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willowser · 6 months

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you had only to look at me—

part two.

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 3.3k+

tags: nsfw (18+), childhood best friend bakugou, dry humping, implied virgin bakugou, a tad angsty at the end.

even before i was touched, i belonged to you; you had only to look at me. — the burning heart, louise glück.

this is a repost.

childhood best friend bakugou is probably a wrestler. a lil' rough-houser.

games of tag end with you tackled to the ground, squashed underneath him until you finally agree that he's the king of the world. whenever your hair is long enough to pull back into a pony-tail or little bun, he's yanking on it to get your attention, harsh, especially if you're ignoring him to talk to anyone else. scraped knees and bruised elbows, coming home missing a single shoe, shirt stretched out and wrinkled at the bottom corner: all katsuki's fault.

it makes you a little volatile, too, in turn.

not so much as him, but you grow up defending yourself; the first black eye he gets is from you (if you don't count the time he hit himself in the face by accident, when you'd started a slap-fight because he was trying to hold you down) and you very quickly learn how "unfair" it (apparently) is to kick him in the groin. your parents spend a lot of time separating you, putting you in opposite corners of the room until one of you stops crying and the other is ready to mumble out an apology. you're not allowed to sit next to each other at holiday events. whatsoever. under any circumstances.

he's your best friend. you wouldn't have it any other way.

in middle school, he's just as insufferable, hardly allows you to talk to any of your girl friends without butting in some how, too loud for anyone's own good. he tries to embarrass you in front of other boys, puts you in a headlock even when he's sweaty — which he is a lot at that point, during puberty — and calls you names that make you want to hide in the bathroom.

("why is he such a jerk?" your friends will ask, trying to fix the mess of your hair during lunch. all your butterfly clips are either missing or broken, crunched under bakugou's scrawny arm. "you should tell on him for being such a bully.")

nobody else treats you the way he does, and you don't treat anyone else that way, either; you never make ugly faces at your girl group, never punch them as hard as you can in the arm, aiming to leave a bruise. with all other classmates, you're — normal, trying to discover what that even means in the grand scope of things, who you want to be as the years pass. you avoid bakugou and his little posse of brats like the plague, because detention is what awaits both of you, should your paths ever cross.

things start to change, seriously, in high-school.

bakugou goes to u.a and you — don't; instead you continue on to the shizuoka high-school without him, along with your group of girls. his time at home and in the neighborhood lessens, even moreso when he moves into the dorms on campus, and the only time you see him becomes those few and far in-between family visits he has time to make; some holidays, he doesn't come home at all.

at first you think it's a good thing, because you've never gotten to flourish while trapped in his armpit. yanking at his hair until he finally lets go in the middle of the hallway has always garnered you some weird looks, odd stares, and you finally stop being labeled aggressive, too, with him gone. boys can talk to you without being stalked by your angry, wiry, chihuahua of a best friend, and you go on dates, ride in cars, have your first kiss.

you miss him from time to time, though you'll die before admitting it, and the yearning doesn't last long whenever he does come home. even when you're seventeen, eighteen, he still lays on the couch and puts his stinky feet in your lap and in your face, purposely puts things too high up on your shelves, leans against the front door so you can't get out when it's time to leave.

(he becomes an immovable object, much to your annoyance; in the past, you've always stood somewhat of a chance against him, knowing all his weak spots, like the clump of hair at the crown of his skull and how ticklish he is on his thighs, but now, after all the training he's been doing — he's huge, unfortunately.

if he grabs your wrists in one hand — like he's never been able to do — and holds them above your head, you're useless to defend yourself; there is an absolutely zero-percent chance you'll ever manage to overthrow him if he sits on you; tickling him is impossible, because his thighs have gotten so muscular that it's hard to grab him, and even if you do manage it, he can nearly crush your hand if he closes his legs together.

bakugou doesn't even look like your scrawny best friend anymore; he looks like the guy that ate your scrawny best friend.)

you graduate and go to college. bakugou graduates and goes to work for best jeanist, in the heart of tokyo. seeing each other means planning on it, making an effort neither of you have ever had to, and there's a lot of radio silence for months at a time. somehow it always comes full circle, though, and it always ends in violence, because you two don't know any other way to be.

you're twenty the first time his touch becomes tight, bruising, purposeful — for new reasons.

it's one of the few times he's off, and you haven't seen each other since his mom's dinner party four months ago. you only agree to come over because his patrol route had taken him through your campus and you'd spotted him across the street in the early hours of the morning, after you got out of class.

now you're both tired, lazing around despite planning to get lunch once the heat died down. together doing nothing; sometimes it's a little alarming how easily the two of you fall into each other, but you've been doing it for so long that it doesn't take a second thought.

bakugou strolls out of his bathroom with damp hair, in nothing but a loose pair of sweats, and you're laying on his couch half-asleep and he puts his wet towel over your face and you ball it up and throw it at him and then he tries to whip you with it.

