strawberry-nugget

[strawberry-nugget]

meow

AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII- eEYEEEEEEEEE- WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUU OHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[strawberry-nugget]

I did promise a fast and furious Bakugo fic in July innit?

[strawberry-nugget]

Sorry for going MIA I believed a man again

[strawberry-nugget]

Beach day with Katsuki + grinding and cuddling with him underwater in a sea cave. 🤧🥰

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW-ish, MDNI, grinding underwater, loads of kissing, fluff, i might write smut for this

Unbeknownst to him, Katsuki is the funniest person in existence and today, every time you look at him, you giggle a little more.

Maybe it’s because he’s too huge for the pedal boat the two of you rented for the day, or maybe because he looks ghostly white from the amount of sunscreen on his face. Or it’s both, paired with his ridiculous long sleeved white shirt that he said is specifically for swimming, while he’s peddling in the middle of sea.

Then again, it’s the ‘one piece’ style hat as well.

You’re not even sure when the laughing started—maybe when you first caught sight of Katsuki trying to stuff his long legs under the tiny canopy of the pedal boat, scowling like it personally offended him. 

Or maybe it was when he insisted on applying a “proper layer” of SPF 100, smearing it across his nose and cheeks with the precision of a soldier applying war paint. Either way, it’s been downhill— rather, down current— since.

Because now, as he continues pedalling furiously across the open sea in his bright white rashguard, sleeves pulled all the way down despite the heat, face ghostly pale with the overzealous application of sunscreen, and his wide-brimmed fisherman hat flopping slightly with every gust of wind—you lose it again.

You giggle. Just a little at first.

He glances over his shoulder. “What.”

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. It’s quite literally everything.

It’s the way his knees keep hitting the bottom of the console, his arms comically too broad for the flimsy little steering lever. It’s the hat string tied snug under his chin like a five-year-old on a field trip. It’s the gruff, sun-drenched expression of a man trying to maintain dignity while slowly being baked alive by the sun and his own fashion choices.

“You’re laughin’ again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re lookin’ at me and laughin’, what the fuck is this funny?!”

You snort, trying to hide your grin behind your water bottle. “You’re funny.”

A new wave of laughter hits you and this time Katsuki shows his annoyance by painting it on his face. He squints his eyes and pouts, jaw almost slack to the side, nose scrunched “I’m careful of the sun. Im not funny”

“You are. You look like a diver ghost trying to cosplay as a sailor.”

He narrows his eyes at you, hat brim casting the perfect dramatic shadow across his sunscreen-smeared face. “You wanna swim back to shore?”

You burst out laughing, the kind that makes your stomach ache and tears well at the corners of your eyes. He glares, cheeks just barely turning pink beneath the layer of zinc.

But you see the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, the glint of embarrassment in his eyes and way past him, finally, the shore of the tiny piece of land in the middle of the shallow part of the ocean where there should be sea caves to explore.

“You’re so cute though Kats”

“Tch-whatever”

By some miracle—and Katsuki’s terrifying leg strength—you actually make it to the island without capsizing. It’s not much more than a slab of rock in the sea, scattered with tide pools and jagged inlets, but it’s quiet, glimmering under the sun like a secret.

Katsuki hops out first, water splashing around his calves. He grabs the edge of the boat and steadies it so you can step out—like he hasn’t just spent twenty minutes being heckled by you nonstop.

“Thanks,” you say innocently, taking his hand as he helps you onto the slippery rocks.

“‘Course,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to your feet like he’s trying not to look anywhere else. “Don’t slip, babe.”

The sun glints off the water, the air smells like brine and sunscreen, and everything feels a little too golden. You wander inland a few steps, the soles of your sandals squelching as you step over barnacles and shallow tide pools. Somewhere up ahead, under the overhang of rock, a dark slit in the stone opens up into a shallow cave.

“Oh,” you grin, turning over your shoulder. “That’s definitely swimmable.”

Katsuki squints at it. “Bet it’s cold as hell.”

“You scared?”

His brow twitches. “No.”

“I think you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He steps forward suddenly, casting a shadow over you, his hat flopping forward like an exclamation mark. “Say that again.”

You’re grinning, not backing down. “You’re scared.”

Without warning, he bends down and throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You shriek—startled, laughing, kicking gently at the air as he stalks toward the cave entrance with you dangling upside down.

“Katsuki! Don’t you dare—”

“Too late,” he growls, amused and smug, wading into the water. “Say I’m funny again.”

“You are—you’re the funniest man alive—Katsuki, seriously���!”

And then you’re dropped.

Not hard—just enough for your legs to splash into the cold seawater with a high-pitched yelp as he lets go of your thighs. You scramble up, soaked and squealing, water rushing around your waist as you shove at his chest. He just smirks, towering, smug as hell, droplets clinging to his lashes.

You splash him back, hard, both hands against the center of his chest. He barely budges, but the water does, sending a spray straight into his smug face.

“Asshole,” you mutter, squinting at him through the salt. “This shirt isn’t even for swimming.”

“Yes it is,” he fires back immediately, swiping water from his eyes. “It’s UV-protective.”

“It’s ugly-protective.”

Katsuki scoffs like he’s offended, but his grin gives him away. “You’re pushin’ it.”

“Or what? You’ll throw me back in?” You gesture to the waist-deep water, arms flung out. “Go ahead, I’m already soaked.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. You can hear the waves lapping gently against the cave wall behind him, the muffled echoes of water in stone. The cave’s mouth darkens the light just enough that the world feels cooler in here, more private. Your laughter settles into your skin like warmth, like the sun above.

Katsuki’s smile fades into something softer.

He doesn’t answer with words—just wades in closer. His hands find your hips under the water, fingers curling with the casual certainty of someone who knows he’s allowed to touch you like this. You blink up at him, water dripping down your temples, your hair sticking wet and cold to your cheeks.

You reach up and gently push wet bangs from his eyes—those sea-glinting, vermillion eyes that always look a little wild when he’s outside, untamed by four walls or mission structure. “You’ve got sunscreen on your eyebrows,” you murmur.

He rasps a laugh. “Don’t fuckin’ care.”

You lean in. Press your mouth to his in a kiss that tastes like salt and sun and the tinny sweetness of your water bottle. His lips are hot and dry and then not—they part, wet now, his breath low and uneven against your cheek as he leans down into you, both of you half-floating in the cool sea.

It’s unhurried. Lazy and warm and something else, too. Something that simmers right under the surface.

His hand slips down your back,  tracing the dip of your spine. The heat of his palm feels sharp against the coolness of your skin, and you shiver—but definitely not from the temperature of the water.

You tilt your head and kiss him again. Deeper this time. He makes a sound at the back of his throat, quiet and wrecked, like you’ve caught him off guard. His grip on you tightens—just slightly—and he walks you backwards until your hips hit the slippery rock ledge at the edge of the cave wall.

Water sloshes up, foams around your waist.

“Katsuki,” you breathe against his mouth.

He exhales, lips brushing yours as he kisses you again—slower now. Hands sliding up under the sides of your bottoms, knuckles grazing then the band of your bikini top. “Fuckin’—look at you,” he murmurs, forehead against yours. “Drippin’, laughin’ like that, makin’ fun of me…”

You grin lazily. “You liked it.”

“Did not.” He pouts

“You love it when I tease you.”

He leans in and kisses your jaw, your cheek, just beneath your ear where his breath makes your skin rise in goosebumps. “I like shuttin’ you up.”

“Mmm.” You tangle your fingers in his hair, damp and briny, push it back so you can see the flush rising on his cheeks. His hat is long gone, washed back into the sea like a tiny white flag of surrender, housing his silly UV protective shirt in it as well. For a second you chuckle at the thought.

He looks beautiful like this—messy and wet and glowing, skin ever so slightly kissed by the sun and heat and your hands.

“Then shut me up,” you whisper.

And oh well he does.

Not all at once—he’s too deliberate for that. His kisses turn slow again, wet and open-mouthed, tasting you like he’s letting the heat build in his chest before it bursts. His hand slips under your thigh, lifts your leg around his waist so he can press closer, even though you’re both still half-submerged in seawater. It doesn’t matter. Everything feels far away except the friction of his body and the way he holds you like he’s trying not to lose control in the middle of an Okinawa island.

It’s slow. It’s messy. And it’s summer—thick and golden and heavy in the air between you.

And when he finally pulls back, breathing hard, hands still curled around you like he might pull you under, you rest your forehead against his and smile through the salt on your lips. 

“You still look ridiculous,” you murmur before licking your lips “And you taste like sunscreen”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “But now you’re wet and clingin’ to me, so who really won here?”

You laugh, low and breathless. “Shut up.”

He kisses you again. And this time, you let the water take you both.

You don’t know how long you stay like that—held against him, half-kissing, half-laughing in the shadow of the cave—but at some point, the heat gives way to something quieter. Softer. The rush of saltwater settles around you like a warm hush, your limbs suspended, your thoughts weightless.

Katsuki’s arms stay locked around you, solid beneath the surface, palms smoothing over your back as if anchoring himself just as much as you. His thumb brushes slow circles against your spine, and your fingers stay curled in his hair, gently scraping at his scalp. You think he likes that, from the way his shoulders drop just a little, from the breath that stutters out of him like he’s finally letting go.

Your chest presses to his. Stomach to stomach, hips to hips. Nothing between you but warm seawater and soaked layers of fabric that stick in all the wrong places.

You shift, just slightly, adjusting your hold on his waist—but that’s all it takes for your pelvis to slot directly against his. You freeze.

So does he.

The contact is faint—filtered through your swimsuit, through his swim shorts, through the fluid drag of the water—but it’s unmistakably… there. Real. And close. His body is warm beneath yours in the cold water, legs braced wide, feet anchored to the rocky sea floor as if he knows the second he moves, he’ll give himself away.

You don’t move. Not yet. Your lips hover just beside his ear, and nearly trembling with a soft whine.

“Kats,” you murmur.

He makes a sound. Low, nearly voiceless—like a caught breath, or a confession too small to speak. His hands slide lower, splaying across your waist now, thumbs brushing your ribs as he tries—badly—not to shift against you.

He doesn’t want to let you know how hard he is from grinding against you underwater… But your thighs tighten around him.

You pull him closer, wrapping both legs around his hips with a lazy sort of slowness. The water makes it feel effortless, sensual in a way dry land never could. Skin glides over skin without resistance, your bodies suspended, pressed together in a floaty kind of weightlessness that feels too intimate for daylight.

Your forehead rests against his. “Feels nice like this,” you whisper, voice thick with heat.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, mouth parted like he forgot how to close it. But he’s blushing—bright and sharp across the top of his cheeks, even beneath the faint smudge of sunscreen. And not just there. It trails down his neck, creeping beneath his collarbones like warmth spreading from inside him out.

His hands tighten on your waist. “You’re not helpin’,” he grunts, voice rough and low.

“Helpin’ with what?” you tease, nudging your nose against his cheek. “I’m just swimmin’.”

“You’re—fuckin’—” He groans under his breath, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. “You’re grindin’ on me like that and sayin’ you’re swimmin’?”

“You didn’t say stop.”

“Didn’t say keep goin’.”

“Then stop me.”

He doesn’t—Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, his grip slips under your thighs, fingers digging in as he lifts you higher, tilts you just slightly until your core rubs right over and against his. The sensation is muted but unmistakable, heat blooming in your gut, your pulse syncing with the lazy roll of your hips. The water licks at your skin, cool in contrast to the fire rising in your stomach, and Katsuki watches you like he’s somewhere between wrecked and mesmerized.

