“ALL I WANT IS YOU…”
✧˖ K. Bakugo x reader
✧˖ mdni, 18+
You can feel it in the way he holds himself back—every single time. And it’s starting to carve something hollow into your chest.
Even now, months after the war, after Shigaraki’s decay had nearly taken him from you, after the scars that carve across the left side of his chest like lightning frozen in pale, raised flesh, Katsuki still won’t let you touch him there. Not really.
The skin is tighter in places, shiny and slightly uneven where the damage went deepest, and he treats it like something toxic.
Every time the two of you fall into bed he keeps the shirt on—black cotton stretched tight across the heavy muscle of his back, damp with sweat by the time he’s fucking into you.
His hands roam freely over your body, rough palms dragging down your sides, thumbs pressing hard into the soft give of your hips, fingers digging into the backs of your thighs as he spreads you wider.
But the second your fingertips drift too high under the hem of that shirt, he catches your wrist and pins it above your head against the pillow, growling low against your throat like a warning that vibrates straight through your bones.
You never push. You just ache for it—ache for the feel of bare skin, for the proof that he’s still here, still whole enough to let you in. And every time he stops you, something inside you fractures a little more.
You start to wonder if he thinks you’ll flinch. If he thinks the scars make him less. If some part of him still believes he’s too broken for you to love without pity.
Tonight starts the same way, and the quiet hurt sits heavy under your ribs.
He’s already inside you, hips rolling in that deep, controlled grind that makes your thighs shake and your breath stutter. One of your legs is hooked high around his waist, heel digging into the small of his back; the other trembles against the mattress every time he bottoms out.
The only light in the room is the soft gold spill from the streetlamp outside, painting the sharp lines of his face in shadow and highlight—the cut of his jaw, the furrow between his brows, the way his mouth parts on every quiet grunt.
His shirt is still on. Of course it is. The fabric is already dark with sweat between his shoulder blades, clinging to the flex of muscle each time he thrusts. You can feel the barrier of it every time your chest presses against his, and it makes your throat tighten with something dangerously close to grief.
You’re close—so close the pleasure is coiling tight and molten low in your belly, every drag of his cock dragging a soft, helpless sound out of you—when he suddenly stills.
Your eyes flutter open, lashes already wet. “Kats—?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes hard through his nose, forehead pressed to yours, the tip of his cock still buried deep enough that you can feel every pulse of him.
Then he sits back on his heels between your spread thighs, still sheathed inside you to the hilt, and reaches for the hem of his shirt with both hands.
You freeze. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, half-hope, half-dread. “Katsuki… what are you doing?”
He grunts, sharp and almost irritated, like the words themselves are fighting him on the way out—like even now, even with you looking up at him with open, aching eyes, some part of him is still screaming that this is a mistake.
The shirt comes up and over his head in one rough motion, the fabric catching briefly on his elbows before he yanks it free and tosses it somewhere into the dark. Your breath catches so hard it hurts.
The scars are right there.
Pale and raised across the left side of his chest, curling over the heavy swell of his bicep down his arm in irregular, jagged paths.
The skin looks tighter there, slightly shiny in places where the intensive healing left its mark. You can see the faint residual texture of where the decay had eaten deepest—where the doctors had fought to keep him alive, where he’d almost been lost.
His nipples are tight from the cooler air, and the scars pull faintly when his chest rises and falls with every heavy, uneven breath. He looks raw, exposed, and the expression on his face is pure, unfiltered fear mixed with self-loathing.
Katsuki’s red eyes stay locked on yours as he reaches down, takes your wrist in one large, calloused hand, and guides your palm up. Slow. Deliberate. Until your hand settles flat over his heart—right over the worst of the scarring.
His skin is burning hot. The scar tissue feels different under your fingers: smoother in some spots, ridged and slightly uneven in others.
His heart is hammering so hard you can feel it thudding against your palm like it’s trying to break free—or maybe like it’s terrified you’ll pull away.
“Fuck—” His voice cracks, low and rough, almost ruined. “Baby, I can tell how much you wanna touch me. How much it fuckin’ hurts you every time I stop you.”
Your throat tightens instantly. Tears already burn at the corners of your eyes, hot and sudden.
He keeps your hand pressed there, fingers tightening around yours until the pressure borders on bruising, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch the second you feel the damage. Like he’s already bracing for rejection.
“I’ve been a fuckin’ asshole about it. Every time. Keepin’ the shirt on like that was gonna protect either of us.” His jaw flexes hard enough you hear the faint click of his teeth. “Like if you didn’t see it, it wouldn’t be real. Like if I didn’t let you touch the fucked-up parts of me, maybe you’d never realize I’m not the same anymore. I’m sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
The apology lands like a punch straight to the chest. Your eyes burn hotter. All those nights of quiet rejection, of him pinning your wrists and growling warnings, of the way you’d lie awake afterward staring at the ceiling while he slept with his shirt still on—everything crashes into you at once.
