strawberry-nugget

[strawberry-nugget]

Beach day with Katsuki + grinding and cuddling with him underwater in a sea cave. 🤧🥰

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW-ish, MDNI, grinding underwater, loads of kissing, fluff, i might write smut for this

Unbeknownst to him, Katsuki is the funniest person in existence and today, every time you look at him, you giggle a little more.

Maybe it’s because he’s too huge for the pedal boat the two of you rented for the day, or maybe because he looks ghostly white from the amount of sunscreen on his face. Or it’s both, paired with his ridiculous long sleeved white shirt that he said is specifically for swimming, while he’s peddling in the middle of sea.

Then again, it’s the ‘one piece’ style hat as well.

You’re not even sure when the laughing started—maybe when you first caught sight of Katsuki trying to stuff his long legs under the tiny canopy of the pedal boat, scowling like it personally offended him. 

Or maybe it was when he insisted on applying a “proper layer” of SPF 100, smearing it across his nose and cheeks with the precision of a soldier applying war paint. Either way, it’s been downhill— rather, down current— since.

Because now, as he continues pedalling furiously across the open sea in his bright white rashguard, sleeves pulled all the way down despite the heat, face ghostly pale with the overzealous application of sunscreen, and his wide-brimmed fisherman hat flopping slightly with every gust of wind—you lose it again.

You giggle. Just a little at first.

He glances over his shoulder. “What.”

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. It’s quite literally everything.

It’s the way his knees keep hitting the bottom of the console, his arms comically too broad for the flimsy little steering lever. It’s the hat string tied snug under his chin like a five-year-old on a field trip. It’s the gruff, sun-drenched expression of a man trying to maintain dignity while slowly being baked alive by the sun and his own fashion choices.

“You’re laughin’ again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re lookin’ at me and laughin’, what the fuck is this funny?!”

You snort, trying to hide your grin behind your water bottle. “You’re funny.”

A new wave of laughter hits you and this time Katsuki shows his annoyance by painting it on his face. He squints his eyes and pouts, jaw almost slack to the side, nose scrunched “I’m careful of the sun. Im not funny”

“You are. You look like a diver ghost trying to cosplay as a sailor.”

He narrows his eyes at you, hat brim casting the perfect dramatic shadow across his sunscreen-smeared face. “You wanna swim back to shore?”

You burst out laughing, the kind that makes your stomach ache and tears well at the corners of your eyes. He glares, cheeks just barely turning pink beneath the layer of zinc.

But you see the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, the glint of embarrassment in his eyes and way past him, finally, the shore of the tiny piece of land in the middle of the shallow part of the ocean where there should be sea caves to explore.

“You’re so cute though Kats”

“Tch-whatever”

By some miracle—and Katsuki’s terrifying leg strength—you actually make it to the island without capsizing. It’s not much more than a slab of rock in the sea, scattered with tide pools and jagged inlets, but it’s quiet, glimmering under the sun like a secret.

Katsuki hops out first, water splashing around his calves. He grabs the edge of the boat and steadies it so you can step out—like he hasn’t just spent twenty minutes being heckled by you nonstop.

“Thanks,” you say innocently, taking his hand as he helps you onto the slippery rocks.

“‘Course,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to your feet like he’s trying not to look anywhere else. “Don’t slip, babe.”

The sun glints off the water, the air smells like brine and sunscreen, and everything feels a little too golden. You wander inland a few steps, the soles of your sandals squelching as you step over barnacles and shallow tide pools. Somewhere up ahead, under the overhang of rock, a dark slit in the stone opens up into a shallow cave.

“Oh,” you grin, turning over your shoulder. “That’s definitely swimmable.”

Katsuki squints at it. “Bet it’s cold as hell.”

“You scared?”

His brow twitches. “No.”

“I think you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He steps forward suddenly, casting a shadow over you, his hat flopping forward like an exclamation mark. “Say that again.”

You’re grinning, not backing down. “You’re scared.”

Without warning, he bends down and throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You shriek—startled, laughing, kicking gently at the air as he stalks toward the cave entrance with you dangling upside down.

“Katsuki! Don’t you dare—”

“Too late,” he growls, amused and smug, wading into the water. “Say I’m funny again.”

“You are—you’re the funniest man alive—Katsuki, seriously—!”

And then you’re dropped.

Not hard—just enough for your legs to splash into the cold seawater with a high-pitched yelp as he lets go of your thighs. You scramble up, soaked and squealing, water rushing around your waist as you shove at his chest. He just smirks, towering, smug as hell, droplets clinging to his lashes.

You splash him back, hard, both hands against the center of his chest. He barely budges, but the water does, sending a spray straight into his smug face.

“Asshole,” you mutter, squinting at him through the salt. “This shirt isn’t even for swimming.”

“Yes it is,” he fires back immediately, swiping water from his eyes. “It’s UV-protective.”

“It’s ugly-protective.”

Katsuki scoffs like he’s offended, but his grin gives him away. “You’re pushin’ it.”

“Or what? You’ll throw me back in?” You gesture to the waist-deep water, arms flung out. “Go ahead, I’m already soaked.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. You can hear the waves lapping gently against the cave wall behind him, the muffled echoes of water in stone. The cave’s mouth darkens the light just enough that the world feels cooler in here, more private. Your laughter settles into your skin like warmth, like the sun above.

Katsuki’s smile fades into something softer.

He doesn’t answer with words—just wades in closer. His hands find your hips under the water, fingers curling with the casual certainty of someone who knows he’s allowed to touch you like this. You blink up at him, water dripping down your temples, your hair sticking wet and cold to your cheeks.

You reach up and gently push wet bangs from his eyes—those sea-glinting, vermillion eyes that always look a little wild when he’s outside, untamed by four walls or mission structure. “You’ve got sunscreen on your eyebrows,” you murmur.

He rasps a laugh. “Don’t fuckin’ care.”

You lean in. Press your mouth to his in a kiss that tastes like salt and sun and the tinny sweetness of your water bottle. His lips are hot and dry and then not—they part, wet now, his breath low and uneven against your cheek as he leans down into you, both of you half-floating in the cool sea.

It’s unhurried. Lazy and warm and something else, too. Something that simmers right under the surface.

His hand slips down your back,  tracing the dip of your spine. The heat of his palm feels sharp against the coolness of your skin, and you shiver—but definitely not from the temperature of the water.

You tilt your head and kiss him again. Deeper this time. He makes a sound at the back of his throat, quiet and wrecked, like you’ve caught him off guard. His grip on you tightens—just slightly—and he walks you backwards until your hips hit the slippery rock ledge at the edge of the cave wall.

Water sloshes up, foams around your waist.

“Katsuki,” you breathe against his mouth.

He exhales, lips brushing yours as he kisses you again—slower now. Hands sliding up under the sides of your bottoms, knuckles grazing then the band of your bikini top. “Fuckin’—look at you,” he murmurs, forehead against yours. “Drippin’, laughin’ like that, makin’ fun of me…”

You grin lazily. “You liked it.”

“Did not.” He pouts

“You love it when I tease you.”

He leans in and kisses your jaw, your cheek, just beneath your ear where his breath makes your skin rise in goosebumps. “I like shuttin’ you up.”

“Mmm.” You tangle your fingers in his hair, damp and briny, push it back so you can see the flush rising on his cheeks. His hat is long gone, washed back into the sea like a tiny white flag of surrender, housing his silly UV protective shirt in it as well. For a second you chuckle at the thought.

He looks beautiful like this—messy and wet and glowing, skin ever so slightly kissed by the sun and heat and your hands.

“Then shut me up,” you whisper.

And oh well he does.

Not all at once—he’s too deliberate for that. His kisses turn slow again, wet and open-mouthed, tasting you like he’s letting the heat build in his chest before it bursts. His hand slips under your thigh, lifts your leg around his waist so he can press closer, even though you’re both still half-submerged in seawater. It doesn’t matter. Everything feels far away except the friction of his body and the way he holds you like he’s trying not to lose control in the middle of an Okinawa island.

It’s slow. It’s messy. And it’s summer—thick and golden and heavy in the air between you.

And when he finally pulls back, breathing hard, hands still curled around you like he might pull you under, you rest your forehead against his and smile through the salt on your lips. 

“You still look ridiculous,” you murmur before licking your lips “And you taste like sunscreen”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “But now you’re wet and clingin’ to me, so who really won here?”

You laugh, low and breathless. “Shut up.”

He kisses you again. And this time, you let the water take you both.

You don’t know how long you stay like that—held against him, half-kissing, half-laughing in the shadow of the cave—but at some point, the heat gives way to something quieter. Softer. The rush of saltwater settles around you like a warm hush, your limbs suspended, your thoughts weightless.

Katsuki’s arms stay locked around you, solid beneath the surface, palms smoothing over your back as if anchoring himself just as much as you. His thumb brushes slow circles against your spine, and your fingers stay curled in his hair, gently scraping at his scalp. You think he likes that, from the way his shoulders drop just a little, from the breath that stutters out of him like he’s finally letting go.

Your chest presses to his. Stomach to stomach, hips to hips. Nothing between you but warm seawater and soaked layers of fabric that stick in all the wrong places.

You shift, just slightly, adjusting your hold on his waist—but that’s all it takes for your pelvis to slot directly against his. You freeze.

So does he.

The contact is faint—filtered through your swimsuit, through his swim shorts, through the fluid drag of the water—but it’s unmistakably… there. Real. And close. His body is warm beneath yours in the cold water, legs braced wide, feet anchored to the rocky sea floor as if he knows the second he moves, he’ll give himself away.

You don’t move. Not yet. Your lips hover just beside his ear, and nearly trembling with a soft whine.

“Kats,” you murmur.

He makes a sound. Low, nearly voiceless—like a caught breath, or a confession too small to speak. His hands slide lower, splaying across your waist now, thumbs brushing your ribs as he tries—badly—not to shift against you.

He doesn’t want to let you know how hard he is from grinding against you underwater… But your thighs tighten around him.

You pull him closer, wrapping both legs around his hips with a lazy sort of slowness. The water makes it feel effortless, sensual in a way dry land never could. Skin glides over skin without resistance, your bodies suspended, pressed together in a floaty kind of weightlessness that feels too intimate for daylight.

Your forehead rests against his. “Feels nice like this,” you whisper, voice thick with heat.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, mouth parted like he forgot how to close it. But he’s blushing—bright and sharp across the top of his cheeks, even beneath the faint smudge of sunscreen. And not just there. It trails down his neck, creeping beneath his collarbones like warmth spreading from inside him out.

His hands tighten on your waist. “You’re not helpin’,” he grunts, voice rough and low.

“Helpin’ with what?” you tease, nudging your nose against his cheek. “I’m just swimmin’.”

“You’re—fuckin’—” He groans under his breath, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. “You’re grindin’ on me like that and sayin’ you’re swimmin’?”

“You didn’t say stop.”

“Didn’t say keep goin’.”

“Then stop me.”

He doesn’t—Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, his grip slips under your thighs, fingers digging in as he lifts you higher, tilts you just slightly until your core rubs right over and against his. The sensation is muted but unmistakable, heat blooming in your gut, your pulse syncing with the lazy roll of your hips. The water licks at your skin, cool in contrast to the fire rising in your stomach, and Katsuki watches you like he’s somewhere between wrecked and mesmerized.

Your lips find his again—slower this time. Deeper. Salt and sun and breath shared back and forth as you move against him, as the gentle waves lap at your sides like they’re urging you on.

“You feel good,” you murmur between kisses, and you feel him tense—just briefly—before relaxing into you again, letting the truth of your words melt him a little even if he’s hiding from the sun.

“So do you,” he grits out. “Too good.”

You smile into his mouth, pressing your forehead back to his. His hair’s wet, matted, dripping over his blond brows in messy clumps, and you push it away again with gentle, pruney fingers.

There’s a silence between you then, charged by the soft sound of water and lust. Like the sea itself has paused to let this moment happen and in it, you feel everything.

His heartbeat through his chest.

His breath on your cheek.

The twitch of restraint in his thighs.

The unmistakable swell of tension between your hips, straining against its own boundaries in the water.

“You gonna lose it if I keep doing this?” you whisper.

Katsuki exhales shakily. “Fuckin’ maybe.”

And god—you like that. The admission. The edge in it. How he wants to be good for you, even when his body’s fighting against it.

You kiss his neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Then maybe we save the rest for when we get back.”

“You’re so evil,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, lips pouty.

“You like it.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just kisses you again, deeper now, like he’s holding himself together with your mouth. Like if you just keep kissing, he might make it back to shore in one piece.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[strawberry-nugget]

In which, you meet up with Tomura Shigaraki in an abandoned building after patrol and he fucks you against a wall like the good little hero you are. 😮‍💨🫶🏻

Pairing: Shigaraki x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, p in v sex, degradation, humiliation kink (kinda?), hero x villain relationship, creampie, unprotected sex, shigaraki being a freak lowkey (??) guilty pleasure sex, pwp

Secrets are saccharine.

At least that’s what your friend always told you. That secrets are sweeter when they’re well kept—mouth watering when you go back and forth on letting anyone know. The thrill. The rush. The utter shock of pleasure your friends give you when you finally voice the things you’ve kept. Secrets taste like nectar.

And to whom it may concern, secrets are carbs. They’re salt and sugar. They’re nicotine. A substance that makes you obsessed—wanting to know everyone’s truths, wanting to cradle the things that don’t concern you, or clamp your own between your teeth and take them to your grave. Whatever they are, secrets pull humans in. Your friend said they’re the most humane thing after sex.

But you know better.

Secrets are vile and predatory. They crawl into bed with you at night, shimmy your brain out of your skull, and plant their roots in your chest. They spread like fire—like old creaking wood being nailed into the floor of a beautiful home, just to hide the rot underneath. The hide that’s really beneath you, the things you can’t say. Your secret, the one you’ve kept safe for so long—you made sure there was no sooner or later in the quarry of when you’d be found out.

You won’t.

The meeting place changes each time, naturally. A warehouse near the docks. A gutted school. Now, this to-be-renovated apartment complex, hollowed out like a ribcage. The disastrous fate of being seen entering a building with a criminal hasn’t even left your mind— it could ruin you—but the thrill of snooping around like this, folding yourself and your ethics like origami, sends shivers down your spine.

Your lip trembles. Ankles clashing. Your feet are loud when they shouldn’t be. The mere thought of Shigaraki Tomura waiting in a dark corner behind the jagged teeth of broken glass is enough to get your ribs aching—nerve endings pinched every time your mind replays his face.

You step through the silence like it’s alive. Broken glass underfoot answers for you. You look for the familiar tint of that white-ish blue topaz—his hair, always messy, always untamed. It peeks out from beneath his hood like a tell, and your breath hitches.

He’s already watching you.

“You’re late,” he mutters. His voice barely makes it through the sounds of comatose debris, but you hear it like it was said inside your mouth.

“My shift ran late.”

“Ever the hero.” He scoffs, turning his head like it offends him to look at you.

You gulp. There’s something in you that wants to walk away, to treat this like a mistake you haven’t made yet. But you don’t. You bite the inside of your cheek, tongue thick in your mouth as you stand there like an idiot waiting for him to do something, say something, start something.

He doesn’t.

So you stomp—on purpose, like a tantrum, like you can’t pretend you’re better than this—and walk right up to him, pressing your forehead to his like you’re about to start a fight.

But your mouth crashes into his instead.

There’s no point holding back. The reason you’re both here has already been talked to death. This thing—this itch in your blood—it’s kept you up at night, left you wrecked in the shower with your hand between your legs and your name nowhere on your tongue. His name however, is a different story.

And if anyone saw this? Saw you, fresh off patrol, lips locked with Tomura’s? You’d be imprisoned. License revoked. Stripped of your title. Labeled a traitor. They’d look down on you even in your cell.

But the way he kisses you back, it shreds all your logic into silk ribbons. His gloved hand grabs your collar, yanking you close. His teeth catch your bottom lip like a snare.

And you? You’re split apart on it.

Because it feels good. Too good.

Because he kisses like someone who doesn’t get kissed. Who doesn’t get touched. Like it’s a threat and a promise all at once.

Your hands, shaky but hungry, find the hem of his hoodie. You curl your fingers underneath, feel the heat of his skin just above his waistband. His hips twitch forward when you touch him, and a noise gets caught in his throat—frustrated and soft.

“Still dressed like a good little soldier,” he breathes against your jaw, dragging a hand down your thigh, over your belt.

“Still playing criminal in a hoodie,” you snap back, even as your breath stutters when his fingers hook into the waistband of your hero suit, dragging it down an inch—just enough for the cool air to kiss your hip bone.

He groans, the sound low and near a growl. “You talk too much.”

You smile against his mouth, biting his lower lip this time. “You like it.”

His grip tightens.

Glass crunches as he presses you back, pinning you to a half-broken pillar. Your thighs part for him instinctively, traitorously. You shouldn’t be like this—you shouldn’t want this.

But your hands are already under his hoodie, nails dragging down the ridges of his scarred back. Your hero gloves fall to the floor. His mouth is on your neck now, tongue hot and slow, teeth grazing the place no one’s supposed to touch.

You gasp. He groans again, this time less controlled. His hips press into yours like a threat, like he’s daring you to stop him. To be the better person.

But you’re not.

Not here. Not anymore.

And when he grinds against you—slow, hard, through the layers of your uniform like he doesn’t care how long it takes—you start to think secrets might really be sweeter than sin.

His hands are on your waist, gloved and rough, but hungry. They dip under the hem of your suit like he’s tearing open a present he doesn’t deserve—fingers tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing it for when you’re gone.

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes his thigh between your legs, and your hips betray you—grinding down on him with aching need. The friction sends a shock through your spine.

“That desperate for it?” he whispers into your neck, voice hot and broken. “You risked everything for this?”

You can’t answer

Your fingers are already working at his belt like your body’s on autopilot—like your mind checked out five minutes ago and left your hands to handle the sinning.

He watches you with that glassy, obsessive stare. The kind of look that makes you feel small and desired at the same time. His cock twitches against your palm when you finally free him from the layers—thick and flushed, already hard, already leaking at the tip like he’s been waiting all day for this.

You stroke him once—slow and tight—and he curses under his breath, grabbing your wrist.

“Don’t fucking tease me.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips parted. “Then shut up and let me have it.”

And he does.

He turns you around with a growl, bending you over the half-demolished windowsill. Your palms slap against the concrete, fingers digging into dust. Your hero suit is halfway off, tangled around your thighs, your cunt already wet and aching and on display. You hear him spit into his hand. Then feel him—hot, solid—rubbing the head of his cock between your folds, coating himself in everything you shouldn’t be giving him.

Your breath catches. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Not even a prayer.