Your lips find his again—slower this time. Deeper. Salt and sun and breath shared back and forth as you move against him, as the gentle waves lap at your sides like they’re urging you on.

“You feel good,” you murmur between kisses, and you feel him tense—just briefly—before relaxing into you again, letting the truth of your words melt him a little even if he’s hiding from the sun.

“So do you,” he grits out. “Too good.”

You smile into his mouth, pressing your forehead back to his. His hair’s wet, matted, dripping over his blond brows in messy clumps, and you push it away again with gentle, pruney fingers.

There’s a silence between you then, charged by the soft sound of water and lust. Like the sea itself has paused to let this moment happen and in it, you feel everything.

His heartbeat through his chest.

His breath on your cheek.

The twitch of restraint in his thighs.

The unmistakable swell of tension between your hips, straining against its own boundaries in the water.

“You gonna lose it if I keep doing this?” you whisper.

Katsuki exhales shakily. “Fuckin’ maybe.”

And god—you like that. The admission. The edge in it. How he wants to be good for you, even when his body’s fighting against it.

You kiss his neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Then maybe we save the rest for when we get back.”

“You’re so evil,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, lips pouty.

“You like it.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just kisses you again, deeper now, like he’s holding himself together with your mouth. Like if you just keep kissing, he might make it back to shore in one piece.

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

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[strawberry-nugget]

In which, you meet up with Tomura Shigaraki in an abandoned building after patrol and he fucks you against a wall like the good little hero you are. 😮‍💨🫶🏻

Pairing: Shigaraki x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, p in v sex, degradation, humiliation kink (kinda?), hero x villain relationship, creampie, unprotected sex, shigaraki being a freak lowkey (??) guilty pleasure sex, pwp

Secrets are saccharine.

At least that’s what your friend always told you. That secrets are sweeter when they’re well kept—mouth watering when you go back and forth on letting anyone know. The thrill. The rush. The utter shock of pleasure your friends give you when you finally voice the things you’ve kept. Secrets taste like nectar.

And to whom it may concern, secrets are carbs. They’re salt and sugar. They’re nicotine. A substance that makes you obsessed—wanting to know everyone’s truths, wanting to cradle the things that don’t concern you, or clamp your own between your teeth and take them to your grave. Whatever they are, secrets pull humans in. Your friend said they’re the most humane thing after sex.

But you know better.

Secrets are vile and predatory. They crawl into bed with you at night, shimmy your brain out of your skull, and plant their roots in your chest. They spread like fire—like old creaking wood being nailed into the floor of a beautiful home, just to hide the rot underneath. The hide that’s really beneath you, the things you can’t say. Your secret, the one you’ve kept safe for so long—you made sure there was no sooner or later in the quarry of when you’d be found out.

You won’t.

The meeting place changes each time, naturally. A warehouse near the docks. A gutted school. Now, this to-be-renovated apartment complex, hollowed out like a ribcage. The disastrous fate of being seen entering a building with a criminal hasn’t even left your mind— it could ruin you—but the thrill of snooping around like this, folding yourself and your ethics like origami, sends shivers down your spine.

Your lip trembles. Ankles clashing. Your feet are loud when they shouldn’t be. The mere thought of Shigaraki Tomura waiting in a dark corner behind the jagged teeth of broken glass is enough to get your ribs aching—nerve endings pinched every time your mind replays his face.

You step through the silence like it’s alive. Broken glass underfoot answers for you. You look for the familiar tint of that white-ish blue topaz—his hair, always messy, always untamed. It peeks out from beneath his hood like a tell, and your breath hitches.

He’s already watching you.

“You’re late,” he mutters. His voice barely makes it through the sounds of comatose debris, but you hear it like it was said inside your mouth.

“My shift ran late.”

“Ever the hero.” He scoffs, turning his head like it offends him to look at you.

You gulp. There’s something in you that wants to walk away, to treat this like a mistake you haven’t made yet. But you don’t. You bite the inside of your cheek, tongue thick in your mouth as you stand there like an idiot waiting for him to do something, say something, start something.

He doesn’t.

So you stomp—on purpose, like a tantrum, like you can’t pretend you’re better than this—and walk right up to him, pressing your forehead to his like you’re about to start a fight.

But your mouth crashes into his instead.

There’s no point holding back. The reason you’re both here has already been talked to death. This thing—this itch in your blood—it’s kept you up at night, left you wrecked in the shower with your hand between your legs and your name nowhere on your tongue. His name however, is a different story.

And if anyone saw this? Saw you, fresh off patrol, lips locked with Tomura’s? You’d be imprisoned. License revoked. Stripped of your title. Labeled a traitor. They’d look down on you even in your cell.

But the way he kisses you back, it shreds all your logic into silk ribbons. His gloved hand grabs your collar, yanking you close. His teeth catch your bottom lip like a snare.

And you? You’re split apart on it.

Because it feels good. Too good.

Because he kisses like someone who doesn’t get kissed. Who doesn’t get touched. Like it’s a threat and a promise all at once.

Your hands, shaky but hungry, find the hem of his hoodie. You curl your fingers underneath, feel the heat of his skin just above his waistband. His hips twitch forward when you touch him, and a noise gets caught in his throat—frustrated and soft.

“Still dressed like a good little soldier,” he breathes against your jaw, dragging a hand down your thigh, over your belt.

“Still playing criminal in a hoodie,” you snap back, even as your breath stutters when his fingers hook into the waistband of your hero suit, dragging it down an inch—just enough for the cool air to kiss your hip bone.

He groans, the sound low and near a growl. “You talk too much.”

You smile against his mouth, biting his lower lip this time. “You like it.”

His grip tightens.

Glass crunches as he presses you back, pinning you to a half-broken pillar. Your thighs part for him instinctively, traitorously. You shouldn’t be like this—you shouldn’t want this.

But your hands are already under his hoodie, nails dragging down the ridges of his scarred back. Your hero gloves fall to the floor. His mouth is on your neck now, tongue hot and slow, teeth grazing the place no one’s supposed to touch.

You gasp. He groans again, this time less controlled. His hips press into yours like a threat, like he’s daring you to stop him. To be the better person.

But you’re not.

Not here. Not anymore.

And when he grinds against you—slow, hard, through the layers of your uniform like he doesn’t care how long it takes—you start to think secrets might really be sweeter than sin.

His hands are on your waist, gloved and rough, but hungry. They dip under the hem of your suit like he’s tearing open a present he doesn’t deserve—fingers tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing it for when you’re gone.

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes his thigh between your legs, and your hips betray you—grinding down on him with aching need. The friction sends a shock through your spine.

“That desperate for it?” he whispers into your neck, voice hot and broken. “You risked everything for this?”

You can’t answer

Your fingers are already working at his belt like your body’s on autopilot—like your mind checked out five minutes ago and left your hands to handle the sinning.

He watches you with that glassy, obsessive stare. The kind of look that makes you feel small and desired at the same time. His cock twitches against your palm when you finally free him from the layers—thick and flushed, already hard, already leaking at the tip like he’s been waiting all day for this.

You stroke him once—slow and tight—and he curses under his breath, grabbing your wrist.

“Don’t fucking tease me.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips parted. “Then shut up and let me have it.”

And he does.

He turns you around with a growl, bending you over the half-demolished windowsill. Your palms slap against the concrete, fingers digging into dust. Your hero suit is halfway off, tangled around your thighs, your cunt already wet and aching and on display. You hear him spit into his hand. Then feel him—hot, solid—rubbing the head of his cock between your folds, coating himself in everything you shouldn’t be giving him.

Your breath catches. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Not even a prayer.

He pushes in slow. Thick. Relentless. The stretch makes your eyes flutter, hips bucking back instinctively, chasing the burn. He groans behind you, low and guttural.

“Fuck. You—” he cuts himself off, grabbing your hips like he’s anchoring himself to reality. “You’re so fucking wet f’ me.”

“Shut up,” you whisper. It’s not anger—it’s shame, it’s desperation, it’s don’t ruin it.

But he starts to thrust, slow at first, then harder, deeper—like he’s trying to bury the whole goddamn war inside you. Your body jolts forward with every thrust, the windowsill scraping against your thighs, your cheek pressed to concrete. Every drag of his cock feels like fire and ice and something close to the thrill of the destruction of his quirk —all at once.

Your eyes roll back.

You’re making sounds you can’t swallow. Gasps and moans and little broken pieces of who you used to be. He leans over your back, lips at your ear.

“This what you wanted, sweetheart?” he rasps. “To be ruined by a villain?”

You nod, throat dry, eyes teary. “Harder.”

He growls and slams into you—hard enough the sound echoes off the walls. The slap of skin on skin is filthy. So is the wet slick every time he pulls out and thrusts back in. You’re clenching around him like your body knows he doesn’t belong there and doesn’t care.

One hand leaves your hip. Moves to your front.

Fingers—gloved, unforgiving—find your clit and rub tight, fast circles that make your knees buckle.

He fucks you like the world’s already ended.

Like you don’t wear that suit. Like you don’t save people. Like he hasn’t watched you on the news with your lips pressed into a grim line, pretending to be righteous while your thighs squeeze together behind the podium.

The derelict building groans around you. The walls are bowing from age, glass shards shimmer on the floor like teeth, and the air smells like rust, old cigarettes, and something sickly sweet—like rot pretending to be candy.

His hips slam against your ass, relentless, each thrust pushing you forward against the cold windowsill. You brace yourself on your forearms, knuckles white. There’s nothing soft about this. He fucks you through guilt, through concrete dust, through the kind of shame you’ll never be able to wash off.

“Listen to you,” he growls, voice raw, forehead pressed to your spine as his cock drives in again. “Fucking soaked for a killer. Getting off on the sound of glass breaking while I ruin you.”

You gasp, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.

“Tell me what the Commission would say if they saw you like this,” he snarls, one hand gripping your jaw and twisting your head just enough for your cheek to scrape the brick. “What would they call you, huh? Little hero? Sweetheart? Or just a fucking traitor?”

His other hand is between your legs again, middle finger working tight, brutal circles on your clit—matching the pace of his cock pounding into you from behind. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You’re shaking. You’re so close again you can barely breathe.

“That’s it,” he hisses into your ear, fucking you harder now, losing rhythm in the filth of it. “I can feel it. You’re gonna cum all over me like a goddamn whore, aren’t you? After everything? After arresting villains like me last week—you’re still fucking coming for me.”

Your voice catches in your throat. “Tomura—”

“Say it again.”

His voice is low. Dangerous. The kind of voice that crawls under your skin and rewires the good parts of you.

You moan his name again, louder this time, fucked out and shaking. He slams into you deep and stays there, his cock twitching inside you as he grits out a curse and spills himself with a low, guttural groan. The warmth floods you, wrong and thick and claiming.

But he doesn’t pull out.

Not right away.

He lets it sit there—lets the stretch and the fullness and the mess of it all marinate as he leans over you, breath ragged, body pressed close.

“Hope you feel it dripping out of you when you put that suit back on,” he mutters against your ear. “Let it ruin your patrol.”

You shudder, cunt still fluttering around him as the last pulses of orgasm fade into tremors.

“Tell me,” he murmurs after a beat, hand still between your thighs, two fingers lazily rubbing at your overstimulated clit. “When you hug people after saving them… do your hands still shake? Knowing you let me fuck you like that?”

You whimper, body spasming, legs unsteady beneath you.

He finally pulls out, slow and wet and unforgiving. You feel it drip—down your thighs, onto the concrete. You don’t even move to fix your suit. You just breathe.

Shigaraki zips himself up, but he doesn’t look away. He just watches you from the shadows—half-lit in the glow of a broken streetlamp bleeding through the shattered glass.

