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princematcha · 2 years

Text

tall buildings blinking to airplanes in the snow

pro-hero!bakugou k. x reader (no pronouns)

wc: 10k

cw: friends 2 lovers, not in chronological order, inaccurate train schedules for plot, a single free willy joke, sections titled in latin because i suck i guess idk, unnamed american hero, an oc sidekick, sfw, not beta-read, reader is shorter than bkg no matter how tall you are, mutual pining, a fake manga, reader gets called pretty, reader has a quirk, fluff

tw: mild violence, blood mention, fight-related injuries, knives, cursing, alcohol, reader self deprecates a lil bit, mild hurt/comfort, slice of life

a/n: happy birthday @strawberry-nugget !!!(this is so late help) this 1 is for my co-owner of a brain cell, sweetest strawb kith kith

soundtrack. (not necessary but what i wrote to. songs can be listened to in any order.)

summary: what makes a home change? love. at least bakugou thinks so.

MDNI

nunc, hiems

(now) “I think we used to talk like that.”

Bakugou hums at you, eyes closed and head resting on your shoulder. You weren’t able to go to sleep and he woke from the lack of warmth from where you usually are. He doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “It’s so bright for two am. The sky is white ‘ki,” you whisper.

“Cause,” he opens his eyes one at a time, “S cause it’s snowing.”

“I know.” You laugh quietly like you’ll wake someone, “Just thought it looked nice.”

“Does,” he breathes.

Fake yawning, you raise a hand to your mouth, “Think I’m getting tired now.” Bakugou blinks his eyes open to sleepily glare at you trying not to smile.

He speaks into your shoulder, “Don’ lie. ‘M not even tired.” Your smile breaks through, warming him from head to toe.

“I’ll bet.” You say softly, shifting his head to your fuzzy blanket-covered lap. He pouts up at you but doesn’t try to move.

“Fuck am I doing down here?” You brush his hair out of his eyes as you rotate your shoulder in small circles, pretending to wince.

“Your big head was hurting my shoulder.”

“You love my big head.” You poke your tongue at him and push his grinning face.

You cover his eyes with your hands, “Go to sleep, freak.”

Katsuki stops moving after a bit and you assume he’s fallen asleep until he asks what you meant earlier. You’re not quite sure what he means— having chosen to spend the last few minutes tracing his features, gently humming random songs that blended into one another.

“The ‘used to talk like that.’ What wer’ ya lookin’ at?” He shifts again to look up at you through one eye.

You bite back the urge to laugh at his sleepy tongue, instead, bending over to gently headbutt him. He grabs the back of your head to keep your foreheads together.

“Something about how the lights let the airplanes know where it’s safe. Let them know where they can land.” You can feel his eyelashes brushing against your cheek with every blink.

“Doesn’t make shit sense.”

You huff and sit up. “You don’t make shit sense. Sleep already.”

“Ya wanna know what I think we talk like?” Bakugou asks as he places a rough palm on your cheek. A dark white sky and city lights give him a softened glow.

“No.” He grunts a laugh, eyes almost closed and a tired arm starting to rest on you.

“I think we always talked like this. Not a fuckin’ plane. Hate planes, so much prettier than a plane.”

You grab his wrist and press your lips to his palm, smiling against his hand when he hums at you.

“Pretty sure they use radios too,” he adds with a smirk. You bite his palm in response.

“Hope your snores wake you up.”

Katsuki turns to face your stomach and grumbles love you into your thigh.

duodēvīgintī, vernus (II)

(18) “And you! How does it feel to be a pro-hero, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight-san?” You ask, an air mic pointed towards Bakugou and wiggling your eyebrows around when you say pro-hero. On your right, Denki starts cackling at hearing the full name and smacks your back just a touch too hard. You’re wheezing and shoving him out of the booth when you hear Bakugou say “Great.”

A couple of hours ago, the legendary class of 1-A graduated. Now they’re all shoved in a ramen shop that definitely isn’t meant to have this many people. They had all been coming to your dad’s place since their first year even after it was destroyed that same year. You don’t know much about what happened then honestly, you didn’t come to Japan from your tiny out-of-the-loop town until you were most of the way through your second year, but you can find it in their faces sometimes. Plus you can see how the paparazzi treat the class, how fanatics forget they’re people.

You make it your secret hero mission to have a place that they can come– and they eat here fairly often– where they can come and be whatever. The hero class if they want, you wait for them to give you a sign that they want to talk about recent hero-related achievements. But they usually come to the small place to just be.

You can feel Bakugou’s red eyes on you and Denki, it makes a weird feeling stir in your spine. You’re not sure why he’s still looking. He’s been doing that more than usual.

(A wet winter night forces its way to the front of your brain, but you push the thought down as quickly as it appears. Too cold. Too damp. Too dark for today.)

The sun is setting when the former UA students start shuffling out of the ramen shop. Teary hugs with the friends you made from the school, promises of seeing each other later. You know they mean it with their whole heart, but you doubt hero work will give them enough downtime to spend with some civilian in a tiny place they frequented in high school. Still, you smile and hold each promise with trusting hands, letting the feeling drop lead weights into your chest.

Mina’s hand is sliding off of your lower back when you notice Bakugou hasn’t moved from where he was standing next to the table. Maybe he left something? You don’t remember him bringing anything. The bell above the front door jingles as the last students leave, leaving him plus a couple of businessmen over by the tv.

“I’m leaving.”

You turn to him with a confused smile and laugh, “Well I’d hope so, can’t stay here for the night.” He doesn’t laugh. Bakugou just looks at you. His warm stare always makes you feel like he’s peeling layers off of you, leaving just the soft pulp out. You haven’t decided how you feel about that yet.

“No,” he shoves his hands into his pockets, “I’m going to America.” You feel your face tighten.

“Ah, that’s-” What is it. Why is he telling you? You probably would have found out through Sero or something. So why are you standing less than half of a metre away from Bakugou while he tells you he’s leaving the country. You can see his hands flexing in his pockets, how he’s rocking from heel to toe, and how he’s keeping his eyes on your face. The weird feeling in your spine is back. “That’s exciting!” you smile again. He only leans back a little and squints down at you, corners of his mouth pointed downwards.