You press harder without thinking, trying to feel more of him—more of the living, breathing man under the scars. Your fingertips dig in gently, mapping every raised line, every place the skin pulls differently when he breathes.
Katsuki’s breath shudders out of him in a rough exhale that ghosts across your cheek, and for a second you think he might actually pull away. That the vulnerability is too much.
Then the tears come.
You can’t stop them. They spill over, silent at first, then faster, blurring the sight of him above you until the sharp red of his eyes and the pale scars smear together.
A soft, broken sound escapes your throat—half sob, half relief, half the pain of finally being allowed this. You sit up just enough to wrap both arms around his neck and pull him down until you’re chest to chest, skin to skin for the first time in months.
The scars press against the soft give of your bare breasts. His heartbeat thuds against yours—wild, frantic, alive. The heat of him sinks into you everywhere you’re touching, and it still isn’t enough.
Katsuki makes a broken sound against your temple and slides one arm under your waist, hauling you tighter against him until there’s no space left between your bodies.
The other hand braces against the headboard so he doesn’t crush you completely under his weight, fingers curling hard around the wood like he’s holding onto the last of his control.
He’s still inside you, thick and hard and pulsing, but neither of you moves yet. You just cling—your arms locked around his neck, face buried in the warm curve of his throat, tears slipping down to wet his skin in hot trails.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers against your hair, voice raw and cracking open like something inside him is finally shattering.
“Fuck. I love you so much. Should’ve let you touch me months ago. Should’ve let you feel that I’m still here. I kept thinking… if you saw how bad it was, if you felt how fucked up I am now, you’d realize I’m not worth it anymore. That I’m not the same bastard you fell for.”
You sob once into his neck, nodding hard, fingers digging into the back of his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent marks.
The words hurt almost as much as the months of distance did. “I love you too—God, Kats—I just… I needed to know you were still mine. That you weren’t pushing me away because you didn’t want me anymore—”
“Never.” His lips press hard to your temple, then your cheek, tasting the salt of your tears like he’s trying to swallow your pain. “Never, my sweet girl. I’ve got you. I’m the one who was scared. I’m the one who kept hurting you.”
He starts moving again then. Slow. Deep. Every thrust presses the scars more firmly against your skin, the raised tissue dragging faintly against your breasts with each roll of his hips.
One of his hands stays locked at your waist, keeping you flush and open for him; the other stays braced on the headboard, veins standing out in his forearm from the strain of holding himself steady while he fucks you like he’s trying to crawl inside your ribcage and stay there.
The wet sound of him sliding in and out of you fills the quiet room—obscene and intimate all at once—mixed with the soft, broken noises you can’t hold back and the quiet, shaking breaths he keeps trying to steady.
You cry the whole time—quiet, open-mouthed tears against his throat—while he murmurs broken praise and apologies between kisses.
His hips never speed up. He just grinds into you, long and thorough, the thick head of his cock dragging over that perfect spot inside you on every stroke until the pleasure builds so heavy it feels like it’s going to split you open.
Your nails scrape down his bare back. Your thighs tremble harder around his waist. Every time the scars press against you, fresh tears spill, and every time they do, Katsuki holds you tighter, like he’s trying to hold the pieces of both of you together.
“That’s it, baby,” he rasps against your ear, voice wrecked and thick with something that sounds dangerously close to his own tears. “Feel me. All of me. The fucked-up parts too. I’m right fuckin’ here. I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’re not losing me.”
When you come it’s with a choked sob, walls fluttering and clenching around him so tightly he groans like it hurts.
Pleasure crashes through you in long, shaking waves, your arms locked so tight around his neck you might leave bruises, your body arching hard against his scarred chest like you’re trying to fuse yourself to him.
Katsuki follows seconds later with a low, guttural groan that vibrates through both of you, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep—hot pulses that seem to go on forever while his hand fists the sheets next to your head and his forehead drops to your shoulder. You feel the wetness of his own tears against your skin.
He just stays there, chest to chest, your hand still trapped between your bodies over his scarred heart, and lets you cry into his shoulder while he holds you like he’s never going to let go again. His lips keep brushing soft, almost reverent kisses along your hairline, your temple, the wet track of your tears. His voice is still rough, still cracking.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, quieter now, like a vow. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. You can touch me whenever you want. Whenever you need. Every scar. Every fucked-up piece of me. They’re yours too now. Okay?”
You nod against his neck, fingers still splayed over the scars, feeling every steady, living beat of his heart under your palm—and for the first time in months, the ache eases.
Dividers @/cursed-carmine
an - im obsessed with writing katsuki omg
