ʸᵒᵘ’ˡˡ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵍᵘᵉˢˢ

The Starblossom Index

About me: I’m 23. Recently pink has become something I’m way too excited about. I mainly write for MHA but I can also write for Demon Slayer. Haikyuu. Gachiakuta. And others just depends. @cursed-carmine For my dividers

The Etherbook

Rules:

Ageless pages will be blocked.

Please be 18+.

Don’t steal my work.

All NSFW will be tagged.

All heavy topics will be tagged.

If you need a tag added, just ask.

You can request anytime, just give me about a week to get it out.

Please don’t translate without tagging me

Requests: Open

Feverbane

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x FemReader

Synopsis: In the Kingdom of Alderreach, illness is common, mercy is conditional, and knowledge is dangerous. When you, a brilliant doctor cures the deadly Ash Fever with reason instead of prayer, your work saves a life that should have drawn gratitude. Instead, it earns you a name that means death.

Warnings: Witch hunts, false accusations, illness, religious extremism, misogyny, emotional distress, violence, and slow-burn angst.

Writers Note: Ngl writing this was so fun. I immediately saw the request and knew I couldn’t half ass it. And I didn’t think one chapter would’ve been enough for this idea. Anyways. Enjoy🫶🏽

Alderreach smelled like tallow and damp stone, the kind of smell that soaked into clothes and never quite left. Even the palace carried it, thick in the air beneath vaulted ceilings where prayers echoed louder than laughter ever dared. Candles burned day and night, their smoke clinging to tapestries and carved saints alike, as if even fire knew better than to leave.

Illness was ordinary here. Death more so.

Bells rang every morning from the high spire of the central church, iron-throated and solemn, calling the faithful to confession and reminding the rest that sin did not sleep. The sound rolled through narrow streets slick with yesterday’s rain, past market stalls and apothecaries and homes where coughs rattled behind shuttered windows. People stepped over mud and blood with the same practiced care. Alderreach had learned how to live with both.

Healing was holy. Until it worked too well.

You learned that early.

Your workspace sat at the edge of the lower district, not quite poor enough to be forgotten, not important enough to be protected. Stone walls, one narrow window, a table scarred with knife marks and burns from past experiments. Shelves lined with jars, each labeled in your precise hand. No charms. No sigils. Just words. Measurements. Dates.

Observation.

You moved carefully, habit ingrained deeper than fear. Willow bark shaved thin, pale curls falling onto clean cloth. Honey warmed slowly over steam, never rushed. Clear grain spirit measured drop by deliberate drop. Water boiled, then cooled, filtered through linen you had scrubbed raw. Everything had its place. Everything had its reason.

You wrote as you worked. Always wrote.

People liked to pretend that made you strange.

Outside, someone coughed hard enough to gag. You didn’t look up. The Ash Fever had been bad this winter. Worse than usual. It always came when the cold lingered too long, when damp crept into bones and lungs alike. It started small. Fatigue. A mild cough. Then the heat. Gods, the heat. Fever so fierce it left patients delirious, veins darkening beneath skin like bruised ink. Some survived. Most didn’t.

The church said it was judgment.

You said it was pattern.

You had spent three years watching it take people. Not praying. Watching. Timing the rise of the fever. Noting who lived and who didn’t. Tracking age, strength, exposure. When people stopped shaking and when they didn’t. The first time you reduced the fever, really reduced it, you’d cried until your hands shook too badly to hold a spoon.

That was before Feverbane had a name.

Now, the mixture simmered gently, steam curling like breath in winter. You counted under your breath. Not prayers. Breaths. It mattered.

The door opened without a knock.

You didn’t startle. You never startled when he came.

Prince Katsuki Bakugou filled the doorway like he’d been carved there, broad shoulders brushing stone, dark cloak dusted with road grime and training sand. He smelled like steel and smoke and cold air, like someone who had been up before dawn beating soldiers into shape. The crown prince of Alderreach rarely arrived quietly anywhere else.

With you, he did.

“You’re late,” you said without looking up.

He snorted. “You always say that.”

“And I’m always right.”

You felt him grin even before he spoke. “Annoyingly.”

