Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Latina Scientist!Reader
Synopsis: It was supposed to be simple — a contract, an agreement, a clinical exchange. You needed power in your lineage. He wasn’t planning on wasting his. What started as science turned into something harder to contain. And Bakugou doesn’t do half-measures.
You were the kind of woman people whispered about, not because of scandal or drama — no, you weren’t anyone’s gossip fodder — but because there was something sharp about your silence. Precision in your presence. Even at your height, you cut through every boardroom, every lab floor, every conference stage like a scalpel — deliberate, exact, and impossible to ignore.
They called you Doctor L/N, the woman with the Catalyst quirk — a mind and body built for reaction. With a single touch, you could accelerate or decelerate any chemical or biological process. Fire burned hotter. Metal corroded faster. Cells healed, or withered, depending on her intent. You’d turned volatile science into an art form, controlling chaos on a molecular level.
By twenty-two, you had a doctorate in bio-kinetic quirk mutation, fluent in three languages, and had published research the Hero Commission still couldn’t fully dissect. You wore your lab coat like a second skin, heels that clicked like gunfire on marble tile, and your voice — when you did speak — was soft, serious, and low. Monotone. Analytical. Your honeyed brown skin glowed under sterile lights, curls pinned back with military precision.
To most, you were the woman who could ignite or halt the world’s chemistry with your fingertips. To the rest — those few brave enough to know you — you were the quiet power behind a new scientific frontier.
Just result.
But none of them knew the weight behind your eyes when you were alone. None of them saw the way your fingers lingered on the screen when you closed out a maternity study. None of them knew that behind every crisp blouse and clinical report was a woman who’d frozen your eggs at twenty-three just in case, planned your ovulation cycles like clockwork, and recently added a folder to your desktop labeled Candidate Data – Conception Study.
Not just any donor. You needed strength. A rare quirk lineage. Durability. Power. Genetic compatibility to enhance, not dilute. And you needed someone who wouldn’t complicate things. No emotional liability. No romantic mess. No ties. Just a biological transaction with exceptional results.
Only one man kept checking every box.
Bakugou Katsuki.
Explosion. Alpha-level offense. Resilience. Combat IQ through the roof. The most feared combat hero in Japan. Single. No kids. No known entanglements. And most importantly — unparalleled quirk expression, even in passive states. His genome had been studied more times than any other in modern heroics.
And you… happened to know him.
Not well. Not personally. But enough to know his personal number. Enough to send a message that was as blunt as a scalpel tip.
Message from Dr. Y/n L/n:
This is a professional inquiry. I’m requesting a meeting regarding a personal project.
The reply came days later.
Message from Katsuki Bakugo:
What the fuck kind of message is that?
Whatever meet me after my patrol Wednesday. 9pm. My agency. Don’t waste my time.
He didn’t say no.
Which was enough.
—
When you arrived, you were calm. Clinical. Dressed in sleek black slacks and a buttoned top, hair pulled cascading over your shoulders down your back, eyes unreadable behind thin-rimmed glasses. Your heels clicked as you entered his office, finding him in a black compression shirt and sweats, fresh from a workout, hair damp at the roots. Broad. Rigid. Suspicious.
He didn’t offer a seat. Just folded his arms and stared.
You took out the folder. Slid it across the desk. Spoke without inflection.
“I want a child,” you said, meeting his gaze. “No co-parenting. No relationship. No responsibility from you. I’m financially secure. Emotionally stable. Medically prepared. The child will be mine, legally and otherwise.”
His jaw clenched. “What’s that gotta do with me?”
“I want a child from someone with a powerful quirk. You.”
A long beat of silence. His crimson eyes narrowed.
“You want to fuck?” He actually choked. “You’re insane.”
“Possibly. But I’m also running out of ideal reproductive years, and I don’t want to waste prime genetic potential on someone who’ll give me mediocrity. You’re the strongest I know. This is a one-time agreement. I’ll draw up a contract if you need.”
He stared at you like you were made of live dynamite. No blush. No stutter. Just the most beautiful, serious woman he’d ever met casually asking him to breed you like it was a business deal.
And fuck him—
His cock twitched.
“You’re really serious about this?” he muttered, throat tight, heat creeping under his skin.
You nodded once. “Yes. Take time to think if you need to.”
He grunted, stepping back like you were a wild animal. “Tch. Yeah don’t think I’m gonna end up marrying you, I don’t have time for that. I got shit to do. You want a kid and I get to be left alone? That what this is?”
“That’s exactly what this is.”
He swore under his breath. Pushed a hand through his hair. Pictured you pregnant with his kid and fuck, the thought was not helping.
“…Gimme a week.”
You turned, nodding. “You have until next Thursday. After that, I move on to the next candidate.”
And just like that, you left.
Back straight. Steps silent.
Leaving him alone with a hard-on and a thousand thoughts he couldn’t punch his way out of.
He only lasted five days.
Five fucking days of pacing his penthouse, running sparring drills until his muscles screamed, blasting weights in the gym and blasting villains in the streets just to keep his damn head clear — and still, still, you’d creep back in. Not even doing anything, that was the worst part. You weren’t flirtatious. Didn’t bat your lashes or sweet talk him or wear anything remotely suggestive.
You stood across from him in those too fitting slacks and crisp button-up, glasses perched on your nose, voice like clean steel.
“Higher conception rate through natural insemination.”
You’d said it like you were ordering lab equipment.
And it still made his cock throb.
He was the fucking #2 Pro Hero. He’d fought armies. Outlasted death. Been called the strongest man in Japan. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about this small, serious-as-hell woman asking him to knock her up like she was booking a damn appointment.
Not for love. Not even for sex.
For power.
He respected it. Admired it, even. But it also made him want to ruin you. Just a little. Enough to wipe that calm look off your face. Enough to see what you looked like when you weren’t composed. What sounds you’d make when your legs were shaking and your hair was a mess and you were wrapped around him begging to be filled.
The thought alone made him grunt, eyes fluttering shut as he sat on his bed with his head thrown back. Fuck.
It was supposed to be just a favor. A legacy thing. Pass down his quirk to someone with the brains to raise it right. He didn’t want a wife. Didn’t want a home life. But he had pride in his bloodline, goddammit, and if anyone was gonna carry on his strength, better it be someone who deserved it. Someone meticulous. Strategic. Unshakable.
You.
It was noble. Logical. Smart.
So why did his pants feel tight every time you said his name?
By the sixth night, he texted you.
Message from Katsuki Bakugo:
You still want it?
The reply came four minutes later.
Message from Dr. Y/n L/n:
Yes. Are you agreeing?
He stared at it.
Then typed:
Yeah. But it’s not gonna be clinical. You asked me to breed you. You’re gettin’ bred. My way.
There was no reply right away.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.
Then:
That’s fine. I want the highest probability of conception
His jaw clenched.
Fuckin’ hell.
You weren’t even trying and you had him thinking about cumming inside you more than he thought about work this week.
He threw his phone down and dragged a hand through his hair, already hard just imagining you bent over a damn sterile exam table, trying to stay composed while he pounded you so deep you’d lose the ability to talk at all. No more monotone. No more analysis. Just your voice cracking under him while your nails clawed at the sheets.
He was gonna make you say his name like it meant something.
And he’d make sure your pretty little genius body took every last drop.
—
He arrived at your place and it felt like he was headed to war. Black fitted shirt, sweatpants, his mouth a tight line, jaw clenched so hard he could hear it creak. Not nervous — no, he didn’t do nervous — but every part of him felt like a lit fuse. He kept telling himself this was just a transaction. A biological transfer. No strings. No emotion.
Then the door opened.
And everything short-circuited.
You stood there in a long, deep maroon robe, silky, cinched at the waist, clinging to your body like it was custom-made for your curves. Your glasses were gone. Your curls were loose — wild, full, like dark honey poured down your back, framing that perfect face without a single stitch of effort. No lab coat. No clipboard. No emotion in your expression, but your body language? Still. Stillness that made the air dense.
He blinked once. “You—look different.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Visual arousal enhances physiological performance. Studies show when the subject is more visually stimulated, the quality and concentration of—”
He hummed low, stepping inside and shutting the door with his foot. “You wore that for my fuckin’ sperm?”
“Yes,” you said plainly, and then opened the robe.
It fell like liquid down your arms. No theatrics. No shy glances. Just efficiency. Precision. Controlled chaos.
His breath caught in his throat.
Black lace. Delicate but sinful. A barely-there bra lifting and cupping your full tits like art. Panties cut high, the straps digging gently into that tiny waist, highlighting the way your hips curved into your thighs. Garter clips kissed your upper thighs. Your glowing brown skin looked edible under the dim light of your apartment, smooth and shining like you’d moisturized with fucking gold.
“Holy shit.”
Your expression didn’t change. “Is this an acceptable environment for insemination?”
He couldn’t fucking move.
Couldn’t speak.
You blinked slowly, your breathing off just a beat, stepping closer. “You look.. satisfied with my appearance.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice a growl now, low and wrecked as he grabbed you by the hips, dragging you flush to his chest. “You’re gonna kill me, woman.”
“You agreed to donate. I’m merely—”
“Shut up,” he growled against your mouth, pinning you against the wall, voice almost shaking. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna breed you so deep you’ll start ovulatin’ on command.”
You blinked, something in your eyes shifting — not surprise, not even flinching — but your breath did catch. Your hand slipped up his shirt, tracing the cut of his abs like you were running a damn experiment. “I am ovulating.”
He shoved you against the wall harder, cupping the back of your thigh to pull your leg up around his waist, hand slipping under that thin strip of lace at your hip. His mouth hovered at your jaw. “You knew what you were doin’, dressing like that. Saying all that. Bet you knew I’d fuckin’ react.”
“I did. I calculated a 97% chance you’d be unable to resist.”
His hand gripped your ass, fingers digging into that perfect fat curve as he smirked against your cheek. “Then congratulations, doctor. Your hypothesis was dead fuckin’ right.” He lifted you with ease, bringing you to where he assumed your bedroom was.
You didn’t smile. Didn’t giggle.
But your lips brushed his ear as you whispered, low and steady, “Then finish the experiment.”
And he planned on it.
You inhaled softly as his mouth dragged down the side of your throat, tongue teasing the spot beneath your ear while his fingers dug into the back of your thigh, holding you open. Your pulse was steady, but your breathing wasn’t. Your skin burned where he touched you, but your voice stayed even.
“Skin-to-skin contact increases endorphins,” you murmured, your fingers dancing along his hair like you were reading him like Braille. “Stimulates dopamine. Improves ejaculate density, if timed with peak arousal.”
Bakugou huffed a low laugh against your neck. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”
“I’m increasing our odds of conception.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you — really look at you — and fuck, you were so goddamn beautiful it made his brain short out. Big brown eyes gleaming like caramel under candlelight, lips soft and full, those curls brushing your shoulders like they were trying to tease him too.
“As hot as all this smart talk is,” he said, setting you down in your room, thumb brushing over your mouth before he kissed you again, “how about you rephrase that in a way that doesn’t sound like you’re givin’ a TED talk?”
You blinked once, slowly.
Processing.
Then your head tilted just a little, like a cat that had learned something new. Your eyes shifted — lower, darker, heavier — and your lips parted, but this time… your voice came out smoother. Silken. Less robot, more siren.
“I want you,” you murmured, stepping back just enough to pull him toward the bed, “to breed me until I’m full, Katsuki.”
His cock throbbed. Visibly.
You continued, voice calm but honey-dipped now, seductive in the way only someone terrifyingly intelligent could be when you chose to stop holding back.
“Fill me up with your cum. Until my body craves it. Until your seed takes. Until I’m heavy. Marked.”
He let out a strangled sound — a groan, a curse, something primal — as he pushed you onto the mattress and followed, crawling over you like a man unhinged.
“You really are a fuckin’ genius,” he growled, ripping the rest of the robe off your shoulders. “Talk like that again and I’ll put twins in you by morning.”
Your legs wrapped around his waist.
“I’m ovulating,” you whispered, breathless, and fuck if you weren’t smirking now. “We might not need a second round.”
He stared down at you, feral.
“Wrong,” he growled, eyes blazing. “We’re going all fuckin’ night.”
He yanked the last bit of lace from your body like it offended him, like the sight of you all bare beneath him was too much to cover for even a second longer. Your curls spread across the pillows like a dark halo, your skin glowing golden beneath the low light, thighs trembling as he pushed your knees back.
Next was his own clothes, his shirt came off with one swift movement, his sweats pulled down enough to set himself free. His cock, already so hard made even you have a reaction. Your eyes staring down at him naked.
