˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ 𓏲 ˖. 💌 ⸝⸝. BNHA BOYS AS VALINTINE’S DAY TROPES | k. bakugo
SYPNOSIS. He is smoke and fire and the warmth of coming home. He is missed dinners and desperate apologies. He is a hero to the world and yours alone in the quiet moments. He is imperfect and trying and so completely, devastatingly yours.
TROPE: too busy saving the world to celebrate (until he realizes what he’s about to lose)
TAGS: angst with a happy ending, adult pro hero bakugo, he messed up BAD, men kneeling is my weakness, mina ashido deserves a raise for that phone call, kirishima is the emotional support rock as usual, the way he left the villain fight looking like a disaster just to find you, feral bakugo, he is DOWN BAD, local hero causes scene in jazz bar, suggestive content, implied sex, making out, possessive bakugo if you squint, screaming crying throwing up
THE THING ABOUT loving a Pro Hero —specifically, about loving the Pro Hero Dynamight, current Number Two and aggressively climbing toward Number One—is that you learn very quickly where you rank on the priority list.
Civilian safety: Priority one.
Villain capture: Priority two.
Training: Priority three.
Everything else, including you: Priority four at best.
You knew this going in. Katsuki had been brutally honest about it three years ago when whatever had been simmering between you finally boiled over into something real, something with a name.
“I’m not gonna be some extras-level boyfriend,” he’d said, backing you against your apartment door, still in his hero suit, smelling like smoke, nitroglycerin and victory. “I don’t do flowers every week or daily good morning texts or whatever the hell people expect. I’m gonna be the Number One Hero. That comes first. If you can’t handle that, tell me now.”
You’d fisted your hands in his costume and pulled him down into a kiss that tasted like challenge and promise.
“I don’t want an extras-level boyfriend,” you’d breathed against his mouth. “I want you. Exactly as you are.”
His eyes had gone dark, molten. “Dangerous thing to say to me.”
“I’m not scared of you, Katsuki.”
“Yeah?” His hand had slid up your thigh, possessive and sure. “You should be.”
But you weren’t. Not then. Not now. Even when being with him means nights like this.
February 14th, 7:43 PM
Your apartment is dark when you let yourself in, heels clicking against hardwood, the sound too loud in the emptiness.
You flip on the lights and try not to look at the table.
You’d set it this morning before work, optimistic and foolish. Candles that haven’t been lit. The good plates you rarely use. Wine breathing in a decanter, probably vinegar by now.
Your phone sits heavy in your purse. No messages. No calls.
You’d tried reaching him four times this afternoon. All straight to voicemail. His agency said he was “in the field”—code for a fight that was taking longer than expected.
It’s fine. You knew this was a possibility. Heroes don’t get days off just because the calendar says it’s Valentine’s Day. Villains don’t stop committing crimes because of some holiday.
You knew this.
You’ve always known this.
So why does your chest feel tight? Why do your eyes burn?
You kick off your heels—new, expensive, purchased specifically for tonight—and pad into the kitchen. The dress you’re wearing is silk, the color of old gold, cut to cling and drape in all the right places. You’d spent an hour on your hair. Your makeup is perfect.
All for an empty apartment and a table set for two.
You’re pulling the wine bottle from the decanter when your phone rings.
For a moment, your heart leaps. But then you see the name.
Not Katsuki. Mina.
“Hey,” you answer, trying to keep your voice level.
“Please tell me you’re not sitting alone in your apartment right now.”
You glance at the sad table, the unlit candles. “I’m not sitting.”
“Oh, honey.” Mina’s voice is soft with sympathy. “He didn’t make it?”
“He’s working. There was a villain attack in Shinjuku. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine! It’s Valentine’s Day!”
“Mina—”
“No, listen. I love Bakugo. You know I do. But this is the third year in a row he’s missed Valentine’s Day. And your birthday last year. And your anniversary the year before that.”
“He’s a hero,” you say, but it sounds weak even to your own ears. “People’s lives depend on him.”
