itzariafiles

[itzariafiles]

so… i’m alive! but back at college tho 🥲

trying to write something decent — hopefully will post smth soon <3

[itzariafiles]

customer service & other disasters  

— one-shot | fluff, slice of life | fem!reader

— ft. k. bakugo

— file brief : katsuki takes a bet too seriously and ends up learning how to make lattes and having a crush.

— content log : use of [name], pure caffeinated fluff. 

— author’s note : had this idea before new barista in town but never finished it—until now. soft and grumpy Katsuki? comfort for a tired student? barista AU? yes, please. Hope you enjoy <3 

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 　　 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Kirishima and Bakugo made a bet.

“You won’t last a week.”

“Tch. I’ll be there two full months, shitty hair.”

So, yeah.

That’s how Katsuki Bakugo ended up as a barista.

(Aka: his “vacation job”, courtesy of Kaminari and Kirishima’s dumb idea of a challenge.)

It started because Katsuki refused to go on an actual break. Being off-duty made him restless—like his hands were too steady, his brain too loud. Kirishima said he needed to chill. Bakugo said he could survive anything.

Anything.

He wasn’t wrong.

He survived UA.

He survived villains.

He survived living with Kaminari.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for customer service.

Or more specifically: people.

He prided himself on excelling at anything he tried. And to be fair, the man was annoyingly good at almost everything: origami, cooking, crocheting, drums, photography, Rubik’s cube, you name it.

Training to become a top hero? Child’s play.

Mastering a double shot oat milk cortado while someone cried on the phone behind him?

…That was another thing entirely.

That’s when you walked in.

You were what the other baristas affectionately called “the coffee gremlin”. A known regular, especially during exam season, you had your go-to drink memorized and always brought a laptop, a million highlighters, and zero tolerance for distractions.

At first, you didn’t notice him.

He wasn’t rude exactly, just… grumpy. Efficient. Kept to himself.

He noticed you, though.

The first time, it was because you didn’t speak at all. Just held up your order on your phone’s Notes app, eyes tired but kind. “Sorry. No voice today,” it said.

He stared. Then muttered, “Whatever,” and made your drink.

The next time, you left a doodle on your napkin. A dragon. Badly drawn, scribbled in green. “Thanks for the fuel,” it said.

He scoffed. But he kept the napkin.

You kept coming.

He kept pretending not to notice.

(Except he did. Every single time.)

Eventually, your napkins started having dumb jokes and random trivia. “Did you know octopuses have three hearts?” one read. “You look like you’d like black coffee, but secretly love iced vanilla,” said another.

He hated how accurate that one was.

He started writing back. Just a word or two. “Wrong.” “Maybe.” “Lame joke.”

Sometimes he just drew dumb little explosions in the corners.

It became a weird little thing.

Then one day, you stopped coming.

No napkins. No notes. No gremlin. Nothing.

He wouldn’t admit it, but it threw him off. He messed up three drinks and scowled at every customer who wasn’t you.

“She’s probably just studying somewhere else,” Rin told him.

He didn’t answer.

When you finally returned, ten days later, you looked exhausted.

There were smudged highlighter stains on your fingers. You whispered an apology, voice rough as you explained,

“Sorry. Power Loader and Mei’s ideas combined hit like a truck. Plus, I caught a cold. And I had to send in the final report for my summer gig.”

He grunted. Then set your drink down with a napkin — and another, folded into a tiny origami heart.

You blinked.

He stared anywhere but at you.

“I’m off in five,” he said. “Wanna go get something that doesn’t taste like burnt beans?”

You smiled, a little surprised.

“Like… a date?”

“…Whatever,” he muttered, turning away. “I cook better than I make coffee, anyway.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 　　 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

even i wouldn’t copy your behavior. and i copy quirks. – monoma (fr)

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ do not copy, translate or feed to AI.

[itzariafiles]

i’ll always come back to you

— preference | angst, comfort | fem!reader x husband pro hero

— ft. k.bakugo, i.midoriya, s.todoroki, i.tenya, s.aizawa, m.togata, s.hanta, e.kirishima

— file brief : when the mission ends and the battlefield quiets down, they come back home—to you.

— sensitivity log : mentions of blood, fear, war and emotional exhaustion. post time-skip.

— author’s note : just a bunch of tired heroes finally coming home to someone who loves them? yeah. i ate that up. hope you do too lol <3

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

⭑ Katsuki Bakugo

You were both pro heroes. You both signed up for danger.

And still, nothing prepared you for this kind of waiting.

The mission was brutal. It made the news—until it got so violent they cut the coverage altogether. No updates. No messages. Not even his agency knew where the hell your husband was.

For five hours, you paced the apartment like a ghost.

Nails chewed down. TV muted. Phone clenched in your hand.

You kept saying, “He’ll be hungry when he gets back.”

So you cooked, barely tasting what you made. Set the table. Tried to breathe.

And then—

Click.

The lock turned.

You froze, slowly turning toward the door with wide eyes.

He stood there—gear torn, caked in soot and blood. Exhausted.

He smelled like smoke. Like metal. Like war.

You dropped the knife in your hand.

“Katsuki—!”

You ran. Straight into his chest.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” you whispered, voice shaking. Your fingers curled into the fabric over his back, pulling him close. “Don’t—don’t ever—”

“Shut up,” he muttered into your hair. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like he thought you might disappear next. “M’here now, dumbass.”

You felt him exhale. His shoulders dropped.

His forehead pressed against yours as he said it again—softer this time.

“I’m here.”

And just like that, everything started to feel real again.

After a long shower and some food—barely touched on his end—you both ended up in bed.

You tried to rub his shoulders, hands gentle on the knots you could feel under his skin.

But he didn’t let you.

He just pulled you close, arms locked around your waist like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. His face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths slow and shaky.

“No massages,” he muttered, voice rough and low. “Just… stay.”

So you did.

You held him, fingers carding softly through his damp hair.

And when you whispered “I’m here too”, he only held you tighter.

As if leaving you alone had been the scariest part of all.

⭑ Izuku Midoriya

Ever since he went back to being a hero, your husband decided he had to make up for lost time.

So he took every mission—no matter how dangerous, how far, or how insane it was.

And now, you were here.

In your shared home.

Waiting again, after a brutal, three-day-long mission.

Everyone at the agency said it was rough. But there was no official report yet. No solid answers.

Just the two questions running laps in your head:

Is Deku okay?

When is he coming back?

And then, finally—

The door creaked open.

You didn’t wait. You didn’t think.

You just threw yourself into his arms.

Part of you wanted to melt into him.

The other part wanted to scream, to hit him for not sending a single message.

But when you looked up—ready to let it all out—

his big green eyes met yours.

Soft. Loving. Exhausted.

Finally, at peace.

And just like that… maybe the screaming could wait.

For now, it was just you and him.

Standing under the arch of your front door.

Holding each other like a lifeline.

⭑ Shoto Todoroki

It was late.

Dinner was cold.

And your husband was nowhere to be seen.

You started to get nervous when the clock hit midnight.

He never got home this late. The latest he had ever arrived was 10:30 p.m.

You called the agency.

They said they weren’t sure of his status, but would “look into it.”

“Really helpful,” you thought.

You sat on the couch, eyes fixed on the floor as your mind zoned out. You didn’t even know what time it was anymore.

Click.

The door opened. His eyes scanned the darkness, searching—until they landed on you.

You stood up, slowly walking toward him.

Was this a dream?

Had you fallen asleep—missed him so much that your subconscious conjured this?

But when his forehead touched yours, when his hand gripped yours tightly, it all felt real.

You stayed like that for a while.

Just breathing.

Feeling each other’s warmth and heartbeat, like a silent reminder that you both were still here.

You wanted to ask what happened. Was everyone all right? Did the agency even know he was home?

But none of it mattered right now.

Not when he was holding you like this.

He sighed. His breath brushed the side of your neck as he finally spoke:

“Today was… a lot. But nothing scared me more than the thought of not making it back to you.”

You held him tighter, tears welling in your eyes.

“But I’m home,” he whispered again. “I’m with you.”

⭑ Tenya Iida

You had always been thankful for your reliable, responsible, fast, and amazing pro hero husband.

He always tried to be home by 8:00 p.m.—

Ready for dinner, a bath, and to hold you like you were all that ever mattered.

So when the clock hit 10:00, and there were no messages on your phone, you started to worry.

Whenever his patrols ran late, he would at least send a quick

“I’ll be late. Love you, honey.”

But tonight? Nothing.

You waited.

Prepared dinner, just like always.

Answered a few emails from the agency.

Set the table.

And waited again.

Until finally—the door opened.

And there he was.

Covered in blood you prayed wasn’t his, eyes serious… moved… almost broken.

He walked toward you with slow, heavy steps—and pulled you into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he whispered.

“I didn’t want the last thing you heard from me to be goodbye.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

You helped him out of his gear, his body trembling faintly under your hands.

He bathed, scrubbing the blood off his skin like he was trying to wash the day away.

And when you both were finally in bed—dinner still untouched—he broke a little.

Soft, quiet tears as your fingers gently brushed through his hair.

“I love you, Tenya,” you said, voice soft and grounding, anchoring him back to the one thing he could hold on to.

“I love you too, my darling.”

That night, you watched him sleep—just in case.

And he would forever be thankful for having you by his side.

⭑ Shōta Aizawa

He was supposed to be at U.A.

He was supposed to be teaching a class.

He was supposed to get home by five.

Now, it was 10 p.m.

And you knew nothing about him.

You’d caught a glimpse of the news—something about an attack—but he wasn’t even supposed to be there.

Still, something told you to check the list of pro heroes reported by the agency.

And there it was:

Aizawa Shōta.

Status: Unknown.

Great.

Now your heart really started racing.

You called him—for the hundredth time.

And then, suddenly, the front door opened.

Your heart stopped.

There he stood.

Bandages covering his left arm, blood dried on one side of his face, his capturing weapon faintly stained red.

Hurt—but alive.

You ran to him.

Hugged him tightly—but carefully.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You both sat on the couch, silent.

His hands rested on your waist, his face buried in your neck.

Time passed.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that.

Until finally, he spoke:

“Couldn’t go without seeing you one last time.

Though I’m glad this wasn’t it.”

That broke your heart a little.

You didn’t know exactly what happened today.

But you could see it in his eyes, whatever it was, it had been hard.

So you brushed your fingers through his hair, soft and slow.

His eyes closed, bit by bit.

And you watched him sleep.

Protecting his well-deserved rest from the world outside.

⭑ Mirio Togata

To Japan, he was known as Lemillion—the number one pro hero.

To his friends, he was Mirio Togata: the friendliest, kindest, sometimes-funniest man alive.

But to you?

He was the love of your life.

