This Author Knows Wssp - Blog Posts

Im a sucker for angsty fwb Bakugo and messy feelings.

!! Major spoilers for the manga btw !!

The two of you almost never meet like that. It’s almost pushing it to ten times a year in a never ending circle of non commitment and broken promises, words that are only exchanged during intimacy that none of you can’t help but utter and trutfully tonight shouldn’t have been different.

But he agreed to let you stay at his place for the night—you think it’s because he doesn’t want to drive you home and you settle on the couch, in a corner, not even wanting to wrap yourself up in a blanket. He takes none of it, preaching about how he’s not going to let you crash on the couch, that you can sleep with him in his bed.

As you’re given a change of clothes to sleep in and a toothbrush, you avoid looking right into his face. 

You know better than anyone why he doesn’t want to commit to you, he doesn’t want you to really see him, he’d rather shut himself away from you. You’re not someone he considers an equal, you’ll never even be close to leveling up with him. You know he hates that about you. That you’re weak. That you gave up on being a hero after the war because of everything that happened.

“Bathe and we can sleep” he says and he gives you a towel and a pair of his boxers.

He already had his shower, he already smells like that orange blossom shower gel and bitter almond shampoo that he has, he already smells like clean laundry and you reek of sinful non committal, casual sex.

You enter the shower and the water running is so hot that it could scorch your skin. You like it that way, feeling the water pierce like fire needles through your skin, stripping away everything in its collision with flesh. 

You try not to burst into tears— he’d think it’s bad manners, lecture you for it and you’re not in the mood for any of it. It’s overwhelming  and self distracting to think of him that way— your therapist says that you should make an effort to understand him and you really do, you do understand why he acts like he does but it doesn’t leave you with anything to do about it. 

You just want to go home, in your clothes, in your bed. The feeling in your heart is unbearable.

But your therapist has repeatedly told you not to sweep the problem under the rug; just talk to him. Don’t just sit in the comfort of the scent of his shower gel and his clothes. Confront him. Tell him you love him and that you’ll stick by his side no matter what.

And it all sounds perfect in theory. Really, it does. Except for the part where you can’t even look at him.

When you look at him, even almost ten years later all you can see is his lifeless fucking body laying under Best Jeanists hands.

So Katsuki knows better than anyone why you can’t accept him, why you can’t commit to him and it drives him absolutely insane.

He is always clothed around you, during sex, during coffee dates to catch up; he puts in the most exquisite effort to avoid showing you his scars. 

And when he can’t just hide the one on his face, you respond by not even looking him in the eye. That, as a fact, pains him more than anything. 

Frankly, he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to bear it.

But tonight— tonight he’s gonna do it — he’s gonna tell you that he loves you. And then his own feelings will be your problem.

When he hears the shower stop running, he sits on the edge of his bed, one leg bouncing in anticipation; is tonight the right time? Should he do it? And if not now then when? Can he really just let you slip away, or will his confession make you force yourself to be with someone you can’t even look at.

Why are the two of you even involved at all if you think he is so repulsive?

The bedroom door creaks open before he has time to actually process a sequence of words to tell you— and you step out, your hair damp, clinging to your neck in heavy strands. His shirt swallows you whole, draping over your frame, and his boxers sit awkwardly on your hips, a poor attempt at comfort that neither of you will acknowledge. You still don’t look at him.

Of course, you fucking don’t.

Katsuki clenches his jaw. His leg keeps bouncing—until he forces it still, pressing his palm hard against his knee. He’s getting sick of this. Sick of watching you shrink into yourself, sick of the way you refuse to meet his gaze, sick of the ghosts that sit between you, molding the shape of your relationship into something that barely resembles one.

You tug at the seams of his T-shirt to hide the scars on your neck and the ones on your stomach and torso sit hidden, snuggly, underneath the cloth of it.

He knows what you’re doing because unlike you, he is looking at you.

“…Come here,” he mutters, voice gruff, barely above a whisper.

