napbatata

[napbatata]

You and I (k.bakugo x reader)

"Is it really you?"

Katsuki's breath claws out of him weakly. It’s a hollow whisper that scratches at the cramped air. You have him pinned against his equipment, your untethered hands hovering above his clenched ones. The bite of your frosted skin seeps into the raw edges of his open knuckles. He squeezes the wood of his drumsticks so hard it sounds like rubber. 

He's never seen your face this close. 

Your flesh looks like wet metal and smells like the patch of grass at the edge of Katsuki's childhood backyard. The one that never seemed to dry even on the hottest summer days. Your eyes blink slowly, changing their colour with each slow pan. The curling haze of nostalgia clinging onto you makes you look older, every movement is smudged to be made antique. 

You look nothing like the missing posters stapled to the rotting utility poles lining the cracked sidewalks of your shared hometown. 

You cage him against the dank wall of the practice room he’s been shut in for the past hour. His eyes panic, wedging themselves between his body and the abandoned drums, only to watch your lower half phase through the metal and wood with a rumble. The instrument tightens like a zit that’s about to pop, the screws and tuning bolts are screeching. 

His fear doesn’t make him run or fight. Katsuki freezes and remembers you, a version of you thawed out and warmed by the panic in his taut chest. You—the real you—and him on his basement floor, lying on your backs and drawing shapes out of the shadows. He’d gotten used to the sound of your voice in the dark, but never surrounded by so much silence. It echoed without the yell of a crowd, or the strum of your bass, or the support of Izuku’s singing, or the shred of Eiji’s guitar. It made his head hurt, soaked his palms in a sheen of sweat. 

It was always so easy for you to forget that you were being watched. He remembers being jealous of that. 

He kept you tucked away in the slam of his sticks or in the pounding of a pedal. If he had half the courage he thought he had, he would have asked you if it would be easy to spot him in a crowd. If you would ever be able to recognize his eyes. 

Katsuki wants to spit through his teeth. A part of him needs to touch you somehow. Let it be the tears staining his cheeks, the blood caking into his nails, the sweat oozing out of his hairline and onto the arch of his nose. Let it be anything that’s never aged along with him. 

You start to open your mouth. Your lips separating slowly, silently widening without that signature crack of your stressed jaw. Your throat is dark and unimaginative, like nobody bothered to build your ghost from the inside out. 

You only manage two words. 

“Found. You.” Wind lingers at the edge of your voice, filtering through your apparition’s gaps like pennies thrown into a dark, broken well. 

The sticks choked in Katsuki’s grip clatter to the floor numbly. Like a calling bell, the sudden noise blinks you out of reality. The only sound that fills the room is his anger, it splatters all over the neutrally painted walls, replaces the blue hue of your memory. He gags, grabbing at his own throat and trying to wring out a scream trapped in a chord, but all he gets are wet heaves and the rings of his cymbals when his hunched shoulders brush against them. His grief had always been a horrible song. 

He manages to crawl out of his seat and reach for his phone. He ignores the time stamp of his recording, refuses to acknowledge the red double digits, and scrolls down his short list of contacts. The last time he called you was a year ago. An entire year of believing he wasn’t looking for you anymore. His numb fingers hover over the screen, frozen in a time he wishes still existed. 

Your family never even bought a gravestone. 

Katsuki drops his phone back onto the floor. It’s late and he’s only seeing things he wishes he’d noticed at eighteen, in the dark of your cluttered garage the first week everyone realized you won’t be coming back this time. Katsuki quickly glances at the sticks still lying limp on the floor and tries to find any evidence of you. He finds nothing. He lets the smell of wilting cleaning products make his head dizzy. 

Face up like a fish dead in the water, the phone starts to glow again. It writhers back to life with Deku’s bright and annoyingly personalized contact name. The last time he called was a week ago, just checking in, wondering which bag of cherries looked the ripest. Katsuki doesn’t feel like talking about cherries right now. 

But Izuku calls a second time, because of course he does. So, Bakugo has to breathe through his nose, fast and shallow, just like you taught him. 

“What?”

“Kacchan—” Izuku coughs. It doesn’t sound like him. “I need to talk to you. Kirishima’s here too.”

Eijirou mumbles a small hey, warbly at the edges, also completely unlike him. Katsuki hasn’t blinked for the entire thirty seconds this conversation has gone on for. You used to be a part of that sentence. Kirishima’s here too. You were there too. God. Fuck. He thought he was over this. 

Izuku speaks again. “Are you…busy?”

“Practice,” he grunts out, swallowing down a wet sob. 

They all let the answer hang in the air. Makes it feel like the wrong one. 

“Okay,” Izuku breathes in, it crackles over the line, all jumpy and goosebumped. 

There’s something about their hesitance, about Kirishima’s silence and Izuku’s horribly translated anxiety, that drains the last bit of his very thin patience. The room has completely flipped on its back with Katsuki still in it. He’s suddenly too aware of the lack of windows, the dull walls and their galleries of musically passionate mystery stains, his own sweat pooling at the back of his neck and between the creases of his palms. All of it is too familiar despite him being so far away from home. 

When Izuku finally says your name it rings in his ears. 

All he can smell is the grime in the room fermenting. It finds the darkest places in his throat and settling there to make him itch from the inside out.

He’ll never be able to leave this room, he’ll die sucking on the splintered wood of his sticks for comfort.

All because they found you. They fucking found you. 

notes: thank u so much for reading! this is an au ive had in my head for a few months nowww. its something id really love to eventually make a full on fic about, but right now it's just simple bare bones. band au, haunted hometown, weird disappearances, you get it.

also,, @kissxcore ALEXIS! i hope the tag is alright. i think i remember you wanting to be when i was talking about it but again that was MONTHS ago so lmk if this was alr :)) love ya!

[napbatata]

<- Sanemi simp posts masterlist

This just came out of me right at this moment, completely sober on a Saturday night. I’m sorry upfront (not really). Manga spoilers. And a little pain.

Big brother Sanemi:

- Who had to step up at an early age and help his mother deliver his siblings in birth.

- Who had to help with household duties, nursing his younger siblings, take care of his mother post-birth and cook.

- Who had to start working in order to bring food on the table and for his family to be clothed.

- Who had to use his small body as a shield to protect his Ma when his father got violent.

- Who had to wake up in the dead of night to comfort his younger siblings, since his mother worked at night.

- Who had to endure not only physical, but verbal abuse from his father.

- Who had to give up his own meals at times to make sure his younger siblings were fed.

- Who had to face the disgust and judgement of people who looked at him and his family as nothing more than dirt.

- Who had to watch children his age being children, going to school, being hugged by their parents and never going hungry.

- Who had to teach himself how to read just so he could read books for his younger siblings before bedtime.

- Who had to collect old fabrics from other’s trash so he could sew clothing for his younger siblings.

- Who had to always be there and comfort his younger siblings, but never having anyone to do the same for him.

- Who had to wake up early, finding his mother already off to work and left him to make food for his siblings before they went to school. Because Sanemi had saved up his own money to make sure they could attend school even if he couldn’t.

- Who had to hold back the smile and relief when his father passed away, because he didn’t want his younger siblings (excluding Genya) to know just how horrible their father was.

- Who had to leave his younger siblings alone one night to look for his mother. When he found her she was no longer his Ma, but a feral beast—a demon.

- Who had to watch his younger siblings being torn apart and murdered by their mother, leaving only one left to witness it all.

- Who had to use his malnourished and small body (that’s still bigger than his mother’s) to save his younger brother.

- Who had to keep her from killing anyone else until dawn, using a cleaver to hack and slash at her.

- Who had to watch as the woman who birthed him, loved him, shielded him and tried her best to be the best mother crumble to dust before his eyes.

- Who had to watch his younger brother cry in agony, knowing he can never be the same big brother again.

- Who had to remove himself from his younger brother’s life because he thought that’s the best solution.

- Who had to watch from the shadows his younger brother alone and looking for him.

- Who had to leave him behind, hoping he’d manage to find a better way since Sanemi himself could never do that. Or so he thought.

- Who had to survive alone in the wilderness, fighting demons, harming himself, putting his life in danger every time.

- Who eventually found a friend that taught him how to properly kill demons, who introduced him to the Demon Slayer Corps, a master to teach him Wind Breathing. Someone who became like a brother to him only to be ripped away from him as well.

- Who had to learn after his friend’s death that he too was a big brother and experienced loss.

- Who had finally found stability as the Wind Hashira, earning money and ready to provide for his younger brother.

- Who had to hear the news of his younger brother joining the Demon Slayer Corps instead of living a normal and safe life. A life he wanted for him, a life he could protect.

- Who had to bury the tenderness in his heart for his younger brother, put on a cold front and pushing him away.

- Who had to fight the urge to just hug his younger brother.

- Who had to finally be earnest about his true feelings for his younger brother when he was clutching his crumbling corpse, watching the last of his family slip through his fingers.

- Who had to pick himself up immediately to fight for the greater good even if he had lost his last reason to go on.

- Who had to keep on living after the war, knowing everyone he ever held dear in his life are gone. That his younger siblings he had sacrificed everything for (and would again) just to have better lives and be happy are nothing but faded memories.

- Who had to accept that he’s no longer a big brother to anyone and never will be.

[napbatata]

Under Wraps - Katsuki Bakugo

Katsuki never saw it coming. How the hell could he? His entire life had been a straight shot toward one thing, one goddamn thing: being the greatest hero alive. That was it. That was all that mattered. And for the longest time, it worked. He shut everything else out. Friendship. Romance. All that soft shit. None of it had a place in his world. He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it. People came and went like shadows in his periphery, and he never once slowed down to look. Never cared. Never let himself care.

When he came to UA, however, things changed. Only slightly, though, as much as he would allow. He found ‘friends’, not by choice, of course. He would never actively look out for friends. But the UA idiots maneuvered a way into his life, much to his resistance. Even though he would never call them friends, Katsuki realized what it was: a friendship.

One of these U.A. idiots was her. And Katsuki would blow his own face off before admitting it, but she was the closest he’d ever been to anyone. Not Deku, not Shitty Hair; her. The only one he ever let the facade slip around, even if just a little. Izuku knew Bakugo too well to miss the signs, but that was all guesswork; Katsuki would never hand him his emotions. Kirishima? He was as close to an equal as anyone could get, someone Katsuki could respect. But trust him with what really mattered? No. That was different. She was different. She’d managed to earn something no one else had.

Katsuki couldn’t remember exactly when this happened. They never got along at the start of his first year at UA. He remembered too well how her doe eyes would narrow in disgust or disapproval whenever he snapped at Deku. She was never subtle about her dislike for his ways. She would roll her eyes every time he insulted a classmate or frown at him the time he nearly hurt Izuku during hero training by using his gauntlet. She did not come to talk to him that day. However, she did pass by when he left UA campus, eyes glazed with unshed tears.

She saw him as a human that day, not just a walking time bomb. He was a boy underneath the facade of being strong, independent, and an aspiring hero. Katsuki didn’t realize it right away—the way her eyes softened just a little when she looked at him the next day. It wasn’t sympathy. It wasn’t exactly soft either, just no longer cruel. Her judgment had faded. Now, her eye rolls came not from disgust but from genuine amusement.

She did maneuver into his life, just as the rest of the ‘baku-squad’ did. Not as loudly as the rest, instead slowly creeping her way into his day. Tagging along with the pink-skinned girl who navigated her way to the same table as the two blondes and Mina’s favourite redhead. Katsuki raised an eyebrow that day, watching her take a seat across from him, like she wasn’t the same person he barked at a couple of times before, threatening to claw out her beady eyes for villifying him just by her gaze alone.

“The hell are you doing here, Bambi?! You stalking me now or what?!”

“Oh, so you do notice when I’m around. How sweet.”

She never did shy away from his insults, biting back with smart replies from the top of her head like she never had to think to outsmart him. Much to Katsuki’s chagrin, she never took him too seriously. Maybe that’s why he gravitated towards her the way he had. He gauged he always did prefer her over the rest of the loud lot. She liked it better to stand back and watch the chaos anyway, never being the one to start it.

But even as much as he knew, hell, he liked her more than the rest of the damn class, maybe more than anyone in the world; he never saw this coming. Not this. Not a fucking positive pregnancy test burning in his palm like a live bomb, while she sat on his bed, shoulders shaking, face buried in her hands. And him? He just stared. Blank. Like if he looked hard enough, the result would change. He liked her. More than anyone else. But not enough for this. Not now. Not when they were barely into their second year, not when everything he’d built was supposed to stay in control. Her sobs gutted him, each one cutting deeper, screaming at him to do something, to say something. Anything. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came. Nothing but the hollow ring of silence swallowing them both whole.

‘Say something, anything!’

Her doe-eyed stare clung to him, pleading without a word as he shifted on his feet. Nothing. No flicker of emotion, no crack in the armor, just silence that roared louder than any curse. Katsuki rose slowly, every muscle wound tight, his jaw locked like he was holding back an explosion. In his fist, the test burning him, branding him—but he didn’t let go as if to punish himself. He met her eyes, and for one breath, she thought he might say something. Anything. Then came the sound, soft, merciless, as plastic hit the bottom of the trash can. The sole proof of his mistake. Gone. And without another glance, he walked out, boots dragging across the floor, leaving the door yawning open and her world caving in.

This time, he swore he wouldn’t let her in. No. Not again. He had a goal; hell, a destiny etched into his bones, and there was no room for weakness. No room for mistakes. That’s what this was, right? Just another slip-up. Just like all the other times he’d cracked, let her slip past his walls, see pieces of him no one else ever did. Pieces that should’ve stayed buried. His fists curled so tight his nails carved crescents into his palms, the sting biting harder without the test to ground him. He told himself he’d be fine. He had to be. And she would be too. She had to be. Because if he let himself believe otherwise, if he let himself care too much, then everything he’d built, everything he was, would shatter. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not for her. Not for anyone.

are we ready for this series?? I hope you guys tune in! maybe i'll make a taglist, let me know in the comments if you wanna be added to it.

[napbatata]

‎「 ✦ 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 ✦ 」

‎𖹭 pairings: DARK! Yandere! Saja Boys x Female! Singer! Reader x SOFT! Yandere! Huntr/x

‎𖹭 TW: dark themes: NSFW, explicit sexual content ahead 18+ (SMUT), manipulation, oral s3x, scissoring/tribbing, biting, LOTS of kisses, poly!huntr/x, a last part of a chapter, poorly written dialogues, obsessive and possessive behavior, occ...obviously.

‎𖹭 summary: she was the secret voice in the music—a spell woven between the beats that kept demons from devouring them all. Some would keep her locked away in velvet-lined cages. Others would bleed her voice dry for their own glory. She was never given a choice about singing. Only about who she would sing for.

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝟮—𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐: OUR DUET IN THE DARK ♬⋆.˚ (pls read the first part of chapter 2 before continuing...)

...Everyone laughed—even Rumi. The sound wrapped around you like a warm blanket, but it still made your chest ache. You missed that laugh. You missed this—their laughter, their joy, the way things used to be. You missed all of them when they were like this—unburdened, not worried, not angry, not shifting all their attention to you like you were someone they had to constantly focus on and worry about.

‎And just like that, the energy in the room lightened. The tension began to peel away like old wallpaper, leaving the space feeling breathable for the first time all day. The girls moved easily into conversation, weighing the idea of visiting the doctor's clinic and eventually agreeing that tomorrow afternoon, after lunch, would be best. The plan came together in little details—timing, street routes, how long they’d be out. You listened quietly as your heart curled tighter with every passing second.

‎Then, almost without thinking, you lifted your hand and whispered hoarsely, "Can I… come with you guys?"

‎The room suddenly froze. It was as if the air had been sucked out, leaving only the weight of your words hanging between the four of you. Mira blinked slowly, her gaze locked on yours as if trying to read the hidden meaning behind your trembling voice. Rumi's lips parted, but no sound came out—just a breath that caught in her throat. Zoey looked like someone had asked her to make a choice she wasn't ready for, as her eyes keep flicking between you and the girls.

‎No one spoke. You can feel their eyes on you, all three of them, and suddenly you weren't sure if it was courage or desperation that had driven the words out of your mouth. You wanted to take them back, pretend you never said anything, but your heart was already beating too loud, like it was waiting for a verdict.