He pushes in slow. Thick. Relentless. The stretch makes your eyes flutter, hips bucking back instinctively, chasing the burn. He groans behind you, low and guttural.

“Fuck. You—” he cuts himself off, grabbing your hips like he’s anchoring himself to reality. “You’re so fucking wet f’ me.”

“Shut up,” you whisper. It’s not anger—it’s shame, it’s desperation, it’s don’t ruin it.

But he starts to thrust, slow at first, then harder, deeper—like he’s trying to bury the whole goddamn war inside you. Your body jolts forward with every thrust, the windowsill scraping against your thighs, your cheek pressed to concrete. Every drag of his cock feels like fire and ice and something close to the thrill of the destruction of his quirk —all at once.

Your eyes roll back.

You’re making sounds you can’t swallow. Gasps and moans and little broken pieces of who you used to be. He leans over your back, lips at your ear.

“This what you wanted, sweetheart?” he rasps. “To be ruined by a villain?”

You nod, throat dry, eyes teary. “Harder.”

He growls and slams into you—hard enough the sound echoes off the walls. The slap of skin on skin is filthy. So is the wet slick every time he pulls out and thrusts back in. You’re clenching around him like your body knows he doesn’t belong there and doesn’t care.

One hand leaves your hip. Moves to your front.

Fingers—gloved, unforgiving—find your clit and rub tight, fast circles that make your knees buckle.

He fucks you like the world’s already ended.

Like you don’t wear that suit. Like you don’t save people. Like he hasn’t watched you on the news with your lips pressed into a grim line, pretending to be righteous while your thighs squeeze together behind the podium.

The derelict building groans around you. The walls are bowing from age, glass shards shimmer on the floor like teeth, and the air smells like rust, old cigarettes, and something sickly sweet—like rot pretending to be candy.

His hips slam against your ass, relentless, each thrust pushing you forward against the cold windowsill. You brace yourself on your forearms, knuckles white. There’s nothing soft about this. He fucks you through guilt, through concrete dust, through the kind of shame you’ll never be able to wash off.

“Listen to you,” he growls, voice raw, forehead pressed to your spine as his cock drives in again. “Fucking soaked for a killer. Getting off on the sound of glass breaking while I ruin you.”

You gasp, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.

“Tell me what the Commission would say if they saw you like this,” he snarls, one hand gripping your jaw and twisting your head just enough for your cheek to scrape the brick. “What would they call you, huh? Little hero? Sweetheart? Or just a fucking traitor?”

His other hand is between your legs again, middle finger working tight, brutal circles on your clit—matching the pace of his cock pounding into you from behind. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You’re shaking. You’re so close again you can barely breathe.

“That’s it,” he hisses into your ear, fucking you harder now, losing rhythm in the filth of it. “I can feel it. You’re gonna cum all over me like a goddamn whore, aren’t you? After everything? After arresting villains like me last week—you’re still fucking coming for me.”

Your voice catches in your throat. “Tomura—”

“Say it again.”

His voice is low. Dangerous. The kind of voice that crawls under your skin and rewires the good parts of you.

You moan his name again, louder this time, fucked out and shaking. He slams into you deep and stays there, his cock twitching inside you as he grits out a curse and spills himself with a low, guttural groan. The warmth floods you, wrong and thick and claiming.

But he doesn’t pull out.

Not right away.

He lets it sit there—lets the stretch and the fullness and the mess of it all marinate as he leans over you, breath ragged, body pressed close.

“Hope you feel it dripping out of you when you put that suit back on,” he mutters against your ear. “Let it ruin your patrol.”

You shudder, cunt still fluttering around him as the last pulses of orgasm fade into tremors.

“Tell me,” he murmurs after a beat, hand still between your thighs, two fingers lazily rubbing at your overstimulated clit. “When you hug people after saving them… do your hands still shake? Knowing you let me fuck you like that?”

You whimper, body spasming, legs unsteady beneath you.

He finally pulls out, slow and wet and unforgiving. You feel it drip—down your thighs, onto the concrete. You don’t even move to fix your suit. You just breathe.

Shigaraki zips himself up, but he doesn’t look away. He just watches you from the shadows—half-lit in the glow of a broken streetlamp bleeding through the shattered glass.

“You’ll come back,” he says quietly, almost like it’s a fact. Not a threat. Not a plea.

Just truth. And he’s right.

Because even as you pull your suit up with shaking fingers, even as shame slams into your chest like a sledgehammer, even as your comm crackles to life with your sidekick’s voice searching for you on an open frequency—you know this wasn’t the last time.

You know the rot is in you now, too. It has been for a long time.

And you hope that later, during the war, you're not placed on the Shigaraki battlefield.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[strawberry-nugget]

I'm back with more delicious Situationship! Kirishima smut. This time you do it on Bakugo's couch in the middle of the day. As always this is in universe as most of my Kirishima fics/ drabbles

Pairing: Kirishima x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, p in v sex, making it fit, Kirishima has a big dick like always, fingering (f! receiving) Kirishima talking us through it, praise, creampies, unprotected sex. All characters are 20+

Would a normal person consider it acceptable to be filled to the brim—eyes stinging with tears—while riding their situationship’s out-of-this-world dick, straddled in his lap on his best friend’s couch?

No. Obviously not.

Would you?

...Apparently, yes. Very much yes.

You and Eijiro have been house- and dog-sitting for Bakugo and his girlfriend while they take a rare vacation to the Okinawa Islands—much-needed time off, according to the frantic way she packed. With no one else available, you both volunteered. It’s been uneventful, sweet, even. You’ve spent your days feeding their excitable corgi, Ichigo, who’s now fast asleep in the bedroom, and your nights curled up on their couch with whatever’s on TV and a juice box each, pretending things between you are casual.

And casual they would be, had you been napping. You definitely should be napping.

The original plan was to go for a run with Ichigo tonight, so a nap should have been crucial to save some energy.

But Eijiro is a menace – especially when you’re watching a movie with anything sexual in it. Everything riles him up normally, even watching two people kiss on the big screen, but the movie you’re watching now has the longest sex scene you’ve ever seen in cinematic history and frankly? You’d be lying if you said you aren’t a little horny too just by watching. And so, dazed by the soft heat of mid June and the sun shining a little too warm through the white curtains, you don’t mind how Eijiro’s pointer finger is rubbing firm, absentminded circles on your clit.

A second ago, his palm had been resting innocently on your thigh—warm, wide, calloused—until it wasn’t. Until his fingers started drawing soft shapes just under the hem of your loose and flimsy pajama shorts. Until you leaned into him with a knowing little sigh, and he grinned against your temple like the world’s most patient sinner.

That’s how it always starts.

You think you’re stronger than this. Think you can just finish the movie, giggle through the tension, maybe tease him later when you’re both tucked under the sheets in Bakugo’s impossibly clean guest bedroom. Like this would be the most considerate thing to do in your situation.

But then his voice drops, barely above a whisper, finger still firmly teasing over your clit.

“You want it, don’t you?”

Eijiro says it, but in that cocky, performative way. He says it like he already knows. Like he’s seen the flush bloom across your chest before you even realize it’s there, just when a gasp shakes deeply in your bones.

Your breath stutters. He feels it—where your back brushes his chest, where your thighs twitch in his lap, where your slick is already soaking through the stupid thin fabric between you.

“You’re already throbbing,” he says, not to tease, but to marvel. Like he’s genuinely in awe of how fast you give in for him. How easy it is to break you open with just one finger and a quiet voice. “Haven’t even kissed you yet, baby.”

He turns his head, presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. It lingers. Like he’s thinking about how far he can take this without ever moving you from your spot on the couch. And you’re thinking about how far you’ll let him.

The movie is still rolling behind your half-lidded eyes, soft piano music bleeding into the room. You feel far away from it. Far away from everything except his fingers on your clit and the warm noon sun, licking at your skin past the soft hum of the A/C.

You let your legs fall wider on instinct. Let the back of your head drop against Eijiro’s collar bones as your hips tilt forward, wordlessly chasing more friction. And Eijiro—sweet, depraved Eijiro—just hums like it’s the greatest compliment you could’ve given him.

"Want me to touch you properly?"

You nod, already dizzy.

But he taps your thigh once with his free hand, cocking an eyebrow. Voice ever so quiet when he says: "Use your words, pretty."

Gosh. He always makes you ask for it. Makes you give it to him sweet and slow and whole—even when you’re dripping and needy and about to cry from how bad you want him.

“Please,” you whisper, voice barely hanging on. “I need you.”

He grins like that’s what he’s been waiting to hear. Pulls his hand back just long enough to shove your shorts to the side, fingers dragging your soaked panties with them. They don’t make it far. He wants you messy. Bare. Right where he can watch you lose it for him.

He hisses, like clothes hurt him as he tries to tilt you with his hips, clothed cock bulging in his basketball shorts underneath you. His fingers trace across your soaked slit, catching some sleek from your entrance and bringing it to your clit, flicking it with the tips of his fingers in a tentative ticking motion. You shudder in response, past the moan he lets out in the crook of your neck, followed by a tender peck of his lips on your skin.

Then he slides one finger in at once, easy and slow, and you cry out, half-muffled by the way your head falls against his shoulder.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, voice breathy, reverent. “Already so fucking wet. Fuck.”

He fucks his finger into you, slowly, his bulky thumb rubbing parallels on your clit. It’s not even rough, not at all. It’s quiet, controlled, the only messy thing about it is how his thumb is trying to push back the hood of your clit to get that reaction he knows too well that he can draw out.

When he does so, your spongy walls tighten around him, gushing a new wave of sleekness. Eijiro is so content with how messy this is. His eyes are dazzed, star crossed and all he can actually think about is how messy your pussy lips feel on his fingers as he’s touching you, rubbing you, stirring your insides up.

Honestly, he could just cum on the spot by just the thought of it, but he reminds himself he needs to prep you, and if you come now, then it’ll just be easier for him to slide inside you.

It doesn’t help that the two of you barely have sex– he’s too scared that he’s going to hurt you just by his size and it takes you ages to let loose around him and enjoy yourself. He wishes things were different and that he and you could both change, but this isn’t a notion for this exact moment. He’s not a buzzkill. 

“Can i add one more?” he hums against your neck and you shriek

“it’ll hurt!” you admit, but then you feel his dick throbbing against your lower back and you’re reminded of what’s to come if you’re not preped enough “k-kay Eijiro, just- just do it slow, please”

“of course” he says, kissing the skin under your ear “i would never hurt you, sweetness”

He means it. You know he does. It’s stitched into the way he moves—careful and slow, like your body is some sacred thing he’s been entrusted with, like every slick sound between your legs is a hymn only he gets to hear.

So when he eases the second finger in, slow and steady, watching from above at your face for every flicker of discomfort, you grip onto his arms like you’re holding on for dear life.

"That’s it," he whispers, like he’s coaxing you through a dream. His bicep flexes under your palm as he adjusts the angle of his wrist, sliding in deeper. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. Feels okay?”

You nod. Your breath catches. Your hips twitch in his lap as he starts to move again—really move now—scissoring his fingers just enough to stretch you open while his thumb circles your clit in slow, aching spirals. Your hips are locking, jerking forward and up and he’s doing his best to keep up with your twitching.

"F-fuck—Eiji—"

He presses his forehead to yours from your side, lips parted like he wants to swallow every sound you make. “I know, I know. Just a little more, okay? You’re so tight, so fucking good—gonna take me so well, I promise.”

You whimper, helpless against the building heat, the fullness, the feeling of him working you open like you’re something precious. It’s not just arousal—it’s intimacy so thick you can’t breathe through it. The weight of being wanted like this, known like this. 

And oh– the absolutely squelching sounds your cunt makes every time he scissors his fingers. You’re so unrealistically wet and only he can bring that out of you. 

Eijiro groans softly when you clench again, when you gasp and rock your hips down, chasing something you can’t name yet.

“That's it,” he murmurs, voice low and breaking. “Get me all messy. Want you to cum on my fingers. You need it, right, sweetheart? Wanna feel good for me?”

You nod too quickly, voice caught in your throat. The raspiness in his voice is doing bad, horrible things to you. Your stomach is tied into a knot, your lower abdomen burns, your back is adorned with painful shivers.

His fingers speed up—not rough, never rough, just deeper, firmer, more sure of you. And you swear your soul leaves your body when he shifts his thumb again, just the tiniest adjustment, right over that soft, aching spot that makes you keen.

“If you give me one right now i’ll slide in easier babe”

You grind down onto his lap without thinking, chasing it, overwhelmed, lost in it. His fingers curl deep inside you, finding the spot he knows by muscle memory, and your vision goes white around the edges.

“Eijiro—!”

“There you go,” he pants, his own hips twitching beneath you. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Fuckin’ let go, let me feel it—”

Your body shakes.

It hits you hard—flooding you in heat, crashing through you in waves—and you moan like it’s being torn out of your chest, nails digging into his arms, then his thighs, eyes fluttering shut as you soak his hand with your release.

Eijiro is still whispering praise, still holding you through it, even as you slump forward against him, boneless and burning. Underneath you, his cock twitches so violently it makes your stomach flip.

And the worst part? The part that makes your chest ache?

He’s talked you through such an intense orgasm and you haven’t even kissed yet.

In desperate need for each other's lips, you try to shift positions, while clothes fly everywhere– You don’t even think about the angry Bakugo who’s going to find your bra underneath the couch days later when he cleans up. No. You lurch onto Kirishma, shirtless now, after getting him out of his underwear too, wrapping your arms around his neck, straddling his lap and stopping just before his face.

Your lips brush. So tenderly, like a harsh kiss could ruin this moment.

You shift in his lap, heart thudding too hard in your chest to ignore. The space between your bodies is next to nothing now, flushed skin against skin, the tips of your breasts brushing his chest as you wrap your arms around his neck. You’re still panting, still slick and twitching from your orgasm, but the need hasn’t gone anywhere—it’s changed shape, deepened, thickened, curled low in your stomach like a second heartbeat.

Eijiro’s hands settle on your hips, big and reverent, grounding you. His thumbs stroke soothing circles into the soft parts of your waist as his eyes search yours.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, voice gentled by nerves and restraint. “We don’t—have to. I know how hard it is for you sometimes.”

You lean forward until your forehead presses against his. Your lashes flutter. “I want you.”

“But—”

“I want all of you,” you whisper, mouth barely moving, breath caught on the words. “Just go slow. Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lifts you slightly, just enough to grab himself—his cock flushed and heavy, leaking at the tip, and so thick it almost makes you hesitate. You’ve seen it before. Felt it. Tasted it. But nothing ever prepares you for the moment he tries to fit inside you.

Especially not like this—raw and tender and trembling in his lap, with your bodies strung so tight you might snap.

“Okay, baby,” he murmurs, lining himself up. “Gonna take care of you. Just—breathe.”

And you do. You hold your breath as the head presses against your entrance, and you swear you can already feel the resistance—how tight you are, how your body has to make room for him.

He pushes forward, barely a nudge, and you gasp—your whole body tensing as the stretch sears up your spine.

“Just the tip for now” he says “tell me when to move”

You grunt in response, crazed out from the initial stretch and the thought that your hips have nowhere to go but against him. Still you wiggle your ass just a tad, enough for his tip to stir inside you slightly. It’s still too much though.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, coaxing you through it like it’s a dream he doesn’t want to end. His thumb circles your clit now in slow, aching spirals while his cock works you open. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. Feels okay?”

You nod, chest rising sharply. Your hips twitch in his lap as he keeps moving, each motion careful but deliberate—controlled strength, the kind that leaves you aching and open.

“Eijiro,” you whisper, unsure if it’s a plea or a warning. Your body is slick and ready, but your mind can’t fathom how he’ll fit.

He slows his touch, gaze dark and full of heat and worry. “We don’t have to. Not if it hurts, baby.”

But you shake your head and pull him in, peck his lips just once as you pull off of him. “I want you. Just—slow. Please.”

His breath stutters. “Okay, okay. I’ll take care of you. Promise.”

You lift your hips as he lines himself up again—gripping the base of his cock and rubbing the head against your entrance, collecting your slick. And then he nudges forward—barely—and your whole body tightens around him, breath caught in your throat.

“Shit,” he groans, voice strained. “You’re so tight. So fuckin’ wet—god, I can feel how hard you came.”

You whimper, forehead against his, trembling with every slow, shallow push. This time it’s halfway in.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You’re doing so good—so good. You’re just—fuck, you’re so tight around me—”

Your nails dig into his shoulder blades. Your legs tremble and shake on either side of his hips. Inch by slow inch, he works himself in, pausing every time your breath catches, every time you flinch, every time you whimper against the side of his neck.

It’s excruciatingly slow. Hot. Full. A pressure that borders on pain but flirts dangerously with pleasure, makes your thighs quake and your lashes flutter and your cunt flutter around him.

“Almost there,” he says, groaning low in his throat like it physically hurts to hold back. “You’re doing so fucking good for me, baby. Just—little more, yeah? You can take it. I’ve got you.”

Your jaw slackens, and a soft whimper escapes you. The sensation of him inside you feels unreal.

“I know,” he whispers, brushing a kiss against your cheekbone. “You’re doing so good. Let me in, baby, nice and slow…”

It’s overwhelming. The stretch is deep, relentless, and hot—like you’re being split open with care, molded around him inch by inch. You cling tighter to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you rock your hips ever so slightly to help ease the burn. It stings, but it’s a good sting—one that pulses in your lower belly, that tightens your thighs around him.

“I-It’s a lot,” you gasp, biting down on a moan. “You’re so—fuck, Eijiro—”

“I know, I know,” he pants, his own voice shaking as he watches your face. “Almost there. Just a little more. You’re taking me so well. Can i take it out one more time?”

Your breath catches. He’s still not fully inside. You can feel how thick he is, how much more there is to go, and it makes your cunt flutter around him, trying to suck him in even as your body struggles to stretch enough.

He grits his teeth. “Jesus, baby—you’re gripping me so tight.”

His hands tremble slightly as he shifts his hips forward, sliding in another inch—deeper, heavier—and your walls flutter again, clenching around him on instinct.

You sob a breath out, forehead pressed to his as your body adjusts. Your legs are shaking, your lower belly clenching, your cunt absolutely gushing around him. And the way he’s watching you—eyes wide, like you’re some miracle he doesn’t deserve—makes it even worse.

“Wanna kiss you,” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please…”

Eijiro groans, almost brokenly, and finally leans in—his mouth meets yours with a softness that contradicts how hard he’s pulsing inside you. It’s a kiss soaked in longing, open-mouthed and wet, tongues slow and searching. You moan into it, distracted from the ache of the stretch by the heat of his lips, the way he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

Finally, true to his words, he pulls out again, his chest hitching as your slit still kisses his tip and lets your bodies tend to do the work. He slides back in with such whimsical ease, that a lamp forms in his throat. He wants you so bad. Like this, when the sun burns through cement jungles outside the window and white curtains bathe you in beige light.

