#BWritesThings

[gardenofnoah]

“you’re going to hurt yourself like that, my love.”

you startle at the voice over you, having been nearly asleep.

“—uh?”

you turn your head to see Nanami looming over your side of the bed. if you were fully conscious, you would see the tiny look of mischief in his eyes as they roam your body, but you’re not, so you take it as his tendency to mother hen you.

and then he’s pushing you to the middle of the bed despite your whining, climbing in beside you. you try to settle in and find you’re still being moved—he’s on his back, shuffling himself down the bed and pulling one of your legs over his chest. you feel him turn his face into your belly in a move that feels suspiciously like nuzzling.

“what’re y’doin,” you slur, a little petulant at being woken up like this, despite it being well past the time you meant to rejoin the living and despite your own desire to seek out the warmth he’s emitting next to you.

“you’re going to hurt your hip, laying like that,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. he runs a hand up the back of your thigh and over your hip, and you sigh a little bit, comforted by the feeling of him.

“i don’t know how you sleep like that,” he continues, absentmindedly dragging his fingers over your skin, making you shiver every now and then.

“feels good,” you grumble, face shoved into the pillow. talking about your bizarre sleeping position and maybe also the way the rough pads of his fingers leave a trail of warmth in their wake. you think you hear him chuckle softly, and you feel him press a kiss to the skin of your belly, right above the hem of your sleep shorts.

it’s soft, chaste—and then it’s not, and you suck in a breath when you feel him kiss you there again, feeling the tip of his tongue drag along the skin that stretches over your hip bone.

and evidently he hears your sharp inhale, because you feel a strong arm sneak around your lower back, pulling you closer to him.

“was still sleeping, you know,” but it’s lost all of its bite and you’re a little breathless now, fixated on the way his free hand slides up the back of your thigh to brush over the sensitive spot just under the curve of your ass.

“go to sleep then,” he says into the soft of your belly, pressing another kiss, opening his mouth a little wider to catch the skin of it between his teeth. he’s turned into you now, and despite yourself, you drag your leg up from his chest so it’s over his shoulder.

he moves to rest his head against your thigh that’s trapped underneath him, and distantly you think that it is more comfortable like this— his head squeezed between your legs having alleviated some of the pressure against your hip from laying on your side. that thought quickly becomes muddled in your head when you feel him latch on to the skin of your inner thigh that rests against his face.

you whine, hips bucking weakly as you squirm under tongue and teeth—both leaning into and trying to get away from the sting of his bite.

“my sweet love,” he coos, running his tongue over the fresh bruise, placating you. you shiver, pressing your face further into the pillow to try to breathe—to ground yourself despite the heat that curls up your spine. he stops, then, and you peak down at him to find that he’s staring back up at you.

“hi,” you whisper, fighting another shudder at the way his lips pull at the corners into a smirk that looks absolutely sinful on him.

“good morning,” he drawls, deep and far too awake. he rests his chin in the space between your hips, pressing a quick kiss above your pubic bone. your hips buck toward him a tiny bit, and his smirk widens when he feels it.

you bring a hand down to run it through his hair, tangling in the blond strands and scratching at his scalp. he closes his eyes and hums, deep in his chest, nuzzling into your thigh. it makes you smile, and it makes you ache.

“want you, ken,” you murmur, squeezing him gently between your thighs and reveling in the groan he lets out.

“i know, sweetheart,” he coos, hands coming up again to grope whatever skin he can reach and pressing a tiny kiss through your shorts, “i can smell you.”

#i started writing this and then decided i wanted to stop #i am a side sleeper and it causes me much pain and strife but i feel that the solution is a large muscular man between my legs #just for pain relief purposes of course #now that i think of it. this is the second nanamin pain relief fic i’ve written #so i am projecting and you’ll all have to deal with that #we’ll call this a little milestone post #700 of you! that’s nuts! #nanami #nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanamin #nanami fluff #nanami smut #jjk fluff #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento smut #nanamin it’s the little things #bwritesthings

[thequeenofgarbage21]

[gardenofnoah]

his pretty girl

okay tumblr didn't want to touch this with a 10 foot pole yesterday so i am trYING AGAIN wc: 2.2k cw: afab reader, subspace, praise, explicit sexual content

You found Bakugo in the spare room, but it wasn’t hard—you heard him let out a loud string of expletives aimed at someone on the other end of his headset from your spot across the house. Despite the venom in his voice, he’d been in a good mood all day, and it made you feel bold enough to interrupt his game. It would only be for a second, after all—and you missed him.

“Do you have eyes in that big ass head of yours or—” he was cut off by the soft squeak of the door as you pushed it open. He tipped his head back to look at you, eyes crinkling as he watched you linger in the doorway. He threw an arm over the back of the chair lazily, beckoning toward you as he turned back to his game. You padded over to him, leaning against the back of the chair to watch over his shoulder. The arm he’d thrown up to you snuck around the back of your neck—it definitely looked and felt like a headlock, but you knew it was Bakugo’s version of affection.

“What’re you doin’?” He asked you, eyes still on the screen.

“Wanted to show you something. And I missed you.”

His lips turned up at the corners at that. “Oh yeah? C’mere then,” he patted his lap, and you gladly obliged.

You settled over top of him, legs dangling over either side of the chair. You leaned into him, pressing your face into the side of his neck. His arms came to rest around you, and you felt the controller against your back as he continued to play. You heard the familiar voices of Kirishima and Denki in the headset, and it made you smile. Bakugo hardly saw much of his friends these days, as he and the rest of them were swamped with work now that they’d been thrown into the pro-hero world, but you thought it was nice that they were still able to do things together like this.

“You wanted to show me somethin’?”

His voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Oh, yeah,” you paused, moving to hold your hands out in front of you, “look! I painted my nails, and my ring came in.”

He looked down, regarding your work. He would be remiss to say that his favorite shade of burnt orange against your skin didn’t do something for him, but his eyes zeroed in on the ring on your finger. He’d sent it to get resized after discovering that you were a weird half-size, and the way it wrapped around your finger had his heart constricting in his chest.

“So it did,” he breathed, grabbing your hand in his and moving it side to side, watching the ring glint in the light. You hummed.

“Thought it looked pretty,” you said somewhat bashfully—you hadn’t expected him to inspect it so closely. You were acutely aware of a spot you’d missed with the polish on your ring finger.

He looked up at that, eyes trained on yours. The intensity of his gaze sent a shiver up your spine.

“Hey, dumb and dumber, I gotta go,” he said into the headset, already pulling it off before he heard the protests of his friends. He turned the console off from the controller and dropped it on the floor next to his chair. His hands came up to grip your hips, and you squeaked at the harshness of it. He pulled you closer to him and dropped kisses over the skin of your shoulder.

“What’re you gettin’ shy for? Of course it looks pretty. My baby’s always pretty,” he told you, punctuating every other word with lips that made their way up your neck.

“Katsuki,” you breathed, and you felt the groan rumble in his chest. He was on his feet then, dragging you up with him in his arms. He walked you down the hall to your bedroom, setting you down on the linen sheets of your bed. He hovered over you, leaning down to resume his kisses over the ridges of your throat. He opened his mouth to suck gently on your pulse point.

“So pretty, all the time,” he murmured, lips dragging up your jaw, pressing chaste kisses up the bone until he nipped at the spot behind your ear, pulling a gasp from you.

“I think my pretty girl needs to be made to feel good, yeah?” His gaze met your half-lidded one and you nodded dumbly, making him grin. He leaned down to meet your lips, and it was hot and heavy and suffocating, the way he consumed you so easily. His tongue licked into your mouth as his hand slid under the sleep shirt you wore. You moaned at how warm he felt as he palmed at your chest. He chuckled when you broke the kiss to help him pull your shirt over your head.

“Aw, you hurtin’ for it?” His tone was mocking-- it settled deep into your core and lit every nerve ending on fire. At his words, your hips jutted up and made contact with the thigh he’d placed between yours, and you let out a pained groan. You couldn’t help but get carried away with him. He never let you live it down, but he always gave you what you needed. Even if he made you plead for it.

He leaned down to take a nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly. You let out a choked breath at the pressure, and then a moan at the way he soothed over it with his tongue. He alternated between each nipple and between tongue and teeth until you were a writhing mess underneath him. “Katsuki,” you choked out, half delirious, “please—need you.”

“I know, pretty girl,” he cooed, pressing open mouthed kisses down your tummy, pausing to suck on the skin above the hem of your underwear, “m’gonna give you everything you need. Be sweet for me.”

You nearly keened off the bed when he pressed a chaste kiss to your clothed core. He dragged his tongue over the wet spot you’d created, pausing to inhale deeply.

“God,” he ground out, “smells fuckin’ divine.”

Your body twitched involuntarily with every touch. You whimpered and squeezed your eyes shut, hips jutting upwards and praying he’d give you something substantial. You felt your stomach drop at the tsk he let out.

“Want you to look at me, pretty girl,” and it was gentle in a way that surprised you—usually his tone was a demanding one that had your blood buzzing in your veins, eager to do whatever he asked of you. This was almost worse, though, with the way the love saturated his voice sent white hot arousal pooling in your gut. Your eyes fluttered open to meet his, and the grin spread across his face.

“There she is,” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours as he hooked a finger through the waistband of the fabric and pulled it from your legs. His eyes drifted to your exposed cunt.

“Oh,” he breathed out, and you mewled at the way his breath brushed over your sensitive folds, “never gonna fuckin’ get tired of this.”

He brushed the back of his pointer finger through your heat, and you let out a moan that would’ve embarrassed anyone who heard it. It just egged Katsuki on, though, and he leaned forward to press a kiss to your clit.

“Kat—hah,”

Your body thrummed with need and your hips moved with a mind of their own. You fought to keep your eyes open as he licked a long swipe straight up, pausing at your clit to let you grind yourself against his face. He moaned his approval and the vibration of it melted every cohesive thought from your brain. He pulled back and you couldn't stop the whine that tore itself from your throat.

“Always done up, just for me. Fuckin' luckiest man alive. Tell me,” his eyes met yours and you shivered at the hunger you saw there, “who’s the prettiest girl in the world?”

Your eyes went wide at his question, and you whimpered at the feeling of the pad of his thumb brushing devastatingly soft circles over your clit. You could do nothing else but gasp out an “I—huh?”, slurred with pleasure. The grin on his face was dangerous.

“Want you to tell me,” he told you, pressing down harder on your clit and turning your whimpers into broken moans, “who the prettiest girl in the world is.”

Your face grew hot and you cursed the blush that surely crept over your cheeks. You weren’t necessarily in the dark about your looks—you certainly agreed with him most days that you were pretty. But this was new, and you felt vulnerable, with his sharp eyes fixed on you from between your legs. You wanted to look away, to escape the intensity of his affection--to avoid the way it almost felt humiliating, to say something so simple-- but you knew better. You wanted to be sweet for him, after all.

“I am,” you muttered, almost inaudible, but you’d guessed he’d heard it if the lips wrapped around your clit were anything to go by. You cried out, dangerously close to falling apart, and then he pulled away.

“You are…?” He teased, back to tracing little circles over your pulsing cunt. You whined, and it bordered on brattish. You sucked in a breath and gathered your resolve.