‎Mira leaned forward slightly, expression unreadable as she asked quietly, "You want to come… with us?" She stared at you for a long moment, searching your eyes for something. Before her gaze hardened, "No," she said firmly, while shaking her head. "You know you're not allowed to be seen in public."

‎Her words stung, even though you'd expected them.

‎"It's dangerous, remember?" Rumi added gently, with her voice strained and coated with concern. "What if a demon attacks while we’re outside? What if the spirits notice you and start following you again? You barely escaped from it last time…"

‎Your thoughts drifted back to the last time they let you tag along when they decided to have dinner outside. It was supposed to be a simple night out, nothing more than shared laughter, warm food, and soft music humming in the background. But halfway through the evening, something had begun to trail behind you—a restless spirit, had drawn to you like a moth to a flame. It had died clinging to regret, and the moment it realized you were a Songbird, it latched onto you with desperate hope, convinced your voice could give it peace.

‎At first, it was harmless—just a sad, flickering presence hovering at the edge of your senses. But as the night wore on, its energy grew frantic. It began whispering your name, tugging at your sleeve, begging for a song… demanding it repeatedly. It wouldn't let you relax... it wouldn't let you breathe. And then it turned violent. Chairs were thrown. Lights shattered. The entire restaurant descended into chaos. The girls had no choice but to destroy it—ripping it from the world it no longer belonged to, before they carried your trembling form all the way back home. Where you're safe.

‎You blinked slowly now, pulled back to the present by the echo of that memory.

‎You already recognized the shape of this conversation—the way it always began and always ended. Always with you being left behind, always being protected like something precious but breakable.

‎And yet, your voice found its way out again, slipping out in a breathless whisper, that has a little cracked at the edges. "But you'll be there… and you'll protect me, won't you?"

‎A cough suddenly tore its way from your throat before you could stop it. You doubled forward slightly, wincing. Rumi was at your side in seconds, her touch was gentle as she brought a glass of water to your lips, guiding it so carefully you could almost pretend she was cradling you instead. You drank in silence, not because you wanted to, but because it meant you had her attention. Her care.

‎Once the glass was empty, you set it down with trembling fingers. Before your eyes lifted to meet theirs, laced with a quiet desperation. "Please… I want to be there, for Rumi. I-I really do…"

‎Your voice faltered with every syllable, but your heart screamed louder. You didn't want to be left behind again. You didn’t want to be alone in the silence—where the walls of your mind grew sharper with every second, where thoughts turned on themselves and voices whispered what no one else could hear. In that silence, your insecurities multiplied, and bloodied visions played behind your eyelids like cruel memories. Gwi-ma always found you in those moments, slithering into your chest like a serpent, curling around your heart, poisoning every thought until you could hardly breathe.

Rumi's expression softened at once. Her jaw slackened, just a little, and her eyes flickered with something tender—something unspoken. Her heart melted at the thought that you wanted to come along for her. That you still worried about her. That even after everything, you wanted to be there to support her. She was the first one to love you and had always been the first to believe in you. And now, she found herself hesitating—not because she didn’t want you there, but because she wasn't sure if they could keep you safe.

‎"I just… don't want to be left behind again," you whispered, staring down at your bandaged hand. "Please… don't leave me alone…"

‎There was something haunting in your tone. Something too fragile and desperate. Like a porcelain doll with a fracture no one noticed until it splintered right through the smile. Your words hung in the air, winding themselves like velvet ropes around the girls' hearts. It wasn't just a plea. It was a quiet kind of madness—laced with the fear of being abandoned again…

‎Mira and Zoey's lips parted slightly, but no words came out. The two of them exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them as the fear in your voice clung to the air like a chill. It wasn't just fear that they recognized, it was that same, quiet desperation from the last time you were left alone. Their minds raced back to the image burned into their memories—

‎You, standing in front of a shattered mirror, your knuckles bloodied and trembling. You had punched the glass out of sheer panic and helplessness. Blood stained your hands, your clothes, even the floor. You had coughed, violently, with a thin stream of red trailing down your chin. Where barely above a whisper, you had cried out the Demon King's name in quiet, broken fear. Like a child begging a monster not to come back.

The memory made their stomachs twist.

‎You hadn't just been scared. You had been falling apart. Alone.

‎And now, that same look was in your eyes again.

‎Your words came faster now, fevered and frantic, almost as if you were trying to convince yourself. "I'll hold your hand the whole time, I won't let go. I-I'll behave—" But the sentence was cut short as you coughed harshly again. One hand fluttered to your throat, fingertips brushing over the tattoo on your skin. As a quiet tremble ghosted through your shoulders.

‎Rumi winced, eyes softening as she leaned in closer. "Maybe it's best if you just stay here, angel... You need rest and—"

‎"Please…" you breathed again.

‎You looked up at them with eyes so wide and glassy, it almost didn't seem human.

‎"Don't leave me here. Not again…"

‎The silence that followed was thick with hesitation. The three girls exchanged glances—unspoken concern flowing between them like a current.

‎But there was no stopping the tide now.

‎Mira sighed quietly, her shoulders rising and falling before she finally met your eyes. Her expression softened, though her voice remained firm—protective, almost possessive. "Alright… fine. You can come along," she said slowly and deliberately. "But—you're not allowed to wander. You stay by our side the whole time. You don't talk to anyone but us. And if anything—anything—bad happens, we're taking you home. Got it?"

‎Then she reached out, with her fingers brushing yours before gently settling over your bandaged hand. Her thumb began to stroke the back of it in slow, calming circles. It was a silent warning—an unspoken plea wrapped in steel, that said, behave for us.

‎You nodded quickly, a flicker of relief crossing your face. A small, grateful smile curved your lips as you mouthed a quiet "thank you," trembling like a bird cupped gently in someone's hand.

Zoey and Rumi exchanged a glance before their eyes settled on the two of you, a slow, warm smile curling up on their lips. Yet, despite that comforting expression, there was still a flicker of hesitation—like a shadow that refused to fully fade—lingering in their eyes. It was the kind of look that spoke of unspoken thoughts and quiet concern, the kind that hovered between wanting to reject the idea and wanting to accept it.

"Alrightyyy, now that everything's settled—we should eat before the food gets cold!" Zoey giggled brightly, as if determined to chase away whatever tension remained. Without wasting another second, she eagerly dug into her meal, the playful clinking of her spoon against the bowl fills the quiet space with a touch of cheer and normalcy.

‎Across from her, Rumi let out a soft chuckle, with of her lips twitching upward as she gently blew at the rising steam from her bowl. She took careful sips of the stew, trying not to let her excitement show too much—even though she'd been craving something warm and comforting all day. The first taste was enough to melt away the last of her tension, and though she hid it well, the way her shoulders relaxed said enough.

‎The tension in the air remained, but it wasn't heavy anymore. It had softened, curling into something warm and oddly protective. There was a certain electricity beneath it all—a knowing, shared understanding between the three girls. A silent agreement. They didn't say it aloud, not yet, but the way their eyes kept glancing your way between bites, the way their legs brushed yours under the table a little too often to be accidental… it was deliberate. Gentle and quietly possessive.

‎Their smiles lingered just a little too long. Their laughter was sweeter when it was for you. And every time you reached for something, there was already a hand meeting yours, as if they anticipated your every move.

After dinner, the familiar rhythm of tidying up settled over the kitchen like a blanket—dishes being gathered, glasses clinking softly, chairs gently scraping against the floor. It was domestic, almost idyllic. But something about tonight felt different. Maybe it was the way Mira took the plate from your hands so quietly, so deliberately, with her eyes flickering down at your bandaged fingers with softness that bordered on command. "I've got it," she murmured, smoothly and firm like velvet pressed over steel.

‎Zoey, who was already juggling two plates in one hand like it was nothing, flashed you a bright, impish grin. "You and Rumi should just chill for tonight. We'll handle the rest... Especially after, y'know… the whole voice thing." She giggled, giving your cheek a playful pinch that made your nose scrunch despite yourself. "Good night, you twooo~" she sang sweetly, brushing a kiss to Rumi's cheek before skipping off to the sink beside Mira.

‎You stood there quietly, with your gaze locked on their backs as Mira and Zoey washed and scrubbed the dishes, laughing and talking together. The clink of plates and the low hum of their voices wrapped the kitchen in a warmth that made your heart melt. It was the kind of harmony you didn't realize you'd missed until it was right there in front of you.

Without a word, you and Rumi drifted away from the scene, with your footsteps soft against the floor as if not to disturb that fragile moment. The living room welcomed you both with its familiar creak, but the weight in your body was heavier than comfort could lift.

You let out a quiet sigh, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into your limbs. Turning towards the hallway, to your room felt like wading through water, you barely managed a single step before you felt it—fingers wrapping tightly, almost desperately, around your wrist.

‎You froze, then slowly turned your head only to meet Rumi's gaze. Her eyes were half-lidded, glinting with something unreadable—dark lashes heavy over pupils blown a little too wide, shimmering with quiet heat and something deeper. Love? Possessiveness? Longing?

‎Her cheeks flushed the moment she realized what she'd done. She let go immediately, eyes widening as if she'd just broken something. "S-Sorry," she whispered, in a scratchy and breathy voice. As her hand retreated to the back of her neck in a nervous motion. "I… I didn't mean to grab you like that. I just—" She looked away, clearly flustered, before glancing back at you through her lashes. "I was thinking… maybe we could spend the night together?" she asked, hesitantly but laced with intent. "In my room. If that's okay."

‎You blinked up at her, caught in a sudden hush, as if the world around you had gone still. Heat bloomed softly in your cheeks, betraying the flutter in your chest. Her words lingered in the air like a slow-burning match, and yet… you couldn't quite grasp how you felt about them. You weren't sure if it was nervousness, confusion, or the faint pull of something warmer, deeper. All you knew was that your heart had started to race, and your voice felt too small for the moment.

‎Your fingers twitched at your sides, heart stumbling over itself as silence wrapped around you both. You didn't expect her to say that—not with such calm certainty, not with that quiet look in her eyes that was almost pleading, almost shy.

‎"I…" you breathed, the sound was barely a whisper as your thoughts scrambled, searching for meaning—anything to anchor yourself to, anything to make this moment less overwhelming. But all you could do was stand there, your gaze flickering instinctively from her to the floor and back again, as the weight of her stare closed in on you like a slow, patient tide. Your mind was telling you to run... and yet, something inside you stayed.

You felt her hand before you saw it—fingertips brushing beneath your chin, feather-light, coaxing your face upward until your eyes reluctantly met hers. Her smile was soft, tender even. But behind that warmth was something deeper… something darker. Something possessive and starving. A hunger that shimmered just beneath her calm, like a predator admiring the creature it had so patiently waited.

‎"You've been through a lot today," she murmured in a low, hoarse voice, like something inside her was straining to stay held back. "I just wanted to comfort you tonight…"

‎There was a pause. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed thickly, the silence stretching between you was like a fragile string. Her eyes flickered to yours in a pleading look.

‎"Just for one night," she whispered. "Is that okay…? Just you and me… Please."

‎You didn't answer. You couldn't—not with how your heart thundered in your chest, wildly unsure. The way she looked at you made your skin prickle, like she was seeing through every wall you'd ever built. It was overwhelming… paralyzing… and yet, a strange warmth flickered underneath the nerves.

‎You couldn't look away.

‎You felt your breath catch as she leaned in. Her lips brushed against yours softly. The kiss was hesitant at first, barely a touch, like she was testing the water. Waiting for you to push her away. She held herself still, frozen with restraint, but her fingers trembled ever so slightly against your cheek.

‎You didn't kiss her back. Something fluttered in your chest—anxiety unfurling like a ribbon pulled too tight. The air around you seemed to press closer, heavier now, full of things unsaid and barely understood. Somewhere between the edge of fear and the strange, seductive comfort of her nearness.

‎And she felt it—your stiffness, your hesitation—and after a moment, her lips pulled away just slightly. But her hand remained on your cheek as her thumb began to stroke your skin in slow, patient circles, like she was telling you, silently, that she would wait if you asked her to.

"It's okay," she breathed, her voice soft as a lullaby. "I'll be gentle… I won't do anything that would make you feel uncomfortable…"

But even as the words left her lips, something flickered in her expression. Her eyes, which moments ago held that familiar spark, seemed to dim. She bit her lip in hesitation as her gaze slipped away from yours like she was suddenly ashamed to be looking at you. The barest furrow formed between her brows, a crack in the confident front she had worn.

You knew that look. You'd seen it before in quiet moments when she thought you weren't paying attention—when her guard fell, and the regret she never spoke of bled through. And now, it was here again. Sitting heavy in her eyes.

Something in your chest ached. You hated seeing her like this—as if she was bracing herself for rejection. You weren't even sure if you wanted this, after everything… but you were sure about one thing: you couldn't stand the thought of her walking away with that sorrow carved into her face.

You swallowed hard, forcing the tangle of nerves and uncertainty in your chest to settle—if only for now. Your fingers twitched at your side before, almost without thinking, you reached for her. The air between you hummed, thick with something fragile and fleeting.

Then, timidly, almost shyly, you tiptoed forward until your lips met hers. She stiffened in surprise, a small gasp had escaped her, before she melted into you. Her breath hitched as the tension drained from her shoulders. Her lips molded to yours, soft but urgently, carrying the relief of someone who had waited far too long and could hardly believe this was real. Your lips parted slightly, letting her warmth in, and something inside your cracked open. Your guard slipped—just a little.

And she noticed. Her hand slipped from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. The other arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you close until you felt the soft press of her body—the quick flutter of her heartbeat, the desperate way she held you, as if afraid you might vanish.

The kiss deepened—still slow, yet full of quiet hunger. Her lips moved with aching tenderness, but you could feel the weight behind them. Like she was pouring pieces of herself into you, one breath at a time. Like she needed this to survive.

‎‎When she finally pulled away, the world didn't rush back all at once. Everything stayed hushed, still caught in the trance of that moment. Your foreheads rested against each other, eyes half-lidded, with the warmth of her breath ghosting against your lips. Her lashes brushed your skin as she whispered into your ear, voice trembling like a secret too fragile to speak aloud.

‎"Let me have you tonight… okay?"

‎Her grip on you tightened, just slightly.

‎"I've waited long enough to be alone with you..."

‎Her fingers intertwined through yours slowly. This time, she didn't wait for permission. She turned and began walking, tugging you with her towards the hallway, to her bedroom. Her grip was still soft, almost tender, but there was no mistaking the quiet intensity beneath it. It was sweet… but firm. Possessive.

‎The kind of touch that didn't like being told no.

‎It felt like being guided by something inevitable.

‎You didn't even realize you were moving until the world shifted again and you found yourself standing in front of her bedroom door. And she stood beside you… still holding your hand like she never planned to let go.

"You should let your hair down more often, Rumi..." you whispered, in a trembling voice as you lay back on her bed, wide-eyed and almost disbelieving. The dim light of the room wrapped her in a warm glow as she slowly peeled off her hoodie, revealing a lacy black bra and matching panties underneath. Heat rushed to your cheeks as you drank her in—the curve of her body, the intricate demon patterns on her skin—your heart pounding like it might break free. "It suits you..."

‎Rumi's lips curved into a soft, almost possessive smile as she noticed your gaze lingering on her newly exposed skin. That look always seemed to melt away all insecurities she still held about her body.

‎Without breaking eye contact, she reached up to undo her tight braid. One by one, the strands loosened until her purple hair fell in tousled waves down her back. Your breath hitched, as you reached up hesitantly, fingertips brushing through the silken strands, letting a few stray tresses frame her face, softening her usual sharp elegance.

‎Rumi's eyes fluttered shut as your hand grazed her cheek, with a quiet sigh slipping from her glossy lips. She leaned into your touch, nuzzling your palm like a cat craving affection. "Really?" she murmured, with her warm breath tickling your skin. For a fleeting moment, she looked almost innocent—so different from the hungry gaze she usually gave you in intimate moments. "You like me like this?"

‎But before you could answer, Rumi closed the remaining distance between you, with her lips finding yours in a searing kiss. Her mouth left yours to trail open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, up to your jaw, with her tongue flicking over the rapid thrum of your pulse. You gasped softly as she moved lower, lips brushing the swell of your breasts, still shielded by your nightgown.

