Katsuki Bakugo was rumored to be involved in a scandal with a girl he had only just met at a lavish party overseas. The media ran wild with it because of paparazzi photos and the public's assumptions.
What the media didn’t know was that he was already married to you and had a family. It wasn’t publicly announced; only his parents, close friends, and a few trusted people were aware. The wedding had been private, just how you wanted it. And Bakugo agreed to your decision and respected that.
You were a former underground hero but decided to retire and be a housewife when you two got married and had kids.
You didn't even know that kind of issue has blown up online, not when your two grown kids were constantly tugging your attention, pulling you away from the television and your phone. Because it seems they're already aware of what's going on and kept trying to call Bakugo to explain lots of things, and not entirely sure whether to kill him or not.
Meanwhile, the public didn't let go of the scandal. Not until Bakugo did something unexpected. After years of not posting on his social media account, he posted a photo of the two of you at a beach resort.
What exploded the internet the most was when he posts another picture— of you standing in front of the mirror, dressed in a sexy but elegant dress, and captioned: “Can’t wait for the shitty party to end with my wife.”
So, when the Met Gala began; anticipation followed. Paparazzi gathered and cameras ready. A black car pulled up, and Bakugo stepped out first, unbothered by the flashes of the camera. Then, without a word, he opened the back door and held out his hand. A simple gesture, you took it, stepping out with a soft smile.
The people were left breathess by your beauty and how the two of your outfits match and complement each other. From that night on, you've become the latest and popular topic. You were surprised to say the least when you saw in your social media that your followers kept increasing each day, even if you didn't post anything.
You posted once, a simple photo: you, Bakugo, your children, his and your parents— gathered around a table in a hotpot restaurant. At this point, the scandal was forgotten.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: After one unforgettable shoot with Bakugo, you’re left unable to finish with anyone else—on or off camera. He’s the only one who’s ever made it real. When you run into him at a party, the sexual tension explodes, leading to a filthy, passionate reconnection that neither of you can shake.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: MATURE CONTENT 18+ Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), face riding, fingering, public sex, overstimulation, squirting, rough sex, degradation + praise, light dom/sub dynamics, breeding kink references, creampie, soft aftercare, strong language, alcohol mention, sex industry themes.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 8.2k (omg)
𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄
You haven’t cum in weeks.
Not on set. Not in the shower. Not with the $300 vibrator your manager sent as a “self-care” gift. Not even with that one video you shot with Keigo—the one that used to always do the trick.
Nothing works anymore.
Every orgasm you fake now feels like a cheap knockoff. Just muscle memory. Fake moans, fake trembling, fake gasps as the camera zooms in on your face like it’s catching something real. You used to be good at this—great, actually. Made your name off it. You could sell pleasure better than anyone. But now?
Now it’s all broken.
Because Katsuki Bakugo had the audacity to actually make you finish. Not once. Not twice. But over and over until your voice was hoarse and your legs wouldn’t stop shaking. And the worst part wasn’t even how good it felt—it was how real it was. He didn’t just make you come, he pulled it out of you. Like he knew exactly what buttons to press, what noises made you unravel, what rhythm would keep you teetering right on that edge. And then he’d tip you over it like it was nothing.
And ever since then?
Every other guy has felt like cardboard. Even the good ones. Even the pros. You tried not to be obvious about it on set, but your heart’s not in it. Your body’s not either. You’re back to acting, and that just makes it worse. Because now you know what it’s like to actually feel it. To lose control. To not have to fake it.
He ruined you.
And you hate him for it.
Kind of.
Maybe.
You dream about him. That same low, hungry growl in his voice. The weight of his hands on your thighs. The way he looked at you after the cameras cut, like he knew. Like he’d figured you out and wasn’t gonna let you forget it.
And you haven’t.
You still haven’t.
Which is why this fucking party is the last place you want to be.
You stand outside the mansion in heels that and a dress that hugs you like sin, arms crossed and jaw clenched. Your manager’s text is still glowing on your lock screen:
Be nice. Good networking. Smile.
Yeah, whatever.
Keigo’s place is massive. Of course it is. He’s been in the industry since forever, and he’s got that kind of charm that makes people want to party with him. His invite list is basically the who’s who of adult film, plus a few influencers trying to act like they belong. You hate these things. Too loud. Too fake. Everyone pretending to be friends, pretending they don’t judge each other for who they’ve worked with or how many followers they have. It’s all for show.
Still, you walk in. You know how to play the game.
The place is packed. Low red lighting makes everything look softer, sexier. Music pulses through the floor, the bass low and smooth. You’re barely through the front door before someone offers you a glass of champagne. You take it and downs half in one go.
A few people wave at you. A few others eye you up and down, probably checking who you came with. You fake a smile, offer a nod, and keep moving. You’re not here to socialize. You’re not here to flirt or network or play nice.
You’re here because your manager told you to be.
You end up leaning against the edge of a fancy-ass velvet couch, letting the music drown out your thoughts. The champagne doesn’t help much. Neither does the way some guy you vaguely recognise is trying to start a conversation with you, talking about some upcoming project and how “you should totally collab.” You tune him out.
And that’s when it happens.
You feel it before you sees it. Like something in the air shifts. Like static on your skin.
Your spine straightens. Your fingers tighten around the glass.
And then—there he is.
Across the room. Leaning against the wall like he owns the place. Dressed in black, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, rings glinting on his fingers. Blonde hair messy in that perfect, careless way. His eyes scan the crowd, bored and sharp all at once.
And then they land on you.
The breath catches in your throat. For a second, the music fades. The party disappears. It’s just him.
Bakugo.
His eyes narrow just slightly. Like he’s surprised to see you here. Like he’s not surprised that you look this good.
He pushes off the wall.
Starts walking.
Right toward you.
Your heart is beating way too fast. You hate that it is. You want to look away. Pretend you don’t care. But you can’t.
Because even now—especially now—your body remembers exactly what he did to you. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you. Like he wasn’t playing a part. Like it was real.
And worse—you know he remembers, too.
He stops in front of you. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just look’s at you.
Up close, he looks even better than you remembers. Like he’s been working out more. Like he hasn’t lost a second of sleep over you even though you haven’t stopped losing it over him.
“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he says finally, voice low and scratchy.
“Didn’t think you’d be,” you shoot back, arms still crossed. Your tone is cool, but your pulse is sprinting.
He smirks. That same damn smirk that used to drive you crazy. Still does.
“Keigo dragged me,” he says. “Said it’d be good to ‘be seen.’ Whatever the fuck that means.”
“Sounds familiar.”
You stand there in silence for a second. The air between you is thick. Heavy. Loaded.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes drifting down to the drink in your hand. “You good?”
“Peachy.”
“Mm.”
Another pause.
Then he leans in—just a little.
“You fake it again today?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Your breath hitches. You hate that he knows. Hate that he’s right.
You don’t answer.
He chuckles under his breath. Not mean. Just… smug. Like he knew it. Like he never had a doubt.
“I did,” you admit finally, voice tight.
He steps in just a little closer. Not touching you. Not yet. But you can feel the heat coming off him. The way his presence wraps around you like a damn trap.
“You try with someone else yet?”
You swallow hard. Your eyes flick away.
He already knows the answer.
“No one’s been good enough, huh?” he murmurs.
You wants to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both.
Instead, you down the rest of her champagne in one go.
He watches you the whole time.
Still smirking.
Still standing way too close.
“Why are you here, Bakugo?” You asks, voice low.
His eyes drop to your lips. Then back up.
“Maybe I missed you.”
He says it so casually.
Maybe I missed you.
Like it’s no big deal. Like he hasn’t completely wrecked your life and walked away with a goddamn smirk.
You set your empty glass down, not caring where it lands. Your heart’s still hammering in your chest, but it’s not nerves—it’s need. Hot and bitter and building in your gut like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
You don’t look away. Don’t soften. You just say it—because fuck it. What’s the point in pretending anymore?
“I haven’t cum since you.”
His smirk falters. Just a little. But enough.
“I’m serious,” you add, stepping closer, voice low. “Nothing works. Not my hands. Not toys. Not other guys. I film a scene and fake it like always, but it’s worse now. So much worse. Because now I know what it’s supposed to feel like.”
Bakugo’s jaw tenses. His hands curl slightly at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.
You lean in, close enough that your words are only for him.
“You ruined me.”
His breath comes out sharp. Controlled—but barely.
“You think I don’t know that?” he mutters. “You think I haven’t been fuckin’ losing it, thinking about that day?”
He looks down at you, eyes dark and burning.
“You were the best thing I ever had in front of a camera. Fuck—probably the best I’ve ever had, period.”
Your stomach flips. Heat flashes under your skin.
“Every time I close my eyes,” he goes on, voice getting rougher, “I see you. Bent over, whimpering, beggin’ for it. You remember that? The way you sounded?”
You swallow, throat tight.
He leans down, lips brushing just behind your ear.
“Do you remember how wet you were when I spread you open?” he whispers. “How your thighs were shaking so bad I had to hold you down?”
Your knees nearly buckle. You grip the edge of the couch behind you, the only thing keeping you upright.
“I remember,” you breathe. “I can’t stop remembering.”
His nose grazes your jaw, not quite touching your mouth, but close enough that the air feels electric between you.
“I jerked off to that shoot so many times I lost count,” he says. “Watched it back with the volume turned all the way up. Had to bite my fuckin’ fist just to keep quiet.”
Your thighs press together. Everything in you is throbbing.
“I tried,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to fuck it out. Tried to touch myself. Tried to forget it.”
Bakugo pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, lips parted.
“And?”
You shake your head slowly. “Didn’t work.”
His chest rises and falls a little faster now. You can see it. Feel it.
“I need you,” you say, honest and raw and a little unhinged. “Not even just your cock—you. The way you touched me. The way you talked to me. My body remembers you like muscle memory.”
He groans, low and quiet, like it slips out without his permission.
“You know what that does to me?” he mutters. “Hearin’ you say that? Standin’ here in that tight little dress, legs pressed together like you’re already aching for it?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to.
“You want me to remind you what it feels like?” he asks, stepping in close again. His hand hovers near your hip, not touching, but so close. “Want me to bend you over that couch right now and make you scream my name again?”
Your breath shudders out of you.
“You want me to tell you all the things I’d do to you if we weren’t in the middle of this fuckin’ party?”
You nod. Slow. Deliberate.
“Say it.”
You look up at him, eyes sharp. “I want you to ruin me again.”
His control shatters for half a second. His tongue runs across his teeth. His hands twitch at his sides like they’re desperate to grab you.
“You want my fingers down your panties, feelin’ how wet you are just from talking to me?”
“Yes.”
“You want my mouth on your neck while I tell you how I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget every other name you’ve ever moaned?”
“Yes,” you whisper, voice wrecked.
“You wanna know what I’d do to you if I dragged you into one of those empty rooms upstairs?”
“Tell me.”
He leans in again, mouth right at your ear, his breath hot and filthy.
“I’d eat your pussy until your legs give out. I’d make you ride my face until you’re crying. And then I’d bend you over the bed and ruin that tight little cunt all over again. No cameras. No crew. Just you, screamin’ my name into the pillow like you need me.”
You whimper. Actually fucking whimper. Your knees almost give out.
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes again, and his voice drops to a growl.
“Tell me to stop, or I’m taking you upstairs right now.”
Your eyes burn into his.
“I’m not telling you shit.”
He grabs your wrist—gently, but with purpose—and starts walking.
The music fades behind you as you two leave the main room, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and rough and so sure. It’s not forceful—never forceful—but it’s firm. Intentional. Like he knows exactly where he’s taking you, and you’re not even thinking about stopping him.
You follow.
Of course you follow.
The air in the hallway is cooler, quieter. Dim lights line the walls, casting long shadows, the bass of the party now just a distant thump behind closed doors. Every step echoes in your ears. Your heels click against the tile, but you barely hear them. All you can feel is his hand. His grip. The burn of his touch where your skin meets.
He’s walking fast. Focused. Like he’s barely holding himself together.
But then—he pauses.
Right in the middle of the hallway, without a word, he stops. Still holding your wrist, but frozen in place.
And then he looks back at you.
And fuck.
Your cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and glassy with heat. Your lips are parted, and you’re biting the bottom one like you don’t even realize it. Your breath is shallow. Your chest rises and falls way too fast. And you look—
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
It just hits him all at once.
The image of you like that—flushed, dazed, following him willingly down some dim hallway in a dress that barely covers your ass. Your mouth red from chewing on your lip, eyes shining like you want to be devoured.
It’s too much.
It’s way too much.
Bakugo turns around in one sharp move and pushes your back against the wall.
