tripleoya - Tumblr blog

tripleoya · 3 years ago

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OH MY GOD, I DONT KNOW HOW TO DESCRIBE HOW I FEEL, IT SO WHOLESOME AND CUTE QND SHI LIKE WTJHH I WANT KATSUKI TO WRITE A SONG ABT ME ANF AGHHHHHHH

the night we met

rockstar!bakugou katsuki x reader

summary - months after your breakup with famous musician bakugou katsuki you still feel like an open wound. But when he shows up at your door, newly sober, you're not about to let him know that. hurt/comfort/smut

cws - alcohol, bakugou does AA and goes to therapy, exes to lovers, denki's mildly misogynistic, reader can cook too, bakugou sings like hozier idk i dont make the rules lmk if i missed something. repost from my old blog, katsupeach

minors dni

He had enjoyed ten months of being totally irresponsible until the sun broke in through the windows of his hotel room, nervously peeking through the venetian blinds. There’s a pounding at his door, pulling a low groan from his lips.

“The fuck d’you want?” Bakugou snarls, climbing out of his bed, stepping over his clothes from last night, listening to the shower in his bathroom start to run, shit, had he had someone over the night before? And forgotten? He rubs his eyes and Denki nearly knocks him over with a huge hug.

“Bro!” He grins, “You hungover?” Bakugou grunts an affirmation, gesturing towards the bathroom. Denki looks uncharacteristically nervous. “Have you uh, have you checked your phone?”

“Nah.” Bakugou and Denki spend about half an hour searching for it, eventually discovering it in the wastepaper bin. He has forty missed calls from his manager, and when he checks his socials, he sees the video he posted. He watches, and it’s almost an out of body experience, as he does a shot from between some girls breasts, takes a hit something from a beautiful dark haired boys lips and backflips off of the roof into the pool.

“Fuck,” he snaps, takikng it down immediately. “I mean, shit, man, I-” His phone explodes with vibrations in his hands, it’s his manager. Denki pats his head, and Bakugou glances nervously at the bathroom and Denki stands.

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t steal your shit. Take the call outside.”

“Thanks man,” Bakugou throws on a pair of pants and steps out onto the patio of his hotel room. “Bakugou.” He rasps, using his own name by way of greeting.

“Yeah?” He can hear his manager pacing around his office. “Is that all you have to say to me? You know how much we spend cleaning up your image? The moms are gonna ban your fuckin’ music again.” He rubs his eyes, and there’s a rush of static as his manager sighs. “You were never like this, man, I,” he pauses on the other side of the country from the trashy resort, “I don’t wanna overstep. But maybe you should call her.” A fist closes around the musician’s heart.

“Call who?”

“Seriously?” His manager sits back down. “You know who I’m talking about. You can get everyone else to drink your kool aid rockstar bullshit, but not me.”

“I broke up with her.” Bakugou says, his voice catching on his own carefully constructed walls, “Because I was done with her, I was fuckin’ tired of that shit. I don’t want someone tellin’ me what time to be home, and to be careful and shit, it’s fuckin’ emascualting-”

“To be cared for?” His manager snaps, and Bakugou scowls, his hangover eating away at his stomach. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bakugou sighs and then a wave of nausea overtakes him, he leans over and vomits into a bush. “Bakugou,” he hears, “Bakugou, are you there?” He spits a couple times.

“Yeah.”

“Call her. It can’t hurt to just call. You don’t uh,” he hears his manager hedge, “You're burning through the goodwill you built with the public quickly. Get it?”

“Yep.” Bakugou wipes his mouth with his hand. “Do you uh,” he grabs a dry cocktail napkin someone left on the table and wipes his hand, suddenly he feels disgusting, feels dirty and sweaty and dehydrated. “Do you think she’s gonna pick up?” His manager takes a moment, looking out at the city.

“Honestly?” He says, “I wouldn’t.”

“Great.” Bakugou snaps, hanging up and sliding the door to his room back open, “Jesus fucking christ, Denki,” he snarls, the honey blonde has the girl from the shower bent over the bed, moaning loudly,

“Were you not done?” Denki asks, “Bro?” Bakugou rolls his eyes, and storms out of the room, palming Denki’s wallet. He goes right to the front desk, and slides the card across the counter.

“I’m gonna need another room.”

______

“Your ex is in the news again,” Arielle leans on your desk. “You know, Bakugou Katsuki?” You sigh deeply.

“One of these days you're gonna come over to tell me about that guy I dated in college who went into finance.” You respond, and she snorts.

“Maybe when he goes to prison.” She hands you her phone, and you watch the video of Bakugou’s face buried in someone else's breasts, then inhaling a lungful of smoke from a stranger. You sigh again.

“He was never,” you shiver, “He was never like that, with me. But I guess,” you press your lips together, “I was holding him back from things he wanted. Or that’s what he said.” Arielle shrugs.

“No offense, but I still think it’s hilarious that you dated.” She looks you up and down.

“What does that mean?” You lift your head, ice in your tone. Arielle narrows her darkly lined eyes.

“Exactly what I said.”

“I’m gonna get back to work,” you say quietly, handing her her phone back. She disappears around the corner of desks and you wait a moment before googling him, something you’ve trained yourself to only do a few times a month. It’s been a year . You pick at your cuticles. It’s only natural that he would have moved on .