‎Your back arched slightly, hands slipping into her loosened hair, tugging just enough to urge her on. The room seemed to narrow down to the sound of your mingled breaths and the faint rustle of fabric against skin. Her hands traced down your sides, each glide leaving goosebumps in their wake. She stopped at the hem of your nightgown, fingers curling into the fabric, as her eyes lifted to meet yours from beneath her long lashes.

‎"Rumi..." you breathed, unsure whether it was a plea or a warning. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, heat pooling low in your belly. A sliver of hesitation clung to you, but so did the ache of wanting more.

‎Rumi's fingertips brushed over your skin as she eased your nightgown upward, revealing inch after inch of your soft, delicate flesh. "Shhh… it's okay, angel~" she cooed, her voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. When the fabric slipped over your head, her gaze immediately locked onto your round, soft breasts, with nipples already pebbled with anticipation.

‎A quiet, reverent sigh slipped past her lips, but the warmth in her eyes quickly deepened into something darker, more possessive. She drank you in slowly, as if memorizing every curve, every tremble, with her hunger barely contained. She reached behind her and deftly unclipped her bra, allowing it to fall away and reveal her own perfect breasts, topped with rosy nipples that begged to be tasted.

‎Your eyes widened slightly as you took in the sight of her, your heart pounding at the realization that you were both now completely bare before each other.

‎Without breaking eye contact, Rumi slowly lowered herself down your body, her lips trailing kisses along your sensitive skin. She paused to lavish attention on your breasts, with her tongue swirling around your nipples until they hardened under her touch.

‎"Haah... Aaah..." You couldn't help but let out a soft moan, with your fingers tangling in Rumi's loose purple hair as jolts of pleasure coursed through you.

‎As Rumi continued her sensual descent, your breath hitched with anticipation. She paused at the apex of your thighs, with her hot breath ghosting over your most intimate area. Your hips twitched involuntarily, a silent plea for her to continue. Rumi looked up at you from beneath her long, dark lashes, with her eyes filled with a heady mix of love, desire, and a possessive intensity that made your heart race.

‎With a soft, almost reverent sigh, Rumi leaned in and placed a tender kiss on your clothed sex. The damp fabric of your panties was the only barrier between her lips and your aching flesh. She could feel the heat radiating from your core, a testament to your growing arousal.

‎Rumi hooked her fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly tugged them down to your legs, with her fingertips lightly grazing your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She tossed them carelessly to the side, along with the rest of your discarded clothes, before settling between your thighs. Rumi's eyes flicked back up to meet yours, dark with desire and a fierce, almost worshipful intensity.

‎"Spread your legs for me, [Y/N]," Rumi purred, with her hands gently but firmly pushing your thighs apart. "I want to taste every inch of you..." Her voice was low and husky, dripping with unspoken promises and barely restrained hunger.

‎As you hesitantly complied, Rumi's eyes darkened further as she took in the sight of your glistening, exposed pussy. She licked her lips, with a mischievous grin spreading across her face. Without warning, she leaned in and dragged the flat of her tongue along your slit, a low moan escaping her at the first taste of you.

‎"Aah~!" Your back arched off the bed at the sudden contact, with a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. Rumi's tongue was hot and soft, and she used it skillfully, teasing your folds and circling your sensitive clit with a maddening rhythm. She explored every inch of you, with her movements becoming bolder and more purposeful with each passing second.

‎Rumi's hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as she continued her sensual assault. She could feel your thighs trembling around her head, could hear the desperate sounds spilling from your lips. She reveled in the knowledge that she was the cause of your pleasure, the architect of your impending ecstasy.

‎"Ah! Aah! Ru-Rumi—hmmph!"

‎As she suckled and licked, Rumi's eyes flicked back up to meet yours. She wanted to see your face as she brought you to the brink of climax, wanted to watch you come undone beneath her touch. Her tongue flicked out, circling your clit with a devastating speed and precision that left you breathless.

"Come for me, baby," Rumi pleaded softly, her voice muffled against your pussy as she deepened her kiss on your sensitive flesh. Her lips sucked and teased your clit relentlessly, each motion drawing out waves of pleasure that rattled through your core. Her fingers clenched your hips firmly, anchoring you in place as she ground her body against yours with urgent need.

‎"Please… I want to taste you—need to taste you," she murmured between breathless kisses, voice thick with desperation and desire.

She pressed harder, with her mouth devouring every inch of you while her body moved in perfect rhythm. "Give yourself to me—all of you. Right now."

Her tone was fierce, but beneath the hunger lay a fierce protectiveness—as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

‎As Rumi's skillful tongue pushed you closer and closer to the edge, your grip on her hair tightened, with your nails digs into her scalp. Rumi let out a low, approving moan against your pussy, with the vibrations sending delicious shockwaves through your core. Your hips bucked involuntarily, grinding your aching clit against Rumi's mouth as your climax approached.

‎"Aah! Aah! Aah! Oh god—Rumi!" you cried out, in a ragged, desperate voice. Your body tensed, with every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring ready to snap. Rumi could feel your walls clenching around her tongue, your essence dripping down her chin as she worked you mercilessly.

‎With a final, hard suck on your clit and a thrust of her tongue deep into your fluttering channel, Rumi sent you careening over the edge. Your body convulsed, back arching sharply as a scream of raw ecstasy tore from your throat. "F-Fuck, Aahh~!" you cried out lewdly, with your juices gushing and flooding her mouth and chin, unknowingly heating the tattooed mark on your neck.

Rumi groaned low in her throat, utterly satisfied as she felt you spill into her mouth, greedily swallowing every drop of your hot cum. Her tongue lingered between your thighs, savoring the taste, coaxing out every last pulse until you were trembling. Only then did she pull back, with her lips glistening with your juices, curling into a smirk that balanced satisfaction with a predator's hunger.

‎She had worked you through every wave, licking and suckling until each trembling spasm had melted away. Now, with your body limp and boneless beneath her, she simply drank you in. Your flushed skin, the rise and fall of your chest, the way your half-lidded eyes shimmered in the dim light… every detail seared itself into her mind like a sacred image.

You were too beautiful like this... messy, undone, and utterly hers. The taste of you still clung to her tongue, only sharpening the dark, possessive coil in her chest at the thought of anyone else ever seeing you this way.

‎Crawling up your body, her soft curves molded perfectly to yours, with her breasts pressing into you as she leaned down to claim your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. Her tongue swept into you, letting you taste yourself on her lips. The sensation was intoxicating—raw in its intimacy, primal in its intent. One hand cupped your jaw, holding you in place as though she couldn't bear to let the moment end.

‎But when you broke the kiss with a sudden, sharp cough, the spell shattered. You turned your head, trying to clear your throat, but the sound deepened into a harsh, racking fit. In the dim light, Rumi’s eyes widened at the sight of dark flecks of blood splattering against the bedsheets.

‎"Y/N—" Her voice was pitched high, raw with alarm. The hunger in her gaze was gone in an instant, replaced by a fear she didn't bother to hide.

She slid an arm behind your back, pulling you upright with surprising gentleness for someone usually so strong, the other hand coming to pat and rub between your shoulder blades. "Hey—hey, breathe, breathe for me," she urged, with her tone trembling despite the calm she was trying to force.

‎Her eyes darted frantically over your face, searching for any sign you were okay. Did I push her too far? Did I hurt her? Those thoughts echoed sharp and relentless in her mind. She cupped your face with trembling hands, wiping at the blood trailing from your chin. The heat that had curled low in her stomach moments ago turned into ice, replaced by a twisting guilt that dug deep into her chest.

‎"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry," she breathed, gently brushing the damp strands of hair from your forehead. Her thumb lingered against your cheek, hesitantly, as if afraid that letting go would shatter something between you. "Maybe—maybe we should stop, angel…" Yet even as she spoke, her eyes betrayed her—fear flickering beneath the heat of obsession, the ache of not wanting to let you go warring with her worry.

‎You gazed deep into Rumi's eyes, seeing the smoldering desire warring with the hesitation lurking in their depths. Ignoring the persistent ache in your throat, you shook your head stubbornly, with a determined glint in your eye. Before Rumi could protest further, you made a sudden move, rolling her onto her back and straddling her hips with your own.

‎"Uh, [Y/N]...?" Rumi gasped, voice laced with surprise and a hint of concern as you guided her right leg up to rest on your shoulder. The new angle allowed your dripping cunt to press flush against hers, and you both gasped at the intense sensation, a jolt of electricity coursing through your entwined bodies.

‎"I'm fine..." you insisted, even as you felt a twinge of pain in your raw, sore throat. You furrowed your brow, the heat of Rumi's core radiating deliciously against your own, stoking the flames of your desire back into a raging inferno. You couldn't stop now, not when you craved her touch, her taste, her everything with a desperation that bordered on obsession...

‎"Baby… are you sure?" Rumi's voice was low, almost trembling, though her hips betrayed her restraint—jerking upward as if desperate to chase your touch. Her hand slid up your sides in a slow, reverent glide, cupping the swell of your breast as her thumb circled your nipple until it tightened into a hardened peak. "I don't want to hurt you, [Y/N]… We shouldn't..."

‎Despite the concern in her words, her eyes told the truth. That dark, molten hunger. That primal, possessive need to have you again—completely, until no one else could ever touch you without feeling her ghost in every place she's claimed.

‎You silenced her with a kiss that burned away every trace of hesitation. Your tongue swept into her mouth, tangling with hers, claiming as much as you were giving. Every ounce of your need poured into her until she was panting beneath you, breath stolen, lips shining with the mingling of your essences.

Breaking away, you let your mouth wander lower, scattering open-mouthed kisses down the graceful column of her neck. You lingered at her pulse point, nipping just enough to make her gasp, before soothing the mark with your tongue—a silent promise that it belonged to you now as much as you belonged to her.

‎"P-Please, Rumi…" you breathed against her skin, voice husky and raw with want. "I need this. I need you. All of you… Don't hold back." The words were paired with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, your clit circling hers in maddening figure-eights that made her grip on you tighten. "I can take it… for you. I want to make you feel good too."

‎Rumi shuddered beneath you, her resolve splintering under the heat of your touch. In her eyes, you caught the flicker of conflict—concern tangled with a ravenous hunger she could no longer cage. Every roll of your hips, every slow, intoxicating grind against her, chipped away at her restraint until you could almost feel it breaking.

‎Her breath hitched, lashes fluttering as the hunger finally won. A low, guttural moan tore from her throat, her hands slides down to cup your ass, fingers digging into the softness as if claiming it for herself. She pulled you tighter against her, the slick heat between you mingling, as her body pressed flush to yours in a desperate, fevered rhythm.

‎"Ah—fuck it," she growled, voice thick with lust and possession. Her gaze locked onto yours, blazing with a hunger that bordered on obsession. "I can't hold back anymore… You're so wet—God, I want to feel you soak me. I want all of it. Every drop. Every twitch. Every fucking sound you make—mine."

‎Rumi seized control with a sudden shift, sitting up just enough to roll her hips in a slow, deliberate grind that stole your breath. The new angle made your clits drag and pulse against one another with every thrust, slick heat building between you until it was almost unbearable. Skin to skin, the wet slide was obscene, intimate—a rhythm older than words, older than reason, binding you together in primal need.

‎"Ahh—O… ohhh… haah… aah!" The sounds spilled from you were helpless gasps, each one trembling into the air only to be caught by her hungry mouth.

‎Her hands roamed with purpose, finding your breasts and pinching your hardened nipples between her fingers. She rolled them slowly, just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble, before tugging lightly—drawing more desperate sounds from you. Her kiss was relentless, swallowing your moans like she needed them to live, drinking each ragged cry as though they were a rare and forbidden indulgence she would never share with anyone else.

‎"Hmph—That's it, baby~" Rumi pants against your lips, her breath hot and uneven, every word shaking with the weight of her own oncoming climax. "Come with me… I want to feel you lose it for me." Her hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit and working it in tight, merciless circles, each stroke sending sharp jolts of pleasure up your spine.

She grinds her slick pussy against yours with a frantic rhythm, chasing the peak with a hunger that feels almost feral. The air is thick with the lewd slap of wet flesh on wet flesh, tangled with your shared gasps, whimpers, and broken cries.

‎Her gaze finds yours, both eyes shines into wild, adoring, possessive gleams—and in that moment, you know she wants to burn this memory into you forever. Her fingers dig into the soft curve of your ass, hard enough to leave bruises, marking you as hers for all to see.

‎"FUCK, [Y/N]! Fuck—fuck—FUCK!" Rumi roars, the sound tearing from her throat like something primal and unstoppable. Her hips snap upward, slamming against yours with bruising force, each impact sending shuddering waves of pleasure straight through your core. Her fingers grind down mercilessly on your clit, the maddening pressure crossing the line into near-delirium.

It's too much—too much heat, too much need, too much her—and the coil inside you snaps violently. Your walls clamp down around nothing, desperate and grasping, as a blinding climax tears through you.

‎"Ahh! Oh! Oh! Aghh—AAAH! RUMI!"

‎The scream that rips from your throat is raw and primal, echoing in the air like a sound pulled from your very soul. It's so fierce that the tattooed mark etched into your neck ignites with searing heat, burning against your skin as your powers respond to the tidal wave of sensation flooding your body.

‎Your head falls back, spine arched like a bow, pulling Rumi tighter against you as your tongue slips out in a broken mix of pain and pleasure. The world narrows to white-hot sensation, with your vision flashing with stars as every nerve in your body sings, each throb of your release making the mark blaze hotter—like it’s branding you from the inside out.

‎Beneath you, Rumi freezes, her whole body shuddering as her own release overtakes her like a storm. A guttural growl rumbles from deep in her chest, and you barely register the way her demon patterns flare to life until you felt her fangs pierce your skin. She sinks them into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, her bite was hot and possessive, marking you in a way no one could ever undo.

Her arms lock around you, crushing you against her as her pussy spasms wildly against yours, spilling hot, sticky release that mingles with your own still-quivering cunt.

The slick heat seals you together in a fevered, messy knot of love and delirious pleasure, each pulse and shiver stretching out the lingering high until you're both left trembling, clinging to each other as if you could sink any deeper into the ecstasy you've created together.

Still wrapped in each other's arms, your breaths ragged and mingled, Rumi holds you close, peppering your face with soft, reverent kisses. "I love you," she murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse and raw with emotion. "I love you so fucking much, [Y/N]. You're mine, all mine, forever... and always."

Her arms tightened around you, as if afraid you might slip away, pulling you close until there was no space left between your bodies. Your gaze drifted to the purple patterns along her skin, noticing how they now glowed with a soft, gentle light. You could feel her heart pounding against your chest, each beat syncing with the rhythm of your own ragged breaths.

Her lips find yours again—slow this time, lingering, tasting you like she's memorizing every curve and contour of your mouth. The world beyond this bed disappears; all that exists is her warmth, her scent, and the possessive promise burning in her eyes.

‎You can only cling to her, your throat was too raw and your lungs were too empty to form a coherent response. But your body says everything—the way you melt into her embrace, the way your hips still twitch and shudder with the ghost of your shared climax.

‎Rumi eases you back onto the bed, shifting to lie beside you. You stared at the ceiling in a daze, with your skin still humming from every place she touched. Her satisfied smile lingers as strands of her damp purple hair cling to both your overheated bodies. One hand drifts lazily between your thighs, her fingers sliding through your soaked folds in slow, comforting strokes. "You're such a good girl…" she murmurs, cheeks tinged pink, with her voice warm and obsessive.

Her gaze dropped to your neck, before a slow, possessive smirk curved her lips as she took in the angry redness where her teeth had claimed you. To Rumi, that mark wasn't just a bruise—it was a brand of belonging, a raw, beautiful proof that you were hers in the most intimate, irrevocable way.

Her fingers traced the tender skin with reverent care, as if memorizing every inch, unwilling to let anything or anyone erase what she had marked. The sight made her chest tighten with a fierce, almost overwhelming love—dark and all-consuming, like a wildfire that refused to be tamed.

‎But then her eyes shifted, drawn downward to the tattooed mark etched into your skin—the ancient symbol that is meant to be permanent, a part of you that should never change...