“That all?” You tilt your head up at him, what else are you supposed to say? Does he want you to say something else? You don’t know. You don’t know what to say. (You don’t know what to say to him.)

The tight smile is faltering and the weight in your chest is making you feel heavy. You lower yourself into the booth. He sits across from you. “How long?” you ask. You don’t think Bakugou thinks you’re close, but he’s recently been a quiet comfort. Bakugou’s regular lack of response was a little off-putting at first but lately, they kinda remind you of the kind of silence you get around a campfire, the pause where everyone takes a moment to look at the stars.

“At least a year and a half.” He sighs and rests his chin against his palm, “They fuckin- They- You-” You give a blank stare in response, confused at what he’s trying to say. Bakugou grimaces at himself then continues, “They care. About you. And they do wanna see you. And they’re going to try.” The words are sweet, but it looks like someone is ripping them out of his stomach.

“Thanks?”

He furrows his eyebrows at you and sighs again. This talk is taking a lot of wind out of him. He crosses his arms, “I could just fuckin’ hear how sad your dumb thoughts were getting when all of the extras were leaving.”

“I don’t know if I’d call th-”

Bakugou looks away for a moment before cutting you off, “The thoughts are dumb because they aren’t true.” Oh. “You don’t suck to be around,” a compliment you assume, “And you’re not lame, so don’t have lame thoughts.” You scrunch your face up and try not to laugh (or cry).

“Lame?” You ask, he folds his arms tighter around him and starts to glower at you as his life depended on it. “Are you sure you graduated high school? Not middle school?” You laugh, bringing a hand up to your mouth to hold back from fully smiling.

“I am trying to f-”

“I’m kidding,” you watch the building frustration slowly melt out of him, puffed out chest moving back, “Thank you Bakugou. Mean it.” He finally rolls his eyes, his forearms moving to rest on the table.

“Whatever.”

You stand up suddenly and his red irises dart up to you, clearly confused but you’ve already set a plan in motion. Bakugou’s eyes are slowly widening and he’s leaning towards you even though he keeps clenching his hands then rubbing them on his slacks.

To catch him off guard you lunge towards him with open arms and hug him as tight as you can, his arms stuck to his sides.

(You did notice him look down at your lips twice, but he was probably figuring out the easiest way to push your face away if you pulled anything unsavory.)

“I’m going to miss you too, won’t have a metro buddy,” you rumble into his shirt, feeling his fast heartbeat against your forehead.

He clicks his tongue and groans above you. “Just- Just be safe while I’m gone alright? Don’t be stupid.”

A tear soaks into the cloth of his button-up, “I promise. You too. Promise.”

“I promise.”

vīgintī ūnus, aestas

(21) An obnoxious attempt at a tune in the form of knocks erupts from Bakugou’s front door. Who the hell is at his apartment on a Wednesday night? Christ.

You, apparently.

He rubs an oil-covered hand on his forehead as you draw out the vowels of his name, “Bakugou!” He’s busy. His car isn’t in the garage so maybe you don’t know for sure if he’s home. There’s a silence and he thinks for a moment that you’ve left, then the door creaks from you leaning on it.

“I brought you your special.” That’s a compelling offer.

Bakugou isn’t nervous to see you alone. No, that would imply he’s been staying up much later than accustomed to thinking about your laugh and your face pressed against his heart hugging him goodbye for two and a half years. That he almost cried when he saw your smile mixed in with the people greeting him when he came back. That in his head he still hasn’t forgiven himself. That he has no idea how to act around you anymore. Bakugou hasn’t been holding off on a one-on-one reunion with you. He’s just been, busy.

You call through the door, “Hello?”

He presses his face hard against the wood before responding. “Extra pepper flakes?”

“Aha! Hello, yes!” Bakugou hears you do a weird laugh, “With even more spicy sh-”

He flings the door open before you can finish. You stumble over yourself from the violent action before swinging the bag of food away from him. Once you steady yourself, you point an accusing finger in his confused face. The fuck are you doing. He thinks about slamming the door.

You smile and wave before masking your face in faux seriousness and pointing at him again.

“Let me in or no food.”

The two of you hold eye contact for a couple of seconds before you break it to take in his state. Bakugou frowns a little more when he watches your face turn to one of fake surprise.

“Oh my god!” you gasp with wide eyes.

His hand tightens around the doorknob. “Fuck is your pro-“

You gesture towards his chest. “Is that a two day old shirt?”

Never mind, he doesn’t want you in his apartment.

“Go wash your hands, you’re covered in gauntlet juice.”

He shoots you a dirty look that you pretend not to notice. How you got into his kitchen is lost on him. You continue to arrange the containers and grab bowls, listening to him walk towards the bathroom and mutter about telling him what to do in his own home. Bakugou comes back to the table with a damp face and a new shirt. He watches you tap around on your phone, face changing when you type something new.

Chopsticks holding one slowly escaping noodle in your right hand, your left clumsily holding onto that brick of a phone case Bakugou sent you after you got a piece of broken phone screen stuck in your thumb. You speak before he can, “Just sit down and eat, I’ll be done in a sec.” He takes a deep breath, he can be normal around you. He’s organized his feelings.

Katsuki eats quietly for a few minutes, hunched over the table, at first thinking about the graveyard patrol shift he has later, thoughts slowly dissolving into whether or not he left a sock in his gym locker. Between bites and thoughts of missing articles, he does take in you. The haphazard eating, the hair that consistently almost falls into your food, whispering to yourself what you say before you type, and you looking at him when he’s facing his ramen.

You toss your phone on the table, bringing his attention up to your smiling face. He squints at you.

“What.” He spits, bringing the spoon away from his face. You snort.

“I can’t just smile at a friend?” you ask, swirling your udon around its bowl.

He looks back down at his food and pops a fishcake in his cheek, “No.”

You laugh and though the broth is still in his spoon, a warmth spreads through his chest. What the fuck. He shoves more ramen in his mouth to shoo away the feeling. Maybe you poisoned him.