____

Bakugou showers, and downs every plastic water bottle in the minifridge, pouring the booze into one of the fake plants in the corner of the room. He refills another one in the hotel room sink and downs it before collapsing on the new bed. His thumb hovers over your number for a moment, his black nail polish is chipped.

“Fuckin’ coward.” He snarls at himself, tossing his smartphone across the bed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He starts pacing, walking in circles around the room, until he can’t take it any more, buzzing with some kind of eclectic energy. He leaves his room, heading down the stairs. He stops at his floor, opening the door to his room and peeking his head in. Denki and the girl are half passed out, half high, absolutely tangled in each other. Bakugou slips past them and grabs his guitar, a shining black acoustic, before heading back to his new room. He locks the door before him, and stares at his phone, plucking a new melody as rain starts to fall on the roof of his hotel room.

_____

You slide a little deeper into your bubble bath, and take a sip of your wine. Calm down, you tell yourself, this is supposed to be calming. This is what adults do to relax . Your phone sits on the corner of your sink. You glower at it. Fucking Arielle. You wouldn’t, shouldn’t, weren’t thinking about him. Not the man who’d waltzed into your life and set it on fire, and left you to burn. You sigh deeply, and close your eyes re-living the last time you’d seen him.

“Where the hell have you been?” You snap, as the huge tattooed blonde lets himself into your apartment, “Bakugou do you know how fucking worried I’ve been about you, it’s been days?”

“I’m a goddamn adult,” he’d matched your tone, pain melting to vitriol. “I don’t need you fucking worrying about me and projecting your goddamn shit all over me, every time someone doesn’t call you think they’re dead, is that supposed to be my problem?”

“I just,” you swallow, anxiety winning over anger, “I just get nervous, when I don’t hear from you at all-”

“Be an adult.” He’d leaned in and hissed, his sharp canines visible in the low light. “I’m gonna do whatever the fuck I want.”

“If you leave right now,” you’d said, tears spilling over in your eyes, “Don’t bother coming back.” He’d smiled, it was ghoulish and angry.

“Watch me go, baby.” He’d turned and walked backwards out of your door. “I ain’t gonna lose sleep over it.”

You can’t help but wonder if he’d always been like this, always been so sharply broken he sliced into anyone who got close to him. The bath clearly isn’t working so you step out of the warm water and snuggle into a robe. You take your phone with you as you walk into the kitchen, leaving it on the counter as you pour yourself another glass of wine. But there he is, like you summoned him by your own mourning, his contact photo one you’d taken of him during rehearsal, he’d just kicked his mic stand down and back up in one fluid motion, his guitar slung over his back, tattooed knuckles wrapped around the thin neck of the stand, a self satisfied smirk on his face.

Incoming Call - Bakugou Katsuki

It flashes, his name, his body, his face, and it almost feels like he’s trespassing in your home. Like he’d broken in, unbidden, shattered a window with a rock. Your heart kicks into high gear as you swipe to answer with trembling hands.

“Hey.” He says gruffly, and his voice, rough as shoes on gravel, cigarette smoke and whiskey, shoots through your body like an electric shock. “I’m writing again.” He says, when you don’t speak.

“Um, oh.” You collect yourself. “I’m really happy to hear that.” In his hotel room, Bakugou’s hand shakes, so he puts you on speaker and lays his phone on the bedspread. “What are you, what are you writing?”

“That’s the thing.” He says, looking anywhere but at your contact photo, something he’d taken of you when he’d said your name, and you’d glanced up, recognition and warmth in your eyes. Back when you found comfort in his presence, rather than bracing yourself for pain. “I got uh, got the melody, can’t figure out the words.” You lean against the counter, closing your eyes. “Whatcha doin’ right now?” You giggle, and the sound rips his beating heart from his chest, how could he have forgotten the gentle music of that sound?

“Well I just got out of the bath. So I’m in a robe.” You shake your head and he snorts.

“Tryna seduce me?”

“Absolutely not.” You say, and there’s a slight edge to your voice.

“Right.” He presses his lips together, “Sorry I uh, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Probably not.” You let out a shaky breath. “Let’s hear the melody, Bakugou.” Miles away, he nods, strumming lightly on the guitar, discordant f for four beats, c major, and then a g major that remains unresolved, each for two beats.

“Feels unfinished.” He says.

“Well you’ve chosen not to resolve it.” You say with a light laugh, but he can hear how forced it is, and wonders if he’s hurting you more by doing this, by calling you. “You could always, um,” you rub your eyes, studying the speckled pattern on your counter. “You could always resolve it with a non discordant F, just play it right.”

“Feels too easy.” Bakugou grunts, still strumming.

“But it sounds good!” You protest, and there’s a second of silence, where all you can hear is the guitar. “What’s up, though, what did you need?”

“Do I have to call because I need somethin’?” He says, almost absentmindedly, as if this very conversation wasn’t grating away the muscle in your chest. You chew your lip and choose your words carefully.

“I saw um, the video you posted.” He doesn’t say anything. “So I know you’re not calling for companionship.” He stops playing.

“Do you, know that?”