You hesitate. You fucking hesitate. But he wants to kiss you. He wants to sit you on his lap and kiss your lips, your neck, your chest. He wants to kiss your scars, no matter the fact that they’re spread all over your body.

This is the first and most major difference between the two of you and that’s what pisses him off the most. He accepts parts of you you don’t accept about yourself or him.

But eventually, you move, each step slow, reluctant, as if walking toward him is some great act of suffering. You sit on the bed—on the very edge of it, like you’re prepared to run, not on his lap like he wants.

You play out of the premeditated scenario he’s crafted in his head for this moment.

Katsuki feels something inside him snap.

His fingers twitch, nails digging into his palm, the words crawling up his throat like acid, burning to be let out.

You won’t even look at him.

And yet—you still come back to him, time and time again, you come back.

“Sit on my lap” he says, patting on his thighs with one hand, coaxing yours with his other. “Want you close so we can talk”

You don’t answer. You can’t answer, just follow his lead and hover your legs over his, as you crawl your way onto his lap.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he asks, his voice quiet, sharp and cutting through the thick silence between you. 

“M not doing anything” you mutter in response.

“That’s the problem”

Yet, he cradles you, the problem, into his arms, big, strong biceps pressing you close to him, holding your head right into his chest. 

His heartbeat is loud— too loud for someone who once died, too real. Technically there’s nothing you should be scared of, he’s here with you, holding you and all you want to do is run away. Something inside you screams at you to run home, that this isn’t real. That he died and wasn’t saved, that you’re imagining all this.

But right underneath his shirt is his scar. And the ones on his forearm are visible now that he’s wearing a T-shirt.

“Should I go ahead and laser remove the scars?” Katsuki asks while the two of snuggle against each other.

“Huh? Why?”

“Cause ya don’t like looking at em, I’ve noticed. So would you look at me then?!”

Your stomach twists at the mention of the words, even if they’re so soft spoken and without thinking, your eyes dart down—just for a second—before flicking away again. Just the thought of it, the way the skin is raised and uneven, makes your throat tighten.

You swallow hard, fingers gripping the edge of his shirt. His fingers trace circles on the skin over the band of your -his- boxers.

“That’s not—” You take a slow breath, trying to steady yourself. “I just…”

“You just think im ugly and you’d rather leave, that’s what you want to say isn’t it?”

“I don’t handle… that kind of stuff well.” You don’t say the word. You don’t want to. Just thinking about it makes your skin crawl. “It makes me feel sick to my stomach. And thinking about how you got them—” Your voice catches, and you look down again “It’s too much.”

Silence.

Then, Katsuki scoffs, but it’s weak. “Figures.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“Real fuckin’ great, huh?” He curses “I wanna tell you that I fucking love you and you’re here telling me I make you sick— what the fuck is wrong with me?”

You break free from his bear-like hug, only to stare at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering. You hate seeing him like this—hunched slightly, fists clenched, looking at his reflection in your eyes like it’s something disgusting. Like he’s something disgusting.

He isn’t though, he’s strong, he’s beautiful, he’s anything and everything you can’t lose. Nobody ever tells him, you don’t either, you just act like he’s made of glass and then leave as if he can’t or won’t shutter.

He just told you he loves you.

You love him too. You’re in love with him. 

Does he even want to hear it after the shit you just spurt at him?

You grab at his face like it's instinct and press your nose to his, locking your eyes into his, breath hitched in the back of your throat. You avoid making any noise, scared that you’re going to ruin this by just existing. 

If it’s been so many years and he’s still alive, you shouldn’t patronise his feelings because of your own trauma.

He’s here. He’s alive and he loves you and the pad of your thumb brushes over the scar on his cheek.

Your stomach still churns at the thought of his injury, but you force yourself to step forward, reaching out carefully. “Katsuki.”

Silence. 

It’s just like he wanted. His love for you is your own problem now. He can only beat and scar himself further over the fact that he said ‘I love you’ like a curse. 

Your stomach twists for a completely different reason now. “Katsuki, I love you too.”