Your husband.

Your partner in heroism.

(He wouldn’t dare commit a crime—unless it was for you.)

So when the headlines started, covering a massive battle downtown, your heart stopped.

Because he was there.

Fighting. Smiling. Being Lemillion.

But then the fight got rough.

The villains sabotaged the news coverage.

And you were left in the dark.

You ran to the rooftop of your building, desperate to catch even a glimpse.

Anything to let you know he was okay.

But all you could see was smoke, fire—

and the occasional explosion you were pretty sure was Bakugo’s fault.

You stayed there.

Cold wind biting your skin.

Eyes locked on the battlefield.

Until everything went quiet.

You checked your phone. Nothing.

You called. Nothing.

You texted. Nothing.

You went back to your apartment.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Until the door creaked open—

And he stepped in.

“Oh my God, Mirio!”

You ran to him.

Hugged him tightly.

Didn’t even hesitate.

He grunted a little—but didn’t stop you.

Just held you tighter.

“I’m sorry, beautiful,” he mumbled, breath against your hair.

“I left my phone at the agency, and I—”

You kissed him.

He was here.

That was all that mattered.

You pulled back just enough to really see him.

His clothes were a mess.

Dried blood clung to the edge of his collar.

His arm was bruised.

He may have been the number one hero—

But to you, he was still just your husband.

He took a shower.

You treated his wounds.

And then, you both collapsed onto the bed.

No words.

No distractions.

Just the two of you—tangled in each other.

He slept.

You held him tight.

And finally, he felt safe.

Because he was in your arms.

⭑ Sero Hanta

11:00 p.m.

The agency had called him hours ago.

But he still wasn’t home.

You tried to stay calm.

The dinner you’d made hours before was still waiting on the table, slowly going cold.

Just like your fingers, tapping nervously against your phone screen.

Then it lit up.

“Coming to you, doll.”

Short. Sweet. Him.

You exhaled sharply—relieved.

But not enough to stop pacing.

Thirty minutes passed.

Every sound outside made you turn to the door, heart skipping.

And finally—it opened.

He walked in.

Bruised.

Bleeding.

Limping just a little.

Still smiling.

“Missed me?” he joked, voice hoarse.

“Bet you thought I died dramatically. But nope, I’m too pretty.”

You rushed to him, ignoring the awful comment and the sting in your eyes.

He chuckled when you scolded him, but let you fuss over him anyway.

You made him sit down.

Tended to every wound, no matter how small.

Made him take a hot shower.

Heard him groan at the sting of soap over scrapes.

You reheated dinner while he dried off.

He walked into the kitchen with a blanket around his shoulders like a cape.

“You’re a hero too, you know,” he said between bites.

“My personal nurse slash emotional support wife.”

You rolled your eyes.

But kissed his temple anyway.

Later, you both crawled into bed.

He pulled you into his lap with no hesitation, arms wrapped tight around your waist.

Foreheads pressed together.

His thumbs gently rubbed circles on your hips.

“Thanks, beautiful,” he whispered.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His smile was soft.

His voice wavered.

Tears threatened—but didn’t fall.

You didn’t ask questions.

Just held him closer, letting him breathe.

That night, you stayed like that.

No words. Just warmth.

Grounding each other. Reminding each other you were real.

You were together.

You were safe.

The heroes had won again—

And your love had carried him home.

⭑ Eijirou Kirishima

Red Riot was loved by many.

He was strong. Smiled through the pain. He protected. He fought. He won. Always.

He had left a couple of hours ago, and you barely got to say goodbye after returning from your own patrol.

The reports said the fight was rough. That at least eight heroes were receiving medical care.

They also said Red Riot had been the last one to leave the battlefield.

His status: “unknown.” Super helpful.

You were about to run to the hospital when your phone buzzed. A text from him.

“I’m fine. Going home.”

Short. No typos. No “babe”. No emojis.

So unlike him. So unlike your Eijirou.

You tried to stay calm. You really did.

But the silence in your apartment felt suffocating. The dinner was cold by now. Your legs couldn’t stop pacing.

You were already reaching for your jacket when you heard the lock click.

The door opened.

And there he was.

Not in his usual Red Riot armor, but in a plain hoodie. Blood on his sleeves. Bandages on his ribs.

His eyes met yours—and for a moment, he just stood there.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice slightly hoarse.

You ran to him, wrapping your arms around his torso carefully. He tensed under your touch.

But then he relaxed—and hugged you back with that strength you knew so well.

“I’m here. I’m okay. I promise,” he whispered into your hair.

You didn’t speak. Just held him tighter.

You helped him wash up. Cleaned the wounds he didn’t bother mentioning.

He winced once. You caught it. He smiled it off.

Later, in bed, he curled around you like a shield, forehead resting on your shoulder.

Neither of you said much at first.

Until you whispered, “You don’t have to smile for me. Not tonight.”

He was quiet.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“I was scared. I’ve never been this scared before. Not of the villains. Of not coming back. Of not seeing you again.”

You turned to face him, brushing a finger over his cheek.

“Then don’t ever forget—you have something to come back to. Always.”

His eyes glistened. And this time, he didn’t hide it.

He pulled you closer, voice barely audible as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You’re my safest place.”

And that night, you held each other as the city outside slept.

Red Riot could be strong again tomorrow.

But tonight, he was just Eijirou. Yours. Home.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

consider this an official warning: plagiarism is against U.A. regulations. - tenya iida (fr)

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ reported. do not copy, translate or feed to AI.

[itzariafiles]

childhood pics ¹

— one-shot | fluff |  fem!reader

— ft. k.bakugo 

— file brief : Mitsuki left food for Katsuki… and a perfectly placed pile of baby photos just for you.

— sensitivity log : mild language, established relationship, aged-up characters, pure fluff (as always, oops)

— author’s note : hopefully I’ll make this a series because the idea is just too cute to not do one for everyone lol, who’s next? 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Katsuki’s mom, Mitsuki, had left some food for him at their house.

So now your boyfriend was walking next to you toward his childhood home, mumbling under his breath about how “it’s not even that good” and “he could’ve just made something himself.”

“So… can I see your room?”

A bright smile flashed up at the blonde.

“Nope.”

“C’mon, Kats! Just a peek! I won’t touch anything! Please!”

“Nope.”

He started walking faster, scowling while you pouted dramatically, your footsteps quickening to keep up.

Thankfully, the universe—and your amazing in-law—was on your side.

Once inside, Katsuki busied himself packing the food containers Mitsuki left, grumbling about how she always made too much. You, meanwhile, waited in the living room, quietly poking around, letting your eyes wander—

And then you saw them.

A small stack of photo albums and cards on the side table.

Curiosity won instantly.

You opened the nearest one and—

“OH MY GOODNESS!”

Your scream nearly gave Katsuki a heart attack.

He sprinted into the room like a villain had just crashed through the window.

“WHAT? What the hell happened?!”

No villains. No fire. No broken bones.

Just you.

Beaming.

Holding a childhood photo of him in tiny All Might™ pajamas, grinning up at the camera while clutching an equally tiny All Might™ figurine.

Right on cue, a vein in his neck popped.

“Where the fuck did you—?!”

“Oh my gosh, this is better than your room!”

“Gimme that, dumbass!”

He lunged forward, but you danced just out of reach, flipping to another photo and laughing.

“Katsuki, look at this! You were so tiny and cute!”

“That’s not mine! That’s—! My mom just puts shit out to embarrass me—!”

You gasped as you held up a second picture.

In this one, little Katsuki sat in a yellow All Might™ t-shirt, stacking blocks with intense focus… and placing another All Might™ figure proudly on top like it was the crowning jewel.

“Was every single shirt you owned All Might-themed?!”

“Shut up!”

He looked like he might actually combust. But his ears were turning pink.

You grinned, clutching the photo to your chest.

“…I’m keeping this.”

“You better not.”

You grinned wider, suspiciously innocent.

Bakugo glared at you like he knew exactly what you were planning.

Which, to be fair, he did.

Cut to ten minutes later: you, sitting cross-legged on the carpet of Katsuki’s childhood bedroom.

The room was surprisingly neat. Not spotless—lived-in, with the faint scent of old training gear and clean laundry—but it was organized in that meticulous Bakugo way. Dark navy bedsheets, a black desk by the window, a few old All Might posters still hanging up like they’d been forgotten. Trophies lined one shelf, clearly dusted. His bookshelf was full of manuals, old notebooks, and a small row of manga you’d definitelyask about later.

He sat beside you on the floor with the most reluctant scowl in existence, arms crossed, shoulders tense.

“I’m not showing you all of them,” he warned.

“You literally already are,” you whispered, snapping a photo of one of your favorites.

“Oi!”

You laughed and leaned into his side as you flipped through another album.

And honestly?

He didn’t hate this.

He huffed. Quietly.

Didn’t stop you, though.

You kept pointing out the silliest photos you could find, laughing under your breath as you snapped pictures with your phone.

“Oh my gosh, this one—Kats, is that a duck hat?”

“It was summer camp, damn it.”

“Oh, you looked like such a menace.”

“Still am.”

“Yeah, yeah. Admit it, though. You were cute.”

He glared at you like it was a mortal offense, but he didn’t deny it. And that, coming from him, was basically a love letter.

At some point—maybe after the eighth time you called him adorable—he tackled you with a string of huffy, chaotic kisses. Muffled complaints, arms around your waist, hands in your hair, the whole thing a mess of “shut up” and “you’re impossible” and very warm affection.

When he finally flopped back beside you with a groan, you were breathless and glowing.

And that’s when you did it.

You very subtly—read: not subtly at all—slipped one of the printed photos under your phone case and accidentally dropped it into your purse.

It was the one of little Katsuki standing in the backyard, mud on his cheeks, wearing an oversized All Might hoodie and grinning so wide it almost didn’t look like him.

You swore you saw him blink slowly.

You swore he noticed.

He didn’t say anything.

Just gave you a look.

You hummed. “No proof.”

He rolled his eyes.

Later, when you left the room for a minute, you set that same picture as your lock screen.

When you sat back down beside him, you unlocked your phone to check a message—totally casually, of course.

And he saw it.

He didn’t comment.

But the corners of his mouth twitched.

About ten minutes after that, Mitsuki arrived.

The front door opened, a pair of heels clicked against the floor, and her voice echoed up the stairs:

“Katsuki! If your girlfriend stole the album, let her! She’s doing the world a favor!”

You grinned like Christmas came early.

“She’s my favorite.”

“She’s not your ally!”

You turned to him, smug. “She literally made the food, gave me the photos, and roasted you in one sentence. That’s so my ally.”

“Traitors. All of you.”

Cut to: thirty minutes later.

