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doodlebugg16-blog · 1 month ago

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Into The Unknown [Pt 2]

Pairing: AgedUp!Katsuki Bakugo x Fem!Reader

A/N: Wowzers Batman! Had to put some more one on one time with blasty hehe

Part 1

Bakugo’s apartment wasn’t what you expected.

For someone who spent most of his time acting like a walking explosion, you’d assumed his place would be a mess—burn marks on the walls, broken furniture, maybe a gym bag tossed in the corner with a death wish.

Instead… it was neat. Minimalist, even.

Black leather couch, clean counters, neutral walls. Everything smelled faintly like citrus and gunpowder—sharp, warm, strangely comforting. The only signs that someone lived here were a pair of scuffed boots by the door and the smell of something savory lingering in the kitchen air.

“Bathroom’s on the left,” Bakugo grunted, dropping your duffel on the floor near the couch. “You can take the bed.”

You blinked. “You’re making me sleep in your bed?”

He shot you a look. “I’m not making you. I’m offering. I’ll crash on the damn couch. Don’t make it weird.”

You opened your mouth to retort but thought better of it. He was trying—his version of trying, anyway.

“…Thanks.”

He just shrugged, already stalking to the fridge. He pulled out two bottles of water and tossed one to you without looking.

You fumbled and barely caught it.

“Dinner’s leftovers,” he added. “I cook my own shit. Don’t expect takeout every night.”

You stared at him. “Wait. You cook?”

He looked back at you like you were the weird one. “Of course I fucking cook!”

You gave a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile. “Sorry..”

Bakugo rolled his eyes and opened the fridge again. “You allergic to anything?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said—”

“No, I heard you. I just… weren’t you the guy threatening to chain me to a table two days ago?”

He didn’t smile, but something in his expression softened. Barely. “Doesn’t mean I want you dying of anaphylactic shock on my watch.”

You muttered, “Charming,” and made your way to the edge of the kitchen. “No, I’m not allergic to anything.”

He gave a faint grunt before dipping down and grabbing what you assumed to be leftovers.

“Go wash up. M’not having you dirtying the place up.” Bakugo grumbled.

It was your turn to roll your eyes and take your leave. You grabbed the duffel bag and headed straight to the bathroom.

The bathroom was as clean as the rest of the apartment. You quickly take note where the towels are and hop in the shower.

Once you were out of the shower, you begin to stifle through the duffel bag in search of anything comfortable.

You settled for a black shirt that was a little bigger than your usual size and elastic shorts. Taking the same towel, you dry your hair as best you can before attempting to re-tidy the bathroom.

When you walk out, he doesn’t say anything. But you do note the once over he gives you before placing two plates of food on the table and sitting down.

You settle in front of the extra plate, mouth watering at the smell of the leftover sir-fry he had cooked. You take a bite and give a half sigh.

“This is good,” you said, stunned. “Like…annoyingly good. Why is it good?”

He smirked faintly. “Told you I cook.”

“You’re a menace and a chef. You’re really checking all the terrifying boxes, huh?”

“Damn right.”

For a moment, things weren’t so heavy. The food warmed your stomach and the apartment felt a little less like a strangers holding cell.

Bakugo’s voice broke the silence, “They knew your name.”

You stilled, glancing up at him. “What?”

“The guy who attacked U.A. He wasn’t guessing. He knew. Someone sent him.”

“…Why me?”

He shook his head. “That’s what we’re going to figure out.”

You look down at your half-empty plate. Fear crept back up your spine.

“They can’t touch you here. Not under my roof.” His voice held firm, sure of his words.

Your eyes flick up to meet his. “I won’t let them.” He added. His words settled in your chest. You knew he meant it, despite his harsh nature.

You stood in the doorway to Bakugo’s bedroom, towel-dried hair damp against your neck and a too-big shirt sticking to your back in places you wished it didn’t.

The room was darker than the rest of the apartment. No open windows, just a heavy blackout curtain drawn tightly against the city light. The furniture was sparse—just a bed, a tall dresser, and a nightstand with a digital clock that blinked 1:03 AM.

You hesitated at the edge of the bed. It felt like stepping into something… personal.

The sheets were clean, plain, and neatly pulled. But the moment you slipped under the covers—warm and quiet and too soft for how tired your muscles were—you noticed it.

His scent.

Not strong. Not overwhelming. Just faint traces on the pillow and blanket—clean and warm and sharp at the edges. Citrus and musk, something burnt but not unpleasant. Like heat after a storm. The kind of scent that clung to someone’s skin after long hours and a longer shower.

You didn’t mean to notice it. But your body did.

You curled onto your side, unsure if the chill crawling up your arms was from the air or from memory. This was definitely better than a hospital bed or the small twin bed at U.A.

Everything here was unfamiliar. This world. These people. Their power. Their strange order to the chaos. You’d spent the entire week like a ghost, drifting through a reality you didn’t ask for with nothing but questions in your mouth and Bakugo’s scowl at your back.

And yet…

You inhaled softly. That scent again. Something in it told your mind: you’re safe now.

It didn’t make sense. You barely knew him. He was loud, rude, borderline intolerable.

But he saved you. He’s protecting you.

And now, here you were—in his bed, surrounded by the ghost of him in warmth and quiet.

Your fingers curled into the blanket. Your eyes drifted shut.

Your heart wasn’t racing. Your thoughts weren’t swirling.

The scent of coffee lingered in the air—bitter, strong, grounding.

