Madi

The sound of their collective panting filled the air, the thud of fists against skin echoing off the walls as they tested each other.

Quick jabs, hits to the ribs; it was push and pull as they were nearly on equal ground, two decorated professionals with national titles.

You had to keep a close eye— track his movements to take note of any injuries, run over how exactly you would deal with each one. It was your job to.

But, admittedly, you found your gaze wandering against your will lately. More often than you wanted to admit.

It was difficult to ignore the way his biceps flexed with each jab, how soft blond tufts fell over his face, stuck to the sweat lining his forehead, the low hang of his boxing shorts highlighted his abs straining with each motion.

"Fuck!"

The sharp curse broke your trance, eyes snapping up, immediately alert.

Eijirou's hands flew over his mouth, his fighter's stance softening, hesitant hands reaching out towards his friend whose head was angled down, fighting to not reel.

"Woah, man, I am so sorry—"

Katsuki slapped his hand away, wiping at the blood beginning to drip down his nose with the back of his hand, unyielding eyes meeting Eijirou's.

"Keep it goin', Shitty Hair. And you,"

He didn't bother to look at you as you approached, keeping his burning stare on his opponent while waving you off with a harsh motion of his free hand. "Get back."

His bite was nothing new. You didn't bother to fight the eye roll, stepping closer to assess the extent of the damage. "Don't be dumb. Let me look."

"You deaf or something? Beat it."

More blood trickled down, coming over the curve of his lip. You had worked with Katsuki long enough to know that he pushed himself until he was battered, had nothing left to give.

Your job was to keep that from happening.

With a sigh, you grabbed him by the crook of his elbow.

"You are gushing blood. Come on—"

"Get your fuckin' hands off me, you piece of—"

"Again, don't be dumb—"

Eijirou blinked between the two of you, watching as you wrestled to keep Katsuki's arm in your grip, ineffectively attempting to drag him away. With a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, he began to take backwards steps towards the bench where he kept his water, knowing there was little else he could do in this situation.

"I'm gonna take five. Go with her, man."

Feeling Katsuki's resistance give in just enough, you tugged him towards the med bay, giving Eijirou a grateful look over your shoulder. You hoped he didn't feel too guilty. Sparring was never supposed to get this intense, after all. But, mistakes happened.

You offered soft apologies under your breath to the few nurses on the same late shift as you were with a tight smile as you rushed past them to guide him into the room at the very back, shutting the door behind you.

It was just you two now.

Katsuki was still panting, worked up from the fight. There was probably enough adrenaline in his system to keep him from feeling the real pain of his affliction.

You pushed him back onto the bed against the wall to your right with a hand over his chest, feeling the warm muscle rise up and down under your palm before you turned to rummage through the cabinet, fishing out a medical kit with a crease forming between your brows.

"Are you trying to get yourself put on medical leave before your match next week?"

He didn't say a word, only the sound of his heavy breathing filling the room as you felt his glare against your back.

You sighed.

"Right before I get off too..."

"Yeah," He scoffed, a mocking edge to his voice. "'Cause I did that shit on purpose."

"You kept pushing. That was stupid and you know it, the best athletes know when to call it quits."

Katsuki scoffed, his jutted lower lip pursing as you set down the kit beside him, opening it up to fish out some gauze. "Maybe we should get you in the ring. Since you're such an expert."

You pushed his thighs apart with an unimpressed look, standing between them to get as close as you could.

A hand went behind his neck, gently tilting his head down so the blood wouldn't trickle back into his nose, go down his throat.

You carefully pinched the sides of his nose bridge to stop the blood flow, wiping away at what had escaped with clean gauze.

“You love making my life harder,” you muttered under your breath. “Can’t you just admit I'm right? Say you’ll be more careful?”

“The day I say that shit you can put a gun to my head.”

You rolled your eyes, but he continued.

"I don't say shit I don't mean," he sighed out, abs flexing as he winced slightly. “If your meddling ass didn't get in the way, I would've won.”

“Or you would've gotten your ass beat, but whatever.”

“I've had worse. A fucked up nose is nothing."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" you raised a brow, getting a new piece of gauze. "You never know when to stop, Katsuki. That's your issue."

The room settled into silence only the hum of the AC, your shifting, and the quiet, reluctant winces that slipped past as you tended to him.

His eyes never left you.

Sometimes, you wondered why.

Why he allowed you to treat him, why he let you get close. But you shook yourself out of those thoughts, reaching down to grab an ice pack. No time to get sidetracked, not now. Especially on something that was very likely nothing.

"Bleeding stopped."

He didn't respond, eyes downcast as you alternated between pressing it to either side of his nose bridge.

When he finally spoke, his words were quick. Quiet.

"I was going for his blind spot."

Said like he had to explain himself to you, or maybe himself.

But he didn't have to. You knew that his slip ups were extremely rare, he never made the same mistake twice— he beat himself up over every error, obsessed over earned perfection, victory.

His high standards for himself were what got him so far, but you knew they got to him. That, quietly, he sometimes needed reassurance, like anyone would.

“I know you were.” you finally responded, voice gentle, without pity.

"Eijirou's right side was open and he was getting tired. That was the right move. You would've gotten him."

He blinked down at you, as if assessing your honesty before a slight smile touched his lips. He gripped the edge of the small bed a little tighter, leaning down closer.

"Knew you were starin'."

Your heart jumped in your chest, but you pushed it down.

"Well, that is my job."

"It's your job to watch for injuries. Not stare."

You couldn't help what came out of your mouth next.

"Maybe I was staring at Eijirou."

"You think you're so funny."

"I think your ego's inflated."

"Wanna say that again?"

You pressed the ice a little too harshly into the side of his nose, drawing a small groan from him.

"Save it, Katsuki."

You packed up your kit and gathered the bloodied gauze to throw away, rinsing your hands before coming back to assess your work.

Blood clean, no signs of continued bleeding. A small bruise forming under his right eye from the trauma, expected.

It took everything in you to ignore the weight of his eyes, how he looked at you with an intensity reserved for his opponents in the ring. Calculating, searching. You could feel the burn crawling up the back of your neck. Professional, keep it professional.

You nodded a little too quickly, turning on your heel. "Yep, all good. No more sparring, but you can go back now."

He tugged you by the back of your shirt collar before you got too far, pulling you back between his legs, face only inches away from yours.

"You don't want that."

The sudden proximity along with his words made your heart spike, as if caught.

What did you want? The question made you uneasy.

(Or, maybe it was the answer that you knew deep down that made you want to crawl out of your skin.)

You pushed back slightly, deflecting.

“I want you to see Dr. Tanaka as soon as you can. I'll make an appointment for tomorrow morning since he left for the day. I think your nose is broken.”

“No it's not.”

It wasn't. If it had been broken, you would've known from one look, you would have been angrier with him. But that was your out, your excuse to get away. And he had called your bluff, gaze unmoving.

"Don't play dumb right now."

“I'm not playing dumb." the words came snappy, brave; but you were just so close, that fire faltered. His hand that had gripped the back of your collar had shifted carefully to the front, so close to your neck that you were afraid he might feel your heart try to burst out of your throat.

"You're just…" you trailed off, struggling to find your words. "…difficult. You're being difficult.”

"Difficult?" a dry sort of laugh. "You're the difficult one. For someone smart you can be pretty fuckin' dense."

You bit the inside of your lower lip, eyes darting between him and the door.

You knew what he meant. This back and forth between you was nothing new. But when it got too real you had always gotten away, said something and acted like nothing had happened once you cooled down.

The sounds outside seemed to be getting louder, closer. These doors didn’t have locks. Anyone could come in, find you like this. One of the nurses checking in, a gym goer looking for band-aids.

“Or maybe you do know. Hm?”

The question pulled you from your thoughts in an instant, made your eyes snap to his— first mistake. Once his crimson stare bored into yours, you couldn’t look away.

Could you have been that obvious? You thought your moments of distraction were fleeting, imperceptible to the average eye.

He had never commented on it before, slipping back to his normal self even after your closest calls.

But you should’ve known better. Katsuki Bakugou was not average in any sense of the word.

(Of course, he noticed. Of course he did.)

You sputtered something before you could think, just wanting to hear something other than the sound of your own thoughts.

"Some…someone could—"

"No one's gonna come in." his voice flat, dismissal easy. All matter of fact as he craned his neck down closer to you.

