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pining!childhood friend katsuki doesn't call you by your name. and it's not even just bc he does the same with everyone else where it's like a name related to your quirk. that's half of the explanation anyways, but the real reason is because when he was a kid he used to write your first name with his last name or vice versa constantly in a note book to see what it'd sound like and you caught him one time and he got so spooked he blew up the page. so now he cant even think about your name without getting embarrassed
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ katsuki always wondered what the hell his father saw in his old hag of a mother. it takes twenty years, a nasty fight with you, a near-death experience, and a trip to the hospital before he finally gets it
── ✶ word count: 5.8k words ; my drabbles always do this bro
── ✶ before you read: female reader ; pro hero bakugou ; established relationship ; arguing ; (temporary) relationship troubles ; injuries + villain attacks + hospitals (bakugou) ; tame angst with a happy ending! ; communication + resolving arguments ; bakugou’s father makes an appearance ; fluff and banter at the end ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ at the end of the day i will never not be a sucker for the trope where u argue just before a major life threatening incident occurs
It’s 9:32 PM when Katsuki begrudgingly leaves his patrol area and finally calls it quits for the night.
Patrol was supposed to end an hour and thirty-two minutes ago, but he’s been dragging his feet ever since. Taking the long route. Responding to calls that technically aren’t under his jurisdiction. Circling blocks he’s already cleared twice. Anything to kill time. It’s only when Kirishima actively tells him to get the fuck out and stop interfering with his villain count for the night that Katsuki finally accepts defeat and ends his workday.
Ending his workday means going home. And if he goes home, you’ll be there. And if you’re there, he’ll be reminded of your nasty argument from the other night. And if he thinks about that argument, he’ll have to face the fact that the two of you are still stubbornly refusing to speak to one another until the other apologizes first. It’s a ridiculous standoff—an unnecessary one, and he knows it. But neither of you seems particularly interested in ending it, and now his own apartment has somehow become the last place he wants to be. Every room feels charged with an uncomfortable tension. The living room is awkward. The kitchen is unbearable. Even lying down beside you at night feels weird, so Katsuki would rather avoid the whole thing if he can help it.
If he gets home late enough, you’ll already be asleep. Then he can shower, crawl into bed, and pretend the situation doesn’t exist for a few more hours. It seemed like a solid plan in his mind, but unfortunately, thanks to fucking Shitty-Hair, he has no choice but to head home and hang up his costume.
And judging by the lights still glowing through the windows of his apartment, his luck has officially run out. You’re still awake. Of course.
He trudges in, and there you are—sitting stiffly on the couch in the living room, staring directly at him with your arms crossed and an infuriated glare on your face as you fix him with narrowed eyes. Great.
“Do you have any fucking clue what time it is?” you hiss without missing a beat.
Katsuki should’ve known you’d start nagging the second he walked through the door. Hell, he should’ve turned around and just left the moment he saw the lights on instead of coming in.
“S’not even ten,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off. “Would you fuckin’ drop it—”
“You were supposed to be home almost two hours ago!” Your voice rings through the apartment, sharp and incredulous, and Katsuki is so tired. So exhausted. Too exhausted to deal with this nonsense right now, of all times.
“Yeah, well. Now I’m home. There you go.”
The dismissal only seems to make you angrier. Katsuki practically watches the steam start pouring from your ears as you shoot to your feet, hands planting firmly on your hips. And he just knows your voice is about to get louder.
“That’s it?” you practically screech. He fucking knew it. “You’re out on patrol for an extra two hours, and I hear nothing from you—not even a text saying, I’ll be home late. I’ve been sitting here like an idiot, wondering what the fuck happened, or if you’re okay, and all you can say is now you’re home? Do you just get off on being an asshole or something, Katsuki?”
His shoulders tense immediately as he fixes you with an equally hard glare. There goes his wish for a peaceful, conflict-avoidant night. Of course, as always, you have to drag the conflict right to him and drop it at his feet, spike his temper, and make it ruin his evening. A simple shower and a good night’s sleep was all he wanted. But things are never quite that easy—not with you.
Katsuki feels a dull throb start behind his eyes as he shoots back, “What, was your phone broken or some shit? What exactly held you at gunpoint and stopped you from sendin’ me a text and asking, huh?”
Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not laughin’, am I? Definitely no jokes here.”
“Oh, fuck you,” you scowl, and he snorts. There’s no humor behind the sound, however.
“Yeah, that’s real mature.”
“Oh no—you don’t get to tell me about what’s mature and what isn’t. Cause if you wanna talk about what’s mature, it’s not disappearing for two hours and acting like I’m insane for being worried!”
“I wasn’t disappearing, I was fuckin’ doing my job.”
“You were supposed to be done with that job hours ago!”
“Well, I wasn’t!”
“You have a smart little answer for everything, don’t you, Katsuki?” you smile sarcastically, “just think you’re so smart and above it all, huh?”
Katsuki doesn’t know if it’s the headache that’s been creeping on him, or the rage, or the pure adrenaline in his system, but he does know that for a short, fleeting second, all he saw was red.
“Holy fuck, do you ever listen to yourself?”
Your expression hardens instantly. “No, I think you should listen to yourself. You might hear an idiot if you do.”
The apartment goes quiet. Dangerously quiet.
“You know what?” he says coldly, “forget this. I’m goin’ the fuck to sleep—I’ve dealt with enough bullshit tonight—”
You throw your hands in the air, exasperated. There is a flash of hurt on your face that makes his chest ache, but the sharp stab of pain doesn’t last for long because as quickly as his heart bleeds, his mind makes him forget. It only lets him focus on the anger and the irritation and the way you’ve ruined his night, just like you ruined the one before.
“Every single time I tell you something bothers me, you act like it’s a personal attack, and then you just dismiss me like I don’t matter—”
“Maybe I wouldn’t dismiss shit if every conversation with you didn’t turn into a fuckin’ laundry list of grievances you got with me!”
“You only take everything I say as a complaint because you refuse to communicate!”
“Because not everything needs to be a damn discussion like we’re in therapy!”
“Right,” you laugh bitterly. “Silly me. God forbid I expect basic consideration from you.”
Something ugly flashes across his face. He knows it. Katsuki knows that when he’s mad, he turns ugly—he’s always been that way. It’s the only way he knows how to be. For the longest time, he thought you were the only person he could hide it from. That you were the only person he could fight the urge to get ugly from because you are just that special.
But Katsuki is who he is, and he’s learned that he’s a special kind of ugly just for you.
“Basic consideration?” he barks. “You’re sayin’ I’m not considerate?”
“No, sometimes you fucking aren’t and—”
“Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich! I break my back every day keeping this city safe—”
“Well, if the city is the only thing you can be considerate for, why the fuck are you even here?”
It’s silent as soon as the words leave your mouth. Katsuki goes completely still. He can feel it the second it happens—the way his expression shuts down. The way the anger drains out of his face and leaves behind something colder. Something worse. Something so ugly, he has to get out of here before you see it and realize he isn’t worth it. Isn’t worth you.
“Yeah,” His voice is flat. “Why am I here, right? You know, you can just tell me to leave next time, it’d be a lot fuckin’ easier for you.”
“Katsuki—”
“No.” He grabs the strap of his duffel bag that carries his guantlets from where he’d dropped it by the door, throwing it over his shoulder as he bends down to lace his boots up again.
“Katsuki, that’s not what I meant.”
“Sure.”
“I was angry—”
“Clearly, you’re always fuckin’ angry at me. I’m always doin’ something the fuck wrong, aren’t I? Nothin’ I do is enough?”
Stop, stop, stop. His mind is screaming, begging him not to do this. To get out. To leave and fight that hideous part of him down until he’s far enough that you never, ever have to see it.
“Katsuki, don’t do this right now—”
“Do what?” His voice rises more than it should. Stop—stop now. But he can’t. The ugliest of him is already taking surface and showing his truest of colors. “What exactly am I supposed to say here, huh?” You flinch. He needs to fucking stop, but he doesn’t. “Because apparently, when I stay late to save people, I’m an asshole. When I’m home, I’m an asshole. I breathe, I’m an asshole. I exist, I’m an asshole.”
“That’s not—”
“So what’s the answer?” His laugh is bitter and so, so cold that he doesn’t recognize this version of himself. Not with you. He wants to stop desperately, but he can’t. Because Katsuki is an ugly, hideous, despicable person deep down. No amount of heroism on the surface can hide that part of him that’s on the inside, not from you. “Since you’ve got everything figured out, you tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”
“Katsuki, let’s just sit down and—”
He shakes his head. For a second, he wants it to hurt. He wants it to hurt for you. Stop, stop, stop— “Y’know what? I’m done.”
His hand closes around the doorknob, and your voice comes out shaky and panicked as you whisper, “Katsuki, please just sit down and—”
“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ this shit anymore.”
Then he yanks the door open and walks right back out, slamming it hard enough behind him to rattle the picture frames on the wall.
────────────────────────
Katsuki is six when he first asks his father what the fuck the old man even sees in the hag that is his mother. He remembers the conversation vividly.
“Dad, why did you marry Mom? She’s grumpy and old, and she yells all the time,” little Katsuki asks, crossing his tiny arms over his chest. “Why d’you even like her?”
Masaru nearly chokes on his tea. “Katsuki,” he coughs. “Your mother isn’t old. You shouldn’t say that—it’s rude.”
“But she is,” he huffs. “She smells like an old lady, too.”
“Well, if she’s old, then I’m even older,” Masaru points out, taking another sip. “So that can’t be a very good reason not to like her.”
“Well, she’s mean.”
“She’s not mean,” his father chuckles, thoroughly amused.
No matter how many times he sees it, Katsuki doesn’t understand it—the way his father gets that dumb, starry-eyed look whenever Mitsuki comes up. She’s always in a bad mood, and if she isn’t, she’s probably due for one within the next thirty minutes. Why his father would choose to marry such a sour lady is completely beyond his six-year-old comprehension.
“She yelled at me this morning,” he sulks.
“You tried to use your explosions inside the house,” Masaru reminds him, leveling him with a pointed look. “We talked about that. Rules are rules for a reason, young man.”
Katsuki pouts harder. His father is supposed to take his side.
“But she still yelled. And it was mean,” he argues back stubbornly. Masaru only smiles into his tea, shaking his head with fond amusement. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Katsuki presses again, “So what do you even like about her?”
The question seems to catch Masaru off guard. He pauses, thinking. “Well,” he says slowly, “she’s funny.”
Katsuki blinks. His father cannot possibly be serious. “Mom?”
“Yes.”
“She’s funny?”
“Very.”
“No, she isn’t,” Katsuki says immediately, deeply offended by the blatant lie.
Masaru laughs, “She is.” Katsuki stares at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Masaru only smiles wider. “She’s honest, too. You always know what she’s thinking.”
“That’s because she says whatever she thinks.”
“Exactly.”
“And she says it loud.”
“That’s true.”
“She says it really loud, Dad.”
Masaru nods solemnly, sighing. “Also very true, son.”
“She should shut up,” Katsuki huffs. His father fixes him with a stern look at that, and he shrinks back just a little.
“We do not say that about our mother, Katsuki.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes but slumps deeper into his chair all the same. “Fine.”
“Your mother is wonderful,” his father says. “She works hard. She cares about people. She loves our family—she loves us. One day, you’ll see that. And when you do, I think you’ll appreciate her a lot more.”
Katsuki picks at the food on his plate, turning the words over in his head.
His mother does love him—he knows that much, even if she is annoying. She remembers all the snacks he likes and somehow always comes home with them without him ever having to ask. Whenever he asks for money, she gives him more than he requested—even if it usually costs him an irritatingly painful pinch to the cheek. She wakes up early to bathe him despite complaining about losing sleep because he prefers morning baths to evening ones.
His mother loves him; he knows that to be true. But it’s only true because she is his mother, and he is her son. Mothers love their sons—it’s the rules. Why his father would willingly choose to love that woman remains completely incomprehensible, however, in his mind.
“Mom is super annoying,” he says bluntly.
Masaru’s smile softens. “I suppose sometimes she can be, yes.”
“See?” Katsuki perks up immediately, his entire face screaming, gotcha!
“But,” Masaru continues, “I’m sure I annoy her, too.”
Katsuki deflates on the spot.
More than that, he simply cannot imagine such a thing being possible. His father is calm and nice and makes good food. Katsuki thinks lots of women would like his father—women who also would not find Masaru annoying. The only person allowed to find Masaru annoying is Katsuki himself, and that’s because his father makes rules that Katsuki has to follow. He thinks he’s earned that right.
His mother, however, has no such excuse.
“She gets annoyed with you?” he asks incredulously.
“Of course. Every day, I’m sure there’s something I do that annoys her at least a little.”
“Then why does she like you?”
Masaru thinks for a moment, carefully choosing his words, trying to explain this odd phenomenon that is love. “Because loving someone isn’t about finding a person who never annoys you,” he says finally. “It’s about finding someone who still sees your value even when you’re annoying. Someone who chooses you anyway. Does that make sense?”
His nose wrinkles immediately. “No.” His father stifles a chuckle when Katsuki adds, “That sounds dumb.”
“Maybe,” Masaru hums, eyeing him with bright, endeared eyes.
“I’m not gonna marry someone annoying when I’m all big. Because I’m smart!”
That earns him a full laugh from his father. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Masaru lean forward and wipe at the corner of his eye. In fact, he laughs so hard he nearly spills his tea. “You say that now,” his father says, setting his mug down, “but that’ll change. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“No, I won’t,” Katsuki grumbles. He doesn’t appreciate that he’s not being taken seriously.
“I think you will, son.”
“I definitely won’t.”
Masaru only smiles. He looks at Katsuki the way adults always do when they think he’s young and silly and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And Katsuki hates that look. He’s smart—excellent, even. Just the other day, he caught his teacher’s mistake during subtraction when nobody else in his class noticed. At this rate, he’s well on his way to being smarter than most adults.
He absolutely knows what he’s talking about.
“Well, we’ll just have to see, Katsuki. If I’m right, you’ll take me out for ramen someday. Deal?”
