celestialbabe

Hi🫶,

Here’s my masterlist! All my works are linked and organized below for easy reading and bingeing.

I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed writing them💗

Let's Ruin the Friendship ✨

Bakugo Katsuki x Y/n

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Special chapter:

Baby fever

Marry me

She said yes

I'm gonna marry you anyway

Wedding bells and vows

Sweet as honey

Baby bump

THE ONLY TWO PEOPLE KATSUKI BAKUGO HAS EVER OBEYED

I'm going first

Stop looking at Mommy like that!

I want a siblings part 1

I want a sibling part 2

The baby # 2

Light in the Cold..

Todoroki Shoto x Y/n

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Reward me...

Todoroki Shoto x Y/n

Part 1

Oneshot/Drabble:

Dumb Blonde

Sparring

Out of this world

The Audacity

Bestfriend Bakugo and his way

Bestfriend Bakugo loves your chest… and will find any excuse to lay there

Best friend Bakugo who loves your legs... a bit too much

Pay Attention to me

Headcanon:

Mha x Filipina reader

Mha x Y/n as healer

1a as a college student in ph; part 1

1a as a college student in ph; part 2

1a and their Roblox usernames

Class 1A studying at public high school

Feel free to send asks, thoughts, or scream in my inbox — I read everything 💗

(request whatever you want 🫶)

Bakugo Katsuki x Y/n

Short update lol! Sorry guys i've been so busy with my exams and everything I just can't have time to write lol but anyway I hope you enjoy this. Tchau!

The house is quiet, the morning sun slipping lazily through the blinds, but inside your living room, chaos reigns quietly. Your daughter has already been up for an hour, armed with her tiny tiara and an assortment of princess dolls, meticulously arranging them on the couch. “Mommy, Daddy, I’m preparing for my little sister—or brother,” she declares proudly, though the baby isn’t even here yet. “I need to be the best big sister ever!”

Bakugo is perched on the floor beside her, arms crossed, trying to look stern, but the corners of his mouth betray him. “You mean the baby’s going to be bossed around by you from day one.”

“I will be gentle,” she counters, glaring at him like he’s the one misbehaving. “Mostly.”

You sit nearby, hand resting over your stomach, and quietly watch them. Your heart swells in a way you didn’t expect—your first baby, all grown up, taking her role seriously, preparing for a sibling who isn’t even born yet. A lump forms in your throat. “She’s… really grown up,” you murmur softly, more to yourself than anyone else. “This… this will be the smallest she’ll ever be. After the baby comes, she’ll suddenly look so much bigger…”

Bakugo’s head snaps to you, eyes softening instantly. He kneels closer, his hand brushing yours over your belly. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, almost cracked. “Don’t cry. Don’t do that to me.”

You can’t help it. The thought of your daughter growing, the new little life inside you, and how fleeting these moments feel—they come together like a wave, and tears spill down your cheeks.

Bakugo’s hands wrap around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Damn it,” he mutters, as much to himself as to you. “I’m crying too. You’re making me cry.”

Your daughter, oblivious to the magnitude of what she’s just witnessed, pads into the room and stops, staring intently at her father. “Daddy,” she says, small voice echoing in the quiet room. “Why is Mommy crying?”

Bakugo swallows, looking at her with a mixture of exasperation and softness. “It’s… it’s nothing, princess.”

“Nothing?” she repeats, stepping closer. Her tiny hand hovers near your shoulder, like she’s deciding whether to poke or comfort. “You made Mommy cry… Daddy.”

“I did not,” he says immediately, trying to sound stern but failing completely. He kneels down to meet her eye level. “It’s… well, it’s just… seeing you ready to be a big sister… and the baby coming… it’s a lot.”

“Seeing me?” she tilts her head. “I’m a big girl now!” She flexes one of her tiny arms proudly, clearly trying to prove it.

You laugh through your tears, reaching over to squeeze her little hand. “Yes, you are. You’re the biggest, strongest little girl in the world,” you whisper.

Bakugo mutters something under his breath about how annoying you both are, but he’s smiling faintly through the tears. “I swear… you two are gonna give me a heart attack before the baby even arrives.”

Your daughter beams, completely oblivious to the emotional chaos she’s caused. “Mommy, I’m ready for the baby! I’m going to help! I’ll show the baby everything!”

You swallow the lump in your throat, hugging her close. “You’re going to be the best big sister,” you say softly. “I can’t wait to see you with your little sibling.”

Here is a late update from my dear 😝😝, sorry for the late update hehe. I'm so busy with my exams lol. But here you go. I think Bakugo would deny it first, not realizing he sounds like that but he does! Lol

Bakugo is standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, watching your daughter stomp her little foot impatiently. “I don’t… I don’t know why you’re talking like that,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges but more curious than angry. “That Southern accent… it’s… weird.”

Your daughter tilts her head, hands on her hips, frowning. “I don’t sound weird! You sound weird!”

Bakugo blinks, momentarily flustered. “What? No way. I… I don’t sound like that.”

You lean against the counter, trying not to laugh, your eyes sparkling. “Oh, Bakugo… you clearly know where she got it.”

He shoots you a look. “I… don’t—no, she doesn’t sound like me at all!”

