Nyo

Happy bakugou day to my lovely bkg gurlies

Here's a katsuki bakugo and my older oc,both pushing late 20s ,feeling still teen and heart still a child.

5 years of bakugou and his special day.

Finally a part 3 with Bakugo katsuki x south asian wedding traditions.

Have fun reading! Requests are always open.

Part 2

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"So Dynamite, what's something that fundamentally changed the way you handle pressure?"

"Our wedding."

"wedding? Oh that's an unexpected answer dynamite, would you elaborate?"

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There was something about Bakugo katsuki ,when the topic was his wife, or anything related to his wife.

When Bakugou proposed to his wife, he knew that the marriage wasn't gonna be just some average marriage, of course different religions, different countries; yet two hearts with the same love. It was going to be just like him, explosive.

But..what exactly was this.

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Bakugou Katsuki prided himself on being adaptable.

Thrown into combat zones? His favourite.

Different countries? Fine.

New food, new languages, new customs? Manageable.

But this?

This was psychological warfare.

It started with what he thought was a harmless question.

“So… what’s happening today?”

Her cousin smiled too brightly.

“Oh, today is just the puja.”

Bakugou nodded slowly. “Okay. What’s a puja?”

“Prayer ceremony.”

That sounded reasonable.

Three hours later, he was seated cross-legged, something which he would do and get yelled at by his mother for being rude since it was seen as impolite in his culture. But here it was a sacred tradition, sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a coconut, surrounded by incense smoke, while someone chanted in a language he didn't quite understand. Her aunt kept correcting the way he was folding his hands.

This was not reasonable.

By the end of the first ritual, he’d learned five things:

1. Shoes were removed more often than he expected.

2. Someone was always feeding him something sweet.

3. Every ceremony required sitting on the floor.

4. Every elder had opinions.

5. There was never “just” one ceremony.

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The next day brought Haldi.

He walked into the courtyard and froze.

You were seated on a low golden flower shaped pool, dressed in yellow, adorned with what seemed like flowers but jewellery. while your relatives took turns smearing turmeric paste on your arms, cheeks, and feet.

He stared.

“They’re attacking you with spices.”

“It’s for good luck,” you said, laughing.

"....so you taste good on-"

"Katsuki!"

One of your aunt's came to smear some on him too, and trust God he tried resisting, he really did but did end up as smeared as you.

After that came Mehndi.

Henna ceremony.

He stood behind you while intricate designs bloomed across your hands, and a little secret that he unfolds the night of the wedding.

The long beautiful designs,

Everything was beautiful.

“How long does this take.”

“Two to four hours.”

His eye twitched.

“And you can’t move?”

“No.”

“So you’re just… trapped.”

“Yes.”

He brought you water. Adjusted your shawl. Did anything and everything in his power that would ease your exhaustion as you sat with hands spread out drying the henna. He even glared at anyone who got too close with wet henna.

You smile up at him lovingly at his gestures, and lil acts of service.

Someone joked that he was acting like security.

He didn’t deny it, just continued looking after his to-be-wife.

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Every day added something new.

Garlands. Lamps. Rice. Flowers. Coins placed in palms. Elders explaining symbolism he struggled to remember.

The invited friends and family of his side , were enjoying themselves and the culture like no other.

They had fun every single day, beautiful clothes and just oh so delicious food. It wasn't something they had before and they were loving it.

They sang celebrated and observed the new traditions learning and most importantly respecting every part of it.

"Kacchan are you sure you don't need water? You look kind of exhausted."

For once Bakugo didn't yell at Izuku like he usually does, infact he was suprised he read him so easily.

He took the water from Izuku's hands and drank it.

"Thank or whatever nerd."

"You know kacchan, i can understand what this must feel like for you, but I just hope you know that it's your wedding, and you should have fun along with the responsibility, you know? It is your wedding after all."

Bakugo stared into the tiny bottle of water as he realised that he did have a point. Sure it's new traditions and as the groom he's got to be very careful about his actions and away from mistakes, but it was his wedding. Being so stressed won't be good.

