syrecjh

[syrecjh]

I'll get back to reqs tom I swear🥺🥺😇

[syrecjh]

hey there 💙 I wanted to know if I could request a katsuki x reader fic inspired by a song.. I’ve been listening to it non stop and I just wanted to know if you were willing to write a thing about it…

The song is « goodnight n go » by Ariana grande, and it kinda sounds like what a doomed/unreachable "friends to lovers" dynamic between the two of them would look like! Like they’ve been in each others orbit for so long, but yet they never seem to collide…

──★ ˙🌙 ̟ !! Goodnight, Then Go

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader,

He’s standing in your doorway again.

His hair’s still damp from the shower he took an hour ago at his place—he always insists on going home to clean up, even if he’s just going to end up here again. He smells like caramel and clean soap and the faint spice of whatever cologne he swiped on for no one in particular. And now, he’s leaning against your doorframe like he doesn’t know he already lives in half the corners of your life.

He doesn’t knock. Never has. You don’t expect him to. The door’s always left slightly ajar, the lock never quite turned all the way—an unspoken ritual, a thread you never cut. It’s a habit. Or maybe a hope.

And tonight? Tonight, he’s laughing. Something about Kiri screwing up an oven recipe again. You can’t even follow the story—you’re too caught up in the way his voice dips low when he’s amused, the way his lips curl just enough to stir something to your heart. You nod along, feign interest, but really, you’re memorizing him. The way he shifts his weight. The way his arms cross. The way he always tilts his head to the side when he’s comfortable, like he’s trying to listen with more than just his ears.

It always feels like you’re one breath away from something tipping. From him staying. From you saying something reckless and true. Like please don’t go. Like I love you and you know it.

But he always goes.

And you always let him.

You don’t remember when this started—this almost-love, this quiet ache that’s been building in the margins. Maybe it was the night he came over soaking wet from the rain, he hates rain, cursing the storm and still showing up with your favorite takeout. Or maybe it was the time he fell asleep on your couch, and you woke up just to see his hand twitch toward yours in his sleep. Or maybe it's always been there, nestled between friendly jabs and shared silences that stretched too long to be innocent.

It’s in the way he talks to you like you’re the only one who gets him. It’s how he always keeps one earbud out when you’re in the room, like he's waiting for your voice. It’s how he texts at 12:03 a.m., not because he needs anything, but because he knows you’re still awake.

And it’s killing you. Softly. Constantly. Quietly.

Because he never stays.

He’ll sit on your couch like he belongs there—and maybe he does. He’ll steal a blanket, throw his legs over yours, let his fingertips graze the hem of your shorts and pretend it’s nothing. He’ll laugh at your stupid jokes and mutter your name like a secret only he’s allowed to say. And just when it feels like the moment might crack open—like he might pull you closer and finally ruin the friendship you’ve both outgrown—he straightens up.

He always straightens up.

Then he says it. That soft-spoken sentence that wrecks you every time:

“Alright. Goodnight.”

There’s always a beat. Always a pause.

He lingers in the doorway, gaze darting to your mouth, your eyes, your hands fidgeting with the blanket.

Then he says it—

“See ya, dumbass.”

And just like that, he’s gone. The door clicks shut, but it might as well be the sound of your chest folding in on itself.

There are nights—more than you’d admit—where you stand just behind the door, hand resting on the knob, forehead pressed against the wood. Wondering. Wishing. Replaying his laugh. Imagining his weight in your bed. Rewriting the moment he left into one where he stayed.

You don’t sleep well when he leaves. His absence feels louder than his presence ever did. The half-empty mug, the pillow with the faintest dip where he leaned back, the subtle warmth that still clings to the arm of the couch. He’s a ghost of something that hasn’t even happened yet. A promise that never arrives.

You want to hate him. You should.

But you don’t. Because you love him.

Stupidly. Desperately. Completely.

And worst of all?

He knows.

You know he knows.

It’s in the way he hesitates. The way he looks at you like he’s already halfway in love, but scared of what might happen if he steps the rest of the way in. It’s in the things he doesn’t say. The things he almost says.

And he still walks away.

But maybe—maybe one night, he won’t.

Maybe one day, he’ll come over and close the door behind him like he’s staying. Maybe he’ll let himself fall asleep next to you on purpose. Maybe he’ll pull you in mid-laugh and kiss you like he’s drowning in everything he’s tried not to feel.

Maybe his “goodnight” will sound like a beginning, not an end.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s been standing in your doorway for too long.

The silence between you should’ve settled by now, like steam after tea—but it lingers, thick and expectant, the kind of pause that has weight. That has heat.

You lean your shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, trying to play off the way your pulse stutters when his eyes flicker over your face before they dart away, sharp and restless.

“You gonna stand there all night or what?” you tease, voice lighter than it feels.

"Tch,” he huffs, rolling his eyes—but he doesn’t move. His palm is still pressed against the inside of your doorframe like he’s holding himself back. Or in.

“This is the part where you say ‘goodnight’ and leave,” you murmur, lips twitching.

“I always say it,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” you say. “You always do.”

It’s been years of this—of not crossing the line you’ve both never defined but always felt.

It’s been so long that people have stopped asking if you’re together—they just assume. Assume there’s already something binding in place, something invisible but permanent. You both let them believe it.

Maybe because the truth—this—is harder to explain.

He clears his throat and shifts his weight. “You’re still on that stupid couch. You should get a real bed.”

You scoff. “Don’t act like you haven’t fallen asleep on it before.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three.”

He glares. You grin.

“Why do you always stay so late?” you ask, quieter now. The words slip past before you can catch them.

Bakugo stiffens, jaw tight. “Because you don’t tell me to leave.”

Your throat dries. “I don’t think I ever could.”

There it is—there. The breathless thrum in the air again. The charged stillness. You can feel it between you, like static, like gravity.

His eyes catch yours, and they hold this time—stormy, dark, unreadable.

“Katsuki,” you murmur.

“Don’t,” he says instantly, rough and low. “Not tonight.”

You swallow. “Why not?”

He takes a step forward, close enough for you to smell the ash of his cologne. His voice is gravel now.

"Because if you say my name like that again, I’m not walking out that door.”

You feel it—your heart, tumbling. Your breath, hitched. Your hands, still crossed to keep from reaching.

“You always walk out,” you whisper.

He stares at you. “Don’t make it sound like I want to.”

Another beat of silence. Then your voice, soft—“So stay.”

You don’t know why you said it. Maybe just to see what he’d do. Maybe because part of you wants him to.