You grin. “Silly, she got it from you.”

Both of them freeze. Your daughter crosses her arms and glares at Bakugo. “I don’t!”

“I don’t!” Bakugo snaps back, but there’s a little softness behind his scowl.

You can’t help it—your laughter spills out. And somehow, when they argue, that lilting Southern accent slips out on both of them, just a little. “See? Both of you sound the same when you fight,” you say, chuckling.

They turn to you in unison, wide-eyed, as if you’ve lost your mind. “Mommy! You can’t just laugh!” your daughter says, pouting.

“I don't sound like that?! Do I?” Bakugo grumbles, though you can see the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Oh yes, you are,” you say, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around each of them. “And honestly… it’s adorable.”

Bakugo huffs but his hand drifts to your waist. “I… I still don’t sound like that,” he mutters, voice softening.

Your daughter beams, little triumphant spark in her eyes. “See, Mommy? I win!”

You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “No one wins, sweetheart. You both just… make my heart so full.”

Bakugo leans down, nose brushing the top of your head, and murmurs, “You’re soft on her, too easily.”

Todoroki Shoto x Y/n

Short update for our Birthday Boy!!! SHOTO 🫶 I just realized that today is 01/11, and I was like, “It’s Shoto’s birthday!” so I hurried to write a short fic, lol.

P.S. I’M TAKING A BREAK FROM WRITING since I just took the CET last night and have another one next week, so I’m focusing on that—but I’ll update soon! Sorry for the delays!

It had taken months—months of careful observation, quiet gestures, and small, almost imperceptible touches—before Shoto Todoroki started showing you his affection. Even being friends with him was a patient, slow process. But now, after all the little moments building up, he was slowly letting the walls come down.

It started with study sessions at your apartment. You were hunched over math books, groaning at some problem you couldn’t solve. Without a word, Shoto reached over and rested his hand lightly on yours, guiding your pencil in the right direction.

“Uh… thanks,” you murmured, noticing the faint blush on his ears.

He looked away, voice low, almost embarrassed. “It… it’s nothing.”

It was small, but it made your heart flutter.

Later, when you were walking home from school, he sometimes fell into step beside you, brushing your shoulder lightly whenever you bumped into each other. Sometimes, he’d walk a little closer than needed, letting your arms brush accidentally—or not-so-accidentally—against his. He never said anything, but the quiet warmth of his presence lingered.

One rainy afternoon, you shared an umbrella on the way to the convenience store. He was stiff at first, holding the umbrella just over your head, avoiding your hair. Then, slowly, he let the edge of his coat brush yours, awkwardly mumbling, “Better not… get you wet.” His fingers lingered near yours for a heartbeat too long, and you caught him staring at your lips before he quickly looked away.

Another time, at a casual café, you were laughing at something dumb one of your friends said. Shoto—ever the quiet one—leaned across the table just enough to brush a stray hair from your face. You froze, staring at him, and he froze too, ears red, saying softly, “You… you have something on your… uh… hair.” You giggled, and he gave the tiniest nod, pretending it was all casual.

All of these small moments were building up—soft touches, accidental brushes, quiet proximity—but the real test came on movie night.

You had invited him over to watch a romance movie marathon. The lights were dimmed, popcorn between you, blankets draped haphazardly over the sofa. Shoto was unusually fidgety, his fingers tapping against the armrest, occasionally brushing against yours.

“You… um…” he started, glancing at your face, then at your hands. “In… in movies… sometimes people… kiss at… this point. Should we… um…?” He paused, clearly unsure, glancing back at the screen and then at you. “You… think… that’s… right? That’s what… manga and movies… do?”

You laughed softly, the sound light and warm. He blinked at you, genuinely confused, as though he were trying to apply some complicated logic to a completely human feeling.

Before he could overthink it any further, you leaned in and gave him a quick, gentle kiss on the lips.

He froze.

Then, slowly, his body went slack, melting into the sofa like he was made of water instead of bone. His hands flailed slightly as he tried to stand, but he couldn’t—he was completely overwhelmed.

“I… uh… water?” he asked softly, trying to sound casual, but his ears were flaming red. “Could… you… get me water? I… feel… dizzy.”

Worried, you hopped off the sofa and went to the kitchen. You grabbed a glass of water and hurried back, only to find him slumped slightly, still half-melted against the cushions.

“Shoto?” you murmured, shaking him lightly. “Are you alright?”

He blinked slowly, startled. “Uh… I… didn’t… expect…” His gaze dropped—and then caught yours. The proximity of your lips so close, so inviting, made his heart thrum painfully. “I… think… I like it,” he admitted, voice soft, almost whispering, as if saying it louder would shatter him.

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You like it a lot?”

He nodded, cheeks pink, ears still flaming. “A… lot. More than… I thought I… could.”

You giggled, a warm, comforting sound, and reached out to brush your fingers along his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes half-lidded, a shy, vulnerable smile tugging at his lips.

The movie played on in the background, but neither of you noticed. Time had slowed, wrapped around the two of you like the softest blanket. His hands twitched, wanting to hold yours again, but he was too overwhelmed to move.

“Stay… stay like this?” he murmured, voice small, almost inaudible.

