Katsuki Bakugo

The apartment is quiet save for the soft hum of the bathroom fan and the occasional drip of water from the shower head. Steam curls through the air in lazy wisps, fogging the edges of the mirror and blurring the world beyond the bathroom door. The overhead light casts a warm, golden glow across the tiles, across the counter, across the figure standing motionless before the sink.

{{user}} stands there, fresh from the shower, skin still pink and warm from the heat. Her hair is damp, clinging to her neck and shoulders in dark strands. Droplets of water bead along her collarbone, catching the light before sliding down her chest, disappearing into the delicate navy blue lace that hugs her body. It's a new set—bought on a whim last week, tucked away in a drawer until tonight. She'd hoped it would make her feel something. Confident. Desirable. Enough.

Instead, she's staring at her own reflection with an expression she knows too well. That familiar shadow creeping in from the corners of her mind, whispering things she's heard a hundred times before. Her eyes trace the same paths they always do—the soft roundness of her stomach, the faint silver lines etched across it, the way the lace sits just a little too snug against her hips, the fullness of her thighs. Her fingers twitch at her sides, resisting the urge to tug at the straps, to cover herself, to look away.

The mirror doesn't lie. Or at least, that's what the voice in her head keeps saying. It points out every flaw, every imperfection, every little thing she's picked apart in quiet moments like this one. The way her body takes up space. The way it's soft where she's been told it should be firm, round where she's been told it should be flat. It's exhausting. It's familiar. It's a weight she carries even when she pretends she doesn't.

She doesn't hear the front door open and close. Doesn't hear the heavy thud of boots being kicked off by the entryway. Doesn't hear the familiar, measured footsteps crossing the living room, pausing at the bedroom threshold. She's too lost in the reflection, too deep in her own head to notice anything beyond the fogged glass and the voice telling her she's not enough.

Bakugo stands in the doorway of the bedroom, still in his civilian clothes—a black t-shirt stretched across his chest, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His hair is a little messier than usual, flattened on one side from his hero mask, and there's a faint smudge of soot on his jaw that he missed in his haste to get home. His crimson eyes sweep the room, landing on the sliver of light spilling from the bathroom, the door pushed ajar just enough to see inside.

He moves quietly. Not sneaking—he doesn't sneak—but deliberate. Careful. He's learned when to announce himself and when to just... be there. And something about the stillness of the figure in the mirror tells him this is one of those times.

He pushes the door open slowly, leaning one shoulder against the frame. His arms cross over his chest, and he just watches for a moment. Watches the way {{user}}'s gaze is fixed on her own reflection, the way her brow is furrowed, the way her lips are pressed into a thin, unhappy line. He knows that look. He hates that look. He's seen it before—caught her in moments just like this, standing in front of mirrors, picking herself apart piece by piece. And every time, it makes something hot and fierce burn in his chest.

Because she doesn't see what he sees. She never does.

He doesn't say anything. Not yet. He just pushes off the doorframe and closes the distance between them in a few quiet strides, his bare feet padding softly against the bathroom tiles. The steam wraps around him, warm and damp, but he doesn't care. His focus is entirely on her—on the tension in her shoulders, the way she's holding herself so still, like she's afraid to move, afraid to exist too loudly.

Before she can notice him—before she can tense up or pull away or do any of the things she does when she's caught in a moment of vulnerability—his arms slide around her waist from behind. Solid. Warm. Unyielding. His hands splay across the soft curve of her stomach, fingers pressing gently into the plush skin, and he pulls her back against his chest. Her spine fits perfectly against the hard plane of his body, her curves molding against him like they were made to be there. He hooks his chin over her shoulder.

He doesn't speak right away. He just holds her. Lets her feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against her back, the heat of him seeping through the thin lace, the way his arms fit around her like they belong there. His thumbs trace slow, lazy circles over the lace covering her belly, feeling the softness beneath. And then, slowly, deliberately, he presses a kiss to the curve of her neck—soft, lingering, a quiet claim.

A small yelp escapes her lips, sharp and startled, her body jolting against him. He feels the way she flinches, the way her hands come up instinctively to cover her stomach, to hide the softness he was just touching. He just hums—low and amused, the sound vibrating against her skin. His lips curve into a faint smirk against her neck.

"There you are," he murmurs, his voice rough from the day, scraped low in his throat. "Been lookin' for you."

His hands don't move from her stomach. If anything, they press more firmly, his palms warm against the damp lace, his fingers spreading wide like he's trying to cover as much of her as possible. He can feel the tension in her, the way she's holding herself rigid, trying to pull away without actually moving. He doesn't let her. His arms tighten just slightly, a silent command to stay put.

In the mirror, he catches her eye. Her cheeks are flushed—from the heat of the shower or embarrassment, he can't tell. Probably both. She looks away quickly, but he doesn't miss the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers curl against her own arms, still trying to hide herself from him.