Tears pool in your eyes from the stretch, from the feeling of being opened, from the way his cock presses deep and full and relentless against your soft, aching walls. Every vein and curve of him kisses your insides with no room for air to get trapped in.

You’re panting. He’s trembling. And for a long, aching second, you don’t move. You just exist like that—joined, stretched, holding each other through it.

Then his hands slide up your back. Gentle. “You okay?” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, lips ghosting the corner of your mouth.

You nod—barely. “It’s big. You’re big. But it feels… good. Just full.”

“Too full?” he asks, lips brushing your jaw, voice low and thick with need and concern.

“No,” you whisper, “just… need a minute.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t thrust. Just holds you, lets you adjust. Kisses your temple. Rubs your back. Stares at you like he’s not inside you almost all the way to the hilt. Like he doesn’t secretly enjoy watching you split yourself open for him.

And when you finally roll your hips—just a little, just enough to feel that stretch anew—he groans like he’s being broken open too.

He captures your lips in a final act of aid and then—He finally bottoms out. 

When your hips meet his again, flush and he’s fully sheathed inside you—it feels like a victory. Like your body wasn’t made for anything else but this. But him. You feel him everywhere. Deep in your gut. In your throat. In your spine.

“Eiji” You pull back from the kiss, eyes dazed, and whisper, “You’re all the way in…”

His voice is a condescending  wreck. “Fuck, I know. Baby, you’re—holy shit—you’re so perfect.”

You don’t move at first. Neither does he. You just breathe into each other, foreheads pressed together, hearts thundering like the two of you have just survived something bigger than yourselves.

“You okay?” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Can i move?”

You nod. Barely. “Yeah. It’s—so much. But I want it.”

That’s all he needs. His hand skims up your spine, grounding you, while his hips roll forward just enough for you to feel the shift of him inside. It’s a single inch, and it makes you gasp—tight, shaky, like the breath has been knocked from your lungs.

He stills immediately.

“Too much again?” he asks, voice low and thick with restraint.

“No,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

So he does it again. Another small roll of his hips, just enough to start a rhythm. The drag of him inside you—slow and steady—is intense, your cunt stretched to the limit around his girth. You can feel every inch, every vein, every twitch of him pulsing inside you.

Your arms wind tighter around his neck, legs locked at his waist, clinging to him like the pressure of his body is the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

“Fuck,” you whisper, forehead pressed against his temple now. “You’re so big, Eijiro… I can feel you everywhere—”

His head drops to your shoulder, and he groans, ragged and low. “God, you’re fucking perfect. Can’t believe I get to be inside you like this again.”

You hate how he says it, like he misses you all the time, like he’s going to change it, just by saying the words, but, fine– you’ll ignore the angsty burn in your chest for now. You literally have bigger things to focus on at this very moment.

It simply has been a while since the two of you did this, or since you had sex in general, but you tell yourself you’ll be fine, once the big stretch is done, you’ll fuck like there’s no tomorrow, here, in his arms, on Bakugo’s couch.

It's true, when he says he doesn’t want to hurt you, he means it—down to his bones. Every movement is reverent, careful. His thrusts are shallow at first, just enough to coax your body into accepting him. He doesn't want to hurt you. All he wants is to feel you open around him, get used to him, melt into him.

He kisses your neck again—softly, repeatedly—like his mouth is trying to tell your skin what the tender half thrusts of his cock can’t say out loud.

“Doing so good,” he murmurs. “So good for me, baby.”

You moan, softer now, a little less desperate—more surrendered. The pain starts to fade, replaced by something else—fullness that doesn't hurt but stretches you open in a way that makes your toes curl. That makes your eyes sting.

And when he finally pulls out just a little more, then pushes back in, deeper this time. Your walls flutter around him, wet and wanting, and your hips twitch down on instinct.

“Fuck, sweetheart—” he hisses through his teeth. “You’re gonna make me lose it if you do that again.”

You bite your lip and whimper, already aching for more, for him to move faster, harder. But he shakes his head, making you groan in disappointment when your request isn’t met with.

“Not yet,” he pants, kissing your shoulder, your jaw. “Let me take care of you. Wanna feel all of you first.”

He slows it back down—grinds into you with slow, heavy rolls of his hips that make your whole body quake, make your arms shake where they’re wrapped around him. Every thrust presses deep, presses true, filling you so thoroughly it aches somewhere high inside your stomach.

The air between you is hot, humid, thick with your mingled breaths, only broken by an occasional, coolingA/C breeze, and the wet sounds of your cunt taking him over and over. Skin slapping on sweaty skin.

Eijiro keeps mumbling something similar to ‘take it’, and even if it’s too slurred, too unclear and spoken against your skin, it makes your lower abdomen irk with lust, want.

You whimper something incoherent—maybe his name, maybe a plea—and his mouth finds yours again, this time more desperate, more hungry. He kisses you like he’s drowning in you, like he needs the taste of your mouth to survive the stretch of your body around his cock. You tighten around him again, and his hips jerk, falter. His breath stutters hard into your mouth.

“Baby,” he groans. “Don’t—don’t clench like that or I’m not gonna last…”

You whisper against his lips, drunk on the feel of him, “Don’t care. Want you to cum. Want to feel it.”

And the growl that rumbles from his chest feral and broken makes your whole body seize.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands gripping your waist now as he begins to thrust with a little more force, more need, more control over you, the drag and push of him still careful, but no longer just for your sake. It’s for his too. Because he’s so fucking close.

You feel so good around him, soft and hot and just perfect. Like every single ridge of your walls was made to accommodate him raw, just like this.

And he’s already unraveling, you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters. Just slightly, just enough to betray how close he is. His hands tremble on your hips, dragging you down to meet each thrust with growing desperation. You kiss him then and there, as he rocks you against him. A tender, too soft and feathery thing, that's no tongue and brashness, but all love and the unspoken fact of how well his lips fit against yours.

“God—fuck, baby, I can’t—” he gasps, burying his face in your neck again, to hide his blush. “You feel too good, I’m not gonna last…”

You roll your hips instinctively, chasing it now, grinding into him with wet, filthy little sounds between your bodies. 

“Then don’t,” you whisper, kissing the shell of his ear, voice all honey. “Wanna feel you cum inside me. Wanna be full of you Eiji…”

He lets out a strangled noise; somewhere between a sob and a moan and suddenly it’s all teeth and tongue, a frantic kiss, his lips crashing into yours as he thrusts deep, deeper, hips stuttering as your walls flutter and suck him in. You break the kiss with a cry, clinging to him like you’re falling.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You clench around him, deliberately this time, pulsing tight and hot, and that’s all it takes. His whole body locks up, muscles taut as a bowstring, a raw, guttural groan ripped from his chest as he spills inside you. His hips jerk with each wave of it, and you feel it—thick, hot, endless—filling you, pulsing deep in your core.

It doesn’t stop there.

You whimper at the sensation, overstimulated already, and your own orgasm hits like a shiver down your spine—sharp, sudden, making your limbs tremble. Your nails dig into his back as your cunt clenches around him again and again, milking every drop. You’re not even sure who’s shaking more. 

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Just breathing. Just trembling. His forehead against yours, sweat-slick skin sticking together, your walls still twitching around the softening heat of him.

He hasn't pulled out yet. He doesn’t move enough to make you horny and aching again.

Eijiro lets his arms cradle you close, by the waist like he’s afraid to speak his mind. And then, softly—brokenly—he takes the chance and whispers it.

“I missed you.”

The words fall against your mouth, barely there, but they land like a stone in your chest and fall into the pit of your stomach like a burning comet.

You don’t answer, you don’t know how. You just kiss him again. Slow. Deep. Tasting the ache on his tongue.

Because you missed him too. Even if you’ll never say it. Even if you two were only meant to house sit for Bakugo and his girlfriend for today.

“You didn’t come!” He says, more lighthearted this time, seeing you won’t respond to his previous statement. “Let me change that, want you to come on my cock”

By the way this takes place a year before the events of get him back!

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/enchanthings

[strawberry-nugget]

◦˚~ MAROON DIVIDERS ~˚◦

Requested by: anonymous Info: these were all made by me. please reblog/like if use!

[strawberry-nugget]

I had read a fic like this AGES ago, I’ll link it if I happen to find it!

soo ik there’s a lot of fics with bakugou as a boxer which is fun to read but I just had a thought… An au with “boxer bakugou” and a pro wrestler kirishima whose his best friend👀 🫣

personally I would literally read anything with kirishima as a pro wrestler cuz something about that seems to fit (and maybe he does other things such as acting like a john cena? idk man i don’t know much about wrestling)

Like imagine he’s super intimidating and his like persona is super mean or smthing in the ring but once he’s off he’s super sweet and kind 🥹💖

If anyone out there can hear my plea… please please please sabrina carpenter style make a fic or short drabble and TAG MEEEE 😭😭

[strawberry-nugget]

i love ur kirishima brainrot 😋😋😋

Stoooooop ion PLAYYYY about Kirishima im so in love with this libra man

[strawberry-nugget]

I have read 1 (One) of your works (CK with Katsuki) and I am In Love With You. I hope your crops are watered, your skin is clear, and your pillow is cool

😭thank you so much. Stay tuned for more works to fall in love even more.

I could use a pillow thats always cool

[strawberry-nugget]

I haven’t replied to anything, sorry! I realised today i have burnt myself out from too much work and I feel sick

(Also im on Kirishima brainrot LMAO)

[strawberry-nugget]

I need it so bad rn Yall dont get it

Kirishima out your hands on me asap challenge

[strawberry-nugget]

Kirishima put your hands on me asap challenge

[strawberry-nugget]

Fortunately, I saw this first thing in the morning when I opened my eyes and I lived the full experience

THIS WAS AMAZING!

Quiet Morning

Timeskip | Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Reader

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Its one of those rare mornings where Bakugou doesn’t have a single obligation—no mission, no patrol, not even a damn phone call. The sun’s barely peeking through the half-open blinds, casting long golden stripes across the bed, and you’re still curled beneath the sheets, half-asleep.

He’s awake. And he’s already moving.

You stir faintly as his weight shifts on the mattress. There’s no rush in the way his fingers trail down your bare thighs—just slow, reverent touches. At some point during the night, your sleep shorts had slipped low on your hips. He helps them off entirely now, careful not to wake you too much. Your panties? Gone. You don’t remember him removing them, but they’re somewhere on the floor.

He settles between your legs like he belongs there. Like this is exactly where he wants to spend his entire morning.

And then… he begins.

It starts with soft kisses along your inner thigh—lazy, warm, and lingering. He inhales like your scent is grounding him. There’s no teasing today. No games. His mouth meets your folds in one slow, wet press.

His tongue moves slowly at first. Tasting. Worshiping. He groans softly into you, mouth sealing over your clit, drawing soft, gentle circles that make your legs twitch in the sheets.

Still, no words. No dirty talk. Not even from you.

Just the quiet sound of your breath catching. The subtle hitch of your inhale. The sleepy moan that slips past your lips like a secret.

One thick finger sinks into you, moving in time with the slow, steady pulse of his tongue. His other hand drags across your waist—warm and grounding—before curling over your breast. His thumb brushes lazily across your nipple as he groans again, low and deep, not from need, but from devotion.

Drool slips down his chin. He doesn’t care.

His eyes flicker open often, even as they fall shut in concentration. Always looking back up at you. Watching the way your face shifts—watching you melt.

You cum with a soft cry, thighs trembling against his ears. But he doesn’t stop. He moans into you like it’s his reward. Keeps sucking—gentle, relentless, fingers curling up inside you perfectly.

You try to push him away, “Katsuki—stop”. Whimpering now, squirming with the heat of oversensitivity. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging weakly.

But Bakugou grabs your thighs and drags you back down onto his mouth. Pinned.

You’re overstimulated, gasping, twitching under him—and he’s eating like it’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner all in one. He never stops watching you. Watching the way you fall apart.

Eventually, finally, he pulls away. His chin slick. His lips flushed. And you? You’re a mess of shallow breath and shaking limbs. But he’s not done.

He kisses his way back up your body. Soft, reverent presses to your thigh, your stomach, your chest. Until his lips meet yours—slow, tasting you through your own kiss. He presses the thick head of his cock against your soaked entrance, dragging it through your folds, teasing—but not teasing you. Teasing himself. Because his self-control is just that strong.

He slides in slow. Inch by inch. The stretch of him making your mouth fall open, though no sound comes out. It’s deep—so deep—but he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t slam into you. He just rocks forward until his hips are flush against yours. He holds you.

Forehead to forehead, arms wrapped around your body. He starts to move. Long, slow thrusts that drag along every sensitive spot inside you. He keeps one arm beneath you, the other hand coming up to cup your cheek, your jaw, the side of your neck.

No words. Just breath. Just the way his body says everything for him.

You’re still sensitive from his mouth, your body twitching every time he hits too deep, too slow. But you can’t stop moaning—soft, helpless little exhales of pleasure—and he just groans against your throat when he hears them.

He keeps watching you. Glancing down where you’re joined. Then back to your face. Eyes half-lidded, his own pleasure tucked away in the background while yours takes center stage.

You cum again—quiet and shaky—arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. Your body trembles beneath him, muscles spasming around his cock.

He doesn’t stop— he keeps fucking you through it. Slow. Deep. Even as your hips twitch away from him, your thighs quivering, your body pleading for rest.

He fucks you like a man who could spend forever right here—inside you, against you, giving you everything and asking for nothing.

And only when you’re completely gone—boneless, dazed, blinking up at him with glassy eyes—does he finally let himself chase his own release. He groans into your skin, grabs your thigh to lift it just slightly, and thrusts once, twice more— And cums deep.

You feel the warmth bloom inside you. Feel the way his hips stutter and press close, staying buried. His forehead rests against yours again. His chest heaves.

He stays inside you, soft kisses brushing your cheek, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth. The sunlight still spills in. The room smells like sex and skin and something soft. You’re sore. Satisfied. Loved.

Bakugou finally shifts enough to look at you, hair messy, eyes half-shut. “…Mornin’,” he mutters, voice low and rough from disuse. The only word he’s said all morning.

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[strawberry-nugget]

Summary: You ask Katsuki to make you eggs

Tags // Warnings: Fluff, comfort, a little bit of insecure Katsuki. All characters are 20+

Paring: Bakugo Katsuki x reader

“Katsuki, please please please can you please fry some eggs for me? Pleeeease?”

Katsuki blinks his eyes into yours like he’s got a tick. Nose scrunched, brows furrowed and lips pressed and pulled in a frown so deep— his stink face is immaculate, always has been. However the confusion lies as to why it’s directed to you.

Your expression is quite on the contrast of his. Pursed out pouty lips, nostrils flared and dragged downwards by your pout, eyebrows looking like they’ve taken a turn downwards and eyes so big and gleamy, like you’re seeing stars.

Katsuki shakes his head and one hand covers his eyes, the pads of his fingers rubbing at his temples a little too hard.

When he came home from his shift fifteen minutes ago, you were simply sprawled on the couch, watching one of your shows. He had just managed to get out of the shower with the towel still on his head when he found you in the kitchen; one hand holding two eggs, the other holding a pan and the annoying repeating sound of the voice of a TikTok cook in the background talking about how easy it is to fry eggs.

Katsuki knows you’re scared shitless of frying your own eggs. He also knows you’d never ask him to cook anything for you—you’d only let him cook for you if he absolutely wanted to or had enough energy for it. So if you’re asking it means you’re craving and Katsuki would never say no to whether you begged for it or not.

In guttural essence, his expression isn’t a reaction to the fact that you’re asking for something. It’s a reaction of the fact that you've said please so many fucking times.

And yes, even though he loves hearing you beg like this it’s only ever in the context of the baby making process—not this one.

Wait, has he done something wrong to upset you? Nooo, it can’t be, right? No actually, never mind scratch that, he's gonna push that thought aside and make you your eggs, because your face right now is too cute to be real.

“Whatchu have to beg for like that, babe? ‘Course I’ll cook eggs for you”

Your cheeks are immediately trapped between his thumb and pointer and your pout furthers forward him. Katsuki gives you an awkward, pressed-lip smile as he squeezes your face twice.

Aw you look so cute, why is he in his head so much!?

“Oh thank you Katsuki” you jump in joy, inching in closer so you can kiss his cheek with the eggs and the pan still in your arms. Katsuki has to hide the fact that his cheeks and ears are burning at this simple, little peck “you always make them perfect and im scared to do it myself”

Normally, he’d whine, tell you they’re just eggs that they can’t hurt you and you shouldn’t be afraid of them. But today he just takes the eggs and the pan from your hands and sets them on the stove. Today he kisses your cheek back. All sloppy, just how he likes it.

But as he settles for pouring some oil onto the pan and turning the stove on, he remains somewhat bothered, when he knows he shouldn’t be.

He just… doesn’t like the fact that you thought you had to beg for him to make your eggs. You never ask him to do things for you! Like the time you fixed the kitchen sink pipes by yourself, or the time you bought a whole ass new bed and had it set and made by the time he came home from patrol. Or the time you installed all the at home gym equipment by yourself, or—or. How he comes home to his favourite food always being made and served at the table!

He secretly gets so jealous every time he listens to Kirishima mumble about how he does these things for his girlfriend despite also working full time as a hero!

It’s unfair, you don’t have to beg him to cook you eggs, he would get down on his hands and knees and swipe the floor clean if you told him to.

Yet, you hop on the counter —keeping a safe distance from the pan— and sway your legs back and forth for a few seconds, your face incredibly love sick as you watch Katsuki rampage through the fridge to pull out an avocado, some cherry tomatoes and some orange juice.

Though, to you Katsuki looks rather… quiet. 

The little towel bundle he has on his hair hasn’t moved an inch further than the ones you make would do; your heart tugs at the way the edges rest behind his ears, making them protrude and fold outwards—so so cute. But normally he would have tossed the towel by now, he would be whining about how his ears hurt. And he definitely isn’t. He’s way too focused on watching the oil heating up in the pan.

You hop off the counter, ignoring the suspicious little look Katsuki throws over his shoulder as you creep toward him. He’s hunched ever so slightly over the stove, brow furrowed like he’s concentrating way too hard on something as simple as frying an egg.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades and giving him a slow, sleepy squeeze and just a teeny tiny kiss on his spine.

“I know you’re so tired from working baby, im so sorry” you whisper “but I’m really craving eggs, I’d make them on my own if I wasn’t scared of the whooshing sounds and the hot oil splatters”

“Hm” he grunts and you don’t see it, but he’s pouting as well.