“I-I’m…the prettiest girl in the world.”

He slipped a thick finger into you and crooked it upwards, fucking into you slowly and letting you drag your aching clit over his tongue with every stuttered movement of your hips.

“Tell me again,” he ground out, reveling in the way your face contorted with pleasure, but your eyes never left his. You really were very good, and all for him.

“I’m the prettiest girl in the world,” you groaned out, less bashful in your attempts to chase the high he could feel you approaching. You were familiar with the headspace he was pulling you into-- you were wholly overwhelmed at the way the vulnerability tangled itself in the wanton want you felt, and your throat burned with emotion. You knew anything he pulled from you next would be absolutely pitiful.

“Oh, I love you. Again.”

“I’m the prettiest girl in the world!” Your words were broken, tears spilling over your lash line and head snapping back at the feeling of the flick of his tongue over your little nub. Your love and your pleasure fell from your mouth in unintelligible babbles, and you distantly wondered if he'd always be able to reduce you to this with seemingly minimal effort. His free hand wrapped around the skin of your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into it as you shook under his ministrations, and you knew he was trying to ground you.

“One more time, sweet girl.”

“I’m—oh my god, fuck, fuck—the prettiest girl—”

You were cut off by the force of your orgasm, and Katsuki would’ve sooner died than stop what he was doing for a second, feeling the way you clamped down on his finger as he fucked you through it. There was no stopping the way your eyes rolled to the back of your skull, mouth hung open in a sob as the blinding pleasure lash through your body like a whip. Your vision was fuzzy as you came down, and you barely registered Bakugo as he hovered over you, pressing his lips to the tear stains that lined your cheeks.

“So good,” you heard him say, and it was like you were underwater, “did so, so good for me, pretty baby.”

You whimpered as he pulled his finger from your body and popped it into his mouth, sucking the last drops of you away as you watched through heavy eyelids. The sight of it curled in your gut, mostly because you knew that it was not intended to be as erotic as it looked—he just genuinely liked how you tasted, and would never pass up an opportunity to do so.

He caged your head between strong arms and bent his neck down to press kisses to your forehead. You let out a soft sigh, feeling a new wave of tears threaten to spill at the intimacy of the moment. Your hands found purchase in the T-shirt that you certainly just ruined and you clung to him, pulling his chest to yours.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, lips to your ear, and you nodded, believing him wholeheartedly and letting the tears slip out. He kissed them as they fell.

“My sweet, pretty baby,” he cooed, repeating it softly as he carded his fingers into your hair and pressed a kiss to your temple.

You sniffled and leaned into his touch, prompting his mouth to find your temple again. He happily obliged.

You held each other there for what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, tangled and devastatingly open, relatively silent save for the whispers of Katsuki’s love into your ear. The weight of it settled into your chest, where it pushed everything out of the way to make room for the enormity of his love. Your mind focused on the ring that you rolled around with your thumb, feeling the dip of the engraved words he’d had etched inside the band. He whispered those same words into your ear now, and you turned to press your smile into his in reply. You quite liked the idea of a forever like this.

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#bakugo #bakugo fic #bakugo smut #bakugo katsuki #bakugo fluff #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x you #mha bakugo #bnha bakugo #my hero academia #bakugo fanfic #katsuki #bwritesthings

[gardenofnoah]

i’m sick and daydreaming

“what’s wrong with you?”

you groan, pressing your head back into the pillow. you’d dragged it into the living room to make yourself a makeshift bed on the couch while you waited for bakugou to get home.

“don’t feel good,” you mumble quietly. your eyes are closed, but you can feel him glaring at you from his spot near the door.

a second passes and you flinch when you feel a rough hand press into your forehead—then both cheeks, your temples, your neck. you’d smile at his doting if you didn’t feel so awful.

“what doesn’t feel good?”

“stomach hurts…my head too. feel really tired.”

“fuckin’ idiot,” he snaps, but there’s no heat to it as he brushes your hair out of your face that’s just a little sweaty, “what’d you stay up for me for then?”

you shrug, keeping your eyes closed at the feeling of his fingers scratching your scalp. “missed you.”

he pauses at that, sucking in a breath. the sentiment always, always disarmed him. he couldn’t help but love the way you needed him so earnestly, even if he hated that you’d kept yourself up despite being sick.

you feel a dip in the couch, and it’s your only warning before he’s hoisting you up off of it. the sudden elevation makes your stomach churn and you whimper, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. he presses a kiss to your hair.

“sorry,” you feel his breath over your face, “just a second.”

to your surprise, he walks past your bedroom and takes you to the bathroom, setting you on the toilet seat. he motions for you to raise your arms, pulling your shirt over your head. you shiver from the cold air, but continue to allow him to undress you. he pulls a towel from under the sink and wraps you in it.

bakugou keeps a warm hand wrapped around your foot while he reaches over to turn on the faucet. he sticks a hand in the tub to make sure the temperature is right—he pulls it from the water and lets it close around your other ankle.

“too hot?”

you sniff, eyes closing at the warmth spreading over your skin. you have a feeling it’s not the virus circulating through you right now—not with the way you’re so fixated on how he has stopped time for you. you shake your head.

he helps you stand and steadies you as you lower yourself into the water. you let out a pleased little sigh, and you don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth turn up just a little bit.

he tells you to tip your head back, and you feel a rush of warmth over your scalp. it takes you a moment to realize what’s happening.

“are you washing my hair?”

he pauses, going a little red. you see him bristle a bit.

“the fuck’s it look like?” he mumbles, and you swear he’s almost pouting.

it makes you smile, and you spare his pride. you close your eyes and do as he asked.

he’s muttering to himself in half hearted annoyance as he dumps another cup of water over your head again, his other hand reaching to your hairline to shield your eyes. you bite your cheek to fight the grin that is already there.

you found out bakugou’s propensity toward domesticity early on in your relationship. you also found out his tendency to be embarrassed when you commented on it, so you tried to keep it to a minimum when you reveled in the way that he cared for you.

you feel his fingers start to scrub your scalp and it pulls a small sound from deep in your chest, leaning into his touch. you open your eyes and turn your head to look at him.

“the fuck are you doin’? close your ey—“

“love you,” you whisper quietly, and you don’t miss the way he buckles under the weight of the words, however minutely.

“shut up,” he murmurs, grabbing you under your jaw to gently turn your head away from him so he can continue. his touch lingers there for a beat too long, fingers running along the sharpness of the bone before he’s scrubbing your scalp again.

you allow a small smile to stretch along your face and your eyes drift closed again. it’s silent between you—expansive and comfortable as he rinses the soap from your hair.

you don’t know how much time has passed when he hauls you from the tub, making sure you can stand upright before wrapping you back up in your towel. he keeps an arm around you as you both walk back to your bedroom. he sets you on the bed while he busies himself with finding a suitable pair of pajamas.

he doesn’t let you dress yourself, either, and you have to hold back the giggle at how he babies you. you let him, though, because you know this is how he shows you that he loves you. the words are hard, but what he can do for you comes as natural to him as breathing.

when you’re dressed, he strips down to his briefs and maneuvers you down underneath the covers. he follows you, pulling you into his body. it’s the warmest you’ve felt all day, and his arms wrap around you tighter when you press into him. you rest your head against his sternum and breathe him in as best you can through your clogged nose.

“do you need to eat?” you ask, suddenly remembering that he’s just gotten home from working all day.

“later,” you feel it rumble through his chest, and he doesn’t leave any room for your protests, cradling your head and pressing a soft kiss to the top of it, “go to sleep.”

you grumble a little despite his firmness and you feel him grin into your hair. his fingers trail softly over your spine and you feel yourself doing what he said, drifting off quickly.

you’re fortunate enough to hear the whispered “i love you” right before sleep claims you.

this fic belongs to me (@gardenofnoah). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#i wonder what part of my brain needs a fictional man to baby me in this way #because i sure do write about this kind of thing a lot #bakugo #bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugo fluff #bakugo x gn reader #bakugo x you #mha bakugo #bnha bakugo #bakugo katsuki #bnha #mha #my hero academia #bakugo x reader #bkg it's the little things #bwritesthings

[gardenofnoah]

hehehe i have izuku on the brain. i want to bite him

cw: explicit oral sex (reader receiving (if one of you gets a community warning put on this i will consider it an act of war and you will be dealt with accordingly. read my warnings you fuckin bozo)), afab reader, no gendered terms used, praise (“pretty baby”, “angel”, etc), terms for body parts (“pussy”, “clit”), izuku being a big slut

i see izuku as a very soft dom. nothing extreme—there’s no bravado or intimidation. you know? he’s just naturally dominant in a gentle way and he’s filthy with how much he needs you.

like, you’re laying on your belly, stretched out down the length of his legs while he’s playing video games. your knees rest on either side of his thighs as you’re scrolling on your phone, he’s focused on the game in front of him but brings a hand down every once in a while to give your thigh or ass a soft squeeze. it’s quiet aside from the sounds of the TV. you start to feel yourself drift off, until you realize he’s quit the game and is now pulling you farther up his lap, until you’re squeezing his waist with your thighs. he goes right to work—fingertips pressing into the skin of your thighs, kneading into the muscles underneath. you let out a pleased sigh, and you feel him tense, just a little bit, above you. his hands move up to grab at the fat of your ass—still gentle, but a little more heated now—and he bends down to kiss the skin that stretches over your spine where your shirt has ridden up.

“izuku,” you breathe out, settling further into his legs and nuzzling your face into the skin below his knee. you feel warm, held by him—every brush of his fingertips leaves a trail of heat that shoots straight to your gut. it settles you, and it ignites something inside of you. you start to squirm.

“pretty baby,” he coos back in response, pressing another kiss to your spine, and it makes you shudder, “got the prettiest view of you right now.”

you’re sure he does—you wiggle your hips at him with a small smile on your lips. his fingertips knead the flesh of your ass, and then he gently pulls you apart—you can hear it, with how wet he’s made you, and you stifle a whimper into his skin. you feel the soft brush of the pad of his thumb over the damp patch of your sleep shorts, and he takes a sharp breath in.

you turn your head to look back at him, and he’s both soft and smoldering—his eyes are so, so dark but his face is tender, a soft smile stretching across his face. it’s adoration that you see—a complete infatuation, running deep inside of him. you know that he will make you feel it.

“hi, angel,” he murmurs, and it makes you smile, “how are you feeling right now?”

“horny,” you tell him honestly, and his grin gets a little wider.

“good,” he says, bending down to press another kiss to the small of your back, eyes never leaving yours, “will you let me make it better?”

you nod, and the corner of his eyes crinkle. you can feel him, hard, pressing between your thighs. you roll your hips down slightly and he sucks in a breath, fingers digging into your ass harshly. his hands move, running over the swell of your hips and holding you where they crease.

“will you lift up your hips for me?”

you push up onto your knees, and his legs spread to accommodate you—you rest your head on the mattress and arch your back a little, offering yourself to him completely.

“like this?”

he sucks in a breath, leaning forward to kiss the back of your thighs, dragging the tip of his nose up to where they meet and inhaling deeply, letting out a low groan.