‎Her smile faltered as the crease between her brows deepened, confusion clouding her expression. Some of the once-bold lines were fading, curling away like ink dissolving in water, parts of the intricate design had disappeared as if swallowed by some unseen force.

Still caught in the haze of aftershocks and lingering desire, Rumi stared unblinking, unable to fully grasp the seriousness of what she was seeing. That she didn't notice how your muscles stiffened beneath her touch, or how your trembling now carried a different weight—one that wasn’t born out of pleasure, but of something else entirely.

‎“…be a good girl for us, [Y/N]?” a voice had whispered hotly against your ear, hands roaming greedily over your trembling body as you tried to squirm away.

‎Those familiar words echoed in your head for a moment, and you forced yourself to calm down your nerves as you turned your body to face Rumi, curling into a fetal position.

Rumi immediately noticed and shifted closer without hesitation, pulling you into a protective cuddle. Her soft humming wrapped around you like a warm blanket, her fingers gently playing with your hair. You closed your eyes, focusing on the steady rhythm of her touch and the soothing sound, trying to anchor yourself in the present, away from the shadows that haunted your mind.

‎Neither of you noticed the small magpie perched quietly on the railing outside Rumi's terrace window. Its sharp, watchful eyes—six in total, gleaming oddly in the moonlight—were fixed intently on the intimate scene within. With a soft chirp that seemed almost like a knowing sigh, the bird flitted away into the night, with its tiny traditional gat balanced perfectly on its head.

‎As it disappeared into the darkness, the night seemed to fold gently around you, leaving only warmth and quiet between two beating hearts.

‎Korean Vocab in This Chapter (correct me if I'm wrong;)

‎‎작은 새 : little bird

‎𖹭 author's note: Hi!! Thank you so much for reading Chapter 2 ❤️‍🩹 I'm reeeally sorry it took so long for me to post this. While writing it, I actually finished about half when I realized this chapter was almost lacking its main things—like the yandere theme, strong dialogues, emotions, and detailed storytelling. The first draft felt like it was moving way too fast for my liking, so I decided to rewrite it.

I honestly didn't expect it would take me around three weeks to finish this 😭 Maybe it's because I've been super busy with school—like joining an art competition, singing a song in front of my school, and of course dealing with schoolwork and other shit—so I barely had any free time to write. I really hoped posting this chapter would give me some peace and a chance to relax my mind… but NOPE. I became more STRESSED, since a couple of days ago I couldn't edit the chapter in my drafts. I ended up taking the risky move of posting the first part without announcing it, thinking I could edit it later—BUT the universe said no, which is so freaking embarrassing 💔💔

‎*Sigh* I'm really sorry it took so long, and that it also ended up getting split into two parts because of that error… I still hope you enjoyed the chapter though! It's been soo long since the last time I wrote smut—and this is actually my first time writing a lesbian sex scene! Soo I don't know if I did a good job or...? 😅 Stay tuned for the next chapter everyone!

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @ny0000mw00m @dukeacid @thestarseternaal @pinkluv29 @bad4amficideas @nightlark100 @yvanill4 @hollyn1729 @halle5s @iamliterallyadorable @koda-lupinn @julia-loves-cupcakes @sylum @mylightreading @lonely-nerd-sodaholic @hoodiepandaninja16 @unaecsmr @cat-or-kitten @emysan12 @neverending-animelove @aerissblog @mybradontfit @edgycatx @the-tired-opossum

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

‎. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

‎𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

[napbatata]

I had to do it

[napbatata]

Ⳋ᧙ lil drabble on Katsuki being the best boyfriend (UA era)

Bakugou Katsuki doesn’t only strive to be the number one hero. Hell no, his ambitions know no bounds and he’d fight tooth and nail to be the world’s best boyfriend.

He’s deeply sensitive and never the type to half-heartedly enter a relationship. It’s either all or nothing—and if you’re someone who he chose to invest in, he’d give the relationship his 120%. Forget about your exes from hell, Katsuki is here to rewrite all your prior romantic experiences.

Competitions and praises are what fuels him throughout your relationship! One of Best Jeanist’s sidekick mentions getting his partner pre-ordered flowers for Valentine’s Day? Katsuki is researching flower arrangements tips on YouTube and several other websites, grabbing mental notes from the back of his mind of when you offhandedly mentioned your favourite flowers. He has to be better than what the other boyfriends are doing. They don’t even realise they’re competing with him, but he wins every times.

On Valentine’s Day, he’s giving you a custom bouquet of your favourite flowers with a smug smirk on his face—wrapping papers in your favourite colours, of course. It looks like something crafted by a maven florist. But then who are you kidding? It’s Bakugou Katsuki—the one who never lose.

That evening you give him a kiss as thanks, carefully hugging his bouquet as you tell him how lucky you are to have him. And that he’s the best boyfriend ever with that adoring glint in your eyes.

“I know!” he huffs with his brows furrowed, a restrained grin spilling across his lips and his ears tinging red.

[napbatata]

Saja Boys Art

[napbatata]

Me searching for fanfics after watching a series/film/videogame/reading a book and becoming obsessed with that character:

[napbatata]

hiii could you please do a Luffy x Wife reader? Like, they promised to marry each other when they were kids, eventually did get married as soon as they were of legal age and they go everywhere together but the crew only noticed they were married once Nami noticed that little shine of Readers ring because idk I feel like Luffy isn't a very kissy kissy type more just huggy huggy YK WHAT I MEAN? but the crew never thought much of it cause he was like that with everyone and like... yer

please and thank you 😣🙏

This is such a cute idea! Thank you for for your request! Hope you enjoy!

Gold Ring, Red Vest

Luffy x Wife!Reader

You and Luffy had promised to marry each other when you were seven.

It was under a tree, after a shared meat skewer, sticky sauce on both your cheeks and dirt on your hands. You didn’t know what marriage really meant. Luffy didn’t either. But the idea of being together forever? That was enough.

“Let’s get married when we grow up!”

“Yeah! And we’ll eat meat every day!” “And we’ll fight bad guys.” “And we’ll sail the whole world!” “I’ll be Pirate King—so you can be Pirate Queen!”

You’d sealed it with a spit handshake. Ace gagged in the background. Sabo called it “kinda romantic, kinda gross.” Dadan told you both to stop being weirdos and come inside before the wolves showed up again.

You were there for all of it—your trips to the mountain bandit hideout frequent and full of scraped knees and louder laughs. You met Ace the same way everyone else did: by getting punched and yelling right back. Sabo shared his book with you before he ever shared it with Luffy. You were their fourth member. Your gang. Your boys.

But Luffy was always yours.

He held your hand when the campfire crackled too loud. You tucked daisies into his hair when he pouted. And when he said he’d set off to sea one day, you told him to wait. “Wait for me to be old enough. You promised, remember?” Luffy blinked. Then grinned so wide his cheeks dimpled. “I remember. I always remember.”

Years later…

The Straw Hat crew never did notice anything unusual between you and Luffy.

Sure, he was always affectionate—but that’s just how Luffy was, right? Zoro got tackled in hugs. Chopper got cuddled like a plush toy. Even Franky had been given a surprise nuzzle once. Luffy was… just like that.

You were a little like that too. So no one blinked when Luffy wrapped his arms around you from behind. Or dragged you to sit on his lap. Or chewed meat and offered you the next bite, all smile and no shame.

Until Nami noticed your ring.

It wasn’t flashy. Just a small gold band, catching the sun when you lifted your hand to wave.

She squinted.

“…Is that a wedding ring?”

You blinked down at it. “Oh. Yeah.”

“WHAT.”

Cue chaos.

Zoro’s sword dropped mid-clean. Sanji’s cigarette fell out of his mouth. Usopp choked on his orange juice and Franky literally spat cola. Robin chuckled behind her hand. Chopper was just confused.

“Married!?” “To Luffy!?” “Since when?!”

Luffy walked in mid-outburst, meat bone in hand. “Huh? What’s up?”

You smiled. “They just found out.”

Luffy blinked. “About the wedding?”

“Mmhm.”

“Ohhh. Cool. Wanna see the dance we made?” He grabbed your hands instantly and started swinging you around the deck, recreating the silly spin-step-spin you’d both done barefoot in Foosha village the day you turned legal and immediately got married. Makino had cried. Dadan bawled. The mayor gave a speech. You and Luffy made paper rings and traded real ones after.

Your wedding photo—drawn by Luffy with crayons—was still crumpled in your coat pocket.

“Hold on, hold on,” Nami said, pushing the two of you apart. “You’re telling me you’ve been married this whole time?”

“Yep,” you chirped.

“And you never told us?!”

Luffy tilted his head. “You never asked.”

You shrugged. “Didn’t come up.”

Brook fanned himself dramatically. “But when—how—where—”

“Foosha village,” you said.

“Under the big tree,” Luffy added, proud.

You both grinned at each other, eyes crinkling.

Zoro groaned. “This explains so much.”

Sanji was still weeping into a handkerchief. “My heart... my dreams… shattered…”

Later that night, with Luffy wrapped around you like a scarf on the Sunny’s figurehead, you twirled your ring between your fingers.

“You think they’ll get used to it?” you asked.

“They always do,” Luffy mumbled, cheek squished against your shoulder. “You’re mine. I’m yours. That’s all.”

You kissed the top of his head.

He didn’t kiss you back—he just smiled and pulled you closer. His kind of love wasn’t made of passionate declarations or sweeping gestures. It was loud laughter and warm hugs. Trust and tandem naps. Your fingers linked as you stood at the bow. That was Luffy’s way.

And it had always been enough. From spit handshakes to gold rings.

Forever, just like you’d promised.

Sanji made a whole dinner in your honor.

Nami made you a spreadsheet of exactly how long you kept it secret.

Franky offered to remake your rings into SUPER matching wedding bands.

Zoro made gagging noises every time Luffy hugged you for the next three days.

Robin gave you both a book on “Married Life and Maritime Adventures.”

Brook wrote a love ballad for your union.

Usopp designed a “Just Married… 5 Years Ago” banner.

And Chopper?

Chopper made you a “Top Secret Straw Hat Love Club” badge and insisted on wearing his too. Just because

--

It had been a few days since the Big Reveal™.

Everyone was still adjusting.

Well, “adjusting” was generous.

More like staring at you and Luffy with unblinking suspicion, as if the way he handed you his half-eaten meat skewer now had depth or the way you leaned into him during sunny naps was suddenly illegal. The dynamic hadn’t changed.

But the context had.

You were lounging beside Luffy, both your legs tossed lazily over his lap as he absently traced shapes on your shin. He was laughing—genuinely wheezing—at a joke you made about the seagull that dive-bombed Zoro’s hair gel.

Sanji was watching from the kitchen window, arms crossed, suffering.

“…They’ve always done that,” Nami whispered beside him, eyeing the scene with a strange mix of amusement and betrayal. “Why does it feel so different now?”

“Because now it’s real,” Sanji hissed, like he’d been personally wounded. “She’s married. To Luffy.”

Usopp, next to him, rubbed his chin. “They’ve been married.”

“That doesn’t help, Usopp.”

Franky adjusted his sunglasses. “To be fair, I always assumed they were just weirdly close childhood besties.”

“They are,” Robin said smoothly, sipping her tea. “They just also share a legal union and a bed.”

Sanji wailed.

Later that afternoon, you strolled into the kitchen humming, barefoot and relaxed, reaching over to grab an apple. Luffy, as usual, clung to your back like a sleepy koala, his chin resting on your shoulder.

Sanji straightened. His eyes were full of betrayal.

“(Y/N)-swan…” he began dramatically. “How could you?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He dropped to his knees. “How could you let him marry you?! I would’ve cooked you candlelit dinners every night! I would’ve carried you across every puddle! I would've—”

Luffy, mid-apple bite, stared blankly. “Wait… you like her?”

Sanji stopped mid-rant.

“Of course I do! I always have!”

Luffy frowned, slowly leaning more of his weight into you like a pouty blanket. “But you do that with every girl.”

“This was different!” Sanji wailed. “I meant it! I liked her liked her!”

Luffy’s eyebrows pinched. “You can’t like her liked her.”

“Why not?!”

“Because she’s mine!”

The kitchen went dead silent.

Luffy rarely used words like that. Not seriously. Not possessively. Not with that strange, almost growly edge in his voice.

You turned slightly in his arms, surprised—but not shocked. You knew how much Luffy loved you. It was in every action, every grin, every time he let you wear his straw hat without flinching. He didn’t do possessive. Not often.

But this?

This was different.

“She’s my wife,” Luffy said again, slower this time. “I married her. We promised. When we were kids. And I’m not sharing.”

Sanji looked genuinely heartbroken.

“But you never said—”

“I didn’t know I needed to,” Luffy said, squeezing his arms around your waist. “You didn’t ask.”

You leaned your head against his.

“She’s the funniest girl in the world,” he added. “And the prettiest. She makes me laugh all the time. She makes me feel like I can fight a million bad guys if she’s cheering for me. She smells nice. Her feet are cold but I like when she puts them on my legs at night. Her voice makes my brain quiet. And she’s mine. So stop trying to steal her.”

Sanji looked like he might cry again.

You blinked, cheeks warm.

“…I thought I was the one who gets poetic,” you whispered, stunned.

Luffy just grinned. “You rub off on me.”

From that moment on, Luffy was—how to put it? More... Luffy. But with a bite.

He started holding your hand more often. Pulling you into his lap even when you were just trying to read. Giving Sanji death glares if he offered you juice. Refusing to leave you out of his hugs, tugging you with him even when stretching to another ship.

Zoro clocked it first.

“He’s gone full territorial.”

Chopper nodded, concerned. “Should we… sedate him?”

Robin smirked. “It’s fascinating. Like a monkey guarding a precious fruit.”

“He is a monkey,” Nami muttered.

You didn’t mind. You were used to clingy, squishy Luffy. This was just a possessive, competitive version of that.

And honestly?

You kinda liked it.

It was nice, being claimed by someone who didn’t want anything from you but your smile. Nice, knowing that to him, you were everything.

Still, you kissed Sanji on the cheek one night, just to tease. He immediately fainted.

Luffy sulked for the rest of the evening, hiding under your shirt like a ticked-off blanket.

“Mine,” he muttered. “Yours,” you agreed, playing with his hair. “Forever.” “Since we were seven.” “Spit handshake and all.” “Grossest wedding proposal in history.” “Best wedding proposal in history.”

You snorted, wrapping your arms around his head. And outside, the rest of the crew gave up trying to understand it.

“It makes sense now,” Usopp whispered. “They’re just… stupidly in love.”

“Like really, really dumb in love,” Nami added.

Zoro nodded. “Disgusting.”

Chopper wiped a tear. “I want that one day…”

Robin flipped her book shut and sighed dreamily. “Childhood promises that lasted into adulthood… how romantic.”

Franky wept.

Brook wrote another ballad.

Sanji cooked in tragic silence.

And Luffy? He held you tighter. Always did. Always would.

--

t started subtly.

You were mid-fight—some nameless island goons talking big and swinging bigger—and you kicked one square in the chest, sending him flying into a fruit stand.

Luffy, fists at his sides, beamed proudly from the edge of the battlefield and yelled:

“THAT’S MY WIFE!”

The Straw Hats all froze for a half-second.

“Did… did he just—?” Usopp squinted.

“Yep,” Zoro grunted, slicing through two thugs. “Keep count.”

It didn’t stop.

Every time you threw a punch, landed a clean sweep, or flipped someone over your shoulder, Luffy would yell it like it was the ultimate battle cry.

“That’s my WIFE!” “She’s SO COOL!” “You see that?! My wife did that!!”

You stabbed a pirate’s weapon out of his hand mid-lunge. Luffy, from a rooftop: “MARRY ME AGAIN!!!”

You grabbed two guys by their collars and headbutted them into each other. Luffy, starry-eyed: “THAT’S HER!! THAT’S MY GIRL!! MY WIFE!!”

“Can he not,” Sanji hissed under his breath as he roundhouse-kicked someone.

“He can and he will,” Nami said, blocking with her staff. “I think he’s even prouder of her fighting skills than his own.”

Robin chuckled. “I find it endearing. He’s fully committed.”