You almost felt breathless, hands hot and calloused as they touched you. His mouth had been on you for minutes now — your neck, your collarbone, the soft dip of your sternum — tracing lines like he was memorizing a map.
“Katsuki,” you murmured, voice barely audible.
“You keep sayin’ my name like that,” he grunted, lips brushing over the swell of your breast, “and I’m not gonna be gentle.”
“You weren’t supposed to be.”
His gaze flicked up, hungry. Your words always got to him — but the way you said them, so calm and deliberate, even with your thighs trembling and your skin flushed? It undid him.
He leaned in, lips finally closing around your nipple, tongue swirling while his palm pressed against your lower belly, grounding you. You gasped, hips shifting, and his hand slipped lower. Between.
“Already soaked,” he muttered against your chest. “God, I fuckin’ love when you pretend this is just about your little data logs.”
You moaned — quiet, restrained — just the way he liked it. Like you were trying to keep control and failing.
He slid down your body, eyes locked on yours, until his breath ghosted over your heat. One finger traced through your folds, slow, careful, gathering your slick and watching the way your thighs quivered.
Then he pressed the tip of his cock right against your entrance, teasing, dragging it through the mess he made.
“You know what happens when you talk like that, baby?” he rasped, stroking his thick length between your folds, teasing your entrance, dragging wet slick down to coat himself in it. “Makes me forget this is supposed to be a clean-cut little deal.”
“It was never clean,” you whispered, voice still velvet-smooth, breath catching as the blunt head of his cock pressed against your heat. “You were always going to fuck me like this.”
“Oh yeah?” He pushed just the tip in, watching your eyes widen, your lips part in the first real gasp of the night. Your back arched like your body was finally catching up to what your brain had already calculated. “Say it again. Say what you want.”
Your hands curled into the sheets, knuckles white.
“I want you to fill me until I can’t walk straight,” you murmured, voice dipped in sin, “’til I’m bred. Claimed. Knocked up with your brat.”
He pushed all the way in.
Your moan shattered the ceiling.
He didn’t let you recover, not even for a second. Your legs wrapped around him and he began to thrust — deep, hard — slamming into you like his cock had a purpose. Like this was destiny. The slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, the way you clawed at his back like your control was finally breaking.
“You think I’m gonna stop with one load?” he growled against your mouth. “Fuck no. Gonna stuff you full ‘til you’re swollen, baby. ‘Til I see it taking.”
“Yes,” you whimpered, and god, it was like hearing a goddess fall to earth. “Yes—again, again—”
He kissed you hard, rough, one hand slipping between your bodies to rub slow circles around your clit while he drove into you like a machine, like your moans were keeping his heart pumping.
“Gonna pump you full of Katsuki-fucking-Bakugou,” he snarled, dragging you closer with each thrust. “Make your brain go fuzzy with it. Forget all your little lab reports and spreadsheets when you’re walkin’ around with my kid inside you.”
You sobbed — actually sobbed — and it made his cock twitch harder. He could feel how close you were with the way you squeezed around him, trying to milk him.
“I’ll track my cycle,” you gasped, shaking now. “Monitor my temperature—fuck—I’ll know the second it happens—” then it hit you in a beautiful and hard wave, your legs locking around his waist harder as you came with a loud moan.
He growled into your neck. “You’ll know ‘cause I’ll make sure it happens.”
His hands clutched at you, his hips relentless, until he was spilling into you, hot and endless, deep as he could go, burying himself in your body while you came hard around him, nails sinking into his arms, curls plastered to your face.
You were ruined.
He was obsessed.
And he wasn’t nearly fucking done.
He stayed buried inside you long after the first wave hit, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his spine, but his cock? Still hard. Still twitching. Still pulsing deep in the heat of your soaked cunt like it had more work to do — because it did.
Your body trembled beneath him, legs still locked around his waist like you hadn’t yet registered you could let go. Your curls stuck to your glowing skin, your lips kiss-swollen, parted, still gasping from the last climax — but your eyes? Your eyes were glassy and fucked-out and dazed in the most delicious way.
“You still with me, doc?” he muttered, voice thick and low, brushing his thumb over your cheek.
You blinked once. Then again. And a soft sound left your lips — not a word, not a moan. A breathy little “Mm.”
He smirked.
“Thought so.” He leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth. “You calculated for one load. You didn’t factor in what I’d do once I got addicted.”
You tried to speak. Couldn’t.
He slowly rolled his hips again — shallow, slow thrusts, just enough to push the hot mess of him deeper into you, to stir it around like he meant it to take root.
Your eyes fluttered. Your hips twitched. Your thighs squeezed.
“Goddamn,” he growled, dragging his tongue down your neck, “your pussy’s fuckin’ greedy. Not done takin’ me, huh?”
“I—” you tried again, but your voice broke. Your hand reached up instead, gripping his bicep, grounding yourself.
He caught your gaze. “Tell me what you need. Use that big brain. You’re the one who asked for this.”
And something shifted.
You blinked once more. Focused. Your lips parted, and this time, when you spoke — your voice was soft, but heady.
“I need another,” you whispered. “If fertilization doesn’t occur in the first twenty-four hours, consecutive insemination improves odds by seventy-four percent.”
He laugh lowly, dragging your hips closer.
“You just love temptin’ me with those numbers.”
Your mouth curled — not a smile, not quite — but something close. “You said you wouldn’t waste your seed.”
“I’m not.” He sat up, pulled you with him, shifting you into his lap as he knelt on the bed, still inside you, holding you close to him, your body fitting like you were made to be there. “This is investment, sweetheart. Long-term.”
You shivered, arms curling around his neck, skin still slick and glowing and flushed. “Then fuck me until I’m pregnant, Katsuki.”
His hands gripped your ass, anchoring you, and he slammed you down.
Hard.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Your moans turned to gasps, your body bouncing in rhythm, tits pressing against his chest, your curls whipping as he fucked up into you like the whole world depended on it. Moving your body to make you ride him, you felt limp, fucked, so fucking good.
“No stopping,” he panted, watching you fall apart. “Not until I feel it. Not until you know you’re mine.”
“I am—” you gasped, nearly sobbing, “—I’m yours—fuck, Katsuki—”
“Say it.”
“Breed me—”
“Louder.”
“Breed me, Katsuki! Fill me up again—fuck—please—”
He could hardly take it, he felt the rush of it coming again before he slammed into you one more time and came with a snarl, arms locking you in place, his entire body trembling as he emptied another thick, hot load deep inside your fluttering cunt. You clenched down around him, crying out, your body collapsing into his with ragged sobs.
And still.
He didn’t pull out.
“…Gonna need a ice pack,” you mumbled into his shoulder.
He grinned. Kissed your temple.
“Good,” he murmured, voice rough and smug. “Means I’m doin’ it right.”
—
The rumors started quietly.
Not headlines. Not tabloids.
But among your colleagues — murmured in hushed tones across sterile labs, mentioned in passing over shared research logs and biometric data reports. Someone had seen the procurement files. Someone else had flagged the hormone schedule you submitted. And then someone from Katsuki’s agency — someone trusted — had noticed how often you were on-site. How long you stayed. How flushed you looked leaving his office.
Now? Everyone was talking.
Your closest clinical partner cornered you in the corridor, brow arched, voice lowered.
“You and Dynamight? Seriously? You’re doing a genetic pairing?”
You didn’t flinch. Just blinked once and said, “It’s a professional transaction. I required a high-tier quirk lineage. He agreed. That’s all.”
They didn’t believe you. But they nodded.
Because no one questioned you.
Meanwhile, his team started poking around, too. Kirishima smirked too knowingly. Sero sent him a text with about forty eggplant emojis. Denki tried to fist-bump him in front of their squad and got blasted for it.
Still, it got under his skin.
So when someone from the lab department teased him mid-training, barking out a “Yo, Dynamight! Knocked up the doc yet?” — Katsuki ripped the sparring dummy in half and snapped:
“It’s a professional fuckin’ arrangement. Got it? I donated my genes. She wanted a kid. That’s it.”
He didn’t mention how your name sat in the back of his throat like a brand.
Didn’t mention how he couldn’t fuck anyone else now without thinking of you.
Didn’t mention that every time he touched you lately, it felt less like a contract and more like compulsion.
And you? You stood in your lab that evening, clipboard in hand, fresh coat, perfectly composed — and when your research assistant asked, “Is it true? You and Bakugou Katsuki?” you simply said:
“He met the criteria. That’s all.”
Nothing more.
Nothing.
More.
His hands fisted in your hair, your cheek pressed to the cold mirror of your lab’s private bathroom, steam fogging the glass as he thrusted you from behind, hard enough to shake the fucking walls.
“So fuckin’ professional,” he growled, voice wrecked, watching your mouth fall open in the reflection, mascara smudged under your eyes. “So logical, right? You don’t feel shit, huh? Just using me for science?”
“Y-Yes—fuck, Katsuki—”
“You lyin’ bitch.” His hand wrapped around your throat, just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble harder. “You come on my dick like this for data?”
You moaned like you were dying.
“No—no—fuck, I—”
He pulled your hair tighter, forcing you to look at yourself as your tits bounced with every brutal thrust. “Look at you. My little genius. All messy now. Where’s your fuckin’ clipboard, huh?”
You keened. He grinned, mean and hungry, cock slamming into you with punishing rhythm.
“You want more data? I’ll give you somethin’ to measure.”
He pulled out, spun you, and lifted you like you weighed nothing, slamming your back against the marble counter. Your legs spread for him like muscle memory, slick and soaked, and he drove back into you so hard your head knocked against the mirror.
You didn’t care. Didn’t blink. Your fingers clawed at his back, your voice cracking.
“I need it—fuck, please—”
“Need what?” he hissed, forehead pressed to yours, your bodies a mess of sweat and skin. “Say it.”
“Need you to fill me again,” you whimpered. “Need it in me—hot—deep—all of it—”
He cursed so violently it didn’t sound like language anymore.
Then he came.
Hard.
Exploding inside you with a groan that echoed off the tiles, holding you so close it was like he needed you to absorb him whole. Your legs twitched. Your eyes fluttered. Your lips parted in silence.
Only the sound of panting and dripping filled the room after that.
Just a professional arrangement.
Right.
You told yourself it was still clinical.
Even as you laid sprawled across his bed, the blackout curtains drawn tight, sweat still cooling on your glowing skin while he dragged his tongue lazily along the inside of your thigh like he wasn’t trying to gather data — but worship.
Professional.
Even when he had you bent over his kitchen counter at midnight, his hand wrapped in your curls, a half-eaten protein bar forgotten beside your elbow as he fucked you slow and deep with that low voice purring filth against your ear.
“This ain’t about no baby anymore, is it?” he murmured, cock grinding into that sensitive spot that made your knees buckle. “This feel like a contract to you, doc?”
Your hips rolled back into him. You couldn’t help it.
“Still a transaction,” you gasped, trying to sound composed as he grinned against your shoulder. “Repeated insemination ensures higher—ah!—success rates.”
“Sure,” he growled, reaching around to rub your clit just to hear the little whimper you always gave, the one that haunted his fuckin’ dreams now. “That why you screamed for me to fuck you in the shower last night? Just tryin’ to optimize?”
Your eyes fluttered.
Because the thing was—
It had started with numbers. With strategy. With biology.
But now?
Now it was him showing up to your lab unannounced between patrols, grabbing you by the waist mid-sentence, dragging you into the back room and making you choke on his cock while still in your lab coat.
Now it was you sitting on his lap during debriefs, your pencil tapping against your lips while his hand slipped under your skirt, pushing your panties aside like it was second nature. Like he owned it.
Now it was you watching the lines of his throat while he drank water after fucking you on the floor, legs too weak to get up, and feeling… warm.
And the worst part?
You let it happen.
You craved it. Let him ruin your schedule. Let him rearrange your life. Let him laugh at the way you’d start off so stiff and analytical only to end up moaning his name like a prayer by the end of every round.
He teased you for it mercilessly.
“You sayin’ it’s still professional while you’re cryin’ on my dick?” he said one night, his voice raw as he lifted you higher on his lap, your thighs soaked and trembling. “C’mon, doc. At least admit you like this.”
You whimpered, arms wrapped around his neck. “I like the data collection,” you said softly, trying to keep some distance, some control. But your voice broke at the end.
And he saw through you.
“Yeah?” he murmured, nuzzling your jaw. “Then let’s get more data, baby. You can analyze ‘em while you’re drippin’ down your thighs.”
He fucked you again right there, without letting you go.