“yes, baby,” he says, and it’s deep in his chest, “so fucking pretty.”

his fingers reach for the waistband of your shorts, wrapping around the elastic and pulling them from you slowly, kissing every inch of exposed skin he reveals. he drags them over your heat slowly, watching a string of your arousal stretch until it snaps. you feel his breath on you and you squirm.

“got the prettiest pussy,” he tells you, and you feel him spread you open with both hands again. you feel deliciously exposed to him, and it makes you clench. he sees it and lets out a moan that almost sounds pained.

“please,” you whine, muffled by the comforter you press your face into.

“please what, angel?”

“please ‘zuku,” you’re almost slurring now, body buzzing with every puff of air that hits your folds, “need your tongue.”

you can almost hear the smile in his voice. “i know baby. you need it so bad, huh? you need me to suck on your poor little clit.”

you press your face further into the bed, openly whining and squirming in the hands that still have you spread open for him. his teasing makes it worse—every inch of you is on fire and you do need him, more than anything else right now.

his lips meet the juncture of your thigh and your sex, and your whole body shivers. he keeps you open, upright—completely still despite your efforts to push your hips back to his face. the tip of his tongue drags along the skin there, through the dark curls that span your flesh. he presses kisses—everywhere but where you are soaking and aching for him—for so long that you feel you might lose your mind. you are a live wire—shivering and whimpering at every touch. he knows it, and he’s getting off on it, if the bucking of his hips is any indication.

he kisses and teases until he’s had his fill, and then he drags his tongue up the length of you, groaning at the flood of you in his mouth. you gasp, grabbing onto the shin that rests beside your head, needing something to ground you.

“so good” he slurs against you, tongue swiping through your folds again, “you taste so fucking good.”

and suddenly it’s like his life depends on it—his tongue is hot and heavy against you, prodding at your swollen clit, flicking it gently before his lips wrap around it and he sucks. he slurps like he needs it more than you do and the sound is loud, so loud and so disgusting and you can’t help but get off on it—on the way that he needs you.

it makes you cry out—if you weren’t already trapped in his hold, you’d have buckled—and he keeps at it, letting his bottom lip, dripping with you, drag against the little nub, flicking his tongue over it before bringing it into his mouth again.

and god, is it good. you can’t form a single thought—you’re stuttering and crying and groaning and the only thing you feel is him. you open your mouth to ask him for more—to beg him to fill you, to stretch you out—but he beats you there, and suddenly his tongue is inside of you, pushing it’s way into the flesh that squeezes it tightly and you squeal. he lets out a groan that sounds more animal than human.

you feel the pressure of his thumb against your clit as he fucks you on his tongue—deep and prodding, filling you so sweetly as you push your hips back to his face, fucking yourself on the muscle. he’s panting and groaning into you, his other hand bruising in its grip on your ass— you know you are dripping down his chin and onto his shirt and the knowledge of that pushes you closer to a rapidly approaching edge. you feel him writhe underneath you—cock straining against his pants as he chases his own pleasure from yours.

“‘zuku ‘m close,” you gasp out, and the grip izuku has on you tightens. he doesn’t falter at all in his pace, doesn’t pull himself from you to tease you—he just presses down a little harder on your clit, a little faster in his movements as he lets out a moan that vibrates through you from the inside—and it’s all you need to clamp down around his tongue hard, crying into the comforter as your orgasm takes you over completely. your hips buck against his face and you distantly hope you haven’t hurt him with how hard your body convulses. his tongue doesn’t stop for a second—not even after you’ve come down from it, but it’s softer—lapping over you slowly and softly, collecting every bit of you that spilled while you whimper beneath him. you shift, reaching an arm underneath you to palm at him, and you’re met with a damp spot on his pants that you certainly did not make. he sucks in a breath when you brush your fingers over it.

“do you feel what you do to me?” he rasps, running his tongue through your folds again, dipping the tip of it inside you, feeling you clench around it as you whine, shocks of overstimulation rippling through you.

he pulls away with a few soft kisses to your sex, and his hands are all over you—warm and soothing while he coaxes your hips back down to the bed, massaging the flesh and squeezing your sore muscles.

he gets you flat on the bed again and then he is a blanket on top of you—all heat and pressure and pressing kisses to the back of your neck and behind your jaw that make you shiver and sigh his name. he supports himself on an elbow beside your head and runs his free hand up the back of it, tangling into your hair and rubbing your scalp. you turn into him and snuggle into his chest—he lets out a small chuckle and holds you to him, pressing kisses to the top of your head.

“love you,” you whisper, muffled by his shirt.

“i love you,” he tells you, pressing another kiss to your hair and pulling you tighter to his chest, “i love you so much.”

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#i fear that what i want to do to him will make all of my ancestors roll in their graves #i've literally only ever thought of this man eating it from the back and i just know it's god tier. #i want to see him cry #izuku midoriya #midoriya smut #izuku smut #midoriya fluff #izuku fluff #mha #bnha #my hero academia #izuku x reader #midoriya x reader #izuku x you #midoriya x you #izuku it's the little things #bwritesthings

[gardenofnoah]

back on my bkg-is-a-softie tirade (i never actually left it. i’ll die here)

cw: fluff, intimacy (nothing sexually explicit, but MDNI to be safe), mentions of blood (no injuries, just my own morbid prose)

bakugou who’s uncomfortable with intimacy, especially when it’s physical. bakugou who wants to be what everyone expects him to be—aggressive, dominant, experienced— but feels violent panic when he tries. bakugou who would much rather listen to the love you have for him fall from your lips while he does what he can for you. tonight, he’s seated you on his lap, and he’s touching you—gently, fingers brushing over your palms, up your arms, your neck, over your jaw. you know that anything more would be too much for him right now. he feels guilty. he wonders if you need more.

“feels good,” you whisper against his lips, tipping your head forward to meet his. pulling him from his thoughts. you let your eyes flutter closed when you feel his hands slip under the fabric of your shirt. “will you pull my hair a little?”

he trails his fingers up your spine and lets them curl around the back of your neck, squeezing softly. they move up until they’re tangling in the hair on the back of your head, and he tightens his grip. it’s not harsh, it’s barely there—just enough to show you that he can do what you ask of him. that he is trying.

you reward him with a soft sigh into his skin and you tip your head back, exposing the gentle curve of your throat to him. he presses chaste kisses up the column of it and he’s unsure if he’s ever loved anything as fiercely as he does you.

“so good to me, katsuki.”

he feels the vibration of your praise on his lips and the rest of him hums with it—the notion that you ask of him nothing and take what he can give like it is gold he’s handing to you.

you curl into him, forehead coming back to meet his. you are looking at him with such adoration that it nearly stops his heart. he thinks that meeting your eyes might be the hardest thing he’s ever done until now, all open and crumbling in front of you, but he doesn’t look away. he watches your eyes crinkle at the corners and takes it as the assurance that he needs.

“there you are,” you say, and it guts him completely. there’s a sweet smile on your lips as they move to ask, “can i touch your chest?”

he nods—he’s tense when he feels your fingers ghost over his shoulder, trailing their way to his collarbone. your thumbs smooth over the bone and the muscle below and take his apprehension with them. he’s cracked wide open when your palm comes to rest over his heart. he puts his own over yours and exhales at the warmth he feels. it’s not like his own—it doesn’t burn. it soothes.

“oh, i love you,” you murmur, leaning forward to press your forehead to his temple. he leans into you, tightening his grip on your hand. he believes you, wholeheartedly, and that really scares him. because even if your love breaks him apart, floods him until he can’t breathe—there’s no assurance that it’s permanent. there’s nothing stopping something horrific from ripping you from him tomorrow. nothing stopping you from simply deciding that you want something different than what he can give you.

he feels your pointer finger tap where it rests above his heart and meets your gaze, and he realizes you’d probably been looking at him while he’d receded into his insecurities. you press into his chest again—lightly, but enough that the compression settles something in him.

“will you tell me?” you ask him, and it’s not an order, and you’re not fishing—it’s a genuine ask. you know that he does, but he recognizes that you’re asking for what you need. that you need to hear it, the way he does. he’d rather die than not give it to you.

“i love you,” he whispers, and he hopes you ignore the way it’s a little broken. hopes you know that he is bleeding out under your hands—under the weight of the love that he feels—and to say the words is the final withdraw of the knife that was both tearing into him and keeping him whole.

“i know,” you say to his words. “i know,” you say to his heart. he thinks he should’ve known better than to ever assume you couldn’t see the blood pooling around you. you, who’d been holding pressure over the wound this whole time. you, who’d carried him while it all dripped from him like poison. who never stopped when he tried to warn you that he’d only take you down with him.

“my love,” you coo, lips pressed to his temple. it’s not a hook—you do not need to draw him in. it is simply the way things are.

this fic belongs to me (@gardenofnoah). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#i have genuinely harmed myself with this one besties #i am not alright #i am actually beside myself #this is how i’m coping with what i’m about to see tomorrow #bakugou #bakugo #bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #mha #bnha #my hero academia #bakugo x you #katsuki fluff #bakugo fic #mha bakugo #bnha bakugo #boku no hero academia #bkg it's the little things #bwritesthings

[gardenofnoah]

waiting up for you

one thing about me is I go feral for the idea of big, strong bakugo needing softness and domesticity at the end of a long day. of him having no idea how to cope with how good it feels to be loved. augh i love him. wc: 1k

Bakugo Katsuki opened the front door quietly, careful not to make too much noise, assuming you’d gone to bed already. He set his gauntlets down, grimacing at the clink of the metal against the hardwood floor. He stood up straight and paused, taking a deep breath into his chest, and holding it until it ached. He let the breath out slowly, head tipping back as he did. It hadn’t been a horribly bad day by any means, but his nerves were still fried. He willed the tension out of his shoulders, and felt it pool into his chest instead. Figured.

He dragged himself up the steps, unsurprised at the dark living room that welcomed him home. What did surprise him, though, was the soft light flooding from the open bathroom door down the hall. He heard the faint sound of the melody of your voice, and he let a gentle smile creep across his face. It was just like you not to listen to him when he told you not to wait up for him. He was glad you did, every time.

He let his feet follow the sound of your voice, coming to stand in the doorway of the bathroom. You had candles sitting on the sink, each flickering flame sending warm light dancing around the room. His eyes drifted to where you faced away from him, feet propped up on the edge of the tub, the rest of you nearly submerged in the bath water. His eyes followed your dark hair as it spilled over the edge closest to him. He didn’t bother saying anything—you were still humming softly to yourself, but he knew that you were aware of his presence. Still, he didn’t want to disturb the peace you’d so carefully crafted for yourself.

He watched as you reached an arm out of the water and slung it over the edge, water dripping off your fingers onto the tile. You beckoned toward him silently, knowing he would come. He waited a beat, watching the candle light lick over your skin. You looked ethereal like this—angelically beautiful and certainly too good for him. He didn’t dare blink, lest the moment be a dream his brain conjured for him as a reward for making it through the day. He wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, either way.

He padded over to you, regretting the way his boots clanked off the tile. He sat down on the lid of the toilet next to the tub, reaching a hand out to thread his fingers through your hair. A soft smile graced your lips, and he thought he’d do anything to burn the image of it in his mind.

“Hi, angel,” he said quietly, leaning over to press a kiss to your temple. You rolled your head to the right to look at him, still smiling at him as you opened your eyes.

