note: this is my first time ever writing a fanfic! Please let me know if you have any advice or ideas of what I should write!
You're in the bathroom with a bird's nest for hair, relieving yourself when Bakugo barges in with a spatula in hand.
"Kats. I'm on the toilet."
"..So? Like that's ever stopped me from seeing your face. You want maple syrup or chocolate syrup on your pancakes?"
He grunts, he's wearing that bright orange apron with cute bear patterns you'd bought him earlier that week —even though he'd been very adamant on not wearing some stupid cloth getting in his way, yet he stands with it on.
You melt inwardly — your heart florrishing with warmth.
Bakugo would rather die than admit that he finds it cute when you surprise him with thoughtful gifts, or when you attempt to help him around the house yet always ending up snacking on the couch with your cat, Yuki.
"Well?"
He waits for a response, his gaze softening as he stares at your drowsy concentrated face, like you're making the hardest decision of your life.
"Do we have honey?"
"We ran out, ya' finished it with those rice cakes last week, remember?"
"Oh. Then maple syrup please."
He leaves to go prep your breakfast like the perfectionist he is, precise and practical at everything — including his cooking because it's for you, of course.
You both sit at the dining table, the warm morning peaceful while Yuki purrs on his lap. He tells you about work — something about the agency, some idiot got his documents mixed up and Kirishima had to hold him back from attacking the poor boy he had to spend 2 whole hours rearranging them.
"...Could've been at home by that time, here with you. That newbie — maybe I'll add 3 extra shifts for him this week."
Bakugo buries his face into your hair, clinging to you even while eating, he's like the honey to your pancakes, melting into your arms and stuck by your side, but neither of you would have it any other way.
Survives the Shibuya Incident—barely. not without cost.
Mahito’s transfiguration hit him hard- too hard. The explosion left one side of his body twisted in pain and fire.
He comes home with deep lacerations up his left side, skin warped and torn.
He loses vision in his left eye. It clouds over. Dead. He keeps the eye socket, but it’s a permanent fog. You never flinch, not once.
Nanami who is quiet after the war, quieter than before.
He was never loud—but now, silence is the only thing he trusts.
He speaks in low, even tones, and often stops mid-sentence. Like the words got lost in the smoke.
You never push. You just sit beside him. You learned to read his pauses like a second language.
Has a ragged line of burn-scar tissue from jaw to collarbone on one side. The first time you see it, post-recovery, he’s standing in the kitchen shirtless.
You blink- once.
Then walk to him, gently tracing your fingers along it like it’s not something ruined—but something sacred.
His breath hitches.
He doesn’t cry, but his hands shake when he holds your face.
Will never admit how deeply he mourns the version of himself that could still fight beside his students: the guilt, the helplessness.
He teaches at Jujutsu High now: theory, curses, domain strategy.
He wears glasses again. (just one lens now, he doesn't joke about it, but he lets you do it.)
The students call him "Nanami-sensei" with deep respect.
But he never stops wondering if he’s enough now.
Comes home from long days in the classroom and collapses face-first on the couch, not from exertion, just…existence.
You press kisses to his shoulder blades, trace lazy fingers along the edge of his scarred ribs.
He lets out a breath you know he’s been holding since morning.
PostWar!Nanami who..
Doesn’t sleep well anymore: nightmares. of the train station, of Mahito’s hand, of Yuji screaming, of fire.
Sometimes he thrashes. Once, he hit the wall so hard the plaster cracked. Another time, he woke up with a gasp and whispered, "Not again. Not you. Not you too."
You held his face and whispered, "I’m here. I'm real." until the sun rose.
Struggles with his reflection. Not because he thinks he's hideous. he doesn’t care about vanity. But because he doesn’t recognize the man in the mirror. Sometimes, you catch him standing shirtless in the bathroom, unmoving. just…staring.
You walk up behind him, wrap your arms around his middle, and press your cheek to his spine.
"You’re still the man I love."
He doesn’t speak.
But his hand finds yours.
Feels unworthy of your love.
He’s not the man you met. Not the man you kissed in the quiet corner of the staff room. He’s broken. But you love him harder.
You kiss the sharp edge of his scar. You cup the side of his face that he tries to hide.
