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day 20382918 of male gamers/cinephiles/nerds proving, once again, that they're incapable of actually connecting with the media they consume on the regular, or of holding meaningful conversations surrounding the ideas the creators were trying to convey, all because of their narrow-mindedness and misogyny.
synopsis. after two weeks of radio silence, katsuki finally confesses
contents. suggestive! angst with a happy ending. pro hero! katsuki bakugou x pro hero! fem! reader. canon compliant. mutual pining. friends to lovers. post-argument. bakugou is bad at feelings. first kisses and confessions. light on smut࿐
katsuki bakugou is angry. he’s holding two plaques made of polished metal and engraved with flowery script, playing nice with the heroes that dare to approach him, and all he wants to do is blow up the entire damn gala.
he wants to shred it all with his bare hands. the shimmering gowns, the flashing cameras, the ceaseless, vapid small talk. he wants to tear it all down and watch it burn. in part, because he hates attending these pointless glaze fests.
but the real reason, the epicenter of his explosive fury, is standing across the room, looking beautiful as always. you.
you haven’t spoken to him in two weeks. fourteen days. three hundred and thirty-six hours of suffocating silence. and here you are, bathed in the soft glow of chandeliers, looking like you don’t have a care in the world. you’re holding a glass of deep red wine, the dark liquid swirling in the bowl of the glass as you listen, rapt, to every word that falls from shoto todoroki’s lips.
todoroki. icy-hot. of all fucking people.
anger is constantly simmering just beneath katsuki’s skin, a thrum he usually channels into his hero work. rage he so often uses to fuel his quirk. but tonight, his anger is personal. it’s a hot, sick feeling in his gut that coils tighter every time he hears your laugh — a sound he used to be able to coax out of you so easily — now echoing across the room because of someone else.
that half-and-half bastard. shoto fucking todoroki.
the plaques in his hand feel heavier than they should. ‘for exceptional valor and strategic brilliance in the neutralization of villains” and “for outstanding contributions to civilian safety” bullshit.
all he did was what he always does: find the bad guys and blow them the hell up. but the cameras keep flashing, and a portly man in a too-tight tux is slapping his back and telling him he’s a credit to the nation. katsuki bares his teeth in what he hopes passes for a smile.
his agent, a harried-looking woman with a clipboard, had drilled it into him: “smile, dynamight. look approachable. you’re a brand.”
a brand. right now, he feels like a malfunctioning appliance about to short-circuit and take out a whole power grid. his eyes keep drifting away from the sponsor, scanning the opulent ballroom. it’s a sea of shimmering gowns and dark suits, of sparkling champagne flutes and forced smiles. but he only sees one thing. you.
you’re standing near one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights a glittering backdrop behind you. you’re not dressed in anything flashy, not like some of the other heroes here trying to outshine each other. your dress is a deep, muted blue, simple in its elegance, but it clings to you in all the right places.
your hair is swept up, exposing the long, graceful line of your neck that he has spent far too many nights thinking about. you look . . . ethereal. and completely, infuriatingly, absorbed in the man standing next to you.
the number two hero, is leaning in slightly, his voice a low murmur that katsuki can’t hear but can imagine. all calm and collected and fucking loquacious. and you’re nodding, your head tilted, a genuine smile playing on your lips as you swirl the red wine in your glass. you take a sip, and your eyes, bright and beautiful, never leave his face.
it’s the two weeks of silence that makes this unbearable. two weeks since the argument. two weeks since you walked out of his penthouse, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing in the sudden quiet.
he’d been an idiot. a complete, selfish bastard. he remembers it with crystal clarity. he’d gotten his ribs busted on a mission, nothing too serious, but enough to warrant a few days of mandatory rest. and you, being you, had descended upon his apartment like a force of nature.
“no, katsuki, you are not getting up. you’re going to lie on that couch and you’re going to let me take care of you.”
“i don’t need a fucking babysitter,” he’d snarled, trying to push himself up, wincing as the pain shot through his side.
“i’m not babysitting you, i’m making sure you don’t pop your stitches and bleed out on your ridiculously expensive couch because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re hurt,” you’d shot back, pressing a firm hand to his chest. “now lie down.”
he’d hated it. hated the feeling of being weak, of being managed. it reminded him too much of his mother, of all the times she’d fussed over him when he was a kid. and in a moment of frustration, laced with a fear he refused to acknowledge, he’d lashed out.
“quit nagging me, you’re not my mom or my damn girlfriend, so just back the fuck off!”
the words had hung in the air, ugly and so fucking sharp. he’d seen the change in your face instantly. the soft concern in your eyes had hardened. you’d straightened up, and your expression became unreadable.
“you’re right,” you’d said, your voice quiet and its cadence devoid of all its usual warmth. “i’m not.”
and just like that, you were gone. you didn’t yell back. you just . . . left. and the silence you left behind was louder than any explosion he could possibly ever create.
he’d told himself he was right. that you were overstepping. but the satisfaction he thought he’d feel never came. instead, there was just a hollow ache in his chest and the phantom scent of your vanilla perfume on his couch cushions.
he hadn’t texted. his pride was sacrosanct, and he couldn’t bring himself to be the first one to break the stalemate. he’d waited for you, checking his phone every five seconds like a pathetic loser. but your name never lit up his screen.
the days after the argument bled into a week, then two. the only communication he had from you was a group text about the gala, one sent to the whole old class 1-a crew. and tonight, seeing you here, looking so beautiful and so far away, it fucking hurt.