“Hi,” you whispered back, arm bending at the elbow to reach the back of his head, scratching his scalp lightly. He let out a long breath and let his head drop to your shoulder. You kissed the top of it and let your face linger in his hair, breathing him in. You would never tire of the way he smelled— like pine and earth and smoke and him. He pulled back and propped both elbows on the edge of the tub, eyes meeting yours. He could barely breathe when you looked at him like you did— all love and forgiveness and warmth, like he’d never done a wrong thing in his life.

“Rough day?” he heard you ask, and he shook his head, not knowing how to talk about it. You hummed in understanding and went back to massaging your fingers through his hair. He was grateful you didn’t pry it out of him—you never did, always letting him process how he needed to before he could talk to you about it. He knew how much you trusted him, knew that you knew he’d always need you, even if he couldn’t accept it right away. You really were too good for him.

“You wait up for me?” He asked, and if he was honest, he was unsure what answer he was hoping for.

“Not a chance,” you told him, but the way you looked at him, with so much vulnerability and love, told him otherwise. You pulled him forward by the back of his head and pressed a devastatingly gentle kiss on his lips. He had to fight not to let out the whimper that crawled up his throat. His emotions swum behind his eyes and he blinked rapidly to keep them at bay.

“Dinner is in the fridge,” you murmured, still running your fingers through his hair, “I’ll be out in a few, if you want me to warm it up for you while you shower.”

He dropped his head to your shoulder again, squeezing his eyes shut as a last ditch effort to stop the flood from dragging him out to where he surely couldn’t touch. This feeling threatened to pull him under all of the time—he had no idea what he’d done to deserve the love that you gave him so freely, as if it was as inherent and involuntary as a heart beat. He couldn’t stand it, and he couldn’t get enough of it. It would rush into his lungs and drown him if he let it—and he knew that, because he did. Often.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, and then picked up his head to press another to your temple, and then a final peck to the top of your head. He spared you one more glance, noticing your eyes had fell shut again as he lingered, unable to look away from you. He turned on his heel and made for the doorway, a last ditch effort before he choked on his love right there in the bathroom.

“Katsuki?” Your voice made him pause, head turning to look back at you.

“Mm?”

“I love you,” you told him, and he nearly lost it, “more than you know.”

He felt the burn in his eyes and he took in a breath, silently begging his voice not to shake. “I love you so much.”

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#bakugo #bnha bakugo #mha bakugo #bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo fluff #bakugo comfort #katsuki fluff #katsuki comfort #i am so gay but i want to love him anyway #he just needs a hug #bakugo x gn reader #bwritesthings

[gardenofnoah]

be sure to come back to me

i love Nanamin so much it hurts me physically. i also love writing him as a normal (totally alive) human being who is in love and struggles with it sometimes. i’m a big slut like that.

wc: 1k (oops) cw: hurt/comfort, nanami is anxious and in love

Usually someone who revels in the silence, Nanami Kento doesn’t understand why he’s struggling with it tonight. You’re here, form fitted to his body like a second shirt. He knows you are here with him—present, presumably in love, alive. But knowing that doesn’t stop the discomfort from writhing in his gut like a half-dead fish.

Of all the things he knows, he is most acutely aware that this is the last night you will spend in his arms for a while. He knows that he does this every time—on the night before a mission, his strength abandons him, and he can’t beat back the fear.

Fear of leaving you. Fear of not coming back. Fear of not giving you enough of him. Fear of letting you see too much of him.

It terrifies him—the thought of his absences piling one atop of the others—a debt gone unchecked, a weight that eventually causes you to buckle.

Fear of coming home to find it completely devoid of you.

He’s left you behind countless times, and each time you are here when he returns. But it’s worse every time, because what if it’s the final straw that breaks you? He couldn’t bear it. He worries you can’t either.

But you’ve never complained. On nights before he leaves, you let him cling to you. You hold him just as tightly. You’ve never told him that you wished he didn’t have to go—he knows you do, but you spare him the guilt. You carry all of it, and him, like it is only a pillowcase filled with so many feathers. He adds to them, and he hates himself for it.

It’s traditional, in your adopted night-before-missions routine, to let both of your feelings go unspoken. To just be with each other. But tonight the quiet tears at him like the dullest knives and he can’t take it.

“My love,” he whispers into the dark, and it’s strained at best.

“Ken?” He hears you call softly. It is so sweet against his ears, it makes him sick. He holds you closer to him.

“I need you.”

You pick your head up off his shoulder at that, he assumes to look at him, though he can only vaguely make out your features in the dark. He thinks it might be for the best, because he knows he is worse for wear right now, and to see that reflected in your face would be so much more than he could handle.

“I’m right here,” you say gently, squeezing the fingers he has wrapped around yours.

“I know. I just—” he pauses, squeezing his eyes shut—fighting to stay upright on this ship, in this storm, “I’m afraid.”

“Of?”

“Everything,” he whispers, and it’s as earnest as it is broken.

You are silent for a while, and he worries he’s broken whatever fragile façade he’d been holding up. Worries he’s gone and dropped too much of himself into your lap. Too heavy, too heavy, too heavy. Carry it yourself.

“Kento,” you murmur, prying him from his thoughts. He squeezes your hand in response, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’m right here,” you say again—firmer this time, like there’s a point you’re trying to make—“and I’ll be right here when you walk through that door again. You’ll come home to me like you always do.”

He doesn’t know what to say, and even if he did, he doesn’t trust himself to say it. So he says nothing, but the grip he has on your hand is almost bruising. You don’t protest.

You sigh, pushing yourself up with your free hand until you’re straddling his waist, face inches away from his.

“Hey,” you whisper, prompting him to meet your eyes as best he can in the dark, “you can let go.”

And something in him breaks, because of course you know. Of course you understand. He lets go of your hand only to wrap both arms around your middle and pull you on top of him, his face pressing into the skin of your throat. You don’t say anything about the droplets you feel, gathering into the hem of your shirt. You don’t say anything about the way the breath in his chest stutters against yours. You just cradle his head like you are the only thing that can protect him. Right now, you might be.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, muffled and broken. He’d be embarrassed if he could—humiliated at the way one of the strongest sorcerers is reduced to a pathetic mess at the thought of his own inadequacies. But you told him to let it go, and he’s trying. Trying to do what you want him to. Trying to be what you ask for.

“I love you,” you tell him, and he lets out a pitiful whimper against your neck. So you tell him again, and again, and again. You tell him so much that he feels it settle over him like a thick blanket. It’s one that he’ll keep with him—carry with him even when he can’t be here, and he hopes it’ll be enough. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deeply and it fills his lungs like so much water.

When he opens his eyes again, there is sunlight streaming through the curtains, cutting through the dark and illuminating little spots over the curve of your shoulder. He finds it hard to look away, captivated by the push and pull of breath that causes your chest to rise and fall. Propping himself up, he can’t help but lean over to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. He gets closer, breathing you in and pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your skin, pressing his lips to your face again for good measure. You don’t stir, and he’s grateful—you deserve rest. He hopes you won’t be upset with him for not waking you to say goodbye. He's put you through enough—he considers this to be an act of kindness, even if it hurts you. So you don't have to watch him leave again.

“I’ll be home soon,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t miss the way your hand finds a grip in his shirt.

He means what he says. He doesn’t think there’s anything in the world that could keep him from this.

this fic belongs to me @b-writes-things. i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#HHNNNNGGGG what did I DO #sorry I just feel in my heart of hearts like this man is a crybaby and I want to [redacted] him over it #i am so feral over nanamin #nanamin #nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami fic #nanami x you #nanami x gn reader #nanami fluff #BWritesThings

[gardenofnoah]

whatever you need

don't mind me—just writing out my rabid nanamin fantasies because i love him and want him to ruin me wc: 1.2k cw: explicit sexual content, afab reader, mentions of blood, pain, period sex, fluff

“Hey, Ken?”

“Mm?”

“Could you do something for me?”

“For you? Anything,” he tells you, looking up at you from his book with a soft smile on his face. You feel your cheeks flush. It’s a tender moment, or it would be—you feel pain radiating through your pelvis again, and it makes your breath hitch.

“Could you just—” another stab of pain cuts you off, “—maybe put your fingers inside me?”

His eyebrows shoot up and his jaw goes slack. You’d laugh if you weren’t in so much pain. “I—you—now?”

“Yeah, just,” a deep breath in, “like two, maybe? M’not horny. It hurts, and I think it could help.”

“Oh,” he breathes, and you watch his confusion fade to understanding— and your heart constricts in your chest, because he is always so understanding, “sure, sweetheart. Do you want to lay down?”

You nod and move to rest on the bed, head meeting the pillow as you try to settle. Another wave of cramping has you curling in on yourself, but Kento is there, and he’s whispering soft words of encouragement to get you to lie back. He asks if he can take your shorts off and you nod in agreement. He slips them off and leans down to press kisses to your hips, your thighs, and down your shins—certainly out of muscle memory—but his mouth is warm and comforting and it helps, a little.

“It’s going to be, uh—bloody,” you stammer, suddenly incredibly aware of what you’ve asked him to do.

“I don’t mind,” he tells you absentmindedly, laying down on his stomach between your legs. He pulls both of them over his shoulders—he's noticed that having your legs elevated seems to relieve you a bit.

“I’m going to start with one, is that okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, feeling a little bashful now.

You suck in a breath as you feel him push into you. It’s different, obviously, but it’s not bad—it certainly hasn’t made anything worse, so you’re content to let your eyes flutter closed.

“Doing okay?” He asks gently. You hum in affirmation.

“Would you like two?”

You nod your head and wait for it, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding when you feel it. He sees you tense, and pauses.

“Breathe, my love.”

“Sorry,” you say, meeting his eyes and reaching down to squeeze his shoulder lightly, “I’m okay.”

His fingers massage you gently, and it’s intimate in a way you’ve not yet experienced. He crooks his fingers upward, rubbing gentle circles into the hot flesh they find there. You want to sigh in relief, but another flash of pain turns it into a whimper. He looks up to study your face, frowning slightly.

“Can I try something?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and nod desperately, willing to do anything for even minor relief.

There’s a pause, and then you feel his large, warm hand settle across the skin that stretches between your hip bones. The weight and the heat of his hand is soothing in itself, but then he moves, pressing down in a wave motion, starting with the heel of his palm and rolling to the tips of his fingers. He moves the fingers inside you again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, and to your amazement, the pain dulls, “how did you know how to do that?”

“Watched a video,” he admits plainly, and you chuckle at his honesty. You swoon a little bit at him wanting to prepare for this—wanting to know how to make you feel better. You reach down to card your fingers through his hair, and he tilts his head to rest it against the inside of your thigh.

You let the silence settle over you, both of you content in the quiet intimacy of the moment. You don’t even notice when you start to squirm, until it's impossible to ignore.

“Sweetheart? You alright?”

“Yeah,” and it’s breathless as you fight the flush crawling up your neck, “just, uh, feels good.”

“Is that why you’re trying to pull my hair out?”

You gasp, immediately releasing your grip. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”

You hear his quiet chuckle and look down to meet his gaze, and you notice something in his eyes akin to amusement.

