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lightseoul · 11 months

Text

endearment

synopsis. first, second, and third instances; it's official, there's something going on with bakugou and you're determined to find out.

cw. fem!reader, pro hero!katsuki, aged-up (26 yrs old), established relationship, a lot of cursing

word count. 1.9k words

The first time it happens, you don’t think too much about it.

“Bakugou,” you call out from where you’re snuggled on his corduroy sofa. “Can you pass me some tissue?”

From the bathroom, you could hear a faint ‘tch’.

The sound of house slippers colliding with the tiled floor grows louder and louder until he finally emerges with a roll in his hand, which he promptly tosses to you.

You catch it—barely—and grin when you feel the thickness of the 3-ply roll, no doubt a staple in Bakugou Katsuki’s pristine apartment unit.

Go figure.

He’s circling the coffee table and plopping down next to you when your phone rings.

Confused, you pick up your phone to see a picture of you and Kirishima from your last get-together—his caller ID. Curious, Bakugou peers over your shoulder, frowning upon seeing his other best friend’s name.

“Isn’t he on patrol right now with Midoriya?” you ask.

Bakugou shrugs. “Answer it.”

Humming an okay, you click the accept button.

“Hey, Y/N! Is Bakubro with you right now?

You eye Bakugou, who’s pretending to be disinterested and not at all eavesdropping. “Yeah. What’s up?”

Kirishima laughs, “Can you tell him to check our group chat? Limited edition All Might merch just dropped.”

At that, you chuckle. “Got this Ei. He’s actually just beside me right now. I’ll make sure to tell him. And tell Izuku I said hi.”

You can practically hear the smile on his face when he says: “Thanks, bro! You’re the best.”

With that, you press the end call button and turn slightly to regard Bakugou, who’s now staring at his hands on his knees, what looks like a scowl etched on his face.

You poke at his side, trying to be playful.

“Aren’t you curious about what he had to say?”

He shakes his head before standing up and heading—again—to the bathroom.

Huh.

The second time it happens, it leaves you and your friends bewildered.

“And so that’s how yesterday’s patrol ended up with me getting a special interview with TBS,” Mina says proudly.

You chuckle, amused. “That’s amazing, Mina.”

From where she’s seated beside you in the booth of your favorite bar, she grins. “Yeah, well I try!”

Kirishima, who’s sitting opposite the both of you, chimes in. “You have to tell Bakubro that story.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Mina asks.

You squint, looking through the glass windows of the bar. “I think he’s still searching for a parking space.”

At that, Mina cocks her head to the side in confusion. “But it’s been a while since you guys arrived?”

“Yeah…”

You pick up your phone, thumbing through the contacts until you arrive at the one marked with the red asterisk.

Emergency contact.

You’re in the middle of quickly typing out a where r u when Mina, the ever meddling Mina, peers over your shoulder unbeknownst to you.

“You named his contact…Bakugou?”

Attention divided between texting and talking with your friends, you retort lamely with: “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” Kirishima pipes up. “It’s just that couples usually save each other’s contacts as sweet pet names.”

Mina nods in agreement. “For example, I have Ei saved as baby, with a red heart.”

Before you can even defend yourself, let alone playfully gag at the nickname Mina has given Kirishima, Bakugou appears at your table, sitting down at the booth next to Kirishima and in front of you, uncharacteristically quiet.

When you lock eyes, you raise your eyebrows ever so slightly— denoting a question: everything okay?—but he doesn’t sustain eye contact.

Instead, he stands up again quite abruptly.

“Restroom,” he explains curtly, stuffing his hands in his pockets before walking away, leaving the three of you speechless.

The third time it happens, it happens in his childhood home.

You didn’t expect to meet his parents this early on in the relationship; you haven’t even been together for a year. Yet Bakugou was determined to introduce you to them, said something about his sharp intuition telling him something or whatever.

Which is how you now find yourself in the living room of the place where he grew up, poring over photo albums like how dehydrated animals in hot climates pore over water.

With his mother, of all people.

“And this is him when his quirk first manifested,” Mitsuki explains, speeding through the pages of the album whilst grinning. You can’t help but grin back.

She points to a rather old photograph on the last page. “And this one is him playing baseball in 8th grade.”

Intrigued, you move closer to see the picture, smiling when you spot him, crimson eyes and ash blonde locks sticking out like a rose amidst the thorny bushes—impossible to miss.

Wanting to fill the air, you offer: “Bakugou was a very cute kid, Mitsuki-san.”

In a flash, she looks up at you, a puzzled look decorating her beautiful features, instead of the look of gratitude you were aiming for.

