Nick

If anything, he shifted his stance, shoulders rolling back as he flexed deliberately under your fingers. The definition popped even harder, veins tracing faint lines beneath the surface. Your mouth went dry.

He rolled his eyes - reading you easily - and bent down to throw you over his shoulder in one easy motion, “C’mon then, pervert.”

The view from his shoulder was sinful - his slim waist, the defined muscle under his tank top, the curve of his ass in those grey sweatpants. You couldn’t resist reaching down to give him a squeeze with a cheeky giggle. He growled a warning, pinching your thigh lightly.

He kicked the bedroom door open, crossing the room in a few large steps. He tossed you onto the bed, hands immediately finding the hem of your shorts, pulling them - and your panties - down in one go.

You giggled as the cool air hit you, resting one foot against his thigh, “Someone’s eager.”

“Yeah, you,” His hand found your ankle, the other swiping your folds. “Fuckin’ soaked already.”

He crawled onto the bed, sitting back against the headboard, one arm extended - palm up. His fingers were glinting lightly with your slick. You sat up, hesitating for all of one second before he scowled, reaching out to tug you forward, “C’mon, I ain’t got all night.”

He did, in fact, have all night - neither of you had plans the next day. You knew the real reason behind his agitation - the twitching bulge in his sweatpants gave away the excitement in his veins.

You bit your lip to hide a smile, crawling over to him. You swung one leg over his arm, thighs stretching as you hovered over the firm muscle. One large hand rested against your back, keeping you steady. The other found your hip as he spoke, looking up at you with a scowl, “Quit hesitating. You were so confident a minute ago. Prove it wasn’t all talk.”

You huffed, bracing yourself on the headboard, “Give me a second, hotshot. I’ve never done this before.”

He scoffed, squeezing your hip. His eyes flicked down to your dripping sex before finding yours again, “How the hell is this any different from riding my thigh?”

You threw your head back, groaning dramatically, “‘Cause it just is! Now shut up and flex.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt, but listened anyway. The already defined lines of his arm grew bigger, veins popping out as he contracted the muscle. Your hips didn’t move, but his arm brushed against your lips anyways.

You let out a small whine as you sank down, covering the hand on your hip with your own. He let out a groan at the feeling of your warm juices soaking his bicep, pressing his forehead into your stomach.

“Can’t believe you’re really doin’ it,” his breath was hot against your skin.

You rolled your hips once, clit dragging alone the peak of his arm. The muscle jumped and flexed under you as he adjusted, veins standing out sharply under your soaked pussy. A needy sound escaped your throat.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” you gasped, gripping the headboard tighter, moving the other hand to his shoulder for leverage. You started moving properly - slow grinds at first, then building into a steady rhythm, sliding back and forth along the length of his arm.

Katsuki pulled his head back, watching you with dark, half-lidded eyes - jaw tight. His eyes flicked from your face, to your hips, to your slick pussy stretched across his arm. Every time you rolled forward, your clit caught perfectly on the thickest part of his bicep, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through you. Your juices ran freely now, dripping down his body and onto the sheets.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he growled. “How long you been thinkin’ about this, huh?”

His hand squeezed your hip, pushing you down harder on the muscle as he flexed again. The movement sent little shocks through your body, rock-solid muscle expanding underneath you.

“A while,” you gasped, pushing yourself back against his bent forearm for leverage. “You’re just so pretty, Kats.”

He let out a huff, “Yeah? You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Rubbin’ on my arm like some desperate slut.”

You could only moan in response, hips stuttering as pleasure coiled tight and hot in your belly. He shifted his arm slightly, angling it so the thickest part rubbed relentlessly against you with every roll. The friction was maddening - too much and not enough all at once.

You panted, grinding down harder. Your voice came out light and breathless, “Wanted to feel how strong you are- fuck- right there-”

Katsuki’s breath hitched. His cock was straining painfully against his sweatpants, a dark wet spot forming at the tip. His hand left your hip, palming himself roughly through the fabric as he watched you use his arm.

“Faster,” he ordered, voice strained. “C’mon, ride it like you mean it.”

You obeyed, thighs burning as you picked up the pace. The slick glide of your pussy over his hot skin, the way his muscle jumped and flexed under you with every thrust of your hips - it was perfect. Your clit throbbed, sparks shooting up your spine with every pass.

He leaned in, teeth grazing your stomach before biting down lightly, sucking a mark into your skin, “Gonna cum all over my arm, aren’t you? Make a mess like the little pervert you are.”

The words tipped you over. Your rhythm broke, hips jerking erratically as the orgasm crashed into you. You cried out his name, thighs clamping around his arm as you shook and pulsed, fresh slick gushing over his bicep and dripping onto the sheets. He kept flexing through it, milking every last wave until you were whimpering, oversensitive and trembling.

You slumped forward, forehead pressed to his hair, trying to catch your breath. The hand on your back to rub slow circles into your skin, surprisingly gentle for a few moments.

He gave you roughly fifteen seconds before flipping you over, leaning down to press his forehead to yours, “Gonna let me fuck this pretty pussy now?”

You bucked your hips up into his dick, the wet spot on his sweatpants tapping your clit, “Yes, please Kats.”

He grinned, sharp and feral, before leaning back on his heels to pull his clothes down enough to free his cock. It was flushed an angry red, tip steadily leaking pre-cum.

“Y’think you can take me with no prep?” His eyes fixated on yours.

You bit your lip. He was big, always prepping you with three fingers before entering. But, you were also really horny - and didn’t exactly feel like waiting any longer.

Nodding, you grabbed his hair to pull him into a heated kiss. You pulled back, murmuring into his lips, “Be gentle?”

Katsuki’s grin sharpened - all teeth and hunger - but his eyes softened just a fraction at your whispered plea, “Tch. As if I’d hurt you, dumbass.”

He kissed you again - hard, claiming, tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to devour the words right out of your mouth. One broad hand gripped your thigh, spreading you open as he lined himself up.

The blunt head of his cock nudged your soaked entrance, slick and hot. You were still fluttering from your first orgasm - the stretch when he pushed in was immediate and intense. A low groan tore from his throat as he sank the first few inches, your walls clenching greedily around him.

“Fuck- so tight,” he hissed through gritted teeth. His hips rolled forward slowly, giving you time to adjust even as his arms trembled with the effort of holding back. Veins stood out along his forearms, the same ones still glistening with your release. “Breathe, baby. That’s it.”

You whimpered into his mouth, nails digging into his strong shoulders as he bottomed out. The fullness was overwhelming - thick, heavy, pressing against every sweet spot inside you. He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours while you both panted.

Then he started moving.

Slow, deep strokes at first, grinding his hips into yours. Each thrust dragged against your walls, pulling filthy wet sounds from where you were joined. His bicep flexed beside your head as he braced himself, the muscle you’d just ridden now taut and glistening with sweat.

“Still think my arms are the best part?” he growled, voice rough with restraint. He hiked one of your legs higher around his body, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes, “Or is my cock better?”

You couldn’t even answer properly - just a broken moan as pleasure sparked up your spine. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper. Katsuki cursed under his breath and gave you what you wanted, picking up speed. The bed creaked under the force of his thrusts, headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm.