"Unless you want Eijirou to come in. Since you were, what, staring at him, right? That what you want?"

"What?!" the word was almost a squeak, high and taken aback. "That's not— "

You fought the strange heat crawling up your face by shooting him a look, eyes narrowing.

"Katsuki. I was joking."

He hummed.

(Unbelieving? Amused? A bit of both?)

"Sure you were."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The deflections that had once come so easy were heavy on your tongue. There was no joke, no eye roll, nothing you could say to slip away. Not this time.

You sighed, next words defeated.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be real with me." you could feel his breath against your lips; hot, charged. "Tell me you don’t want this, that you haven't thought about it.”

“Katsuki…”

It came out weaker than you wanted. Small, kind of breathless. Almost pleading.

For what— to let you go?

(To keep going?)

He kept egging, eyes not once leaving yours. “Say it. I'll stop.”

And you knew he would. Because he was being serious, you could tell by his voice— how it was low under his breath, softened. 

For you, he was being intentionally careful.

Just the thought made you want to cave. But the entire reason your relationship worked, why you were able to handle him, was because you didn't give in.

"There are rules about this sort of thing—"

"You think I give a fuck about bullshit rules?"

"Yeah, I know you don't." you gave him a look. "But I do. I could lose my job, you could get me fired, or…"

You swallowed back the rest of it.

He didn't have to know how it made you afraid, testing the fragile nature of this relationship. How giving in meant that all of this could shatter, that this could all amount to one big mistake.

Katsuki blinked, taking in your expression. He looked off to the side for a beat, lips pursing in thought before, carefully, he took your hands into his.

"You know I won't let that happen. I don't see any of the other shitty medics here."

You snorted a little. Because you did know. You cocked your head to the side, a small smile tugging at your lips. "They're not shitty."

He didn't retaliate, just raised his brows slowly. The truth of his words wasn't what mattered, it was the implication behind them.

(You're the one I see. You.)

His earlier words rang in your ears.

Tell me you don't want this, that you haven't thought about it.

You couldn't, because you had.

Countless times— whenever you watched him hover over his opponents, keep them locked underneath him, the heat in his eyes, a cocky smile on his lips.

He wormed his way into your mind, more often than not, late at night. When sleep couldn't find you and your bed felt exceptionally cold. Empty.

(Him. You imagined him.)

Denying all of that was exactly what you should have done. That would have been the rational thing to do, the smart thing.

But as you traced his face, followed the soft curve of his cheeks against the otherwise harsh lines, watched the furrow of his brow deepen ever so slightly, as if he, of all people, was nervous— you couldn't fight the feeling anymore.

Because you wanted to kiss him, and you wanted him to kiss you— more than anything.

Hesitantly, you brushed your thumbs over the bruises on his knuckles.

“No, I… I do. Want this, I mean."

Something in his expression shifted. Surprise, for a brief second, before that cocky gleam in his eyes that you had seen when he was in-action settled over his face. Only, a little different. (A little sharper, hungrier.)

"Yeah?" he pushed closer, nose just barely brushing yours. "You want this?"

Slowly, you nodded.

"Yes."

His gaze darted from your eyes and lips before the sliver of space between you finally disappeared.

The kiss was tentative, careful. So unlike him that it caught you a little off guard.

Soft. His lips were so soft against yours.

He kissed you like he was trying to figure out the shape of your lips, go slow enough to savor the moment, commit the feeling to memory. The hand near your collar came up to cup your jaw, angle your face just right.

You had thought about what this would feel like for longer than you would ever admit. Did he think of you the same way? Were you what he had expected?

When he pulled back just enough to breathe, he drank in your expression; your pretty lips plush and parted, wide doe-eyes blinking up at him.

He groaned, "Fuck it."

You yelped when calloused hands gripped your arms, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, thick biceps flexing as he pulled you down to straddle his thigh.

You planted your hands on his chest to steady yourself on instinct, unable to process it for a second. Your thighs were around his leg, his hands at your waist, holding you in a way you had only ever thought would exist in the secret fantasies you let yourself indulge in. The small bed creaking under your combined weight. His chest rising and falling under your palms.

Sometimes, you forgot how strong he actually was. How he wasn’t just some other annoying, short-tempered guy— his body was molded to his profession; brute strength and jagged lines carved from a life in the ring. His shoulders broad, a tapering waist, arms nearly the size of your head. He could probably pick you up and snap you in half if he really wanted to. Your stomach flipped at just the thought.

Before you could open your mouth to speak, he flexed the muscle of his thigh; deliberate, testing. Sharp eyes watching as your face flushed at his bare muscle pressing up against your core.

Your breath hitched, warmth pooled down between your legs, heart beating in your ears as his large hands slid down to rest over your hips, holding you steady— pulling you down closer.

"Feel good?"

Your ears burned at the mocking edge to his voice. You squirmed, caught between wanting to slap that smug look off his face and slowly seek more friction by grinding down.

You didn't have to choose, not when his hands slowly guided your hips down, back and forth against his hardened muscle. You bit your bottom lip between your teeth, clearly embarrassed, ineffectively fighting the whimpers that threatened to slip past with each movement.

His gaze never once left you, taking note of every little reaction.

Heat crawled up your face at being watched so shamelessly.

Leaning forward, you distracted yourself by pressing soft kisses up the side of his throat, staring to grind down on him yourself, your tongue darting out before gently sucking soft marks into his skin.

He let out a strained sigh, tilting his neck back just enough to give you more access.

You hooked your arms loosely around his neck, pecking across his jaw. Your fingers curled into the hair at his nape, giving it a soft tug, pulling his head back so his eyes met yours.

Pupils blown, eyes heavy with want, hair falling over them all messy and disheveled.

You didn't know how you had gone so long without this, how you could have ever wanted to keep your distance. Now that you let yourself have a taste, you didn't think you could ever get enough.

Tugging him to you by the hair, you pulled him to kiss you again.

This time, it was feverish, insatiable. Months of tension and denied desire pouring over all at once.

He kissed like he was still chasing you; like he had something to prove, like he wanted you to feel that you were his favorite taste. A clash of tongue and teeth, nipping at your bottom lip. Each time he pulled back to breathe it lasted less than a beat before he rushed back to steal the soft sounds that slipped past your lips as your hips continued to buck against his thigh.

But the fabric, it was in the way. No matter how hard you grinded down on him, there was too much between you and what you wanted, and the frustration was showing. Your slight sighs turning into small huffs, brows pinching against your will.

The next time Katsuki pulled back, you didn't let him kiss you again. The small string of saliva between your lips broke as you spoke, softly panting. "I want 'em off."

He looked down at your request, pinching the fabric of your pants between his index and thumb. Eyes looking up into yours carefully, like he was uncertain if that was something you really wanted.

You nodded, a little frantic.

"Off. Please."

He got straight to it. Getting them off wasn't pretty, but a controlled sort of desperate.

His movements were precise as always, fairly smooth, but you could feel that something was simmering under his palms as he moved you around to get them off just right, even more so when they finally rested over your bare legs, eyes slightly dazed as he gave the flesh a tentative squeeze.

You bit your lip at the feeling, skin burning under his touch, wanting it all over you.

You glanced down at your shirt.

"This too."

He scoffed, but there was something like a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Fuckin' bossy."

His hands slid under the hem, bunching the fabric up over your chest, too impatient to get it all the way off. He reached back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall to the floor as he took in the shape of your bare chest, the way your nipples hardened at the cool air of the clinic.

For a beat too long, he just stared.

On instinct, you wondered if something was wrong, if there was something about you that was weird or unappealing, the feeling twisted in you. But before you could tug your shirt back down, he cupped your tits with both hands, feeling the weight of them, squeezing slightly.

"Been waiting for this shit for so fuckin' long, y'know that?" He groaned out, leaning forward to bury his face into them.

You whimpered as he pressed wet kisses across the skin, thumb brushing over one of your nipples while his tongue lolled out to lick over the other, sucking it between his lips.

You began grinding down on his thigh again, the feeling so much more intense with just your panties on. You shifted your hips to find the angle that felt best, rubbing yourself down against the hard muscle of his thigh beneath you, solid and perfect, the friction sending sparks up your spine, your breaths coming out in shallow pants.

Each roll of your hips made your breath come a little faster, especially as his mouth pulled off one of your tits to give the other a fair share of attention.

