HAPPY BDAY AAAHHHH

TAPE IT | Bakugo Katsuki

synopsis:The night before Bakugo Katsuki ships out on another high-risk overseas mission, he doesn’t waste time with promises—he makes a memory instead. One raw, unforgettable moment laced with lust, love, and the ache of impending absence.

With only hours left together, he takes his time, worshipping you with hands and mouth, making you hold the camera so he can take a piece of you with him.

content: smut.

He’s leaving tomorrow.

Another mission overseas. Long, high-risk, and buried under a pile of top-secret files. He didn’t tell you much—just enough for the silence between you to grow heavier, thicker. Just enough for the air to carry that sharp ache of goodbye.

It’ll be weeks before you feel the weight of him in your bed again. Weeks before you can breathe in the scent of smoke, cedarwood, and sweat clinging to his skin. Weeks before you hear the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like a prayer as dawn starts to break.

So tonight, katsuki's making a memory. His way.

You should be tangled up in sheets, limbs entwined, whispering lazy nothings in the dark. But instead, he’s on his knees in front of you, kneeling between your thighs on the couch, like you’re something sacred. Like this is a ritual. And maybe it is.

He looks up at you like he’s memorizing the sight—like he doesn’t know when he’ll get to see you unravel like this again. His hands are firm on your thighs, thumbs tracing circles into your skin with reverent, almost desperate care.

“You’re gonna hold the camera, baby,” he says, voice thick and slow, like honey warmed over a flame. He presses your phone into your trembling palm, already recording, already flipped to show your own flushed, breathless face.

“I want it clear. I want it steady,” he adds, and there’s a tremor in his voice he’s trying to hide. One that tells you this means more than he’s saying.

You blink down at him, heart thudding in your chest. “Katsuki…”

He cuts you off with a soft smile—lazy, confident, but with eyes that shimmer like they’re drinking you in for the last time. “Don’t go all shy on me now,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against your thigh. “Not when I’m about to ruin you so fuckin’ sweet.”

Your breath catches, thighs twitching around him, and his smile stretches wider. That dangerous grin—the one that says he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

“There she goes,” he whispers.

And then he leans in.

His tongue slides over you, slow and unhurried, a soft tease that makes your entire body tense and melt all at once. He’s not rushing—no, never. He’s savoring. Worshipping. Learning the shape of your pleasure with every stroke of his mouth like he’s afraid he’ll forget it.

“Don’t drop it,” he murmurs against you, the vibration of his voice sending shocks down your spine. “You’re doin’ perfect, baby. Just like that. Let me see you come apart.”

You whimper, hips rolling softly, and the phone jolts slightly. His grip on your thighs tightens, grounding you, commanding you.

“Careful,” he breathes, licking up the slick mess he’s made like it’s his lifeline. “Told you I need this steady. I’m gonna be halfway across the world, starin’ at this screen every damn night. Gonna be strokin’ it slow, listenin’ to those pretty little moans of yours, imaginin’ it’s my mouth on you all over again.”

The confession makes your stomach warm, heat blooming in your face raw and intimate. A tether stretching across oceans.

“Eyes on the screen,” he whispers, lips brushing your most sensitive spot with every word. “Wanna see what I do to you. Wanna see how fuckin’ gorgeous you look when you fall apart for me.”

Your grip tightens around the phone, knuckles white, as your thighs tremble slightly. His mouth is relentless now—tongue circling, lips sucking, pressure building like a storm. Every flick, every breath, every hum of pleasure from his throat sends another wave crashing through you.

And he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause.

Not when your back arches off the couch. Not when your moans spill out like confessions. "Fuck Katsuki" Not when your body begged for mercy, curling in on itself you thigh closing in on him. But you should know better.

His hands hold you wide open, possessive and unyielding.

“God, you’re perfect,” he mutters against you, voice thick with emotion. “How the fuck am I supposed to leave this behind?”

You’re already falling, already lost—when his voice breaks the edge with a breathless, reverent sigh.

“There it is,” he whispers, smiling against your skin like he’s found heaven. “Feeling good baby?”

If anything, he gets hungrier.

His tongue drags through your slick with slow, deliberate reverence—like he’s carving the memory of your taste into the back of his throat. Like if he lingers long enough, if he swallows enough of you, it’ll carry him through the weeks of distance ahead.

And then—sharp.

You gasp, hips jolting when he sinks his teeth into the soft swell of your thigh. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make your breath catch and your fingers tighten around the phone.

“Katsuki—!” you hand fly to hair, voice half-shock, half-plea, the sting blooming into something electric.

He chuckles low, tongue soothing over the mark he’s left before he does it again, a little higher this time. Another nip. Another burn of his teeth, followed by the warm balm of his mouth. He paints your skin with purple hues, teeth and tongue and lips all working in tandem like a man crafting a masterpiece.

“Gotta take a piece of you with me,” he mutters against your thigh, voice thick with longing. “Even if it’s just this—these marks. Proof I was here.”

You’re panting now, trembling with every brush of his tongue, the heat between your thighs unbearable.

And then—

Oh god. He zeroes in. Mouth sealing around your clit with devastating precision, tongue flicking with practiced pressure, and your vision blurs.

Your head falls back against the couch, mouth dropping open in a soundless moan—but he groans into you, low and commanding.

“Eyes on me.”

You drag your gaze down, barely coherent—but the moment your eyes lock with his, it’s like the world narrows to nothing but the fire between your legs and the storm in his stare.

His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t falter. It holds you captive—hot and fierce and gone. There’s nothing soft in it now. Just hunger. Worship. Desperation.

He sucks—harder, deeper—tongue curling, lips tightening—and your thighs clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t even flinch.

His fingers dig into your hips like anchors, grounding you while his mouth pulls you under.

And he never breaks eye contact.

You’re unraveling right there in front of him—shaking, gasping, eyes wide and glossy, phone trembling in your grip. Your body bows like it’s offering itself to him, chasing the edge with no hope of slowing down.

“You feel that?” he rasps between strokes, mouth slick and voice dark with need. “How perfect you taste? How fuckin’ lucky I am?”

You whimper—wrecked.

“Fuck, baby. Gimme all of it,” he groans, lips wrapping tight around your clit as he sucks again, harder this time. “I want you dripping down my throat when I go.”

Your stomach coils, everything inside you knotting so tight it feels like your bones might snap—and still, his eyes are locked to yours, dragging you over the edge with nothing but sheer will.

You come undone with a cry—loud and broken—and his mouth doesn’t stop. He carries you through it, tongue easing you down, slow and sweet, while his hands stroke up and down your sides, grounding you as your whole body trembles.

Your phone is barely still in your hand, the screen catching everything—your ruined moans, your soaked thighs, and the way Katsuki Bakugo worships you like you’re something holy.

And through it all, he’s watching you. Just watching.

Like you’re the only thing in the world he never wants to forget.

Your breath is ragged, chest rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore, and your grip on the phone is barely there—shaking, slipping.

He notices.

Of course he does.

Wordlessly, Katsuki reaches up and takes it from your hand, his touch gentle, thumb brushing your knuckles before he sets it aside. Somewhere safe. Somewhere it’ll keep every second of what he just gave you.

Then his eyes return to yours—soft now, but burning still. Like he’s letting you see everything he never says.

Without a word, he leans up, muscles flexing as he shifts your body with ease, guiding you into his lap like you belong there. Because you do.

Straddling him, your legs wrapped around his hips, your skin still flushed and damp, you can feel just how much he’s been holding back—hard and aching beneath you, breath hitching the moment your heat presses against him.

But he doesn’t rush.

His hands settle on your waist, grounding you, worshipping you with the slow glide of his palms up your back. He leans in and kisses your shoulder—soft, barely there, like he’s afraid he’ll break the moment if he moves too fast.

Another kiss, higher now. Then one just under your jaw, lips lingering like he’s pressing pieces of himself into your skin to stay behind.

And then—

He slips inside.

Slow. Deep. Home.

Your breath catches in your throat, and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in as he fills you, the stretch so perfect it’s almost overwhelming.

A soft moan spills from your lips—half his name, half a cry—and he groans low in your ear, head dropping to your neck as he holds you there, body trembling with restraint.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough and raw. “I needed this. Needed you.”

You cling to him, burying your face in his hair, your lips against his temple. He moves slowly at first—hips rolling, grinding deeper than thrusting, like he’s savoring the way you mold around him. Like he’s memorizing every squeeze, every twitch, every desperate little sound you make.

Every inch of him is pressed to you—his chest against yours, his arms holding you like he never wants to let go.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your neck. “That’s me, baby. All of me. Gonna fuck you slow, so you remember me every time you close your eyes.”

You whimper his name, nails raking down his back, and he groans like it’s the only sound that matters in the world.

His lips find your shoulder again, kissing you through the burn, through the pleasure, through the ache of what’s coming tomorrow.