You whisper, "You don’t have to be whole to be mine."
PostWar!Nanami who..
Takes up reading again. long-form fiction. mostly old detective novels. Sometimes, when the light’s soft and you’re sprawled on his lap, he reads aloud to you in that low, slow voice that always makes your spine shiver.
Lets you trace the ragged line over his ribs with your mouth.
your kisses there are reverent, almost religious.
He always flinches the first time—but you never stop. You worship the pieces of him he once thought no one could ever want.
Sometimes, he exhales a shuddering moan as your lips trail over the ruined flesh.
He murmurs, "You make me feel real."
PostWar!Nanami who...
Doesn't initiate intimacy as much anymore—but aches for it.
not just sex- touch- closeness, grounding.
But the shame runs deep.
He doesn’t think he’s desirable.
Not now. Not with the tremor in his hands and the scar on his face.
The first time you crawl into his lap, kiss him deep, and whisper, "Let me love you," he trembles.
Literally trembles.
He grips your hips so tightly you bruise. When you take your time—tracing every healed burn with your fingers, murmuring soft things against his throat—he breaks.
Quietly. Slowly.
One tear. Then another.
He whispers, "I thought I lost this. I thought I lost you."
You kiss his jaw and say, "You’ll never lose me."
Still wears his watch. The one that cracked during the incident.
He keeps it in a drawer now, says it’s a reminder.
"Of what?"
"That I lived. Somehow. And that I should make the time worth it."
Post!War Nanami who..
Doesn't think he’s sexy anymore.
Not with the way his body looks now, the way his muscles pull tight around scarred flesh, the clouded eye, the way his left hand trembles when he tries to unbutton his shirt.
He thinks sex is something for his past.
He never used to be vocal. Pre-incident Nanami was quiet, controlled, almost frustrating in how still he was even during sex. You always knew it was about control. About keeping his composure. But after Shibuya? That control is cracked.
Still that quiet, deliberate man. but now?
now there’s urgency.
Like he doesn’t want to waste a second of having you.
Like every breath between you is borrowed time.
He holds you like you're a miracle.
He murmurs your name like prayer.
He makes love now—not just fucks. slowly. reverently. with a kind of hunger edged in awe.
Now, he needs your touch like oxygen.
Needs the weight of your body over him, grounding him.
Needs the way your hands trace all of him—even the damaged parts—with unshaken devotion.
He can't hide anymore. Doesn’t want to.
You’re straddling him one night, soft light filtering through the curtains, his hands bruising your hips as he thrusts up into you—slow, deep, so achingly full.
One eye locked on yours, the other clouded, scarred.
His jaw clenches. You see it coming. The moment he’s about to look away.
But you stop him.
"Don’t look away from me."
And something in him shatters.
He groans—deep, low, almost broken—and pulls you down to kiss him.
Sloppy. Open-mouthed. Hungry.
That night, you ride him until he forgets everything else.
The war. The fire. The pain.
Just you.
Just your name on his tongue—hoarse, reverent—over and over until he spills inside you with a gasping, "Thank you, thank you, thank you…"
Afterward, he curls around you like a shield.
Scarred chest pressed to your back.
His hand resting on your belly, possessive, warm.
He whispers into your hair, "I didn’t think I’d ever have this again."
And you whisper back, "You never lost it."
A/N: i felt bad for abandoning you guys for like a week, so heres some headcanons for post war nanami, picture is from pinterest. ANYWAYS, hope its decent
DUDAA HII 😽😽 your latest fic literally gave me such a big brain idea!! imagine if reader had a baby sister or brother and theo was over for the first time☹️ like imagine how cute reader would look just playing or getting food for their sibling and theo’s literally just like “yeah. yeah that confirms that you’re going to have my kids now”
theodore nott's first baby fever.
theodore hadn’t thought about having children until this very moment.
kids were a distant notion for the boy who had watched the life bleed from his mother’s green eyes, her death dealt by his father’s wand. he would forever remember that doomed tuesday—playing with her one last time in the morning, and realizing, by late afternoon, that she would never play with him again. add to that the abusive, suffocating control that christian nott kept over him until the war ended and azkaban turned his new home, and theodore became absolutely certain he would make as despicable of a father as his own had been.