Boots crossed the room, mud left deliberately at the door this time. Progress. He leaned against the table beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, steady and grounding. His presence bent the room subtly, like gravity remembered him.

Katsuki was known throughout Alderreach for his temper. Sharp-tongued. Brutal in training. Loyal to the crown in a way that bordered on frightening. Soldiers respected him because he bled with them. Nobles feared him because he didn’t bother pretending to like them. The common folk whispered because whispering felt safer than silence.

With you, he was… quieter.

Not gentle. Never gentle. But attentive in a way that surprised anyone who thought they knew him.

“What’s this batch for?” he asked, eyes tracking your hands, not your face.

“Preventative,” you said. “For the eastern barracks. They’re early in the fever cycle.”

“You sure?”

You glanced up at him then, one brow lifting. “Do you doubt me?”

His mouth tilted. “Never.”

That was the thing. Katsuki didn’t love you because you healed people. He loved you because you were right, and because you could explain why.

He watched you work like it was a language he was learning, not magic. When you corrected him, he listened. When you disagreed, he argued. When you proved him wrong, he smirked like he’d won something anyway.

You stirred the infusion, careful not to let it boil too hard. “Your mother sent word today.”

His jaw tightened. Barely. “About?”

“Nothing specific,” you said. “That’s what worries me.”

Silence stretched, thick as honey. Outside, the bells rang again. Noon.

“She doesn’t like things she can’t control,” he said finally.

“And I am a thing now?”

He turned to face you fully, expression sharp. “You’re not a thing.”

“That’s not how power sees it.”

Katsuki’s hands curled, then relaxed. Controlled. Always controlled. “You saved Lord Halbrecht’s son. They can’t deny that.”

You swallowed. That had been the mistake.

The boy had been ten. Burning with fever. Delirious, lips cracked and bleeding. A noble heir, pale and fragile, surrounded by priests murmuring prayers that did nothing but exhaust him further. You’d been summoned out of desperation, not respect.

You had measured. Calculated. Administered Feverbane at half dose, watched the fever break by morning.

The child lived.

Gratitude lasted three days.

By the fourth, the whispers began.

“She stole him from God.”

“She used white fire.”

“She writes things down.”

You’d felt the shift like a change in weather. Smiles tightening. Questions sharpening. Help turning into scrutiny.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

“But they won’t.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction. Enough to hurt. “That’s why I worry.”

You finished the batch, pouring the amber liquid into stoppered vials, sealing each with care. You labeled them in your neat script. Feverbane. Date. Dosage.

“Don’t call it that when you distribute it,” Katsuki said.

You paused. “Why?”

“It sounds like a challenge.”

You huffed softly. “Everything sounds like a challenge if you’re afraid of being wrong.”

“That’s Alderreach,” he muttered.

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a book, worn leather, edges soft with age. You recognized it instantly. Your breath caught.

“You found it,” you said.

“Took three weeks,” he replied. “Royal archives are a mess.”

You took it from him like it might disappear. A treatise on humoral balance. Old. Dry. Brilliant.

“Thank you,” you breathed.

He watched you flip through it, eyes alight, and something in his chest loosened. This. This was what he loved. Not just the saving. The seeking.

“Just be careful,” he said.

You looked up. “I am careful.”

“Careful enough to survive power.”

Outside, someone laughed. Then someone else said it, low and sharp, like a blade finding bone.

“Witch.”

The word drifted in through the open window, carried on the same air as the bells.

You and Katsuki froze.

Neither of you spoke.

In Alderreach, that word didn’t mean magic.

Spark

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x FemReader

Synopsis: At a casual party, one sharp sentence is all it takes for Katsuki Bakugou to realize he’s met the one person in the room who won’t flinch, fold, or burn for his comfort.

Warnings: None

Writers Note: I am back😭 my birthday was on the first. I was busy with Christmas before that. So finally everything has started to get back to normal. I wanted to post this little piece before any of the other things I have. Enjoy🫶🏽

Mina’s apartment smells like citrus cleaner, cheap wine, and the unmistakable heat of too many bodies in too little space. Someone has a playlist going that jumps genres with zero shame. There are string lights draped where string lights don’t belong. A houseplant has glitter on it. You clock all of this within thirty seconds of walking in, because you always clock the room first. Habit. Self-preservation. Curiosity.