You gasp, more out of surprise than anything, and your back hits the cool plaster with a soft thud.
He doesn’t give you time to speak.
His mouth is on yours before you can breathe.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s a claim.
His lips crash into yours like he’s starved. Like he’s been dying for this. His other hand finds your waist, squeezing tight, pulling you flush against him until there’s not an inch of space left between your bodies.
And fuck, you melt.
You kiss him back with just as much heat, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer like you want to climb inside him. His mouth moves against yours with wild precision—like he knows exactly what you need and he’s giving it. All tongue and teeth and soft, filthy groans that vibrate against your lips.
His hand slips down to your hip, gripping tight. Your back arches. You moan into his mouth when his tongue brushes yours, and he growls—a low, guttural sound that sends heat straight between your thighs.
He pulls back for just a second, breathing hard.
“Been wantin’ to do that since the fuckin’ shoot,” he mutters, voice rough and wrecked.
You grab his shirt tighter, dragging him back in.
“Then shut up and do it again.”
And he does.
He kisses you like he needs it to survive. Like your mouth is the only thing that’s going to keep him sane. His hand slides up, fingers brushing under the edge of your dress, just a taste of skin, and you gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound greedily.
Right now, it’s just him and you and all that fucking need you’ve both been drowning in for weeks.
Your hands are in his hair now, tugging, and he groans like you’re driving him insane. His lips trail down to your jaw, your neck, kissing and biting and licking like he wants to leave a mark—something real. Something that says mine.
“You feel that?” he growls against your skin, grinding his hips against yours. “That’s what you fuckin’ do to me.”
You whimper.
“You think I haven’t been aching for this? You think I don’t wake up hard, pissed off, because it’s not you under me?”
“Bakugo—”
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you missed me.”
“I missed you,” you breathe. “So fucking much.”
He grabs your face, tilts it up, and kisses you again. Harder. Deeper.
He’s losing it. Right here, in the middle of some stupid hallway, with your hands on his chest and your mouth so fucking soft and perfect under his.
Fuck he was gonna wait. He really was.
One more hallway, maybe two. Find a room, lock the door, throw you on the bed and wreck you the way you’ve been dreaming about. But then his hand drifts lower, just a little. Just enough to feel the hem of your dress under his fingers. His palm slides up, slow and sure, bunching the fabric higher and higher until—
He groans. Loud. Filthy. Like it physically hits him.
“No fuckin’ panties?”
You flinch, just a little. Lips parted, eyes dark.
“Were you expecting something to happen tonight, baby?” he breathes, voice thick with heat. “You showin’ up like this just for me?”
You don’t answer.
You don’t have to.
Bakugo presses his forehead to yours for a second, breathing hard.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, voice low and ragged. “You’re my dirty little whore, aren’t you?”
You whimper.
“You come to this party all dressed up, no fuckin’ panties, already wet for me…”
His hands are on your thighs now, spreading them just a bit. Your backs against the wall, breathing like you just ran a mile.
“You wanted this,” he growls. “You needed this.”
And then—he drops to his knees.
Just like that.
Right there in the middle of the hallway.
The air leaves your lungs in a gasp. Your back hits the wall harder this time, legs shaking, heart pounding in your throat.
“Bakugo—” you hiss, panic in your voice. “Someone could see—!”
He looks up at you, eyes dark and fucking wild.
“Baby,” he says, voice calm and sinful. “You’re a pornstar.”
He licks his lips.
“Let them see.”
And then he’s between your thighs.
One of your legs stays planted on the ground, barely holding you up. The other—he lifts and hooks it over his shoulder, gripping tight behind your knee with one hand, keeping you open for him. Exposed. Spread. His other hand pins your hip to the wall like he’s afraid you’ll float away.
Then—
Then his mouth is on you.
He groans the second he tastes you, like he’s been dreaming of this moment. Like the taste of you is everything he’s been starving for. His tongue is hot and greedy, licking through your folds, lips sealing around your clit as he sucks, hard, and you cry out, hand flying to his hair for balance.
“F-fuck—Bakugo—”
He growls against your pussy, the vibration shooting up your spine like lightning.
“Been thinkin’ about this pussy every fuckin’ day,” he mutters between licks. “You taste even better than I remembered.”
Your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, mouth open, chest heaving. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you know is his mouth—his tongue flicking and licking and circling your clit just right, dragging slow, wet moans from your throat that you couldn’t fake if you tried.
His fingers dig into the back of your thigh, holding you still. Your other leg trembles, barely keeping you upright. Your dress is bunched around your waist, forgotten, as he devours you like a man possessed.
“You hear yourself?” he growls, voice muffled against your soaked cunt. “You hear how fuckin’ wet you are?”
“Y-yes—fuck—”
He flattens his tongue against your clit and drags it, slow and firm, and you nearly collapse.
“You gonna cum for me like this, baby?” he asks, licking up your slit, tongue dipping in like he wants to taste every part of you. “Gonna make a fuckin’ mess on my face?”
You’re nodding, eyes wide, lips parted in silent gasps. Your hand’s gripping his hair so tight it must hurt, but he doesn’t care. He loves it.
“Thought about this every night,” he mutters. “Me on my knees. You fallin’ apart. No cameras. No crew. Just me eatin’ you out like it’s the only thing I’m good at.”
And it is.
God, it fucking is.
Your thighs are shaking. Your stomach’s tight. You’re right there, and he knows it.
So he goes harder.
Sucks on your clit like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, tongue flicking fast and filthy, relentless. Your legs nearly give out.
You scream his name.
And then you’re gone.
Your orgasm hits like a truck, ripping through your body as you cry out, nails digging into his scalp. Your leg twitches in his grip, your body writhing against the wall as you cum for the first time in weeks—for real.
Bakugo doesn’t stop. Not until he’s sure you’re done. Not until he’s sucked you through every last wave, tongue gentle now, soft little licks that make you squirm from the sensitivity.
He pulls back, panting.
His chin’s shiny. His lips are swollen.
And he looks fucking proud.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You taste like fuckin’ heaven.”
You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. Your legs are jelly, your face flushed, your dress still hiked around your hips.
And he’s still on his knees.
Looking up at you like he owns you.
Like he always has.
You’re still trembling.
One leg weak, back still pressed to the wall, dress bunched around your hips and mouth parted in a breathless, wrecked little gasp. Your head’s spinning, body soaked in sweat and pleasure, but it’s not enough. Not for him.
Bakugo stays on his knees for a second longer, just staring up at you like he’s watching the aftermath of his own destruction—and loving every second of it. His jaw’s tight, eyes wild, chest rising and falling with every ragged breath.
Then he moves.
He rises slowly, all smooth, deliberate heat, and crowds you against the wall again, towering over you. His hand slips behind your neck and pulls you in, and his mouth crashes into yours—hot and messy, all tongue and teeth and need.
You moan into it. Loud. Desperate.
He doesn’t give a shit if anyone hears.
His tongue sweeps into your mouth, making you taste herself. He kisses you like a man obsessed, like he needs you in his lungs to fucking breathe. His hands are everywhere—sliding over your hips, your ass, up your back, gripping tight like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.
“You feel what you do to me?” he growls against your lips.
You whimper when his hips roll into yours, and fuck—he’s hard. So fucking hard it feels like it’s about to tear through his pants. Thick and heavy and ready, pressed right up against your soaked heat.
Your whole body jolts at the contact, and suddenly something shifts in you.
You’re not just trembling anymore—you’re burning. You grabs him by the front of his shirt and pushes off the wall, stumbling forward on shaky legs.
“Where’s the room?” You pant.
He grins, drunk on the sound of you.
“End of the hall. Second door.”
You don’t even wait.
Bakugo catches your wrist again as you try to walk, sees your knees still unsteady, and without saying a word—he scoops you up. Hands under your thighs, body flush to his, carrying you like you’re light as air.
You gasp. “I can walk—!”
He growls, “Don’t care.”
He carries you like you weigh nothing, like you belongs in his arms. Your legs are still trembling from the orgasm he just pulled out of you in the hallway, but your hands never stop moving—gripping his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck, dragging your lips along his jaw just to feel him shiver.
He kicks open the door, steps inside, and shoves it shut with his foot. The lock clicks.
He sets you down—not on the bed. He pins you against the wall again, just for a second, breathing hard, eyes locked on yours. His hands are all over you, sliding down your body, squeezing your hips like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.
And you’re looking up at him with that same fucked-out, fire-in-your-veins look that’s been haunting his dreams since your shoot.
And then—slowly—you start to sink to your knees.
His breath catches.
“Wait,” he mutters, chest heaving, “you—fuck—what’re you—”
You’re already looking up at him through your lashes, fingers tugging his belt loose with quick, desperate movements.
“You ruined me,” you say, voice low and dangerously sweet. “Let me return the favor.”
Bakugo swears under his breath as you pull his cock free—hard and leaking, twitching in your grip. Your fingers wrap around him, slow and teasing, and he shudders.
And then your mouth is on him.
“Fucking hell,” he chokes out, his hand flying to your hair, not pushing, just holding, gripping tight like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
Your lips wrap around the head, tongue swirling in slow, wet circles, tasting him like you’ve been waiting for this moment since the second the cameras cut. You slide down his length, inch by inch, until your lips are stretched around him and your throat is already working to take more.
“Jesus fuck, baby—”
His voice is raw. Wrecked. You moan around him and his hips jerk.
“Just like that,” he groans, jaw tight. “That’s it. My perfect fuckin’ mouth.”
You hum, sending vibrations through him that almost make his knees buckle. Your hand strokes what you can’t fit, your spit coating him, dripping down your wrist. You’re relentless—pulling off to lick the tip, spit pooling on your tongue before you sink back down again.
Bakugo’s head hits the wall behind him with a soft thud. His eyes flutter shut, mouth open, breathing hard.
“You know what you fuckin’ do to me?” he growls, voice shaking. “You know how many nights I’ve jerked off thinking about you like this?”
You pull off, slowly, dragging your tongue up the underside of his cock as you go.
“Tell me,” you whisper.
He grabs your jaw, tilts your face up toward him, cock resting against your cheek.
“I’d picture this mouth every fuckin’ time,” he breathes. “Your lips all shiny, tongue out, eyes begging. Just like this.”
You moan and take him back into your mouth deep, throat fluttering around him, and he loses it. His hand tightens in your hair as his hips stutter forward, fucking into your mouth once, twice—then forcing himself to stop.
“Fuck—stop,” he groans, pulling you off with a shaky hand, even though it kills him. “Gonna blow if you keep that shit up.”
Your lips are swollen, spit dripping down your chin, eyes glazed and smug.
“Good,” you purr.
He yanks you up off the floor and spins you, pushing your back toward the bed.
“You wanna ruin me?” he growls, voice low and filthy. “Let’s see if that pretty little cunt can finish the job.”
He manhandles you onto the bed like he owns it.
Like he owns you.
You land on your back, dress still hiked up around your waist, thighs spread open without shame. Your chest is heaving, lips wet, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing you see.
And fuck—he might as well be.
Bakugo shrugs off his shirt in one smooth pull, muscles flexing, abs on full display, veins in his arms popping from how hard he’s holding himself back. His cock’s still out, thick and leaking, twitching with every step closer.
“You sit there lookin’ like that,” he growls, crawling up onto the bed, “and expect me to take it slow?”
You grin. Daring. “I don’t expect you to do anything except ruin me.”
He laughs—dark and mean—and grabs your ankles, dragging you down the bed until your ass is right at the edge, legs hanging off, wide open for him.
“You’re fuckin’ insane,” he mutters.
And then he’s on you.
One hand hooked under your knee, pushing it back toward your chest, the other lining himself up. His eyes are locked on your soaked cunt like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. The tip of his cock brushes your entrance, and you both moan.
“You feel that?” he mutters, dragging it through your folds, teasing your clit. “You’re fuckin’ dripping for me.”
“Need you,” you gasp, already trembling again. “Bakugo, please—”
“Please what?” he growls, leaning over you, tip just barely nudging inside. “Say it.”
“Please fuck me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
He slams into you in one deep, smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your back arches off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream as he stretches you—thick and deep and perfect.
Bakugo groans, eyes rolling back. “Fuck—this pussy missed me, huh?”
“Yes—fuck yes—”
He pulls back and thrusts again, harder this time, making the bed creak under you.
“I can feel it,” he pants. “The way you’re squeezing me. Your cunt’s starving for it.”
His pace builds—relentless, deep, every thrust angled just right to hit that spot that makes you sob. One of his hands grabs your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb brushing over your jaw like he owns you.
“You like that, baby?” he growls. “You like bein’ fucked stupid?”