And with every breathless roll of his hips, every kiss, every whispered word—you know.

The moment he bottoms out, your body folds—curling into him, muscles seizing up around him with a whimper so soft it barely leaves your lips.

But he feels it.

Feels everything.

You’re clutching at his shoulders like they’re the only thing keeping you tethered to earth, face buried in his neck, mouth open and panting against his skin. He’s so deep you swear you can taste it, and the sigh he lets out against your throat sends a shiver straight through your spine.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, turning his head just enough to press his lips against the curve of your neck. He kisses you there, open-mouthed and reverent, then bites—gently—just to hear the noise you make.

You’re babbling in his ear now, too gone to form full thoughts, too full to think straight.

“So good—Katsuki, fuck, it’s s’good—don’t stop, don’t ever—feels so full, I—”

Your hips twitch without thinking, starting to grind in slow, desperate circles against him. The slide of your slick, the stretch, the obscene sound of it—it all makes his head spin.

But then his palm cracks against your ass, sharp and sudden.

You yelp—a high, breathy noise—and he smooths his hand over the sting, soothing the spot he struck before doing it again, this one heavier, more possessive.

“Easy,” he growls, lips ghosting your ear now, breath hot and ragged. “You tryin’ to make me lose already?”

You can’t answer. Not really. You just moan, hips still grinding, needy and uncoordinated, chasing more of him, chasing everything.

He slaps you again, a low groan tearing from his throat at the bounce of your ass against his lap.

“Fuck, listen to that,” he growls, his voice pure gravel and heat now. “Hear how wet you are? That’s my pussy, makin’ all that pretty noise for me.”

You whimper his name, nails dragging down his back, and he doesn’t wait this time—his hands gripping your hips, dragging you back and down as he starts to thrust.

Slow, deep, each one deliberate—like he’s staking a claim he already owns.

“You’re perfect,” he pants, watching your face twist as he hits that spot that makes your toes curl. “Feel so good wrapped around me, baby. So warm, so tight—fuck, I could die right here.”

Your whole body’s trembling now, your moans mixing with the slick slap of your bodies meeting, the room thick with sweat, breath, and the kind of love that’s too big to say out loud.

He buries his face in your neck again, voice lower now, a broken whisper:

“Gotta make it count. Gotta give you everything—leave you aching for me.”

And you are. Already. A mess in his lap, your walls fluttering around him, hips rolling to match his pace, your tears hot on your cheeks even though you're moaning through the haze.

He watches you fall apart on top of him, lips parted, tears clinging to your lashes, your body grinding like you’re chasing something you can’t name. And maybe you are. Maybe you both are.

Because something cracks in him.

Maybe it’s the way your slick clings to him, or the way your ass bounces against his thighs with every roll of your hips, so soft, so perfect. Maybe it’s the broken sound of his name tumbling from your mouth again and again like a prayer.

But suddenly he’s not holding back anymore.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, hips snapping up with a growl. “This ass—fuck. Feels too fuckin’ good. Can’t take it slow no more.”

And then he’s moving—fast, hard, dragging you down as he thrusts up into you with punishing precision, hitting so deep you cry out. The couch shifts beneath you both, the sound of skin slapping echoing through the room like a drumbeat.

He wraps his arms around you—a full-body bear hug—one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like you’re something fragile even as he ruins you.

You’re gasping, voice caught in your throat as he drills into you, every thrust stealing the air from your lungs, and all you can do is take it.

“Katsuki—Katsuki, I—fuck, I can’t—”

Your voice is barely there, a soft, shaking whisper right in his ear as you cling to him, shivering in his arms like your body can’t take another second but also never wants to let go.

He holds you tighter, breath ragged, sweat slick between your bodies, and moans low in your ear, voice cracking with it.

“Yes you can, baby. You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Just a little more. C’mon, just—fuck—just like that—”

Your hand flutters against his back, trying to grab at something, anything, even as your trembling fingers tap twice—soft, instinctive—against his spine.

Tap out.

And he knows.

His thrusts slow instantly, but his hold never loosens—just rocks you through the aftershocks as you melt in his lap, spent, clinging to him like you’ll drown if you let go.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek. One more to the spot just under your ear where your pulse still flutters fast and wild.

“Got you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse but warm. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You’re trembling in his arms, body spent and sensitive, but he’s still there—still inside you, still moving, his hips rolling deep, desperate for his own high.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants into your neck, voice frayed and trembling. “I’m close—I’m so fuckin’ close.”

Your walls flutter around him again—tight, soaked, aching—and he groans, deep in his chest, like the sound is being pulled from his soul.

“Can feel you,” he gasps. “Still fuckin’ squeezin’ me. Shit—you’re gonna make me—”

You shiver again, your body helpless in his hold, and then—then—your breath catches.

It hits like lightning.

Your climax crashes over you in sharp, rolling waves, your entire body curling tight against him with a cry that’s half his name, half a sob. Your nails dig into his shoulders, legs shaking, your slick gushing around him as your pussy clamps down—tight and rhythmic, like you’re trying to keep him.

“Katsuki—”

He loses it.

His arms lock around you, crushing you to his chest as he thrusts once, twice—then groans, low and broken and so damn full of you—and spills inside you with a shudder.

Thick warmth pulses deep, his whole body tensing as he rides it out, his face buried in your neck, gasping into your skin like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

He doesn’t stop holding you.

Even as the tremors fade, even as his breath starts to slow, he keeps you close—his cock still nestled deep inside, your bodies flush and sticky and shaking, hearts beating hard against each other.

He kisses your neck, soft this time. Reverent.

a knock on your boyfriend, bakugo’s door of his dorm room causes a groan to escape his lips, unwrapping his arms from you where you were both previously cuddled up while watching a movie on your laptop.

“who’s that?”, you ask, still laid up in his bed as you watch him get up while marching to his door with pure attitude.

“probably them damn extras again.”, he complains with a grumble, opening his door to find kaminari, kirishima and sero stood there with large smiles on their faces.

“what’s with your goofy faces? and why are you knocking on my door at 10pm?”, he questions, a scowl plastered on his face.

“we were wondering if you wanted to come play this new game with us?”, kirishima asks, holding up a video game you know your boyfriend has been wanting to try out for a while now.

he leans against the doorframe, “well, i’m with my girlfriend right now.”

“yeah but you’ve wanted to play this for a while, right? i’m sure she’ll be fine with it.”, kaminari reasons, sero nodding along with him.

letting out the biggest sigh he could, bakugo replies, “yeah whatever, let me ask her.”, shutting his door halfway so the boys couldn’t see bakugo’s little act he was about to pull off.

“you can go if you want, i don’t mind.” you say softly, turning your head away from the movie you were just watching. you really didn’t mind if he wanted to hang out with his friends since he spent majority of his time with you anyway.

he frowns at your response, mouthing a ‘be quiet’ before opening the door once again after a minute or so, seeing their anticipated smiles.

“yeah she said no.”, bakugo shrugs through his lie nonchalantly, causing you to whip your head back around at him while furrowing your brows.

was this man trying to make his friends hate you?

“well, do you really need to be asking your girlfriend for permission, dude? seems kinda toxic..”, kaminari starts, scratching the back of his head with an awkward look on his face.

“are you questioning her?”, bakugo questions, his voice slightly raised as he holds his usual angry face when anyone mentions anything he doesn’t like about you.

he’s always been protective like that. although, you do wonder if that’s the reason why most of the boys seem a little too cautious around you and always refuse to train with you. bakugo always tells you not to worry about it.

“nah, course not, bro. we’ll play another time it’s fine.”, kirishima steps in, holding his hands up while giving a light hearted laugh, trying to cool bakugo’s behaviour.

“yeah, yeah, fine. whatever.”, bakugo rolls his eyes, shooing off his friends before turning back to you, the angered expression he once had completely wiped off.

his sight finally falls back onto you as he walks back over and getting comfortable in his bed again, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to his chest as he interlocks his legs with yours.

if anyone saw the position bakugo was in now, they wouldn’t believe their eyes. angry, aggressive bakugo laid up with a girl, holding onto her so gently as he kisses her forehead, watching some bullshit movie you know he has no interest in watching, and all for his sweet little girlfriend who everyone now seems to think holds him hostage so he can’t hang out with his boys.

and all because he simply just wants to spend all his time with his girlfriend.

“you’re such a lover boy.”, you smile at him, knowing how embarrassed he gets when you say things like this.

“shut up.”, he grumbles, partly hiding his face in the covers as he continues watching the movie with you, back where he wanted to be.

he knows you’re right. you have this man absolutely whipped for you and he couldn’t even care less about it.

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

OPPOSITE ATTRACT (SECRETLY OF COURSE)

synopsis — you and bakugo’s personality are the total opposite and no one would expect you guys to ever be friends until…

word count — 1.1k

a/n — BAKUGO IS SO FINE LIKE I WAS DYING WRITING THIS. I LOVE HIM SM LIKECJEJFJJS. anyways

The common room of Class 1-A was filled with energy, as it often was after a long day of classes. The girls had claimed one corner of the room, lounging on the couches and chatting away as they were talking about boys and their types.