“You’ll come back,” he says quietly, almost like it’s a fact. Not a threat. Not a plea.

Just truth. And he’s right.

Because even as you pull your suit up with shaking fingers, even as shame slams into your chest like a sledgehammer, even as your comm crackles to life with your sidekick’s voice searching for you on an open frequency—you know this wasn’t the last time.

You know the rot is in you now, too. It has been for a long time.

And you hope that later, during the war, you're not placed on the Shigaraki battlefield.

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

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[strawberry-nugget]

I'm back with more delicious Situationship! Kirishima smut. This time you do it on Bakugo's couch in the middle of the day. As always this is in universe as most of my Kirishima fics/ drabbles

Pairing: Kirishima x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, p in v sex, making it fit, Kirishima has a big dick like always, fingering (f! receiving) Kirishima talking us through it, praise, creampies, unprotected sex. All characters are 20+

Would a normal person consider it acceptable to be filled to the brim—eyes stinging with tears—while riding their situationship’s out-of-this-world dick, straddled in his lap on his best friend’s couch?

No. Obviously not.

Would you?

...Apparently, yes. Very much yes.

You and Eijiro have been house- and dog-sitting for Bakugo and his girlfriend while they take a rare vacation to the Okinawa Islands—much-needed time off, according to the frantic way she packed. With no one else available, you both volunteered. It’s been uneventful, sweet, even. You’ve spent your days feeding their excitable corgi, Ichigo, who’s now fast asleep in the bedroom, and your nights curled up on their couch with whatever’s on TV and a juice box each, pretending things between you are casual.

And casual they would be, had you been napping. You definitely should be napping.

The original plan was to go for a run with Ichigo tonight, so a nap should have been crucial to save some energy.

But Eijiro is a menace – especially when you’re watching a movie with anything sexual in it. Everything riles him up normally, even watching two people kiss on the big screen, but the movie you’re watching now has the longest sex scene you’ve ever seen in cinematic history and frankly? You’d be lying if you said you aren’t a little horny too just by watching. And so, dazed by the soft heat of mid June and the sun shining a little too warm through the white curtains, you don’t mind how Eijiro’s pointer finger is rubbing firm, absentminded circles on your clit.

A second ago, his palm had been resting innocently on your thigh—warm, wide, calloused—until it wasn’t. Until his fingers started drawing soft shapes just under the hem of your loose and flimsy pajama shorts. Until you leaned into him with a knowing little sigh, and he grinned against your temple like the world’s most patient sinner.

That’s how it always starts.

You think you’re stronger than this. Think you can just finish the movie, giggle through the tension, maybe tease him later when you’re both tucked under the sheets in Bakugo’s impossibly clean guest bedroom. Like this would be the most considerate thing to do in your situation.

But then his voice drops, barely above a whisper, finger still firmly teasing over your clit.

“You want it, don’t you?”

Eijiro says it, but in that cocky, performative way. He says it like he already knows. Like he’s seen the flush bloom across your chest before you even realize it’s there, just when a gasp shakes deeply in your bones.

Your breath stutters. He feels it—where your back brushes his chest, where your thighs twitch in his lap, where your slick is already soaking through the stupid thin fabric between you.

“You’re already throbbing,” he says, not to tease, but to marvel. Like he’s genuinely in awe of how fast you give in for him. How easy it is to break you open with just one finger and a quiet voice. “Haven’t even kissed you yet, baby.”

He turns his head, presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. It lingers. Like he’s thinking about how far he can take this without ever moving you from your spot on the couch. And you’re thinking about how far you’ll let him.

The movie is still rolling behind your half-lidded eyes, soft piano music bleeding into the room. You feel far away from it. Far away from everything except his fingers on your clit and the warm noon sun, licking at your skin past the soft hum of the A/C.

You let your legs fall wider on instinct. Let the back of your head drop against Eijiro’s collar bones as your hips tilt forward, wordlessly chasing more friction. And Eijiro—sweet, depraved Eijiro—just hums like it’s the greatest compliment you could’ve given him.

"Want me to touch you properly?"

You nod, already dizzy.

But he taps your thigh once with his free hand, cocking an eyebrow. Voice ever so quiet when he says: "Use your words, pretty."

Gosh. He always makes you ask for it. Makes you give it to him sweet and slow and whole—even when you’re dripping and needy and about to cry from how bad you want him.

“Please,” you whisper, voice barely hanging on. “I need you.”

He grins like that’s what he’s been waiting to hear. Pulls his hand back just long enough to shove your shorts to the side, fingers dragging your soaked panties with them. They don’t make it far. He wants you messy. Bare. Right where he can watch you lose it for him.

He hisses, like clothes hurt him as he tries to tilt you with his hips, clothed cock bulging in his basketball shorts underneath you. His fingers trace across your soaked slit, catching some sleek from your entrance and bringing it to your clit, flicking it with the tips of his fingers in a tentative ticking motion. You shudder in response, past the moan he lets out in the crook of your neck, followed by a tender peck of his lips on your skin.

Then he slides one finger in at once, easy and slow, and you cry out, half-muffled by the way your head falls against his shoulder.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, voice breathy, reverent. “Already so fucking wet. Fuck.”

He fucks his finger into you, slowly, his bulky thumb rubbing parallels on your clit. It’s not even rough, not at all. It’s quiet, controlled, the only messy thing about it is how his thumb is trying to push back the hood of your clit to get that reaction he knows too well that he can draw out.

When he does so, your spongy walls tighten around him, gushing a new wave of sleekness. Eijiro is so content with how messy this is. His eyes are dazzed, star crossed and all he can actually think about is how messy your pussy lips feel on his fingers as he’s touching you, rubbing you, stirring your insides up.

Honestly, he could just cum on the spot by just the thought of it, but he reminds himself he needs to prep you, and if you come now, then it’ll just be easier for him to slide inside you.

It doesn’t help that the two of you barely have sex– he’s too scared that he’s going to hurt you just by his size and it takes you ages to let loose around him and enjoy yourself. He wishes things were different and that he and you could both change, but this isn’t a notion for this exact moment. He’s not a buzzkill. 

“Can i add one more?” he hums against your neck and you shriek

“it’ll hurt!” you admit, but then you feel his dick throbbing against your lower back and you’re reminded of what’s to come if you’re not preped enough “k-kay Eijiro, just- just do it slow, please”

“of course” he says, kissing the skin under your ear “i would never hurt you, sweetness”

He means it. You know he does. It’s stitched into the way he moves—careful and slow, like your body is some sacred thing he’s been entrusted with, like every slick sound between your legs is a hymn only he gets to hear.

So when he eases the second finger in, slow and steady, watching from above at your face for every flicker of discomfort, you grip onto his arms like you’re holding on for dear life.

"That’s it," he whispers, like he’s coaxing you through a dream. His bicep flexes under your palm as he adjusts the angle of his wrist, sliding in deeper. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. Feels okay?”

You nod. Your breath catches. Your hips twitch in his lap as he starts to move again—really move now—scissoring his fingers just enough to stretch you open while his thumb circles your clit in slow, aching spirals. Your hips are locking, jerking forward and up and he’s doing his best to keep up with your twitching.

"F-fuck—Eiji—"

He presses his forehead to yours from your side, lips parted like he wants to swallow every sound you make. “I know, I know. Just a little more, okay? You’re so tight, so fucking good—gonna take me so well, I promise.”

You whimper, helpless against the building heat, the fullness, the feeling of him working you open like you’re something precious. It’s not just arousal—it’s intimacy so thick you can’t breathe through it. The weight of being wanted like this, known like this. 

And oh– the absolutely squelching sounds your cunt makes every time he scissors his fingers. You’re so unrealistically wet and only he can bring that out of you. 

Eijiro groans softly when you clench again, when you gasp and rock your hips down, chasing something you can’t name yet.

“That's it,” he murmurs, voice low and breaking. “Get me all messy. Want you to cum on my fingers. You need it, right, sweetheart? Wanna feel good for me?”

You nod too quickly, voice caught in your throat. The raspiness in his voice is doing bad, horrible things to you. Your stomach is tied into a knot, your lower abdomen burns, your back is adorned with painful shivers.

His fingers speed up—not rough, never rough, just deeper, firmer, more sure of you. And you swear your soul leaves your body when he shifts his thumb again, just the tiniest adjustment, right over that soft, aching spot that makes you keen.

“If you give me one right now i’ll slide in easier babe”

You grind down onto his lap without thinking, chasing it, overwhelmed, lost in it. His fingers curl deep inside you, finding the spot he knows by muscle memory, and your vision goes white around the edges.

“Eijiro—!”

“There you go,” he pants, his own hips twitching beneath you. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Fuckin’ let go, let me feel it—”

Your body shakes.

It hits you hard—flooding you in heat, crashing through you in waves—and you moan like it’s being torn out of your chest, nails digging into his arms, then his thighs, eyes fluttering shut as you soak his hand with your release.

Eijiro is still whispering praise, still holding you through it, even as you slump forward against him, boneless and burning. Underneath you, his cock twitches so violently it makes your stomach flip.

And the worst part? The part that makes your chest ache?

He’s talked you through such an intense orgasm and you haven’t even kissed yet.

In desperate need for each other's lips, you try to shift positions, while clothes fly everywhere– You don’t even think about the angry Bakugo who’s going to find your bra underneath the couch days later when he cleans up. No. You lurch onto Kirishma, shirtless now, after getting him out of his underwear too, wrapping your arms around his neck, straddling his lap and stopping just before his face.

Your lips brush. So tenderly, like a harsh kiss could ruin this moment.

You shift in his lap, heart thudding too hard in your chest to ignore. The space between your bodies is next to nothing now, flushed skin against skin, the tips of your breasts brushing his chest as you wrap your arms around his neck. You’re still panting, still slick and twitching from your orgasm, but the need hasn’t gone anywhere—it’s changed shape, deepened, thickened, curled low in your stomach like a second heartbeat.

Eijiro’s hands settle on your hips, big and reverent, grounding you. His thumbs stroke soothing circles into the soft parts of your waist as his eyes search yours.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, voice gentled by nerves and restraint. “We don’t—have to. I know how hard it is for you sometimes.”

You lean forward until your forehead presses against his. Your lashes flutter. “I want you.”

“But—”

“I want all of you,” you whisper, mouth barely moving, breath caught on the words. “Just go slow. Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lifts you slightly, just enough to grab himself—his cock flushed and heavy, leaking at the tip, and so thick it almost makes you hesitate. You’ve seen it before. Felt it. Tasted it. But nothing ever prepares you for the moment he tries to fit inside you.

Especially not like this—raw and tender and trembling in his lap, with your bodies strung so tight you might snap.

“Okay, baby,” he murmurs, lining himself up. “Gonna take care of you. Just—breathe.”

And you do. You hold your breath as the head presses against your entrance, and you swear you can already feel the resistance—how tight you are, how your body has to make room for him.

He pushes forward, barely a nudge, and you gasp—your whole body tensing as the stretch sears up your spine.

“Just the tip for now” he says “tell me when to move”

You grunt in response, crazed out from the initial stretch and the thought that your hips have nowhere to go but against him. Still you wiggle your ass just a tad, enough for his tip to stir inside you slightly. It’s still too much though.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, coaxing you through it like it’s a dream he doesn’t want to end. His thumb circles your clit now in slow, aching spirals while his cock works you open. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. Feels okay?”

You nod, chest rising sharply. Your hips twitch in his lap as he keeps moving, each motion careful but deliberate—controlled strength, the kind that leaves you aching and open.

“Eijiro,” you whisper, unsure if it’s a plea or a warning. Your body is slick and ready, but your mind can’t fathom how he’ll fit.

