#hispanic

TOO MANY RERECORDINGS. or, that is what it felt like as you waited outside the studio. well, saying that might’ve been a little dramatic, because it really wasn’t that bad getting to watch your boyfriend do what he loved! but, you certainly did not love sitting on a leather couch counting down each second until your boyfriend finished recordings,

so, every so often, you’d rise up to get a better look at his face, pure emotion flooding his expression. the passion he felt radiating off the walls and into your heart. benito never failed to make you proud.

but, now, even from where you’re sitting, (comfortably splayed across the couch) you can tell mr. bad bunny is frustrated with his music. unfortunately for all, the show must go on, he has to record again and he has to keep fixing his mistakes.

you could hear a faint spanish conversation to his producer, and the clink of his headphones being placed in their spot. then, the door opens and a sulky benito comes walking out.

“hola.” you calmly spoke.

“hola. estoy cansado.” he mumbled.

he then lowered himself next to you, reaching his arms out to bring you into his lap. you accepted his embrace, and swung your leg around his torso, bracketing his legs. then, you wrapped your arms around his neck, giving him a soft kiss, melting him instantly. you leave a hand on his cheek, with your thumb tracing his lower lip.

“¿quieres hablar de ello?” you whispered to him, trying to lift his mood.

“no, ahora mismo no,” he replied, closing his eyes and leaning into your palm.

“solo quiero acostarme aquí por un minuto.” he breathed.

you gently rest your head on his shoulder, and rub reassuring patterns onto his back. slowly, his breathing evens and you can feel him falling asleep. a gentle snore reverberates through the small room. it feels like the true definition of peaceful.

until, that is, benito’s producer taps on the glass window. you glance backwards slowly in order to not wake your boyfriend. the producer mouths “cinco minutos.” and you give him a lazy nod.

you shift your arm from benito’s neck to have both palms on his face, gently lifting it from your shoulder. you rub your thumbs across his cheeks, his eyes softly flutter open. a lazy grin peeks its way onto his face as his arms snake around your hips.

“hora de levantarse.” you murmur lovingly.

a loud groan rumbles from inside him, “noo, un poco más, por favor.” a pouting lip juts itself outwards.

you sweetly tug at his curls, running your fingers through them. “lo siento, no es mi elección.” you reply as you carefully shift off of him, his grip on your waist sadly loosens. his face is decorated with an anguished expression.

“voy a terminar esto muy rápido, lo prometo.” he assures you.

moments like this reminded you how lucky you were. when the world got the perfectionist behind the mic, you got the man who just wanted to be with you.

seeing him happy again made you realize nothing else in the world really mattered. and being here, with him, made everything else fade away.

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Katsuki had always been on his own—no siblings, just him against the world. He learned early how to take care of himself, especially after leaving his parents’ house. He didn’t need anyone fussing over him; he was a grown man. He could handle it… even if, sometimes, he forgot to eat.

Not on purpose. He’d too busy, too wired, too pissed off from the weight of saving people who didn’t even say thank you. He’d crash through the door with blood under his fingernails and a headache splitting his skull, strip down to his boxers, and collapse on the couch like a dead man. Dinner? He’d scowl and wave it off.

But then there was you.

You, with your arms crossed and a Tupperware in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, clicking your tongue and mumbling “cabeza dura” under your breath. He didn’t know what it meant at first, but it sounded too sweet to be an insult with the way you said it—like your voice was dipped in honey and warm milk.

Now he’s got a little lunchbox. A stupid black bento one you insisted on decorating with a tiny flame sticker, because “it’s tough, like you”—and he lets you. Lets you tuck in napkins with notes scribbled in Sharpie, “Drink your water, angry man” or “I made extra rice, eat it all so it doesn’t go to waste.” He grumbles about it, but he reads every word, folds every napkin, and sets them in a drawer like they’re precious.

You pack his food like you’re feeding a king—warm arroz con pollo, whatever you meat you seasoned, refried beans the way he likes, a jalapeño on the side, always, and soft warm tortillas tucked in foil so they stay soft. When his shifts are long, you add a thermos of soup with his spoon.

You always include his damn spoon.

He tries to act like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t walk taller knowing there’s something in his bag from you. Like he doesn’t feel the heat crawl up his neck when Kirishima lifts the lid at the agency and whistles.

“Bro, homemade food? Damn, you’re spoiled.”

And Denki’s grinning too hard, mouth full as he points. “You even got a lil’ dessert in there. What the hell, man?”

Katsuki flips them both off. “Quit staring at my food and eat your own.”

But he doesn’t actually mind the teasing. Not when he can close his eyes between patrols and still taste your cooking, not when he gets a text from you halfway through the day that says “eat everything or no kisses tonight 😘”. He rolls his eyes, but his thumb hovers over the screen longer than it should, rereading. Smirking.

He’s softer. He knows it.