When you look back at her with confused eyes yourself, she asks, “You still call each other by your last name?”

“Oh—I—uh…”

You eye Bakugou who’s in the kitchen, chopping fresh vegetables for the salad, as per his mother’s instructions.

You convince yourself that he’s got to be out of earshot.

Stumbling over your words again, you scramble for purchase. “Well—”

To your relief, Mitsuki only laughs good-naturedly in response, cutting you off.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. I know my Katsuki can be a bit intimidating sometimes, but inside he’s a real softie who appreciates the little things.”

You could simply nod in response.

From the kitchen, Bakugou announces: “I’m going to the restroom. Start eating without me.”

A fourth time does not end up happening.

Instead, you find yourself riding the elevator to the rooftop of Bakugou’s apartment complex, where he’s already waiting for you.

‘I’ll just go ahead’ is what he said after both of you finished cleaning the dishes from dinner. ‘Make sure to catch up’.

Before you know it, the elevator doors slide open and you step out, suddenly becoming acutely aware of the heavy feeling now sitting in your stomach.

Will you finally figure out why Bakugou’s been acting a bit off lately?

You immediately spot him, back turned against you, and arms folded across his chest, resting on top of the railing.

Slowly, you walk towards him, ultimately situating yourself to his right.

A tense—albeit not uncomfortable—silence falls upon you.

Neither of you says anything until you pipe up with: “Is there bad news?”

At that, he finally turns his head to look at you. “Hah?”

You school your expression into a pensive one. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?” he exclaims, his entire body now facing you in a frantic hurry. “No!”

You chuckle. “Then what’s with the bad news face?”

“Bad news face?”

Nodding, you continue. “The face you make when you hear or are about to deliver bad news. It’s the more solemn iteration of your scowl.”

“What—” he scoffs, although he sounds pleased, “—You’ve fucken memorized my expressions?”

You shrug sheepishly.

When he doesn’t say anything in return, you prod further. “How bad is it?”

He huffs, breaking eye contact. “No bad news. Just—it’s…shit, never mind.”

“It’s just me,” you remind him. “It’s okay.”

With your reassurance, you can see his body relaxing a little bit, though he still refuses to say anything.

A few more seconds of tense silence pass before Bakugou finally looks you straight in the eye.

“Why the fuck do you call me Bakugou?

You stare at him. “...because it’s your name?”

Whatever he wanted to hear from you, it sure wasn’t that.

He scoffs. “Yeah? Well, why do you call shitty hair Ei or shitty deku Izuku? Have I failed some fucking test to qualify for first name privileges?”

“What are you talking about?”

This is what made him act weirdly the past week?

“Don’t make me say it again, woman,” he spits, although there’s not much venom coating his words.

“God,” he combs through his hair in frustration, “this is fucking humiliating.”

“I call you Bakugou because that’s what I called you back when we were just friends,” you try to reason. “Also, I…I didn’t want to start calling you Katsuki out of nowhere.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to,” you finish, voice small.

“Who said I wanted you to call me that?”

You shoot him a knowing look.

You stare at each other for a few more seconds before he groans in defeat, turning to face the city skyline instead of you. You follow suit, opting to look up at the stars that seem to be twinkling extra tonight.

Moments pass with neither of you saying anything.

You gently bump his shoulder with yours.

“For what it’s worth,” you start, “I don’t think there’s anything to be embarrassed about.”

He only grunts in response. You press on.

“The fact that you just told me all this…I don’t know. It makes me happy. It’s sort of like saying you care enough about our relationship to communicate even the most ‘humiliating’—your words not mine—of concerns.

“Of course I fucking do, dumbass,” he retorts. “Wouldn’t have confessed to you if I was just gonna chicken out at some point like a loser.”

You smile at him and his words, and you hope your adoration translates to your face, because the thing with Bakugou is that sometimes you have to deliver the message without having to utter the words—all to preserve the moment before it’s adulterated by shame.

“Right,” you look at him, “why don’t you call me by my first name?”

“Figured I haven’t earned it yet,” he says bluntly.

Amused, you push forward. “And how were you planning to earn it?”

He shoots you a glare. “By being the best fucking boyfriend, that’s how.”

At that, you cannot help the delighted laughter that erupts from you.

He side-eyes you, annoyed, though a smile manages to crack through the facade.

“Stop laughing at me.”

And when you don’t: “Hey.”

“Sorry, sorry,” you exclaim, trying to catch your breath. “I’m just happy.”

He studies you for a beat, eyes fluttering across your face as if he’s searching for something. You feel yourself grow warmer under his piercing gaze.