“bakugou? earth to bakugou?”
katsuki blinks, dragging his gaze away from you. kirishima is standing in front of him, his trademark sharp-toothed grin looking a little forced. sero is beside him, nursing a drink and looking around the room with a bored expression.
“the fuck do you want, shitty hair?” katsuki grunts, his voice rougher than he intended.
“whoa, easy there, man. just checking on you. you look like you’re about to set the whole place on fire,” kirishima says, holding up his hands placatingly. “which, you know, is kind of your deal, but maybe not tonight.”
sero follows his line of sight, his eyes landing on you and todoroki. he lets out a low whistle. “ahh. i see. that’s the problem.”
“shut the hell up,” katsuki warns, his knuckles white around his plaques. he can feel the heat prickling at his palms, a sizzle that he has to consciously suppress.
“look, man, i don’t know what happened,” kirishima says, lowering his voice. “but you’ve been in a foul mood for weeks. and you haven’t stopped staring at her and todoroki since they started talking. it’s been like, thirty minutes. maybe you should just . . .go talk to her?”
“and say what? ‘hey gorgeous, sorry i’m a colossal asshole but i get territorial when you talk to other guys’?” sero chimes in, earning himself a glare from katsuki. “what? it’s the truth.”
“it’s not like that,” katsuki lies through his teeth. it’s exactly like that. he’s a fucking caveman. he sees you with someone else and all he wants to do is drag you away, mark his territory, prove to everyone — but mostly to himself — that you’re his. except you’re not. and that’s the whole damn problem.
“then what’s it like?” kirishima pushes, his tone gentle. he’s the only one ( excluding you ) who can get away with this, the only one who knows how to navigate katsuki's landmines. “you guys are weird. you’re not together, but you’re always together. you stay at her place more than your own. you have her patrol route memorized. you text her more than you text us. but then you pull shit like this. it’s confusing for everyone, man. especially her.”
katsuki’s jaw ticks. he knows kirishima is right. he knows he’s been sending you mixed signals for years.
( it started wayyy back in kindergarten, when you were the only girl who didn’t annoy the shit out of him. the only one who stood up for deku when katsuki was picking on him he was being a pathetic crybaby, earning you grudging respect from katsuki even as he cussed you out for having a bleeding savior complex.
his mom had loved you, always saying how nice it would be to have a daughter like you, which had simultaneously embarrassed him and made him weirdly proud. you’d stayed close through all the chaos of ua, through internships and wars and the steady climb to becoming pro heroes. )
he’s always had a soft spot for you, a fact he’d rather die than admit out loud.
he likes taking care of you — he likes you taking care of him, even if he frames it as nagging. he likes knowing you’re safe, that you’ve eaten, that you’re drinking water instead of those disgusting energy drinks you love so damn much. he likes the way you leave your socks on his floor and the way you steal his hoodies. he likes all of it. and it terrifies him. it’s too much vulnerability and he doesn’t know how to handle it, so he defaults to what he knows: pushing you away before you can get close enough to see that he’s not worthy of you.
“i’m not talking to her,” katsuki says, rigidly “not tonight.”
“fine,” kirishima sighs, defeated. “but don’t come ranting to me when todoroki makes his move.”
katsuki doesn’t dignify that with a response. he just turns his back on his friends, his eyes finding you again in the crowd. you’ve just accepted your own award, a sleek thing for your humanitarian work, something about setting up a support network for young heroes with trauma. you’d given a short speech, and the applause had been incessant.
now, you’re back with todoroki, and he’s handing you another glass of wine. you touch his arm as you laugh at something he says, and katsuki feels a tiny spark in his palm. he shoves his hands into his pockets, clenching his fists until the urge to blast something subsides.
he seethes as the night begins to wind down. deku and pink cheeks leave together, their heads close together, smiling. raccoon eyes is dragging sparky towards the bar again. he sees you talking to ponytail, pointing towards the exit. he knows you. you’re about to call a cab.
fuck that.
he’s been an idiot. he’s been a coward. he’s let you slip through his fingers because he’s too proud and too scared to admit what he wants. but he’ll be damned if he lets you leave here in some stranger's car when he’s right here. he’s not letting you go that easily.
without so much as thinking, he starts moving. he cuts a direct path through the dwindling crowd, his shoulders set, his expression a thundercloud. he doesn’t care who he has to shove out of his way to get to you.
you’re still talking to momo, your back to him, when he reaches you.
“let’s go.”
his voice cuts through your conversation roughly. you freeze, then turn slowly. your eyes, when they meet his, are wide with surprise, then they narrow with irritation.
“huh?” you ask, your voice laced with disbelief.
he stares at you, jaw set. “i said. let’s go.”
momo is looking between the two of you, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in intrigue. you cross your arms over your chest, defiantly
“and why, exactly, would i go anywhere with you?”
“are you gonna make me beg you or some shit”he shoots back, his patience wearing thin. he sees your mouth open to retort, but he doesn’t give you the chance. he reaches out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. he doesn’t wait for your permission, just turns and starts pulling you along with him.
“bakugou, what the hell are you doing? let go of me!” you’re squawking, stumbling a bit in your heels as you try to keep up with his long, angry strides.
“shut up and walk,” he growls, not even looking back at you. as he drags you away from the gala and out into the night.
the bickering starts the moment you hit the pavement. a verbal sparring match that’s as second-nature as breathing.