“Too committed,” Zoro grunted, parrying a blade. “I’ve heard him shout that line eight times and the fight’s only halfway done.”

Chopper was practically vibrating with joy. “She’s so cool, though!”

“We know, Chopper.” “Luffy knows.” “The whole damn island knows now!”

The final blow of that skirmish?

You jump-spun over a cannon, kicked a guy in the jaw mid-air, and landed without a stumble.

Luffy actually screamed. Dropped to his knees like he’d just watched a divine miracle. “THAT’S MY WIIIIIIIFE—!!!”

A flock of startled seagulls flew off a nearby roof. The townspeople who had hidden inside started clapping. Franky cried. Sanji threw his cigarette into the dirt in dramatic despair. Zoro turned around and walked away like this was not his circus.

Back on the Sunny, bruised and bandaged and full of post-battle stew, the teasing didn’t stop.

“So, just to be clear,” Nami said, leaning her cheek on her hand, “you really like your wife.”

Luffy blinked. “Yeah?”

Robin smiled. “She’s quite skilled.”

Luffy nodded seriously. “The best. She’s funny and scary and she smells good and she’s got that move with the knee thing that goes bam! and—”

You smushed a pillow in his face mid-ramble. “Okay okay okay, I get it.”

He peeled it off, face pink but grinning. “You’re my wife.”

“Yes, Luffy. That is a fact.”

“My wife,” he repeated smugly.

“And we all know it now,” Usopp groaned from his hammock. “Loud and clear.”

Later that week, the crew split up to take on different pirate squads. You took the left flank.

When your group regrouped, Luffy jogged back, covered in soot and laughing.

“Did you see what she did?!”

Zoro sighed. “Yes, Luffy. We saw. You yelled ‘that’s my wife’ six times, two of which she wasn’t even in the frame.”

“But she was there!” Luffy argued. “I felt it. The air changed.”

Nami stared flatly. “You also shouted it when Sanji landed a high kick.”

Luffy tilted his head. “He kicked like (Y/N) does sometimes. I got confused.”

Sanji fumed. “You compared me to your wife?! I—!”

“I mean it as a compliment!!” Luffy beamed.

Eventually?

It became a Straw Hat inside joke.

Franky started building a sound system that played “THAT’S MY WIFE!” on command. Usopp started taking bets on how many times Luffy would shout it per battle. Robin offered to count them out loud. Chopper made a badge that said “Wife of the Captain (Certified Cool)” and insisted you wear it during island visits.

And Luffy?

He never stopped.

Didn’t care if it was a tavern scuffle or a full-scale war.

If you landed a punch?

If you flipped someone over your shoulder?

If you so much as raised an eyebrow and a whole navy soldier fainted?

Luffy, beaming like you’d just turned into the sun:

“THAT’S MY WIFE!!!”

And honestly?

You kinda loved it.

---

It began as mockery. (As most things on the Sunny did.)

The next battle was a chaotic scrap in a busy port town—clashing blades, smoke, screams, your knee in someone’s gut. A typical Tuesday.

Luffy, balanced on a rooftop, grinned wide as you body-checked a pirate into a market stall and bellowed:

“THAT’S MY WIFE!!”

And this time, without missing a beat—

“THAT’S HIS WIFE!” —came from Zoro, ducking a sword swing.

“HIS WIFE!” —Usopp echoed, hanging upside-down from a balcony.

“MARRIED TO HIM!!” —Nami yelled, smacking someone with her staff.

“SHE IS, IN FACT, HIS LEGAL SPOUSE!!” —Franky, tears in his eyes, while launching someone into orbit.

Luffy blinked. Paused mid-arm stretch. Then let out a giddy, sunbeam laugh that rattled the tiles beneath his feet.

“…You guys noticed!!”

After that, it became a thing.

Every time Luffy yelled “That’s my wife!” (which was often), the crew would chime in with increasingly ridiculous affirmations.

You knocked someone out with one punch?

Luffy: “That’s my wife!!” Crew: “CONFIRMED!!!” “TIED THE KNOT, BABY!” “RING ON HER FINGER, NAME ON THE PAPER!”

You swung down from a rooftop and roundhouse kicked two goons at once?

Luffy, practically levitating: “THAT’S MY WIIIIIFE—!!” Crew chorus: “HIS SPOUSE!!” “HIS RIDE OR DIE!!” “THE MISSUS!”

Luffy ate it up.

The first time it happened, he was confused. His head tilted, a soft “Huh?” slipping out as he processed the call-and-response echoing around the battlefield. But then he grinned so hard it looked like his face might split in half.

He was delighted.

Later that night, Luffy plopped beside you on the deck, still laughing.

“They’re all sayin’ it now!” he said, wiggling with joy. “I yell it and they yell it too! It’s like… our move!”

You, calmly sipping water and icing a scraped knuckle, nodded. “It is technically a fact.”

Luffy blinked at you. “Only technically?”

“Well, you’re not wrong. I am your wife.”

He lit up like a lantern. “You like when I say it, right?”

You shrugged. “I don’t mind. You’re proud. It’s cute.”

“I am proud,” he said, leaning in to nuzzle your cheek with a wide, sleepy grin. “You’re my favorite thing.”

Robin passed behind you both, murmuring with a smile, “That’s his wife.”

Luffy squealed in delight.

You didn’t react.

Because again: it was just a fact.

he next island brought new enemies, and with them:

Luffy: “THAT’S MY WIFE!!” Crew: “HIS BELOVED!” “FIRST LADY OF THE PIRATE KINGDOM!” “MRS. STRAW HAT!”

Someone once tried to flirt with you in a tavern.

Luffy didn’t notice at first. But then—

“Back off, dude, that’s his WIFE.” —Zoro, dragging the guy away by his collar.

“Like, legally and spiritually,” Usopp added from under the table.

Luffy blinked, confused. “Huh? Who—? Oh, yeah. She is.”

Cue smug arm-wrapping. Cue chest-puffing. Cue a full twenty-minute explanation of your wedding under a Foosha tree that no one asked for.

You just sipped your drink. Neutral.

Still technically true.

One day, while you were in the middle of high-kicking a bounty hunter off a staircase, a random civilian watching from afar whispered:

“…That’s his wife, right?”

“Yeah,” Chopper said from the bushes, full of pride. “She is.”

And in the distance, Luffy yelled it again.

“THAT’S MY WIIIIIIIFE—!!!”

And the whole crew, in sync, arms raised:

“YEAHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

You just sighed.

“...Honestly, it could be worse.”

[napbatata]

idol!reader whos katsuki bakugos favourite artist of all time, ever since he was an edgy 15 year old. the only person to know is mitsuki, his mother, who was forced to listen to your whole discography at every given moment, especially when he was drumming down in the garage. totally convinced you were his celeb crush (you were and still are). when you announced your first meet and greet a year after your first album he made sure he was THERE, and the photo he took with you is still his lockscreen to this day. you werent really caught up with the hero/villain side of the world, so you thought of katsuki as another fan, not realising he just completed the UA sports festival. when his mother mentioned it whilst taking his photo you congratulated him with a hug and he was A MESS (he scolded her after). you did note how cute he was considering he was mumbling the whole time. to this day hes been to all your shows to count and his assistant is always annoyed since it ruins schedule, but he never went to another meet and greet out of sheer embarrassment youd remember him mumbling "like hes deku". he never forgave his mother for ruining his cool boy image infront of you.

despite being one of the most famous artists in the world, you arent the type to do promotional activities or commercials/sponsorships. your team (god, especially your manager) is always trying to get you on something. and to their luck, you agree one time. mostly out of boredom, the rest curiosity. the job was to host an awards show! something you havent done before, and the first time youve been asked to do so - so you took it on.

the email wasnt only sent to your team, but also dynamights. the award show wanted to add a hero to be a host considering heroes like earphone jack were winning awards that night and thought it would be fun for the public to see heroes in more "normal" settings. similarly to you, dynamight avoided all promotional activities, seeing them as useless and not what a hero ought to do. the only time hes ever done it was for his best friend, red riot, who launched a wellness brand quite recently. when the email was sent to his team, his assistant was the first to see. the moment she saw your name in the participating section, she scrambled to dynamights office as soon as possible, almost dropping the laptop in the process. it was hard for her not to know he was your biggest fan considering he has a massive signed poster of you on his office wall (no one really goes in there but his assistant or his friends). before he managed to shoot out his default no and an annoyed insult, his assistant just shouts your name and hes stunned silent, suddenly standing up and rushing to the laptop to see if its true.

when the time comes to meet you a few days before the show starts, hes a nervous wreck. despite being one of the top 10 heroes, youre one of his. the idea of seeing his teen crush (and maybe his current one... but he'd never admit it) throws him right back to being the same 16 year old boy who awkwardly met you at a meet n greet.

[napbatata]

Hellooo! Could you possibly write a childhood friends to lovers w/ bakugo??? Some hurt/comfort in there too possibly? I could see maybe an argument or a misunderstanding sort of thing. Have as much creative freedom as you want with it!! :)

Hellooooo! Thanks for sending such a nice ask. But. I. Think. I. Fucked. This. One. Up.

I still like what I wrote but it's not really angsty, sorry. Comfort? Yes. Angst? As much as a teenage love drama can be.

Still, it was exciting to write, once again something new for me, fresh ideas smell nice.

I tried to create a situation where reader would match Bakugo's shitty attitude during school years and the idea of a totally unromantic relationship came to my head. Like, if that Bakugo was supposed to confess anyhow to anyone, it might be through some totally random conversation that kinda pushed both him and reader up agains the wall. Oh and they would bicker, because, why not.

Anyway, enjoy.

Bakugo x reader, childhood friends to lovers, slight angst, comfort

“Look at that, what a shitty love letter.” You snickered as you put the piece of paper up to his face.

You and Bakugo, both middle-schoolers, sat on the rug in his bedroom. Your backpack was thrown under one of the big drums from his set, your blazer hanging from his desk seat, the pins from your hair scattered on his nightstand.

Bakugo grunted, nodding slowly, but on the inside twisted. He knew the letter well enough, he could recite what was written if you woke him up in the middle of the night, like a prayer. The letter was his.

It was eating at him for a longer time now. Somewhere after summer break he realised he had a crush on you. Yet, it seemed rather problematic, to confess anyhow.

If the two of you would simply be classmates, he could come up to you and say it to your face. Unfortunately, you were more than two students attending the same class. You often stayed at his place, ate dinner and played games. You snickered when he picked on others and pinched some girls here and there yourself. Honestly, both of you were two little pieces of shit that happened to find each other. It was amazing, but also constraining.

What if you laughed at him? How should he say it? When you were glued to the screen killing some mutants in a game, when you were idly turning a biscuit in your hands before you ate it, when you were running together during P.E.? You were way too close for a normal confession. His had to be… abnormal.

So he resorted to a letter, just to test the waters. God bless, because you dissolved into laughter the moment you read through the text again.

“Do you know who wrote it?” Bakugo asked, silently praying that the answer would be no.

“Nah, I barely saw it flying from my locker. Actually, I would miss it if not for some girl who picked it up.” You turned the piece of paper in your hands. “She looked between me and the letter and, believe me, it looked as if she saw a ghost.”

From that day on Bakugo decided to forget about his crush.

It was around fall again when you two met for coffee and shittalk. A fall several years later. School children dragged their feet towards the doomed monument of education and you made fun of them.

“I’d never go back to high school.” You laughed, following a group of sad-looking boys with your gaze. “Not even talking about you.” You eyed Bakugo’s scars up and down.

Whatever happened during his UA years was not taboo between you. Despite going to different schools and getting separated you managed to keep in touch. Maybe it was the little-shit-nature that didn’t allow you to forget each other, the two gremlins sitting in your heads calling one another.

“I’d never go back to middle school even.” The blonde spat.

“Okay, your worst memory from middle school.”

So Bakugo told you, for the umpteenth time, the story where the worst teacher spotted him picking on Deku. And just like always you cracked a laugh because god, you were both so stupid back then. Poor Midoriya, what had he even done to you?

“One of my worst was definitely getting that ugly love letter, you remember?” Red no longer crawled up his cheeks when he thought about how humiliating this memory was, but still, ouch. “It just made me feel so down.”

“As in?” He crooked a brow. Why did a love letter, out of all things, make you feel down?

“Promiss not to laugh at me.” You grinned.

“Can’t do that.”

“Whatever.” You shrug and went on. “You know how I tried to be boyish and all that, always hanging with you and your idiots, having messy hair and playing video games. Cliche, I know. I liked it at that time but it also repelled all the good-looking guys.” You propped your chin on your palm, looking to the side. “I did have a few crushes back then but I felt like everyone would laugh at me if it ever got out. And then the letter. First the girl who picked it up. I remember her face really well. She was shocked, the bully girl getting a love letter. Only pretty girls receive them. I bet she was chitchatting behind my back about it soon.” A loose strand of hair fell from the updo on your head. You blew it to the side. “I also wondered who could have sent it and it must have been some looser. No handsome or cool guy would get a crush on me. So, yeah. I kinda regret being so closed off during school.”

“But you laughed your ass off when you brought it to my house. Even threw it into my bin.” Bakugo had to look at his own love letter, in his own bin, until he threw out trash that day.

“It was safer to set the tone than to be at your mercy out of all people.” You rolled your eyes. “A defence mechanism or some shit.”

“A defence mechanism against what, someone having a crush on you?”

“I told you, middle school was weird and I never want to go back. I’m happy to be an adult and have my frontal lobe developed.” You threw your hands around in the air. “Besides, it might have even been a prank and that I would not live through.”

“It was not a prank.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I wrote that letter.” It was Bakugo’s turn to shrug, as if the chilly fall air could reach him through the glass of the window. “And thanks for calling it ugly and stupid.”

“It was yours?” The blonde didn’t expect fireworks and kisses for a reaction but sure he also didn’t expect such a nasty face. “You had a crush on me?”

“Years ago. Besides it’s not weird, you practically lived in my house, liked to kick nerds and you were a girl. What else did middle school me need?”

You laughed so hard that a few heads turned towards your table with glares.

“We really do belong together, don’t we?” You finally managed to say something from under all the laughter. “What, do you still have a crush on me, or do I need to kick someone in front of you?”

“Hah, as if. Maybe you have a crush on me?”

“I don’t know.”

Bakugo eyed you but your gaze was focused on the half-drunk coffee.

“I also don’t know.”

“Maybe let’s just start to date each other and have it over with.” You laughed, taking the cup in your hands and sipping the lukewarm drink.

“You’re talking to Dynamight here, do you know how many women would kill to go on a date with me?”

“Dynamight, Dynamight.” You waved your hand as if trying to get rid of an annoying fly. “Sorry, for me you’ll always be Katsuki who drums like stupid and sends ugly-ass love letters.”

“Fine then. Let's date. You won’t last a month.”

“Boy, I give you two weeks and you’ll go running. I’m so unromantic.”

“Again with that shitty love-defence or what? We don’t have to do romantic junk, I don’t care. I don’t have time for that either way. You wanna be my girl or what?”

“Jeez fine, get off my head.”

And you laughed a bit. The gremlins if your heads could finally hold hands.

[napbatata]

“I Look Pregnant!”

It was supposed to be a simple date. Just dinner. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with good food that didn’t smell weird to you.

Bakugo had picked the little ramen place you both liked—clean, not too loud, and the old man who ran it knew to double up on the spicy broth just the way you liked. Everything had been going fine until about halfway through your bowl, when you suddenly pushed it away and slumped back in the booth with a groan.

Bakugo blinked at you mid-slurp. “What now?”

You sniffled, rubbing at your nose with the sleeve of your oversized hoodie, your lower lip quivering dangerously. “I-I… I got so bloated I look pregnant…”

Bakugo paused, chopsticks frozen in mid-air. “Babe.”

Tears welled up in your eyes. “I am pregnant, I know, but I look like I'm extra pregnant now! Like second baby-level pregnant. Like I’ve got twins. Or— or like I’m about to pop. And all I did was eat some noodles!”

He dropped his chopsticks and let out a sharp, almost choking sound—somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

“Katsuki, don’t laugh at me!” you whined, burying your face in your hands.

He absolutely was laughing.

Actually—he was wheezing.

“You ARE pregnant,” he managed between gasps. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?!”