You nod, gasping, eyes rolling back. “Yes—yes, fuck, harder—”
He gives it to you.
Hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls, your moans getting louder, messier, realer. Your nails drag down his back, your thighs locked around his hips as you cling to him like you’re about to fall apart.
“Gonna cum for me again?” he mutters, leaning down, forehead pressed to yours. “Gonna cream on my cock like a good fuckin’ girl?”
“I—I can’t—” you whimper.
“You can. You will.”
He reaches between them and rubs your clit—fast, tight circles—and you scream.
Your entire body locks up, and then you break.
You cum hard, legs shaking, mouth open, nails digging into his shoulders. He doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you through it, eyes locked on your wrecked, blissed-out face.
“Goddamn,” he grits out. “You’re fuckin’ unreal.”
His thrusts get rougher, deeper, like he’s chasing the edge—but then, suddenly, he pulls out.
You let out a broken whine, head thrown back against the mattress, body still twitching from your orgasm. Your pussy clenches around nothing, fluttering in the absence of him, wet and ruined and aching for more.
“N-no,” you gasp. “Why’d you—why’d you stop—”
Bakugo’s hovering over you, chest heaving, every muscle in his body tight like a live wire. His cock is soaked, twitching as it rests against your thigh, flushed and throbbing with the need to be buried again.
“Could’ve fucked blown in that pretty pussy just now,” he growls, voice wrecked. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
He leans down, kisses you hard—filthy and deep, tongue licking into your mouth like he owns it. When he pulls back, his voice is rough, laced with heat and control.
“Don’t wanna cum yet,” he pants. “Wanna watch you fall apart again.”
His fingers trail between your thighs, sliding through the slick mess he left behind. You gasp, hips twitching, eyes rolling when he pushes two fingers into you without warning—slow and deep.
“Still so fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, voice low as he watches your face twist in pleasure. “So wet for me. You like bein’ stuffed full, huh?”
You nod frantically, legs spreading wider, hips grinding down into his hand like you’re starved for it.
“Good,” he says, curling his fingers just right, pressing into that soft spot that makes your legs jump. “You’re gonna cum on my fingers now.”
“*Fuck—Katsuki—”
“Yeah?” he smirks, eyes locked on where his fingers disappear inside you. “You close again, baby? Didn’t even give you a break.”
He keeps rubbing your clit with his thumb, fingers stroking in and out slow and deep, dragging slick sounds from between your thighs that make him groan under his breath.
“You’re so fuckin’ messy already,” he says, voice tight. “Look at you. All wrecked for me.”
You sob, head tossing back, hand fisting the sheets.
“Cum again,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Wanna feel you squeeze my fingers. Wanna make a mess before I fuck you proper.”
And you do.
Your body jerks, thighs clenching around his wrist, another orgasm ripping through you so fast and hard you nearly scream. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, clenching down with each wave, slick gushing down to his palm as you trembles through it.
Bakugo watches you lose it, feels your walls fluttering around his fingers, and his cock twitches, aching with the need to be back inside you.
But not yet.
He pulls his hand out slow, dragging it over your swollen, soaked folds, and brings his fingers to his mouth.
Sucks them clean.
“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, eyes never leaving yours.
You look wrecked—eyes glassy, chest heaving, lips parted like you’re still trying to breathe.
He leans in, kisses you slow, and lines himself up again.
“You ready for more?” he murmurs against your lips.
You nod, barely able to speak.
He smirks, voice dark and low.
“Good.”
He slides back into you slow. Painfully slow.
His cock pushes in deep, stretching your ruined cunt all over again, and he groans at how wet, warm, perfect you still are—even after two orgasms and his fingers inside you. You’re flushed and boneless beneath him, lips parted, hair stuck to your face, eyes barely open.
Cockdrunk.
And he knows it.
He watches your face twist as he sinks in fully, his hips flush against yours, but doesn’t move.
Just stays there. Buried to the hilt.
You whine.
He pulls back, just a little.
Thrusts again—slow, deep, teasing. Like he’s savoring every inch. Your walls flutter around him, still clenching like you can’t let go, and he groans through gritted teeth.
“You feel that?” he pants. “How tight you still are?”
You nod, whining, legs twitching.
He does it again.
Slow.
Deep.
Unbearable.
You cry out, hips jerking up toward him, trying to chase more—anything—but he holds your hips still, smirking down at your wrecked face.
“Aw, what’s wrong, baby?” he coos, breathless. “Not enough for you?”
You whimper. “Suki—”
He grins. “Tryin’ to fuck yourself on my cock now?”
And you are—rocking your hips up in tiny, desperate motions, your hands gripping the sheets, voice a string of needy little noises that go straight to his dick.
“You’re such a desperate little whore,” he groans. “Can’t even wait for me to fuck you proper, huh?”
“Suki—please—please—”
Your voice is high, slurred, half-sobs and gasp, like you’re not even forming real words anymore. Your cunt squeezes him so tight he nearly loses it.
“Oh my fucking god,” he mutters, shaking his head like he’s in pain. “You sound so fuckin’ wrecked—‘please, Suki’—you know what that does to me?”
You nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Need it—need you—need more—please—”
And then he snaps.
His grip on your hips tightens, and he slams into you.
No mercy. No hesitation.
Just filthy, hard, deep thrusts that rock the bed against the wall.
You scream, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing—just his body, his cock, him, pounding into you like he’s trying to bury himself in your soul.
“You want more?” he growls, voice wrecked. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch.”
You’re so loud now—moaning with every thrust, your back arching, body jerking with the force of it.
“I—I’m cumming—” you cry, body locking up again, cunt fluttering like you’re gonna break.
But he doesn’t stop.
He won’t stop.
“Yeah, baby? Already? Barely even started.”
Your third orgasm crashes through you like a wave, soaking him all over again. Your body trembles under his, and still—still—he doesn’t let up.
He grabs your legs, throws them over his shoulders, and folds you in half.
Then leans forward.
His body presses into yours, hands braced on either side of your head, his cock now driving in deeper than ever before, dragging against your walls in a way that makes you sob.
The angle is brutal. Relentless.
You gasp—eyes wide, mouth falling open. Your whole body freezes.
“Suki—!” You squeal. “Wait—wait—I think—I think I’m gonna pee—!”
He knows.
He fucking knows.
And the second you say it?
Bakugo groans. Loud. Wrecked. Ferally turned on.
“Oh fuck, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna squirt for me?”
You’re panicking now, overwhelmed, the pleasure too much, too fast, building into something different.
“I—I can’t—Suki—Suki—!”
“Yes you can,” he growls. “Let it go. It’s okay. Fuckin’ do it.”
And you do.
Your body jerks once—twice—and then you scream, back arching off the bed as a gush of slick explodes from between your thighs, soaking both of them, soaking the sheets. Your legs shake violently. Your pussy clenches and flutters and gushes, and he pulls out just in time to watch it all.
“Holy fuck—” he groans.
He’s panting, cock dripping, and you’re still shaking, still coming, body twitching like you’ve been electrocuted.
He doesn’t even give you a second.
His hand dives down, fingers rubbing your clit fast—tight circles, no mercy.
“Gonna make a mess all over me, huh?” he pants. “Gonna soak my fuckin’ cock next?”
You’re sobbing, overwhelmed, body still spasming as more slick gushes out of you, squirting again, harder, soaking his hand and the sheets and your thighs.
“You’re such a dirty fuckin’ slut,” he groans, mouth open, watching you fall apart. “Look at you—fuckin’ look at you—”
When you finally start to come down, body trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks, Bakugo grabs your hips and slams back inside.
No pause.
No recovery.
Just more.
More of him.
He fucks you through the overstimulation, pounding into your soaked, sensitive pussy, growling every time your cunt clenches around him.
You’re babbling again, sobbing out moans and whines, brainless.
He’s close now. So close. His thrusts get sloppier, deeper, hips stuttering.
And then—
You grab his face, eyes barely open, voice slurred and high and ruined.
“Cum inside me,” you beg. “Please, Suki—want it inside—need you to fill me up—please—please—”
His whole body locks up.
His eyes roll back.
And he blows.
“Oh fuck baby, yes yes yes, FUCK—!”
His cock pulses inside you as he empties out, the hardest orgasm of his life, ropes of cum shooting deep into your twitching cunt. He groans through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, body shaking as he keeps thrusting, slow now, drawing out every pulse, every drop.
You moan at the feeling—full, warm, messy.
“You take it so fuckin’ well,” he pants, kissing you hard. “Made for me, baby. Fuckin’ made for this.”
His cock finally softens inside you, and he collapses onto your chest, both of you panting, soaked in sweat, slick, and cum.
You’re trembling. He’s still groaning.
And neither of you can speak.
Bakugo’s chest is still heaving as he lowers himself onto his elbows, careful not to crush you. His cock slips free, spent and messy, and you wince from the overstimulation. He’s already watching you—eyes dark, but softer now. More present.
“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face.
He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Yeah. No kidding.”
You’re still trembling beneath him, body twitching with aftershocks. Your skin’s flushed and glowing, your chest rising and falling fast, and for a moment he just stares. Watches you breathe. Watches you try to come back to yourself.
He reaches for the edge of the bed, grabs the nearest towel—probably Keigo’s fancy ass silk robe or something, who cares—and gently wipes between your thighs. You twitch, gasps softly, but doesn’t stop him.
“Sorry,” he mutters, voice low. “I know you’re sensitive. Just wanna clean you up a bit.”
His touch is careful. Gentle. Like you’re made of glass now, even though he just had you screaming his name with your legs over his shoulders.
You watch him through half-lidded eyes. “Didn’t think you’d be the sweet type after railing me like that.”
He smirks, eyes flicking up to yours. “Shut up. You’re lucky I didn’t pass out.”
He finishes wiping you down, tosses the towel to the floor, and climbs back onto the bed beside you. One arm snakes around your waist, pulling you into his chest. You hum and bury your face into his shoulder, breathing him in.
It’s quiet now.
Just the sound of your breathing. The faint music still thumping somewhere in the house. His heartbeat under your cheek.
Bakugo presses his lips to the top of your head and holds you close.
“You really didn’t wear any panties tonight?”
You giggle sleepily. “Hoped you’d be here.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh, but there’s something else in it too—something warm. Dangerous.
“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing your temple, “just tell me what you want.”
You shift, just slightly, enough to look up at him.
Your voice is quiet.
Real.
“You,” you whisper. “I want you.”
He stares at you.
Heart pounding.
And says nothing.
Because there’s nothing left to say.
A few months later you’re standing outside.
The air is warm. Quiet.
No cameras. No script. No fake moans echoing off studio walls. Just the sound of a car pulling away from the curb, leaving behind nothing but soft tire tracks on the gravel and a sudden, still silence.
You exhale.
It’s done.
Your manager waved goodbye with glossy eyes and a box of farewell cupcakes like it was some emotional graduation ceremony. And maybe it was. A part of your life—the biggest part—is officially over. No more lights. No more contracts. No more “one last scene” promises.
You’re out.
Retired.
And free.
Your fans had been devastated, of course. The internet flooded with edits, fanpages posting heartfelt tributes, DM requests piling up asking if you were okay, if you’ll ever return. But you were calm about it. Because you had made your money. More than enough. Enough to buy three lives if you wanted. Yours, your future kids’, and their kids.
And for the first time… you didn’t feel like you owed anyone anything.
The gravel crunches under your feet as you walks up the driveway of your new house. It’s not huge. Not flashy. Just a little white-brick home with a cracked front step and windows that let the morning sun spill inside. There’s barely any furniture yet. The walls are still too clean. But you open the front door and walk in anyway, because it’s yours.
You walk through the living room. Kicks off your shoes. Run your fingers along the kitchen counter. There’s a faint smell of fresh paint and wood polish and something warm. Like home.
And then—warm arms wrap around your waist.
You’re startled for a second.
Until he nuzzles into the side of your neck, all soft breath and scratchy stubble, and you relax instantly.
“Hey,” Bakugo murmurs against your skin.
You let out a breathy laugh. “You scared me.”
He hums. “You’re the one who snuck in without saying hi.”
“I live here,” you tease.
“Hey,” he says. “We live here.”
His arms tighten around your middle. His hands are calloused and warm, and he smells like clean linen and cedarwood shampoo. He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder and then another behind your ear.
“You know,” he says, voice low and teasing, “we gotta christen all the rooms.”
You snort. “You’re horrible.”
“Yeah, but you like it.”
You turn in his arms, facing him now—barefoot and smiling, cheeks warm, heart full.
Because this is the part no one saw coming.
After that night at Keigo’s house—after the hallway, after the bedroom, after you whispered “I want you” like it was the most honest thing you’d ever said—Bakugo was done.