Because why the hell are you apologising right now? 

“Katsu,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his shirt. “Why’re you being weird?”

He tenses a little in your hold, like he’s been caught. “M’not bein’ weird,” he mutters.

“You’re definitely being weird,” you hum, squeezing tighter and rocking left and right on your heels, swaying him with you.

He exhales hard through his nose, setting the spatula down with a little clatter and resting his hands lightly over yours where they’re wrapped around his middle.

He turns in your arms then, finally facing you fully. You barely have time to look up before his hand is cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His face is closer now, expression a little bashful but full of warmth.

“I like takin’ care of you,” he says quietly, eyes so kind and yearning. “More than anything. Hear me?”

You lean into the touch, smiling so sweetly it nearly makes him combust.

“I know you don’t want a man to do shit for you, but you take care of me a lot. I wanna take care of you too”

He sighs, then covers your hand where it rests over his back with his own. His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.

“You shouldn’t have to beg for shit like this,” he mumbles. “Just—made me think. That’s all.”

You lift your head a little. “Think about what?”

“You don’t ask for anything. Ever. You do a million things on your own and never expect help. Then you give me the biggest puppy eyes just to make eggs.” His voice dips, like he’s embarrassed by even saying this out loud. “Makes me feel like I’m not doing enough for you.”

You’re quiet for a beat, just holding him tighter.

“Katsuki,” you whisper. “You do so much for me. Every single day. Just ‘cause I don’t ask doesn’t mean I don’t see it.”

He shifts again, a little awkward. Like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how. His brows furrow and he pouts, ever so slightly. But you can read him! He isn’t slick at all right now!

“Katsuki- what, oh my god!” You laugh and laugh right into his face, cracking the seriousness of the moment, in an attempt to cheer him up. It’s inevitable for him to not get in his head and frown over something ever so small and silly. You love him for that, honestly. You understand exactly where this stems from and maybe, you were a little bit dramatic when you asked for the eggs. You understand how it contradicts with how mushy you are right now.

“I was just being cute! I just want boyfie-made eggs babe, no need to be insecure because of this”

“I know you were bein’ cute,” he grumbles, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. “That’s the problem.”

You blink, confused.

“Since when is me being cute a problem?” you ask, looking up at him, lips all pouty again.

He groans like you’ve personally tried to end his life. You know he's gonna circle the same issue just for a little more and you’ll let him. He deserves to feel reassured as well. Heavens know he always reassures you.

“It’s not—fuck, it’s not a problem, alright?” he says, tilting his head to glance at you from the side. His expression softens the second he meets your eyes. “It’s just… you asked so sweet, like you really didn’t think I’d do it unless you begged or somethin’. And that’s what’s weird.”

You go quiet, hugging him tighter, your hands bunching slightly in the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, cheek pressed to his chest again. “I know you’d do anything for me. That’s why I asked. Not ‘cause I thought you wouldn’t. I just… I wanted to be a little spoiled today. By you. And I like whining”

He stiffens again for just a moment—then melts.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in close as he leans back into you just a little. His voice is low, rough at the edges, but gentle.

“You don’t gotta do that whole act, baby. You could walk up to me and say, ‘Hey, bitch boy, make me eggs,’ and I’d still do it.”

You giggle into his chest, and he lets out a soft breath that’s dangerously close to a laugh.

“I wouldn’t call you bitch boy. But I do like acting all dramatic,” you grin, lifting your head to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “And I like when you take care of me.”

“I like takin care of my girl,” he says quietly. “I don’t like you lifting a finger to do anything”

You lean into the toucht and his heart catches dangerously in his chest.

“Then shut up and make me my eggs, bitch-boy” you laugh and move your hand inside his vicious grip to slap his ass playfully.

Ughhhhh he just loves you so much.

That gets a real laugh out of him, bright and short and perfect. He kisses your forehead, then your nose for good measure. Then both of your cheeks.

Then, Katsuki turns back to the stove, cracks the egg over the pan—and the sizzle that follows is absolutely vicious. You flinch immediately.

“Jesus!” you squeak, clinging to his back like the egg just pulled a knife on you. “Why does it sound like that?! That’s not normal!”

“It’s a hot pan, dumbass.” Katsuki snorts, taps your thigh just enough to signal you to jump, climb his back like he's gonna give you a piggyback ride. You do without hesitation.

“It sounds like it wants to fight me.”

“It is fightin’ you. It knows you were too scared to fry it yourself.”

“I was right to be scared!”

He shakes his head, shoulders shaking with laughter as he calmly adjusts the heat. You peek over his shoulder with wide eyes, cautiously watching the egg cook like it might jump out of the pan and chase you.

But you don’t let go of him—not even when he shuffles slightly to flip it. You just stay latched onto his back like a little backpack, whispering commentary about the egg’s anger issues.

“That egg’s got beef with me,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “I felt it in the vibes.”

Katsuki lets out a wheezy little laugh and reaches back to squeeze your thigh where it’s curled around his hip. “Yeah? Then it better square the fuck up, ’cause I’m not lettin’ it lay a hand on you.”

You gasp dramatically. “My hero!”

“Damn right.”

The sizzling starts to die down as the egg firms in the pan, and your grip around his neck loosens just a bit, your head growing heavier where it rests on the slope of his shoulder. Your arms are still draped around him, but now they’re more relaxed, less clingy—just naturally wrapped around the person you love the most.

A moment later, you let yourself slip down from his back and he groans at the action like youve slipped away far from his grasp.

Katsuki carefully slides the eggs onto a plate, then adds the little tomatoes he sliced and the avocado he fanned out like it’s a competition. The orange juice is already poured. He even put a sprinkle of chili flakes on top, just the way you like.

You blink sleepily as he turns to you, one brow raised, holding the plate like he just wants to kiss you stupid. And you let him, mushing his head with yours, smooching your lips onto his with soundly mwah-mwah-mwahhhhs!

You laugh, grabbing the towel still perched on his head and yanking it with both hands. It flops forward and hits him right in the face.

“Hey—!” he tries to protest, muffled under the fabric.

You wiggle it like you’re wringing out a dishcloth. “Why is this still on your head, huh? You tryna give yourself cauliflower ears again?”

Katsuki finally yanks it off and throws it on the counter, grumbling like an old man. “It was warm, okay?”

You gasp. “You were being cozy! You softie!”

“Shuddup!” He whines, that cracked out yearning thing that you adore “sit down and eat your eggs!”

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

[strawberry-nugget]

Hey I wanted to thank Yall for the love and shoe you some Katsuki and Kiko art i made years ago

To fill the empty spaces | 1

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x reader

Summary: Katsuki has been a single father for five years. After his wife died shorty after giving birth to their son, he's not sure he's ever going to find happiness in mundane things anymore. Cue you, the new, young teacher at his son's kindergarden, who seems to be taking the best care of his little guy.

-Or alternatively, karma is a quirkless bitch that will be biting Katsuki in the ass for his entire life, whether it's in him having a quirkless son, or falling for you, a younger woman, his son's teacher, who lost her quirk as a child before the Overhaul arc.

Tags: MDNI, Dilf!Bakugo, single dad!Bakugo, teacher!reader, slowburn, mutual pining, slice of life, fluff, eventual smut, ten year old age gap, Kirishima is a sunshine.

A/N: be kind to me i wrote this five years ago and never had the guts to post it until now :> this will be a 3 part story so let me know if you want to be tagged in the following parts

There's a strange deception about bliss and felicity in life and it is much like the analogy of the sun shining brighter after a storm, or the beautiful shades of the rainbow that cast over the sky. Happiness is supposed to be earned somehow, through hardships, or at least that's what everyone has always preached about. 

How time has supposedly promised to bring you what you want, how the universe makes sure to give you what you're in need of when you need it most. You're expected to survive through the worst storm, pouring rain and eardrum grazing blowing wind and you're told it'll be worth it. So when you see trees get blown onto the ground or when you see crushing waves that are a hundred times bigger than the ones you've seen on normal days crash onto the shore and wipe everything in their wake you shouldn't react. 

The sun shining, the warmth of the light grazing kindly over the mountain tops far across your vision should be worth it. 

Until, it's not. 

Bakugo, at least, doesn't think it's worth it and he doesn't think that you have to walk a mile before you get to rest. Mostly because he doesn't get to rest, and because walking a mile, for him, is the easiest thing in the universe. He's had too much hardship to know there's no payoff other than slamming his body into his couch after a long shift and feeling his chest tighten at the thought that he's managed to save a life. 

For him, happiness is something you shouldn't chase or take for granted. 'There's such little time for us in the world' he keeps telling himself and every time he looks at the set of pictures on the tv shelf he knows his words are correct. When once he thought his happiness had found him, he'd put a ring on her and called it a day, had a fancy wedding, threw the biggest party when he topped the hero charts, cried when his son was born; he douched in bliss without knowing it was momentary and he paid the price of stomping over the steep top of the world by falling so hard that his bones could never fully heal. 

It's been five years since his wife died, since he's had to take care of his son on his own and he's managed it perfectly so far. Showing up on every play in kindergarten, waking up at five am to make him the cutest bento in his class, clothes crisp and smelling of expensive soap, always present on parent counseling days, always present on days kids were supposed to bring their parents in to talk about their jobs, always one call away from rushing to anything he ever wants. 

The phone always rings, without fail, every single day when Kiko's teacher leaves for retirement and a new one gets hired. 

You're young, probably just landed your first job with your preschool degree and you feel like a fish out of water running a class on your own. Bakugo knows because he's seen it too many times, with the kids of his friends, has seen it happen to new sidekicks, assistants and despite not having the patience to deal with a rookie teacher who panics about everything, he appreciates the concern about his son. 

So every single day, without fail, he picks up the phone (no matter if he's on patrols or doing paperwork) and begrudgingly answers your stuttered questions, “yes Kiko might not want more food but he's too shy to say it”, or “Kiko isn't allergic to the ointment your emergency box has to offer, but I packed the one his dermatologist gave him because it works best for his eczema”, or even “Yes I'm willing to talk about what Kiko keeps drawing this week.”

It's always a topic concerning overall health and attitude issues that a teacher who was called in two months before graduation and hasn't worked with the class for longer can't have knowledge on. And still, with raspy apologies, Bakugo promises to send you a few notes about your queries, because the other parents have already done so, and he's ashamed to be the last in line. 

Your voice gets more stern over time, your calls become shorter, so short that all you ever need to ask is who's picking up Kiko today—even though the answer never changes; Kirishima both drops him off and picks him up- and then you hang up. 

Today's call, though, catches him off guard, it makes his feet freeze on the ground, his teeth clash as his jaw tightens. You've dropped a bomb from the other side of the phone 

"His friend Daichi manifested today and we thought he wouldn't," You say, voice sounding far, crazed, digital. "I think it's high time we discuss that Kiko might be… quirkless." You breathe out after a long pause and for the first time today, you sound apologetic -as you should—like you're begging to say sorry about the situation, like it's your fault his son hasn't manifested a quirk. 

With his hand cupping his face, fingernails scratching at the seams of his jaw where just a slight scruff pokes out of his skin, Katsuki  sighs. He glances to his right, catching Kirishima's sharp smile.. His face snaps into a serious one when Bakugo says, "I'll be there at three." 

Thick fingers trample the screen of his phone pushing the end button a thousand times before he's assured he's hung up, shoving it into his pocket with a hitched groan.He looks over at Kirishima with hurt painted all over his face, feeling the mellow jabbing blooming inside his chest and in return he collects a serious gaze, one more apologetic wave burst that hits him in the stomach. Like a villain on a winter morning. 

The thing is, Kirishima is a friend close enough to know when something is wrong and this is a moment where Bakugo knows he won't keep his mouth shut. 

And so, the question isn't late, not even a second, it shoots out of his friend's mouth and it corners Bakugo into the nearest wall, his head spins, his eyebrows furrowed. 

"Kiko's teacher huh?" Kirishima questions and Bakugo nods and then he makes his note "you look bummed man. Is it that serious or did she ask if Kiko has any allergies again"

It's not like Bakugo doesn't need a little pushover to spill what's in his head, but still, he rasps what's left of a winter cold in his throat, clears his voice before he mutters "She said" his head is in his hands "that he might be quirkless"

Kirishima mouths an oh, silent, his jaw tensing like the blond's had a while ago, but his face doesn't contort in sadness like Bakugo's does, instead, his ears perk, his brows travel up against his forehead. 

"Don't worry bro, that doesn't make Kiko any less better than the rest of the kids."

That was quick and truly, Bakugo doesn't know where Kirishima finds all of this positivity. However, he supposes it's written over him like ink on a page, he's meant to see the good in any situation and put it on his plate, split his meal in half and call his glass full even when it's almost empty. Despite being in his early thirties and not being a schoolboy anymore there's always a goofy smile plastered all over his face and Bakugo thinks that maybe, maybe it helps him soothe that emerging ache inside his chest. 

Or maybe Kirishima should write a book about how to always see the good out of everything and retire from his career as a pro hero to be a life coach. Because Kiko might be the son of Dynamight, but Bakugo's head is suddenly filled with images he's shoved to the back of his brain. 

Kiko is the son of the number two hero, without a quirk in class full of gifted kids, he's expected of so much and there's so little he can give back because he's a child, a shy little child that Katsuki had to bring up on his own. And as Kirishima rambles about important people that are quirkless Bakugo keeps thinking about the times his son falls asleep in his arms and how guilty he feels for being a mean kid to Izuku for being quirkless, how he couldn't handle it well if anyone treated his child like that. 

"His teacher is quirkless too" Kirishima says, patting Bakugo's back softly but that raises an eyebrow of the blond's. How exactly does he know that? 

Not that it's his place to ask, or rather shoot this -gossipy- question at Kirishima, but there's a curious part of him when it comes to you. Apart from the fact that you sound like you're about to shit your pants every time you're on the phone with him, he's managed to land his eyes on one precious kindergarten picture of Kiko's class with you in the middle. And he can't really see much, not with a naked eye and not with his glasses, you simply have a smile on your face that matches the kids' but still you look proper enough to have landed the job at that prestigious preschool. 

So when Kirishima adds a small "she's very cute and very smart" Bakugo gets a bit irked at him. He says it like he's the lead in a drama talking about the qualities of her crush even though she's being treated like shit most of the time. 

There's a bursting feeling inside him that makes him shoot a question directly into Kirishima's face. "Are you flirting with my son's teacher?" 

"Nope" Kirishima puckers his lips and looks away

Bakugo couldn't really care less about Kirishima's love life, he grunts, but there's this fear that overwhelms him when he thinks about his itty bitty baby son dragging Kirishima into the car while he's flirting away with anyone that stands in his way. There's this throat tightening feeling when he imagines his baby's belly grunting in hunger, a panic when he thinks his shirt is sweaty enough for him to catch a cold, or even worse he waits until he gets home to tell Kirishima that he fell and scraped his knees at school today and Kirishima probably has his thoughts taken over by his flirting when he's promised to take care of Kiko. 

Sick sick sick. The thought makes him completely sick. Sick enough to consider working even less to be able to be the one to get Kiko from school every day. Fuck the hero ranks, fuck wanting to be the best. 

"... for you"

Kirishima's voice is nothing compared to the worries inside his head, but as a shiny drop of sweat falls over Bakugo's forehead he's forced to ask for a repeating of his words. 

"Come again?"

"Just saying man, just saying, she's uh, you'll like her" 

Whatever Kirishima suggests, Bakugo knows it's a nuisance, but he promises himself he'll talk to you about his concerns on the matter. You sound like a good teacher, like you worry about Kiko a lot and Bakugo thinks that he can trust you on not allowing his kid to be treated like he treated Izuku. 

Kirishima hunches Kiko over his shoulders the moment he walks out of the kindergarten doors. 

You can't suppress a giggle when you see the interaction, bent on waving them off with a little back and forth shake of your hand and a smile; in the two months you've been working here, Red Riot shows up almost daily to pick up Kiko, because -as you learn- Dynamight works longer shifts a few weeks before his son's birthday so he can take a few days off. 

And when March is about to roll around the corner and you're still unsure of the fact if that's possible, your coworkers that have been here before you keep reminding of you on the daily, that it's only a few days down the line that Kiko's father will be picking him up at twelve every day and then they run off to the break room to talk about how they can't wait to feast their eyes on Dynamight -because he looks so damn good in person. As always you excuse yourself, the subject of Dynamight's attractiveness being something that isn't really your concern to talk about. 

Mostly, you have your views on how he's come to treat the daily heroic deeds like an office job, and although you suppose that as a single parent he doesn't have much choice you often compare the bits and pieces of today's Dynamight to the one from tens of years ago, when you watched him on TV debuting as a pro, fresh out of college. You frankly remember tricking your mother so you could zap between channels to simply watch him go, watch him beat villain after villain. 

You're sure there's a routine in being a hero for over a decade, what you do and what you don't, how when you're faced with choices to set priorities you take your own paths in life. And that's probably how Dynamight gets to have a week to himself for him and Kiko -you wonder, if Kiko is happy at home with his dad, if that week helps him feel like his father is an ordinary human being, not someone that gives a piece of him to everyone- if there are evenings of quietness where the hero's phone doesn't ring with an emergency. 

And would he do it for anyone else? 

You've always been fascinated by heroes like him, the sheer amount of courage it takes to be your own person and have a life, live your own heaven or hell and then go about your days trying to make sure the world is safe. 

You wonder if Dynamight's yearly one week absence makes any difference to the hero world, but as you look at Kiko writhing over Kirishima's shoulder you're convinced that it doesn't.

There's probably a faded Dynamight poster hung onto the wall of your childhood room that your mother's clinging onto, and there's probably a five year old child in you with bright gleamy eyes like Kiko's watching the UA sports festival, amazed by the blond. 

Perhaps there's this fangirl of a child inside you when you call him that's screaming at you for having the guts to put on your big girl voice and talk to him. And sometimes you distinctly remember crying your eyes out the day he got married, so much that your middle school friends kept rubbing that on your face even until graduation. 

Still your curious eyes travel back onto Kiko. He's twisting himself over Kirishima's shoulders and a part of your heart drops at how dangerous this looks from afar. But it's impossible for this mountain of a man to drop someone as small as Kiko. And the contagious giggle of the child is finally getting to you- Kiko doesn't usually laugh that much in class, nor does he ever seem as active as he is when Kirishima picks him up. 

It makes you wonder, just how his interactions with his father are. 

Kiko is a ball of energy at home, sometimes, Dynamight tells you. 

Or rather, grunts at you. 

He gets to the kindergarten on 3.17pm with a fresh split on his cheek and pouty lips. And he mutters that he is more than sorry for being late, although there's nothing to be sorry for, you tell him, because he is a hero and that's a job he can't clock out the second he wants. 