Bakugo stood in the kitchen, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter, watching the clock tick past 9:42 AM.

Too late. She should’ve been up by now.

He wasn’t a morning person in the traditional sense—he just hated wasting time. Days started early, ends came late, and if you didn’t get your shit together, someone else did it for you. That’s how things worked in his world. In this world.

He stared down the hallway toward the closed door.

Bakugo muttered something under his breath, grabbed the chipped mug beside him, and took one last long sip before setting it down—hard.

“She’s not on vacation,” he grumbled to himself.

He pushed off the counter, bare feet quiet on the floor, and made his way down the hall.

The bedroom door creaked softly as he nudged it open, half expecting to see her snooping or staring out the window—doing something useless.

But she was still curled beneath the blanket. Asleep. And… peaceful.

The words he’d had lined up in his mouth—“Get your ass up,” “It’s not a hotel,” even a basic “Oi”—died in his throat.

Her face was half-buried in his pillow, hair a mess around her shoulders, one arm tucked beneath her cheek like she’d just melted into the mattress. His blanket was pulled up to her chin, tangled around her legs. Every breath she took rose and fell so gently, it almost looked like she’d been here all her life.

His bed—usually untouched, usually empty—looked… different now. Softer. Warmer.

Bakugo stood there longer than he meant to. A scowl sat faintly on his face, but his jaw wasn’t clenched. His fists weren’t tight. Something unfamiliar stirred just beneath his skin, something he couldn’t pin down.

He wasn’t used to this. To strangers in his space. To letting them stay.

But she hadn’t made a mess. Hadn’t touched his things. She hadn’t even complained the night before, even when she clearly didn’t want to be there. She just slept. Like she trusted she could.

He let out a breath, quietly, and leaned against the doorframe.

“…Tch.”

His voice came out low. Almost reluctant.

“You’ve got ten more minutes.”

No response. Just the soft rustle of her breathing, slow and even.

His fingers twitched on the frame, then pulled the door in gently—not quite closed, not quite open.

And as he turned away, back toward the kitchen, he didn’t say another word.

But his steps were slower. And his scowl was softer.

You woke to sunlight sneaking in through a gap in the curtains, soft and golden across your cheek.

For the first time in days, you didn’t wake in a panic.

You stretched slowly under the covers, blinking at the unfamiliar ceiling. It smelled like him—still. Like warmth and something burned clean. Your body ached a little less, your head throbbed a little quieter, and for once, there was no distant explosion yanking you from sleep. You sat up, the oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder as your feet touched the floor. Voices weren’t echoing. Sirens weren’t wailing. But you did hear a low clatter. A pan on a burner. Something sizzling. You followed the scent like it was a lifeline, stepping quietly out into the apartment.

The light in the kitchen was brighter than before, filtered through wide windows you hadn’t noticed the night before. And standing at the stove, back to you, was Bakugo—hair messy, clad in a black tank and spatula in hand.

You lingered in the doorway, watching him in silence for a moment. Noting how certain muscles flexed with each movement.

He moved like everything was muscle memory. Flip the eggs. Adjust the burner. Reach without looking and snatch a slice of toast from the toaster as it popped. He noticed you without turning.

“Took you long enough.”

You blinked. “Good morning to you, too.”

He grunted and nodded toward the counter. “Sit. Food’s done.”

You slid onto the stool at the kitchen island, watching him plate eggs and something else spicy-looking beside the toast. A second later, he set it in front of you with a mug of something dark and fragrant.

You looked at the meal, then up at him. “You really cook every morning?”

“Yeah. Keeps my hands busy.”

“…Do your hands need to be busy?”

He shot you a dry look. “Better that than blowing up furniture.”

Fair enough.

You took a bite. Just like the night before, it was good. Annoyingly good. You made a small sound of approval and he turned away quickly, probably so you wouldn’t see whatever hint of pride tried to sneak onto his face. The silence stretched between bites. But the question had been on your mind since you’d woken up.

You glanced at him. “So… what is your deal, anyway?”

He didn’t look up from where he was wiping down the counter. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like—who are you?” you said, gesturing vaguely with your fork. “I was dropped into a world where people explode things and lift cars with their pinky finger, and somehow you ended up as the guy protecting me. I think I’m allowed to ask a couple questions.”

Bakugo sighed and turned, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded. “You already know my name.”

“I want the rest.”

His eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

“Like what you do when you’re not saving random girls from interdimensional death cults. Or yelling at them about their sleep schedule.”

He snorted. “I’m a Pro Hero. Number two, technically.”

“Number two?” You raised your eyebrows. “So who’s number one?”

“…Deku.”

You paused. “That the green-haired guy?”

“Unfortunately.”

You smirked. “He seemed nice.”

“He’s a pain in the ass.”

“But you’re still friends?”

Bakugo didn’t answer for a beat. Then, grudgingly: “Something like that.”

You took another bite and studied him. He hadn’t moved—still leaned back like he wasn’t phased. But there was a tension in his shoulders, like talking about himself was as appealing as dental surgery.

You tried something gentler.

“Did you always want to be a hero?”

Bakugo’s gaze flicked to you, not answering right away.

“…Yeah.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

He looked away. Out the window, toward the skyline. His voice, when it came, was quieter. “Because I had to prove I could be the best.”

Then, after a pause, “And protect people I care about.”

You sat with that for a second. Not because it was poetic. But because it was real. Not what you expected from someone so brash. So armored.

“Is that why you’re doing all this?” you asked softly. “Protecting me?”