He slows his touch, gaze dark and full of heat and worry. “We don’t have to. Not if it hurts, baby.”

But you shake your head and pull him in, peck his lips just once as you pull off of him. “I want you. Just—slow. Please.”

His breath stutters. “Okay, okay. I’ll take care of you. Promise.”

You lift your hips as he lines himself up again—gripping the base of his cock and rubbing the head against your entrance, collecting your slick. And then he nudges forward—barely—and your whole body tightens around him, breath caught in your throat.

“Shit,” he groans, voice strained. “You’re so tight. So fuckin’ wet—god, I can feel how hard you came.”

You whimper, forehead against his, trembling with every slow, shallow push. This time it’s halfway in.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You’re doing so good—so good. You’re just—fuck, you’re so tight around me—”

Your nails dig into his shoulder blades. Your legs tremble and shake on either side of his hips. Inch by slow inch, he works himself in, pausing every time your breath catches, every time you flinch, every time you whimper against the side of his neck.

It’s excruciatingly slow. Hot. Full. A pressure that borders on pain but flirts dangerously with pleasure, makes your thighs quake and your lashes flutter and your cunt flutter around him.

“Almost there,” he says, groaning low in his throat like it physically hurts to hold back. “You’re doing so fucking good for me, baby. Just—little more, yeah? You can take it. I’ve got you.”

Your jaw slackens, and a soft whimper escapes you. The sensation of him inside you feels unreal.

“I know,” he whispers, brushing a kiss against your cheekbone. “You’re doing so good. Let me in, baby, nice and slow…”

It’s overwhelming. The stretch is deep, relentless, and hot—like you’re being split open with care, molded around him inch by inch. You cling tighter to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you rock your hips ever so slightly to help ease the burn. It stings, but it’s a good sting—one that pulses in your lower belly, that tightens your thighs around him.

“I-It’s a lot,” you gasp, biting down on a moan. “You’re so—fuck, Eijiro—”

“I know, I know,” he pants, his own voice shaking as he watches your face. “Almost there. Just a little more. You’re taking me so well. Can i take it out one more time?”

Your breath catches. He’s still not fully inside. You can feel how thick he is, how much more there is to go, and it makes your cunt flutter around him, trying to suck him in even as your body struggles to stretch enough.

He grits his teeth. “Jesus, baby—you’re gripping me so tight.”

His hands tremble slightly as he shifts his hips forward, sliding in another inch—deeper, heavier—and your walls flutter again, clenching around him on instinct.

You sob a breath out, forehead pressed to his as your body adjusts. Your legs are shaking, your lower belly clenching, your cunt absolutely gushing around him. And the way he’s watching you—eyes wide, like you’re some miracle he doesn’t deserve—makes it even worse.

“Wanna kiss you,” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please…”

Eijiro groans, almost brokenly, and finally leans in—his mouth meets yours with a softness that contradicts how hard he’s pulsing inside you. It’s a kiss soaked in longing, open-mouthed and wet, tongues slow and searching. You moan into it, distracted from the ache of the stretch by the heat of his lips, the way he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

Finally, true to his words, he pulls out again, his chest hitching as your slit still kisses his tip and lets your bodies tend to do the work. He slides back in with such whimsical ease, that a lamp forms in his throat. He wants you so bad. Like this, when the sun burns through cement jungles outside the window and white curtains bathe you in beige light.

Tears pool in your eyes from the stretch, from the feeling of being opened, from the way his cock presses deep and full and relentless against your soft, aching walls. Every vein and curve of him kisses your insides with no room for air to get trapped in.

You’re panting. He’s trembling. And for a long, aching second, you don’t move. You just exist like that—joined, stretched, holding each other through it.

Then his hands slide up your back. Gentle. “You okay?” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, lips ghosting the corner of your mouth.

You nod—barely. “It’s big. You’re big. But it feels… good. Just full.”

“Too full?” he asks, lips brushing your jaw, voice low and thick with need and concern.

“No,” you whisper, “just… need a minute.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t thrust. Just holds you, lets you adjust. Kisses your temple. Rubs your back. Stares at you like he’s not inside you almost all the way to the hilt. Like he doesn’t secretly enjoy watching you split yourself open for him.

And when you finally roll your hips—just a little, just enough to feel that stretch anew—he groans like he’s being broken open too.

He captures your lips in a final act of aid and then—He finally bottoms out. 

When your hips meet his again, flush and he’s fully sheathed inside you—it feels like a victory. Like your body wasn’t made for anything else but this. But him. You feel him everywhere. Deep in your gut. In your throat. In your spine.

“Eiji” You pull back from the kiss, eyes dazed, and whisper, “You’re all the way in…”

His voice is a condescending  wreck. “Fuck, I know. Baby, you’re—holy shit—you’re so perfect.”

You don’t move at first. Neither does he. You just breathe into each other, foreheads pressed together, hearts thundering like the two of you have just survived something bigger than yourselves.

“You okay?” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Can i move?”

You nod. Barely. “Yeah. It’s—so much. But I want it.”

That’s all he needs. His hand skims up your spine, grounding you, while his hips roll forward just enough for you to feel the shift of him inside. It’s a single inch, and it makes you gasp—tight, shaky, like the breath has been knocked from your lungs.

He stills immediately.

“Too much again?” he asks, voice low and thick with restraint.

“No,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

So he does it again. Another small roll of his hips, just enough to start a rhythm. The drag of him inside you—slow and steady—is intense, your cunt stretched to the limit around his girth. You can feel every inch, every vein, every twitch of him pulsing inside you.

Your arms wind tighter around his neck, legs locked at his waist, clinging to him like the pressure of his body is the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

“Fuck,” you whisper, forehead pressed against his temple now. “You’re so big, Eijiro… I can feel you everywhere—”

His head drops to your shoulder, and he groans, ragged and low. “God, you’re fucking perfect. Can’t believe I get to be inside you like this again.”

You hate how he says it, like he misses you all the time, like he’s going to change it, just by saying the words, but, fine– you’ll ignore the angsty burn in your chest for now. You literally have bigger things to focus on at this very moment.

It simply has been a while since the two of you did this, or since you had sex in general, but you tell yourself you’ll be fine, once the big stretch is done, you’ll fuck like there’s no tomorrow, here, in his arms, on Bakugo’s couch.

It's true, when he says he doesn’t want to hurt you, he means it—down to his bones. Every movement is reverent, careful. His thrusts are shallow at first, just enough to coax your body into accepting him. He doesn't want to hurt you. All he wants is to feel you open around him, get used to him, melt into him.

He kisses your neck again—softly, repeatedly—like his mouth is trying to tell your skin what the tender half thrusts of his cock can’t say out loud.

“Doing so good,” he murmurs. “So good for me, baby.”

You moan, softer now, a little less desperate—more surrendered. The pain starts to fade, replaced by something else—fullness that doesn't hurt but stretches you open in a way that makes your toes curl. That makes your eyes sting.

And when he finally pulls out just a little more, then pushes back in, deeper this time. Your walls flutter around him, wet and wanting, and your hips twitch down on instinct.

“Fuck, sweetheart—” he hisses through his teeth. “You’re gonna make me lose it if you do that again.”

You bite your lip and whimper, already aching for more, for him to move faster, harder. But he shakes his head, making you groan in disappointment when your request isn’t met with.

“Not yet,” he pants, kissing your shoulder, your jaw. “Let me take care of you. Wanna feel all of you first.”

He slows it back down—grinds into you with slow, heavy rolls of his hips that make your whole body quake, make your arms shake where they’re wrapped around him. Every thrust presses deep, presses true, filling you so thoroughly it aches somewhere high inside your stomach.

The air between you is hot, humid, thick with your mingled breaths, only broken by an occasional, coolingA/C breeze, and the wet sounds of your cunt taking him over and over. Skin slapping on sweaty skin.

Eijiro keeps mumbling something similar to ‘take it’, and even if it’s too slurred, too unclear and spoken against your skin, it makes your lower abdomen irk with lust, want.

You whimper something incoherent—maybe his name, maybe a plea—and his mouth finds yours again, this time more desperate, more hungry. He kisses you like he’s drowning in you, like he needs the taste of your mouth to survive the stretch of your body around his cock. You tighten around him again, and his hips jerk, falter. His breath stutters hard into your mouth.

“Baby,” he groans. “Don’t—don’t clench like that or I’m not gonna last…”

You whisper against his lips, drunk on the feel of him, “Don’t care. Want you to cum. Want to feel it.”

And the growl that rumbles from his chest feral and broken makes your whole body seize.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands gripping your waist now as he begins to thrust with a little more force, more need, more control over you, the drag and push of him still careful, but no longer just for your sake. It’s for his too. Because he’s so fucking close.

You feel so good around him, soft and hot and just perfect. Like every single ridge of your walls was made to accommodate him raw, just like this.

And he’s already unraveling, you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters. Just slightly, just enough to betray how close he is. His hands tremble on your hips, dragging you down to meet each thrust with growing desperation. You kiss him then and there, as he rocks you against him. A tender, too soft and feathery thing, that's no tongue and brashness, but all love and the unspoken fact of how well his lips fit against yours.

“God—fuck, baby, I can’t—” he gasps, burying his face in your neck again, to hide his blush. “You feel too good, I’m not gonna last…”

You roll your hips instinctively, chasing it now, grinding into him with wet, filthy little sounds between your bodies. 

“Then don’t,” you whisper, kissing the shell of his ear, voice all honey. “Wanna feel you cum inside me. Wanna be full of you Eiji…”

He lets out a strangled noise; somewhere between a sob and a moan and suddenly it’s all teeth and tongue, a frantic kiss, his lips crashing into yours as he thrusts deep, deeper, hips stuttering as your walls flutter and suck him in. You break the kiss with a cry, clinging to him like you’re falling.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You clench around him, deliberately this time, pulsing tight and hot, and that’s all it takes. His whole body locks up, muscles taut as a bowstring, a raw, guttural groan ripped from his chest as he spills inside you. His hips jerk with each wave of it, and you feel it—thick, hot, endless—filling you, pulsing deep in your core.

It doesn’t stop there.

You whimper at the sensation, overstimulated already, and your own orgasm hits like a shiver down your spine—sharp, sudden, making your limbs tremble. Your nails dig into his back as your cunt clenches around him again and again, milking every drop. You’re not even sure who’s shaking more. 

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Just breathing. Just trembling. His forehead against yours, sweat-slick skin sticking together, your walls still twitching around the softening heat of him.

He hasn't pulled out yet. He doesn’t move enough to make you horny and aching again.

Eijiro lets his arms cradle you close, by the waist like he’s afraid to speak his mind. And then, softly—brokenly—he takes the chance and whispers it.

“I missed you.”

The words fall against your mouth, barely there, but they land like a stone in your chest and fall into the pit of your stomach like a burning comet.

You don’t answer, you don’t know how. You just kiss him again. Slow. Deep. Tasting the ache on his tongue.

Because you missed him too. Even if you’ll never say it. Even if you two were only meant to house sit for Bakugo and his girlfriend for today.

“You didn’t come!” He says, more lighthearted this time, seeing you won’t respond to his previous statement. “Let me change that, want you to come on my cock”

By the way this takes place a year before the events of get him back!

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

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/enchanthings

[strawberry-nugget]

◦˚~ MAROON DIVIDERS ~˚◦

Requested by: anonymous Info: these were all made by me. please reblog/like if use!