You were curled up on his bed, head on his chest, one of his arms around your shoulders, the other lazily flipping through another album as if he hadn’t just protested all this earlier.

Your purse sat on the desk nearby, zipped tight.

Inside it, tucked safely next to your wallet, the stolen photo peeked out.

Bakugo sighed.

You smiled.

And this time, he didn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

He just kissed your temple.

And whispered, “You’re lucky I like you.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you plagiarized? better hope todoroki doesn’t freeze your laptop.

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ do not copy, translate or feed to AI. stay cool.

[itzariafiles]

hiii!! may i request some headcannons of mha characters x a reader with a cat quirk? but not the usual anime neko girl with just ears and a tail. reader looks more like lest from arcane (please look her up if you haven’t watched it yet! her design is so pretty), with larger ears, a bigger tail, short fur instead of human skin, etc. tysm!!

of course!! on it <3

tysm for the request, this idea is so so cute

i’d never seen Lest before and oh my gosh?? she’s stunning!

can’t wait to bring your idea to life!!

[itzariafiles]

six days of panic

— pt. 1 | barista!verse, slow burn & fluff | fem!reader | 3.9k words

— ft. k.bakugo

— file brief : He just wanted coffee. Then he asked you out. Now Katsuki Bakugo has one mission: survive your first maybe-date without combusting. (No promises.)

— sensitivity log : caffeinated slow-burn romance, mild language, texting and first-date anxiety | characters are 19 and stressed about it

— author’s note : This was supposed to be a small fluffy follow-up to “new barista in town.” (Works as a stand-alone, too.) Instead, it became 3,954 words of Bakugo spiraling because a girl said yes. Do with that what you will.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tuesday, 8:07 p.m.

Bakugo stared at his phone like it might explode.

Which, coming from him, meant something.

He’d just gotten back from training—sweaty, sore, and still mildly irritated about a villain exercise that went sideways because Kaminari thought it was a good idea to freestyle. Typical.

But none of that mattered right now.

What mattered was the slip of paper burning a hole in his pocket.

What mattered was your handwriting. Your number. Your smile when you gave it to him.

What mattered was the fact that he’d asked.

And you’d said yes.

He exhaled sharply, like it might help steady his hands. It didn’t.

Still, he grabbed his phone. Opened your contact. Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Paused.

Finally, after almost five minutes of intense, silent suffering:

“Hey. It’s Bakugo.

Saturday. 4 p.m. Outside that café near station 3. You in?”

He stared at the message.

And sent it before he could overthink it again.

He’d picked 4 p.m. on purpose.

You worked mornings on Saturdays—he knew that. You were off by 1. He, on the other hand, had class until 3:10. If he was fast—no, if he sprinted—he could make it just in time.

Better that than making you wait to eat.

He’d rather be the one out of breath than let you sit around hungry.

Not that he’d say that.

Of course not.

But still.

Then he stared at the screen some more.

Three dots.

Then they vanished.

Then—nothing.

He threw the phone onto his bed like it had personally offended him and flopped down beside it, arm over his eyes.

“Tch. Idiot,” he muttered, ears red.

It was fine. Whatever. You were probably working. Or busy closing the café. Or laughing at him behind the counter with that other barista who smiled too much.

(Okay, maybe not laughing. But still. Maybe.)

He didn’t hear his phone buzz right away. But when he checked it twenty minutes later, your reply was sitting there, bright and obnoxiously adorable:

“I’m in :)

Do I get to know what you’re planning or are you going full mystery hero on me?”

His stomach did something weird. Like a flip. Or a detonation.

He locked his phone without replying.

Because he didn’t have a plan.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Because you said yes.

And that kind of terrified him.

Wednesday, 7:36 p.m.

Bakugo didn’t go to the café.

He thought about it. Thought about seeing you again. Thought about maybe, possibly asking what kind of stuff you liked—music, food, flowers—anything that might help him figure out how to plan this stupid not-date date.

And then he thought about saying something dumb. Looking obvious. Sweating like an idiot.

So no. He didn’t go.

Instead, he sat in his room, textbooks open, completely unread, while Kirishima scrolled on his bed across the room.

“You okay, bro? You’ve read the same page five times.”

Bakugo didn’t look up. “Shut up.”

Kirishima grinned. “That bad, huh?”

“I said shut up.”

“I mean, you did ask her out. That’s huge.”

Bakugo’s eye twitched. “I didn’t ask her out. It’s just—coffee.”

“You already get coffee,” Kirishima pointed out. “What’s different now?”

Bakugo looked like he might actually combust. “She knows it’s coffee. With me. Outside of work.”

Kiri laughed. “Right, right. Totally not a date.”

Bakugo grunted and threw a pillow at his face.

He picked up his phone, unlocked it, checked your text again, and locked it.

Checked it again.

Still there. Still annoying. Still—sweet.

Still no plan.

Damn it.

Thursday, 6:05 a.m.

He woke up early. Extra early.

Time was going by fast and he still had no plan for your definitely-not-a-date. Or whatever.

So, he got his laptop out. And searched. And typed. Like he was working through his thesis.

“Nice places Musutafu.”

“Good places to have breakfast near me.”

“What to say on a first date?”

“First date tips.”

“What not to do on a first date?”

“How not to scare people off?”

He sighed. “Idiot,” he muttered.

8:30 a.m.

He was going to be late.

And he had more tabs open than he could even count.

He picked up his phone.

Kirishima: “On your way?”

And… you.

He panicked. Clicked on your chat.

Were you about to cancel?

Did he just act like an in-love idiot for nothing?

Damn it. Damn it. Damn—oh.

“Hey Kats! :)

Haven’t heard from you since Tuesday.

Um.

I mean, I know you’re busy, don’t misinterpret me.

Just, yeah.

How are you?”

…Cute.

He chuckled.

At least he wasn’t the only one nervous.

He ran to class. Just in time.

12:38 p.m.

He looked for a table where he could just eat in peace.

He picked up his phone.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Paused.

Then finally sent:

“Didn’t forget, dumbass. 

Just been busy.

And figuring stuff out.

You like Italian food or not?”

He stared at it.

Didn’t sound romantic. 

Didn’t sound soft.

Didn’t sound nervous.

Which was exactly why he sent it.

No dot dot dot typing this time.

No waiting twenty minutes.

Your reply came fast. Too fast.

“I love Italian food! Are you planning to cook for me or something? 👀”

His face went red instantly.

“Hell no. Just asking.”

Another reply.

“Liar. 😌

You’re cute when you pretend you don’t care.”

He groaned and slapped his forehead against the table.

“…I hate you,” he mumbled under his breath.

And typed back:

“You’re not helping.”

Great. Italian food it is, then.

Friday, 12:35 p.m.

“Hey, shitty hair.”

Kirishima blinked. “Bro. It’s literally lunchtime.”

“Yeah, and you owe me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Bakugo slammed his lunch tray on the table.

“I need a restaurant. Somewhere decent. Not fancy. Not trash. Good Italian. Preferably quiet… Bonus if no one we know ever goes.”

Kirishima’s jaw dropped.

“Wait. Is this—? Are you planning the date, bro?”

Bakugo hissed, “It’s not a date.”

“Right. The not-date. With the girl whose number you’ve been checking every ten minutes and who makes you blush when she says hi.”

Bakugo shoved a piece of bread in his mouth just to avoid answering.

Kirishima grinned. “Okay, okay, no teasing. I’ve got a place. My cousin’s girlfriend works there. It’s chill, private, and the food’s great.”

Bakugo swallowed. “Send me the damn name.”

“You’re welcome.”

He rolled his eyes but texted you before he could chicken out:

“Tomorrow. 4 p.m.

It’s called Il Filo. You’ll like it.”

You replied barely two minutes later:

“You already sound so sure lol

Should I dress up?”

His chest clenched for some reason.

“Don’t care. You’ll look beautiful either way.”

There.

He said it.

No take-backs.

Although…

Should he have said good? Or pretty? Was beautiful too much before even the first date outing?

You didn’t reply right away, and he felt his brain doing a triple backflip.

Then:

“Smooth.

See you tomorrow, Kats. 🤍”

He stared at that little heart emoji like it was a bomb.

And then—he smiled.

Just a little.

12:45 p.m.

“I sent it! I sent it! Ah!”

You tossed your phone onto the table like it burned.

Your coworker raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Never seen you that nervous for someone. He must be special, huh?”

Your cheeks warmed immediately.

“Yeah, well… he is.”

You tried to look busy—shoved your phone into your locker, smoothed your apron, adjusted your updo.

Didn’t work.

“So… who’s the mysterious man? Alex refuses to tell me anything. He just laughed and walked away like he knew everything.”

You groaned. “Traitor.”

“Uh-huh. Spill.”

You sighed.

“He’s just… this guy who comes in sometimes. Not the friendliest at first, but—he’s sweet. Like… secretly sweet. And way too pretty for his own good.”

“Oooooh.”

She leaned closer across the table. “Hot and emotionally repressed? That’s your type.”

You snorted. “Shut up.”

“Does he have a name?”

You hesitated.

Then, quietly:

“Katsuki.”

Her eyes widened.

“No.”

Then louder:

“Wait—is this the blonde with the resting murder face?!”

You slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Shh! He’s… he’s really not like that.”

She pulled your hand off, laughing.

“I’m just saying. You? Crushing on someone who looks like he could bench-press a motorcycle? I’m shocked.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even as your heart raced.

“Fine. Yes. It’s him. And we’re… grabbing food tomorrow. Just—don’t make it a big thing, okay?”

She gave you a knowing smile.

“My lips are sealed. But if you don’t give me a full report by Monday, I will cry.”

“Deal.”

Saturday, 7:45 a.m.

“Ugh. Could this shift be any longer?”

You slumped over the counter like your soul was already halfway gone.

“Girl, we’ve been here for forty minutes. Chill.”

Your coworker handed you a stack of clean mugs.

You groaned again and straightened up.

“I have a thing later. I can’t look dead inside by the time I leave.”

“Ohhh, the thing?”

“Don’t say it like that,” you muttered, placing the mugs in their spot. “It’s not a thing. It’s just… food. With a guy. A very attractive, intimidating, sharp-jawed guy who texted me ‘you’ll look beautiful either way’ and now I don’t know what to wear.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Okay, yeah. That’s a thing.”

You didn’t answer. You were too busy mentally cycling through every outfit you’d ever owned and wondering if you should buy new shoes during your lunch break.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Katuski.

“I’m not texting because I’m nervous, by the way.

Just checking you’re still alive or whatever.

You still good for 4?”

You smiled. Instantly. Stupidly.

“Still good. And very alive, thank you.

Now go study or something.”

10:48 a.m.

Bakugo stared blankly at the whiteboard in front of him.

His leg bounced. His notes were half-finished. His pencil snapped at some point and he didn’t even notice.