And neither of you said it out loud—
—but the lines between science and obsession blurred a little more every time.
You didn’t even notice at first.
Too many sleepless nights running bloodwork, tweaking hormone charts, cross-referencing quirk-genome projections with fetal resilience data. Too many days with him dragging you into hidden corners between agency halls and research labs, whispering filth against your skin while he bent you over sterile counters and stuffed you full like it was his goddamn job.
It had been weeks.
Of him.
Of this.
Of letting him split you open again and again, grunting things like “this one’ll take, doc” while your legs shook and his cum leaked down your thighs.
You’d been keeping records. Of course you had. Dates, times, fluid consistency. Cervical positioning.
But somehow—
Somehow—
you missed it.
It wasn’t until you were brushing your teeth one morning — half-asleep, panties already damp from the memory of him pinning your hands above your head the night before — that you paused.
Mid-brush.
Eyes on the calendar taped to your fridge.
Red circle. Ovulation week. Six weeks ago.
You blinked. Swallowed. Checked again.
No period.
Your toothbrush dropped into the sink.
Fuck.
You weren’t someone who forgot things.
You were never late. Not unless it was chemically induced.
You grabbed your phone. Opened the app. Confirmed it again.
You were late.
The air changed.
All those orgasms. All those sessions. All those fucking nights where he spilled into you over and over, panting that you were his, that he was gonna knock you the fuck up, that your pussy was too goddamn perfect not to put a baby in—
You stared at yourself in the mirror.
Curls loose. Neck bruised. Breasts sore.
You were glowing. Glowing.
And now you knew why.
The bathroom door opened.
He stepped in, shirtless, sweats around his hips, hair still messy from sleep. “You good?” he asked, rubbing his neck, completely unaware that your whole world just tilted. “Didn’t come back to bed—”
You looked at him.
The man who fucked you full without pulling out once since the second week of your professional agreement.
The man who kissed your stomach after each round, grumbling things like “gonna look so fuckin’ pretty carrying my kid.” Even if he wasn’t supposed to say things like that.
The man who couldn’t keep his hands off you for longer than a patrol shift.
You swallowed.
Slowly straightened.
Met his eyes.
“Katsuki,” you said, voice flat.
His brows lifted. “Yeah?”
You said it plainly. Softly.
Just like you always did.
But this time, it felt like an earthquake.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
a/n: oh my god I badly couldn’t decide whether I wanted this to be Izuku or Shoto but nonetheless my man was the choice so I hope you like ittttt!!
Synopsis: He never planned for his future in marriage aspects—until you. With warm meals, soft kisses, and a smile that made him believe in forever, you turned his future into something he wanted. Now all he sees is you with his ring, in your shared kitchen, carrying the life he gave you—his wife, his home, his always.
As many may assume, Bakugo Katsuki never thought about marriage.
Not really. Not in the way people talk about it with stars in their eyes and dreams in their mouths. It was always some far-off thing—something that might happen, someday, after the rankings were locked and the villains were quiet and his body stopped waking him up at 4 a.m. with mission alerts in his spine. He figured it’d come eventually, like gray hairs or bad knees. He’d meet someone decent, stable, strong enough to put up with him, and it’d happen. Easy. Matter-of-fact.
But it was never something he wanted.
Katsuki had always been on his own—no siblings, just him against the world. He learned early how to take care of himself, especially after leaving his parents’ house. He didn’t need anyone fussing over him; he was a grown man. He could handle it… even if, sometimes, he forgot to eat.
Not on purpose. He’d too busy, too wired, too pissed off from the weight of saving people who didn’t even say thank you. He’d crash through the door with blood under his fingernails and a headache splitting his skull, strip down to his boxers, and collapse on the couch like a dead man. Dinner? He’d scowl and wave it off.
But then there was you.
You, with your arms crossed and a Tupperware in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, clicking your tongue and mumbling “cabeza dura” under your breath. He didn’t know what it meant at first, but it sounded too sweet to be an insult with the way you said it—like your voice was dipped in honey and warm milk.
Now he’s got a little lunchbox. A stupid black bento one you insisted on decorating with a tiny flame sticker, because “it’s tough, like you”—and he lets you. Lets you tuck in napkins with notes scribbled in Sharpie, “Drink your water, angry man” or “I made extra rice, eat it all so it doesn’t go to waste.” He grumbles about it, but he reads every word, folds every napkin, and sets them in a drawer like they’re precious.
You pack his food like you’re feeding a king—warm arroz con pollo, whatever you meat you seasoned, refried beans the way he likes, a jalapeño on the side, always, and soft warm tortillas tucked in foil so they stay soft. When his shifts are long, you add a thermos of soup with his spoon.
You always include his damn spoon.
He tries to act like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t walk taller knowing there’s something in his bag from you. Like he doesn’t feel the heat crawl up his neck when Kirishima lifts the lid at the agency and whistles.
“Bro, homemade food? Damn, you’re spoiled.”
And Denki’s grinning too hard, mouth full as he points. “You even got a lil’ dessert in there. What the hell, man?”
Katsuki flips them both off. “Quit staring at my food and eat your own.”
But he doesn’t actually mind the teasing. Not when he can close his eyes between patrols and still taste your cooking, not when he gets a text from you halfway through the day that says “eat everything or no kisses tonight 😘”. He rolls his eyes, but his thumb hovers over the screen longer than it should, rereading. Smirking.
He’s softer. He knows it.
He used to sleep like a soldier, ready to fight. Now he sleeps with your legs tangled in his, his head on your soft chest, listening to the steady sound of your heart beat, your hand rubbing softly against his broad and tired back.
You hum while you brush your teeth, and he finds himself brushing his at the same time just to be beside you. He used to hate the sound of singing in the morning—now he waits for it. And when you dance in the kitchen while flipping eggs, wearing one of his tees knotted, he leans on the doorway and watches like he’s memorizing every sway of your hips, every curve that belongs to him.
You make his coffee just the way he likes it, bitter with just a kiss of sweet.
He kisses you before he leaves, every time.
“You got your lunch?” you ask, reaching up to fix his collar.
“Yeah, mamá,” he mutters, smirking.
“Mhm that’s what I like to hear.” You said gripping his collar and pulling him down, mirroring his smirk.
He kisses you harder for that.
His friends can talk. Let ’em. Let ’em laugh at how Katsuki Bakugou, walking explosion, top five hero, meanest son of a bitch alive, now wears a gold chain with your initial and carries a lunchbox with sticker flames. Let ’em whisper how he doesn’t go to bed unless he’s wrapped around you like ivy, one arm slung across your waist and the other tucked under your pillow.
Because for the first time, he’s full. His stomach. His heart. His life. Full of you.
So with that being said, could you really blame him when he couldn’t help but allow marriage to invade his thoughts anytime he thought about your future together. Because no matter what, he seen you in it. In every scenario and situation, it was always you by his side.
He doesn’t even know when he started thinking of it. Maybe it was the first time he came home to you humming over a pot on the stove, curls piled on your head and your back to him, and he just… froze. Or maybe it was that Sunday morning when he opened his eyes to find your hand curled against his chest, ring finger bare and perfect, sunlight catching on your lashes.
Lately, though, he’s been thinking about it more and more.
He’s fresh out the shower, sweats slung low on his hips, shirtless steam still clinging to his skin. And you’re there, barefoot in your little shorts, hips rolling as you sway to whatever’s playing from the speaker. Kitchen lights low, casting soft glows on your curves. You don’t see him yet—too busy stirring something, taste-testing, licking your finger with a little smile.
His chest aches.
Not the way it used to when he pushed too hard during a mission. This is different. It’s heavier, fuller. A weight that doesn’t crush—it grounds. Roots him right there in the doorway, watching you like a man watching his future take shape in real time.
You spin and catch him staring. “What?” you giggle, hip popping to the side. “You’re just gonna stand there like a weirdo?”
He grunts, stepping closer, hand reaching out to grab a hold of your waist like it’s second nature. “M’tired. Needed somethin’ to wake me up.”
“You like what you see, mi amor?” you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you. Really looks.
Your curls are still frizzy from earlier. You’ve got flour on your wrist and a tiny smudge of sauce near your lip. And he swears—you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
And fuck, he wants.
He wants a house. Not a fancy place, not some magazine-worthy hero estate. Just a home. A warm kitchen where you dance in his shirt. A living room where you both fall asleep on the couch after movies. A bed that smells like you. A space that’s yours. His and yours. He wants a damn ring on your finger. He wants it to mean something.
He’s never given a shit when his peers showed off engagement pics or keys to their new place. Never cared when they’d talk about joint bank accounts or wedding registries. Hell, he used to think it all sounded like a chain around your ankle.
But now he knows better.
Because you? You don’t weigh him down. You center him. You give him something to come back to, something worth protecting that isn’t just the world.
He tightens his grip on your waist. Kisses your forehead. And he thinks, Not someday. Not eventually.
Now.
His heart thudded hard and heavy beneath his ribs, not from lust—though there was always that—but from something deeper. Something quieter, sweeter, more dangerous.
He hadn’t meant to touch you like this.
But suddenly his hands were on your hips, big and warm, thumbs slipping beneath the hem of your shorts as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to your shoulder. He breathed you in. You smelled like cumin and vanilla lotion and something only he got to taste when the lights were low and your voice was nothing but broken little whimpers in his ear.
You turned your head just enough to allow him to trail up from your shoulder to your neck, one hand still on the spoon, the other reaching to brush his cheek.
“Kats… you okay?”
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
His lips crashed into yours, full and breathless, his hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck like he was terrified you’d pull away. His mouth moved like he was starving, like he’d been waiting all damn day for this—for you. Tongue sweeping over yours with heat, reverence, need.
You gasped into it, but melted fast, one hand tangling in his hair. You tried to break for air, but he chased your mouth like he couldn’t bear to be apart.
“Katsuki,” you giggled against his lips, breathless, “the food—”
“Fuck the food,” he muttered, voice rough with heat, hands already gripping your thighs.
He hoisted you up like nothing, like you weighed less than the breath he held in his lungs, setting you on the counter with a growl low in his throat. Your back arched slightly, lips parted in protest that didn’t mean a damn thing.
“Baby, if the rice burns—”
“I don’t care,” he rasped, nose brushing yours, eyes so dark and wide they swallowed you whole. “I just want you. Right now. Just you.”
His hands found the curve of your hips, dragging you forward until your legs parted around his waist, sweats shifting low, bare chest exposed, skin-to-skin and searing. You whimpered when his lips found your jaw again, trailing kisses to the corner of your mouth, down your throat, his breath shaking like he couldn’t hold it in.
Your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails dragging over muscle. “You’re so soft today…”
He huffed, kissing your cheek like it was sacred. “Don’t get used to it.”
You grinned. “Too late.”
And when he looked at you—his eyes full, lips swollen, love burning brighter than the stove behind you—he knew it was true. He was soft. For you, only you. Always you.
“Lift up for me,” he murmured, voice thick like honey gone hot.
You blinked down at him, curls falling forward, lips parted, the spoon still somewhere forgotten behind you. Your eyes were wide, soft, curious. Not alarmed—but aware. Like you knew something had shifted, something settled inside him in a way that wasn’t just need but decision. Want.
You didn’t ask. Not yet. Just bit your lip and lifted your hips, trusting him without hesitation, your thighs parting further as he dragged your shorts down, slow and steady, letting his knuckles graze the softness of your skin as if memorizing every curve. His fingers paused at the waistband of your panties, tracing the band like he was weighing the moment, savoring it.
“You’re quiet,” you said softly, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. “What’s going on in that big head of yours?”
A small smirk played at his lips but he didn’t answer, not directly. Instead, his eyes lifted to yours—dark, molten, full. A storm held back by the thinnest thread of restraint. And then he leaned in, lips pressing to the inside of your knee, trailing up, slow, worshipful. Your breath hitched as he reached the place where thigh met hip, his hands splaying wide, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin.
“I can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” he said finally, voice rough as gravel, vulnerable in a way he rarely let show. “You. Me. This… everythin’ we got.”
You swallowed thickly, heart fluttering.
“About what?”
He kissed up your thigh again, pulling your panties down inch by inch. His hands were big, careful, tender. His mouth hovered against your skin, voice lower now, softer than thunder, but no less powerful.
“’Bout makin’ you mine. Really mine.” A pause. “House. Ring. Fuckin’ last name, if you want it.”
Your breath caught. You didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt. Just watched him, watched this broad, sharp man—your man—kiss your hips like they were altars and confess dreams against your skin that he’d never dared to say out loud until now.