[strawberry-nugget]

I had read a fic like this AGES ago, I’ll link it if I happen to find it!

soo ik there’s a lot of fics with bakugou as a boxer which is fun to read but I just had a thought… An au with “boxer bakugou” and a pro wrestler kirishima whose his best friend👀 🫣

personally I would literally read anything with kirishima as a pro wrestler cuz something about that seems to fit (and maybe he does other things such as acting like a john cena? idk man i don’t know much about wrestling)

Like imagine he’s super intimidating and his like persona is super mean or smthing in the ring but once he’s off he’s super sweet and kind 🥹💖

If anyone out there can hear my plea… please please please sabrina carpenter style make a fic or short drabble and TAG MEEEE 😭😭

[strawberry-nugget]

i love ur kirishima brainrot 😋😋😋

Stoooooop ion PLAYYYY about Kirishima im so in love with this libra man

[strawberry-nugget]

I have read 1 (One) of your works (CK with Katsuki) and I am In Love With You. I hope your crops are watered, your skin is clear, and your pillow is cool

😭thank you so much. Stay tuned for more works to fall in love even more.

I could use a pillow thats always cool

[strawberry-nugget]

I haven’t replied to anything, sorry! I realised today i have burnt myself out from too much work and I feel sick

(Also im on Kirishima brainrot LMAO)

[strawberry-nugget]

I need it so bad rn Yall dont get it

Kirishima out your hands on me asap challenge

[strawberry-nugget]

Kirishima put your hands on me asap challenge

[strawberry-nugget]

Fortunately, I saw this first thing in the morning when I opened my eyes and I lived the full experience

THIS WAS AMAZING!

Quiet Morning

Timeskip | Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Reader

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Its one of those rare mornings where Bakugou doesn’t have a single obligation—no mission, no patrol, not even a damn phone call. The sun’s barely peeking through the half-open blinds, casting long golden stripes across the bed, and you’re still curled beneath the sheets, half-asleep.

He’s awake. And he’s already moving.

You stir faintly as his weight shifts on the mattress. There’s no rush in the way his fingers trail down your bare thighs—just slow, reverent touches. At some point during the night, your sleep shorts had slipped low on your hips. He helps them off entirely now, careful not to wake you too much. Your panties? Gone. You don’t remember him removing them, but they’re somewhere on the floor.

He settles between your legs like he belongs there. Like this is exactly where he wants to spend his entire morning.

And then… he begins.

It starts with soft kisses along your inner thigh—lazy, warm, and lingering. He inhales like your scent is grounding him. There’s no teasing today. No games. His mouth meets your folds in one slow, wet press.

His tongue moves slowly at first. Tasting. Worshiping. He groans softly into you, mouth sealing over your clit, drawing soft, gentle circles that make your legs twitch in the sheets.

Still, no words. No dirty talk. Not even from you.

Just the quiet sound of your breath catching. The subtle hitch of your inhale. The sleepy moan that slips past your lips like a secret.

One thick finger sinks into you, moving in time with the slow, steady pulse of his tongue. His other hand drags across your waist—warm and grounding—before curling over your breast. His thumb brushes lazily across your nipple as he groans again, low and deep, not from need, but from devotion.

Drool slips down his chin. He doesn’t care.

His eyes flicker open often, even as they fall shut in concentration. Always looking back up at you. Watching the way your face shifts—watching you melt.

You cum with a soft cry, thighs trembling against his ears. But he doesn’t stop. He moans into you like it’s his reward. Keeps sucking—gentle, relentless, fingers curling up inside you perfectly.

You try to push him away, “Katsuki—stop”. Whimpering now, squirming with the heat of oversensitivity. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging weakly.

But Bakugou grabs your thighs and drags you back down onto his mouth. Pinned.

You’re overstimulated, gasping, twitching under him—and he’s eating like it’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner all in one. He never stops watching you. Watching the way you fall apart.

Eventually, finally, he pulls away. His chin slick. His lips flushed. And you? You’re a mess of shallow breath and shaking limbs. But he’s not done.

He kisses his way back up your body. Soft, reverent presses to your thigh, your stomach, your chest. Until his lips meet yours—slow, tasting you through your own kiss. He presses the thick head of his cock against your soaked entrance, dragging it through your folds, teasing—but not teasing you. Teasing himself. Because his self-control is just that strong.

He slides in slow. Inch by inch. The stretch of him making your mouth fall open, though no sound comes out. It’s deep—so deep—but he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t slam into you. He just rocks forward until his hips are flush against yours. He holds you.

Forehead to forehead, arms wrapped around your body. He starts to move. Long, slow thrusts that drag along every sensitive spot inside you. He keeps one arm beneath you, the other hand coming up to cup your cheek, your jaw, the side of your neck.

No words. Just breath. Just the way his body says everything for him.

You’re still sensitive from his mouth, your body twitching every time he hits too deep, too slow. But you can’t stop moaning—soft, helpless little exhales of pleasure—and he just groans against your throat when he hears them.

He keeps watching you. Glancing down where you’re joined. Then back to your face. Eyes half-lidded, his own pleasure tucked away in the background while yours takes center stage.

You cum again—quiet and shaky—arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. Your body trembles beneath him, muscles spasming around his cock.

He doesn’t stop— he keeps fucking you through it. Slow. Deep. Even as your hips twitch away from him, your thighs quivering, your body pleading for rest.

He fucks you like a man who could spend forever right here—inside you, against you, giving you everything and asking for nothing.

And only when you’re completely gone—boneless, dazed, blinking up at him with glassy eyes—does he finally let himself chase his own release. He groans into your skin, grabs your thigh to lift it just slightly, and thrusts once, twice more— And cums deep.

You feel the warmth bloom inside you. Feel the way his hips stutter and press close, staying buried. His forehead rests against yours again. His chest heaves.

He stays inside you, soft kisses brushing your cheek, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth. The sunlight still spills in. The room smells like sex and skin and something soft. You’re sore. Satisfied. Loved.

Bakugou finally shifts enough to look at you, hair messy, eyes half-shut. “…Mornin’,” he mutters, voice low and rough from disuse. The only word he’s said all morning.

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[strawberry-nugget]

Summary: You ask Katsuki to make you eggs

Tags // Warnings: Fluff, comfort, a little bit of insecure Katsuki. All characters are 20+

Paring: Bakugo Katsuki x reader

“Katsuki, please please please can you please fry some eggs for me? Pleeeease?”

Katsuki blinks his eyes into yours like he’s got a tick. Nose scrunched, brows furrowed and lips pressed and pulled in a frown so deep— his stink face is immaculate, always has been. However the confusion lies as to why it’s directed to you.

Your expression is quite on the contrast of his. Pursed out pouty lips, nostrils flared and dragged downwards by your pout, eyebrows looking like they’ve taken a turn downwards and eyes so big and gleamy, like you’re seeing stars.

Katsuki shakes his head and one hand covers his eyes, the pads of his fingers rubbing at his temples a little too hard.

When he came home from his shift fifteen minutes ago, you were simply sprawled on the couch, watching one of your shows. He had just managed to get out of the shower with the towel still on his head when he found you in the kitchen; one hand holding two eggs, the other holding a pan and the annoying repeating sound of the voice of a TikTok cook in the background talking about how easy it is to fry eggs.

Katsuki knows you’re scared shitless of frying your own eggs. He also knows you’d never ask him to cook anything for you—you’d only let him cook for you if he absolutely wanted to or had enough energy for it. So if you’re asking it means you’re craving and Katsuki would never say no to whether you begged for it or not.

In guttural essence, his expression isn’t a reaction to the fact that you’re asking for something. It’s a reaction of the fact that you've said please so many fucking times.

And yes, even though he loves hearing you beg like this it’s only ever in the context of the baby making process—not this one.

Wait, has he done something wrong to upset you? Nooo, it can’t be, right? No actually, never mind scratch that, he's gonna push that thought aside and make you your eggs, because your face right now is too cute to be real.

“Whatchu have to beg for like that, babe? ‘Course I’ll cook eggs for you”

Your cheeks are immediately trapped between his thumb and pointer and your pout furthers forward him. Katsuki gives you an awkward, pressed-lip smile as he squeezes your face twice.

Aw you look so cute, why is he in his head so much!?

“Oh thank you Katsuki” you jump in joy, inching in closer so you can kiss his cheek with the eggs and the pan still in your arms. Katsuki has to hide the fact that his cheeks and ears are burning at this simple, little peck “you always make them perfect and im scared to do it myself”

Normally, he’d whine, tell you they’re just eggs that they can’t hurt you and you shouldn’t be afraid of them. But today he just takes the eggs and the pan from your hands and sets them on the stove. Today he kisses your cheek back. All sloppy, just how he likes it.

But as he settles for pouring some oil onto the pan and turning the stove on, he remains somewhat bothered, when he knows he shouldn’t be.

He just… doesn’t like the fact that you thought you had to beg for him to make your eggs. You never ask him to do things for you! Like the time you fixed the kitchen sink pipes by yourself, or the time you bought a whole ass new bed and had it set and made by the time he came home from patrol. Or the time you installed all the at home gym equipment by yourself, or—or. How he comes home to his favourite food always being made and served at the table!

He secretly gets so jealous every time he listens to Kirishima mumble about how he does these things for his girlfriend despite also working full time as a hero!

It’s unfair, you don’t have to beg him to cook you eggs, he would get down on his hands and knees and swipe the floor clean if you told him to.

Yet, you hop on the counter —keeping a safe distance from the pan— and sway your legs back and forth for a few seconds, your face incredibly love sick as you watch Katsuki rampage through the fridge to pull out an avocado, some cherry tomatoes and some orange juice.

Though, to you Katsuki looks rather… quiet. 

The little towel bundle he has on his hair hasn’t moved an inch further than the ones you make would do; your heart tugs at the way the edges rest behind his ears, making them protrude and fold outwards—so so cute. But normally he would have tossed the towel by now, he would be whining about how his ears hurt. And he definitely isn’t. He’s way too focused on watching the oil heating up in the pan.

You hop off the counter, ignoring the suspicious little look Katsuki throws over his shoulder as you creep toward him. He’s hunched ever so slightly over the stove, brow furrowed like he’s concentrating way too hard on something as simple as frying an egg.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades and giving him a slow, sleepy squeeze and just a teeny tiny kiss on his spine.

“I know you’re so tired from working baby, im so sorry” you whisper “but I’m really craving eggs, I’d make them on my own if I wasn’t scared of the whooshing sounds and the hot oil splatters”

“Hm” he grunts and you don’t see it, but he’s pouting as well.

Because why the hell are you apologising right now? 

“Katsu,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his shirt. “Why’re you being weird?”

He tenses a little in your hold, like he’s been caught. “M’not bein’ weird,” he mutters.

“You’re definitely being weird,” you hum, squeezing tighter and rocking left and right on your heels, swaying him with you.

He exhales hard through his nose, setting the spatula down with a little clatter and resting his hands lightly over yours where they’re wrapped around his middle.

He turns in your arms then, finally facing you fully. You barely have time to look up before his hand is cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His face is closer now, expression a little bashful but full of warmth.

“I like takin’ care of you,” he says quietly, eyes so kind and yearning. “More than anything. Hear me?”

You lean into the touch, smiling so sweetly it nearly makes him combust.

“I know you don’t want a man to do shit for you, but you take care of me a lot. I wanna take care of you too”

He sighs, then covers your hand where it rests over his back with his own. His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.

“You shouldn’t have to beg for shit like this,” he mumbles. “Just—made me think. That’s all.”

You lift your head a little. “Think about what?”

“You don’t ask for anything. Ever. You do a million things on your own and never expect help. Then you give me the biggest puppy eyes just to make eggs.” His voice dips, like he’s embarrassed by even saying this out loud. “Makes me feel like I’m not doing enough for you.”