“Always,” you whispered, leaning closer until your foreheads touched.

And as the night grew darker, Shoto Todoroki—once so reserved, so awkward with touch—finally let himself fall completely into the warmth and affection he had spent so long denying.

When you leaned in to kiss him again, soft and lingering this time, he melted completely—so much that, when you pulled back just enough to breathe, he fainted gently against the sofa.

You gasped softly, leaning close, tapping his cheek with your finger, your heart racing. “Shoto… wake up… are you alright?”

His eyes fluttered open slowly, catching the light, catching your lips. And without even thinking, he whispered, shy but sincere:

Keigo Takami x Y/n

You being one of the youngest intern in Hawks’ agency was never supposed to be this complicated.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

You’re eighteen.

In your last year in U.A.

Barely legal, freshly licensed, still apologizing when you bump into furniture.

And he’s twenty-two—already a pro, already tired in ways he doesn’t talk about, already trained to shut things down before they become weaknesses.

So this?

This is not supposed to happen.

The first time he sees you, your wings flare out in reflex—soft, luminous, unmistakably angelic. Hard-light feathers catching the sun like you were sculpted out of it.

And Hawks thinks, Oh. That’s bad.

Not because you’re pretty.

He’s seen pretty.

It’s the way you look at him—earnest, wide-eyed, respectful in that painfully sincere U.A. way. Like you’re excited just to be here. Like the world hasn’t taken chunks out of you yet.

He opens his mouth before his brain catches up.

“You’re pretty,” he says, easy grin already in place. “Welcome to the nest.”

You flush so fast your wings brighten.

Idiot, he thinks immediately.

Professional. You’re supposed to be professional.

He tells himself it’s harmless.

He’s careful.

Keeps his distance.

Teases, but never crosses lines.

Still—he notices things.

How your wings dim when you’re tired.

How you chew on your sleeve when you’re nervous.

How you look at him like he’s someone worth trusting.

That last one gets him every time.

On patrol, he fights the instinct to hover closer than necessary. When villains show up, he positions himself between you and danger without thinking—then has to pretend it was tactical.

She’s an intern, he reminds himself.

She’s young.

Get a grip.

But then you get hurt during training—minor, really, scraped palms, overworked quirk—and you apologize like it’s your fault.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve—”

He lands too fast.

“Hey,” he says, sharper than intended. Then softer. “No. Don’t do that.”

You look up at him, startled.

And something twists in his chest.

This is dangerous, his mind says.

Not because of the age. Because you care.

At night, when the agency is quiet, Hawks stares out at the city and argues with himself.

You’re legal.

You’re responsible.

You’re strong.

But you’re still growing. Still learning who you are.

And he’s already been molded into something sharp and useful and tired.

Don’t reach, he tells himself.

Don’t be that guy.

So he settles for smaller things.

Draping his jacket over your shoulders when it gets cold on the rooftop.

Making sure you eat.

Flying slower so you can keep up.

Calling you Angel like it’s a joke—because if he says it lightly enough, maybe it won’t mean so much.

Except it does.

One day, you thank him. For being patient. For being kind. For treating you like you belong.

You smile at him—soft, genuine, wings glowing faintly.

And Hawks thinks:

I shouldn’t want this.

I shouldn’t like how she looks at me.

I shouldn’t imagine a future where she’s fully grown into herself and still standing beside me.

But he does.

So he chooses restraint.

Chooses distance wrapped in warmth.

Chooses to be someone safe, even if it costs him.

Because angels deserve to land gently.

Bakugo Katsuki x Y/n ft. Your daughter

Bakugo knows—very clearly—that he used to beg for your attention.

Blatantly. Shamelessly. Loudly.

Back in U.A., before rings and vows and a shared last name, he’d glare at anyone who took too long talking to you. Hover too close. Make you laugh a little too much. He was terrible at hiding it. Everyone knew. You knew. He’d insist he wasn’t begging, but the way he leaned toward you, the way his voice softened only for you, the way he demanded your focus like oxygen—yeah. Begging.

He still is.

The only difference now is that he has competition.

Very small. Very sparkly. Very determined.

Your daughter does not ask for your attention politely. She claims it.

She wedges herself between you and Bakugo on the couch without apology, curls into your side like it’s her birthright, and hooks an arm around your waist.

“Mommy,” she says sweetly. Final. Possessive.

Bakugo clicks his tongue. “Oi. I was sitting there.”

She looks at him—your eyes, his glare. “Too slow.”

And just like that, it’s on.

If Bakugo kisses your cheek, she’s immediately climbing onto your lap, cupping your face with both hands. “Mommy, look at me.”

If he wraps an arm around your shoulders, she physically pries his hand off. “No touching. Mommy’s busy.”

“Busy with what?” he snaps.

“With me.”

He fumes. “You don’t own her.”

She gasps. Loud. Dramatic. “She’s my mommy.”

Bakugo scoffs. “She was my wife first.”

She plants her hands on her hips. “And now she’s my mommy.”

“That’s not how—”

You don’t even get to stop it. They’re already circling each other, both stubborn, both fiery, both utterly convinced they deserve all of you.