You came because Mina asked you to. Because she said it would be chill. Because you haven’t said yes to anything social in a while and figured you should probably remind yourself how to exist around people.

She greets you like a firework. Arms around your shoulders, cheek pressed to your temple, loud enough that half the room hears your name.

“You made it,” she says, like she didn’t expect you to. Like she’s pleased you proved her wrong.

“Barely,” you tell her, dry. “I was tempted to fake my own disappearance.”

She laughs, pulls back, studies you. “You look good. Drink’s on the counter. People are everywhere. Don’t kill anyone.”

“No promises.”

You slip out of her grasp and into the room proper, weaving past clusters of friends, acquaintances, friends-of-friends. You recognize a few faces. Kirishima, grinning, mid-story, hands moving like he’s physically shaping the words. Jirou leaning against the wall, arms crossed, listening with half her attention. Kaminari already too loud for how early it is in the night.

And then there’s him.

You hear him before you really see him. A sharp voice, abrasive, cutting through the noise like it’s offended by the concept of volume competition. He’s planted near the center of the apartment, drink in hand, posture aggressive even at rest. Ash-blond hair, spiked like he lost a fight with a power outlet. Scowl permanently etched into his face, even as he laughs.

Bakugou Katsuki.

You know the name. Everyone does. You’ve seen him on screens, in headlines, in clips that circulate online with a mix of awe and discomfort. Prodigy. Explosive. Talented. Difficult.

Mina mentioned he’d be here.

You already don’t like him.

Not because he’s loud, exactly. You don’t mind loud. You mind careless. And from the way he barks at people, from the way his presence seems to dominate space whether invited or not, you get the sense that he confuses intimidation with honesty. That he’s used to people bending or backing away.

You make a mental note to stay out of his orbit.

You say hello to the people you know. Polite. Warm enough. You laugh when something is actually funny. You listen more than you talk, which isn’t unusual for you, but tonight it feels intentional. You keep your body angled away from Bakugou’s gravitational pull, like a planet choosing not to be captured.

He doesn’t approach you. Not directly.

But you feel his attention brush against you anyway. A glance held half a second too long. A pause in his speech that has nothing to do with what he’s saying.

You ignore it.

The conversation you settle into is easy. Comfortable. You’re near the kitchen, perched against the counter with a drink you’ve been nursing for twenty minutes. Mina drifts in and out. Jirou joins at some point. A couple of other friends fill in the gaps.

Someone brings up dating.

It starts as a joke. Something about red flags, about the things people ignore when attraction hits first and logic arrives late.

“I swear,” Mina says, rolling her eyes, “if I hear one more person say ‘they’re just bad at communicating’ like that’s a cute quirk and not a full-blown problem—”

“Say it louder,” Jirou says. “Emotional intelligence is not optional.”

You hum in agreement. “Bare minimum behavior has been rebranded as rare these days.”

“Right?” Mina says. “Like, congratulations, he texts you back. Should we throw a parade?”

Laughter ripples through the group.

Someone else adds, “If he says ‘I’m just brutally honest,’ run.”

“That’s never a good sign,” you say. “It usually just means they don’t want to be accountable for the damage they cause.”

The conversation flows. Stories trade hands. Bad dates. Warning signs missed. Lessons learned the hard way. There’s an ease to it, a shared understanding. No one’s posturing. No one’s trying to dominate the room.

Until a sharp laugh cuts through it.

“People are too sensitive now,” Bakugou says, voice loud, dismissive. He hasn’t been part of the circle, not really, but he’s close enough to make it clear he’s been listening. “If you can’t handle heat, stay outta the kitchen.”

The words land like a dropped plate.

There’s a brief, collective pause. Not shock. Just recalibration. Mina’s mouth opens, then closes. Jirou’s brows knit together. Someone shifts their weight.

You don’t react right away.

You take a sip of your drink. You let the silence stretch just long enough to be intentional. Then you turn.

This is the first time you look directly at him.

Bakugou is already looking at you.

Up close, you notice things you hadn’t from a distance. The way his red eyes are sharp, alert, tracking. The way his jaw is set like he’s bracing for impact or daring someone to swing. He’s waiting for a reaction. For pushback or appeasement. For fear or fire.