“And what about your life? What about what you need?”
You don’t have an answer for that.
Mina sighs. “Jirou and I are at that wine bar in Roppongi. The nice one with the jazz. Come meet us. Please. Don’t just sit there alone.”
You look down at your dress, your bare feet, the expensive bottle of wine that was supposed to be for a celebration.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Yeah. Give me twenty minutes.”
9:15 PM
Katsuki smells like blood and concrete dust and ozone.
The villain—some third-rate wannabe with a building destruction quirk—had taken four hours to subdue. Four fucking hours of evacuations and structural collapses and civilians who didn’t have the sense to stay clear of a goddamn danger zone.
But it’s done. The bastard’s in custody. No civilian casualties. Minor property damage, all things considered.
A success.
So why does he feel like he’s forgotten something?
Katsuki’s pulling off his gauntlets in the agency locker room when Kirishima walks in, already showered and in civilian clothes.
“Hey, man. Hell of a fight.”
“Tch. Guy was weak as shit. Just destructive.”
“Yeah, well. Still. Good work.” Kirishima hesitates, then adds carefully, “You heading home?”
“Where else would I be going?”
“I don’t know, man. I just thought… maybe you had plans?”
Katsuki frowns, something nagging at the back of his mind. Plans? What—
And then it hits him.
The date.
February 14th.
Valentine’s Day.
Fuck.
His phone is in his locker, still on silent from the operation. When he grabs it, the screen lights up with notifications.
Four missed calls. All from you.
Three texts.
6:30 PM - Hey, what time do you think you’ll be done?
7:15 PM - I’m guessing the fight’s running long. Just let me know when you’re on your way.
8:00 PM - Okay. I’m going out with Mina and Jirou. Don’t worry about tonight.
Don’t worry about tonight.
Four words that land like a gut punch.
“Shit,” Katsuki breathes.
“Dude?” Kirishima’s voice is cautious. “You okay?”
“I fucked up.” He’s already yanking open his locker, grabbing his clothes. “I fucking forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“Valentine’s Day. I was supposed to—we had plans. Reservations. I told her I’d make it work this year.”
Kirishima winces. “Oh man. That’s… how bad?”
Katsuki’s jaw clenches. Three years. Three years in a row he’s missed this holiday. He remembers now—last year’s villain incident, the year before’s natural disaster. And now this.
He remembers more than that, too. The quiet disappointment in your voice when he’d missed your birthday. The way you’d smiled and said “it’s fine” when he’d had to cancel your anniversary dinner.
The way you’ve been saying “it’s fine” for three years while he’s prioritized everything else above you.
“Call her,” Kirishima says. “Maybe you can still—”
Katsuki’s already dialing.
It rings. And rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
He tries again.
Voicemail.
A third time.
Voicemail.
“FUCK!” The word explodes out of him. Several heroes in the locker room look over, startled.
He doesn’t care.
He calls Mina.
She answers on the first ring. “If you’re calling to make excuses, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Where is she?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Ashido.” His voice is dangerous, low. “Where. Is. She.”
A pause. Then: “Jazz bar in Roppongi. Sixth Street. But Bakugo, I swear to God, if you show up and make this worse—”
He hangs up.
9:47 PM
You’re on your second glass of wine when the bar goes quiet.
Not completely silent. The jazz trio is still playing, a slow, melancholy number. Conversations continue in pockets. But there’s a shift in energy, a ripple of awareness moving through the room.
You know what it means before you turn around.
Pro Hero in the building.
You know who it is before you see him.
Katsuki stands in the doorway of the upscale wine bar in his full hero costume, mask pushed up into his hair, gauntlets still smoking faintly. He’s bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow. His costume is torn at the shoulder. He looks like he ran straight from a battlefield.
He did.
Every eye in the bar is on him. Phones are already out, cameras capturing the moment. Pro Hero Dynamight, looking completely out of place among the low lighting and well-dressed patrons and smooth jazz.
His eyes scan the room with tactical precision.
Then they find you.