Bakugo glares down at his daughter. “Why are you policing how I treat my wife?”

She points at him like a tiny prosecutor. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“I’VE BEEN DOING IT SINCE BEFORE YOU EXISTED.”

“And I’m doing it better.”

She climbs higher into your arms, presses her cheek against your chest, and smiles smugly at him. Victory declared.

Bakugo opens his mouth to argue—then freezes.

Because she looks exactly like you.

Same face. Same expressions. Same little habits. But the way she clings to you? The way her eyes soften only for you? That part—that desperate, wholehearted love?

That’s his.

And it hits him every time.

Another moment: you’re in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. Bakugo steps behind you, arms slipping around your waist. Instantly—

“HEY.”

Your daughter appears like a summoned demon.

“No hugging Mommy from behind.”

Bakugo growls. “Why the hell not?”

“Because that’s sneaky.”

“It’s romantic.”

She squints. “I don’t like it.”

“YOU’RE FIVE.”

“So?”

She wedges herself between you again, tiny arms wrapping around your leg. “I hug Mommy.”

Later, when you’re tired and curled on the couch, Bakugo pulls your head gently to his chest. Your daughter climbs up too, plopping herself directly on top of him.

“Move,” he mutters.

“No.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Good.”

You laugh softly, and both of them immediately look at you—like the sound belongs to them. Like you belong to them.

Bakugo meets your daughter’s eyes. “Stop stealing my wife.”

She grins, all teeth and triumph. “You’re stealing my mommy.”

They pause. Stare.

Then—reluctantly, begrudgingly—Bakugo sighs and pulls both of you closer.

“Tch. Fine,” he mutters. “But I saw her first.”

Your daughter hums happily, already half-asleep. “We can share.”

Bakugo looks down at you—at her—at the two most important things in his world, and his chest aches in a way he never complains about.

Because he used to beg for your attention alone.

Now he gets to watch someone who looks like you, loves like him, fight just as hard for it.

And somehow…

You being a witch in the Straw Hat crew is still the universe’s funniest mistake.

Everyone expects shadows, curses, maybe a skull or two.

Instead, there’s you—all soft light and warmth, like a fairy who wandered into the wrong story and decided to stay. Your magic glows. Your potions shimmer. Even when you scold someone, it sounds gentle.

And then there’s Luffy.

The very stupid captain.

From the moment he realized you don’t look at him all the time, it became a problem.

A very serious problem.

“Hey.”

No response.

“Heyyy.”

You keep reading.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Still nothing.

He drops dramatically onto the deck in front of you, arms and legs spread like a starfish. “Pleaseee,” he whines. “Just look at me for one second.”

When you practice magic, he sits directly in your line of sight. When you talk to someone else, he wedges himself between you. If you compliment anyone—even casually—he pouts like you’ve personally betrayed him.

Sanji notices first. Nami notices second. Robin pretends not to notice at all.

Luffy begs.

Not subtly. Never subtly.

“Watch me stretch!”

“Did you see that punch earlier?”

“Hey, hey—am I cool?”

“Look, I’m being quiet for you—see? See??”

Sometimes he grabs your hands mid-spell, eyes wide and hopeful. “You’re glowing again. Is that because of me?”

He insists he’s your favorite.

Not in a proud way—more like he’s asking for reassurance.

“I’m your favorite, right?”

“…Right?”

When you finally sigh and look at him, really look, his face lights up brighter than any spell you’ve ever cast.

There it is. Worth it.

He grins, sits beside you, leans close like he’s won something precious.

And for a moment, the captain of the Straw Hat pirates is quiet—perfectly content, just because he has your attention.

Magic doesn’t always glow.

Bakugo with his daughter

He liked to say he was grateful she didn’t care for iPads. He really did. He loved that she preferred wooden playsets, plastic food, tiny registers, and absurdly detailed setups that took over the living room. What he didn’t love was the part where every single game required him. Not as a background character. Not as furniture. No. As the customer. The victim. The butler. The henchman. The unpaid intern. The emotionally manipulated participant.

It always started innocent.

“Daddy, sit here,” she’d say, already shoving a tiny apron into his chest.

“I’m not hungry,” he’d grumble.

“It’s not real food.”

“…That’s worse.”

Ice cream truck day meant he was seated on the floor, knees folded awkwardly, pretending to drive while she stood behind him ringing a bell aggressively.

“WELCOME TO PRINCESS SCOOPS,” she announced. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“Chocolate.”

“We’re out.”

“…Then why’d you open?”

She ignored him, handing over a plastic cone with three different colors stacked wrong. “That’ll be five million dollars.”

“I DON’T HAVE—”

She slammed the tiny register shut. “Too late. Pay.”

Pizza house play was worse. She had a full setup: oven, menu, delivery counter, and a tiny phone that rang nonstop.

“Daddy, you ordered wrong.”

“I ordered cheese.”

“You ordered pineapple.”

“I WOULD NEVER.”

She squinted at him like a disappointed manager. “You will eat it.”

Veterinarian play was where he truly suffered. Stuffed animals lined up like patients in critical condition. He was forced to lie on the floor as the “injured customer” while she diagnosed him.

“You are sick,” she declared.

“With what?”