You give him neither.

“No,” you say, calmly. “People just got tired of being burned and told it was character building.”

The words are even. Not raised. Not soft. Just precise.

The room goes quiet in a different way.

Bakugou blinks.

You don’t stop there.

“You talk fast for someone who hasn’t thought this through.”

It’s not an insult. It’s an observation.

Silence drops like a held breath finally let go.

Someone lets out a quiet, startled laugh before clapping a hand over their mouth. Mina stares at you, eyes wide, like she’s watching something unfold in slow motion. Jirou’s lips curve into something sharp and approving.

Bakugou doesn’t move.

For half a second, you think he might explode. Verbally or otherwise. You’ve seen the clips. You know his reputation.

Instead, he tilts his head.

Just a fraction.

His mouth curls, not into a grin, but into something thoughtful. Dangerous. Interested.

“Got a mouth on you,” he says.

You shrug. “You earned it.”

Something shifts in his expression. Not anger. Not embarrassment.

Recognition.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bark back. Doesn’t try to reclaim the space.

That’s what gets everyone.

Bakugou, the guy who never backs down, just looks at you like he’s recalculating gravity.

“Huh,” he says, under his breath.

Then he takes a sip of his drink and turns slightly away, as if the moment has concluded.

The conversation stutters back to life. Mina exhales. Someone makes a joke to ease the tension. The group regains its rhythm.

You don’t dwell on it.

You didn’t come here to spar. You said what needed to be said. Nothing more.

You shift your focus back to the people around you. Laugh when something is funny. Add a comment when it feels right. You don’t look at Bakugou again.

He looks at you anyway.

Not constantly. Not obviously. But enough.

He watches how you speak. How you listen. How you don’t fill silence just to fill it. How you don’t shrink when someone louder enters the space.

You don’t avoid him, but you don’t seek him out either. You exist on your own terms, and it unsettles him in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He’s used to people reacting to him.

You reacted to what he said.

There’s a difference.

As the night wears on, you make your rounds. Catch up with friends. Compliment Mina’s place. Politely decline a second drink. You feel the pleasant edge of social exhaustion creeping in, the kind that signals it’s time to go before you stop enjoying yourself.

When you decide to leave, you do it deliberately.

You find Mina first. Hug her tight. Thank her for the invite.

“Anytime,” she says, still looking a little dazzled. “Seriously.”

You say goodbye to Jirou, to Kirishima, to a couple of others. The goodbyes are warm, unhurried.

Bakugou is leaning against the wall when you pass him.

You stop.

Not because you feel obligated. Because it feels correct.

“Have a good night,” you say.

He looks at you fully this time. Up close. Undiluted.

“You too,” he replies.

No bark. No bite.

You nod once and head for the door.

The apartment seems louder once you’re gone. Like something essential has exited with you.

Bakugou watches the door for a long second after it closes.

Then he turns to Kirishima.

“That’s my wife.”

Kirishima laughs, loud and easy. “Yeah,” he says, clapping Bakugou on the shoulder. “I knew you’d like her.”

Bakugou doesn’t laugh.

He just stares ahead, eyes bright, already planning a future that hasn’t asked for his permission.

I saw your pregnant reader one and it was literally so sweet I couldn't help but ask since your requests are open. Absolutely no pressure, I can't wait to see what you write next :))

💙 anon

Warning: None.

Writers Note: I really hope this is what you were looking for when you requested this😚🫶🏽 Enjoy babes

You wake up already tired.

Not the cute, sleepy tired. The kind that sits on your chest like a sandbag and dares you to move. Your eyes open to the gray ceiling, to the quiet that hums too loud, and your first thought is not good morning or what time is it but—

I can’t.

Your body feels wrong. Heavy in a way that doesn’t make sense. Like gravity has its hand wrapped around your ankles and is pulling you back into the mattress. Your mouth tastes stale. Your head hurts, but not sharply—just a dull, constant pressure, like a storm that never quite breaks.

You blink. Once. Twice.

The clock on your phone says 11:42 a.m.

You turn it face down.

Shame slithers in immediately, uninvited and smug. Normal people are already halfway through their day by now. Normal people have brushed their teeth. Normal people—

You shut your eyes again.