“Yeah,” and the ice cracks, the pain bubbles over into your voice. “Yeah I do.” He can hear it now, and you know he can hear it, and fuck nothing could be more embarassing than-

“Shit, sweetheart I-”

“Fuck you.” You choke out, as the tears start to fall. “Fuck you, for, for breaking my heart. I don’t forgive you for it.” You jab at the end call button, and the first time you hit it nothing happens, so you get to hear him sputter, get to hear him beg, rather than snarl, before the line disconnects.

_____

Bakugou throws his phone for real this time, and the screen shatters as it hits the hotel wall. He rakes his hand through his hair and then gets up, picking it up, nearly slicing his fingers as he dials his manager.

“Hello, you’ve got Watari.” His manager says.

“S’me.” Bakugou says quietly, holding the phone in shaking hands. “She picked up.”

“Oh good!” Watari leans back in his office chair. “Did you have a good chat?”

“No.” Bakugou says, barely able to keep the emotion from his voice. “But I gotta, I gotta ask you a favor.”

“You were my first client.” Watari shrugs, “Whatever you need, you got it.”

“You gotta,” and Bakugou’s voice breaks, he starts to sob, heavy, angry chest aching sounds, “You gotta fix me, man, I don’t wanna be like this, anymore, please you gotta, I thought she would, I thought she’d do it, but-” the crying takes over his voice and he doubles over at the thought of the damage he’d done, to you of all people, the way his words must have cut you for you to still be feeling the pain nearly a year later.

“Bakugou,” Watari chides gently. “I can help, but you gotta do it. It’s work, man, you gotta do it.” Bakugou wipes his face, trying and failing to steady his voice.

“W-what’s first,” he chokes out.

“Rehab.” Watari says grimly. “If you wanna pretend that your relationship with alcohol is healthy, then go ahead. I know you’ve mostly avoided the harder shit.” Mostly, Bakugou thinks about where he’d been when he went AWOL on you, of grimy bathrooms, of paper bags.

“I might uh, yeah.” He shrugs, sniffing and wiping his face, “Rehab’s a good idea. Good start. Rehab.” He sighs. “She sounded like, like she was still in pain, man I,” he nearly breaks down again, “How did I hurt someone I loved that much, I like, I didn’t even know why I was yelling at her, I just fucking was, man.”

“You’re gonna get better, alright.” Watari says softly, “But you know she doesn’t have to take you back.”

“I know. I know.”

______

“Musician Bakugou Katsuki checked himself into a rehabilitation center early this morning,” The reporter on the TV mimics concern as you take a bite of your toast. “Reportedly for an addiction to alcohol, but reports are surfacing that there may have been some harder drug use as well. A spokesperson for Bakugou had this to say.” The camera cuts to Watari, standing in front of a beautiful white house that you assume is the Rehab center. “Bakugou came to the decision that he needs to make a change in his life. He’s grateful for his fans' support through this difficult time. Thank you.” He nods to the camera and the feed cuts back to the newscaster. One of Bakugou’s early hits flows through the speakers of your TV,

“From the destruction, out of the flames,” you hear, and the hair on your arms pricks up, “You need a villain, give me a name.” You close your eyes for a moment and it’s like he’s standing in front of you, plucking the complex melody on the guitar, “I’ll be your friend,” he sings, “In the daylight again, old enemies, like the salt and the sea,” he reaches the upper portion of his register, “Like the salt and the sea.” You swallow and the footage changes to footage of Bakugou at a concert, screaming into a microphone, then pictures of him posing with a fan. You turn the TV off, and let out a shaky breath.

____

Your phone rings in the middle of the night, and you answer it without looking at whos calling. The familiar rasp sends your heart into a sprint.

“Hey, kid.”

“B-bakugou,” you stutter, rubbing your eyes, “Are you okay, do you need-”

“Nah, nah I’m good.” He says quickly. “Still at uh, rehab.”

“Oh.” You lie back in your bed and close your eyes.

“Wanted to say that I’m sorry.” He gets out, leaning against the wall next to the phone. “But I also, uh, selfish of me, but I wanted to hear your voice.”

“That is selfish.” You say quietly. “But um, I’ve been worried about you. It’s nice to know you’re okay. How’s um, sobriety?”

“Boring.” He shakes his head. “Mind numbingly boring. I gotta find a hobby.”

“You’re a musician.” You say dryly and he rolls his eyes.

“That’s work. I need a hobby.” He shoves his free hand in his pocket. “Jesus, y’know, I think about that last day all the time, and I was, I was so fuckin’ high, I didn’t-”

“I know. I know. It’s um, it’s not okay, but it’s-”

“It’s not.” He agrees. “It’s not okay. I’ll uh, I’ll regret hurtin’ ya for as long as I’m alive. Which,” he groans, “Seems like it’s gonna be longer. Than previously expected.”

“That’s good.” You tug the sheets around you.

“Can I ask you something?” He says, and his hands tremble, the phone shakes.

“Yeah.” You swallow. “I mean, you can ask.”