He dropped his head to your neck, sucking and biting marks into your skin while one hand slid between you to circle your swollen clit, “C’mon, ride my dick like you rode my arm. Show me how bad you need it.”

You did - hips rolling up to meet every thrust, grinding against his pelvis when he pressed deep. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter, faster this time, fueled by how full you felt and the raw power rolling through his body.

“Katsuki- fuck, I’m close- ”

“Yeah? Gonna cum on my cock this time?” He slammed in harder, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. His voice dropped into a snarl, “Do it. Soak me. Wanna feel you milking me dry.”

His fingers pressed firmer on your clit, thumb rubbing tight circles, and that was it. You shattered with a cry, back arching off the bed as your second orgasm ripped through you. Your pussy fluttered and clenched around him, gushing fresh slick down his length and onto the sheets.

Katsuki groaned loud and broken, hips stuttering as he chased his own release. “That’s it - good girl.”

A few more brutal thrusts and he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural moan. His cock pulsed hot and heavy, filling you until you felt it leaking out around him.

He picked his head up, pecking your lips lightly as he pulled out of you with a hiss. You expected him to lie next to you - pull you into his chest like he usually did. Instead, he flopped down on top of you, shoving his face into the crook of your neck.

“Still think you’re a pervert,” his voice was muffled by your hair.

You spoke through a smile, “Yeah, and you love me anyways.”

He shoved his face into your skin even further, sighing deeply.

“Yeah… I do.”

“baby. go,” you hum, dragging your slippered feet across your floor.

you tuck your body between his open legs, putting down your bottle and snacks to lightly tickle under his chin. you receive the harshest glare you’ve ever experienced from him, though it’s still miles below the ones he gives at work. 

calloused hands find the bare backs of your soft thighs and lightly, he squeezes.

“you fuckin’ hate me,” he huffs, but his pout comes through. all his features softening under your attention, minus the twist in his brows. “gettin’ rid of me like this.”

you don’t miss the hickies on his neck, two maroon bruises because all you’ve done together these past few days is kiss, cuddle, eat and have sex. since bakugou became your boyfriend, he often forgets about his own apartment. his home is much larger, much more luxurious with built in speakers in the ceilings and a double headed shower. but he always lingers in yours, though he never outstays his welcome. even now.

“i don’t want you to leave but you need to pack for your mission tomorrow,” you smile, taller than him as he sits.

he feels delirious when he stuffs his face in your cotton soft stomach. you smell freshly showered, clean, cosy and like home. bakugou feels like his heart has been stabbed with a fork. he already misses you and you’re right in front of him.

it’s like he’s fighting the devil on his shoulder, to just stay over again tonight and get up early tomorrow. he can grab his shit from home and go straight there. he knows that plan will throw his whole day off tomorrow. also you hate waking up early.

he blinks at you slowly, like a cat that loves what he sees.

for you, it’s easy to get hot from his touch alone and that stare makes you nudge in closer to him. you want to sit on his lap, kiss down his neck again, despite being all over him an hour ago.

“you want me to piss off so you can watch love island,” he breathes, looking up at you with the sweetest ruby puppy dog eyes. there’s a scratchy tone to his voice, sleepiness clearly taking over though he fights it to spend a second longer with you.

you know for a fact you’re the only person in this universe that has seen katsuki like this. that thought alone makes you want to call up his job and say he can’t come in tomorrow. say he’s sick so you can cuddle his big head in your lap. who would you even call? the hero commission? his sidekicks? he is his own boss.

“i do have a load of episodes to catch up on since you’ve been here,” you say sweetly and he eyes your snacks, then your water bottle placed on the shelf beside him.

he’s a grumpy baby in a twenty seven year old, muscled man’s body. he scrunches his nose at the mention of that show. he hates all reality tv, so he says, even though he ends up asking you for details throughout every episode.

“just say you hate me,” he grunts, tilting his head up for a kiss.

you don’t give in just yet.

“i love you but you’ve gotta go. you’ll be even grumpier without sleep in the morning,” you smile.

he rolls his eyes. ever the dramatic one. “yeah, yeah. i get it. love you too.”

you stand there for a few moments. his grip on your thighs getting tighter, his chin in your stomach. he rubs his cheek against your palm, his stubble prickling against you with every move.

“you need to put your shoes on—,”

“you look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, even biting down on his bottom lip.

you narrow your eyes at him. you know exactly what he’s doing and it usually has a hundred percent success ratio.

he pulls off you, keeping his hands on your thighs to look down your body. stupidly, it causes you to look down at yourself too.

your soft pastel pink  boy shorts because you get hot at night. your comfy low cut navy strappy top, that has seen better days but you have no need to replace yet. your nipples poke through the fabric and you don’t miss bakugou’s gaze wafting over them with his tongue poking his cheek.

he looks as if he’s about to moan or take a bite out of you. you can’t tell yet. you don’t mind either.

“katsuki, stop it. you were supposed to leave an hour ago,” you look to your clock beside your front door. “an hour and a half ago.”

bakugou grits his teeth then relaxes by kissing the strip of your stomach between your vest and shorts. he releases the quietest whine.

“i wanna stay here with you.”

even though he’s being dramatic, you’ll see him in less than a week, every word releases tingles down your spine.

you press a kiss to his lips, to which he eagerly pushes back. his hands sneak up to your waist holding you with purpose. it’s only a peck but everything he’s feeling is translated through.

“you’re killin’ me,” he says onto your lips.

“it’s not me, baby. you have the world to save tomorrow. you can make love to your girlfriend when you get back,” you say tenderly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“i’m givin’ you a good fuckin’ when i see you again.”

“you always do,” you shrug playfully and bakugou chuckles, shaking his head in resignation.

“fuck. fuck my life,” he grunts to himself, pulling his slides off your shoe rack and shoving them onto his feet.

“it feels like you’re obsessed with me, kats,” you giggle to yourself, stepping back so he has space to stand up and sling his duffle over his shoulder.

he raises one eyebrow, a huffy laugh releasing from his throat.

“hm? you think?” he takes his hand through his hair, a light pink blush on his cheeks from your attention. “‘course i fuckin’ am. i’m comin’ right back to get you when i’m done.”

you lift up on your tiptoes, hands on his pectorals, “if you say so.”

“i do say so. i am sayin’ that,” he mumbles, hands finding your ass to lift you with ease.

you wrap your legs around his waist so he doesn’t have to bend to kiss you.

“next thursday, okay?” he kisses the corner of your lips, feeling your cheeks rise. “and still text me. i’ll have my phone on me in the evenings.”

you smooth down his eyebrows with your thumbs.

“yes, dynamight sir,” you drawl, but you lean in to peck him, a noisy kiss that has him chasing after you. he moans softly.

“another.” he whispers.

with your arms wrapped around his neck, you give his bottom lip a nibble, one that causes an exasperated groan. then you slot your lips over his, pushing your tongue into his mouth to tangle against his. it’s long, wet and pulses throughout your body.

you push your chest against his as if you’re trying to merge into one, bakugou’s fingertips sinking into your ass cheeks.

it’s you that pulls away, landing two kisses on his lips for good measure.

“baby, no.” he complains.

since you’re the only one with self control here, you tap his shoulder.