He left the industry the next day.
Didn’t tell anyone at first. Just walked off set, deleted the shoot schedule, and never looked back. He didn’t need the job. Didn’t want it. Not if it meant being surrounded by people who weren’t you.
He pursued you properly after that. Not with half-assed flirty texts or casual hookups. He showed up for you. Asked you out. Cooked for you. Slept next to you, not just with you. You thought it would feel weird—awkward, even. But it didn’t.
It felt easy. Natural. Real.
You left the industry a week later. For yourself. For him. For whatever this life was becoming.
Now?
Now you’re here.
In a half-empty house with your names on the mortgage and a stupid list of furniture you still need to buy, and for the first time in forever, you feel like you can just breathe.
Bakugo kisses you softly. Just once.
Then he smirks.
“Bedroom’s still got space on the headboard for scratches.”
“Bakugo.”
“What?” he shrugs, already lifting you up by the thighs. “I’m sentimental.”
You laugh, cling to him, and let him carry you down the hallway, your new life unfolding behind every door.
Your bedroom’s bathed in soft afternoon light when he pushes open the door with his foot.
It’s nothing fancy—white walls, wooden floors, a tall dresser with half the drawers still empty. The bed’s made, kind of, one corner of the blanket folded back like it’s been waiting for them. A single mug sits on the nightstand. Your side.
He lays you down gently, like you’re something delicate. Like he hasn’t already had you screaming into his pillow a dozen times since you moved in.
You pull him down with you, fingers hooked in the collar of his shirt.
Your mouths meet in a slow, lazy kiss. It’s not heated or rushed—it’s warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss you only give to someone when there’s no performance behind it. No pretending.
Just love.
He crawls over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other on your hip, thumb brushing circles into the soft skin there. You exhale against his lips, smiling.
“You gonna make good on your promise?” You tease, eyes fluttering open.
“Which one?”
“‘Christen all the rooms.’”
He grins, teeth and cocky heat.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought I’d start with this one. Seems the most important.”
Your heart thuds. You try to act unbothered, but his weight on top of you, the way his hand slips under your shirt, palm warm on your stomach—it makes your stomach flutter.
“But we’ve already-,” you laugh, running your fingers through his hair.
“Shut up,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing there slowly. “I know.”
You laugh.
“You make me crazy,” you whisper.
His mouth stills.
He pulls back, looking down at you.
And there’s something in his face that wasn’t there before.
Something quiet. Serious.
“I think about it,” he says softly. “The future.”
You stare up at him, breath caught.
“You ever do that?”
You nod, slow. “All the time.”
He leans down, presses his forehead to yours.
“I want it all,” he murmurs. “With you.”
Your hands slide up his back, feeling every tense line of muscle under your palms. You pull him closer. Your noses bump. Your lips brush.
“Me too.”
He kisses you then—not playful, not teasing. Just real. Long and deep. Like he’s telling you something in a language only your mouths understand.
When he pulls back, he whispers against your lips, “I love you.”
You exhale and smile. “I love you too.”
His hand slips between you, fingertips ghosting down your stomach, between your thighs. He touches you like he’s got all night. Like there’s nowhere else you need to be. Like loving you isn’t something he wants—it’s something he needs.
You gasp softly, hips shifting under his touch.
“You always get like this when you talk about the future?” You whisper.
He laughs quietly. “Only with you.”
Your thighs part for him. You’re already wet. Already aching.
“Then don’t stop,” You breathe.
He doesn’t.
He makes love to you slow. Hands in your hair, forehead pressed to yours. No loud moans. No biting. No rush. Just the steady rhythm of your bodies moving like they were made to fit.
After, you lay tangled together, half under the blankets, half on top of each other. Skin warm. Hearts steady.
He runs his hand down your spine. You hum.
“Hey,” he murmurs after a few minutes.
“Mm?”
“If we ever have a kid,” he says casually, “we’re not naming them after Keigo. I don’t care how much that bastard tries to bribe us.”
You bark out a laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “I wasn’t going to!”
“He’s already been hinting. You know he has.”
“I’m naming our first kid after someone normal, like—Ida or something.”
Bakugo looks physically pained. “Absolutely not.”
You laugh until your stomachs hurt, until your eyes sting with leftover tears, and then he kisses you again—slow and sweet.
“You really want all that?” You ask later, voice small.
He nods.
“You and me,” he says. “Little monsters running around. A house full of loud shit and chaos and love.”
You bite your lip. “And a couch that doesn’t suck.”
He smirks. “Yeah. That too.”
You fall asleep like that. Wrapped up in each other. Wrapped up in something soft and real and permanent.
Something that, for the first time in both your lives, has nothing to do with being watched.
a/n: fun fact bakugo is in my favorite anime charas oat. he was one of the first characters i rlly loved so expect a crazy amount of this bitch on my page (¬`‸´¬)
these past few weeks you’ve been watching tiktoks of people asking their signifcant other to peel/cut oranges for them. you watch the variety of reactions; from a hudband who tells his wife to ‘do it yourself, im not your maid’ to ‘you feel like an orange? i feel like an apple.’
wondering how your boyfriend would react to the request, you secretly record him while the both of you were lying on the bed—deep down you already know how he’d react.
“katsuki, baby,”
he grumbles in reply
“i feel like snacking on some oranges”
“i bought and cut some earlier, it’s in the fridge.”
he went beyond your expectations, you had expected him to be willing but not him reading your mind and anticipating the day you would crave some oranges, “huh…?”
he looks up from his phone and look at you, with an eyebrow raise, “what?”
“how do you know i want oranges?”
he shrugs, “i don’t know, lucky guess,” his mouth curled up a teeny tiny bit.
he can’t just say that he had a feeling you would, that would make him seem like a loser (he is, in every way possible.) he noticed you kept using your citrus lipbalm out of the 20 other flavours. you ordered 2 lemony-orangey-citrusy sodas this week alone, you unconsciously triple sniffed when you walk past the fruits —specifically the oranges—aisle. just a lucky guess.
Bakugo’s voice whispered, filling the silence in the dorm kitchen. He was right, and usually you weren’t. You valued your sleep, often being one of the first in the class to call it a night. But tonight was different. Your thoughts, your heart, were restless. Despite following your nighttime routine, which was curated specifically to help you wind down and rest, you still found yourself tossing and turning. Not even your ocean sounds could help you drift to sleep. Thats why when Bakugo spoke, you sighed heavily and let your shoulders droop.
“Yeah. I know.”
He took a few steps toward you, leaning against the countertop. “So what’s got you awake?” You shrugged at him, watching the water in the electric kettle begin to form small bubbles. “Dunno…just can’t sleep I guess.” You looked over to him, taking soft note of his tired eyes and disheveled hair. “And you? You aren’t usually awake at this time either.” He shrugged right back at you. “Dunno…can’t sleep I guess” he echoed your words, and it made you smile just a bit.
You both knew why the other was awake, or at least you both had some inkling. Between how the ambush attack played out and Midoriya running away, neither of you have had time to really process all of what has gone on. You haven’t had time to think about how your lives had been flipped one eighty. But since Midoriya was back safe and sound, and there was no real information on the League or their next move, everything was at a standstill. That meant your brain was finally coming up to speed on what had gone on recently…and it was overwhelming. It felt like your mind was in over drive, thinking so many thoughts at once that it was causing you to lose sleep.
“…There’s a lot of water in this kettle. Would you like some tea?” Bakugo didn’t answer, just walked over to the mug cabinet and grabbed both of your designated mugs. Yours had your hero insignia, and he had his. It was Nezu’s Christmas gift for all of the hero course students. Bakugo opened the tea drawer, grabbing you each a packet of sleepytime zen tea before walking back over to you. You worked in silence then, enjoying each other’s company as you made your own cups.
Your relationship with Bakugo was unique. You admired him, even when he was a bit of an asshole at the beginning of the school year. You’ve enjoyed watching him grow and working beside him as a teammate. You were inspired by his tenacity and drive. You liked how smart and witty he was, and how he could be funny even when he didn’t realize it. It also didn’t hurt that he was actually pretty cute. And all of the same things went for you in his eyes. He admired your kindness and your courage. He was inspired by the way you had such a big heart but you were no push over, standing up to him when he got too rough with his words or during training. In his eyes, it was like you were one of the only people to give him a chance, getting to know him past his rough exterior. You two had gotten closer during the year, training and studying together sometimes. You began to sit next to him for lunch, stealing small pieces of chicken from his plate while he stole beef from yours. You were the only one with that privilege. Eventually, you became this unlabeled, unspoken thing. You didn’t have to confess your feelings because he knew, and you knew how he felt about you even if he’s never admitted it.
You softly sipped your tea, allowing the warm liquid to run down your throat and causing you to sigh. He stirred his own cup, watching the spoon go around and around. Technically, there was nothing else for you two to do in the kitchen. Technically, you could’ve parted ways right here and drank your own cups in your rooms. But you couldn’t bear to leave him. Deep down, you both didn’t want to be alone tonight.
“Bakugo?” He looked up as you said his name. “Could I sleep over in your room tonight? I don’t think I want to be alone”
All he did was scoff, pick up his mug and began walking towards the staircase. When he realized you weren’t following, he scowled and turned to look at you.
“Let’s go brat. I’m missing out on my beauty sleep”
Part two
—————
Ps: im starting to do requests! So if you have an idea for me, go ahead and put it in my asks <3
OKAY IVE BEEN IMAGINING A HAWKS X BAKUGOUS OLDER BROTHER READER?? okay but here me out bro, reader has been dating hawks for a while now, occasional family dinners at readers house with his parents, not brother, due to the fact that he’s training.
reader never brought up the fact that his younger brother goes to ua, and hawks never said anything about teaching 1a gym time-to-time, one day, reader goes to pick up katsuki early from school, and he realizes hawks is teaching, basically how everyone would react to one, finding out bakugou has a brother, and two he’s dating hawks??
(ps, hawks knew of readers last name, but never thought anything of it,)
big bro
keigo takami x male! older bakugou brother! reader
genre: fluff and slight crack oneshot (1,300ish words)
notes: i’m not a massive fan of how i wrote this (i don’t think it’s very good) but it’s been sitting in my drafts for months so here you go
synopsis: reader is katsuki's older brother who is dating hawks -- katsuki doesn't know reader is dating hawks, and hawks doesn't know katsuki is reader's brother.
it stays that way until reader has to pick up katsuki from school early while hawks is teaching.
masterlist | make a request
Principal Nezu is shorter than you expect.
You expected him to be a man-sized rat, not a rat-sized man; though you suppose that isn’t an apt description either, given that he’s at least 2 feet tall and most rats aren’t 2 feet tall.
Regardless, he's still pretty intimidating when you run into him in the hall and he starts to ask you what you're doing.
"I'm looking for Bakugou Katsuki -- uh, my little brother. My parents wanted me to pick him up early since we're leaving today to go on a trip." Nezu seriously makes you nervous.
“Bakugou Katsuki is in Hero Training as of right now. You’ll be able to find him in the gym!” He smiles at you, teeth surprisingly white for a rodent. “Make sure to alert his teacher before you leave,” Nezu continues, an unnerving glint in his abyss-like eyes. You decide not to ask why he knows Katsuki’s timetable by heart.
“Sure. Thanks, Principal Nezu,” you smile, offering him a handshake kindly.
“Anytime, Bakugou-san.”
As you step into the gym, the first thing you notice is the smell of sweat. That, and the temperature. Despite the amount of heat emanating from the fire quirks of a select few and the body heat of everyone in the gym, it’s — surprisingly — rather cool. UA's unflinching ability to invest copious amounts of money into air conditioning was impressive. Your eyes trail across the sweeping ceilings and expensive equipment, whistling lowly. I should come here more often.
1-A looks to be split into pairs — sparring, maybe? — each student difficult to view clearly under the thin blanket of steam and smoke that surrounds them. Katsuki, however, is easy to spot among them. His explosions light up the room, the sound of the loud booms only rivalled by his rage-fuelled yelling. You watch, amused. Glad he’s… letting that out.
As much as you didn’t want to interrupt class (the idea of 20 different teenagers having their undivided attention on you was a terrifying thought), the teacher was nowhere in sight and you were running out of time. “Katsuki!” you call, waving at the angry red glare that lands on you. The boy, in response, rolls his eyes snidely and stays rooted on the spot.
You sigh. Little brothers are so goddamn annoying. “Let’s go, dude,” you urge, emphasising your words with a vague ‘hurry up’ gesture. He scowls, but obliges nonetheless, walking slowly over with his hands shoved into his pockets. Once he's in front of you, he stops.