“Everything.”

She pressed a toy stethoscope into his chest, frowned deeply, then nodded. “You need shots.”

“I’M NOT GETTING—”

Too late. Three imaginary injections later, she patted his arm. “Be brave, Daddy. Mommy would be disappointed if you cry.”

He did not cry. He did, however, question his life choices.

Then there was mafia play.

That one… that one scared him.

She wore a tiny blazer. Sat behind a desk. Crossed her legs exactly like you. He was forced to kneel.

“You work for me now,” she said calmly.

“I literally live here.”

“You messed up,” she continued. “Now you pay.”

“With what?”

“Your loyalty.”

She slid him a plastic phone. “Call Uncle Shoto. Tell him the deal is off.”

Bakugo stared at the toy in silence, then slowly complied. “Deal’s off,” he muttered.

“Good,” she nodded. “You may live.”

It never ended. She had a bakery, a grocery store, a nail salon, a car wash, a hospital, a daycare (where he had to be the crying baby), a bank (where she refused him loans), and a hotel where he was both the guest and the staff.

And every time—every single time—he tried to escape, she’d block his path.

“Daddy, where are you going?”

“I HAVE WORK.”

“You are at work.”

“…I hate this job.”

Still, despite the complaining, the exaggerated sighs, the dramatic groans as he collapsed onto the floor for the fifth time that day, he stayed. Let her put tiny hats on his head. Let her assign him impossible roles. Let her boss him around with that familiar pout and your exact tone.

Because when you watched from the doorway, laughing softly, Bakugo knew the truth.

He’d fight villains all day without blinking—but this?

Bakugo Katsuki x Y/n

Christmas Eve in your household was… a beautiful disaster. Bakugo had fairy lights draped over his shoulders, scowling like it was the hardest mission of his life, while your daughter stomped around like a tiny general, inspecting every detail.

“Daddy! That one is crooked! CROOKED!” she yelled, pointing at the stocking.

“I SEE IT, PRINCESS, OKAY? I’M FIXING IT!” Bakugo growled, tugging the strand until it glittered just enough. Despite the shouting, his hand lingered a second too long on her back, steadying her as she leaned too far forward.

By the time it came to decorating the gingerbread house, chaos reigned supreme. She insisted on piping icing exactly as on TV, while Bakugo’s precision was failing. The roof collapsed.

“SEE, DADDY? That’s why you let ME do it!” she laughed triumphantly.

“I BUILT IT STRAIGHT, PRINCESS! IT’S YOUR FAULT!” he barked, then softened immediately, helping her rebuild it piece by piece, letting her guide his hands.

Then came Christmas karaoke. Your daughter belted out “Jingle Bells” off-key, while Bakugo attempted to rap aggressively just to “show how it’s done,” and she mimicked him perfectly. You collapsed in laughter in the corner, nearly dropping the cookies.

The wrapping paper battle was next—tape flying everywhere, paper strewn across the living room. Bakugo demonstrated “proper technique,” only for your daughter to smack the tape dispenser out of his hands. He froze, glaring mock-seriously, then ruffled her hair. “Stubborn little princess… cutest stubborn idiot ever.”

Finally, the tree lighting. Your daughter gasped in delight and ran to hug him. “Don’t squeeze me too hard,” he muttered, but pressed her to his chest anyway. You watched them, chaotic, messy, bickering, yet utterly soft toward each other.

Later, after your daughter had fallen asleep, her tiny snores filling the room, Bakugo quietly pulled you close. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his usual scowl softened into something tender.

“You’re… the best gift I’ve ever had,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “I don’t even know what I did in this life… or the ones before… to deserve you, but I’m thankful. Thank you… for giving me this life, baby.”

Thank you very much, Love!!!🫶🫶

Here's a Christmas special lol

Washing the dishes

Todoroki Shoto x Y/n

You hate Christmas. Not because of the lights, not because of the music, not because of the gifts. You hate it because of the dishes. Being the eldest daughter meant it was always your job. Extra cooking, extra chopping, extra desserts… extra plates, extra pans, extra scrubbing. Everyone else laughed, ate, and celebrated while you scrubbed, year after year, even on Christmas Eve. Even when your arms ached.

Tonight, in your condo, it’s just the two of you. He brought chicken and ice cream, simple, nothing fancy. You hadn’t even told him you were planning to just eat a little and go straight to sleep. And yet, as soon as you reach for a plate, he automatically stands up, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to—” you start.

He shakes his head, already moving toward the sink. “Sit. I’ve got this,” he says steady and softly.

You sit there, heart tightening, disbelief and relief mingling. “Wow. I don’t have to wash dishes this Christmas”. The feeling is almost dizzying, because it’s more than just dishes. It’s years of obligation, of being the eldest, of doing everything alone. And yet, here he is, quietly carrying it with you.

Your mind drifts back, to two years ago, when you were just friends.

“Why didn’t you go home for Christmas?” he asked casually, as you sat together on the bleachers, waiting for class to start.

You shrugged, trying to laugh it off. “Eh… too many dishes,” you said, waving your hands like it was nothing. “You know… cooking, chopping, cleaning, scrubbing… I’d be stuck in the kitchen the whole time. So I just… didn’t go. Haha.”