His eyes met yours again. There was no bravado there. No grin. Just quiet certainty beneath the sharpness. “No. I’m protecting you because someone has to.”

He added, “And because I don’t leave people behind.”

You swallowed, unsure what to say to that. Unsure why it made your chest feel strangely full.

After a moment, you looked down and picked at your food again.

“…Still think it’s weird I’m in your bed, though.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “You want the couch?”

“…I didn’t say that.”

He smirked. Just a little. “Didn’t think so.”

Living with Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t easy. But it wasn’t unbearable.

The first few days were awkward in the way that new things always are—tiptoeing around someone else’s space, trying not to touch anything, unsure of where the lines were. You weren’t used to the quiet tension of his apartment. The sharp edge to his movements. The way he never needed to say much for you to understand when you were pushing your luck.

Still, something settled. There was a rhythm.

He got up early. Every morning. Like crack-of-dawn early. You’d wake to the smell of coffee and the soft thump of him moving through the apartment like a storm trying to tiptoe.

At first, you stayed in the room, unwilling to intrude. But then came the mornings when he knocked—gruffly—on the door with a muttered, “Food’s getting cold.”

After that, you stopped pretending you weren’t hungry.

He cooked like it was second nature. Rarely spoke while doing it. Just handed you a plate and sat across from you in companionable silence.

He trained most afternoons, sometimes in a field, sometimes in the apartment. You learned quickly to stay out of the way unless you wanted to get elbowed in the ribs by accident while he threw punches at the air.

He cursed at the news. Scowled at his phone. Occasionally mumbled in his sleep—though you never told him that.

You spent the days walking around U.A. with Deku, who was the exact opposite. Friendly, energetic, full of hopeful questions about “where you might’ve come from” and how “the multiverse theory might be real after all!” He was always polite about it, but the way his eyes lit up around theories made you think he was itching to dissect your existence like a science project.

You were grateful Bakugo didn’t ask those questions. Grateful that when you came home back, you weren’t special. You were just… there.

And oddly enough, he didn’t seem to mind.

You started figuring out the little things.

How he liked his tea scalding hot and hated when people put forks in the wrong drawer. How he always left his boots by the door and his phone screen was cracked in the exact shape of a lightning bolt.

You started cleaning up after yourself without needing to be asked.

He stopped grumbling when you left dishes to soak instead of scrubbing them immediately.

You still slept in his bed—he’d never taken it back. And while the first few nights had been strange, now it felt oddly normal. Like the scent on the sheets had become your anchor and the walls didn’t feel so tall around you anymore.

Some nights, you stayed up while he read files or worked on reports at the kitchen counter. You’d sit nearby and scroll through the news on your borrowed U.A. tablet, sometimes trading sarcastic remarks about headlines like two people who weren’t technically stuck together by cosmic nonsense.

One evening, as you dried the last dish and handed it to him, he blinked at you, surprised.

“You’re actually starting to pull your weight.”

You smirked. “And you haven’t threatened to kick me out in three days. We’re making progress.”

“Tch. Don’t jinx it.”

You bumped your shoulder into his on the way past, just lightly but he didn’t flinch.

It had been a month since you woke up in a strange alley. And somehow… you’d adjusted.

Bakugo didn’t hover, didn’t coddle, didn’t pry. He simply was. A steady presence. Predictable in the best way, even if he was all sharp edges and gruff muttering. You’d started to count on it.

So when the apartment door slammed harder than usual that night—rattling the floor and making the walls hum—you knew something was wrong.

You peeked out from the bedroom, barefoot, cautious.

He was standing by the door, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight. His eyes burned—more than usual. Like a fuse was lit just behind his irises, waiting to reach something explosive.

“…Bakugo?”

He didn’t answer. Just tugged off his boots with quick, angry motions and tossed his gauntlets harder than necessary toward the rack—where it missed and hit the floor.

You stepped out fully. “What happened?”

Bakugo didn’t look at you. He stalked to the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cabinet, and filled it from the sink. His back was rigid.

“Bakugo.” Still no answer.

“Katsuki,” you tried again, quieter this time. “Did someone get hurt?”

His shoulders twitched at that.

He turned slowly, glass in hand, expression unreadable—but dangerous in the quiet way storms sometimes were before the lightning hit.

“They tried again.”

You blinked. “They—?”

“Those bastards who came after you at U.A.,” he growled. “They left a message this time. And it wasn’t subtle.”

Your heart dropped. “What kind of message?”

“A warehouse. Burned. Left a symbol scorched into the pavement outside—same one as before. It’s them.” He threw the glass into the sink with a clatter. “They’re getting bolder.”

You stared at him. “What do they want with me?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, then caught himself, eyes tightening. “But I’m gonna find out.”

The room pulsed with silence. You stepped toward him, slow.

“…Is this why you came back early?”

He didn’t answer, not directly.

Just ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “They’re pushing. Testing our response times. Trying to catch us off guard.”

“And me?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. His jaw clenched. “You’re staying here. I’m not leaving you alone.”

You frowned, half defiant. “You can’t just cage me here. I’m not some fragile—”

“You’re not trained,” he cut in, voice sharp but not cruel. “You’re not from this world. And they know that. They’re using it. That makes you a target, and that makes me responsible.”

You swallowed that. You wanted to argue. Wanted to throw something back at him. But the heat in his eyes wasn’t anger—it was fear, shaped like fury.

“…Okay,” you said softly. “Then what now?”