Fixing his chopsticks to the edge of the bowl, he sits straighter and makes a decision. He doesn’t know if his heart will survive, but he wants to hear it at least once before he dies, “You know you can cut it out with the Bakugou.”

You stare up at him with noodles hanging out of your mouth, “What else am I supposed to call you?” You say between bites.

His hand clenches underneath the table and he almost hits himself for being nervous about this, “Katsuki.”

Your eyes widen slightly and drop down to your soup before peeking up at him again. After swallowing you smile and give him a thumb up, food in the side of your mouth, “Sounds good, Katsuki.”

It’s past midnight when he hears you start to pack up your things. Two and a half movies ago you wrestled him onto the couch talking about how you wanted to watch some dumb series. Bakugou fell asleep in the first ten minutes of the second movie.

He dreamt about you in a flower-covered field. You kissed his hands and scattered petals in his hair. You spoke of elves and long battles. You also talked about how he might call you stupid but you have eyes and anyone can see that he needs to take a break, not even a vacation but to just sit down and breathe. How you want to see him cry from laughter just once because it's been so long since the last time. You missed him.

He feels you pull a blanket further up his body and pat his head twice. “Nighty night Dynamight.” You shut the door softly behind you.

undevīgintī, autumnus

(19) Bakugou stopped answering your messages. That’s subjective. If you don’t consider a one-word reply after days of no response as answering, then he hasn’t replied to you in a while. You knew it was going to happen, even if he didn’t go off to America. You’re sure it’s not a you thing, but a tiny part of you wonders if it is. If something about you drove him away.

It would be harder to not drift apart, the larger parts of you reason; hero work takes your time, your mind, and your body. Bakugou is a great hero, wants to be an even better one. And Bakugou puts his whole heart into what he wants.

When he first started responding less, you imagined him on a secret mission, filled with espionage and secret identities. That’s why he couldn't answer. He’s not. Kirishima told you he’s just getting experience in another country, that an American agency practically begged the explosion hero to join. You think Bakugou added the begging part.

You thought your conversations with him were nice. Something to look forward to. You were sure you got closer to the grump when he was on the other side of the world. It started with just texting him every time you hopped on the metro, just to steal some of his spare safety. You don’t know when it happened, but one day you realized that Bakugou provided you a comfort that you didn’t get from your new four walls in Yokohama.

Bakugou was the first person you’d message when something exciting happened. He’d tell you about his patrol, a picture or two of the pets he saw. If he was feeling generous, he’d send you a picture of what he had cooked, maybe even attach a recipe. Sometimes he’d add little personal notes to the recipe or call you so you could get it perfectly. You’d both greet each other good morning and goodnight no matter what time it was. And now he doesn’t even have the grace to have read receipts on.

Throwing your phone onto your bed, you let yourself melt into the floor. You imagine the hardwood bubbling up and creeping its way over your skin, slowly bringing you into its hold. But it’s not, and you’re laying on the uncomfortable floor while your friends are out there every day doing something. Even if they’re not big heroes. It’s something. They’re something.

Red and brown leaves float through the air and tap your second-story windows. The shadows laying across the wall parallel to your windows let you know the sun is about to set. Mina invited you to a get-together, “Everyone’s gonna be there!” she sent. You’re not a hero. You’re not even support.

You feel like your old friends can smell your melancholy in the water like sharks. Well-intentioned sharks. The past month they’ve been very particular about getting you out when you only have the energy to burrow further into your bed. It makes you feel pathetic knowing that they’re accomplishing things in their lives and you’re some sad shape moving through days. You feel like a leech, you can’t think of something you bring to the table.

A text rings off of your phone.

It’s Mina again. “I’m outside!”

You find yourself in a bar with your forehead on the tacky wood, five empty shot glasses in front of you, and a hollow burn in your throat. They didn’t have as much of an effect on you as they clearly did on your friends. At most, you can feel a small floaty feeling in your bones, small puffs of helium in your joints.

People from the former classes of 1A and 1B are making their rounds around the place, occasionally making small talk with you before it dwindles and they get swept into something bigger (better too.)

You feel lost, like an alien on another planet. They’re not even talking about hero shit anymore and you can barely understand them. It’s like you’ve forgotten how to talk, tripping over simple conversation and giving weird grimaces when people smile at you. You shouldn’t have come, you have no idea what’s wrong with you.

Pushing yen towards the bartender you start to stand up, then two hands plop you back into your chair. Looking at your shoulders, you see one pink one and one with black chipped nail polish. “Where are you going?” Mina pouts on your right, face squished against yours and a nose-burning mix of drinks radiating from her mouth.

“I haven’t even shown you my new dance moves,” Denki squishes his cheek against your other cheek, “They’re pretty sexy.” If you weren’t so set on sitting on the floor of your shower once you got home you might have gone dancing with him.

Rubbing both of their cheeks you sigh and stare at your phone on the bar top, “I’m tired, I had a really good time though.” Denki whines and Mina falls to your lap, your hands still on their heads. The bar is lukewarm and you think the dancefloor would cook you right now. You’re tired, you smell like other people’s sweat, and you can’t remember the last time you drank water today.

You press harder against Denki and pinch Mina’s cheek, pushing their eyes away from your face, “One more.”

One more becomes the bar on its side and the two of them on the dance floor. The world moves like half-melted jell-o and your face is wet. You think you spilled something on yourself or you were crying. It’s so hot in this bar. You wish you were home.

Sliding off of the bar stool, you set your eyes on the front door. If you don’t let the lights distract you, you think you can make it. Something gets into your eye and you squeeze your eyes shut to get it out, when you open your eyes again, you’re outside. The midnight autumn air on your sweaty skin takes some of the spin away from your vision. You feel dirty all the way to your bones and you can’t even recognize how you smell. You want home.

Grabbing at yourself until your phone ends up in your hand, you tap around to call home. You hope he picks up.

A gravelly voice picks up after three rings, a tired tone asking your name. It sounds prettier than the stars you could’ve seen from here if there wasn’t light pollution.