“My love,” he murmurs, and his voice is low as it pools in your gut, “what do you need?”

Your eyes threaten to roll back in your head from his words alone, but his fingers still moving achingly gentle inside you have your brain short-circuiting in your skull.

“Your mouth,” you gasp out, “if you want to, anyway, I don’t want you to feel like you have—”

He presses a kiss to your swollen clit to shut you up, and you nearly keen off the bed. You feel so sensitive, and you think you could cum right then if he kissed you like that again. You meet his brazen stare, and he looks like he’s more than willing to test that.

He presses kisses to the inside of each thigh, open-mouthed and hot, and then moves to lick a heavy stripe where your thigh meets your core. You let out a shuddering moan at his teasing, pushing your hips forward to get more of his mouth. He switches to the other side, ignoring your pleas for more.

He relents once you’re panting and twitching underneath him, slipping his fingers out of you to drag his tongue from your weeping core to your clit. He moans against you, and the rumble of it makes you cry out. You watch him stick his two soiled fingers in his mouth, groaning at the taste of them. It’s disgusting, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. You realize just what you've gotten yourself into once you meet his eyes— there's something feral and borderline unhinged in them, because he's turned on by this. He wants you like this.

You let out a broken whimper of his name, and he is a man starved. His lips connect with your swollen clit, and there is nothing in the world that take him from his spot between your thighs. You feel yourself stretch around his fingers again and the stimulation is almost too much. You're not in your body anymore— you're farther off, in a place where there is only him and this feeling only he can give to you. He pulls you back to him with a flick of his tongue against your clit and you absolutely fall apart.

There's a small part of you that's concerned that you've just broken his nose with the way your hips jerk up as you cum, but if you did, he's not bothered in the slightest. His ministrations don't stop until you're whimpering and squirming against his mouth. He pulls away—has to rip himself away, actually— and you steal a glance at his face. You are all over his lips and it stirs something achingly primal inside of you. He wipes the back of his hand over his lips and makes it worse. It makes you grin, the shyness completely gone from you now, and you reach for him, pulling him down to rest his head on your belly. He squirms to get comfortable, and it makes you laugh. You weave your fingers through his hair, and the appreciative rumble reverberates from his chest to yours.

"Was that," you begin, fighting the wave of insecurity that rears its ugly head in your mind, "alright for you?"

And he has the gall to laugh at that, deep and warm as it echoes in his chest.

"Sweetheart," he says, and you hear the smile in his voice, "I have never been as hard as I am right now."

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#i want to unhinge my jaw and swallow him like a snake #nanami #nanami kento #nanamin #nanami smut #nanami fluff #nanami x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk nanami #bwritesthings

[gardenofnoah]

i did not mean to write this. and yet, here we are. nanami breaks my heart every day. i'm debating whether to make this a multi-part thing because personally i am a fan of make up sex but we'll see wc: 1.2k cw: conflict in established relationship (this is the comfort part)

You’ve been in the kitchen for at least an hour now—standing over the cutting board on the counter, making no move to slice up the vegetables in front of you. Really, all you’ve done is put water in a pot and set it on the stovetop—you didn’t even turn it on. By now you know it’s a lost cause, cooking— but it would be effort you’re not willing to expend to move from the spot where your feet feel like they’re trapped in cement. Because leaving the kitchen means walking past the living room, where you know Kento sits, and if you see him and he looks at you with that face you will split apart at your seams.

You should apologize. You should go out there and tell him you love him because that is what any sensible human being would do for someone they care about after they’ve hurt them. But you can’t, so you don’t. You can’t, because saying the words you’ve been screaming inside you aloud will make this real, and if it’s real then he will have a tangible reason to walk out of this house and never look back. You wouldn’t blame him.

You’d regretted it the moment it left your lips. What he'd said to you cut you deep, and your mouth opened almost automatically. You saw the way it registered with him—shocking at first, that expression quickly replaced by what you knew to be incredible hurt. He said nothing—just turned from you and walked to the bedroom, gently shutting the door behind him. Leaving you to stand in your shame that ricocheted off the walls, cutting you down over and over again. If he was packing his things in there, who could’ve blamed him? It’d be a long time coming.

You’d been at each other’s throats for weeks. Kento was chronically late getting home and you were irritable and distant and standoffish, and it dawned on you that you don’t know which one came first. You don’t even remember how tonight’s argument started—it didn’t feel like it mattered anymore, with the way it escalated—it was something that had been building for far too long and had come to a head the moment you opened your mouth. You might as well have told him he was worthless, with the way you’d cherry-picked your worst words for him. You knew they would hurt him and you said them anyway, that’s what you did when you were hurt and afraid—you’d lash out like an animal caught in a trap. The weight of the aftermath, this time, was more than you could hold.

“Sweetheart?”

A string of expletives leaves your lips as the knife you’d been holding clatters against the cutting board. You spin around, trying to steady your breathing as you take in the man now standing in front of you. The man who is certainly too close and looking far too vulnerable for the way you just punched a hole through his chest. You could feel yourself tense, bracing for impact. The one you get is almost more devastating than the one you’d been expecting.

“Be sweet,” he murmurs gently, lips brushing over your temple. He reaches his arms around your shoulders, one hand coming up to tangle itself in the hair on the back of your head.

“You first,” you sniffle, and you jab him in the side lightly before you allow your fist to unfurl and curl around his shirt, pulling him to you. It’s not what you wanted to say, but you hope he hears what you meant.

“I love you,” he tells you. There’s a soft smile stretching across his face—tentative, like he knows he’s pushing his luck, but he thinks it’s safe to do so— and it is. You need him like you need air. You want to hear him say it again, but you can’t bear to ask. Can’t bear to put him through anything more tonight.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, and he presses another kiss to your hairline. You bury your face in his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, too proud to let him see you cry again. He knows anyway—of course he does—and you feel his arms tighten around you. He presses kisses to the crown of your head and whispers his love to you again. Your grip on his shirt tightens. Anything to tether you here—the alternative, to be without him, is unbearable.

“I don’t want you to leave,” you confess, and it’s barely audible, but you assume he’s heard by the way his grip on you turns to that of a vice.

“Sweetheart,” his voice is strained, and the guilt squeezes around your gut, “look at me, please.”

You take in a shuddering breath to steel your resolve, and you lift your head up to meet his gaze. All you see is hurt. You think he might actually cry, and it breaks your heart again.

“There is no reality that exists in which I belong anywhere but where you are. Do you know that?”

And you can’t say anything. How could you? You can’t tear yourself from his gaze, because he’s showing you everything. He’s torn himself apart just to let you see inside. He does so, full of fear that you’ll reject what you’ve found. He does it anyway.

“We will let each other down—there will be days where you are certain you can’t bear to look at me again, and there will be days where I feel the same. But we’ll still choose to love each other. We’ll still choose to be here.”

You shake in his arms at his words. You’ve not said a thing since your quiet admission, and it doesn’t thwart him at all. He keeps talking—keeps shredding your insides with the love he lets drip off of him like he has spare to give away. You’re bleeding out in front of him and he holds you tighter. Holds you together.

“Do you still love me?”

You look at him, incredulous. “Of course I do,” and it comes out sharper than you intended. He doesn’t flinch. He exhales, like it’s a relief. You think it should feel like a life sentence.

“Do you know that I love you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and you feel tears well up in your eyes again—your entire body is screaming to look away, to get away—to leave before his love swallows you whole, but you don’t. He’s rooted you to him. You’re surprised that it doesn’t hurt like you thought it would. Not in the ways that would really be damaging.

“Okay,” he whispers, cradling your head against his chest to tuck you under his chin, holding you tightly to him, “okay.”

You let go of his shirt for the first time and let your arms wrap around him, holding him tightly. You feel the tension in his muscles subside—like he was waiting (hoping) for you to hold him upright. He trembles slightly in your arms and you hold him tighter.

“Ken,” your whisper is soft against the fabric of his T-shirt, and he sucks in a breath at the familiar way you shorten his name, “can we go to bed?”

“Yes,” he says wetly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “let’s go to bed, my love.”

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#nanami #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x gn reader #nanami writing #nanami fic #i am deeply #deeply #projecting here #bwritesthings #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #i just want to date this man #and love him everyday until i die

[gardenofnoah]

i never do drabbles but i thought of this and can’t stop …. i’m going to wretch

you make bakugo dance with you, and he hates it.

almost every night, you hold out a hand to him, batting your eyes at him with an expression that he is damned to fold into. when he does, he sighs, loud and dramatic, allowing you to drag him off the couch and into the dim light of your kitchen, where dinner is simmering.

sometimes there’s soft music in the background, and sometimes it’s just you, humming softly with your head against his chest. you sway to a rhythm he can’t hear and he tries his best to follow—and that’s why he hates it.

he feels ill-timed and clumsy in his movements, feels like he’s completely at your mercy as you drag him around the tiled floor. he can’t stand how badly he wants to be good at it, for you—because you look up and smile at him like you are the only two people in the world, and it gives him another reason as to why he doesn’t deserve that—he can’t even dance with you properly.

but as much as he grumbles out his dissent, he would be lying if he said he didn’t secretly look forward to holding you when it’s quiet—swaying with you, even if it’s a little uncoordinated.

that’s why he’s concerned that you’re not holding a hand out to him, begging him to dance with you tonight.

he’s in the kitchen, fussing over dinner, and you’re on the couch, uncharacteristically quiet and unmoving. he peaks his head around the corner to check if you’re still out there, and you don’t even look up at him. wrapped up in a blanket, you stare at whatever tv show has come on since he turned it on hours ago, before you came home.

he puts the spoon in his hand down gently and wipes off his hands. he shuffles over to you, and only when he’s standing over you do you look up at him. there’s a look about you—something’s happened today, obviously, and whatever it is has you a good five seconds away from tears.

he’s uncomfortable with prying, and not well-equipped to handle sit-down talks. so he does the only thing he can think to do, and he holds his hand out to you.

after a minute, you understand, and you weave your fingers through his, allowing him to tow you to the kitchen. he turns off the lights, leads you to the middle of the room, and pulls you—blanket cocoon and all— into a gentle embrace. you feel a hand cradle the back of your head, and he pushes you forward lightly to get you to rest on his chest.

arms around you, you feel your eyes burn when he starts to hum—what’s more of a low rumble that you can feel in his chest—and rock you slowly. you gather the material of his shirt in both hands and cling to him, trying to quiet the sniffling coming from you.

“s’okay,” he whispers into your hair, “you can let go.”

he holds you there—swaying softly in the dark—and you do as he says.

_

this fic belongs to me (@gardenofnoah). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#bakugo #bakugo drabble #bakugo fluff #mha #bnha #bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo comfort #bkg it's the little things #bwritesthings

[gardenofnoah]

feels like...

i have been in such a writing rut BUT writing this made me feel better. i'm sorry but i do not believe the girlies that think katsuki is planning elaborate proposals. i think it goes down just like this and i love him so much it makes me sick♡

wc: 845ish cw: gn reader, fluff

The cicadas call in, strong and shrill, through the bedroom window. Under his fingertips, your pulse thrums beneath your skin. Steady, constant. A relief to him.