Your brain is loud, but your body won’t cooperate. Every task feels massive. Gargantuan. Like you’re being asked to climb a mountain barefoot just to stand up.

You think about the bathroom. The sink. The toothbrush.

Your chest tightens.

Later, you tell yourself. Just five more minutes.

Five minutes stretch. Time loses its edges.

The room smells like yesterday. Like sleep and stillness and neglect. The curtains are drawn, but light bleeds in around the edges anyway, outlining the mess you didn’t have the energy to deal with last night. Clothes on the chair. A mug on the nightstand. You vaguely remember meaning to clean it. You vaguely remember meaning to do a lot of things.

Your throat burns.

You roll onto your side, curling in on yourself, trying to make yourself smaller. Safer. If you don’t move, the world can’t ask anything of you. That’s the logic your brain offers, faulty but persuasive.

Your phone buzzes once.

Then again.

You don’t look.

You already know who it is.

Katsuki has a sixth sense for this kind of thing. He always has. He notices when your texts get shorter. When you stop sending memes. When your goodnight message never comes. When the silence stretches just a little too long.

You should answer him. You know you should. You also know you can’t right now.

Your fingers feel like they belong to someone else.

The buzzing stops.

You exhale, shaky, relief and guilt tangled together.

Maybe he’ll assume you fell asleep. Maybe he’ll be busy. Maybe—

There’s a knock at your door.

Not polite. Not tentative.

Three firm raps. Familiar. Certain.

Your heart drops straight into your stomach.

“Hey,” comes his voice, muffled through the wood. “You gonna open this or what?”

You don’t move.

Another knock. Harder this time.

“I know you’re in there,” he says. “Your car’s outside and your lights are off. That’s your ‘I’m not okay’ combo.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“C’mon,” he adds, quieter now. “Don’t make me break in. I will.”

That almost gets a laugh out of you. Almost.

The door handle jiggles. Then the lock clicks—because of course he has a key, because of course he insisted months ago, gruff and unapologetic about it.

The door opens.

Boots on hardwood. The familiar weight of his presence fills the room, like oxygen rushing back in. You don’t look at him. You can’t. The thought of being seen like this—unwashed, unproductive, unmoving—makes your skin crawl.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

You hear him set something down. A bag, maybe. Then footsteps, slow and deliberate, until the mattress dips behind you.

Silence stretches.

Not awkward. Just… there.

“You alive?” he asks eventually.

You nod, barely.

“Good,” he says. “That’d’ve been inconvenient.”

A beat.

“You didn’t text back.”

Your throat tightens. “Sorry.”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t do that.”

You swallow. “Do what?”

“Apologize like that,” he says. “Like you committed a crime.”

You don’t have an answer for that. The apology lives in your bones. It always has.

He shifts closer. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel his warmth through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“You been up long?” he asks.

You shrug. Then, after a second, whisper, “I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

No judgment. No sigh. Just acceptance.

He leans back, bracing his hands on the bed. “You eat?”

Your stomach twists. “No.”

“Drink anything?”

You shake your head.

“Mm.” He reaches out, grabs something from the nightstand. You hear the twist of a cap. “Here.”

You feel the cool plastic press against your palm. A water bottle. Already open.

You stare at it like it might bite you.

“I didn’t ask you to chug it,” he says. “Just… drink.”

The word is firm, but not sharp.

Your fingers curl around the bottle. It takes effort—more than it should, but you manage to lift it. The first sip feels wrong, like your body forgot how to accept kindness. The second goes down easier.

“Good,” he murmurs.

You take another sip. Then another.

When you lower the bottle, your hand is shaking.

Katsuki notices. Of course he does.

He doesn’t comment on it.

“Alright,” he says. “That’s one thing.”

You frown faintly. “One thing?”

“Yeah,” he says. “We’re not doing the whole day. That’s stupid. We’re doing one thing at a time.”

The weight in your chest shifts, just slightly. Not gone. But… redistributed.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

He snorts. “You already did.”

“That was just water.”

“Still counts.”

You huff out a weak breath. “You’re such an ass.”

“Correct.”

He stands, stretching his arms over his head. “Next thing.”