“you’re an asshole, you know that?”
“yeah? well you’re a stubborn pain in my ass.”
“i wouldn’t have to be stubborn if you weren’t such a neanderthal who thinks he can just manhandle people whenever he wants.”
“i wouldn’t have to manhandle you if you’d just listen when i fucking talk to you.”
“you haven’t ‘talked’ to me in two weeks, bakugou!”
“you haven’t talked to me either”
the argument dies on your lips as he leads you to the valet stand. he gives the attendant his ticket with a sharp nod, his hand still firmly on your wrist. the sleek black porsche pulls up a moment later, its engine a low, predatory purr. he opens the passenger door for you, a gesture so out of character it momentarily stuns you into silence.
“get in,” he orders, his voice clipped.
you glare at him, but you do it. you slide into the plush leather seat, grumbling under your breath about bossy, arrogant pro-heroes who think they own the world. he slams the door shut, rounding the hood to get in the driver’s side. the moment he’s behind the wheel, the atmosphere in the car shifts. the music blasts on, some thrash metal band screaming about death and destruction, so loud it makes your teeth ache.
he doesn’t say a word. he just grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, the veins in his forearms standing out like cords. he peels away from the curb, the tires screeching in protest. you press yourself back into the seat, staring at the dashboard, refusing to look at him. the city lights blur past the window, streaks of color in the darkness.
ten minutes pass in suffocating silence. the only sound is the aggressive music and the low hum of the engine. you can’t stand it. it’s worse than the fighting.
“you know,” you start “for someone with such great taste in cars, your music taste is absolute garbage.”
he grunts. but he reaches over, his fingers jabbing at the touchscreen on the console. the screaming metal cuts off abruptly, replaced by the soft strains of an indie band you love.
you shiver, a sudden chill raising goosebumps on your arms. the air conditioning is cranked up to arctic levels. he notices, of course he does. he just nods his head towards the back seat, where his suit jacket is carelessly tossed.
you hesitate for a second, then sigh, reaching back to grab it. you shrug it on, the heavy fabric immediately enveloping you. it smells like him. that woodsy, smoky cologne he wears, mixed his the unique scent. it’s simultaneously comforting and infuriating. he reaches down without a word and turns the ac down a few notches.
but he still doesn’t speak to you.
“can i ask you something, bakugou?” you ask,
the constant use of his last name hits him like a punch to the gut. so it’s like that now? he grits his teeth, his jaw ticking like a time bomb. “you just did, dumbass,” he scoffs.
“don’t be a smartass,” you snap, your voice rising. “why the hell did you make me come with you if you’re not going to talk to me?”
“you’re the one who didn’t say shit to me all night!” he retorts, “i walked in, saw you, and you looked right through me. not even a fucking ‘hi, katsuki’”
“maybe because you didn’t say shit to me all week!” you fire back, turning in your seat to face him. your eyes are blazing, and in the dim glow of the dashboard, he can see how beautiful you are when you’re angry.
“yeah? maybe because you fucking left!” he scoffs, his hand slamming on the steering wheel. the car swerves slightly.
“don’t act like i wanted to!” you shout, your voice cracking with frustration. “i took off because you can’t make up your damn mind! one minute you’re acting like we’re a . . . a thing, and the next you’re pushing me away and making me feel crazy for actually giving a damn about you!”
“what are you talking about?” he growls, his eyes glued to the road.
“oh, don’t play dumb, bakugou!” you exclaim, gesturing wildly. “you stay at my place and make me breakfast in the morning. you’re always showing up on my patrol route to ‘check in’. you’re always sending me texts, being all ‘don’t skip meals like a dumbass’ and ‘drink some fucking water today like a normal person’ and ‘don’t stay up all night watching those shitty rom-coms, you’ll be useless tomorrow’ ! you’re the one who acts like we’re a couple, and then you turn around and make me feel like i’m wrong for caring about you!”
he’s silent. the only sounds in his porsche are your ragged breathing and the soft music playing from the speakers. he just drives, his face a mask of stone. the silence is worse than the yelling. it feels like a dismissal.
“well?” you demand, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. “do you have anything to say?”
“well i’m trying to think,” he grits out, his voice low and strained.
but he hasn’t raised his voice. not once. through the entire tirade, he’s kept it level, controlled. because as pissed off as he is, as much as he wants to rage and scream, he can’t. he can’t scream at you. he can’t stay mad at you. not really. not when you look like this.
your glossy bottom lip is caught between your teeth, your brows are knitted together, your eyes are slanted with a fury that’s breathtakingly beautiful. your voice, high and pitched with emotion, is reverberating off the windows, filling the small space with your presence. he hates it. he loves it.
you look away from him, staring out the window, your shoulders slumping in defeat. and that’s when he breaks. one hand is still on the wheel, but the other moves, finding its way to your thigh. his touch is hesitant at first, then firm against the thin fabric of your dress.
“look,” he starts, “i’m sorry, ‘kay?”
you scoff, not looking at him.
“that doesn’t mean you need to run off with someone else,” he says, his voice strained with jealousy he can no longer hide.
you let out a humorless laugh, finally turning back to him “i didn’t run off with anyone else.”
“you know what i mean,” he insists, his grip on your thigh tightening slightly.
“no, katsuki, i don’t think i do,” you say, “why don’t you spell it out for me?”
“i’m not gonna spell it out for ya,” he grunts, his eyes flicking to you before returning to the road. “it’s bad enough he was hogging you all night.”