“Fine,” Katsuki huffs, puffing out his chest confidently. “But you’ll never see that ramen.”
────────────────────────
Twenty years later, Katsuki sometimes wonders if he’s going to have to admit he was wrong and take the old man out for ramen after all.
You are, without question, the most annoying, irritating, vein-popping individual he has ever met. It’s like every decision you make is carefully calculated to inconvenience him specifically.
He has to keep an extra jacket in his car because you never check the weather before leaving the house. He has to double-check your grocery lists before you go shopping because if he doesn’t, you’ll somehow forget the one thing you actually need. He has to make sure you take your vitamins. Every night, he has to remind you to take your makeup off before bed because, apparently, that responsibility has become his problem—and if you wake up the next morning with mascara smeared under your eyes because you didn’t listen to him, then somehow you still find a way to blame him for not wiping it for you.
You are annoying. Every single fucking day, you annoy him. You annoyed him yesterday. You’ve annoyed him today. You’ll annoy him tomorrow. And he’ll tell you exactly that—he’ll call you a dumbass, and tell you to get your life together. Complain about the ridiculous thing you did this time, and accuse you of going out of your way to make his life harder on purpose. But after that, despite it all, he will still love you.
Twenty years later, now that he’s older, Katsuki realizes he understands what his father meant. That loving someone doesn’t happen because they never annoyed him—loving someone happens because they annoyed him, and he still, despite that, sees nothing but the good.
He loves you. You are annoying and drive him up a wall, but Katsuki knows that you are good. The greatest good that there might ever be, and he might have just ruined it. He probably fucked it all up and lost all the good he had. All the good he’s ever wanted. All the good that he’s wanted to keep for the rest of his life and cherish.
The second the apartment door slams shut behind him, Katsuki regrets it. He regrets being the reason behind that look on your face. That brief flash of panic in your eyes right before he left. That way that your voice sounded when you said his name.
He can’t get it out of his head as he walks out of your building. “Fuck,” He runs a hand through his hair and keeps walking.
The only friends he’d willingly see right now are working, his parents are definitely sleeping (and would ask too many questions he doesn’t want to answer, even if they weren’t), and he is nowhere near calm enough to go back upstairs and just go home.
But his patrol route is still active. So instead of going home and into bed like a normal person who has morning patrol, Katsuki leaves his apartment building behind and heads toward work.
By the time he gets suited up again, it’s almost eleven. By the time it’s midnight, he’s still out. By the time it’s 1 AM, he should call it a night.
Instead, however, he keeps moving. One more block turns into one more street. Anything to keep himself from going home or thinking about the argument. About the way you looked at him. About the things he said. About the shit he ruined for sure.
His thoughts are loud enough in his head, turning him deaf to everything else. He misses things he normally wouldn’t—things like suspicious shadows and warning shouts from another hero.
By the time Katsuki realizes what’s happening for what it is, the villain goes down easily enough—too easily. He curses himself for being so naive, so rash. He’s been fighting as a pro for years. He was a war veteran before he was even a legal adult, for crying out loud. Still, despite all that, the second Katsuki realizes something is wrong, it’s already too late.
The construction site groans around him—metal screeches against metal, and his head snaps upward. All he sees is the upper half of the structure collapsing before he loses his balance and collapses with it.
“Shit—”
The explosion leaves his palms a fraction of a second too late, and he doesn’t go propelling forward the way he’s supposed to. The half-built building comes down, and Katsuki goes down with it.
Then everything goes dark.
────────────────────────
It’s 2 AM when you see it on the news. Kirishima sends you a text asking if you’d heard what happened, and by the time you’ve spammed him with messages asking what the hell he was even talking about, he’s gone silent. Something in your gut knows that he’s not answering because he’s too busy rescuing. Too busy being a hero.
Your heart tells you that the person he has to be a hero to tonight just so happens to be Katsuki.
The first report you see hits the news at 2:13 AM. The anchor’s voice is as smooth and polished as ever as she delivers the words that send your whole world crumbling around you.
“We are receiving breaking reports of a major incident involving Pro Hero Dynamight.”
The footage that floods the screen makes you fall to your knees and muffle your sobs behind a shaky palm—collapsed concrete and emergency responders and heroes rushing in and out of the wreckage. The camera zooms toward the ruined construction site, and Katsuki’s body is nowhere to be seen on the screen. You don’t quite know if that’s a good thing or bad.
“Dynamight was reportedly responding to a villain incident when a structural collapse occurred. We are told he is trapped beneath the rubble. Emergency responders are currently on the scene, conducting rescue operations.”
At 2:37 AM, the hospital gives you a call as his emergency contact. You’re sick to your stomach, not sure how you’ll make the drive there when Kirishima finally texts you again.
Kiri <3: I already told his parents. They’re on their way so don’t worry about it
Kiri <3: One of my sidekicks is outside your apartment. They’ll drive you down there
Kiri <3: I still have to handle the aftermath and finish patrol so I won’t be there I’m sorry
Kiri <3: Keep me updated?
You: Don’t apologize Kiri idk what I’d do without u
You: Thank you and pls be safe
You: I’ll lyk things as soon as I find out
Kiri <3: Take it easy okay?
Kiri <3: He’s come back from worse. It’ll be alright
——
Kirishima’s sidekick gets you to the hospital efficiently, but you are still at your wits’ end by the time you can rush out of the passenger seat and bolt through the sliding doors.
Some part of you is grateful you didn’t have to drive here yourself because you know you would’ve sped dangerously over the limit, missed half the red lights, and probably would’ve gotten yourself pulled over. At the same time, you wish you could’ve been the one behind the wheel, just to get here faster.
“I’m here to see Kats—um, Dynamight,” you say in a rush. “Dynamight…I meant Dynamight.”
The woman at the front desk looks at you with a raised eyebrow, already typing away at her screen as she blandly says, “Valid ID, please.”
You curse under your breath, fumbling through your purse for your wallet, and then fumbling through your wallet for your ID like your hands suddenly don’t belong to your body anymore.
When you practically shove it toward her in your haste, she takes it too calmly for your racing heart and inspects it for a moment. Then looks at her screen. Then back to your ID. Then she types for what feels like an agonizing eternity before she finally hands the card back and says, “Fourth floor, room twelve. He’s stable, but he has some serious injuries that they’ll have to monitor and heal slowly due to his stamina—”
You’re already moving before she finishes. You’re bolting toward the elevators, heart slamming so hard it hurts. The ride up to the fourth floor is torturously slow. When you finally get out of the elevator, you’re halfway down the hallway before you even register the security guard stepping in front of you.
“ID.” Again. Of course. You suppose it is a good thing security is tight for the pro hero unit—even if it does add to your piling weight of anxiety. When you clumsily pull it yet again, he checks it for another cruelly long stretch of time, glancing between the card and the device in his hands before finally saying, “Go ahead.”
You’re already moving.
By the time you reach room twelve, your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself still. For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. Would Katsuki even want to see you? Is he fed up with you? Would you just make his already terrible night even worse?
You aren’t sure.
You don’t know why you’re in the predicament you’re in right now. You don’t know how you got here or why things escalated the way that they did. You don’t know what you do wrong to push his buttons the way you seem to, to upset him the way that he gets. You think you’re doing the right thing—that you’re doing what’s right for both of you—but somehow, you always seem to mess it up. Always seem to say the wrong thing. Always seem to ruin whatever good the two of you have managed to build between you.
But you love Katsuki, and if nothing else, you know that he loves you too, and you need to see him. So you force down the bile in your throat and push the door open. The first thing you notice when you see him is the bandages wrapped tightly around him. One arm heavily secured in a cast. Gauze lining his shoulder and collarbone that makes your stomach drop in a sick, immediate lurch. Machines hum quietly beside him, keeping track of his vitals.
You never see Katsuki hurt like this—he’s always been practically invincible when he’s on the field, always taking things down before they have a chance at even touching him. And then your brain, cruelly, supplies the thought: but he is not invincible. Not always.
“Katsuki,” you whisper, eyes already welling with tears.
He’s looking at you the second the door opens—but his tired eyes soften with relief, just a little, when they land on you. “You came,” he says, voice rough.
“Of course I came,” you say, sharper than you mean to. How could he think you wouldn’t? How far have you let things go that he could genuinely believe you wouldn’t show up for him? “What the hell happened?”
He sighs, almost embarrassed. “Just…work ‘n shit.”
You sniffle, and he lifts his good arm toward you. That’s all it takes.
You’re at his side in an instant, squeezing into the small space beside him on the hospital bed and curling yourself against his chest. You’re careful not to disturb any of the machines surrounding him, but you can’t stop thinking about how wrong this feels. How you shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now. How he’s the one lying in a hospital bed, yet somehow he’s still the one rubbing your back and soothing your tears.
“I thought you were gonna die,” you sob. “I—I saw the rubble, and Kiri stopped texting back and...and I thought you got crushed.”
“M’not fuckin’ dying, babe,” he huffs, sounding mildly offended. “A stupid building isn’t killin’ me. That’s a dumbass way to go.”
“You don’t know that,” you shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”
“Listen—”
“And I was sitting there watching the news and thinking the last conversation I ever had with you was that stupid fight,” you continue, looking up at him with trembling lips.
His eyes soften. “I know, but—”
“And I don’t care about the argument anymore,” you say, your voice shaking harder now. “I don’t care about being right or winning or being apologized to first—I should’ve texted you, you’re right. You...you probably felt like I didn’t care, but I do. I care so much, and I love you more than anything.”
You take a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady you. Katsuki is trying to wipe your tears away with one weak arm.
“I love you too—”
“I just want you to talk to me,” you sob. “I know I’m annoying, and I nag and scold and get onto you all the time, and I’m trying not to do that as much—really, I am! But I just...I wish you’d tell me things, too. Y’know? I am the one person you’re supposed to do that with, Katsuki,” you add, your voice cracking all over again. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m the last person you want to do that with.”
His expression tightens. “That’s not—”
“And I want us to work because I’ve never liked someone so much—it stresses me out. Because I love you and I want this to work, and the thought of it not working makes me so anxious I wanna throw up, and...and you act like talking to me is harder than getting crushed under a fucking building—”
“Baby.” He squeezes your cheeks together and silences you as he pulls your face closer, pressing a kiss to your puckered lips. “You talk a lot, y’know that?”
You huff at him immediately, tears spilling down your cheeks even faster. “That is so rude, given the—”
“I’m sorry about the fight,” he interrupts. You pause, and he takes the opportunity to keep going, despite looking painfully uncomfortable the entire time. “And for...walkin’ out ‘n shit. That was fucked up. I don’t talk to you like I should. You’re right. S’weird for me, and I hate it sometimes. I don’t know how to just...say shit like you do. Okay?” He sighs. “But m’gonna try more because you’re right—I need to talk to you. But you gotta get outta your head so much—” He gives your forehead a small jab with his finger. You sniffle and swat his hand away with a watery scowl. It earns the faintest grin from him. “We’re gonna work,” he says. “’Cause we do. That’s all there is to it, okay?”
“But—”
“No buts,” he grumbles. “My ribs hurt. Jus’ let me be right.”
A watery laugh escapes you as you shake your head, cupping his bandaged face between your hands. “You’re really annoying sometimes, Katsuki.”
“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “So are you. Still love you, though.”
“Me too,” you breathe, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Love you so much.”
He pulls you back down against his chest again, rubbing your back as you listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. You trace small patterns into his shirt. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. And things are okay—they are not beyond repairing. You’ll inevitably annoy him tomorrow, and he’ll annoy you the day after that, but you’ll still work. You will still find a way to keep things good the way they always are.
After a few quiet moments, he mumbles, “Hey.” When you look up, he says, “When m’all healed and shit, you gotta force me to go grab ramen with my old man. On me.”
────────────────────────
Katsuki waits almost a month after being discharged from the hospital before he finally makes the call. He’s been trying to stall it for as long as possible, but Katsuki, even at the tender age of six, has always been a man (or boy) of his word. He’s standing alone on the balcony outside his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear, wondering if it’s too late to hang up before the call goes through.
It rings twice. Then his father’s voice is as gentle and cheery as ever. “Katsuki!” Masaru answers immediately. “Hi, son!”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey.”
His father laughs. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I got discharged, didn’t I? S’been a whole month.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sounding just like your usual self,” his father says. Katsuki can hear the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’.”
“Katsuki, you never call for just nothing.”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh—it’s now or never. He can’t keep stalling, and Katsuki is, and always has been, a man of his word. If he promised his father ramen over a stupid bet he made twenty years ago, then he’s going to get his father that ramen. Even if it kills his pride. Demolishes it, even.
“Listen, I was thinkin’...maybe we could grab food sometime.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Masaru hums. “Let me ask your mother when she’s free and—”
“Not the hag. S’just you,” he cuts in, rubbing at his temple.
“Oh?” Masaru sounds amused. “Well, okay. I suppose it’d be nice to spend some time as just father and son. What kind of food?”
Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose. Just say it. Just fuckin’ say it, his mind urges. Just rip the bandage off and say it. Say it. Say the damn word—he grits his teeth and forces out, “Ramen.”
There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stretches on long enough that Katsuki’s eye twitches.
“Ramen, huh?” Masaru finally says, and the way he says it makes a vein all but pop in Katsuki's forehead.
“Old man,” he says warningly, “don’t push it—”
He’s cut off when Masaru starts laughing. “I was wondering when this day would come.”
“Hah? You really kept that shit in your head for twenty years?”
“Of course I did. It was one of my favorite conversations I’ve ever had with you.”
“Why? ‘Cause you love bein’ fuckin’ right all the time?” Katsuki grumbles.
His father’s voice softens as he says fondly, “No. I just wanted you to find someone who made you as happy as your mother makes me. That’s all I wanted, son—for you to understand what being happy is like.”
The conversation is getting oddly sentimental, taking a turn that makes his chest feel strange, and his heart feel far too fragile. He hasn’t felt like this since after the war, and he doesn’t intend to sit with it any longer. So he mutters, “I still think Mom’s annoying. She yelled at me last week, so she never fuckin’ changes.”