“I think Kirishima is cute,” Mina mused, swinging her legs over the couch armrest. “He’s got that golden retriever personality, you know?”

“He’s definitely charming,” Hagakure giggled.

Ochacco tilted her head. “What about you y/n? Any crushes?”

y/n, the kind-hearted sweetheart of the class, smiled softly. “I don’t really know.. I guess I like someone strong but caring deep down.”

Asui blinked. “Ribbit. That’s a pretty broad answer.”

Before y/n could elaborate, the boy’s voices echoed from the other side of the living room. They were being their usual loud selves, Kirishima, Kaminari, Tokoyami, and of course, Bakugo.

Kirishima heard the girl’s conversation before suddenly turned to Bakugo with a sly grin. “Hey, Bakugo, what’s your type?”

The room fell silent. Everyone knew Bakugo was not the type to entertain such conversations, which is exactly who Kirishima had asked, just to get a rise out of him.

“Oi! What kinda dumbass question is that!?” Bakugo’s voice immediately exploded through the air.

Kaminari snickered. “C’mon, man, we’re just curious.”

“Tch. As if I’d waste my time thinking about crap like that,” Bakugo scoffed, folding his arms, His face had taken on the slightest tinge of red, but he masked it with an aggressive scowl.

From the girls’ corner, y/n giggled. She wasn’t even trying to hide it. Bakugo’s annoyed reactions was just too funny.

That did not go unnoticed. Bakugo’s crimson eyes snapped to her, narrowing suspiciously.

“The hell are you laughing at?” he growled.

y/n shocked her head, still smiling. “Nothing, nothing!”

But the damage had already been done. Mina and Kirishima immediately locked eyes with each other, their expressions screaming, suspicious.

-

Later that night, Mina and Kirishima crouched behind the corner of the hallway, whispering excitedly.

“Okay, tell me you saw that,” Mina said. “y/n laughed at Bakugo’s reaction. That’s weird.”

Kirishima grinned. “And Bakugo actually reacted to her. That’s even weirder.”

They had been low-key theorizing about Bakugo and y/n for weeks. Sure, they never interacted much in public, but there was something off about how Bakugo didn’t seem to direct his usual rage at y/n. And that giggle? That was their confirmation.

So, when they saw y/n quietly slipping out of her dorm room and tiptoeing toward Bakugo’s, they had to investigate.

“Okay, let’s wait a few minutes, then bam! We barge in,” Mina whispered.

Kirishima nodded. “If we die, it was an honor.”

Mina smirked. “We’re heroes in training, we’ll be fine.”

-

The Class 1-A dorms had settled into a quiet hum for the night. Most of the students were relaxing in their rooms, some playing games, other studying, and a few, like Mina and Kirishima, engaging in questionable activities.

y/n on the other hand, had other plans.

She tiptoed down the hallway, hand gripping the hem of her hoodie as she scanned the area. The last thing she needed was for someone to see her sneaking in his room. Though, knowing her luck, someone — Mina and Kirishima most likely was already watching.

Reaching Bakugo’s door, she raised a delicate fist and knocked twice. No answer. Not unusual.

Rolling her eyes with a soft smile, she carefully turned the knob, it was never locked for her. The door creaked open just enough for her to slip inside before closing it behind her.

The moment she entered, the atmosphere shifted.

Katsuki Bakugo lay sprawled across his bed, one arm lazily tucked behind his head while the other draped over his stomach. His ash-blond hair was messier than usual, and his uniform jacket was discarded on his desk chair, leaving him in his black t-shirt and black sweats.

At the sound of the door shutting, his crimson eyes lazily flickered open.

“You took forever,” he grumbled.

Y/N let out a breathy laugh, walking over to his bed. “You didn’t even answer the door.”

“Didn’t feel like moving.”

She shook her head fondly before settling onto the bed beside him. The second she did, Bakugo wasted no time. With a low grunt, he shifted closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her down onto the mattress with him.

“You’re clingy tonight,” Y/N mused, her fingers instinctively threading through his messy hair.

He only grumbled, nuzzling into the warmth of her shoulder. “Tch. Shut up.”

She giggled, the vibration of her laughter making him hum in satisfaction. They stayed like that for a while. Bakugo was completely relaxed, his breathing steady, his grip firm but comforting. This was a side of him no one else saw.

During school hours, he acted as if she barely existed. But in moments like these, when it was just the two of them, he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

“You laughed at me today,” he muttered suddenly, voice muffled against her hoodie.

Y/N blinked, then smiled. “Because you were funny.”

He huffed, pulling her even closer. “Dumbass.”

She rolled her eyes playfully but made no move to push him away. She liked this side of him, this soft, vulnerable, needy side. And no matter how gruff he tried to sound, she could hear the underlying plea in his voice when he mumbled.

“Shut up and stay here.”

Y/N hummed, running her fingers soothingly along his scalp. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

-

Outside the door, Mina and Kirishima crouched low, exchanging glances at each other with excitement.

“Okay,” Mina whispered. “This confirms it.”

Kirishima nodded. “They have to be dating.”

“Or at least something.” Mina’s grin widened. “Now, we need proof.”

The two waited a few more moments, letting the suspense build. Then

BAM!

The door slammed open.

“OH. MY. GOD,” Mina screeched, her phone already raised.

Click! Click!

Kirishima doubled over in wheezing laughter. “DUDE! YOU’RE SO CLINGY!”

Bakugo shot up immediately, his entire face exploding into a furious shade of red.

“YOU DAMN EXTRAS!!!”

Mina howled with laughter, waving her phone like a trophy. “I GOT PICTURES! THIS IS GOLD!”

“DELETE THEM, YOU PINK HAIRED GREMLIN!” Bakugo roared, lunging off the bed.

Mina screamed, scrambling out of the room at lightning speed, Kirishima hot on her heels.

“RUN, RUN, RUN!” Kirishima yelled between bouts of laughter.

Bakugo exploded after them, quite literally, his hands sparking as he chased them down the hall. The dorms erupted into chaos, doors creaked open as confused classmates peered out, blinking at the spectacle of Bakugo launching himself after Mina and Kirishima, his furious shouts echoing through the building.

y/n, who walked out of the room, covered her mouth as she burst into laughter.

So much for their little secret.

the pageant (snippets!) — bakugo k.

bakugo k. x calm fem!reader│word count: 2.9k

synopsis: For their last school festival, Class B challenges Class A to join them in the pageant. With yn as their chosen representative, Bakugo was more than ready to make sure she wins.

cw/tags: fluff, established relationship

“Me?” yn asked, blinking slowly.

What was meant to be a relaxed evening of festival planning between Class A and Class B quickly turned competitive. 

Kendo had started telling stories about pageant preparations when Monoma, ever the instigator, had cut in with that infuriating smirk. “Funny how Class A’s never even tried the pageant. What’s the matter? No one pretty enough?”

And just like that, the gauntlet was thrown.

Mina, never one to back down from a challenge, had been the first to rise to the bait. Now she pointed excitedly at yn, who sat next to Bakugo, nursing a cup of tea, blissfully detached from the brewing storm.

“You’d be perfect,” Mina gushed. “You’re gorgeous, super chill, and you’ve got that ‘mysterious but approachable’ energy that pageant judges would totally eat up.”

“Are you all serious?” Bakugo spoke up. He had been quiet this whole time, clearly uninterested in whatever dumb rivalry Monoma was trying to stir up. “You’re really going to let this extra provoke—”

“Sure,” yn said simply, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “Could be fun.”

Bakugo turned to her. “What?”

She shrugged. “Why not? It’s our last year.”

Monoma’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, really?” He let out a theatrical laugh. “Well, if that’s your choice, I suppose there’s no harm.”

Bakugo stiffened.

“What’d you say?” he asked, his tone dangerously low.

But Monoma didn’t back down. “Just being realistic. You can’t expect someone like her to keep up with someone like Kendo.”

"MONOMA, YOU IDIOT—!" Kendo launched herself at her classmate, delivering a swift karate chop to his shoulder

But the damage was done. 

Something in Bakugo’s expression changed, a familiar fire igniting in his crimson eyes. He stood up slowly, cracking his knuckles.

“You’re on,” he said, voice firm. “We’re entering, babe. You’re winning that damn crown.”

Yn merely picked her tea back up, hiding a smile behind the rim of her cup. “Guess we’re doing this then.”

The next morning, Bakugo personally took charge, dragging everyone to the common room and barking orders.

“Alright, extras. Listen up! This ain’t a damn pageant. This is war, and we are not losing to those Class B losers!”

“Ooooh, Bakugo’s invested,” Mina beamed.