But it was fun. The tradition and the new ceremonies were almost like an adventure, so eventful and mesmerizing, exhausting none the less. The new people and their praises, the welcome feeling, and the fact that his wife was impressed by how well he was doing. That's what made everything so fun, despite the fear, the exhaustion and the worry.

He liked it.♡

"keep your head Outta this nerd. Just cuz I look like I am stressed doesn't mean I don't enjoy this."

"if you're enjoying this then all is well I guess!" Izuku smiled at his childhood friend, who was already smiling, a cocky smile.

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By day five, he was visibly saturated..or looked like it.

He sat beside you on the bed while your relatives debated jewelry choices rapidly.

He leaned toward you, whispering:

“Be honest. Is this a prank.”

You smiled softly. “No.”

“Because I feel like I’m being slowly inducted into a secret society.” he teased.

"baby it's not- you know it's necessary."

"yeah I know , to see you that day, this all is just ...an endurance test"

" A What?" She almost laughed

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“You’ll have this red colour in the middle of your hairline which I have to put on you?”

Bakugou asked it cautiously, like the question might hurt.

“That’s sindoor,” your aunt said.

“And that means…?”

“That she’s married.”

He straightened.

“That’s it?”

Everyone laughed.

He did not.

“So there’s powder that permanently changes your relationship status.”

“Yes."

It was all new ,yet so endearing. All this for him. For his wife. And the fact that she was permanently his and only his.

He loved it .

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Later that night, lying beside you, he finally admitted it.

“I thought weddings were just rings and promises.”

You traced lazy circles on his arm.

“Marriage is a joining of families. Traditions. Generations.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then softly, “That’s a lot of pressure.”

You looked at him.

He met your gaze seriously.

“But I’m not running.”

His gaze was unwavering as he said so.

She stared deeper.

"I have a feeling you love this."

"oh that's cause I do."

"weren't you supposed to be exhausted?"

"goes away seeing you with more of me."

"you mean these ceremonies? Henna sindoor-"

"everything from your head..." he looked at your hairline , red , dressed so elegantly , like a crown.

"to your toes.." his gaze dropped to your feet. Adorned with beautiful anklet and henna patterns.

"everything about you, speaks you're mine."

Her eyes softened, it was as if she visibly let go of some stress. she closed her eyes and leaned herself a little on katsuki.

"and that's cuz I am, about you."

He smiled. The cocky little grin but softer.

Deeper sense of belonging.

"it's about us."

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Continuation of the Asian wedding theme with bakugo because after the dusk, comes the night~

Part 1

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The room is finally still.

just the two in their 'just married' hours.

She sits at the edge of the bed, bridal red still wrapped around her, shoulders finally sagging now that no one is watching. The jewelry weighs on her , heavy necklace, layered bangles, anklets that chime faintly when she shifts.

Katsuki closes the door behind him. Shutting out everything, every sound, everyone and every second thought.

Nows the time was for him and his wife.

He clears his throat.

“Sit still.”

She smiles, already amused.

He kneels in front of her first.

Not because he’s told to.

Because that’s where the anklets are.

His hands hover for half a second before touching her, like he’s reminding himself to be gentle. His fingers are warm, steady, far more careful than anyone ever expects from him.

The anklets make a soft sound as he loosens them.

One ankle.

Then the other.

He sets them aside quietly.

She wiggles her toes experimentally.

“Oh,” she says. “I forgot how light feet feel.”

He snorts. “You were walkin’ around with weapons on your legs.”

She laughs.

Next are the bangles.

He takes her wrist in his hand, thumb brushing lightly over her pulse. The bangles slide off one by one, glass and gold catching the lamplight. When one gets stuck, he pauses, adjusts his grip, and mutters under his breath.

“Why do people wear this many?”

“For beauty and tradition.”

“For suffering,” he corrects.

She grins.

“You married into it.”

“Tch. I married you. Big difference.”

Her smile softens as her eyes glow , full of love.