“put me down now. you’ve got to go.” you say controlled and bakugou throws his head back in annoyance, “need you wide awake on the field so you don’t get hurt. i don’t wanna see a scratch on your pretty face when you come back.”

that gets him putting you down, your feet finding the floor. since getting with you, he’s much more mindful of his recklessness and getting hurt. bakugou doesn’t want to scare or upset you. you’ve become his beacon of light, his conscience and answer.

“my pretty face?” he grips the handle to his bag, a smirk rising. he’s still taking in his last few seconds.

you nod, “yes. come home safe to me.”

“i always do. don’t have to doubt me, princess.”

the pet name gets you rolling your eyes to hide how it makes your stomach do flips. he undoes both your door locks and slowly opens it with his shoulder like it weighs a tonne.

as if it’s becoming real all of a sudden, you throw yourself into his chest, wrapping your arms around him in a cuddle under his hoodie. you feel complete once you stuff your cheek between his pectorals and you squeeze him tight as thick arms cradle you in. katsuki’s always warm and toasty, a tall standing mattress for you to fall asleep on.

despite you urging him to leave, it doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t ache.

“i’ll miss you,” you say, eyes squeezed shut.

you’re just as dramatic as him, you just hide it better. you’ll see him next week.

“i’ll miss you. gonna think about you when i’m on the camp site shittin’ in the woods.”

your laugh makes bakugou’s chest swell.

“you’re so annoying.”

he shrugs.

with all the power he’s ever possessed in one single time, bakugou lets you untangle from him.

“i’m gonna go now.” he looks down your empty corridor, “i could stay over tonight and leave in the mornin’—.”

“you’re not waking me up at three.”

he turns to you with a frown.

“fine. another kiss, to wish me well,” he demands.

that you can do.

a smush of your lips, you gripping his tee as his hand cups your chin.

“another. for good luck.”

you huff playfully but still you give him another kiss. one that has you opening your mouth and letting him slot his tongue in between. it goes on longer than you mean, with you dragging him closer and his hands land back on your hips.

it’s when he groans without realising, a hardening bump in his waistband pressing against your stomach.

“go now!” you say, pushing him off you and bakugou drags a palm down his face.

“fuck,” he breathes, shaking the horny off his body. not the time. “i’ll see you next week. lock the door behind me. all of them.”

“i always do!”

he flickers down your body, one step into the corridor. 

bakugou bites down on his bottom lip, “i love you. can’t wait to see you again.”

you awe, gripping the door and peeking out, “i love you too. i’ll keep you updated. even send you some selfies.”

bakugou nods rapidly, “please. i won’t be able to reply quickly but i will.”

“okay, i’ll see you later.”

he’s about to step away, he swears he is though he looks back at you peeping at him.

“one last kiss then i’m outta your sight,” he promises.

you eagerly pull out from behind the door, “last one! then you have to go!”

“yeah, yeah, yeah—,” he’s rough in the way you love, placing a palm flat on your back to pull you into him. you practically fall into his arms but quickly you’re up on your tiptoes.

it’s a kiss with the energy that it could be the last one you ever have. a hero going off on a mission and leaving his beautiful girl back home. though this isn’t one of his high risk ones, heck he’s going on his own because he’s so capable. yet still the day he returns feels like forever away.

you practically eat each other's faces, unable to stay appropriate down to your last moments together. you twist to the left as he goes right, holding the back of his head so he stays close. he’s not shy to push his cock into you, letting you know all the ways he will miss you.

it’s loud and messy. it’s trying to remember every inch of him so you can recall it in your nights alone. it’s bakugou groping every part of you he can get his hands on so he can mark you as his.

your blonde sucks on your tongue and you don’t mean to palm him but he ruts into you at the contact. you moan as pleasure sparks beneath your skin, the length of him growing cupped in your palm. you’re wondering if there’s time for another session even though he was meant to leave two hours ago.

the kiss only ends because you’re both breathless, using your last breaths to connect with the other. there’s giggles from you and three extra pecks before you force yourself to step away, using your front door as a shield from your riled up boyfriend.

you watch as he adjusts himself, rolls back his shoulders in a stretch and tries to screw his head on straight.

“goodbye now. for real, kats.”

he nods sharply, stretching his jaw side to side. “bye baby. i’m hard now.”

“that’s your own fault for begging for more kisses,” you grin.

he pouts, “how couldn’t i when you look like—,”

“bye katsuki. my tv is calling me!”

“fuck,” he groans, holding onto his bag strap and throwing his head back, “bye princess.”

"Let you have your fun," he panted, slamming into you, making you see stars. "Now I need to feel you properly."

He fucked you like he was starving for it, like he'd been holding back for hours, teeth sunk into your shoulder, muttering mine, mine, fucking mine against your skin. When you came, screaming, he followed right after, burying himself to the hilt, groaning long and broken into your neck.

After, he didn't pull out. Just stayed there, breathing hard, pressing lazy kisses to your jaw. "Not bad," he muttered, smug. "For a first try."

You remembered being seventeen when they said it, wondering why you had to care about a pregnancy in your teenage years to even begin with. You had blamed misogyny, fetishisation, anything that you knew doctors operated with in the back of their mind, because surviving what you did, learning to walk and talk again at such a tender age did not align with wanting to rock a baby bump anytime soon.

Years later, and only after your last name had been changed to Bakugo as well, when you actually got pregnant, every appointment carried this awful sense of inevitability. Like everyone in the room was waiting for your body to fail some final exam it had already cheated death to pass.

Bedrest.

Monitoring.

Blood pressure scares.

Pain you pretended wasn’t getting worse because you knew the exact look Katsuki got when he was afraid.

What you couldn’t grasp back then—between extensive physios and two abdominal surgeries to remove scar tissue, you totally understood now.

Your gyno had suggested —no, demanded— you give birth via C-section, and at first you had been adamant about pushing through natural labor.

Stubbornness came naturally to you.

Unfortunately, so did denial.

You remembered sitting in that painfully bright office while your doctor pinched the bridge of her nose hard enough to leave marks.

“You are not understanding me,” she’d said slowly. “Your body has already undergone catastrophic trauma. Labor could rupture the remaining scar tissue internally.”

And you, arms crossed over your swollen stomach, had replied, “Women give birth every day.”

The silence afterward had been horrific. Your doctor looked one second away from sedating both you and your husband.

Beside you, Katsuki had gone deathly still. Extremely quiet. The kind of quiet that only happened when fear lodged itself somewhere too deep for shouting to reach.

He’d nearly crushed your fingers with how tight he was holding them when the doctor informed you it would be life-threatening, mostly because you wouldn’t listen.

You remembered finally glancing at him then.

At the dark circles under his eyes from weeks of sleeping lightly beside you in case your blood pressure spiked again.

At the way his jaw stayed clenched so often lately it probably hurt and the sweat gathered in his palms where they wrapped around your hand like if he loosened his grip for even a second, something terrible would happen.

And then he said it.

So quietly it almost hurt more.

“I don’t give a shit about the birth plan.”

The room went still.

Katsuki stared straight ahead when he spoke again, voice rough and frighteningly controlled.

“I don’t care if they cut me open too while they’re at it. I don’t care if your mom cries about the experience or if extras online say natural shit is more meaningful or whatever the fuck.” His grip tightened. “You dyin’ is not an option.”