Masaru laughs again. “No, she doesn’t.” Then, after a moment, “So, how does Saturday sound for some ramen?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“Will my son be paying?”
Katsuki regrets this call more than anything when he says, “Yes. I’m fuckin’ paying.”
“You know, son,” Masaru murmurs, making Katsuki pause, “I’m glad you get it now. You’ve grown into a fine man.”
Katsuki swallows hard. He turns, eyeing you as you sleep soundly in your shared bed, hugging his pillow to make up for his absence. He can only hope that his father’s words are true—that he is a fine man to you, the way his father always has been to his mother. His eyes never leave your figure as he mutters, “Yeah, well…s’not like I had a bad example or somethin’.”
so anyway i had an argument with my bf the other day but he did not get into an accident and he did not get injured so dont worry. the argument was technically my fault, but im cute and he loves me so its okay <3
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ it’s been a rough night. your heart is still recovering from being broken, you need an uber home, your phone is dead, and everyone else has already left the class 1-a yearly reunion. well—everyone except bakugou. he gives you not just a ride home, but a solution to your lonely predicament
── ✶ WORD COUNT. 12.0k words ; give it a chance plssss
── ✶ BEFORE YOU READ. female reader ; pro hero bakugou + pro hero reader ; reader was in class 1-a ; reader has a quirk (she's stretchy - think like elastigirl from the incredibles LOL) ; reader gets her heart broken by an unnamed random guy + has insecurities ; bakugou is silently pining (and quite good at hiding it tbh) ; friends (sort of) to lovers ; cunnilingus ; p in v ; creampie ; morning after ; confessions (sort of. its bakugou ok) ; getting together ; the class 1-a girls are gossips ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ hi my name is riv and i am going thru mental breakdown after mental breakdown about my life but it wont stop me from writing about letting bkg hit
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing.
Sure, years pass. Adulthood kicks in. Lives become busier, more hectic, more demanding. Time is a funny thing—nine years ago, you were sitting in a classroom with these people, learning how to be a hero. Nine years later, you’re sitting in a rented-out bar, sharing a drink with them as they trade hero stories like it’s part of the average day.
Then again, you suppose it is the average day for pros. Wake up, go to work, save people, crack cases, go on patrol, and go to sleep. Repeat.
Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.
And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class 1-A routine meet-up.
If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?
That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.
You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.
You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.
“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.
You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.
“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”
“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”
Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else.
If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”
“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”
You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.
“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.
You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.
Huh.
You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.
As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.
First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.
And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”
“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”
He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”
Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.
At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”
You pause.
“What?” you blink.
He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”
You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”
You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.
“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”
“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.
Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”
“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.
You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.
“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.
His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.
The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.
He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.
“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.
”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.
”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.
His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.
”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.
”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”
You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”
You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?
You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”
”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.
”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”
Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.
Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.
The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.
Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.
It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.
The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.
Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.
But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.
That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.
And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.
You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.
The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.
(If anything, you hope it will.)
You clear your throat. “So.”
He doesn’t look at you. “So?”
“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.
He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”
“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”
Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.
Holy fuck.
“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?
“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”
“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”
He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”
“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”
“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”
You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”
“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”
“He said you don’t take breaks.”
“I don’t need breaks.”
You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”
That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”
You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”
“You know what I mean,” he mutters.
Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.
For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.
The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.
He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”
You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”
“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.
“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.
Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”
You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”
“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”
“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”
He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”
You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”
If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.
He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.
So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.
“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”
“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”
You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”
“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”
“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”
You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”
“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”
“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”
“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”
“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”
“So then what’s the big deal?”
You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”
Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”
“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”
“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.
It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“W-what?” you stutter.
“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”
It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.
Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little.
But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.
If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares.
Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you.
—
When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”
You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally.
Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember.
He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is.
“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”
“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”
“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”
“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”
“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”
He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive.
“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.
He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”
“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly.
“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”
“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”
He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”
“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”
“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”
“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”
“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”
You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.
“Hah?” he grunts.
It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple.
“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”
Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”
You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”
“That’s bullshit.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”
You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”
“Then what is?” he shoots back.
You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”
Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.
You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.
“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”
“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”
He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”
“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”
Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)
But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”
And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.
But then he takes you by surprise.
“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”
You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”
Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.
“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”
All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.
“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile.
He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.
“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.
You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.
“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.
“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”
You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You literally were.”
“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.
He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too.
You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.
“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.
What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same.
So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.
“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here.
“You’re still staring,” you whisper.
His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.
“Then stop staring.”
“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”
“I think you were staring.”
“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”
“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”
“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”
You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”
“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”
You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”
“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.
You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”
It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded.
He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was?
You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.
“Bakugou—”
“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.
You blink. “What?”
“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it.
And then he leans in.
He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you.
You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so.
And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.
Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”
“You just kissed—”
You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”
You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.
And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly.
It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.
It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do.
“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”
“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.
He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”
He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.
“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.”
He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance.
“Hey—”
“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”
Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple.
“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored.
Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.
He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts.
You nod quickly as you breathe heavily.
He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”
“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”
That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles.
“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”
“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”
He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.
“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—
“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”
“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”
He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.
It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.
Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”
“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”
“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”
“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.
And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.
Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.
Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.
You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.
“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”
“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.
You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.
“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.
“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”
“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”
“Then do it, baby.”
You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.
You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”
When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.
“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”
He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.
“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”
He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”
“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”
“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.
“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.
“Eat you out?”
“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.
He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.
Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”
“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”
“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”
“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff.
To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”
You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”
In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.
It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely.
And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him.
And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”
“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts.
It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him.
It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything.
At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy.
You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks.
You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over.
“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.
“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back.
Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive.
You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him.
“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused.
“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”
You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit.
“Be quiet,” you warn.
“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”
“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”
That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you.
“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”
He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient.
For him—just for him, you’ll be patient.
“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”
“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving.
It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good.
“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”
“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”
Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips.
Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily.
“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”
“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”
“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”
“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”
“Only me, huh?”
“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you.
Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more.
Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to.
You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for.
“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it.
“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”
“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”
“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”
He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.
It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.
It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him.
“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”
“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say.
“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”
And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it.
“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”
“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble.
He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more.
You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.
—
When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.
Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).
One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”
You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him.
“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”
“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”
“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”
“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.
He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”
“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”
“Nope,” you answer easily.
You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question.
“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”
You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” you mumble.
“Great. Go out with me, then.”
You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”
“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”
“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”
“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”
“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”
“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”
Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.”
“That was a demand, not a question.”
“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”
“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki.
—
One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡
Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready
Ochaco: absolutely!
Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap
Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys.
You: holy fuck. guys…
You: i slept with bakugou last night
Mina: WHAT?
Toru: WHAT?
Tsu: WHAT?
Kyoka: WHAT?
Momo: WHAT?
Ochako: WHAT?
Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT
Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW
You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN
Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too
Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P
You: [ one attachment ]
Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK
Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!
Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO
Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him
Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?
Toru: never lol let’s be real
You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him
Mina: oh god it begins
Toru: she’s already making excuses for him
Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??
Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?
yeah i wrote this in one day. this asshole has taken over my life yet again 6 years later i feel like history always repeats itself
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ katsuki is going to propose tonight. he even has a plan—a perfect, well thought out plan. and then he loses the fucking ring the day of said plan. maybe he should just stick to fighting villains, or something
── ✶ WORD COUNT. 6.2k words ; i present to you my mess
── ✶ BEFORE YOU READ. female reader ; established relationship ; pro hero bakugou ; reader is a teacher at U.A. ; reader wears make up and feminine clothes ; showering together + nudity ; grinding ; implied shower sex ; bakugou is going to propose, so themes of marriage ; alternating POVs ; poor bakugou temporarily loses the ring ; fluff ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ this was supposed to be a drabble but i mean what else is new am i right
The sun is warm on his face when Katsuki wakes up, peeking through the gaps of the hotel curtains and spilling onto his skin. Somewhere in the distance, he hears you humming to yourself in the bathroom while you go through your skincare routine, the soft clink of bottles mixing with the tune under your breath. His eyes blink open as he kicks the blanket off, lids still heavy with sleep. It takes him a brief moment to remember exactly where he is, but when it clicks, a low, blissful hum rumbles from his throat.
Vacation.
There are no alarms screaming at him at five in the morning. No agency calls. No patrol routes, or idiots needing something from him before he’s even had coffee. Just a quiet hotel room, warm sunlight, and you a few steps away behind the bathroom door.
It’s summer. Katsuki likes it when it’s summer.
There are a few reasons why it’s a fabulous time of year, in his humble opinion. For one, he fights best in the heat, making this his peak season for pro work. For another, your students are on break, which means so are you, which means Katsuki can finally take you on the long-awaited trip he’s been promising. Most importantly, though, summer is your favorite season, and that’s enough reason for him to like it with you.
Then a shriek cuts through the room, pulling him from his thoughts before he can even sit up and properly rub the sleep from his eyes.
“Kats!” you cry, voice pitched high with panic. “There’s a spider on the sink! Wake up!”
“God dammit, woman,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he rises from bed and pads over to where you are. “You teach kids how to be heroes for a living, and something as dumb as a spider gets you all fucked up?”
“Don’t start,” you hiss. “Just get the thing out of here, I don’t—oh my god! Katsuki, it’s moving! Hurry!”
He sighs, gently nudging you out of the way before grabbing a napkin and scooping up the (very) small arachnid. He tosses it into the trash as you let out a sigh of relief.
“There,” he grumbles. “Quit squealing now.”
“Thanks, baby,” you beam, turning to wrap your arms around his neck. You press a kiss to his lips, and he happily returns it. “Morning.”
“Morning,” he mumbles, pulling you against his chest. “Shower yet?”
“No, I’ll probably take one later—”
“Perfect. You can join me,” he says with a satisfied grin.
You give him a flat look. “I just did my skincare for the morning. I’m not washing it all away—”
“Let’s get this off’a you,” he says, promptly deciding to ignore you as he lifts your shirt over your head. You sigh in defeat (though you never really put up a fight anyway), groaning as your shirt goes flying, followed by your bra, and he can’t help the smirk of victory that spreads across his face.
“You’re super annoying,” you tell him seriously.
“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. “And you’re a fuckin’ idiot. Wanna exchange some more facts while we’re at it?”
It’s summer. Katsuki enjoys summer. He likes the warm weather, the extra time you have on your hands, and the way the two of you can spend a few days somewhere nice and far away from everything. You don’t bring along papers to grade. He doesn’t check his emails during the rare paid time off he’s taken. His paychecks finally come in handy for a nice, well-accommodating hotel room. No one interrupts when he wants you to himself.
There’s no reason not to love summer. Katsuki looks forward to it every year. He fights long, bothersome fights with villains and delinquents out there through the cold winters and tells himself that if he works hard now, he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor when the warm weather rolls around. It’s the only thing that gets him through long days at the agency, or the stupid interviews and social bullshit that his publicist forces him through.
All of it endured for this. This singular, peaceful week and a half with you by his side, enjoying his life without any other nonsense for once.
Katsuki likes summer—and he’s gonna like it a hell of a lot more when he puts a shiny ring on your finger when you say yes to being his wife in just a little bit.
“Here,” you hand him your body wash, “if you’re going to waste my freshly applied skincare, you better make it worth my while. You do the work.”
“Not a problem—anything for my lazy fuckin’ sunshine. You deserve to be pampered,” he agrees smoothly, chuckling when you throw your loofa at his chest.
“Lazy?”
“S’what I said,” he hums easily. “Glad to know your ears still work.”
“You take that back, you asshole—mmph!”
He cuts you off with a kiss. It’s a good fucking kiss, he thinks. Warm water is cascading down his back, you’re in his arms and pressed against his chest, your arms are looping around his neck, there’s a scenic ocean view from the small one-way window next to both of you, and your nails do that thing that he loves with the hair at the nape of his neck. This is all that he wants.
Katsuki can get used to a life like this—in fact, he already is used to a life like this. Ever since you moved in with him two years, three months, and twelve days ago (not that he’s been counting), he’s spent every morning waking up and moving through his routine with you woven into it.
You in his bathroom, your toothbrush tucked beside his. You at his table while he slides breakfast onto your plate. You in his kitchen, wearing your stupid little apron while you cook as he comes home roughed up after patrol. You on his couch after dinner, legs tucked beneath you as you grade assignments. You in his bed, dragging the blanket he kicked off right back over the two of you while you shiver and complain.
Katsuki is used to this life. He fucking loves it, even. He wants it for the rest of his days. He wants you tangled up in his space, threading yourself through every corner of his existence, and he wants the comfort of knowing the next day will look the same.
So he’s going to marry you. He’s got it all figured out.
Raccoon Eyes helped him pick the ring—it’s exactly what you’d want, according to her. Apparently, she has access to the Pinterest board you’ve had for years. Ponytail Girl took you to get your nails done—something pretty and dainty and perfect for the photos. He was strictly warned not to propose unless your cuticles were in flawless condition. Pink Cheeks dragged you out to pick up a few new outfits, as if you didn’t already have enough clothes. Still, if Katsuki gets to see you in something new, he’s not about to complain. Flat-Face and Shitty-Hair even looked over his speech.
Well. It’s as close to a speech as he’s going to get. Katsuki doesn’t do stupid, sappy bullshit the way people insist he should. It wouldn’t be him. He’s going to tell you what matters off the top of his head—the things he’d never forget. He’s going to tell you that he loves you, and he’s not going to stop. That he’s going to take care of you no matter what. That you’re the only person on this planet who doesn’t drive him up a wall. That you’re worth keeping, worth never letting go of, so you better get used to it and just marry him already.
But since Kirishima insists that Katsuki at least go over the main points first, he sends the idiot a few bulleted outlines just to get him off his back.
More people than Katsuki would prefer already know that this is going to happen. It was supposed to be just Kirishima and Mina, and that was it. Kirishima simply because—well, the annoying bastard is decent enough at advice when it comes to this kind of thing, so Katsuki allows it. Mina simply because he needed someone to approve the ring, and he sure as hell wasn’t going shopping with his hag of a mother.
But the pink-haired fucking gossip ends up running her mouth, and suddenly, everyone comes to him with an opinion of their own.