His hand drops from the doorframe. His fingers brush yours. Then his voice, so soft it nearly shatters you:

“If I stay, I won’t be just your friend anymore.”

The air pulls tight.

And then—like always—he takes one step back.

“…Goodnight,” he murmurs, turning.

You bite your lip. “And go?”

He doesn’t face you. Just lets out a breath like a laugh, broken and bitter. “Yeah. And go.”

The door shuts.

The door shuts.

You stare at it. You wonder what would’ve happened if either of you had moved first.

But you already know.

You both never do.

[syrecjh]

hiii!! been following ur blog for awhile (your writing is INCREDIBLE.) and I musk ask: how on earth do you write so fast???? like, your royal repertoire contains more stuff than my google docs and I’m very jealous🥲 I’m really struggling with getting things done and making time to sit down and write, so maybe you have some tips on how to speed things up?🫶

Heyyyyy omggg first of all THANK YOUU (and sorry for the late replyyy) 😭🫶 and pls don’t be fooled, I swear I don’t write fast LMAOO there are days (weeks...) when I just stare at a sentence or reqs and cry about it 😭 my masterlist (Royal rep) just looks long because most of them are short little brain dumps HAHHAHA but omg I totally feel you—I’ve been struggling too lately, especially with motivation and like…choosing what to write when there’s so much to do 😵‍💫

Well honestly, I don't even know if these count as proper tips HAHAHA but here’s how I usually survive writing (fast) when the brain cooperates:

I really like writing in scenes or chunks instead of forcing myself to finish a whole fic in one sitting. It makes things feel less overwhelming, and I can just focus on one moment at a time. I also keep this random, messy note full of dialogue lines, little ideas, or stray scenarios that hit me whenever and wherever but mostly at 2am—those really help when I want to write but don’t know where to start.

Also, don’t be afraid to use placeholders for the parts you don’t feel like writing yet. I literally just put something like “\[insert transition here lol]” and move on. It keeps the momentum going instead of getting stuck for hours on one paragraph.

Another thing I always do is write for the vibe first. Like, I chase the feeling of the scene before worrying about how it all ties in with the plot. If the emotion is there, the rest usually follows later.

And honestly? Writing what you want to read—even if it feels self-indulgent or chaotic—is what keeps it fun and fast. Don't be afraid to make a mess first. You can always clean it up later!

[syrecjh]

hi!! not a request but just a little thank u! i love your writing and im glad to have stumbled across your blog :) i literally read everything uve written and its safe to say that ive fully decided that, if u ever wanna release your grocery list, i’d be willing to read that too

love ur work!!

HELLOOO 😭💖 omg this is actually the sweetest thing everrr?? YOU READ EVERYTHING??? That’s insane (in the best way possible) 😭🫶 And LMAOO the grocery list onw got me wheezing, but seriously, thank you so much for this. I really mean it. Messages like these make me wanna keep writing even when I’m tired or doubting myself🥺💜💜

[syrecjh]

Hello! I'm the anon who requested for Katsuki winning over perfect girl. Firstly, thank you so much! You mentioned in your bio that you write slow but you churned out my request much quicker than I expected. And it was so well-written! I am truly truly grateful. Have you considered setting up a ko-fi? - 🤩

Omg hiiii!! I'm so glad you liked it 😭💖 And I swear I do write slow most of the time HAHAHA, but your request just lit something in my brain and I had to get it out immediately 🥺 As for Ko-fi, tbh I haven’t really tried setting one up yet—and honestly, I have no idea how it works lol😭 Thank you again for your sweet message, seriously, it means so much!! 💌💜💜

[syrecjh]

──★ ˙💋 ̟ !! How About a Kiss?

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

It started when you were five.

You scraped your knee, cried like the world was ending, and Katsuki—mud on his elbows, twigs in his hair—offered you his half-melted popsicle and said, “There. I fixed it. How about a kiss?”

You screamed “gross!” and kicked him in the shin.

He chased you around the slide, laughing the whole way, like he hadn’t just offered his heart in the form of a joke too big for either of you to understand yet.

But that didn’t stop him.

Not when he carried your backpack in second grade just because he wanted it.

Not when he punched a kid in fourth for calling you names.

Not when he stood outside your house in the rain after your dog died, holding your umbrella like it was a sword and he was on some kind of silent vigil.

Every time, without fail: “How about a kiss?”

The line became a habit, then a reflex. You'd poke fun back, roll your eyes, tell him “not in a million years, Katsuki,”

And he’d snort and brush it off like he didn’t care. But he kept saying it. Kept hoping, maybe this time…

It was a joke.

It was only a joke.

Wasn’t it?

Teenage Katsuki is taller, sharper in the jaw, deeper in the voice—but somehow, just as infuriating. He still throws his arm in front of you when debris rains down from a villain’s blow. Still finds your wrist when chaos splits the class apart and hauls you behind him like you’re glass. He doesn't even look back, just mutters, "Tch. You good?"

And when you blink at him, breath caught, words gone…

There it is again—his default line, tossed over a bleeding lip like a lifeline and a death wish all at once:

“How about a kiss?”

Like he doesn’t mean it.

Like it’s always been funny.

You wanted to slap him and cry at the same time. Your hands shook on his shoulders. “You idiot,” you whispered, brushing ash off his cheeks. “You absolute idiot.”

He laughed, short and low and a little too bitter.

But it’s not funny when his palm finds your shoulder longer than it needs to.

It’s not funny when his laugh catches, when he glances away too fast, like he’s afraid he said too much.

And it's definitely not funny when he lies alone on the rooftop some nights, playing every moment back in his head, wondering what would happen if you ever said yes.

Because the truth is—he started asking for kisses when he didn’t know what kisses meant.

But now he does. And it terrifies him.

Because what if you lean in one day and actually give him one?

What if he finally tastes the thing he’s been craving since he was a boy with a busted knee and too much pride?

What if it ruins everything?

So he keeps asking, even when his voice breaks, even when his heart feels like it’s cracking behind his ribs.

Because it’s the only way he gets to pretend.

The only way he gets to say I love you without actually saying it.

Just five words, tossed like a coin into the well of every shared moment:

"How about a kiss, dumbass?"

And if you ever say yes,

God help him.

He won’t ever be the same again.

[syrecjh]

──★ ˙💀 ̟ !! Blessed and Stressed by Bakugo’s Body

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader,

The door was already cracked open. That was the only excuse you had as you hovered outside Bakugo’s dorm room, your fingers twitching with indecision. You did text him, told him you needed to borrow his notes, and he didn’t reply — typical — but the door being open felt like silent permission. You knocked once. Twice. The familiar notebook sat on his desk like it was waiting for you.