“And I don’t want to wait,” he muttered, pulling your panties free and dropping them to the floor, “I’ll plan some dumb speech or dinner or get your parents’ blessing—”
“Katsuki—”
“But I can’t stop picturing it. You, in our kitchen. You, with my last name. You, with my ring on your hand, cookin’ dinner or yellin’ at me or curled up in our bed after a long day. I want it all. You hear me?”
His thumb brushed over your thigh, near trembling. “I want all of it. With you.”
The pot on the stove hissed as something started to barely boil over behind you—but neither of you moved. Not when your legs curled around his waist. Not when your hand cupped his face, thumb brushing over the flushed skin of his cheek. Not when he leaned in, forehead to yours, like he was giving you the whole damn world in that breathless silence.
You kissed him. Fierce. Deep. Grateful
Your hands slipped down his sweats, setting himself free. His cock, hard and flushed against his stomach made you gasp. Gently leading him towards your entrance, wet and glistening only from his words.
Your back arched the moment he slid in—slow but sure, like he wanted to feel every flutter of you around him, every tremble your body made as it opened for him. The stretch had your breath catching, lashes fluttering, fingers clawing into his damp shoulders where the heat of the shower still clung to his skin.
“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, head falling to your neck, his arms wrapped under your thighs to keep you angled just right on the counter. “Always so tight for me… feel so fuckin’ perfect baby.”
Your moan was soft and high, and it went straight to his head, blurred the edges of everything that wasn’t you. He started to move, slow, deep, deliberate—like he was fucking the truth into you.
His truth. His future.
“Gonna marry you,” he growled, lips brushing your ear, voice cracked with devotion and want. “You hear me, baby? Gonna make you my wife.”
Your breath caught—eyes wide, body clenching down around him so hard he cursed and kissed through it, rocking into you harder as your legs shuddered around his waist.
“Gonna get your parents blessing,” he went on, a hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your curls like they were sacred. “I’ll fuckin’ kneel, I don’t care. I’ll show ‘em I’m serious. That I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life. Give you whatever you want. Build you whatever you want—”
You whimpered, shaking beneath him, your thighs twitching where they pressed into his sides. “Katsuki—”
“Gonna put a ring on your hand, my love. Big one. Not some dainty shit either. One that says you’re mine,” he panted, hips grinding into you with deeper strokes, pulling more desperate sounds from your lips. “And I’ll get down on one knee and ask you proper, ‘cause you fuckin’ deserve that. Deserve everything.”
Your arms wrapped tight around his neck, body trembling from the weight of his words, the weight of him inside you, the way he said wife like it was a prayer and a promise all at once.
“I love you,” you whispered, breathless and wet-eyed, nails digging into his skin as your hips started to move with his. “I love you so much.”
“I love you,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading along his temple. “I fuckin’ love you, baby.”
And he kept going, hips pressing into yours, filling you again and again like he was sealing every vow into your body, until there was nothing left but your name on his tongue and his name gasped like salvation from yours.
“Gonna get you a house,” he groaned against your mouth, hips rolling deeper, slower now—like every thrust was a promise, each drag of him inside you spelling out your future letter by letter.
Your body arched for him, open, full, trembling around him like it knew he meant it. Knew this wasn’t just heat and sweat and sin—it was love, raw and bleeding and permanent.
“A kitchen you can dance in,” he grunted, thrusts hitting deeper, voice low and guttural as he kissed the corner of your mouth. “A yard for you to plant all that shit you like. You want a garden? Done. You want a big fuckin’ kitchen with a window over the sink? I’ll build it for you, brick by fuckin’ brick.”
You moaned at the words, at the way he was claiming you, hands fisting in his hair as your thighs clenched around his waist.
“Yes—yes, Katsuki,” you gasped, breath catching as he rocked into you, steady and reverent. “Please- tell me more.”
That ruined him. His head fell to your shoulder with a broken sound, and his next thrust had your body shaking, your hands clutching at his back.
“I’ll give you kids,” he growled, low and dangerous and tender, like a sacred vow made with sweat and soul. “I’ll fuckin’ put a baby in you, right here, right now.”
Your gasp was sharp, hands clawing at his shoulders, eyes wide and wet as your lips parted but no words came—just a whimper of need, deep and gut-wrenching.
“Gonna make you a mama,” he panted, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple, frantic with love. “My wife. The mother of my kids. Our babies—fuck—run around the yard, leave toys in the hall. And I come home to you. Every damn day.”
“Katsuki—” you sobbed his name, overwhelmed by the picture he was painting between your thighs, inside your body, in the future only he could give you.
He was everywhere. Inside you, on you, around you. And he wasn’t stopping.
“I’ll give you anything, you’ll never want for anything,” he whispered again, biting your neck gently. “I’ll give you a ring. I’ll give you babies. I’ll give you everything, mi esposa. Just say the word. Say you want it too.”
You nodded, dizzy, lost in him, legs shaking, voice cracking—
“I do. I want all of it. I want you.”
And with that, he moved faster, deeper—like your words gave him permission to burn the world down and rebuild it with only your name on every brick.
You broke first—of course you did.
The way he was speaking to you, like love laced in filth, like forever was just something he could take if he fucked it into you hard enough, deep enough. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, legs locking around his waist, a cry slipping from your throat as your orgasm crashed through you like a wave swallowing the shoreline.
Your walls fluttered around him, tight and clenching, and he choked on a curse, hips stuttering.
“Shit—fuck, baby, you feel that? You’re squeezin’ me so tight—fuckin’ milkin’ me.”
Your arms were around his neck, mouth open against his shoulder as you gasped, voice thin and trembling. “Please, Katsu… I want it, I want you to—”
“Gonna,” he groaned, wild now, hips jackhammering into you as your cunt begged for it. “Gonna give it to you, baby, fuckin’ take it—”
And then he was there, buried deep, shaking as he spilled into you, hips locked to yours as he came hard—grinding into the deepest part of you like he could make sure every drop stuck. The warmth settling in, thick warm ropes of cum filling you up. Like it was a contract, and you were signing your name with every pulse and tremble.
He groaned your name like a prayer, lips pressed to your cheek, still breathless, still shaking, but not pulling back. Not even a little.
“I mean it,” he mumbled against your skin, one hand smoothing your hair, the other splayed wide over your stomach like he already saw it swell. “Everything I said, baby… I fuckin’ meant it.”
You whimpered softly, holding him closer if possible, eyes damp but shining, lips brushing over the shell of his ear.
“I know you did.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze glassy but sure—wide, vulnerable, real. The rawest part of him laid bare, not from lust, not from pride—but from love.
“I’m gonna be your husband, you’ll be my wife,” he said, voice soft and full and certain. “I’m gonna build you a house. You’re gonna have my name, my ring, my babies—fuckin’ all of it. You hear me?”
Your hand lifted to cup his face, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
“Every word,” you whispered. “And I want it all, my katsuki.”
And he smiled—small, crooked, rare. One hand cradling your thigh, his body still inside yours, warm and thick and resting as if he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.
Synopsis: He wasn’t supposed to be there. At prom, standing in a gym dressed like a dream he didn’t belong to. Then he saw you—roses on your wrist, pink satin like a halo around your skin. For one song, one heartbeat, the boy who never danced forgot every reason not to.
The gym was wrapped in ribbons of gold and blush, paper lanterns hanging like moons caught in the rafters. A disco ball spun lazy constellations across the faces of overdressed teenagers—some laughing too loud, others pretending not to care, all of them caught in that strange fever that came only once, if ever.
Katsuki Bakugou stood against the wall like he owned the shadows. The black of his leather jacket cut sharp against the clean lines of his suit, tie loose, boots scuffed. A cigarette twirled between his fingers, unlit, because he’d been warned twice already by the vice principal hovering near the punch bowl. His friends had dragged him here—Kirishima loud and red-haired, Denki already flirting with the DJ, Sero pretending to be too cool while snapping photos on a disposable camera. Katsuki, though, hadn’t moved. He’d come, but he hadn’t arrived.
He hated the saccharine smell of cologne, the clatter of high heels, the glossy dream of it all. The music changed every few minutes—one minute Prince, the next Madonna—and the floor kept pulsing like a heartbeat he refused to match.
And then the lights dimmed just enough for the opening chords of “True” by Spandau Ballet to melt through the air.
It started as a ripple—soft, almost shy—the kind of song that made time slow down. Conversations stilled, bodies turned toward each other, laughter faded into the hush of recognition.
That’s when he saw you.
You were sitting alone at one of the round tables draped in lace cloth, elbows resting against the edge, your chin tilted down slightly like you were hiding from the world. A corsage of pale roses circled your wrist, delicate against the bronze warmth of your skin. The dress—that dress—was a whisper of pink satin, soft as dawn, the skirt blooming around you like cotton candy and nostalgia.
Your hair framed your face in curls that caught every wandering light from the disco ball, and when you looked up—brown eyes deep and open—it felt like the song had been written just to fill the space between you.
He didn’t breathe for a moment. Just stared, caught in that impossible stillness. The kind that hits when a lyric syncs too perfectly with your heartbeat.
“I know this much is true…”
The line drifted through the air, sweet and slow, and for the first time all night, Bakugou’s pulse faltered.
He’d seen pretty girls before. Loud ones, sharp ones, the kind that liked danger stitched into denim and ink. But you—you—you looked like you didn’t belong in his kind of world. Like you’d been carved from some softer universe he didn’t believe in, one made of light and laughter and pink perfume.
You shifted, reaching for your drink, the faint movement of your wrist brushing that corsage like a blush of color blooming all over again. Your shoes were kicked off under the table. Your smile—small, almost private—appeared when the lyric rose again, and Katsuki felt it like static along his skin.
He hated dancing. Hated the spectacle of it. But right then, every nerve in him was screaming to move, to do something, to bridge that impossible distance between his shadow and your soft light.
Denki elbowed him on the way to the dance floor. “Yo, bro, that girl’s been sitting alone for twenty minutes. Go do something heroic for once.”
“Shut up,” Katsuki muttered, but the words lacked bite. His eyes hadn’t left you.
Another verse rolled through, and the floor began to blur—slow swaying couples, glittering dresses, silhouettes lost in motion. He pushed off the wall.
Boots scuffed the gym floor as he crossed through the slow-moving crowd. The scent of your perfume hit before he reached you—something faintly floral, faintly real. You looked up, startled, eyes widening when you realized who was standing in front of you: the punk who’d made a reputation for setting fire to locker rooms and rules alike.
He jerked his chin toward the floor, voice low. “You just gonna sit here while this song plays?”
Your lips parted, surprise flickering into something shy. “I didn’t think anyone would ask.”
“Well,” he muttered, offering his hand, “guess I’m no one then.”
You laughed, soft and bright, like the sound itself was blushing. Your fingers slid into his, small against the roughness of his palm. Your feet slipping back into the short heels that didn’t do much to your height. He led you onto the floor, where the song spilled like honey.
You moved awkwardly at first—his steps too big, yours uncertain—but then something eased. His hand found the curve of your waist, the satin warm under his touch, your other hand resting against his shoulder, corsage brushing his jaw. Your scent filled the air between you, a dizzy mixture of innocence and something heartbreakingly dangerous.
The lights blurred into soft constellations above your heads—tiny stars scattered across the gym ceiling, spinning and dipping with every slow rotation of the disco ball. Bakugou’s pulse thudded too loud in his chest, a heavy drum that didn’t match the gentle rhythm of the song. His leather jacket creaked faintly when he shifted, the faint smell of smoke and motor oil clinging to him like a second skin. He wasn’t made for moments like this.
And yet—
you were looking at him like you’d never seen anything more real.
Your lashes brushed your cheeks when you smiled up at him, a nervous, fluttering thing that made his throat dry. “You’re not really a dancer, are you?”
He huffed a laugh, low and gravel-rough. “You’re lucky I’m even on the floor.”
“Then I’ll take my miracle and shut up,” you teased, and the words were soft, sweet—like they came wrapped in pink satin, just like your dress.
His hand tightened at your waist, not rough but firm, grounding. You leaned in a little, maybe without realizing, maybe on purpose. He couldn’t tell. The warmth of you pressed through every layer between you, and for the first time in months, the tension in him uncoiled—like every fight, every shout, every sleepless night he’d drowned in noise and neon just went silent.
Your curls brushed his jaw as you turned, the song carrying you through honeyed air. The disco ball flashed once across your eyes, and his heart damn near forgot how to beat.
“Bakugou Katsuki,” you murmured suddenly, testing his name on your tongue like a secret.
He blinked down at you, caught between pride and disbelief. “You know my name?”