“Would you wanna, I mean, could I see you, when I get outta here?” There’s a pause, you consider. “As friends.” He says quickly, “I mean fully, fully platonic, scouts honor ‘n shit, I’ll be good, I’ll be on my best fuckin’ behavior I-”

“We could cook?” You pipe up, and he reels for a full second, he absolutely expected you to tell him to fuck off. “For um, for your hobby. I’m a good cook.” His throat gets tight, he tries to hide the emotion with a cough.

“Yeah, uh, fuck.” He wipes his eyes. “Yeah I’d like that.”

“Best behavior.” You say, a warning. “Or um, I’ll block you. For real this time.”

“I’m gonna be a choirboy.” He promises. “Better than a choirboy, I’ll, I’ll,” you cut him off with a giggle.

“It’s funny, hearing you beg.”

“I’ve gotten better at it.” He says, attempting humor, and you sigh.

“Somehow I doubt that.” You adjust your duvet. “But um, when do you get out?” He glances at the clock, shifting his weight uncomfortably. The phones on the wall at the rehab center were meant for someone of average height, so Bakugou has to lean down to get to it.

“Technically we decide when we’re done.” He explains, “But I’m not done yet. Not sure uh, when I will be but I’m not comin’ near ya till I’m, till I’m much much better than I am right now. Not till I’m close to perfect.”

“That sounds good to me.” You whisper. “Just um, call first. Don’t show up.”

“Don’t wanna open your door to find your ex boyfriend waitin’ there?”

“Well all of my friends want to murder you,” you explain, “And if they’re here when you show up, you’re gonna get an earful.”

“I deserve an earful.” Bakugou rasps. “But I get it. I’ll call. Hopefully, uh, soon.”

_____

About a month later you’re tugging at your red wrap dress, wondering what you’re supposed to wear to platonically hang out with an ex. True to his word, he’d called first, letting you know he was moving back to Tokyo, getting an apartment downtown by the water. It’s cold out, a driving rain pummeling your windows, coating the day in artificial darkness. Exactly on time, he raps his knuckles on your apartment door, then shoves his hands in his pockets to hide how they’re shaking. You open the door, and there he is, as handsome as the day he’d stormed out.

He’s dressed in a worn leather jacket, it’s black and huge, hanging off of his shoulders. His back ripped skinny jeans bunch at the ankles, and whatever black graphic t-shirt he’s wearing has some extremely purposeful hold. He hands you a huge bouquet of red roses.

“Apology part one.” He says, and the smell of his cologne is so familiar and comforting you nearly fall into his arms.

“Oh,” you wrap your arms around the flowers and barely manage to hold them as he closes the door behind you. You set them on a counter and he watches you drag a stool over to your cabinet.

“Don’t climb on that shit,” he chides gently, “Lemme get it for ya.” He stands behind you and reaches over your head to the top shelf of your cabinet, taking the vase in his hands and setting it on the counter. You feel a warmth on your face.

“Thanks.” He nods, and slips out of his jacket, hanging it on the back of your chair. “So um, cooking.” He nods again. “I thought we’d start with something easy, and italian.”

“Fine by me.” He rasps, and your eyes flick to his bicep. “New ink.” He says, following your gaze.

“Is that a holly bough?” You ask, and he nods, it’s beautiful and detailed, just poking out of the top of his short sleeve, green glossy leaves and little red berries.

“It comes down onto my chest,” he traces the length of the design, “Like this.” You swallow. “I’d show ya,” he grins, “But I promised to be on my best behavior. Which I gotta think means I keep my shirt on.”

“It does.” You say quickly, taking down a jug of olive oil and a head of garlic from the cabinet. “So,” you place a saucepan on the stove. “You actually have to be careful when you’re doing this, because if you burn the garlic, it’ll get bitter.” He quirks an eyebrow, and you slide a cutting board across the table. “Do you know how to peel garlic?” He looks sheepish.

“In my defense,” he says, “When most people we’re movin’ out of their parents house I was buyin’ my parents a new one.'' You shake your head reproachfully at him.

“You have zero life skills. You barely know how to fold laundry!”

“I can’t believe you’re still on about that,” His grin widens, “They make you do your own shit in rehab, by the way, but I still can’t fold a fitted sheet.”

“No one,” you start to peel the papery layers off of the garlic, “No one can fold a fitted sheet. That’s a myth like, like the loch ness monster, or um,” you think about it, “Slenderman.”

“Nah.” Bakugou shakes his head. “I ain’t afraid of that shit. Sea monster or uh, man monster.”

“So there are a few ways you can do this,” you look at the garlic clove, still in it’s husk. “But um, I have a way that I think would be your favorite.'' You gesture for him to come over to you, and he does, maintaining a few inches of respectful distance. You place the flat of a large knife against the clove. “Hit this with the heel of your palm, not that hard, alright?” You twist to look up at him and he nods. He lifts his hand and brings it down hard on the garlic, which of course, smashes to a pulp and spurts everywhere. You jump backwards, laughing. “Bakugou I said not that hard!”

“I didn’t do it that hard!” He protests, flashing his palms, his words belied by the muscles rippling in his arms.

“Put your hand up.” You order and he obeys, a smug grin on his lips. “Like this.” You punch his hand lightly and he rolls his eyes.

“That’s nothin’.” He complains, taking the knife and the next clove, expertly smashing it. “I got this. What happens when we’re done.”