You’d never heard him sound genuinely scared before. Not during villain attacks. Not during injuries. Not even during the war.

Fear on Katsuki Bakugo looked ugly because he constantly fought it so hard. It came out clipped and sharp-edged, buried beneath irritation and control until the cracks showed anyway.

And suddenly, sitting there in that office, you understood something horrible. He had already watched you almost die once. He had stood beside your hospital bed for endless nights, skipping studying, pushing through his own catastrophic injuries. He had memorized the sound of machines breathing for you. Already lived through the waiting, even when he had been told you wouldn’t make it, because to him, memorizing your face seemed like a potential relic.

The possibility of doing it again—this time while loving you even more than he had at seventeen—was destroying him slowly from the inside out.

His thumb rubbed absently over your knuckles.

A nervous habit. One he only had with you.

“I can live without being a dad,” he muttered finally. “I can’t live without you.”

After that doctor’s appointment Katsuki almost never left your side during the rest of the pregnancy.

Not in an overbearing way.

But after everything your body had already survived, he operated like someone waiting for disaster even during ordinary moments.

He learned medication schedules better than you did. Timed your contractions during false alarms with military precision. Argued with doctors until they stopped sounding dismissive. Rubbed your feet while glaring at you because your blood pressure was climbing again and you still insisted on folding laundry yourself.

He slept lightly beside you every night. One hand always remained somewhere on you. Your stomach. Your hip. Your wrist. Like reassurance worked both ways.

It got worse during the final months; You caught him staring at you sometimes– Before you went to sleep, or while you were reading a book, tucked carefully under a fuzzy blanket in the living room while he was supposed to be cooking. It felt like he was checking if you’re still breathing.

The C-section had already been scheduled. Your doctors barely entertained alternatives anymore after your last scan. Too much scar tissue. Too much risk. Your body simply wasn’t built to endure prolonged labor safely after the war injuries. And at one point you had reluctantly agreed, because you weren’t a seventeen year old stubborn head anymore, pushing through healing processes just so you could join high school with your classesmates anymore. It was simply because you wanted your baby, you wanted to raise your little girl with Katsuki, because you didn’t want to be the reason he’d be alone in this world.

And most importantly, because you didn’t want to imagine a life where Bakugo got to grow old without you.

Everything was planned carefully.

Controlled.

Safe.

And maybe that’s why the universe decided to ruin it.

-----------

The call came at 3:12 in the morning. Katsuki swore the second his phone rang. Instantly alert, though pushing back the wave of annoyance that washed through him.

Hero work trained people into recognizing certain calls before they even answered them.

He sat up beside you immediately, one hand already reaching for the phone while the other touched your thigh absentmindedly, grounding himself before he even spoke.

“What.”

Silence, then, “What do you mean Tokyo?”

You pushed yourself upright slowly against the pillows, still half asleep. The apartment was dark except for the streetlights bleeding through the curtains in pale orange strips.

Katsuki listened for another few seconds before dragging a hand down his face.

“How bad?”

Your stomach tightened uneasily by pure instinct.

Years of being a pro hero taught you how to recognize the atmosphere surrounding emergencies. Even over the phone, urgency carried differently.

Eventually, Katsuki hung up, leaving you silent on the other side of the bed, groggy eyes that could barely open through the thickness of sleep, desperately trying to watch him and every expression he made.

“There’s been an attack in Tokyo,” he muttered. “Evacuation’s fucked. They need extra hands.”

You frowned immediately. “Then go.”

His expression hardened.

“You’re due in two weeks.”

“Katsuki.”

“I’m serious.” he grunts, sheepishly.

You almost smiled despite yourself.

This had become normal lately—him acting like stepping more than ten feet away from you would cause immediate catastrophe.

And you can’t say you hate it. Because it has turned your Katsuki into a clingy thing. You can’t even lie to yourself and say you don’t enjoy the way he’s always touching you— or cuddling up to you.

Now, much like every other day, he shifts his weight, big arms coming to wrap around your sleepy form, dragging you into a big cuddle in the middle of the bed. Your husband nuzzles his nose to the side of your neck before he lets out a sleepy groan.

You have to fight the bulge of his bicep to even move your lips to speak, “You can’t ignore a city-wide villain attack because I’m pregnant.”

“Watch me.” He says, placing a soft kiss to the curve of your neck.

You snort softly. The words vibrate against your skin, low and rough with sleep.

You huff out another laugh despite yourself, trapped comfortably beneath the weight of Katsuki as he all but folds himself over you. Pregnancy had somehow turned one of the most aggressive men alive into something embarrassingly clingy in private.

Not that anybody would ever believe you.

The Number Two Hero, face buried in your neck at three in the morning, refusing to get out of bed because his pregnant wife looked too comfortable.

You shift slightly in his arms, trying not to laugh when he immediately tightens his hold in protest.

“Katsuki,” you mumble, voice muffled against his shoulder as he kisses exposed skin. “Tokyo is literally on fire.”

“Tch. They got other heroes.”

“You are other heroes.”

“That sounds like a them problem.”

Another kiss.

This one slower, softer.

His large hand slides instinctively over the curve of your stomach beneath your shirt, thumb rubbing absent circles there like muscle memory. You feel him pause for half a second when the baby shifts.

Every single time, his expression changed when that happened.

Still wonder.

Still disbelief.

Still that quiet softness he only ever let exist around you.

“You feel okay?” he asks again, sleep-heavy voice quieter this time.

“There it is,” you murmur. “Question number four.”

“Didn’t answer it the first three times.”

“I was falling asleep, but yes, I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Katsuki.”

He finally lifts his head enough to look at you properly.

Messy hair.

Heavy eyes.

Permanent stress line between his brows that had only gotten worse throughout the pregnancy.

You knew exactly why he hovered so much lately. Why he touched you constantly. Why he checked if you were breathing when he thought you were asleep.

The war had carved fear into both of you differently.

You carried yours internally.

Katsuki carried his like a weapon pointed at the universe, constantly painted all over his body in scars that will never fade.

“You’re overthinking again,” you whisper, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw.

His eyes narrow immediately. “I’m literally always right.”

“You once tried to convince our doctor you could ‘sense’ if my blood pressure was dropping.”

“I was right.” he grunts.

“You were lucky.”

“I have instincts.”

“You have anxiety.”

That finally earns a reluctant snort from him.

“Katsuki, i’ll be fine. I promise.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then Katsuki, as if you’ve magically convinced him, loosens his grip around you. He bats the sleepiness away from his eyes with a long blink and sighs as he’s getting his body up from the bed.

He gets dressed in his hero suit quickly, efficiently moving through years of practice and emergency tension that never boils down to anything other than anxiety.

The entire time though, he keeps looking back at you.

“You sure you feel okay?”

“Yes.”

“Any pain?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Katsuki, if you ask me one more time, I’m divorcing you before the baby gets here.”

“That’s not funny.”

And there it is again. Fear. Quick and ugly beneath the irritation. Not even hiding itself when his lip pouts out. Katsuki doesn’t appreciate these types of jokes now anymore than he ever did.

You soften immediately. “I’m okay.”