So you stepped inside.

It smelled faintly of pine and spice and something uniquely Katsuki. His room was as you expected — clean, not spotless, structured, just like him. You muttered a quick “I’m just grabbing your notes!” into the air, like that would absolve you of trespassing. Fingers grazing over the desk, you reached for the notebook when a shift in the air behind you made every nerve light up.

You turned — and froze.

He stood there. Framed by the doorway like a goddamn dream that had wandered out of a sauna. Steam still clung to his skin, droplets carving their way down his chest, past the slope of his collarbones, trailing over the sharp lines of his abs. His hair was wet, darker than usual, sticking to his forehead in jagged strands. A white towel hung loosely around his neck, one hand still rubbing at his hair. The other held a half-empty bottle of protein milk.

And he looked at you like you were the thief who broke into his fortress. Which, technically, you were.

“Oi,” he said, voice rough and low, probably from the heat of the shower, or maybe just you. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Words? What were those? Your brain was screaming at you to say something coherent, but all you could do was gawk at the trail of water gliding down the line of his sternum, disappearing under the waistband of his low-hanging shorts.

“I—I texted! The door was open!” you blurted, cheeks burning so violently. You clutched the notebook to your chest like it might protect you from whatever was about to happen next.

And then he moved.

Two steps. Just two, and suddenly he was there — towering, close, too close. His bare chest radiated heat, and the room suddenly felt like it had shrunk to the size of a closet. You didn’t even realize you had backed up until your spine kissed the wall and he was caging you in. His arms cage you in on either side, forearms braced against the wall just beside your head, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body—like he brought the steam of the shower with him. You could see the water droplets clinging to his lashes. His smirk.

“Could’ve waited,” he said, voice dipping lower, more amused than annoyed now. “Or maybe you just wanted to snoop through my shit.”

“N-No!” you sputtered. “I swear I just—”

His eyes dropped, for just a second, to the notebook you were still clutching like a lifeline, and when they lifted again, they were darker. Something unreadable swam in them, something dangerous and teasing and infuriatingly attractive.

You could feel your heart punching against your ribs.

You want to say something smart, you do—but the way he leans in closer shuts your brain right off. His damp hair drips another bead of water that slides down the curve of his jaw. You watch it drop. You're doomed.

“See somethin’ you like?” he smirks.

You flinch. “Wha—No! I—! Your hair just—it’s just down, and—! You usually spike it, okay?! It’s not fair—!”

He tilts his head, mock confusion painting his expression. “Not fair?” he repeats slowly, voice laced with dark amusement. “You break into my room, steal my notes, get all shy when you see me shirtless, and I’m the one playin’ dirty?”

"You weren’t supposed to be shirtless!” you blurt, practically hiding behind the notebook now.

He lets out a laugh—low, rich, dangerous. “Baby, I live here.”

Then he leans in again, close enough that his breath skims your cheek, warm and teasing. “If you wanted to see more, you could’ve just asked.”

You let out a strangled noise that definitely wasn’t a word, and he grins like he’s won.

“Next time,” he murmured, leaning just a little closer, his breath brushing your cheek, “wait ‘til I have a damn shirt on. Or don’t. Your call.”

You were going to combust.

And all he did was chuckle — low and soft and smug — before he stepped back, taking the heat with him, leaving you stuck to the wall like he’d pinned you there with nothing but a glance and the ghost of his proximity.

The worst part? You weren’t sure you wanted to leave.

[syrecjh]

ugh imagine bakubabes with reader who's equally as strong as he is, and just dont gaf when he insults her or smth like that, but insults him back with things that hid 100x harder and almost always wins against him during sparring/training?!?!?!

(She nonchalant and strong like dat ❤️)

-much adoration and admiration, ∆

──★˙👄 ̟ !! On Top Again

Literal and not-so-literal.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

The training mats of Gym Gamma were slick with the sweat of half the class, but all eyes were fixed on you and him.

Bakugo.

Again.

It was always you and him now.

You were the girl they used to overlook — quiet, aloof, the kind who barely spoke unless spoken to. Nonchalant, like you couldn’t care less. Like you had better things to do than brawl. And yet — the moment you sent Bakugo sprawling across the training hall—everything shifted.

You didn’t just come to spar.

You came to win.

And since then, you’d been his favorite opponent.

The match was brutal. Feral. Beautiful in the way two storms collided. Neither of you held back — why would you? He was loud, wild, an inferno in human form. And you — quiet, composed, unbothered— at least on the surface. With everyone else, you were all cool indifference and disinterest. But with him?

You were present.

Focused. Intent. Chalant as hell.

Until the final blow.

Your heel found his chest in a clean, merciless strike that sent him onto the mat with a loud thud. A beat passed. Then you were on him — knees braced on either side of his hips, hair sticking to your temples, breath steady despite the burn in your lungs. You didn’t sit on him, but you straddled dominance like a throne.

"Pinned.”

Your voice is cool, as always — a thread of amusement woven through the breath you exhaled just above his chest. He’s flat on his back, a fresh scuff smeared across the bridge of his nose from the last dodge-roll gone wrong.

“That's nineteen to six,” you said with a smirk, your fingers brushing imaginary dust off your uniform. “Losing your touch, Katsuki?”

He scowled. “Fuck off.”

You leaned in closer — not intimately, but intentionally,

“Getting weak in your old age? You need Deku to hold your hand next time?”

That did it. His crimson eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky I don’t hit girls.”

You laughed — a soft, low sound that sparked something dangerous in his chest. “Please. Hit me. I’d like to win by knockout for once.”

He huffed, cheeks flushed. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Funny. You’re the one beneath mine right now.”

And then—then—he did the unthinkable.

He grinned. Slow. Crooked. Wolfish.

A Katsuki Bakugo kind of grin.

“Well,” he said, voice gravel-rough, “I actually like a woman on top.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Your smirk falters — just slightly. Because he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. Not entirely.

You could feel the heat rising in your skin, just beneath the practiced calm. Your hands — braced near his head — tensed slightly. And he noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes tracked every shift, every breath, every crack in your mask, but you recover fast, cocking your head as you look down at him. “Careful, Katsuki. People might think you're flirting.”

“And what if I am?” he shoots back, and it’s not loud — no explosions, no bark, no swagger. It’s quieter. More dangerous than any blast he’s ever thrown at you.

You swallow something heavy, your throat suddenly dry. Your hands curl slightly against the mat on either side of his head. His eyes flick there, catch the shift in tension, then come back to yours — always looking, always daring.

You lean in, close enough for him to smell the shampoo in your hair, the sweat on your skin, “Then you better hope I don’t flirt back.”