“Hi Bakugou,” you reply in a small voice. There’s a silence, you weren’t expecting anything out of this. You thought you’d air your heart out to voicemail. The rhythmic, methodical sound of beeps in the background sobers you. “Are you- are you in the hospital?”

“Ah yeah,” you can hear rustling, the creaking of his hospital bed, “Why’re you awake?”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt instead of answering. He goes to ask what you’re talking about and earlier today you would have shut up to hear his voice, but the liquid burning down your throat and sitting in your gut urges you to speak. “I know I’m a lot, I didn’t mean to be so much. I just,” water hits your collar bone but when you look around it isn’t raining, “I think I got so comfortable with you. I thought you were too. You’re really- I really-” You hiccup and all you can hear is Bakugou’s breathing and the fast beeps of the monitor.

He says your name again and you remember you were talking about something, “I really like having you in my life, you’re important to me. If you come back I promise I’ll be less this time.”

A sigh replies, he’s finally had enough of you. Should you hang up to beat him to it? “’M sorry,” he says.

“What?” It’s your fault, why is he apologizing?

Bakugou cough-laughs into the mic and the sound makes you wince, “I was bein’ awful to you and you’re saying sorry? Thought you promised not to be stupid.” The night streets in front of you get blurry the more he speaks, “Never promise someone you’ll be less, tiny. That’s a bad fuckin’ deal. Be all of you all of the goddamn time. I was bein’ an ass n’ it’s not your fault.”

“But,” you argue.

“No ‘buts.’”

You wipe your face and nod, “Okay.”

He tells you about his time in the hospital, the earth-shaking villain that got him in there, and the “goddamn yeehawin’” patrol partner. You slowly sober up outside, a group of girls having come by and gave you a water bottle from one of their purses because “bad bitches stay hydrated.” Bakugou doesn’t mention why he started ignoring you, but he repeated that he’s sorry. That the dinners he made aren’t worth mentioning and didn’t even taste like anything without your shared input on it. He says you have him back now, and you couldn’t get rid of him if you tried.

“Promise?” You ask, holding a pinky up to the night air.

“Cross my heart, peach.” His voice quiets as tests the new name on his tongue.

“Peach?”

“Trying something, ya hate it, runt?”

New tears fall as you laugh and sniffle into the phone, “It’s sweet. Better than runt.”

You wake up the next day with your stomach ready to kill you and a good morning text on your phone.

septendecim, hiems

(17) God, he’s glad he got the fuck out of that stuffy ass room. Bakugou felt like his life was being drained the longer he spent with his parents' friends' New Years’ Party. He never even wanted to go in the first place.

His loafers sink into the crisp snow, biting winter air swirling around his ankles and over his nose, gloved hands shoved tightly into his pockets. So fuckin cold. In a rush, he forgot to grab his hat, fresh snowflakes being dusted into his spikes and melting the closer they were to his scalp.

When Bakugou heard they needed more ice, he slipped out with a yell as quickly as he could, ignoring them saying that they had an ice machine in their freezer. Ahead the humming glow of a konbini’s neon lights lay flashing red and blue onto the surrounding snow. The sensor above the door chimes as he walks in, tapping his shoes off before the attendant can greet him.

In his head he looks a little stupid, scarf pulled halfway up his reddened face from the cold, insulated jacket making him brush against every item he passes by, and loafers. Making his way to the glass doors in the back, the sensor rings again. He can hear their teeth chattering from the other side of the store. Pussy.

The attendant greets the person while he’s looking at the different brands, spending as much time as possible to not be in the stuffy house. When the customer responds Bakugou freezes and squints at the ice. He knows that voice. You, old man’s kid from the ramen spot. He’s seen you around when the idiots drag him to shit on weekends. The hell are you doing here? Your shop’s on the other side of town. If you recognize him, he might ask.

Turning around, the ice bags in hand Bakugou feels something run directly into his chest, then the sound of falling bags and plastic. He realizes it’s you when you squeak and duck down to pick your goods. You look up to apologize and he watches the slow recognition in your eyes as you remember who he is.

“Oh! Explosion Murder, right?” Your hand is hovering over another bag and Bakugou frowns at your shorthand version of his hero name. At least say the whole thing.

You don’t have a basket and the snacks keep falling out of your arms when you go to pick up the already fallen snacks, creating a crinkly, annoying cycle. He grabs the ones already on the ground in his free hand, “Bakugou. Why are you here tiny?”

“Wha- Ti- Why am I here?” You frown up at him, he finds a specific pleasure in this reaction, “I’m here for this.” You hold up one of the bags in your hold, the labeling isn’t in kanji. “This is like, the only konbini in Japan that has this, used to have it all the time at home.”

“Huh.”

You laugh over your shoulder as you start walking back towards the front, “Yeah.”

He forgot you were a foreigner. Do you miss it? You haven’t been here for that long if he remembers right, what was it like back home for you? Do you not consider your house in Japan home yet? You have your dad here. Bakugou has only known Japan, having lived in Musutafu his whole life. He wonders how long it takes to make a place home. What makes it change.

“I might have a quirk Bakugou, but it sure as hell isn’t mind-reading.” Fuck he was just staring at the bags in his arms. The ice bag’s condensation drips onto the linoleum. You laugh when he finally realizes that there’s a small puddle creeping towards his shoe.

He grabs new ice bags and walks briskly past you towards the register, “Fuck off.”

“On it.”

While the cashier checks out your snacks, Bakugou glances at you looking for your wallet in your pockets. Your puffy jacket won’t let you bring your arms completely to your sides, melting snow in your hair, your earmuffs somewhat crooked on your head, sweatpants haphazardly stuffed into snow boots. “What’s home like?”

He didn’t expect himself to ask and evidently neither did you. You pause and look up at him, when he bares his teeth in response you grin and start looking for your wallet again. “It’s… nice. I miss it some days. Japan’s nice too,” you snap gloved fingers when you find your wallet, “There’s just something about home though ya know?”