You've never asked him why his hand curves around the back of your neck like a reflex— it's never seemed to bother you, with the way you lean into his touch. If you should ever decide to ask him, he's not sure he'd have the words to give you an explanation. Maybe that's why you haven't. You were considerate of him like that.

Bakugo Katsuki can identify his feelings. He's put in the work in the years you've been together, and it's at least given him that-- anxiety creeps up his spine and coils in his lungs. Rage sets fire to his nerve endings with the hope that one will be the catalyst to the destruction he's so adept at unfurling from the palms of his hands. Happiness is a flood that pools around his ankles, warm and not at all scary like he thinks it ought to be. Longing, usually for you, makes his teeth ache.

But love is the feeling of your pulse against his skin. The expansion of your chest with every inhale you pull in. The stretch of your muscles as you mold your body to the contours of his own.

Love is the knowledge that you are alive and here with him.

He knows this, feels it when it happens (so often, as bodily functions do), and he can't say it. So instead, he speaks into the silence of the room.

"Been thinking about something."

You hum, your chest vibrating softly against his, and he gets that feeling again.

He pauses—braces himself for his own words—because he knows that the thing he’s about to say will not be what he wants it to be. Katsuki can identify his feelings, but he has not gotten to the part where he knows how to verbalize them. That takes much more time, and a much more developed vocabulary. Possibly less expletives.

He feels the familiar slither against the inside of his chest and ignores it, because he has been thinking about this (agonizing maybe), and he can't keep it in his brain anymore.

"You ever think about gettin' married?"

He braces himself for a withdrawal, or at least the feeling of your muscles tensing against him—it doesn't come. Instead, you lift your head, resting your chin against the arm that spans his chest to look him in the eye. Another scraping twist in his chest. He fights the urge to look up at the ceiling.

"Married to you?" you ask, softly. Still, he deflects.

"To anyone."

"Mm," the smile that spreads across your face is slow and knowing, because what he wants to ask floats around you like so many balloons. You spare his pride anyway.

"Sometimes," you murmur, "though I don't think I would be interested in like, the traditional way of doing things."

By now, the coiling in his chest has made it to his throat. He can only look at you and hope you take it as a prompt to continue.

"I'm not one for surprise proposals," you tell him through slightly smooshed cheeks against his chest, "or big, elaborate ceremonies. I actually think I would like everything to be private," you pause, looking straight inside him, "you know, just you and me."

"Really?" It's the first word he can choke out, mostly because the hope and the relief he feels join forces to take a baseball bat to the thing in his chest.

You hum your affirmation, eyes still on his.

He's quiet for a long time, after that. Your eyes close eventually, a soft smile still pulling at your lips, like you know what's coming and you're there and ready, but you're waiting patiently for him to meet you. You are always patient—he thinks it's a kindness that he's not always deserved. He takes a deep breath, and prays to whoever is listening that he doesn't stutter.

"Do you want to marry me?"

Your eyes flutter open again, but your expression doesn't change, save for the way your smile stretches a little farther across your face.

"Are you asking my opinion or are you proposing?"

Katsuki rolls his eyes at that, scoffing a little. "Never mind," he says, mouth pulling at the corners, "M’not asking at all."

You smile at him, all teeth and a feigned noise of indignance, reaching up to flick his nose.

"Aren't you supposed to have a ring or something?" you ask after a moment, and the tail end of what's been rooting around in his chest cavity slaps him in the gut.

"D'ya want one?" he asks quietly. You pause, lips pursed like you're thinking it over.

"No," you say, and he feels the thing shrink from a boa constrictor to an earthworm, "I want, like, a sword or something."

And Katsuki laughs out loud at that, something rare and warm that makes you close your eyes whenever you hear it.

"Fuckin' weirdo," he mumurs fondly, reaching up to thread his fingers through the ends of your hair, "I'll get you whatever you want."

Warmth pools at his ankles, and his lungs feel clearer than they ever have.

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#this is incredibly self indulgent #i don't even want to get married. but for bkg i would #i am yearning for a dead man #help me jesus #bakugo #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo #my hero academia #mha bakugo #bakugou #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo fluff #bakugo x gn reader #bwritesthings

[gardenofnoah]

cowardice

bakugo has a bad day and is a drama queen and you love him still. wc: 2.8k cw: mentions of drinking, some fighting within an established relationship, they make up tho <3

Bakugo Katsuki felt the heat of the sunlight slipping through the curtains against his skin before he opened his eyes. Resting on his side, arm tucked under his head, he let his breath fill his chest, finding the stretch of it pleasant. For a moment, that was all there was-- his breath, the feeling of the sheets beneath him (linen, because you wanted to indulge, and who was he to deny you when you looked at him like that in the middle of the department store), the strip of warmth against his back where the sunlight played, the click of the old, rotating fan that sat on the dresser across the room, too ancient to provide anything but white noise at this point.

He was never a morning person before he met you-- he'd wake up, sure, but always sluggish and grumpy for the first hour or two before he shook off the last bits of sleep and rejoined the living. This morning, though, in the hum of the quiet, he thought he could understand why you liked them.

The arm resting over his waist reached over to you, but instead of you, he was met with cold sheets under his palm. He froze, eyes snapping open. His fingers created creases in the fabric as they pressed down into it-- you were gone.

You were gone.

He sat up, one arm holding him upright as he surveyed the room. Your things were still there, but you wouldn't have taken it all. No, you'd come back in waves, taking your sweatshirt with the frayed sleeves and your grandmother's hair clip and your favorite book until his apartment and his heart were emptier than they were before you came into it.

He ran his free hand through his sleep-disheveled hair, letting out a deep, painful sigh. He didn't have to reflect on it to know that this was exactly what he deserved-- what he always knew would happen. He'd tried to play house--he'd thought he'd liked it, actually, the way he'd come home to find you in his sweatshirt, curled up on the couch under a blanket in front of the TV, with your sleepy eyes on him and his name on your lips. He loved you, and he'd told you so in the ways he knew how, but he knew that how he'd been taught to love did not always come out like love. He'd hurt you.

· ·─────────────────── ·𖥸· ─────────────────── · ·

He'd had a bad day. He'd been met with a shit show as soon as he'd stepped foot into his agency's office-- one of the interns had seriously injured a civilian before obtaining their provisional license, and he was forced to play damage control-- something he was wholly unfamiliar with, considering he was usually the one that needed cleaning up after. It was an all-day thing-- constant media requests for information, insistent phones ringing shrill against his eardrums. He'd eventually gotten so fed up with the repeated, sympathetic "What would you like me to say?"'s from his publicist that he'd just walked out, not saying a word to any of his employees as he stormed out of the front door of his building.

It was late, pushing 8 o'clock by the time he left, but he didn't want to go home. He knew he should, knew you'd be waiting on him, but he couldn't bring himself to walk in the direction of his apartment. It wasn't that he didn't want to see you-- he did, all of the time-- but things had been tense lately, mostly because of him and his bad days that were quickly turning into bad weeks. He knew it was affecting you and he hated the way your mouth pulled down at the corners when you realized he'd come home angry again. He felt the weight of your disappointment, and tonight it would certainly be the thing that crushed him. So he'd avoid it.

He found himself walking in the direction of the bar he met you at when he'd just started out as a pro. He hadn't been well known enough to turn too many heads yet, but his ego made up for it. He'd seen you at the end of the bar, and found himself unable to look away. His eyes had trailed up your blue jean-clad legs and settled for maybe too long on the way that white T-shirt clung to you, the little roll of your belly sticking out over the top of your jeans making his mouth feel too dry. His eyes dragged up until they met yours, and you cocked an eyebrow, shooting him a side-eye and asking if he had a staring problem. He was hooked.

You'd been in your second year of nursing school, too tired to pretend to be entertained by any of his attempts at impressing you. You didn't care who he was-- hero or not, he was just a person, and you told him so. Never had a shot to his pride hurt so sweetly before. You laughed at his vain effort at fluffing himself up like a proud chicken, and saw who he was beneath all of the strength and bravado. Not one to be deterred, he didn't understand why he didn't intimidate you-- even a little bit-- at first. And then he understood, very quickly, that you yourself were a force to be reckoned with, and that it was him who should be a little intimidated. He'd never admit that he was.

So he sat down at the bar, alone, and ordered whatever cheap beer he saw first on the menu. He ignored the chatter around him, mostly about him and the mess his intern had made, electing to stare straight at the TV behind the bar and grimacing when he realized it was coverage of, not surprisingly, his agency.

"Hey," he called to the bartender, pointing to the TV, "you mind changing that?"

The bartender shrugged and reached up to press a button on the TV, the channel flickering to what appeared to be a recording of an earlier soccer game. Katsuki sighed, elbows coming to rest on the bar top, chin in his hands and shoulders hunching. He'd been feeling his phone buzz in his pocket for the last 10 minutes, and he didn't have to look to know it was you. Guilt washed over him-- he wanted to tell you that he was alright, that he needed a minute to himself, but he didn't know how. So he'd avoid it.

He'd ignored the unwelcome presence next to him for as long as he could, until he heard her in his ear. "Long day, hero?" the woman cooed, much too close to him. He'd shot her a sideways glance and then returned his eyes to the game, choosing to ignore her and hoping she'd get the message. To his dismay, he felt her arm try to wiggle its way to loop through his. "C'mon," she tilted her head to him, batting her eyes, "you wanna talk about it?"

Katsuki yanked his arm out of her grip, turning to openly glare at her now. He sighed, standing up from the bar and reaching into his pocket to fish out spare bills to pay for his drink. He slammed them onto the counter, pushing past the woman whose eyes were now as wide as dinner plates, muttering a "can't even get a fuckin' drink in peace anymore," for good measure.

He took the long way home, walking down side streets and alleys until he decided it was time to return (and knowing it had been that time hours ago). It was approaching midnight by the time he walked through the front door, with some part of him hoping that you'd gone to bed. When he'd reached the landing at the top of the steps, his hopes were dashed-- eyes meeting yours as you sat on the couch under a blanket, a glass of red wine in your hand.

"Hi," you breathed, and there was no warmth in it. Katsuki grunted in response as a half-greeting (and immediately regretted it), dropping his keys on the end table and turning down the hall to the bathroom. Desperate to avoid you still, despite the way he could feel your eyes burning into the back of his skull as he retreated. He was a coward, and he knew it. He couldn't face it, not right now.

"Are you serious, Katsuki?"

He paused, rocking back on his heel. He couldn't turn, couldn't look at you. The shame was so stifling it took up all the space in his lungs and he startled himself at the little gasps of breath coming from his chest. He knew what he needed--hell, he knew you'd understand what he needed if he could just tell you to give him a minute. But he couldn't say anything, so smothered by his own cowardice and your disappointment that he just stood there in the hallway, back to you while you seethed in your spot on the couch.

"It's fucking midnight and I've been calling you. You couldn't be bothered to shoot me a text to let me know you were alive? And now you just storm in here like you can't fucking stand me," your voice broke, and he tried to convince himself it was the wine. He knew it wasn't. He felt something start to crawl up his throat. He pushed it down, hard. He still could not look at you.

"Do you think you're the only one that had a bad day?" you spat at his back, standing up now, "I've watched three of my patients die in the last two weeks. I can barely get out of bed in the morning. And where the fuck have you been?"