Your stomach drops. Panic flares. “I—Katsuki, I don’t—”

He turns, catches your gaze finally. His eyes are sharp but steady, molten red softened at the edges.

“Relax,” he says. “I’m not throwing you into a marathon.”

He disappears into the bathroom. You hear the sink turn on. The clink of plastic. When he comes back, he’s holding your toothbrush.

With toothpaste already on it.

Your eyes sting.

“You don’t have to stand,” he says, like he can hear the spiral starting. “Just… use it. Sitting. Lying down. I don’t care.”

“That’s gross,” you mumble.

“So’s depression,” he shoots back. “Brush your damn teeth.”

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes. It breaks off halfway into something that sounds dangerously close to a sob.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens. He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “Look at me.”

You do.

“You’re not lazy,” he says. “You’re stuck. There’s a difference.”

The words hit you square in the chest.

“I hate days like this,” he adds. “Your brain turns into a bastard and suddenly everything’s uphill.”

Your vision blurs.

“Okay,” he says quickly, standing. “Bathroom. I’ll sit on the floor. You do your thing. No talking required.”

True to his word, he plops down on the cool tile, back against the tub, arms folded. He stares at the wall like this is the most normal thing in the world.

You hover in the doorway, toothbrush in hand, heart racing.

“Don’t make it weird,” he says without looking at you. “I’ve fought sludge monsters. This is nothing.”

That gets another weak huff out of you.

You brush.

It’s slow. Awkward. Your arm aches halfway through, but you finish. When you rinse, your reflection looks a little more real. A little less like a ghost.

Katsuki doesn’t clap. Doesn’t praise you like a toddler.

He just nods. “See? Maintenance.”

You sink down next to him on the floor, back against the cabinet. The cool wood feels grounding.

“I feel stupid,” you whisper.

He turns his head. “For what.”

“For… this,” you gesture vaguely at yourself. “I should be able to handle a bad day.”

He scoffs. “Says who.”

“Everyone else.”

“Everyone else is full of shit.”

You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “I hate that you see me like this.”

He snorts. “I hate that you think this makes you less.”

Silence settles again. Thicker now. More intimate.

After a moment, he reaches out and nudges your knee with his. A small thing. Anchoring.

“You wanna shower?” he asks.

The thought makes your chest tighten again. Too much. Too vulnerable.

“I can’t stand,” you admit.

“Then don’t.”

You blink at him.

“I’ll grab the chair,” he says. “I’ll stay outside. Door cracked. You yell if you need anything.”

The ease with which he adapts makes your throat burn.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He helps you up—not lifting, just steadying. His hand is warm on your elbow, sure and grounding. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t comment when you lean a little too hard into him.

When you’re seated in the shower, steam curling around you, you hear him on the other side of the door.

“I’m right here,” he says. “Take your time.”

The water hits your skin and something inside you finally gives. You cry quietly, shoulders shaking, tears lost in the spray.

On the other side of the door, Katsuki sits on the floor, jaw clenched, fists resting uselessly on his thighs.

He hates feeling helpless.

But he stays anyway.

When you come out, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and curling, he looks up from his phone and pauses.

Not staring. Just… registering.

“Clean clothes on the bed,” he says. “I grabbed your soft ones.”

Your chest aches. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupts. “Get dressed.”

You do.

By the time you emerge, he’s in the kitchen, moving around like he belongs there—because he does. Something smells warm. Toast, maybe. Eggs.

Your stomach growls, traitorous.

He hears it and smirks. “Told you.”

You sit at the counter, legs tucked under you, watching him. The way his shoulders move. The way he cracks eggs with one hand. The normalcy of it all feels surreal.

He slides a plate in front of you. Nothing fancy. Just food.

“Eat what you can,” he says. “No pressure.”

You pick at it. Then take a bite. Then another.

Halfway through, guilt creeps back in. “I’m sorry you had to deal with this.”

He freezes.

Slowly, he turns to face you.

His voice is low. Controlled. “I didn’t have to.”

You swallow.

“I wanted to,” he continues. “There’s a difference.”

Your eyes sting again.

He steps closer, stopping just in front of you. Lifts your chin with one finger ,not forcing, just guiding.

“I’m not leaving today,” he says. “That’s the deal.”

You nod, tears slipping free.