“are you jealous, katsuki?” you ask, your voice softening, a hint of realization dawning in your eyes.
“huh?”
“are you jealous, katsuki?” you echo, enunciating each word clearly.
“the hell?” he sputters, his composure finally cracking.
“jealous. like the feeling you get when you’re scared of losing someone to someone else and—”
“i’m not scared of shit!” he snarls, cutting you off.
the car is low on gas, the warning light a small, glowing beacon on the dashboard. he spots a gas station up ahead and swerves into the lot, pulling up to a pump with a screech of tires. he cuts the engine. the music dies, plunging the car into a heavy silence that’s more deafening than the noise had been.
he turns to you then, his face illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights of the gas station.
“jealousy is for fucking losers who are scared of shit they can’t control,” he says, “that’s not what this is. this is me being pissed off because i had to watch the only person i actually give a damn about laugh at some half-and-half bastard’s shitty jokes. it made me want to put my fist through a goddamn wall.”
he takes a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to his hands on the steering wheel.
“i told you to quit nagging me because this is confusing,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper. “i don’t fucking know where i stand with you. and i’m not used to feeling like this. i never know what to do, and i’m always fucking up and pushing you away. but i’m not jealous. i’m fucking pissed with myself for being a damn coward.”
and with that, he shoves his door open and gets out of the car, leaving you alone with his words and the frantic beating of your own heart.
you watch him through the windshield as he jams the nozzle into the gas tank, his movements sharp and angry. he stares blankly ahead.
he fills the tank. he replaces the nozzle. he gets back in the car. he starts the engine. he turns to look at you, his expression raw and vulnerable.
and you’re done. you’re done with the fighting and the silence. you’re done with the uncertainty. you lean across the center console, the plastic digging into your abdomen, and you cup his face in your hands. his skin is warm, his stubble rough against your palms. his ears and cheeks flush instantly, a deep, burning red that rivals his crimson eyes. a deep red that you can see even in the dim light.
“the hell are you doing?” he manages to stutter, his eyes wide with shock.
you don’t answer. you just close the distance and press your lips to his.
it’s not gentle. it’s all the frustration and longing and unspoken feelings of the last two weeks finally exploding. it’s teeth and tongues and desperate, hungry kisses. one of his hands comes up to tangle in your hair, the other gripping the back of your neck, holding you to him like he’s afraid you’re going to slip through his fingers. you get lost in it, in the taste of him, in the feel of him whimpering against your lips, until a loud, impatient honk from the car behind you shatters the moment.
you pull back, breathless, your lips swollen and tingling. he moans, a low, frustrated sound, and you can’t help but laugh. he looks like he’s about to get out of the car and start a fight, even though he’s the one blocking the pump.
“be patient for fucks sake!” he yells, winding down his window to flip the other driver off.
you’re still laughing as he pulls away from the pump and merges back onto the empty street. the sound of your laughter seems to quench some of his remaining anger, and a small, reluctant smile tugs at his lips.
“we left our conversation unfinished,” he says, his voice softer now. he glances over at you, and his eyes are funny. all soft and warm in a way you've never seen before. “can’t just kiss me out of the blue when we’re not done talking, dumbass”
“unfinished, huh?” you hum, a little flustered under his gaze. you can still feel the lingering sensation of his lips on yours, the ghost of his touch on your skin. “i thought we came to a pretty solid conclusion.”
he scoffs, but there’s no frustration in it. “we came to a conclusion about me being a coward. we still haven’t figured out what this is.” he gestures between the two of you. “i’m not good with labels and shit. and you’ve got so many expectations i probably won't meet. i’m guaranteed to fuck something up ‘cause i don’t know how to be all . . . lovey dovey,” he says the words like they taste bad, “but i know what i want.”
he pulls up to a red light and turns his body fully towards you. the soft glow of the traffic light paints his face in shades of crimson, making his eyes glow like embers.
“i want you to stop looking at icy-hot and other extras like they’ve got something to offer you,” he says, “cause they fucking don’t. i’m all you need and i’m done pretending this isn’t everything to me.”
the man who’s too proud to ask for anything is asking to be your everything.
“everything?” you whisper, your heart hammering against your ribs.
he simply nods.
“define everything,” you tease, a smirk playing on your lips. you expect him to call you a brat, to accuse you of trying to rile him up. but it doesn’t come.
instead, he looks away from the road for a second, his gaze dropping to your hands, which are now tangled together on the center console. the red light bathes him in its unforgiving glow, and you see something shift in his expression. the defensiveness melts away, replaced by honesty that’s far more disarming.
“everything,” he repeats, his voice a low rumble, “is you living in my head rent fucking free.”
your smirk falters.
“it’s me getting pissed off for no goddamn reason when you’re not with me and i don’t know what the hell you’re doing. it’s me staring at my phone after that stupid argument, wanting to text you so bad my thumbs fucking hurt, but not knowing what the hell to say because i’m the asshole who made you to leave.”
he takes a shaky breath, his eyes fixed on the steering wheel now, as if confessing to it is easier than confessing to you.
“it’s me wanting to drag you away from icy-hot the second i saw you with him, not just because i was pissed, but because i’m greedy, okay? i want all that shit you watch in those dumb rom coms. i want an apartment, or a shitty little townhouse, i don’t give a fuck. i want to wake up and know you’re the first thing i’ll see. i want to cook for you because you seem to get off on neglecting yourself and someone’s gotta make sure you actually eat your goddamn three a day. i want to take care of you.”
he finally looks at you, and his eyes are burning with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs.