Try as he did to stop it, what had been climbing up his throat punched its way out through his mouth as he turned to look at you. He looked at you and all of the shame and guilt and inadequacy he felt came crashing down around him. He looked at you and it hurt, because where had he been? He hadn't known you were struggling-- if he was honest, he couldn't remember the last time he'd asked you how your day had been. The self-loathing lashed through him like a whip and he let it out on you. He projected every bit of boiling emotion that had been burning him onto you, letting the venom spit right at you and only stopping when there was no air left in his lungs.

It was silent then. You only looked at him, eyes wide and unblinking. He couldn't meet them-- he knew he made a mistake. A big one, if your uncharacteristic silence was anything to go by. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned on his heel, muttering something about needing a shower as he walked away from you. He was careful not to slam the door behind him, leaning up against it and letting out a breath. Fuck.

He heard you set your glass down in the kitchen sink and make your way down the hall to the bedroom. He was unsettled at how quiet you were. He moved on autopilot through his shower, pulling briefs on afterward and making his way to your bedroom. The door was shut, and he held his breath as he opened it quietly, half preparing for you to be ready to attack him on the other side of it. He wouldn't have blamed you.

But you were there, in his bed, covers pulled around you in the dark. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, horribly unsure of what to do next. Given a little bit of confidence at the way you'd not immediately yelled at him to leave, he padded over to the bed quietly, peeling back the blanket. He eased in cautiously, body stiff as he laid down. You were turned away from him, and he knew you were not asleep. He laid on his side, staring at your back and shoving down the feeling of wanting more than anything to reach out and pull your body to his.

It was still for a few moments, the old fan clicking, interrupting the silence. Then, still turned away from him, he watched the hand draped over your waist move behind you. You splayed out your fingers and it took him a beat to realize you were reaching for him. A wounded sound escaped him as he threaded his fingers through yours. You squeezed a little and his eyes burned. He didn't know whether to be relieved or afraid. You squeezed again, and he just barely caught the broken "I love you" that came from your side of the bed. He held your hand like it was a lifeline and turned his face into his pillow to muffle his obnoxious sniffling. He cried until he wore himself out.

· · ─────────────────── ·𖥸· ────────────────── · ·

He didn't know what else to do, so he pulled himself out of bed, just standing in the middle of the bedroom like he was lost. He finally walked to his dresser, body feeling like lead, and pulled open the drawer to find a crewneck to put on. The sight of your clothes in his drawer nearly stopped his heart, and he closed his eyes and grabbed the first of his that he could find, slamming it shut. He pulled the sweater over his head and walked out into the hall, making his way into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, unable to think of what to do next. His eyes swept the room, not looking at much of anything until they landed on your wine glass in the sink. The breath he let out was pained as he slumped against the door frame. This is what his life would be now. Walking around his house like a ghost and mourning the pieces of you that you'd left behind.

He was so caught up in his grief that he didn't hear the click of the front door as you shut it closed behind you. You stopped, staring up at his back from the bottom of the steps. "Katsuki?" you called to him quietly, not missing the way he jumped out of his skin, whipping around to look at you. His mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water. You'd have teased him if you weren't so concerned.

"You left," he croaked out, and it felt like sand in his mouth. You held up the paper bag in your right hand cautiously.

"I picked up breakfast," you offered weakly, eyes never leaving his as you watched him take in your words.

"I-I thought...you left," he whispered, looking down at his feet. The burning in his eyes was back but he'd be damned if he cried twice within the span of 12 hours in front of you. He sniffled anyway and hated himself for it. He heard you sigh quietly, the wooden stairs creaking as you made your way up them. His body tensed as you wrapped your arms around his waist, bag of food long forgotten as you pulled him tightly to you, pressing your forehead into the crook of his neck.

"I'm not leaving," you said firmly. He took a deep breath in, and let out a whine at the feeling of your lips pressed into his skin.

"You're fucking infuriating," you stated, like it was just a fact-- inconsequential and just there-- "and I am not leaving you."

He let his arms wrap around your shoulders and he buried his face in your hair, eyes screwed shut tight to keep the tears from leaving them.

"Just," you whispered, planting a soft jab into his side with your fist, "talk to me next time."

He couldn't stop the shuddering exhale that escaped him, because of course you knew. You understood what he needed, but you needed him to be accountable to you. You knew he was trying to learn.

You rocked up on your toes to press a kiss to the point of his jaw, and you snaked an arm up to hold the back of his head, pulling him down to you.

"And if you ever say such evil shit to me again," you breathed in his ear, "I will put you down like an old dog."

He snorted, turning to press his lips to your temple. "That's fair," he whispered, letting you wiggle from his grasp to pick up the food bag that you'd dropped. He watched you pull out the food, setting his out for him, and he let the emotion wash over him in waves. He loved you terribly, and he wanted to be better. He would try for as long as you kept reaching out for him.

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugo x you #katsuki fluff #bakugo fluff #my hero academia #bnha bakugo #boku no hero #katsuki bakugo #hurt/comfort #soft bakugo #katsuki is a crybaby #he has so many feelings and no idea what to do with any of them #y/n has a personality heh #no but KB needs a hug #i'm really an i can fix him kind of bitch when it comes to bakugo idk what to tell you #there is no reality that exists in which bakugo is a cheater sorry #BWritesThings #bakugo #katsuki #mha bakugo

[gardenofnoah]

go on and let me in

hi hello, long time no post. i'm in a bit of a writing rut BUT this has been sitting in the drafts for a while and i feel like i should set it free. is it completed? no idea. wc: 286 cw: smut but not really, making out and heavy petting, light choking, characters are queer (reader's gender is unspecified)

“You’re so pretty,” Maki mumbles against your temple—you only half-hear her, because you’ve been keening under her for the better part of the last hour. She chuckles against your skin at your writhing and whimpering, hand around your neck tightening just a little bit, and you burn. She is everywhere—permeating every cell of your body, clogging every vein and filling your lungs with her love. You couldn’t get enough if you tried, but that doesn’t mean you don’t anyway.

She hasn’t touched you yet, not really—hot, sloppy kisses and a firm grip around your throat are all she’s indulged you in, and you feel like if she just moves her knee up a little bit you’ll fall apart. You’ve been trying to prompt her to—snapping your hips up with every sweep of her tongue over your jugular—but she is cruelly well-attuned to your needs, and knows exactly how to ignore them. You whine against her lips, half delirious.

“M-Maki, please—need you.”

She hums sweetly—teasingly—as she flutters too-chaste kisses up your jaw and to your temple. Then her lips are right below your ear, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut and concentrate on not falling apart.

"You have me," she whispers, and chills rattle your spine, "you've had me this whole time."

And you can't say anything to that, because now it's about more than the aching need between your thighs and the tears that burn behind your eyelids wet the flimsy paper of the walls you'd built in an attempt to stop this very feeling. You try to think of anything else, but she is overwhelming above you and devastatingly unrelenting in your ear.

"When are you going to let me have you?"

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#sigh #i want her so bad #zenin maki #maki #maki smut #maki x reader #maki x you #maki fic #maki drabble #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk maki #bwritesthings

[gardenofnoah]

friday night bar fights (he’s in love)

this is based on a completely unrelated poem i wrote a few weeks ago. and now basically i am fantasizing about bakugo being a trans king and no one can stop me. also I wish y’all would interact so i feel like more than a little monkey behind a screen pumping out content. anyway happy pride

wc: 2.2k cw: a wee bit of violence, mentions of drinking, bakugo is trans (ftm), he's a pitbull in public and a shivering chihuahua in private, yandere bkg if you squint I guess, fluff, comfort, sexual content

The low lighting of the bar and the hum of 90's grunge through the stereo was a familiar comfort that you and Bakugo induldged in on Friday nights. Tonight was no different—you felt his thumb rub slow circles over your hip as you sat on his lap, elbows resting on the bar as you mindlessly scrolled on your phone. He chatted with the bartender while you sat, feeling comfortable in your own silence. With one hand on you and the other wrapped around the bottle he brought to his lips every so often, you knew he looked like a dangerous fantasy come to life without even needing to turn around. You felt compelled to anyway, head turning to meet his gaze over your shoulder. His face was fixed in its usual display of indifference, but you didn't miss the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when they met yours, made worse by the smile you flashed him that left him feeling dizzy.

Your eyes swept over him slowly, tracing over the muscled arm slung over the back of the stool, and down to the fingers that gripped the neck of the bottle lazily. Your gaze drifted back up to study the way his black T-shirt clung to him, and you were reminded how proud you were of him at how confident he'd gotten wearing something so snug. You turned your body to follow your gaze, bringing your hand up to rest over his sternum through his shirt. You leaned back, mouth brushing his ear as you whispered, "You are so handsome, Katsuki."

His grip on your hip tightened as he tilted his head to the side to rest it against yours. "Thank you, baby," he murmured, turning to place a soft kiss into your hair. It was an intimacy that he didn't often grant you in public, preferring to keep a firm grasp on the privacy of your relationship, but you'd both been coming here long enough that he didn't mind indulging you every now and then. You were grateful for it every time, jumping on every chance to pour your love all over him.

You were both so immersed in your own world that neither of you noticed the body that had sat itself on the stool next to you.

"Hey, man," the stranger next to you called, nudging Katsuki with his elbow. He turned from you to regard the man with an impassive expression, and you had to suppress the giggle that bubbled in your throat. You turned back to your phone, opting to ignore the presence for favor of literally anything else.

"Can I help you?" Katsuki asked, and his tone was bored.

"Well," the man started, and you noticed that his voice gave you vaguely the same feeling as nails on a chalkboard would, "I saw you both from across the bar. Was wonderin' if you would be interested in lettin' me have a turn with that pretty little thing you've got there."

You whipped your head around at that, eyes wide as you took in the stranger that was far too bold for his own good. By the looks of him, he was far older than both of you, without much to show for it. Your stomach turned at the sight of him, made worse at the thought of him touching you. He was absolutely grotesque and unwarrantedly brave. You almost opened your mouth, but you felt Katsuki lean forward, arm wrapping around your middle protectively.

"Princess," he muttered into your ear, and the rage that simmered beneath his gentle tone made you shiver, "Would you let me up for a second?"

You didn't hesitate to move, knowing what was coming. You climbed off of Katsuki and slid onto the stool next to you, returning to the video you’d been watching on your phone. You could almost feel bad for the guy— he clearly had no idea what he'd done. Almost.

There was a brief silence, and then a sickening crack interrupted the usual sounds of the bar. You felt the beginnings of a smirk stretch across your face as you looked up to meet the eyes of the bartender, who'd heard the entire conversation and looked at the scene in front of them with bored amusement. They huffed out a laugh, shaking their head and turning to busy themselves with their nightly duties, unbothered by the brutal display of violence that had just unfolded in their bar. You sat there until you felt familiar arms around you, wrapping themselves around your chest as Katsuki pulled you into him. "Think it's time to go home," he said, dropping his head to brush kisses over the skin that stretched over your shoulder. You hummed, turning your head to kiss his temple. He stepped back so you could get up and offered an arm to you when you did. You let him lead you out of the bar, stepping over the whimpering mess of a man who'd just been taught to watch his mouth the hard way.