There’s a pregnant pause before he finally says: “Call me Katsuki.”

You grin, “Okay, Katsuki.”

At your mention of his name, the scowl plastered on his face eases a little into a neutral—borderline happy—expression.

“And I’ll call you by your first name…” he declares, “if you’re fine with it or if not, just forget I said that.”

You take his hand and squeeze it before he can ramble some more.

“Sounds good to me, Katsuki.”

bonus:

“I swear,” you argue while putting on your shoes, “I can ride the subway, Katsuki.”

“At this hour?” he snorts.

“Best fucking boyfriend, remember?” he sneers as he obtains his car keys by the doorway. “Just let me do this for you.”

You relent, knowing better than to fight with Katsuki on the matter of your safety, when suddenly a brilliant idea dawns on you.

Straightening up, you say: “I don’t think I saw you drinking water after dinner, Katsuki.”

“What?”

“Go hydrate yourself,” you command.

At that, he grumbles but submits to you anyway, walking back to his tidy kitchen.

Once you see that he’s in the middle of chugging down a bottle, you call: “Katsuki?”

He grunts—the best he can do while downing a bottle of water—in response.

“Can I call you babe?”

Bakugou chokes on his spit.

tagging. @katsukis1wife @rinalou @loverboyrin @brunnetteiwik @beabe19

#as i said #we love an emotionally constpiated bakugou <3 #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou imagines #bnha imagines #mha imagines #bnha scenarios #mha scenarios #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou imagine #bakugou fluff #bakugou angst

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qqueenofhades · 2 years

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Had an great angsty Dreamling idea - somehow either Hob or Dream gets trapped in Hell and instead of playing the oldest game with whoever is breaking the other out, Lucifer forces Dream to experience what his son had to: to walk back through Hell, his love behind him, unable to check if he's still there. And no doubt Lucifer would pull out all the stops to make the leader look back. I think it'd hurt so much more for Dream to lead too, but either way would be So Painful.

The sky is the smeared grey of ash and soot and a world that never sees the sun, that never feels the touch of warmth or the taste of joy, and endless burned cinders sift down like snow. High on the hill, the dark citadel stands alone, towers buried in the sulphuric clouds, and Dream forces himself to keep to a steady pace, his expression cold and unmoved, even as Squatterbloat snickers and hisses and cracks his whip. "Come on, Dreamlord! Move your eternal arse! You aren't going to keep the Morningstar waiting, are you?"

"Of course not." Dream can hear moaning and whispering and wailing from the catacombs that surround them, shadows flickering just at the edge of perception, weird and wild monsters that have waited an eternity for just such a chance as this. He does not turn his head, he does not look left or right. "Lead on, Gatekeeper."

Squatterbloat looks disappointed that he's being deprived of the chance for some high-quality taunting, but Lucifer must really be impatient, because the demon mutters, clacks his teeth, and speeds up again. They climb the narrow, winding stair, where a freezing wind is blowing so hard that Dream staggers, almost losing his balance. For a terrifying instant, he sees nothing but the endless black-rock abyss and the hordes of chittering, howling, hungry demons gathered at the foot of the mountain, burning torches and beating drums, slavering for blood. If he is so unfortunate as to fall, he will not be getting up again.

In a few more moments, however, the dreadful ascent is over, and Squatterbloat pulls the bell-rope. The torches burn with greenish, eerie flame, the portcullis rattles up, and the Gatekeeper proceeds inside, Dream following close on his heels. "My lady," Squatterbloat announces, in the odious, groveling persona of extreme deference that he adopts around his infernal mistress. "He's here."

"Ah. Dream of the Endless, at last." Lucifer Morningstar turns from where She stands in icy majesty, Her wings black against the white silk of Her robe. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

Dream has no time for this. "Morningstar," he growls, low and dark as the storms of hell itself. "Where is Hob Gadling?"

"He's there." Lucifer points with one carelessly elegant hand. "You have my word, I have visited no undue harm upon him. Yet."

Dream hardly hears Her. He races toward the dark cage that stands at the far side of the throne room, watched gloatingly by the Lilim, Mazikeen, who doubtless is hankering to practice her torturer's art upon the occupant. Dream reaches out, grasping desperately at -- yes, it's Hob, he is scruffy and dirty and freezing and frightened, but at least he is in one piece and he is breathing, and does not appear to have been used as a demon's chew toy. Dream's voice is more frantic than he has ever heard it. "Hob. Hob, are you all right?"

"Alive, at least." Hob manages a smile, but Dream can see the abject terror in his eyes. "So, any chance of us getting the fuck out of here?"