“that’s what everything is,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “it’s selfish. it’s me wanting all of your time, all of your attention, all of your annoying, stubborn, fucking beautiful self. all to myself. it’s me wanting to be the one who makes you laugh. it’s me wanting to be the only one who gets to see you like this. so yeah. you’re everything to me.”
the light turns verdant. the car behind you honks. but neither of you moves. you’re frozen in this moment. static in this raw confession that has completely dismantled every defense he’s ever built around you. he didn’t just answer your teasing question; he laid his soul bare on the console between you, waiting for you to either take it or leave it.
the world shrinks to the space inside his car. the honking from behind fades into a distant, meaningless buzz. your teasing smirk is long gone, replaced by a slack-jawed awe. you’re not breathing. you’re not sure you even remember how.
katsuki bakugou — the boy who called you a bloody samaritan for standing up for deku. the teenager who scoffed at every romance movie you made him watch. the explosive hero who snarls at cameras and sneers at press conferences — just confessed to wanting a life so domestic, so tender with you. and it sounded just like something straight out of one of those ‘shitty rom coms’ he claims to hate.
a choked sound escapes your throat, something between a gasp and a sob. you’re not crying, not really, but your eyes are stinging. you squeeze his hand, your grip tight enough to make him look at you, really look at you.
“katsuki,” you breathe, and his name is a prayer on your lips. “you. . you really want all that?”
he flinches, just slightly, as if your disbelief physically hurts him. the vulnerability in his eyes hardens into that familiar, defensive glower. “i just laid my damn heart out for you and you’re gonna question me?” he starts to snap, his old reflexes kicking in.
“no,” you shake your head. you lean forward, closing the distance until your forehead is nearly touching his. “no, i’m not questioning you. i’m . . . trying to believe it’s real.”
the anger in his face dissolves instantly. he lets out a shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping. “it’s real,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “it’s always been real.”
your heart stutters, then restarts at a frantic, pace. all the years of friendship, the bickering, the unspoken tension—it wasn’t in your head. it wasn’t just you wishing for something more. it was real for him, too.
“tsuki, i’ve wanted this forever” you whisper back, your voice trembling. it’s like you’ve just defused a bomb you’ve been carrying around for a decade. the last of the tension drains from his shoulders, and he sags against you, his forehead resting on yours. he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again they’re the softest they’ve ever been and his pupils are blown so impossibly wide.
“me too” he breathes, reverently. “you have no idea.”
he finally starts driving again. you’re so close to your place now. rounding the corner onto your street. when he finally pulls up in front of your buildinh, he cuts the engine but doesn’t let go of your hand. he turns to you, his expression serious again
“i’m gonna say this once” he starts, his voice low. “so you better be listening.”
he leans in closer, “you’re not my mom. you’re not some random girl to me. you’re it. you’ve always been it. i was just too stupid to say it. so if i’m being a dumbass, you tell me. if i’m not taking care of myself, you nag me. if i’m pushing you away, push back harder. don’t you ever let me get away with that shit again. you hear me?”
“i hear you,” you whisper, your heart swelling so much it feels like it might burst.
“good,” he says, and then he’s kissing you again. it’s slower this time, deeper, a kiss that’s not born of frustration or desperation, it’s sealing of the deal.
when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. “now,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. “are you gonna invite me up, or are we gonna sit here all night? i didn’t fill up my tank to just drive you home and leave.”
a laugh bubbles up from your chest, light and airy. you pull back just enough to look at him, to see the hope mixed with his usual cocky assurance in his eyes.
“i mean. . “ you trail off, reaching up and tracing your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw, “after a speech like that, how could i possibly say no?”
he huffs, contently. he nips playfully at your thumb as it passes his lips. “don’t you fucking start with me,” he warns
you lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “i’m starting” you whisper against his skin. “come make it up to me before i change my mind”
that’s all the encouragement he needs. he’s out of the car in a flash, rounding the hood to open your door with an urgency that makes your heart race. he offers you his hand, and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet and into his arms right there on the sidewalk. he kicks the car door shut with his foot, the sound echoing in the quiet night, and then his arms are around you, lifting you slightly off the ground.
you laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. “god, you smell good,” he murmurs, his voice muffled.
you’re not sure how you make it from the car to your front door. it’s a blur of tangled limbs, laughter, and kisses that are more about staying connected than anything else. he presses you against your door. he’s fumbling for your keys, his hands clumsy with impatience, and you’re not helping, too busy nipping at his jawline.
“give me the damn keys,” he groans
you hand them over, and he manages to get the door open after a few tries. he practically kicks it open, scooping you up again and carrying you over the threshold like it’s your wedding night. he kicks the door shut behind him, plunging the entryway into darkness, save for the soft glow of the city filtering through your windows.
he sets you down gently, but he doesn’t let go. his hands are on your waist, his forehead resting against yours.
“katsuki,” you whisper, your voice trembling as his calloused fingers slip the straps of your dress down your arms.
“shh,” he murmurs, his lips finding yours in the darkness. “no more talking baby”
and for the first time, you think you might actually be okay with that.