She’ll be mortified if you let her get engaged with bare nails!
You can’t let her repeat an outfit for the pictures. They have to be special!
Kirishima says you’re gonna wing your proposal??? C’mon, man, you have to plan what you’re going to say, you gotta make this good!
Katsuki has put a lot into these plans. Took you to that resort across the globe you’ve always wanted to visit, planned out your nails and outfit to match so that the pictures come out flawless, practiced the stupid speech that he didn’t need with Kirishima and Sero against his will, and he’s going to make this proposal good. Better than good. The greatest. Because that’s what he does—he does things the best, and it’s going to stay that way because that’s what you deserve.
The fucking best that he’s got.
“Baby,” you pull away from his lips, holding a hand to stop him when he leans back in for more. He grumbles when you do, displeased, and you laugh as you murmur, “As much as I would love to shower with you forever, we have places to be.”
“Yeah, and we got all day to be places,” he insists, hands wandering past your bare hips, grabbing a handful of your ass, and squeezing.
“You said we’d explore,” you whine, “and I wanna do it before all the other people get there and busy everything up!”
“I’ll shove ‘em out the way,” he offers, grinning when you giggle.
“Maybe some other time,” you snort, “maybe when you’re not in Japan’s top ten hero rankings and always land on the news. Then, maybe, I’ll entertain that lovely idea of yours.”
“Never let me have any fun,” he complains playfully, grinning as he leans back in to kiss you again. You kiss him back, and fuck—Katsuki wants to be here forever. He never wants summer to end, and he wants this for the rest of his damn days.
He almost wonders if retiring this young is a plausible option for him when you slip your tongue into his mouth and run it against his.
His cock is half hard already—he can feel the way it presses against you, and you move your thigh, bringing it up to rub against him and make him groan. He rolls his hips for a moment, grinding against your skin as he grows to full hardness. He doesn’t have to touch you to know that you’re dripping between your legs, not because of the shower but because of him. And he takes a little bit of pride in that. In knowing that just him and his lips on yours is enough to turn you into a pliant, needy mess in his arms.
“Katsuki,” you try to warn.
“Jus’ let me have my fun,” he smirks, “you know you want it. We have time.”
—————
The shower takes a bit longer than expected. But not too long—you and Katsuki are still on schedule for the day he’s planned, so he’s not worried.
You’re still in the bathroom getting ready when Katsuki is getting dressed. He grins to himself at the thought of you doing your makeup and dolling yourself up just for him. He’s going to kiss you senseless with that lip gloss of yours smeared all over his mouth once you let him slide the ring he picked onto your finger.
He reaches into the pocket of the last pair of pants he wore to grab the small box that currently holds the most valuable thing he owns. His old hag of a mother nagged him not to keep it on him like that—that he’d lose it, or accidentally expose it, or absentmindedly throw it through the wash. He doesn’t listen, of course. Mainly because he never listens to the hag, but also because he refuses to keep that ring anywhere but within reach of his own two hands. He needs to know it’s there at all times or he’ll lose his damn mind.
So, like he always does, he grabs yesterday’s pants and reaches into the right pocket, ready to move the familiar velvet box into the pocket of the pair he’s wearing now.
Except when he reaches in, the pocket is empty. He stills. His pocket is fucking empty.
No, it isn’t, he thinks, trying to keep a level head—it’s in there. Of course, it is. There’s nowhere else it’ll be, so he just needs to check again. His fingers sweep through the pocket again, slower this time, then harder, pressing into the seams as if the box might be tucked into some hidden corner of fabric. Some secret pocket within his pocket that was always there, and he just never noticed.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Katsuki curses under his breath and checks the left pocket. Then the back pockets. Then he turns every single pocket he’s got inside out. Then he gives the pants a sharp, thorough shake like his life depends on it.
Nothing. Still absolutely fucking nothing.
From the bathroom, you’re still humming softly to yourself, the faucet running for a moment before clicking off. Your makeup bag zips open, then shut. You’re completely, blissfully unaware of his growing dilemma.
His pulse spikes so hard it feels like there’s an explosion behind his ribs.
No. No, no, no. He had it. He confidently knows he had it. Last night, before bed, he checked for it—just like he always checks for it. He remembers the shape of the box against his palm. Remembers putting the pants over the chair. Did he take it out? No. He wouldn’t do that. Would he? Did he? He can’t think straight, his mind a busy swarm of worst-case scenarios and nightmare possibilities.
“Babe?” you call through the bathroom door. “Is my lip gloss in my purse? Can you check? I don’t think it’s in my bag.”
Shit. The last thing he needs right now is you coming out while he searches for this fucking ring that he knows he had in this room as of last night before bed. Where the hell could it have gone within the few hours he slept? It’s a ring. Sure, weird and unnatural things happen—he causes explosions at will with his palms, for crying out loud, but it’s a damn ring. Weird and unnatural enough things do not happen that his ring could have grown legs and run off.
“No!” The answer comes out far too loud. He cringes when he hears his own voice and clears his throat. “No, baby, s’not here. Keep lookin’.”
Silence for a beat. Then, “Um...okay?”
Katsuki drops to the floor and looks under the bed. Nothing but dust and an old pair of slippers from previous guests. He checks beneath the chair, under the dresser, behind the nightstand. He yanks the sheets half off the mattress, searching for the familiar sight of velvet that he knows deep in his heart is not going to be there, lying between wrinkled sheets.
But he checks anyway, and sure enough, nothing. His breathing turns shallow.
“Babe, I found my lip gloss,” you call, “right under my nose, too. It was in the bag that I was looking. I think I’m going crazy.”
“That’s good, baby,” he says, not paying proper attention, “you wear that gloss.”
If only he could find what he’s looking for, too—he really will go crazy if he doesn’t.
Maybe it fell in the suitcase. That has to be it—right? He lunges for the luggage, unzipping it so fast that the zipper almost rips right off from his force. Clothes get flung over his shoulder in frantic handfuls—shirts, pants, socks, boxers, toiletries, charger cords. Still no box. From the bathroom comes the pop of a makeup compact closing. You’re still humming, still taking your sweet time as you get ready, and he really hopes that you’ll take a long fucking time today. He’ll never, ever complain about you taking long ever again if you just take as much time as you need today, of all days, when he needs you to, for once. He needs you to continue having no clue that the single most important object in his life has apparently vanished into thin air.
Katsuki straightens, hands flying to his chest as he tries to force air into his lungs.
Think, moron, he says to himself in his head. He had it yesterday. He fucking knows he had it yesterday. He paid for lunch and felt it in his pocket after. He felt for it in the elevator on your way back to your room. He felt for it before bed. He always checks every chance he gets.
So it has to be here. It has to be.
It has to be, because if he somehow lost the ring meant for you—the same ring he spent months choosing, the same ring he’s supposed to slide onto your finger today—he might actually tear this entire hotel room apart with his bare hands, floor by floor, room by room, until he finds what’s his.
“Katsuki?” you call again, a little concerned this time as you hear him rummage around. “You okay out there?”
He stares at the disaster zone already forming around him, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
“Fine, sweetheart,” he forces out. “Just couldn’t find my watch, s’all.” Then he drops to his knees and starts searching the floor all over again.
“Lost something too, huh? Feels like everything’s going missing today,” you laugh from the bathroom.
No kidding, he almost says. And then, because apparently the universe needs to hate him more than it already does, the bathroom door clicks open.
Katsuki’s head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.
You step out looking beautiful—you are so, so painfully beautiful. You and your pretty new outfit with those pretty little nails and those pretty lips that are glossy exactly the way he’d imagined they’d be when he’d get to kiss them. You look so perfect, so ready to be asked to be his wife—and yet, here he is. No ring, and his plans all but turned upside down.
Your gaze drifts over the room he’s practically destroyed, glancing at the overturned suitcase, the sheets half-hanging off the bed, the clothes strewn across the mattress, the pockets of his pants from last night inside out, the drawers wide open, and Katsuki crouched on the floor near the nightstand with his expression looking like he is one second away from going unconscious.
You blink once. Then twice. Then you walk over to him.
“Oh no,” you say, frowning, “you still didn’t find your watch?”
He rises to his feet so quickly that it almost makes his head spin. “Nah. Got it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup. Nothing to worry about.”
Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Then why were you on the floor?”
“I was stretching.”
“Katsuki.”
“Just warmin’ up and getting my blood flowing—what’s so weird about that?”
“Warming up for what, exactly?”
“For the day,” he says, giving you his best face that says, isn’t it obvious? Like you asked a stupid question, and you’re the one who’s being weird.
You stare at him for a long, silent moment, then glance down at his empty wrist that most definitely doesn’t have the watch he claims to have found. He wants to kick himself—you’re seeing right through his frantic lie.
“Okay…” you say slowly, “so then why aren’t you wearing your watch if you found it, Katsuki?”
His eye twitches, and his jaw grits, and he just really wants to go home if he’s being honest. Summer is over. It’s ruined. There’s no going back from this, so he might as well just give up for now. He’ll try again next year—he’ll be more prepared and listen to his old hag of a mother for once and swallow his pride to admit she was right. All he wants to do is just go home and sleep for a week and forget this whole thing ever happened.
“You sure are askin' a lotta questions this morning,” he says tightly.
You take a few slow steps toward him, studying his face. He knows he looks awful—that you’ll see right through him and his cracking composure. His jaw is tight. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. His breathing is just slightly off. He’s avoiding looking directly at you, which alone is enough to tell you something is deeply wrong. And you know him better than anyone. Usually, he’s grateful for it—but sometimes, at times like this, he couldn’t hate it more.
You see right through him.
“Katsuki.” Your voice softens. “What happened?”
“Nothing fucking happened. Who said anything happened?”
“Something definitely happened.”
“Nothing happened,” he repeats, firmer this time. “I’m fine. Room’s gonna be fine—room service’ll clean it. Everything’s fine. We’re leavin’ in five.”
“Don’t lie to me,” you argue, giving him a rather defiant look. He knows that look—that look that’s as stubborn as he is himself. You’re not going to drop this.
“I’m not lying—”
“You are. Bakugou Katsuki, don’t take me for a fool, you hear? I’m not an idiot, so just tell me what’s going on, or I’m not leaving this hotel room.”
He rubs a hand down his face and turns away from you before you can see the panic written all over him. The despair. The heartbreak, truly—he’s absolutely devastated. If he leaves this vacation without the certainty that you’re going to be his wife, he thinks he might not even live long enough to make it to next summer so that he can try again. He’ll die of heart failure before then.
And it has to be summer. He refuses to go back home and squeeze some proposal into a random weekend just for the hell of it. It has to be perfect. It has to be meticulously planned. It has to be your favorite season, with the best plans and flawless execution. It has to be everything you deserve and more. It has to happen when the two of you can actually celebrate it together—not spend one night happy only to be thrown right back into your whirlwind lives the next morning with patrol this and extra lessons that.
And he was so close—so fucking close to making it happen.
You’re here, you’re dressed, you’re absolutely perfect, and you’re ready to go. But he doesn’t have the ring. How could he be so useless that he couldn’t even keep a single ring safe?
This is the most helpless he’s ever felt—the moment he’s been planning for months is slipping right through his fingers like sand. The reservation he made. The beach spot he picked out. The speech he definitely did not need and definitely did not rehearse in the shower like a fucking loser. Every part of today has been planned down to the second, and now he can’t even follow his perfect plan because he doesn’t have the one thing that matters.
You know him well, and just like he figured you would, you’ve pieced together that something is seriously wrong as you move closer, voice gentler now. “Hey. Kats, look at me.”
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t say anything. Your hand grabs his and tugs him towards you as you hug him from behind, rubbing up and down his abdomen in that soothing way that you always do. He melts against his will.
“Katsuki. Baby.”
He slumps back and sighs.“What?”
“You’re scaring me a little.”
That makes him deflate even more. “Don’t be scared. S’nothing to worry over.”
“Well, I always worry over you, and I especially worry when you leave our hotel room a disaster scene,” you poke his belly.
He still says nothing.
Your voice softens impossibly more. “Baby...just tell me what’s wrong. We can figure it out together—I’ll buy you a new watch if that’s what you’re sad over. It’s a watch! I know you liked it, but hey—material possessions are temporary, okay?”
“S’not the watch,” he mumbles.
“Then what is it? Tell me.”
For a fleeting second, he almost does. He almost tells you and just gets it off his chest, almost blurts the whole thing out, almost says: I lost your ring. I lost the ring I was gonna propose with, and I ruined everything. You’d know what to do. You’d make it better. You’d fix it like you always do. But he doesn’t want you to fix it—he wants to make things good for you, for once. You’re always fixing his fucking mistakes. Always dealing with his disasters and dealing with his nonsense. Katsuki knows he’s not easy to deal with. He knows you’re a saint for putting up with him. So he sighs, ready to swallow down the words, tell you everything is fine, and make sure you have a good time tonight—and for the rest of this trip, too, for that matter.
“S’nothing, okay? C’mon, we have a good time ahead of us—I’m one hell of a planner, baby,” he says as he turns, pulls you into his arms, throws on his best smug grin, and kisses your forehead.
—————
Katsuki is lying to you.
You know that he is. When you come out of the bathroom and see your hotel room an absolute mess, you know something weird is up. Katsuki hates messes—hates when something is out of place for longer than five minutes. He grumbles about your stray hoodies thrown about the apartment and the way you have so many pillows on the bed just to toss them to the floor when you get ready to sleep. He huffs when you don’t clean as you cook and save everything for the end, messing up the kitchen to make one meal. He gives you a flat look when you have empty coffee cups in the cup holders of your car and throws them all away himself with an exasperated shake of his head.
Katsuki hates messes. He’s not messing up your room, then leaving it a mess without cleaning up unless something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.
But he won’t tell you. You know he won’t tell you until he decides that he can, and sometimes, he might even decide that it will never happen. Getting Katsuki to tell you anything before he decides to is like pulling teeth—except you’ve never met such a stubborn fucking tooth that won’t budge.