“Good,” he says. “Because I already canceled my plans.”

You blink. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Didn’t feel like doing anything else.”

The lie is gentle. Intentional.

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his chest. He stiffens for half a second, then his arms come around you, solid and sure.

He doesn’t rock you. Doesn’t shush.

Can you make a bakugo x reader fluff where he’s a lot more open and vulnerable with their s/o at night in bed since the lights are off and can’t really see his facial expressions . I can just imagine him being a bit clingy in bed and can just say anything to you even if it’s cheesy because you can’t see his embarrassed face ☺️ because this is the only side you get to see in private ❤️

After The Lights Go Out

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Synopsis: When the lights go out, Katsuki Bakugou finally lets his guard slip. Wrapped around you in the dark, he becomes softer, clingier, and dangerously honest

Warning: None.

Writers Note: Hello lovey!! Im so sorry it took so long to get this out but this was a cute ask. This is probably a bit ooc, but I hope you like it. Enjoy🫶🏽

The room is dark in that way that feels intentional.

Not pitch-black—there’s moonlight bleeding in through the thin gap in the curtains, a silver stripe cutting across the far wall. The city hums faintly outside. Distant traffic. A siren far enough away to be background noise, not danger.

Katsuki hates the quiet during the day. It makes his thoughts too loud.

At night, though?

At night, the quiet behaves.

You’re already half-asleep when he finally comes in. You hear the door click shut, the careful way he closes it—too controlled for someone who pretends he doesn’t care. His boots are kicked off near the door instead of lined up like usual. He doesn’t turn the light on.

Good.

The mattress dips with his weight, and you feel it immediately—the familiar gravity of him beside you. He smells like soap and smoke and the faint bite of nitroglycerin that never quite leaves him. Warm. Real.

You don’t say anything.

That’s part of the unspoken agreement.

Katsuki shifts, restless at first, like he hasn’t decided where to put himself yet. You feel the sheets tug, the bed creak softly. He exhales through his nose, sharp and quiet.

Then contact.

His arm slides around your waist, firm and certain, pulling you back against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your back fits there. You always do. Like muscle memory finally getting its way.

You relax into him, and that’s all it takes.

His grip tightens just a little.

“Don’t go fallin’ asleep yet,” he mutters into the dark, voice low and rough around the edges. Not annoyed. Not angry. Just… cautious. Like he’s testing the waters.

You hum softly in response, letting your hand rest over his forearm. His skin is warm. Solid. Safe.

“M’not,” you whisper. “Just resting.”

He snorts quietly.

“Yeah. Sure.”

But he doesn’t let go.

Katsuki Bakugou is many things. Loud. Explosive. Sharp-tongued. A walking thunderstorm with a temper problem and a pride streak a mile wide.

But at night?

At night, when the lights are off and no one can see his face?

He gets… different.

Not weak. Never weak. Just unguarded in a way he refuses to be anywhere else.

He shifts closer, chest pressing into your back. His chin hovers near your shoulder, then settles there, heavy and warm. You feel the vibration of his breath against your skin.

You wait.

You’ve learned that silence with him isn’t empty—it’s a doorway.

“Today was shit,” he says eventually.

Straightforward. No theatrics.

You tilt your head slightly, inviting.

“Yeah?” you murmur.

He huffs.

“Yeah. Just—everything. Media crap. Extras screwin’ up. Some idiot nearly blew a mission because he didn’t listen.”

His hand flexes where it rests on your stomach, fingers splaying like he’s grounding himself.

“But you handled it,” you say softly.

A pause.

“…Yeah.”

He doesn’t sound convinced. You feel his chest rise and fall against you, slow and deliberate. He’s thinking. You don’t interrupt.

After a moment, he mutters, “Didn’t throw anyone through a wall, so I guess that’s progress.”

You smile into the dark.

“That’s huge growth,” you tease gently.

He clicks his tongue.

“Smartass.”

But his thumb starts tracing absentminded circles against your side, betraying him

The thing about Katsuki is that he feels deeply. He just hates how exposed it makes him. During the day, he keeps everything locked down tight—anger is easier. Louder. Safer.

But here, wrapped around you in the dark?

The armor comes off piece by piece.