He doesn’t blink. “Try me.”

But the whistle blows — Aizawa’s shout cutting through the thick, heated pause. Time’s up. You blink once, slowly, like waking from a dream, then push off of him and get to your feet in one fluid motion.

“Better luck next time, Boom Boy.”

You offer him a hand.

He takes it.

Your grip is tight.

So is the knot coiling deep between you both.

This isn’t over.

It never is.

As he passed, his shoulder brushed yours. You didn’t turn, didn’t smile, but you did call after him — voice flat, face unreadable:

“Try not to fantasize about me tonight.”

He turned halfway, gaze half-lidded and smug. “Can’t fantasize about something I’ve already dreamed of.”

Your smirk faltered.

Touché.

[syrecjh]

Katsuki x Ghost quirk reader

Not all ghost are scary this ghost just wants a friend

Have fun with it get creative

──★ ˙👻 ̟ !! The Ghost Who Wasn't

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff??

You didn’t remember the crash—only the colors. A shimmer of headlights. The song you loved humming cut short by the scream of metal. Then nothing. Silence thick and endless, like the sea floor. But you existed, somehow. Not alive, not dead. Just… here.

Your quirk had always been strange, something about consciousness detachment—barely studied, barely understood. Now it clung to you like a second skin, a phantom echo of yourself drifting between walls and across cities while your body lay still in a hospital bed, unmoving. Breathing, but not awake. A soul unmoored.

At first, you wandered.

You phased through hospital walls without realizing. You tried to speak to nurses, to patients. But no one saw you. No one listened. It didn’t hurt—at least not in the way you thought pain would feel. It was a hollow ache, like a song stuck in your throat that you couldn’t sing out.

You could move, breathe, think. But not feel. Not really. You tried to touch doors, and phased through. You tried to ask for help, and they screamed. Eventually… you stopped trying.

People felt your presence and fled. You weren’t a ghost—not really. But people saw you and screamed. You didn’t blame them. It wasn’t your fault you left behind a chill when you passed. It wasn’t your fault your voice trembled the air like a draft through old wood. You just wanted to say hi. You just wanted a friend.

One night, your drifting carried you far. Past towns you didn’t recognize. An apartment window left slightly ajar. You slipped through without thought. Your curiosity always got the best of you.

That’s where you met him.

Katsuki Bakugo, pro-hero. Alive in all the ways you weren’t.

He screamed.

You blinked, floating just above his rug, your form a soft glow against the dark. You hadn’t expected him to see you. Let alone react like that. You tried to not laugh.

“I didn’t think you’d scare that easy,” you teased, hovering just inches above the floor, translucent and glowing faintly in the dark. “Sorry.”

He didn’t answer. Just glared, fists clenched, jaw tight, like he was waiting for the apparition to attack. But you didn’t move. You tilted your head, gentle and uncertain. And something about the way your eyes searched his—like you were seeing him, really seeing him—made him stop from blasting the room to hell.

“You’re not real,” he muttered the first night. “You’re just a dream. A dumb, creepy dream.”

But you came back the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

You learned his name. He never asked for yours. You didn’t remember it anyway. You only knew the way your presence clung to his walls like perfume, and the way his heartbeat thrummed louder whenever you got too close.

“You’re annoying,” he told you once, flopping onto his couch. You smiled and sat beside him, even if your body sank halfway into the cushion.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Over time, the fear faded. He stopped flinching when you popped into his living room. He stopped pretending not to talk to you when his friends asked who he was mumbling at. He even started leaving the window cracked open, just in case.

“Friends don’t hover over people’s heads at 3 a.m., y’know,” he grumbled one morning.

“I’m just making sure you’re sleeping okay,” you whispered, warmth in your voice despite the chill of your form.

He could never touch you. Never brush your hair out of your face, or feel the weight of your hand in his. But he saw your eyes—clear, bright, full of something ancient and new all at once. Beautiful. And sometimes he caught himself staring longer than he should. Wondering things he didn’t dare say aloud. He wondered if ghosts could cry, because yours always looked like they wanted to.

Then, one night… you were gone.

No shimmer of light at the edge of his vision. No teasing voice echoing from the kitchen cabinet. Just silence.

Bakugo tried to tell himself it was a good thing. That he was just tired, and the ghost-girl he had started caring about—against all sense and logic—was just a figment stitched together by stress, a trick of exhaustion. But it felt wrong. Like a window had closed in his chest.

He didn’t know your name. He didn’t know you were lying still in a hospital bed three prefectures away. That your body had started to stir. That your fingers twitched for the first time in two years. That when you woke up, your mother sobbed and clutched you as if trying to anchor your soul back to your skin.

You didn’t remember the nights in his apartment. Just fragments. A face that made your stomach feel warm. A voice rough as gravel and soft as wind. But when the nurses showed you old news articles of heroes to jog your memory, your eyes paused on him.

Something about the way he stood. The furrow of his brow. The ache of something you couldn’t name.

Months passed. You tried to rebuild your life. You walked streets you didn’t remember but somehow knew. You smiled at strangers and wondered why their faces didn’t pull you the way his did.

And then, fate—or maybe something gentler, something ghostly—stepped in.

A chance encounter. A convenience store at dusk. You walked out just as he walked in.

Your shoulders brushed.

He froze.

You turned to apologize.

Your eyes met.

And he stopped breathing.

Because it was you.

You, who had haunted his life so quietly it hurt when you left.

You, with your head tilted slightly in confusion, just like that first night.

Except now, you were real. Solid. Warm. Standing before him in the golden light of a fading sun.

You tilted your head. “Do I… know you?”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. His heart was a thunderclap.

You didn’t remember him.

But God, he remembered you.

And maybe, just maybe, this time… he’d get to touch you back.

[syrecjh]

──★ ˙🎀 ̟ !! Rumor Has It (It’s You)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

There was a hum in the air that morning—light, charged, and humming with electricity far beyond Kaminari’s doing. The kind of collective silence that says everyone knows something, and the room swelled with it like a balloon about to pop.

“A rumor?” you blinked, halfway through your toast. “What kind of rumor?”

Mina leaned across the table like she was about to hand-deliver gossip with the reverence of a sacred scroll. “Someone in this class,” she sang, “has a crush.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Even Todoroki paused mid-sip.

Midoriya nearly choked. “A-A crush? In Class 1-A?”

“Not just anyone,” Kaminari grinned, nudging Kirishima, who was already biting his lip like he was holding back a nuclear secret. “It’s Bakugo.”

Silence fell like a bomb.