Bakugo ignored her comment and started pointing at everyone. “Racoon Eyes, Invisibitch—you’re on make-up! Shitty Hair, Flat Face—props! Ponytail, you’re with me on wardrobe! Dunce Face—you stay far away from anything important!”

“Rude!” Kaminari yelped, clearly offended.

Yn bumped her shoulder lightly against Bakugo’s. “You’re really into this, huh?”

Bakugo shoved her back with equal lightness. “Shut up. And get your ass moving too!”

Bakugo slammed three different fabric swatches onto the common room table, making the coffee cups rattle. “Charmeuse is the only option. Anything else is garbage.”

Momo frowned, holding up a shimmering sequin. “But this would catch the light beautifully—”

“IT LOOKS LIKE A DAMN DISCO BALL. NEXT.”

Yn yawned, resting her head on her arms. “I liked the disco ball idea.”

Bakugo flicked her forehead. “You’re not helping. And go to bed.”

Jiro strummed the final chord on her guitar, nodding as yn sang the chorus flawlessly. “Damn, you’ve got pipes.”

Yn huffed a laugh, reaching for her water bottle. “Only because you’re playing along. I’ve got nothing compared to you.”

Jiro set her guitar aside, uncrossing her legs. “Seriously, why don’t you sing for the live performances?”

A shrug. “I honestly didn’t know I could. Katsuki’s the one who mentioned it.”

Jiro’s eyes widened. “Wait. Bakugo pointed it out?” Then a slow grin spread across her face. “How’d that even come up?”

Yn blinked. “I, uh, hum sometimes. When we’re… napping.”

Jiro’s smirk turned lethal. “Oh my god. You lullaby him.”

“And… I regret telling you,” yn said with a sigh.

Jiro cackled, kicking her legs like an excited kid. “That’s the cutest shit I’ve ever heard.” She flipped over and grabbed her phone. “Mina’s gonna lose her mind!”

Yn lunged at her. “Hey, Jiro! No!”

Bakugo watched as yn took one more wobbly step in the strappy heels Momo had made before immediately grabbing him for support.

“Yeah… I don’t think I can do this,” she declared, shaking her head. “Absolutely not.”

“But they’re perfect!” Mina said. “Look at your legs!”

“Look at my ankles,” yn shot back, gripping Bakugo’s shoulders for dear life. “They’re about to snap.”

Bakugo slowly knelt down, his fingers gently undoing the straps. “Told you. Ditch the death traps.”

“But she looks so pretty in—” Uraraka protested.

“She’s wearing shorter heels. Just make ‘em pointed so she’d look taller,” he announced, tossing the heels aside.

“Hey!” Momo yelped as she caught them.

Monoma, disguised in a terrible wig, peeked into the stage where yn was practicing.

Kaminari spotted him instantly. “Uh, guys? We’ve got a spy.”

Bakugo didn’t even look up. “Flat Face.”

Sero grinned, happily taping Monoma up, while Shoji picked him up, ready to dump him in Class B’s dorm.

Yn waved as they passed her. “Tell Kendo I said good luck!”

Yn pushed open the common room door, blinking at the unexpected sight of Bakugo hunched over the sofa, papers in hand.

“Where’s everyone else?” she asked, sitting in the space beside him.

Bakugo shifted slightly to make room without looking up. “Still rehearsing for the live show.”

“And… you’re not playing the drums?” yn asked, leaning back onto the couch.

“Tch. Already nailed my part,” he muttered, finally tossing the papers onto the coffee table and slumping back. “They’re just screwing around now.”

Yn hummed, letting the silence settle between them. The easy kind that only existed when it was just the two of them.

She inched closer, letting her head drop onto his shoulder. 

Bakugo didn’t hesitate. He leaned into the contact, his cheek brushing against her hair.

“Missed you,” he grumbled.

Yn laughed. “Katsuki, we share classes, a dorm, and now this pageant thing. I see you more than my own reflection.”

“With the extras,” he emphasized, nose wrinkling.

“Aww,” she cooed, playfully poking his side. “You wanted me all to yourself.”

Bakugo huffed, a flush creeping up his neck. “Shut up.”

Grinning, yn removed her slippers and curled up on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her as she looped an arm around his. “Well…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, heart thudding in her chest. “You’ve got me now.”

Bakugo turned, his gaze flickering from her eyes to her lips. “Yeah?”

Yn nodded, her smile soft. “I missed you too.”

Bakugo’s expression softened. His hand rose to cup her cheek, rough fingers gentle against her skin. When she leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering close for a second, Bakugo looked at her like she was the only thing in his world.

He tilted her chin up, slowly closing the space between them. Their eyes slipped shut, breaths mingling as their lips finally—

“Hey, Bakugo! We’re back!” Kirishima’s voice rang out, the door slamming open.

Bakugo groaned, jerking away. He slumped back against the couch, scowling at the ceiling in silent, dramatic defeat.

The notification buzzed against yn's palm as she lay curled in bed, the glow of her phone painting soft light across her face. She didn't need to look at the sender to know who it was.

Stop scrolling through your damn phone and sleep.

A quiet laugh escaped her as she typed back, How do you know I'm scrolling?

The reply came instantly. Because you replied immediately.

Yn smiled, adjusting against her pillows. Maybe I'm meditating.

Bullshit. You're looking at memes.

She glanced at the image still open on her screen—a cat wearing a tiny, lopsided crown—and sent it without hesitation. Okay, but this one's good.

Her phone lit up with his response, the letters practically vibrating with indignation even through text. THAT'S LITERALLY JUST A CAT.

A royal cat, she corrected.

Go. To. Bed.

Can't. Too busy manifesting my victory.

The next message contained a single image: an alarm clock set for 5 AM with the caption ‘WAKE YN UP.’

Meanie, she sent, already dreading the early hour.

You'll thank me when you're not yawning on stage tomorrow.

Yn sighed, knowing he was right but unwilling to admit it. Fine. But only because you're cute when you're bossy.

The bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Finally—

You'll kill it tomorrow. If anyone says anything bad about you, I’ll blow ‘em up.

Her breath caught, thumb hovering over the screen. She smiled and sent her response.

I know I will. But thanks, Katsuki. Love you.

GO TO SLEEP.

Yn chuckled, about to turn her phone face down on the nightstand when Bakugo sent another message.

Love you too.

Yn stepped onto the stage, quiet and composed, mic in hand. Her presence alone was enough to hush the crowd. She paused at the center, took a breath, and closed her eyes.

From the back of the crowd, Bakugo stood with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on her. Her face glowed on the giant screen behind her, casting her features in a soft, angelic glow. 

Then the music began.

She began to sway to the melody, and when the moment came, she opened her eyes. Her voice followed, gentle and warm, filling the space like sunlight. 

The crowd didn’t dare move. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like polite silence. But Bakugo knew better. They were captivated. Hooked.

He smirked, pride swelling in his chest. Atta girl.

The song swelled with sentiment, a delicate ballad that mirrored her soft delivery. But then, without warning, it began to rain.

Gasps echoed. A few umbrellas popped open in the audience. Bakugo’s entire body went tense, instinctively stepping forward, already half-ready to shield her.

But yn didn’t flinch.

Instead, she stepped into it, letting the droplets catch in her hair, cling to her skin, trailing down her cheek like tears.

She turned slightly, just enough to angle her body toward the light, the water shimmering like it was part of the act. Her voice never wavered, staying smooth and steady.

Bakugo blinked. Then, he saw it.

That small tilt of her head. That calculated pause in her breath. The barely-there smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

She was guiding the moment, twisting the sudden downpour to make her performance more dramatic. She pulled their hearts with gentle precision, painting herself as this fragile, ethereal heroine.

And they were eating it up.

Bakugo scoffed, grinning to himself.

He knew better though.

Underneath that calm exterior, yn was competitive as hell.

She just hid it better than most.

Like how she always walked just a little faster whenever Sato brought out fresh cookies, slipping through their rowdy classmates like it was nothing, but always managing to snag the first one.

Or how she’d lean back and smile during game nights, cool as ever, until someone beats her in Mario Kart. Then suddenly, she’d be sitting forward, knees tucked up, focus lazer-sharp.

He’d seen it in training too. She’d nod absently when given instructions, like she was barely paying attention. But the second someone started getting ahead of her, her punches got sharper, her footwork quicker.

And she never backed down.

Not even when Bakugo dared her to eat the spicy noodles he made just to mess with her. She’d just stare at him, eyes watering, and eat the whole damn bowl out of spite.

She just hated to lose.

And that was one of the first things he ever loved about her.

The crowd probably saw an angel.

But all he saw was her.

Then, mid-verse, she looked up.

Right at him.

The connection hit fast. Strong. Like she'd reached straight through the crowd and found him exactly where he stood.

The mic hovered close to her lips.

The next line was supposed to be a tender, heartfelt I love you. A perfect romantic finish, made to be sung.