He used to sleep like a soldier, ready to fight. Now he sleeps with your legs tangled in his, his head on your soft chest, listening to the steady sound of your heart beat, your hand rubbing softly against his broad and tired back.

You hum while you brush your teeth, and he finds himself brushing his at the same time just to be beside you. He used to hate the sound of singing in the morning—now he waits for it. And when you dance in the kitchen while flipping eggs, wearing one of his tees knotted, he leans on the doorway and watches like he’s memorizing every sway of your hips, every curve that belongs to him.

You make his coffee just the way he likes it, bitter with just a kiss of sweet.

He kisses you before he leaves, every time.

“You got your lunch?” you ask, reaching up to fix his collar.

“Yeah, mamá,” he mutters, smirking.

“Mhm that’s what I like to hear.” You said gripping his collar and pulling him down, mirroring his smirk.

He kisses you harder for that.

His friends can talk. Let ’em. Let ’em laugh at how Katsuki Bakugou, walking explosion, top five hero, meanest son of a bitch alive, now wears a gold chain with your initial and carries a lunchbox with sticker flames. Let ’em whisper how he doesn’t go to bed unless he’s wrapped around you like ivy, one arm slung across your waist and the other tucked under your pillow.

Because for the first time, he’s full. His stomach. His heart. His life. Full of you.

So with that being said, could you really blame him when he couldn’t help but allow marriage to invade his thoughts anytime he thought about your future together. Because no matter what, he seen you in it. In every scenario and situation, it was always you by his side.

He doesn’t even know when he started thinking of it. Maybe it was the first time he came home to you humming over a pot on the stove, curls piled on your head and your back to him, and he just… froze. Or maybe it was that Sunday morning when he opened his eyes to find your hand curled against his chest, ring finger bare and perfect, sunlight catching on your lashes.

Lately, though, he’s been thinking about it more and more.

He’s fresh out the shower, sweats slung low on his hips, shirtless steam still clinging to his skin. And you’re there, barefoot in your little shorts, hips rolling as you sway to whatever’s playing from the speaker. Kitchen lights low, casting soft glows on your curves. You don’t see him yet—too busy stirring something, taste-testing, licking your finger with a little smile.

His chest aches.

Not the way it used to when he pushed too hard during a mission. This is different. It’s heavier, fuller. A weight that doesn’t crush—it grounds. Roots him right there in the doorway, watching you like a man watching his future take shape in real time.

You spin and catch him staring. “What?” you giggle, hip popping to the side. “You’re just gonna stand there like a weirdo?”

He grunts, stepping closer, hand reaching out to grab a hold of your waist like it’s second nature. “M’tired. Needed somethin’ to wake me up.”

“You like what you see, mi amor?” you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you. Really looks.

Your curls are still frizzy from earlier. You’ve got flour on your wrist and a tiny smudge of sauce near your lip. And he swears—you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And fuck, he wants.

He wants a house. Not a fancy place, not some magazine-worthy hero estate. Just a home. A warm kitchen where you dance in his shirt. A living room where you both fall asleep on the couch after movies. A bed that smells like you. A space that’s yours. His and yours. He wants a damn ring on your finger. He wants it to mean something.

He’s never given a shit when his peers showed off engagement pics or keys to their new place. Never cared when they’d talk about joint bank accounts or wedding registries. Hell, he used to think it all sounded like a chain around your ankle.

But now he knows better.

Because you? You don’t weigh him down. You center him. You give him something to come back to, something worth protecting that isn’t just the world.

He tightens his grip on your waist. Kisses your forehead. And he thinks, Not someday. Not eventually.

Now.

His heart thudded hard and heavy beneath his ribs, not from lust—though there was always that—but from something deeper. Something quieter, sweeter, more dangerous.

He hadn’t meant to touch you like this.

But suddenly his hands were on your hips, big and warm, thumbs slipping beneath the hem of your shorts as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to your shoulder. He breathed you in. You smelled like cumin and vanilla lotion and something only he got to taste when the lights were low and your voice was nothing but broken little whimpers in his ear.

You turned your head just enough to allow him to trail up from your shoulder to your neck, one hand still on the spoon, the other reaching to brush his cheek.

“Kats… you okay?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

His lips crashed into yours, full and breathless, his hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck like he was terrified you’d pull away. His mouth moved like he was starving, like he’d been waiting all damn day for this—for you. Tongue sweeping over yours with heat, reverence, need.

You gasped into it, but melted fast, one hand tangling in his hair. You tried to break for air, but he chased your mouth like he couldn’t bear to be apart.

“Katsuki,” you giggled against his lips, breathless, “the food—”

“Fuck the food,” he muttered, voice rough with heat, hands already gripping your thighs.

He hoisted you up like nothing, like you weighed less than the breath he held in his lungs, setting you on the counter with a growl low in his throat. Your back arched slightly, lips parted in protest that didn’t mean a damn thing.