“…You’re joking.” Your laugh was reflexive, sharp with disbelief. “Bakugo? Katsuki Bakugo? Like… boom boom murder man?”

“Oi, I heard that!” his voice barked from across the room, making half the class jump. He didn’t even look up from tying his shoes, but his scowl deepened as if the sheer act of you laughing at the idea stung something in him.

“It’s real,” Sero added, all too happy to stir the pot. “He’s been acting kinda weird lately. Less explosive. Kinda quieter. Real soft—well, for him.”

“You mean growling at 40 decibels instead of 100?”

“Exactly!” Mina slapped the table. “It’s definitely a crush.”

Midoriya was spiraling. “No no no, Bakugo doesn’t—he doesn’t do that—he doesn’t like people like that—he’s emotionally stunted—”

“Gee, thanks for the diagnosis, nerd,” Bakugo hissed under his breath, but Midoriya didn’t even hear it. He was busy dissecting every social interaction they’ve had since first year.

Meanwhile, you sat there, sipping your drink, amused and thoroughly entertained. You tilted your head. “So… who’s the girl?”

The BakuSquad exchanged glances. The kind that screamed "We Know, But We’re Not Telling."

“No clue,” Kirishima lied, smile too bright. “Could be anyone.”

“Five bucks says it’s someone who’s, like, his total opposite,” Sero added, grin stretching like tape.

Mina twirled her straw. “She might not even know.”

“Especially if she’s dense as hell,” Bakugo muttered, low and nearly lost in the sound of clinking mugs and giggles.

“What was that?” you asked.

“Nothing.” His ears were red. “Mind your damn business.”

But then it started to build—the teasing.

“Bakugo, you wanna spar?” Sero grinned. “Or you busy writing love letters?”

“Hey Bakugo,” Kaminari added during lunch, “is she your type? The girl you’re crushing on? Is she, I dunno… sitting near us?”

“You bastards have a death wish, I swear to god—”

Even Kirishima, ever the loyal wingman, had his moments of mischief. “Come on, bro, you’ve got to tell her eventually.”

“I’m not telling her anything,” he grumbled.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was that every single jab, every poke, every sarcastic comment was aimed in your direction. And Bakugo, poor Bakugo, was burning alive in the quiet hell of his own creation.

Because how could he tell you?

That he noticed when you braided your hair different.

That he pretended not to care when you fell asleep at your desk, but stayed close enough to shove a jacket under your head.

That your laugh was the only thing that didn’t make him want to blow something up.

That it wasn’t the teasing that drove him mad—it was the fact that you didn’t know.

That the girl who laughed the loudest when Mina teased him, who asked “Who is it, huh? She must be lucky”—was the girl he was terrified of losing the second he said her name out loud.

So instead, he scowled and stayed silent. Let the rumors run. Let them laugh.

Let them all know—except you.

And maybe that was enough, for now.

But gods help him if someone else figured it out before you did.

[syrecjh]

Omgggg. This idea is haunting my dreams. Katsuki having a crush with school hearthrob who's literally perfect. Pretty, rich, talented, smart and kind. She's from the Support course. She's always been popular but you know how the Hero course is almost always in their own bubble? by the time he meets her, she already has a fan club and getting confessions at least twice a week. But you know our Katsuki always wants the best and always wants to be the best. Want to know how he'll try to catch her attention, beat the competition and win

──★ ˙💐 ̟ !! Winning Her Over

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

He met her by accident—or fate, if you asked someone softer than him.

Bakugo had been stomping through the halls of the Support Course building, muttering curses about some dumb circuitry issue frying his gauntlet mid-practice. He wasn’t in the mood for detours or delays. But fate didn’t care. Because just as he turned the corner, half-scowling and half-focused on the busted wire schematic in his head, he nearly crashed into her.

She looked up from her sketchpad with startled eyes—wide, bright, and caught somewhere between panic and poise. Like a doe frozen in a storm. Pretty didn’t even begin to cover it. She was striking. Ethereal, but not in a breakable way. There was steel behind her softness.

“Sorry,” she said, voice airy and polite, a breathless apology that didn’t match the firm set of her shoulders. “I didn’t see you.”

He blinked. “Tch. Should watch where you’re going.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t roll her eyes or walk away. She just smiled—soft and unbothered, like she hadn’t just bumped into one of the most explosive tempers in UA. Like she wasn’t afraid of sharp words and sharper reputations.

After that, it was like she started appearing everywhere. Not in the literal sense—she was always tucked away behind tech and tools, locked in her own world—but her name floated around him like static. People talked. They always did. The girl from the Support Course. Pretty. Rich. Talented. Rumor said she played two instruments, spoke three languages, already had overseas offers waiting in line. But it wasn’t her resume that stuck with him. It was her kindness. Quiet, steady. And just shy enough to make you want to know her more.

He wasn’t the only one curious, either. She’d turned down a dozen confessions before, each rejection wrapped in grace. No drama. No cruelty. Just a soft smile and a firm no. Every time, he’d overhear some extra whisper about how impossible she was to reach.

But Bakugo wasn’t most people. He never liked waiting in line.

One afternoon, he found himself leaning against her workbench, pretending he had business there. He didn’t. Not really. But she didn’t kick him out, and that had to count for something. His eyes scanned the clutter—spools of wire, soldering iron, half-built casing for some new prototype—but it was her face he watched.

“Why’d you say no to all those guys?” he asked, casual as he could fake it.

She glanced up, fingers pausing mid-adjustment. “Because I don’t know them,” she said, brows furrowing slightly in thought. “And I… I think I’d like to fall for someone I really see.”

He scoffed, shifting his weight like the floor was suddenly too stable. “Cheesy.”

“Well, it’s true.” Her lips curved. “Why? You thinking of joining the list?”

He looked at her then—really looked. The way her eyes held his, expectant but never pushy. The way she didn’t try to shrink herself or flirt or play coy. Just honest curiosity.

“I’m not here to confess,” he said, voice low. “I’m here to win.”

There was a beat. A flicker in her expression, surprise wrapped in something warmer.

“Is that so?”

“Damn right.” His arms crossed as he leaned forward slightly, gaze steady. “I don’t do half-assed anything. If I’m coming for you, I’m not stopping until you can’t look anywhere else.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then laughed—soft, startled, but genuine. Like he’d said something she hadn’t expected and didn’t quite know what to do with.

“You’re intense,” she said with a breathless sort of amusement.

“And you’re distracting,” he muttered, eyes flicking back to her unfinished schematic. “So stop being so damn radiant or I’ll never get anything done.”

The laugh that followed was lighter. And this time, she didn’t look away.