He exhaled through his nose, tension dragging down his shoulders.

“I’ll talk to the agency. Get extra patrols near the building. Set up a perimeter. If they want to try again, they’ll have to go through me.”

You nodded slowly. His eyes met yours. The fight in them flickered. Changed.

He stepped forward, just slightly, close enough that you could see the tension in his hands, his arms, the way his jaw ticked when he said—

“You’re not going down on my watch. I swear it.”

Your chest ached strangely at that. Because for all his barking, for all his bite, Katsuki Bakugo was guarding you with everything he had—and he didn’t even know why yet.

The city was quieter after the warehouse incident. No sirens. No alerts. No shaking ground or flickering power. Just the soft hum of a streetlamp outside the window and the low sound of Katsuki moving around the kitchen. The scent of something warm—ginger and garlic—lingered in the air. You sat curled up on the couch, knees to your chest, wrapped in one of his old hoodies that he threw at you when you complained about his apartment being too cold.

You hadn’t said much after the incident. Neither had he. But he’d made dinner anyway. Set a bowl down beside you with a quiet grunt and averted eyes. Sat at the far end of the couch without saying a word.

You both ate in silence until your spoon clinked softly against the bowl.

“…You don’t have to keep doing everything alone, you know.”

He didn’t look at you, but the way his hand stilled on the fabric of his sweatpants told you he was listening.

“I get that you’re used to it,” you continued, voice quieter now, “but just because you can carry everything doesn’t mean you should.”

He scoffed under his breath. “I’m not carrying everything.”

“You’re trying.” You turned toward him. “You came home tonight like a damn wildfire. I could feel how close you were to exploding.”

His eyes flicked to you then—sharper, but tired. “I’m always close to exploding.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Okay, true. But… this was different.”

He leaned back against the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “It’s not just about them. It’s about you. You’re in my house. You’re under my roof. If something happened to you while I was out there—” He cut himself off.

You let the silence hang between you. Not heavy. Just honest.

“…I’m scared too, y’know,” you admitted, pulling the hoodie sleeves over your hands. “Everything’s been so fast. New world, new rules. It feels like I’m standing on glass, just waiting to fall through.”

He looked over at you, quiet.

You added, “But it’s a little less terrifying when I’m sitting here…with you.”

Something flickered in his eyes then. Like the embers of a fire catching just a little wind. He didn’t speak. He just shifted slightly closer. Not much. Barely an inch. But enough that his knee brushed yours. You didn’t move away.

A minute passed. Then another. The world outside blurred into silence. The light above the stove dimmed on a timer. You leaned against the back of the couch, not watching him, but not looking away either.

Then—his voice. Low. Rough.

“You said it’s less terrifying with me here.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He turned toward you, his expression unreadable. “…Same.”

Your breath caught for a second. And then, gently—carefully—you leaned your head against his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there, warm and solid beneath you, like the world couldn’t quite get in as long as you stayed like this.

The silence between you stretched. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… still.

Bakugo hadn’t moved since you’d leaned against him. You half expected him to shrug you off, mutter something sharp, reclaim his space. But he didn’t. He just sat there. Breathing steady. Shoulder warm. The tension in your body slowly started to ease.

You didn’t realize how heavy your eyelids had become until you blinked, slower and slower, the soft thrum of the apartment lulling you like white noise. It was quiet, save for the faint hum of electricity through the walls and Bakugo’s heartbeat—solid and steady beneath the lean muscle of his arm.

You weren’t even sure when your head slipped fully onto his shoulder. Only that the warmth of him, the faint scent of ash and citrus and something grounding, wrapped around you like a weightless blanket. His arm shifted slightly, almost reflexively—tensing at first, then relaxing. His eyes slid toward you. You were asleep. Mouth parted slightly. Hair brushing his collarbone. Breathing soft and even.

And you’d fallen asleep on him.

He stared for a long moment. Like he didn’t quite know what to do with that fact.

“…You’re unreal,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, like it might wake you. But you didn’t stir.

He looked away, jaw tightening—though not in anger this time. He reached for the throw blanket folded at the edge of the couch and draped it over you awkwardly, trying not to move too much, trying not to seem like he meant to do it.

Because he didn’t mean to. But he kind of… did. And somehow, the weight of your head on his shoulder felt heavier than any villain’s threat. Felt more.

He sighed—slow, through his nose—and leaned his head back against the couch. Didn’t push you off. Didn’t move you.

You stirred before your eyes opened.

Something was different.

Not the warmth—that was familiar now. But the texture of it. The solid shape beneath your cheek. The quiet rise and fall of a chest not your own. And the arm—heavy, draped behind you, hand just barely resting on the curve of your hip like it had gotten there by accident.

You blinked slowly.

The first thing you saw was the hem of a black tank top. The first thing you felt was Katsuki Bakugo’s breathing beneath your cheek.

Oh god.

Your heart lurched as your brain caught up to your body. You were on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket, but curled up fully against him now—your leg draped over his, your hand resting near his sternum like some overly familiar lover.

His head was tipped back against the couch cushions. Sleeping. Peacefully, for once. Brow smooth. Mouth barely parted.

You stared. Then panicked silently.

You should move. You should absolutely move.

But you didn’t. Not right away.

There was something strange about this stillness. Like you were watching him before the world asked him to wear his armor again. Like this was a moment you weren’t meant to see, and somehow you’d stumbled into it anyway.