“Everyone does,” you said, voice lilting. “You’re the guy who punched the vending machine because it ate your dollar.”
He snorted, a reluctant grin pulling at his mouth. “It ate two dollars.”
Your laugh—God, your laugh—hit him like champagne bubbles rising to his head. He didn’t know what to do with it. The bridge of the song melted into that echoing, crooning confession:
“I bought a ticket to the world…”
When you looked back up at him, your voice trembled. “You clean up nice, you know.”
He grinned then, slow and crooked, that dangerous kind of smile that looked like it belonged behind smoke and headlights. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you whispered, but your fingers curled tighter at the nape of his neck.
The last chorus rose, soft as breath, and you laid your head against his chest. The leather jacket squeaked faintly under your cheek, cool against the warmth of your skin. He froze, then exhaled, his chin dipping to rest against the crown of your hair.
He could smell your shampoo—sweet, like strawberries and vanilla—and it tangled with the scent of his cologne, that clean amber note he’d had for years. Somehow, together, it worked.
It was you who spoke first, voice muffled against his chest. “You hate this kind of thing, don’t you?”
He grunted. “Yeah.”
“Then why’d you say yes?”
His hand flexed against your waist before he could stop himself. “Didn’t.”
You lifted your head, brow furrowed. “Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t say yes,” he said, smirking. “My idiot friends dragged me here.”
You blinked, then smiled again—soft, real, the kind of smile that made his heart forget its usual armor. “Guess it’s a good thing they did.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes tracing the pink gloss on your lips, “guess it is.”
The song had faded into something more upbeat as everyone yelled around them, but all of it was background noise to you two. He looked at you—the way the lights painted you in blush and gold—and something in him decided, fuck it.
“Wanna get outta here?” he asked.
Your brows lifted, but you didn’t pull away. “Where?”
He shrugged, that lazy punk indifference, but his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Anywhere the music ain’t telling me how to feel.”
You tilted your head, smile spreading. “You have a car?”
“’67 Mustang,” he said, smirk deepening. “Black. Loud.”
You grinned, slow and wicked-sweet. “Figures.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You look like trouble.”
He leaned closer, a small shrug to his shoulders. “Only if you’re lucky.”
The disco ball kept spinning, but you were already halfway gone—just two silhouettes slipping through the gym doors into the cool night, your pink dress glowing like the last neon dream he’d ever believe in.
The world shrank. Just the two of you, the spin of light on the floor, and that voice playing into the back of his head- crooning,
“This much is true…”
Bakugou had never believed in fate, but when you looked up at him, eyes reflecting the flicker of gold and pink, he thought maybe—just maybe—some songs knew when to play.
a/n: really wanted an 80’s romance with him and I was listening to 80’s music so.. here ya go!
okay okay so I know everyone wants a full fanfic of the barbarian Bakugou x Princess reader and trust me I will do it!! But I’ve been having something in the works for a while now and I’m starting it up… a royal plot.. maybe a little love triangle action… but I don’t want to reveal too much so LET ME COOK FOR A MIN OKAY ITS GOOD!
I’m also starting a taglist, so if you wanna be tagged please let me know! I’ve tagged a few people but just lmk if you still want to be on my taglist when I post!
I’ll make an official soon once I get my life together! But it’ll be at the bottom of each post!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Synopsis: When the brutal war with the two kingdoms ends, a captured barbarian prince is brought to the capital in chains — defiant, dangerous, and silent. You, the princess, watches from your balcony, draped in silk and suspicion… and makes a decision that shocks the entire court.
Warnings: war mentions, captivity themes, slow-burn, court intrigue, possessive behavior,, tension you couldn’t cut with a blade, kinda long intro sorryyy
The sun rose lazily over Solaria, its light filtered through stained glass windows and onto velvet-draped marble. The kingdom, draped in opulence, glittered like the crown jewel it was — prosperous, untouchable, and proud.
And in its heart, the most precious treasure of all lay curled in silk sheets, back bare to the morning chill, unbothered.
Princess Y/N, only daughter of King Alaric and Queen Ilyana, was known across kingdoms by many names: La Rosa de Solaria, The Gilded Thorn, The Living Flame.
To the nobles, you were power dressed in beauty. To the people, you were their beloved and feared rose — all sweet scent and sharp edges. And to your father, you were the very pulse of his legacy, the sun that rose and set within the walls of his empire.
You were spoiled.
But not stupid.
You were five feet of indulgence and command, honeyed brown skin glowing beneath sunlight, long curls untamed like the kingdom’s ancient banners in the wind. Your mouth could cut sharper than steel, and your beauty… gods, your beauty had started wars in courtrooms — dukes dueling over dances, heirs turning on one another for a glimpse of your smile.
But none of it impressed you. You had learned early that beauty could be a weapon if wielded correctly — not a gift, not a curse, but a blade.
The court called you spoiled, yes — but only the foolish ones said it to your face. The rest bowed deeper than necessary and offered gifts you would never use.
Because behind the rouge and finery was a mind sharp as obsidian. You remembered everything, from the names of your maids’ children to the number of pomegranate seeds on your plate. You spoke four languages. You could out-negotiate any ambassador who dared cross you. Your mother had once whispered that you were born with a crown already in your blood.
Your father called you his pride.
Which is why his absence now — after nearly six weeks at war — was a storm in your chest.
Solaria had not seen war in a decade. The realm had prospered, growing fat off trade routes and rare gems mined from the golden cliffs near the southern coast. Their ships were swift. Their taxes, fair. Their borders, defended by a navy feared across seas.
But peace made men lazy. And to the Northern clans, it made Solaria appear ripe.
The Barbarian Kingdom of Drakhor — a brutal, ice-clad land where snow never melted and men were forged in blood — had grown bold. They had crossed the Iron Crest mountains and swept down through border villages like wolves in winter.
They took no prisoners. Burned what they could not eat.
They called them barbarians, but that was too soft a word for what they were. These were not mindless beasts — they were warriors, ruthless and ancient, raised to worship the gods of flame and stone. Their heir was said to be worse than any before him: a golden-haired monster who could rip a man in half with his bare hands.
Solaria had prepared for diplomacy.
But the North had brought blood.
And so your father — King Alaric the Sun Lion — had ridden out with ten thousand men, leaving his velvet throne and his silk-robed court behind, trading them for steel and smoke. His last words to you had been:
“You will rule if I don’t return. You already do.”
You hadn’t cried. You only kissed his ring, nodded once, and watched him ride into the fog.
He’d left you the crown regent in his stead — a quiet move that shocked the council, insulted his generals, and thrilled you. He had three sons, from different mothers, bastards, but all raised on swords and ambition. But none were named ruler.
Only you.
But now the palace sat in strange stillness — waiting. No news had come. No ravens. No wounded men crawling back with stories of fire.
Just silence.
You stood by your balcony now, fingers gripping the cool marble, your eyes on the horizon where land met sky. You were thinking of the North. Of the strange smoke that had begun to rise beyond the ridge. Of the stillness in the wind that told you something was coming.
Letters that never came.
Rumors that shifted with the wind.
Prayers whispered over candle flames every night.
The war against the Barbarian Clan of the North had stretched longer than anyone expected, and with each passing day, the grand palace of Solaria seemed to hold its breath. Courtiers spoke in quieter tones. Advisors passed scrolls with shaking hands. Even the musicians played slower now, as if their strings mourned something yet unnamed.
“Where are the ravens?” You snapped one morning, voice sharp as a whip as you stood by the eastern tower. “Six weeks and nothing but dust and silence. The North is not so far.”
“The wind is unkind, Your Highness,” murmured a steward. “And the mountain passes—”
“Are nothing my father hasn’t conquered before.”
Still, no word.
At night, you would visit the Temple of Solara — alone. Hooded, silent, slipping past guards under cloak of darkness. There, beneath the great sun-gilded statue of the Fire Mother, you would kneel. Not as a princess. Not as a jewel. But as a daughter.
You lit a candle every evening.
One for your father.
One for your people.
And one for the gods to remind them: You would not be ignored.
Your mother, Queen Ilyana, tried to soothe you.
“Your father always returns victorious,” she said gently, brushing your curls away from your cheek. “He is the Sun Lion. The barbarian clans are little more than howling dogs.”
You wanted to believe her. You really did.
But there was something about this silence… something wrong.
The barbarian clans of the North were not like past enemies. They were no wandering brigands or disorganized rebels. They were heirs of ancient war, born in snow and stone, their kingdom of Drakhor as feared as it was misunderstood. A realm of black forests and bone-filled halls. Where boys became warriors at ten and leaders bled beside their men.
Their prince — unnamed in most reports — was said to be a creature of wrath. Untamed. Unbowed. A beast carved from ice and fury.
Some called him the Howling Heir. Others whispered darker titles: The Flame Eater, The Golden Death, The Wolf-Blooded.
And this was the man your father rode to fight.
You had never met a barbarian, but you had read every scroll, every map. You knew their war tactics were unpredictable. That their loyalty to blood and clan outmatched coin or politics. That they worshipped no gods save for strength itself.
You had argued with the council before your father left. Told them they didn’t understand what they were provoking. That the North did not bluff — it bled. And it would bleed them if they weren’t careful.
They laughed.
“You worry too much, Your Highness,” one noble had chuckled. “What is a pack of wolves to the lion’s teeth?”
But lions could still die. Even kings.
Even fathers.
And then, one late afternoon, the sound of horns split the sky. The notes rose, clear and unmistakable — a royal call of return, of victory.
You rushed to the palace balcony, silks brushing the floor, hair tumbling loose from its pins, heart pounding against your ribs like a war drum. Below, the gates were thrown wide, and the banners of House Solaria unfurled in the wind like tongues of flame — crimson and gold, stitched with the roaring sun-lion that marked your bloodline.
And there — at the head of the procession — rode your father.
King Alaric, the Sun Lion. Home.
His armor gleamed like molten gold beneath the setting sun, dented and dirtied with war but no less magnificent. His helm was clutched in one hand, the other raised in salute. His face, weathered and proud, cracked into a grin as the crowd roared with joy. Dust rose behind the legions of men who followed him — battered but alive, singing victory songs that rang through every corridor and courtyard of Solaria.
From your side, your mother let out a choked gasp — a rare, unguarded sound.
Queen Ilyana grabbed your hand with an uncharacteristic lack of composure, both of you smiling so wide it hurt. You were both a queen and a heir, yes — but in that moment, you were only wife and daughter, desperate to feel his warmth again.
You didn’t walk.
You flew down the steps of the great hall, skirts flying as if you were both children again, half-laughing, half-weeping, desperate to meet him at the entrance. The palace doors were flung open. Guards bowed as the royal family reunited beneath the last golden light of day.
You threw your arms around your father the moment he dismounted, burying your face in his chestplate, not caring if the metal dirtied your face or if the entire court watched.
“You came back,” you whispered, voice trembling.
“I always do,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice was hoarse from war, but warm — steady. “You held the kingdom well, my jewel.”
“And you held the line.”
"We have won," he declared, voice booming as courtiers and servants gathered. "The North bends to us. Their banners burn, their warriors lay broken in the field- some even ran for the hills." His grin was fierce, a conqueror's grin. "Tonight, we shall celebrate. A feast so grand the gods themselves shall hunger."
Your mother, radiant even in her worry-worn state, cupped his face. "And what of them?" she asked softly.
“They fought like beasts,” he murmured. “Relentless. But disorganized in the end. Once their prince was captured… they lost their will.”
Your brows lifted. “Their prince?”
Your father gave a slow nod, jaw tightening. “He did not go easily. He killed seven of my men before they took him alive. I wanted his head, but… there is power in trophies.”
The king's eyes glinted with something darker, a flash of cruelty and triumph. "You shall see." His gaze flickered to you, lingering long enough for your stomach to twist with curiosity. "Prepare yourselves. Dress in your finest silks, your brightest jewels. Tonight, the court shall marvel at what it means to win."
And you were to do exactly that.
The hall buzzed with excitement. Musicians were summoned, the kitchens thrown into chaos, maids rushing to fetch gowns and polish gemstones. Your heart thrummed with anticipation as you allowed herself to be ushered away by your ladies. You laughed breathlessly, tugging at their hands, demanding your mother's diamond combs and the gown spun from sapphire silk that clung like water to your figure.
But beneath the giddy excitement was something sharper — unease, perhaps, or instinct. The king's words echoed in your head. A prize. A trophy.
You did not yet know that the trophy was not gold, nor jewel, nor crown. It was flesh and blood. It was fury in chains. It was the barbarian prince himself.