“That’s not the point!” you cried, peeking at him from behind your fingers with a tear-streaked face. “I was doing so good today! I felt cute for like, four hours! And now I look like a balloon someone sat on!”

Bakugo slid around the booth so he was next to you, not across. You could feel the heat of his body as he slung one strong arm around your shoulder, still chuckling.

“Babe. You’ve got an actual person growing in you. You’re allowed to look pregnant.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “You're supposed to.”

“But my face is bloated too,” you sniffled.

He tilted your chin toward him, inspecting you with those sharp red eyes, lips twitching like he was trying so hard not to smirk.

“You look hot,” he said, like it was a fact. “Pregnant. Bloated. Cryin’ in a ramen shop. Still hot.”

You made a pitiful noise and leaned against his shoulder. “You’re just saying that so I won’t cry in public again…”

“Damn right,” he said smugly. “That old man gave me the look last time you sobbed over dumplings.”

“You said they were out of vinegar,” you mumbled.

“They were. That’s not a tragedy, babe.”

“It was to me.”

Bakugo snorted again, and you felt his chest shake with laughter under your cheek. After a moment, he rubbed your back gently and murmured, “C’mon. Let’s get you home and into sweats. You can lay on me like a lumpy cat. I'll even rub your belly.”

You sniffed. “Promise?”

“Swear on my damn life.”

You looked up at him, teary and dramatic. “Even if I fart when you press on it?”

He paused.

“...I’ve fought villains made of literal garbage,” he said flatly. “I think I’ll survive.”

You finally giggled.

[napbatata]

What about something where the reader is Katsuki’s s/o and usually pretty chill but when she gets pregnant she gets really explosive like him and everyone, especially his mom thinks it’s hilarious to watch

Thank you for your request!! I love reading prego reader fics so much aaah!! Sorry this took a while. Anyway, here's my take on it, I hope you like this one ❤

When your friends got the news that you and Bakugo are finally having a kid, they were all ecstatic and practically even more excited than the two of you. Mina and Kirishima who were both working as pro heroes out of the country weren't able to attend your baby shower due to work commitments. So when they finally found a window where both of them could fly to Japan to finally visit you, they didn't hesitate.

"I am so excited to see Y/n and Bakugo. I wonder how they are now that they're a few months in to being actual parents." Kirishima asks thoughtfully as he drives. Mina giggles from the front seat, hugging the basket of sweet apples and strawberries they picked out because they know how much you love these. "Oh, Y/n would just be the sweetest and calmest mom ever I'm sure. And Bakugo will probably be his usual self. Maybe even more explosive now that he's faced with these new challenges as a dad! Like changing diapers and waking up in the middle of the night!" she says shaking her head and laughing.

Kirishima could imagine it too and laughs along at the thought. When they pulled over to the driveway though,

Crash!

Bang!

Clatter!

Kirishima and Mina exchanged wide eyed stares as they approach your house. "What the hell is going on in there?" Mina asks worriedly, both of them turning into sprint, heading for the front door.

Kirishima dodges as he sees a flying kitchenware hurling directly at him when he opened the door. Mina dodges too and watched the thing land outside and into the front lawn. They see you from the foyer yell at Bakugo, both of their faces morphing into something in between shocked and amused.

"You can be such a jerk, Katsuki!!" you yell, the two then turn their head to your husband who is cowering behind the kitchen island.

"Baby, all I'm saying is that you shouldn't be doing any cooking anymore because-" Bakugo starts to explain.

"What?! Are you fucking looking down on me now that I'm pregnant? Or is it because you think you can do it so much better than me??"

"Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Mitsuki, Bakugo's mom, asks Kirishima and Mina, snickering and shaking her head as she looks at you and her son. "What is going on?? Why does Y/n sound like Bakugo?" Mina asks in utter disbelief. "I don't know but I am scared. I've never heard Y/n yell and cuss like that before." Kirishima whispers to Mina.

"Don't mind those two, come on in. They'll eventually make up." she shrugs, ushering them inside the house. "Y/n had been like that since her 2nd trimester. It's hilarous!" Mitsuki chuckles, grabbing her purse after leading them to the living room. "I'll leave you kids for a while, I'll just run to the market to grab Y/n some chili peppers. She's been craving it like crazy and we're already all out." she says, patting Mina and Kirishima's shoulders. "But Y/n doesn't even like anything remotely spicy, right?" he asks, turning to Mina. Mina looks down at the basket of apples and strawberries she was holding. She was pretty sure these are your favorites as she can recall from the years of being dormates in UA and Pro training.

"Well she certainly does now. She gets all weepy about it if we tell her we're all out." Mitsuki sighs and turns to go but stopped midstep to remind them something. "Oh and please don't let Y/n throw any of the good knives again, okay?" And she was out the door.

Mina and Kirishima exchanged a confused look. "Wait, what???" the duo calls after Mitsuki in unison.

"You know the answer to that is yes, baby. But no, that's not what I meant! It's because I don't want you tiring yourself out! Look at you! Your belly has gotten so big already!" Bakugo says, gesturing fondly at your round tummy.

Your blood pressure just seems to keep rising every stinking second you spend talking to your husband. God, you hated him right now. Everything he says just pisses you off! You wanted to smush his face and beat the shit out of him.

"And whose fucking fault is that, asshole" you scream, already on the brink of tears. "You're the tall one out of the two of us! It's your fault our baby is huge! Plus, you keep insisting I eat two portions of everything!!"

Bakugo sighs exasperatedly, raising his hands up in front of him as he tries to approach you. "Y/n, you have to. You're eating for two now! And I don't mind seeing you all plump like that. You're still so fucking beautiful. Now more than ever because you're carrying my child." he says, smiling at you which looked more like a grimace.

Your ears rang and your eye begins to twitch. "Your Child?? Then why the hell am I the one bearing this kid? In my fucking body!!" you threw at him the laddle you were holding, hitting him square in the head.

"Okay, okay!! Fuck, I'm sorry!" he sighs. "I mean, our child!" he retracts his previous statement and threw up his hands in defeat. Bakugo stares at you for a second before finally waving a white flag, realizing you just won't back down.

"Fine, cook if that's what you want. But you have to let me do all the tough things or tell me if you get tired or something." he mutters, rubbing the spot where the thing you just threw hit him. "And please stop throwing our stuff?"

"Stop telling me what I can and can not do!! Get the hell out of my kitchen!!" you scream. You were about to throw him the next thing your hand was able to pick up but Mina rushes to your side and tried to calm you down. "Y/n! Relax, breathe. All this yelling can't be good for the baby, right?" she coos, rubbing soothing circles on your lower back that, oh lord, felt heavenly.

You sigh and relaxed a little bit, nodding at your pink haired friend. "That's it. Now, what do you want to cook? I can help you if you want."

"Thanks, Mina. You're such an angel. Sorry I didn't even see you guys come in." you smile apologetically and then went on to point at the page in the cooking book you've been wanting to prepare for lunch.

Kirishima goes over to Bakugo, handing him over the kitchenwares you've thrown that he picked up from the floor. "You okay, bro? Y/n seems-"

"She's amazing, right??" Bakugo asks enthusiastically, Kirishima blinks but nods anyway. "You see that fire in her? That's my kid growing in her tummy causing that." he says proudly, crossing his arms across his chest as he stares at you adoringly.

He looks beat, like he hasn't slept in days. Which was true because he spends his nights reading books about parenting after massaging you to sleep. But Kirishima thinks Bakugo has never looked this damn happy.

He stares at his best friend and then you. Kirishima then shrugs and says, "For sure." beaming ear to ear. To that he can agree with at least because right now, you are not the Y/n he had come to know.

[napbatata]

it was never ending (pt. 2)

notes: heheheheheh i wrote this all over the last 5 hours and i am offering this to you with both hands bloodied and tears streaming down my face.

wc: 6k (pt 2 only), tags (whole series): bakugou x reader, oc character death (not reader), grief, healing, found family, getting together, slow (medium?) burn, child rearing, descriptions of pregnancy, morning sickness, friends to lovers, confessions, eventual smut

(read part one here)

Katsuki hasn’t worked in six months. 

He knows this, keeps track of this—and yet, that’s where it stops. 

10 years ago, he would’ve been chomping at the bit to punch someone into the ground. To get out, to get himself into the thick of it—that's where he thrives. But right now, as has been true for the better half of the last year, none of that matters. 

What matters is the little girl that now sleeps in a proper crib in a room that Katsuki has designated as hers. What matters is the food he cooks to nourish her body, the way she absolutely does not like carrots but will tolerate sweet potato with (no small amount of) coaxing from him. What matters is her mother, whom he believes he would burn the entire world down for at the slightest inclination that she needed it done. 

Jesus Christ. 

He knows that your relationship is—different. You are his best friend, and yet he knows—has known—that friends don’t feel like this, like his heart might well and truly punch its way out of his chest to get closer to you when you’re not around. But by the time he developed the critical thinking skillset necessary to unpack any of that, you were pregnant. 

And now…

Now he’s—whatever it is that he’s doing, he’s doing it. The sense of responsibility that struck him so deeply on the day of Takeshi’s death has not waned even a fraction. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, or what any of this means to him—but he wants to keep you safe. Both of you. He wants you to be here, with him, where you’re protected and taken care of. So, whatever you need, he’ll do. 

It’s not a hard promise to keep.

_

Just wondering if you’re retired now. A text from Aizawa, seven months into his self-prescribed hiatus. I’ll buy you a coffee.

It takes 35 minutes of constant assurance that you will be fine (“Katsuki please get the hell out of the house, we’re fine”) to get him out of the door, and another 10 spent self-soothing, convincing himself that you are, in fact, fine. He lingers outside of the coffee shop for another five before going in. 

“Well,” Aizawa regards him lazily, like he’d just woken up from a nap in the utility closet, “never thought I’d see you again, stranger.”

Katsuki huffs, rolling his eyes petulantly. “Been around.”

“Not really, kid. Not like you were.”

“Of fuckin’ course not.” 

Aizawa looks at him with thinly veiled mirth, and it grates at Katsuki’s nerves. “Say what you want to say.”

“Just wondering who’s running your agency while you’re playing house.”

“Ei’s got it,” he says. It’s another beat before the full weight of the comment hits him. “I’m not fuckin’ playing house you old chucklefu—”

Aizawa raises both hands in mock surrender, the smirk evident on his face. “It’s not a bad thing, Bakugou.”

Katsuki sits back in his seat, hackles raised. He glares at a spot on the floor where the linoleum has peeled up, kicks it with his shoe. He gets his blood pressure back down below critical levels, and then—

“Just let me know if you need a witness when you adopt that baby.”

_

Eight months after her father dies, Kaede has her first birthday.

It’s a big deal, for several, obvious reasons. Kirishima, Denki, and Mina handle the party planning, and Katsuki wants no part of it. He does, however, take it upon himself to bake the cake. Baking is not necessarily his forte, but he’s never been a quitter and some little runt's birthday isn’t going to change that. 

It’s small, and minimally decorated—he fully anticipates Kaede to rip through it like an animal. He puts it in the fridge for safe keeping, and he realizes that he must’ve blacked out while making the damn thing, because when he turns around, his house is a nightmare.

There’s pink, frilly shit everywhere, hanging from the ceilings and wrapped around curtain rods and all over the fucking floor—his mind cannot catch up enough to what he’s seeing to make a comment, so he just stares, wide eyed and slack jawed at nothing in particular.

“Oh god,” Mina breathes, pausing in the middle of hanging up yet another streamer, “I think Blasty’s having a stroke.”

Katsuki opens mouth—to say what, even he’s not sure—but then he stops. This isn’t about him, he thinks—and if it makes you and your brat even a little happy, then he supposes he can deal with it. 

His jaw shuts with a faintly audible clack of teeth, and he just shakes his head, deciding he’ll check on Kaede instead of blowing all of his friends’ faces off.

He leaves the three of them there, gaping at each other.

“Dude,” Denki says finally, a grin splitting his face, “Kacchan is so whipped.”

_

He can tell it’s hard on you. 

You’re all smiles, of course, but when you follow him into the kitchen after the cake and lean your weight into the backside of his body, he feels your fatigue. Your arms wrap around his middle and he reaches back, wanting to anchor himself to any part of you he can. He just catches the hem of your (his, actually) sweatshirt, but it’s something. He holds on to it like it’s everything.

“Y’want to lay down?”

You shake your head, digging your forehead into the muscle that covers his shoulder blade. He picks up a dish to wash to distract himself from the feeling. 

“It’s my daughter’s birthday,” you sigh, squeezing him a little tighter, “I need to be here.”

“Been here all day,” he reminds you, not nearly as delicately as he intended, “Y’need to take care of yourself.”

You sag against him, and he feels some relief that he hasn’t hurt your feelings. You sigh again, controlled and warm into the fabric of his T-shirt. His skin prickles with the sensation—a conduit that flares when you open your mouth to speak. 

“Come with me?”

He pauses, searching the corners of his mind for even a shred of rationality, knowing he will not find any. Not when it comes to you. 

He follows you down the hall, and to his surprise, he hears no comments from the assholes behind him—oddly, no one seems to notice the two of you slip away at all.

You’re down already when he moves through the doorway, pulling the covers up to your chin. This part is easy to him—to lay next to you and pull you to him feels like breathing. You lay your head on his chest, and not for the first time does he think that you are the most precious thing in this world. 

“Thank you,” you murmur after a few silent moments.

He only grunts, trusting that you understand there’s nothing you have to thank him for. 

“Really, Kat,” you tilt your head up to look at him, and he feels your breath brush against his jaw. He’s never relied on hero training more than he does in this moment. “She won’t remember this, but I will. Thank you for taking care of us.”

You have no idea, he thinks. You have no idea just how badly he wants to shake you, to tell you that you deserve more than he could ever give to you and yet he will never stop trying, not ever—

Takeshi wasn’t a bad guy. Katsuki didn’t mind him, really—it’s just that he would lie awake at night and think about it too hard and make himself sick over it (it was only after this happened on three separate occasions that Katsuki finally realized that his feelings toward you were neither normal nor platonic). Truthfully, he was grateful that Takeshi was as patient as he was, as willing to have Katsuki in your life as you wanted him to be. He was a better man than Katsuki could ever hope to be, just by that metric alone.

But he’s gone, now. And Katsuki has spent the last eight months treading water around that void, careful not to get too close to the edges. He has no intention of replacing Takeshi. He just wants to be what you need. If it is only this—if he is only afforded these small, quiet moments with you, then that would be just fine. There is some guilt, of course—some fear that he’s taking advantage of you in your grief—and that keeps him in check. But he would always, always come if you called. An Achilles heel.

He lets you rest—fingers raking through the fine hairs at your temple while he counts your breaths. Each inhale that expands against his own chest—one—and the exhale that triggers his own breath—two—if only to chase the feeling of your heart beating against his ribs. He hopes you sleep, but knows you won’t— instead he lets the moment be still. He hopes that, if nothing else, to be silent in the dark of his room with him is enough of a reprieve to make the rest of the day feel manageable. 

In the quiet, he thinks, and thinks, and thinks—about you mostly, and about how the hell he even got here, with this you-shaped hole in his heart and his own grief and so much shame and someone else’s baby celebrating her first birthday in his house. He thinks about what his shitty old teacher had said—all the heckling, sure, but that wasn’t what really stuck, if he was to be honest with himself. 

It’s not a bad thing, Bakugou.

Wasn’t it, though? He has no idea where the line is for this sort of thing, but he’s nearly certain he crossed it months ago. He forces himself to engage in a sort of perspective reversal—often, just to remind himself of the reality he’s living in right now—and after a few minutes he has to stop because it makes him feel so fucking sick—to imagine himself torn from you and yet forced to float around and watch as another man takes his spot with relative ease. It makes him feel like a neanderthal, and it makes him feel something like awe for Takeshi, who he knows loved you enough to come to terms with this exact reality. Katsuki wonders if it crossed his mind, at the end—if he worried about you and Kaede, or if he knew that you’d be taken care of. 

Katsuki spent the entirety of your relationship with Takeshi braced for a confrontation that never came. Every birthday, every holiday, every family dinner—Takeshi welcomed him into your home with a warmth that Katsuki could never get himself to reciprocate fully. It wasn’t his fault—Katsuki would’ve had a hard time with anyone else, and he knows that he should count himself lucky that it never was anyone else, because at no point did he feel any animosity from the father of your child. Not even when his child was born, and you asked for Katsuki first. 