He’d checked the time seven times in the last fifteen minutes. And he didn’t even like checking the time.

Class ended at 3:10. He needed to be at Station 3 by 4. If he sprinted across campus, skipped the train and just used his quirk for a shortcut (not technically allowed), maybe—

“Bakugo?” Aizawa’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Page twenty-five. Try to keep up.”

He grunted in apology and looked down. He had no idea what he was looking at.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t even read the message. He just pressed his palm over the screen and let himself breathe.

Only a few hours left. He could make it.

He would make it.

3:54 p.m.

Bakugo was running through the streets like his life depended on it.

And, honestly, it kind of did.

He was not about to be late. Not for this.

Not for you.

“No way in hell,” he growled, weaving between pedestrians, ignoring the stares.

“Old hag raised me better than that.”

He resisted—barely—the urge to use his quirk just to get there faster. Exploding across town might’ve shaved off two minutes, sure, but it’d also make him look like a lunatic.

(And maybe mess up his hair. Again. No thanks.)

He’d picked his outfit the night before.

Black t-shirt. Gray jeans. Black boots.

And the damn beige trench coat his mom made him buy “because it was stylish and didn’t make him look like a delinquent.”

He hated how good it looked.

Worse—how much you might like it.

He checked his phone once as he turned the corner.

3:57.

His heart jumped.

He ran faster.

3:59 p.m.

He spotted the station sign just ahead.

One more block. One more turn. Just—

There.

4:00 p.m.

Bakugo came to a sharp stop right outside the café near Station 3, heart pounding, breaths fast but quiet.

He wasn’t late.

He looked up.

And there you were.

Standing just outside the café’s patio fence, hands tucked into your coat pockets, head slightly turned like you were scanning the street. Your hair was pulled back differently today—looser, messier, softer somehow—and you wore this warm, thoughtful expression, like your mind had drifted off somewhere peaceful.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

Which gave him one dangerous, fleeting second to look at you. Just… look.

And damn, you looked good.

The kind of good that made his heart trip over itself. The kind that made his throat tighten and his brain go blank.

Not cute. Not pretty.

You looked real. You looked like something he could never let himself want—until now.

Then you turned.

Saw him.

Smiled.

His chest exploded.

“Hey, Katsuki,” you said, voice soft, happy. Just for him.

He coughed once, like his body was trying to restart itself.

“…Hey.”

You took a step closer. “Did you run here?”

“…No.”

“Yes.”

“…Shut up.”

You laughed. Bright, sweet, way too loud for how flustered he felt.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you teased, nudging his arm lightly. “But you are a little out of breath.”

He stared at you.

That soft teasing. That easy smile. The way you stood just a little closer than necessary.

Yeah, he was screwed.

But for now…

He offered his arm. Tense, a bit awkward.

You blinked.

Then looped yours through his without hesitation.

“Ready?”

He nodded, too fast. “Let’s go.”

4:03 p.m.

Three minutes in.

And he was already questioning every decision he’d ever made.

Why the hell had he offered his arm?

Who even did that? Was this a thing?

What was he now, some kind of Victorian gentleman?

He risked a quick glance at you.

You didn’t seem to think it was weird. You were… smiling. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like he was.

Dumbass.

Still—he didn’t pull away.

The walk to Il Filo was only a few minutes. But it felt longer. Not in a bad way. Just… different. Like the air had changed.

Neither of you spoke for the first block. It wasn’t awkward, exactly. Just… careful.

He wasn’t good at this.

He could fight villains, lead missions, destroy entire landscapes—but casual first date small talk? Death.

You, apparently, had a stronger constitution.

“So…” you said, your voice light, warm, the way it always sounded when you handed him his drink. “What made you pick Italian food?”

He grunted. “Didn’t. Just… knew you liked it.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah? How?”

He tensed.

Abort. Abort. Abort.

“I dunno. Thought you said it once.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I did?”

“Maybe.”

You squinted at him playfully. “Bakugo… have you been listening to my conversations?”

“No.”

(Yes.)

“…Shut up.”

You giggled.

He wanted to crawl into a manhole.

But then you said, “Well, I’m glad you did. Because I’ve been craving pasta for like two weeks now.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

That was… good?

That was good.

You walked a little closer.

He didn’t mind.

4:08 p.m.

Il Filo sat tucked between two office buildings, small and shaded and just out of sight from the main street.

Warm lights. Ivy-covered windows. A soft chime when he opened the door for you.

You both stepped in. The host recognized Bakugo’s name from the reservation and led you to a table near the back—semi-private, quiet, but still open enough that it didn’t feel awkward.

You slipped out of your coat and sat across from him, hands folded politely, like you didn’t notice how stiff he was.

“Nice pick,” you said, glancing around. “It’s cozy.”

He shrugged. “Kirishima recommended it.”

You smiled. “He’s the redhead, right?”

“Yeah. Talks too much.”

“You like him.”

“…Tch. Whatever.”

You looked down at the menu with a grin tugging at your lips. “He’s a good friend. I can tell.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at the menu like it owed him money.

But the silence didn’t stretch too far this time. After a few seconds, you asked:

“So… what year are you in?”

He blinked.

You tilted your head. “At U.A.”

“Second. Almost third.”

“Hero course?”

He nodded.

You smiled again—genuine, curious. “That’s impressive.”

He looked away. “It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.

“…What about you?” he asked, after a pause. “You in school?”

You hesitated.

“I took a break this year. Was supposed to start med school.”

He looked up.

“But I wasn’t sure. Thought maybe I should… see what else is out there, first.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then, quietly:

“That’s smart.”

You blinked.

He shrugged, not looking at you. “People rush too much. Act like everything has to be figured out at eighteen. It’s bullshit.”

You stared at him a second longer than you meant to.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

For a few seconds, there was just the quiet hum of the restaurant around you. The weight of something delicate settling between you both.

And then—

The waiter arrived.

You both ordered.

Bakugo let you speak first, then ordered the exact same thing without blinking.

You raised an eyebrow.

He said nothing.

The conversation stayed light after that—mutual teasing, awkward jokes, a few stories from school (filtered, of course—he wasn’t about to traumatize you with the full UA experience), and little comments about café disasters and annoying customers (which he nodded at, pretending not to remember every time he’d seen them happen).

At some point, you laughed at something he said—really laughed—and it stunned him into silence.

You looked so happy. So you.

And it hit him:

He wanted to see more of that.

Not just today.

More.

He blinked, sat up straighter, and picked up his water like nothing had happened.

You smiled at him across the table, eyes bright.

“…You’re not as scary as I thought,” you said softly.

His eye twitched. “Don’t get used to it.”

But he didn’t deny it.

7:35 p.m.

You both were nearly kicked out of the restaurant.

The hours had passed in what felt like fifteen minutes.

You’d laughed. A lot. And somehow, he had too. Quietly. Barely. But you noticed. And that made him nervous. And a little proud.

He enjoyed every second of it.

And he wasn’t even annoyed to admit that one.

The way you lit up when the pasta came. The way you said it was exactly what you’d been craving. Like he’d somehow read your mind.

(It was a lucky guess. But he wasn’t about to tell you that.)

He, of course, didn’t let you pay.

You’d tried to argue—he shut it down with a look. It’s not even like you had a chance at it. 

That part of him, the gentleman, the one that wanted to take care of you, to do things right—he didn’t even know it existed until tonight.

And you were the first one to meet it.

Now, he was walking you home.

Risking his curfew.

Risking a full-blown lecture from Aizawa.

And somehow… not caring.

It was worth it.

Just to be near you.

To hold your arm.

To smell that faint, sweet perfume you wore.

To hear you laugh again—like it was only for him.

He felt his chest tighten with something new. Something real.

He tried to ignore it. It didn’t work.

The streetlights cast warm shadows across the pavement. Your building wasn’t far. You walked slower than usual. He matched your pace.

And then—

“By the way…” you said suddenly, not looking at him. “You looked really nice tonight.”

His steps faltered for half a second.

“…Tch.”

But his ears were red.

“…You too.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

He grunted. “Didn’t even recognize you at first.”

You blinked. “Is that… a compliment?”

He looked away. “You looked—”

He swallowed.

“—really damn good, okay?”

You tried not to laugh.

You failed.

“Well, thank you,” you said softly.

A beat passed. Then:

“…I almost didn’t recognize you either,” you added. “I didn’t know you could dress like that.”

He squinted. “Like what?”

“Like a grown-up,” you teased.

He groaned. “Remind me why I like you again.”

You grinned. “You like me?”

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t let go of your arm.

7:54 p.m.

You stopped just outside your building.

Neither of you moved.

He was stiff again. Back to that awkward version of himself you’d seen at the café—the one who didn’t quite know what to do with how he felt.

You turned toward him. “So…”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“I had fun,” you said.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“I hope we can do this again sometime.”

He looked up at that.

And for the first time tonight, he didn’t look away.

“…I want to.”

You blinked.

“I mean—if you want to,” he added quickly, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “We could. Sometime.”

You smiled. Warm and sure.

“I’d like that, Katsuki.”

There it was again.

Your voice saying his name.

It hit him in the chest like a damn truck.

Before he could even register—which was bad for his whole hero reputation—you leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

Quick. Soft. Loving.

His brain and heart short-circuited at that.

His eyes went wide.

His breath caught.

A small tug at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile.

“I know you’re a hero in training and all that, but get home safe, yeah?”

He nodded. Slow.

How the hell was he supposed to react to that?

You moved toward the door—quiet and careful, like you didn’t want to scare him off.

And right before you turned to go, he said—quiet, but firm:

“Text me when you’re free again. I’ll plan something.”

A pause. Too quick for you to answer, but heavy for him.

“And if you ever wanna text me your nonsense. Or cravings. Or whatever… I won’t mind.”

He looked away, grateful for the mediocre streetlight that made it harder to see how red his ears were.

You smiled. Soft.

Your cheeks a little pink too.

“I’ll make sure to text you all my nonsense, Kats.

As long as you text me yours.”

He nodded again. No idea what to say. No idea what counted as nonsense.

“Good night, Katsuki,” you whispered.

And in something between a breath and a prayer, he said,

“Good night, pretty.”

He watched you walk inside.

And when the door closed behind you, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

8:23 p.m.

He made it back to the dorms without getting caught.

Barely.

Took the long way. Avoided every hallway Aizawa might be lurking in. Moved quiet, like a villain on a stealth mission.

(If villains wore beige trench coats and had their hearts pounding like idiots.)

Once inside, he climbed the stairs two at a time and shut his door behind him.

Exhaled.

Hard.

Leaned his head against the wood.

And smiled. Just a little.

Then, phone in hand, he flopped face-first onto his bed.

A buzz.