He raised an eyebrow, curious. “All of it?”

“Yeah, all of it,” you replied with a grin, trying to make it sound like a joke. “Everyone else can enjoy Christmas… I’m just stuck with plates and pans. No big deal, right?”

“No… I get it,” he said quietly, softly, like he wasn’t laughing with you, but really listening. “Makes sense.”

At the time, it felt small. Funny, even. But now, two years later, you realize… it was never small. It was a quiet way of saying you were tired, that you needed help, that you deserved someone to notice.

Tears prick your eyes as you watch him wash the dishes tonight. He notices, pauses, and looks at you.

“Why are you crying?”

“It’s… the first time I haven’t washed the dishes at Christmas,” you whisper.

He sets the sponge down, walks over, and gently brushes a tear from your cheek. “Really? All these years… you did it alone?”

“I… I didn’t even tell you to bring anything tonight,” you admit, voice shaking.

“I just wanted to be here,” he murmurs, pulling you into his arms. “With you. That’s enough.”

He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. His arms around you feel like home. Like the weight of every Christmas past is slowly lifting, and for the first time, it’s shared.

Bakugo Katsuki x Y/n ft. Your daughter

The morning sunlight spilled through the curtains as Bakugo groaned, holding a shirt in one hand and a stubborn little sock in the other. “Princess! Just put the sock on! One foot! ONE FOOT!”

“I WANT MOMMY!” she shouted, crossing her arms and tapping her foot dramatically on the floor. “Mommy always helps me with my socks!”

Bakugo’s jaw twitched. “I’m HELPING! You’re just being… princess-y.”

“PRINCESS-Y? I am a PRINCESS!” she huffed, pointing at herself. “Mommy says I’m a princess too!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, and your mommy also says I’m a hotheaded idiot. Coincidence? I THINK NOT.”

“I MISS MOMMY!” she wailed, stomping her foot. “She’s gone! Why are you here, Daddy? I want Mommy!”

Bakugo crouched to her level, trying to keep calm. “I miss her too, okay? But she’s saving people. Like a hero. Like ME.”

She narrowed her eyes. “She’s better at that. And she always dresses me better than you.”

He scowled, but there was a soft edge in his eyes. “Yeah, well, I like doing it. I like seeing her help me when I get ready for work. So deal with it.”

“Fiiiine…” she muttered, but immediately pointed at his shirt. “Your tie is crooked. Mommy would fix it. Ughhhh!”

Bakugo groaned, fixing it, but she shook her head violently. “NO! I said STRAIGHT! Mommy straightens it!”

He threw his hands up. “I AM STRAIGHTENING IT! YOU’RE CRAZY!”

“Daddy! I’m NOT crazy! I’m just… particular like Mommy!”

They continued like this, arguing over socks, hair clips, and shoelaces. Every so often she’d launch into a dramatic “I MISS MOMMY!” or “MOMMY WOULD DO THIS BETTER!” and Bakugo would sigh, kneel down, and ruffle her hair.

Despite the chaos, there was a rhythm to it. He could see himself in her—the stubbornness, the little flare of attitude—but also the warmth and love she carried for you. And he couldn’t help but soften every time she glanced up at him with those big eyes, waiting for reassurance that he was “okay enough” to do what Mommy would.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of battling socks, shoelaces, and her insistence on a very specific ribbon placement, she stood ready in her uniform, backpack on, still muttering, “Mommy would make this better…”

Bakugo crouched again and kissed the top of her head. “Listen, princess, I did my best. And even if it’s not exactly like Mommy does it, I love you. You’re ready. Go show the world you’re the princess.”

She scowled but smiled at the same time, swinging her backpack over her shoulder. “I guess… I guess Daddy did okay. But Mommy is still the best.”

Bakugo smirked despite himself, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Go. I’ll survive until she gets back. Somehow.”

As she ran off to the car, he whispered to himself, just loud enough that the walls would carry it: “Even if she’s a little tyrant… I love her. And I miss your mom too.”

Bakugo Katsuki x Y/n

You don’t even mean to ignore him.

You’re just talking. Laughing. Focused on something else for once.

That’s all it takes.

Bakugo notices immediately.

At first it’s subtle — his knee bumps yours under the table. Not an accident. A reminder. You don’t react because you’re mid-sentence.

His jaw tightens.

He leans closer. His arm slides behind you, not fully around, just… present. You still don’t notice.

“…Tch.”

You finally glance over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Lie.

He goes quiet after that — the dangerous kind of quiet. The kind that isn’t angry, just pointed. His fingers start tapping against your sleeve, slow and deliberate, like he’s counting your attention.

You turn back to the conversation.

Bad move.

He gets petty.

He nudges your shoulder harder this time.

You sway. “Hey—”

“Didn’t mean to,” he mutters, not convincing at all.

Then he does it again. Softer. Like he’s testing.

You sigh. “Katsuki, what is your problem?”

He looks at you then — brows drawn, eyes sharp, clearly irritated over something even he doesn’t want to name.

“…You’re not paying attention.”

You blink. “To what?”

“…Me.”

There it is.

You stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

He scoffs, folding his arms. “I’m right here.”