“My teacher isn’t here. I can’t leave yet.”
“Isn’t it their job to, you know, teach? Where the fuck did they go?” You furrow your brows.
“Fuck if I know,” Katsuki responds, matching your curses with equal indifference. “He went with Deku to go and get something.”
“Izuku’s here?”
“Why wouldn’t he be, dumbass? He’s in my class.”
And that’s when you notice the rest of 1-A. 18 pairs of eyes stare at you in utter shock and confusion, burning with questions. Your body stills, awkward under their gazes.
“Is that… your brother?” a red-haired boy with sharp teeth asks, looking between you and Katsuki slowly.
“Yeah,” Katsuki replies nonchalantly.
You take in the other boy's appearance: the insane amount of gel in his weirdly-styled hair, pointed teeth and the fact that he was sparring with Katsuki. Close friend, bad hair?
“You must be Shitty Hair.” you say, prompting half of the class to erupt into giggles. Vaguely, you recall his name is Kirishima, but Katsuki says it so rarely that you barely even associate it with him. ‘Shitty Hair’ blushes at the attention, nodding bashfully with an awkward smile. He rubs the nape of his neck, glancing once again between Katsuki and you.
“I can see how you’re related,” he laughs uncertainly.
“I can see who got the good genes,” a pink-haired girl with horns calls, “clearly not Bakugou.”
“YOU WANNA SAY THAT AGA—”
The doors slam open. You first see Izuku, who pauses at the commotion, and behind him you see… your boyfriend? What the fuck?
“Keigo?”
“[Y/N]?”
“[Y/N]-nii?” Izuku adds.
“Nii?” someone whispers in confusion.
“Hey, Izuku,” you respond weakly.
Silence falls. You take a moment to appreciate Keigo in his hero costume before the dots connect and you turn to Katsuki accusingly.
“He’s your teacher!?”
“He’s your brother!?” Keigo counters.
You turn to your boyfriend. “I told you I have a brother. You know my last name. You’ve literally met my mother and she’s the carbon-copy of Katsuki. Keigo, what even?”
“Er, well, in hindsight, maybe you’re right— but... you’re so nice,” he says, disbelief evident in his wide eyes and confused brows. “And he’s so… not—”
“The fuck did you just say—!?”
“Young man, I will give you a detention if you swear at me again,” Keigo says sternly, schooling his face into something unnaturally serious and crossing his toned arms over his chest. You can see the humour dancing his eyes, prompting you to chuckle quietly.
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Yes, Hawks-sensei,” he mutters, face contorted into a scowl. He angrily taps his shoe on the ground.
“Stop being a shit,” you chide, grabbing Katsuki by the shoulder roughly and rubbing your knuckles into his skull. The rest of 1-A watches on in absolute disbelief. (Except Izuku. He’s used to this.)
Katsuki groans exasperatedly, “You stop being a shit.”
“Hey!” Hawks gasps dramatically, “don’t call my boyfriend a shit!”
Silence.
You rub a hand over your temple in an attempt to ease your oncoming headache.
“YOUR FUCKING WHAT?!”
“Katsuki—”
The rest of 1-A is left in shock. (Including Izuku, this time). Some start yelling, some look like they’ve turned to stone, the usual. You’re too busy trying to hold back your feral little brother from attacking Keigo — you know he won’t actually, you’re just hoping Keigo knows that too.
“Wait, you’re gay?” A boy who you can recall as Kaminari splutters. Your face crinkles into confusion, nose scrunching like you’ve smelt a bad odour. You can see why Katsuki calls him Dunce Face.
“It runs in the family,” you say, with a pointed look to Katsuki.
His exhaustion must’ve caught up to him since he only offers a middle finger in response. Kaminari bursts into startled and slightly scared laughter.
A warm arm makes its way around your waist and it takes an embarrassing amount of effort for you to suppress a smile. You don’t even have to look at Keigo to know that he’s grinning.
Neither of you are big fans of PDA, but the urge to hug him right now is particularly strong; especially since he’s right there, but there’s also 20 kids right there which sucks and you have to go—
Right. You and Katsuki need to go. That was the point of this whole ordeal.
“Keigo,” you murmur, quiet enough for only him to hear. The rest of the class has ignored the two of you in favour of chatting amongst themselves or questioning Katsuki. Keigo hums, meeting your eyes. He smiles, his golden irises pooling with affection and his arm squeezing gently around your waist, seemingly in a trance. You chuckle, “I need to go.”
He startles. “Right! Right,” he says, clearing his throat. You pretend not to notice the faint tinge of red high on his cheekbones.
“Okay, 1-A. I’m gonna go sort this out quickly,” Keigo says to the class, his voice raised slightly in order to drown out the talking. “So please continue sparring — without quirks — until I’m back. I won’t be long.”
The class answers an affirmative, and then the two of you (plus Katsuki) are out the door. You turn to face Keigo, placing a quick peck on his lips. “I thought I just needed to tell you Katsuki was leaving and then you’d sort it?”
“That’s true… but I missed you,” Keigo sighs wearily, acting like he hadn’t seen you in years. (You spent the night with him literally yesterday.)
“Stop before I tear my fucking eyes out,” Katsuki interrupts. Keigo lifts his head to glare unhappily at him.
“Piss off, Katsuki,” you grumble, placing a slightly longer kiss on Keigo’s lips. You pull away at the realisation that you’re probably late, which means you’ll probably have to face the wrath of Mitsuki Bakugo. “I should— we should go. I’ve stayed way longer than I needed to.”
“Thank fuck,” Katsuki grumbles, occupying himself with his phone. Teenagers.
Keigo groans dejectedly but lets you go nonetheless. He watches you walk away, waving. “Bye, honeybear!”
“So this is what I’ll be laying next to for the rest of my days?”
Bakugou raised his head from your chest and looked at you with an unamused look.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He muttered. You couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle at his words.
“What I’m saying is…”
You smiled as you shuffled closer into his embrace, hands gently caressed against his rounded cheeks. Bakugou lets out a ‘hmph’ as his cheeks began to dust pink.
“I’m happy I found someone like you. You’re different.” You spoke to him, the blonde didn’t respond.
Instead he chose silence, he let it be.
Bakugou realized, that sometimes you don’t have to ask for an explanation.
When he feels the curve of your body against his fingertips, and your warmth against his. This is all he needs to know. When his amber eyes stare into yours, your gaze envelopes him deeper into your being.
And Bakugo decides he wants to sink.
Letting out a sigh, he lowered his head back down onto your chest and wraps his arms around you just a little bit tighter.
“I guess we’re soulmates— or whatever.”
You didn’t respond back, and he was okay with that.
"I said stay still."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're stubborn."
"...Tch."
"And if you tear your stitches again, I'm charging you double.
"...He still tears them.
──────────── ✧ ────────────
Chapter Two — Miracle Surgeon
15k–18k words
Summary
Japan's strongest hero is everyone's greatest hope... and one surgeon's greatest headache.
After a mission leaves Pro Hero Dynamight on your operating table, you're assigned as his attending surgeon. Between emergency surgeries, late-night coffee, and endless arguments over torn stitches, the line between doctor and patient begins to blur into something neither of you expected.
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The double doors of Trauma Bay One slammed open, the gurney hitting the linoleum floor with a violent rattle that echoed through the sterile room.
"Male, twenty-eight, blunt force trauma to the abdomen and chest, possible internal hemorrhaging!" the lead paramedic shouted, his voice strained as he pumped a manual resuscitation bag over Bakugo’s face. "He collapsed mid-patrol. Vitals are tanking. BP is seventy over palp, heart rate one-forty and climbing. He’s unresponsive!"
You didn’t hesitate. The terror that had gripped your heart in the hallway was instantly shoved into a locked box deep within your chest, replaced by the cold, crystalline focus of the Miracle Surgeon.
"Get him on the monitor. Two large-bore IVs, wide open. Type and cross for six units of O-neg. Start massive transfusion protocol," you barked, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves as you moved to the head of the bed.
You looked down at Bakugo.
He was terrifyingly pale. The angry, healthy flush of his skin from the follow-up appointment just hours ago was gone, replaced by the waxy, translucent gray of severe shock. His lips were tinged with blue. His ash-blond hair was plastered to his forehead with cold sweat, and his chest—your chest, the one you had spent eight hours meticulously reconstructing—was rising and falling in shallow, erratic jerks.
"Dr. [Name], his O-sat is dropping. Eighty-two percent," Nurse Sato said, her voice trembling slightly, though her hands moved with practiced efficiency as she spiked the blood bags.
"Push the oxygen to non-rebreather. Get the ultrasound," you ordered, grabbing the probe. You squirted the cold gel onto his abdomen, right over the site of his previous surgery.
The screen flickered to life. Your blood ran cold.
There it was. A massive, dark pool of fluid pooling in the peritoneal cavity. The splenic repair had failed. Or worse, a new vessel had ruptured because he had pushed himself too hard, too soon, ignoring every single instruction you had given him.
"He’s bleeding out internally," you said, your voice dropping into a deadly calm that made the entire room freeze. "The splenic artery has blown. He needs the OR right now. Page Dr. Lee and the anesthesia team. Tell them we’re doing an emergency exploratory laparotomy. Move, move, move!"
The room exploded into controlled chaos. The gurney was unlocked and sprinted down the hallway toward the elevators. You ran alongside it, your hand resting on the rail, your eyes locked on Bakugo’s unconscious face.
Stay with me, you thought fiercely, your knuckles turning white. Don't you dare die on me, Bakugo. Not after I fixed you once. Don't you dare.
The second surgery was a nightmare.
Where the first had been a delicate reconstruction, this was a desperate, bloody scramble to keep him alive. The abdominal cavity was flooded with dark, deoxygenated blood. The suction tubes gurgled loudly, struggling to keep the field clear as you frantically searched for the source of the bleed.
"Pressure is dropping. Sixty over forty," Dr. Lee called out from the head of the table, his voice tight. "He’s not holding the fluids."
"Clamp," you demanded, your hands buried deep in his abdomen, your Operation Zone flaring to its absolute limit. The headache was back, a blinding spike of agony behind your eyes, but you ignored it. You could feel the torn vessel, slipping away from your mental grasp as his blood pressure bottomed out.
You found it. The splenic artery, torn clean through.
"Suture. Now."
You worked with a speed and precision that bordered on the supernatural. Your Quirk guided the needle, weaving the synthetic thread through the fragile tissue, tying off the bleeder, then tying it off again for good measure. You packed the abdomen, checking for any other sources of bleeding, your heart hammering against your ribs in time with the failing monitor.
"Pressure is stabilizing. Seventy over fifty," Lee said, letting out a breath. "Good catch, Doctor."
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were too busy closing him up, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind screamed at you.
When the final stitch was placed and the drapes were pulled back, you stepped away from the table. You stripped off your bloody gloves, your chest heaving. You looked at Bakugo’s face. He was still unconscious, still pale, but the monitor was beeping in a steady, rhythmic cadence.
He was alive.
You walked out of the OR, pushed through the swinging doors, and went straight to the nearest staff bathroom. You locked the door, turned on the cold water, and splashed it on your face. You gripped the edges of the sink, staring at your reflection. Your hands were shaking violently.
You had almost lost him.
And it was your fault. You had discharged him too early. You had let him walk out of those doors.
No, a rational voice in your head argued. He’s an adult. He’s the Number Two Hero. He chose to go on patrol. You gave him strict orders.
But the rational voice was drowned out by the crushing, suffocating weight of responsibility. You were the Miracle Surgeon. You didn't make mistakes. You didn't lose patients.
You took a deep, shuddering breath, dried your face, and walked out to the ICU.
Bakugo woke up in the ICU twelve hours later.
You were sitting in the same vinyl chair in the corner of the room, just like you had been after the first surgery. But this time, you weren’t reading a chart. You were staring at him, your arms crossed, your expression made of stone.
He groaned, a low, raspy sound, and tried to shift. Immediately, he hissed in pain, his face contorting as his abdominal muscles protested the movement.
"Don't," you said. Your voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a whip.
His crimson eyes fluttered open, unfocused and hazy from the heavy painkillers. He blinked slowly, trying to clear his vision. When his eyes finally locked onto yours, a flicker of confusion crossed his face, followed quickly by a flash of defensive anger.
"Doc," he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. He swallowed hard. "What… what happened?"
"You happened," you said, your tone flat, devoid of any warmth.
He frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece together the fragmented memories. "I was… on patrol. The villain… he had a secondary quirk. Kinetic redirection. I hit him, and…" He trailed off, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through his side.