The world narrows to just that—his gaze locking onto yours across the crowded bar.
He moves.
People scramble out of his way as he cuts through the space like a knife. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone else, doesn’t sign autographs or pose for photos. Just walks straight toward your table with single-minded intensity.
Mina and Jirou exchange glances.
“We’re gonna… go check out the bathroom,” Mina says, grabbing Jirou’s hand.
“We were just there—ow!” Jirou yelps as Mina kicks her under the table.
Then they’re gone, and it’s just you and Katsuki and the entire bar pretending not to watch while absolutely watching.
He stops in front of your table.
Up close, he looks worse. There’s concrete dust in his hair, a nasty bruise forming along his jaw. His knuckles are split and bleeding. He’s swaying slightly, exhausted.
And his eyes—his eyes are desperate.
“I fucked up,” he says.
You take a sip of wine. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words are rough, unpracticed. Katsuki doesn’t apologize often. Doesn’t know how to make his mouth form the words without them tasting like ash.
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay?” His brow furrows. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say, Katsuki?” You’re proud of how steady your voice is. How calm. “You missed dinner. Again. It’s fine. You were working. Saving people. That’s important.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say it’s fine when it’s not fucking fine.” He braces his hands on the table, leaning in. Close enough that you can smell him—smoke and sweat and that ever-present burnt sugar scent. “You’re pissed. You should be pissed.”
“I’m not pissed.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m tired, Katsuki.” The words come out sharper than you intended. “I’m tired of being understanding. I’m tired of being patient. I’m tired of setting tables for two and eating alone.”
His jaw clenches. “I know.”
“Do you?” You set down your wine glass carefully. “Because this is the third year in a row you’ve missed Valentine’s Day. And I told myself it was fine, that I understood, that being with you meant accepting this. But I’m starting to wonder if—”
You stop. Shake your head.
“If what?” His voice has gone quiet. Dangerous.
“If I’m even a priority for you at all.”
The words hang in the air between you.
Around you, the bar has gone properly silent now. The jazz trio is between songs. Everyone is listening, even though they’re pretending not to.
Katsuki’s hands curl into fists on the table.
Then he’s moving around it, dropping to one knee beside your chair.
Gasps ripple through the bar. Phones appear everywhere, camera flashes going off.
“What are you—”
“Shut up,” he says, but his voice is soft. Devastated. “Just… shut up and listen.”
You close your mouth. He takes your hand in both of his. His palms are hot, calloused, trembling faintly with exhaustion or something else.
“I’ve been a shit boyfriend,” he says, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. Loud enough that it’ll be on social media in minutes, trending by midnight. “I’ve prioritized everything else above you. I’ve missed dinners and birthdays and anniversaries. I’ve made you feel like you don’t matter.”
“Kats—”
“But you do matter.” His grip tightens on your hand. “You matter more than anything. More than the rankings. More than the job. More than all of it.”
Your breath catches.
“I’m a fucking idiot for not showing you that sooner. For making you doubt it. For making you think you’re just… just something on my to-do list.” He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “You’re not. You’re everything. And I’m sorry I’ve been too goddamn busy trying to be Number One to realize that I already am—when I’m with you.”
Tears prick at your eyes.
“I can’t promise I’ll never miss another dinner,” he continues, quieter now. “I can’t promise there won’t be emergencies or fights that run long. But I can promise I’ll try harder. I’ll be better. I’ll make you feel like the priority you are.”
“Katsuki,” you whisper.
“Come home,” he says. “Please. Let me make this right.”
You look at him—this man who hates showing weakness, who guards his vulnerabilities like state secrets, kneeling in a crowded bar and baring his heart for everyone to see. For you to see.
“Okay,” you breathe.
Relief crashes across his face.
He surges up and kisses you, hard and desperate and not at all appropriate for public. His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and he kisses you like you’re oxygen and he’s been drowning.
Someone in the bar starts clapping.
Then everyone is clapping, cheering, and you’re laughing against Katsuki’s mouth.