—
The great hall blazed with light and sound, a thousand candles trembling in their crystal holders, their glow mirrored against polished floors of marble veined with gold. The long banquet tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, spiced pheasant, sugared fruits, and silver goblets brimming with wine.
One by one, courtiers and lords drifted into the hall, their laughter bouncing against the vaulted ceiling. Jewel-bright gowns rustled as noble ladies swept in on their husbands’ arms, hair glittering with pearls and gemstones. Knights fresh from battle paraded their scars like trophies, their armor shining beneath the chandeliers.
At the high table, you sat beside your mother, draped in sapphire silk that shimmered like water. Your throat and wrists glittered with diamonds, and your hair had been swept high, secured with a comb shaped like the sun. You leaned against your chair with an almost feline poise, chin tilted, every inch the spoiled jewel of the court. But your eyes never strayed far from your father, seated proudly at the head of the table.
He raised a goblet, voice booming above the roar of celebration.
“To victory!”
The hall erupted in cheers. Goblets clinked, trumpets sounded, and the musicians struck up a triumphant tune. Wine sloshed over the rims of cups as laughter and song swelled.
He raised his hand, the hall stilled almost at once. The musicians faltered, strings trailing into silence. His shadow stretched long across the dais, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with relish.
“My people. My loyal lords and ladies. Tonight we do not only celebrate our victory…” His eyes gleamed, wolfish in the candlelight. “We shall look upon it. In flesh.”
At his signal, the great doors at the end of the hall groaned open. The clank of iron filled the air before anything else—chains dragged heavy against the stone. Gasps rippled like wind across the hall.
And then he entered.
A man—no, a beast—dragged forward by four armored guards straining against him. He towered above them all, standing near 6’5”, shoulders broad, chest carved like stone beneath the torn furs still clinging to him. His wrists were shackled in thick iron, chains biting into skin rubbed raw. A streak of dried blood trailed across his jaw, his body, his golden hair wild and untamed, eyes burning red like fire set loose in a storm.
Prince Katsuki Bakugou.
The barbarian savage of the North.
He did not bow. Did not stumble, even with chains dragging at him. He sneered, lip curling to show teeth, every inch of him fury barely contained. His presence crackled through the hall, primal and electric, as though some predator had been loosed among pampered hounds.
Your breath caught.
Infatuation struck you not in soft strokes, but like a blade through silk—sharp, sudden, impossible to deny. You had never seen a man like him. Not among the perfumed courtiers, not among the knights who begged for your favor. He was brutal strength wrapped in defiance, a storm that would not bend even when caged.
Around you, whispers erupted. Some shrieked at the indecency of displaying a barbarian in their sacred hall, others muttered prayers, still others stared wide-eyed in fascination. But you sat straighter in your chair, your glistening-bright eyes drinking him in.
Your father’s grin spread wide.
“Behold,” he thundered, “the barbarian prince. The son of the North, now broken before us.”
But you thought, pulse fluttering at your throat, that he looked anything but broken.
The chains clinked like a grim rhythm as Bakugou was dragged to the center of the hall. The guards forced him to his knees on the stone dais below the king’s table, but even then he seemed taller, broader, more alive than anyone else in the room. His shoulders were corded muscle, his head bowed just enough for his hair to shadow his eyes.
The courtiers gasped, whispered, some even laughed nervously — wine-slick voices calling him beast, barbarian, savage. But Bakugou did not so much as flinch. He held himself with the rigid pride of a man who refused to break, every line of his body promising violence if his chains slipped for even a second.
Wine was poured, laughter spilled again, the musicians struck up another lively tune. Slowly, the hall forgot to be afraid. He became a trophy on display, something to jeer at in between toasts and mouthfuls of roasted boar.
But you.. couldn’t possibly look away.
Your gaze traced every detail of him — the thick ropes of muscle in his arms, the raw skin at his wrists where iron bit, the sharp line of his jaw tight with restraint. You swore you could feel the heat radiating from him even from where you sat.
As though sensing you, his head lifted.
Eyes like wildfire swept the room, scorn dripping from every glance cast upon jeweled nobles and perfumed ladies. And then they landed on you.
You stilled.
The music, the laughter, even your own breath seemed to fall away. His gaze pinned you as though nothing else in the hall existed. Fierce, defiant, alive in a way no one else dared to be. He didn’t bow, didn’t soften — but he looked at you, truly looked. A brief eternity in a single glance.
Your chest rose too sharply, your lips parted without meaning to. Heat licked up your throat, as if you were the one in chains beneath his fire.
“Y/N.”
Your mother’s voice snapped the spell, making you blink, forcing you to look away as the weight of court returned. The queen leaned closer, speaking in that sweet, low tone she reserved for her daughter alone.
“A dreadful sight, isn’t it? But one your father insists upon. Better we display him than spill more blood tonight.”
You hummed softly, your eyes flicking — unwillingly — back to him. “Mother…” you began, fingers tracing the stem of your goblet. “What do you know of his people? Of his… kingdom?”
Your mother followed your gaze, though she did not linger on the chained prince, as if he were beneath her notice. “The North?” she said, voice airy with dismissal. “They are a force, brutal and untamed. Hunters, raiders, fighters bred in the snow and stone. For years, they’ve pressed at our borders — fierce, yes, but never unified enough to stand against us. Their prince…” She shook her head with disdain. “He is said to be their fiercest warrior. Power incarnate, they whisper. But what is power without order? Without refinement?”
The queen smoothed a hand over your arm, unaware of the spark now glowing in her daughter’s eyes. “You needn’t trouble yourself with barbarian matters. Tonight is for celebration, for silk and jewels, not savages in chains.”
You forced a smile, nodding as your mother turned her attention back to the lords clamoring for her opinion. But inside, you felt something coil, something dangerous and delicious.
Because while the hall laughed and feasted, while your mother dismissed him as nothing, you knew the truth: power radiated from him, untamed and undeniable.
And when his eyes found yours again, just for a heartbeat, you knew you wanted more.
The feast stretched deep into the night, a blur of laughter and wine, of dripping candles and clattering goblets. Roasted meats were picked clean, pastries dusted in sugar collapsed beneath jeweled fingers, and the court grew loud and merry with its victory.
But still he knelt.
Chained in the center of the hall like a beast, Prince Katsuki Bakugou did not bow his head, did not soften under the heat of their laughter. He stared, unbroken, his broad chest rising slow and steady while their songs and jeers washed over him. Every so often his eyes drifted, like fire seeking fuel — and each time, they found you.
You felt it, that pull, that burn. You reclined like a queen already crowned, your gown spilling like liquid around you, your diamonds catching the candlelight. You lifted your goblet with the practiced grace of someone who knew every eye adored you — yet your gaze never strayed too far from the one man who refused to kneel, even in chains.
At last, your father spoke of his plans.
The room fell into reverent silence. The king lifted his goblet high, his voice rolling through the hall like thunder.
“My people,” he began, “tonight we dine as victors. Our banners fly higher, our borders stretch farther, our enemies lay broken at our feet.”
Cheers rattled the rafters. He let them rise, then fell silent again, savoring the weight of his next words. His gaze dropped to the chained figure below.
“And here,” he continued, voice sharp with triumph, “is the North’s greatest treasure — their prince. Their pride.” He sneered, lips curling as he raised his goblet in mockery. “Once hailed as their fiercest warrior. And now…”
He let the silence stretch, the court waiting, breath held.
“Now nothing more than a dog on a chain.”
The court erupted in laughter, cruel and high-pitched, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. Goblets slammed the tables, feet stamped, and all around him, Bakugou was reduced in their eyes from a prince to a beast.
Your father’s voice cut above the din. “At dawn, he shall meet his end — broken before the gods and the world. Let all who dare rise against us remember this fate.”
Gasps of approval swept through the hall. The lords nodded, some ladies clutched pearls in mock fright. The air itself seemed heavy with the king’s authority.
And then—
A clear, sweet voice cut through the noise.
“No.”
The single word silenced everything. Laughter froze. Heads turned as if pulled by strings, all eyes snapping toward the princess seated like a jewel at the king’s right hand.
Your goblet rested delicately between your fingers. You did not raise your voice, yet it carried with the weight of someone used to being obeyed. You tilted your head, curls gleaming, lips painted in the faintest smile.
“Father. You cannot waste him.”
The king’s brows furrowed, the hall holding its breath. “My daughter—”
“I want him.”
The words dripped like honey, shameless and unapologetic. You leaned forward, eyes glimmering with spoiled delight as though you had asked for a new gown, or a rare gemstone. “As my personal guard. My footman. My…” you let the pause linger, watching the murmurs ripple through the crowd like wildfire, “…toy.”
The court gasped as one. Scandal bloomed, ladies whispering behind jeweled fans, lords choking on their wine.
The king’s jaw tightened. “Y/N,” he said low, warning in his tone. “This creature is no toy. He is—”
“Exactly what I want,” you cut him off, voice bright with practiced sweetness. You stood then, diamonds catching every flame in the room, your presence filling the hall like sunlight pouring through stained glass. “What better way to display our triumph than to have the barbarian prince himself serving at my heel? What greater humiliation to the North than their warrior bowing to me?”
Your words dripped with a spoiled confidence, your smile sharp as a blade. The king hesitated, but you knew your father — he had never denied you, not when you wanted ponies gilded in ribbons as a child, not when you demanded gowns imported from foreign lands. He adored you too much, let your whims reign too often, some may argue. And now, you pressed that power like a dagger to his throat.
Your mother looked horrified, lips parting in a whisper, but you only smiled, eyes never leaving her father’s.
The king’s expression shifted. At first, disbelief. Then, slowly… amusement. Cruel amusement. A laugh rumbled from his chest, spreading into the hall.
“Ah,” he said, grin cutting across his face, “my daughter is wise beyond her years. What finer punishment than this?”
He gestured grandly toward Bakugou, who glared up at him with fire in his veins.
“From this day forth, the barbarian prince shall serve no throne, no kingdom, but the whim of my beloved daughter. A slave, a guard, a footman — whatever she desires. Behold, our victory.”
The court erupted again, though hesitant at first, this time in shocked laughter and scandalized glee. Whispers flew like arrows, all eyes darting between the jeweled princess and the snarling barbarian.
And you — spoiled, radiant, unflinching — lowered yourself gracefully back into your seat, the faintest smirk curling your lips.
For the briefest moment, your eyes found his again. His fury burned hotter than the torches on the wall. But beneath it, something else smoldered.
You had saved him. You had humiliated him.
You had claimed him.
a/n: well, well, well… really debating making this a few part series or a full blown fanfic.. opinions?
Synopsis: Bakugou doesn’t get sick often — but when he does, he turns into the most dramatic, needy man alive (not that he’d ever admit it). Luckily, you got soup on the stove, a cozy blanket on the couch, and arms just big enough to hold even the strongest hero when he needs it most.
Warnings: just some fluff
It always starts with a sneeze.
Not the normal kind — not the “I smelled Y/N’s garlic-chili oil” sneeze or the post-shower, nose-tingling kind. No, this one had weight. Pressure. It snapped through his sinuses like a landmine, and the second it hit, he knew. Fuck. His body was turning on him.
He fought it at first. Of course he did. He’d trained through sprained ankles, powered through smoke inhalation, once held off three villains while literally bleeding out — but a virus? A tickle in his throat? A runny nose? He could win. Or so he thought.
Then came the second sneeze — and the third.
Then the sore throat that turned raspy. Then the cough.
Then the aching in his shoulders that made his whole damn costume feel too tight.
He was unraveling, and he knew it.
You walked in hours later, grocery bags in hand, keys still dangling between your fingers when you froze in the doorway. You swear he was just telling you how patrol was going, but now he was here. Your man — your sharp, stoic, unbeatable brickhouse of a boyfriend — was slumped on the couch in full damn hero gear, boots still on, gloves discarded on the floor like they’d betrayed him.
His nose was red, cheeks flushed, and his eyes? Glossy and watery and just pathetic enough to make you laugh softly under your breath.
“You look like a sad tomato.”
“Fuck off,” he mumbled, voice low and broken like cracked pavement, head tipping back as he sniffled. “I got sent home, something about ‘not spreading diseases’ and ‘going home to rest’ tch.”
“You still have your gauntlets on.”
“Didn’t have the energy to change.” He shrugged, his arms slack, making the gauntlets look heavy even in his grip. His jaw clenched — the only pride he had left. But even that wavered when he muttered, “Throat hurts.”
You set the groceries down and stepped toward him, “You didn’t take anything?”
“I don’t need—”
“Katsuki.”