A notification.

Your name.

He sat up like someone had hit him with a stun grenade.

It was a photo.

Blurry. Taken without him noticing.

He was in the background, walking down the street, hands in his coat pockets, hair a mess from the wind.

In the foreground?

A plate of leftover pasta in a to-go box.

Your favorite.

No caption.

No teasing.

Just a tiny red heart.

His fingers hovered over the screen.

For a second, he considered sending something sarcastic.

Then:

“Send that to no one.

Also, back at my dorm.”

A beat. Then another buzz:

“You’re cute when you’re nervous.

Also, thanks for letting me know. <3”

He stared at the message.

Groaned.

Rolled onto his back.

Grinned into his pillow like a damn idiot.

And texted back:

“Tch. Shut up.

Just let me know when you’re free again. Next time’ll be even better.”

He typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

“Night, beautiful.”

He didn’t wait for a reply this time.

Just turned off the light.

Heart full.

Face still warm.

And for once…

He slept easy.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 　　 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

steal this and Bakugo will personally blow up your espresso machine.

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ do not copy, translate or feed to AI.

[itzariafiles]

omg just saw a really sad Keigo edit and now I’m emotionally unstable <3

I have to write some fluff rn or I’ll actually cry 😭

[itzariafiles]

i see you

— one-shot | hurt/comfort, emotional tension & soft fluff | fem!reader

— ft. k.bakugo

— file brief : Katsuki failed a mission — or so he thinks. You know better. So you bring him water, your stubborn honesty, and maybe, just maybe, something to hold onto.

— sensitivity log : emotional stress, survivor’s guilt, gentle intimacy, vulnerable Bakugo

— author’s note : a quick, cliché-filled something to (hopefully) brighten your day! hope you love it <3

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Your family was a disaster.

A rich, glorified, emotionally constipated disaster.

Your parents were barely in the picture.

Pro-hero couple with a house as big as their egos. You could scream and they’d barely hear it from their separate wings.

Your relationship with your older brother was… tricky.

He could be nice and supportive once every full moon. So yeah, there was that.

And as much as he did love you, he left you with only one piece of advice before moving from Musutafu to Tokyo to be a hero: “Shut your damn mouth.”

But of course, you didn’t listen.

You never did.

You spoke your mind more times in a week than most people did in a lifetime. You couldn’t help it.

A mix of sarcasm that slipped out without your permission, and a deep, inconvenient desire to make people feel seen.

Where did that even come from?

No idea.

You didn’t exactly grow up with affection.

Maybe it’s trauma-related.

You’d known Katsuki Bakugo for a little over a year now — long enough to recognize the weight he carried, even when he pretended it wasn’t there.

You’d seen him win the Sports Festival.

Seen him train like a man possessed.

Seen him leave you and your friends every night with a scowl and a “Get some damn sleep. You extras could actually use it.”

He was a hard worker.

Obsessively so.

The failure of tonight’s mission wasn’t his fault.

Everyone knew it. Everyone said it.

Except him.

Now it was almost midnight, and there he was — sitting on the roof of the dorms, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes somewhere far away.

You opened the door quietly and stepped into the cold.

“I brought you something,” you said.

He didn’t look at you.

“I mean, it’s just water. Not like… emotional closure or anything,” you added, settling beside him — but not too close.

Silence.

You stared ahead with him, watching nothing in particular.

“…It wasn’t your fault,” you said quietly.

Still nothing.

“I saw you. I see you, Bakugo. The way you train. The way you don’t sleep unless everyone else is okay. That mission— we were backup. We weren’t supposed to stop what happened. We couldn’t have.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, barely audible.

Your heart cracked, but you didn’t stop.

“No,” you said, voice firmer. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to carry everything and then pretend it’s your burden just because you weren’t able to save everyone.”

His jaw clenched tighter.

You turned to him.

“There were five pros out there. Five. And none of them could prevent it either. So what? They’re weak too? Pathetic? Or do you save that kind of judgment just for yourself?”

“Shut up,” he growled.

And then you saw it — a single tear, sliding down his cheek like it had fought tooth and nail to be born.

You hesitated, then slowly reached out. Your fingers brushed the tear away — gentle, careful, like he might shatter.

He didn’t pull away.

He turned.

And kissed you.

Not like he’d planned to. Not like it was part of the script.

But like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice was raw:

“You’re the only thing that keeps me from drowning.”

Your eyes met his.

Red. Passionate. Hurt.

“I see you, Katsuki. All the work. All the effort. All the discipline.”

A pause.

His gaze never left your face.

“I just wish you believed in yourself as much as I believe in you.”

He closed his eyes.

Because it was easier than looking into yours and admitting that you’d left him speechless.

You chuckled.

Like you already knew exactly what was going through his head.

“Also, Kats…”

His heart skipped at the nickname.

But the moment was short-lived.

“That’s such a dramatic way of declaring your love for me.”

You teased, lips tugging into a smirk.

He could already feel the heat rising to his ears — but his anger didn’t even try to fight back.

Not with you.

Instead, his ears flushed pink.

He shoved your shoulder lightly.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

And of course, he kissed you.

Passionately? Yeah.

But also tenderly.

One hand settled at your waist, barely pressing, like you were made of crystal.

The other cupped your cheek — rough and warm and somehow still gentle for someone who literally exploded things for a living.

You tilted into him.

Soft. Steady. Like maybe you’d been waiting for this all along.

And when you pulled back, breathless and smiling against his lips, he finally muttered:

“…You’re a pain in my ass.”

You grinned. “That’s basically a love confession coming from you.”

He rolled his eyes.

Didn’t deny it.

The wind brushed your hair.

Your hands were still tangled.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

Then, Katsuki murmured, almost too quietly:

“…Thanks. For seeing me.”

You nodded, voice soft but sure.

“Always.”

The kind of silence that followed wasn’t empty — just full of things that didn’t need to be said out loud.

The wind picked up slightly.

You didn’t shiver. But Katsuki still noticed the way you tucked your arms close.

Without a word, he stood and offered you a hand.

You blinked. “Where are we going?”

“My room.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Bold move, Kats.”

He scoffed. “To sleep, dumbass. I’m not gonna leave you up here freezing like an idiot.”

Still, your smile was smug as you let him pull you to your feet.

Neither of you let go.

You followed him back inside.

The hallway was dark and quiet. Most students were already asleep — or pretending to be.

When you reached his door, he flicked on the soft lamp by the desk and motioned to the bed.

“You can take the blanket. I’m not cold.”

“You literally sweat lava when you’re stressed,” you muttered, climbing in.

“Shut up.”

But the growl lacked venom.

He joined you, not quite touching.

Not at first.

Then, under the blanket, his fingers found yours.

Intertwined.

You turned to him.

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

But when he did, his voice was quiet. Honest.

“You make it quiet in here.”

Your heart skipped.

“In my head, I mean,” he added gruffly. “That’s rare.”

You didn’t say anything.

You just leaned over and kissed his temple.

His hands found your waist. He pulled you closer.

Held you there, thumb tracing lazy circles on your back.

“Just making sure you don’t freeze to death.”

“Liar. And a bad one at that, may I add.”

That smug little smile was back on your face.

“Just sleep, princess. Can’t have you passing out during training.”

That shut you up — mostly.

But still, you whispered:

“Good night, Kats.”

“…Good night, pretty.”

A pause.

“Still a pain in my ass, though.”

You smiled. “Love you too.”

And in his chest, something finally unclenched.

For the first time in days, he thought he might sleep.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

as class representative, i must inform you: plagiarism is strictly prohibited. — iida

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ do not copy, translate or feed to AI.

[itzariafiles]

love, patrols, and other christmas miracles

��� one-shot | fluff | gn!reader

— ft. s. todoroki

— file brief: Shoto’s a busy pro hero. So are you. It’s Christmas Eve, and you both swore you’d make it home for dinner. Keyword: swore.

— sensitivity log: lighthearted (off-season) holiday fluff, mild hero-related chaos, soft romance

— author’s note: this was a sweet and fun request from a lovely user — hope it turned out close to what they imagined! and to everyone else: hope you love this much-needed dose of (off-season) Christmas fluff <3

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Shoto Todoroki had never been one to celebrate Christmas — or anything, really — for obvious reasons.

And somehow, he landed the most beautiful person alive, who casually celebrates every holiday and birthday like it’s a full-time job.

That morning, you both woke up early, just like any other day. Patrols on opposite sides of the city.

You went through your routine: showered together, got dressed, had a quick breakfast, and headed for the door.

But there, right on top of your Christmas-themed rug, sat a basket.

Full of food.

“What—?”

You both stared at it in silence.

Shoto instinctively closed his fists, prepared to dismantle it in case some villain thought poison was a festive gesture — until you gasped and bolted into the living room.

He followed, slightly alarmed.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

You were frozen in front of the wall, eyes wide. Did you… forget to cross off the 23rd yesterday?

Because either your Santa-themed calendar — the one where he’s wearing a kiss the cook apron and Mrs. Claus is giggling — was right, and it was the 23rd and the basket had just arrived early… or—

“It’s December 24th, Sho. That basket — they didn’t get the date wrong, right?”

You whipped out your phone.

6:45 AM. December 24th.

It was Christmas Eve.

And you were running late.

“I ordered the basket like a month ago ‘cause I knew we wouldn’t have time to cook, but… we completely forgot.”

“We’re both on patrol until ten,” Shoto said calmly, although there was a small furrow between his brows. “That only leaves us with fifteen minutes before the ‘mandatory’ holiday dinner begins.”

“We always have dinner together on Christmas, Sho. Even if it’s just us. We eat. We sit by the tree. We watch some cheesy movie. That’s the whole thing!”

Shoto gently took your hand and led you to the door. The basket was already inside. “We’ll be back in time. I’ll finish patrol as fast as I can.”

You nodded quickly. “Okay, but it has to be exactly 10:15 PM. Deal?”

The elevator reached the ground floor. The cold air hit your cheeks the moment you stepped outside. Shoto leaned in and kissed you.

Soft. Tender. Cold — like him. In the best way.

“Have a great day, Sho!”

He gave a tiny smile.

But before he could say anything, his phone rang.

You both stared at it.

His agency.

Yeah. It was going to be a long day.

He took off running, phone pressed to his ear.

“Ten-fifteen, Sho!!”

You yelled after him.

But the world, as always, had other plans.

For starters, that call Shoto got?

Santa. Robbing a store.

Terrifying kids because — why is Santa stealing?? Isn’t he supposed to be magical? Doesn’t he have elf labor and flying deer?

The agency gave clear instructions: “don’t traumatize the kids unless absolutely necessary.”

So Todoroki spent half an hour chasing a fully-costumed Santa Claus through a mall, trying to detain him without scarring toddlers for life. He finally caught him outside, calmly freezing his boots to the pavement.