Your nails dug into his shoulders when he nipped at your chest, sucking harshly, catching your sensitive peak between his teeth just to hear you whine. His tongue was hot against your skin, wet and needy.

Katsuki could feel your arousal starting to coat his thigh, soaking through your panties, smearing over his leg with every drag of your hips. Smiling against your chest, he pulled back with a soft pop, looking down at the glistening mess you left behind.

He moved a hand down between your bodies, slightly nudging your hips up with his leg to give him enough space in between to feel you over your panties, the fabric evidently damp as his index and middle finger stopped right above your clothed clit, pressing against it just slightly, enough to pull a shaky sigh from your lips.

"All this from just my thigh?"

There was a smug, slightly demeaning tone to his voice, like he was surprised you were so wet, as if it wasn't his fault. It made you want to throttle him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Your brows furrowed. "Shut up."

He only chuckled, drawing a line down your clothed slit. All slow, agonizing. Self-satisfied at the soft whimper that slips out of you.

"It's a simple fucking question. Haven't even touched you properly yet."

You huffed, mustering your most serious expression to meet his eyes. "God, just quit teasing, Katsuki. You're being mean."

He raised his brows, that smile on his face only widening. "You think this is mean?"

Finally, finally, he hooked his fingers into your panties, pushing them aside. The first touch, skin-on-skin, made you gasp. He dragged his fingers between your folds, coating them in your slick, slow and deliberate, before circling your entrance.

"I can show you mean."

His eyes were locked between your legs, watching his own fingers move. "Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. “Fucking soaked."

He pushed one finger inside, slow enough that you felt every inch. You whimpered softly, walls fluttering around him.

He groaned softly, watching your face contort, feeling himself get even harder in his shorts.

"Tight," he breathed. "Gonna add another. That okay?"

You nodded frantically, beyond words.

The second finger stretched you more, made you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning too loud. He worked them deeper, curling them slightly. Your chest heaved at the intrusion you fought to not cry out, your nails digging into his shoulder as he hit just the right spot.

"There?" His voice was rough, satisfied. "That the spot?"

You couldn't respond, forehead falling into the crook of his neck, clinging to him as he curled his fingers again, rubbing that soft patch inside you with devastating precision.

Once he found it, he didn't stop, pumping his fingers in and out, hitting it with precision each time.

You grinded down into his hand, feeling the heel of his palm press up against your clit. You chase the feeling, shameless. Lost in the sensation, the overwhelming feeling of him all around you.

You mumbled into the skin of his neck incoherently about how you were: "Almost… 'm gonna…"

You could hear his voice right by your ear. Hoarse, determined.

“Yeah?” his efforts nearly doubled. “Close?”

You could only nod, coherent thoughts gone from your mind, only a desperate haze of want.

"Yeah. Yes. Please, please more…"

He kept at it, silently savoring your desperate sounds.

You wrapped your arms tight around his neck, moans muffled into his skin as the tightly wound up knot came undone. Your breaths getting heavy in your lungs, head getting fuzzy, eyes fluttering shut, nails having left angry red lines down the skin of his upper back.

He ran a hand up and down your back as you collapsed against him, coming down from the high. He let you rest against him, breathing from a moment before pulling you back with a small kiss to the side of your head.

"Look at me."

It didn't sound like a request.

"Hm?"

You watched with hazy eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, the loss making you whimper. They glistened under the harsh light of the clinic, coated with the evidence of what he'd just done to you.

He held your gaze as he brought them to his mouth. His tongue darted out first, licking a long strip up the slick-covered fingers. Then, he took them fully into his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes never once leaving yours.

Your breath caught in your throat. Heat flooded through you again, despite having just come. Tasting you off his own fingers like you were the best thing he'd ever had— it was almost too much.

When he finally pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft pop, he smirked at your expression.

"Tastes good," he said simply, like commenting on the weather.

You clenched around nothing, already missing him inside you, feeling spent but somehow needing more.

"You're shameless."

"Last I checked, I wasn't the one humping your thigh."

Your face burned, a small, angry sort of pout settling on your lips.

He snickered, hand sliding up to your waist, giving it a small squeeze. "Little too late to get all embarrassed. Shit was hot."

"Uh huh…" You gave him a look, "Um. Thanks, by the way... that was—" You trailed off, not knowing how to express what you feel just the right way. "Good. It was good."

Katsuki snorted. "Just good?" you rolled your eyes, but leaned into his teasing with sweetness, something he didn't quite expect.

"Much better than good."

He searched your eyes for a beat, a hand coming up to brush back some of your hair. Then he pecked your lips— soft, almost sweet — before tugging your shirt back down carefully.

That was when you slowly realized, he was wrapping this up. But… he didn't cum?

He didn't cum.

"Hey, wait you didn't—"

He knew what you were talking about, the strained bulge in his shorts was nothing short of obvious.

"Does it look like I care."

His dismissal of his own need threw you off.

"Katsuki, that's not fair. I can't just—"

"Sure you can. You just did."

You turned his head towards you, pulling him into a soft kiss, parting his lips with yours, trying to not get lost in tasting yourself on his tongue. Gently trying to urge him to let you have him the way he had you.

You try to convince him, urge him to let you return the favor, do something.

You ran your hand over the bulge in his shorts, traced it gently, wanting. He groaned against your mouth, the sound strained in the back of his throat, like he was holding himself back. "C'mon, Katsuki," you palmed him over his shorts, wanting to hear more. "Let me? Please?"

He looked like he could give in, his jaw tense, eyes screwing shut as your finger hooked into the waistband of his shorts, drawing out a breathy sigh. You froze when the intercom crackled above you.

"The gym will be closing in ten minutes. Please begin wrapping up your sessions and make your way to the exit. Thank you."

You blinked. Fuck.

"…I can be quick?"

That was a lie. Ten minutes wasn't nearly enough time to do what you wanted to.

He waved you off with a snort, tugging your hand away from his throbbing cock, taking it upon himself to adjust the hem of your shirt with more care than you thought possible from someone like him.

"Relax." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Shit’s not a big deal. Can take care of it in the shower."

The mental image of him standing under the shower, hand wrapped around his cock, thinking about this — you — made something low in your stomach tighten.

You must have made a face, because he huffed out a laugh.

"But if you want to make it up so bad," He leaned in closer, nose brushing yours. The soft curve of his lashes was so much more apparent this close. He pressed a final, lingering kiss, grinning softly as he spoke. His voice low against your lips, promising. "We'll go for round 2."

may blabs: baby's first smut dont throw tomatoes at me.. ok

btw if u ever genuinely have a bloody nose do NOT tilt your head back. that blood will go down your throat and if it gets into ur stomach u could throw up and that is not good so do NOT do that ✌️✌️

big special thank u to the mutuals ( @updownandbatty & @cupidkats & @hushedlotus ) AND irls i bothered w this fic… u are goated ❤️‍🩹

again, art in the header is not mine, credits to the artist !!!

taglist: @nanakamii 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ :

This marriage, formed years ago now, no longer feels like a partnership. A partnership which was based in balance, communication, understanding. It’s not quite that anymore, but you also can’t remember when things began to change. 

Was it when he reached the top 10? The weight of expectations pressing down on him, on both of you, and the crushing pressure of everything to lose? Or, was it before, when your baby girls arrived, and it became clear that parenting was definitely more work than the movies made it out to be. Maybe it doesn’t matter where it started, or why, or how. Somewhere along the way, the two of you stopped meeting in the middle.

Being Bakugo Katsuki’s wife doesn’t feel like much of an honor anymore. Most days, it feels more like a burden. A reminder of the role in your life that seemingly never gets easier, only harder. 

Despite everyone (friends, family, the everpresent media) you still work. It’s not anything people would refer to as noble, or essential. And even though it’s hard and sometimes makes you want to quit, you like having something of your own. Something that doesn’t come labeled as ‘Mrs. Bakugo.’

Working full time, raising young kids, and keeping the house running would be hard enough even if your marriage wasn’t falling apart. Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, you think being a single parent might actually be easier. 

No extra breakfast to make in the morning—only for it to go unacknowledged and the empty dish left for you to wash later. No disappointed little faces when Dad works late for countless nights in a row. At least then, you’d only have yourself to rely on. And maybe, that wouldn’t feel quite as lonely as this.

You really didn’t think it would get this way, you think, curled up on your side of the bed as Katsuki stumbles in after another late night. You can smell the alcohol, and the cigarettes already. 