He exhales hard through his nose, his eyes scrunching shut.

Then he crosses the room, crouching carefully in front of you, and presses his forehead against your knee.

The position alone almost breals your heart.

The Number Two Hero.

Explosions in his palms.

Entire cities trusting him to save them.

And here he is, visibly struggling to leave his pregnant wife alone for a few hours.

His hand slides over your stomach gently.

“Call me if anything feels off.”

“I will.” you hum.

“I mean it, even the Dynamite emergency line.”

“I know.”

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“You’ll be okay without me for a bit?”

Something about that question makes your chest ache.

You threaded your fingers through his hair lightly. “Go save Tokyo, hero.”

His mouth twitches reluctantly against your leg. But he kisses your stomach before standing.

Then he kisses you.

Once.

Twice.

A third time like he still wasn’t convinced.

And when he finally leaves, the apartment feels too quiet afterward.

You try sleeping again. You really do.

But something restless lingers under your skin.

Around four am a storm starts outside. Rain taps softly against the windows. The kind of heavy springtime rain that made the city sound far away. Your mind only travels to Katsuki, the way he’s probably too grumpy over the fact he had to have traveled to Tokyo with Kirishima’s sidekick’s teleportation quirk and how anxious he’s going to be if he hasn’t dealt with the attack by the next few hours.

Your mind travels through every possible scenario. Him getting hurt, what the villain even might be on about; Because things have changed in the past few years. Society had slowly stitched itself back together after the war, scar tissue forming over old wounds the same way your body had. Less villains appear, less catastrophes are caused, but the stakes of collateral damage are always high when city-wide attacks happen.

Eventually, you waddle into the kitchen, mostly because pregnancy insomnia has become your own mortal enemy.

A true hero always has one, but apparently for you, it’s your own daughter these days.

You open the fridge, eager to think of something to cook for breakfast and curse slightly under your breath —That’s usually been Katsuki’s job the past few months, to which you’ve never had any objection, secretly liking the way he spoils you rotten.

However, because you still think of yourself as a fierce woman who doesn’t need to be dependent on her husband for food, you settle for making yourself some rice paired with the sides Katsuki has meticulously meal-prepped in separate containers in the fridge.

The fridge is absurdly organized. Every container labeled neatly in Katsuki’s sharp handwriting. Prepared vegetables. Protein portions. Side dishes stacked with aggressive precision. The top shelf entirely dedicated to snacks your doctor recommended because apparently pregnancy had transformed you into someone capable of crying over strawberries at midnight.

Katsuki loves, mostly, through acts of service and you will not deny him of it, even if right now he’s three hours of driving away.

The rice cooker clicks closed softly while rain continues against the windows. and once you turn your back to the counter, the apartment glows dim and warm in the passage of that early morning darkness that slowly seeps into the orange gleams of dawn, though today, it’s through distant cracks in bruised, rainy clouds.

For a little while, things feel strangely normal. Domestic.

Safe.

You lean with your back against the counter while waiting, one hand absentmindedly rubbing over your stomach when the baby shifts again. Your baby faintly kicks where your hand is, and you come to think that you might miss this once she’s born.

Katsuki speaks to her every chance he gets all day long, and she, simply by listening to his voice, turns and kicks inside your stomach even more so than she does when you attempt to do the same. Unfortunately, you’ve already sensed how much of a daddy’s girl she’s going to be

“Baby girl, you’re just like your father,” you mutter tiredly. “Keeping me awake for no reason.”

Another kick answers you immediately.

You snort softly, then pause entirely.

A strange tightness curls low in your abdomen.

You freeze.

“…Ow.”

The sensation isn’t sharp exactly. Just uncomfortable.

Your first instinct is annoyance more than concern. Pregnancy had become an endless cycle of aches lately anyway—back pain, hip pain, breast pain, pressure, soreness. Existing in your own body felt like a full-time job.

You shift your weight carefully against the counter and the pain fades momentarily.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself.

False alarm, most probably.

Would Katsuki have scolded you for sitting up while the rice cooker works? Yes he definitely would have, however, he’s not here, and you have the freedom to finally exist in this house without having to lay down comfortably for once.

Go figure.

The rice cooker eventually finishes with a soft click.

You busy yourself plating food, deliberately ignoring the lingering unease crawling slowly up your spine. Katsuki’s paranoia had become contagious enough lately without you feeding into it too. Still… Your hand drifts unconsciously toward the kitchen counter when another tight cramp rolls through you. This time though, it’s stronger.

Your breathing stutters.

The plate clinks softly against the marble as you set it down too quickly.

No.

No, no. Fuck—Not now.

Your C-section isn’t for another —what?— eleven days?

You stand completely still, waiting for the sensation to disappear, thinking that this is too unfair, too cliche; the second Katsuki leaves, after you’ve promised him you’d be okay, things simply go downhill.

Thunder rumbles in muted tones from outside, all while the rain mellows down.

And then, when another surge of pain washes down the cold sweat in your sine, warmth suddenly spreads down your thighs.

Your brain doesn’t process it immediately. Not until you look down, at least, and you see water slowly dripping onto the kitchen floor.

Your entire body goes cold.

“Fuck!”

You stare blankly at the small puddle beneath you like if you wait long enough, reality will correct itself.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Your doctors specifically said this wasn’t supposed to happen. And to top that, they had not prepared you for anything like this happening.

You’ve entered your eight month like, a few days ago, and this. is. not. normal!

Panic crashes into you all at once. You grab your phone off the counter with shaking hands, speed dialing Katsuki’s phone, only for the call not to go through.

You try again. Then again. Then once more.

Fuck, maybe that villain attack has seriously jabbed communication signals.

You wonder if Katsuki has realised by now.

“Shit, what do i do,” you breathe shakily, tears stinging unexpectedly at your eyes.

Another contraction hits before you can think further.

This one hard enough to force you forward against the counter with a broken gasp.

Pain wraps viciously around your abdomen.

There’s only one person you can call that will answer for sure— Mitsuki.

---------

Your eyes drag heavily; the upwards path of grogginess until they’re halfway open. Your loose gaze catches blurs of the room you’re in. The light that casts through what looks like a window, white sheets that rest stiff under your hands that lay still next to your body.

It still feels like you’re positively dreaming.

Your hearing is clearer than your vision for what feels like a moment too long. Birds are chirping somewhere distant, traffic burps and crashes outside, but the loudest sound is the constant, steady beep-beep-beep of what looks like a monitor next to you.

For a few more disorienting seconds, your vision refuses to cooperate with you, everything around you reduced to pale blurs and washed-out light.

There’s a dull ache buried deep inside your abdomen, muted enough that it almost feels distant, like your body is keeping it behind glass for now until you’re awake enough to fully process it.

You blink slowly.

The room sharpens little by little around the edges.

Your eyes shift toward it sluggishly, catching sight of an arrangement of balloons and teddy bears beside your bed before your attention drifts elsewhere entirely.

Someone is holding your hand.

The realization reaches you before recognition does.

Warm fingers wrapped tightly around yours, almost stubbornly so, like whoever’s attached to them had been afraid to let go even for a second. Your gaze follows the arm upward slowly, vision still swimming slightly, until it lands on the figure slumped awkwardly in the chair beside your bed.