He guesses. Bakugou shrugs, tossing your food into a reusable grocery bag he keeps in his pockets. He puts his ice bags on the counter, still holding your groceries, “‘ve only lived here,” he hands the cashier more yen than necessary, nodding when they say Happy New Year, “What else?”

When you push the front door open, you look back at him. “What else?” you repeat with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah, what else-” he pushes your back forward, “Don't look at me like that I just don’t want to go back to my parents' shitty party.”

“Oh,” you smile at him and he feels a little sweat cover his body, “well if you insist.”

He listens to you talk about your family and life back home until your path to the metro branches off from his. You told him “see you next year!” and it took everything in Bakugou not to throw the ice at you.

The walk back to the penthouse feels colder than before. Did the temperature drop while he was out? A deeper cold sets into Bakugou that he can’t shake, nudging his face deeper into his scarf and jogging towards the party. He still has a cold feeling in his stomach when he steps into the heated air of the lobby, the warm elevator, even in front of the door at the penthouse. Mitsuki buzzes him in and is in the middle of asking “what took you so damn lo-” before he cuts her off.

“I forgot something,” Bakugou says quickly and drops the ice bags on the welcome mat, and runs back to the elevators. The lift isn’t going fast enough when he’s going down, thumb repeatedly jamming into the lobby button. He doesn’t know why he’s going back, but something in his bones feels off. If he’s wrong and your stupid face is on that shitty train, then he’s wrong. But something in him just needs to check.

Running in loafers on snow-covered cement isn’t the easiest thing in the world, but he’s about to be a pro hero, if he can’t do this he should drop out of the class. Bakugou thought the running would warm his hands enough to make him sweat, but there’s not nearly as much as he hoped there would be. The cold is biting and it’s making his eyes water, the front of his hair is starting to be weighed down by snow and his nose feels like it’s about to fall off. God he hates you right now, he can’t tell if he’d rather you be in danger so he didn’t run for nothing, or you safe and on the train.

He spots the lights of the raised platform and guns harder. His hand is on the railing of the stairs when he hears a scuffle and a cut-off scream nearby. Bakugou whips around and bolts towards where he heard the noise– an alley right next to the station.

When he gets to the opening his heart freezes in his chest. His heartbeats are ringing throughout his entire body, everything feels so loud and so quiet at once. Dirty snow and your dumb snacks that you needed to get so late at night cover the ground. Someone’s standing over you, holding you up by the collar of your shirt with a knife at your neck. He can’t hear what they’re saying but he can see you crying. That sight wakes his body up.

You don’t see him when he lunges towards the knife, elbow pointed towards the fucker’s face. It’s a messy fight after that, his brain hazy from the cold and the adrenaline. He knows he can barely use his quirk, just him against some shit for brains villain. The fight isn’t fluid in his mind, only meeting him at certain moments. He’s on the ground, then he’s standing over them, feeling the slice of a blade in his side. Bakugou hears you fall with a groan into some trash bags when his fist makes contact with their ribs. They pull another knife out right before he knocks them the fuck out, knicking his cheek before they go down. He turns back to check on you, shaking and covered in fresh snow.

He doesn’t know what to do now, mind filled with snow and ice. You look up at him with a tear-covered face and a busted wobbling bottom lip. “How-” he starts, and you rush up from the ground and dart towards him. Bakugou’s arms hang loosely at his sides as you wrap yourself around his torso, shivering against him.

What happened? He has so many questions, instead of asking he rests his arms on your shoulders as you both slowly crumble towards the ground. Your face is tucked against his scarf and he can hear you whispering thank you repeatedly into the fabric. Sitting next to each other on the bagged waste, you hold him so tightly he can barely breathe. As the adrenaline from the fight starts to wear off, he can feel his body. His left glove is missing and his hand is bleeding (probably his right as well), he thinks he at least bruised a few ribs, his back is wet from getting kicked onto the ground. He keeps thinking about how the shitbag didn’t have a quirk. Bakugou doesn’t know what he would’ve done if they did. He knows he’d find a way to win.

The shitbag. His eyes shoot over; still knocked out, okay. A belated thought about arresting them ambles through his mind. Hot blood runs down his cheek as he fumbles around his pocket looking for his phone. When he takes it out, there is an uncountable amount of missed calls from his parents. It’s 23:49. How long has he been out here. Blood and snow smear on his phone as he clumsily taps his thumb around to call the police.

While the phone is connecting to the line he looks down at you. God, you look fucking freezing. He wraps his sore arm as best he can around you. He should’ve just walked with you to the dumb fucking station. How long were you hoping someone would come by? When you cough he looks back at you, fuck why is it taking so long to connect, and you open your mouth to speak.

“I-I’m sorry,” your teeth chatter through every word, tears welling up in your eyes again.

“Don’t b- It’s not your fault they’re a piece of shit. You shouldn’t have come out here, you should’ve just fuckin’ waited.” He knows he’s speaking meaner than he intends to but he’s so fucking cold and he almost got his ass handed to him by some giant crook.

“I’m-”

Bakugou’s eyes cut down to yours, phone pressed steadily against his ear, “Don’t you dare say sorry again. You don’t have to give me that crap just fucking promise not to be stupid.”

Your bottom lip stops shaking as much when you pause to look at him, the space between your brows creased. “Not stupid?” you blink and lick the blood off of your bottom lip, “I ah, I promise.”

“Holdin ya’ to it.” Bakugou glares at the wall parallel to him as he hears someone pick up the phone, immediately barking the address before they can say hello. He has to repeat it and he feels your tight hold loosen. For a moment part of him thinks you’ve died even though he’s the one that got stabbed, but he calms when he hears your steadier breathing. One glance tells him that you’re less afraid now, eyes no longer glossy and petrified.

When the dispatcher tells him services are on the way, his arm falls and he lets himself groan into the freezing night air. Frosty puffs of air leave both of you, all adrenaline gone now, left with injuries and a knocked-out villain a couple feet away from you. Waiting in the cold winter air.

Fireworks pop from all around, jolting both of you out of the icy daze that had settled over you before noticing the colorful bursts of light filling the sky. Bakugou sinks back into the wall, eyes squeezed shut. He feels you shift a little closer to him, your face moving further into his scarf.

