OK IMGINE IF READER SACRIFICES HERSELF FOR BAKUGO WHEN HE DIES?!?! SO INSTEAD OF HIM ITS HER BUT SHE SOMEHOW LIVES DUE TO HER OMNIPOTENCE QUIRK?!
And their dating too!
And how people dont realise that she’s able to heal herself while she was dead for a good 10 minutes while bakugo is crying over her ‘dead’ body???
WHAAAAA IM EXCITED TO SEE WHAT YOU COME UP WITH THIS ONE DEE!!!!
-monty , EAT SLEEP AND DRINK!
Ten Minutes
FEATURING Katsuki Bakugou x Reader
SUMMARY How dare you jump in front of him like that. What is he supposed to do without you?
CONTENT WARNINGS angst, descriptions of death, greif, and anger, talks of battlefield settings
AUTHORS NOTE I love writing pain, maybe that makes me a sadist, maybe not. We shall never know I suppose... hope you enjoy my loves! <3
The battlefield was a corpse.
Sky cracked open like ribs, scorched and splintered with the bones of broken cities. The fragments of land—suspended only by the last gasps of Monoma’s warped portals—floated like driftwood in a sea of ruin. Smoke choked the air. Blood slicked the ground. Every breath burned.
And Tomura Shigaraki—monstrous, half-formed, and pulsing with raw hatred—stood at the center, grinning with something feral behind bloodshot eyes.
Bakugo had never felt so close to the end.
He was fast—faster than ever, lungs rattling, arms trembling from the sheer heat surging through his veins—but not fast enough. The second Shigaraki’s body twisted and launched one of his barbed, sharpened tendrils straight toward him, Bakugo knew he wasn’t going to make it.
He didn’t have time to dodge. No time to think. Just instinct. Just the air being sliced apart like paper.
And then—
You were there.
You didn’t scream.
You didn’t hesitate.
You stepped in front of him and took the hit.
The spike impaled you clean through—back to chest. Your body jerked. The force of it knocked you off your feet and straight into him. He caught you with a grunt, stumbling back, arms instinctively curling around your body, but—
You weren’t moving.
He looked down.
And his world—
Collapsed.
Blood. So much of it.
Your uniform was already soaked through. The exit wound bubbled with gore, your skin torn and blackened around the edges from the heat. Your mouth opened. A gurgling sound came out. Blood slid from your lips. Your eyes—half-lidded—searched for his face, unfocused.
And then they stopped moving.
You went still.
“No,” Bakugo whispered. He shook his head, once. “No—no.”
He dropped to his knees.
The rest of the world dropped with him.
“Hey,” he rasped, voice cracking. He shook your shoulders lightly. “No. Wake up. Wake the hell up. You don’t get to do this.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. Shigaraki was still moving in the distance—he heard Jeanist shouting, felt a blast of heat from Endeavor's flames nearby—but it was nothing.
His whole universe had narrowed to you.
“You don’t get to leave me,” he whispered, lower now. Raw. “Not like this. Not without saying anything. Not for me.”
His hands were slick with your blood. He pressed down over the wound without thinking, not caring that his gloves were soaked. His palms trembled as he forced pressure over your chest, his vision blurring.
“You should’ve let it hit me,” he said, gritting his teeth, jaw clenched like it would break. “I should’ve been the one.”
His voice shook. “I’m the damn reason this whole war’s a mess. You were always the one who held us together—you were the light, you—fuck.”
The words choked out of him like smoke.
And still—you didn’t breathe.
Your head lolled in his arms. Your skin was already starting to cool. Your hair was matted with dust, blood, the scorched remnants of battle. His fingers curled in your collar as he bent over you, shoulders heaving in silence.
No sobs.
Just shaking.
Silent. Guttural. The kind of grief that doesn’t have sound because it lives in the marrow.
“I love you,” he whispered into your neck. “I never—I never said it enough. You knew, right? You had to know.”
Five minutes.
Six.
Time became a cruel thing.
And then—
It changed.
A shift.
Like gravity holding its breath.
He pulled back sharply. Your body glowed.
Softly. Weakly. But undeniably.
And then—
You gasped.
Your back arched violently in his arms as your chest heaved for air, blood surging like fire beneath your skin. Your mouth opened in a choked cry as your lungs dragged in oxygen. Energy shimmered along your veins—pale and gold, like stardust stitching your soul back together.
Your eyes opened.
White-hot. No pupils. No irises. Just pure power.