He was out with Kirishima and the guys tonight, and the only reason you even know that is because Kirishima texted you earlier. Paired with a smiling photo of the group, promising to get him home safe. Like he knew Katsuki wouldn’t bother to tell you himself.

He quickly changes, tossing his clothes on the floor carelessly. Then, he collapses into bed, knocked out the second his head hits the pillow.

You lie there in the dark, the silence pressing in, and whisper to yourself once again, “When did it get like this?”

~ 

If he notices a change in you, he doesn’t voice it. 

Your mind pulls you back, and the next week passes like a blur. You keep up with the kids, you keep up with the chores. You try to carry on as normal, but it’s harder each day to hold it all together. Like your heart and mind is breaking all at once, piece by piece. 

And then, one evening, Riko—your 9-year-old, the one with the sharp eyes and the soft heart—asks if you’re feeling okay. You freeze. Her voice is so innocent, so concerned, but it cuts through you like glass. You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. 

Her eyes dart over your face, reading between the lines like he used to. She doesn’t know how to make you feel better with words—just like he never did—but there’s something so pure and heartbreaking in the way she tries. Little drawings tucked into your pockets, warm hugs that last a little longer than usual. 

You feel guilt crawl up your throat, a heavy, suffocating thing. This isn’t fair on them. The weight on your chest feels even heavier, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re failing your children in some way. 

“You getting sick?”

You glance up to see your husband standing in the doorway, his figure framed by the soft light spilling from the kitchen. It’s late, when he asks, when you are busying yourself with preparing his and the girls lunches for the next day. 

If there’s any concern in his tone, you don’t catch it. There’s no comfort in his words, no reassurance—just a flat question that seems to hang in the air between you. 

In the back of your mind, everything that has been sitting on your chest threatens to bubble. But as you look at his face, and see nothing but blankness (with a small frown forming at your silence), you put those thoughts away. 

“I’m just tired,” you reply, because it’s easier than saying anything else. And you are, desperately so.

“Well, the brats think you are,” he mutters, and with that, he turns and walks away.

The words sting. They sting with the insinuation that you’re a bad mother, that you’re the one worrying your children, and that this, somehow, is your fault. Whereas the angry part of you, the part that’s been building up with the last of your energy, wants to laugh at his audacity. To call him out, to remind him that his own children see him more on the TV than in real life, that he hasn’t been there like he should be.

You know that if you let it all out, if you say the things you’ve been holding back, it will only make things worse. It’ll trigger the chaos, the shouting, the hurtful words that come when emotions are too raw, and you’re not sure you can survive another round. You don’t have the energy, to match his fire, to say what you need. So you don’t. 

So instead, you swallow the anger, the frustration, the hurt, and keep moving through the motions. You finish the dishes, pack the lunches, and make sure the house is in order.

~

It’s actually Kirishima who gives you the intervention.

Since you and Katsuki met, Kirishima has always been there. Bright, bubbly, and with a kind of steady energy that balances out Katsuki’s explosiveness. He understands Katsuki through and through—knows him in a way no one else does.

And he doesn’t just see you as an extension of Katsuki either, not after all this time. He remembers your family’s birthdays, and he makes sure to send them his well wishes. He knows what films you like and what food you eat, all the little things that make you, you.

He pesters you for a catch-up lunch (on him, he insists) whenever he has the time. He’s there, always, in a way that almost feels like family.

So, it shouldn’t surprise you when he’s the one that finally spots your cracks.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says one afternoon, as you’re sipping coffee together in the living room, when he failed to get you out to a coffee shop. "No time," you had justified, a weak excuse that he’s learned to accept but never really believes.

He moves just a little closer then, his eyes softening as they meet yours. There’s something in them, a weight of concern that makes your chest tighten.

“Is everything okay?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and gentle at the same time. You feel your breath catch in your throat, and you break. 

~ 

It feels like your eyes don’t focus, until hours later when you wake in the dark to the sound of aggressive knocking at your door.

After you spilled everything, Kirishima didn’t hesitate. He booked you a hotel a bit outside of Tokyo, made sure to call your work (claiming you’d come down with the flu—in April), and promised to get the kids sorted before shipping you off in a car.

With nothing but a soft smile on his face he says, “Just relax, okay? Take care of yourself for a bit,”,  his voice gentle but firm. He reminds you to text him when you get there, and before you know it, you’re being driven away.

The knocking only seems to get rougher, so you stumble out of bed, still in your bathrobe, towards the door. Despite a small flicker of shock in your face when faced with Katsuki, your mind doesn't match it. The frantic knocking was a clear enough giveaway, you muse. 

He’s in his post-work clothes, his face tight with frustration and anger, his eyes dark with something you can’t quite place. Before you can even speak, he brushes past you, pushing his way into the room without so much as a second glance. 

“What the fuck is going on?” he demands, his voice sharp and biting as he watches you linger near the door, still too stunned to move.

“I’m on fucking patrol, and Shitty Hair won’t stop calling me, then he’s crying about you, and that he has the kids and you’re gone! And since you decide to not answer a single fucking text, I’m forced to trample up here to get you.”

His words hit you like a slap, each one laced with a mix of anger and frustration, but you can’t bring yourself to react, your body still laced with tiredness and emptiness. 

You return him with a blank stare, as his eyes, wild with simmering anger and confusion, rake over you. His head whips around the room, at your small bag and clothes, like it will give him the answer. Like your another criminal to crack. Like the answer hasn’t been in his face this entire time. 

At your silence, he takes a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, and it seems like he’s trying to hold back the frustration, trying a different tactic.

“Sweetheart…"

Huh. You haven’t heard that in a while.It still doesn’t carry the softness it once did; now it feels foreign, distant, like it doesn’t belong. The word lingers in the air between you, almost mocking in its attempt to soften the tension.

“Say something, this… this isn’t like you. Fuckin’ taking off like this…”

He sits on the bed, looking at you like he’s never seen you before, like this is your first fight, and he’s trying to figure out where things went wrong. 

You sigh, feeling the weight of everything Kirishima had said to you earlier. “He… he sometimes needs things spelled out for him. It’s not fair, but…”

You breathe in deeply, pulling your robe tighter around you, but you don’t move towards him. 

“Katsuki…” Your voice is quiet, but it cracks with the weight of everything you’ve been holding in. “I’m tired.”

The only thing that tells you he’s really listening is the sharp intake of breath that follows your words.

“I just… I’m not sure if I can do this anymore. If I’m happy… anymore.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final.

Katsuki doesn’t say anything at first. His presence is looming, heavy, but there’s no movement. No angry retort. You hear him breathe, slow and deliberate, but when the silence drags on, your chest tightens with the fear that maybe he doesn’t know how to fix this, either.

Finally, his voice breaks the quiet, low and rough. 

“Okay—” he mutters, dragging his hands roughly through his hair, “Okay.”

You don’t look up. But, you can hear him now, his footsteps heavy as he stands and begins pacing next to the bed, restless and unsure.

“Not happy—not happy how?” His voice cracks, just a little, as if he’s trying to hold himself together. He pauses, breath catching in his throat, before continuing, his words tumbling out in quick bursts. “What can I do, to, to fuckin’ fix this?”. 

Your mind feels so empty, the recognition of his emotions, of his desperation, doesn’t even register. It’s coming a couple of years too late. You can’t prevent a delirious, small laugh from escaping your lips in response, the bitter sound echoing in the quiet room. The idea that he still doesn’t get it, that you still have to spell it out to him, makes your chest tighten with something raw and aching.

You wipe your face, a dry, exhausted laugh escaping before you can stop it. “You still don’t get it, huh?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, heavy with everything you’ve been holding in for so long. “You can’t just fix it, Katsuki. You can’t just show up and expect everything to be okay. It’s been so long, and I… I’ve been doing this—this whole thing—on my own for so long.”

You slide down the wall, onto the floor. Resigned with the fact that you’ve said enough for tonight, and that you can’t get out any more. The silence in the room is thick, but you meet his eyes, and numbly register that he’s crying now. You can't remember the last time you saw that either, maybe back when your first baby was born, though the tears are much different now. His face is twisted in confusion, guilt, and something that might be regret. Like the severity of the situation has finally reached him.

Then, he falls to the floor, meeting you there. His face is swollen with tears, and you can hear the shaky breath escape him as he reaches out, wanting to touch you. His hands hover above your knees, and before you even think about it, you knock them away.