"I'm working on it" He says and red eyes gleam dangerously into yours. You can't shake the feeling that he's angry. At you? At himself? At the villain that delayed him? 

"It's really no big deal" You mutter, breath choked inside your chest and you gesture to him to have a seat across from you in the break room. 

Your chest aches in a fast heartbeat; this is the same Dynamight that used to look back at you through a piece of shiny magazine paper in your teenage room- his eyes are deeper than carmine, with vermillion specs and copper rings adorning his irises. That's definitely something the poster in your room would never show you; the missing high quality of such fierce eyes, it's almost hard to speak when you look into them. 

When you inspect his face from this close, your mind runs back to your coworkers, how they always talk about him and how beautiful he is- for a second you don't blame them, you'd love to gawk over him too, forgetting your words stare into those slant red eyes and get lost into them- but this is your big girl job. Your first serious job, and the faint expression line between Dynamight's brows signifies that your excitement has to be cut short. 

He's not here to cater to you healing your inner teenager by looking at a person you were a fan of. 

So you cough in your bent elbow to relieve the tension in your neck, your chest, and you arrange the notes in your hand by shaking them onto the table next to you. 

"Would you like anything to drink? Water? Tea?" You offer and the hero shakes his head. 

"No, I'm good"

You wonder if his wound hurts, or if he's nervous of what you're about to discuss with him- perhaps calling him to simply announce that his child is probably quirkless was a little bold of you, but calling parents to counsel or inquire them about their kids is essential in this school, or so your boss had blabbered endlessly about. 

"These are a few notes about Kiko" You mutter quietly and hand him the pack of notes. It's not a pile, nor is it only two pages long. He glances at them with a sigh, tired eyes going over the paper before his fingers, thick and shaky with determination, reach out to take them from your hands, slightly brushing over yours. 

And your heart is on fire. Great. Exactly what you need to fix your gaze in how small the paper looks into his hands. We're his hands always this big? Were they this big in your poster? Even if they were, you can't think of it right now, you clear your throat again and eye the notes -not his hands, the notes- and say "you'll have to go over them at home if that's not a bother, it's mostly in class progress and some behavioral issues I've noticed-"

"Behavioral issues? What behavioral issues" 

It's his time to paint on panic all over his face, head twitching to your direction instinctively when the word drops from your mouth. You haven't had enough experience with panicked parents, especially being around panicked parents when you're panicked yourself, but there's a skip in your heart beat that urges you to prioritize your work over your thousand aeon old crush on Dynamight. He's nothing but a parent who's looking at you with a query like all others. 

"Is there anything wrong with my son?"

You shake your head, lips crushed together, jaw tight "no no," You kindly muster up your voice "He's a quiet one, I think we should work on him being a bit more social"

"He's plenty social with my friends"

"I've noticed" You nod once, thinking about how Kiko behaves towards Kirishima versus how he behaves towards his classmates "but it's important to be able to be a bit compatible with people his age"

Dynamight nods as well, eyebrows quirked and knitted at the same time, his eyes going over the pages of notes he's flipping through. "I understand" He gulps and you read through that look almost instantly

"He's not a problem child, if anything. He's very smart, very witty. Just very shy, very quiet"

There's a stillness of air, a lack of time and space as he drags his eyes across your face once again, papers clutched in his hands, his lips pursed together so tightly there are dents all over his jaw. Unlike him, he notices there aren't scars across your face, skin delicate, looking soft, plump, young. There's a tiredness in your face that can't match his, the level of what's weighing him down is more than you could ever graze in your life and you look young.

Kirishima, stupid shitty hair that he is, infiltrates his mind just now, the inside of his lips tucking under his teeth; you do look cute. He was right. Your clothes look comfortable, baggy but appropriate for work, with colors that would look nice and calming to the kids you're in care of and he suddenly gets why Kiko is so fond of you. 

You have your way of saying things. Carefully, tenderly. Like you could break him even by saying that Kiko doesn't know how to count to five. You fear you're going to break him by telling him things he already knows with a timid, shy smile across your face, a very polite voice, bowing again and again. There are no expression lines on your face, not one on your forehead, not nearly enough near your lips. 

"As for his quirk. I'd say it's very unlikely that he manifests one but you should give him some more time" You watch as he nods, eyes wide as you open your mouth again, "did his mother have a quirk?"

Bakugo almost hisses, the question caught him off guard, sent his eyes to the corners of his kids and forced a huff out of his mouth. The sorry you utter isn't necessary, he knows and tells you so, but the words he wants to speak gather inside his mouth, hide under his tongue. 

"I avoid talking about my late wife" He says and you bite your lip. You should have known. Dynamight's wife died in your late teens, but there wasn't much known to the public about her -maybe the fact that she was in UA with him, or maybe that she quit trying to be a pro at an early age- but her funeral was broadcasted by channels and you remember hungry media, restless reporters violating his personal space for a shot of him and his son. You remember the chaos, the mourning. 

Your face drops. 

Maybe life didn't go on for him as it did for you. Life wrinkled his eyes and dented his face . You think there's probably been a time he's had a very small baby in his arms, in his mid to late twenties, unsure of what to do, with not as plenty scars in his face -maybe just the one across his nose and the one over his lip- you can't help but stare and assume, perhaps a little rude at that. 

But for the record, you never would have thought you would be teaching in the preschool his son attends. 

"She was a psychic" Dynamight grunts through his teeth 

"Incomparable quirks sometimes cancel eachother" You yelp, quietly, then speed up your words as you add "I'm quirkless too, if that's any comfort, I got shot with a quirk nullifier when I was a kid on my way back home from school"

Whatever Dynamight thinks, he doesn't respond. He looks at you with big, red eyes, face contorted in an apologetic mask, one you've seen on TV after he catches himself swearing on live interviews. You wonder if you're comforting. Any. But you hope there's a part of him that feels like his son can be included somewhere, somehow. 

"M sorry" He finally mouths but it doesn't sound forced. It's more constipated when he adds "That must have been before the raid to arrest Overhaul" 

"Oh we were taught about him in hero ethics class"

Bakugo curls his brow, curiously. The leap in the generation between his and yours continues to grow, and he's aware now, more than ever. There was never a hero ethics class when he was at school. "Hero ethics?"

"Yeah, and basic quirk anatomy, they're like major subjects you have to take throughout all of your university years"

"I wouldn't know," He sighs, "but I'd like your advice on how to approach Kiko on the quirk thing. How do I say something that doesn't scar him, or hurt him?"

Your breathing gets caught in your throat before you ever come up with a reply. Words are forming in your brain, years of academic knowledge flowing in your neurons as you're trying to figure out the exact answer to this question, the words of endless professors turning your brain into mush. If you could think of a way to feel, you'd feel sorry for using Dynamight as a parent with whom you're challenging your skills. 

And in between year four basic quirk anatomy and child psychology for preschool teachers as an extra class you had to attend, you pick out a selection of exquisite words, woven by the wrinkles in your brain, washed over the anxiety in your gut. When you open your mouth, tongue dry and ready to clash with your palette, lips ready to make the first smack, voice almost at the brick of catching space in air, Dynamight's phone rings. 

"Oh fuck" He panicks, mouthing a quick apology, bowing his head, squinting his eyes "this is an emergency, I have to take it" He says and you nod. His fingers -you notice they're thick, too thick, the back of his hands rough and chapped so much it makes you gulp- quickly reach to push the button to accept the call and he curses when the touch of his screen seems to act up.

He curses again when it stops ringing, but his hands are quick to make searching motions, waving back and forth in the open space. He's searching for a piece of paper and a pen, anything, and you-smart as ever- give him the lilac paint marker in your hands and, of course your hand. When he clicks his tongue you cringe. You feel stupid, embarrassing, like earth could swallow you whole right now and you wouldn't have a damn thing to protest about. 

Still, he scribbles something on the back of your hand and the ticklish sensation of the nib across your skin kicks in instantly. When you read it you gasp, barely, and you hope he doesn't hear over the sound of his phone timing again. 

"This shit won't cooperate, help me" With pleading eyes he turns the phone to you, tapping his foot erratically and you pick up the signal; you swipe up the button and he presses it to his ear immediately. You don't realize now, but the way your hands linger onto his for the second time today has made your skin crawl, itch, and it will do so for the rest of the week. 

The back of your hand reads, in bright lilac, 'Beetles children playground, Saturday 5pm'

When you enter the indoor playground the smell of plastic surpasses almost any other. 

There's something nostalgic about it; how these walls accommodate child after child, how the maintenance of enormous swirly slides is executed by precautions for kids to not scratch their knees, to fall on soft plastic covered mattresses when they jump out of the gigantic machine operating head of a tiger that acts as a slide. 

Part of you misses that -the days where you've tried to convince your parents to take you to a place like this to play- but whatever's left of that part of you is smiling, awkwardly, lips pressed together as you spot Dynamight in the labeled 'parents resting place' cafeteria. Part of you misses not caring about how you look, your mannerisms, but still you hug your coat closer to your chest when Dynamight finally notices you, nodding his head. You bow from afar, eyes closed, lips pursed -only then you notice Red Riot sitting across from him on the small wooden table. 

The sight of him -despite being a tad intimidating due to his enormous size- eases your nerves. He looks over at you, waving his hand, his grin plastered across his face. You're used to seeing him like this, nice, welcoming, talkative and enthusiastic, so your steps to their table aren't counted. You're assured -somehow in your head because Dynamight snorts too, leisurely- that there's not even a single thing to be worried about. 

You study your clothes for any wrinkles a few feet away from the table, ready to curse yourself if there's anything sort of like a wrinkle in your long work skirt, but its loose wooly material has proven to be a savor once again. 

Tentatively you smile at the two men when you reach their table, bowing your head and opening your mouth to greet them when Red Riot steals the words out for your mouth. 

"Hey teach" He greets, hand still waving at you when you look at him, muttering a small "hello" in response. 

Bakugo clears his throat when he notices the way you and Kirishima look at each other, it's not any of his business if you want to stare at each other to the end of the world anyway, but it doesn't have to happen at the parents lounge in a playground. So he's rolling his eyes to the back of his head, gripping his coffee mug tight -too right for it to be normal- in his hand and speaks up "Thank you for meeting me here"

It's so blunt that Kirishima bursts out in laughter while your eyes shoot open, confusion written on your face. Dynamight grows red, piping hot as anger plumishes his face with every choke of laughter Red Riot takes. 

"Dude, don't make it sound like that" Kirishima laughs again, eyeing the chair in front of you "I think you scared her, look at her, come on teach, sit down"

"What the fuck. I didn't. Shut your face shitty hair"

"Please excuse him, his vocabulary is so colorful for a children's playground" Kirishima smiles at you when you look at them with a shook expression on your face. 

Dynamight's foul language isn't a secret, in fact most of your co workers were and still are intimidated to be in a position to ever reply to any of these tantrums, and if you're honest, you are too. You strive to be professional, to look bigger than you are, more significant. And Kirishima is allowing you to believe that somewhere behind Bakugo's- Dynamight's foul language there's some respect to you, to the roof of the place you're under. 

"It's okay" You shake your head and finally make a move towards your chair 

You don't really look at Dynamight a lot, but you definitely notice the multicolored plaster that sits across his nose, decorated with dinosaurs of all colors. There's one on the cut on his cheek as well. It's cute, kind of, the way they contrast his eyes and his hair. You dont think youve ever seen him dressed so casually, or in any context that would allow him to rock such bandaids on his face, so it's even more peculiar to see him pull out Kikos green water bottle from his backpack the second he sees him approaching.

“Having fun?” he asks his son and the little blond nods with a huff, out of breath “you're all sweaty, we should change your shirt”

The kid objects and looks at Kirishima for what you guess would be support but he does not utter a word before he downs half of his water bottle. “Daaaad”

“Nope, don't look at Kirishima, he's not going to get you out of this. And say hi to your teacher” 

Bakugo moves his head to the side and Kiko peeks with a tilted head at you, smiles and bows slightly before saying “hello miss, thank you for coming to my party” and you smile back at him and bow as well, while muttering a small happy birthday. 

There aren't any kids from the kindergarten, only a few other heroes can be spotted on the other tables of the cafeteria and you're guessing it's the ones that are parents already, maybe in their circle superheroes’ kids are all friends with each other. Your train of thought is quickly interrupted by Kiko munching on a piece of toast Bakugo had given him.

“Now you swallow your bite and i-” Bakugo says as he retrieves a clean long sleeved shirt from his backpack, but is cut short before he gets the chance to finish his sentence

“Okay bye daaaad” 

“Come back here! Kiko! Kiko!”

“Damn bro chill, it's just a sweaty shirt, he wants to play” Kirishima remarks with a giggle and you follow suit when Bakugo lets out a frustrated huff.

“Parenting isn't easy” you say, and sip on the juice that was served to you a while ago.

“You have kids, teach?” Kirishima asks, intrigued by Bakugos reaction to his question. You miss the way he kicks his blond friend under the table

“Oh no no, I just happen to be around so many parents at work and I've seen how challenging it can be. But I do hope to have kids someday." You reply, feeling a bit embarrassed for admitting your desires to have children to two of the top five heroes in Japan. It's not like you can always have everyday conversations with them and it's a tad uncanny that they feel so free spirited to talk about mundane things like a family with someone like you. 

But the way Kirishima nods understandingly, and the way Bakugo rolls his eyes before growling “careful what you're getting yourself into brat” - not in a mocking way at least - makes you feel more comfortable.

“Oh shut up bro, you have a golden child. Never whines, never throws tantrums! You literally have nothing to complaint about”

“Well, a child turns out this well mannered only because of the way they've been brought up” you suggest and you swear there's a mischievous grin that covers Bakugos face momentarily

"Damn right!! But, It's not easy, that's for sure," Bakugo finally speaks up after a moment of silence, "but it's worth it. Seeing Kiko grow up and learn new things every day, it's amazing. He's a good kid, I couldn't imagine my life without him now that I got him" His tone is softer than you're used to hearing from him, and it catches you off guard.

Kirishima, on the other hand, is still grinning from ear to ear, looking like he's enjoying every moment of the charade between you and the blond. "I think you'd make a great mom, teach. You're so patient and kind with the kids at school."

You feel your cheeks warm up at his words, and you take a drink of your juice, hoping to hide your blush. "Thank you, Kirishima. That means a lot coming from you."

Bakugo grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but you can tell he's not unhappy with the conversation. There's a comfortable silence that falls over the table for a few moments, until Kirishima speaks up again.

"So, teach, we were wondering if you'd like to join us for a little celebration tonight. We were planning on going out to a bar and grabbing some drinks." He winks at you, and you feel your heart skip a beat as your eyes fall all over Bakugo’s whos clenching his jaw. “Bakugo always celebrates Kiko’s birthday like this. Man… he's too happy to have him.”

"I would love to join you guys," you say, smiling, but i can't, i have a uhm-, i-"

"that's fine" Bakugo growls, don't push it shitty hair" 

Kirishima smiles a wide grin that covers his face from one ear to another “oh come on! pleaseee”

You're taken aback by how childish Kirishima sounds, but being invited to something like this, with two pro heroes nonetheless feels kind of exciting. So you accept, shyly, there's not much you could do when you flicker your eyes over to Bakugo’s when they look at you like he's expecting you to say yes as well.

Kirishima's smile, despite being inviting at first, is dimmed slightly when Bakugo gruffs in response. Sure, he persists as his eyes plead with him -and you in time. “Come on, it'll be fun. I promise. Please join us teach”

Your gaze is so confused as you stare at him, hesitating to give a positive response. It's just so unbelievable that Dynamight and his best friend are trying to make plans with you.

Kirishima's wide grin falters for a moment at Bakugo's gruff response, but he quickly regained his enthusiasm, his eyes pleading with you.

"Please," Kirishima chimes in, his voice taking on an insufferable pleading tone.

You feel a pang of guilt at the disappointment in Kirishima's eyes—sure there are no prohibitions about spending time with parents outside of work, but you hesitate over actually saying yes to spending time with someone you’ve always admired as your hero.

Despite Bakugo's apparent disinterest, you find yourself unable to resist Kirishima's infectious energy. He's too sweet, always is. Maybe once won’t actually hurt. 

Just one drink.

With a hesitant smile, you turn to Bakugo, hoping to convince him to change his mind. "It would be fun," you say, your voice soft but earnest. "I'd really like to join you guys. I think"

Bakugo's gaze flickers to yours, a hint of annoyance flashing in his crimson eyes that’s shot at Kirishima, because he can see your hesitation, before he sighs heavily, as if conceding defeat. 

"Fine," he grumbles. "But only for a couple of drinks. We won’t be keeping you for long”

Kirishima lets out a whoop of excitement, his grin widening even further as he claps Bakugo on the back feverishly "Yes! This is gonna be awesome!"

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

[strawberry-nugget]

PLEASE I NEED MORE KATSUKI AND TEACHER PLEASE I BEG YOU PLEASE 😭😭😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

YES YES ILL POST MORE

im just going through double shifts at work rn and I haven’t had enough time to edit the next parts which I must do since it was written 5 years ago

Thank you for the love ❤️

[strawberry-nugget]

I finally had time to come back and read this

I love love love love this

Finally Kept

Content Warning: 18+ explicit content. This story contains obsessive behavior, masturbation, degradation, oral (f receiving + m receiving), rough sex, breeding kink, fantasy/reality blur, mild dubcon themes (due to surreal setting), overstimulation, dirty talk, and strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

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Part 2

I rubbed my eyes.

There was no way—no fucking way—what I just felt was real.

But it was. A hot, heavy breath fanned over my soaked folds. And then again—another stripe. A slow, deliberate lick right up my slit. My body froze, a half-moan stuck in my throat as I dared to look down.

And there he was.

Toji Fushiguro.

On his knees, between my thighs, tongue glistening with my arousal, those damn green eyes looking up at me like he’d just found dessert.

“Soaked already?” His voice was low, dark, dangerous.

“Tsk. All that fuss and noise over me, and now you’re gonna pretend you’re shy?”

My lips parted, but no sound came out.

“I knew it,” he said, his voice dark and gravelly. “Knew you’d taste this sweet.”

I was too stunned to speak. Couldn’t even breathe. My heart pounded like a war drum, but my body? My body responded immediately—thighs falling wider open, back arching, needy cunt pulsing just from the sight of him.

“I-Is this a dream?” I whispered.

Toji smirked. “Nah, sweetheart. This is real. As real as the mess you’ve been makin’ every night thinking about me.”

I choked on air, my face burning. “W-What—?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he growled, gripping my thighs tight, spreading me open even more. “You think I don’t know? How many times have you rubbed this pretty pussy raw with my name in your mouth? Hm?”