Zero kids cried. Success.

Meanwhile, on your side of the city, a group of idiots decided Christmas Eve was the perfect time to rob a bank. While drunk. And with quirks.

Hostages, chaos, glitter explosions (don’t ask), and three hours later, you were still cleaning up ice cream from the ceiling — long story.

Then Shoto got assigned crowd control at a broken-down amusement park. Thirty-five civilians stuck at the top of a rollercoaster. In the spirit of practicality (and, fine, Christmas), he made an ice slide for them. Another hero caught them at the bottom. Safe. Efficient. Cold.

And just when things started to calm down as you layed down at your agency’s sofa…

Boom. Another emergency call.

“What could it possibly be?”

You grunted as you picked up the phone, not even trying to hide your exhaustion.

It was a message from your agency’s emergency team.

[Text received — 8:45 PM]

“We need backup. Hostile quirk incident near Hanamachi Station. Multiple injuries. Low hero presence in the area. You’re the closest.”

You blinked. Let out a breath.

“Of course.”

You grabbed your gear again, threw your scarf around your neck, and texted Shoto quickly:

“pls don’t be dead

also I might be late

still aiming for 10:15 tho

I am so tired

ily sho”

You jumped out of the window, because honestly, it was faster than stairs at this point.

Meanwhile, at the same time, Shoto’s phone buzzed. He was mid-evacuation of a warehouse that had partially collapsed due to a villain’s quirk surge.

He glanced at the notifications on his lock screen and read your texts.

He exhaled through his nose — that was his version of a laugh right now.

He typed back, one-handed as he helped someone walk:

“copy that. not dead. yet.

10:15 or we riot.”

He pocketed the phone, lifted two unconscious workers, and muttered, “Ten fifteen. No matter what.”

10:08 PM

You were both running — from different sides of the city.

Your hands were cold. Your feet ached. But you ran.

Shoto, who only resorted to this in real emergencies, used his ice to slide through the streets.

10:14 PM

You nearly collided outside your building.

“My dear boyfriend!”

You threw your arms around his left side, grateful for the warmth radiating from it.

He chuckled — genuinely — and pulled you close.

“Dinner is waiting, pretty,” he said softly, guiding you toward the elevator.

Two pairs of exhausted feet trudged toward your apartment.

In the end, you shared the basket dinner you received that morning.

Curled up on the couch. Wrapped in blankets. A cheesy Christmas movie playing quietly in the background.

The tree lit up the room.

The hot cocoa steamed gently on the coffee table.

Everything was soft. Familiar. Peaceful.

There was only one thing left: gifts.

“Love—”

Shoto turned to you, but you were already asleep on his shoulder.

He smiled.

“The gifts can wait until tomorrow,” he whispered, adjusting you gently against his side to make sure you were warm and comfortable.

And there, wrapped in the soft glow of the tree, you both drifted off.

Behind it, hidden just out of sight, sat a small velvet box.

Shoto’s gift to you.

A diamond ring — waiting patiently for morning.

It could wait.

It had waited this long.

But it was ready — for when you were.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

hot take: stealing is cold. - shoto todoroki

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ don’t copy, translate or feed to AI.

[itzariafiles]

somewhere between the music and him

— one-shot | fluff | pop star fem!reader | 2.4k words

— ft. k.bakugo

— file brief : You’re Mina’s childhood bestie turned pop sensation. Bakugo tagged along “just to be polite.” Yeah. His heart didn’t get the memo.

— cw : soft denial and slight language (Bakugo, basically) || also, let’s all pretend they are 17 lol, thanks.

— author’s note : had this idea for a while, took me forever to execute it how i wanted it lol. hope it makes your heart skip a beat <3

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Mina Ashido and you had been best friends since the first day of first grade.

Instant connection. Ride-or-die from the beginning. And you’d shown up for each other every single time.

You waited outside U.A. the day she took the entrance exam. Then spent two nights at her house, pacing and spiraling, waiting for the results. When the letter finally came, you celebrated like maniacs and helped her prep for classes like it was your job.

You went to the U.A. Sports Festival, cheered your heart out for Mina, and had an absolute blast watching the rest of the participants. You both devoured every snack stand the campus had to offer — and you got to meet a lot of her friends too.

You both cried when U.A. turned into a boarding school. Not just because it meant she’d no longer be a couple of streets away, but because the whole situation that led to it had shaken you both. Still, you helped her pack and texted her almost every day.

And Mina?

Mina was there for every single thing.

Every performance. Every recital. Every competition.

She was there for your first solo, your first win, and the first time you performed for a crowd that wasn’t just parents and teachers.

And when your career took off — really took off — she went to your first concert like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

It had been a couple of years since that first show.

And now?

You were performing in Musutafu.

Mina would rather hug Endeavor and go on a date with Mineta than miss your concert.

In other words: she was going. No. Matter. What.

You’d given her front-row tickets for her and her friends.

Naturally, she announced it months in advance.

And reminded everyone. Daily. Twice a day.

She blasted your music while they cooked.

While they trained.

At sleepovers.

Honestly? She found any excuse to play your songs everywhere.

Denki and Kirishima had to admit — your music was kind of a banger.

Iida quietly played your slower songs while making dinner.

Shinso, half-asleep, sometimes mouthed your lyrics while getting ready in the morning.

Shoto trained with your songs in his headphones, deadpan as ever.

And the dorm?

Yeah. Everyone had at least one song memorized.

Even Katsuki.

Who — to his horror and absolute rage — had been caught humming one of your songs while cooking.

The hype built up as the concert date got closer. Between training, exams, and barely holding it together, your music stayed on repeat.

When the day came, Mina gathered the girls to get ready hours in advance.

Sparkly outfits. Sparkly makeup. Sparkly hair. It was your brand, after all.

She even made the boys show her their outfits to see if they “passed the vibe.”

And once they arrived at the venue?

It clicked.

You weren’t just Mina’s best friend with a few viral hits.

You were famous.

The stadium buzzed with excitement. Teens everywhere in shirts with your face. Glowsticks. Signs. Fans screaming your name. Whole friend groups dancing to your songs as they waited.

This wasn’t some school auditorium.

This was your stadium.

The group stood front row, courtesy of Mina’s VIP passes.

And even Bakugo — grumpy, arms crossed, visibly unimpressed — couldn’t ignore the way the ground vibrated when your name was shouted.

Then the lights went dim.

The crowd went silent.

And the drums started.

BAM. BAM.

Stage lights flashed like lightning. Dancers moved into position.

BAM. BAM.

Sero and Denki screamed. Kirishima whooped. Mina looked like she might explode.

Except Bakugo.

Who looked… tense. Focused. Like he was holding something back.

Then—

“Hey, Musutafu! How are you tonight?!”

Your voice filled the stadium.

Bakugo felt it in his chest.

There you were.

Your silhouette backlit by stars, floating in a galaxy of stage visuals.

The crowd lost it.

“I think I… just fell in love!”

BAM. BAM. BAM.

The song started with a bang — literally. Fireworks lit up the stage, pink and gold and blindingly bright. The crowd screamed as the first beat dropped, and there you were — shining, electric, unstoppable.

Mina looked like she was going to cry from pride.

“THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND!!” she screamed at full volume, grabbing Denki by the shoulders and shaking him.

“She’s insane,” Denki yelled back, already dancing.

Kirishima was jumping in place, eyes wide like a kid at Christmas.

“Bro, this is crazy! I didn’t know she was this famous!”

“She trained like hell for this,” Mina said, grinning through tears. “I knew she’d make it.”

Even Todoroki was nodding to the beat. (Kind of. In Todoroki terms.)

Sero was filming. Iida clapped along. Shinso blinked, stunned. Momo and Uraraka were absolutely glowing watching the visuals. Jiro was screaming the lyrics like they personally wronged her.

And Bakugo?

Bakugo was standing stiff as a damn board, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes locked on you.

It was annoying. Infuriating. How easily you took over a room this size.

How bright you looked under the lights.

How loudly his heart was pounding.

He had come here to be polite. For Mina. To not be the guy who bailed.

He didn’t expect you.

Didn’t expect the way his chest tightened when you laughed between songs.

Didn’t expect to catch himself watching the way your hand moved across the mic stand.

Didn’t expect the ridiculous flutter in his stomach when you pointed into the crowd and winked — even if it wasn’t at him.

He hated this.

Hated how proud he felt.

Like he had a right to be. Like he knew you.

He didn’t knew you. Not really.

Not the pop star version.

Not the one with glitter eyeliner and thousands of fans singing your lyrics back to you.

But part of him… wanted to.

Especially when you sang that song.

The one Mina had on repeat all month.

The one with the soft chorus and the line about choosing someone even when it’s hard.

He didn’t blink once through that entire number.

When the last song ended, you stood in the middle of the stage. Bright smile, eyes glassy with tears.

“I definitely fell in love tonight, guys! This was unreal. I can’t wait to sing with you all again!”

The crowd cheered. You scanned the audience, searching. For Mina. And of course, she was there. Biggest smile, tears falling freely.

She was surrounded by all the people you’d only known from her stories — well, except the ones you met at the Sports Festival — and you laughed when they screamed a little as you waved.

Bakugo didn’t scream.

But his heart skipped a beat.

You waved again, blew a few kisses, and walked off stage, still glowing, the band playing behind you.

The music faded slowly.

People kept cheering.

Some took photos, others buzzed about how amazing the show had been.

Someone poked Bakugo. He turned, ready to snap — but stopped when he saw Mina gesturing while Kirishima leaned in.

“She wants us to go backstage,” Kirishima said, nodding toward Mina. “And I’m going. So if you want in, we have to go now.”

Everyone followed Mina. Bakugo, arms still crossed and mumbling under his breath, followed too. Of course he did.

A glittery blur ran toward Mina — you.

You jumped into her arms.

“Did you see that!? I sold out, Mina!”

She hugged you tighter, sniffling. “I’m so proud of you, you idiot.”

Bakugo watched the scene with an expression no one had ever seen on him before. Something soft. Quiet. Real.

“Oh, sorry!” you said breathlessly as Mina let go. “Hi! It’s so nice to finally meet all of you!” You were smiling, a little sweaty, eyes still shining.

“Dude, that was awesome! Mina didn’t tell us you were this good!” Sero broke the silence.

“Excuse me!? I told you every day!” Mina shot back, glaring.

You laughed, and Bakugo could feel his self-restraint slipping.

How dare you do this to him.

“My team and I are celebrating at the hotel,” you said. “We booked a room to eat and chill — I was hoping you could all come!”

That caught everyone off guard. An after-party?

They were heroes in training, sure. People were starting to recognize them. But this? This was new.