Your lips brush against his, softly. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even stop you. 

He wants to kiss you. Lips, skin, soul. Everything that is yours he wants to put his lips on.

And he does. 

His mind goes blank the moment your lips touch his. It’s like a surge of electricity floods his body, short-circuiting everything logical, everything that was screaming at him to hold back, to keep his mouth shut, to not want this more than he already does.

But he does want this. He always has.

Your lips move against his—hesitant at first, unsure, like you’re still trying to convince yourself this is okay. That he’s okay. And that hesitation guts him. It rips through his chest in ways that no explosion ever could, because it reminds him of the truth:

You love him. 

You’re not afraid to keep your eyes open and he isn’t afraid to keep his eyes open too.

The two of you probably look like lunatics, kissing with your eyes open, but it’s only because you can’t get enough, it’s never enough, even when you kiss just to have sex it’s not enough.

Katsuki wants to melt into you, he wants to disintegrate into one person with you. He feels like his heart will combust— no, he fears that his heart will combust and he’ll leave you scarred forever.

But he’s done that once already.

His fingers tighten their grip on your waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground himself. You’re warm. Real. Sitting right here, on his lap, wrapped up in his clothes, wrapped up in him. It’s a fucking miracle.

He kisses you deeper, almost desperately, parting his lips to taste more, feel more, take more. Your hands are still on his face, trembling slightly, but you don’t pull away. Not yet. And he clings to that like a dying man, pouring everything he can’t say into the way he mouths at you, the way his tongue flicks against yours, the way he tilts his head just right to fit against you perfectly.

His heart is pounding—too fast, too loud. He wonders if you can feel it, if you notice just how much he’s shaking. Because Katsuki does not tremble. Never. He does not doubt himself. He does not need.

Except with you.

With you, he’s terrified.

He’s scared you’ll push him away after this, that you’ll realize just how broken he really is, that loving him is more trouble than it’s worth. He’s scared you’ll come to your senses and run.

Because deep inside he’s convinced himself you’ve been keeping your distance because you think he’s ugly. Disgusting. A byproduct of a rotten hero society.

So he kisses you like he can keep you here. Right in his arms. Like he can erase all your doubts, all your hesitations, all your pain. He kisses you like an apology, a plea, a confession—because maybe it is all of those things. 

Maybe it’s all of these things.

And when you don’t stop him,when your hands slide into his hair, pulling him closer, keeping him right here in your arms, he swears he could cry like a newborn.

“I know it’s stupid,” you say, breaking the kiss, only for him to whine against your lips, “but I can’t stop feeling like if I look too long, if I think too hard about it, it’ll happen again. I— I get panic attacks for hours when I remember the way you laid there, lifeless. Katsuki I don’t ever want to see that again. Im scared.” 

You don’t have to pull away to continue, you need him as much as he needs you. And so you speak against his lips. “But that doesn’t mean I hate you. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to look at you. I'm scared that if I look at you for too long you’ll stop being real. I wanna be with you always, I want you to be here so bad. All the time.”

Katsuki is silent, staring at you like he doesn’t know what to say. His fingers twitch again before he finally, finally moves, cupping the back of your neck and tugging you against him, sealing your lips in another kiss.

You let out a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut as you press your face into him.

His grip is tight, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away from his lap. “I’m here,” he mutters into you, voice soft. You’re not to be fooled with that patchy ass voice he pulls for everyone else “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“But I still hate this scar,” he continues, whispering “Hate what it reminds me of. But if it means I get to stand here with you, get to hold you” He swallows thickly. “Then I’ll keep it.”

Your heart lurches.

A shaky breath leaves your lips, and without thinking, you reach up, gripping his face between your hands again. His skin is warm, slightly rough, chapped by the sudden change of weather, but real.

You don’t look at the scar this time. You don’t have to. Instead, you look at him as a whole; his furrowed brows, his slightly downturned lips, his tired, burning eyes, his blond lashes that you used to make fun of in high school.

It all makes sense now.