The reflex comes from somewhere deep inside you—somewhere that’s been broken for too long. His eyes widen, like you’ve slapped him, and he pulls his hands back, his body going rigid as if he wasn’t expecting that reaction.

“Don’t,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Katsuki’s face crumples even more, his shoulders shaking as he tries to even his breathing. His voice comes out broken, barely audible. “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know how to… how to make it right. I just… I didn’t know. I didn’t realize.”

You don’t say anything. The words feel like they’re stuck in your throat, the exhaustion and hurt too heavy to allow you to respond with anything that isn’t laced with bitterness or tears.

“I can sort this out,” he says again, softer this time, his voice breaking. “I can do better. I swear, I’ll try. I’ll—” He looks at you, as though he’s trying to find the right words, the right way to fix everything that’s broken.

For a moment, all you can do is look at him. He’s still the same man you married, but somehow, he’s different. More lost. More fragile. And so are you. And maybe that’s the hardest part.

The silence that follows is heavy, painful, a reminder of everything that’s been unsaid for far too long.

With a final, lingering glance at you, Katsuki stands up. The room feels colder now, the absence of his presence a sharp contrast to the tension that had once filled it.

“I’ll fix it,” he says one last time, his voice quieter now, and with that, he turns and walks out of the room.

.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒

EEEEKKKK...

I haven't completely decided what is happening next in this fic... so any suggestions/predications are welcome 🙃

he remembers being on autopilot—the entire way to the suburban peripheries of musutafu where his parents decided to move after he got his own place at the age of 22. he’s not entirely sure—the journey over now a hazy blur—but he might’ve sent you the link to his location, because you magically arrived at the local hospital around fifteen minutes after him.

the moment he saw you burst into the entrance of the emergency room, a huge, tidal wave of relief immediately washed over him, he thought he could’ve collapsed. the second you lock eyes, he witnessed a whirlwind of emotions dance across your beautiful features, before you ran over to where he stood near the vending machine, unceremoniously crashing into his arms.

at that point, he had no idea what made you drop everything—including the precious work that you do—and just follow him based on an ambiguous gps locator he sent you without context, but he was glad you did.

because it was only as you held him so close to you all the while soothing his back and chanting soft ‘it’s okay’s’ in his ear did it hit him.

the fact that he’s fucking terrified.

it must’ve been at least three hours of stewing in tense silence in the emergency room’s waiting area before the two of you finally saw mitsuki.

he remembers the way his heart ached when he first laid eyes on his mother, someone who’s typically radiant and spirited and happy, now looking too frail and painfully vulnerable.

words weren’t exchanged as the three of you walked towards each other, and he promptly engulfed his mother into a tight hug before he could talk himself out of it.

“how is he?” he whispered into the side of her head, choosing to ask then, in the middle of a hug, because he didn’t know if he could stand the look on her face when she answered.

“he’s alive,” she managed to get out, but she said it so tentatively that he knew it was too soon to feel any sort of relief.

“but…?” he recalls asking with bated breath.

“it was a hemorrhagic stroke. it’s… it’s bad, katsuki.”

it wasn’t until a few more hours later, when the two of you were finally granted permission to enter masaru’s hospital room together with mitsuki, did he realize what bad meant.

some parts of this story are blurry now, but the way his stomach dropped at the sight of his father remains to be unforgettable.

the sight of him paralyzed, head to toe.

masaru remained confined in the hospital for a few weeks more after that. the three of you took turns—one would go home to clean up and catch some sleep while the remaining two kept watch and assisted the man.

you almost got booted out of there on the second day, with the nurse saying only immediate family was allowed due to overcrowding in the hospital, but bakugou was quick to step in and say you were practically married.

when the nurse politely pressed for more details while looking pointedly at your ring finger and the lack of a wedding band, he lied and said you forgot to wear it in your rush to get there.

she didn’t seem too convinced, but she thankfully let it go, probably because it was #2 pro-hero dynamight who said so, eventually exiting the room after checking masaru’s vitals.

he remembers you heaving a sigh of relief once the three of you were left alone, tossing him a small smile that sent a familiar shot of longing straight to his veins.

one day, he recalls thinking to himself, you will be married.

just—not now.

the first day home was as much of a nightmare as he expected it to be.

growing up, and until that moment, he never really found himself wanting siblings.

sure, it got pretty lonely during his childhood, but he almost always had kids following him around what with how flashy his quirk is, and he had izuku, which he can now admit was (and still is) his best friend.

plus, you always said you loved how he’d roughhouse you, which you chalked up to him being an only child and not having had the opportunity to do that with anyone else.

but, as the three of you struggled to lift masaru out of the car and into his newly minted wheelchair, he remembers wishing for a brother or a sister who could lend a helping hand and make sure all of masaru’s numb body parts were carefully looked out for.

it’s fucking hilarious, how he didn’t just lift his father all by himself with his pro-hero muscles, but the fear of accidentally hurting him even more turned out to be more paralyzing than he anticipated.

not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

not even you.

but as he watched you and his mother fluttering around, tending to masaru’s needs not even a minute you get in the house, it struck him that maybe he should.

you might not be his sibling (thank god, no), but you will most likely become his parents’ daughter if things go his way.

and, whether he liked it or not, he’s got to do something about the growing ache in his chest that’s only growing wider by the second.

the next few weeks he spent busying himself with the stuff that came with looking after a stroke patient.

mitsuki, who’s done nothing but throw herself into caring for her husband, insisted on helping him find the people they needed, but bakugou didn’t even let her get a word in.

when he tucked himself into bed right next to you later that night in his new bedroom (you moved in with him to his parents’ despite his protests), he recalls ranting about how the old hag was getting on his nerves with her inability to just let him handle shit.

“have i ever been incompetent?” he huffed, turning on his side so he could lie facing you. “it’s like she doesn’t even trust me.”

“i think the two of you just want the same for the other, kats,” came your steady yet gentle voice, not missing a beat and totally unfazed by his petulant behavior.

“…waddya mean?”

you reached out to caress his cheek, and he remembers how soft your fingers felt and how his eyes momentarily fluttered close at the warmth.

at the sight, you flashed him a sad smile before pressing on.

“you’re both hurting, but the two of you would rather carry the weight by yourselves instead of burdening the other. it’s how you and mitsuki show you care.”

he didn’t say anything after that.

at least, for a while.

finally, he spoke up. “…i just don’t like to be bossed around, is all.”

to that, you only tossed him a knowing look. “yup, just that. definitely. never mind your immense sense of responsibility and the stubborn yet admirable way you carry everybody’s bur—”

“yeah, yeah,” he cut you off before you could ramble any further. “i get it.”

seemingly satisfied, you grinned up at him before pulling him close, cradling his head by your chest.

with the new position, he could feel your familiar, rhythmic heartbeat.

your heartbeat that he liked to listen to for reassurance—telltale evidence that you’re alive and right next to him, and that no villain has wrestled you out of his firm grip.

and as he lay there snuggled into you and listening to the consistent pulse, he found his frantic, loud thoughts slowly but steadily being lulled to a hum.

thoughts that he knew you’d kick to the moon if you found out he’s been thinking them.

thoughts like maybe he’s just selfishly gatekeeping all the tasks so he could distract himself from the pain that’s threatening to swallow him whole.

thoughts like maybe he deserved this for all the wrong he’s done growing up.

thoughts like maybe his mother would be in far less pain if it were him instead of his saint of a father who had to go through this.

he fell into a fitted sleep that night.

after a few more weeks of searching for and screening applicants, and with your and mitsuki’s approval, he finally settled on a stay-in caregiver and physical therapist.

it took quite a while for the two to learn the ropes and master how he wanted things to be done around here, but they eventually got there, and when they did, they cleared a lot of stuff that has been on everybody’s plates ever since masaru had the stroke.

with that, mitsuki insisted the two of you go home to your shared condominium and get back into working full-time again, but neither of you relented. he tried to get you to return, not wanting to hold you back from the important things that you do, but you were quick to dismiss him.

he didn’t tell you then and there, but he secretly wished you would.

he’d never confess this to anybody, but he’d definitely crumble without you around.

he remembers one specific thursday, when you first started getting masaru into exercising his left, albeit non-dominant hand, by drawing.