Iida opened his mouth — probably to lecture about curfews and responsibility — but Mina, in a shocking act of speed, beat him to it and accepted for the whole group.

And that’s how Katsuki Bakugo ended up in a van.

Sandwiched between Sero and Kirishima.

You in front of him, talking to Mina and Jiro.

He tried not to stare. He really did.

But he failed.

And you noticed.

The hotel had food waiting. A buffet for you, your team, and guests.

Laughter. Music. Celebration.

He saw you across the room, near the snack table. You spotted him.

And for reasons neither of you could explain, you started walking toward him.

Slow. Hesitant.

Bakugo didn’t move.

He just stared — guarded, unreadable.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the stage high.

Maybe it was the way he hadn’t looked away from you once.

You stopped in front of him.

“…Hi,” you said, a little breathless. Still glowing.

He didn’t respond. His eyes flicked — lips, eyes, lips again.

He was furious. At himself. At the way you made his heart race like you’d just called his name on stage.

At the way you looked at him like you knew him.

“…So,” you said, gently. “You’re Bakugo.”

“You already knew that.”

You smiled, a little shy. “Yeah. Kinda hard not to. Mina talks about you all the time.”

“She talks about you too.”

That caught you off guard.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” His jaw tensed. “Says you’re… bright. Loud. Always moving forward.”

He paused.

“Didn’t think you were real.”

You tilted your head. “And now?”

He inhaled, sharp and low.

You were too real.

The kind of real that settles in your chest and stays there.

“I think you’re worse,” he muttered.

You blinked. “Worse?”

“For my sanity.”

You stared.

A confession, barely a whisper, from the most unconfessing boy alive.

“I—” you tried. Then again. “You’re not what I expected.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What the hell did you expect?”

You shrugged. “Louder. Meaner.”

He snorted. “Give it a minute.”

That made you laugh. A real one, the kind that reached your eyes.

And Bakugo? He wanted to freeze time. Bottle the sound. Burn it into memory.

“I saw you win the Sports Festival,” you said softly. “I was there for Mina. I was kinda reluctantly there — I was starving, honestly — but I saw you. Fight. Win. Argue about the win.” You smiled. “It was… incredible.”

He looked away.

“Don’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say back.”

You took a step closer.

“Maybe nothing,” you said gently. “Maybe you don’t have to say anything.”

His breath hitched.

But he didn’t move away.

He watched you like you were a song stuck in his head. Like he’d been hearing your voice long before tonight, and now he finally knew why.

“I don’t do this,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t flirt. I don’t talk to people. I don’t feel like this.”

You tilted your head. “So what is this?”

He scowled.

“I don’t know.”

But his voice cracked.

You leaned in. Close enough to see the shimmer on your cheekbones, the flutter of your lashes.

He couldn’t breathe.

“…Wanna find out?” you whispered.

His hand twitched. Like it wanted to reach for you but didn’t know how.

“…Yeah,” he said, low and hoarse. “Fuck. Yeah.”

You smiled.

And in that moment, Katsuki Bakugo — pro-hero-in-training, angry perfectionist, unshakable storm — felt the ground shift under his feet.

You’d been a voice in his ears for weeks. A rumor in Mina’s stories. A melody stuck in his head.

Now?

You were standing in front of him. Real. Close. Smiling like he was the star.

Maybe he was fucked.

But damn, did it feel good to fall.

Later.

After the lights.

After the music.

After the shared glances, the unsaid words, and the shimmer of something too big to name.

There was no dramatic start.

No fireworks. No grand confession.

Just you. Standing there.

And something inside him refusing to let go ever since.

It wasn’t one moment. It was every moment after that night.

It was the way he texted you the next morning.

(Just a photo of your concert poster downtown, with: “Tch. You left this here.”)

It was the voice notes you sent him between shows — sometimes singing unfinished lyrics, sometimes just rambling about how much you missed sushi or how your backup dancer fell on stage.

It was the noise-cancelling headphones he started wearing “for focus.”

(He was just listening to your songs on loop.)

It was the way you ran the second you heard he was injured after the war.

The way you stayed at the hospital for weeks.

The way he didn’t tell you to leave. Not once.

It was the way you always looked for him in the crowd.

And the way he was always there when you did.

It was you, screaming at their graduation.

It was him, holding up your tour banner at your biggest concert to date.

Matching energy. Different worlds. Same hearts.

You were a singer.

He was a fighter.

Different rhythms. Different lives.

But somehow, when you were together, everything slowed down.

No stage lights. No headlines.

Just you, barefoot in his kitchen, stealing his hoodie and humming your next single while he cooked beside you.

Just him, backstage during your soundcheck, arms crossed, pretending not to care — and failing miserably.

There was never a big announcement.

No flashy soft launch. No press release.

But there were pictures.

In his room. Taped under his desk. Stuffed in the back of his wallet.

No one else got to see.

There was that song you wrote — the one your fandom thought was about fame.

He knew better.

There were late-night calls.

And quiet mornings.

And the unshakable feeling that maybe, just maybe…

…some people don’t need the same life to share the same future.

Because no matter how far your worlds stretched..

He was your anchor.

And you were the spark he never saw coming.

And yeah, he eventually proposed.

Because Bakugo Katsuki didn’t want a life that didn’t have you — fully, irreversibly, completely his — in it.

But that?

That’s a story for another night.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

not even cute enough to get away with that. - mina

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ don’t copy, don’t translate, don’t feed to AI, don’t be lame.

[itzariafiles]

new barista in town

— barista!verse | fluff | fem!reader | pt.2

— ft. k.bakugo

— file brief : Katsuki Bakugo was just there for coffee. Then he saw you.

— sensitivity log : pure caffeinated fluff | characters are 19 just because lol

— author’s note : shoutout to all the cute baristas out there ;) | thinking about making this idea a preference hm

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Katsuki Bakugo was never one to get coffee. Too bitter. Too hipster. Too much waiting in line with caffeine-addicted extras who didn’t know how to shut up.

But after barely sleeping, with an exam in two hours and a migraine threatening to decapitate him, even he had to admit he needed something strong.

There was this little café just outside U.A.—famous for being “Instagrammable,” whatever the hell that meant—and apparently for actually decent coffee. It had WiFi, too, which meant the nerds swarmed to it before exams like bees to sugar.

He’d gone a couple times. Mina had dragged them all once. Kirishima kept trying to make it a ritual. He usually bailed. But this time… yeah, he was desperate.

The place opened at 7. He was already fourth in line.

“Tch. Should’ve just used Sato’s damn machine,” he muttered, glaring at the students ahead of him like it was their fault he was tired.

Eventually, the line moved. He scrolled through Instagram for the first time in months just to kill time, and before long, he was at the register.

“Hi! Welcome! What are you getting today?”

“Cappuccino. …Please.”

“Of course! Your name?”

“Bakugo.”

“Alrighty, Bakugo! That’ll be—”

“Card.”

“Got it!” said the barista brightly.

Too cheerful for this hour, he thought, biting back a scowl.

“My coworker will have your order ready in just a sec! You can pick it up over there. Have a great day!”

“Tch. Thanks.”

He moved to the pick-up side, already debating if the headache was worse than this sensory overload. A couple baristas worked fast behind the counter—steam, clinking metal, the hiss of espresso shots.

And then he saw you.

He hadn’t seen you before. And he would’ve remembered—because no way he’d forget a face like that.

(Not that it matters.)

You were laughing at something a coworker said, joy written all over your face, hair pulled back in some soft-looking updo. The way you moved, focused and quick, graceful and just… annoyingly pretty.

He immediately looked away.

Nope. Not happening.

Except of course you were the one who grabbed his coffee.

“Bakugo? Your order’s ready!”

He flinched. Didn’t mean to. Just—whatever.

He stomped forward, same resting scowl in place.

“…Thanks.”

You looked right at him. Your eyes crinkled a little. Why the hell was that cute?

“Of course! See you around!”

Simple. Bright. Unbothered. You turned away to start another order.

He sat down. Opened his notes. Tried to study.

Didn’t work.

His eyes kept flicking back to the counter.

To you.

Dammit.

Over the next few weeks, he started showing up more often. Too often.

He learned your shifts without meaning to. Started using his name at the register just for the stupid excuse of hearing you say it. He never used your name, though. Not even after he caught it from some conversation across the bar.

Until one morning, he showed up earlier than usual. The place was still quiet. Barely open. No line.

And this time, you were the one at the register.

“Hey, Katsuki!” you said, bright-eyed like it wasn’t way too early to be that happy. “Good morning!”

His heart absolutely did not stutter.

“Morning,” he muttered.

“Your usual?”

He nodded, trying not to look directly at you.

“Alright! Tap or swap whenever you’re ready.”

He paid. Eyes lingering on you for a second too long. Ears already tinged pink.

“Um… do you need something else?”

A pause.

“…You free Saturday?”

He wanted to punch himself in the mouth the second it left.

You blinked, then grinned.

You dared to grin.

You grabbed a slip of paper and scribbled something. Then moved over to the bar, picked up his coffee, and handed it to him with a smile and a folded note.

“Here’s your drink,” you said. “And here’s my number. I’m free Saturday.”

He blinked.

“…Tch. I’ll text you later.”

He didn’t look at you when he left. Wouldn’t survive it.

But he texted you. That afternoon. Right after training.

Because of course he did.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

steal this and bakugo will personally explode your entire browser history.

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ do not copy, translate or feed to AI.

[itzariafiles]

I really love how you write (Shoto) Todoroki, could you do very busy with here work Shoto x very busy with other hero work gn!y/n on like, Christmas? I love ur fics already 💗

shoto and reader trying to have a holiday while being overworked heroes?? romantic.

noted and very much added to the list!! 🤍

thank you sm for the kind words!! also, i’m so happy you like how i write shoto!! he’s so dear to me it’s not even funny lol

[itzariafiles]

you’re writing is literally unbelievable and it fits the character so well Plus the stories r mad cute🥹 PLS MAKE MORE SLICE OF LIFE !!!!!

STOPP you’re seriously too nice 😭 thank you sm!!!

i have so much love for slice of life stuff, and seeing this just made my whole day 🤍

(alsooo if you ever have specific slice-of-life prompts? drop them. yell them. manifest them into my inbox lol)

[itzariafiles]

I loved a culinary tragedy! I’m a very good cook now but when I first had to start cooking for myself and my S/O I was a disaster I made my fair share of disasters so it’s always funny to read stuff the reminds me of when my s/o would say “we can just scrape off the burnt parts” and then realize it’s completely charcoal (never step away from an oven if you’re not sure how long to cook something)

you heard the expert 😌 thanks for the tip and the love!

i’m honored this reminded you of your own lil burnt chronicles — that memory is honestly adorable (and relatable).

now i’ll be thinking about “we can scrape off the burnt parts” as a love language 🫶🏻

[itzariafiles]

I'm so happy I found you! Your writing is amazing! The Deku one broke my poor little heart!

omg thank you so much!! i’m so glad you found your way here!

and sorry about your heart (i promise deku is okay. probably.) 🤍

[itzariafiles]

a culinary tragedy

— preference | fluff, slice of life | fem!reader

— ft. k.bakugo, s.todoroki, e.kirishima, i.tenya, t.amajiki

— file brief : You try to cook. They try to survive. Love wins.