"stop," you groan, serious, "you're so annoying." when he only twists it tighter, you stick your arm and leg out, deflecting against the wet smack he tries to leave against your skin.

his sharp teeth flash with his ugly little grin, and you try to grab the towel twice, ending up with an angry, stinging lick up the inside of your arm, before he gets too close and you can finally yank it from his hands. you sit up to get a better angle, but you're not as quick as he is, as adept at being a brat, and when he yanks on the towel, your whole body nearly comes off the couch, arms almost coming out of their sockets.

"bakugou!" you squeal, and he cackles, evil, and grabs your hands when you try to smack him. your massive, stinking, freight train of a best friend deposits his entire body on yours, crushing your lungs with his back as you cough, "get off!"

he doesn't say anything, choosing to pretend he's watching whatever is on tv and that he can't hear you — which you could believe, because bakugou likes trash television more than he lets on — and your hands are trapped at your sides and you can't breathe and so you bite him, right in the neck.

"ow, fuck!"

when he moves, he moves fast, and you're only hope of retaliating before he flips around and grabs your wrists and holds you down is to roll the both of you off the couch. his body thuds, deep and heavy, against the carpet, and you trap his hands beneath your knees as you straddle his hips, adjusting your full weight so you can at least try and keep him down.

beneath you, bakugou sneers. "you've got five seconds t'get off me before—"

"one!" you shout obnoxiously, rolling your eyes just to hear his annoyed snort. "two! three! f—"

his body snaps up into a sitting position, nose bumping yours as he rips his hands from beneath your legs. a scream tears out of your throat as you wiggle, surprised, trying your best to stretch your arms over your head and around your back so he can't grab them; if he does, it's game over for you.

"stop!" you shout, choking out a shock of laughter when he brings his legs up, trapping you in his lap against his chest. a little grunt leaves him as you jostle, but the tension at your back never lets up, not even when his mouth sets in a firm line and a sharp exhale leaves his nose. "let me go," you tell him, squirming again as he reaches for your hands. "i'm not playin' around."

"too bad, y'shitty nerd." he says, gruff, and when you stick your tongue out at him, he buries his face in your neck and bites, too, taking advantage of your shock as his fingers close around your wrists.

"no!" you scream again, trying in earnest just to get away from him completely, but he holds your hands behind your back and keeps you squished so tightly into him that you can only breathe shallowly, and his free hand goes to ball into your shirt at your side and —

— and his face is red, you realize, delayed. you can almost feel the heat from his cheeks with him so close, and you take in the flush of his neck, how it spreads down to his bare chest, crimson and fevered. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, nervous, almost.

"what?" you breathe, quiet, as if speaking too loud will break your playful bubble, and his eyes jump around his living room before landing back on you, narrowed and black.

"what?" he echoes, voice pitched and mocking. "you lose, dumbass." and even though he closes his eyes and grits his teeth, there isn't any hiding from how hard he's breathing. how subtle he's trying to be about spreading his legs.

all at once, everything kind of — falls apart.

bakugou is a man now, much to your horror; it feels like you've closed your eyes and opened them in the lap of someone else wearing your best friend's face. there's serious muscle definition in his shoulders and biceps, and you can feel yourself getting lost in the curves and valleys of him like never before. he's — you're — so close. more than it feels like you've ever been, even though you know that's far from true.

this boy used to pin you down in the yard and threaten to lick your face, the both of you grass-stained and covered in sweat. you've tackled him face first into the ocean on various vacations, running behind him quietly and plunging his scrawny, shirtless body into the waves as they rushed forward, uncaring of what you were wearing or how it twisted when you both came up for air.

saliva is still drying on your neck from where he bit you and, unthinking, your eyes dart down to his lips; plumper than you ever realized and parted, just a bit, enough that you can feel his breath on your cheeks. and you wonder —

bakugou grunts quietly, shuffling himself so that his back is leaned against the couch, and you half-expect him to just let you go because things have — changed. but he doesn't.

instead the new position has his legs a little wider and you've sunk a little further and you're now very aware of exactly what's changed, and how much. you can feel him twitch, just barely, and the hand he has at your side balls tighter into your shirt, jostling you minutely in the process.

and finally he opens his eyes and stares at you — cheeks burning, eyebrows furrowed — and you stare back — heat lighting up your body to an uncomfortable degree as your stomach flips.

you wonder what he would do, if you kissed him. what it would feel like. what he would taste like.