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idea for a husband!bakugou x wife!reader scenario!
learning your 7-year-old daughter beat up a kid at school who was ganging up on other children and you try to talk to her about violence and controlling emotions (even though her heart is in the right place).
and days later it happens again and she comes home with bruises on her knuckles and a smile on her face.
and, oh... something clicks. you realize who you married.
so inevitably you learn that your husband was secretly hyping her up for (aggressively) defending people against bullies and now the one you need to talk to is him because you have complaints from at least four different teachers. 😵💫
so my best friend flew over from the US a few days ago and we hung out for some hours on Thursday and Friday after not seeing each other for 10 months.
we've been in a kind of limbo for a while... lots of miscommunication, blurry boundaries and confusion.
we were walking for a while around town and he asked me to hold his hand or grab his arm for safety. i basically went the entire trajectory with my hand in his and at some point he told me to not make it weird.
and the day before that we walked down the street and he kept kissing my hair. and again, he told me to not think much of it.
if there's one thing enjin will forever love doing, it's teasing the hell out of you. enjin x reader!!
enjin has a multitude of petnames from you, and with every day that passes, you swear each and every one of them becomes more absurd.
you had grown used to semiu snickering and zanka gagging every time he called for you — names like sweet cheeks, little lady, pretty thing, buttercup, princess — but the name he calls you by today? you're positive it can't get any more egregious than this.
"bugaboo? enjin, please tell me i've misheard you."
"hahh? what's wrong with bugaboo?!"
he yelps when you smack his arm before the sound transforms into a hearty cackle, and you resist the urge to smack him again and instead grip his arm firmly
"you are such a jackass! call me that in public and i'll turn you inside-out."
enjin has hearts for eyes when you tell him that, grinning with all his teeth as his fingers tap rhythmically against the steering wheel in front of him. he's driving leisurely today, for once, but the only reason for it was because he wanted to talk with you longer.
"don't say that stuff to me, bugaboo. ya'know it turns me on—yeeeeowch! you smack hard, lady!"
"the kids are sleeping in the back—"
"pshhh, they've heard me say worse," he snickers, and you shake your head in disbelief, flustered and speechless more than ever as you sit back in your seat with a huff
"you're so....ugh." you grumble, and enjin doesn't hesitate to lean over the center console and press a hard kiss onto your cheek. you whine, trying to push him off, but he just presses another one onto your forehead before pulling back
"—i have a colorful selection of nicknames for you, there has to be at least one that you like." he says, and when you don't respond, his eyes light up
"ohh so that's how it is? which one is it?! tell me!" he demands eagerly, but you merely look out the window and ignore him. unluckily for you, enjin loves a good challenge.
"all right then. we've got a bit of a ride ahead of us, so don't think i won't get it out of you, babydoll." he teases, but you merely roll your eyes, squinting to keep a lookout on the road since enjin would rather stare at you than be a responsible driver.
—unfortunately, your boyfriend was equality persistent as he was annoying (which was very much), and he knew you like no other. so, when he finally says the word pretty girl while reciting his long list and sees your lips twitch in his peripheral, his entire face lights up as if he's discovered something sacred and special.
"pretty girl? you like that?" he questions, smooth voice sending shivers down your spine, and when you mistakingly stammer, his eyes sharpen like a predator finding its prey
"aww, don't pout, pretty girl! pretty girl, pretty girl, my pretty girl, the prettiest girl," enjin coos, and your face is positively on fire. enjin's ridiculously loud laughter eventually stirs rudo from his sleep, who sits up with a confused mumble while zanka continues drooling all over the younger cleaner's shoulder — on the other hand, you keep one arm braced against the door so you can get out the moment the truck rolls to a stop
"wha...what's so funny?" rudo slurs sleepily, but enjin only grins in response, yelling at zanka to wake up as he yanks his keys out and chases after you. you're speed walking towards the entrance of hq after prompty exiting the truck the second it stopped, but enjin is quicker, coming from behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist from behind
"you little—" you start, but enjin spins you around in his arms before you can cuss him out, and instead you squeal and tighten your hold on him
"what was that, pretty girl?" he questions with that handsome smirk that sends your heart racing, and the only thing you can do is hide your face in his neck as he throws his head back and laughs at you—again.
katsuki Bakugo doesn't beg....but currently he is!
The rain is drumming a relentless, heavy beat against the window of his dorm room, but the only sound filling the space between you two is the ragged edge of his breathing.
Katsuki Bakugo doesn't beg. He commands. He demands. He takes what he wants by sheer force of will and explosive talent. Everyone knows this. You know this.
Which is exactly why the sight of him right now is completely short-circuiting your brain.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched forward, broad back curved in a rare show of defeat. His hands usually lethal, sparking, and steady are gripping his own knees so tightly his knuckles are stark white. He isn't looking at you. He’s staring at the floorboards, his ash-blonde hair falling forward to shadow his face.
"Just… shut up for a second and listen," he rasps. His voice is lower than usual, stripped of its normal explosive volume, leaving behind something raw and dangerously scraped thin.
"Katsuki, I should go," you say softly, taking a half-step back toward the door. You’re exhausted from the circular arguments, the miscommunications, the walls he keeps building up just to blast away.
He flinches. The movement is so fast, so uncharacteristic, it makes you freeze.
"I said listen," he snaps, but the usual venom isn't there. It’s panicked. His head snaps up, and when his crimson eyes lock onto yours, your breath hitches. They’re bloodshot, fierce, and terrifyingly glossy.