He started visiting more often after that. No excuses, no pretense. He’d drop in between training and class, lean on her table, offer unasked opinions about her prototypes, and insult her taste in snacks. She never asked him to leave. She teased him back when she got comfortable. And slowly—somewhere between shared silences and teasing jabs—he started to realize something he hadn’t admitted to himself before.

It wasn’t about winning. Not really.

It was about how her laugh made something loosen in his chest. How her stubborn work ethic reminded him of his own. How she never treated him like a weapon or a warning, just a boy with too much drive and no patience. And when he caught himself pausing outside her lab late one night just to hear her humming, it hit him like a gut-punch.

He liked her. Really liked her.

Not because she was perfect.

But because she saw him—and didn’t flinch.

And hell, maybe that was the only kind of victory he’d ever wanted.

[syrecjh]

──★ ˙🍼 ̟ !! 24 Hours with Tiny Dynamight

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

You’re not entirely sure how it happened. One moment, Endeavor was barking orders through the comms, smoke was rising in thick, tar-black ribbons, and the villain was cornered—palms sparking, eyes crazed, screaming something about “rewinding heroes to innocence.” The next, Katsuki Bakugo had thrown himself between you and a blast of shimmering violet light.

You remember his snarl. His teeth bared. “I said—watch your damn blind spot!”

And then the light swallowed him.

He's... gone.

Or, at least, that version of him is.

What’s left is a boy no older than five, blinking up at you with wide ruby-red eyes, fists clenched like he’s still ready for a fight.

You had blinked—and where the fury of Dynamight once stood, there was now a pint-sized version of him. Blonde, wild, and very, very small. His hair’s even more chaotic now, if that’s possible—fluffier, softer, sticking up like fire reaching for the sky. His voice, when it comes, is tinier. Sharper. Confused.

“Who are you?! Where’s my mom?! Where—where am I?!”

You freeze. So does everyone else.

His hero suit now slumped comically around a child-sized body, red eyes wide, blinking up at you with confusion and a wild streak of terror that turned into immediate rage.

Shoto drops the villain to the ground in shock. Izuku’s jaw falls open.

“Oh no,” Midoriya whispers. “That was a regression quirk. He’s been reverted… completely. Physically and mentally.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Endeavor growls. “I told you to stay put.”

And there was nothing else to say. Because the damage was done, and you were now holding a toddler-sized Bakugo back from lunging at a vending machine that apparently “looked at him funny.”

Back at Endeavor’s agency, the chaos truly bloomed.

The doctors said the quirk’s effects would last twenty-four hours. No longer. Which was, in theory, comforting.

In practice? Not so much.

Because Little Bakugo—who couldn’t have been more than five years old in this form—was an unholy combination of too much energy, zero filter, and a quirk that still sparked from his palms. Shoto tried reasoning with him. He got singed. Izuku tried logic. He got a plushie to the face. Endeavor? Bakugo bit his hand.

You?

He climbed onto your lap and refused to leave.

“Only she can touch me!” he screamed when Shoto tried to lift him. “She’s mine! You ugly fire popsicle! Back off!”

“Fire popsicle…” Shoto blinked. “That's new.”

“Deku, I swear if you try to hug me, I’ll explode your nose off!”

“But Kacchan, I’m just trying to—”

“BOOM!”

Sparks flared. Screams echoed.

You were the only one he didn’t try to incinerate.

When you brushed his hair back from his forehead, he calmed like lightning stilled by soft rain. When you tucked a blanket around him, he called you “the prettiest damn hero” and clung tighter.

He tried on sunglasses three sizes too big. Demanded a cape. Challenged Endeavor to a duel. Fell asleep on your chest mid-rant.

Shoto quietly took a photo.

Izuku followed.

Neither of them spoke. They just shared a look.

Blackmail material.

It was nearing dawn when the curse—or gift—began to lift.

You were curled on the agency’s couch, one arm around a snoring Little Bakugo, his tiny fingers knotted in your sleeve. The heat of him was familiar, even if the size was wrong. A quiet weight. A softer fire.

And then—

His body shifted.

Muscle. Mass. Full height.

You startled slightly as his adult form slumped against you, head pillowed right over your heart. His eyelashes fluttered. The boy was gone. King Explosion Murder had returned.

“…the hell?” he rasped.

You froze.

Katsuki Bakugo blinked up at you—chest to chest, cheek pressed to the curve of your collarbone, a confused warmth spreading across his face. A flush bloomed at his ears as he tried, and failed, to sit up gracefully.

“What… what the hell happened?!” he sputtered, flinging himself off the couch.

You blinked back a laugh. “Long story.”

Shoto, in the doorway, held up his phone. “You were very clingy.”

Izuku grinned beside him, scrolling through the gallery. “You called her ‘the prettiest damn hero.’”

Bakugo’s eye twitched. “Delete. Those. Now.”

“I already sent them to Kirishima,” Shoto said flatly.

You expected him to explode—literally—but instead, he turned slowly to you, mortification in every line of his face. “Did I… seriously say all that crap?”

You smirked. “You also bit Endeavor.”

“Worth it.”

He groaned, dragging his hand over his face. “Remind me never to save your life again.”

You stood, stretching, and walked past him—but not before whispering, “You also said I was yours.”

He froze.

You didn’t wait for his reply.

But as you glanced back at him—red-faced, shoulders tense, glaring at the ground like it just insulted his pride—you couldn’t help but think...

Maybe some quirks were blessings in disguise.

Especially the kind that turned a boy back into a child, just long enough to say the things his adult heart was too proud to admit.

[syrecjh]

So um.....bakugo x reader who has really bad anger issues and always snaps at everyone BUT she isn't apologetic about it (she's really mean too)

──★ ˙💢 ̟ !! Anger Recognizes Its Own

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader,

U.A. was too loud.

It wasn’t the training grounds or the screaming teachers or the near-death simulations that grated on your nerves — you could handle all that. It was the people. The fake laughs, the humblebrags wrapped in faux modesty, the classmates who tiptoed around confrontation like it was a landmine.

You weren't like them.

You told people what you thought, how you felt, and if that meant you snapped in the hallway or shoved someone’s books off their desk mid-sentence, so be it. You weren’t cruel without reason. You just didn’t lie about how pissed off people made you.

And you weren’t sorry.

So when word got around that you’d verbally eviscerated someone from Class 1-B for bumping into you and not apologizing, no one was surprised. When the rumors about when you told your math teacher back in high school that if he couldn't explain derivatives without sounding like a malfunctioning toaster, you were going to teach the class yourself — that was expected. When people cleared the hallway when you walked through, that was routine.