You’re quiet for a beat, just holding him tighter.

“Katsuki,” you whisper. “You do so much for me. Every single day. Just ‘cause I don’t ask doesn’t mean I don’t see it.”

He shifts again, a little awkward. Like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how. His brows furrow and he pouts, ever so slightly. But you can read him! He isn’t slick at all right now!

“Katsuki- what, oh my god!” You laugh and laugh right into his face, cracking the seriousness of the moment, in an attempt to cheer him up. It’s inevitable for him to not get in his head and frown over something ever so small and silly. You love him for that, honestly. You understand exactly where this stems from and maybe, you were a little bit dramatic when you asked for the eggs. You understand how it contradicts with how mushy you are right now.

“I was just being cute! I just want boyfie-made eggs babe, no need to be insecure because of this”

“I know you were bein’ cute,” he grumbles, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. “That’s the problem.”

You blink, confused.

“Since when is me being cute a problem?” you ask, looking up at him, lips all pouty again.

He groans like you’ve personally tried to end his life. You know he's gonna circle the same issue just for a little more and you’ll let him. He deserves to feel reassured as well. Heavens know he always reassures you.

“It’s not—fuck, it’s not a problem, alright?” he says, tilting his head to glance at you from the side. His expression softens the second he meets your eyes. “It’s just… you asked so sweet, like you really didn’t think I’d do it unless you begged or somethin’. And that’s what’s weird.”

You go quiet, hugging him tighter, your hands bunching slightly in the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, cheek pressed to his chest again. “I know you’d do anything for me. That’s why I asked. Not ‘cause I thought you wouldn’t. I just… I wanted to be a little spoiled today. By you. And I like whining”

He stiffens again for just a moment—then melts.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in close as he leans back into you just a little. His voice is low, rough at the edges, but gentle.

“You don’t gotta do that whole act, baby. You could walk up to me and say, ‘Hey, bitch boy, make me eggs,’ and I’d still do it.”

You giggle into his chest, and he lets out a soft breath that’s dangerously close to a laugh.

“I wouldn’t call you bitch boy. But I do like acting all dramatic,” you grin, lifting your head to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “And I like when you take care of me.”

“I like takin care of my girl,” he says quietly. “I don’t like you lifting a finger to do anything”

You lean into the toucht and his heart catches dangerously in his chest.

“Then shut up and make me my eggs, bitch-boy” you laugh and move your hand inside his vicious grip to slap his ass playfully.

Ughhhhh he just loves you so much.

That gets a real laugh out of him, bright and short and perfect. He kisses your forehead, then your nose for good measure. Then both of your cheeks.

Then, Katsuki turns back to the stove, cracks the egg over the pan—and the sizzle that follows is absolutely vicious. You flinch immediately.

“Jesus!” you squeak, clinging to his back like the egg just pulled a knife on you. “Why does it sound like that?! That’s not normal!”

“It’s a hot pan, dumbass.” Katsuki snorts, taps your thigh just enough to signal you to jump, climb his back like he's gonna give you a piggyback ride. You do without hesitation.

“It sounds like it wants to fight me.”

“It is fightin’ you. It knows you were too scared to fry it yourself.”

“I was right to be scared!”

He shakes his head, shoulders shaking with laughter as he calmly adjusts the heat. You peek over his shoulder with wide eyes, cautiously watching the egg cook like it might jump out of the pan and chase you.

But you don’t let go of him—not even when he shuffles slightly to flip it. You just stay latched onto his back like a little backpack, whispering commentary about the egg’s anger issues.

“That egg’s got beef with me,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “I felt it in the vibes.”

Katsuki lets out a wheezy little laugh and reaches back to squeeze your thigh where it’s curled around his hip. “Yeah? Then it better square the fuck up, ’cause I’m not lettin’ it lay a hand on you.”

You gasp dramatically. “My hero!”

“Damn right.”

The sizzling starts to die down as the egg firms in the pan, and your grip around his neck loosens just a bit, your head growing heavier where it rests on the slope of his shoulder. Your arms are still draped around him, but now they’re more relaxed, less clingy—just naturally wrapped around the person you love the most.

A moment later, you let yourself slip down from his back and he groans at the action like youve slipped away far from his grasp.

Katsuki carefully slides the eggs onto a plate, then adds the little tomatoes he sliced and the avocado he fanned out like it’s a competition. The orange juice is already poured. He even put a sprinkle of chili flakes on top, just the way you like.

You blink sleepily as he turns to you, one brow raised, holding the plate like he just wants to kiss you stupid. And you let him, mushing his head with yours, smooching your lips onto his with soundly mwah-mwah-mwahhhhs!

You laugh, grabbing the towel still perched on his head and yanking it with both hands. It flops forward and hits him right in the face.

“Hey—!” he tries to protest, muffled under the fabric.

You wiggle it like you’re wringing out a dishcloth. “Why is this still on your head, huh? You tryna give yourself cauliflower ears again?”

Katsuki finally yanks it off and throws it on the counter, grumbling like an old man. “It was warm, okay?”

You gasp. “You were being cozy! You softie!”

“Shuddup!” He whines, that cracked out yearning thing that you adore “sit down and eat your eggs!”

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

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

[strawberry-nugget]

Hey I wanted to thank Yall for the love and shoe you some Katsuki and Kiko art i made years ago

To fill the empty spaces | 1

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x reader

Summary: Katsuki has been a single father for five years. After his wife died shorty after giving birth to their son, he's not sure he's ever going to find happiness in mundane things anymore. Cue you, the new, young teacher at his son's kindergarden, who seems to be taking the best care of his little guy.

-Or alternatively, karma is a quirkless bitch that will be biting Katsuki in the ass for his entire life, whether it's in him having a quirkless son, or falling for you, a younger woman, his son's teacher, who lost her quirk as a child before the Overhaul arc.

Tags: MDNI, Dilf!Bakugo, single dad!Bakugo, teacher!reader, slowburn, mutual pining, slice of life, fluff, eventual smut, ten year old age gap, Kirishima is a sunshine.

A/N: be kind to me i wrote this five years ago and never had the guts to post it until now :> this will be a 3 part story so let me know if you want to be tagged in the following parts

There's a strange deception about bliss and felicity in life and it is much like the analogy of the sun shining brighter after a storm, or the beautiful shades of the rainbow that cast over the sky. Happiness is supposed to be earned somehow, through hardships, or at least that's what everyone has always preached about. 

How time has supposedly promised to bring you what you want, how the universe makes sure to give you what you're in need of when you need it most. You're expected to survive through the worst storm, pouring rain and eardrum grazing blowing wind and you're told it'll be worth it. So when you see trees get blown onto the ground or when you see crushing waves that are a hundred times bigger than the ones you've seen on normal days crash onto the shore and wipe everything in their wake you shouldn't react. 

The sun shining, the warmth of the light grazing kindly over the mountain tops far across your vision should be worth it. 

Until, it's not. 

Bakugo, at least, doesn't think it's worth it and he doesn't think that you have to walk a mile before you get to rest. Mostly because he doesn't get to rest, and because walking a mile, for him, is the easiest thing in the universe. He's had too much hardship to know there's no payoff other than slamming his body into his couch after a long shift and feeling his chest tighten at the thought that he's managed to save a life. 

For him, happiness is something you shouldn't chase or take for granted. 'There's such little time for us in the world' he keeps telling himself and every time he looks at the set of pictures on the tv shelf he knows his words are correct. When once he thought his happiness had found him, he'd put a ring on her and called it a day, had a fancy wedding, threw the biggest party when he topped the hero charts, cried when his son was born; he douched in bliss without knowing it was momentary and he paid the price of stomping over the steep top of the world by falling so hard that his bones could never fully heal. 

It's been five years since his wife died, since he's had to take care of his son on his own and he's managed it perfectly so far. Showing up on every play in kindergarten, waking up at five am to make him the cutest bento in his class, clothes crisp and smelling of expensive soap, always present on parent counseling days, always present on days kids were supposed to bring their parents in to talk about their jobs, always one call away from rushing to anything he ever wants. 

The phone always rings, without fail, every single day when Kiko's teacher leaves for retirement and a new one gets hired. 

You're young, probably just landed your first job with your preschool degree and you feel like a fish out of water running a class on your own. Bakugo knows because he's seen it too many times, with the kids of his friends, has seen it happen to new sidekicks, assistants and despite not having the patience to deal with a rookie teacher who panics about everything, he appreciates the concern about his son. 

So every single day, without fail, he picks up the phone (no matter if he's on patrols or doing paperwork) and begrudgingly answers your stuttered questions, “yes Kiko might not want more food but he's too shy to say it”, or “Kiko isn't allergic to the ointment your emergency box has to offer, but I packed the one his dermatologist gave him because it works best for his eczema”, or even “Yes I'm willing to talk about what Kiko keeps drawing this week.”

It's always a topic concerning overall health and attitude issues that a teacher who was called in two months before graduation and hasn't worked with the class for longer can't have knowledge on. And still, with raspy apologies, Bakugo promises to send you a few notes about your queries, because the other parents have already done so, and he's ashamed to be the last in line. 

Your voice gets more stern over time, your calls become shorter, so short that all you ever need to ask is who's picking up Kiko today—even though the answer never changes; Kirishima both drops him off and picks him up- and then you hang up. 

Today's call, though, catches him off guard, it makes his feet freeze on the ground, his teeth clash as his jaw tightens. You've dropped a bomb from the other side of the phone 

"His friend Daichi manifested today and we thought he wouldn't," You say, voice sounding far, crazed, digital. "I think it's high time we discuss that Kiko might be… quirkless." You breathe out after a long pause and for the first time today, you sound apologetic -as you should—like you're begging to say sorry about the situation, like it's your fault his son hasn't manifested a quirk. 

With his hand cupping his face, fingernails scratching at the seams of his jaw where just a slight scruff pokes out of his skin, Katsuki  sighs. He glances to his right, catching Kirishima's sharp smile.. His face snaps into a serious one when Bakugo says, "I'll be there at three." 

Thick fingers trample the screen of his phone pushing the end button a thousand times before he's assured he's hung up, shoving it into his pocket with a hitched groan.He looks over at Kirishima with hurt painted all over his face, feeling the mellow jabbing blooming inside his chest and in return he collects a serious gaze, one more apologetic wave burst that hits him in the stomach. Like a villain on a winter morning. 

The thing is, Kirishima is a friend close enough to know when something is wrong and this is a moment where Bakugo knows he won't keep his mouth shut. 

And so, the question isn't late, not even a second, it shoots out of his friend's mouth and it corners Bakugo into the nearest wall, his head spins, his eyebrows furrowed. 

"Kiko's teacher huh?" Kirishima questions and Bakugo nods and then he makes his note "you look bummed man. Is it that serious or did she ask if Kiko has any allergies again"

It's not like Bakugo doesn't need a little pushover to spill what's in his head, but still, he rasps what's left of a winter cold in his throat, clears his voice before he mutters "She said" his head is in his hands "that he might be quirkless"

Kirishima mouths an oh, silent, his jaw tensing like the blond's had a while ago, but his face doesn't contort in sadness like Bakugo's does, instead, his ears perk, his brows travel up against his forehead. 

"Don't worry bro, that doesn't make Kiko any less better than the rest of the kids."

That was quick and truly, Bakugo doesn't know where Kirishima finds all of this positivity. However, he supposes it's written over him like ink on a page, he's meant to see the good in any situation and put it on his plate, split his meal in half and call his glass full even when it's almost empty. Despite being in his early thirties and not being a schoolboy anymore there's always a goofy smile plastered all over his face and Bakugo thinks that maybe, maybe it helps him soothe that emerging ache inside his chest. 