“Baby, if the rice burns—”

“I don’t care,” he rasped, nose brushing yours, eyes so dark and wide they swallowed you whole. “I just want you. Right now. Just you.”

His hands found the curve of your hips, dragging you forward until your legs parted around his waist, sweats shifting low, bare chest exposed, skin-to-skin and searing. You whimpered when his lips found your jaw again, trailing kisses to the corner of your mouth, down your throat, his breath shaking like he couldn’t hold it in.

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails dragging over muscle. “You’re so soft today…”

He huffed, kissing your cheek like it was sacred. “Don’t get used to it.”

You grinned. “Too late.”

And when he looked at you—his eyes full, lips swollen, love burning brighter than the stove behind you—he knew it was true. He was soft. For you, only you. Always you.

“Lift up for me,” he murmured, voice thick like honey gone hot.

You blinked down at him, curls falling forward, lips parted, the spoon still somewhere forgotten behind you. Your eyes were wide, soft, curious. Not alarmed—but aware. Like you knew something had shifted, something settled inside him in a way that wasn’t just need but decision. Want.

You didn’t ask. Not yet. Just bit your lip and lifted your hips, trusting him without hesitation, your thighs parting further as he dragged your shorts down, slow and steady, letting his knuckles graze the softness of your skin as if memorizing every curve. His fingers paused at the waistband of your panties, tracing the band like he was weighing the moment, savoring it.

“You’re quiet,” you said softly, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. “What’s going on in that big head of yours?”

A small smirk played at his lips but he didn’t answer, not directly. Instead, his eyes lifted to yours—dark, molten, full. A storm held back by the thinnest thread of restraint. And then he leaned in, lips pressing to the inside of your knee, trailing up, slow, worshipful. Your breath hitched as he reached the place where thigh met hip, his hands splaying wide, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin.

“I can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” he said finally, voice rough as gravel, vulnerable in a way he rarely let show. “You. Me. This… everythin’ we got.”

You swallowed thickly, heart fluttering.

“About what?”

He kissed up your thigh again, pulling your panties down inch by inch. His hands were big, careful, tender. His mouth hovered against your skin, voice lower now, softer than thunder, but no less powerful.

“’Bout makin’ you mine. Really mine.” A pause. “House. Ring. Fuckin’ last name, if you want it.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt. Just watched him, watched this broad, sharp man—your man—kiss your hips like they were altars and confess dreams against your skin that he’d never dared to say out loud until now.

“And I don’t want to wait,” he muttered, pulling your panties free and dropping them to the floor, “I’ll plan some dumb speech or dinner or get your parents’ blessing—”

“Katsuki—”

“But I can’t stop picturing it. You, in our kitchen. You, with my last name. You, with my ring on your hand, cookin’ dinner or yellin’ at me or curled up in our bed after a long day. I want it all. You hear me?”

His thumb brushed over your thigh, near trembling. “I want all of it. With you.”

The pot on the stove hissed as something started to barely boil over behind you—but neither of you moved. Not when your legs curled around his waist. Not when your hand cupped his face, thumb brushing over the flushed skin of his cheek. Not when he leaned in, forehead to yours, like he was giving you the whole damn world in that breathless silence.

You kissed him. Fierce. Deep. Grateful

Your hands slipped down his sweats, setting himself free. His cock, hard and flushed against his stomach made you gasp. Gently leading him towards your entrance, wet and glistening only from his words.

Your back arched the moment he slid in—slow but sure, like he wanted to feel every flutter of you around him, every tremble your body made as it opened for him. The stretch had your breath catching, lashes fluttering, fingers clawing into his damp shoulders where the heat of the shower still clung to his skin.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, head falling to your neck, his arms wrapped under your thighs to keep you angled just right on the counter. “Always so tight for me… feel so fuckin’ perfect baby.”

Your moan was soft and high, and it went straight to his head, blurred the edges of everything that wasn’t you. He started to move, slow, deep, deliberate—like he was fucking the truth into you.

His truth. His future.

“Gonna marry you,” he growled, lips brushing your ear, voice cracked with devotion and want. “You hear me, baby? Gonna make you my wife.”

Your breath caught—eyes wide, body clenching down around him so hard he cursed and kissed through it, rocking into you harder as your legs shuddered around his waist.

“Gonna get your parents blessing,” he went on, a hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your curls like they were sacred. “I’ll fuckin’ kneel, I don’t care. I’ll show ‘em I’m serious. That I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life. Give you whatever you want. Build you whatever you want—”

You whimpered, shaking beneath him, your thighs twitching where they pressed into his sides. “Katsuki—”

“Gonna put a ring on your hand, my love. Big one. Not some dainty shit either. One that says you’re mine,” he panted, hips grinding into you with deeper strokes, pulling more desperate sounds from your lips. “And I’ll get down on one knee and ask you proper, ‘cause you fuckin’ deserve that. Deserve everything.”