“Happy New Year’s Bakugou,” you mutter against him, voice muffled. The moment the words leave your mouth and meet his neck, the events of the night finally fall on Bakugou. It started with his shoulders shaking, building to him laughing the hardest he thinks he ever has, even harder when your confused eyes peek out of the scarf. His side hurts, his cheeks are sore, and in the back of his mind, he can feel you brushing his tears off of his face. What a crap New Years’.

“Shit,” he wheezes,“-yeah. Happy New Year’s tiny.” Kneeing your leg when you pinch him, eyelids heavy with the lullaby of your breathing and approaching sirens.

duodēvīgintī, vernus (I)

(18) Confetti and tinsel fall into your hair as the last “explosion” of Bakugou’s birthday goes off. His unofficial official Bakusquad arranged a celebration at the top of a small mountain. A short hike that wouldn’t be too tiring (Mina didn’t want you to pass out in the middle of a hike meant for a hero class). People spent the entire party trying to smack their party hats onto the birthday boy, trying to get eighteen of the cones onto him. Somehow they got him to agree not to blast any of them away during their attempts, Denki said something about a bet, but the almost-smile on Bakugou’s face tells you he probably would have let them anyway.

When the air starts to chill, everyone begins packing up and cleaning the debris from the explosions. Mina announced with a proud grin that the confetti was biodegradable, but when Tsu asked about the tinsel her face fell and she shooed her girlfriend away.

The thin pieces of shiny plastic weren’t cleaned off of the surrounding area until sunset, more than half of the attendees left already. By the time the rest of you reached the bottom of the trail, it was dusk. A sweet-smelling breeze drifting through branches, soft laughs of your friends behind you.

Ochako and Tsu are the first to leave from the remaining group, they offered you a ride home but you didn’t want to interrupt their date night. You stand to the side from everyone else while they talk about their different plans, everyone drawing out their goodbyes.

You told your dad you would just ride the metro home after Bakugou’s birthday, you assumed cleaning up would be done before sundown. It’s been a few months since it happened, but sometimes when a certain gust of wind would find its way into your chest, you’d feel that same freeze you felt in December. You like to think you’d handle things differently now, but you also thought that wouldn’t have happened to you in the first place.

Tightly gripping your phone and pepper spray in each pocket, you take a step towards the station.

“Hey!” You?

Looking back towards the group, Bakugou’s jogging towards you, tearing the multiple birthday hats off of him. “Stop fuckin laughin,” he grunts as the last cone’s string slaps his skin. He stops when he’s next to you, an expectant look in his eye.

“What,” you glance back towards your friends, all huddled and pretending they’re not looking at you.

He brings his hand to your back, a stiff index finger jabbing into your spine, “Get a move on runt,” sneering down at you when you yelp and smack his hand away, “You’re g’nna miss your damn train.”

You pinch his hand as he retracts it, “I was getting a move on, but you stopped me.” You turn back towards the sidewalk and notice Bakugou is walking in step with you. You look up at him, he’s canvassing the streets with his eyes, hands in his pockets, “What are you doing?”

“Fuck does it look like I’m doing?”

Tugging on your finger, you stare hard at the sidewalk ahead of you, “You don’t- hm. You don’t have to do that- this anymore, I’m good now.” For the past three and a half months Bakugou has been walking with you to the station whenever he’s around. You never asked him to, but it helps ease the fear more than anything. Today’s his birthday though and you don’t want him to feel like he has to protect you, especially today.

“This?” His steps slow, and you can feel him looking at you.

Twisting one of your rings around you nod, “Yeah, this. Like walking me. You don’t have to,” you pause and look up at him before looking at a streetlamp, “feel guilty I guess? You can just do whatever you want to do. Be free, Willy.” As you finish, Bakugou stops and faces you, an almost blank expression on his face.

He’s under the streetlight now, shadows and deep yellows carving precise lines into his face. Did he always look like this? Did he always look so— pretty? You stare into each other's eyes for a beat before he scoffs and flicks your forehead, continuing towards the station.

You trip over your feet to catch up to him, stumbling into pace with him. “Hey! I just said be free. Go do some birthday stuff,” you say as you elbow his arm.

“I woke up late, didn’t have enough time to do a morning run.” He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, his opened button up fluttering around with the wind.

“What?”

“Walking to the station,” Bakugou side-eyes you, “Cause I couldn’t do it this morning.”

You stare as hard as you can into the side of his face, “To replace an eight k run,” he frowns the tiniest bit and you sense he probably does more than eight k, “You’re taking a five-minute walk?”

“You got a problem with that?” he bites, but the intentioned harsh tone only results in a blooming smile from you.

“No,” you turn towards the sidewalk again, hiding your face.

“Good.” He bumps into you, “Not getting on that stink ass train though.”

undevīgintī, aestas

(19) Bakugou thinks he might be sick. His stomach’s been swimming for months, no actual symptoms yet, just filled with knots. In his chest, he has this ache. The physician at the agency said nothing’s wrong, probably just a little homesick. But it doesn’t feel like he just wants to go back to Japan. The feeling reminds him of you describing how you felt about your home. A little different though, he feels like he left something there. He doesn’t know what.

“Hot out, ain't it Dynamight?” A voice breaks him out of his thoughts, shaking him back into his patrolling body.

It’s nearing the end of summer, air thick and humid. He’s grateful on behalf of his quirk, but every other part of him wants to lay like a dead fish in front of an air conditioner. For professionalism’s sake he’s keeping his mask on, but the sweat running down his forehead is soaking it more than he’s comfortable. The support team here found a way for all of the sweat that soaks into his clothes to get moved to his gauntlets, still, his black compression tank top sticks to him like a second skin. He has never regretted his costume decisions until now.

He grunts in response to his patrol partner for the season, Ranger, whose hero name is inspired by some vigilante from the “wild, wild west.” Ranger looks and acts like he was stolen from a black-and-white Western and dropped into modern times. Even sounds like one, his words rounded and bouncy. His costume reminds Bakugou of a fucked up cowboy from the future; to which he doesn’t understand, Ranger’s quirk has nothing to do with cowboys or at least guns.