When he tells you, S’nothing, okay?, and turns around to give you a kiss on your forehead as if that will just make you forget, you’re mildly insulted. But he’s on vacation, too—he’s on the rare time off that he lets himself take once a year for a week and a half at most, and you want it to be good for him. Need it to be good for him. You need him to have a good time and enjoy himself because summer, with you, is the one time he lets himself be selfish and do what he wants. He ignores phone calls and emails, and he even sleeps in after staying up late.
You know he’s lying, but you decide if that will keep him happy, if just for a week and a half, then you’ll let him lie and hide the truth and forget about whatever it is that’s got him so panicked.
“You’re sure it’s nothing?” You kiss his jaw.
He relaxes, shoulders slumping as you drop it. “Yeah, I’m sure. Now let’s go. You look hot, by the way—m’gonna rip that skirt right off’a you when we get back.”
“Don’t even think about it,” you huff, “Ochako spent a long time planning this outfit. She’ll be so sad if it doesn’t make it back.”
Ochako has never been so particular about your outfits before—you’ve never shopped with her at such fancy stores, either. She is never one to spend money on excessively expensive things, but for some unknown reason, she’d insisted that your dream vacation spot requires just as dreamy of a wardrobe, and you let her entertain her whims. A part of you wonders if it’s because she’d never dare take herself on such a nice trip or wear such nice clothes even if her paycheck now more than allows it of her, so you let it happen for the sake of allowing your friend to indulge a little, even if it’s not for herself.
Katsuki huffs out a rather strained chuckle at your comment. “Leave it to Pink Cheeks to ruin my fuckin’ fun,” he grumbles. But he’s distracted. You can tell. “She hangs out with that nerd too much.”
You’re just about to correct him for what feels like the millionth time over the years—their names are Ochaco and Izuku, Katsuki. You’ve known them long enough to get it right by now.
But then your eyes focus on the floor behind him at something. Your blood runs cold when you squint and get a better look—because if you’re not mistaken, and you’re pretty sure you aren’t, you’re looking directly at a tiny velvet box half-hidden beneath the edge of the dresser.
Your eyes flick from the box to the inside-out pockets on the pants that lay about. To the overturned suitcase. To the half-stripped bed. To the sweat at his temples. To the look in his eyes that feels like the world is ending over something he refuses to tell you about. And then back to the small velvet box peeking out from beneath the dresser.
You have a sick feeling you know exactly what’s in the box—and suddenly, it all feels so…so obvious. How did you ever miss it? The way Yaomomo insisted on getting your nails done together. How she insisted on picking for you what to get, on matching your nails to hers—oh please, let’s just match this once together! The way Mina seemed so interested in your rings, trying them on as she rummaged through your jewelry and asked, oh my gosh, I think we’re the same size…what’s your ring size? The way Ochako grabbed your hands and stared at your nails as she’d complimented them with such satisfaction before planning your outfit accordingly—you have to have at least one fancy outfit for the trip, don’t you think?
Everything clicks into place so suddenly, it almost leaves you breathless.
The way he’s so panicked. The way he tore your room upside down. The way, even before all of that, he insisted on this trip being so carefully planned.
Oh—it hits you all at once. Oh.
Your heart gives one hard, dizzying thud against your chest. Then it starts pounding so loudly, your ears feel like they’re ringing.
Katsuki is talking, saying something about how you need to grab a jacket and the air will be chilly when the sun sets at the beach, and he’s not going to share his like he always does this time. “Hey,” he huffs, “are you even listening—”
You step around him quietly, paying him no mind. He stops mid-sentence, brows knitting as he watches you crouch near the dresser. Your fingers reach beneath the edge of the wood and come back holding the little velvet box. And just like that, silence drops over the room—his words cut off mid-sentence.
Katsuki goes completely still.
You straighten slowly, box cradled gently in your palm like something fragile and delicate. Like the wind will blow it away if you’re not careful. Like you can’t bear to lose this one thing you’re holding. His face drains of color as it pales, and his shoulders sag as if someone cut the strings holding him upright.
For the first time since you’ve known Bakugou Katsuki, for the first time in the years and years you’ve loved him and seen him through every lens and angle possible, he looks utterly, completely, spectacularly defeated.
You glance at the room again—at the chaos, the evidence of a frantic search, the proof of how badly he’d been spiraling trying to find this box that he’d been carrying around for you. Then you look back at him. At your Katsuki—your angry, grouchy, gruff Katsuki who loves you so carefully, so delicately, so effortlessly, he teaches you a whole new side of love that you never knew of.
Your chest aches with fondness, and your eyes feel that familiar sting at the back of them that you try to fight back.
You take a step closer, voice quiet as you murmur, “Kats...” Another step. One more. He’s stiff, and his jaw is clenched as he keeps his gaze fixed on the box in your hands. You lift the box slightly between you. “Is this what you were looking for?”
His eyes close as he lets out a shaky breath. A rough exhale leaves him through his nose, and you’ve never quite heard him sound so helpless.
“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely, rubbing his temple. “I…fuck—yeah, sweetheart. That’d be it.”
You fight back a watery smile. “It was under the dresser.”
“I can see that.”
“I think you were too frazzled and missed it.”
“I’m painfully aware.”
“It’s okay—it happens to the best of us, baby. We all lose things.”
His eyes crack open into a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You wanna keep rubbin’ it in or are you done?”
You can’t help it—you laugh softly, stepping into his personal space and bringing a hand against his chest, rubbing slow circles. His heartbeat is still pounding wildly beneath your palm.
“You were planning to propose?”
He looks away immediately. “No. Who the fuck said that—you see a box and think I’m gonna get on my knees for you? Don’t get so confident—”
“Katsuki.”
“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Can’t you just let me have this? Fuck—yes, I was going to propose. Happy? Wanna hear my speech too, just so you’re in the loop?”
“I mean, if you’re offering,” you shrug playfully.
His head slumps forward to your shoulder as he hugs you close. Hugs you tight and close like the proximity is the only thing keeping him together. “Be quiet.”
You turn your head and kiss his temple, letting him stay like that for a few moments before stepping away. Before he can protest as you pull back, you lift his hand and place the small box carefully into it, curling his fingers around it.
“Here,” you murmur. “I found your watch.”
“What the fuck are you saying—”
“Put your watch on and hurry up, we’re already twenty minutes behind schedule, and you said we have lots to do before our dinner reservation.”
You turn on your heel, stepping over the clothes on the floor like they’re not even there. Behind you, there’s a long stretch of silence. Then, “...You cannot be serious.”
You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s still standing where you left him, the velvet box clenched in one hand, staring at you as if you’ve grown two heads.
“What now?” you give him a flat look.
He gives you a look right back. “There’s no point in actin’ like it’s still a surprise, idiot.”
You blink, looking almost convincingly confused. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes narrow as he scoffs. “Don’t start this shit.”
He’s pocketing the ring, though. That dejected look on his face is gone and…and you would almost dare to say he’s fighting back a grin as he walks over to you. You reach for your perfume and spritz your wrists as you hum, “I’m not starting anything. Anyway, do I look okay?”
“Woman, you can’t be real.”
“Katsuki, I’m being very real.” You mimic right back, smiling sweetly at him as you gesture to your outfit. “How do I look?”
He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Beautiful. You fucking know that—you make everyone else look hideous.”
“Maybe we don’t have to put others down when you compliment me,” you scold.
“I’m just telling it like it is,” he snickers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against him as he kisses you. Hard. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Your lips on his, your body against him, and your head cradled in his palms. You bring your hands up to bury into his unruly tufts of hair, and in a few hours, there will be a cool, metal band on one of the fingers that so regularly tangles into his hair.
You can hardly wait.
“You’re wasting time,” you breathe as you pull away, lip gloss smeared against your lips and his, “Now we’re twenty-five minutes behind schedule.”
“Then move it, smartass. We’re burnin’ daylight,” he says, and when he drags you through the doors and takes you outside, when the sun hits his skin and his eyes meet yours, you think about how it’s summer. You like it when it’s summer.
Summer is when Katsuki is going to ask you to be his wife, and summer is when you will say yes. Summer is when you’re going to spend the rest of your life with Bakugou Katsuki.
tbh there rly isnt much smut at all in this but i tagged it just in case bc i get scared that someone who has smut tags filtered would read thru this and get to the minimal spicy scene and be mad its mistagged sdjhfshjdgf so idk. its just there just in case. idk what im doing sorry !
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Hiii! I rlly enjoy ur writing and was hoping if you could do some Kirishima x katukis sister!reader?
Kirishima x Katsuki's sister!Reader
Kirishima who’s definitely hiding it from your brother at first. He doesn’t want to, but he knows he’s probably facing death if he finds out. So reluctantly, the two of you decide to sneak around until the time eventually comes.
Kirishima who spends every moment he can with you, he makes sure to spend lots of time with your brother as well, just so that he doesn’t become suspicious. Mind you, he has walked into the common room a few times to find the two of you alone; playing it off like you were just doing homework while your pages are completely blank. And while yes, he’s a bit upset that you’re alone with a BOY, he trusts Kiri enough to not do anything……
Kirishima who’s still a gentleman that wants to take you out on dates, he just has to get a little creative. PDA is definitely very very limited with you two, you’re both constantly worried one of your friends is around to take a pic, or that Katsuki is magically just around every corner. So dorm room dates are usually your go-to. However, Katsuki seems to lack boundaries when it comes to the two of you and likes to just barge in. So you really try to plan around his schedule.
Kirishima who finds himself sitting in the common room on a friday night, all your friends are there. They’d even managed to drag your brother down. The girls started talking about boys, which eventually led the boys to speaking up and joining in. Somehow, the conversation shifted to Katsuki's opinion on you ever finding a boyfriend; He was not shy with his response. Denki just had to ask…
Kirishima who sits there. Physically holding himself back, trying his damn hardest to react. But it’s just so hard to sit there and listen while Katsuki goes off on a whole ass tangent about it, like he’d been waiting his whole life to speak on it. “She’s not fucking doing that until she’s 40. I don’t care who the hell it is. I’ll kill the guy. Hell, I'll kill any guy who even thinks about it.” And on top of that Izuku just had to ask if Katsuki was being a “little too overprotective.” Just pissing him off even more.
Kirishima who tries his best to slowly shift away from where he’d been sitting, right next to you. Trying his hardest to make it not obvious. But your friends were just a little too observant. “Why are you moving like that Kiri?” “Just trying to get comfortable” “uh huh”
Kirishima who’s still unfortunately sitting beside you when you decide to call it a night. Wishing everyone a lovely night. Kirishima doesn’t even register himself speaking. At least not until he sees your eyes go wide, the shift in the room is very noticeable. Everyone had gone completely silent. Even Katsuki who’d been yelling at Izuku seconds before.
Kirishima who can feel his face heating up as Izuku seemingly repeats what had come out of his mouth. “Goodnight…Baby?” it’s only then he realised he fucked up. He can’t even play it off, clearly everyone heard. He could even bring himself to look in your brother's direction, already feeling the glare on him. “What the fuck did you just say to her?” “Goodnight?” “No, the shit after that.” yeah… this was gonna be a long night.
vyon's mouthpiece. forgot to post this in the midst of becoming a deadbeat 🫀
Hot— that's all you can focus on. The sticky between the webs of your fingers so far away from you, resting a whole stretched out arm's length away on the whale skin leather of the benches that line around the walls of the Sunny's aquarium; your skin's melting, you're sure, it's the sweat that oozes out of your pores, between folds of skin chafing against skin, clinging around your shape, the temporary relief of pushing hair out of your face and stripping down to the barest of layers without flashing your crewmates. Horrid hot, the salt in the air crystallised, evaporated to taste in your mouth whenever you swipe your tongue against your top lip, your own sweat to keep you hydrated. Breathing is damped by the weight of oxygen, thickened and curdled with the chirping of pervasive sun rays atop the Sunny's deck, soaking through the great Adam's wood and congealing through rooms and hallways.
You've no idea how everyone else is coping, gave up trying to play nice in passing conversation with most of your crew— irritated and boiling and hating the mention of ‘Alabasta’. You joined sometime after Alabasta, after Vivi, and after Luffy had taken down his first Warlord. It's never been something that bothered you, not to this degree anyways, but you reckon that the sizzling you've been doing under the Grand Line sun had dehydrated the rationale you had concerning your bitterness to feeling left out. So now all you had were the little shards of annoyance, the unadulterated childish isolation and alienation you had from becoming a Strawhat too late.
You hoarded all the cool treats that Sanji had made into the aquarium, licking vanilla ice cream and caramel glaze off the bottom of your lip as you watched the drag of waves through the glass. The aquarium was notably cooler than the rest of the Sunny, something about the room needing to stay a certain degree so Luffy could keep his dinner fresh and alive until he was hungry, the lack of warm light to keep the fish complacent until Sanji got his knife in them. Plus, no one was in the aquarium— you didn't have to hear them talking about Alabasta.
Watching a purple sea king twist around the water, splitting through the blue with a quick lurch, you blink and it's gone, leaving behind some pathetic catches, smaller schools of fish that were caught in some net cast off the side of the Sunny, forgotten for an hour or two until Franky dragged it up and dumped it into the aquarium. Eventually, even those fish are gone and you're still watching the empty blue, tasting the fizz and crackle of some experimental dessert Sanji'd been tinkering with as you consider the bubbles of air scoring through the water, snapping apart.
Alabasta, Alabasta— the last you'd heard of the country was when the Strawhats were there, something about Smoker uncovering some heinous ploy to take over the world, capturing Warlord Sir Crocodile in the process; you should have known Luffy was there. Speaking of Luffy: Luffy; you keep thinking about Luffy. The last you'd seen of him he had his tongue stuck to the back of the refrigerator where the ice was, melting out of the open door of the fridge before Sanji yelled at him and slammed the door shut on his ass out of principle. It merely bounced back and rattled a few things around.
You think about Luffy as you start eating the ice cream, packaged ones you guys got from a few islands back, tracing melted chocolate up from the inside of your wrist to your palm, sucking on the stale cone, and then dragging a flat tongue up to the cream at the top before biting down. Rich, thickened chocolate melting over your palate as you remember the slip of tan skin between his open vest and the low waist band of his denim shorts, the peek of some no brand boxers. You chew on some swirl of caramel and salt sticks to your molars in the back; beads of sweat over the curve of his hip— you push your thumb against the corner of your mouth to redirect some of the cream into your mouth.