His breath stutters. His hands slide down to your waist, gripping you tightly, and before you can say anything else, he crashes his lips onto yours again.

It’s desperate. A little too messy. Like he’s trying to pour every ounce of regret and relief and love into it all at once. You gasp softly against his mouth, your hands tightening around him, and he groans low in his throat, pulling you impossibly closer.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. And you kiss him back just as fiercely, because you need to remind yourself that he is real. He’s not going anywhere but here.

Katsuki’s breath is heavy against your skin, his forehead still pressed to yours, his fingers still gripping you tight. But something shifts. It’s something sharp, electric, crackling in the space between you.

He’s teetering on the edge of restraint.

Your own breath shudders as he exhales, hot and uneven. You’re still pressed against his chest, against the scar that used to make your stomach twist, but right now, all you can feel is him.

And then, he moves.

In a blur of motion, Katsuki grabs your thighs and yanks you, throwing you and himself into the bed before you can even process it. You gasp, hands flying up to steady yourself against his shoulders, but he doesn’t give you a second to think.

His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, nothing like before. The trembling kisses from earlier can’t even compare to this one. This one is feral.

Like he’s been waiting for this moment to break and go berserk.

A muffled sound escapes you as his hands roam, gripping, squeezing, pulling you closer like there’s still too much distance between you. His fingers dig into your thighs, sliding up under your shirt, palms rough and searing against your skin.

You barely have time to process before he’s tilting his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue swiping against yours in a way that makes your stomach twist and turn.

He groans, low and hungry, and the sound sends a sharp, molten heat straight through you. Katsuki has always been intense, but this—this is something else.

This is unrestrained.

This is him. Losing control. And you’re the cause.

His hands move again, gripping the hem of your shirt and tugging it upward, fingers brushing over your ribs. His lips break from yours just long enough to drag hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—teeth scraping, tongue soothing, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, breathless, gasping, barely able to keep up with the way he’s touching you like a starved man.

He doesn’t just kiss you any more. He’s devouring you whole.

His breathing is ragged, his pupils blown wide, his lips red and swollen. His hands are still on you, still gripping you tight, but he doesn’t move or push any further. He just looks at you, like he could burn you, melt you into goo with his gaze.

And then he pleads, “Say it again?”

Tell me you want me. Tell me you love me and it’ll all stop being an amalgamation of emotions.

The unspoken words hang between you and all you can do is lay there, on your side, and watch him watch you like you’re a rough diamond in the making.

You don’t deny him of anything. You speak the words as if your life depends on them.

“I'm in love with you”

He tightens his arms around you, pressing you so close that it’s almost suffocating but he can’t help it. He needs you like this, needs to feel the warmth of your body, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the proof that you’re being for real as it’s written on your palpitating heart. That this isn’t some cruel dream that’ll slip between his fingers the second he wakes up.

His lips ghost over yours again, desperate, frantic. His breath is ragged, shaky, and his hands roam—your back, your sides, the dip of your waist—like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, burn the shape of you into his palms.

“Say it again,” he hears himself crack as he speaks, and he hates how wrecked his voice sounds, how utterly pathetic he must seem right now. But he doesn’t care. He needs to hear it.

You hesitate, and that hesitation guts him. But then your fingers tighten in his hair, your lips brush against his cheek, over the scar he thought you couldn’t bear to look at.

You do something he never, not in a million years, could even allow himself to imagine. You kiss his scar.

And right now he doesn’t even think he can see anymore.

“I love you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His heart is a fucking mess, erratic, wild. His grip on you tightens, like if he just holds on hard enough, he can keep you here forever.

Katsuki has never begged for anything in his life, but if you tried to leave now, he thinks he would. He knows he would. On his knees, sprawled all over the floor if he had to.

“Again” he exhales, sharply through his nose “I swear,” he breathes, voice rough and full of desperation “I’ll die if you don’t”

Your breath catches, and he feels it, the way you go still in his arms.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

He presses his lips to your temple, your cheek, your jaw. It’s feverish, aching, his heart is going to give up, caught between his greediness and insecurity. “I don’t wanna live in a world where you don’t love me back, so just say it”

It’s pathetic. Weak. Not the kind of thing he would ever say out loud. 