children weren’t his dream. not by a long shot.
however, that changed when he met your parents for the first time, one month after the war ended. he was hesitant—the dark mark still throbbed on his forearm, and he feared what your parents might see when they looked at him—but you insisted he should go. you told him that now that the world stopped burning, you had realized how brief life could be, and you didn’t want to waste any more of it between him and his future in-laws that might someday become his family. with your bright eyes, soft lips, and sweet voice begging him to go, theodore simply couldn’t say no, even if his brain alarmed him not to—terrified your parents would get the wrong impression of him.
or at least, as wrong an impression as his appearance suggested. your parents condemned voldemort's ideals with the same vehemence you did, and, well—having a boyfriend with a bloody dark mark on his arm wasn’t exactly what they had envisioned for you.
but theodore saw you had really told him the truth when you said you had already explained to your parents that he had been a death eater, but one who had been forced into the ranks by his father’s brute cruelty. even so, nothing prepared him for your mother’s warm embrace, nor for the soft confession that she admired his strength, neither for when your father shook his hand in a way that told him everything he needed to know: he did not disapprove him.
not completely, at least.
but none of that came close to preparing him for your sister.
she was small. the little girl—three years old at most—had your eyes and hair, like a pocket-sized version of you, but plump, chubby and soft. from an armchair in your living room, he watched you play with her on the carpeted floor. you kissed her, hugged her, made silly voices that coaxed the toddler to laugh with every bit of air in her tiny lungs, and more than once, theodore caught himself smiling.
you did all of it so effortlessly.
you fed her with a hot-pink spoon, making an annoying airplane noise she adored.
you covered her chubby cheeks with kisses dramatically until she erupted in giggles.
you changed her disgusting diaper without even wrinkling your nose.
you detangled her hair with gentleness.
you crouched down to speak to her at eye level.
he was fascinated.
he allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, what things might have been like if circumstances were different—if this child were the fruit of your love. if his hands weren’t so stained with blood to hold a pure little baby. if he didn’t carry a past that clung to him like an obsessing spirit.
maybe he could be a good father. you would certainly be a remarkable mother.
jesus, the thought of seeing your belly swollen with a child who shared your smiles or his light brown curls, hearing a first cry while you lay on a hospital bed, weak from natural labor or asleep beneath C-section anesthesia... even the image of him holding your hair back while you vomited through the nausea of the first trimester felt… strangely sweet.
and that’s the moment theodore knew he wanted it.
he wanted you to be the mother of his child—children, if you wished them. he wanted to teach them all the good things he had learned from phoena—italian, the comfort of his country’s cuisine, special spells hogwarts would never teach—and be the best father those kids could ever dream of. he would protect them and keep them far from grandfather’s reach but close to their grandmother’s memory. he’d tell them how brave their mommy truly was, and recount—softened into fairy-tale versions—all the situations you faced during the wizarding war. he’d kiss you in front of them just to make them jealous; a girl and a boy, perhaps. or two boys. or two girls. it didn’t matter.
he just wanted them. he wanted you, and the life that could bloom from you. once again, without really meaning to, you had revealed a gentler piece of him to himself.
theodore watched you play with your tiny sister, still sitting on the armchair, a wide smile blooming every time he heard her giggles and babbled words. “can i hold her?” he asked, uncertainty glinting beneath his italian accent.
you looked at him with love and a smile as wide as your lips could stretch. you knew theodore held a deep reservation about children, always seeing himself as too brutish, too monstrous to be anywhere near those little angels. you disagreed fiercely.
and when you placed your sister in his arms and she looked at him with curiosity, her doe eyes sparkling at the new human in front of her, you watched another layer of the inner frost inside him crack open, letting through the kindest, warmest heat. his smile when she wrapped her entire little fist around his finger was so wide his cheeks actually seemed to ache.
you watched, live and in color, a new idea of future fatherhood silently take shape in theo; and it was probably the most beautiful sight you had ever witnessed in your entire life.
summary ~ after the war, bakugo is forced to wear a heart monitor. Is it a coincidence that his heart rate always spikes when he's around you?