He shifts off the bed, his heavy boots hitting the floor, but he doesn't bridge the gap to crowd your space like he usually does. Instead, he drops his weight onto his knees right there on the floor. It’s not a clean, submissive kneel—it’s a desperate, heavy collapse. He hooks his fingers into the fabric of your jeans, his grip white-hot even through the denim.
"Don't walk out that fucking door," he breathes.
You stare down at him, completely paralyzed. The top hero prospect of UA, the guy who swore he'd surpass All Might, is grounded at your feet, looking up at you through his bangs.
"Katsuki… get up. What are you doing?"
"No." He buries his forehead against your knee, his shoulders trembling. It’s a microscopic movement, but to you, it feels like an earthquake. "If I get up, you’re gonna leave. You’ve got that look in your eyes. The one where you’ve already decided I’m too much of a monster to deal with."
"That's not—"
"I’m not finished!" he barks, a flash of his usual fire sparking, but it dies out instantly, swallowed by the sheer desperation in his voice. His hands slide up to your waist, clutching at your shirt, pulling you just an inch closer.
"I know I’m a loud, short-tempered bastard. I know I don't say the right shit. I know I ruin everything I touch because all I know how to do is blast it to pieces. But don't do this. Don't just give up on me."
He takes a sharp, shuddering breath against your clothes.
"I'll be quieter. I'll… I'll think before I opening my fucking mouth. Just tell me what you want me to do to make you stay, and I’ll do it. Anything.
Just don't leave me behind."
He’s never said those words to anyone. Don't leave me behind. It’s his ultimate fear, wrapped up in a confession he’d probably kill anyone else for hearing.
Slowly, you sink to your knees too, matching his level. The moment your knees hit the floor, Katsuki's hands fly to your face. His palms are warm, rough with calluses, and trembling as they cup your cheeks. He hovers close, his breath hot against your lips, completely unraveled.
"Look at me," he whispers, his voice cracking on the edge of a sob he refuses to let fall. "Please. Just look at me."
The word please tastes like ash in his mouth, but he swallows his pride anyway, offering it up to you like a sacrifice. His eyes are searching yours, pleading for a savior, begging you to tell him that his explosive, chaotic soul hasn't finally driven away the only thing he actually cares about keeping.
thinking about growing old with yuuji, who confesses his love to you shortly before you graduate from jujutsu high. his words tumble out in a mess of emotions that makes your heart ache. he looks so vulnerable standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, amber eyes wide with fear of rejection.
you kiss him and he melts against you like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. your relationship makes all his suffering worth it. every battle, every near-death experience, every night spent haunted by the screams of those he couldn’t save.
all of it fades into nothing when you’re in his arms.
thinking about growing old with yuuji, who insists on you moving into an apartment in the city together.
you fall into the routine and rhythm of domesticity — cooking unhealthy portions of spicy ramen together, your laughter echoing off the kitchen walls. curling up on the sofa together and watching studio ghibli and horror movies, his arm wrapped around you as you bury your face in his chest during the scary parts. he traces patterns on your skin as you sleep, memorizing every inch of you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away for even a second.
thinking about growing old with yuuji, who proposes on a random tuesday, down on one knee in your living room with a ring he’d clearly saved up for for months.
thinking about growing old with yuuji, who cries bittersweet tears at your wedding. it’s a small, very private affair, consisting of everyone who survived sukuna. when you kiss as husband and wife, yuuji holds you so tight you can barely breathe
thinking about growing old with yuuji, who isn’t really growing any older, any weaker. who watches you age until you look old enough to be his mother, his grandmother. your hair turns silver, your hands spotted with age, your movements slow.
thinking about growing old with yuuji, who traces your wrinkles and refuses to leave you despite how weird and disorienting it is for you to see your husband look like a teenager while you’re geriatric. who still thinks you’re just as beautiful as you were the day he met you.
thinking about growing old with yuuji, who hates how far you’ve grown apart. separate rooms. separate beds. separate lives. not because you don’t love him—you do, so much—but because it hurts too much to wake up next to someone who doesn’t age while your body fails you day by day.
thinking about growing old with yuuji, whose heart is beyond shattered when he realizes he’s going to be alone some day. so he leaves —because he thinks it’s easier for you, less confusing for your foggy brain — without saying goodbye. pressing a kiss to the wrinkled skin of your forehead. leaving a letter on your nightstand. gone with the moon.
thinking about growing old with yuuji, who only returns after you succumb to old age and a broken heart. whose grief is exacerbated when he sees his kids who look so much older than him.
thinking about yuuji, who leaves orchids by your grave every week. who sits in solitude, weeping. it’s the first time he experiences what the rest of his miserable life is going to be like. he’s going to be alone forever. your son and daughter will die eventually. and he’ll be left in solitude to mourn you forever. with the same face, year after year, like time has simply stopped considering him worth touching.
thinking about yuuji, who can’t bring himself to look at your children, with wrinkles of their own, with children of their own, and eyes full of pity so thick it chokes him.
thinking about yuuji, who watches his reflection in shop windows, in puddles after rain, in the polished surface of your headstone. forever fifteen. forever the boy who confessed with shaking hands and a voice that cracked on your name. he traces the faint scars on his face and wonders if this is his punishment. not the screaming in his head, not the blood on his hands, but this eternal youth where he’s forced to watch everything he loves turns to dust.
thinking about yuuji, who’s slowly starting to struggle to remember your face. to remember what your voice sounded like. to remember your touch. and finds himself wishing he’d never told you how he felt in the first place.
