it hurts even worse when you try to speak.
“Ka–”
Panic ensues at the sound of your voice. How long have you been here? You don’t even recognise your own voice. Where you could hear softness, you now hear raspiness, broken sounds that can’t form a word.
But still, you want to ask—The last thing you remember is watching Katsuki fall to the ground with his chest torn, you lurching towards Shigaraki with all you had and white hot pain everywhere in your body.
“Kats–Kaah–”
Mitsuki’s eyes flick to your abdomen, the monitors attached to you, then back to you again. Softer, barely “Katsuki? He usually doesn’t leave until he passes out sitting up. Brat’s got stubbornness.”
“Miss—Mitsuk—Mitsuki, my m—mom,”
The sound rips out of you like gravel dragged across concrete, and Mitsuki is already moving— one hand on your shoulder, the other hovering like she wants to fix something she can’t reach.
“Hey, hey— don’t force it,” she says, voice dropping into that hushed, frantic register only mothers have when something hurts their kid. Or a kid who might as well be theirs.
She reaches for the small cup of ice chips on the tray next to your bed, scooping a few with the spoon and pressing it gently to your lips. “Just this, sweetheart. Slow.”
The cold hits your tongue, sharp and clean, and for a moment it’s the only thing keeping you together. Everything else feels like it’s drifting —your memories, your breath, the distant echo of Nejire screaming your name before everything went dark.
Mitsuki watches you swallow, her jaw tight, eyes shining with things she will never say out loud.
“You’ve been out for a few months,” she adds quietly. “Masaru is trying to get ahold of your folks, along with the doctors but… you know how time zones are. And… circumstances.” Her mouth twists like she hates how uptight she’s being. Like practiced softness physically pains her. “We didn’t want you waking up alone.”
Your chest pulls tight. It shouldn’t mean as much as it does. But it does.
Your fingers clutch weakly at the blanket. “K–” The name falls apart in your throat again.
Mitsuki seems to understand anyway.
“He’s alive,” she says firmly. “He’s at school and he’s healing, but he’s alive. Stubborn little shit tried to pretend he wasn’t feeling okay just so they wouldn’t kick him out of your room last night. He’s been visiting everyday.”
Your breath shudders. Relief hits so hard you feel dizzy.
“And— just so you don’t freak out later—” Mitsuki adds, rubbing your hand with her thumb in a rare, almost guilty motion, “he might start crying a lot.”
That makes you freeze.
Mitsuki sighs, leaning back in the chair like the confession took something out of her. She stops herself from telling you the doctors had announced to everyone that you would probably not make it, not too long ago.
“Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll yell at both of us.”
She glances toward the door, then back at you. “He’s gonna be pissed you woke up without him here. Believe me. But, we’ll tell him after classes are over. You okay with that sweetheart?”
You nod, or at least you think you do. Your head barely moves, just a slow dip that makes the world tilt a little. You’re not sure if you’re agreeing or just reacting to the tenderness in her voice — something you’ve never quite heard directed at you like this, so softly, before.
“Good,” Mitsuki murmurs, like she was bracing for you to argue. Her hand squeezes yours gently, thumb brushing over the back in a slow, steady rhythm that feels like it’s meant to keep you anchored.
You swallow again, rough and painful. The word “classes” sticks in your mind like a burr. Katsuki is… at school. The school is alright if that’s the case, and maybe, your friends are too, your teachers, All Might. There’s so much you want to ask, but such little strength inside you.
Mitsuki watches your face carefully. “He wanted to skip,” she says, rolling her eyes as if the memory frustrates her. “Said he didn’t care about his damn education if you were—” She cuts herself off. Too sharp. Too honest.
Another small, guilty sigh. “Anyway. We made him go. The teachers insisted. Kid was a wreck. No sleep, no food… I swear he almost blew up a vending machine because someone told him to ‘keep his chin up.’”
Despite the pain, a weak ghost of a laugh bubbles in your chest — a tiny sound, but it pulls at your ribs like something tearing.
Mitsuki immediately notices. “Easy. Easy, sweetheart,” she whispers, leaning in, steadying you with a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to talk yet. You don’t have to do anything yet.”
But you want to. You want to ask what happened, how bad it was, whether Katsuki’s really okay or just putting on a front because that’s what he does when the world is falling apart around him.
You try again, voice scraping out of you like rough smoke: “H–how…?”
She shakes her head fast, stopping you before the sentence can hurt you more. “Later. When Katsuki’s here.” Her voice softens, unbearably so. “He deserves to hear you first.”