"And the kinetic energy rebounded directly into your abdomen," you finished for him, your voice hard. "Specifically, into the surgical site I had spent eight hours repairing just four days ago. The force ruptured the splenic artery. You bled out internally in the middle of a shopping district. If your partner hadn't been there to stabilize you and fly you here, you would have been dead before the ambulance arrived."
Bakugo went still. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by a dull, heavy realization. He looked down at his body. He was hooked up to more IVs than before. There was a fresh, thick bandage wrapped around his abdomen, right over the old one. A nasogastric tube was taped to his nose. He looked and felt like hell.
"I…" he started, then stopped. He looked back at you. "I'm sorry."
The apology was so quiet, so utterly devoid of his usual arrogance, that it caught you off guard. You had expected him to argue. To tell you it wasn't his fault. To snap at you.
You uncrossed your arms and stood up, walking over to the bed. You checked his IV lines, your movements sharp, efficient, and angry.
"Sorry doesn't fix a ruptured artery, Bakugo," you said, your voice trembling slightly before you forced it under control. "Sorry doesn't rebuild a spleen. I told you, explicitly, clearly, and repeatedly, not to push yourself. I told you to do your physical therapy. I told you to rest."
"I had to," he muttered, looking away, staring at the blank wall. "There was a hostage situation. I couldn't just sit on my ass."
"You are a human being, not a god!" you snapped, the clinical facade finally cracking. Your voice echoed in the small room, sharp and raw. "You are flesh and blood and bone. You break. You bleed. You die. And if you die, it’s not just a tragedy for the city. It’s a failure for me. Do you understand what it’s like to stand over your body and watch your heart stop because you were too stubborn to listen to me?"
Bakugo flinched. He turned his head slowly, looking at you. Really looking at you.
He saw the dark, bruised circles under your eyes. He saw the slight tremor in your hands as you adjusted his blanket. He saw the raw, unfiltered terror that you were trying so desperately to hide behind your anger.
For the first time since he had met you, Katsuki Bakugo didn't see the unyielding, untouchable Miracle Surgeon. He saw a woman who was exhausted, terrified, and deeply, profoundly cared about whether he lived or died.
"Your hands are shaking," he said softly.
You froze. You looked down at your hands. They were trembling. You quickly shoved them into the pockets of your white coat, turning your back to him to hide your face.
"Get some rest," you said, your voice tight. "I'll be back in an hour to check your vitals. If you try to get out of this bed again, I will sedate you and tie you to the rails. I'm not kidding."
You walked out of the room, closing the door firmly behind you.
Once in the hallway, you leaned against the wall, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes until you saw stars. You took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the tears back. You couldn't cry. Not here. Not now.
You were the doctor. And he was the patient.
But god, it was getting harder to remember the difference.
The next three days were a masterclass in mutual stubbornness.
Bakugo was confined to strict bed rest. He wasn't allowed to sit up, let alone walk. His body needed time to heal from the second trauma, and his pride was taking a massive, humiliating beating.
You visited him every four hours. The dynamic had shifted. The sharp, combative edge was still there, but it was softer now, tempered by the shared trauma of his near-death experience. He didn't snap at you as much. And you didn't bark at him as sharply.
On the fourth day, his first visitor arrived.
You were at the nurses' station, charting, when a tall young man with spiky red hair came barreling down the hallway. He looked frantic, his eyes wide with worry.
"Where is he? Is he okay? The hospital wouldn't give me any info over the phone!"
You looked up, recognizing him immediately from the files and the news. Eijirou Kirishima. Red Riot. Bakugo’s partner and best friend.
"He's stable, Red Riot," you said, standing up. "He's in the ICU, Room 4. But he's on strict bed rest and heavy painkillers, so please keep the visit short."
"Thank you, Doctor," Kirishima said, his shoulders slumping in relief. He offered you a bright, manly smile that was slightly strained at the edges. "You're the one who operated on him, right? The Miracle Surgeon? Thank you. Seriously. Thank you for keeping him alive."
You felt a small, genuine warmth bloom in your chest. "It's my job. Go see him."
You watched from the nurses' station as Kirishima entered the room. Through the glass window, you could see Kirishima lean over the bed, saying something that made Bakugo scowl. Then, Bakugo said something back, and Kirishima threw his head back and laughed.
You watched Bakugo’s face. Even through the glass, you could see the tension in his shoulders ease. You could see the faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
A strange, sharp twinge of something unfamiliar pierced your chest. It wasn't pain. It was… jealousy? No. That was ridiculous. You were his doctor. You had no right to be jealous of his best friend.
But you couldn't look away until Kirishima finally left, waving cheerfully at you as he walked past the station.
Two hours later, another visitor arrived.
Izuku Midoriya walked into the ICU, looking nervous and fidgeting with the straps of his backpack. He spotted you and his face lit up.
"[Name]! Hi!" he whisper-shouted, walking over to the station. "Is Kacchan awake? I brought him some of his favorite spicy chips, but the nurse at the front desk said he's on a liquid diet, so I don't know if he can have them, but I thought maybe—"
"Midoriya, breathe," you said, smiling softly. You reached out and gently tapped his arm. "He's awake. But he's heavily medicated. You can go in, but keep it quiet."
"Right. Sorry. Habit," Midoriya muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked at you, his green eyes full of concern. "How is he, really? The hospital PR team is going crazy. They want to release a statement, but I told them I wouldn't say anything until I saw him."
"He's healing," you said honestly. "His body is strong. He just needs to learn how to let it heal."
Midoriya nodded, looking down at the bag of chips. "He's stubborn. You know that better than anyone, I'm sure."
"You have no idea," you sighed.
Midoriya smiled, a small, fond expression. "Well, thank you. For everything. I know he's… difficult. But he trusts you. He doesn't trust doctors. He hates them, actually. But he trusts you."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You stared at Midoriya, stunned. "He… trusts me?"
"Yeah," Midoriya said, looking up at you. "He told me. After the first surgery. He said you were the only one who didn't look at him like he was made of glass. Or like he was a monster."
Before you could process that, Midoriya checked his watch. "Ah! I have to get to the dorms. The first-years have a practical exam tomorrow and I'm proctoring. Can I… can I still take you up on that dinner offer? For Friday?"
You blinked, pulling yourself back to reality. The dinner. You had almost forgotten. "Yes. Yes, of course. Friday at seven?"
"Perfect! See you then, [Name]!" Midoriya beamed, giving you a quick, awkward bow before hurrying down the hall toward Bakugo's room.
You stood at the nurses' station for a moment, your mind racing. He trusts me.
You shook your head, picking up your pen. You had charts to finish. You didn't have time to dwell on the fact that the most stubborn, explosive, guarded man in Japan actually trusted you.
Friday night arrived, and for the first time in a week, you were actually leaving the hospital on time.
You had changed out of your scrubs into a simple, elegant dark blue dress, your hair pulled back into a loose clip. You felt strangely out of your element. You were used to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the heavy weight of a white coat. The soft fabric of the dress and the light scent of your perfume felt foreign.
You were standing at the elevator, waiting for it to arrive, when your phone buzzed.
Deku: I'm at the restaurant! Got us a table in the back. See you in 10 mins! :)
You smiled, typing back a quick On my way, and stepped into the elevator as the doors chimed open.
You rode down to the lobby, walking out into the cool, crisp evening air. The rain had finally cleared, leaving the city washed clean and glittering under the streetlights. You took a deep breath, feeling a rare sense of peace.
You were halfway to the corner where you had told Midoriya you'd meet him, when a voice stopped you dead in your tracks.
"Where the hell do you think you're going, doc?"
You spun around.
Standing in the doorway of the hospital, leaning heavily against the frame, was Katsuki Bakugo.
He was out of bed.
He was wearing his civilian clothes—black jeans, heavy boots, and a tight black t-shirt that showed off the bandages peeking out from his collar. He looked pale, and he was definitely favoring his left side, his posture rigid with pain. But his crimson eyes were blazing with a mixture of fury and something else. Something possessive.
Your jaw dropped. "Bakugo! What are you doing out of bed?! You're supposed to be on strict bed rest! If you tear your sutures—"
"I'm fine," he snapped, pushing himself off the doorframe and taking a step toward you. He winced, his hand flying to his side, but he masked it quickly with a scowl. "I just needed some air. The room smells like bleach and despair."
"You need to get back upstairs right now," you said, your voice dropping into your most authoritative, clinical tone. "I'm calling an orderly to bring a wheelchair."
"I'm not getting in a damn wheelchair," he growled, closing the distance between you. He stopped just a foot away, towering over you. He smelled like hospital soap, gunpowder, and the faint, spicy scent of his own sweat. "And I'm not going back to that room. Not yet."
"You are a patient," you hissed, looking up at him. "And you are acting like a child. Get back inside."
He didn't move. He just stared down at you, his eyes dropping to take in your dress, your hair, the subtle makeup you had worn. His gaze lingered for a fraction of a second too long, and a faint, dusty pink flush crept up his neck.
"You're dressed up," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing some of its aggressive edge. "Where are you going?"
You blinked, thrown off balance by the sudden shift in his demeanor. "I'm… I'm going to dinner."
His eyes narrowed instantly. The flush on his neck vanished, replaced by a dark, stormy look. "Dinner. With who?"
You hesitated. You didn't know why you hesitated. He was your patient. He had no right to know your business. But the intense, burning scrutiny in his eyes made you feel like you were under a microscope.
"Midoriya," you said finally.
Bakugo’s jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. "Deku. You're going to dinner with the nerd."
"Yes," you said, lifting your chin. "He invited me. To thank me for taking care of you."
Bakugo let out a short, harsh scoff. He crossed his arms over his chest, immediately regretting it as he hissed through his teeth, but he refused to uncross them. "Right. Well. Tell the nerd I said hey. And tell him if he makes you pay for your own food, I'll blow up his dorm room."
You stared at him. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of this man. He was standing outside in the cold, fresh out of major surgery, in blatant violation of every medical order you had given him, just to interrogate you about your dinner plans.
And he was jealous.
The realization hit you like a lightning bolt. Katsuki Bakugo, the explosive, untouchable Pro Hero, was jealous of Izuku Midoriya.
A slow, genuine smile spread across your face. It started in your eyes and bloomed on your lips, bright and radiant.
Bakugo’s breath hitched. He stared at your smile, his crimson eyes widening slightly, the angry scowl melting off his face to reveal a look of sheer, unguarded awe.
"You're jealous," you said softly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer to him.
"I'm not jealous," he snapped automatically, though his voice lacked any real heat. He looked away, staring at the pavement. "I just… Deku's an idiot. He doesn't know how to treat a lady."
Your heart did a strange, violent flip in your chest. A lady.
"Is that so?" you murmured, your voice soft.
"Yeah," he muttered. He looked back at you, his gaze intense, searching your face. The anger was gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable honesty that made your breath catch. "You look… nice. In that dress."
The compliment was so blunt, so entirely un-Bakugo, that you felt a flush of heat rise to your cheeks. "Thank you," you whispered.
He cleared his throat, shifting his weight and wincing again. "Go. Before you miss your reservation. And tell Deku to order the spicy tuna roll. He always forgets."
You laughed, a soft, breathy sound. "I will. Now get back inside, Bakugo. Before I sedate you myself."
He smirked, a familiar, arrogant tilt of his lips, but his eyes were soft. "Yes, Doctor."
He turned and slowly, painfully, made his way back into the hospital lobby. You watched him go, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You turned and walked toward the restaurant, the cool evening breeze washing over you. You felt lighter. You felt alive.
For the first time in eight years, you weren't just saving lives.
You were starting to live one.
The dinner with Midoriya was wonderful.
The restaurant was a high-end, quiet sushi place tucked away in a quiet alley in Musutafu. The ambiance was warm, the food was incredible, and Midoriya was, as always, a delightful companion. He talked animatedly about the first-years, about the new support gear he was designing, and about his plans for the upcoming semester.
You listened, you laughed, you ate. You felt normal. You felt human.
But throughout the entire meal, a small, persistent thought lingered in the back of your mind.
He said I looked nice.
When the dinner finally ended, Midoriya insisted on walking you back to the hospital.
"You don't have to, Midoriya, it's just a few blocks," you said as you stepped out onto the sidewalk.
"Nonsense!" he said, falling into step beside you. "It's late, and you've been working so hard. It's the least I can do."
You smiled, appreciating his kindness. As you walked, the streets quiet and peaceful, Midoriya suddenly spoke up.
"Hey, [Name]? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. "When you were at U.A… in General Studies… did you ever cross paths with Kacchan? In the medical wing, or anywhere?"