you move your hips with purpose, stuck on the new and foreign change it does to him; bakugou's always been a tough little brat, and you made him cry a handful of times when you were younger, but this weakness is — different. there's so much you know about him and yet even more for you to learn, and you find yourself consumed with the desire to explore this new, enticing territory.

his lashes flutter gently when you grind against him, tentatively, and then his head thumps back against the couch as the muscle in his jaw sets. half-lidded, his red-hot gaze jumps from your face down to where you're seated against him and back, and it's only after you move again that you realize — he's watching you, too. discovering.

the fist he has in your shirt loosens and his fingers burn your bare skin when they slip under the material to grip your hip. at any moment, you're half-expecting him to tell you to cut the shit, to shove you off and ask what the hell is wrong with you. why you're being so weird, doing things friends don't do to each other. but he doesn't.

you're almost certain that if you put your hands on his chest, you would be able to feel the mirrored, nervous pace of his heartbeat; it only takes the faintest tug of your hands for him to let you go, his grip falling to the other side of your hips. you can't tell if he means to hold you in place, or keep you going.

you spread your fingers out and, gently, as if you've never touched him before, run your hands up his chest, watching the bob of his adam's apple when you rest them on the sides of his neck. stabilizing yourself a bit, before testing the waters again.

bakugou's eyes are nearly black and when you don't stop, he looks down to resume watching the movement of your hips, the way his sweatpants bunch up and tug, and you feel a little zing up your spine with his every sharp inhale and sharper exhale. even his jaw falls a little slack and, fuck, you've never seen him like this.

you never thought you'd want to, but now — you don't think you'll ever see him any other way again.

his eyes go a little wide when you lean into him, brushing the tip of your nose against his. neither of you have said anything and maybe you should keep it that way, lest the bubble burst, but you feel like you're going a little insane.

quietly, around your own heavy breath, you ask, "does this — feel good?"

you can feel the temperature of his cheeks spike, but he nods shallowly regardless, and you press your mouth into his throat to bite him again, just lightly. it should be so that he's a little biter; the feel of your teeth makes him jump, has him angling his head so that more of his neck is exposed to you. when you soothe the barely-there indentation with the flat of your tongue, his breath hitches and his shoulders shake on a shudder and he groans, like he's angry.

"hah, fuck."

the friction in his lap isn't doing much for you, realistically, but his reaction is what has you aching, has you drawn tighter than a bow string. you feel yourself growing antsy for something that you won't name, because friends don't do that, though you can't help but to wonder if he's ever done it before.

you've had a few boyfriends. had a few experiences that ended quickly and left you feeling exposed and uncomfortable and a little in pain, and even though your girl friends insist that's normal — it's nothing like this. bakugou might not last much longer, if the grip he has on your hips is any indication, but not a single piece of your clothing has been removed and you're hot and getting sort of desperate and you know your underwear are a little more than damp.

you want to dismantle his long-standing composure. you want to be — maybe — the only one that gets to see him fall apart like this.

he's been your best friend your whole life, afterall; this experience should be yours. he should be.

the thought has you shivering a little bit and bakugou bucks up against you, pulling you down hard in his lap. dragging across the thick and solid length of him becomes even more clear and another, stronger zing has you letting out a breathy little sound into his ear. it makes him groan again, this one almost whiny, but he closes his mouth to muffle it and you don't want him to do that so you tighten your fingers in the hair on the crown of his head and — just to see, in a way you've never done before — you quietly whisper,

"katsuki,"

and he loses it.

one of his hands slips up your shirt to splay against your back, forcing you closer to him so he can bury his face in your neck, and his hips become insistent, urgent, rutting up against yours eagerly.

"fuck, oh fuck, fuck," he groans into your skin, fingers gripping you so tightly that you think he might actually leave burns behind, and his shoulders tremble before he goes totally still.

for a little while, you both sit there and let your breathing even out as reality sobers you from whatever lust-drunk haze you'd both been in. distantly, you think you wouldn't mind if he pinned you to the ground the way he always does, only this time to peel all your clothes off, right here on his living room floor. but he doesn't.

doesn't say anything, just shudders every now and again, and you think you're starting to feel the wet spot soaking into the front of his sweatpants.

you pull back just a little to look at him and he lets you, face just as red as he stares back at you, like he's the one waiting for you to freak. a little bit of red has returned to his eyes, though they're still swollen and dark with want.

when you lean in again, to bump your nose against his, bakugou snaps back away from you.