He lines the bangles neatly beside the anklets without realizing he’s doing it.

Then the necklace, heavy gold, pure glory.

He shifts behind her, close enough that she can feel his warmth at her back. His breath brushes her shoulder as he reaches for the clasp. His fingers fumble once.

“Tch-, hold still.”

She tilts her head obediently, soft loving smile never leaving her face as she relish her husband's gentle care.

“There,” he mutters when it finally opens.

The weight lifts from her collarbones, and he draws the necklace away slowly, like it might break if he rushes.

He sets it down.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

She turns to look at him.

“You don’t have to be this careful.”

“I want to,” he says, immediately. No hesitation.

Then, quieter, “You’ve been carryin’ all this all day.”

Something warm settles in her chest as she looks down at her hands , eyeing the name on her hand in awe.

He slides the blouse from her shoulders next, undoing the ties and the pins , folding it instead of tossing it aside, helping her out of her massive weighted lenhga adorned with beads and rhinestones , as she slips on a comfortable silk night dress.

“You’re being very husband right now.”

He clicks his tongue. “Shut up.”

But his ears go pink.

When he’s done, she feels lighter, smaller somehow, just herself again.

She stretches her arms, full of henna design and a precious ring.

“Ow,” she mutters. “My shoulders are killing me.”

He notices instantly.

“Turn around.”

She does.

He places his hands on her shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the tense muscles. His touch is firm but careful, working out knots skillfully like he’s done this a thousand times already.

She exhales slowly.

“Katsuki…”

“What?”

“That feels really nice.”

He huffs. “Good.”

He massages her for a minute, then reaches for the small bowl of warm water waiting on the side table.

“Hands,” he orders.

She gives them to him.

He gently massages her hands , moving onto her arms as he kneads out the stress from the jewellery and bangles and probably all the here and there , associated with the day.

She watches him, sparkly eyes, blinking softly.

“You researched this, didn’t you.”

He freezes.

“…Maybe.”

She laughs. “You absolute softie.”

“Say that again and I stop.”

A light laugh escapes her as her eyes wrinkle with love happiness and joy.

Fulfillment.

He massages her hands carefully, then applies a little oil to keep the henna dark, rubbing it in with slow, circular motions. After a moment-

"neyy..katsuki? they say,The darker your henna, the deeper is the husband's love." She coos.

He raises an eyebrow at that, as he continues his little massage session.

"well, that's stupid" he retorts.

"mines pretty dark"

"ofc why wouldn't it be" he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Does that mean you love me a lot?"

"oh yeah? News flash?" He asked with sarcasm as he smiles sarcastically.

Another laughter escapes her lips as she leans into him laughing.

"I guess it's true after all"

"Dumbass.."

He continues massaging her hands,rubbing circles around his beloved's, delicate yet so strong as he admires the craftwork of art on her.

His thumb traces over his name without him realizing, as his eyes soften further, as if his heart jumps a beat.

She notices.

Her heart stumbles, as her eyes travel from her hand to his ,to his eyes as she takes in his soft , loving gaze.

He notices her attention as he clears his throat and moves on quickly.

Then he grabs a small container of balm and crouches again, taking her feet.

She startles, trying to stop him “Katsuki-!”

“They’re dry,” he says flatly. “And you were standin’ all day.”

He rubs balm into her heels, thumbs working in firm circles.

She squirms.

“That tickles!”

“Stop movin’!”

She tries. Fails.

He growls. “I swear-”

She laughs harder.

He finally looks up at her, eyes narrowed.

“You done?”

She bites her lip to contain her smile. “Yes, sir.”

That earns him a snort, as he shakes his head in endearment.

When he’s finished, he sits beside her on the bed at last.

Their knees touch, She leans into him automatically. Shoulders resting against his broad muscular chest as he wraps an arm around her waist without thinking, lowering his face into her shoulders, a little nuzzle.

For a second, they just sit there.

Newly married.

Quiet. Breathing each other in.

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“…You were heavy,” he mutters.