You stopped walking. You looked at Midoriya, surprised. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't know," Midoriya said, frowning slightly. "It's just… ever since you started treating him, he's been different. He's still explosive, obviously. But he's… softer. Around you. And I just got the feeling that he recognizes you. Like, on a deeper level. But he won't admit it."
You looked down at the pavement, your heart squeezing in your chest. The memory of the nurse's office eight years ago flashed in your mind. The boy with the burnt arm. The quiet, secret healing.
"I… I might have," you said carefully, choosing your words. "A long time ago. But it was brief. I don't think he remembers."
Midoriya nodded slowly, his green eyes thoughtful. "He remembers more than he lets on. He just hides it behind the yelling." He smiled at you. "I'm glad he has you, [Name. He needs someone who can see past the explosions."
You smiled back, a bittersweet ache in your chest. "I think he's starting to see past them, too."
When you reached the hospital, Midoriya said his goodbyes and headed back to the dorms. You walked into the lobby, the familiar smell of antiseptic welcoming you home.
You took the elevator up to the ICU. You told yourself you were just checking on your patient. You told yourself it was your duty.
But when you walked into Room 4, and saw Bakugo sitting up in bed, awake, staring at the door like he had been waiting for you, you knew you were lying to yourself.
"You're back," he said, his voice rough.
"I'm back," you replied, walking over to the bed. You picked up his chart, pretending to review it. "How's the pain?"
"Manageable," he said. He didn't look at the chart. He looked at you. "How was dinner?"
You paused, looking up at him. His eyes were dark, intense, tracking your every movement. "It was good. Midoriya is a good guy."
"Yeah, he is," Bakugo agreed, surprising you. He shifted in the bed, wincing slightly, and patted the edge of the mattress. "Sit down, doc. You look tired."
You hesitated, then closed the chart and set it on the table. You pulled up the vinyl chair and sat down next to his bed.
The silence between you was comfortable now. It wasn't the heavy, charged silence of the first few days. It was the quiet, easy silence of two people who had seen the worst of each other and decided to stay.
"Why do you do it?" Bakugo asked suddenly, his voice quiet in the dim room.
You looked at him. "Do what?"
"This," he gestured vaguely at you, at the hospital, at the world outside. "You work eighty-hour weeks. You look like you haven't slept since I got here. You almost pass out in the hallway. Why do you push yourself so hard? You're not a hero. You don't have to prove anything to anyone."
You looked down at your hands. The hands that had saved his life twice. The hands that were always shaking when no one was looking.
"Because if I stop," you said softly, "people die."
Bakugo went still.
"I graduated from General Studies," you continued, your voice barely a whisper. "I wasn't strong. I didn't have a combat quirk. I couldn't punch a villain through a building or fly through the sky. All I could do was fix the people who did. Recovery Girl taught me that healing is just as important as fighting. But… the weight of it. The knowledge that if I'm not fast enough, if I'm not good enough, someone doesn't go home to their family…"
You trailed off, swallowing hard. "I just can't stop. Because if I stop, the guilt will kill me."
Bakugo stared at you. The anger, the arrogance, the defensive walls—he stripped them all away. He looked at you with a profound, aching understanding. Because he knew. He knew exactly what it felt like to carry the weight of the world. He knew what it felt like to be terrified of failing the people who relied on you.
Slowly, painfully, he reached out his right hand. His skin was warm, rough with calluses, scarred from years of explosions. He didn't say anything. He just laid his hand over yours.
His thumb gently brushed over your knuckles, soothing the tremor that was trying to start.
"You don't have to carry it all by yourself," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated through the quiet room. "Let someone save you for a change, doc."
You looked at his hand covering yours. You looked up at his face. His crimson eyes were soft, vulnerable, and entirely focused on you.
Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. You didn't pull your hand away. Instead, you turned your hand over and laced your fingers through his.
"Okay," you whispered.
Bakugo’s breath hitched. His grip tightened slightly, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.
In the quiet, dim light of the ICU room, with the steady beep of the heart monitor keeping time, something shifted. The slow burn that had been simmering between you for weeks finally caught fire.
It wasn't a grand, explosive declaration. It was just a touch. A promise.
But it was enough.
Moving Katsuki Bakugo out of the Intensive Care Unit was a logistical nightmare that involved three hospital administrators, the head of security, and a lot of nervous sweating.
Because he was the Number Two Hero, the hospital board had decided that a standard recovery room was no longer acceptable. They upgraded him to the VIP wing on the top floor—a suite that looked more like a five-star hotel room than a medical facility, complete with a king-sized bed, a private bathroom, a sprawling view of the Musutafu skyline, and a dedicated nursing station just outside his door.
You hated it.
You hated the plush carpets that made it impossible to hear if a monitor was beeping. You hated the ambient lavender diffuser the administration had installed to "soothe the VIPs." And you mostly hated the fact that Bakugo seemed to despise it just as much as you did.
"It smells like a damn spa in here," he grumbled on his first morning in the new room, wrinkling his nose as he glared at the diffuser. "I feel like I'm in a massage parlor. Get that thing out of my face before I blow it up."
"It's hospital policy for the VIP wing, Bakugo," you said smoothly, walking over and unplugging the diffuser, tossing it into the trash can. "Consider it a perk of almost dying twice in one week."
He snorted, shifting against the mountain of pillows. His color was finally returning, the waxy gray pallor of the ICU replaced by his natural, sun-kissed skin, though he still looked leaner, the sharp angles of his face more pronounced. "I didn't almost die. I just took a tactical nap."
"You ruptured your splenic artery and lost two liters of blood," you corrected, checking the IV line on his right hand. "If that's your definition of a tactical nap, I'd hate to see you stay awake."
He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat in it. His crimson gaze tracked your movements, watching as you adjusted the flow rate of his pain medication. "You're awfully chatty this morning, doc. Did you drink too much of that hospital sludge they call coffee?"
"I'm on my fourth cup," you admitted, not looking up from the chart. "And it's not sludge, it's a robust dark roast. Something you wouldn't understand, given your refined palate for sugar and cream."
"I drink it black," he muttered defensively.
"You drink it with three packets of artificial sweetener," you countered, finally looking up to meet his glare. "I've seen you hide the packets in your gown."
A faint, dusty pink flush crept up his neck, disappearing into his collar. He looked away, clearing his throat. "Shut up and check my vitals."
You hid a smile behind your chart. The combative, explosive tension of the first few days had melted into something else. It was still sharp, still laced with his trademark aggression, but the edges were softer. The insults were becoming banter. The glaring was becoming lingering stares.
He was healing. And, God help you, you were looking forward to checking his vitals every four hours.
By day five in the VIP wing, the routine had solidified into something dangerously close to domestic.
Bakugo was cleared to sit up, to walk short distances with assistance, and to eat solid food. He was also cleared to be an absolute menace to the nursing staff. He complained about the food, he critiqued the thread count of the sheets, and he terrified the junior doctors who came in to practice their bedside manner.
But he never, ever complained about you.
In fact, he seemed to actively wait for you.
It was 3:00 AM on a Thursday when you found yourself sitting at the central nurses' station, staring at a patient's lab results until the numbers blurred together. Your eyes felt like they were filled with sand. Your lower back ached with a dull, persistent throb, and your hands had a slight tremor that you were trying to hide by gripping your pen tighter.
You had been on shift for sixteen hours. You had performed two appendectomies, managed a code stroke, and dealt with a family of hypochondriacs who demanded you scan their son's stomach for a swallowed Lego.
You were running on fumes, caffeine, and sheer, stubborn willpower.
"You look like a corpse."
You blinked, pulling yourself out of the haze, and looked up.
Bakugo was standing at the edge of the counter. He was wearing his hospital-issued sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt. His feet were bare. He was leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane that the physical therapist had given him yesterday, his weight shifted to his right side to protect his healing abdomen.
"Bakugo," you said, your voice raspy from disuse. "What are you doing out of bed? It's three in the morning. Your heart rate needs to be resting, not walking the halls."
"I couldn't sleep," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble in the quiet hospital. He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "The bed is too soft. And the guy in the room next to me snores like a dying tractor. I needed to walk."
"You need to be in bed," you corrected, rubbing your temples. "If you tear your fascia again, I'm not sewing you up. I'll just use duct tape."
He smirked, a brief flash of his old arrogance. "You'd never let me rip my stitches. You're too obsessed with my health."
The word obsessed hung in the air for a second, heavy and loaded. You looked at him, really looked at him. He was pale, and a sheen of sweat coated his forehead. He was in pain. He was just too stubborn to admit it.
You sighed, dropping your pen and closing the chart. "Fine. You want to walk? Walk with me."
His eyebrows shot up. "Where are we going?"
"The roof," you said, standing up and grabbing your white coat. "The VIP wing has private elevator access to the rooftop garden. It's quiet up there. And if you're going to wander the halls, you might as well get some fresh air."
He stared at you for a long moment, his crimson eyes searching your face. Then, he gave a single, sharp nod. "Lead the way, doc."
The rooftop garden was a sanctuary. It was a lush, carefully landscaped space filled with hardy evergreens, stone pathways, and comfortable seating areas, designed for patients and staff to escape the sterile confines of the hospital. At 3:00 AM, it was completely deserted. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint, distant sounds of the city traffic far below.
You walked over to one of the stone benches and sat down, letting out a long, shaky breath as the cool air hit your face. Bakugo followed slowly, his cane clicking against the stone, and sat down next to you. He left a respectful foot of space between you, but you could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just sat there, looking out at the glittering skyline of Musutafu. The city never truly slept, but from up here, it looked peaceful. The neon lights blurred into streaks of gold and red, the skyscrapers standing like silent sentinels in the night.
"You work too much," Bakugo said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.
You didn't look at him. "It's my job."
"Bullshit," he said bluntly. "I've been watching you. You come in at seven in the morning and you leave at midnight. You skip meals. You drink enough caffeine to kill a horse. You're running yourself into the ground."
You finally turned to look at him. He wasn't looking at the city. He was looking at you, his expression serious, his jaw tight.
"I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon, Bakugo. People's lives are in my hands. I don't get to take a break when someone is bleeding out."
"I'm not saying take a break when someone is dying," he said, his voice dropping, losing its aggressive edge. "I'm saying take a break when you're not saving anyone. You can't save anyone if you're dead on your feet."
He reached into the deep pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out a thermos. He unscrewed the cup, poured a steaming, dark liquid into it, and held it out to you.
"Drink," he ordered.
You stared at the cup. "What is that?"
"Coffee," he said. "Real coffee. Not that watered-down garbage from the breakroom. I had my agency send it over. Black. Two sugars. Just how you like it."
You took the cup, your fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to the chill in the air. You brought the cup to your lips and took a sip. It was rich, smooth, and perfectly sweetened. It was, without a doubt, the best cup of coffee you had ever tasted.
"Thank you," you whispered, looking down at the cup to hide the sudden, unexpected prickle of tears in your eyes.
"Don't mention it," he muttered, looking away. "You look like you need it more than I do."
You took another sip, letting the warmth spread through your chest, chasing away the bone-deep chill of exhaustion. "How did you know I was tired?"
"Because you're a terrible liar," he said, echoing your own words from weeks ago. "And because your hands have been shaking since Tuesday."
You froze. You looked at your free hand. The tremor was slight, barely noticeable, but he had seen it. He had been watching you that closely.
"You notice a lot of things," you said softly.
"I notice when things are wrong," he replied, his voice rough. "It's what I do. I find the weak points. I fix them."
You looked at him, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face, illuminating the faint, silvery scars that mapped his skin. "And what happens when the weak point is you?"
He went still. He didn't answer right away. He just stared out at the city, his profile rigid, his jaw working as he ground his teeth.
"I don't have weak points," he said finally, but the words lacked their usual conviction. They sounded hollow. Tired.
You set the coffee cup down on the bench between you. You turned your body toward him, shifting closer until your knees were almost touching.
"Katsuki," you said softly.
He flinched at the use of his first name. His head snapped toward you, his crimson eyes wide, guarded, and incredibly vulnerable.
You reached out, your hand hovering for a second before you gently laid your fingers over his. His hand was resting on the handle of his cane, his knuckles white with tension. Your thumb brushed over the rough, calloused skin of his knuckles, tracing the faint, faded burn scar that wrapped around his wrist.
"You're allowed to be tired," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "You're allowed to hurt. You don't have to carry the whole world on your shoulders every single second of every single day. Not when I'm here."
He stared at your hand covering his. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his t-shirt. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his hand over and intertwined his fingers with yours. His grip was firm, grounding, an anchor in the chaotic sea of your exhaustion.
"You're stubborn, doc," he murmured, his thumb stroking the back of your hand.
"I learned from the best," you replied, a small, tired smile touching your lips.