“You’re always right here.”

“Yeah,” he snaps back immediately. “And you forgot.”

You open your mouth, then pause. “…I was just talking.”

“With them,” he says, chin tilting toward the group like it personally offended him.

“So?”

“So,” he grumbles, leaning closer again, voice lower, “you could at least look at me.”

You fight a smile. “Are you jealous?”

He bristles. “No.”

Then, quieter: “…Just annoyed.”

He reaches out and hooks a finger into your sleeve, tugging once. Gentle. Childish. Impossible to ignore.

“Pay attention,” he mutters.

You turn fully toward him now. “You good?”

Instantly, he relaxes.

Like someone flipped a switch.

“…Yeah,” he says, softer, hand still holding onto you like he’s afraid you’ll drift off again. “Now I am.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Shut up,” he replies, but his thumb starts tracing slow circles against your arm — calm, satisfied, very much noticed.

And you realize then:

He doesn’t explode when he’s irritated with you.

He sulks.

He nudges.

He gets petty.

Because all he really wants — and hates that he wants...

Is your attention.

And the worst part?

Bakugo Katsuki x Y/n

At some point, you stop noticing when it starts.

Only that it never stops.

Bakugo’s hand is always on you now — not gripping, not possessive in an obvious way. Just there. A thumb brushing your wrist while he talks. Fingers hooked lightly into your sleeve as you walk. His knee nudging yours under the table like a habit he doesn’t even think about.

What’s insane is how gentle he is.

This is the same guy who snarls if someone bumps his shoulder in the hallway.

But with you?

He tugs you closer by the hem of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll wander off. He smooths your hair down absentmindedly when it frizzes. He presses his knuckles against your cheek just to feel warmth there — then pretends it never happened.

“You’re touching me again,” you mumble.

“Tch. And?”

“You hate being touched.”

“By other people.”

He says it like it’s obvious.

It’s small things that make your chest ache.

You’re standing together, and he shifts behind you automatically, hands resting at your sides without fully holding you — like he’s giving you space while still anchoring you. When you sit, he sits close enough that your shoulders touch, and if you move away even a little, he follows without looking.

Someone notices.

Mina squints.

“…Why is Bakugo petting you.”

Bakugo snaps, “I am NOT—”

His hand freezes.

Still resting on your arm.

You look down at it.

He looks down too.

Doesn’t move it.

“…Shut up,” he mutters, but it’s not angry. Just embarrassed.

Later, you’re tired, head lolling slightly, and without a word he adjusts — shifts so you can lean into him properly. His arm comes around you, loose, careful, like he’s holding something fragile instead of a person.

You mumble, half-asleep, “You’re being… weirdly nice.”

He exhales softly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t get used to it.”

But the way his fingers trace slow, absent circles on your arm tells a different story.

Sometimes he gets this tight look — jaw clenched, brows drawn — like he’s holding in something overwhelming.

Cute aggression.

You feel it when he presses his forehead briefly to your shoulder. When he nudges you harder than necessary and then immediately softens, hand flattening against your back like an apology he won’t say.

“Stop doing that,” you whisper once.

“Doing what.”

“Looking at me like you want to… I don’t know. Bite me.”

He stiffens.

“…Tch.”

Then, very carefully, he presses his face into your shoulder for half a second and pulls back.

“Don’t say weird stuff.”

But his ears are red.

And he doesn’t stop touching you.

It’s so frequent now that the group barely reacts anymore. Bakugo reaching for you is as normal as breathing. As if his body decided, somewhere along the way, that you’re where his hands belong.

And the scariest part?

It doesn’t feel scary.

It feels warm.

Safe.

Like something that’s been growing quietly for a long time.

Todoroki Shoto x Y/n

It was a quiet afternoon, the golden sunlight spilling lazily across the classroom. You were stacking your books after lessons, and Shoto slipped in beside you, quietly, like he had always been there. Nothing had been said about the matcha date, nothing dramatic — and yet, something had shifted.

He placed a small, neatly wrapped package beside your books. “…I saw this and… thought of you,” he said quietly, voice low, careful. He didn’t smile — not exactly — but his eyes were soft, deliberate, and fixed on you.

You blinked, heart fluttering. “…Shoto, you didn’t need to.”

“I… wanted to,” he said simply, voice firm but gentle, almost as if that one line carried all the reasoning he ever needed.

You unwrapped it slowly — a small, delicate notebook with a cat motif, and a tiny packet of strawberry-flavored chocolate tucked inside. Your chest tightened. “You remembered…” you whispered.

He nodded once, quiet, deliberate. “…I remember you,” he said softly, almost as if confirming it to himself. “…Always.”

Your chest ached. “…You didn’t have to, really,” you murmured.

“I want to,” he said again, small and unwavering, a quiet certainty beneath his words.

The next afternoon, he was waiting again — this time outside the training hall. You had mentioned you liked a specific flavor of ice cream for a small errand, and there he was, cup in hand, matching your favorite exactly. “…I thought… you’d like this,” he said, voice low, deliberate, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“…You always do this,” you said, shaking your head softly. “…You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said again, simple. Certain. The kind of certainty that made your chest ache. “…It makes me… glad. You… happy.”