Half a finger in your mouth, the tang of caramel and sweat stuck beneath your nail, transferring a print to the buds of your tongue, you think you've lost your mind when you see a ripple of an arm sneaking in through the door. Must be the heat, the reflection of some flesh coloured fish around you until the hand gropes around for some leverage, nails cut into the matte of the cushion benches and then the waves pulled taut, straightening into a beam and then the door swings, rattling back and forth on its poor hinges as Luffy shoots through the room. He lands, ass up, upside down on the bench across from you.
Luffy makes a ‘nyop’ noise after he plants his feet on the glass of the aquarium behind him, kicking himself ‘round to stand up; his hand throwing the straw hat lop–sided on his shoulder to swing at his back as he looks around like he's not sure where he is.
“Captain,” you drawl, making things easier for him. You've still got that pervasive irritation from being left out as they chatted and giggled and laughed about some giant, perverted crab and camel, but you reckon all the sweet's been rotting your teeth, making words slip and slide easier.
When he turns a thirty–two teethed grin to you, all molars and sharp incisors, you preen; when he calls your name, smiling ‘round the syllables, you shiver. He gives you a moment to see him, he's the shine of an oyster's pearl, the slick of slimy seaweed dressed in unnatural blues; his unforgiving red vest is mellowed into a purple, he'd unbuttoned his shorts earlier, something about letting the air in. It also lets the pests in, letting your eyes slip from the tacky of sweaty skin, tripping over obstructing hems and lingering on the cotton peek of his boxers. His fly's wholly undone, the two corners of his waistband flipped outwards, open like an invitation for you to stay with your gaze. Denim low, low, low on his waist like he doesn't know what he's doing— probably doesn't, no one else in the crew's crazy enough to want Luffy this way, Luffy don't know what it means to want like you do. He must do, he's good with intent, good with knowing those he calls his.
He turns indignant when he sees the food you'd been hoarding. “No fair!” He decides, crashing half into you and swiping an arm around whatever you'd had on your lap to shovel into his wide, greedy, encompassing mouth. He spits out some wrapper and then, belatedly, “it's so much cooler in here,” Luffy realises, letting himself sprawl out on the seats.
You make a general noise of agreement, nodding your head away.
He lets you forget he’s there beside you surprisingly, quietly chewing on the food he’s still got in his mouth. You consider your eyes upon a tiny blip of a fish, a tragic thing that hasn't even been good enough to be food for Luffy, watching it struggle against the stretch of water rolling off of the end of a sea king’s flickering tail. You're startled when Luffy speaks— the fish goes limp, lets itself be washed away. “Are y’ upset?” Dribbling strawberry syrup from his lips. You make a face. Shadows of the deep blue obscure it and Luffy is half distracted by the heat, the food, only catches the frays of your expression turning indifferent again.
“No,” sounds petulant even to your own ears, childish and immature as you toe off your shoes, spread your toes out, and curl them— sweeping your thighs back in closer and digging your heels into the pleather seats. You can feel his gaze like a different shade of a sunburn, heavy the glare of a sun on a different planet; you're masochistic enough to turn over to watch his face bounce through different expressions.
“You upset ‘cause it’s hot?” Luffy asks, slurping up some slushie as the words melt, “Nami gets angry too, have t’ stay away from her when it gets this hot.”
Burning, ashamed maybe, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m not upset,” you adamantly deny.
Luffy looks at you like he’s trying to see something else, apprehensive about the way he nods his head slowly, mouth opens to sound out the words, “mmm, ‘kay.” And then you get more agitated because that's the response he gives Nami when he’s trying to not piss her off about something.
It’s counterintuitive to keep claiming you're not upset but you feel you can't help it, frowning as you deny again. “I’m not.” Third time’s a charm, you reckon, denying a man three times has worked well enough before. But then Luffy comes closer, eyes open wide; his fingers around your knee as he shoves his face closer.
He asks, “why are you getting upset?”
You couldn't betray him the truth, shouldn't, but Luffy's good at knowing it all regardless; he might have even come looking for you just to make sure. His fingers are moist, you can imagine the taste of them in your mouth: metallic salt, sweet vanilla, tonka spiced, cold— you bite on your lip. His body weighs heavy on your knee, burdening you over on your left side. Luffy tilts his head to his shoulder, expressionless mostly, “don't wanna talk ‘bout it?”
“It’s stupid,” you mumble.
Luffy nods, “probably is.” Doesn’t even sound like he doubts it, so it might have been right for you to lower your gaze, hope the shadows of flowing fish cover the apprehensive soft of your features. “Y' should tell me anyway,” Luffy continues, thumbing over the wrapper of whatever else has caught his fancy.
That's not an invitation— Luffy is not one for invites, he warns and then he does. You have a second or two, depending on how distracted he can get himself, before Luffy does what he does best: wants and gets. Ironically, you get distracted by the possible outcomes of this interaction and you entirely miss how he discards the hoard of food and then weighs his whole self, his attention onto you, harder, insistent, waiting. He’s wanting; it won't be long before he gets and you know, you're no fool, you'll fold to his whims.
You let him come to his own conclusion. Too stubborn and far too smart to give him any ammunition; whatever he sees makes him frown.
You're watching his mouth, you realise, after your gaze glides off the sweat under his nose, follows the glide of a downward turn and then slips completely off his chin— skipping around the angle of his Adam's apple, sparkling with a hue of the salty sea and the sharp of scales that get caught between your teeth, irritates you, continues slipping below his open vest and stops again, once more, at the band of his boxers.
“Is it hot?” He asks, like it matters.
Going down was an easy feat, everything glides with the drag of gravity, but going up— against the natural tug— was hard; something in your stomach pants with a feeling you’ve never known when you make eye contact with Luffy; you think it’s been melted out of you, deep between layers of muscle and flesh that you’ve never had the knowledge of. Following that logic, you nod. Luffy, for whatever reason, mimics your nodding; a wet clump of hair slaps down against his forehead and he pushes it back with the back of his hand. Imagine him out of the bath, your brain then supplies, imagine him wet, dripping— imagine him with his hair swept back with nothing but moisture, clothes an afterthought, imagine the flush on his cheeks from the warm of the bath, the smoke that follows his feet with the bathroom door swinging after him, imagine him with wet eyes. Think about his sticky hands, how it stretches around your knees, how his fingers are always closed with no intent of going, about his wide brown eyes— dirt coloured, dyed with the yellow of dandelions he’d been digging around at; the message in his eyes obscured enough that you’re allowed to misinterpret how he makes a point of looking so intently, never lets up with it. Think about it.
“You look like Sanji,” he has the gall to laugh at you afterwards.
That shocks you sober. An offended gasp of air in through your nose, embarrassed and ashamed, as you shove him out of your face; hands against the round of his shoulders. Steady as Luffy is, he hardly moves; he makes an indignant noise but you’re the one that stumbles and slips off the bench. Luffy grips you by the leg when he realises you’re falling backwards. You end up on the floor regardless, hands braced behind you with your legs still hooked up on the leather, eyes wide as you look up at Luffy; it wouldn’t be strange for him to laugh. You’re horrified by the thought and the feeling you’d run away from earlier comes back stronger. If he laughs now, you won't recover.
A while ago, you’d given up on trying to understand Luffy; it’s much too complicated and far too much of a convoluted mission for you to try your hand at. So, naturally, when Luffy drops forward, unceremoniously and in the way that hurts the most, right into your chest, all you can do is take it. The added weight collapses your arms at the elbows; your back pressed against the floor as Luffy shifts his hat onto his head. Comfortable, like it's his rightful spot. Your forearms are against the wooden planks, head tilted up to look at Luffy, “why’d you put your hat on?” is the easiest thing to say.
Luffy shrugs, “felt right.” Amazing, great, wonderful; even if the man himself didn't have a lick of an idea of what you wanted, something in him always knew his crew. You can feel a bruise forming, under the shape of his ass— which you're not sure how to feel about because you don't really want a bruise in the shape of his ass across your hips but there's no reason for it to hurt so much, something like an ache over the skin that he’s against. He leans forward, his hips shift and he comes close enough that the button of his denim shorts end up pressed into your hipbone.
“Captain,” both startled and wary; you think about it quickly as he comes closer, you don't think he'll take offense, he’d be confused at best. He wouldn't understand it enough for you to really be embarrassed about it, it wouldn't mean a thing to him, so you prepare yourself accordingly, and then, quick as you can, “are you trying to kiss me?”
Luffy makes a noise, not of disgust you have to tell yourself, but of confusion. “No, you have ice cream in your hair.” You do have a response for that, albeit it being undeservedly defensive to save face, but then Luffy swarms in again, and drops his jaw— presses his tongue against your hairline to lick up into the sweet wrapped into strands of your hair. You blink. Once. Twice. Luffy mimics you, smacking his lips together, “vanilla?”
It’s so stupid you have to take a minute. Reaching up to tug his hat over his eyes, you keep your hand against the material, pressing it into his face; you’re so confused because anyone else you might have been able to consider it to be flirting— abrupt and perverse, invasive, but for Luffy, it might have been as easy as seeing a crumb of food and just wanting it. Where does that leave you?
Luffy reminds that your place is beneath him. An indignant noise leaves his mouth, “hey,” he shouts, ripping your hands off of him, settling his hat back on his head. He looks at you with a frown, eyebrows furrowed, lips inviting in a pout. “You are upset,” he accuses, “is it ‘cause you’re hot?” A pause, “or did you want a kiss?” He blinks, opening them up again is like the bottom of the ocean unhinging to take you— you imagine that it might be the sight that so many have never had the fortune to see, drowned too early before they get to kiss the floor of the sea. Shame, you think, it’s beautiful, as you look at Luffy. “Or my hat?”
All three guesses suck.
Somehow though, Luffy gets an answer. He tugs the string of his straw hat over his head from under his chin and settles it onto yours, grinning with a ‘shishishi’ tickling through his teeth.
He gives you enough confidence to ask, “what if I wanted a kiss?”
Luffy leaves a gap of silence between you, where his mind seems to wander far away— which is a horrifying sight because it means he’s thinking and seas knows nothing good comes out of him thinking, but you're still underneath him. Stuck beneath his weight, you shift awkwardly, almost wanting to get away. His lips part to mouth around some word in a tongue you must be unfamiliar with, but you watch as a line of saliva stretches between his lips, thick and white from the dairy of the ice cream and all of a sudden, “captain.” And you don't recognise that word then either, even when it comes from your own mouth. An unfamiliar language, an emotional one maybe; Luffy knows it though ‘cause whatever you were trying to say, he understands and responds by dipping his head down.
Your breath catches, pulls back into your mouth like you're hoping it won't scare him away and he takes a moment. Luffy studies you, assesses in his own way; you get scared, pressing your feet against the wood of the benches and pushing hard in an attempt to slide out from under him.
It doesn't really work— fat ass Luffy keeps you down— but it gets some startled noise out of Luffy, a sort of gasp and hitch of breath that you think is most similar to when he resurfaces after falling into the sea, clutching onto Zoro for dear life, looking all pathetic and miserable. He twitched. “Hey, don't do that.” He says first, decidedly upset as he tests the feeling in his toes by curling them. Petty and still childish, you try it again. He lurches— all sharp angles and obtuse ticking in a way you’d never seen rubber do; his spine snaps forward in parts of three, motion separated from each other like they’re not of the same whole and Luffy folds himself down against you. A frisson that jumps and skips across the active lines of a transmission tower of tangled wires and obscured messages. His head is bowed low, the point of his widow’s peak sat at the hollow between your collarbones, his knees pulled in as close as possible with you obstructing the rest of the way. There’s barely a second for you to appreciate the view, his sun–burnt skin and the slight line of lighter skin under his vest all in the same glaze as salted caramel, before Luffy nods his head back up to glare at you. “I said don’t do that.”
“Why not?” And it’s only half asked to be difficult, the other half is because you want to know why it’s bothering him— why it’s made him twitch.
The response you get is the furrow of a brow— one you don’t understand but react to all the same. Your head tilts and it's now that urges of fight leave you and discards behind simple curiosity; you don’t really get it, no, not even when it’s yours, but Luffy does. He’s good at that, at knowing. He doesn’t know much, but he understands how the synapses work, where the sinew and the bone connect, he knows where the blood sits, how it gets to the heart— he knows where to look to catch every tick, vellication, tremble; in hypotheticals, of course, because Luffy doesn’t know it in himself, but on you, on his crew it’s easy. Luffy knows exactly where to touch so that your skin opens up to invite him closer in. You’d given him a hint earlier.
“Feels weird,” he responds, nose scrunching and, because restraint is unfamiliar to him, he continues, “makes me w’nna kiss you.”
You thought Luffy had lost all capacity to shock you, thought you’d managed to get used to his particular brand of chaos. You’re not sure what your face is doing, past your lip trembling in open and close to make some noises that you think a blubbering fish would make on dry land. Luffy shows about as much interest in women as Sanji shows interest in men, which is to say he doesn’t and if he does, it's apprehensively at best. He’s no fool and he knows about sex, as juvenile as his brothers might have made it or as clinical as Chopper might have explained, but for him to want the prerequisite is confounding.
You squint your eyes at him, disbelieving and unsure. “A kiss?” You echo, the words sounding even crazier as they glide around the aquarium, return to your ears in a glutinous lacquer picked up from molecules of wet clinging ‘round the air. “What’d you even know about kissing?” And then, “are you making fun of me?”
“No, why would I do that?”
“Cause it’s kissing,” you stress like Luffy might get it. He doesn’t. You won’t get an answer past frustration. “What did I even do?”
Luffy huffs, irritated. He stretches his back out again, presses his hands onto your shoulders. “This,” and you’re reminded that you’ll never truly be able to guess what Luffy is capable of when he rolls his hip into yours, up and lousy. The intention is there, but the point is immature, doesn’t work in the way he’s trying to make it. Still, it knocks a breath up your throat, warped in all the heat, viscous with all the melting it's done and leaves slick all the way up to the back of your throat when the metal button of his shorts catches on a belt loop of your pants.