He leaned in, tongue flicking against my clit, sending a violent shudder down my spine.

I couldn’t speak. My jaw trembled as he licked again, sloppier this time.

Wet, slow.

He made a damn mess out of me, tongue swirling, nose pressing against my mound. His hands squeezed my thighs like he owned them.

“You’re a fuckin’ pervert,” he hissed into me, breath hot. “Getting off to a damn anime character. Touching yourself like a filthy little girl who doesn’t know better.”

His words cut through me like lightning—but instead of shame, all I felt was heat.

Pure, molten arousal. He wasn’t wrong. He knew. And I didn’t care. I’d dreamt of this—fantasized about it endlessly. And now it was happening.

Toji flattened his tongue and dragged it over me again, then sucked my clit between his lips. I cried out, my hips jerking up, fingers digging into the sheets. My orgasm barreled toward me like a freight train, fast and deadly.

“C’mon,” he murmured against me, teasing my swollen bud with his tongue. “Cum on my fuckin’ tongue, you nasty little slut.”

I broke.

My entire body locked up as waves of release crashed through me. I came with a cry, hips twitching, thighs squeezing around his head, my mind blank with the intensity of it. I couldn’t stop trembling—couldn’t stop moaning his name.

Toji, Toji, Toji.

When I finally opened my eyes, he was licking his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Look at you,” he said, grinning.

“You came so fuckin’ hard just from my mouth. That’s all it took? That all those years of pathetic humping pillows and touching yourself to my edits built up to?”

I whimpered, too fucked out to reply. He grabbed my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his.

“You ever been touched like that before?” he asked lowly.

I shook my head. “N-No. Never.”

Toji’s eyes gleamed. “Thought so. Just like I imagined. Tight, wet, untouched.”

He sat back on his heels, then began unzipping his pants. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

And then—there it was.

His cock.

Thick. Heavy. Veiny. Angry.

Just like I’d imagined it in all those fics I wrote, all the posts I reblogged, all the filthy daydreams I had in class. It curved slightly upward, the tip flushed dark, a bead of precum glistening at the top.

He was huge. So big it almost scared me. Almost.

Toji noticed my stare and let out a low chuckle. “You’ve been thinking about this, huh?”

I nodded, biting my lip.

He stroked himself lazily, his fist tight around the base. “Bet you wrote all about it too. Bet you described it just like this—‘thick, hot, drooling’—ain’t that right, perv?”

I flushed so hard I thought I’d combust. He was right again. I had written that exact line in a fic once. Several, actually.

“Wanna lick it?” he asked, cock bobbing slightly in his grip.

“Please,” I whispered, already leaning forward, like something primal took over me.

“Then open wide,” he said darkly, guiding his cock toward my mouth.

I opened my mouth for him, tongue out, breath hot, my throat already aching with anticipation. My lips barely brushed the head of his cock before he let out a low, approving growl.

“Good girl,” he said.

“So fuckin’ obedient when you’ve got what you want in front of you.”

I licked a slow stripe from the base to the tip, savoring the taste of his skin—salty, musky, warm. His cock twitched in my hand, heavy and alive. I couldn’t believe how real it felt. How perfect. My fingers barely wrapped around him, and even then there was still length left—thick veins pulsing under my touch.

“Shit,” he muttered, throwing his head back.

“You look better with my cock in your mouth.”

I flushed, but the heat only made me bolder. I wrapped my lips around the tip, suckled gently, then took more. Inch by inch. He hissed through his teeth as I pushed further, my tongue swirling, jaw stretching wide.

He was too big to fit all the way, but I tried. Desperate to take more. To please him. To earn every filthy word he’d throw at me.

Toji’s hand slid to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair.

“You’ve done this before?” he asked, voice low and teasing.

I shook my head, my mouth full of him, moaning softly.

“No?” he smirked.

“All that filth you wrote, all those fantasies—and you’ve never even sucked a cock before? Fuck. That makes this even better.”

He started guiding my head, slowly at first.

In. Out. In. Out.

Drool spilled down my chin as I gagged lightly, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

But I didn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.

My cunt was throbbing again, slick soaking through my panties all over again just from this. Just from finally, finally tasting him.

He groaned deep in his chest, hips rolling.

“Look at you. My dirty little pervert, choking on dick like you were born for it. You needed this, didn’t you? Wrote about it in your little blog, huh? Told your readers how bad you wanted to suck me off?”

I moaned around him, my hand pumping the base while my lips worked the tip. I looked up at him through watery eyes, cheeks hollowed, letting him see every bit of desperation I felt.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re gonna make me cum just from this mouth. You know what that means?”

He pulled back suddenly, cock glistening and twitching.

“That mouth of yours? It’s mine. This pussy you keep rubbing and fingering every night thinking about me? Mine. Your fucking mind? All mine.”

And I believed it. Every damn word.

Because I wanted to be ruined.

By him.

By Toji Fushiguro.

His thrusts into my mouth got faster, more erratic, his grip tightening in my hair like he couldn’t hold back anymore. I gagged as he pushed in deep, his cock sliding further than before, heavy and pulsing on my tongue.

“Fuck—‘m gonna cum,” he growled, voice tight and low, hips jerking.

I moaned around him, never stopping, desperate to taste it—to have him finish in my mouth like I’d imagined hundreds of times. I’d touched myself to that exact scenario before. Begging for it, whimpering into my pillow like a desperate little thing.

Toji’s whole body tensed. He shoved in one last time, deep enough to make my eyes water—and then he came. Thick, hot ropes of it hit the back of my throat, spilling down my tongue. I moaned at the taste, the overwhelming realness of it.

“Swallow,” he growled, looking down at me with blown pupils and a savage smirk.

“You’ve been dreaming of this, haven’t you? Filthy little freak—swallow it all.”

I did. I swallowed every drop, not letting a single bit escape. I looked up at him afterward, licking my lips, my chest heaving.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he hissed, dragging his thumb across my bottom lip. “Good girl. That mouth was made for me.”

His taste still lingered on my tongue, thick and salty, as I obediently swallowed every last drop—just like I’d fantasized so many times. My lips were still parted, my breath shaky, as I looked up at him through my lashes, dazed and drunk on him.

Toji smirked, the kind that makes your knees buckle, and dragged his thumb along my lower lip. “You’ve been waiting your whole damn life to swallow that, haven’t you?”

I nodded dumbly. I didn’t trust my voice.

I barely had time to breathe before he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up off the floor, pushing me back onto the bed like I weighed nothing.

“You think I’m done?” he sneered, towering over me now. “After all those years of teasing me in your head—touching yourself to my voice, my face, my hands?”

His hands gripped the hem of my top, yanking it up and over my head, leaving my chest exposed to the cool air. My nipples were already hard, aching. I watched, heart racing, as he stared down at me—like he was deciding which part to ruin first.

“I’ve seen the shit you wrote,” he muttered. “The stuff you said about my hands. These fingers.” He wiggled them mockingly. “You want them in your pussy so bad, huh?”

I whimpered, thighs clenching.

He leaned down and wrapped his lips around one nipple, sucking harshly. His teeth grazed the bud and I cried out, arching into him. He groaned, like he could taste how badly I needed him.

“God, you’re so fucking easy. I just look at you and you’re dripping.” He squeezed my breasts together, staring at them with a hunger that made my stomach flip. “I should’ve done this earlier.”

He placed his cock between my breasts, started moving between the plush softness, still hard—like he hadn’t just cum down my throat a minute ago.

“I’m gonna paint this pretty tits of yours,” he said, voice dark and thick. “You always imagined this, didn’t you? My cum all over your tits, yeah? Fuck. So big, So soft, All f'me, yeah?"

I gasped, nodding helplessly. My hands gripped the sheets, eyes locked on his cock as he started jerking it faster, hovering over me. His abs tensed, veins standing out along his arms. My heart pounded in my ears.

“Fuck,” he spat, voice low and filthy.

“Look at you—lying there like my personal cum rag. You love this, huh? You live for it.”

I didn’t even get the chance to respond—he came with a guttural groan, hot ropes shooting out across my chest. Warm, sticky, messy—exactly the way I always pictured it.

It splattered across my breasts, painting my skin in thick white streaks. My nipples were soaked, the mess dripping slowly between them, down to my stomach.

Toji stood above me, chest heaving, smirking.

“There,” he said, voice smug and breathless.

“Now you look like what you are. Mine.”

I moaned, dazed and wrecked, trembling under his gaze.

And fuck, he wasn’t done with me yet.

He stood there for a moment, looming over me, his cock still wet and twitching despite just finishing across my chest. His eyes dropped down to the mess he made, and a crooked smirk spread across his face.

“Fuckin’ pathetic,” he muttered, dragging two fingers through the streaks of cum on my breasts, slow and lazy. “Look at you. Covered in my cum, trembling, eyes all wide like a bitch in heat. You’ve been dying for this, haven’t you?”

I gasped when he pinched a nipple, still soaked and sensitive. My thighs pressed together instinctively, and he noticed—of course he noticed.

“Still wet?” he laughed, cruel and amused. “After I already came down your throat and marked these pretty tits? Goddamn. You’re worse than I thought.”

His hand moved between my thighs without warning, pressing down against my soaked panties. I whimpered, hips twitching.

“This pussy's been ruined by me for years already, hasn’t it?” he murmured, rubbing over the fabric slowly.

His eyes lifted to meet mine. “You’ve been mine all along.”

I looked away, cheeks burning, shame curling up in my chest—and making me even wetter.

“Aww, what’s this?” he cooed mockingly, pushing the soaked panties aside and running a finger up my slit, gathering the slick.

“You embarrassed? What for, baby? Didn’t seem so shy when you were reading filthy fics about me while touching yourself.”

He brought his slick-covered finger to my lips.

“Open. Taste what I do to you.”

I obeyed. I didn’t even hesitate. He slipped the finger inside, smirking.

“Good girl,” he whispered darkly. “Fucking pervert.”

I moaned.

“Yeah, you are. A filthy little slut, obsessed with a man who doesn’t even exist. Jealous over my dead wife—who’s neither real either. You’re out here crying over her, wishing you were the one warming my bed, the one I was filling with my cum every night. Ain’t that right?”

I nodded slowly, my lips trembling around his finger.

“Bet you used to look at her and say ‘Why her?’” he continued, cruel and mocking.

“Why did she get to marry him? Why did she get to ride his cock, get his babies? Bet you’d trade your whole fucking life just to have my kid, wouldn’t you?”

My body stiffened, pulse racing at how quickly he pulled the darkest thoughts from my head and laid them bare like open wounds.

“You’d let me knock you up in a second if I told you to,” he whispered, dragging his lips down the side of my neck.

“Let me use this pussy however I wanted. Breed you raw. Fill you up every night until you’re leaking around my cock, begging for more.”

I let out a choked sob. “Toji—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I know.”

His hand slid back between my legs, fingers spreading my folds again.

“Every time you cried watching me die on screen… every time you moaned out my name while you were alone in bed… I felt it. That hunger. That ache. That fucked-up love you got for me.”

I shook under his touch, lips parted, thighs twitching.

“And you know what’s worse?” he whispered against my skin. “I fuckin’ love it.”

My breath caught.

“I like how broken you are for me. How addicted. It makes you easy. Makes you mine.”

His fingers circled my entrance, teasing but never pushing in.

“I could tell you to get on all fours, crawl to me like a bitch in heat, and you’d do it without blinking. Wouldn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” I breathed.

“Say it,” he growled in my ear.

“I’d do anything for you, Toji,” I whimpered. “I’d let you use me. Breed me. I—I love you. So much . . . It hurts.”

He laughed low and filthy.

“I know, baby. And that’s the best part. You love me. Even after all this. Even after I mock you, make you cry, humiliate you.”

He leaned in closer, voice dark as sin. “You still want me to split you open, huh? Fill this needy pussy until you can’t think straight.”

I sobbed. “Please... please...”

“But not yet,” he whispered, licking a stripe up the side of my neck.

“A'int you a little pervert,” he murmured, almost fondly. “Laying in bed, playing with that needy cunt every night, moaning my name like a bitch in heat over a man who didn’t even exist.” He chuckled—dark, low, and taunting. “Tell me, princess. How many times did you touch yourself to me this week alone?”

My cheeks burned, but my thighs rubbed together involuntarily. “Five… six…” I whispered.

His grin widened. “Liar.”

He grabbed my chin, forcing my eyes to stay locked on his.

“You came to me more than that. I can see it. You’re the kind of girl who’d do it in the bathroom between classes, aren’t you? Pathetic little slut.”

I whimpered—because it was true.

He dragged his mouth down my neck, lips grazing my skin like a threat.

“Bet you cried over my death, didn’t you? All heartbroken over a man who’d ruin you if he were real.”

“I did,” I breathed, voice trembling. “I cried so hard.”

“I know.” He kissed my throat, just above my racing pulse. “Know what else I know? You’re still jealous of her.”

My stomach twisted. “...Who?”

“My wife,” he said casually, then laughed at my expression. “The dead one. The one you cursed in your head for being bred by me. You wanted it to be you, didn’t you? You wanted to be the one under me, full of my cum. Begging for it.”

I felt tears prick my eyes, not from shame but from overwhelming desire. Because he was right. Every sick thought, every lonely night—I wanted it. I needed it.

He hovered above me now, his breath warm on my skin, eyes gleaming.

“You think I’m done with you?"

His hand slid between my legs again, fingers grazing the oversensitive slickness there. I gasped.

“You’ve waited too long for this. So don’t you dare think I’m letting you off that easy.”

Before I could speak, he moved lower, lips trailing down to my chest—kissing, biting, claiming. He cupped my breasts, thumbs flicking over my nipples with cruel slowness.

“You wanted me to use you here too, didn’t you? Wanted to feel me spilling all over these tits while you moaned my name like a whore.”

I cried out, back arching, and he chuckled against my skin.

“I’m not gonna stop until I fuck every last filthy fantasy out of that pretty little head of yours.”

He slid his hands beneath me, lifting me effortlessly into his lap like I weighed nothing. The head of his cock nudged between my thighs—thick, hot, already hard again.

“You ready, baby?” he whispered into my ear.

“You ready for your first real fuck to be the man you’ve been dreaming of since day one?”

I nodded—shaking, desperate, and more ready than I’d ever been.

“Then let’s make it count.”

His breath was hot on my skin, heavy with control. I was already spread out beneath him, body aching and soaked, but he didn’t slide in—not yet.

No, Toji was crueler than that.

Instead, he pressed his hips forward, and I gasped when I felt the full length of him—hard, heavy, hot—resting along my soaked slit.

Skin to skin. No barriers.

Just his cock gliding over me, so close, so fucking close, and yet never pushing inside.

“Shit…” I whimpered, already trembling.

Toji chuckled darkly above me.

“You thought I’d give it to you that easy, baby?” His hips rolled slowly, dragging his length right against my swollen clit with sinful precision.

“Nah. You’ve been teasing yourself for years. Now it’s my turn.”

Each slow thrust sent sparks through my nerves. It was maddening—his cock sliding up and down my folds, slick with everything I’d been dripping for him. He reached between us, spread my lips open with his fingers, and ground himself in deeper—his shaft rubbing against every sensitive inch, thick and hot and absolutely relentless.

“You feel that?” he whispered.

“That’s what you’ve been chasing. Every night you rubbed this needy little pussy to my name… this is what you wanted, huh?”

I moaned—choked and high-pitched—barely able to speak. I couldn’t stop my hips from moving, trying to angle just right, trying to get him to slip in. But he held me steady, teasing me with slow, grinding motions, never letting me have it.

“Been dreaming of my cock between your legs since the day you saw that first reel,” he muttered, voice husky with a smirk.

“You didn’t even get it at first. But now? Look at you.”

His teeth brushed my ear. “Now you’re underneath me. Dripping. Begging. Letting me hump this soaked little cunt like some desperate virgin schoolgirl.”

A whimper left my throat. My hands dug into his shoulders. My entire body was trembling from the friction—my clit was pulsing, my core aching to be filled, and he still wasn’t giving it to me.

Toji chuckled, watching every little reaction with a glint of pride and filth in his eyes.

“So wet, I don’t even gotta do shit. You’re just lying here, letting me fuck your thighs and clit like you were made for it.”

He grunted softly as he pushed in deeper, his tip nudging just under my folds—but not quite inside. Just a whisper of what I craved.

“You want me to fill you, don’t you?” he growled against my throat.

“You want me to fuck you for real. But you don’t get that yet.”

My hips bucked again, desperate.

“Not until you beg.”

to be continued in the next part

.taglist : @sparkling-obsidian @strawberry-nugget @vampshxde @shiroonii

[strawberry-nugget]

Why did I have to draw him so good and how can I top this like, ever? 🫠

Trends ain't over until I do them too btw :>>>

[strawberry-nugget]

Katsuki does his own Calvin Klein ad and the comments you see all over TikTok make you jealous!

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, top! reader, oral (m receiving), cumflation(?), jealousy, a little fighting, LOADS of comfort, Jungkook mentioned ig? All characters are 20+

You're mad.

Extremely mad.

Ac/dc’s TNT plays on repeat from the speaker of your phone, your laptop, your TV, the Main Street screen from the building across your apartment a few stories below. And truly, every single time a replay goes on and on, each screen unsynced, your anger grows even worse inside your already too tight chest.

The reason?

Your boyfriend’s Calvin Klein ad has actually broke the internet.

It’s fucking ridiculous—The whole thing is worse than what happened with Bad Bunny a few months ago.

The comments are all over the place. Messy. Too messy. Too thirsty. Too delirious. Too fucking disrespectful.

You've scrolled through way too many edits. No scratch that. You've only scrolled through edits. With millions of likes, hundreds thousands of comments—that you've spent hours reading to their entirety. The actual video from the official Calvin Klein account has thirty, no forty million likes. Almost as many saves and shares too.

You’re naturally jealous. You knew you were bound to be even if you were the one who practically begged him to say yes to the offer and you definitely knew your boyfriend was the cause of thirst for many people worldwide.

It’s never been a problem until now. You've usually encountered the occasional ‘congratulations to whoever is bouncing on it’ edit, hell you’ve even smiled like an idiot at it, but now? After digging through comments that explicitly say ‘his girlfriend aint even deserve all that’ and ‘damn Dynamight’s gf i said LET GO’ you want to scream. Yell. Get back at him.

You can’t even bear to witness the video anymore. Only because when looking at it out of context, you feel like you can forgive him because of how hot he just looks!

It’s all over your screen; Katsuki flexing his muscles, biceps, forearms, back, thighs, torso. Letting off explosions, pulling the waistband of his boxers down just enough to tease, stomping his hero boots before he kneels completely. All while being extremely sweaty.