Days passed, small gestures piling quietly atop each other: matching your pace as you walked to class, carrying your books without complaint, letting you choose everything first — snacks, tea, even which path to take. He never said, “I like you” — not in words. But every act, careful and deliberate, screamed that he prioritized you.

One evening, walking home after training, you glanced at him, concerned. “…You always go along with what I want. Don’t you ever want to choose for yourself?”

He looked at you, soft and unwavering. “…You make me happy,” he said quietly. “…So we go with… what you like.”

You felt your chest tighten, warmth spreading, as though he had compressed months of careful attention and quiet devotion into that one simple sentence. “…You always prioritize me,” you said softly. “…We should do what makes you happy too.”

He tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable but soft. “…I am. With you,” he murmured, just above a whisper, deliberate, certain. “…I’m… glad. Just like this.”

Todoroki Shoto x Y/n

It didn’t take long for him to get used to it.

At first, his glances were careful. Hesitant. Almost as if he was asking permission without words. But after a few weeks, something changed.

Now, after doing something good—helping a classmate, staying calm during training, even quietly organizing supplies—he would glance at you, eyes calm but full of a quiet question.

“…Where’s my reward?” his gaze seemed to say.

You caught it one afternoon after a long training session. He had stayed late to help the first-years with their ice control, and when he walked past you, he stopped. Just enough to look at you, silently waiting.

“Again?” you teased softly, smiling.

He blinked slowly. Just a little nod. Calm. Patient. Expectant. Like a cat waiting for a treat, but somehow… impossibly dignified.

You laughed quietly and reached out. This time, your hand lingered longer on his head, fingers running through his hair slowly, almost indulgently. He leaned into it, chin slightly lifted, and his usual stoic expression softened.

And then, the next time… you decided to up the stakes.

A playful nudge to his cheek.

Shoto froze. For a heartbeat. Then, to your surprise, he didn’t pull away. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, faint pink dusting his cheeks. His lips twitched, trying not to smile, but failing entirely.

“…Is this… allowed?”

“Only if you do good,” you said, grinning.

He blinked at you, then turned his gaze slightly downward, pretending to be modest—but you saw it. The quiet anticipation. The subtle tilt of his head that silently said, I’ll do even better if this is my reward.

And so it became a little game.

The better he behaved, the more you rewarded him. First, gentle pats. Then little cheek nudges. Sometimes, soft squeezes of his shoulder. And eventually… a full hand resting on his cheek, fingers brushing lightly, thumb just grazing the corner of his lips.

He never asked for it. He never demanded. He just… waited. Expected, silently, with that distant but utterly trusting gaze that made your heart skip every single time.

One evening, after he’d helped Uraraka carry heavy equipment back to the dorm, he stood in front of you. Arms at his sides, posture straight, expression calm. But those eyes… those eyes said it all.

“…My reward?”

You smiled and leaned closer, brushing a soft kiss against his cheek. He froze. Just a moment. Then… he relaxed completely, a quiet, contented exhale escaping him.

The faintest, shyest smile appeared, just for you.

And you knew—without a word—that he would do anything, go through any effort, just for that small, soft moment of affection.

Todoroki Shoto x Y/n

Shoto never asked for things.

Not praise. Not affection. Not attention.

So when your hand reached out and gently patted his head after he stayed behind to help clean the training room, he didn’t know what to do with it.

He stiffened for exactly two seconds.

Then he went very still, like a cat unsure if it was allowed to enjoy something.

“…What was that?” he asked, tone neutral but eyes flicking toward you.

You smiled, already pulling your hand back. “Nothing. You just did good.”

That was it. No teasing. No explanation.

He nodded once, like he accepted the answer, and walked away as usual—hands in his pockets, expression calm, distance carefully maintained.

But the next day, after he quietly helped Uraraka with her form, he paused near you.

Just… paused.

You noticed the way he stood a little closer than necessary. The way his gaze hovered, pretending to look anywhere else.

So you reached out again. A gentle pat. Fingers barely brushing his hair.

His shoulders relaxed immediately.

He didn’t look at you, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips.

From then on, it became something small. Private.

You never announced it. Never made a big deal of it. Just soft, simple rewards—like you were saying I see you without words.

And Shoto—still distant, still quiet—started to change in the tiniest ways.

He’d finish a task and then glance at you, subtle and careful.

He’d do something kind and then linger nearby, pretending he had nowhere to be.

He never asked. Never stepped closer on his own.

He just waited.

Like he didn’t want to assume he deserved it.

One afternoon, after training went especially well, he walked past you—then stopped. Took one step back. Cleared his throat.

“…Was that okay?” he asked, eyes forward.

“What?”

“The way I handled that,” he said. “I did it right… didn’t I?”

Your heart melted.

You reached up and patted his head, slower this time, fingers warm against his hair. His breath eased out softly, like he’d been holding it in.

“Yes,” you said. “You did really good.”

He nodded, cheeks just a little pink.

“…Okay,” he murmured.

And then he walked away again—still distant, still quiet—but with the smallest, satisfied smile.

From then on, every time he did something good, he didn’t look proud.

He just looked at you.

Waiting.