What wasn’t routine was Bakugo Katsuki keeping pace beside you.

"You're stomping again," he muttered without looking up from his energy drink,

You shot him a glare. "You're breathing again."

He snorted.

The two of you had started sitting near each other at lunch two months ago, after you blew up at a group of extras who thought it’d be funny to take a picture of you during hero training — mid-sprint, mid-scowl, full rage. You’d walked to the farthest table in the cafeteria, ignoring the whispers, and Bakugo was already there, eating alone like he always did.

He didn’t say anything when you sat. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t stare, didn’t even flinch when you slammed your tray down.

Maybe that was the start.

Now, he’d show up next to you in the hallway. Walk with you to class. Grumble when you picked fights, grin when you won them. Sometimes you fought each other — verbally, mostly — and sometimes you sat in comfortable silence. You never asked him why he tolerated you. You figured he didn’t know either.

“Oi.” His voice broke your thoughts. “You’re thinking too loud again.”

You scowled. “You’re talking too much.”

He bumped your shoulder with his. “You’re welcome for the companionship, asshole.”

You didn’t smile — not really — but your mouth twitched.

The thing was: Bakugo understood anger.

He didn’t flinch when your voice rose, didn’t cower when you snapped, didn’t lecture you to “breathe” or “regulate your emotions.” He didn’t treat your rage like it was something to fix. He treated it like something he recognized. Like something sacred.

And in return, you gave him what you didn’t give anyone: your silence.

Not the cold kind. The comfortable kind. The kind that said, I know you’re still here. I don’t need to say anything for you to feel that.

Some days you’d sit under the dorm’s outdoor stairwell, headphones in but music off, eyes closed as the wind moved over your face. He’d sit beside you and say nothing. Not a word. Just his presence — solid, steady, grounding in a way your fury never was.

And when the world spun too fast, too stupid, too loud — he’d find you.

One Thursday after sparring with class 1B, you nearly broke someone’s jaw. It wasn’t your fault, not really. He (hahahaha u know who is this) made a joke about your quirk — how it wasn’t “flashy enough to be intimidating.” You saw red. Your fist moved before your brain did.

Bakugo watched it happen from across the training mats.

When Aizawa dragged you off and the lecture started — something about emotional control and hero image — you didn’t say a word. You just stared at the scuffed floor, knuckles bleeding, ears ringing from the adrenaline.

Later that night, you skipped dinner.

You weren’t sulking. You just didn’t want to hear another person tell you how to feel.

So when there was a knock on your dorm door, you almost ignored it. But then a familiar voice followed.

“Open up. I brought the good ramen.”

You opened the door.

He walked in like he owned the place, dropped the instant noodles on your desk, and sat on your bed. Not in the chair. On your bed.

You raised a brow. “You breaking and entering now?”

He shrugged. “It’s your fault for giving me the spare key.”

“You stole it.”

He grinned. “Borrowed.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed one of the ramen cups, tearing the lid open with more force than necessary. “If you’re here to tell me I overreacted, save it.”

He looked at you. Not with pity. Not with judgment.

Just looked.

“I’m here 'cause you looked like you needed to hit something else.”

You froze.

He leaned back on his hands, watching you with that familiar, unreadable gaze — the one that never seemed to look through you but into you. The one that saw too much without asking permission.

“You don’t need to explain shit to me,” he said, voice low. “But next time you wanna deck some asshole, use your elbow. Less damage to your hand.”

You stared.

Then — for the first time all week — you laughed.

Just once. Short. Real.

It kept happening.

The nights where you couldn’t sleep. The days where the world was too stupid to tolerate. The afternoons where you sat in the corner of the training field, hair sticking to your sweat-slicked skin, breath ragged from holding it all in.

He’d be there.

Sometimes yelling at dumb classmates so you didn’t have to. Sometimes handing you a protein bar and pretending it wasn’t an act of care. Sometimes just being near — not speaking, not touching, not asking you to be smaller or softer or “nicer.”

And one day, without thinking, you looked at him across the gym and said, “You know you’re my favorite, right?”

He blinked.

And then his ears turned red.

“You say that to everyone who tolerates your temper?”

You smiled, teeth bared. “Only the ones worth keeping.”

He grunted and looked away — but his mouth twitched.

[syrecjh]

I swear I’ll get back to your requests tomorrow—this cramp is taking me out rn 😩 pls bear with meee

[syrecjh]

──★ ˙💋 ̟ !! You Kissed Me (Kind Of)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

It was after sparring, the air thick with sweat and sunset, golden light hitting Bakugo’s shoulders as if the sun was trying to set him on fire again. You were breathless, drenched, and clutching your now pathetically empty water bottle like it owed you something. Around you, classmates were collapsing on the grass, too tired to care. Bakugo stood nearby, already chugging his drink like he hadn’t just wiped the floor with half the class.

You stumbled over, voice airy and teasing as you said, “Save some water for me, Katsuki,” eyes wide, hands clasped together, the kind of pleading look no one could deny—not even him.

He paused mid-sip. His throat moved as he swallowed. There was a flicker—just a flicker—of panic in his crimson gaze. “Tch. Get your own, dumbass.”

“Mine’s empty,” you said, dramatically upending your bottle. “And you have, like, a gallon in there. Come on, I’ll just take a sip.”

He clenched the bottle tighter, knuckles whitening like he was bracing for impact. “It’s mine,” he muttered, slower this time, almost to himself.

“Oh my god, are you seriously being stingy right now?”

It wasn’t stinginess, and you’d find that out a second later when you reached out and just took the bottle. Before he could react. Before he could think. You popped the cap off and took a swig, utterly unbothered.

The moment the bottle touched your lips, Bakugo froze like someone had hit his pressure points. His arm, still half-raised from drinking, hung awkwardly in the air as you tilted his water back with zero hesitation—mouth on the same rim he had just used seconds ago.

He blinked once.

Twice.

Then his whole face short-circuited.

You let out a refreshed sigh, wiping your mouth like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Thanks,” you said sweetly, handing the bottle back to him.

Bakugo didn’t move.

His ears were turning red.

The tip of them first. Then his neck. Then it crawled up the back of his face like fire climbing dry leaves. His hand was still suspended midair, holding the bottle like it had turned into something unspeakably dangerous.

He finally snatched it from you like it burned. Turned away too fast. Shoulders tense.

You blinked. “What’s wrong with you?”

“N-nothing.” The crack in his voice made a few classmates nearby glance over, one of them elbowing the other and whispering loudly enough to be heard:

“Yo, that’s like—an indirect kiss, right?”