But she didn’t sing it.

Instead, she spoke. Changing the words, uttering it so softly. Like a secret passed only to him.

“Thank you.”

The word whispered through the speakers, yet somehow it was louder than everything else.

The crowd melted.

But Bakugo didn’t move. He couldn’t.

His heart was pounding, loud and erratic in his ears, drowning out the cheers.

He never believed in soulmates or any of that mushy crap. That wasn’t them.

He and yn weren’t some fairytale couple. They were two stubborn, messy people who’d somehow figured out how to make it work. No sparks or fate—just time, effort, and a whole lot of understanding.

Their relationship wasn’t built on sweet words or perfect moments. It was built on them showing up. On backing each other up. On knowing when to push and when to just be there.

And right now, standing there soaked in rain, watching her express her gratitude so beautifully—Bakugo felt it. All of it.

Up there wasn’t just his girlfriend doing some cutesy stage performance.

That was his person. His partner.

The one person who called him out, kept him in check, pushed him to be better—but never once asked him to be someone he wasn’t.

And he didn’t know what the future looked like after graduation, or what kind of shit they’d face out in the world.

But he knew one thing for sure:

He wasn’t letting her go.

Yn barely had time to adjust her crooked crown before the Bakusquad descended like vultures, hungry for drama.

“OHHHH, LOOK WHO'S EATING HIS WORDS NOW—” Kaminari howled, slinging an arm around Monoma's stiff shoulders.

“Funny,” Sero mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I could've sworn someone said we ‘lacked elegance’—”

Monoma's eye twitched. “I believe I said refinement—”

“YET HERE WE ARE!” Mina spun in front of him with a dramatic flourish, gesturing toward yn’s glittering crown. “This queen just wiped the floor with you. In the rain, no less!”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Yn stepped forward with a sigh, trying—and failing—to hide the amused sparkle in her eyes. “We shouldn’t rub it in…”

She paused.

Then pulled out her phone, the screen already glowing. “...without proper documentation!”

The Bakusquad erupted.

“OHHHHHH!!!”

“SHE’S ARCHIVING THE SHAME!!!”

“SEND THAT TO THE CLASS CHAT!!!”

Bakugo, trailing just behind her, let out a bark of laughter. He leaned over her shoulder, fingers zooming in on Monoma’s scowl. “Hold still, Knockoff.”

Monoma looked ready to combust. “This is harassment!”

Kirishima, barely containing his own laughter, grinned widely. “Yn use the clown filter. For accuracy.”

Kendo, watching the chaos with amused resignation, shook her head. “You're all terrible.”

“We learned from the best,” yn replied sweetly, passing her phone to Kirishima and patting Monoma on the shoulder with mock sympathy. “Thanks for the inspiration. You’ve been great for morale.”

Kendo chuckled and stepped in, offering a hand. “Seriously, though. You were incredible.”

Yn’s smirk softened. She took Kendo’s hand, squeezing it. “Thanks. You were amazing too. Had me sweating for a second. You made the competition tough.”

Kendo grinned and pulled her into a quick, warm hug. “Coming from you? That means a lot.”

They parted with a shared look of respect before Kendo dragged a sputtering Monoma off by the collar, still mid-rant.

Then, finally, yn let the tension drain from her shoulders. She turned and collapsed into Bakugo’s side, face buried in his chest.

“Carry me,” she mumbled into his shirt, her voice muffled and sleepy.

Bakugo let out a low chuckle, wrapping an arm around her. “Yeah, yeah. I got you, princess.”

The stars were out. Quiet, for once.

Yn climbed the stairs slowly, her sweater sleeves pulled over her hands. She found him exactly where she expected—leaning against the railing, arms folded, gaze turned skyward.

“You avoiding the party?” she asked, voice light.

Bakugo didn’t look at her. “Tch. Too loud.”

She joined him at the railing, shoulder brushing his.

“I can’t celebrate my win without my coach, y’know,” she teased, glancing up at him.

That earned a small scoff. “You didn’t win ‘cause of me.”

“I didn’t win without you either,” she said softly.

He didn’t respond at first, just stared ahead, jaw tight. Then—

“You were amazing,” he said, almost grudgingly. “Stupidly amazing.”

Yn smiled. “You’re getting better at compliments.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, but his ears were definitely pink.

Silence followed, settling comfortably between them, soft and familiar.

“But I was a bit scared, you know,” yn admitted after a moment.

Bakugo snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah. Could’ve fooled me.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly. “I’m serious, jerk.” Then, more quietly, her expression softened. “I kept looking for you.”

Something flickered in his eyes. The distance between them diminished.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

This time, when they leaned in, there was no hesitation. Her fingers curled into his hoodie, his fingers hovered near her jaw, and the rooftop felt quieter than it had all night.

Their noses brushed, lips just about to meet—

“Yo! There you guys are!”

Bakugo’s forehead fell to yn’s shoulder with a low, agonized groan.

“Shitty Hair,” he growled, not even turning around. “I swear to god—”

“I just came to tell you there’s cake!” Kirishima grinned from the door, completely unbothered. “But hey, don’t stop on my account—”

“Kirishima.”

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving!”

He disappeared back down the stairs, laughing.

Yn pressed a hand to her mouth, giggling into her palm. “Next time then,” she whispered, eyes sparkling.

“Yeah… fuck that,” Bakugo muttered, before tugging her in by the waist. “C’mere.”

You ever go back and re-read your writing like this?

Two

"i don't comment on ao3 because i don't wanna be annoying or weird" skill issue + you greatly underestimate the power dynamic here, writing multi paragraph comments is like feeding a bunch of deeply insane and possibly starved ducks at the park and watch them go completely mad over having received a piece of bread

All Mine｡°✩ Bakugou Katsuki

Masterlist ୨ৎ

is it normal for a tinder hookup to invite you to his birthday party? only one way to find out.

.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒

Glitter 𐔌 𐦯 : happy birthday Katsuki!! you guys voted for this on the poll (Sorry if you were expecting smut... but I cringe at myself attempting to write it so suggestive is all you get), enjoy!

Warnings : VERY SUGGESTIVNESS so minors beware (nothing explict but still), Female!Reader, modernAU, aged-up, drinking, mention of drugs, classic Bakugou warnings

W/C : 3k

.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊

[10:37 PM] B: you got plans tmrw

B is Bakugou Katsuki. The guy you've been enjoying lately. To say the least.

You met in the classic way—late-night Tinder, you feeling lonely and a little reckless. He had only one picture—a sharp jawline, messy blond hair, and not much else to go off. But he looked good. Really good. So, feeling lucky, you swiped right.

Match. Instantly.

He messaged first. You messaged back. Five minutes later, you were making plans to meet at a bar downtown. All you could hope for was that he wasn’t a catfish, and that getting dressed up wouldn’t be for nothing.

It definitely wasn’t.

You barely spent time at the bar. Most of the night was spent tangled up at your place. And that’s kind of how it went from there—he’d text, you’d text back. He’d come over, he’d leave. That was the thing. Sometimes you’d text first—on the nights you were feeling extra needy, craving hot hands and hungry lips.

You didn’t even know much about him. Just his name, his major, and the sounds he makes when he’s close. You didn’t think of him as much else. Didn’t let your mind drift into soft little daydreams about who he might be outside of your bedroom. What he was like with friends, what music he listened to, what kind of kid he was in high school.

Because Bakugou Katsuki didn’t seem like that kinda guy. There was nothing lovey-dovey about him. Just low curses and hard thrusts. 

So this message? Felt different.

For one—you never made plans. That wasn’t how this thing worked.Just heat-of-the-moment, spur-of-the-night kind of energy.

And two—it wasn’t even his usual type of text. He didn’t ask. He told. Normally, it was a blunt little “im comin over”—not a question, but something close to a courtesy. A way of saying: I’m giving you the out, if you want it.

You scroll back at your texts these past few months and see the same pattern over and over, this one sticking out like a sore thumb from the rest. 

[10:40 PM] You : idk. 

[10:40 PM] You : why

Does he notice the difference, too? The pause in your rhythm. The hesitation. Why does it matter if he does?

[10:42 PM] B : im having a party tmrw

[10:42 PM] B : or my flatmate is 

[10:42 PM] B : u should come

You stare at the screen for a second, not sure if you’re more confused or just… surprised. Not that it matters.

The read receipt doesn’t faze him. He doesn’t even wait for a response. Just sends the address, followed by a quick “starts at 7. let me know if ur coming and il order an uber.”

You don’t reply.