— content log : post timeskip, pure fluff

— author’s note : written for all of us who try to show love through food and end up committing mild culinary crimes. we’re doing our best.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

⭑ Katsuki Bakugo

You tried, really. He knew you did.

And he also knew why you insisted so much on taking over the kitchen.

Since you moved in together, if he didn’t cook, you both survived on takeout. Everyone at U.A. had already known you couldn’t cook to save your life—he’d seen the microwave incidents.

Burned cookies. Deflated cakes. Mysterious jelly that had once wiggled off the plate and haunted his dreams.

But this. This was a crime.

You’d spent three hours in the kitchen. Your left cheek was smeared with rice. There was something unidentifiable in your hair. Your hands were still sticky. Your face held a terrified, hopeful almost-smile.

Your boyfriend stared silently at the dish in front of him.

A single onigiri.

A very deformed, weird-textured, slightly off-color onigiri.

The nori was barely hanging on. It leaned like it wanted to escape.

He poked it with a chopstick. It jiggled.

Onigiri wasn’t supposed to jiggle.

“…The fuck is this?”

“…An onigiri?”

Why were you asking him? You made it.

He narrowed his eyes at it. Like it had personally offended him.

Then slowly—reluctantly—he picked it up and took a bite.

He chewed. Once.

Twice.

Stopped.

“…Why is it spicy?”

“I panicked! I remembered you love spicy food!”

“…You put chili oil in rice?”

“I was trying to be thoughtful!”

He paused. Blinked. Stared into the void for a moment.

Then set the blob back down with the silent precision of a man who had faced war—and somehow found this worse.

“You are never allowed in my kitchen again.”

You gasped. “That’s not fair!”

He walked toward you, cupped your rice-covered face in his hands, and sighed like a man far older than his years.

“No, what’s not fair is what you just tried to feed me.”

“But I did it with love…”

“You tried to assassinate me with love.”

And yet—despite it all—he took another bite.

“Still tastes like shit,” he muttered.

But he kept chewing.

You smiled anyway.

The next day, just to spite you, he made criminally perfect onigiris.

You weren’t sure whether to be offended or grateful.

Probably both.

⭑ Shoto Todoroki

The first time you saw your Shoto’s face light up while eating Zaru Soba, you knew you wanted to make it for him. Just the two of you, a quiet little date in the garden near your apartment.

The idea was perfect.

The execution… well, you tried.

“They’re just noodles, right? And a dipping sauce. How hard could it be?”

You kept repeating that to yourself like a mantra, but calling your cooking skills lacking was being generous.

Your mother used to tell you that you needed to learn how to cook—that no one would marry someone who didn’t even know how to keep themselves alive.

Well. You proved her wrong when, after the war, Shoto proposed to you.

Your beautiful, quiet, wonderful fiancé didn’t mind that if it weren’t for him, you’d be living off takeout and absurdly easy, child-friendly meals.

But now? It started to bother you.

So you got determined. You spent hours and hours in the kitchen.

Finally, he came back from patrol to find you nervous-smiling, a basket in your hand as you immediately dragged him outside and toward the park.

The walk was short, but your thoughts were anything but.

What if the noodles were too soggy?

What if the sauce was too salty?

What if he hated it?

What if this was the day he realized he deserved someone who could cook real food, not just semi-functional carbohydrate attempts?

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, fingers brushing yours. “You’re quiet.”

You forced a smile. “Just hungry.”

At the park, you sat beneath the same tree where he’d first told you he loved you. You laid out the blanket, opened the basket, and presented the boxed meal like it was the finest bento in all of Japan.

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…Is that… Zaru Soba?”

“Yes!” you chirped. “I made it myself. For you.”

He looked at you. Then the noodles. Then back at you.

“I’m honored,” he said. And he meant it.

With his usual calm, he picked up the chopsticks and dipped the noodles into the tsuyu. You held your breath.

He chewed. Slowly.

Then looked up.

“…Did you… put sugar in the sauce?”

Your eyes widened. “Was I not supposed to?! I saw a recipe online that said sweetness brings out—”

“No, no,” he interrupted gently, a soft smile on his lips. “It’s… different. Unexpected.”

“…Bad?”

He studied you for a long moment. And then, sincerely:

“It’s the best thing I’ve eaten today.”

Your heart melted just a little.

“…It’s only three in the afternoon,” you mumbled.

“Exactly,” he said, taking another bite. “Plenty of time for you to top it again.”

You bit your lip to stop the grin forming as he kept eating without a single complaint—his quiet way of loving you, even in your culinary catastrophes.

Later that night, while he ate the takeout you’d guiltily ordered (despite his protests), he kissed your temple and whispered:

“Next time, let’s cook together.”

And maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t commit crimes against soba again.

⭑ Eijiro Kirishima

Kirishima wasn’t a picky eater. He’d eat anything.

You once caught him snacking on slightly burned popcorn and calling it, “Kinda smoky, y’know? Cool.”

So when you told him you wanted to cook him dinner—a real meal, no microwaves involved—he immediately said yes, gave you a high five, and started setting the table.

The problem was… you hadn’t exactly figured out how to cook that real meal yet.

Cut to three hours later: the apartment smells like something vaguely edible, your shirt has… oil stains? (one can only hope it was oil), and you’re standing in front of him holding two bowls of very, very, very questionable gyudon. (If you could even call it that.)

He looked at it with wide eyes and the biggest smile, bless his heart.

“Whoa! Did you make this all by yourself, my love?”

“…I did,” you said, with a nervous laugh. “I think I might’ve burned the onions. And the beef. And maybe the rice.”

He grabbed his chopsticks like it was the most gourmet thing he’d ever been served.

“Baby, this is amazing!” he said, the big, loving smile still on his face.

You blinked. “The rice is crunchy.”

“Chips are crunchy too! It’s fine!”

He took a huge bite. Chewed. Chewed some more.

“…So?”

He gave you a thumbs-up with both hands.

“Amazing! I’ve never had crunchy gyudon before.”

“Because it’s not supposed to be crunchy, Kiri!”

“And yet,” he said dramatically, “I love it. And I love you. So it works out.”

He meant every word—and later that night, while you cuddled under a blanket watching your favorite movie for the hundredth time and eating actual ramen, he whispered:

“You’re already perfect, but next time… let’s cook together, yeah, baby?”

He grinned, nudging your shoulder.

“At least you didn’t burn the house down. That’s a win in my book, love.”

⭑ Tenya Iida

From the moment you told your fiancé that you wanted to prepare him a homemade meal, he assumed you must be planning something special.

Maybe a celebration. Maybe a grand romantic gesture.

What he didn’t assume was that you’d end up personally battling the recipe… and losing.

You spent the entire day in the kitchen while he was out fighting actual villains.

You chopped vegetables with total, surgical concentration—and absolutely zero technique.

You memorized every step like you were defending your thesis.

And despite your best efforts, by the time he got home, the kitchen looked like a post-battle disaster zone.

“W-what happened here?”

“Gourmet tragedy,” you answered with an apologetic smile, guiding him toward the table you’d beautifully set. Fresh flowers, a handwritten card, the shiniest utensils you owned—all in place.

He glanced at the bowl in front of him. It sort of resembled ramen.

He pulled out a chair so you could sit—bless his big, gentleman heart—and then took the seat across from you.

He straightened his glasses.

“Did you follow the instructions step by step?”

“Yeah. Well. More or less.”

“More or less?!”

He made that face. The one he made when mediating conflict at the agency or trying to solve a national-level disaster.

Then, with reverence, he picked up his chopsticks and took a bite.

Pause.

Chew.

Silence.

You waited. Terrified.

“…A curious texture. Bold seasoning. I must commend your initiative.”

“Tenya… does it taste like ramen?”

“…It tastes like effort. Which I greatly admire.”

He kissed your hands gently, a soft and loving smile on his face. He kept eating. You nearly cried.

He was way too nice about this culinary failure.

Later, while the two of you cleaned the battlefield (the kitchen), Iida admitted he was deeply moved that you’d done all of this for him.

He promised to teach you how to make his favorite dish.

Step by step. With diagrams. Color-coded notes. A three-part binder. You’ll love it.

He planned the whole day himself.

And that weekend was filled with kisses, laughter, and a perfectly decent beef stew.

Which, to be fair, was a huge win—for both of you.

⭑ Tamaki Amajiki

Tamaki had a rough day.

The kind of day that left him even quieter than usual, hood drawn over his face, head low as he walked through the door.

So, as the ever-loving girlfriend you were, you wanted to cheer him up.

With food.

His favorite.

Takoyaki.

Now… was it a complicated dish?

Absolutely.

Should that have stopped you?

Probably.

Did it, though?

Of course not.

By the time he woke up from a nap and came out of the bath, your kitchen was a scene of chaos.

Steam clouded the air. Flour dusted the counters.

There was… something in your hair. You weren’t entirely sure what.

He froze mid-step.

“Hi, sunshine!” you chirped, trying not to panic.

“W-what happened here?”

“I made you takoyaki! …Sort of.”

You presented him with a plate of misshapen, slightly charred takoyaki.

They looked… afraid.

You looked hopeful.

He looked traumatized.

Still, he sat down and picked one up like it was made of glass.

He took a bite.

Chewed.

Paused.

“Darling… is it that bad?”

He shook his head.

“No. It’s… chewy. And tasty, my love. A heroic effort.”

You bit your lip. “You don’t have to finish it if you hate it.”

He looked at you—quiet, nervous, soft.

“You made it. For me. That’s… really nice. No one’s ever done that.”

And that night, he ate every last deformed takoyaki. No complaints.

Later, while you cuddled in bed watching some sappy movie, you whispered:

“Next time, I’ll order sushi. That way our kitchen survives.”

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips—

Which he quickly erased with a kiss.

“Next time, we’ll cook together, my love.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

unmanly behavior detected. stealing is not plus ultra. - kirishima (probably)

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ be kind, be cool. (do not copy, translate or feed to AI).

[itzariafiles]

HELLO YOUR WRITING IS INSANE????

- @deardaichi

HELLO?? THANK YOU SO MUCH !!😭💞

i’ll keep trying my best, hope you stick around ♡