it was silly, but he recalls not even being able to look his father in the eye as the two of you sat across from him who was plastered in his wheelchair, a small coffee table between you, on which sat a piece of paper, a pencil, a box of crayons, and an all might plushie you swiftly grabbed from his bedroom.

and as he sat there avoiding his father’s gaze, he watched you as you talked animatedly to the man, explaining the deceivingly simple activity: he just had to try and draw the plushie, after which, if he still had the energy, he could color in using the crayons you dug out from bakugou’s drawers.

but masaru wasn’t having it.

the man only stared at you in disinterest as you tried your best to engage him. despite himself, bakugou felt indignation creep up his spine.

he knew. fuck, he really did. after he made sure you’ve fallen asleep, he had spent nights researching his father’s condition, poring over mountains and mountains of information all in the name of being able to better understand and help him.

so he knew—he knew that strokes, especially severe ones, can cause noticeable changes in one’s personality, at least in the short term. it can turn someone sensitive and in tune with others’ emotions into someone who’s apathetic and seemingly self-absorbed.

still, that knowledge doesn’t stop him from jumping on his feet when masaru, his kind, sweet father, angrily wiped off the table with his left arm, sending the materials you worked hard to gather scattered all over the floor.

and, before he could stop himself: “hey!”

you were onto him in an instant, a soothing albeit restraining hold on his shoulder. “katsuki, it’s okay.”

he was about to open his mouth to spit venom when he felt you tighten your grip. he didn’t have to glance at you to know you were looking at him the way you always did when you were begging him to stay quiet.

and because he loved (loves) you, he did.

and as he wordlessly picked up the papers and pens in silence, he couldn’t help but mourn over his father, and the patience and calmness that characterized his being.

the very patience and calmness that he always wished he had, instead of his temper and aggressiveness, because that’s what you, of all people, deserved.

and then the all-too-familiar guilt hit him again.

because why was he acting like his father died, when he was still very much alive?

simple, bakugou thought to himself.

it’s because it feels like he has.

his relationship with masaru didn’t get better after that.

he’d been trying, he really had been. if not for you, who’d been tending to his father like he was your very own, then for his mother, whose fatigue and sadness have been chipping away at her by the minute.

he was washing the dishes in the kitchen after you’ve had dinner—all the while his parents watched tv in the living room—when you walked in, a couple more dirty plates in tow.

he wouldn’t have noticed he was glaring down at the brick of butter on the shelf if you didn’t point it out.

“a few more seconds and that’s gonna melt,” you quipped.

he looked back at you, gears in his head turning for a beat, before he chuckled half-heartedly and turned back to the sink.

behind him, he recalls hearing a click, which he now identifies as you putting down the plates on the kitchen island, before he felt your arms wrap around his middle, encasing him in a hug.

your voice was smooth when you drawled out, “what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, baby?”

still, and despite all the shit that’s been going on in his life, he still found himself shuddering at the pet name.

“nothing.”

“really?” came your immediate response. “because i was getting kinda jealous with how hard you were staring at that butter.”

at that, bakugou couldn’t help but snort. you followed suit, that delightful laugh echoing across the small room.

“stupid,” he simply retorted, although both of you knew there was no bite to it.

you didn’t press him for more after that, choosing to just hold yourself against his back in comfortable silence—which he now knows he’s grateful for.

because at that time, he couldn’t have told you he was feeling nothing but resentment for his pitiful father.

his pitiful father who loved to put butter in virtually every dish he whipped up.

his pitiful father who probably wouldn’t be pitiful if he just led an active lifestyle, monitored his health, and made better choices so that his poor mother wouldn’t have to go through all this.

his train of thought was interrupted, however, when a pang of that same old guilt hit his chest, and then he was once again flooded with scalding shame.

because what else should he be feeling for his father aside from empathy, as someone who has had far too many brushes with death itself?

“…katsuki?”

he recalls jolting ever so minutely, before turning his head to look at you, who, by then, was already standing behind him, apparently already having released him from the hug.

“huh?”

“i was just asking you,” you continued as if he didn’t just zone out. “our friends want to come by and visit, if you’re okay with it. is that alright with you?”

the last thing he needed was for his nerd-ass friends to visit and witness his family’s dirty laundry, which would inevitably be aired out for them to see given the circumstances. his entire life, he always, always, kept those from prying eyes, even if they were his closest buddies’.

but, at the mention of his friends, he found his heart clenching in yearning despite himself.

and so, before he could talk himself out of it, he nodded in approval.

“…and so that’s how i saved the little girl who was convinced i was the bad guy!”

he remembers everyone in the room erupting in laughter at kirishima’s story, even masaru, who’s been steadily gaining control of the left side of his body back.

his right has seen little to no improvement, but you and mitsuki have been making it a point to celebrate every win, no matter how small.

at kirishima’s gag, bakugou himself couldn’t help the somewhat imperceptible smirk that encroached on his face, which izuku, unfortunately, caught sight of. the #1 pro-hero beamed at him, and it took bakugou every ounce of self-control not to roll his eyes at the nerd.

“what about you, midoriya-kun?” asked mitsuki, who’s seated on a stool right beside her husband, who’s nestled comfortably in the reclining chair you got him about a month ago.

at the call out, the green-haired man shifted his attention to the lady, before sheepishly retorting with: “oh, i just try to be funny.”

that granted him his round of laughter, and this time bakugou finally allowed himself to give into the visceral urge to roll his eyes.

he must’ve been being so obvious with his expressions, because it’s you who managed to catch him again, shooting him a chastising but nevertheless playful look.

before he could wink at you or do anything in response, though, he recalls mitsuki standing up quite abruptly, startling the five of you.

you shot her a question before anyone else could. “what is it, mitsuki-san?”

“i didn’t notice! we’ve run out of tea and snacks. sorry—” she leaned down to get the trays, “—let me get some mo—”

“i’ll do it!” volunteered the ever-good-natured izuku, who moved so fast the plates were on him before the rest could blink.

“i’ll help the nerd,” bakugou added, standing up before taking some of the cups from his rival lest the latter drops them.

at the uncharacteristically generous offer, izuku once again beamed at him, which bakugou immediately dismissed with a wave of a hand.

the short trek to the kitchen was quiet amidst the background noise, which has been brought up a notch thanks to kirishima’s vivid storytelling.

without a word, bakugou gestured where to get a refill on the snacks while he busied himself with brewing more tea.

the silence that engulfed them was comfortable—familiar—that was, until, izuku broke it.

“thanks again, kacchan.”

bakugou felt his eye twitch at the nickname. “for what?”

izuku turned on his feet to regard his best friend, a grateful smile gracing his boyish features. “for letting me and ei visit. i just wanted you to know i appreciate it. i’m sure it’s not easy having guests around while, you know…”

he wasn’t about to tell the nerd he and kirishima were the only ones he felt comfortable enough to visit at the moment, so he merely nodded.

(un)fortunately, the greenhead took it as a sign to continue.

“she’s been amazing, huh?”

bakugou met the man’s soft gaze, which was directed toward you.

“yeah,” came his sure reply. he remembers not even knowing where to start, so he just simply left it at that.

a pregnant pause.

“you’ve been doing great, too, kacchan.”

that caught him off guard.

he must’ve looked stunned, because izuku shrugged quite timidly, before: “we all see how hard you’re working.”

the #1 pro-hero hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say the next thing, ultimately deciding for it.

“…but don’t forget to take care of yourself, too, alright?”

and just as fast as he scooped the trays back in the living room, izuku patted him on the shoulder before taking the cups from him and waltzing rather clumsily out of the kitchen.

later that night, bakugou found himself unable to fall asleep.

it’s been ages since you both got into bed, and you were now on your side with your back turned against him, probably already fast asleep.

he recalls just staring up at the off-white ceiling, playing back in his head the earlier conversation he had with izuku again and again and again.