Your arms wrapped tight around his neck, body trembling from the weight of his words, the weight of him inside you, the way he said wife like it was a prayer and a promise all at once.

“I love you,” you whispered, breathless and wet-eyed, nails digging into his skin as your hips started to move with his. “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading along his temple. “I fuckin’ love you, baby.”

And he kept going, hips pressing into yours, filling you again and again like he was sealing every vow into your body, until there was nothing left but your name on his tongue and his name gasped like salvation from yours.

“Gonna get you a house,” he groaned against your mouth, hips rolling deeper, slower now—like every thrust was a promise, each drag of him inside you spelling out your future letter by letter.

Your body arched for him, open, full, trembling around him like it knew he meant it. Knew this wasn’t just heat and sweat and sin—it was love, raw and bleeding and permanent.

“A kitchen you can dance in,” he grunted, thrusts hitting deeper, voice low and guttural as he kissed the corner of your mouth. “A yard for you to plant all that shit you like. You want a garden? Done. You want a big fuckin’ kitchen with a window over the sink? I’ll build it for you, brick by fuckin’ brick.”

You moaned at the words, at the way he was claiming you, hands fisting in his hair as your thighs clenched around his waist.

“Yes—yes, Katsuki,” you gasped, breath catching as he rocked into you, steady and reverent. “Please- tell me more.”

That ruined him. His head fell to your shoulder with a broken sound, and his next thrust had your body shaking, your hands clutching at his back.

“I’ll give you kids,” he growled, low and dangerous and tender, like a sacred vow made with sweat and soul. “I’ll fuckin’ put a baby in you, right here, right now.”

Your gasp was sharp, hands clawing at his shoulders, eyes wide and wet as your lips parted but no words came—just a whimper of need, deep and gut-wrenching.

“Gonna make you a mama,” he panted, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple, frantic with love. “My wife. The mother of my kids. Our babies—fuck—run around the yard, leave toys in the hall. And I come home to you. Every damn day.”

“Katsuki—” you sobbed his name, overwhelmed by the picture he was painting between your thighs, inside your body, in the future only he could give you.

He was everywhere. Inside you, on you, around you. And he wasn’t stopping.

“I’ll give you anything, you’ll never want for anything,” he whispered again, biting your neck gently. “I’ll give you a ring. I’ll give you babies. I’ll give you everything, mi esposa. Just say the word. Say you want it too.”

You nodded, dizzy, lost in him, legs shaking, voice cracking—

“I do. I want all of it. I want you.”

And with that, he moved faster, deeper—like your words gave him permission to burn the world down and rebuild it with only your name on every brick.

You broke first—of course you did.

The way he was speaking to you, like love laced in filth, like forever was just something he could take if he fucked it into you hard enough, deep enough. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, legs locking around his waist, a cry slipping from your throat as your orgasm crashed through you like a wave swallowing the shoreline.

Your walls fluttered around him, tight and clenching, and he choked on a curse, hips stuttering.

“Shit—fuck, baby, you feel that? You’re squeezin’ me so tight—fuckin’ milkin’ me.”

Your arms were around his neck, mouth open against his shoulder as you gasped, voice thin and trembling. “Please, Katsu… I want it, I want you to—”

“Gonna,” he groaned, wild now, hips jackhammering into you as your cunt begged for it. “Gonna give it to you, baby, fuckin’ take it—”

And then he was there, buried deep, shaking as he spilled into you, hips locked to yours as he came hard—grinding into the deepest part of you like he could make sure every drop stuck. The warmth settling in, thick warm ropes of cum filling you up. Like it was a contract, and you were signing your name with every pulse and tremble.

He groaned your name like a prayer, lips pressed to your cheek, still breathless, still shaking, but not pulling back. Not even a little.

“I mean it,” he mumbled against your skin, one hand smoothing your hair, the other splayed wide over your stomach like he already saw it swell. “Everything I said, baby… I fuckin’ meant it.”

You whimpered softly, holding him closer if possible, eyes damp but shining, lips brushing over the shell of his ear.

“I know you did.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze glassy but sure—wide, vulnerable, real. The rawest part of him laid bare, not from lust, not from pride—but from love.

“I’m gonna be your husband, you’ll be my wife,” he said, voice soft and full and certain. “I’m gonna build you a house. You’re gonna have my name, my ring, my babies—fuckin’ all of it. You hear me?”

Your hand lifted to cup his face, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

“Every word,” you whispered. “And I want it all, my katsuki.”

And he smiled—small, crooked, rare. One hand cradling your thigh, his body still inside yours, warm and thick and resting as if he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.

And truly, he couldn’t. Not when this was home.

You.

Always you.

a/n: just feeling a little bit domestic over here

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