“…What the—what the fuck—” Bakugo's words snapped from his throat. He almost dropped you.
Your breath hitched. “Hurts,” you croaked. “Everything… hurts.”
He blinked, wide-eyed, as your wounds started closing. Not fully—your blood still ran, slow and thick—but he could see it, watch the skin knit itself back together. You were glowing. Flickering. Your Quirk—Omnipotence—was dragging you back from the edge of the grave.
“You’re—” he swallowed, voice failing. “You were gone. For ten goddamn minutes.”
“I know,” you whispered, coughing. “I counted.”
“You idiot.”
“You cryin’?”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, voice catching.
And then he was pulling you in again—cradling you against his chest with every ounce of strength left in his body. His fingers tangled in your hair, his grip fierce but shaking.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” he muttered into your blood-soaked collar. “You hear me? Don’t you ever do that again.”
You were trembling, but your lips tilted upward just slightly. “Only if you don’t.”
He let out a broken, strangled laugh.
“Deal, you pain-in-the-ass goddess.”
He pulled back just enough to see your eyes—still glowing, but soft now. Human again. You were here. Still with him. Still breathing.
And Bakugo Katsuki, heart-wrecked and still trembling, pressed his forehead to yours again.
“I love you,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “I love you so much it fucking hurts.”
It’s late, and you’re curled up in bed with your fanfic draft open and half a Twix in your mouth. Your followers are going wild in the replies, and you’re riding the high of being the “unofficial Dynamight smut queen” of the timeline. You’ve been known for your over-the-top thirst tweets, but this one? This one’s feral.
—
@/blastyourbackout
“Dynamight wouldn’t even take the suit off. He’d fuck you with the gauntlets still on, breathing heavy through gritted teeth, all ‘Shut up and take it—this is what you wanted, right?’”
—
You toss your phone. That’s enough unhinged behavior for the night. Until the morning comes—and you wake up to hell.
Your tweet is trending. His name is trending. People are tagging him.
—
“this is NASTY and i love it.”
“@Dynamightofficial please read this and confirm or deny.”
“If Dynamight didn’t do this, I’d be shocked.”
“SOMEONE CHECK ON HIM”
“@Dynamightofficial thoughts??”
Then it happens.
—
@Dynamightofficial :
“Who tf is behind this account.”
“If you’re gonna talk like that, be brave enough to show your face.”
You nearly throw up. Your DMs? Melted. And sitting right at the top.
[Private Message – @Dynamightofficial]
“You write a lotta shit for someone who hides behind a screen.”
“You really think I’d leave the fuckin’ suit on?”
“Show me your face if you’re gonna say it like you know me.”
Your heart is pounding. And you shouldn’t. But you do. You send a selfie. Just a soft one. T-shirt, messy hair, bare face. You look like someone who absolutely shouldn’t be writing the filth he just read.
There’s a long pause.
He starts to finally type:
“…fuck.”
“You’re cute.”
“like super fuckin’ cute”
“You don’t look like someone who says I’d blow your back out against a fuckin’ window.”
You:
“I mean… would you?”
Him:
“You really wanna know?”
“You clearly think you know it all, writing the way you do.”
“So what—wanna let me show you what it’s really like?”
You pause. Breathless. Fingers trembling.
“Yes.”
⸻
A few days later, the meet-up actually happened.
You gave him your address—half-joking, half-panicking when he immediately replied with a thumbs up and a “Bet.”
You spent the next two days spiraling.
Cleaned every inch of your apartment. Shaved, exfoliated, moisturized places you didn’t even know needed it. Practiced how you’d open the door without looking like you were seconds from passing out. Told yourself it was just casual, just fun, just… whatever. you totally weren’t about to get fucked dumb by your fav pro that you write smut about.
Except it wasn’t. Because now. He’s at your door.
And he’s in the fucking suit.
Mask off. Jaw set. Gloves still on. That big, broad chest rising and falling.
Black and orange, thick with tension and sweat and that sharp smoky scent that clings to him after a patrol. His hair’s a mess. One gauntlet is attached, the other dangling from his hip. And he’s just standing there—broad, massive, silent—like he owns the whole building.
You freeze. Your heart slams.
“…Hi,” you manage to say.
His eyes drag over you—down your legs, over the shorts you probably could’ve made smaller and the tank top that wasn’t technically meant to be seductive, but absolutely became that under stress.
“Damn,” he mutters. “You look even better when you’re nervous.”
You try to laugh but it comes out breathless. “You really wore the suit?”