“Four of those first and then we mince them, that means chop them finely.” You explain, stepping away from the cutting board and letting him take over. You get a few more things from the cabinet while he works, picking up the knife technique easily. He watches you pour some olive oil into the pan, a deep tainted gold, and turn the burner on low.

“Can’t believe you uh, picked up. Either time.” He says eventually, wiping the knife clean and letting the garlic sit in a pile.

“I um,” you shake your head, “I could say I was worried about you but the truth is more,” you choose your words carefully, the truth is more I missed you.” The words hit him harder than he expects, barely able to nod. “It’s like, everywhere I went I would see something that reminded me of you.”

“Oh yeah?” He says, trying to keep his voice non committal and only barely managing it. “Like what?”

“Oh like, like those crackers I used to keep around because you had a sensitive stomach and they settled it. I started seeing them everywhere, and I was always thinking, um you know,” you turn to look at him, holding his gaze in the low light. “You know that I hoped you were feeling alright, wherever you were.” He nods, guilt heavy in his chest.

“I went on a hell of a bender.”

“I saw.” Something in your jaw tightens.

“Fuck,” he shakes his head, “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. To see me like that.”

“It was awful.” Your voice is light, but he can hear it. “I know you, you know, you don’t like parties, you get tired at 8PM, you, um,” you attempt to swallow the emotions the surface, but they don’t go away, “And I couldn’t help but think, maybe,” your voice wobbles, “Maybe that you were doing it to spite me.”

“No,” Bakugou breathes, shocked, “No no, absolutely not, I, I promise, absolutely not. I couldn’t,” he rakes his hands through his hair, “I could never hurt you on purpose.'' You let out a soft sigh.

“Add the garlic, to um to the pot.” Bakugou ignores your request, instead watches you wipe your eyes.

“Can I touch you?” He asks, desperate, unsure of what he’ll do if you say no, but you nod, reaching for him. He moves like lightning, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his arms around you. “I promise, I just fell apart. I was just tryin’ to forget how stupid I felt for uh, for ruinin’ us.” He rubs your back, heart sprinting, “I feel like, so fucking lucky that you even want to see me now.”

“I missed you.” You repeat, burying your face in his chest. He presses his lips to the top of your head.

“It’s important to me that you know I uh, I know I don’t deserve you.” He lets go, wiping one of his eyes with a black lacquered fingernail. You sniff and shake your head.

“I’m just happy for you that you're um, you’re getting better.” You reach past him for the garlic, and add it to the oil, mixing it around with a wooden spoon. “So um, in italian cooking you usually start by blooming your flavors in oil, so we’ll do garlic, and then you’re gonna chop this for me,” you hand him a white onion, “And we’ll add anchovies and red pepper.” He scrunches his face up.

“Anchovies?” He squints at you.

“It comes together!” You protest, grateful for the levity. He watches carefully as you cook the aromatics in light oil, your apartment fills with a delicious smell. He wrinkles his nose at the anchovies but flashes his palms, trusting you. You grunt lightly, struggling to open the jar of capers, and hand it to him, watching him pop the container easily. He drains it for you in the sink, same for the olives, watching you stir them into the sauce. “This is important.” You tap your canned tomatoes with one finger. “If you use shitty canned tomatoes the whole thing will be ruined, you need San Marzano, brand doesn’t matter that much but trust me it’ll ruin the whole thing.”

“Noted.” He says gruffly, taking the can opener from you. “I don’t wanna go to the ER again tonight.”

“That was one time,” you protest. “I wasn’t paying attention.” He smirks at you, and for a second he looks like his old self.

“Call me overprotective then.” He opens the can for you. “These are the good ones?” You nod and he takes his phone out, snapping a picture of the brand. “This time,” he mutters, not looking at you, “I wanna get it right.” The weight of his words nearly crushes you.

“Good.” You manage. The sauce turns out alright, and so does the pasta, you try and keep your eyes off the muscles in his arms when he pours the boiling water for you, his huge silhouette illuminated against the steam and low light of your kitchen. You eat mostly in silence, sitting across from each other at the table. You’re both nearly finished when he speaks.

“Should I ask about work?”

“No.” You look away. “I haven’t, don’t get mad at me, but I haven’t really done any music since you left.” He nods.

“I figured as much.” He leans back in his chair, it creaks. “But you already know I think you’ve got a voice the world deserves to hear.” You shake your head.

“I think I’m much more suited to um,” you gesture to your work laptop, sitting on the coffee table, one room over. “Marketing.” He scoffs.

“I think you could do anything you put your mind to. And you’ve decided there’s a chance of failure with music, so you won’t take that risk.” You look away from him and he shrugs. “I’m not gonna pull punches with you just ‘cause I’m sober now.”

“All the way sober huh?” You say, changing the subject and he nods.

“All the way. Been a few months since I had a drink, and I gotta say, I miss drinkin’ but I don’t miss hangovers at all. Or blackouts.” He shivers. “They tell us not to romanticize it though, so I should uh, talk about something else.” You nod.

“Did you finish that song?” You ask. “The one you called me about?” He laughs bitterly.

“Haven’t written anything descent since I left ya. That’s the truth.” He shrugs. “Might be done with that. Writin’. Maybe I oughta just buy some song someone else wrote for me.”