"wh-the fuck are y'doin'?" he shifts his eyes to the ground and they go wide. horrified, maybe. all the blood rushes in your ears and you don't know what to say, so he continues. "i-i don't have time t-to sit around all day, so—" bakugou shakes his head and you think he's going to kick you out, and he must know it, from how stiff you go. "so, you better know what the hell you wanna eat."

your bubble has burst; you nod silently and he glances up at you twice before swallowing.

"well, i can't get dressed with you sitting on me, so get off." when you remain quiet, he finally raises his head to look at you head-on, fisting the edge of your shirt again so that you'll look back. "d'you..." bakugou wets his lips before biting them, "need anything?"

"uh," maybe to shove your head down the drain and drown yourself, so that you can get rid of all the not-so-nice feelings that are creeping up beneath your skin. instead of that, you tell him, "just the bathroom, maybe."

"hurry up then," he mutters and even tries to roll his eyes, though it feels anything but casual. "don't...take for-fuckin'-ever."

and then he's up, quick to stand so that his back is to you as he disappears around the corner to his room, leaving you to yourself, trying to smooth out the wrinkle he's left in the corner of your shirt.

#this is my attempt at being a bit more organized akhfkahfa #the second part ends so abruptly that i'm tempted to extend it a little more............#if i don't put up the second part right away it's bc i'm thinking about it LOL #bakugou x reader #bakugou x fem!reader #i did not even check over this for typos whoops #not a one shot oh well #✿ willow writes #✿ one shot: bakugou

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likealittleheartbeat · 2 months

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I try to generally be constructive and engaged with the show I love on here, so on this day, I’ll just say that one of the most thematically important aspects for me from the original ATLA is Aang’s emotional core of real shame for running away when he was hurt by the monk’s decision to send him away. People who feel the kind of deep-seated shame that Aang feels from this decision can understand how that kind of all-encompassing shame is not built around a simple failure or a lie they tell themselves; it’s constructed from real misbehaviors and transgressions of their own sense of ethics—lashing out, telling lies, attempting to hurt others intentionally—that then have consequences (abuses, abandonments, or deaths) which seem to far exceed their expectations or even basic logic.

The combination of the misbehavior with exaggerated existential punishments (along with a lack of support and amend-making in the immediate wake of the events) is what transforms a sense of guilt (I fucked up) into shame (I am a forever fuck-up). Then shame, that sense of being a secret monster ‘no matter what I do or how good everyone thinks I am,’ invites all the avoidance strategies (Aang puts on big smiles, makes lots of jokes, constantly tries to make everyone happy, hops from town to town without building deeper connections). One doesn’t want to acknowledge one’s true feelings or let others in to see those feelings and experiences because it’s too painful to face the grief at the same time that you have to look at yourself for being responsible—even when you recognize it wasn’t totally your fault. It’s just that if you had just been good, less emotional, less human, then maybe the world wouldn’t be so messed up. Of course, in a zen view of things, the world will always be messed up in the same way it will always be beautiful. These are constant facts that always coexist in balance, and this is the truth that Aang learns and that undergirds the whole series.

So I always loved that Aang ran away. It was his sin and his salvation. And it becomes this constant tension for the series—he gets hurt in Bato of the Water Tribe and starts to run away from Katara and Sokka, he runs away to the Guru in the Crossroads of Destiny and his best friend is attacked, he and the gaang retreat after the Day of the Black Sun failure, he runs away to meditation in Sozin’s Comet when everyone wants him preparing for war. Aang’s reluctance to be a hero and the attachments and petulance for which he gets criticized are what metamorphasize to become his most noble attributes. They allow him to empathize with others shame and, ultimately, wield the kind of compassion that can deconstruct the power and perfectionism of imperialism.

So yes, Aang ran away from his temple 100 years ago. It wasn’t the mentally healthy choice. It wasn’t the ethical choice. It wasn’t the wise choice. It was human and emotional and shameful and real. Aang is a better character for it. ATLA is a better show because of it. And we are better people when we understand these kind of tragic emotional experiences that people are trying so hard to grow through.

#aanglove #vague posting about the nf adaptation lol #I won’t go off in my posts but I will in my comments #only 17 minutes in tbh #and already amazed at realizing how cool it was that the of series wasn’t told in a linear style lol #I do think the casting department went off for the nf series tho #the kid playing aang is so perf #and all the actors fit their parts so well #but the show doesn’t understand or seem interested in depicting colonial violence at alllll #and the language of the fire nation wanting to ‘take over the world’ is so much more marvel than a colonial rhetoric #and then aang just wanting to ‘go get some air’ to clear his head…😑#we aren’t allowed to have problematic protagonists anymore I guess #only people with perfect mental health strategies allowed in young adult fiction #because we view fiction from a moralistic standpoint now instead of an empathetic one #but 🤷🏻‍♀️

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