“This?” And you do better, lift your hips from the floor and press it up into him where— yes— you feel the faint hardening of something distinct and Luffy makes that same gasp, twitches all the same. His fingers tremble over your shoulders and he squeezes down around skin hard.
Well, there’s your answer.
Something possesses you easily when you know Luffy is being generous enough to allow it. “Luffy,” he shakes his head, his bottom lip caught between teeth and you remember how careless he is with his mouth, how easy it is for him to tear through meat and how sloppy he gets with sauce, “captain.” Another gasp broken through the surface of water, pathetic, miserable. You gratefully take your catch. Grabbing onto the lapels of his vest and tugging him down as you stomp your shoes onto the floor, jerking your hips up as your teeth rattle, ring against Luffy’s.
Luffy's kissed before. That's the impression you have first, but then you realise that no, that's just instinct. He doesn't know what he’s doing, which is great— makes you feel an immature flicker of pride when you drop your jaw and press your open mouth against his, swallowing all the splutters of gasps and breaths and heavy pants; something ugly inside you, a muscly thing full of phlegm and blood, something you haven't realised the weight of since joining the Strawhats, preens at the realisation that this was new. A whole unexplored territory of touch and new experiences for your captain and here you were, the one who had initiated it all and the one to see it through all the way to the end with him. The only Strawhat that's had your tongue against Luffy's palate, where he keeps all his most treasured flavors.
Before you get to really feel sick at the train of thought, Luffy squeezes around the fabric of your shirt and then his tongue desperately lurches. It feels like drowning as the muscle stretches out, like he’s trying to flood your mouth, rewire all the senses in your mouth to only know him; you shouldn't be surprised, when Luffy doesn't know what to do with what he wants, he does it all excessively and hopes how large his gesture had done at least something notable. A hypnic jerk of your hips makes him pause, spitting out his tongue from your mouth.
“Hey!” He shouts, offended; he presses his weight down to keep you still, like he’s denying you the pleasure to keep rutting against him.
You're equally miffed, “don't stretch out your tongue— holy shit, I couldn't breathe.”
Luffy doesn't look a bit apologetic, just annoyed that he’s got it wrong; his face scrunches up and then, finally, “sorry.”
The tension on your face splits and breaks away as the thought occurs to you, he really doesn't know what he’s doing, then you get giddy again, because oh God, Luffy doesn't know what he’s fucking doing and you're the first person to have ever scolded him for his horrible kissing habits, because your captain has never kissed before.
“Hey, you look like Sanji again!” He points out, a grin already on his face.
You slap your hand against his face, “shut up.” The moment’s gone, you sigh, at least you get his first kiss, even if Sanji was somewhat, dubiously involved.
You're shifting to get out from under him when Luffy grabs at you. “Where you going?” He whines, “I wanna keep kissing.”
You don't need much more convincing, dogish when it comes to him. “Alright, captain.” This time you don't miss the slight shiver that makes Luffy twang like a rubber band, how it ends at the very tips of his hair and the sigh he lets out of him; like a string of rubber that's so easily malleable, stretches taut with a curled index and then slips off with a misguided touch and can so readily hurt. He’s a lot more tentative this time, careful and slow when he opens his mouth, tilts his head to let you slide the curve of your lips together; the friction of two tectonic plates over the course of years spent in anticipation, shivering and fizzling under the cool, cool sea until it learns of touch.
His denim shorts tremble like the waves following a collision, shifting up to cover the colour of his boxers before dragging back down as he mimics a sloppy tempo against you. Sweat builds up again, you try to convince yourself it’s the same kind of heat that would have troubled Luffy in Alabasta. You thought the sound of Luffy eating would always be annoying, smacking his lips and slurping and letting out obnoxious, appreciative moans and groans that would make any other pirate irritated; you're selfish enough to enjoy it when it’s you he’s got his undivided attention on trying to swallow. He surges forwards, follows with a stubborn you know well, the moment makes his straw hat tip back, threatening to slip off your head but Luffy slaps a hand against it and steadies it back onto your head.
Satisfied, he focuses back onto you. The sound of wet closes in around your head, pure obscenity, the savagery of ducking your head down and goring down on an open orifice of your meal— it slicks around creases of your ears, floods in and makes everything else sound far, far away; distantly, very distantly, you hear the sudden swerve of a large tail of an unimaginable beast that Luffy has only found usefulness in its calories. He's sloppy in ways you don’t understand, you can feel the sticky of spit against the corner of your mouth and it's thick in a way that ain't right, swirled with vanilla and thick chocolate as Luffy curls a hand under your nape. The sound of your own gasps, flavoured with captain's spit, return to you foreign after it circles around the walls of the aquarium, taunting schools of fish as it bounces onto the glass and reverberates back to you in a poor, embarrassing echo.
Captain's getting heavy, the intent of how his hips press low against you and then the curve of his bulge as he settles it between the stitch of fabric and then slides it up in a rough manner. “Captain,” breathless, like breaking out the ocean, Luffy doesn't stop— opens his mouth wider with the intention of swallowing the call of his name like he doesn't want it to go any further, “Lu— Luffy, give, give me a sec’, c'mon.” He chases the words with his grinding, every vowel followed by his insistent rutting. “Let me get my pants off.”
He whines, pulls back from your lips after he places his tongue flat against the top of your mouth and traces a line from the back to the edge of your teeth. “No, don't make me stop—” His jaw clenches, teeth grinding like he’s gonna set his second gear into motion if you even dare keep pushing for a pause; he squeezed around the nape of your neck, blunt nails digging into skin that makes you duck your head back into your shoulders, “not stoppin’, captain’s orders, keep going.” He uses his foot from where his legs are bent to straddle you to kick at your thigh like he's trying to get a horse to move.
It would offend you but then again this is Captain.
So naturally, the only path to try and take is to appease him as nicely as you can into getting what you want. “Captain,” voice low, a thickened sweet with catches of cold ice like a milkshake, “you feel good right?” He snaps his head in a nod, eyebrows furrowed at you with a snarl that is so blatant in its ‘so what?’.
“I want to feel good too, so let me get my pants off.”
Frustration makes his features curl, the ears of a canine predator laying flat against its head, he flattens his tongue against his sharpest tooth and clicks his tongue as he takes it away. You've never had his annoyance directed at you, perhaps for the better because you can only imagine that it’d have had you as wet as you are now, no matter the circumstances. He lifts his hips if only for a second, doesn't wait for you to do anything before he grabs at the hem of your shorts and tugs it down. Once it’s down enough to reveal your underwear, Luffy decides it’s good enough to get back down.
“Okay?” He asks with the petulance of an impatient man, daring you to say anything but yes.
You breathe out a sigh that rattles through your ribs, pings off the curve of bones before it’s gone, “yeah,” you settled your hands onto his thighs, “thanks Captain.”
How submissive you are makes him a little less grudgeful, huffing before he starts again, picks up the speed just from when he’d stopped. His irises quiver with an unwavering focus, knees pressed in against your side as he knocks the curve of a strained bulge against the dampening crease molding against your skin. This is what he looks like, all those times his straw hat obscures his face, when the boy you love becomes who he’s promised to be: captain; eyebrows sharpened into an upward slant, a scrunch of agitation between them, animalistic and wanting, getting. Sweat becomes more manageable when you get to taste its salt off his tanned skin, keening upwards with your hands pressed against the panels of wood behind you to get there, swerving your head along the cut of his jaw to get up into his sideburns, toffee that crackles in wads of dairy thick spit, makes your throat dry when you swallow.
Luffy slams you down, so hard that your vision splits for a moment and the world duplicates with a blurry fizz, cracks back from its duplicity when he gathers your tethers by ravishing his hands up your shirt, his thumbs pressed into your navel and then pushing up so he can cup his hands over your breasts. He’s no patience to fiddle with the clasps at your back, pushing the support of your bra over the fat and strangles you with the top of its cups as he squeezes around the meat. The liquid ease of earlier words are roughened back to solids under his grinding, leaves you in half–breaths and strangled gasps that mimic the vibrations of his name, of captain, of pleases, and of mores. He’s never looked more sober, heavy to consider; he’s usually grand, boisterous with all his actions, unnecessarily so with his ability to blow himself up, stretch to a larger stature.
Luffy has a handful of tit that he abuses, you try your best to keep up with how he thrusts his hips into yours, but you soon find out that there is no tempo, no pattern, and it annoys him more than it does help. You surrender yourself to laying there, clenching around nothing and gripping onto his thighs, fingers pushed up past the hem of his shorts as he ducks his head down and bites at a hardened nipple and then suckles. “Mine.” Captain says once. You hadn’t even needed to hear it, you knew you were his far before he had even invited you onto his ship, but it’s chilling for him to acknowledge it, to know it and to use it— for you to hear it echo and slick between grooves of wooden planks, to adhere to splits between panels of glass, and for the sea kings to burrow into hiding when they hear his voice. It’s entombed in his haki, you realise when you see an eel–like sea monster snap at an angle to shoot away from the glass of the aquarium.
You peek down at him at the valley of your chest and find he’s already looking up at you, lying in wait. He burrows his strained bulge between saturated cotton and tilts his head. “Yeah, captain.” His lips jerk into a wide grin, manic around the shaking of his pupils, and then snaps up, thrusts the crook of his cock right against your clit. When he finds that it makes your head tip back, pushing into the shape of his straw hat, he does it again.
“Here?” He asks, almost amused. You nod your head, a whine stuck between phlegm when he does it again. He gets stubborn about it, testing it a couple of times until he feels your nails dig into his skin and then, he moves his head further up, licking up from your throat to your chin. Captain kisses you again, just once, a sweet peck that puts you off–kilter in the moment and makes you follow after him, “hey,” humming to get your attention, apologises for the chaste kiss by mimicking what it would have been against your clit with his bulge. “Are you gonna tell me what got you upset?”
You frown, feeling immature in the way you bite on your gums, peeking up at him through lashes and furrowed eyebrows. Luffy mimics your expression as he settles his hands by your head, boxers sticky on yours— the reminder that it was your doing appeases you, “you're not gonna tell your captain? C'monnnn, ‘m asking nice an’ all.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck if he doesn’t know how to get under your skin. A full body itch, the need for nails to press in at the back of your head and split your skin down to muscle to your heels, you need this pumping blood out of your body and you need oxygen to deplete and you need someone to break your bones and you think you want it to be him. Most of all, you want his approval more than anything. Even if you hadn't, the sound of his stained boxers on yours, the way he looms like he's about to unhinge his jaw over your head— it's hard to say no when he's redirecting all thoughts to your pussy.
You take a large breath to centre yourself and because he's getting real fucking precise with where you're most sensitive, it gets hot beneath the flesh, gives you the illusion of it being cooler when the heat is not plastering to your skin but bubbling beneath you. “I didn’t like— fuck— you guys talking about Alabasta.” His hips jerk in surprise and there's a split second when he freezes like he doesn't expect it but then he's back into motion.
“Why not?”
You look at him like he's stupid, realising, when your eyes settle on him wholly, how wrecked he looks. His skin is glazed with a sheen, sweat collects at angles of his shape and threatens to drip onto you, his hair is frizzy with the heat, stray matted strands pointing upwards and about at the back of his head, his eyes spinning ‘round and ‘round before they drag back down to the colour of your panties, letting out a sigh, and then back up; you're reminded of cinnamon rolls, the speckles of seasoning that could easily be his freckles, the glaze of liquid sugar rolled between folds of his body, the gooey centre that you'd have to unravel the rest to get to. Sweet on your tongue, sticky on your fingers with the way you eat it, licking your lips afterwards.
“I was jealous, captain.” For your honesty, Luffy fucks his hips harder. Or not. He's doing it for his own pleasure at his point, hardly listening but ‘uh–huh'ing anyways because he'd asked you to tell him and he's a good, good captain so of course he'll listen to the woes of his crew. His ‘mhm’ is shaky, trembles after his hips stutter and he wanders his hands from the ground to your shoulders for a better grip, his jaw is clenched and you feel the twitch of his cock between the heated folds of your cunt, hitting against your clit with every tick. “I wasn't yours at that point, so I didn't like hearing about it.”
Maybe he just wants you to shut up, maybe he means it and it's as easy as, “you're mine now.” Captain promises, threatens, warns— you don't fucking know.
“Yeah,” you agree, and then “yeah, yeah,” ‘cause he’s getting real good with his hips and you're closer than you remember, losing all heat between your toes as you curl them, clawing at his thighs with a moan that bares your throat to him.
“So wet,” Captain observes, panting between the consonants, “so hot, s’ good.”
His dick twitches, wet blossoms from the pre sticking to his inner thigh. He lowers himself down and opens his jaw around your throat, bites down as you bring your knees into his sides, squeezing tight around him as you feel thrumming shocks of an overwhelming orgasm twitch through your body; your ears pop, a bursting of a bubble right in your eardrum.
You're halfway through a call of Captain's name when he licks over the marks of his teeth and he says, “I know,” and presses his lips against yours as he drags a final grind against you, mouthing off words you're not sure of as he comes. He eases off the rutting slowly, like he doesn't really want to, but the feeling gets a little painful as he keeps chasing. Captain keeps himself satisfied by kissing, making obnoxious smacking noises and humming with his tongue on top of your teeth. His kissing is strange, isn't so much kissing but mimics the shadows of what eating is, too much teeth and swallowing for it to be anything different, carries a dangerous intent— you’re sure he’d swallow if he could.
Luffy pulls back with a wide cheshire grin that you can somehow taste on your tongue— it’s sweet, a kick of a spice, thickens and melts, “you're nakama, ‘right? Means you’re always gonna be mine.”
To be honest, it’s embarrassing how that comforts you so. It’s only now in the situation you blush, “mhm.” It’s worse in a way, childish and immature, an unknown feeling to a child who’s only learnt of the sweet things in life.
“Don't be stupid, ‘kay? Y’re not meant to be,” a pause where he thinks, “but you should tell me when you're feelin’ stupid, I’ll help.”