“Fuck that.” You laugh. “We both know you’d rather never sing again.” A wide smile spreads across his face.

“You know me.” He admits.

“I do.”

_______

“Is this a good one?” Bakugou wonders aloud, picking up a tomato at the farmers market, looking at you over his dark, expensive sunglasses.

“You tell me. Give it a squeeze, gently. ” You warn, and he laughs.

“I’m not gonna pop the fuckin’ tomato like I did the garlic.” He shakes his head at you. “C’mon I’m more aware of myself than that.” You giggle. “And,” he puts it in the bag, and takes another, “It’s a good one. I decided.” He leads you out of the farmers market stall, and you move quickly down the street, as glances from casual onlookers pick up. “Sorry.” He says quietly. “Goin’ anywhere with me must be your worst fuckin’ nightmare.”

“It’s alright.” You shrug. “I’m used to it from when we dated.” He shudders, stopping at another tent, ducking underneath. “Oh perfect,” you take out your wallet, “We’ll do three of the fresh mozzarella balls, please.” The man behind the counter nods, but Bakugou palms him some cash before you can pay.

“Don’t try to pay for shit in front of me.” He shakes his head. “I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.”

“I’d never assume that means you’re paying!” You protest, as you take the plastic wrapped cheese and put it in your basket next to the tomato.

“You should.” He retorts. “I oughta pay your rent for what I put you through.” You shake your head at him, leaving the tent. “Shit though,” he touches your upper arm, “Someone just took a picture of us. We probably have half an hour tops before the paps swarm.”

“We just need one more thing.” You take his hand impulsively and pull him down the street to an older woman on the corner. She’s got a myriad of green plants on a few shelves and you pick one quickly, barely considering. It’s a huge basil plant, he can see that much, rich and fragrant in the humid air. “We’ll take it.” You say, and he takes the pot from you, fumbling for his wallet, but with the plant he’s too slow and you pay.

“Hmm,” you tease as the two of you walk away. “Maybe you’re not quick enough on the draw. Sobriety is dulling you.”

“Sobriety is boring me.” He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize how much time I spent drunk, and now I just spend it cooking.” You nod, about once a day you could count on an apologetic Bakugou swinging by your apartment with a tray of lasagna, or eggplant parmesan, or coq au vin, looking for your approval, and someone to eat with him.

“How are your bandmates doing?”

“Denki’s pissed at me.” Bakugou confirms. “Sero’s barely been sober long enough to notice I’m gone.”

“And Kirishima?” You ask and Bakugou shrugs.

“We haven’t spoken since he left the band, which you know, so it’s funny you’d ask me.”

“We were apart for 10 months.” You arrange the tomatoes and cheese in your basket as the two of you make your way to his car. “I only know the parts of your life that ended up on TMZ.” He winces.

“You got the gist then.” He opens the door to his jeep for you, and takes the basket, setting it in the seat behind yours before hopping up into the drivers seat.

“Have you tried writing music again?” He shakes his head.

“Not since uh, the first time I called you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He makes a left turn. “Back to your place?” You nod.

“This is an easy recipe.” He smiles at you, then looks away, carefully pulling into traffic.

“You don’t know what uh, what it means to me that you do this. Put up with me.” You balk a little at that.

“I’m not putting up with you Bakugou.” You playfully punch his shoulder, right above the holly tattoo, “I like doing this with you. It’s a nice way to spend my weekends. With you, I mean.” He grins.

“That uh,” he swallows. “Thanks.”

_______

“I gotta ask you somethin’ important.” Bakugou is leaning over your counter, the two of you are covered in flour from an ill advised baking attempt. Some months have passed, and with the holiday’s approaching you’d dug out a recipe for sticky toffee pudding and subsequently the two of you had trashed your kitchen. Two failed attempts at carmel sit on the stove, and you’ve run out of figs.

“What’s up?” You lift your head and catch an odd expression on his face.

“I’m gettin’ my six month chip.” He says gruffly. “I was hopin’ you’d come. There’s a little dumb ceremony and-”

“Oh my gosh!” You leap around the table and throw your arms around him. “I am so, so happy for you, of course, of course I will.” You feel him hold you tightly to his chest for a moment, he buries his face in your neck.

“Thank you.” He whispers. “It’s been really, really fucking hard.”

“You’re killin’ it.” You tease, as he lets go of you, “Sobriety, it um, it looks good on you.” He presses his lips together, shaking his head.

“Label’s on my ass.”

“About writing?” You wipe your flour covered hands on your apron.

“About an album.” He grunts. “I owe ‘em one, but I can’t write shit without booze and drugs, and like even the fuckin’ depression like,” he gestures, “I used to write to make myself feel less alone and doomed and now,” he holds your gaze for a moment and then looks away, “I don’t feel like that anymore.”

“Well I’ve never been happier to hear anything in my life.” You say quietly, and he looks at you sharply. “The music will come back Bakugou, but um,” you take a hand and press it over his heart. “But it’s not worth you being miserable. It never was. Not to me.” There’s a single moment, where you both know what’s about to happen, where you both feel the bubble of tension pop, feel a wave of vertigo, feel the pressure of the intimacy crash around you.