He groaned. It was deep and dramatic, like the world was ending and only you could save it. And maybe for him, it was. Because when Bakugou Katsuki got sick — which was rare, like a damn blood moon — it hit him hard. And worse? He got needy. Not in words. No, never out loud. But the way he stared at you like you had the cure hidden behind your eyes? That was enough.
“Go shower,” you murmured, already stroking a hand through his sweat-dampened bangs. “I’ll blow dry your hair after you’re out and have you something warm to eat.”
He blinked at you slowly, melting into the cushions like he’d been granted mercy by the gods. “…You gonna make that soup I like?”
“Yes, I’ll make you Caldo de Pollo,” she said, smirking.
His nod was slow, sheepish. “With the extra lime. And the rice soft.”
“Mhm and no carrots.”
“Fuck carrots.”
“Yes I know, drama queen.”
He was already peeling himself off the couch, dragging his feet like a war veteran, mumbling something about “shit bein’ in his chest” as he headed for the bathroom. When the door shut, you heard a muffled sneeze that shook the walls — and then a pained groan.
You smiled. Your man could bring villains to their knees, but a cold? That was his kryptonite.
He’d never say it, but the second you walked into the kitchen and pulled out the chicken thighs, you knew…
He wanted to be babied.
And tonight? You were gonna spoil his dramatic ass rotten.
The soup simmered like a slow lullaby on the stove, the scent of chicken, onion, and simmered garlic thick in the air — rich and comforting, the kind of smell that softened walls and warmed bones. You moved through the kitchen like it was muscle memory, like every step and slice was a song rhythm.
The rice was nearly done, soft and swollen in the little clay pot. Cilantro was chopped, waiting in a small bowl beside lime wedges. Zucchini, chayote, onion, chicken, and corn halves bobbed gently in the golden broth, soaking up flavor while the flame beneath flickered steady and low.
You had already thrown one of your plush blankets onto the couch — the tan one with the fluffy white trim he always pretended not to like, even though you always caught him curled up in it when you weren’t looking. Both of your favorite show was queued up, paused on the intro screen. A spiced pumpkin candle burned quietly on the coffee table, flame dancing in rhythm with the faint soft music you had playing from the kitchen speaker. The whole apartment felt like autumn itself — warm and golden, thick with love and softness.
You had just entered your room when the bathroom door creaked open, steam billowing out like breath in the cold, and there he was. Katsuki Bakugou — six feet of muscle and fire reduced to a tired, sniffly man in grey sweats and a shirt.
His eyes found you instantly.
“Aw kats,” you said, voice soft as you walked up to him, hand gently placed on his chest. “C’mon.” You smiled, walking past him into the bathroom to plug in your blow dryer.
He grumbled something unintelligible but padded over anyway, feet bare and steps sluggish. You sat him on the closed toilet seat, raking your fingers through his damp blond strands before flicking the blow dryer on low.
He grunted. “That thing’s loud.”
“You’re louder when you’re sick,” you teased, watching as his eyes fluttered closed under your touch.
The heat kissed his scalp while your fingers moved in slow circles, and for once, he didn’t protest. Didn’t bark. Didn’t argue. He just leaned into you like you were gravity and he couldn’t fight it anymore.
Once his hair was dry and fluffed, you bent down and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “Put Vicks on, baby.”
“Tch.” He reached for the jar on the counter, then without looking, shoved it into your palm. “You do it. I hate that slimy-ass shit.”
You blinked at him. “Seriously?”
He sniffled, glaring half-heartedly. “You want me to die or what?”
You rolled her eyes with a laugh but opened the jar anyway, scooping out a bit of the menthol balm and warming it between your fingers. Your other hand going to lift up his shirt enough to bring your hand under. He sat with his arms hanging loose at his sides, like a tired lion too proud to ask for help — but when your hands met his chest, spreading the Vicks gently over his skin, he sighed.
Actually sighed.
And when you thumb rubbed slow circles over his chest, just below his collarbones, he muttered, “…Feels nice.”
“I know,” you smiled. “You’re lucky I love you.”
His nose scrunched, embarrassed but soft. “Shuddup.”
“Say ‘thank you, mi amor.’”
He scowled. “Thank you, mi amor,” he repeated, low and raspy and smug like he was trying not to smirk. Your smile bloomed anyway. You pulled his shirt back over his head and gave him a soft kiss to his pouty lips.
You washed the Vicks from your hands and he sat patiently, like a kid waiting to get permission to leave from the nurses office at school. You went back into your room to grab him a hoodie and he grumbled before pulling it over himself, hoodie up and over his now dry and fluffy blonde hair.
You grabbed his hand, and led him to the couch, already glowing from the candlelight and the soft flicker of the paused TV.
The couch cushions dipped beneath his weight as Bakugou sank down with a long, dramatic sigh, blanket already pulled up to his chin like he hadn’t just spent the last fifteen minutes pretending he wasn’t cold. The soft glow of the candle flickered against the side of his face, catching the curve of his jaw, the flush in his cheeks, the hint of boyish vulnerability buried beneath all that muscle and attitude.
You tucked the blanket around him tighter before standing, brushing your fingers through his hair one more time — because he let you now, because when he was sick, he didn’t put up the same walls. Not with you.
“I’ll get your soup,” you murmured.
He didn’t even grunt, just closed his eyes like he trusted the sound of your voice to hold him over.
When you returned, caldo de pollo in hand, he was already half-dozing — but the second the aroma hit him, his nose twitched at what little he could still smell and his lashes fluttered. You set the bowl in front of him and perched beside him, one leg curled under yourself, the other resting against his thigh.
He stirred the soup sluggishly at first, sipping it with those slow, deliberate motions like every spoonful was holy. You watched him the way you’d watch someone you loved their whole life and still couldn’t get enough — the way he relaxed between spoonfuls, the way his shoulders dropped with warmth and relief.
“‘S good,” he murmured thickly between sips, eyes still glassy, voice shredded but low.
“Yeah?” You smiled, brushing your fingers down the back of his neck.
He didn’t answer. Just kept eating until the bowl was scraped clean and the broth was nothing but memory. He set it on the coffee table with a tired clink.
“I’ll take it to the—”
“Stay,” he rasped.
You paused, blinking.
Before you could move again, his hand came around your waist and tugged — gently, insistently — pushing you back onto the couch. You let out a breathy laugh, startled as your back hit the cushions, but your smile softened when he shifted between your legs like it was instinct.
“Baby…”
“Shuddup. ‘M sick,” he muttered into your belly as he laid his head on your lap, arms curling around your waist like a fortress. His breath fanned over your shirt. And when he gave a little sigh and tucked his nose right into your waist, you melted.
You rested a hand in his hair, fingers scratching slow, soothing lines across his scalp.
“I love you, you big baby.”
“Mmhm,” he mumbled, “I love you too.”
“I should really take the bowl—”
“No.”
Your laughter shook your chest, and he nuzzled deeper into you.
So you stayed.
With the man who could tear buildings down with a single blast. Who now lay curled in your arms like he belonged there.
Like the soup, and your hands, and your heartbeat were the only things he needed.
a/n: inspiration has many forms. mine was literally being sick and dying on my couch eating a bowl of caldo. I cannot survive this sick season.
I need help!!!!! What’s better to write a full fan fiction on? I know a lotttt of people (including myself) prefer AO3 but I like how I can do more of an aesthetic look on wattpad. Idk so please help and lmk what you think cause I have a million already written ideas 😛
I need help!!!!! What’s better to write a full fan fiction on? I know a lotttt of people (including myself) prefer AO3 but I like how I can do more of an aesthetic look on wattpad. Idk so please help and lmk what you think cause I have a million already written ideas 😛
Summary: You told your sinfully hot, sex-god of a boyfriend you were going celibate in the name of feminine empowerment. He took it personally. But he’s not mad — he’s patient. And Katsuki Bakugou doesn’t need to break your vow. He’ll let you do it for him.
a/n: debut post RAHHHHHH
You were curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, dressed in your comfy soft shorts and regular shirt — looking every bit like temptation incarnate to your boyfriend. But your eyes were glued to the damn book.
Bakugou’s eyes squinted at the cover as he stepped into the room with a towel slung low on his hips, still glistening from his post-shower glow. He paused. Read it again. His brows furrowed deeper.
“Pussy Prayers?” he said flatly. “The fuck is that.”
You didn’t even look up.
“It’s called ‘Pussy Prayers: Sacred & Holy Things to Know About the Power We Hold’. Mina let me borrow it.”
He scoffed, grabbing the remote to mute the TV as he stood in front of you, muscles flexing like they had a goddamn agenda. “So… you’re praying to your pussy now?” he muttered, cocking a brow.
You smiled serenely. “I’m reclaiming it. Tapping into my divine feminine energy. It says celibacy brings clarity.”
Bakugou blinked.
“…Celibacy?” His tone dropped like a bomb.
You nodded. “Mhm.”
He stared at you in disbelief. “You’re fuckin’ joking.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re telling me you’re gonna be celibate? You, who wakes me up grinding on my thigh half-asleep? You, who begged me to pull the car over last week because you couldn’t wait till we got home?”
Your smirk faltered. You turned a page.
“This is about empowerment,” you said airily, though you definitely weren’t reading anymore.
Katsuki stepped closer, towering over you now, towel still hanging low on his hips and leaving very little to the imagination. Water still clung to the sharp cut of his hips, the V-line that made your mouth water.
“You’re really gonna play this game, baby?” he said low, dragging one calloused hand down his abdomen until the towel shifted just slightly — enough to tease. “When you know I’d let you use me like your personal fucktoy any day of the week?”
You cleared your throat and tried to focus on the paragraph in front of you. Something about sexual discipline. About the mental strength it builds.
But then his voice dipped to that gravelly, dangerous place you knew too well.
“Just the tip, baby,” he rasped, slowly leaning down until his mouth was near your ear. “Let me just slide it in—won’t even move. You can keep readin’. I’ll stay real still. Warm. Deep.”
You shifted, squirming slightly as you glared at the book like it betrayed you.
He wasn’t done.
“I’ll make you cum just like that. No thrustin’. Just sittin’ inside your pretty little pussy like I belong there. 'Cause I fuckin’ do. You know I do.”
Your thighs pressed together involuntarily.
Katsuki leaned in, too close (not close enough).
“I can already tell you’re wet, baby,” he growled. “Your pussy’s callin’ for me, not that book. Let it preach all it wants—your body knows who really runs it.”
You shot up, clutching the book to your chest with wide eyes. “Cold shower,” you blurted, already heading down the hallway.
Bakugou grinned like a devil. “Yeah, fuckin’ run, babe.”
The bathroom door slammed shut.
Bakugou padded down the hall, towel half-ditched now, smirking as he leaned his forehead to the door.
“You better be prayin’ in there, sweetheart,” he teased, “’Cause your little vow just made me real goddamn hungry.”
You exhaled behind it, pressing your back to the cool tile and gripping the book like it was a crucifix.
Okay. So maybe you underestimated just how powerful your boyfriend was too.
But you were determined now.
No sex. No slipping.
Not even just the tip.
...
Probably.
—
It had been five days.
Five days of “power,” as you called it.
Five days of cold showers, internal mantras, burning sage and candles with Mina on FaceTime, and doing pelvic floor exercises instead of giving in to the absolute hellfire that was Katsuki-fucking-Bakugou.
You kept telling yourself: This is sacred. This is strength. This is a reclaiming of the self. Even though, honestly, you’d rather be reclaiming his dick with your whole body.
Still, you stayed strong. You even swapped your usual lacy thongs and matching sets for the least appealing boy short cotton briefs you could find. The kind with almost stretched-out elastic and a fading print of a strawberry on the front. You wore oversized shirts and slept on the very edge of the bed like a nun guarding her vow of silence.
And still — still — he looked at you like he was starving.
That morning, you caught him smirking when you bent over to grab your water bottle.
The panties were hideous, truly.
But they clung to your thick ass like a second skin. Pulled tight between your plush cheeks, riding up just right. You heard him mutter behind you.
“Even your ugly fuckin’ underwear can stop me from thinking about what I could be doing to you.” He smiled, You’d straightened up and practically sprinted out of the room, chanting I am divine, I am divine like a deranged mantra as your inner thighs warmed traitorously.
—
He never pushed. Not directly. That’s what made it worse. Bakugou had shifted into slow-burn revenge mode.
And he was diabolical.
He started being extra sweet. Extra helpful. Kissing your temple. Massaging your shoulders. Talking about feminism and body autonomy like he had a damn PhD. It was maddening.
He’d say things like:
“Need help stretchin’? Gotta keep those hips open — I know how tight they get when you don’t… you know… ride anything.”