Bakugo’s hand shaked.

“Shut the hell up,” he snapped, not turning around.

You laughed, light and breezy. “You guys are so dramatic.”

But Bakugo didn’t respond. He was staring at the bottle in his hand like it held unspeakable secrets. His thumb hovered over the rim where your lips had been, unmoving, and something behind his eyes was spiraling—fast.

The others went back to gossiping, but you didn’t miss how stiff he was, like he couldn’t figure out where to store this new information in his brain without combusting.

“Wait…” you teased, leaning in slightly, voice a conspiratorial murmur. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. He shifted his jaw. His ears were still red.

“Oh my god,” you gasped. “It is, isn’t it?”

He scoffed loudly, too loudly. “You’re imagining things, dumbass.”

You tilted your head, lips curled in that grin he was starting to dread in the best way. “You’re acting like I kissed you or something.”

“I didn’t say that!” he snapped, too fast, too defensive.

“You didn’t have to.” You nudged his arm, eyes glinting. “Your face is doing all the talking.”

Smirking, you leaned back with faux innocence. “Relax, Katsuki. It’s not like I kissed you.”

His glare could’ve set the field on fire. “You basically did.”

A few of your classmates were biting back laughter nearby, clearly eavesdropping. But you didn’t care—you were already basking in the chaos you’d caused.

Your voice dipped into teasing honey. “What, you scared I’ll fall in love with you now?”

“I’m scared I already—” He stopped himself, jaw snapping shut like a bear trap. “Tch. Just get your own damn water next time.”

Bakugo groaned into his palm, muttering curses that sounded a lot like why me, why this, why today. But he didn’t shove you away. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even look you in the eye as he kept walking beside you—shoulders stiff, bottle clenched in his hand like it meant something.

And didn’t drink from it again until the next day.

[syrecjh]

Bakugo is a date-to-marry type — not out of some starry-eyed notion of romance, but because permanence is how he breathes. Because he doesn’t waste time on anything fleeting. Once he’s chosen you, that’s it. You’re his — not in a possessive, suffocating way, but in the sacred, I’d-die-before-I-let-you-go kind of way. The moment he let his guard down, let you in, his heart sealed the deal before his mouth ever uttered the words.

He doesn’t fall in love gently. He crashes into it, all noise and flame and stubborn devotion. And once he does, that’s it — you’re not just someone he loves. You’re his person, his future, his peace in the chaos. It shows in the way he says your name like a shield, like a prayer. In the way he always walks on the side of the road closest to traffic. In the way he watches you sleep like the world could crumble if he blinked.

He’s the kind of man who’d leave his hero agency early just to bring you soup when you’re sick, grumbling the whole time while checking your forehead with the back of his hand. The kind who keeps your picture tucked in his locker behind his gloves — not for anyone else to see, but so he can glance at it before every mission and remember why he comes back alive.

Bakugo doesn't say forever with flowers or poems. He says it with calloused fingers fixing the strap of your gear. With him cooking hot meals after long patrols. With the way he lets you wear his hoodie and pretends he doesn’t care, even though he’s memorized the exact way it hangs off your frame.

And if anyone dares to think he’d ever let you go — they don’t know Bakugo Katsuki.

Because once you’re his, you’re his forever. Not just in this life, but every life after. You’re stuck with him — in the best, most terrifying, most comforting way. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[syrecjh]

Hi! I really love your work and it’s all I’ve been reading for the past days 🫶🏻 being a bakugo girlie it was my duty to make a request (it’s my first time ever making one😅)… could you write a little thing about pro hero katsuki and pro hero reader, who got a prize because of their heroic behavior during a previous catastrophe (like really tragic)… and katsuki’s just staring full of pride while we receive the award, but also terrified at the idea of us putting our life on the line for strangers (which is literally called being a hero lol)

That’s it! I hope you can read this (and give life to my idea) at one point ☺️🫶 I know it’s angsty and all but I’m in the mood rn 😭

──★ ˙🏅 ̟ !! Proud and Terrified

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader,

The ovation rose like thunder, but Katsuki Bakugo heard none of it. Not the applause, not the speech, not the praise echoing off the marble walls. All he could see—through a thousand flashes, behind the rows of officials and heroes and smiles too white to be real—was you.

You stood on that stage, still in partial uniform, hair singed at the ends, bandages peeking beneath the sleeve of your formal jacket. You held the award like it was too heavy for your hands, the engraved plaque glinting under stage light: “For Bravery Beyond Rank, in Recognition of the [Odawara Catastrophe Response].” You were bandaged and bruised, but there you were—alive, impossibly alive—and accepting the medal like it was just another Tuesday.

"Top Ten Hero Saves Over 300 Civilians Alone” the headlines had said. But they hadn’t seen your hands trembling on the stretcher when they’d pulled you out. They hadn’t watched the rubble collapse behind you a second too late.

Bakugo had.

And now you were here, smiling like the world hadn’t almost taken you from him. Like you hadn’t walked straight into hell, and come back half-lit, half-broken—but still you.

The crowd rose. He clapped too, finally, because that’s what he should do. He clapped until his palms stung, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Because he was proud. God, he was so fucking proud.

But when the lights dimmed and the ceremony ended—when the chatter faded and he finally found you in the quiet hall, your award still cold against your chest—he didn’t say congratulations first.

He reached for your hand. Held it tight.

And said, low and raw, “Don’t do that again.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Scare the shit out of me.” His voice broke around the edges, quiet and hoarse. “I’m proud of you, dammit. You’re incredible. You know that. But I—” he shook his head, looked down at your fingers laced in his—“I can’t pretend this shit doesn’t terrify me.”

You softened. “Katsuki—”

“No. Just—listen.” He looked up, eyes glassy but stubborn. “When I heard your comms were down... I—I thought I lost you. I know we signed up for this. I know we risk our lives every day. But I swear, I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

You squeezed his hand, grounding him. He exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath since that mission.

“I’m proud of you, always,” he whispered. “But I don’t want to be the one getting medals for you. Or eulogies. Or some goddamn folded flag.”

His jaw clenched. He wasn’t good at words. Not the soft ones. He took the plaque from your hands. Set it on the floor like it meant nothing next to you. And he held your face, rough fingers tracing the bandage near your temple.

“You’re not allowed to die before me, dumbass.”

You leaned into him then, the silence speaking more than applause ever could. His arms wrapped around you—not as a hero, not as the explosive legend that towered in rankings—but as the man who loved you more than the world he was trying to save.

And in that moment, medals didn’t matter. All that mattered was this:

That you’d come back.

That you were still here to hold.