“Better get a wiggle on, don’t want big man skinnin’ our hides,” He laughs and smacks Bakugou on the back. Ranger taking long strides ahead of him, spurs clinking against the pavement.

Bakugou thinks he needs to practice more English.

At home, freshly showered and basking in the cool of the air conditioning, he’s ready to practice. He flops into the used couch of his apartment, the newest English volume of Aiko’s Love Club in hand. Reading through the pages, he starts to think about what to make for dinner. Last week you said something about trying unadon recipes, but every time you make it something is off. Bakugou hasn’t cooked eel in a bit, maybe he’ll try a recipe tonight. Show you how the best does it.

He thinks this is the volume where Masa finally realizes how she feels about Aiko, she’s been showing classic signs. Masa thinks about Aiko most hours of the day, associates Aiko with almost everything, goes out of her way to impress Aiko even if she “doesn’t actually care,” etc. Bakugou knows the build-up to a confession when he sees it.

He flicks to the next page and finds his predictions correct, Masa is stomping up to Aiko with a determined look in her eye. As she admits how she feels, the emotions raging in her chest, how she can’t get Aiko out of her mind, Bakugou feels his stomach drop lower and lower. Ah, shit.

He hurls the fifteen-dollar manga across his living room.

The nasty feeling in his stomach is worse when he knows the source. He feels warmth spill into his chest and through his veins when he even accidentally thinks of you, quickly turning to ash when he realizes what he’s doing.

Bakugou comes to a point after a week of keeping his same schedule with you and trying to kill the little dove in his chest with pure will. He came to America to be the best and he knows he wouldn’t have welcomed this feeling if he was in Japan. And he decided he’ll do what he does best, be a hero.

He throws himself in an unbearably hot, timeless void of wake up, work, eat, sleep. The only thing that lets him know that time is changing is the scruff growing in on his face where he would usually shave by now. Every day feels the same, dragging slowly but the weeks seem to pass with a blink. Bakugou assumed that if he took you out of his life, he'd think about you less. But he still has your number and he sees every text you send when you send it, his heart picking up when he hears a notification, hoping it's you. To try and ease the ache he’ll shoot a message back that's impossible to build more off of.

You’ve started calling him less– which should’ve made Bakugou feel freer, no more seeing your face pop up on his phone screen (a picture of you making the first recipe he ever sent), no more staring at his phone until your call goes away. But he doesn’t. He can’t tell if he never wants to hear from you again or if he wants to hear your voice until the universe crumbles.

The average patrol with Ranger consisted of many breaks, to no fault of either hero, but Ranger is weirdly popular in this city. Fans stop them every few blocks for a selfie with the American hero featuring a grumpy-looking Dynamight in the background. This time a group stopped the duo, taking longer than a usual stop was.

It’s a quiet day, only stopping a few pick-pockets, not even a small villain. The sounds of honking horns and chittering civilians fill the streets, an empty gap in the noise where there would be a bird or two overhead. As Ranger strikes another pose, Bakugou unlocks his phone. The screen shows the last app he used, opening your thread of messages to each other.

This was the first day you didn’t say good morning to Bakugou. It’s his fault, this is what he wanted. Still, he scrolled through your old texts as he got ready at dawn, eyes prickly. He finds himself a couple of months back thumb stuck on a picture of you at the beach. Your face taking up the left half of the screen, a blinded smile from the sun, Denki and Mina in the back with their usual stupid faces.

“(location: ichigo beach, shima) when u come back i am kidnapping u & taking u here!!! there’s even a trail and the view is incredible! don’t be stupid today :p”

He agrees, the view is incredible.

A hoot startles him from right next to his ear, “Oo! Pretty as a peach,” Ranger tries to expand the picture, but Bakugou swats his hand away, “See why you’re so homesick loverboy.”

“Not fuckin’ homesick,” he mutters, words coming off of his tongue jutted and short, “S’not like that.”

Ranger laughs when he shoves his phone into his pocket with red ears, “Sure goney, long as you’re both happy.”

His words make Bakugou freeze, staring at the pavement ahead of him. Is he happy? Are you? He doesn’t even have an inkling, he hasn’t asked. It’s not your fault that you make him think of warmth and home, and he’s been fighting every interaction with you on the defensive side of a nonexistent battle.

He doesn’t know why he was doing this anymore. He wants to know that you’re happy more than whatever he was trying to do. He thinks he might call you for dinner today.

Before Bakugou can respond, Ranger speaks into his earpiece, nodding towards him to tell him to pay attention to the radio in his ear. He only gets a warning of “-ake quirk,” the ground beneath his feet suddenly cracking and splintering like ice.

Nitroglycerin sweat meeting explosions saves him from the expanding fissure moving through the city, Ranger pulling the moisture from the air to propel him towards him. He presses his cowboy hat harder to his head, grinning at Bakugou, “Time to knock this chucklefuck into a cocked hat,” he hates all of the phrases Ranger uses, he just guesses what he means and hopes he’s right, “Gotta get you back to your pretty thing.”

Bakugou feels a flush rise over his arms and neck, his body heat rising even if the sweltering sun wasn’t beating down on him. Your pretty thing echoes in his head. His. “Shut your mouth,” he bites, already following the crevice in the ground so he doesn’t have to hear whatever Ranger has to say.

The villain was in the middle of the city, letting their quirk slowly build up in the faults all day. They announced it in a dramatic fashion, talking about the ins and outs of their abilities. It wasn’t too hard to work them into a corner.

“Heroes disgust me, the absolute decay of society. Cities are no better, rotting us all, it’s time we all go back from whence we came,” they cough, blood running down the side of their head. Behind them: their freshly made gorge; in front: Dynamight and Ranger.

The hero duo glances at each other for a second to make a plan, not seeing the villain lower their left hand to the broken street. When they look back, things are moving in slow motion and much too fast.

Right hand holding their bleeding middle, left glowing a glaring blue in full contact with the tarmac, the ground starting to ripple like water with them at the epicenter.