Katsuki was silent in the car, one hand on the wheel and the other rubbing little circles into the skin of your thigh. You wondered what headspace he was in, but you allowed him the quiet to process it himself for the moment. You closed your eyes, resting against the headrest as you let the hum of the car and the pressure of Katsuki's fingers settle your nerves.

"Are you alright?" he asked you quietly, eyes fixed on the road.

"I'm okay, my love," you told him, and he nodded, choosing to spend the remainder of the ride home in his continued silence. You were content not to fill it.

Before you knew it, you were pulling into the driveway, and then Katsuki was at your door, all but pulling you out of the car. He wrapped a hand around yours and you let him lead you up the steps and through the door. He shut it behind you and pressed you back softly, his broad body settling against yours. You reached up to grab the back of his neck, pulling him down to rest his forehead against yours, soft spikes of blond poking at you. Your fingers massaged at the tense muscle of his neck under your grip, and he let out a slow that brushed against your face. You smiled up at him softly. "Can we go to bed?" you asked, and he grunted in agreement, pulling away from you to lead you to your bedroom down the hall.

There had only been one other time that something like this had happened, resulting in much of the same. You knew Katsuki would do anything to keep you safe, and you also knew his propensity to lash out (often with shocking brutality) when you were disrespected. You didn't mind—you were flattered, really, but you had a hunch that it affected him more than he led on. You couldn't tell where exactly it was coming from, but you'd let him tell you on his own time. For now, you would take care of him.

He sat down on the bed, reaching both hands up to rub over his face. You settled in between his thighs, fingers reaching for his as you pulled them away, dropping soft kisses over the knuckles that would surely be bruised tomorrow. You let his hands go and moved lower, tightening around the hem of his shirt as you lifted it up over his head. Next was his binder, and you paused for a second, waiting to see if he would stop you. He held your gaze and nodded, and you felt the soft smile pull at your lips as you rid him of the fabric. He was bare under your fingers now, and your hands moved up to continue your earlier massage over his shoulders and clavicle. He closed his eyes, letting his head roll forward to rest against your collarbone. "So handsome," you cooed softly, "so good to me, too."

You felt him reach out to grab at your waist, and you knew he needed something to ground himself. You pulled him further into you, one arm coming up to cradle his head while the other continued to knead strong muscle. "Sweet boy," you started, "will you let me take your pants off so we can lay down?"

You heard him sniffle, and he took a deep breath before leaning back to settle on his elbows, lifting his hips as you pulled the garment off of his legs. He shuffled backward into the pillows, making room for you to settle in beside him. You let him curl into himself, knowing that he was wanting you to wrap yourself around him as he did. And you did, wrapping an arm around his middle and pulling him closer to you. You wiggled an arm under his head to cradle it—you knew he needed to feel that you had him, and that he was safe.

"My pretty boy," your lips moved against the back of his neck and you pressed a kiss there for good measure, "I'm so lucky to have you. You’d never let him have me, would you? So lucky that you keep me safe, yeah?"

He sniffled again and nodded, pressing his head into your arm. "You love me?" he asked quietly, and the shaky insecurity in his voice pulled at your heart.

"Oh, more than anything. I love you so much, Katsuki."

He trembled against you and you held him tighter, allowing him the security to let it go. Secretly, you loved this—you hated to see him upset, but it shook something loose inside you to see him vulnerable and needing you, because normally it was reversed—you were more emotional than him by far, and you clung to him like a lifeline. Nights like this, where he was raw and open and so in love it overwhelmed him—you were reminded that your relationship was not as one-sided as it may seem to those outside of it. Far from it, actually—even when his tough exterior was on display, he loved you as hard as he could. He was just quiet about it—you felt it all the same. You pulled him closer and whispered your love to him, knowing he needed to hear it and more than happy to give it to him. You'd give him anything.

Your hand had drifted down to play with the little hairs of his new happy trail when he started to whimper, pressing his hips into your hand. It was subtle at first, so you continued until he started to squirm against you. "Katsuki," you cooed against his neck, "show me what you need."

His hand trembled as it took yours, and it led you down to rest your hand to cup his sex over his briefs. You inhaled sharply— he was wet to the touch and you could feel the throb of his cock through the material.

"Oh," you breathed, pressing down lightly and reveling in the way the groan rumbled in his chest, "my poor baby. You got so big for me."

He let out a whine at that, turning his head to press it into the arm that was still resting underneath it. He bucked his hips up, and you let him drag his clothed cock over your palm.

"Go ahead, sweet boy," you whispered, ignoring the way your own arousal pooled in your gut, "make yourself feel good."

Testosterone had changed a lot of things about Katsuki, but especially his libido, as well as the ways in which he wanted to be touched. You loved when he took initiative like this—you felt grateful for the opportunity to be able to relearn what made him feel good, and you'd be lying if you said watching him drag his cock over your hand wasn't the hottest thing you'd ever seen in your life.

You felt the tears drip onto the arm that cradled his head and you pulled him closer, whispering all of your love and soft encouragement into his skin as he chased his own high. The snap of his hips bled into something erratic and uncontrolled as he let out a guttural groan, and you watched as his abdomen clenched with his release. You kept your hand between his legs, letting him ride out his pleasure as he bucked against your palm weakly. After a few moments you began to pull away, and his hand covered yours, keeping you there. The action made you smile—it was a comfort for Katsuki to feel you pressed against him after he'd cum. You knew it would embarrass him if you ever commented on it, so you kept the joy that welled in your throat to yourself.

You held him to your body protectively, whispering praise and littering kisses over every inch of skin you could reach. He shuddered in your arms, pushing himself back into you, wanting to be as close as possible. You'd need to get up and help him clean himself up soon, but for now, you were content to take care of your sweet boy in whatever way he needed you to— content, and so very in love.

#bakugo #bakugo katsuki #trans!bakugo #trans!katsuki #trans bakugo #mha #my hero academia #trans my hero academia #bakugo smut #bakugo fluff #bakugo comfort #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo with a t cock? immaculate #I love him so much #god would I put out for him #BWritesThings

[gardenofnoah]

you'll come back

i love touya :( poor traumatized baby. wc: 1.1k cw: some angst, also some fluff 'n feelings

"No."

For the first time in as long as you can remember, the man in front of you is too stunned to speak. You continue folding the towels while he catches up, biting back the smirk when he starts stuttering.

"I—wha—huh?"

"No, Touya." There's a blank expression on your face, and it's one he doesn't understand, because you should be furious, you should be crying, he should be hurting you—

"No?" he parrots, and he takes a step closer to you. He notices you don't flinch—you don't even look up. It irritates him. "What do you mean, no? You can't just—"

"Oh my god," you breathe out, and he notices right away that it's in annoyance, not anger, as you drop the towel in your hands. You finally meet his eyes. "I said no. No, as in you're not leaving. No, as in you and I will both stay right here. If you are honestly unhappy, I will let you go. If you can look at me and tell me you don't want this anymore, then by all means, I won't stop you," you pause, gesturing vaguely to the door, "but if you think for a second that you're going to leave because it would be easier for me not to love you," you spat through gritted teeth, breaking his gaze again to go back to folding your towels, "then you are wrong. It's not happening. So, no."

He's silent then, watching you drop the towel onto the pile you've started and grab another one from the basket. You think the staples in his skin might tear at the way his eyebrows have shot up higher than they've probably ever gone. You know that he's trying to find something to spit at you to convince you that it's better for him to leave, that you are better off without him—but he's never gotten this reaction from you, and he's unprepared. He doesn't know what to say, so he turns on his heel and walks out through. the front door, slamming it behind him. You don't follow—instead, you let out a sigh, dropping the pile of folded towels into the basket that you heave up to your hip, carrying it down the hall to the bathroom.

You stopped believing Touya's attempts to leave after the first couple times he tried. You gave him the reaction he wanted at first— the crying, the pleading, the anger— but no matter what, he always came back. There were times that you'd even changed the locks, resolute in your determination to shut him out once and for all. You stopped doing that on what would have been the 4th trip to the home improvement store after he'd once again broken the locks on your window to get in. It was less expensive to leave the door unlocked.

You knew that he didn't want to leave. There was a part of you that pitied him— you knew that it was his own dependence on chaos that led him to these moments, because chaos was more comfortable and more familiar than allowing himself to be loved. You wanted more than anything for him to be at ease, to feel safe enough to let himself be cared for—and there were times that you thought he might be warming up to the idea, like when he would come up behind you while you were cooking and wrap his arms around your middle, resting his chin on your head. Or in the middle of the night, when the nightmares tore him from his sleep and his hand sought out yours between the sheets. When he let you, you loved him as hard as you could.

But it was a battle constantly fought within him, and one he didn't always win. You knew he loved you, and you knew it was hard for him to say it. When it felt like too much— when the consistency and the domesticity reminded him too much of what he'd always wanted but never been given— he lashed out, trying to get enough of a rise out of you to confirm his own suspicions that he was undeserving of your love after all. So you stopped reacting. You were sure it would come off as indifference to anyone else, but you knew he knew better. You would be a constant for him to return to when he got his fill of the turmoil he'd come to recognize as normal. And with any luck, it would get easier.

So you move through the rest of the day. You know he won't come back until after dark, so you clean what you can around the apartment that you share (and he swears he doesn't live here, but what else would you call sharing your bed every night and his clothes in the drawers and the box of photographs of his siblings he thinks you don't know about under your bed), and think about what to make for dinner. You decide on a stir-fry, and you scoop half into a container to save for Touya in the fridge for when he wants it. You sit on the couch, resuming the show you've been watching as you dig in to your food.

It's hours later, after you've gone through your bedtime routine and settled under the covers, that you hear the door open. It's quiet— he's trying to be considerate if you happen to be sleeping— but you both know you're not. Try as you might to not give him the reaction he tries to pry from you, you can't sleep until you know he's safe. You hear his boots tread down the hall to you, and you feel some relief at the way he's not staggering in his steps. That's a first, you think, and you wonder where he went off to, but you won't ask.

His sudden body weight on top of you snaps you out of your thoughts. "Oi, oi— what are you—"

"Thank you," he mutters, and it's quieter than you think you've ever heard him. He is fully on top of you, face tucked into the crook of your neck as he clings to you. You let out a sigh, your hand coming up to thread through his hair. His arms tighten around your middle. All at once he is less of a big, scary brute and more like a child than you've ever seen him, and you feel a visceral need to protect him. To keep him here and keep him safe and try like hell to convince him that he is worthy of so much love. You know he is trying. It helps to know that he will always come back.

You love him more than you can believe, and he is so annoying. You want to absolutely smother him in your affection, but you know he would break, and you love him enough to let him be whole right now. Your fingers scratch gently over his scalp, and you feel him smile into your neck, staples scraping you lightly as you tell him, "Yeah, yeah. Get your boots off my bed."

this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

#he walked 50 feet down the road and sat under a tree until it got dark #this is a regular occurrence and the neighbors have gotten used to it #todoroki touya #touya #dabi #touya is dabi #my hero academia #mha #mha dabi #mha touya #boku no hero academia #bnha #bnha touya #bnha dabi #touya fluff #dabi fluff #touya angst #dabi angst #bwritesthings