Blonde hair slightly flattened on one side.

Reading glasses shoved carelessly into the collar of a blouse.

Arms crossed tightly even in sleep.

Mitsuki.

Your brain struggles to understand the image at first. Not because it’s impossible, but because it feels strangely familiar in a way that immediately makes your chest ache. Your body flashes past images behind your eyes. Images of another time, another day, where Katsuki’s mom was younger, wearing an even more concerned expression on her face.

It’s crazy to think that life has brought you in this same position twice already.

The thought drifts through your exhausted mind sluggishly, almost detached, before memory suddenly crashes back hard enough to make your stomach twist.

The puddle under your feet in the kitchen.

The storm outside, muted by the second.

The sharp, tearing pain in your abdomen.

Then— white walls all blur together with a car ride. In the back of your head someone’s still shouting for blood products.

Your breathing catches.

The movement must tug against Mitsuki’s grip because her eyes snap open almost immediately, years of raising Katsuki apparently training her into sleeping lightly during emergencies. For a second she just stares at you, visibly trying to process the fact you’re awake, before something complicated flashes across her face so quickly you almost miss it.

Relief.

Pure, eye-brightening relief.

“Oh thank God,” she breathes, voice rough and cracked around the edges like she hasn’t spoken properly in hours.

You try to answer her, but your throat burns violently the second you inhale too sharply. The only sound that comes out is embarrassingly weak, more exhale than actual word.

Mitsuki is already moving before you can attempt again. “Easy, honey, don’t try talking yet.”

You chuckle at her, your mouth tugging to the side.

Deja-vu.

This time, you don’t ask for your mom.

Her chair scrapes softly against the floor as Mitsuki stands, reaching immediately for the plastic water pitcher beside your bed. Even half-conscious, you notice little things automatically. The wrinkling of her clothes. Smudged mascara gathered faintly beneath her eyes.

Your fingers twitch weakly against the sheets while she carefully presses the straw toward your mouth. The water tastes cold and metallic and overwhelmingly artificial, but you drink anyway because your body feels scraped hollow from the inside out.

The second your throat hurts less, panic rises all over again.

“Kats-Katsuki?”

The name catches painfully in your throat.

Mitsuki exhales through her nose immediately, already anticipating the question before you even finish asking it. There’s something almost fond in the expression that flickers across her face, despite how exhausted she looks.

“He’s alive,” she says dryly. “I finally got a hold of him a while ago and he’s on his way.”

A weak laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quickly interrupted by the ache in your abdomen. The movement sends a sharp soreness pulling through your middle and suddenly you become painfully aware of your body again. Heavy limbs. Tender skin. The awful, empty exhaustion sitting inside your stomach.

“M’baby—”

The words come out slurred and cracked, but Mitsuki understands instantly.

Her expression changes immediately, softening in a way that almost hurts to look at.

“She’s okay.”

Your entire body stills.

“She’s okay,” Mitsuki repeats more firmly this time, squeezing your hand tighter before you can spiral any further. “They’ve got her in NICU because she came early, but she’s breathing on her own. Doctors said her lungs are strong.”

For some reason, that’s the thing that nearly makes you tear up. You think of your baby, all alone, for god knows how many hours smothered by tubes. Wanting to go see her immediately, your hand instinctively drifts downward beneath the blanket before Mitsuki catches your wrist gently.

“Don’t,” she mutters. “You’ll freak yourself out.”

Which means there is something there to freak out about.

Probably bandages.

Maybe stitches. Not like that’s something you haven’t seen on you before.

Your face must betray some of the panic rising inside you because Mitsuki’s grip softens almost immediately afterward.

“You have to wait for your doctor to come check up on you before you do that. We don’t want you ripping your stitches.”

You hum in response.

“The surgery went fine,” she says quieter this time. “You scared the absolute shit out of everybody in the room, but it went fine.”

Everybody.

Your mind immediately conjures up the image of a seventeen year old Katsuki in a hospital waiting room instead of going to school and somehow that feels more horrifying than any surgery itself.

Still, you nod in response to her, your dry lips transforming into a pout that could only compare to one of her son’s. It looks almost ridiculous on your exhausted face, like your body is trying to remember how to be human again and only managing fragments of personality.

“Can we call Katsuki?” you ask, voice rough around the edges. “I wanna tell him I’m okay.”

Mitsuki doesn’t answer immediately.

That alone tightens something in your chest.

She studies you for a second—longer than necessary, like she’s deciding how much truth you can handle in your current state. Her thumb rubs once over your knuckles, grounding, deliberate.

Then she exhales through her nose.

“Of course sweetheart,” she says finally. “Just know he did get a little hurt during the attack. I urged him to go get checked up before commuting.”

“Hurt?”

Mitsuki nods once, lips pressing into a thin, controlled line. “Yeah. Nothing life-threatening. Before you start spiraling.”

It doesn’t stop the instinctive spike of panic anyway.

Your fingers twitch against her hand.

“Yeah,” she presses her lips into a concerned line “But he’ll tell you all about it after he sees you’re alive and well. He went frantic when I told him what happened.” she sighs “I swear you two—no, three now— are bound to give me a heart attack.”

“But he’s on his way, right?” you repeat.

“Yes.”

The word lands heavy, real in a way nothing else has since you woke up.

There’s a pause. A long one at that.

The kind where your body starts catching up to your brain in uneven pieces. Pain in your abdomen, dull and distant. The IV in your arm. The sterile smell that clings to everything. The fact that you are here, in a hospital bed again, and somehow still alive enough to ask questions.

Your daughter exists.

Your daughter is alive.

Katsuki is alive.

That thought should be simple. But it really isn’t.

Because none of it feels simple anymore. Not when you wanted, no, dreamed of having your daughter with Katsuki by your side. You’ve both already missed her first breath, her first cry, possibly even her first feeding.

Maybe you should have talked Katsuki out of going to Tokyo earlier. Hold him in your arms a little longer before he left. Because Mitsuki makes no actual move to pull her phone out to call him, and your paranoia convinces you she’s positively lying right now about him being okay.

Mitsuki shifts slightly in her chair when a loud sob chokes out of your mouth, watching your face like she’s learned how to read the smallest fractures in it over the years. There’s something exhausted behind her eyes too, but it’s the kind of exhaustion that’s been carried too long to complain about.

“You don’t have to hold it together right now,” she says, quieter.

It shouldn’t make anything break further than what it is already. But it does.

Your breath comes out corrupted, broken.

“I’m not—” you start automatically, then stop, because there’s no point lying to her. Not when she’s sitting there holding you like she already knows every version of you that exists. Not when you start to violently sob on the spot.

A beat passes.

Then you whisper, through muffled crying, smaller than before, “I just want to see him and the baby. I need them to be okay.”

Mitsuki’s expression softens in a way that almost hurts to look at.

“You will, sweetheart" she says simply. “Soon.”

Her hand doesn’t leave yours.

“Let’s call Katsuki, okay? Please don’t cry to him on the phone or his heart will combust.”

_________

By the time the door finally opens, the room already feels like it’s been holding its breath too long.