Eventually, you shifted gently, easing back without waking him. His arm slid off your hip, fingers brushing your side on the way down. You sat upright, heart pounding way too loud for a morning this quiet.

A few seconds later, his eyes opened. Not all at once—just a slow flutter, a flicker of gold beneath half-lowered lashes. He blinked once. Then twice.

His gaze landed on the empty space beside him and then you.

“…You’re up,” he said, voice low, still heavy with sleep.

You cleared your throat, not quite meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Just… woke up.”

There was a pause.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his bedhead of messy blond spikes. “…Didn’t mean to pass out.”

“You were exhausted,” you said. “It’s fine.”

Another pause.

Bakugo glanced at the blanket still half-draped over your lap. Then the coffee table. Then anywhere but you.

You rubbed your arms absently. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you, either.”

He grunted—noncommittal, then, “…It wasn’t bad.”

That made your head snap toward him, startled.

His eyes flicked to you, then away again, a faint flush climbing his ears. “I mean—you didn’t snore or anything. So… whatever.”

You blinked then smiled a little. “…Thanks?”

“Tch.” He stood, stretching, muscles flexing as he cracked his neck and muttered, “Don’t get used to it.”

You followed him into the kitchen a beat later, heart still doing something weird in your chest. But that weirdness didn’t feel like fear. It felt like the start of something new. Something warm. And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t the only one who noticed it.

#x reader #character x reader #x female reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #reader insert #mha #mha bakugou

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doodlebugg16-blog · 1 month ago

Text

Into The Unknown[Pt.1]

Pairing: AgedUp!Katsuki Bakugo x Fem!Reader

Summary: You were only trying to get ready for bed. You showered, changed into pajamas, even doom scrolled on your phone. But that damn faulty phone charger shocked you. Now you’re waking up in an alley to ear rattling explosions.

Warnings: normal MHA content, extra cursing cuz Kats is an adult now, forced proximity???, reader is shorter than Bakugo, SLOW-ISH BURN, lemme know if I missed any…

A/N: so I had made a c.ai bot with this idea and it wasn’t enough to quench the thirst LOL. MDNI cuz I genuinely don’t know where this will go. Not sure how long this series will be but I hope you enjoy <3

The last thing you remember is the faint sizzle and a sharp sting that danced up your arm the moment your charger sparked to life. You were only trying to enjoy a peaceful night before your day off. There had been no warning — just a flash of heat, a flickering lightbulb above, and then—

Darkness.

But now… now the world is loud.

You jolt awake on cold pavement, your head pounding as the sharp stench of smoke and scorched rubber fills your nostrils. For a moment, you can’t breathe. You blink rapidly against the blur in your vision, trying to make sense of the warped sounds echoing around you.

BOOM!

A deafening explosion shakes the ground, rattling through your ribs. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm shrieks into the night, lights flickering wildly in sync with the chaos.

You’re in an alley. A fluorescent red glow bounces off the alley walls, casting eerie shadows that twist and tremble like they’re alive.

You scramble to your feet, adrenaline flooding your system. Your phone — gone. Your fingertips are tingling, and your heart is beating so fast it might burst.

What the hell is going on?

Another explosion rips through the air, closer this time. You flinch, ducking instinctively as dust and heat whip through the alley. You stumble toward the edge of the alley’s mouth, pressing your back to the grimy wall.

Peering around the corner, your breath catches.

There, in the middle of the street, a figure stands like something out of a nightmare and a comic book combined — broad-shouldered, dressed in black with glowing gauntlets crackling at his sides. The air hisses around him, radiating steam and light with every pulse of his fists.

And then—BOOM.

Another blast shoots from his palms, sending a masked villain crashing through a streetlamp.

You can’t move. All you could do was stare in shock and fear.

People are screaming. Sirens wail in the distance. And yet, the guy at the center of it all just looks furious.

You don’t know where you are.

You don’t know who he is.

And worst of all, you don’t know why your hands are still tingling.

You press yourself tighter against the alley wall, heart hammering in your throat as another shockwave ripples down the street. Dust coats your tongue. Somewhere inside you, your brain is trying to make sense of this — maybe it’s a movie set. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe you’re dead.

“Woah—hey, hey, you okay?”

The voice behind you makes you jump.

You whirl around with a startled yelp, fists half-raised in a useless attempt at defense. A guy—maybe your age or a little older—is standing just a few feet away, hands raised in a calming gesture. He’s got red spiky hair, bright eyes, and an open, genuinely concerned expression like he hadn’t just appeared out of thin air.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he says quickly, eyeing the panic in your posture. “Just—saw you standing here like you were gonna pass out or something.”

You can barely get a word out. “Where… what the hell is going on?!”

He blinks, confused. “You serious? You’re right next to a villain takedown. You must’ve hit your head or something.”

You stare at him. “Villain—what?”

A series of cracks ripple across his forearms, and suddenly his skin turns to stone. No, not stone—something harder. Shiny. Armored. His whole body shifts, and your stomach flips.

“What the f—what are you?!”

“I’m not a villain if that’s what you’re asking!” he says quickly. “I’m a Pro Hero. Well—technically still underground, but licensed. Name’s Red Riot. Look, we can talk in a sec, but this area’s not safe. You gotta get out of the blast zone.”

Another explosion lights the street. You flinch again.

Red Riot turns his head sharply and yells, “Oi, Blasty! We got a civ over here!”

“What?! Are you dumb?! Why’d you bring ‘em closer, shitty hair?!”