Your breath stutters, the weight of that landing somewhere deep and tender.
Mitsuki reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair from your forehead. The gesture is so gentle it barely feels real.
“We’ll tell him after school,” she repeats softly. “He’ll come running the second he hears. And he’s gonna be loud, and dramatic, and probably hug you too hard. But he needs this. He needs you.”
Her voice cracks just a little on that last word. Barely noticeable, unless you’re looking for it. And you are.
“Rest now,” she adds, settling back into her chair but not letting go of your hand.
______
Later that evening, the hallway outside your room is louder than it should be for a hospital — muffled bickering, restless footsteps, a sharp whisper that’s definitely Kaminari complaining he’s been standing too long. With your eyes barely opening from your earlier slumber, you can hear Kirishima gently shushing him. Someone — Mina, probably — keeps insisting they should “just peek in real quick because what if she’s awake?”
You also catch the hissed argument that’s delivered as a response “Dude, stop— she might be asleep again!” and “I’m not stopping, you stop!”
Their silhouettes shuffle under the doorframe’s faint light, shadows overlapping like they can’t decide whether to crowd closer or bolt down the hall.
You blink slow, the world tilting for a moment, and the ceiling swims into focus. Your throat is dry. Your body feels like it’s made of bandages and cement. But your brain? Your brain catches up just enough to realize:
They’re here. All of them. A soft exhale escapes you— barely a sound, but apparently loud enough for the enhanced senses of teens with superpowers.
Mitsuki nods her head towards the door and chuckles. “They can’t wait to see you,” The commotion outside stops all at once, like someone hit pause. Then—
“Did you hear that?!”
“Kaminari, shut up—”
“Wait, wait— I think she’s awake—”
“Katsuki’s gonna kill us if we go in—”
“Oh my god. Just. Check!”
Kirishima’s voice breaks through the chaos; firm, gentle, leader-of-the-chaos-crew mode “Guys. Calm down. We’ll knock first.”
There’s a beat of silence and then three different knuckles rap on the door at the exact same time. Your chest shakes with a tiny, pained laugh that’s followed by a thunderous cough. The whispering begins again immediately.
“Bro— I said one person should knock!”
“That wasn’t me!”
“You literally have the loudest knuckles, Sero!”
“How do you even know that—”
Someone sighs. Hard. You recognise the sound as Izuku, doing that tight little anxious inhale before he tries to be responsible.
“Should I… um… should I ask Recovery Girl if we’re allowed—?”
“No, if Kacchan shows up and we’re gone, he’ll blast us into space—”
“Oh he’s definitely gonna show up—”
You try shifting, just enough to look toward the door. A small movement, but enough to tug at something deep in your gut. You wince, which apparently sends the hallway into frenzy.
And before they manage to organize themselves, one brave soul reaches for the door handle.
Mina’s whisper—undoubtedly its hers—cuts through the noise “Okay, on three—”
You have exactly one second to process that, and tighten your hold around Mitsuki’s hand as hard as you can, before a hand curls around the knob and another, much sharper voice snaps from down the hall.
“Touch that door and I swear to god you’re dead.”
Every single voice outside vanishes. You don’t even need to see him to know who said it. Katsuki.
Last time you laid eyes on him he was in a puddle of his own blood, chest torn, right arm destroyed. The thought alone is making your jaw tremble.
Your stomach flips; your eyes do that stupid thing where they well up so much that they sting and your heart kicks into a frantic rhythm, strong enough that the monitor beside you responds with a panicked series of beeps.
For a fragment, you come to believe this is a dream. An afterlife experience. Some sick and twisted purgatory. Some strange, cruel limbo replaying the moments before everything went black.
Mitsuki reacts before you do. She leans in, her free hand hovering near your shoulder as if she can physically hold you together while the monitor continues its frantic beeping. “Easy,” she murmurs, voice low. “Breathe, sweetheart. You’re fine.”
Her thumb presses gently into the back of your hand, grounding you.
The footsteps outside slow, the scrape of rubber soles against the linoleum deliberate now, controlled in that way Katsuki walks when he’s trying to stop himself from running. There’s a muffled scuffle—someone tripping over someone else during their attempt to scramble out of his path.
The doorknob turns. Not violently, but slowly. Carefully. Like he’s afraid the world behind it might shatter if he enters too fast.
The door opens halfway, and Katsuki steps inside.