…

“Bakugou,” he’d tapped his shoulder, jarring him out of a sort of twilight sleep he’d achieved in the middle of the hospital waiting room, “she wants to see you.”

And maybe Katsuki’s guard was down, between restless dozing and worrying himself sick about you for the last several hours, because all he could think to say was “are you sure?”.

Takeshi had only smiled, sinking down into the chair next to him with a sigh. “She’s given me a gift that I will never be able to repay her for. She can have whatever she wants. Right now, that’s you.”

The walk down the hallway, back to your room in the birthing wing, was the longest of his life. It was the first time he’d ever really considered whether he was doing something irreparable—whether his own selfishness would come at a cost to you, someday. The thought almost made him pause—and he would have, maybe, if he’d had any control over the bottom half of his body—his legs making it very clear to him that they would carry him to you whether he wanted them to or not. 

He’d paid no mind to the orderlies that whispered barely-concealed observations of him being very clearly not the father—didn’t even register their presence as he shouldered past them into the room, only concerned if you were alright—

You’d fallen asleep, and he stopped himself before he got through the door, sagging against the frame with an emotion he’d no idea how to name or where it came from. 

He was suddenly angry at Takeshi, for putting you through this—felt his palms heat up at the knowledge that some rat bastard got his rocks off once and made the next nine months agony for you, resulting in this—you bruised and battered and connected to far too many wires and tubes for Katsuki’s liking. He’d hear the beeps of the heart monitor for the rest of his life. A mix of gratitude for the sound and something else he didn’t know how to name.

You’d shifted in your sleep, and it snapped him out of whatever spiral he’d been headed down. He was at your side immediately, reaching out to brush the sweaty strands of hair back from your forehead. 

"You look like shit," he'd said, immediately regretting it, wanting to take it back. But you’d only smiled at him.

"Yeah, well, you push a watermelon out of the smallest orifice in your body and let me know how you feel."

He'd gagged, knowing it would make you laugh. Needing any indication that you were still whole under that sheet. Nearly coming out of his skin when the sound he loved more than any other was cut off with a sharp gasp.

"Oh, don't do that," you exhaled, long and controlled, "Everything hurts."

He could only watch as you tried to get comfortable around the IV and the leads and everything else that he knew, rationally, was meant to help you, but that the insane part of him only wanted out of his fucking sight.

"Y'r okay?"

He didn’t understand how you could still smile at him like that. "I am. She's so beautiful, Kat. I can almost forgive her for totally wrecking me on the way out."

He’d completely forgotten the whole reason you were here until he heard the little grunt from the other side of the room—something in a little plastic cradle—swaddled in a pink blanket and a matching hat. He looked back at you, needing one last second to believe that you would still be who he knew you to be before he saw the thing that cemented this new reality in forever. He took an aching step toward the crib, and couldn’t get any closer. It was fear, it was grief, it was anger—all pointed toward this little alien looking thing that he knew didn’t deserve it.

You’d snorted, clearly entertained, clearly not understanding. "You can get closer, Katsuki. It's fine."

He forced himself forward again, really trying hard to not be an asshole about this, completely ready to fake it on your behalf—but then he saw her clearly. 

This time, looking over the plastic railing, her features became distinguishable under all of the fabric, and he knew they were yours. The realization was an abrupt one—so suddenly he’d known exactly then what the gift was. It punched him in the chest and took root there, this little nagging thing that told him that it didn’t matter who the hell fathered her; Katsuki would protect her for the rest of his life. 

He looked to you, watching him, and back to your daughter—this little thing that was in no way his, but that he knew he would care for as if she was. If you’d let him.

The emotion was so sudden and so overwhelming that he needed an out—because something was happening to him and he needed pulled from this moment—

“You shit the bed?”

He’d heard you groan, heard the clinking of plastic as you inevitably tried to stifle the embarrassment.  "I think I did."

…

He feels you shift, jarring him out of his thoughts. 

“Gonna go back out there,” you rasp, squeezing him a little tighter. 

“Go,” he has to fight not to hold you there with him, only if for another moment. “Be there in a minute.”

You roll to the other side of the bed—he hears your feet hit the floor as they carry you out the door and away from him. 

Katsuki feels the emotion well up inside his chest and burn behind his eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s doing—and he thinks he needs to tell you, because he’s terrified and so guilty and every time you seek him out he feels something sick like hope curl around in his gut, and it’s. Unfair to you. 

He throws an arm over his face and drags in breath after breath into his lungs until it’s easier. He needs to get it together, and it’s a much easier task when he tells himself he needs to do it for you. 

He doesn’t open that door until he’s certain he looks like he always did—like nothing is tearing at his insides. When he does, he makes it back down the hallway to where you stand. You look over your shoulder at him like he's called for you, smiling at him like you do, and he’s tempted to turn around and never come out of that room again. 

But he stops beside you, and you fit yourself into his side—he pulls you closer like it’s muscle memory. He reminds himself that this is all it is, and that it’s fine how it is, and you’re okay, so he’s okay. 

But Kaede takes note of his entrance—smiling and gurgling out some string of incoherent mess that makes him grin back at her, despite himself. She gets stuck on the consonants, as she’s been doing the last few days—she squishes her fingers into the remnants of his carefully crafted birthday cake on the tray in front of her and carries on like that. It’s disarming, watching her figure things out—so he’s not expecting it at all when she grabs a handful of icing in her tiny fist, flings it halfway across the room in his general direction—when she points at him with her cake-covered fingers and shrieks “papa!”—

—

No one breathes. 

Katsuki’s brain short-circuits, and all he can do is stand there, shell-shocked and mouth agape like a fish. 

All the air leaves the room and in its place is something deeply uncomfortable. Never in his wildest dreams would have had anticipated this (because not even his dreams could be so bold, or so fucking cruel), so there was no way to brace for the impact, and it's just devastating—

He sees you shift out of the corner of his eye, feels your body tense up next to his, and his stomach drops. Surely this is the moment you pull away from him. He looks at you, and there’s nothing on your face that he can use to figure out what’s going on in your head. He sees the corner of your mouth twitch, and he prepares himself for the worst—

And you laugh. It leaves you in a rush, and then you’re doubled over with it, bracing yourself on his arm just to keep you upright—

Katsuki looks away from you for exactly enough time to lock eyes with Mina and try to communicate whatever it is he’s experiencing right now. Somehow, all of the color has drained from her face.

Kaede’s watching you, too—and whatever you’re laughing at spreads to her, because she cackles right along with you, legs kicking out under the tray like the hilarity of it all is too much for her little body to keep to itself. 

You and your daughter, cracking up over what feels like a funeral. 

Katsuki thinks, distantly, that it’s fitting. Thinks that, even if this is some sort of psychotic break, he will allow himself to feel these 30 seconds of unadulterated relief at hearing your laugh for the first time in eight months. 

“Oh, hell—” you use your grip on him to pull you back up, swiping the corners of your eyes with your sleeve and fighting a losing battle against another round of giggling.

“Honey,” Mina starts, rising to her feet and approaching you like you’re a wounded animal.

“Oh, stop,” you wave her off, shaking your head. “I’m fine. It was funny.”

Still, nobody moves. Katsuki looks around then, and he doesn’t think he’s seen Denki looking so uncomfortable in his life.

“Seriously,” you say to all of them, pulling it together a little bit to get your point across, “She’s been with Kat every day for the last 8 months. I’m not shocked, and also it’s really funny. Please breathe.”

Eijiro is the first to heed your instructions, letting out an audible breath. The rest of the group follows, thawed out by the knowledge that you’re…okay, apparently. Amid the resuming chatter, Katsuki looks at Mina again, who smiles at him—but there’s something like pity underneath it. You might not be shocked—but he feels like he’s going to be sick. 

You leave him to retrieve Kaede from her seat, and he feels his face twist along with the crack he feels bodily, deep in his chest. He’s frozen where he stands. And then he's being moved.

“C’mon Blasty,” Mina says softly, threading her arm through his and towing him out of the room, toward the front door, “let’s take a walk.”

It’s raining when he steps outside—just enough to make the air muggy and thick. He tries to suck it down anyway, fighting the lump in his throat and this god awful thing in his chest—

“What’s going on with you?” Mina asks, and he knows that she already knows—finds it unnecessarily cruel that she’d have him say it. She keeps her arm firmly wrapped through his, and he wants so badly to get away from here. Just for a moment, just to stick his head in the dirt and scream, or let off an explosion that makes him go deaf, or fucking something—

“Bakugou,” she tries again, pulling him to a stop, now that they’re out of sight of the house. “It’s okay. It doesn’t seem like it’s a big deal to her.”

What cracked inside him splinters again. He squeezes his eyes shut, takes as much air as he can into his lungs, and—

“It was. To me.”

He deflates. The truth feels so much heavier outside of his body. 

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, pulling his arm tighter to her side, “I know it was.”

He can’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say. He’s so full of shame that he can taste it.

“That little girl loves you,” Mina offers, walking forward, pulling him farther away from the house, “so does her mother. You know that.”

He nods, and then shakes his head. Because he does know, but that’s not what this is. Or maybe it is, and that’s what has him nearly catatonic in his guilt right now. 

“You have been,” she pauses, considering her next words, “wrapped up in each other for years. I don’t think you’re the only one that feels this way.”

He shakes his head, already ramping up to protest, “But—she’s—”

“Grieving, Bakugou,” Mina cuts him off, gentler than she ever has. “And to some extent, she always will be, at least a little bit. But it won’t always be so hard. I mean, did you hear her laugh?”

Something bumps up against his heartbreak—something to soothe, maybe. He’d had no idea how badly he’d missed the sound of your laugh, or how long it’d been since he heard it, until today. 

“Get through the day. And then maybe talk to her.”

He pulls himself together enough that he feels at least a little able to rejoin the group. Both he and Mina are soaked by the time they make it back to his house. He hears your voice when he walks through the door, and his heart betrays him again, flopping in his chest like he’s some lovesick teenager. 

He supposes that’s where this started, after all. Being 19 and feeling so much bravado over the quirk he did nothing to earn, too much pride to properly process the trauma he’d just experienced as a child soldier—and in the beginning, far too eager to let everyone around him know that he was far above them. He was lucky the friends who’d followed him there knew him better, because he certainly didn’t make any new ones that year. 

But then he met you, the following year. Some class he didn’t want to take, because he thought he knew everything. And there, he heard what you’d done during the war—a short-range quirk, not really good for anything by his standards, but you’d done your best to use it anyway—heated compresses for injuries, hot water for sterilizing, temperature as a palliative measure for people who wouldn’t live to see the next morning. And something about that—knowing that you likely did more good than he ever could have—changed something in him. And he just sort of…attached himself to you, after that. For the first time in his life, he was made aware of this giant gap in his knowledge, and he wanted to learn. So he asked you questions—the same ones he’d always been too proud to ask. 

—

“Why do you care?” he’d asked, interrupting the quiet of your studying.

“About what?” you looked up from your textbook, shutting it with a pen between the pages to mark your place. You were the only person who’d ever given him your full attention to answer a question. 

He waved his hand in front of him, gesturing to nothing, trying to get his point across. “This. People. What you did in the war. Why would you work so hard when you knew they’d die?”

He didn’t feel shame around asking, because you’d never shamed him for wanting to know. This was no different.

“Hm,” you paused, sitting back in your chair to consider, “You know, I want to say something really admirable like I did it because I felt called to do it by some higher power, or because I always knew I’d be a hero somehow.”

You smirked, kicking at his foot underneath the table. “But I think it was mostly because I felt uncomfortable with the suffering. I felt badly about the death and destruction, and I knew I would be guilty for the rest of my life if I sat in that discomfort and did nothing with it, easy as it would’ve been to do it. I didn’t want to be a hero, but when it’s a choice of being a coward or being admired, it kind of makes itself.”

He could understand that. He appreciated that you didn’t give him some bullshit answer, nor were you worried about how he would receive the truth. In a world full of egotistical maniacs disguised as good guys, it felt refreshing. He thought, maybe, there was another perspective to be learned from you. 

“You could’ve died,” he muttered, and it was more of an observation than an accusation.

“Sure,” you said, shrugging. “And that terrified me. Still does.”

And that was that. Katsuki was wholly fascinated, though—by this school of thought that so differed from the self-sacrificing one he’d been brought up in. 

He told himself he just appreciated your insight until he had to admit that wasn’t all it was. For three years he lied to himself and it was enough, and then suddenly, you both were graduating, and the next thing was unknown. 

“Where do you think you’ll go?” you’d asked quietly, squeezed next to him on his ratty couch in his dorm. You’d joined him, Eijiro, and Denki for a movie, as you usually did every Saturday night.

“Jeanist,” matter-of-factly, because it was—the decision had been made long before then. 

You hummed, still looking at the screen. You all pointedly watched the most cutesy, animated movies you could find every week—there was no need or want to relive any sort of action from the past. Mind-numbing fluff was just fine. “I got an offer.”

His head turned on a swivel at that, trying to gauge what was going on in yours. “Korea,” you’d said, still not looking at him, “Data analytics. Something in PR.”

And he felt—so fucking indignant, at that. “Fucking—PR?”

“Oh my god, Bakugou,” Denki groaned, “I am trying to find out how Princess Tiana is going to break the spell, could you please—”

“Fuck you,” Katsuki snarled at him, not bothering to waste another second on a more elaborate insult because he could not believe what he was hearing—”Why would you take something like that?”

You’d just shrugged, not put off in the slightest by his outburst. “I don’t have other offers. The civilian track is famously unpopular.”

You in Korea? Doing publicity shit for some asshole in a costume? Over his dead fucking body. 

“No,” he bit out, shaking his head like it would dislodge the entire conversation from his memory, “Absolutely not. M’talkin’ to Jeanist tomorrow. Find you a real fuckin’ job there.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he’d watched you turn to him, something like a shit-eating grin on your face. 

He blinked, and then it hit him like a truck. “Did you just fucking play me?”

You laughed at that—a cackling thing that lit up every nerve ending in his body. “No, I really did get an offer. But it’s nice to know that you want me to follow you.”

He groaned, shoving you away with some half-threat of blowing your fucking face off to sidestep the embarrassment he felt at being so horribly caught. 

But then you just…let him be. Batted his hands away and snuggled right up next to him, head on his shoulder, not another word about it. And he knew in that moment that you’d become something else to him entirely.

—

“Where’d you go?”

You follow him into his bedroom, shutting the door behind you. He strips off his wet shirt, using the last dry bit around the next to shake the water out of his hair. When he looks up, you already have a shirt held out to him. 

“Mina wanted to talk about some work shit,” he evades, hoping that you will do what you’ve always done, and just let him lick this wound privately. 

You decide not to do that. 

“Right after my daughter calls you papa?”

It feels like you’ve struck him, the way he reels from the word. He can only look to the ceiling and try to breathe. You sigh, pushing away from the door and moving behind him to flop down on the bed. 

He pulls the shirt over his head and moves through the same motions for the bottom half of his body, pulling on dry sweats before sitting down on the edge of the bed—fighting every urge to lay down next to you and stay there for good. 

“There are probably ways that we can discourage her from it,” you say quietly, reaching up to run your fingers down the grove of his spine, “It’s hard because she’s so small, but I’m sure she’ll grow out of it.” 

Katsuki fights the shiver at your touch and firmly shakes his head. And again, just for good measure, because he can’t rightly say a word right now, but he needs you to know that that’s not why he’s about to fall apart at your feet. 

“Are we okay?”

Behind him, your voice is timid, like you’re worried, and he can’t stand it— “Because I really do think it’s okay. It’s just a funny thing, and I don’t want you to feel like because she’s made that connection, that it’s something I’m asking of y—”

“Stop,” he reaches back and pulls you up off the bed in an instant, maneuvers you as close as he can possibly get you to the rapid, thrumming thing inside his chest, “Stop. Please.”

His forehead hits your shoulder and he tries to pinch off the emotion surging up his throat. He fights with himself like that, with you there on his lap, running your nails up and down his bicep because he’s acting fucking insane and for some reason you still try to comfort him.