That voice—raw, thunderous, laced with fury—slices through the street like a whip. The blonde guy with the gauntlets whirls around, his eyes catching on you like a target locked.

His gaze is molten—hard, narrow, full of something wild and too real. You feel your breath catch like he physically knocked the wind out of you with that look alone.

He storms over in a few powerful strides, smoke still curling from his hands. “The hell’s a random civilian doin’ in this alley?” he snaps, glaring at Kirishima first, then at you. “You lost or just suicidal?”

“She was just… here,” Kirishima says, half-defensive. “She looks like she hit her head or something. Totally out of it.”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, though your voice wavers. “I just—woke up. I was in my room and then… now I’m here? And people are throwing bombs?! What is this place?!”

Blasty—or whoever he is—pauses. His mouth opens slightly like he might say something snarky, but for a second… he frowns.

That’s when it hits you: there’s nothing familiar here. The signs. The language. The fire and smoke. The guy who can turn into stone. The guy with exploding hands.

You stare at them, heart in your throat. “This… this isn’t real.”

Kirishima’s smile softens. “Yeah… I think something weird happened to you.”

Bakugo scoffs, arms crossed. “No shit.”

And then — sirens, louder now. More figures dropping from the sky, wearing bright-colored suits and gear. A woman with dragon wings. A man with something like engines in his legs.

Your knees wobble.

“Hey, hey—” Kirishima catches your elbow gently as you start to sway. “We’ve got you. You’re safe now, okay? Just… stay with us.”

Bakugo doesn’t look convinced. His crimson eyes are sharp and suspicious.

“She’s not just some civ,” he mutters. “Something’s off.”

And as you finally stumble out of the alley with Red Riot’s help and Blasty trailing behind, watching you like a lit fuse—you get the sinking feeling he might be right.

You don’t remember most of the ride to the hospital.

There were flashing lights, muffled sirens, strangers talking in clipped, fast voices. The whole world felt distant, like you were watching it all through a thick sheet of glass.

You remember Kirishima’s steady presence beside you, his hand awkwardly braced near your shoulder as if he was ready to catch you again at a moment’s notice. You remember the way your legs wouldn’t stop shaking and how someone shoved a warm thermal blanket around you before guiding you down white halls that smelled like antiseptic and ozone.

And then—

Silence.

You sit on the edge of a hospital bed now, legs dangling, palms pressed to the thin paper lining the mattress. There’s a small bandage on your temple, a pulse monitor clipped to your finger, and a growing pit in your stomach.

No ID. No phone. No answers.

Just you, the smell of smoke still clinging to your clothes… and the knowledge that you’re not in your world anymore.

The curtain sways, and you tense as someone enters the room.

Heavy boots. Controlled steps. A scowl that could probably crack drywall.

Blasty.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there at the edge of the room with arms crossed, eyes narrowed like you’re some kind of unexploded ordinance.

You clear your throat. “Are—are you supposed to be here?”

He huffs. “Don’t need permission to question a damn mystery girl who dropped into a villain fight like some clueless extra.”

You blink. “Clueless what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” He takes a few steps forward, his tone sharp but not yelling. Not yet. “You said you ‘woke up’ in that alley. Just appeared there. No ID, no record, and not a single strand of a Quirk.”

You flinch at the word. “You keep saying that. Quirks. What is that? A gang name?”

His expression darkens.

“You don’t know what a Quirk is?” he asks slowly, like he’s testing you. “Not even the basic idea?”

“No! I don’t! I’ve never heard that word before tonight!”

Bakugo steps closer. “Where are you from?”

“I told you—I was at home. I plugged in my phone and the charger zapped me. Next thing I know, I wake up in a different city with people throwing fireballs and growing armor and—you shooting explosions out of your hands!”

His fingers twitch at his sides.

“Tch. Sounds like a shitty sci-fi excuse.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You expect me to believe someone just teleports into the middle of a villain attack and happens to be completely clueless? Doesn’t even know what a Quirk is? What kind of backwater planet are you from?”

“I’m from—” You stop. Your heart pounds. “I’m from Earth. America. 2025.”

Bakugo stares at you for a long, silent beat.

“That’s the year here too, dumbass.”

You blink, confused. “Wait… What?”

He exhales sharply, pacing once like he’s trying not to explode again.

“So you’re saying you’re from here, but not really here? Like some alternate version of our world where Quirks don’t exist?”

“That’s… I don’t know! I’ve never seen anything like this! I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t even know how to get back!”

Your voice cracks at the end, frustration bleeding into fear. You hate the tears prickling at your eyes, but it’s too much. Too fast.

Bakugo pauses.

He doesn’t soften, not exactly. But something in his shoulders shifts. He watches you—less like a target and more like a question.

He runs a hand through his hair, muttering, “Fucking great. I get stuck babysitting a goddamn multiverse tourist.”

“I didn’t mean to fall into your world!”

He smirks faintly, bitter and sharp. “Yeah, well… welcome to hell.”

You stare at him.

He sighs and steps back, finally turning toward the door. But just before he leaves, he glances over his shoulder, voice quieter this time:

“Rest up. You’re not leaving ‘til we figure out what you are. And I’m not done with you yet.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You loose a breath and slump your shoulder. “Fucking great…” The words fell muttered.

The thin sheets ruffled under your movements, now desperate for any type of comfort. With a faint huff, you laid there staring at the ceiling.

It was a sleepless night. Morning rose too quickly. You grumbled groggily when a knock sounded at the door, Kirishima poking his head in.