You don’t reply, because this isn’t part of the unspoken deal that you are familiar with. And maybe he just wants a pretty girl to stand near the drinks, someone to make the party pictures look good. Because Bakugou Katsuki is probably nothing more than an asshole. Probably. 

~~~

Maybe curiosity really does kill the cat. Because somehow, you decide to go.

You never reply to him, leave him to conclude that the silence means no, you idiot, I only want you for one thing. But against your better judgement, you pull something skimpy on and brace yourself for what's to come, because you are curious.

You want to see where he lives. Who he likes. What he looks like when he’s out of his element. You want to see if it all matches the version you've been playing in your head. The version you’ve carefully constructed while you’ve kept things simple, kept it just about the physical.

But you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking you’re actually going to show up. So, you leave him hanging, go radio silent, and step out at 10 PM. Plus a glass of wine or two before you leave—just enough to make the shyness a little easier to ignore.

The alcohol burns nice in your veins… for a bit, until you’re standing outside the apartment door and the cold air cuts right through you, sobering you up fast.

At least you know it’s the right address, because you can hear the light thumping of bass and loud voices from out here (Not Bakugou’s though, but what would he even sound like loud, all you know is the low rough murmurs as he-). No turning back now. Not because you feel good about this decision, but because it’s freezing and your dress is doing absolutely nothing. So, you knock. Lightly.

And no one answers. Obviously. It’s a party, and half the people inside are probably too drunk or too distracted to notice. And none of them know who the hell you are anyway, so it’s not like anyone’s waiting at the door.

You check the handle. It turns. It’s open.

So, you step inside.

And it hits—hard. Like sensory overload dialed to ten. The place is decked out top to bottom, barely recognizable as a regular apartment. Streamers, lights, drinks in every corner. And before you can even take it all in, your eyes land on the handmade banner slapped across the wall: Happy Birthday Katsuki!

You don’t even need to ask. A quick glance around says it all—loud and clear.

There are old photos strung up along the walls, clipped to fairy lights that flicker unevenly. Most of the pictures are clearly from childhood—blond hair, scowling even as a toddler, surrounded by messy frosting and crooked party hats. One’s shows him mid-scream, cake all over his face. It’s kind of cute. Kind of surreal. Because this is his party.

It’s Bakugou’s birthday.

And he invited you to his birthday party?

You scan the room again, sharper this time. The place is crowded, but not enough to lose someone like him. And he’s not here. That heavy, sinking feeling creeps into your chest.

Maybe he invited someone else.

Maybe when you didn’t text back, he moved on, picked another warm body to fill the space. It wouldn’t be crazy. It wouldn’t be wrong. You don’t owe each other anything, and that’s the whole point of this thing—or at least it was. But still, the thought lands heavy, makes something sour churn low in your gut. Makes your throat go tight in that way you hate.

You swallow it down, hard.

You’re already halfway through turning around, ready to slip back out before you embarrass yourself any further, when a voice cuts through the noise. One you don’t recognize, but it says your name like it knows you.

It’s coming from a big, beefy redhead, cheeks flushed pink from alcohol, smile wide and boyish like he’s genuinely thrilled to see you. There’s this urgent sparkle in his eyes, and for a second you’re stuck wondering how the hell does he know your name.

“You’re here! Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he laughs, loud and booming and way too happy.

Before you can say anything, he’s placing a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder, “Hey, let me take your jacket. I’m Kirishima, by the way! Don’t think we’ve met yet.”

And you just… let him. Because honestly, you can’t think of anything else to do. You shrug your jacket off, hand it over, and he somehow manages to wedge it onto an already overflowing coat rack like it’s no big deal.

“Katsuki is…” he glances around, squinting into the crowd, “—well, I think he already snuck off somewhere. Classic. Gets sick of his own birthday halfway through every year.”

He laughs again, easy and fond, like that’s something everyone should know. Like you’re part of the group that gets Bakugou Katsuki.

And when it’s clear you’re not going to laugh with him—that you’re not in on the joke—he shifts, scratching the back of his neck, the flush on his cheeks deepening.

“Let’s get you a drink, yeah? Before Katsuki finds out you’re here and steals you away.”

Then he’s already turning, guiding you through the tangle of bodies toward the kitchen. You follow, trying not to overthink that last part. Steals you away. Like you’re some prize Bakugou might casually claim.

Does everyone think you’re just a body to him? And would that really be so bad… if it meant he’d picked you?

Fuck you need that drink. You toss the first one back the second it’s in your hand—barely tastes like anything, just cold and sharp. Kirishima lets out a loud laugh, already reaching to pour you another like it’s a challenge. As he talks, he’s all bright chatter—rambling about how annoying the setup was, how they almost didn’t get enough booze. He asks when your birthday is like it’s just part of the conversation, like none of this is weird.

He’s mid-sentence when someone interrupts—a blond, all pretty eyes and glazed-over smile, leaning in over Kirishima’s shoulder like he’s got zero sense of personal space. Drunk, maybe high. Definitely nosy, not that Kirishima seems to mind anyway. 

“Who’s the pretty girl, Ei?” he slurs, trying for a smirk that doesn’t quite land.

Kirishima just laughs, easily wrapping an arm around the guy to steady him. “This is Bakugou’s girl, bro. Back off.”

The blond seems as thrown by that as you are. Bakugou’s girl? Since when?

“Wait… I thought she wasn’t coming,” he frowns, looking a little too disappointed. “That’s why Bakubro was being extra mean to me today…”

You expect Kirishima to jump in with something. But instead, he just gives you this look—his brows raised slightly, an expectant glint in his eyes, like he's silently nudging you to explain yourself too. 

“Oh, um…” You twist uncomfortably under their gazes, feeling the weight of the attention. “I didn’t think I’d be able to, but… I am here now, so…” You shrug, the words feeling clumsy even to you.

Kirishima just watches you, his expression blank, and you get the sense that he’s not exactly thrilled with your answer—or with your whole last-minute appearance. Blondie, on the other hand, pouts deeper, his voice laced with a hint of teasing frustration. “Well, I would’ve preferred if you came before the beer pong… He was so aggressive with it…”. Kirishima gives the guy a playful pat on the head in response, a silent gesture that seems to acknowledge the comment without words.

This whole interaction has you itching to find Bakugou, to see why everyone’s been expecting you, why his flatmate seems annoyed by your absence. And, of course, to catch a glimpse of his handsome face too. “Where’s the birthday boy? I haven’t been here before, so…”

At the mention of Bakugou, Kirishima’s energy shifts, his enthusiasm returning like flipping a switch. “Let me show you,” he says, peeling Denki off his shoulder with a gentle but firm hand. “Denks, drink some water, okay?” Kirishima adds, his tone casual but with a hint of concern, before turning back to you to lead you back through the crowd. 

Eventually, Kirishima stops in front of a hallway door, turning back to give you a quick grin. “He’s probably hiding out in there,” he says, giving the door a casual knock. “Don’t be too shocked, though. He’s a little… cranky tonight.” He flashes you one last smile before turning and walking away, leaving you standing there at the door.

You push the door open, silently wishing you will either find him inside alone, or not at all. 

The room is dimly lit, the faint glow of string lights hanging lazily in the corners, old posters covering the walls. The scent of cigarette smoke lingers in the air, mixing with the faint buzz of the party from down the hall. Your eyes scan the room, searching for him, and that's when you see him: Bakugou, slouched in a chair by the window, arms crossed over his chest.

He doesn’t seem to notice you at first, too caught up in his own world. You can’t help but watch him for a moment, noticing the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens slightly as he breathes in. You hesitate for a moment, but before you can second-guess yourself, his voice breaks the silence.

"Didn't think you'd actually show," he mutters, his gaze still locked on the window, his tone rougher than usual.

"You didn’t tell me it was your birthday," you say, unmoving from your place at the door.

He doesn’t respond right away, his silence thick in the air between you. The seconds stretch on, but then, slowly, he turns to face you. His brow furrows, lips curling into something between a frown and a smirk, but it’s his eyes that catch you off guard. They’re wide, not shy, but hungry, tracing your frame with an intensity that makes the space between you feel smaller than it is.

"Come closer," he demands, voice low, almost challenging. "I want a better look at you."

You hate how easily you obey, the words pulling you forward like a magnet. Until finally, you’re close enough that the air between you feels thick, charged. His legs caging your own as you stand between them. 

He doesn't move, not yet, but you feel the weight of his gaze, steady and intense. And when his hands finally find your waist, it’s almost a relief. Almost. They tug you forward, pulling you down onto his lap with a quiet but unmistakable force.

You try to steady yourself, to regain control, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you who’s in charge here. You swallow hard, your pulse quickening at the feel of his body so close to yours.

"Is this how you like it?" His voice is rougher now, darker, a question more than anything else.

“You know how I like it.” 