He let out a soft, breathy laugh. He leaned his head back against the stone bench, closing his eyes. "Stay up here with me for a bit. Just… ten minutes. Then I'll go back to the damn spa room."
"Ten minutes," you agreed, leaning your head back as well, your fingers still tightly laced with his.
You sat there in the quiet dark, the cold air wrapping around you, the warmth of his hand anchoring you to the earth. For ten minutes, you weren't the Miracle Surgeon, and he wasn't Dynamight. You were just two broken, exhausted people, finding a moment of peace in each other's presence.
It was the best ten minutes of sleep you'd had in months.
The breaking point happened two days later.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. You were in OR 2, performing a complex valve replacement on an elderly patient. The surgery was going perfectly. Your Operation Zone was humming, the tissue knitting together with microscopic precision, the blood flow stabilizing.
But your body was rebelling.
You hadn't eaten since a piece of toast at 6:00 AM. You had only consumed the coffee Bakugo had given you on the roof. The OR was freezing, but you were sweating, a cold, clammy sheen that soaked through your scrubs. The bright surgical lights above you began to pulse, strobing in time with the sudden, violent pounding in your temples.
Just twenty more minutes, you told yourself, focusing on the valve. Just close the chest and you're done.
"Scalpel," you murmured.
The scrub nurse placed it in your hand. You reached for the incision line, but as you moved your arm, a wave of profound, crushing dizziness washed over you. The room tilted violently to the left. The steady beep of the heart monitor sounded like it was underwater, distorted and far away.
Your vision tunneled. The edges of the world went dark, creeping inward until all you could see was the sterile blue drape of the patient. Your knees buckled.
You braced for the impact of the hard tile floor, squeezing your eyes shut.
But the impact never came.
Instead, a strong, solid arm wrapped around your waist, catching you before you could fall. The scent of gunpowder, hospital soap, and spicy sweat filled your nose.
"I got you," a rough, familiar voice growled right by your ear. "I got you, doc."
You forced your eyes open, blinking through the gray fog in your vision.
Bakugo was there.
He wasn't supposed to be in the OR. He wasn't supposed to be out of his room. But he was there, standing in his scrubs, his face pale and twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated terror and fury. He had one arm wrapped securely around your waist, holding you up against his chest, while his other hand was reaching out to steady the surgical tray.
"Dr. [Name] is stepping out," Bakugo barked at the stunned OR team, his voice echoing with the commanding, terrifying authority of the Number Two Hero. "Dr. Lee, take over the closure. Now."
Dr. Lee, who had been standing frozen in shock, snapped to attention. "Y-yes, Dynamight. Scrubbing in."
Bakugo didn't wait. He practically carried you out of the OR, his arm like a steel band around your waist, supporting your dead weight. He kicked the swinging doors open and half-dragged you down the hallway toward the staff on-call rooms.
He kicked the door to Room 3 open, carried you inside, and gently but firmly lowered you onto the narrow cot.
The door slammed shut behind him. The lock clicked.
You lay there on the thin mattress, staring up at the ceiling, your heart hammering a frantic, irregular rhythm against your ribs. You felt completely, utterly humiliated.
Bakugo stood over you, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His crimson eyes were blazing, practically glowing in the dim light of the on-call room.
"What the hell," he started, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, "do you think you were doing?"
You swallowed hard, trying to sit up, but the room spun again and you fell back against the pillow. "I was… I was finishing the surgery."
"You were passing out!" he roared, the sound bouncing off the small walls. He ran a hand through his ash-blond hair, pacing away from you and then spinning back around. "You were literally passing out on the operating table! Are you out of your damn mind?!"
"I'm fine," you whispered, turning your head away. "It was just a drop in blood sugar. I just needed to sit down for a minute."
"You're not fine!" he shouted, stopping at the foot of the cot. He glared down at you, his chest rising and falling. "You're running on empty! You haven't eaten, you haven't slept, and you're pushing yourself until your body literally shuts down! Why the hell won't you listen to me?!"
"Because it's my job!" you snapped back, the exhaustion and humiliation finally boiling over into anger. You sat up, glaring at him. "Because if I stop, people die! Because I don't have the luxury of taking a nap when there's a queue of patients waiting! I am a doctor, Bakugo, and I have a responsibility—"
"I don't care about your responsibility!" he yelled, cutting you off.
The sheer volume of his voice shocked you into silence. He was breathing hard, his hands trembling at his sides. He took a step closer to the bed, his eyes shining with an emotion you had never seen in them before.
It wasn't anger. It was fear.
"Who gave you permission to scare me like that?" he asked, his voice dropping to a harsh, ragged whisper.
The words hit you like a physical blow. The anger drained out of you, leaving you hollow and aching.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, the tears finally spilling over your lashes, tracking hot and fast down your cheeks. "I'm sorry, Katsuki. I just… I couldn't stop. I felt like I had to finish."
He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. He walked over to the side of the cot and sat down on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. He reached out, his large, rough hands gently cupping your face. His thumbs brushed away the tears, his touch incredibly tender, a stark contrast to the fury he had just displayed.
"You're an idiot," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "A stubborn, reckless, self-sacrificing idiot."
"I know," you sniffled, leaning into his touch despite yourself.
"You think you're the only one who gets to save people," he said, his forehead coming to rest against yours. His breath was warm against your skin. "But you're not. You let me save you for once, damn it. Let me take care of you."
You closed your eyes, a sob catching in your throat. You nodded, just a slight movement, but it was enough.
"Okay," you whispered.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. Then, he stood up, his demeanor shifting instantly from vulnerable to fiercely protective.
"Stay here," he ordered, pointing a finger at you. "Don't move. If I come back and you're out of this bed, I'm tying you to the rails."
You managed a weak, watery smile. "Yes, Doctor."
He smirked, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. "Damn right."
He walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.
Ten minutes later, he returned. He was carrying a tray from the cafeteria. He set it on the small table next to the cot. It was loaded with food: a bowl of hot miso soup, a plate of rice, grilled salmon, and a large cup of hot tea.
"Eat," he commanded, pulling up a chair and sitting next to you. "All of it. I'm not leaving until you're done."
You picked up the chopsticks with trembling hands and started to eat. The hot soup burned your tongue in the best way possible, sending warmth radiating through your cold, exhausted body. Bakugo didn't say anything. He just sat there, watching you, his presence a solid, comforting weight in the small room.
When you finished the last grain of rice, you set the chopsticks down and let out a long, full breath.
"Good," he said, taking the tray and setting it aside. "Now, sleep."
"I have charts to finish," you protested weakly, though your eyelids were already drooping.
"I told Dr. Lee to finish your charts," he said smoothly. "And I told the charge nurse that if anyone bothers you, I will personally blast them into the stratosphere. So you're off the clock."
You stared at him, too tired to argue. You lay back down on the cot, pulling the thin blanket up to your chin. Bakugo kicked off his shoes and lay down on top of the covers next to you, fully clothed. He turned on his side, facing you, and draped one heavy, warm arm over your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.
"Sleep, doc," he murmured into your hair. "I got you."
And for the first time in eight years, you actually believed it. You closed your eyes, and you slept.
When you woke up, the room was dark.
You blinked, disoriented, your body feeling heavy and rested for the first time in what felt like years. The digital clock on the wall read 8:00 PM. You had slept for six hours.
You shifted, and realized Bakugo was still there. He was asleep, his breathing deep and even. His arm was still draped over your waist, his face buried in the pillow near your shoulder. In the dim light, his features were relaxed, the harsh lines of stress smoothed away. He looked young. Peaceful.
You carefully lifted his arm, sliding out from under the blanket. He stirred, murmuring something unintelligible, but didn't wake up.
You stood, stretching your stiff muscles, and walked over to the small mirror above the sink. You looked better. The gray pallor was gone from your skin, your eyes were clear, and the tremor in your hands had vanished.
You washed your face, brushed your teeth with a spare toothbrush from the kit on the counter, and changed into a fresh set of scrubs you found in the closet.
When you turned back to the bed, Bakugo was awake.
He was propped up on one elbow, watching you with heavy, sleep-crusted eyes. His hair was a messy, ash-blond disaster, sticking up in every direction.
"You're awake," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
"I am," you said, walking back over to the bed. "You should go back to your room. The administration is going to have a fit if they find you sleeping in the staff on-call rooms."
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as his abdomen pulled. "Let them have a fit. I don't care."
He stood up, swaying slightly before he caught his balance. You immediately stepped forward, your hands hovering near his arms to steady him.
"I'm fine," he said, catching your hands and holding them. "I just stood up too fast."
"You're still healing," you said, your clinical tone slipping back into place, though your eyes were soft. "You shouldn't be sleeping on a narrow cot. You need a real mattress."
"I slept fine," he said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. He looked at you, his gaze intense, searching. "How do you feel?"
"Human," you admitted, a small smile touching your lips. "Thank you. For… everything."
He stepped closer, closing the distance between you until you were chest to chest. He reached up, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip. The air in the small room suddenly felt very thick, very charged.
"You're welcome," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You leaned in, just a fraction of an inch, your breath catching in your throat. His eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to your mouth again.
Suddenly, the intercom on the wall crackled to life, shattering the silence.
"Dr. [Name]? Dr. [Name], please respond. We have a trauma incoming from Sector 4. Code Red."
You both froze. The moment shattered, the heavy tension snapping like a cut wire.
You pulled back, clearing your throat, your cheeks burning. Bakugo dropped his hand, his jaw tightening in obvious frustration.
"Go," he said, his voice rough. "Duty calls."
You nodded, taking a deep breath to center yourself, flipping the switch back to the Miracle Surgeon. "I have to go. Are you okay to walk back to your room?"
"I'm fine," he said, though he looked like he wanted to punch the intercom. "Go save the world, doc."
You gave him a quick, apologetic smile, then turned and walked out the door, your heart still racing, the ghost of his touch burning on your skin.
The rest of the week passed in a blur of surgeries, charts, and stolen glances.
The dynamic had shifted irrevocably. The slow burn had caught fire, but neither of you was ready to let it consume you. There were lingering touches when you checked his vitals. There were long, heavy stares across the nurses' station. There were late-night coffee runs on the roof that ended with your hands intertwined.
But you kept it secret.
You were his doctor. He was your patient. The hospital had strict fraternization policies, and he was a Pro Hero with a public image to maintain. If the press caught wind of the Miracle Surgeon dating Dynamight, it would be a media circus.
So, you kept it in the shadows. In the quiet moments. In the spaces between the chaos.
On Friday, Bakugo was finally, officially cleared for discharge.
You stood in his VIP room, watching as he packed his few belongings into a duffel bag. He was dressed in his civilian clothes—black jeans, a tight black t-shirt, and his heavy boots. He looked strong. He looked like the Number Two Hero.
"Your physical therapy schedule is in the folder," you said, handing him the manila envelope. "Twice a day. Thirty minutes each session. If you skip even one day, I will know, and I will be very angry."
He took the folder, shoving it into his bag. "I won't skip."
"And no heavy lifting. No explosions. No villain fighting for at least another two weeks. Your fascia is still healing."
"I know, doc. You've told me every day for the past week," he said, zipping the bag shut. He slung it over his shoulder and turned to face you.
The room suddenly felt very small. The discharge meant he was leaving. He was going back to his agency, back to his patrols, back to his life. And you would be left here, in the sterile, quiet hospital.
"So," he said, his voice casual, though his eyes were intense. "I'm out of your hair."
"It was a pleasure," you said, keeping your voice light, professional. "Try not to end up back on my operating table."
He stepped closer, closing the distance. He looked down at you, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes.
"I'll try," he murmured. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, sleek black keycard. He held it out to you.
You looked at the card, then up at him, confused. "What is this?"
"My apartment key," he said, his voice rough. "It's the penthouse at the Dynamight Agency. The code to the elevator is 1-9-9-7."
You stared at the keycard, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest. "Bakugo, I…"
"You said you wanted to check my stitches to make sure I'm not tearing them," he interrupted, his eyes locking onto yours. "So come check them. Tonight. After your shift."
It was an excuse. A blatant, transparent excuse. But it was also an invitation.
You reached out and took the keycard. His fingers brushed against yours, a spark of electricity shooting up your arm.
"Okay," you whispered.
He smiled. It was a real, bright, devastating smile that made your knees weak. "Good. I'll see you later, doc."
He turned and walked out the door, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway.
You stood there in the empty VIP room, clutching the keycard in your hand. You took a deep, shuddering breath, a smile spreading across your face.
You were the Miracle Surgeon. You saved lives.
But as you walked out of the room to finish your shift, you realized that for the first time in your life, someone was saving you right back.