You’re not exactly sure how he intends to help, but that’s a promise, and if you know anything about Luffy, it’s that he’s stubborn to a dizzying degree and he’ll make sure to do as best he can to make good on promises. Either way, if you find yourself acting a bit more stupid after you follow Luffy out of the aquarium, dragging him into the showers of the Sunny, it’s no one’s problem but Captain’s.
sure, he doesn’t have the world’s best hearing—he has his loud ass quirk to thank for that—but surely you didn’t just refer to someone as your husband?
across the table from him, mina barks out a laugh, punching you by the arm, to which you react by sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck.
…almost as if she was teasing you about a special someone.
shit.
before he knows it, the words are out of his mouth.
“what husband?”
at his sudden interruption, the booth falls silent, the chattering kaminari and sero beside him pausing to glance in his direction, just as you two and kirishima’s gazes drift towards him.
suddenly aware of the attention he just voluntarily drew to himself, bakugou flames.
still, he needed to know.
“you said something about a husband,” he clears his throat, staring at you and only you, although he can sense everyone else peering at him.
“uh, yeah,” you answer, eyeing the rest unsurely. “mina was asking me about it.”
a beat.
“i thought you were single,” bakugou finds himself croaking—voice cracking embarrassingly midway—despite himself. at his statement, your eyes widen in surprise, but before you can open your mouth to say something, mina’s already leaning in, partially obscuring his view of you.
“why?” mina smirks, the same way that always indicates trouble, “does hearing her talk about a husband bother you?”
“mina,” you chastise the acid hero—elbowing her this time—just as bakugou shoots her a warning look, one that she immediately catches, and the pink-haired girl nods, miming the act of zipping her lips closed, a gesture you thankfully don’t see—gaze downcast in what looks like embarrassment.
“i am,” you clarify, struggling to meet his eyes—evidently flustered. “i was just—uh—referring to a game i’m playing.”
“…where you have a husband,” bakugou finishes skeptically, brows furrowed in confusion.
somehow, that doesn’t make him feel any better.
“yeah,” you squawk, much to his chagrin. “it’s part of the storyline,” you explain.
to that, bakugou only nods stiffly—not knowing what else to say—finding himself suddenly grateful when the conversation naturally shifts to something else.
the minute he gets home, though, the topic’s back in an instant in the form of a gajillion text messages from a whopping four different people—namely: mina, kirishima, kaminari, and sero—all varied, but united by the same central message.
and it's how they had no idea great explosion murder god dynamight had changed his name to captain obvious.
a/n. wrote this back when i was playing story of seasons: pioneers of olive town. once again, thank you to the anon who sent me this idea! lowkey forgot this drabble existed lol so finding this while i was scrolling through my old blog's writing tag was a pleasant surprise (0.4k)
˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗
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"mr. midoriya, when will your wife come to visit again?"
his students were menaces. he knew that from day one of the semester, but the question played over and over in his mind as he unlocked the door to your shared apartment.
what a silly question to ask your teacher...he knew that if he asked aizawa the same all those years ago, he'd be put through extra quirk training.
izuku froze when he opened the door and saw you standing there just a few steps away in the cutest nightgown he'd ever seen and the cat cradled in your arms.
"awwww, you're home!!" the grin spreading across your face nearly caused izuku to drop to his knees.
"y-yeah! i am!! sorry for staying late, had some things i needed to finish," he tried to take off his shoes without tripping, but to his luck he did just that. you were just too distracting!
"that's alright. i only just got home not too long ago. didn't have to wait too long for you..." his heart melted as he watched you scratch at the cat's belly.
"my students, they, uh...want you to come and visit again!" izuku was proud that you were his wife, and even prouder that the other important people in his life loved you almost as much as he did. but never more- that love was reserved for him and him only.
you smiled softly at him and, in the name of all might, izuku could have sworn he would marry you again right on the spot. "sure, i'll swing by soon. i have to check my schedule to see what day i'm off and i'll let you know."
"awesome!! yes, amazing, i'm sure they'll be excited and we can do a fun activity or something and-"
you cut him off with a soft kiss to his temple, one hand gently reaching out in an attempt to loosen his tie for him. "deep breaths, zuku...we'll figure that out once we know when i can come in."
you were absolutely going to be the death of mr. midoriya. and he most certianly didn't mind <3
you blink—dumbly—your gaze that you didn't even notice had gone unfocused a second ago readjusting to the sight right in front of you, currently standing one foot away.
one foot away.
kirishima.
kirishima is one foot away.
in front of you.
you swallow the nonexistent spit residing in your throat.
shit.
what did he say again?
"sorry—" you stammer, half-wishing the ten layers of foundation the makeup artist plastered on your face earlier this morning were enough to hide the evident fact that you're currently flaming. "what did you say?"
in front of you—one foot away (jesus)—kirishima chuckles almost a little bit too sheepishly, as if he's the one currently making a fool of himself between the two of you.
(bless his kind soul.)
"i was just asking," kirishima starts, rubbing the back of his neck timidly, "if i may put my hand on your hip? since we're slow dancing and all—"
at that, you whip your head to look at the space around you, and sure (unfortunately) enough, every couple on the dance floor is now standing significantly closer to each other, swaying slowly to some ballad you're too far gone to identify at the moment.
when the hell did the party bops morph into some sickening crooning?
you turn back towards an apologetic kirishima, trying your best to school your features from a wince into a neutral expression.
although you might be doing a worse job than you initially thought, because almost instantly, you see the sorriness disappear and recognition flash across the redhead's face, his mouth already opening to say something before you can beat him to it.
"only if you're comfortable, though. shoot, i should've asked you if you were okay with this before i invited you to—"
"no, it's okay," you somehow manage to say on time, effectively interjecting the man. now it's kirishima's turn to blink at you, and you take his stunned silence as an opportunity to continue.
"i'm okay with slow dancing," you finally manage to declare, acutely aware that you're probably—absolutely—the only pair that isn't dancing by now, the growing anxiety about having your feelings being put on display for everyone to see because of this…less than ideal situation only expanding by the minute.
whose idea was it to partner you with fucking kirishima eijirou anyway?
(it was the bride's. you're a bridesmaid. he just also happens to be a groomsman.)
(the world has it out for you.)
(scratch that. ochaco and izuku have it out for you.)
"that's—uh—great," kirishima half-says, half-chuckles, shifting his weight on his other, fancy shoe-clad foot.
god. you're definitely weirding him out.
the pro-hero (uncomfortably, you think) clears his throat. "i'll go ahead, then—"
you gulp. "sure—"
you can only watch as kirishima hesitantly reaches out for both your hip and hand, eyes admittedly too focused on his timid approach to notice practically anything else.
(like the way he must be cringing in disgust.)
(okay. maybe you're being too harsh on yourself.)
it takes everything in you not to shiver when his delicate hold eventually lands on your clothed skin a moment later, nor when he gently clasps his right hand with yours.
"this okay?" kirishima asks quietly after a beat, peering at you almost—shyly?
(he's a gentleman. that's why. it's got nothing to do with how you're currently less than a foot away from each other.)
"yup," you retort lamely, looking at the ceiling, the floor, your assigned table, everyone around you—anything but him—as you both move minutely to the rhythm.
"do i look that bad?" kirishima jokingly asks after an awkward lull, catching you entirely off guard. your eyes snap to meet his as if on cue, your features contorted in palpable confusion, because why would he even think that?
what you end up saying, though, is something way milder.
and less incriminating: "huh?"
"i'm just kidding," kirishima chuckles—that darned boyish laugh of his—your eyes snagging on the way the sides of his eyes crinkle with the motion. "you seem to be refusing to look at me, is all."
no shit, you want to quip—not that you're capable of being playful—not now, of all times.
especially not when his hand is currently settled heavily on your waist.
"it's just—this wedding is really nice," you somehow manage to say after a second, forcing a smile on your face that you hope is friendly-and-not-at-all-nervous-passing. "ochaco and izuku really outdid themselves with the planning."
"right? and they barely took leaves from patrol," kirishima huffs, shaking his head—disbelief laced in his usually good-natured tone, "those two are beasts—i don't know how they did it."
"they probably had help," you reply honestly, glancing to where the newlywedded couple is currently finishing their slice of cake up front. you turn your attention back to kirishima, smiling, "i heard bakugou really pulled through in making up for izuku's indecisiveness."
kirishima laughs at that, much to your (embarrassing) delight. "that you heard right. he did so well, i'm actually really sure now about making him my best man."
as if on cue, you trip on your heel—essentially losing your balance—and you would've hit the marbled floor if it weren't for kirishima grabbing you by the waist with his pro-hero reflexes, pulling you close to him—
now, even a little less than a foot away.
"are you okay?" kirishima all but rasps, an almost homogenous mixture of surprise, alarm, and worry etched all over his features.
his hands are still wrapped around your middle.
"i'm fine," you croak, straightening up and taking a step back to put more distance between you and the redhead. his arms fall to his sides. "sorry 'bout that."
"it's okay. it was my fault, i think."
you snort. "it definitely wasn't, but thanks, anyway."
kirishima shakes his head. "i'm not exactly what you call a dancer, you see."
"really, you're good. i'm just clumsy."
"was it something i said?" kirishima chuckles again, although it's not exactly riddled with mirth this time. "because i'm not actually planning planning my wedding—it was just a thought—"
"no, really, it's nothi—"
"i actually don't even have a fiancée yet, let alone a girlfriend—"
"you don't have to explain yourself, kirishima-san."
"well, i want to," kirishima suddenly blurts out, leaving you both bug-eyed and staring at each other, at least until he looks away, suddenly seeming uncharacteristically unsure of himself.
he sighs, his gaze still averted. "i guess i just don't want you to misunderstand."
shit.
"i-i'm not misunderstanding anything," you squawk after a beat, head spinning in i-don't-know-what-the-fuck-is-happening.
(maybe he's just the type to want to get his point 100% across. right.)
whatever kirishima wanted you to say, however, it apparently wasn't that, because his boy-next-door countenance is now out of the proverbial window, replaced by an unusual—conflicted, even—frown.
"but you're still not getting it, though," he mutters more to himself than you.
"g-getting what?"
at that, he finally meets your eyes.
and for the second time tonight, you find yourself almost floored, only this time by the sheer determination reflected in his irises.
but not as much as by what he says next.
"that i like you, y/n."
a/n. this one's from when i tried to challenge myself to write someone else aside from bakugou, and this was the result. please be kind lmfao. (1.2k)
˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗
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contents: suguru geto x gn!reader. canon au. light angst, hurt/comfort. part of my very vague ”cult era suguru breaks into your apartment a lot” au. depictions of depression and apathy from reader (implied). wc: 766
There's blood under your fingernails, blood staining your palms and oscillating down the drain.
You turn off the tap, not bothering to wipe your hands first— catching your own reflection in the mirror fastened to the bathroom cupboard, dazed eyes staring into dazed eyes. You make for a macabre image. A corpse that learned to breathe.
Tonight's mission went smoothly, all things considered. As smoothly as a Grade 1 mission can go unless you're Gojo Satoru, meaning non-lethal injuries and your target successfully seized, battered buildings whose cost won't cause the middle management too much trouble. The blood on your palms isn't your own: that, in itself, is a blessing.
So there's nothing to complain about.
Not the buzzing in your skull that still hasn't subsided, not the mess you've made of the pure-white sink, not the fact that the higher-ups keep giving these missions to you. Not the fact that they're testing your loyalty towards them in such petty ways. It's been eight years, but they still haven't forgiven you for threatening them, and they're still making sure all missions involving curse users land at your desk.
(If you were a bolder person, you'd tell them your loyalty has never been with any particular faction. That if you were on his side— if you did want to kill them all— it'd be with him and only him, not any group of misfits or rogue sorcerer they sniff out from god-knows-where. That you couldn't care less about anyone who isn't him, inside the society or outside of it, revolutionary or not. You'd tell them, and they'd use it against you, and they'd kill you for it. But you'd get the satisfaction of flaunting your capacity to choose who you align yourself with in the faces of those rendered puppet-masters by the Jujutsu world, and that would be enough.)
With a groan, you step away from the sink. Your head hurts. Flashes of heat at the crown of your temple.
Sluggishly, you drag your feet towards the threshold to your bedroom, listening to the clock on your kitchen wall ticking towards midnight. The lamp on your nightstand isn't lit; shadows fall across the interior. A houseplant long past rotting, a painting you got from a mission overseas, paperbacks you've yet to read and don't know if you ever will. You walk towards the window to unhook the latch, then seat yourself on the edge of the mattress.
A sigh leaves your lips. Your eyes draw shut.
On nights like these, you know he's coming. Nights where the weight on your shoulders digs in more than usual, nights where you can't lull the monsters in your head to sleep, nights where you miss him more than usual.
On nights like these, Suguru always breaks in through the open window off the back of his mantis ray, like he's doing now, and slithers over you until you’re falling backwards onto the bed— your limbs dead and weightless around you. You blink, and he's there. Smiling from behind the windowpane. You blink, and he's got you laid out on the mattress, palms on either side of your head. He brings with him the scent of incense, and a look you cannot decipher.
From where he's looming above you, he seems to notice the vacancy in your expression. Because he stills, flexes his pupils in silence, a sharp observation; lowers his head to nose at your neck. His hair falls across your shoulders, ink-black silk, his heavy robes blanketing your body.
”Are you alright?”
His voice is soft with fatigue.
(There's still blood under your fingernails. You didn't bother to wash your hands properly, only let the water rinse away the worst of it. Tomorrow you'll just stain them again, so what's the point?)
”Mm,” you crane your neck to give him more room to work with. He takes it, greedily, suckling gently at the spot where your pulse beats the hottest. ”Just dirty.”
Suguru hums.
Silently, a knee comes to rest between your thighs. An anchor to your shipwreck.
"I understand."
He laces your fingers together. Your palm is still sticky with soap, but he doesn't seem to mind. Clumps of drying blood must be dirtying his hand, but he doesn't let go. He left you behind eight years ago, but the way he touches you could almost make you think he regrets it. When he raises his head to look at you, his amber eyes are dark with wanting, and an emotion you don't want to name.
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