You’ve drifted in and out of that strange hospital haze where time stops behaving like it’s supposed to—light through the blinds shifting without meaning, machines humming steadily beside you like the only thing in the world that still understands how to be consistent. Your doctor passed by a while ago to check up on you and let you know that everything is going fine, despite the unfortunate turn of events. She answered all of your questions about the NICU patiently and informed you that your baby girl is fine. That other for her premature birth, there’s no other reason for her to stay in the NICU.

When Mitsuki was allowed back into the room, she eventually settled into the chair again, though not quite the same way as before. Less slumped now, more alert, like she’d decided exhaustion wasn’t something she was willing to fully submit to yet.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway, quick but controlled, each one placed with intention that doesn’t quite match urgency, but doesn’t fully escape it either.

The door clicks only a few minutes after. It’s soft, almost carefully reluctant.

Though your body reacts before your mind catches up.

And then he’s there.

Katsuki Bakugo. Your husband.

Clean and out of his hero costume.

That’s the first thing your mind registers, oddly enough.

Not the fact that he’s here. Not the fact that he made it back from Tokyo at all. But that he looks like someone who refused to bring the chaos of that city into this room with him. Hair still slightly tousled from travel, but not matted or wild. Skin washed of soot and debris, loose hoodie that somehow feels too big even over his enormous muscular frame, slouchy joggers. Even the sharp edges of him feel temporarily contained, like he forced himself through a reset somewhere between here and wherever they let him clean up. He’s holding an arrangement similar to the one near your bed. Flowers —roses— in orange and pink tones, the cutest teddy bear you’ve ever seen, and the baby hospital bag you two had already made a week ago.

Still, that put together image doesn’t hide everything.

There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that doesn’t belong to rest. A tightness in his jaw that suggests he hasn’t fully stopped moving since the attack ended. And his eyes—those always impossibly red eyes—snap to you immediately and don’t leave.

For a moment, he doesn’t come closer.

Doesn’t speak.

Just stands there in the doorway like the simple fact of you existing in front of him is something his brain has to recalibrate around.

Like maybe he wasn’t sure you still would be.

Then something in him breaks forward.

Not violently. Not like a rush. More like a controlled collapse of restraint, as if every part of him that was holding distance finally gives up at the same time.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, stopping only when he reaches your bedside. Even then, he hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—like he can’t decide what kind of contact won’t feel like too much or too little.

His free hand finds yours anyway.

Warm. Steady. Real. And then he kneels by your bedside, pushing back the very obvious wince of pain that scrunches up his face. His everlasting steadiness is what almost undoes you.

Because it’s not frantic anymore. Not panicked. He’s just here and he’s anchoring himself through you.

His thumb presses once over your knuckles, subtle, almost unconscious, but his grip tightens immediately after like he’s afraid letting go even slightly would make the entire day collapse again.

“Babe! You’re awake,” he says.

Not even a question, but it still carries disbelief under it, buried so deep it almost sounds like irritation instead of relief.

Your throat tightens as you manage a small, rough breath. “Yeah. Hi!”

The sound is enough to shift something in him.

His jaw flexes once, sharp enough that you notice the faint bruise along his cheekbone move with it. He looks like he wants to say something immediate and sharp and defensive, like anger is the only language his body knows how to start with when fear gets too close.

But it doesn’t come out that way.

Instead, he moves to place a kiss on your forehead, before his voice drops.

“You scared the hell outta me.”

It’s quieter than you expect. Less explosive than usual Katsuki. More stripped down than you’re used to hearing from him.

Your fingers curl faintly against his. “I’m sorry,” you murmur instinctively, tears already taking the form of drops at the ends of your eyes..

His reaction is immediate.

“Don’t,” he cuts in, too fast, then forces a breath through his nose like he’s trying to reset himself. “Don’t apologize for that. It’s not your fault.”

Silence settles between you again, heavier now that he’s here to fill it.

His eyes flick over your face properly for the first time, scanning like he’s checking for damage he can’t quite name yet. Not just injury, but absence. Like he’s still half convinced he’s going to look at you wrong and realize this is some delayed aftermath of a nightmare.

Behind him, Mitsuki shifts slightly, watching without interrupting, arms folded in that familiar posture of someone who’s already lived through too many emergencies to overreact to the current one.

Katsuki exhales once, slowly and controlled, but it doesn’t fully settle.

“I got thrown across the city and impaled on this ruin and they wouldn’t let me go until they patched me up,” he mutters, like the entire sequence of events is just an inconvenience in his schedule. “Kept telling me to wait.”

There’s a beat of silence.

It lands wrong in your brain.

Your grip tightens instantly around his hand.

“Impal—” your voice cracks, half exhausted, half horrified, half already furious. “IMPALED, Katsuki?! How can you say that so casually?”

His gaze snaps back to you immediately, like your reaction is the only thing in the room that actually matters.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, almost reflexively defensive. “It wasn’t through anything important.”

“That is not comforting!”

Mitsuki makes a sound behind him—something dangerously close to a sigh of long-suffering resignation.

Katsuki barely acknowledges her.

“I said I’m fine,” he continues, like repetition will make it fact. His thumb presses a little harder against your knuckles, grounding himself more than reassuring you. “They fixed it. I came here. End of story. Your water breaking the second I leave you alone is far more important.”

“End of story’?” you echo weakly, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “You don’t just say you got impaled and then move on like it’s paperwork.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s offended by your tone more than the injury itself.

“It is paperwork.”

“That is not—” you cut off, breath catching as your body reminds you very abruptly that laughing and yelling are both bad ideas right now.

You wince, hand instinctively moving toward your abdomen.

The reaction is immediate.

Katsuki’s entire posture changes. Just instant recalibration.

His grip tightens, but not in panic—more like instinct, like anchoring you before you can drift too far into discomfort.

“Hey,” he says, voice dropping slightly. “Don’t move like that.”

“I’m not the one who got impaled,” you mutter weakly, still trying to recover your breath.

“Yeah, well,” he shoots back immediately, eyes flicking over your face again in that same careful scan, “you’re the one who underwent birth and surgery.”

Katsuki leans in slightly closer to you now, right until his head rests faintly over your chest. His fingers, thick and scarred and worried, shuffle the lightest touch against yours. You stare at the connection; how your palm fits against his as your hands lay flat against each other’s, how Katsuki smoothly moves and caresses the back of your hand, finally, inside the vastness of his.

Then, after he reaches your face to plant chaste kisses everywhere on your lips, he marks the trails of your palm, tenderly, with his pointer finger.

“What did your doctor say?” he asks, voice dropping. “I still haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”

The shift is subtle, but it changes the air completely.

Your chest tightens—not from pain this time, but something softer, heavier.

“She said I’m alright, that I'm in no danger. And our baby is in the NICU,” you say quietly. “She’s stable. Just… monitoring.”

For the first time since he arrived, something like uncertainty actually breaks through his expression.

Not fear exactly. Something more complicated. It finds purchase in tiny specs of his face; in between the dents in the middle of his furrowed eyebrows, the twitching corner of his lip. You’ve known Katsuki long enough to see the mask he’s put on right now, slipping away from him.

“I wanna see her,” he says immediately.

There’s no hesitation in the words. But there is in everything else.

His grip on your hand tightens again, almost imperceptibly. His gaze flicks briefly toward the door, then back to you, like he’s trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have a clean answer.