He kisses you, one hand cupping your cheek, the other flying to your waist. You wrap your arms around his neck and he moves, lifting you and placing you on the counter.

“The caramel,” you murmur and he kisses down your jawline, mouth on the valley of your collarbone, lips so hot they nearly burn your skin.

“Fuck the caramel,” he snarls, his hand sinking into the plush of your hips, “We’ll make more.”

“Then,” you gasp, “Then my bed, my bedroom,” his teeth sink into the skin of your neck.

“Fine.” He takes your hand and yanks you down the hallway to your room, you twist, and pull him down on top of you on the bed. “Fuck,” he kisses you again, your hands tangling in his hair, “Fuck baby, missed you, I missed you so fucking much.” You arch your hips up, grinding them against his.

“I missed you,” you gasp, “I missed you too.” He slips a hand under the elastic of your leggings, reaching between your thighs and rubbing at your clit gently.

“Already wet,” he breathes, “Thats my fuckin’ girl.” You let out a soft whimper as he parts your folds and starts impatiently pumping his fingers in and out of you, drinking in each of your moans between his lips, kissing away the sounds.

“Fuck, B-bakugou,” you choke out and he scissors them inside you.

“Cut that shit.” He snaps. “Call me Katsuki.”

“K-k-katsuki,” you choke out, eyes rolling, “Want, want you to fuck me, please,” you plead and he chuckles, kissing you again.

“Hmmmm,” he kisses your jaw, you feel his breath on your ear, “Do ya want it bad enough, huh, tell me how much you missed me?”

“Missed you so much,” you half whine, half pant, “Thought about you, when I, when I touched myself, while you were gone I-”

“Oh yeah?” Bakugou yanks your tank top down pulling your breasts free from your bra, “Did ya think about me,” he sucks on one of your nipples, pulling a low wanton moan from you, “While you were touchin’ that pretty little pussy of yours?”

“S’yours,” you slur and fuck he could cum in his jeans just hearing you say that, “S’your pussy, Katsuki,”

“Fuck,” he snarls ripping his shirt and pants off, kicking his jeans onto your floor. Your eyes go to the holly bough tattoo, it comes down his arm and onto his chest, green and red and sharp edges. “Baby, fuck , I missed you.” He pulls your leggings off in one fluid movement and climbs on top of you.

“Go slow,” you beg and a wide grin spreads across his face.

“Dontcha worry that pretty little head of yours,” he kisses you softly, lining up at your entrance, “I’ll letcha get used to it again.” He rolls his hips as he eases his length inside you, your mouth drops open at the stretch. “That’s my good girl,” he stops for a second, and kisses your cheek, “Need me to stop?” You shake your head.

“N-no, I can take it.” You protest and he chuckles.

“Remember you said that.” He smirks. “Cause I will.” He takes your legs and throws them over his shoulder before burying himself inside you to the hilt with a long groan, bracing his weight on his elbows as he rolls his hips against yours. Your breath is coming in short sharp gasps as he sets a brutal pace, your eyes rolling in the back of your head as his heavy cock drags against that bundle of nerves inside you at the perfect angle.

Your arms hook around his muscled back, nails dragging against his skin. Occasionally he leans down to kiss you, but he prefers to watch, to watch how he can break you down with just a little roll of his hips in the right direction.

“Atta girl,” he growls, when he starts to feel you clench around him, “That’s my fuckin’ girl, gonna cum for me?” You nod, mewling softly, clinging to him for dear life as he picks up the pace, “That’s my girl.” He watches as you vault over the cliff of your orgasm, taken aback by how different it feels to fuck you sober.

“Katsuki,” you choke out, holding onto him tightly.

“M right here,” He reminds you, “I’m right here, baby,” tears pool in your eyes as he kisses you again, “Fuck,” he slams his hips against your, “M’gonna cum, baby, you want that, want me to cum in that pretty little pussy of yours?”

“Yeah,” you look up at him, eyes wide and glassy, pupils opium blown, “Yeah, w-want you, want-” He cuts you off with a loud groan, emptying himself inside you. He collapses on top of you, knocking the wind from your lungs before sliding to your side and holding your body close to his.

“S a miracle.” He mutters. “That I’ve got you like this. It’s a miracle, ya coulda told me to go to hell and I wouldn’t even have blinked, I woulda thought you were being fair.”

“Too bad I never fell out of love with you.” You mutter.

“Maybe I believe in god after all.” He says, and that makes you giggle. He squeezes you, then laughs, brushing some flour from your face.

“I have to tell you something embarrassing.” you sigh. “Somehow, you’re already a better cook than me.” He laughs at that, and the sound is warm and genuine.

______

“I want a fucking drink.” Bakugou mutters, pacing around the green room, then flopping hard in the chair, “I’m sick of this sober shit, I can fucking handle it, I can handle one drink,” you press your lips together.

“Not before you go on TV,” you try, and he looks up at you, eyes bloodshot.

“I’m so tired,” he mutters, “This is fuckin’ exhaustin’ like, when am I fuckin’ done healin’, I thought, I thought I was supposed to be done with this shit.” He takes a deep breath.

“What um, what do you want to do right now?” You try, taking a step back from him.