“You’re going to be all over Twitter in five minutes,” you murmur.
“Don’t give a shit.” He kisses you again. “Let them watch.”
11:23 PM
Your apartment is still dark when you return, but this time you’re not alone.
Katsuki’s hands are on you before the door even closes, pushing you against the wall, his mouth hot and urgent against your neck.
“Katsuki,” you gasp.
“Missed you,” he growls against your skin. “Missed this. Fuck, you look incredible in this dress.”
His hands map the silk, sliding over your curves with obvious appreciation. You can feel how exhausted he is—the slight tremor in his muscles, the way he’s leaning his weight against you—but his desire is evident in every touch.
“You need a shower,” you say, even as you tilt your head to give him better access. “You’re covered in blood and concrete dust.”
“Our shower. Together.”
Heat pools low in your belly. “Demanding.”
“You love it.” His teeth graze your pulse point, and you shudder.
“Maybe.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face steals your breath. Hunger and affection and something deeper, something that looks like devotion.
“I’m gonna make tonight worth the wait,” he promises, voice low and rough. “Gonna make you forget about every dinner I missed, every time I fucked up.”
“That’s a tall order.”
His grin is sharp, dangerous. “Good thing I always exceed expectations.”
Then he’s lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and he’s carrying you toward the bathroom.
The dress—the expensive, beautiful dress you wore for a dinner that never happened—hits the floor somewhere along the way.
You’re in bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like him, your head on his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, strong and alive. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare shoulder.
The candles from the abandoned table are finally lit, scattered around the bedroom, casting everything in warm, flickering light.
“I really am sorry,” he murmurs into the darkness.
“I know.”
“I’m gonna do better.”
“I know that too.”
His arm tightens around you. “Why do you put up with me?”
You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are soft in the candlelight, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows.
“Because underneath the hero and the rankings and the constant drive to be the best,” you say, pressing a kiss to his chest, “you’re still the man who carried me to bed. Who’s holding me like I might disappear. Who got on his knees in front of a hundred strangers because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing me.”
His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your lower lip.
“Never gonna lose you,” he says. “I don’t lose. Not at this.”
“Confident.”
“Damn right.” He pulls you up into a kiss—slower this time, deeper, full of promise. “You’re mine. And I take care of what’s mine.”
“Prove it,” you challenge against his mouth.
His eyes flash.
“Dangerous thing to say to me,” he echoes from three years ago.
You smile. “I’m still not scared of you, Katsuki.”
“Yeah?” His hand slides down your spine, leaving trails of heat. “Maybe you should be.”
But you’re not.
Not when he rolls you beneath him, mouth trailing fire down your throat.
Not when he whispers your name like a prayer and a curse. Not when he loves you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—because for tonight, for this moment, you are.
You wake to the smell of coffee and something cooking.
Katsuki is in your kitchen, shirtless, a pair of your ridiculous cat-print towels tied around his waist since he slept in his boxer briefs. He’s making breakfast—eggs, rice, grilled fish. Proper Japanese breakfast, the kind that takes time and care.
“You’re cooking,” you observe, leaning against the doorframe.
“Observant.” But he’s smiling slightly. “Sit. Food’s almost ready.”
You pad over and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against the warm skin of his back. His muscles shift as he works, and you can feel the rumble of satisfaction in his chest.
“Thank you,” you murmur.
“For what? Fucking up and then apologizing?”
“For coming to find me. For choosing me.” He sets down the spatula and turns in your arms, pulling you close.
“Always gonna choose you,” he mutters against your hair. “Even when I’m shit at showing it. Even when the job gets in the way. You’re my priority. Gonna make sure you know it.”
You believe him. Not because he’s perfect. Not because he’ll never miss another dinner or work too late or get called away for an emergency.
But because he’s here. Because he’s trying. Because loving him has always meant accepting the hero and the man, the explosions and the quiet moments, the missed dinners and the mornings after.
“I love you,” you tell him.
“Love you too,” he says, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.
And maybe it is.