Or maybe Kirishima should write a book about how to always see the good out of everything and retire from his career as a pro hero to be a life coach. Because Kiko might be the son of Dynamight, but Bakugo's head is suddenly filled with images he's shoved to the back of his brain. 

Kiko is the son of the number two hero, without a quirk in class full of gifted kids, he's expected of so much and there's so little he can give back because he's a child, a shy little child that Katsuki had to bring up on his own. And as Kirishima rambles about important people that are quirkless Bakugo keeps thinking about the times his son falls asleep in his arms and how guilty he feels for being a mean kid to Izuku for being quirkless, how he couldn't handle it well if anyone treated his child like that. 

"His teacher is quirkless too" Kirishima says, patting Bakugo's back softly but that raises an eyebrow of the blond's. How exactly does he know that? 

Not that it's his place to ask, or rather shoot this -gossipy- question at Kirishima, but there's a curious part of him when it comes to you. Apart from the fact that you sound like you're about to shit your pants every time you're on the phone with him, he's managed to land his eyes on one precious kindergarten picture of Kiko's class with you in the middle. And he can't really see much, not with a naked eye and not with his glasses, you simply have a smile on your face that matches the kids' but still you look proper enough to have landed the job at that prestigious preschool. 

So when Kirishima adds a small "she's very cute and very smart" Bakugo gets a bit irked at him. He says it like he's the lead in a drama talking about the qualities of her crush even though she's being treated like shit most of the time. 

There's a bursting feeling inside him that makes him shoot a question directly into Kirishima's face. "Are you flirting with my son's teacher?" 

"Nope" Kirishima puckers his lips and looks away

Bakugo couldn't really care less about Kirishima's love life, he grunts, but there's this fear that overwhelms him when he thinks about his itty bitty baby son dragging Kirishima into the car while he's flirting away with anyone that stands in his way. There's this throat tightening feeling when he imagines his baby's belly grunting in hunger, a panic when he thinks his shirt is sweaty enough for him to catch a cold, or even worse he waits until he gets home to tell Kirishima that he fell and scraped his knees at school today and Kirishima probably has his thoughts taken over by his flirting when he's promised to take care of Kiko. 

Sick sick sick. The thought makes him completely sick. Sick enough to consider working even less to be able to be the one to get Kiko from school every day. Fuck the hero ranks, fuck wanting to be the best. 

"... for you"

Kirishima's voice is nothing compared to the worries inside his head, but as a shiny drop of sweat falls over Bakugo's forehead he's forced to ask for a repeating of his words. 

"Come again?"

"Just saying man, just saying, she's uh, you'll like her" 

Whatever Kirishima suggests, Bakugo knows it's a nuisance, but he promises himself he'll talk to you about his concerns on the matter. You sound like a good teacher, like you worry about Kiko a lot and Bakugo thinks that he can trust you on not allowing his kid to be treated like he treated Izuku. 

Kirishima hunches Kiko over his shoulders the moment he walks out of the kindergarten doors. 

You can't suppress a giggle when you see the interaction, bent on waving them off with a little back and forth shake of your hand and a smile; in the two months you've been working here, Red Riot shows up almost daily to pick up Kiko, because -as you learn- Dynamight works longer shifts a few weeks before his son's birthday so he can take a few days off. 

And when March is about to roll around the corner and you're still unsure of the fact if that's possible, your coworkers that have been here before you keep reminding of you on the daily, that it's only a few days down the line that Kiko's father will be picking him up at twelve every day and then they run off to the break room to talk about how they can't wait to feast their eyes on Dynamight -because he looks so damn good in person. As always you excuse yourself, the subject of Dynamight's attractiveness being something that isn't really your concern to talk about. 

Mostly, you have your views on how he's come to treat the daily heroic deeds like an office job, and although you suppose that as a single parent he doesn't have much choice you often compare the bits and pieces of today's Dynamight to the one from tens of years ago, when you watched him on TV debuting as a pro, fresh out of college. You frankly remember tricking your mother so you could zap between channels to simply watch him go, watch him beat villain after villain. 

You're sure there's a routine in being a hero for over a decade, what you do and what you don't, how when you're faced with choices to set priorities you take your own paths in life. And that's probably how Dynamight gets to have a week to himself for him and Kiko -you wonder, if Kiko is happy at home with his dad, if that week helps him feel like his father is an ordinary human being, not someone that gives a piece of him to everyone- if there are evenings of quietness where the hero's phone doesn't ring with an emergency. 

And would he do it for anyone else? 

You've always been fascinated by heroes like him, the sheer amount of courage it takes to be your own person and have a life, live your own heaven or hell and then go about your days trying to make sure the world is safe. 

You wonder if Dynamight's yearly one week absence makes any difference to the hero world, but as you look at Kiko writhing over Kirishima's shoulder you're convinced that it doesn't.

There's probably a faded Dynamight poster hung onto the wall of your childhood room that your mother's clinging onto, and there's probably a five year old child in you with bright gleamy eyes like Kiko's watching the UA sports festival, amazed by the blond. 

Perhaps there's this fangirl of a child inside you when you call him that's screaming at you for having the guts to put on your big girl voice and talk to him. And sometimes you distinctly remember crying your eyes out the day he got married, so much that your middle school friends kept rubbing that on your face even until graduation. 

Still your curious eyes travel back onto Kiko. He's twisting himself over Kirishima's shoulders and a part of your heart drops at how dangerous this looks from afar. But it's impossible for this mountain of a man to drop someone as small as Kiko. And the contagious giggle of the child is finally getting to you- Kiko doesn't usually laugh that much in class, nor does he ever seem as active as he is when Kirishima picks him up. 

It makes you wonder, just how his interactions with his father are. 

Kiko is a ball of energy at home, sometimes, Dynamight tells you. 

Or rather, grunts at you. 

He gets to the kindergarten on 3.17pm with a fresh split on his cheek and pouty lips. And he mutters that he is more than sorry for being late, although there's nothing to be sorry for, you tell him, because he is a hero and that's a job he can't clock out the second he wants. 

"I'm working on it" He says and red eyes gleam dangerously into yours. You can't shake the feeling that he's angry. At you? At himself? At the villain that delayed him? 

"It's really no big deal" You mutter, breath choked inside your chest and you gesture to him to have a seat across from you in the break room. 

Your chest aches in a fast heartbeat; this is the same Dynamight that used to look back at you through a piece of shiny magazine paper in your teenage room- his eyes are deeper than carmine, with vermillion specs and copper rings adorning his irises. That's definitely something the poster in your room would never show you; the missing high quality of such fierce eyes, it's almost hard to speak when you look into them. 

When you inspect his face from this close, your mind runs back to your coworkers, how they always talk about him and how beautiful he is- for a second you don't blame them, you'd love to gawk over him too, forgetting your words stare into those slant red eyes and get lost into them- but this is your big girl job. Your first serious job, and the faint expression line between Dynamight's brows signifies that your excitement has to be cut short. 

He's not here to cater to you healing your inner teenager by looking at a person you were a fan of. 

So you cough in your bent elbow to relieve the tension in your neck, your chest, and you arrange the notes in your hand by shaking them onto the table next to you. 

"Would you like anything to drink? Water? Tea?" You offer and the hero shakes his head. 

"No, I'm good"

You wonder if his wound hurts, or if he's nervous of what you're about to discuss with him- perhaps calling him to simply announce that his child is probably quirkless was a little bold of you, but calling parents to counsel or inquire them about their kids is essential in this school, or so your boss had blabbered endlessly about. 

"These are a few notes about Kiko" You mutter quietly and hand him the pack of notes. It's not a pile, nor is it only two pages long. He glances at them with a sigh, tired eyes going over the paper before his fingers, thick and shaky with determination, reach out to take them from your hands, slightly brushing over yours. 

And your heart is on fire. Great. Exactly what you need to fix your gaze in how small the paper looks into his hands. We're his hands always this big? Were they this big in your poster? Even if they were, you can't think of it right now, you clear your throat again and eye the notes -not his hands, the notes- and say "you'll have to go over them at home if that's not a bother, it's mostly in class progress and some behavioral issues I've noticed-"

"Behavioral issues? What behavioral issues" 

It's his time to paint on panic all over his face, head twitching to your direction instinctively when the word drops from your mouth. You haven't had enough experience with panicked parents, especially being around panicked parents when you're panicked yourself, but there's a skip in your heart beat that urges you to prioritize your work over your thousand aeon old crush on Dynamight. He's nothing but a parent who's looking at you with a query like all others. 

"Is there anything wrong with my son?"

You shake your head, lips crushed together, jaw tight "no no," You kindly muster up your voice "He's a quiet one, I think we should work on him being a bit more social"

"He's plenty social with my friends"

"I've noticed" You nod once, thinking about how Kiko behaves towards Kirishima versus how he behaves towards his classmates "but it's important to be able to be a bit compatible with people his age"

Dynamight nods as well, eyebrows quirked and knitted at the same time, his eyes going over the pages of notes he's flipping through. "I understand" He gulps and you read through that look almost instantly

"He's not a problem child, if anything. He's very smart, very witty. Just very shy, very quiet"

There's a stillness of air, a lack of time and space as he drags his eyes across your face once again, papers clutched in his hands, his lips pursed together so tightly there are dents all over his jaw. Unlike him, he notices there aren't scars across your face, skin delicate, looking soft, plump, young. There's a tiredness in your face that can't match his, the level of what's weighing him down is more than you could ever graze in your life and you look young.

Kirishima, stupid shitty hair that he is, infiltrates his mind just now, the inside of his lips tucking under his teeth; you do look cute. He was right. Your clothes look comfortable, baggy but appropriate for work, with colors that would look nice and calming to the kids you're in care of and he suddenly gets why Kiko is so fond of you. 

You have your way of saying things. Carefully, tenderly. Like you could break him even by saying that Kiko doesn't know how to count to five. You fear you're going to break him by telling him things he already knows with a timid, shy smile across your face, a very polite voice, bowing again and again. There are no expression lines on your face, not one on your forehead, not nearly enough near your lips. 

"As for his quirk. I'd say it's very unlikely that he manifests one but you should give him some more time" You watch as he nods, eyes wide as you open your mouth again, "did his mother have a quirk?"

Bakugo almost hisses, the question caught him off guard, sent his eyes to the corners of his kids and forced a huff out of his mouth. The sorry you utter isn't necessary, he knows and tells you so, but the words he wants to speak gather inside his mouth, hide under his tongue. 

"I avoid talking about my late wife" He says and you bite your lip. You should have known. Dynamight's wife died in your late teens, but there wasn't much known to the public about her -maybe the fact that she was in UA with him, or maybe that she quit trying to be a pro at an early age- but her funeral was broadcasted by channels and you remember hungry media, restless reporters violating his personal space for a shot of him and his son. You remember the chaos, the mourning. 

Your face drops. 

Maybe life didn't go on for him as it did for you. Life wrinkled his eyes and dented his face . You think there's probably been a time he's had a very small baby in his arms, in his mid to late twenties, unsure of what to do, with not as plenty scars in his face -maybe just the one across his nose and the one over his lip- you can't help but stare and assume, perhaps a little rude at that. 

But for the record, you never would have thought you would be teaching in the preschool his son attends. 

"She was a psychic" Dynamight grunts through his teeth 

"Incomparable quirks sometimes cancel eachother" You yelp, quietly, then speed up your words as you add "I'm quirkless too, if that's any comfort, I got shot with a quirk nullifier when I was a kid on my way back home from school"

Whatever Dynamight thinks, he doesn't respond. He looks at you with big, red eyes, face contorted in an apologetic mask, one you've seen on TV after he catches himself swearing on live interviews. You wonder if you're comforting. Any. But you hope there's a part of him that feels like his son can be included somewhere, somehow. 