“uuuh yeah? did you think I was gonna show up here in a hoodie after all the shit you wrote about this thing?” He steps closer. “Thought I’d let you see it up close before I ruined your sheets.”
Your knees go weak.
You try to respond—something witty, something smug—but your words get caught somewhere between your throat and the fact that he’s already inside. Pushing the door shut behind him. Glancing around like he’s checking for cameras, or exits, or maybe just where he’s gonna lay you out first.
“You ready?” he asks, voice low. Rough. Already undoing the gauntlet from his wrist with one hand, tossing it aside.
You nod, dazed. “Yeah.”
He smirks—steps in closer until you’re backed up against the nearest wall, breath catching.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’ve been losing sleep over the way you said I’d fuck you in this suit.”
You stare up at him, completely wrecked just by his presence, and whisper, “Was I right about some of this stuff I wrote?”
He dips his head down, lips brushing yours—barely.
“I’m here to fact check it.” he growls.
You shudder.
He pulls back just enough to smirk, eyes dragging down your body like he’s mentally ripping off every layer.
He hasn’t even touched you properly yet—but your back’s against your door, your legs are trembling, and Bakugou’s towering over you like he’s already won.
“That tweet got me thinkin’ about you all fuckin’ day, baby. Let’s see if you write better when you’re sore.”
His hero suit creaks with every breath. Heavy-duty gauntlets still locked around his wrists. His undersuit clings to him, black and orange and unforgiving across his chest, his thighs—everything.
“You scared?” he asks, voice low. His hand comes up—gloved fingers trailing under your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Or just nervous I’m actually gonna live up to that filthy little imagination of yours?”
Your breath catches.
“…both.”
He smirks. Then his mouth is on yours.
It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s everything you wrote about—demanding, rough, obsessed. He kisses like a man starved. Like he’s been reading your tweets on loop.
And god, when his hand slides down your waist—those big gloved fingers gripping your ass, hoisting you up—your back hits the wall and you let out a soft, stunned whimper.
“That the sound you make when you’re not behind a screen?” he growls, lips dragging along your neck. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re even better in person.”
You try to answer, but he’s already slipping one hand between your thighs, dragging his knuckles over your heat—still covered by your shorts.
“Wrote that I’d be mean with it,” he murmurs. “That I’d tease you. Make you beg.”
His gloved finger presses just right over the damp spot in your underwear.
“So beg.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders. You feel insane.
“P-Please.”
He groans. “That all I get after all those filthy paragraphs?”
“Dynamight—”
His eyes flash. “Katsuki.”
You pant, skin burning.
“Please, Katsuki.”
“Atta fuckin’ girl.”
He carries you to your room practically kicking the damn door down. Your back hits the mattress, but he doesn’t follow right away. He stands at the edge of the bed, breathing heavy, gaze dark and hungry.
His suit’s half-unzipped now—exposing his chest, glistening with sweat and tension—but everything else stays on. That thick black material clings to his arms and thighs like sin. The gauntlets drop to the floor with a heavy thud, but the gloves? Still on. And he flexes his fingers slow—just to watch you squirm.
“You’re fuckin’ dangerous,” he mutters, eyes dragging over your body like he’s trying to memorize it. “Sittin’ there on your little blog, makin’ people think you’ve got me figured out.”
Your thighs squeeze together. He notices. Smirks. “Lemme show you how right you were.”
He crawls over you like a storm. Muscles shifting under his suit, voice dipping low, filthy, as he shoves your shirt up, lips ghosting over your stomach.
You arch when his teeth graze your hip. “Katsuki—”
“That’s right, baby,” he mutters, pulling your shorts off slow. “Say my name when you write about this later too.”
He pushes your thighs open, and he goes down. Tongue eager. Desperate. He eats you out like he’s proving a point—like he’s got something to prove to every single tweet you’ve ever posted. Groaning into you, gripping your thighs tight like he wants to leave handprints. You’re moaning, shaking, gripping the sheets, and he’s just eating it up—literally.
He comes up with his mouth slick and eyes wild. “Not even close to done with you.” And he isn’t.
He flips you. Presses you into the mattress. One hand on your hip, the other grabbing your wrist and dragging it up the bed.
“Hold that headboard, princess.” You feel him line up—still in the damn suit—and your breath catches as he sinks in.
Slow. Deep. Bruising.
“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel like I imagined. So fuckin’ tight, so wet—shit.”
You cry out. He starts moving. Harder. Deeper.