fluff, gn!reader, bakugo is lowkey a simp, pining!bakugo, post war, no smut, pure fluff, his friends tease him about his crush on you
warnings: none, fluff
---
after the war, doctors closely monitor his heart beat in and out of the hospital. they had forced him to wear a heart monitor at all times, just to track if he had any abnormalties or if he was good to live without it.
usually, bakugo is great at keeping everything under wraps. but this heart monitor isnt. while talking about some of their favorite quirks of class 1A, you came up in him and his friends conversation. BEEP, BEEP, HEARTRATE ABNORMALLY HIGH !! shit. he takes deep breaths, trying to get it to stop beeping. eventually, it does.
"bakugo, are you alright?" kirishima says first, his voice laced with worry. "im fine, shitty hair. it was just..a random spike." after ensuring he's okay, they went back to a normal conversation, forgetting their original conversation of you.
another instance was before class. typically before aizawa arrives, most everyone stands with their friends and chit chats. sero, kirishima, and denki were the ones "bothering" him today. (though he didnt mind their presence). you'd arrived a little later than usual, but it didnt really matter. you walked over to bakugos desk, where his friends were surrounding. "hi everyone! bakugo, sero, kirishima, denki." you smiled and got a friendly greeting back from all but one: bakugo.
"i meant to give this back to you, kirishima. thanks for letting me borrow your notes!" you said as you handed him a notebook. "of course {name}! any ti-" BEEP! BEEP! HEART RATE ABNORMALLY HIGH! you heard from katsukis heart monitor. "katsuki? are you okay?" you put a gentle hand on his back, trying to comfort him, but the message came again. BEEP! BEEP! you took your hand back. "a-ah..sorry..!" he missed your hand on his back, even if he wouldnt admit that part. you seemed to be blind, but his friends looked as though they just obtained the most sacred piece of information ever. "i-i can go get a teacher, do you want me to?" "you can go try to find one in the halls, {name}. it would help out." denki said to you. "mhm..!" you turned around and headed for the door, leaving to find a teacher.
Just like magic, his heart rate slowed back down to normal. he seemed like he was blushing. his friends smirked. "what are you bastards smirking about?" he said, trying to sound annoyed, but knew he had been caught deep down. "you like {name}." sero said, acting smug. "no i dont," "yes you do, it cant just be a coincidence that it always spikes when shes around or gets brought up, can it?" "yes it can, pikachu. shut up."
soon, you came back with aizawa, who had just been on his way. "bakugo. are you alright?" "yes, sir. im fine now." he said with flushed cheeks.
--☆--
but his teasing was far from over. you think that annoying people such as his friends would leave THE katsuki bakugos cute little school girl crush alone? absolutely not.
"whens the wedding?"
"am i invited to your wedding?"
"how many kids?"
"aw how cute hes getting all red"
"careful with that heart rate bakugo"
"calm down guys he might go into cardiac arrest."
"oohh its {name} bakugo, they're comingg"(even if he knew that one was fake everytime, his posture would still straighten. that always made them laugh.)
"so seriously bakugo, when are you telling them how you feel? you cant wait forever." "when the time is right, okay?" "yeah and you said that forever ago too." he rolled his eyes. "oh look whos in the kitchen, go say hello," he said like his mother who was teasing him about the girl he liked. "fine." he finally gave in and went to say hello to you. they all collectively gasped as they leaned forward to watch. how unserious could they be?
"em...hi, {name}.." was he, katsuki bakugo, stuttering? that couldnt be right. "hi, bakugo!" you said with that bright smile of yours. "i was just grabbing a snack. whats up?" "i..*ahem*...wanted to tell you something. kind of important." "oh? whats up, bakugo?" you turned to face him, giving him your full attention. "so, {name}..i-.." he paused and took a deep breath. "youre really damn pretty and i fucking like you, okay?" you laughed, and he felt his heart drop for second before it rised up quick as ever when you kissed him on the lips, quick and sweet. "i like you too, katsuki."
This was a delightful project; I’ve already shown off my copy to niblings, siblings, and friends at high volume repeatedly. I’ve never gone for a fanzine before; this one was a charmer. Thanks again all!