Or
“Good job, baby. Stay strong. Don’t worry about me — I’ll just be in the shower thinkin’ about that mouth.”
You wanted to kill him.
No. You wanted to ride him until your legs gave out.
Then kill him.
On Day Six, you were folding laundry when he walked in shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder, sweat glistening on his chest from a workout. He grabbed a bottle from the fridge, chugged it, and glanced at you with a knowing smirk. You tried not to look.
Failed.
Then he groaned. Loudly. Stretched his arms overhead. “Fuck, I’m sore,” he muttered. “All that core work. Should’ve just let you sit on my face instead. That’s the best ab workout.”
Your hands froze on his boxers. The pile of his clean underwear blurred before your eyes. One of them still smelled like him.
You dropped it like it was cursed.
“I’m reclaiming my power,” you whispered to yourself. “My body. My energy. My—”
“You alright, baby?” he asked from the other room. “You sound like you’re about to cry.”
“I’m FINE,” you snapped.
You were not fine.
Because now you were imagining him holding your thighs open with those rough hands, his mouth dragging up your inner thigh, eyes locked on you, fucking you like a mad man.
And suddenly, your empowered mind was filled with thoughts that would make every feminist in history weep.
He could split me in half and I’d say thank you.
I’d bark if he asked.
God gave him hands for choking and hips for breaking me.
You groaned, physically shoving the book in your nightstand drawer like it had cursed you.
That night, you tried to escape him by going to bed early.
He slid into bed behind you, pulled you in close by your waist, and just breathed against your neck. “Sleep tight, baby,” he whispered. “Try not to dream about me too much.”
You whimpered and gripped the sheets.
Then his hand slid down to your hip.
Just resting. Just resting.
But your heart was pounding. Your thighs clenched.
His lips barely brushed your ear.
“…Still gonna make you beg,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes. You’ll be the one climbin’ on top, cryin’ my name, askin’ me to ruin all your little feminist plans.” You gasped—turned over—and he was already asleep. Or pretending to be.
You laid there, eyes wide, heat pooling in your belly like molten lava.
You were losing. And he knew it.
But you still had your dignity.
And ugly panties.
And you’d hold out.
—
The morning sunlight spilled softly through the windows, warming your skin as you moved into downward dog, slow and controlled, hips high, back arched, breath steady.
Your “Divine Feminine Awakening” playlist echoed faintly from your phone speaker. Some airy woman’s voice talked about balance, breath, and sensuality. The yoga mat squeaked a little under your palms. You were in your zone. Eyes closed. Zen unlocked. Slowly shifting into the cat-cow pose.
You were even wearing your least fuckable yoga set, at least you thought so — a simple cotton bralette and biker shorts that cut into your thighs slightly, totally unsexy. Your hair was up. No gloss. No body butter. You looked like you were trying not to get railed.
And for the first time all week, you felt like you had the upper hand.
Bakugou hadn’t said anything dirty in nearly twenty-four hours. No groans. No shirtless stunts. No slow drags of his tongue across his bottom lip while looking at you like dinner.
You thought — finally. He’s backing off.
I won.
You really should’ve known better.
“Stretchin’ again?”
His voice hit you like a thunderclap — deep, lazy, amused. The sound of a predator watching prey get comfortable.
You looked up, blinking as Katsuki strolled over from the hallway, sweatpants low, tank top tight around his chest, jaw freshly shaven and glistening faintly from the moisturizer you knew he only wore to look better in natural light.
“I’m—yes,” you said, face neutral, voice steady. But your ‘cow’ pose looking oddly familiar, your ass up and back arched.
He walked behind you, gaze trailing over your bent frame. “Looks like you could use a little help,” he murmured. “Want me to hold your hips steady?”
You stiffened. “Uhm… Nope.” But your voice was the least convincing.
“C’mon,” he grinned, already kneeling behind you. “Lemme help you open those hips.”
Your breath caught as his warm palms settled on your hips — gentle, innocent. Almost. He adjusted your stance slowly, thumbs brushing right over the curve where your ass met the top of your thighs.
“Just relax,” he said softly. “You’re holdin’ all that tension back here.” His hands squeezed. Firm. Controlled. Your breath hitched.
“I’m—fine,” you rasped.
But then… then he leaned in.
Not touching. Just close. And when he spoke next — his voice dropped into that register. The one that made your knees weak. The one that always hit right between your legs.
“You feel how I’m holdin’ you right now?” he whispered. “Imagine how good I’d feel fucking you like this, baby.”
You gasped — air leaving your lungs entirely.
And then—
His hips pressed forward.
Slow. Subtle. Dangerous.
Not even grinding — just the pressure of his thick cock, heavy and half-hard against the swell of your ass through the cotton of your shorts.
“You think you’re in control,” he breathed, brushing his mouth near your ear. “But I know you. This little phase? It’s cute. Real cute.” He rolled his hips again — slow. Deep. Deliberate.
“Tell me you don’t miss the way I stretch you out. The way your thighs start shakin’ when I’m all the way inside.”
You whimpered. A sound that escaped before you could bite it down. Your arms trembled. Not from the pose — from everything else.
“You’re—this is cheating,” you said breathlessly. “I’m trying to—”
“To what, baby?” he rasped. “Be powerful? You are. So fuckin’ powerful. But even goddesses need to be worshipped.”
Another press of his hips, and you swear you saw stars.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m—” your voice cracked. “Fuck, Katsuki.”
He chuckled low. Hot breath on your neck. “You smell so fuckin’ sweet right now,” he groaned. “Can almost taste you.”
His fingers traced just below the waistband of your shorts, inching downward—but not enough.
Your hands fisted on the mat.
“I’m gonna cry,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “I need it so bad.” Mind so foggy you barely registered that you had said that out loud.
“Oh baby,” he cooed darkly. “You’re almost there. Just say it.” You were sweating. Trembling. Hips jerking back into his without meaning to.
He kissed your shoulder. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. Right here. Right now.”
You moaned — broken and breathless. Eyes wet. Core pulsing. And finally, finally, your last thread of celibate resistance snapped.
“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Katsuki—just fuck me. I need it—I need you—”
He pulled your shorts down so fast the elastic snapped. “You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growled, already lining up behind you. “Such a good girl, so strong baby.”
And when he pushed in — thick, deep, all the way — your legs gave out with a cry, hips trembling, arms folding under the weight of need as he slid into you, so deep your breath punched right out of your lungs.
His hands grasped your hips and held them up, slowly guiding your top half to lay flat, chest against the mat.
“Fuck—” you gasped, nails scraping across the yoga mat as your eyes rolled.
Bakugou groaned behind you, voice low and ragged, already sinking all the way in, slow but devastating. “Goddamn, baby—tight as ever.”He stilled, buried to the hilt. Letting you feel it.
You shuddered.
His hands gripped your hips, dragging you back onto him. “Look at that—still tryin’ to take it all like a good fuckin’ girl.”
Your knees buckled.
You hadn’t had him in a week. A week without that stretch, that pressure, that fullness. And now he was buried in you, thick and throbbing, whispering sin into your ear while you whimpered into the mat.
“I told you you’d break,” he rasped, hips beginning to move — slow, rolling thrusts that pushed deep, rubbed right there. “Didn’t I?”
You couldn’t answer. Just moaned. Shook.
He leaned over you, chest pressing into your back, lips dragging along your shoulder, sweat beginning to mix with yours. “Say it,” he growled. “Say who this pussy belongs to.”
“You,” you breathed, mouth open and useless against the mat. “Fuck, Katsuki, you—”
“That’s right,” he snarled, picking up the pace. “You think any book’s gonna fuck you like this? Think your damn yoga mat’s gonna split you open and make you cry?” He slammed into you harder and you did cry — a soft, choked sob of pleasure, hands clawing uselessly at the surface beneath you.
“Fuck, baby—listen to you,” he panted, one hand slipping up your side, gripping your throat from behind with that perfect pressure that made your toes curl. “Cryin’ for me already?”
Your mouth dropped open. Drool threatening to spill.
“Louder,” he groaned. “Let the fuckin’ neighbors know celibacy was the dumbest idea you ever had.”
You sobbed something incoherent as his thrusts hit harder, hips snapping with punishing rhythm. His hand snuck between your legs — two fingers sliding to circle your clit, slick and swollen and throbbing for him.
“I’m gonna—fuck, Katsuki, I’m—”
“I know you are, baby,” he growled, voice filthy and loving and cruel all at once. “You’ve been fuckin’ aching for this. Bet your pretty little cunt’s been weepin’ every time you saw me walk around half-naked.”
You whined, hips jerking, thighs shaking. Your orgasm hit like a freight train — body convulsing as he drove into you through it, your walls fluttering, sucking him in even deeper.
And he wasn’t stopping.
“Atta girl,” he groaned, now gripping your ass with one hand, spreading you wider, the slick sound of his thrusts now obscene. “Give me another.”
“I—I can’t—” you sobbed.
“Yes, you can,” he hissed. “One week without me and you’re already this fucked out? Gonna keep goin’ till you forget that damn book ever existed.”
He flipped you, pulling out only momentarily— suddenly you were on your back, legs spread and shaking, slipping back into you, his mouth on your chest, on your neck, your jaw, whispering against your lips.
“You’re mine,” he said. “Say it.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist like a lifeline, eyes glassy.
“I’m yours,” you cried. “I’m yours, Katsuki—fuck, please—”
“That’s my fuckin’ girl.”
He thrusted harder now — deeper, faster — until the only sounds in the room were the slap of skin, the wet squelch of your pussy sucking him in, and the gorgeous broken sobs falling from your lips every time he hit that spot.
“Cum for me again, baby. Make a mess,” he whispered.
You did — violently. A scream tearing from your throat as he held you down and fucked you through it, sweat dripping from his jaw, muscles straining. Only then — after your body had gone limp, twitching under him, tears streaking your cheeks — did he finally growl:
“Shit—‘m gonna fill you up, baby—fuck—gonna give your pussy what she’s been beggin’ for—”
And he did — deep and warm and endless, collapsing on top of you, still buried inside, kissing your jaw with the softest, most dangerous grin.
“Told you,” he whispered, breath still heavy. “You’d come beggin’.”
The room was quiet now.
The storm had passed — the hurricane of hips and hands and filth — and all that was left was the soft, sticky aftermath of it. You lay sprawled on the ground, legs still wrapped around his waist, while he laid on top of you, naked, your skin hot and slick against his as the ceiling fan lazily whirred above.
His heart was still beating hard beneath your chest. One hand was dragging absentminded circles along the slope of your back, the other tangled in your curls. Your thighs still trembled now and then, clenching reflexively around the thick warmth still nestled inside you.
You sighed, voice soft and hazy. “Can’t believe I lasted a week…”
Bakugou barked a single laugh — now lifting his head to look at you — before his hand stopped moving. “A week?” he muttered.
“Yeah,” you breathed, eyes still closed. “Seven days. I was doing so well.” He tilted his head down, looking at you with that smug little smirk that always came before something dangerous.
“Baby…” he murmured, brushing your cheek. “It was three days.”
Your eyes popped open.
“What?”
Bakugou grinned wider, cock still half-hard inside you from the sheer pride radiating off his chest.
“You broke in three days,” he said simply. “Today’s Thursday. You started your little vow Monday night after reading two chapters and facetiming Mina with that ‘divine light’ candle burning.”
“No,” you whispered, mortified.
“Oh yeah,” he chuckled. “You took a lot of naps.”
You looked at him, eyes wide, lips parted in stunned betrayal.
“But I—I meditated—!”
He shrugged, still smug. “And you fell asleep. Like, every time. Mouth open and drooling.”
Your jaw dropped.
“No I didn’t.”
“You did.” He smirked, reaching down to grab your ass lazily with both hands. “Mina said celibacy brings clarity. And you clearly wanted this dick.”
You stared at him. Then collapsed back onto his chest with a dramatic groan, arms flopping beside you like you’d just lost a war.
“You tricked me,” you mumbled.
He kissed your forehead. “I didn’t do shit. I waited. You begged.” His hand dragged down to cup the curve of your ass again, squeezing gently. “And now look at you. Fucked full, legs still shakin’. You gonna read your little book again tonight, baby?”
You glared at him without lifting your head. “I’m setting it on fire.”
He laughed and rolled you beneath him again, cock starting to harden as he slid back in with one slow, easy thrust that made your back arch.
“Good,” he said with a grin. “’Cause I’m not done reclaiming you yet.”
a/n: damn- really started my debut with a bang I think!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