He shifts again, restless, then sighs and presses his forehead against the back of your neck. The contact is warm, intimate, almost shy.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Mm?”

“Don’t… don’t look at me.”

You freeze for half a second before realizing what he means. Even in the dark, even when you can barely see the outline of his face, he’s still worried about being seen.

You smile softly and keep your gaze forward.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“…Good.”

His voice drops even lower.

He tightens his arm around you, pulling you flush against him, like if he lets go you might disappear. His breathing evens out, syncing with yours.

Then—

“I don’t say this enough.”

Your heart stutters.

You stay quiet. Let him have the floor.

“I know I’m not… easy,” he continues. “I know I’m loud. And pissed off. And I don’t… do the whole talkin’ thing real good.”

You feel his jaw tense against your shoulder.

“But you stay.”

Three simple words. Heavy as hell.

“You don’t flinch when I snap. You don’t try to ‘fix’ me. You don’t look at me like I’m a damn problem.”

His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt.

“And I—” He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale. “—shit.”

You reach back, threading your fingers through his, squeezing gently.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “Take your time.”

A beat.

“…I like you,” he blurts, way too fast.

Then immediately, “I mean—obviously. We’re together. That’s not—fuck, that’s not what I meant.”

You bite back a smile.

“I know,” you say softly.

He groans quietly, burying his face into the crook of your neck like he’s trying to hide from his own words.

“I like you,” he repeats, slower this time. More deliberate. “I like how you laugh. I like that you don’t get scared of me. I like that you steal my hoodies and then act innocent about it.”

You chuckle softly.

“You gave me that one.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Tch. Whatever.”

But he doesn’t argue further.

The bed is warm. Safe. The world outside feels far away.

Katsuki’s hand starts moving again, thumb brushing over your knuckles, then down your arm, memorizing you in the dark. Touch is easier than eye contact. Always has been.

“You ever think about… later?” he asks quietly.

You stiffen just a little—not from fear, but from surprise.

“Later?” you echo.

“Yeah. Like—not tomorrow. Or next week. I mean…” He trails off, clearly irritated with himself. “Long-term shit.”

Your chest tightens.

“Sometimes,” you admit.

Another pause.

“…Me too.”

The word lands between you, heavy and fragile.

“I don’t know what that looks like,” he adds quickly. “I’m not good at picturing things. But when I do—” He swallows. You hear it. “—you’re there.”

You turn slightly, just enough that your forehead brushes his jaw. Still not looking at him.

“That’s enough,” you whisper.

His grip tightens.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time gets fuzzy when you’re wrapped up like this.

Katsuki starts to relax in earnest—muscles loosening, breathing deeper. He’s still awake, though. You can tell. He always gets talkative right before sleep sneaks up on him.

“You know what I hate?” he murmurs suddenly.

“What?”

“That you make it hard to be pissed off.”

You laugh quietly.

“Sorry?”

He grunts.

“No, you’re not.”

He shifts again, rolling slightly so you’re more on your side, facing away from him but still close. His arm drapes over you, hand resting just under your ribs.

“Every time I come back ready to tear the world apart,” he says, “you just… exist. And it messes with my head.”

“That sounds awful,” you tease gently.

“Shut up.”

But his tone is fond.

“I don’t need you to fix anything,” he continues. “Just—be there. Like this.”

You reach back and rest your hand over his, lacing your fingers together.

“I can do that.”

He exhales, long and slow.

“Good.”

Eventually, his voice starts to fade—words slurring just slightly at the edges.

“You’re warm,” he mutters.

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but you’re… better.”

Your heart melts a little.

“Bakugou,” you murmur.

“What.”

“That was cheesy.”

A beat.

“…Don’t tell anyone.”

You laugh softly, the sound swallowed by the dark.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder—brief, almost bashful, then tucks his face back into your neck.

“If you ever tell anyone I said any of this,” he warns sleepily, “I’ll deny it.”

“Of course you will.”

“But… you can remind me,” he adds quietly. “When I forget.”

Your throat tightens.

“I will.”

His breathing evens out after that, deep and steady, arm still locked around you like he’s afraid you might vanish in the night.

You stay awake a little longer, listening to the sound of him—this version of Katsuki that only exists when the lights are off and the world can’t see him.