“you’ve been doing great, too, kacchan,” was what the nerd said.

if he only knew.

if he only knew the terrible thoughts that had been plaguing his mind since shit went down.

there’s a reason why he hasn’t said a single word about the things he’d been thinking since day one.

there’s a reason why he’s kept all of this shit to himself even though they were fucking heavy to carry all on his own.

it was because he was scared of them, and even more scared of what people would make of him when he finally verbalized them into existence.

what you would make of him.

he’s spent most of his life running away from who he used to be, that the mere thought that he might have just always been that guy this entire time is like a fucking 100% detroit smash to the gut.

he didn’t even notice he was crying until he felt a single tear go down the side of his face.

he quickly reached up to wipe it away.

to his horror, he felt you shift beside him, and he found himself frozen in fear as he waited for you to settle into another position in your sleep.

but that didn’t come.

instead, he remembers so, so clearly how you turned to face him—absolutely, evidently wide awake—with such a worried expression on your gorgeous face, and how he just completely lost it at the sight of you.

he remembers how you scooped him into your arms as ugly sobs finally wracked his body, how you led his arms to wrap around your waist to help anchor him as he cried into your chest.

he remembers the soothing circles you rubbed on his back as you started to cry with him, your sniffles the only thing he heard aside from his own weeping.

he remembers the way your voice cracked when you started whispering ‘i’m here’s’ in his ear. and, he doesn’t know if it’s because that line carries a massive fucking weight for him, or that it’s you—the love of his life—who’s saying them, but the words wash over the entirety of his exhausted body like a violent storm, leaving him shivering in its wake.

he remembers deciding then and there, that he was going to tell you everything.

maybe tomorrow, but not now.

for now, and in the safety of your arms, he finds himself finally allowing the grief—the grief that he’s unknowingly been trying to tamp down—to come forward and make itself known.

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @sugurusmoon

he spits the blatant question—no, the accusation—so harshly that you can’t help but shrink into yourself ever so slightly.

when you don’t say anything, he only shakes his head. “i thought you said you had to work overtime and stay in the office?”

he pauses, as if to hear you out, but he continues before you can get a word in. “so you can only imagine my fucking confusion when i got there and that dickhead of a supervisor of yours said you went home on the dot.”

“i thought you agreed to cover for kiri tonight…” you mumble, more to yourself.

but bakugou, sharp as ever, barely catches it. “what?”

you look up from where you were staring at your feet, finally meeting his gaze. you try not to let the pained expression on his face chip away at your resolve. “what were you doing at my office? i thought you were working a double shift today.”

at that, he sneers. “oh, so we’re answering questions with questions now, hah?”

“no, i just—”

“i told eijirou last minute that i couldn’t ‘cuz i was planning to surprise you and spend the night together. happy?”

a wave of guilt courses through you at his admission. you shift to look at the stack of novels behind him instead, effectively ending your staredown.

“so you did lie to me,” he declares definitively, voice clipped. “can’t even look me in the fucking eye.”

not knowing what to say, you resort to scanning the relatively big area around you, clocking the curious faces attached to which are most definitely eavesdropping ears.

“people are staring, kats…”

the pro-hero doesn’t miss a beat. “i don’t give a single fuck.”

you heave a sigh as you wrack your brain for a way out of this. adjusting your grip on the book you’ve been cradling, you settle with: “it must’ve been a long day for you, you should go home and—”

“why are you avoiding me?”

you barely stop yourself from choking. “what?”

“you are. shit’s been going on for a while now—can’t believe it took me this long to put two and two together. you’re always working overtime, you always have errands to run on your own, you’ve been turning down my offers to—”

“excuse me, mr. dynamight, sir?”

the both of you whip to look at the source of the timid voice, only to find what has to be a six or seven-year-old child quaking in his notably orange and black hi-top sneakers.

“what?” comes bakugou’s curt response, obviously annoyed at having been interrupted. you, on the other hand, bask in the momentary reprieve the kid has unknowingly granted you.

you instinctively take a step back from the two.

“can i p-please have a p-picture with you?”

bakugou purses his lips in a tight line, “look, kid, i’m actually in the middle of some—”

“just do it, kats,” you cut him off, feeling empathy for the boy. the child looks at you in surprise, as if he just remembered you were standing there, before tossing you a grateful look.

at that, the man sighs, before beckoning the kid to come close next to him. the younger male beams in joy, hurriedly handing you his smartphone. bakugou crouches down on his knees so he’s more or less at the same height as the kid, an arm looped around the latter.

and as you say ‘cheese’, the two grin, one genuine and excited while the other comes off as a bit strained.

the kid jumps in glee and rushes off to you right after catching the hero off guard with a tight hug to his muscled leg.

looking up at you, he smiles. “thank you, miss!”

you ruffle his hair, “no problem, …?”

“eiro!” the child offers enthusiastically. “and you are?”

you’re about to say your name before you catch yourself in the nick of time.

“no one, really,” you chuckle, although it comes out a bit stilted. through your periphery, you can sense bakugou’s stare boring holes into the side of your face.

a look of perplexion crosses eiro’s innocent features. “really? for a second there i thought you were dynamight’s girlfriend, or something. you can’t be just no one.”

“i’m just a random bookworm,” you raise the book you’ve been holding and wiggle it to prove your point. “see?”

the child merely gives you an unconvinced hum before deciding he doesn’t really care enough to keep pressing. with one last look at his favorite hero, he lets out a squeal of delight, exclaiming thanks and dashing off to who-knows-where.

you take that as your cue to turn your back and make a start for the exit.

you can always just order this book that you’ve been waiting months for, anyway.

but you barely get to take a step forward when bakugou reaches for your wrist and pulls you unceremoniously close toward him, the distance between the two of you around only a foot apart.

your heart starts hammering—whether at the proximity or in anticipation of what’s about to come, if the tight grip on your appendage was any indication—you don’t know.

“the fuck was that?” he hiss-whispers.

at least he’s minding other people now. “i just felt for the kid. he just wanted to take a picture with you.”

“quit playing dumb with me, princess,” he growls. “why the fuck didn’t you just say your name?”

you gulp before you get to talk yourself out of it. bakugou notices, his eyes darting down to your throat and back up to your eyes, his crimson ones wordlessly demanding an answer.

when you don’t utter a single word, bakugou pushes. “you don’t want to go public about us, is that it?”

you almost gawk unabashedly at the man. you sometimes forget how perceptive he can be.

before you can even attempt to deny it, you get stopped in your tracks as you witness first-hand the palpable hurt that flashes across the pro-hero’s features.

and nothing could’ve prepared you for what tumbles out of his mouth next.

“…are you ashamed of being with me?”

“what?” you blurt out, an amalgamation of emotions washing over you in an instant. “no! why the hell would you think that?”

at that, bakugou frowns, “what else am i supposed to think, dumbass?”

“a million other things! like how villains might kidnap me to get back at you, or that your popularity and general ranking will drop, or that i’m not fucking good enough for you!”

the second you say the last thing, bakugou’s gaze turns indescribably stony.

“take that the fuck back.”

“no,” you say, trying to sound firm. “i’m being serious, katsuki.”

“no, you're being fucking ridiculous,” he spits, and if you were judging him just by his tone you wouldn’t believe he’s the one defending you right now.

“is that why you’ve been avoiding me, hah? because you don’t think you’re good enough for me?”

“don’t say it like that,” you grumble, shame now churning in your gut. “you’re making it sound stupid.”

“because you are being stupid, dumbass.” the man huffs, evidently frustrated but you’ve known him long enough to recognize the traces of relief etched on his face.

bakugou reaches for your shoulders, his big, firm hands encasing them as he gently squeezes the flesh. you finally bring your gaze up to look him in the eyes, and the sincerity in them would’ve made you stumble if it weren’t for his hold that’s keeping you in place.

“you’re fucking good enough for me, you got that?”

he says it so certainly that you can’t help but nod, even though you know the insecurities won’t vanish overnight.

“and don’t worry about my ranking—i want to reach number one with you by my side. as for those shit-faced villains, they won’t lay a finger on you as long as i’m alive. okay?”

“okay.”

seemingly pleased enough, bakugou releases his grip on you, pulling a few inches away.

as he slides into the spot beside you, you’re instantly hit with the comforting smell of burnt caramel and that signature perfume of his that never fails to make you just a tad bit light-headed and, quite frankly, dumb.

“hey, babe,” bakugou greets you, before leaning over the console and placing a firm hand on the crook of your neck, bringing you in for a kiss.

despite yourself and the sheer number of times you’ve done this, you still flush when you feel his tongue brush over your lower lip just ever so slightly, which you’ve long identified as his way of asking for permission.

you’ve never been the type to deny him, and so you relent.

you barely stop yourself from groaning when the wet muscle enters your mouth, and for a moment you just sit there—brain empty—as he kisses you fervently, his grip on you unrelenting as ever.

bakugou katsuki doesn’t half-ass things, and that includes kissing you.

eventually, when you think he’s satisfied enough and aptly satiated, he pulls away, and it takes you a moment to ground yourself back to reality. he must’ve noticed, because the cocky son of a bitch only smirks to himself before moving again.

dazed, you watch your boyfriend as he stirs in his seat and grabs the bouquet you completely forgot about from under his feet, thrusting it toward you.