"M sorry" He finally mouths but it doesn't sound forced. It's more constipated when he adds "That must have been before the raid to arrest Overhaul" 

"Oh we were taught about him in hero ethics class"

Bakugo curls his brow, curiously. The leap in the generation between his and yours continues to grow, and he's aware now, more than ever. There was never a hero ethics class when he was at school. "Hero ethics?"

"Yeah, and basic quirk anatomy, they're like major subjects you have to take throughout all of your university years"

"I wouldn't know," He sighs, "but I'd like your advice on how to approach Kiko on the quirk thing. How do I say something that doesn't scar him, or hurt him?"

Your breathing gets caught in your throat before you ever come up with a reply. Words are forming in your brain, years of academic knowledge flowing in your neurons as you're trying to figure out the exact answer to this question, the words of endless professors turning your brain into mush. If you could think of a way to feel, you'd feel sorry for using Dynamight as a parent with whom you're challenging your skills. 

And in between year four basic quirk anatomy and child psychology for preschool teachers as an extra class you had to attend, you pick out a selection of exquisite words, woven by the wrinkles in your brain, washed over the anxiety in your gut. When you open your mouth, tongue dry and ready to clash with your palette, lips ready to make the first smack, voice almost at the brick of catching space in air, Dynamight's phone rings. 

"Oh fuck" He panicks, mouthing a quick apology, bowing his head, squinting his eyes "this is an emergency, I have to take it" He says and you nod. His fingers -you notice they're thick, too thick, the back of his hands rough and chapped so much it makes you gulp- quickly reach to push the button to accept the call and he curses when the touch of his screen seems to act up.

He curses again when it stops ringing, but his hands are quick to make searching motions, waving back and forth in the open space. He's searching for a piece of paper and a pen, anything, and you-smart as ever- give him the lilac paint marker in your hands and, of course your hand. When he clicks his tongue you cringe. You feel stupid, embarrassing, like earth could swallow you whole right now and you wouldn't have a damn thing to protest about. 

Still, he scribbles something on the back of your hand and the ticklish sensation of the nib across your skin kicks in instantly. When you read it you gasp, barely, and you hope he doesn't hear over the sound of his phone timing again. 

"This shit won't cooperate, help me" With pleading eyes he turns the phone to you, tapping his foot erratically and you pick up the signal; you swipe up the button and he presses it to his ear immediately. You don't realize now, but the way your hands linger onto his for the second time today has made your skin crawl, itch, and it will do so for the rest of the week. 

The back of your hand reads, in bright lilac, 'Beetles children playground, Saturday 5pm'

When you enter the indoor playground the smell of plastic surpasses almost any other. 

There's something nostalgic about it; how these walls accommodate child after child, how the maintenance of enormous swirly slides is executed by precautions for kids to not scratch their knees, to fall on soft plastic covered mattresses when they jump out of the gigantic machine operating head of a tiger that acts as a slide. 

Part of you misses that -the days where you've tried to convince your parents to take you to a place like this to play- but whatever's left of that part of you is smiling, awkwardly, lips pressed together as you spot Dynamight in the labeled 'parents resting place' cafeteria. Part of you misses not caring about how you look, your mannerisms, but still you hug your coat closer to your chest when Dynamight finally notices you, nodding his head. You bow from afar, eyes closed, lips pursed -only then you notice Red Riot sitting across from him on the small wooden table. 

The sight of him -despite being a tad intimidating due to his enormous size- eases your nerves. He looks over at you, waving his hand, his grin plastered across his face. You're used to seeing him like this, nice, welcoming, talkative and enthusiastic, so your steps to their table aren't counted. You're assured -somehow in your head because Dynamight snorts too, leisurely- that there's not even a single thing to be worried about. 

You study your clothes for any wrinkles a few feet away from the table, ready to curse yourself if there's anything sort of like a wrinkle in your long work skirt, but its loose wooly material has proven to be a savor once again. 

Tentatively you smile at the two men when you reach their table, bowing your head and opening your mouth to greet them when Red Riot steals the words out for your mouth. 

"Hey teach" He greets, hand still waving at you when you look at him, muttering a small "hello" in response. 

Bakugo clears his throat when he notices the way you and Kirishima look at each other, it's not any of his business if you want to stare at each other to the end of the world anyway, but it doesn't have to happen at the parents lounge in a playground. So he's rolling his eyes to the back of his head, gripping his coffee mug tight -too right for it to be normal- in his hand and speaks up "Thank you for meeting me here"

It's so blunt that Kirishima bursts out in laughter while your eyes shoot open, confusion written on your face. Dynamight grows red, piping hot as anger plumishes his face with every choke of laughter Red Riot takes. 

"Dude, don't make it sound like that" Kirishima laughs again, eyeing the chair in front of you "I think you scared her, look at her, come on teach, sit down"

"What the fuck. I didn't. Shut your face shitty hair"

"Please excuse him, his vocabulary is so colorful for a children's playground" Kirishima smiles at you when you look at them with a shook expression on your face. 

Dynamight's foul language isn't a secret, in fact most of your co workers were and still are intimidated to be in a position to ever reply to any of these tantrums, and if you're honest, you are too. You strive to be professional, to look bigger than you are, more significant. And Kirishima is allowing you to believe that somewhere behind Bakugo's- Dynamight's foul language there's some respect to you, to the roof of the place you're under. 

"It's okay" You shake your head and finally make a move towards your chair 

You don't really look at Dynamight a lot, but you definitely notice the multicolored plaster that sits across his nose, decorated with dinosaurs of all colors. There's one on the cut on his cheek as well. It's cute, kind of, the way they contrast his eyes and his hair. You dont think youve ever seen him dressed so casually, or in any context that would allow him to rock such bandaids on his face, so it's even more peculiar to see him pull out Kikos green water bottle from his backpack the second he sees him approaching.

“Having fun?” he asks his son and the little blond nods with a huff, out of breath “you're all sweaty, we should change your shirt”

The kid objects and looks at Kirishima for what you guess would be support but he does not utter a word before he downs half of his water bottle. “Daaaad”

“Nope, don't look at Kirishima, he's not going to get you out of this. And say hi to your teacher” 

Bakugo moves his head to the side and Kiko peeks with a tilted head at you, smiles and bows slightly before saying “hello miss, thank you for coming to my party” and you smile back at him and bow as well, while muttering a small happy birthday. 

There aren't any kids from the kindergarten, only a few other heroes can be spotted on the other tables of the cafeteria and you're guessing it's the ones that are parents already, maybe in their circle superheroes’ kids are all friends with each other. Your train of thought is quickly interrupted by Kiko munching on a piece of toast Bakugo had given him.

“Now you swallow your bite and i-” Bakugo says as he retrieves a clean long sleeved shirt from his backpack, but is cut short before he gets the chance to finish his sentence

“Okay bye daaaad” 

“Come back here! Kiko! Kiko!”

“Damn bro chill, it's just a sweaty shirt, he wants to play” Kirishima remarks with a giggle and you follow suit when Bakugo lets out a frustrated huff.

“Parenting isn't easy” you say, and sip on the juice that was served to you a while ago.

“You have kids, teach?” Kirishima asks, intrigued by Bakugos reaction to his question. You miss the way he kicks his blond friend under the table

“Oh no no, I just happen to be around so many parents at work and I've seen how challenging it can be. But I do hope to have kids someday." You reply, feeling a bit embarrassed for admitting your desires to have children to two of the top five heroes in Japan. It's not like you can always have everyday conversations with them and it's a tad uncanny that they feel so free spirited to talk about mundane things like a family with someone like you. 

But the way Kirishima nods understandingly, and the way Bakugo rolls his eyes before growling “careful what you're getting yourself into brat” - not in a mocking way at least - makes you feel more comfortable.

“Oh shut up bro, you have a golden child. Never whines, never throws tantrums! You literally have nothing to complaint about”

“Well, a child turns out this well mannered only because of the way they've been brought up” you suggest and you swear there's a mischievous grin that covers Bakugos face momentarily

"Damn right!! But, It's not easy, that's for sure," Bakugo finally speaks up after a moment of silence, "but it's worth it. Seeing Kiko grow up and learn new things every day, it's amazing. He's a good kid, I couldn't imagine my life without him now that I got him" His tone is softer than you're used to hearing from him, and it catches you off guard.

Kirishima, on the other hand, is still grinning from ear to ear, looking like he's enjoying every moment of the charade between you and the blond. "I think you'd make a great mom, teach. You're so patient and kind with the kids at school."

You feel your cheeks warm up at his words, and you take a drink of your juice, hoping to hide your blush. "Thank you, Kirishima. That means a lot coming from you."

Bakugo grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but you can tell he's not unhappy with the conversation. There's a comfortable silence that falls over the table for a few moments, until Kirishima speaks up again.

"So, teach, we were wondering if you'd like to join us for a little celebration tonight. We were planning on going out to a bar and grabbing some drinks." He winks at you, and you feel your heart skip a beat as your eyes fall all over Bakugo’s whos clenching his jaw. “Bakugo always celebrates Kiko’s birthday like this. Man… he's too happy to have him.”

"I would love to join you guys," you say, smiling, but i can't, i have a uhm-, i-"

"that's fine" Bakugo growls, don't push it shitty hair" 

Kirishima smiles a wide grin that covers his face from one ear to another “oh come on! pleaseee”

You're taken aback by how childish Kirishima sounds, but being invited to something like this, with two pro heroes nonetheless feels kind of exciting. So you accept, shyly, there's not much you could do when you flicker your eyes over to Bakugo’s when they look at you like he's expecting you to say yes as well.

Kirishima's smile, despite being inviting at first, is dimmed slightly when Bakugo gruffs in response. Sure, he persists as his eyes plead with him -and you in time. “Come on, it'll be fun. I promise. Please join us teach”

Your gaze is so confused as you stare at him, hesitating to give a positive response. It's just so unbelievable that Dynamight and his best friend are trying to make plans with you.

Kirishima's wide grin falters for a moment at Bakugo's gruff response, but he quickly regained his enthusiasm, his eyes pleading with you.

"Please," Kirishima chimes in, his voice taking on an insufferable pleading tone.

You feel a pang of guilt at the disappointment in Kirishima's eyes—sure there are no prohibitions about spending time with parents outside of work, but you hesitate over actually saying yes to spending time with someone you’ve always admired as your hero.

Despite Bakugo's apparent disinterest, you find yourself unable to resist Kirishima's infectious energy. He's too sweet, always is. Maybe once won’t actually hurt. 

Just one drink.

With a hesitant smile, you turn to Bakugo, hoping to convince him to change his mind. "It would be fun," you say, your voice soft but earnest. "I'd really like to join you guys. I think"

Bakugo's gaze flickers to yours, a hint of annoyance flashing in his crimson eyes that’s shot at Kirishima, because he can see your hesitation, before he sighs heavily, as if conceding defeat. 

"Fine," he grumbles. "But only for a couple of drinks. We won’t be keeping you for long”

Kirishima lets out a whoop of excitement, his grin widening even further as he claps Bakugo on the back feverishly "Yes! This is gonna be awesome!"

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

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[strawberry-nugget]

PLEASE I NEED MORE KATSUKI AND TEACHER PLEASE I BEG YOU PLEASE 😭😭😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

YES YES ILL POST MORE

im just going through double shifts at work rn and I haven’t had enough time to edit the next parts which I must do since it was written 5 years ago

Thank you for the love ❤️