“Hey, uh… mind if I come in?”

You grumbled into your pillow. “If you’re blond, loud, and explodes on contact—no thanks.”

A warm chuckle floated through the door. “Nope. Just red hair and good vibes.”

You cracked one eye open.

The door creaked as Kirishima poked his head in, wearing a hoodie and jeans. His smile was sheepish, a little uncertain, but so much more welcome than Bakugo’s furnace-level intensity.

He spoke softly, stepping into the room. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Just figured you could use a friendly face. Or… at least a less angry one.”

You let out a soft, exhausted snort. “You’re not gonna interrogate me, too?”

“Nah. That’s Bakugo’s thing. I don’t do early morning threats and explosions.” He dragged a chair up beside your bed and flopped into it backwards, arms crossed over the back. “You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

You gave him a flat look. “Gee. Wonder why.”

Kirishima winced sympathetically. “Yeah, it’s… a lot. You holding up okay?”

You hesitated. Then, after a long pause: “No. Not really.”

He nodded like he didn’t expect you to lie. “Makes sense. You got dropped into a whole other life in the middle of a warzone. That’d mess anyone up.”

You sat up slowly, scrubbing your hands over your face. “Everything’s wrong. The language, the people, the… rules. There’s no one I know here. I don’t even know if I exist in this place. And that guy with the angry eyebrows is acting like I’m some kind of ticking bomb.”

“That is just his face,” Kirishima said lightly. “But… he’s also not wrong. You are kinda a mystery. Doesn’t mean you’re a threat, though.”

You glanced over at him. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He shrugged, easy. “Dunno. Just feels right. You looked scared last night. Didn’t seem fair to leave you alone with just Bakugo breathing fire all over your peace of mind.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, and for the first time since waking up in this bizarre world, something eased in your chest.

“I’m Kirishima, by the way,” he added, holding out his hand. “But you can call me Eijiro, if you want.”

You looked at his hand like it might disappear. Then you reached out and shook it gently.

You told him your name, and he repeated it like he was saving it for later.

There was another pause. A comfortable one.

“Hey… I brought something,” he said, reaching into his hoodie pocket and pulling out a warm, paper-wrapped bundle. “Hospital food sucks. So I grabbed you a pork bun from the bakery across the street.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “You… brought me food?”

He grinned. “Of course! You’re probably starving, and honestly, food helps when the world doesn’t make sense. Trust me.”

You took the bun, your fingers brushing his for a second. It smelled… amazing. Warm, savory, real.

You bit into it, and it tasted like you hadn’t eaten in days.

Kirishima leaned in the chair, watching you with a half-smile.

“We don’t have to figure everything out today,” he said. “We’ll help you. Even if Bakugo acts like he’s allergic to compassion.”

You looked at him, your throat thick with exhaustion and quiet gratitude. “Thank you.”

He gave a wide, friendly smile. “Anytime.”

You were halfway through the pork bun, finally starting to feel like your brain was reconnecting to your body, when the door slammed open.

“Alright, move it, shitty hair.”

You jumped, nearly choking as Kirishima turned with a wince.

Speak of the devil.

Bakugo strode into the room like it owed him rent. Behind him walked another young man—shorter, wiry build, unruly green curls, and the kind of wide, intelligent eyes that felt like they were seeing more than you were saying. Unlike Bakugo, he knocked politely on the frame even after they were already inside.

“Uh, hey,” the green-haired guy said, offering a tentative wave. “Sorry to barge in like this. I’m Midoriya Izuku—Pro Hero Deku.”

You gave him a slow once-over. Compared to Bakugo, he radiated warmth—kind of like an open window in early spring. Still alert, still guarded, but… less intimidating.

“She’s fine,” Kirishima offered, standing up with a stretch. “Bit rattled. But she’s not, you know, combusting or anything.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Bakugo muttered. “She looks like shit.”

You shot him a look.

“I’m right here, you know.”

He ignored it entirely.

Izuku cleared his throat and stepped forward. “We spoke with the hospital staff. You’re physically stable, and since you’re not showing any signs of mutation or energy spikes, they’ve cleared you for discharge.”

You blinked. “Wait—discharge? I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Izuku nodded slowly. “That’s… part of the issue. Since we still don’t know where exactly you came from—dimensionally speaking—we can’t just let you walk out into the city alone. You’d be overwhelmed. Or worse.”

Kirishima chimed in. “Plus, if word gets out that some Quirkless girl just appeared outta nowhere? Media would tear you apart. And if villains found out…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Izuku glanced at Bakugo, then back at you. “So… we’re arranging temporary housing for you at UA.”

“UA?”

“U.A. High,” Izuku explained gently. “Where we trained to become Pro Heroes. They have secure housing on-site, and some staff who specialize in dimensional theory and advanced Quirk anomalies. If anyone can help figure out where you came from—or how to get you back—it’s them.”

You sank back against the pillows. “This sounds like a sci-fi fever dream.”

Bakugo crossed his arms. “Welcome to the goddamn future, sweetheart.”

You threw him another look.

Kirishima leaned down beside you with a quiet grin. “He means you’re gonna be alright.”

“I mean I’m not dragging some clueless, out-of-world stray around while villains are out there looking to take shots,” Bakugo muttered. “She’s gotta be watched. Kept contained.”

You bristled. “I’m not a wild animal.”

“No,” he snapped. “You’re an unknown variable with no ID, no Quirk, and no answers. Excuse me for not trusting sunshine and wishful thinking.”