He’s out of breath, but it's the kind where he’s trying very hard not to show. His hair, shorter than you remember, is a mess from whatever fight he had with the wind on the way here. His uniform shirt is wrinkled, sleeves pushed up his forearms in uneven rolls, and his tie is gone entirely.
But none of that is what gets you. It’s the way he stops actually. Abruptly.
And not because Mitsuki is in his way or because your friends are whisper-squabbling just outside the door. He stops because he sees you.
Awake.
His eyes widen first, a stunned flicker of disbelief that washes over his face before he can hide it. Then everything in him seems to go slack for a moment — shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, the tension dissolving so suddenly it looks like his legs might give out.
“No fucking way,” he breathes, so quietly it barely reaches the room. His gaze flits across your face, ignoring his mother’s plea for decent language.
Whatever strength he had walked in with drains from his posture all at once. His breath catches on a sound too close to a sob, and he stumbles two steps forward before genuinely stopping himself, like he’s afraid he might do the wrong thing and make you hurt again.
The monitor chooses that exact moment to spike again, a sharp, accusing beep-beep-beep echoing through the walls.
Katsuki flinches, just barely. His eyes flash to the machine, then to your hand clutching Mitsuki’s, then back up to you. Something like guilt — real, aching guilt — tightens his expression. His head jerks toward yours and in the same instant he looks completely gutted—like the beeping is some damning confirmation that you’re in pain because of him, that all those months of him replaying the footage of you almost getting torn apart in half, ignoring every warning from people who told him not to, all led to this moment right here: you trembling, terrified, trying to hold yourself together.
He tries to say your name, but it dissolves into a choked gasp. Tears are already spilling, hot and unguarded, not even wiped away. Katsuki Bakugo—who never cries—can’t stop crying.
Instinct drags you forward. You try to sit up, to reach for him, anything to close the distance, but the muscles in your abdomen seize. A bolt of pain rips through you so sharply your vision whites out, and you collapse back into the bed with a strangled breath.
“Stay still!” Mitsuki catches your shoulder before you can tear something, her voice shaking now too. “Sweetheart, you can’t move—”
Your hand slips from hers anyway, desperate to get to him.
“Hey—” His voice cuts off, a sob and cracks, embarrassing him. He swallows hard, trying again. “Hey. Take it easy, you dummy.”
He says it softly. Too softly for it to be an insult.
Katsuki kneels swiftly beside the bed, and his scarred hand hovers over yours.
When he finally touches your hand, it’s feather-light, trembling with the same fear and relief burning in his eyes. He doesn’t grip, doesn’t hold too tight, doesn’t let go either. He rests his palm over yours, as if he’s anchoring himself to you while afraid that even the slightest pressure might hurt you.
You notice he’s holding a flower inside his other hand. Your eyes widen at the sight and he looks down at his hand too, muttering “It’s for you. A ‘get well soon’”
“Katsu–tsuk–ki” you breathe out, shakingly.
Your fingers twitch, wanting to wrap around his hand, to pull him closer, to fix the broken edges of him the way he’s holding onto you. You try to shift, to ease closer, but your abdomen flares with pain and you freeze, groaning softly.
He freezes too, instantly still, and looks at you with wide, frantic eyes. “Hey… hey, hey, I—I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking, almost pleading.
Then, slowly, he adjusts himself so he can lean against you without putting weight on your ribs. His hand over yours flexes, releases, flexes again, as if he can’t decide whether to grip or just stay connected to you.
His tears fall freely now, soaking your fingers, and the sound of him crying forces tears to come out of your eyes too.
All you can do is squeeze his hand back, as much as your pain will allow, and whisper his name again.
He takes it, eve though his own hand aches like it’s being pierced, because the touch is not just an ember that you’re alive. It’s the undeniable fact that you’re awake.
And Katsuki is just so, so happy that this one good thing happens to him, he doesn’t even mind that the rest of the class storms inside minutes later and everyone sees him crying.
Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. 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
synopsis : your boyfriend has a weird little habit of squeezing your fingers. and, naturally, he won't tell you why.
an. i make a stupid "you cant just say perchance" joke here bc i think its very funny. it's corny, so beware!
"so, are we ever gonna talk about this ?"
if katsuki is startled by the fact that you're awake, he barely let's it show besides the way his eyes widen just slightly in the darkness of the room, you're eyes have adjusted enough thanks to the light of the moon peeking through the curtains.
"gonna talk about what ?" he asks sluggishly, eyes drifting downward towards your hands again. or more specifically your fingers.