“I love you I love you I love you”

The moment the words leave your lips, the second you tell him you love him again, something in him absolutely breaks. He grabs your face with both hands, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs tracing over the curves of your jaw like he’s holding something fragile. Something irreplaceable.

Then he ruins you.

His lips crash into yours again, rough, needy, swallowing every breath, every little sound you make. But it isn’t enough. It’s never going to be enough.

He kisses your lips, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your jaw. He presses frantic, open-mouthed kisses down your face like he’s starving—like he’s been denied of you for too long and now he’ll die if he doesn’t get to taste all of you.

“Love you,” he mutters between kisses, like the words are spilling out of him against his will. His lips drag over your nose, down your chin, along the curve of your cheekbone. “Love you, fuck—love you so much—”

He’s shaking. He can feel it in his hands, in the way his breath stutters against your skin. His lips find your temple, pressing there like a prayer, like if he kisses hard enough, you’ll understand—really understand—just how much he needs you.

He can’t stop.

He kisses the embers of the scar on your neck, then your forehead, then both of your eyelids like he’s blessing you. Then again, your cheekbones, your jaw, the corner of your mouth again—over and over, like he’s worshiping every single inch of you.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair, holding you onto him for dear life.

When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his breath ragged. “Tell me you’re mine,” he rasps, voice thick with something desperate, something wrecked. “We’re together after this, right? No more fucking sex on the low and then I don’t get to see you for god knows how long”

"Say you're stayin’," he mutters, voice raw. His fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you’re wearing, pressing against your bare waist. His lips move to your ear, voice nothing more than a plea. "Tell me you’re not leavin’ me, baby."

Your heart clenches at the way his voice wavers, the way he sounds like he's afraid—like the very idea of you leaving is enough to unravel him completely.

“I’m staying,” you breathe, and before you can even finish saying it, his lips crash into yours again, cutting off whatever air was left in your lungs.

His eyes rake over you, wild and dark and fiery red and shaky, lips swollen and shiny from kissing you too hard. His hands are shaking as they run down your sides, like he’s never touched you before. 

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if he’s finally letting himself believe it. His hands slide under your shirt, palms pressing flat against your stomach, up your ribs, his thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts. He swallows hard. “Mine.”

His kiss is messy, desperate, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you. Like he wants to crawl inside your skin and live there. And maybe he does. Maybe that’s the only way he’ll ever feel close enough to you.

“Katsuki” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his lips, slow and sweet.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked, breath hot. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your head is spinning, body burning beneath his touch, every nerve alight. “Then take it,” you whisper, nails digging into his shoulders.

His breath stutters and he hisses.

A growl rumbles in his chest as he flips you, pressing you into the mattress before climbing over you, caging you in with his body. His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, sliding up your waist, pinning you in place like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He dips down, biting at your collarbone, at the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, dragging his teeth over your pulse before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. A reminder. A claim. One he wasn’t allowed to make until seconds earlier.

You’re his to have.

You gasp, arching into him, and he groans at the way you react, at the way you’re coming undone beneath him.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters against your skin, lips trailing lower. “All mine.”

His words send a sharp, electric jolt through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Your hands roam his body in return, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, feeling the way he shudders beneath your touch. When your fingers ghost over the scar on his chest, he stiffens for just a moment—then exhales shakily, like he’s letting you in.

He wants you to touch it. To feel that he’s here. That he’s alive. This is a reminder too.

You press your palm flat against it, right over his heart, and his breath shudders. His gaze snaps up to yours, pupils blown, expression dark and desperate.

Katsuki is fire—hot and consuming, searing through every inch of you, making it impossible to think of anything but him. And he’s explosion too, nuclear and annihilating, swiping away every ember of fear you could feel at this moment.

And right now, you’re ready to burn and get blown into teeny tiny pieces.

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

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