Bakugou springs into action quicker than Ranger, racing towards them to separate their hand from the ground. They scream when he blasts himself over them, kicking them into the street, using extra momentum to fly above the valley scraping through the city. The villain had used the last of their energy for the rippling ground, leaving them passed out.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bakugou pants once standing on steady ground. He closes his eyes as he catches his breath, thoughts of you filling his mind. His pretty thing. A small smile starts to grace his face, dropping when feeling unexpectedly cooler. Large shadows arching over the ground.

“Dynamight!” is the last thing he hears. Ranger rushing towards him and the side of a building much closer than it should be is the last thing he sees. You smiling on the beach is the last thing he thinks of.

vīgintī duo, autumnus

(22) “Where are we going?”

The train shifts back and forth as it barrels down the tracks, you lean further into Bakugou with every sway. “Be patient,” he repeats for the nth time, staring out the window. You thought maybe he’d be tired of you asking by now, but he doesn’t. He’s not tired of you.

An hour ago he called and asked if you were free, you replied that it’s 22:34 on a Thursday, what would you possibly be doing right now, and he said he’d be there in thirty minutes. You heard explosions in the distance fifteen minutes after he hung up. He landed sweaty on your balcony and now you’re on a train to somewhere. The train’s lights are lowered for sleeping passengers, the seat is probably half of its former cushioned glory, and the socks you shoved on are mismatching heights and colors. “Are you kidnapping me?” you ask, leaning against the window, burning the way the train track lights pass over his face into your memory.

Bakugou looks away from the window to meet your gaze, “Yeah, you scared peach?” His eyes run over your face, the way his plush red scarf is stuffed half-heartedly into your hoodie, how the heels of your sneakers are pressed to the insoles instead of you putting them on completely.

You pull your knees to your chest, chin rubbing against the worn fabric of your sweatpants. “Sure, why am I being kidnapped?” You grab his hands while he’s rubbing them together for warmth, placing them underneath your chin, cushioned between your knees and the bulk of your sweatshirt. “‘ts gross that they don’t use the heaters past 20:00,” you sigh, putting your hands under your knees.

His cheeks turn to a soft shade of pink watching you get comfortable and stare up at him with his palms pressed against each other under your face. “There was something I forgot to do on my calendar,” he eventually mutters, “Couldn’t go to sleep.”

You frown to fight your smile, “You’re forcing me on a midnight errand?”

“Something like that.”

You fall asleep for the rest of the hour-long ride, Bakugou leaning his head against yours once your breathing mellowed out.

“Oi, wake up.”

You groan as you blink your eyes open, sleep sitting heavy in your muscles, Bakugou’s hands pushing your knees. You bat his hands away, “Kats’ki knock t’off,” tongue removing unnecessary syllables. He snorts and pushes your face towards the window.

Ichigo beach.

It’s a clear sky, full moon rippling across the shallow waves, barely swaying grass telling you that it’s not a windy night, stars shining down at you. Staring out the window at the night view of the ocean, Bakugou admires your growing smile through your reflection in the glass. He wonders if you can tell he feels love moving through his body every time you smile. That he can feel his heart in his brain when you look at him. When you speak. You might be better off not knowing, he thinks, you would try to give him a heart attack on purpose.

Hopping off of the train into the salty air, your whole body wakes up. Rejuvenated by the sounds of waves washing up on the shore, you stretch and look up at Bakugou. You smile, “What now?”

“Midnight errand,” he says, pressing a warm hand to your back to nudge you forward.

“I know that, but what is it?”

He gives you his meanest smile of the night, you almost trip over your shoes at the sight of it, “Be patient.” The funny feeling races up your spine.

You smack his hand off of your back with a huff, “Fine.” And you follow him.

Walking down the short trail to shore, you let your shoes sink into the sand for a few metres before peeling your shoes and socks off, holding them in one hand. “I’m sorry,” he suddenly says, broad back facing you. The nonexistent eyes of the skull drawing on his hoodie are glaring down at you making your feet shift in the cold sand.

“You gonna throw me in the sea or something?” you joke, unsure of how to respond to the sudden apology.

He stops and you almost run your face square into his back, “Hate that I made you cry. You really forgive me for that?” Bakugou turns around and looks down at you. You’re much closer than you realized, the moon is behind him giving his silhouette a muted white glow. Shadows of his face are unbearably dramatic. “I wouldn’t forgive a dipshit for making you cry,” he finishes, his hands hovering over your arms.

You could laugh, the movement held back by the actual tinges of pain on his face. It’s been three years since he basically ghosted you for a few months, it’s almost impressive the way it has clearly been straining him. He apologized almost bi-monthly over the phone after having drinks with the other sidekicks all the way until he came back. You assumed you both got over it, he never mentioned it after he landed. You can’t remember everything you said. You were nearly blackout drunk on that call, sure there were separate instances where you cried but there’s no way he knows that.

“I forgave you, because you’re you,” you smile and grab his hand, both of yours fitting in his outstretched hand, “Even if you act like a dipshit sometimes.”

His eyes start to get shinier as he squeezes your hands, “That’s so fuckin’ stupid,” he presses his molars against each other, “you’re so fuckin’ stupid for that.”

“I’m so fuckin’ stupid?” You laugh and grab his jaw to relax it, “You’re stupid, what are we doing on the beach in the middle of the night? You’re usually home by now.”

Bakugou’s jaw loosens and he sighs, moving his face closer to yours. You freeze, your heartbeat thumping through your whole body as he presses his forehead to yours. He stares directly into your eyes and he’s all you can see. Soft exhales meeting yours, the waves crashing behind him, your hand in his.

“I am,” he says, “I am home.”

Katsuki lifts his hands to your face, cradling your cheeks, “Can I kiss you?” he whispers.

You nod and as his lips press to yours, you realize there’s nowhere you can think of as home but him.

ichigo for strawb ;P

#why do i keep making bkg read yuri??? because he’s me and i’m him goodnight #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #tw alcohol #tw violence #this fic is so long help me #matcha writes

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