"talk about why you keep squeezing my fingers when you think i don't notice ?" you explain. katsuki takes about ten seconds to respond. his eyes dart to you when you finish talking. when he looks away again he squints and squeezes your finger with his thumb and pointer almost by reflex.
"s'not like i'm trynna be sneaky.."
you realise he's trying to weasel his way out of your question with a vague answer, so you insist. "and it's always my ring finger too, is it like crooked or something ?" you joke. that rewards you with a huff of laughter from your boyfriend, who squeezes your ring finger tight.
"yeah, m'trynna—set your shit straight." he groans, pretending to struggle as you whine in discomfort. trying to wiggle your finger out of his grip.
when he grants you some mercy and loosens up (still not letting go) he speaks again "if it bothers you so bad why didn't ya say nothin' ?"
"doesn't bother me, perchance.. just wanna know what the big deal is." you reassure, shrugging deeper into his sheets.
he raises an eyebrow holding back a smile "ya can't just say perchance, moron." you stick your tongue out at him as you laugh "that's the joke, asswipe. now quit dodging the question !" you snark, he squeezes your nose in retaliation.
he grunts, looking around the room for anything to save him from talking. he groans when he doesn't find anything.
"i just—it's—i just—do it cuz' i wanna, that a problem ?" he stutters defensively. you roll your eyes, squeezing his nose back, chuckling when he dashes away and glares like you'd smacked him.
"of course not, suki."
"good. quit interrogating me then."
you roll your eyes with a sigh, knowing this is the most you'll get out of your cryptic boyfriend. "that's gonna make me even more curious, y'know ?"
"tough luck. guess y'r just gonna have to live with that. 'night." he settles, and the bastard actually closes his eyes, pulling you closer like his personal plushie. you push at his shoulder "dick." you mutter, he chuckles quietly.
and yeah, you guess you are gonna have to live with that, until you forget about it that is. only for you to remember again and ask him this exact question again and though you're being patient for now, katsuki knows that sooner or later you'll get restless. always so damn impatient, he thinks to himself.
well, not like he could say much, but he'll keep that thought to himself.
and he's being pretty patient right now, he thinks. squeezing your ring finger tight when he realises your breathing has slowed and you'd fallen asleep. he rubs at the spot where he hopes, he prays, you'll allow him to put a ring on soon.
you were just going to have to live with this for a little bit longer in the meantime.
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
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I wanted to apologise for not responding to your very sweet asks concerning how im doing!
My mental health has been really bad for the past few months, so much where my creativity has been ceased completely and I’ve been crying non stop about it. For a while I got in my head so much that I forgot writing has been my constant company in the loneliness that keeps me restless.
As I had mentioned nowadays I work 7 days a week and some of them are double shifts and I mostly spend my free time crying before bed. A LOT of shit has happened as well.
So Uhm, I was reminded why I started writing in the first place.
And Uhm… maybe im posting a Bakugo fic tonight and a Dmc Dante fic tomorrow?
drop your kofi !!! Even if we can’t relieve you from your stress, I’d still love to send you some $ so you can get yourself a treat
My love! I don’t have a kofi but I really appreciate that you would want to do that for me! I swear even thinking about wanting to help me means a lot to me❤️
hey! i was wondering if everything is okay and how you were doing? you haven’t been active in a while
i hope everything is good ❤️
Hello my dear!
First of all, thank you so much for your concern❤️
(Im gonna hide this under read more because I might have vented a little bit)
The truth is I haven’t been doing well.
I have been working two jobs so I can keep up with living expenses or i don’t end up being kicked out of my house, which has tired me out both physically and mentally. And since I work 7/7 i never rest anymore, nor can I sleep for more than 4 hours max due to my mental health having taken a big blow.
I have a few health and family issues and genuinely a lot of pressure to get into a relationship or else ‘im going to die alone eventually’
More over my ex 2year old situationship entered my life in the worst way possible after 2 years of silence, spent two whole days of his time messaging me trying to get me to admit that I want him while calling me very vulgar things, and while I didn’t feed him any confirmation he talked on the phone with a mutual friend and told her to apologise to me because hes not gonna do it on his own while also telling her to find somebody for me so I can forget about him.
And it just— ive spent so much time crying and crying and crying because I’m forcing my self to be independent just so that I end up alone, and I don’t even deserve an apology from the only person I’ve ever fallen in love with.
Despite it all, im very thankful to myself I can eat and stay under a roof