He lets out a dry chuckle, the sound rough. "Damn right," he mutters, his hands sliding through your hair, fingers pulling roughly at your scalp, forcing your eyes to meet his. You hold in the quiet noise already threatening to come out from the treatment. 

"I was pissed when you didn’t reply," he says, his gaze burning into yours. “Told everyone my girl was coming, even helped Shitty hair with putting the decks up, got the good drinks too. But you didn’t show.”

His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you in just a little closer, the light scent of alcohol on his breath. "Do you always keep people waiting?" he asks, his voice rougher now, low and almost a growl. "Or was this just for me?"

You hate how his words vibrate through you, how you have to resist the temptation to press your legs together while spread out on his lap, refusing to let him feel the impact of his own words. “But what is it you want from me, Katsuki?” You breathe out, close enough now to see his eyes flash at the name change. “I thought this was just sex, and now you’re inviting me to your birthday party and getting pissy when I don’t show... Is meeting your friends part of the deal now, too?”

“You think this is just sex?” he says, voice rougher now, like he’s testing the words himself. “You think I don’t hate walking away every time? That I haven’t thought about just… staying? Not leaving for once. Keeping you.” A beat. “Keeping you as mine?”

Your breath catches.

“Katsuki… then why didn’t you just ask?” you whisper. “Instead of always running off.”

“Never the right fuckin’ time,” he mutters, his fingers brushing the side of your face, his touch unexpectedly gentle. “You were always either sleeping or too fucked out to hold a conversation. And you... you sure know how to make a guy nervous Angel.”

You blink. “I make you nervous?”

His hand moves to the back of your neck, his grip tightening just enough to pull you closer, “You think I do this often?” His laugh is low, a little dry, but there’s a sincerity to it that catches you off guard. “I downloaded Tinder as a fuckin’ joke. But when I saw your face... couldn’t resist. And the second I had you? Casual was never gonna work for me.”

The weight of his words settles in your chest. You can’t look away, not when he’s watching you like that, like he’s been starving for this moment.

“But hey,” he says, voice dipping low, almost a murmur now. “If you don’t want more, that’s fine. I’ll still give you what you need.” His thumb traces your lower lip, a delicate contrast to everything else about him. “But I want all of it, Angel. I want everything you’ll give me.”

You stare at him, your voice steady despite the heat flooding your veins. “You think I’d be here if you hadn’t caught me too?” you say quietly. “I don’t get this pretty for just anyone.”

His expression shifts. The hunger softens into something warmer, heavier. Something like possession. “You better not,” he says, almost reverently. “You’re mine now.”

And then his mouth is on yours.

Your lips crash together, like they have a million times before, and then he’s picking you up and caging you on the bed underneath you. He dives into your neck, his lips trailing fire across your skin, a low, satisfied groan vibrating from his chest as he kisses you like a man starved. You gasp, trying to hold onto the moment, but you can barely keep your thoughts straight.

You laugh, a little tipsy on him more than the alcohol now. “Katsuki, wait—” You reach up to gently tug at his hair, trying to pull him back. “There’s like a million people in your apartment.”

He barely registers the comment, his hands already at your waist, pulling you closer. “Don’t care,” he mutters, ripping off his shirt with frustration, exposing his toned chest as he leans down to kiss you again.

“I care,” you protest weakly, though the excitement burning in you is undeniable. “I just met them… I want to leave a good impression.”

His eyes darken, a smirk tugging at his lips as he stares down at you. “Fuck that,” he growls, his hands tracing the curves of your body possessively. “The only person you need to be good for is me.”

You roll your eyes, trying to bite back a grin. “Yeah, sure, but I’d prefer not to be that girl at your party—”

“Angel,” he interrupts, voice full of mischief, “I’m the birthday boy.”

His breath ghosts over your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

“Now…” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, “let me open my present.”

.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊.⊹ °ʚ☆ɞ°.⭒₊

general taglist 🏷️ : @cristy-101 @cielito--lindo @waterfal-ling

He is so loved 🧡

will bakugou choose seoul, korea or your wedding anniversary?

Bakugou had turned the damn house upside down three times.

“Where the hell is it?” He hissed under his breath, storming through the hallway closet for the third time in two days. He’d torn apart the shoe rack, the document folders, and even flipped through the cookbooks in the kitchen, just in case he’d used it as a bookmark. No dice. The damn passport was still missing.

His hair was sticking up more than usual—half from stress, half from the static of the hoodie he’d thrown on that morning in frustration. They were supposed to leave for Korea in three days. Three. It was the biggest pro-hero conference he’d ever been invited to—panel talks, interviews, awards. Best Jeanist, Lemillion, and even Halfie had their confirmations sent in already.

And what did he have?

An expired copy of his license (he got a new one; the expired one’s just in his drawer), a half-crushed protein bar, and a very pouty, very pregnant wife in the living room.

You had your feet up on the couch, ankles slightly swollen beneath the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from his wardrobe. You were scrolling on your phone with one hand, the other resting on your baby bump, lazily tracing circles. When Bakugou stomped past, you looked up with the slow blink of a cat.

“Still lost?” you asked, not bothering to hide your amusement. Even laughed under your breath.

The audacity, he thinks, though it wasn’t frustration. He could never be mad at you.

Because he knows you’ll get mad at him, too.

Bakugou didn’t answer. He grunted instead, pulling out another drawer in the cabinet near the TV.

“Maybe it grew legs and walked off,” you teased. “Or maybe your big fat ego swallowed it.”

He shot you a look. “Not helping.”

You hummed. “Not trying to.”

Your pout had gotten more dramatic since hitting six months. Bakugou noticed it more these days, how you’d stare down your food like it personally offended you, or how you’d sigh theatrically every time the topic of even him leaving the house came up. At first, you’d been supportive—even joked that you’d video call him during the conference and heckle him from the screen. But once you found out the biggest day of the event landed on your wedding anniversary, the whole game changed.

Suddenly he feels like he’s on house arrest.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” you murmured, taking a sip of the juice he made you this morning. “Maybe you’re meant to stay home this time.”

Bakugou scoffed. As if.

“Ain’t no damn sign. It’s just misplacin’ shit.”

“You don’t have to go,” you said again. “You could stay. Cuddle me. Eat cake. Listen to me cry about clouds.”

“You said I could go if I find my passport,” he pouts, brows furrowed, and his lips jutted slightly.

“I did, and don’t be mad,” you replied. “I want you to go. Really. You’ve worked so hard.”

“Then why do you look like you wanna punch me in the throat?”

You blinked at him. “Because it’s our anniversary and I’m hormonal. Sue me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I hope you don’t find it.”

That was the end of that conversation.

-

The night before their anniversary came sooner than expected.

Bakugou had made a reservation at one of the nicest rooftop restaurants in the city. Private booth, soft fairy lights, cityscape twinkling behind them. The host even laid a small bouquet of lavender on the table when he told them it was for a special occasion. He hadn’t told you where you were going, only grunted, “Wear that dress you like—that comfy one. You know the one.”

He hadn’t mentioned anything new about the passport ordeal. You, who figured he’d either given up or accepted fate, were mostly content to enjoy the evening.

You looked like a dream, so his focus was entirely on you. Someone who he somehow managed to have (maybe his bond with his guardian angels came in clutch and even contacted Cupid himself to arrange an arrow for you two).

You waddled into the restaurant, cheeks a little fuller, eyes glowing. He still looked at you like he couldn’t believe he got so lucky. He thinks it makes you shy, how intense his gaze got, even after everything—the morning sickness, the mood swings, the late-night hospital runs due to paranoia.

“You okay?” he asked, placing a hand on your lower back as you walked in.

“Mm,” you hummed, leaning into his touch. You could barely hide your smile at this point. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t even deny it. “I am? So what? Can’t a man just appreciate his wife?”

Dinner went well, for the most part.

You had one hand on your belly, the other wrapped around his fingers on the table. You were halfway through your chocolate mousse when Bakugou reached into his jacket pocket and slid something across the table.

“No,” you said slowly, setting your spoon down. “You didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did.”

He didn’t look smug at all, more like... hopeful.

Your brows furrowed. You reached for the passport, flipping it open.

There it was. His damn passport. Found. Intact. Stamped. His most recent picture was taken only a few months ago.

Yoh stared at it. Then at you. Then back at it again.

“…You found it?”

“Yup.”

“Where was it?”

He cleared his throat, gaze shifting to the side.

“…Behind the dresser in the guest room. Stuffed in that red envelope labeled ‘Important Shit,’ which you labeled in your handwriting, by the way.”

You paused. Your cheeks puffed again as your lips turned downward in the softest pout he’d ever seen. You looked down at your half-eaten dessert, spoon idle.

“You’re really gonna go?”

“I want to,” he admitted. “But I don’t wanna leave you pissed off and lonely, either.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just poked at your mousse with your spoon. Your lashes were low, and he could tell you were struggling. Not angry, just…sad.

Finally, you said, “It’s just one. It’s just one anniversary. We’ll have dozens more, right?”