Izuku raised a hand gently. “Bakugo.”

His name was enough to make the explosion simmer down—if barely.

Izuku turned back to you with a kind smile. “We’re not going to force you into anything unsafe. You’ll have your own space, food, clothing. Until we figure this out… it’s the best option. And you won’t be alone.”

Your gaze flicked from Izuku… to Kirishima… and reluctantly to Bakugo.

You exhaled. Slowly.

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Bakugo muttered. “Gear up. We leave in twenty.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room without another word.

Izuku gave a sheepish laugh. “He’s always like that. But he’s better than he used to be. Mostly.”

Kirishima chuckled, already reaching for a bag with your clothes. “C’mon. Let’s get you dressed.”

U.A. was nothing like you expected.

It wasn’t some sleek sci-fi fortress, or some secret underground compound. It looked like a sprawling campus—modern, yes, but surrounded by open air, winding walkways, and towering structures that reminded you more of a school for gifted kids than the headquarters of the world’s most powerful heroes.

Because that’s what it was, apparently.

You were housed in a secure side wing reserved for guests and sensitive Quirk cases. Your room had tall windows, a soft bed, and walls too clean to feel like anything other than temporary. Still, it was better than a hospital bed. Better than waking up in an alley with no purpose.

The first week blurred by in a haze of tests and evaluations.

You met scientists who studied space-time ruptures. Teachers who spoke with power and authority. Support staff who gently drew blood samples while trying not to spook you. And a school nurse who gave you a wink and said, “You’re lucky. You dropped in at the right place—most people fall into traffic.”

You didn’t leave the building much. You weren’t allowed to. The poking and prodding was becoming too much.

Bakugo showed up often. At first, you thought he was checking in on you, albeit in the most begrudging way possible. But you realized quickly: he wasn’t checking on you.

He was checking around you.

Watching who came and went. Watching the hallways. Watching everything—like something about you still itched at the back of his mind.

Izuku visited too—gentler, friendlier, always asking how you were adjusting, how you were feeling, if you remembered anything useful. You didn’t. But he kept showing up anyway, kind in a way that felt disarming.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening.

The sun had just dipped behind the main buildings, casting long shadows over the glass and stone walkways of the U.A. campus. You were walking back to your room after another round of tests, accompanied by a quiet aide with a clipboard and a kind smile.

You didn’t even see the attack coming.

One moment, the sky cracked with thunder that wasn’t thunder—and the next, something tore through the security gates with a sound like screaming metal and a flare of red lightning.

Sirens screamed.

Teachers shouted.

The aide beside you barely had time to grab your arm before a black shape hit the walkway like a comet. He didn’t rise again.

The villain that stood there was masked, armored, and far too calm. You couldn’t see his face—just the glowing red lines running down his arms and the voice that rasped, “Found you.”

Your legs wouldn’t move. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs. The air felt like static and heat and panic.

Then you ran.

Not smartly. Not strategically. Just away.

Down the steps. Through the courtyard. Behind a pillar of concrete just as the stone exploded near your head.

You would have died.

You know that.

If it weren’t for him.

A roar of sound. A flash of light. A heatwave that slammed past your cheek.

And Bakugo—charging in with a snarl and a blast that shattered the enemy’s footing. His body moved like a fuse being burned—fast, brutal, relentless.

“Get the hell away from her!”

His explosion collided with the villain’s blast. The courtyard filled with dust and fire. You barely registered Kirishima darting in from the side, throwing a wall of hardened arms between you and the fight, ushering you back—

“Stay down! Don’t move! We’ve got this!”

The battle was over in minutes. The villain restrained, furious, growling curses you didn’t understand.

You were still shaking.

And Bakugo?

He didn’t even look winded.

He turned toward you, smoke still rising from his gloves. His eyes scanned you like he was counting bones.

“You good?”

You nodded—barely, swallowing hard.

He scowled. “Too close.”

Izuku looked serious. Tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a clipboard resting on his knee.

“She wasn’t just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said quietly. “That guy was after her. He had her name. Her description. Which means someone knows she’s here.”

You sat in a chair near the wall, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

“So what now?” you asked, voice small. “You gonna hide me underground? Chain me to a desk?”

Bakugo, standing across the room with his arms folded, scoffed.

“Don’t tempt me.”

Izuku ignored him. “You need better protection. Constant surveillance. Someone who can stop another attack before it happens.”

“And let me guess…” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You’ve already got a volunteer.”

Izuku looked at Bakugo.

Bakugo frowned. “Tch. I didn’t volunteer.”

“But you’re the best option,” Izuku countered calmly. “She’s safest with someone who can fight off high-tier villains without waiting for backup. Someone who’s already shown he can keep her alive.”

Bakugo looked at you.

You looked back.

“…This is insane,” you muttered.

“Get used to it,” he said. “You’re moving in.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“To my place,” he clarified gruffly. “No villains. No media. No soft walls or useless guards. Just me.”

“You’re not exactly a comforting presence.”

“Good. Comfort’s not what keeps you breathing.”

You opened your mouth—then closed it again.

Izuku smiled, soft but firm. “It’s not forever. Just until we get answers. Just until you’re safe.”

You sighed, fingers tightening in your lap.

“…Fine.”

Bakugo cracked his neck and turned toward the door.

“Hope you don’t snore.”

#x reader #character x reader #x female reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #mha #this is purely self indulgent #aged up characters #reader insert

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doodlebugg16-blog · 4 months ago

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