“Leave.” He says hoarsely. “Leave, fuck this shit, fuck the band, fuck Watari, I,” he rakes his hand through his blonde hair, straw and gleaming in the flourescents.

“Let’s go.” You shrug. His eyes shoot open.

“What?”

“I said, let’s go, we can get on a plane, Bakugou,” you inch closer to him and he softens, “You’re not gonna have a drink. We both know that.” He nods.

“But I want one.”

“Yeah.” You take another step towards him.

“I hate havin’ fuckin’ masters,” he snaps angrily, “I hate Watari checkin’ in, I hate answerin’ to booze, I hate bein’ at peoples beck and call, I hate the label, you,” he looks at you, eyes full of pain, “You’re the only thing I give a shit about sometimes.” He presses his lips together. “And I uh, I realized why I’m upset.”

“Hm?” You say softly, still scared to approach him.

“If I asked you,” he sighs. “If I asked you, to sing with me, instead of makin’ me go out there alone, I, would that be asking too much?” Your mind reels, and you flashback to the night you met, the dive bar, your soft voice against the piano, the warmth of the spotlight. You remember your short lived recording career, being told you were the wrong size, wrong shape, wrong personality, not pretty enough, too pretty, too short, too tall too- “Please.” He says hoarsely. “I’m so fucking scared, and I don’t, I know I can’t rely on you with shit around my mental health but this is,” he glances over his shoulder, “This is stage fright.”

“I can’t.” You say softly, a fist closing around your heart. “But I’ll um, I’ll hold your hand for now.” You reach for him, and he stands, closing the distance between you.

“I don’t need a drink,” he mutters, as if he’s convincing himself, “I did this sober once, I can do it again.”

“Katsuki,” you whisper, “Katsuki look at me.” He blinks down at you. “When you finish that song you were writing, the day you called me, I’ll come up on stage with you.” He nods, his jaw tightening.

“You’ve got my fucken word then, that I’ll finish it.” You watch him, that night, nervous hands in his pockets as he makes conversation with the late night host, eyes finding you occasionally in the crowd.

“Yeah,” he pauses, “Here’s the thing about sobriety,” he says, when the host has pushed him on it a few times, “You can’t do it for another person. I didn’t get sober for y/n,” he says and there’s a silence, and you watch Bakugou realize in real time that he’s confirmed your relationship on national television, “Oh fuck,” he says, and the host bursts out laughing,

“Stop, stop swearing, please, god, we’re, we’re live!” Bakugou buries his face in his hand as the audience laughs.

“But, but,” he raises his hands and they calm down a little. “I love her,” he blurts out, and his face burns, “Wait, shit-”

“Stop that,” the host is laughing so hard he has to wipe his eyes, “Oh my god you’re my most expensive guest.” Bakugou grins, shaking off some of the nerves.

“What uh, what I was sayin’ about sobriety is that you can’t do it for anyone but you but uh, havin’ someone you love, helps with the stayin’ sober, if ya catch my drift.”

______

He strums the guitar, holding eye contact with you as your hands tremble. You avoid his gaze as much as you can, instead focusing on his body language, the way he’s hunched over his guitar in the recording booth, the way he picks up his head at the last minute.

“Boys workin’ on empty,'' his eyes catch yours, “Is that the kind of way to face the burnin’ heat,” his voice is deep and dark, catching on all the rough parts of his soul. “I just think about my baby,” he holds your gaze, “I’m so full of love I can barely eat.” You swallow and fold your hands in front of you, lacing your fingers. He sings like you’ve never heard him before his voice is clean and clear and beautiful, softer than you’ve ever experienced.

“When my time comes around,” he sings, “Lay me gently in the cold dark earth, no grave could lay my body down,” you feel your throat tighten, “I’ll crawl home to her.”

_____

Bakugou is onstage, strumming that same acoustic guitar in front of millions of people, halfway through the song when he stops, flipping some of his blonde hair out of his face.

“Hey,” he says, still playing lightly underneath, “I want uh, I want the girl, who this song is about to come out and sing it with me, what do ya think?” There’s a roar, a scream from the crowd, as he turns to the wings and beckons you to join him. “Hey,” he says quietly, “You’re the love of my life, you know that shit?” You laugh lightly, and come stand beside him.

“Hmmm,” he sings and you match him easily, harmonizing, “I am not the only traveler,” he sings, staring at you, “Who has not repaid his debts. I’ve been searchin’ for a trail to follow, again, take me back to the night we met.”

“I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you.” You sing and your pure tone carries beautifully. “Take me back to the night we met.” He takes your hand, lacing your fingers together.

“When the night was full of terrors,” you sing, “And your eyes were filled with tears.”

“When you had not, touched me yet,” He squeezes your hand, and you focus on his face, everything else is blinding, the lights, the stage, the crowd, “Oh take me back to the night we met.”

“I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you.” You sing together, “Take me back to the night we met.” Bakugou looks away from you as the song ends, but you can see on the huge monitors over the stadium that he’s wiping away a tear. The crowd screams and he shudders.

“Wrote that,” he gets out, “When I thought I’d lost ya.” You laugh a little.

“You’re stuck with me now.” You punch him lightly on the shoulder and he leans in and kisses you, dipping you back after slinging his guitar over his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

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