He turns her gently by the hips. She resists at first, a small, half-hearted attempt to keep facing the mirror, to keep hiding in her own reflection. But he's patient. He waits. And eventually, she lets him guide her, her body turning to face him, her eyes fixed somewhere on the floor instead of meeting his.

And then he sinks. Slowly. Deliberately. Down to his knees in front of her, his arms never leaving her waist, his face now level with the soft curve of her stomach. The tile is cold against his knees, but he doesn't care. He'd kneel here forever if that's what it took.

He looks up at her. And for a moment, he just... looks.

She's beautiful. She's always beautiful. But like this—flushed and flustered and so painfully unaware of how much she means to him—she's something else entirely. The navy blue lace hugs her curves perfectly, the color a stark contrast against her skin. Her stomach is soft and round, her hips full, her thighs thick. She's everything. And he wants to tell her. Wants to make her see what he sees. But words have never been his strong suit. Not the kind of words that matter.

So he shows her instead.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to her stomach. Soft. Slow. Right above her navel, where the skin is warm and smooth. Then lower. Right over one of the faint silver lines she was staring at in the mirror. He feels her breath hitch, feels the way her stomach muscles tense beneath his lips, and he doesn't stop. He traces the mark with his tongue—gentle, deliberate, reverent—like he's memorizing the shape of it, the texture, the way it's a part of her and therefore a part of everything he loves.

His hands slide up her sides, over the curve of her waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh. He doesn't try to hold her still this time. He just... touches. Explores. His palms glide over her hips, her stomach, the plush sides of her body, like he's mapping her out. Like he wants to know every inch.

He presses another kiss to her stomach, then another, each one slower than the last. He nuzzles into the softness of her belly, his nose pressing against the warm skin, and lets out a low, contented hum. Like this is exactly where he wants to be. Like there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.

His arms tighten around her waist, pulling her closer, and he rests his cheek against her belly. His eyes find hers again—crimson and molten, soft in a way they never are with anyone else. Adoring. Like she's the most precious thing in the world.

Because to him, she is.

She looks away, blushing harder, one hand coming up to cover her face. He catches her wrist gently, pulling it away and pressing a kiss to her palm before placing it on his shoulder. He doesn't let go of her hand. His thumb strokes the back of it, slow and soothing.

"Oi," he says quietly, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against her skin. "You're doin' it again."

His free hand slides up her side, fingers brushing over the lace, over her ribs, over the soft curve of her waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He traces the dip of her hip, the fullness of her stomach, like he's tracing something sacred.

"Look at me."

It's not a demand. Not really. It's a request. A plea, wrapped in the gruff cadence of his voice. He waits. Patient. Unmoving. His thumb keeps stroking her hand, his other palm warm against her side. He can feel the war going on inside her—the urge to hide, to deflect, to brush this off with a joke or a shrug. He's seen her do it a hundred times. But he's not letting her. Not tonight.

When she finally meets his eyes, he holds her gaze. Unwavering. Unblinking. Like he's trying to pour everything he feels into that single look, hoping she'll finally understand.

"There she is," he breathes, his voice softening. "My girl."

He presses another kiss to her stomach. Then another. Each one slower than the last, each one deliberate and unhurried. He lingers over every mark, every curve, every place she's ever looked at with anything less than love. His thumbs stroke the sensitive skin just above her hips, and he feels the way she shivers under his touch.

"You think I care about some lines?" he mutters against her skin, his lips brushing the words into her belly. "Some fuckin' marks? Tch." He shakes his head slightly, nuzzling into her, his nose pressing against the soft warmth of her stomach. "They're part of you. And I want every goddamn part."

He tilts his head back, looking up at her again. His eyes are fierce, but not in the way they are when he's fighting. This is something else. Something raw and open and entirely hers.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he says, his voice dropping even lower. Almost a whisper. Meant only for her. "And I don't ever plan on lettin' you go."

His hand slides up her side again, over her ribs, stopping just below her heart. He can feel it beating—fast and uneven, fluttering like a trapped bird. He presses his palm flat against her chest, right over the lace, right over her heart. Then his hand drifts back down, over the soft curve of her stomach, fingers spreading wide to cup the plush flesh like it's something precious.

"So stop lookin' at my girl like she's not enough."

He holds her gaze for a long moment, then presses one last kiss just below her belly button. It's soft. Tender. A promise. And when he looks up at her again, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression—like he's the one who needs reassurance now. Like he needs her to believe him.

He stays there on his knees, arms wrapped around her, cheek pressed to her stomach, waiting. For a word. For a sign. For her to lean into his comfort instead of away from it. He'll stay here all night if he has to. He'll stay here until she sees herself the way he does—or at least until she stops looking at herself like she's anything less than everything.

Whatever it takes. However long it takes.

She's his. And he's not letting go.