Seriously, fuck him and that hero work durability underwear line.

You’ve now unliked the original post out of pure spite. Then re-liked it. Then unliked it again because it felt like you were feeding the beast that's unleashing negativity and pumps jealousy throughout your whole body

You’ve closed the app, deleted it, redownloaded it, and then ended up stalking your own boyfriend like you were a crazed fan girl and not the person who literally shares a bathroom with him, only to be met with the same ten posts on TikTok—yes the one where he does push ups with you on his back and the other edit he has posted of you, even the one and only repost he has that’s of your ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ TikTok, where he acted like a feral beast and actually tried to bend you over. 

And then his instagram, where there are only a few yearly hero chart posts that have him as a co creator and like, three actual posts that he made himself. One from his agency, one from a school reunion and one with you smiling next to him, both bloody and bruised after a villain attack with the caption ‘you should see the other guy’.

Back to TikTok now, you take one last look at the ad before you ultimately close it, yes, for real this time, fists clenched like you’re about to march straight to Calvin Klein Japan HQ and file a formal complaint about emotional damages.

Instead, you exhale sharp through your nose and storm into the kitchen like a woman on a mission.

Fine.

If the internet wants to thirst over your man like they’ve never seen shoulders before, then so be it. You’re not threatened.

Not really. Not even a little.

You’re the one he comes home to. You’re the one who knows the exact way he likes his coffee in the morning, the brand of muscle balm he’ll pretend he doesn’t need, the scar on his side he never talks about. 

They don’t know him.

But you do.

And tonight, you’re going to prove it. Prove that you’re the most perfect girlfriend for him, that you won’t let go because someone on the internet begs you to. 

You slam the fridge door shut with the kind of force that makes the condiments rattle. Chicken breast. Garlic. Thyme. That expensive parmesan he rolls his eyes at but always eats the fastest. You’ve got all the ingredients for the dumb TikTok “marry me chicken” and honestly, yeah—maybe it’s manipulative. Maybe it’s desperate.

You don’t care. You've made it before and he adores it.

If the competition is public thirst, then your counterattack is a home-cooked seduction plan followed by a bath with that weird overpriced salt soak that smells like cedarwood, cocoa and sex. Let them drool behind screens—you’re setting the mood with candles and your favorite playlist and maybe even the nice satin robe with nothing underneath if it’s clean.

And it almost works.

It almost makes you feel better. Like maybe you’ve got the upper hand again. Like maybe you’re not going insane over a stupid fucking ad where he literally flexes his thighs and kneels and sweats on purpose. And flexes again.

Until you start chopping the garlic and realize your hands are shaking.

You stop abruptly.

You stare down at the cutting board, knife hovering mid-air, and realize your throat’s a little tight. Your chest’s a little too hollow.

Because the truth is—deep down, like deep deep deep down, where all the ugliest thoughts live—you’re not mad.

You’re scared that you’re not enough. Insecure. Like youve got any right to when you've literally grown up with him. When he’s never even bat an eye to anyone but you.

But you feel like a high school girl again. Standing in the hallway outside your class, so mad and sick of jealousy that fangirls from year one are swamping your boyfriend that you drag him by the ear into the classroom and shove your tongue down his throat. 

And damn, was that punishment from Aizawa worth it when he caught you.

No, now, it’s even worse. It’s not just the girls at school. Not just Japan. It’s the whole world.

And you're so scared that the world seeing him like that is going to remind him of what he could have. Of what else is out there. Of how easily people fall to their knees for him—not in ad campaigns, but in real life.

And what are you?

Somebody who gets overwhelmed easily. Somebody who overthinks. Somebody who can’t even watch a thirty-second ad without spiraling into a meltdown that tastes like garlic seeped deeply into fingernails and salt and the distinct flavor of not enough.

What if ‘animemencracker22’ could cook better for him or what if ‘Dynamightsleftbicep’ could massage his head better when they run him a bath? If ‘gymratgirl4life’ wanted to go out with him more and if ‘corrrrruptedlvr’ wasn’t throwing jealousy fits?

You’re not the girl in the comments. You’re not the fantasy.

You’re just you.

And even when you’re holding the knife and planning the perfect welcome-home meal and pretending like the bath you’re running later isn’t strategic—you still wonder if that’s going to be enough to keep a man like Katsuki Bakugou.

Worse, you wonder if he knows you’re trying this hard, because of your overwhelming need to feel like you deserve someone like him. 

You let the knife drop and suddenly, you’re not hungry anymore. You were never even hungry to begin with. Your fucking eyes are welling up with stupid tears that you dont want to shed. 

You’re not even a jealous person. Save for two or three times, you don’t feel like this over him. And it’s not because you’ve taken him for granted, but it’s been years that you two are together that have worked you into not thinking Katsuki could want anyone else other than you. You don’t want anyone else other than him.

But what if he’s tired. What if he feels youre the same old song stuck on repeat when he could have anyone. 30 million people in the world and you included.

The silence in the kitchen hums louder than any song on loop, only broken by the sound of your choking as you’re trying not to violently sob. The garlic’s sharp sting still clings to your fingers. The oven’s preheat light blinks like a mocking little eye. Your playlist, the one reserved for special nights, is halfway into some sultry R&B Aaliyah track that now feels like a joke.

Your arms go slack at your sides.

This was supposed to feel empowering. Sexy. A big middle finger to the comment section and the edited thirst traps and the “she doesn’t even deserve him” discourse that’s been hijacking your feed all damn day.

Instead, you feel small. Stupid. Still so embarrassingly in love.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your hands like that’ll somehow push the thoughts back in. Like that’ll make you forget the way your chest aches with that special kind of loneliness that only shows up when you’re still physically close to someone but emotionally spiraling into the trenches of your own insecurity.

You glance at the clock. Patrol should end in twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. And you push your lips together, scrunching the corners of your mouth in, pursing your lips and squint your eyes. 

You’ll push through, because even if you’re so extremely jealous, Katsuki still deserves a nice home cooked meal and a hot bath, even more often than every other day, when you stay home to handle the agency paperwork, because of your latest injury after a villain attack.

He really hasn’t done anything wrong, you tell yourself, other than being extremely hot.

So you end up cooking, with tears in your eyes and the most pouty expression and by the time you finish, setting the pan on a part of the stove that isn't hot and curl down in front of the fridge, dropping to your knees to cry your heart out—The door clicks open.

Oh. Shit.

Weighty boots make contact with the floor first. The heavy stomp of post-patrol exhaustion. Then the groan of his back hitting the door frame. You hear the soft rustle of his gloves coming off, his keys clinking in the ceramic dish by the entry.

You freeze—You can’t let him see you like this. You can’t let him be the one who finds you curled on the tile like some lovesick idiot who lost a battle to TikTok.

“Heyy I’m home” you hear and you grunt to yourself, trying not to let it be known you sniffle right after.

“…Smells fuckin’ good,” his voice calls out—gruff, like he’s trying not to yawn. “You cookin’ somethin’?”

You grunt again.

He doesn’t see you right away. But his voice gets closer. Each step across the hardwood is loud and certain and distinctly him. The kind of sound that always used to make you feel safe.

Now it just makes your stomach twist.

You force yourself to stand, too fast, too suddenly, brushing your hands on your thighs then your apron and you try to act normal when your chest is about to cave in again.

Katsuki rounds the corner, still in uniform, gauntlets off, sweat clinging to his hairline, a little dirt smudged near his jaw, where some blond scruff is starting to grow. His eyes find you instantly—and narrow.

“Babe? You okay? Say hi back”

You hate how quick he notices. How easy it is for him to read you. You’ve never been good at hiding from him, especially not when it comes to shit like this.

“Oh—uh, hey. I was,” you say, eyes glued to the counter. “Got distracted.” Still, you force a smile “im fine”

“You don’t look fine.”

You flinch. “Can we—can we not do this right now?”

The silence stretches.

Katsuki exhales through his nose, tilting his head like a puppy, eyes big with inquiry boring in yours as if he’s debating whether to let it go or push. You know which one he’ll pick. He’s never, ever been the let it go type.

“You saw the ad.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even said with guilt or amusement or defensiveness. Just certainty.

You look away. Embarrassed. “Everyone and their mama saw the ad Katsuki.”

A pause. Then a sigh. Then he rubs a tired hand over his jaw.

He walks over, slow and careful like you’re a spooked animal, and you hate it. You hate that he’s being gentle when all you want is to yell at him and fall into his arms and scream into his chest all at once.

His hand lands on your waist. Warm. Familiar. Real.

“You mad at me?” he murmurs, lips pouty in the way you just love.

You shake your head up and down. A silent yes.

“I’m mad at me too tho.”

His brows furrow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t care this much,” you mumble. “I shouldn’t be jealous of a bunch of people who don’t even know you. I shouldn’t be chopping garlic like it’s a last-ditch attempt to prove I deserve you, but I—I just—”

Your voice cracks.

Katsuki’s eyes soften, his lips too.

“You think I’d wanna be with anybody else?” he asks, so blunt it hits like a punch.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He lifts your chin with two fingers, thumb softly brushing lines across your bottom lip— he makes you look him in the eye.

“I did that ad ‘cause you told me to. ‘Cause you said I should. And I ain’t think it’d piss you off—but even if it did, I’d still be comin’ home to you.”

You swallow hard.

“They can watch,” he adds. “They can comment. They can make all the stupid fuckin’ edits they want. But you think I give a shit about any of ‘em when I’ve got you runnin’ me a bath?”

You blink. “…You knew I was running you a bath?”

“You only play that playlist when you’re tryna seduce me.” He snorts.

Your face burns, but your chest still burns hotter, tighter. Tight-est. You’re not ready to let go of this just yet. A hug and no kiss yet are already making your head spin back to that awful insecure state. You hate overthinking every little thing, but you can’t help getting caught up in it.

“Chicken smells good,” he adds casually. “Wanna feed it to me naked?”

You shove his chest gently. Though when you look up at him, you realise you're still greatly mad at him. “Shut up. No”

“C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you into his arms again. You go willingly, burying your face in his neck, nuzzling your nose too deep into his skin. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “All of them can choke.”

“They’re your fans, Katsuki”

“Yeah yeah. They can choke on my dick”

Oh that—that makes you snap.

“Im sure they’d love to” you hiss, lurching back away from him, too mad at how willingly his arms let you go. 

You want to jab, hurt him just a little. Make him jealous just a tad. Make yourself look like you've got better options than plain old ‘_narutoswife’ in his IG comment section.

He doesn’t deserve it. No, not at all. He just came back home from work and you want to catch a toxic attitude instead of communicating. You just want to make him a little mad over you too.

“Fyi, if you remember, Jungkook did say in an interview that im his type! He called me a strong female hero! Choi San also follows me on instagram” you say, crossing your arms, your eyes shut closed and lips pursed.

Unfortunately, you end up making him mad at you. That was so foul. Especially when he was about to sue Jeon freaking Jungkook for what he said in that interview. When the fuck did you become his type even? And why would he say that on national TV about some other man’s girlfriend?

His eye twitches. Just barely. But it definitely twitches. Great!

“…The fuck did you just say? You wanna start somethin’ now?” Katsuki says, voice low, sharp, practically growling, mouth pushed to the side of his face, one brow raised in desbelief,

Your arms are crossed like a petty little shield but it’s not enough to protect you from the instant shift in the air—his energy changing the moment those names leave your mouth. You can see it, feel it, in the sudden tension between his brows and the twitch of his jaw, in the way he takes one step back just so he can plant his hands on his hips and fully absorb the ridiculous thing you just said.

“Well I am his type,” you mutter, fake-casual, even adding a dramatic upward move of your chin for flair. “He literally said so. On record.”

You double down when you shouldn’t. Because now you’ve committed, and if you take it back, it’ll only make you look desperate. You tilt your head, faux-casual, all sugar and venom.

Katsuki blinks once—slow. Like he’s buffering. Like you’ve just spoken a dialect of petty he never expected to hear from your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet in that scary way, “are we talkin’ about Jeon fucking Jungkook right now?”

“I mean, he’s not the worst,” you say, airily. “He’s cute. Built. Has manners and a Calvin Klein ad too! Like you”

“You are not fuckin’ doin this with me—” His voice spikes as he takes a step forward, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from hurling the rice cooker across the room. “You’re mad at me for a promo gig and now you’re bringin’ up some K-pop bastard—?!”

You bite your lip to stop the smirk. It’s immature. Childish. And so, so satisfying—ah the sweet feeling of getting your lick back.

His hands fly up and immediately start doing that panicked, half-feral gesture thing he does when he’s so mad he doesn’t even know where to put his anger. “You think that’s cute? You think throwin’ other guys in my face is what’s gonna make this better? You want me to start listin’ all the bitches in my DMs right now? ‘Cause I will. I fuckin’ will—”

“Oh so now it’s bitches plural—”

“They don’t matter!” he barks. But you don’t seem like you believe him. “You’re just mad and you’re not telling me the actual reason”

Your face goes hot, tears rising again. “I’m mad because you don’t get it!”

“Then tell me! Tell me what I’m not gettin’!”

“I want you to care!” you explode. “I want you to see that this hurts! That I don’t feel good enough half the damn time, and now I’ve got people with 800k followers stitching your photos sayin’ how they’d treat you right while I’m in our kitchen  trying to figure out if I’m even the one you’d want anymore if you realise there’s someone better out th—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ finish that sentence.”

His voice goes deadly low.

You glare at him, eyes blazing. “Why not? Afraid I’m gonna be right?”

“No. Because you’re not.”

His chest is rising now, jaw clenched tight. You’ve both crossed the line, bleeding all over the tile floor with your words.

“None of them matter. Just like Jungkook doesn’t matter. I don’t care about anyone else on TikTok and I definitely don’t give a shit if he writes you a song and a marriage proposal and names his next album ‘Strong Female Hero I Wanna Wife’—you’re mine. You hear me?”

You’re stunned into silence. Half because of the outburst. Half because of the fact he just said you’re his with the kind of conviction that makes your skin burn and tingles run up your back.

“…You gonna tattoo that somewhere?” you murmur, trying to deflect your way out of being completely swept off your feet. 

He steps closer, wraps a hand around your waist, nose nearly brushing yours, eyes blazing. “Gonna put a ring on it. Don’t tempt me.”

You blink at him, wide-eyed. His palm feels hot, too quirk charged against your clothed skin “What if I’m not joking?”

He narrows his eyes. “You are.”

You shrug, then whisper just slightly. “…Maybe.”

Next thing you know, Katsuki’s scooping you up like a caveman—no warning, no prep, just two strong arms under your ass, your back colliding with his chest, and your feet dangling uselessly as he stalks toward the bathroom.

“Put me down! I haven’t even plated the chicken!”

“We’ll eat it later.”

“I— but—”

“You’re so mine, and I’m about to prove it.”

He kicks the door open like a man on a mission. Your bathwater is already perfectly hot and steamy, the playlist still humming from the speaker in the corner. You barely notice it because you’re too busy clinging to his shoulders like you’re about to be ravished.

“I can’t believe you got mad at me over a Calvin Klein ad,” he mutters against your neck, lips hot and dragging lower as he sets you down only to start untying your apron, aggressive and purposeful.

“It was a very public ad, and you were nearly naked” you argue, squirming, trying to twist out of his grasp—but he’s already unlooping the neck strap, already tossing the apron somewhere over his shoulder, not even watching where it lands on the bathroom floor “Katsuki, no—”

“Sex isn’t gonna fix everything, you know,” you say, breath hitching when his mouth finds that spot just below your jaw, the one he knows makes your knees buckle. He’s too fast to start pressing hot open mouthed kisses on your neck. 

“Then let’s talk about it” he says, calm as hell. He sinks onto the edge of the bathtub like a menace, eyes smoldering, hands still locked around your waist like you might run. “You said you don’t feel enough, why’s that? What part of us did I neglect that made you feel like this?”

You blink, thinking. Well he didn’t really do anything wrong, he just. Exists. And he’s gorgeous and amazing at everything he does.

Oh god? Do you resent him for being good at everything?

“You’re deranged.” You finally respond, pouting but refusing to look at him while you say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

Katsuki’s palms rub soothingly up and down your thighs, head tilted back to look up at you ever so slightly. He's trying to pull you in closer, get you loose, comfortable. He wants you to drop this ‘being difficult’ act you've got on right now.

You follow his lead, come in closer, until your knees scrape the edge of the bathtub and your thighs the inside of his.

“Yeah but,” you pause for a second, debating on whether this is the right thing to say. “why me”

Finally, you kneel between his legs. Your eyes are locked into his, trying to study him, his expression, trying to find a glimpse of hesitation behind his gaze, even if there’s none. 

Katsuki catches the insecurity in your head, with a simple bore of his eyes into yours. And it’s bad. How he can read you so well, like he isn't confused and insecure at times too.

“Is it cause we grew up together?”

“Well that’s why your dear to me, but no” 

“Then why?”

“Cause you’re you. Simply. You’re kind and fair. Too smart and you’re too pretty. You stand your ground and stand up for what’s right. I knew damn well who I hunched on my back and tried to set off with explosions at five years old”

He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tips your face toward him until you’re locked in his orbit again.

You want to cry again. Be it the memory, or the fact that you've pushed him to say this much about why he’s in love with you. You've got no reason to get jealous over people on the internet. They don’t know Katsuki like you do. They never could. Fate chose you to be the one to grow up a few blocks away from him. All your shared memories together, no one on TikTok could live them out.

No matter any Vogue cover, any Calvin Klein ad, or late night show interview, you and Katsuki are two human beings who grew up together, beat the odds of death together. Fell in love with each other to top it. So many humans in history have had this storyline, they’ve shared their first time with each other the night before setting off to war, kissed for the first time behind the bleachers in middle school. 

“I was so scared back then” you sob. Just one violent sob after another “‘m sorry babe. I'm so sorry for how I acted right now. You're just so hot that I can’t handle it. Can you like, be that bratty little five year old again?”

Katsuki huffs a breath, mouth twitching like he wants to smirk but knows better. His hands stay firm around your waist, grounding you while leaning towards you.

“Well I can’t be five again,” he says, voice rough but fond, lips already pursing as his forehead sticks to yours “but I can give you a small brand new Bakugo”

You let out a choked, watery laugh, but he’s already shifting closer, his thighs spreading so you fit better between them. One of his hands, followed by his eyes, slides up to your chest, and with exaggerated slowness, he taps a finger just above your sternum.

Tap. Then a little higher. Tap.

Then again—until two fingers are softly “walking” their way up, up, up your chest like little boots. You blink at him.

“Katsukiiii”

Tap.

The pads of his fingers rest at the hollow of your throat for a beat before lifting to your chin, tipping your face toward him like you’re fragile glass he’s been carrying his whole life.