“We will. We’ll have centuries more.”

“…And you’ll video call me. Every day.”

“Morning and night.”

“And text me when you land. And when you eat. And when you leave the venue. And—”

Bakugou reached across the table and tugged gently at your hand. His hands are rough against yours, but they’re filled with sincerity and utmost love that a man could give to his wife.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

His voice softened.

“Seriously, d’ya think I’d leave you without a plan?”

You blinked.

“I’m leavin’ you flowers and your cake. I told Kirishima to drop off that spa basket thing you said you wanted last month. And your mom’s stayin’ over the night of. I made sure. I even stocked the fridge.”

Your mouth parted slightly, tilting your head to the side. “You…did all that?”

“Yeah.” He looked almost bashful now, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t want you to think I forgot. Even if I ain’t here physically. I’m still here.”

Your eyes shimmered just a bit. A good sign, Bakugou notes.

Then you smiled—soft and tired and affectionate.

“God, you’re gonna make me cry.”

“Tch. Don’t cry. I’ll look like an asshole.”

You laughed then, nose crinkling. “You are an asshole. But a sweet one.”

“Yeah, you love me.”

“I do.”

You two didn’t talk about the passport again that night. Not after that.

Instead, you finished dessert. Slowly. Your hand stayed in his the whole time.

When you walked out of the restaurant, he kept his arm around your shoulders, guiding you carefully down the steps like you were made of glass. You leaned into him, soft and warm, your belly pressing into his side.

And when they got home, you told him, “Let’s open the anniversary cake early.”

He didn’t say no. Not when you looked that happy. It doesn’t matter that he’s already full from the chocolate mousse you two had earlier.

When night finally settled, and Bakugou’s wiping the excess frosting off the corners of your lips with a napkin, he hears you say, “Come home soon, okay?”

He nodded, then softly kissed the crown of your head.

“Always.”

Always come home to you.

-

The morning of Bakugou’s flight started earlier than usual.

He had been up before the alarm even went off, brushing his teeth with the kind of intensity that only came from years of military-grade discipline… or nerves (also because he wants all bad germs on his mouth to die). Not that he’d ever admit to the latter. He stood in front of the mirror, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling from the hot shower as he stared at his reflection.

This was it. The day he was supposed to fly out to Korea.

Except—he wasn’t going.

Not really.

He’d made his decision last night, somewhere between the weight of your hug and the feel of your heartbeat against his body when you fell asleep on his chest. The moment you started snoring softly, your nose slightly buried in his shirt, he realized there was no way in hell he was getting on that plane.

Not this time.

But you didn’t need to know that just yet.

Because if there was one thing Bakugou knew about his wife, it was that you’d throw a fit if he skipped a life-changing professional opportunity just to spend your anniversary folding baby laundry and rubbing your swollen ankles. Plus, he knew you’d never allow him to stay. And if you knew he was lying about leaving, you’d huff and puff until he actually made him go.

So, he planned ahead. Like a goddamn mastermind.

By the time you woke up—slightly groggy with pillow lines on your cheek—he had already “packed.” His suitcase was zipped shut and positioned neatly by the door. His travel duffle bag sat upright next to it. His travel documents were tucked inside an envelope labeled “Do Not Open Unless Emergency.” (Totally blank inside.)

You blinked at him sleepily, rubbing your eyes as you waddled into the living room in his oversized T-shirt. One of the many shirts he was sure was missing from his closet.

“You already packed?” you murmured, voice small and pouty.

He turned from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. Acting too nonchalant to not give anything away.

“Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t wanna rush.”

You crossed your arms over your bump. “It’s only a three-hour flight, Katsuki. Not an expedition to the Arctic.”

“Still gotta prep,” he said, biting back a grin.

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, but the smell of something sweet distracted you. Bingo.

He stepped aside, revealing a neatly arranged dessert box sitting on the counter. Inside: four of your favorites—strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream, a slice of creamy Basque burnt cheesecake, a generous portion of tiramisu, and your current obsession: mango sticky rice.

“You bought me desserts?” you awed.

“I bought you a stack,” he corrected. “Don’t think I don’t know you get all sad and start craving sugar when I leave.”

You scoffed. “I do not.”

“You do,” he said, crossing his arms smugly. “You pouted so hard last time I left, I came back to find the fridge empty and you passed out with a half-eaten ice cream tub on the couch.”

“That was one time!”

“And I’m not takin’ chances.”

He bent forward, pressed a kiss to your cheek, then to your rounded belly. “Eat well. Don’t lift anything heavy. Text me when you’re sleepy. I’ll land by lunch. Kirishima’s already on the way, but it’ll take a while because of traffic since the bridge is getting repaired.”

“You’re acting suspicious,” you said, frowning as you clung to his shirt. “You never say goodbye this… nicely.”

“That’s rude,” he muttered. “I’m always nice.”

“No, you’re normally grumpy and say something like, ‘Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone.’”

He smirked. You weren’t wrong entirely.

“Well, maybe I don’t wanna come back to find out you’ve cried over an empty dessert box.”

Your lip wobbled, and he kissed you again—softly this time, with an extra squeeze to your waist.

“I’ll be back before you know it. It’s just for two nights.”

-

He left around nine. Or at least, pretended to.

Instead of heading to the airport, he drove straight to his agency, parked in the underground garage, and holed up in his office. There was a bottle of juice in the mini fridge, emergency snacks in the bottom drawer, and an absurd number of congratulatory emails flooding his inbox that he ignored.

The hours ticked by slowly.

He checked his phone a dozen times. No calls. No texts. Just one blurry photo from you of the dessert box with the caption: You’re lucky I’m in a sugar coma right now. Or I’d be mad you left without triple kissing me goodbye.

He snorted.

Around lunchtime, he got restless. Then irritated.

Then, at exactly 1:00 P.M., he got in the car and drove home.

No warning.

No heads-up.

He half-expected you to be lounging in the living room, watching drama reruns and fanning yourself while complaining about heartburn. But when he pulled up the driveway and unlocked the front door—

The house was suspiciously quiet.

His brows pulled together.

“[Name]?” he called out, stepping in.

Nothing.

He frowned and shut the door behind him, stepping out of his boots. He heard a thud from the back hallway. Then a low grunt. A shuffle.

His eyes narrowed.

Then he heard you muttering.

“Come on, come on, I’m not that heavy—”

He rounded the corner—and stopped cold.

There you were.

Standing in the hallway. Sweaty. Red-faced. Holding a large box half your size with both hands, your bump barely giving you enough room to balance it. Your lip was caught between your teeth as you struggled to carry what was definitely one of the boxes he had explicitly labeled: Do Not Touch.

“…What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You screamed.

You literally screamed—jumping nearly out of your skin, eyes wide like you saw a ghost.

Or a burglar.

Or both, at this point.

“—Katsuki! I thought you were in Korea—what the hell—”

“Put the box down.”

“You can’t just walk in like that, I thought—I—”

“Put it down, [Name].”

You dropped it with a loud thunk, wobbling backward and grabbing your shoulders.

“Oh my god, I thought you were a home invader! I was ready to throw a candle at you—why are you back?!”

Bakugou marched toward you, still wide-eyed with a mixture of rage and pure panic. He can’t believe this at all. “More importantly, why the fuck are you lifting boxes?!”

“I was bored!”

“Bored? So you decided to tear a disc and pop a blood vessel?!”

“I didn’t tear anything! And it wasn’t heavy; it’s mostly baby blankets!”

He crouched down instantly to pick it up—still heavy, despite your excuses—and carried it to the nursery, grumbling the entire way. “Goddamn woman’s gonna give me a stroke,” he muttered, though there was never any heat in his words.

You waddled after him, still stunned.

“Wait. Why are you here?!”

“I never left.”

“You… what?”

“I stayed at the agency. Figured I’d come back after you thought I was gone. Catch you red-handed.”

“You liar!”

He turned toward you, his frustration subsiding.

“You’re not even a good liar! You went full fake goodbye mode this morning! You even left me mango sticky rice!”

“Yeah. ‘Cause I knew you’d snoop around and start being reckless the second you thought no one was watching.”

Your cheeks puffed up again. That damn pout.

“I was just nesting,” you mumbled.

“Nesting doesn’t involve deadlifting half a closet,” he shot back. “You promised you’d take it easy.”

“…I thought you were in Korea.”

“Yeah, well, again, surprise.”

You blinked up at him again, eyes soft now, overwhelmed. “…You really stayed just for me?”

When he sets the boxes down, he exhaled and cupped your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye. “You really thought I’d leave you alone on our anniversary? Pregnant? Carrying boxes? Eating dessert by yourself? What do you take me for? A shitty husband?”

You hit his chest weakly.

“You’re so unfair,” you muttered.

“I know,” he grinned. “And I love you.”

You melted then. Completely.

Wrapping your arms around him, your bump pressing into his stomach, you buried your face in his chest and whispered: “I love you too, you dramatic maniac.”

That night, there was no flight. No press. No conference.

Just takeout on the couch, your feet in his lap, mango sticky rice on your plate, and his hand splayed across your belly like a homecoming gift.

Bakugou may have missed a headline.

But he made the right choice.

And that mattered more.

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