"I'll attend to that," Dream promises, with one more quick squeeze of Hob's hand. Then he lets go and turns around, facing down the Devil Herself with just as much cold imperiousness. "Our quarrel has nothing to do with the human, Morningstar. Release him."

"Oh, I promised that you would regret the day that you tricked me and stole your helm back, Dreamlord." Lucifer's voice remains smooth as satin, deadly as poison. "You thought yourself so clever, in summoning hope to beat me? So, how powerful is it really, do you think? Do you actually trust in it yourself, or was that all a clever lie?"

A chill goes down Dream's back, which has nothing to do with the bone-deep cold of hell. (The humans always think it's hot, but they know nothing.) He stands as straight as he can, staring Her in the eye, unflinching. "If it is a contest you intend, name your terms."

"Not a contest in the traditional sense, no." Lucifer paces toward him, Her elegant robe whispering secrets to the black-polished floorstones. "I'll indeed let the human go, and you with him. On only one condition."

"And?"

"You must face the same trial that your son did. Orpheus." Her voice drips with barely concealed relish. "You must walk out of hell, Hob Gadling behind you, without ever looking back to make sure that he is still following. If you can manage it, he will be free to return to the waking world, untroubled by me. But if you look back -- well, doubtless you recall what happened with Eurydice. Truly, you should."

Dream opens his mouth, stands like that for a long moment, then shuts it. He feels as if he's been hit by lightning, as if he can't catch his breath, as if he can hardly stand upright or remember his own name. It is, of course, diabolically perfect on any number of levels, a piece of exquisite artistry worthy of Lucifer's craft, but he has never been so terrified of anything, ever. "I don't -- "

"Yes or no, Dreamlord?" Lucifer's voice has turned even more silken, dripping with self-satisfaction. She could not be enjoying this more if She tried, and indeed, it is fitting. Force him to hope, to trust, to put his money where his mouth is, and prove that last time he beat Her fair and square, or replay the oldest and most irrevocable tragedy that he has ever known, that lost his son and his wife and everything else, because -- it's a sad song, but we sing it anyway -- everyone knows how it went. Giving in to a single moment of weakness, Orpheus looked back to make sure Eurydice was still following him out of the Underworld, and then in that instant, forever, she was gone.

"Hey," Hob says, from the cage. "Oy, Dream. Listen to me. We can do it, all right? We can."

Dream still can't muster up a response, even as the seconds continue to drain by. The longer Hob spends down here, the harder it will be for him to leave; even an immortal human cannot resist Hell's baneful power forever. So Dream lifts his head and stares Lucifer down. "Very well, Morningstar," he breathes in a voice absolutely dripping with snow and steel. "Since it pleases you to set those terms, we accept."

"Very good, Dreamlord." Lucifer beckons with the same languid carelessness, and Mazikeen moves to unlock Hob's cage. He falls out hard, and Dream makes a reflexive move to go to him, but Lucifer shakes Her shining blonde head. "Ah-ah-ah. No bending the rules before we have even begun to play. You cannot touch him, you cannot speak to him, you cannot look from the moment your climb begins, from the instant you cross the threshold of my citadel. Is that clear?"

I will kill you, Dream thinks. I will rend even your angelic bones into dust, burn you as you did at the Fall, throw you to your own demons and bid them feast. What he says is, "Yes."

"I'm all right," Hob says bracingly. For a man born a medieval peasant who has now been plunged bodily into Hell, thus to serve as a pawn in the long-running feud between his immortal lover and the literal bloody Devil, he seems to be handling it rather well. That, of course, is just Hob for you. How perverse that Hob's own fate should hang on whether Dream can feel even a modicum of the hope that Hob himself feels all the time, in the worst of circumstances, the darkest of hours. I must do this, Dream thinks, close to panic. I must not fail.

"Well?" Lucifer asks. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Hob straightens up, wipes the blood off his chin, and gives Dream a long, desperately intense look -- trust me, trust me. "We are."

"Very good." She waves a hand, and the portcullis opens. "Your test begins now, Dreamlord. It ends when you both reach the waking world, or you fail, and Hob returns here, as my prisoner, forever."

"Understood." Dream's voice is ice, but his insides are water. He paces smoothly across the floor and under the gate, and back into the teeth of the scouring, screaming wind. It takes every inch of his self-control and then some not to turn his head, to see if Hob is following him down the narrow, cracked steps, or if he has been blown off to the eager demonic hordes far, far below. One step after another, through the split, sliding rocks, steep and sharp-edged and dangerous. There are a thousand and one perils for a human here, even a deathless one. The demons' roars sound like the susurration of waves on a distant shore, and geysers of smoke and steam jet up through the broken ground. That isn't even to mention the looming prospect of the catacombs, and what Dream already knows will be waiting for Hob in there. At the least, Eleanor and Robyn, the wife and son he lost just as Morpheus lost Calliope and Orpheus. Perhaps more. Hob has had a long life, and a great deal of heartbreak. It might just be Hell's phantasms, poisoned illusions, but those can be very convincing.