Every stroke is a claim. His hand slides down your back, then back up to wrap around your throat—not choking, just holding. Just letting you feel it.
“Write about this next time” he growls into your ear. “Write about about me makin’ you cum multiple fuckin’ times.”
You whimper—high, breathy, wrecked.
“That’s right. Take it. You wanted this.”
“I did,” you gasp. “I wanted you—”
“You fuckin’ got me now.”
When you fall apart—completely, wildly, back-arching and moaning his name like a prayer—he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow.
Because he’s obsessed now. Addicted.
Your thighs are trembling. Your voice is hoarse. Your sheets are a mess—twisted, damp, clinging to your skin like the heat of him isn’t already enough.
He’s still going.
“One more,” he grits out, thrusts snapping into you slow and deep. “C’mon, baby—just one more for me.”
You’re barely hanging on—nails dragging helplessly down his back, vision blurry with overstimulation, body trembling under him as he rocks into you, all tight grunts and low, broken groans.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temples. “Takin’ me so good—fuck—you feel like you were made for me.”
You moan, shattered.
He growls, fucks you harder, chasing his release like a wildfire. And when he finally gets there—when you clench around him, gasping out his name in a breathless sob— He snaps.
“Knew it,” he groans, hips stuttering. “Knew I’d fill this pussy the second I saw you.” oh, and he does. Deep. Warm. Heavy. Flooding you.
He keeps moving—shallow, deep rolls—just to push it in. Just to feel it drip. Just to make it last. His head drops to your shoulder, lips brushing your skin.
You barely register him pulling out until you feel it—messy, hot, dripping down your thighs.
“fuuuck you’re beautiful” he murmurs smirking down at you. Wrecked, ruined, glowing. He lays down beside you, just looking at you like you were a fucking trophy.
He then reaches for his phone.
—
[New Tweet – @Dynamightofficial]
“Just fact-checked one of your little fantasy tweets. 11/10 accuracy. Would reread. Would re-enact.”
—
You see what’s he doing and it snaps you out your daze, your eyes go wide. “You didn’t—!”
“Too late,” he shrugs. “Let ‘em guess which one it was.”
You grabbed your phone just as quick to quote it.
—
[New Tweet – @blastyourbackout]
“Just know the gloves stayed on.”
—
The internet breaks.
You can barely feel your legs.
And Katsuki Bakugou? THE pro hero Dynamight?
He’s already rolling over, tugging you to his chest, muttering in your ear, “Hope you’re not tired, princess. I’ve got a lot more tweets to prove right.”
Summary: Bakugou doesn’t do sweet. Or soft. Or clingy.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
“Say it again.”
Your voice was barely above a whisper, breath caught in your throat as his hands gripped your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.
“Tch. Don’t push it,” he muttered against your skin lips brushing that soft spot beneath your ear, voice rough with heat.
But his hold on you tightened.
“I’m not,” you murmured. “I just… like the way you say it.”
He stilled.
“Yeah? You’re such a damn problem.”
You grinned, nose nudging his. “But you like me.”
“Like you?” He scoffed, burying his face in your neck. “I’m losing my mind over you.”
Everyone thought Bakugou didn’t do intimacy. That he wasn’t built for softness or warmth.
But in your bed, lights dimmed, legs tangled, he was a man undone.
Your fingers traced lazy circles on his bare chest, and he shivered, not from cold, but from the way you looked at him.
“Why do you look at me like that?” he rasped.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m worth something.”
You kissed his collarbone, slow and reverent. “Because you are.”
His jaw flexed, throat working through something thick and silent.
“You’re everything,” you whispered. “Even when you’re trying not to be.”
Bakugou pulled you on top of him then, eyes soft, hand curled around the back of your neck as he kissed you deep and desperate like he needed to taste the truth in your mouth to believe it.
After, when your bodies were flush and sweat-slicked, breaths mingling in the silence, he touched your cheek, his rough fingertips trembling just a little.
“I’m not good at this shit,” he said. “But I swear to God, I’d burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe.”
“I know,” you said softly, threading your fingers with his.
“I need you to know that I-” He exhaled harshly. “I love you. Okay? There. Fuckin’ said it.”
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then his lips.
“I love you too, Katsuki.”
He kissed you again slowly this time. As if he had all the time in the world to learn how to love you right.
so in other news Pokemon is releasing life-sized Eeveelution (+ Eevee) plushies. this would not be particularly noteworthy except for the fact that the plushies are FUCKING HUGE
stormborns
discoholicmusic
izzy806
amandla
romaincrisis