She pulls back, eyes on him as she turns to face him. “Excuse me?”

He corrects quickly. “The jewelry. Idiot.”

She laughs, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

“You’re really taking this husband thing seriously.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head, gentle and slow, almost like a vow.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Someone’s gotta take care of you now.”

She smiles into his chest.

Love isn’t explosions.

It’s warm water on hennaed hands.

It’s balm on tired feet.

It’s teasing, and silence, and choosing each other when the noise fades.

"won't my dumbass agree?" He said with a gentle loving smile leaning into her.

She giggled as she pulls him down on the bed, kissing his temple lovingly.

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Asian marriage aesthetics with katsuki bakugo sounds like dusk with sweet winds on rise.

Part2

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The wedding chaos dies down as the wedding comes to be over for the day.

Somewhere in the distance, relatives settle over sweets, bangles chime with every movement, and laughter rises and falls like waves. Katsuki Bakugo stands stiff near the doorway, arms crossed, pretending he’s unbothered by any of it.

Frankly He was quite overwhelmed by traditions he doesn’t fully understand.

But then she reaches for him, a gentle call.

“Katsuki," she says sweetly.

“Come here.”

He exhales through his nose ,obeying as he walks to his wife.

She’s seated on a cushion, words won't do justice to how gorgeous she looked, the bride. surrounded by soft fabric. Red draped her ,adorned by jewels and gold of all sorts , a large nose hoop, the full bridal getup..for him, his bride, for her groom.

Her hands are held carefully in front of her, palms up, design dark and full of love. Intricate vines curl around her fingers, tiny florals bloom near her wrists, and fine lines trace stories Katsuki can’t read.

She tilts her head.

“Okay,” she says. “Your turn.”

His brows knit. “The hell does that mean?”

A small smile.

“I hid something,” she tells him. “Find it.”

He clicks his tongue. “You’re challengin’ me right now?”

She lifts one brow. “Scared?”

That’s it.

He crouches in front of her immediately.

“Tch. Don’t get cocky.”

Carefully ,painfully carefully, Katsuki takes her hands, thumbs hovering he takes her hands in his own as his hues fall down to her beautiful hands. His grip is firm but restrained, like he’s holding something fragile without wanting to admit it is.

His crimson eyes narrow as he studies the patterns.

He traces the air above her palm, following spirals and curves. There are mountains in the lines, rivers in the spaces between.

It's beautiful in a way he doesn't have words for.

He grumbles under his breath.

“This is complicated on purpose.”

She hums innocently.

Minutes pass. He shifts closer, elbows resting on his knees. His usual sharp posture softens without him noticing. He scans every detail, jaw set in stubborn concentration.

Then he freezes.

There.

Hidden between a curl of vines and a tiny lotus, worked so subtly it almost disappears unless you’re looking for it.

Seven letters.

His name.

Katsuki

His eyes soften as a tender smile is stretched across his features, he just stares.

“…You’re sneaky,” he mutters.

Her smile grows softer. “You found it.”

He looks up at her, eyes intense, searching her face like he’s making sure this is real.

“You did all this,” he says quietly. Not a question.

She nods.

“It’s tradition,” she replies. “Sometimes people hide their partner’s name. It’s supposed to be a sign of devotion.”

Katsuki huffs.

“Supposed to be,” he repeats.

Then, more seriously, “You didn’t have to.”

She shrugs gently. “I wanted to.”

Something settles in his chest.

He lowers his forehead briefly toward her hands, pressing her hands against his forehead as if it was some deities, full of devotion and love as he closes his eyes relishing the moment with his wife.

That’s all.

No big speech.

No dramatic declaration.

Perhaps they were never needed.

Just Katsuki Bakugo, silent for once, holding his wife’s hands like they’re something sacred against his forehead.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough ,the usual with a hint of tenderness.

“…Idiot.”

She laughs softly.

But he doesn’t let go.

Because for him, this is proof enough.