His arm stays around your waist, keeping you there, and he wants to laugh because who is he fucking kidding? What friends do this?

“Please talk to me.”

He sucks in a breath, willing himself, one of the greatest heroes of all time—supposedly—to be brave enough to tell you the truth. Which is, for some reason, harder than all of the other shit combined and on fire. 

“Can’t take it back,” and he’s almost pleading with you—here’s an out, please take it— “once I say it.”

Your eyebrows furrow, but you never stop the brush of your fingertips down his arm. “That’s okay, Kat.”

And here it is—the emotion that he’s been pushing down, down, down, back with a vengeance. All of the shame, all of the guilt, and all of the love he’s been hiding weighs down on him like one huge anchor in such an embarrassingly physical display—his chest shudders underneath your own and his eyes burn and he has to take his hands off of you before you notice them trembling—

“Katsuki,” and he knows he’s scaring you—

“You are,” he fights to keep from gasping, begs his body to keep it together just this once, because this is humiliating, “everything. To me.”

You’re silent, then—your fingers stilled around his elbow, studying his face. He hopes to god it’s a permission to continue, because he has to. 

“And when you hurt, I just—want to fuckin’. Throw whatever it is off a cliff—” you snort, and it gives him whatever tiny bit of confidence he needs to go on, “but the hurt you’ve been carrying—I can’t take that from you. No matter how much I want to.”

He makes the mistake of looking at your face. He can’t look at your tears right now—he knows with a harrowing certainty that the sight will cut him in two.

“Honey, I—” he sighs, trying like hell to not ruin this entire thing with his next words, “if this thing between you and I is how it’s always gonna be, then that’s what it’ll be, and I’ll be one lucky asshole for all of it.”

He reaches for your fingers, and wraps them in his own—for what he prays is not the last time. 

“But I need ya to know that I heard her call me that and just for a—a fuckin’ second, it was real. The shit I’ve been dreaming about for years was right in front of me and it just. Hurt like hell to remember that it wasn't.”

You make a wounded, whimpering sort of sound and Katsuki has to squeeze his eyes shut and count to 10 before he’s able to speak again. 

“I can’t take his place,” he says quietly, straight to your heart, “Wouldn’t dream of it. But I need ya to know that there hasn’t been a moment since I met you that I haven’t loved y’so much it made my fuckin' teeth ache.”

Your tears hit the fabric of his sweats, and he hopes to god he’s not breaking your heart right now.

“When you had Kaede, I knew that I’d love her for the rest of my life. That I’d do whatever y’needed to keep you both safe and happy. And I would’ve been okay with doing that from the outside. But now you’re here and I—can’t breathe without you here and I—”

Sudden, strong compression cuts him off, and it takes him only a second to realize you’ve wrapped yourself around him like a vice. You couldn’t get any closer to him if you tried, and for one sickening second he’s so hopeful—

“I love you,” you tell him, every word branding itself into his chest, burrowing into his heart, “I love you.”

It’s a weight removed, then—that big ass anchor disintegrated into nothing as he holds you there. Knowing with some finality that he will never let you go. Hoping it’s real, hoping he’s not misunderstanding, hoping that this means something—

And then everything stops, because your fingers curl around his jaw to pull him up—and then you kiss him.

—

part 3 at some point in the near future <3 thanks for reading love u

[napbatata]

Nothing But a Box

Content Warning: teen pregnancy, abortion, emotional grief, trauma, references to isolation and guilt.

It started with a deep clean.

Bakugo hated clutter. Always had. The apartment was mostly spotless—except for the storage boxes under the bed. You kept promising to go through them, and he kept telling you, “You either clean that shit out or I’m throwing it.”

You laughed it off every time.

Until today.

You were out on patrol. He had the day off. So he figured he’d handle it. Quick, simple. Trash what needed trashing. Box the rest.

It was going fine, until he found a small, taped-up pink box.

He almost didn’t notice it, shoved behind a bin of old sweaters.

Bakugo grabbed it with one hand, inspecting it. No labels. No writing. Just an old pink box. Dusty. Tucked away like it hadn’t been opened in years.

He sat down, wiped it off, and muttered, “The hell is this?”

He peeled the tape and opened the lid.

Photos. High school era. You in uniform. A little awkward-looking, soft smile, those eyes he always loved—still there, but dimmer somehow.

Candy wrappers. Hair clips. Broken pencils.

Old notes from friends. Folded up like secrets, still smelling faintly of perfume.

Then he saw it.

A pale pink envelope.

Angel’s Wings Women’s Clinic.

He blinked, lips parting slightly. “The fuck’s this?”

He thought it might be... medicine, or a newsletter. Something dumb.

He opened it.

And froze.

Two pregnancy tests.

Both positive.

Several ultrasound photos.

And a small sticky note:

“Grieving is hard, especially for someone as young as you… you can write your feelings here.”

“This isn’t required, but if you’d like, you can write a letter to say goodbye. It can help you heal. You’ll never have to show anyone.”

Bakugo stared at the tests. At the prints. His mind blanked.

Slowly, hands tighter than they should’ve been, he unfolded the paper underneath.

To the baby I never got to meet <333

I don’t know what your name would have been. I don’t even know if you were a boy or girl. But I do know that you were real. That you were a spark inside me that I never forgot.

I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you.

I’m seventeen right now and I’m scared. I didn’t know who to tell, or how. The father didn’t want to stay. I didn’t think I could give you the life you deserved. And I didn’t want you to grow up resenting me for how little I have.

Still… I love you.

Even if it was for a short time. Even if it wasn’t enough.

I think about you more than I want to admit.

I wonder if you would’ve had my eyes.

If you’d have been quiet like me or loud like your dad.

I wonder if you would’ve liked the stars, or cats, or pancakes for breakfast.

Maybe, one day, if I’m stronger, if I’ve learned how to stop hating myself… maybe I’ll be ready. And maybe, wherever you are, the universe will let you find your way back to me.

I hope you weren’t in pain.

I hope you didn’t feel abandoned.

You were not a mistake.

You were never a mistake.

You were my what-if.

And I will always carry you in the quiet spaces of my life.

Love,

Mom.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe right.

Didn’t feel right.

This wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t something you’d left out casually. It was deliberate. Hidden.

And he understood that now.

Not because he was smart with feelings. He wasn’t. But because this was the kind of pain you keep folded away—neat and quiet—so it doesn’t scream at you every time you look at it.

The front door opened thirty minutes later.

He hadn’t moved.

“Babe?” you called out. “I grabbed food, and there’s a sale on those stupid sodas you like, so—”

You saw him.

Sitting on the floor. Pink box open. Letter unfolded.

Your breath caught.

He looked up at you.

And for the first time, you saw him completely speechless. No scowl. No snark. Just quiet. His expression unreadable. Broken in a way only someone who had never cried in front of you could be.

“Ah…” you whispered.

He nodded, jaw tight.

“I didn’t think you’d ever see it.”

He looked back down at the letter.

“You were seventeen?” he finally asked, voice hoarse.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t speak.

You stepped into the room slowly. “I didn’t really tell anyone.”

“Did it hurt?” he asked.

The question shattered something.

“Physically? A bit. Emotionally?” You hesitated. “It felt like... I died a little.”

He stared down at his hands, still holding your letter.

“I would’ve...” His voice cracked. “If I’d known you then—fuck. I would’ve done anything. Anything to make sure you didn’t go through that alone.”

You smiled, sad. “You didn’t even know who I was, Katsuki. You were off saving the world in high school . ”

“I don’t give a shit!” he snapped suddenly, voice louder than he meant. “I don’t fucking care if I didn’t know you back then! The fact that you went through that—and never told me—what the fuck was I supposed to do when I found this?”

You flinched.

He realized and softened instantly.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said, quiet again. “I’m just… I’m mad that you ever felt like you had to carry this by yourself. Like you couldn’t tell me.”

You sat down beside him.

“I didn’t want to be seen as ruined,” you admitted.

“You’re not ruined,” he said, low and fierce. “You hear me? You’re not ruined. You’re stronger than anyone I know.”

Your voice wavered. “Sometimes I think about them. When I see kids. Or when the sky looks a certain way.”

You leaned into him, and he let you. He always let you.

And for the first time, you felt like the box didn’t belong to just your past anymore. It belonged to the both of you.

(Don’t ask me why this was so specific—I swear it didn’t happen to me. But it did happen in real life. Not to me, but to someone who deserved better. This one’s for them, and for anyone else who had to go through something like this while carrying the weight alone. ALSO I'M BACK BABIES<333)

[napbatata]

So um.....bakugo x reader who has really bad anger issues and always snaps at everyone BUT she isn't apologetic about it (she's really mean too)

──★ ˙💢 ̟ !! Anger Recognizes Its Own

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader,

U.A. was too loud.

It wasn’t the training grounds or the screaming teachers or the near-death simulations that grated on your nerves — you could handle all that. It was the people. The fake laughs, the humblebrags wrapped in faux modesty, the classmates who tiptoed around confrontation like it was a landmine.

You weren't like them.

You told people what you thought, how you felt, and if that meant you snapped in the hallway or shoved someone’s books off their desk mid-sentence, so be it. You weren’t cruel without reason. You just didn’t lie about how pissed off people made you.

And you weren’t sorry.

So when word got around that you’d verbally eviscerated someone from Class 1-B for bumping into you and not apologizing, no one was surprised. When the rumors about when you told your math teacher back in high school that if he couldn't explain derivatives without sounding like a malfunctioning toaster, you were going to teach the class yourself — that was expected. When people cleared the hallway when you walked through, that was routine.

What wasn’t routine was Bakugo Katsuki keeping pace beside you.

"You're stomping again," he muttered without looking up from his energy drink,

You shot him a glare. "You're breathing again."

He snorted.

The two of you had started sitting near each other at lunch two months ago, after you blew up at a group of extras who thought it’d be funny to take a picture of you during hero training — mid-sprint, mid-scowl, full rage. You’d walked to the farthest table in the cafeteria, ignoring the whispers, and Bakugo was already there, eating alone like he always did.

He didn’t say anything when you sat. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t stare, didn’t even flinch when you slammed your tray down.

Maybe that was the start.

Now, he’d show up next to you in the hallway. Walk with you to class. Grumble when you picked fights, grin when you won them. Sometimes you fought each other — verbally, mostly — and sometimes you sat in comfortable silence. You never asked him why he tolerated you. You figured he didn’t know either.

“Oi.” His voice broke your thoughts. “You’re thinking too loud again.”

You scowled. “You’re talking too much.”

He bumped your shoulder with his. “You’re welcome for the companionship, asshole.”

You didn’t smile — not really — but your mouth twitched.

The thing was: Bakugo understood anger.

He didn’t flinch when your voice rose, didn’t cower when you snapped, didn’t lecture you to “breathe” or “regulate your emotions.” He didn’t treat your rage like it was something to fix. He treated it like something he recognized. Like something sacred.

And in return, you gave him what you didn’t give anyone: your silence.

Not the cold kind. The comfortable kind. The kind that said, I know you’re still here. I don’t need to say anything for you to feel that.

Some days you’d sit under the dorm’s outdoor stairwell, headphones in but music off, eyes closed as the wind moved over your face. He’d sit beside you and say nothing. Not a word. Just his presence — solid, steady, grounding in a way your fury never was.

And when the world spun too fast, too stupid, too loud — he’d find you.

One Thursday after sparring with class 1B, you nearly broke someone’s jaw. It wasn’t your fault, not really. He (hahahaha u know who is this) made a joke about your quirk — how it wasn’t “flashy enough to be intimidating.” You saw red. Your fist moved before your brain did.

Bakugo watched it happen from across the training mats.

When Aizawa dragged you off and the lecture started — something about emotional control and hero image — you didn’t say a word. You just stared at the scuffed floor, knuckles bleeding, ears ringing from the adrenaline.

Later that night, you skipped dinner.

You weren’t sulking. You just didn’t want to hear another person tell you how to feel.

So when there was a knock on your dorm door, you almost ignored it. But then a familiar voice followed.

“Open up. I brought the good ramen.”

You opened the door.

He walked in like he owned the place, dropped the instant noodles on your desk, and sat on your bed. Not in the chair. On your bed.

You raised a brow. “You breaking and entering now?”

He shrugged. “It’s your fault for giving me the spare key.”

“You stole it.”

He grinned. “Borrowed.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed one of the ramen cups, tearing the lid open with more force than necessary. “If you’re here to tell me I overreacted, save it.”

He looked at you. Not with pity. Not with judgment.

Just looked.

“I’m here 'cause you looked like you needed to hit something else.”

You froze.

He leaned back on his hands, watching you with that familiar, unreadable gaze — the one that never seemed to look through you but into you. The one that saw too much without asking permission.

“You don’t need to explain shit to me,” he said, voice low. “But next time you wanna deck some asshole, use your elbow. Less damage to your hand.”

You stared.

Then — for the first time all week — you laughed.

Just once. Short. Real.

It kept happening.

The nights where you couldn’t sleep. The days where the world was too stupid to tolerate. The afternoons where you sat in the corner of the training field, hair sticking to your sweat-slicked skin, breath ragged from holding it all in.

He’d be there.

Sometimes yelling at dumb classmates so you didn’t have to. Sometimes handing you a protein bar and pretending it wasn’t an act of care. Sometimes just being near — not speaking, not touching, not asking you to be smaller or softer or “nicer.”

And one day, without thinking, you looked at him across the gym and said, “You know you’re my favorite, right?”

He blinked.

And then his ears turned red.

“You say that to everyone who tolerates your temper?”

You smiled, teeth bared. “Only the ones worth keeping.”

He grunted and looked away — but his mouth twitched.

[napbatata]

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ╰┈➤ @ssstaryy ⦂okay so so reader and bakugou get into a heated argument and we're at the point where they're both yelling and bakugou says something really hurtful to reader and its so bad that as soon as he says it he's TERRIFIEd. he IMMEDIATELY looks at readers face to predict what she's gonna do next cuz he is a woman fearing man

》 ✐ᝰ this request is the latest thing ever and ik it's not exactly what you asked for butttt ENJOY!!

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•

Katsuki Bakugou is many things — the number four pro hero, an explosive powerhouse, a menace to villains everywhere.

But most of all?

He is a wife-fearing man.

You’re not even sure how the argument started — as most arguments go between the two of you. One moment, it was a calm conversation. The next? A full-on clash of stubborn wills and sharp tongues. And given both of your fiery tempers, it stopped being about the issue pretty quickly and turned into Katsuki spitting frustrated words while you met him with razor-edged comebacks.

"Fucking hell, you can be so overbearing sometimes—"

As soon as the words leave his mouth, his expression shifts. The angry flush drains from his face, leaving it ghostly pale.

Silence.

You stare at your mug of tea. Freshly brewed. Still scalding hot. You take a slow sip, face neutral, unmoved by the burn.

But you don’t say a word.

And that’s when Katsuki knows he’s fucked.

Because if there’s one thing he’s learned about you over the years — it’s that when you’re angry, you let him have it. But when you’re upset? You go quiet. The snarky mouth he loves so much goes still. And suddenly the silence is louder than any yelling.

His stomach twists with guilt. He wants to say something, but the words won’t come. The kitchen hangs in thick, uneasy quiet.

Then you speak.

"Katsuki?"

He perks up immediately, almost hopeful.

"Go take a shower," you say, voice calm but firm. "And get some damn rest."

Oh.

Right.

You were arguing because he’s been overworking himself again — refusing to take breaks, pushing his limits, doing everything but listening to you.

"...Yes, ma’am," he mutters a little too quickly, already turning to shuffle away.

You watch him go, hiding your amused smile behind another sip of tea.

He trips on the first step, catching himself with a muttered “fuck” before disappearing up the stairs.

Needless to say, you won that argument — as you always do. Katsuki can never really say no to you, not when you look at him like that.

Ten minutes later, freshly showered and towel-drying his hair with a sheepish look on his face, he picks up his phone.

Calls the agency.

Grunts a single word into the line: “Wife.”

Then hangs up.

No one questions it.

He doesn’t even have to explain — it’s universally understood that he won’t be showing his face at work for the next few days.

You’ve made sure of it.

A/N: yippee more badass reader hehe