The wind is still blowing too hard for Dream to hear any sound of footsteps behind him, and he knows that it will not abate for this very reason. He keeps walking, head held high, even as his nerves are shredded. I must do this, he repeats to himself. I must avenge Orpheus, even as much as I must save Hob. I must. I must.

Dream enters the catacombs, and walks past the cells with the flickering shadows, the whispers, the wails, the weeping. His head aches with the effort to hold it still, to not even turn it the merest suggestion of an inch. Dust and bones and other dark things crunch beneath his feet. Far off, water drips like the tears of a heartbroken lover, and the chill is deep and savage. Fuck, this is impossible for a human to make it through without losing their mind. If he just --

No. No moments of weaknesses, no faltering or failures. Step by step by step by step. If you want to walk out of hell, you're going to have to prove it, before gods and men. His heart is thundering in his ears, his breathing echoes wildly. Step by step by step. It is very, very dark.

On the far side of the catacombs, Dream crosses the plains scattered with wind-bleached bones, his coat whipping against his legs. The slope starts upward, and Dream hunkers down and climbs steadily. Dust stings viciously in his eyes, and for a terrible moment, trying to shield his face, he almost looks back. He can hear a distant, disembodied screaming that probably isn't Hob, but sounds just close enough that he can't discount the possibility entirely. Oh gods. Oh gods, this is torture. Torture beyond torture, worse than anything he ever thought. Orpheus, forgive me. Forgive me.

At last, at the top of the slope, Dream knows that they're close now, they're almost out, he can sense the veil between worlds, and the compulsion to look back is almost overwhelming. It buckles his bones, it rattles his teeth, it twists his chest, it tears at him like skeletal fingers, trying to drag him back down with the dead. Hope, he chants to himself. There is hope in hell, you know there is. It is the very thing that even the Devil Herself cannot overcome. Hope. Hope. Hope.

Up ahead, the veil shimmers. Dream staggers, hands on his knees, desperately careful to not look back even as he does. His mouth tastes like chaff and ash. He is so -- very -- close.

The screaming is louder. It sounds terribly like Hob. Lucifer must have tricked him -- must have sent Squatterbloat or the other legions after them both -- doubt comes in, darkness falls --

Dream of the Endless straightens up and runs for it.

He runs with everything he is, everything he has, arms over his head, eyes closed, so he cannot be tempted even for a moment, but still does not even make the motion. He has no hope, not really. He does not know how. But he has Hob, and Hob is hope, and he asked Dream not to fail him, and Dream cannot, he cannot, he cannot. He feels something shimmer, then part and tear, and all at once --

Warm, humid air hits him, and a scatter of rain, and then the sound of traffic rumbling down the road nearby, and Dream sprawls headlong on very hard concrete. Even for an Endless, it hurts to fall on it, and it hurts even more when something heavy lands directly on top of him. They roll over and over, sending nearby rubbish bins flying. The bins are helpfully emblazoned with LONDON BOROUGH OF CAMDEN -- it's here, they're back, they're in the waking world, and they --

Fuck, is it Hob or is it something much worse? What came out of Hell with him, what is here, what has been unleashed -- if Lucifer broke Her bargain, or tricked Dream more than even he knew-- what if it was just a demon that looked like Hob, and Hob himself is long, long gone --

"Dream," a rough voice is gasping, and dirty hands are clutching at his face, and Dream stares up to see Hob Gadling, in the flesh, grabbing at him desperately. "Dream. Fuck. Fuck."

Dream sits upright, as Hob pulls him, and they clutch hold of each other right there in the alley, shivering and shaking and sobbing so hard that they barely make a sound. Hob's arms wrap around Dream almost twice, and Dream fists handfuls of Hob's filthy shirt, and they kiss once and then again, again, not caring who might see them or about anything else at all. It tastes like salt and smoke and sulfur. "Is it -- " Dream can barely get the words out. "Is it you?"

"Aye, love." The London sky is cloudy, as usual, but Hob Gadling's smile is brighter than the sun, brighter than life. "It's me."

#patchworkgargoyle #ask #dreamling #dreamling ff #AS I SAID #SO RUDE #SO VERY RUDE #(thank you a+ bless)

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