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Remember when joining fandom as a younger person meant lurking for a bit and figuring out the vibe and etiquette instead of coming in on day one and calling people weirdos for liking weirdo shit in the weirdo factory.
Who'll put his dignity on the line doing the cringiest things — just to see you smile.
"Where my hug at!?" He'll bellow into hallways, hands circling over his mouth to accentuate the boom.
You could be right next to him. Yet his eyes will be shut, head reeling back like he's trying to summon you.
"Enjin!" You warn, hushed, frantically reaching your palms over his lips.
"Mhh—mph—hmm—" he muffles, shrugging in mock-confusion.
Your teeth grit. In that dangerously calm, tight-lipped strain, he'll happily admit is adorable. "Stop. Someone's gonna hear you."
He blinks.
Not even you can keep a straight face during his shenanigans.
So when your eyes crinkle up with laughter — the space in his chest flickers with something warm. Contempt.
It happens whenever you detach from cuddling, too. Making the big mistake of announcing that you're going to shower.
"Shower?" He whines, his arm falling over his face at the sight of too much to bear. One sneaky eye stays uncovered - just in case it works. "Without me?"
It does, because although you reject, your head still lolls to the side with that signature eye roll. "Nice try." The ' unimpressed but you love him' one.
When it's time to go to bed?
He's ruthless.
"Baby, you can't leave me hanging like this." He whines — drawing light circles over your arm.
"Enjin. We are not playing twenty questions." You say — stern as you bite down on an incoming laugh. "Stop trying to be a goofball and go to bed."
"Two questions. And I'll call it."
You sigh. "Fine"
"Alright, question one," His breath of excitement, swooshes over your skin. "What's your type?"
You scoff. "Someone who knows when to be quiet and go to sleep."
He hums like he's considering it.
Then, with no hesitation—
"What color is your underwear?"
Classic.
You don't know what's funnier.
The fact that he could just pull the covers up and check himself, or that it actually got you to laugh a little.
"You're so corny" you joke, clicking your tongue as you shuffle away from him.
"Oh please, you love it." He responds, challenging your attempt at space by moving closer.
You'd never admit it.
But yeah...you do.
Which is why you end up telling him anyway — rolling your eyes while he shimmies towards you. Smug. Pulling you into his embrace like he's won a prize.
very different from what I usually write. this is a personal story and there are some religious trauma themes in this post.
being empathetic towards Christians is ironically what has steered me away from believing in God more than anything else. there's a Christian child, woman or man out there who is less privileged than me and endures every second while on the verge of dying from sickness, war or famine; and at the same time they are infinitely smarter, kinder and more skilled than i am, and more deserving of every single opportunity i have received in my life.
there are millions of profoundly devoted Christians begging for their prayers to be answered yet somehow, even as a non-believer, i get to live a life that those millions don't have.
i have food, running water, and access to pills and medications. my parents aren't divorced and they were my biggest supporters when moving out. i was able to complete all levels of education and i have the chance to partake in the arts and pursue a career that love. i've never been subject to any sort of physical or sexual abuse. i have no terminal illnesses.
if this supposedly benevolent God retributes his followers then i just don't understand how he could let so many good christians suffer. i've seen it with my own eyes—how bullies and adulturers live lavishly, and innocence is punished and made to suffer.
my younger sister is turning 13 years old in four months. she's a brilliant, beautiful, compassionate child.
two years ago, when she was still in 4th grade, one of her classmates died of cancer. that kid's family went to mass every sunday, they participated in so many religious events, they were perfect Christians. she was no different from my sister. no divine justice was being paid and no sins were being stopped from tainting the world by letting a 10 year old child die. that could've been my sister; it could've been any classmate. i just don't understand how letting any child suffer at the hands of sickness could possibly be part of a bigger plan—of "God's mysterious ways".
and to add salt to the wound, just a few days before that girl passed away, my grandmother was being treated surgically for heart disease. i felt painfully ashamed and guilty when i found out my grandmother had survived her sickness and my sister's classmate had not. i didn't understand what made a life from my family more worthy than a life from someone else's family. if anything i felt that a little girl who hasn't even reached her teens should be the one to stay and run around, and yes, i felt incredibly remorseful for even thinking about quantifying human "worth", but i was trying to look at things logically.
that event did sort of traumatize me (if that's the correct term to use in this case). i'd always had my religious doubts despite being raised Christian Catholic, but i completely veered from any belief when that happened. i cried for days on end. i didn't like the idea of life being so fragile, and i hated the idea of an all-powerful deity above having impromptu decisions about who goes and who remains. about who lives life to the fullest and who has to die without being able to experience anything else that isn't misery.
imagine returning back to a quiet, hefty hq, enjin gets patched up from his wounds (bandages diligently dressing around his neck) and you just carefully, gently trace the outer layer of his wound with a tender graze of your pointing finger and your eyes start to get glossy, vision blurring — heart thrashing against your weighted chest. and he's just smiling reassuringly at you, glances over to Rudo and nudges to him to come closer — only for you to abruptly pull the two roughed-up idiots into a tight embrace, arms rigid and secured around your two dimwits shoulders, bawling your eyes out.
"y-you nitwits! we could've lost you both today!"
Rudo is stunned by the sudden action, but gradually molds into your secured embrace, cautiously draws a hand over the hunch of your back, trying to lift a hearty smile. Enjin only smirks, long, lengthy arm draping around your back to Rudo's ruffled, dusty dipped hair.
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