There exists a shade of pink the oceans themselves hesitate to mirror, a delicate hue suspended between blush and dawn, and I found it after eight hundred years of listening to tides rehearse your arrival, after eight hundred years of letting currents teach me patience while jellyfish drifted like living lanterns and manta rays altered their silent paths beneath empty skies.

It lingers in the curvature of waves, in the way sunlight fractures through saltwater, in the careful spirals of seahorses clinging to coral, and in the distant hymns of whales that carried your name long before I was permitted to speak it aloud.

I have painted fallen kingdoms and inherited myths, have watched legacies dissolve into sand and memory, have listened as ancient seas whispered their prophecies into reefs and shipwrecks. Yet, all of it remained unfinished across centuries until you stood at the center of my canvas. In contrast, sea turtles traced their slow constellations around us, and bioluminescent plankton bloomed softly at your feet.

Every moment of those eight hundred years became its own form of devotion, every distant shoreline taught me restraint, and every unanswered horizon reminded me that longing is not emptiness, but the gradual preparation of a heart learning how to receive what it was always meant to hold, as coral forests breathed quietly. Deep-sea currents guarded your echo farther than light.

The oceans bow when you arrive, when my bride arrives.

Even the great white shadows in the abyss yield their paths, octopuses retreat into cathedral caves of stone, and schools of silver fish part like living prayers, surrendering their motion to your presence.

You do not realize this, but you have already been written into my future, braided into the quiet mathematics of tides and time, folded gently into every brushstroke I leave behind, remembered by starfish clinging to ancient pillars and by dolphins stitching laughter through open water.

My bride.

The word settles into me like a promise older than waves, older than gods, older than the first shells that learned how to listen.

I leave traces of you in every colour I choose, in every silence I honour, in every legacy I allow to pass through my hands, knowing that even prophecy softens when love learns patience. Even leviathans cradle gentleness in their vast shadows.

And so I continue. Through salt and centuries, through unfinished canvases and whispering oceans, wandering endlessly beside creatures and tides alike, yet always, inevitably, returning to you, My Bride.

— Rafayel

I don’t look at Bakugo Katsuki.

Not directly.

It’s not a rule I made consciously. It just… happened. Somewhere between learning the layout of the training room and deciding where to stand so I wouldn’t be in anyone’s way.

I face forward. Neutral posture. Relaxed expression. The kind that suggests I’m focused on nothing in particular, except myself.

But he exists anyway.

Not in front of me, never there, but slightly to the side. Just enough that my eyes don’t have to commit. Just enough that I can register movement without admitting to it.

Peripheral vision is honest like that. It tells you things you’re not trying to know, yet tells you exactly what you're trying to know.

He moves sharply. Every action has intent, even the idle ones. I notice how he stretches his hands, the way his shoulders square as if the room itself is something to confront. He takes up space without trying to. Without asking.

I don’t stare. I let the edges do the work.

Around us, the room is loud. Voices overlap. Someone laughs too brightly. Metal scrapes against the floor. It all blurs into background noise, the way it always does when I’m standing still long enough.

Bakugo is across the room.

I know this without turning.

Every so often, my awareness shifts, not to him exactly, but to the absence he would leave if he moved. I notice the rhythm of his presence: the pause before he speaks, the tension before he explodes, the precision that follows.

It’s not interest. It’s observation.

Then I feel it.

That subtle pressure, like a line being drawn back to me.

I don’t react. My eyes stay forward, fixed on nothing important. But something sharpens in my chest, like my focus has narrowed without permission.

I glance sideways. Barely.

Our eyes meet.

It lasts less than a second. No surprise. No challenge. Just recognition, clean and immediate. His gaze doesn’t soften or harden. It simply… registers me.

The same way I’ve been registering him.

i look away first.

I don’t follow. I don’t smile. I don’t turn again to check if he’s still there.

But from that moment on, the room feels slightly different. Not quieter. Not closer. Just more precise.

I’m aware of him now, not because I’m watching, but because he’s watching back.

And it settles into something unspoken between us.

Not friendship. Not tension.