“here.”

your eyes dart back and forth between the bunch of pink tulips and the man, “are you being serious, right now?”

his eyebrows instantly furrow. “what? ‘course i am. picked them up during patrol. knew you’d like ‘em.”

at his mention of the item, your gaze drifts to the thing that’s been sitting in wait in your backseat.

bakugou studies you for a beat, probably wondering what the fuck is going on, before following your line of vision.

you brace yourself for his confusion or maybe even stunned silence in reaction to it.

but neither of those comes.

what does come, is something close to indignation.

“…who the fuck gave you that?”

you feel your face contort in confusion. “what?”

at that, bakugou turns even more toward the backseat, staring down the poor bouquet of orange lilies that absolutely hasn’t done anything wrong to be met with such disdain.

“which dipshit gave you those, hah?” he spews, evidently miffed. “was it that stupid coworker of yours who’s calling himself your fucking work husband?”

“what? no!” you exclaim, because why the hell would he think you’d even accept in the first place?

even with your denial, though, bakugou isn’t looking too pleased, now closely resembling a petulant child.

a cute, jealous, petulant child—

—holding a collection of tulips.

you try to tamp down the grin that’s fighting to take over your features, knowing better than to make him feel embarrassed for getting riled up over the idea of other guys being around you. reaching to the backseat, you take the assortment and quickly fix the areas that inadvertently got folded during the drive over, ultimately handing it to the man.

only the said man looks at you like you just grew horns.

it takes him a second to reply, voice gruff and low when he asks, disbelieving: “did you buy me flowers?”

you really don’t know how else to respond, so you nod. “got them on the way here. they were on display and they reminded me of you.”

at that, bakugou doesn’t say anything, eyes unwaveringly fixed on the bursts of orange.

but he doesn’t move to take them off your hands or something.

you feel your smile faltering just a little. “you don’t like them?”

he looks up at you, like your voice just brought him back from where he was deep in thought. “yeah—no, they’re nice.”

before you get to dwell on what nice means and if he really meant that or was just being courteous, bakugou wordlessly coaxes the flowers from your grip and sets them alongside the ones he got you.

once they’re secure in the tiny space beside him, he then leans over the console again, before planting a lingering kiss on your lips.

one that tells you all the things he can’t bring himself to say—at least at this exact moment.

one that’s definitely saying thank you and i love you.

and maybe, if you read into it close enough, an i love it—give me more in the future.

you eagerly return it before he can pull away.

you don’t think bakugou noticed, but on the silent drive to the restaurant (after you spent ten more minutes in the lot making out), you stole a glance just in time to catch him sniffing the flowers (the ones you got him) and seemingly fighting the upturn of the corners of his lips.

he also brought the bouquets with him to the restaurant, which he absolutely didn’t have to. when you playfully called him out on it, he told you off by saying you can’t just leave flowers in a car for various reasons. you listened to him as he went on and on about why that’s so, but the redness of his ears sort of gave him away.

and when you got home, the first thing he did when he thought you weren’t looking was grab two vases and get to work arranging the tulips and lilies together, placing them side by side at the center of your dining table.

it wouldn’t be until two weeks later, however, that you accidentally bump into his bedside table, causing the book he’s about halfway done reading to fall on the floor.

and when you stoop down to pick it up, you see that he’s on page 280, to be exact.

the smile that breaches your features is instinctive and not at all strained, despite the anticipatory anxiety stewing in your gut. you can’t help it—not when you’re met with the sight of him—all dapper in a freshly minted black suit with his usually unruly ash blonde hair styled and pushed back, revealing his handsome forehead.

you drink in the view a bit more, eyes roving over his face and down to his torso then back up.

you feel your smile growing.

“i am now.”

as if on cue, a tinge of scarlet shows up high on bakugou’s cheeks, and the man averts his gaze, evidently flustered.

“shut up.”

a delighted laugh erupts from you, which only causes the pro-hero who’s now staring at the road ahead of you, to flush even more.

relaxing into your seat, you sit in comfortable silence for a few more minutes until you finally arrive at the designated drop-off point, tens of cameramen and women pointed towards the car you’re in, all in anticipation for the arrival of #2 pro-hero dynamight.

you’re peering through the tinted window to your right when you feel a hand cover yours, and you shift to see bakugou looking at you expectantly.

“ready?”

taking your nod as the signal, bakugou opens the door to his left and gracefully steps out of the vehicle. almost instantaneously, the flashes and clicks of the cameras go off, and you find yourself having to squint from the waves of light that permeate through the barrier separating you from the crowd.

you’re shielded from all the ruckus in a matter of seconds, however, when bakugou arrives just outside where you’re sitting. he knocks on the door twice—in warning—like he’s done the last two times you’ve been his plus-one, before grabbing the handle and officially revealing you to the press.

a new surge of camera flashes greets you, and you fight the urge to scrunch up your eyes. the pro-hero offers you a hand, which you happily take, legs wobbly as you extend a heeled foot onto the pavement below. the gown you went with for the evening wasn’t the most forgiving in terms of movement, the high slit being the only reason why you even have mobility in your lower region in the first place.

once you’re stable on your two feet, bakugou completely encases the hand of yours he’s been holding with his, before dropping them low between the two of you and leading you toward the main red carpet.

you smooth down the nonexistent wrinkles of your satin burnt orange gown with your free hand as you walk, acutely aware of the tens of eyes on you. you hear a man shout your boyfriend’s name, then another, and another who throws in yours, too.

you plaster on a smile when you hear them call out your name, like you’ve been instructed to by bakugou’s pr manager.

eventually, bakugou stops right at the center of the photo-op area, and you follow suit, pausing to stand at his right. you put forward your outer leg, the one that’s revealed under the slit, in order to elongate your form. at least, that’s what mina advised you to do while you were getting ready together back then for your first-ever red carpet event.

the motion prompts bakugou to glance at you, or your exposed leg, really, before mimicking your movement and forwarding his outer leg.

and that’s when you notice it.

“babe,” you start, “your—”

you turn toward the man, deciding it’s better if you just do the job yourself, before bending down to quickly tie his shoelaces. it takes you a minute, what with the heavily restricting fabric you’re wearing, but you eventually get it done.

when you straighten back up, though, you’re not greeted with a thanks.

instead, bakugou’s looking everywhere except at you, and that shade of scarlet from earlier is now back, decorating his beautiful features.

“what—”

you pause when bakugou shifts awkwardly beside you, and you barely catch him just as he hastily adjusts his suit pants.

the suit pants that are seemingly getting tighter by the second…

…because of his growing bulge.

you couldn’t stop yourself even if you wanted to—you snort the second you see it, which immediately grants you a side-eye from the man.

“shut up.”

“bro,” you cough out, “are you being for real right now?”

“shut the fuck up,” he hisses, just imperceptibly enough so that your spectators can’t read his mouth.

you’re failing to fight the grin that’s threatening to take over your entire face. “you do know that we’re in public, right?”

“this is your fucking fault,” he spits, his body now angled a bit more toward you, maybe in an attempt to hide what little modesty he has left.

you gape at him. “wha—how?”

at that, he turns his back toward the cameramen just enough to shoot you a glare without them seeing. “it’s that fucking v-neck.”

he pauses for a second, red now creeping down his neck and his gaze dipping down to your chest before he spews, incredulous: “are you even wearing a bra?”

you’re about to tell him you had to forego the undergarment because of the relatively plunging neckline, but you decide last minute there’s something you want to try out.

shifting slightly so that bakugou’s somewhat facing the crowd again, you lean forward, invading his space just until your mouth’s a breadth away from his ear. the movement is so minuscule that you almost miss it, but the pro-hero shudders when your breath tickles his skin.

hook.

line.

and sinker.

“…i guess we’ll find out, huh?”

and just like that, you pull away and wrap an arm around the man’s waist, once again posing for the cameras.

and as you feel him turn and wrap his arm around your waist a few beats after, you find that, if anything, at least you’re sure of one thing that’s going to get you through the rest of this cursed evening.