“But,” he adds, quieter, rougher, “if your doctor said she’s small. And early. And I’m not—”

He stops.

His jaw tenses hard.

“I’m not good at… that shit,” he admits reluctantly, like it physically pains him to say. “Not like I'll be able to hold her while she’s in there but, y’get me.”

You blink slowly at him.

“Katsuki,” you murmur.

“Babe, it’s my fault, i should have been here and then this wouldn’t have happe—”

“Do you want to go?” you, voice quieter now. “Or should I go first and— and tell you what it’s like?”

The question lands differently. Careful.

Like you’re trying to give him control over something he himself feels completely unsteady about. Your fingers tighten weakly around his. And Katsuki doesn’t feel like he can do that, honestly. Let you go in there alone. You know him well enough that you know what answer he’s going to give you next”

“I want to see her,” he says softly. “With you.”

“But I'm kinda stitched up,” you laugh, muffling a happy cry that escapes you “you’re gonna have to carry me”

That does it.

Something in his expression shifts—just slightly, but enough. You notice his own eyes tearing up. Like that answer was the only one that would’ve held him together.

______

After a full day of spending a ridiculously long amount of time convincing your doctor that, yes, you can get up —because you’re a hero whos gotten up from way worse— a nurse eventually helps disconnect a few monitors while Mitsuki hovers nearby pretending not to supervise every single thing happening in the room.

You settle for a wheelchair since everyone gets in your case about walking.

Katsuki barely leaves your side during any of it. Even when he steps back to let the nurses adjust you carefully upright, one hand stays anchored somewhere against you—your shoulder, your arm, your waist—like he’s terrified you’ll disappear the second he loses contact.

The hospital robe feels too light against your skin.

Your body feels heavier than concrete.

Every movement pulls strangely through your abdomen, soreness wrapped tightly beneath layers of medication and exhaustion. You would never admit this to your doctor but you don’t fully understand how people survive childbirth and then continue existing like normal afterward. It feels vaguely fake. Like your organs have been rearranged by interns.

“You okay?” Katsuki asks for maybe the fifteenth time in the span of ten minutes.

“No,” you mumble honestly.

He snorts quietly through his nose, crouching slightly beside the wheelchair while the nurse locks the footrests into place.

“Good. Means you’re conscious.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

His hand finds yours again immediately afterward anyway.

The NICU floor is quieter than the rest of the hospital.

The lights are dimmer here, voices lower, footsteps gentler somehow. Everything beyond the secured doors feels carefully contained, like the entire wing exists in a state between fear and hope. Through the windows of nearby rooms, you catch small glimpses of incubators, exhausted parents, nurses moving steadily between machines.

The closer you get, the quieter Katsuki becomes.

Not outwardly.

He still answers the nurses. Still thanks people in his own clipped, awkward way. Still pushes your wheelchair himself despite being told multiple times someone else can do it.

But you feel it.

The way his thumb keeps rubbing absentmindedly against your wrist.

The way his shoulders slowly tense again.

The way his breathing has gotten subtly shallower.

By the time the nurse finally stops outside one of the rooms, Katsuki looks more nervous than you’ve maybe ever seen him in your life.

Which is absurd, considering this is the man who once fought the worst villain in history through half a collapsing city with a broken broken body and a destroyed heart.

The nurse smiles softly at both of you before speaking quietly.

“She’s right over here.”

And suddenly your own heart feels too large for your chest.

The room is warm.

Warmer than the hallway.

Machines hum softly beneath the low lighting, steady little beeps scattered throughout the room like artificial heartbeats. There’s a faint sterile smell beneath everything, but underneath that too—something softer. Powder. Clean blankets. New life.

Your eyes immediately find her.

Tiny.

That’s the first thing your brain can process.

Tiny.

So impossibly tiny it almost doesn’t look real.

She’s bundled carefully inside the incubator, wrapped in a soft hospital blanket with little wires attached delicately against her chest. Her face is scrunched slightly in sleep, tiny mouth parted just enough to show uneven little breaths.

Your hair color paints her teeny strands of hair, save for a few platinum patches.

Not much. But enough.

Your breath catches so hard it hurts.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Beside you, Katsuki says absolutely nothing.

You turn your head slightly toward him and nearly break apart at the expression on his face.

His expression is unreadable. Like he’s terrified

Of her and just how small she is.

His eyes don’t leave the incubator for even a second, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of her immediately in case the universe changes its mind and takes it all back.

The tiny rise and fall of her chest. The shape of her nose. The little crease between her brows that already somehow looks familiar.

“That’s…” His voice catches abruptly.

You actually see him swallow around it.

“That’s our baby?”

Something hot burns behind your eyes immediately.

You nod shakily, unable to stop staring at her either.

“Chihiro,” you whisper softly. “Right?”

You and Katsuki had agreed on the name years ago.

Back before marriage.

Back before pregnancy complications and surgeries and after war scars and the terrifying realization that loving someone this much could genuinely ruin you if the world touched them wrong.

Then his hand suddenly tightens painfully around yours, like reality hit him all over again at full force.

His other hand drags hard down his face, covering his mouth and nose.Muffling the sound that escapes him.

Not enough that you completely miss it. Just enough that he can pretend you did.

Your chest aches so badly it feels impossible to contain.

You watch his throat work again before he lets out a shaking breath and steps carefully closer to the incubator, movements slower than you’ve ever seen from him before.

And then your daughter stretches suddenly in her sleep, one tiny hand flexing weakly beneath the dim NICU lights.

Katsuki visibly stops breathing.

His eyes widen just slightly.

Like even that tiny movement was enough to completely destroy whatever composure he had left.

“Yeah, fuck she looks so much like you,” he says quietly, voice cracking so roughly it barely sounds like him at all. “Shit, yeah…”

His fingers twitch helplessly at his side before he finally reaches toward the incubator, hesitant in a way that would feel almost unreal coming from him to people who don’t know him.

“…Chihiro, babe.”

Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist

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you move your head to look at him with those big eyes and an innocent smile on your face, “i’m soooo hot, ‘kuna,” you pout before you start spreading your legs even more with a content sigh.

he clicks his tongue while he uses his elbows to prop himself up on the mattress next to your bare naked body, “doesn’t mean you should have your pussy on full display, woman.”

he’s only met with a judgmental side-eye and you continue to lay there unbothered as the fan blows cool wind, well— everywhere.

a surprising but delicious pain waves through your body as two thick fingers pinched your nipple before soothing the sore spot immediately after. “don’t give me attitude, ‘ya hear?” to which you can only nod all the while trying to suppress your smile.

sukuna sighs and sooner than later, he finds himself also laying bare next to you; balls out and soft. the cool wind starting to lull him back to sleep.

“can i hold it?

for fuck’s sake. “close your damn eyes and go to sleep, please,” your boyfriend’s voice cracked at the last part— silently hoping that you don’t notice the flush starting to bloom on his neck.

you stay quiet and rest your head on his bicep while the quietness consumes you both.

he knows how mean he can be sometimes, which he honestly tries to do less. so, who is he to deny his sweet precious girlfriend of what she currently wants in the moment.

his dick was starting to twitch anyway. might as well indulge in your…unique way of doing certain things?