He’s pouting. You can see it clearly now—the petulant pull of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows, like he’s upset you made him feel things and doesn’t know how to ask for reassurance without being difficult.

“You sayin’ shit like that,” he mutters, eyes flickering down to your mouth, then back up, “makes me feel like I’m not doin’ enough. Like I ain’t sayin’ it right. And I already suck at this.”

You open your mouth to protest, say you didn’t really mean it when you said that you don’t feel enough, that it was a moment of weakness, just like when you tried to tell him you’ve got options, but he presses his thumb gently against your bottom lip, quieting you, you’ve already apologised. He hasn’t.

“Lemme show you instead,” he says.

His voice isn’t cocky. Not quite. It’s soft—almost shy. Like how it was when you asked him to walk you home a week into UA, like he knows now, sex won’t fix anything, for sure, but the humanity of it, the lack of personal space between you as you groan in each other's open mouths, will help, just a little to ease the pain of your words.

“You’re my soft spot,” he adds under his breath, kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s afraid you’ll vanish off to some hot idol that does fanservice for a living, before he finishes the sentence. “Always been. N’ I don’t want you forgettin’ it. I ain’t leaving you for no one”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw now, slow and reverent. The pout still hasn’t left. You’re not sure it ever will. But now it’s paired with heat, and a pull between your legs that starts low and deep as he finally—finally—brushes his mouth against yours.

Just a whisper of a kiss. All pout. All need. All Katsuki.

You wouldn’t really trade him for anyone, either.

You can feel how badly he wants to be touched back. He always wants to be physical and touchy after an argument. You know how grounded and real it makes him feel, how reassuring it is to him to know he is still loved enough to be touched, despite words that are meant to sting.

You make a move to peck him, only right as this was your fault, and he slowly moves his lips against your own, soft, smooth. Slipping between every hollow space until you can't pull away. Seems like the chapstick you got for him last week has done wonders to make his lips so soft and plump, when they’re usually so chapped; his mouth glides against yours with practiced ease.

“M sorry” he whispers, so faint against your lips, but you still catch it.

His voice stays in your skin long after it’s said, like steam caught between your ribs, not ready to evaporate just yet.

You don’t say anything at first—just lift your hand to cradle the back of his neck, drawing tiny circles at his nape with your thumb. His eyes flutter a little at the touch, and it’s so Katsuki the way he tries not to lean into it. Still pouting, still pretending he’s not craving softness like it’s the only thing that could save him, but you know him better.

You let your other hand wander, trailing along the hem of his work top, your fingertips skating just beneath the fabric—slow, just the way he likes it. And when your hands drift to the button of his pants, you catch that tiny hitch in his breath. Barely audible. But it’s there. His lashes drop, golden. Sun-kissed. His grip on your waist tightens, not to stop you, just to hold on.

“You said you’d show me,” you murmur, your voice dipping low, warm against the shell of his ear. “But maybe I show you first.”

He doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard. And you skip the rest of the sentence ‘how much better I am than those TikTok bitches who want you’.

The button of his work cargos clicks open beneath your fingers.

It’s intimate, the quiet that settles between you. Not awkward. Not even heated yet. Just close. Bathwater is still steaming behind him. The scent of your shared home in the air—sandalwood, white musk soap, the thick smell of chicken being cooked—him. 

His cologne, faded but still clinging to the collar of his shirt. The playlist hums something slow and familiar in the background—Hot like fire, because maybe Aaliyah wasn’t mocking you a while ago—like this moment has its own soundtrack and the world outside doesn’t exist.

Your fingers fiddle with his zipper, slow and smooth. He looks down at you—heavy-lidded, and all vermillion, lips slightly parted, like he’s already halfway gone from just being touched with intention for pleasure.

“You looked so confident in the ad” you whisper as your fingers brush just below his waistband, teasing. “But this is better. This right here. When you’re a little shy for me.”

He exhales shakily, like you cracked something open inside him. And you feel it—something primal and possessive bloom in your chest.

“No one gets to see you like this but me”

“You’re tryin’ to kill me” he mutters.

You smile up at him, biting your lower lip. “No, Katsuki. I’m just trying to blow you away with my insane head skills”

He laughs, a breathy little sound, as his hands move to take off his shirt, softly ungluing his eyes from yours for only a second. You lick your lips at the way his muscles flex, so thick and bulky and by all means yours.

Suddenly, the ad pops back into your head, every shot, every zoom in. You’re overtaken by lust driven jealousy again.

No one on fucking TikTok gets to see the way his abs flex when he cums. You do.

So you work to lower his pants in fast movements, pushing the heavy fabric down until it hits the floor in shuffling sounds. 

Your hands slide lower, palms flattening against his calves, then his hips as you stick your cheek to his thigh. He watches you like you’re a sunrise—warm and tender, grazing where his skin ends with where your skin begins, or running tender, teasing circles all over his tip through his boxers.

His fingers twitch against his thighs, unsure of where to go—if he should cup your cheek, fist your hair, or just hold on to the edge of the tub before he slides down into something desperate.

And when you look up at him from where you’re knelt, his breath catches. His hand finds the top of your head, like he needs the grounding contact, thumb brushing a gentle path through your hair, and his eyes are wide with something soft and so, so red and open.

“Yesssss” he says hoarsely, half-laughing, half-moan “im about to get the best head of my life”

You quirk your brow and pucker your lips as if it’s your turn to pout now, then, you jab “Was it bad before?”

He shakes his head, cheeks already pink. “It’s always damn perfect”

His breathing catches in his chest but by now, your lips catch onto the skin of his thigh, placing a kiss there while still looking at him. It makes him go completely red now, face ears and chest flustered.

You kiss higher on his inner thigh, barely missing where he’s straining against the fabric of his boxers. Katsuki’s knuckles press into the edge of the tub now, trying to keep himself grounded, but his hips twitch when your lips ghost just beneath the band of his boxers.

He looks like he might fall apart already. Lower lip caught between his teeth, lashes fluttering low, cheeks warm and pink in the bathroom light.

Your fingers tug at the elastic slowly—like a question. And he nods, fast, almost frantic.

You hum, and finally pull the waistband down, freeing him.

He’s already hard, tip flushed and leaking, twitching a little in the cool air. And the way he watches you—mouth parted, chest rising and falling quick—is nothing short of irrelevant. He looks at you with hunger, full blown everywhere on his face, like it burns just to feel it. His hand hovers near your cheek, and you guide it up into your hair with your own.

“Keep it here,” you murmur. “I want you to touch.”

Katsuki’s thumb brushes your scalp, tender, trembling.

His thumb twitches as it strokes your scalp.

You press your lips softly to the base of his cock. Not rushing. Just placing open mouthed kisses over his length. Letting the heat of your mouth register on every kiss before you move to the next one. Then again, higher this time. Then again—closer to the tip, where he shudders and grips your hair a little tighter. Your lips wrap tenderly around half of his tip, your tongue storming out for a circular lick before you give him a little suck.

His hips shift like he’s trying to stay still and failing. Then you kiss just beneath the tip, so close your breath makes him hiss.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once more. “You’re—baby, you’re—”

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue along the underside, slow, teasing, drawing a whimper from him so small and raw that your thighs clench just hearing it.

“You gonna beg?” you ask softly, glancing up.

His head falls back against the tiled wall for a second, mouth parted, so red in the face. “Don’t make me—fuck—‘m already losin’ it.”

You take him into your mouth inch by inch, slow and careful, tongue flat underneath, eyes still locked on him. You feel his thighs shake.

He moans—a rough, broken sound—and his hand fists harder your hair. You pull back with a wet pop and stroke him slowly, thumb brushing over his leaking tip. “You’re so easy to ruin, Katsuki. One suck and you’re falling apart.”

“You—you're evil,” he pants, biting his knuckle. “You can’t say shit like that when your fuckin’ mouth is on me.”

You grin, licking your lips. “It’s on you again now.”

You take him deeper this time, hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue drag in deliberate patterns. He groans, head tipping down again to watch, jaw slack. His voice is wrecked. Raw. Low in his throat.

“Katsuki–” you pause, you murmur, pulling off again, cupping him with both hands now. ogling your eyes into his “Tell me i'm the only one who’s ever gonna make you feel this good’

Every movement you make is intentional—little flicks of your tongue, your hand twisting at the base, your lips tight around him. You don’t let him cum yet. Every time you feel him start to twitch harder, you ease back, sucking gently on just the tip.

“Babe,’s all you—” he chokes out, voice ragged. “Never gonna be anyone else but you”

“Yeah?” you breathe. “No thirsty fangirl, no fantasy, no fuckin’ ad? Just me?”

His eyes lock on yours—glassy, wild. He nods hard. “Just you.”

You glance up again. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown. He looks desperate. Like he’s holding onto the last threads of sanity. But this moment is bathed in vulnerability, raw love that makes you want to claim again and again. Katsuki’s had his moments like this, way more than you. He lets you go through with it, he even likes how jealous you are right now, but this doesn’t mean he’s not utterly and completely ruined and under your spell right now.

You kiss his head again, so sweet, and finally wrap your mouth around him once more—this time faster, deeper, your hand working in tandem. He lets out a strangled cry, almost panicked with how hard he’s trying to hold on.

“You’re mine, Katsuki. You know that, right? Doesn’t matter how many people thirst over you online.” You press your lips around him again, drag your mouth up slow, just to the tip. “They don’t get this. They don’t get you like I do.”

He looks down at you again, eyes still glassy. So red. So wrecked.

You take him deeper, your cheeks hollowed, your tongue gliding in slow circles, teasing him at every sensitive spot. The veins on the underside of his cock, the base, as he hits the back of your throat. Katsuki moans, raw and shaky and his hips stutter forward before he forces himself still. The inside of your mouth is so slippery, so warm, he’s literally going crazy with each movement.

“Don’t even fuckin’ want anyone else.” He sounds destroyed now, ruined into a slurring mess as your hand is sliding along his thigh. 

“Let me—let me cum, shit—please, let me—”

His tip kisses the back of your throat, and you gag around him, just a little—just enough for him to choke on a moan that sounds like he’s dying.

You don’t let up. You feel the way he twitches, the way his thighs tense, the way his grip in your hair tightens. He’s close. So close. You hum against him, nodding just a little, eyes locked into his in such an intimate, tender way. You take him all the way in one last time, his tip hitting the back of your throat, eliciting just a small choking sound from you, letting him fall apart in your mouth, with every soft roll of his hips into you.

He grunts. Head lolling back again, so hard that is adam’s apple protrudes enough even for you to see. His hips stutter, and he tries to hold back—but his thighs are trembling, breath breaking. He snaps his head again, desperate to look at you and he swallows now, bites his lower lip in concentration before he clenches his legs, to buck his hips into your mouth.

His hands come to cradle your head, your cheeks, like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the one keeping him from falling through the floor. And the way you keep eye contact with him while swallowing him down your pretty little throat–It’s a killer.

You back up, worrying his tip between your soft, plump lips and that's it–He shatters. Violently and way faster than he thought he would. Clawing at your face to make you take him in once again; he bottoms out, and you… you take him in easily, like a champ.

Katsuki falls apart in your mouth with a raw, choked moan, hips bucking just once as you hold him steady, taking every twitch, every pulse, every broken sound he makes as his cum spills in ropes down your throat. You try to swallow as much as you can, eyes tearing up at the amount of cum that’s making you choke– Katsuki’s favorite sounds when you’re giving him a blowjob. He’s only urged to spill more, but this time you back up a little, letting him fill your mouth until it spills down the sides of your lips.

“F-fuck. Baby. Fuck.” He gasps like you’ve already stolen the air from his lungs, and he spasms. His hips jerk forward once, like instinct takes over.

Your eyes well up again, tears beading on your lashes from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer force of him.

He groans again at the sight—his cock buried in your mouth, cum spilling out the corners of your lips, glistening. His hands cradle your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the feel of your skin under his thumbs.

You swallow again, letting him ride it out with one last soft suck, and he moans like he’s unraveling from the inside out. His knees almost buckle.

And still, you don’t stop touching him. Your hand strokes slow at his base as you pull back with the loudest pop, letting some of the mess trail down lower at your chin, your lips swollen and glistening as you tilt your head up.

“You came so much,” you murmur, licking a drop from your bottom lip. “Were you that needy for me, baby?”

He groans as he’s still recovering, hips twitching slightly as your breath ghosts over him. His hands finally leave your cheeks, fumbling around, still shaky, down to where his pants are.

“Where the fuck’s my phone?” he rasps, breath catching on the tail end.

You blink up at him, mock-innocent. “Why do you want it, hmm?”

His gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving as he glares like you’ve just personally offended him by being too hot to handle yourself.

“First, I’m taking a fuckin’ photo of you like this,” he grits out, voice still rough and low, “with your mouth all messy, lookin’ proud of yourself like that.”

You smirk, tilting your head as cum still drips slowly down your chin, your fingers catching it just to suck them clean. “So you can jerk off to it later?”

“So I can frame it,” he mutters darkly, eyes dragging over every inch of your face. “And then you’re watchin’ the ad again. Every second of it.”

You blink slowly. “But it makes me mad”

He nods. “Yeah exactly. Youre watching it.‘Til you get so fuckin’ riled up you suck me off meaner than this.”

Your lips curl. “Meaner? Baby… I was being sweet to you.”

“Exactly,” he pants, reaching for your wrist to drag you up into his lap. “I wanna see you do it when you're pissed.”

You climb into his space, knees bracketing his thighs, grinning into his mouth as you kiss him—messy, deep, still tasting like him. “Careful what you wish for, Katsuki. I might make your dick fall off”

His voice is just a whisper now and wrecked against your lips.

“Fuck yes”

Yeah… maybe the Calvin Klein ad was a good idea.

______

The water’s somehow still warm, barely steaming, and smells like cocoa and the shea butter soap he always pretends he doesn’t use until you catch him stealing it.

You’re settled between his legs, your back against his chest, and he’s folded around you—arms over your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath soft and steady against your skin. You sink into him, muscles loosening all at once.

The bathwater laps at your collarbones. His thumbs trace slow circles into your stomach. And for a while, the only sound is your breathing, synced. The occasional soft swish of water when one of you shifts. The playlist outside still hums faintly, muffled through the bathroom door. Just gentle vocals and low drums. Like the score to this quiet little world you’ve made.

“Sorry I was a dick,” he mutters. His voice remains unsure of what to say in a situation like this, yet muffled against your neck. “I just—y’know…”

“Yeah. Me too. I should not have mentioned Jungkook because people online are asking how I handle all of that” you chuckle, tenderly placing a kiss at the back of Katsuki’s hands when you lift it from the water.

He frowns, letting off a sound of annoyance “asshole, he can shove that seven song up his ass”

“Oop— you listening to him now?”

“No, it’s all over the radio though” Katsuki kisses your shoulder in response. Then again, higher this time. “But I don’t care about nobody. Just you. Always you.”

You tilt your head and press a kiss into his damp hair from the side, catching just a little bit of his ear in the process. “I know, baby. I know.”

And you do. Deep in your bones. The same way you know how his eyes soften and he whines when he’s sleepy, how his jaw ticks to the right when he’s embarrassed, how his voice drops an octave when he wants to be taken seriously. You know him. Not the whored out Calvin Klein version the world sees.

You curl your hands around his forearm and let yourself melt back into him completely, the bathwater swaying at the peak of your chest now. Safe. Soothed. Held.

He squeezes you a little tighter and rests his chin on your shoulder, finally quiet. And if you listen close, you can feel it: the rise and fall of him. The warmth of his skin. The steady thrum of his heartbeat under your back. 

“So” you murmur “wanna talk about that little mini Bakugo you mentioned earlier?”

Katsuki mumbles something under his breath, eyes closed against your skin. He’s mellowed out in the split of a second, but you’re riled up at the thought when your mind returns to it. 

“‘S no use.” He whines, finally, like he’s annoyed “Our kid’s gonna look like you”

“So you'll get a mini me all over again and I won’t get the same? Un-faiiiir! Booooooo” you groan, leaning your head back against his shoulder dramatically. The water sloshes with the motion, and he huffs a tired laugh into your neck, chest vibrating behind you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your skin. “Like I wouldn’t be fuckin’ obsessed with either version.”

You smile. Small. Soft. Let your thumb glide along the scar on his wrist and then you swallow. Blink a few times. Then nod once, slowly, before you speak.

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it? A little baby with your temper and my sweet tooth?”

He lets out a real laugh now, low and gruff and warm against your back. “Fuckin’ menace. Our apartment wouldn’t survive.”

“Your PR team wouldn’t survive.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

You both laugh, muffled and close, and when it quiets again, you let your fingers lace through his under the water. His grip tightens like a reflex.

And then, just above a whisper:

“You really think about it sometimes?”

“…Yeah.”

“Me too.”

He kisses your shoulder again. No jokes this time. Just silence and warm water and cocoa steam. The both of you holding that dream quietly, like something sacred. 

In his arms, now, today, midst June, after feeling threatened that strangers online will ever do better than you when it comes to him, you think of you and him, back in his childhood room, watching Spirited Away as Mitsuki would fetch you cookies and milk before Katsuki would try to shove her away and she’d pretend to be knocked over.

“Hey…We’re still naming the baby Chihiro like we promised back then, right?”

He goes still behind you. Like, dead quiet. Like you’d short-circuited something in his brain.

You almost think he didn’t hear you until you feel the deep inhale against your spine, his arms tightening just a little more around you like he’s trying to fuse your body to his.

“…You remember that?” His voice is hoarse now, barely more than a breath.

You smile, eyes still half-lidded, watching the water ripple at the edges of the tub. “Of course I do. You made me pinky swear on it, when Mitsuki said we’d get married and have kids too!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but it’s soft, affectionate—almost embarrassed. His nose nudges your jaw like he’s trying to hide the warmth in his face. “Was a fuckin’ loser.”

“No,” you say gently. “You were just sweet. Always were.”

There’s a beat. He swallows. You feel it in his throat against your shoulder.

“…Chihiro, huh?” he murmurs, finally. “Still want that? Even now?”

You nod, and his hand floats up from beneath the water, trailing along your stomach, resting just under your ribs. Protective. Hopeful. Like something unspoken is blooming there.

“I always loved that promise,” you whisper, throat a little tight. He doesn’t answer. At least not with words.

Katsuki grins against your neck, and the sound of it, the way he breathes in like he’s grounding himself in the smell of your skin—it’s everything. It’s homely. Warm water. Summer steam. A shared name from a shared childhood.

Take that ‘tojissecondworm222’, not only do you handle all that, but everything the world’s fantasy driven Dynamight has to offer, is yours. 

Always has been.

Always will be.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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