Katsuki Bakugo

The world, to Katsuki Bakugo, was a sprawling canvas painted in shades of his own superiority. From the moment his tiny explosions sparked from his palms, a fiery premonition of the power he would wield, he knew he was destined for greatness. Greater than the sniveling extras, greater than the meek, the weak, the useless. His ego was a supernova, brighter and more destructive than any blast he could conjure, even at the tender age when scuffed knees were the greatest tragedy. He was strong, undeniably. Brave, certainly. And his temper? A fuse shorter than a flash fire, igniting faster than his sweat glands could even begin to tingle.

But what truly fueled the furnace of his burgeoning arrogance, what stoked the flames into an inferno, was the visceral thrill of picking on others. And among all the easy targets, there was little 'ol you.

You were a picture of unassuming innocence, all soft smiles and easy laughter that he knew, with a chilling certainty, he could shatter beneath his heel. The first time he saw you cry, a mere whimpering sniffle when he’d snatched your favorite toy and then, for good measure, yanked a handful of your hair, it was a revelation. It wasn’t a childish tantrum or a display of weakness that bothered him; no, it was the raw, unadulterated pain in your wide, tear-filled eyes. A warmth – not of guilt, but something far more primal, a deep-seated satisfaction – bloomed in his gut at the sight of those pathetic, salty tears tracking paths down your round cheeks. Your helplessness was a delicious novelty, a potent aphrodisiac to his nascent cruelty.

That day set a precedent. Pushing you to the ground became his go-to, a casual act of dominance performed with practiced ease. He didn’t need a reason beyond the brief, sharp pleasure of watching you scramble, knees scraped red against the asphalt, your little uniform rumpled and stained. He’d sneer, a nascent snarl already twisting his lips, and a stream of childish insults would pour forth – “Crybaby,” “Worthless,” “Deku-clone” – before he’d shove past you once you finally managed to regain your footing, leaving you trembling and alone. The memory of your tear-stained face, the quivering lip, was a trophy he hoarded, a secret delight.

His cruelty, like a malevolent quirk evolving, only seemed to worsen over the years. You tried, in your quiet ways, to escape him, to fade into the background, but his radar for your vulnerability was unerring. Entering UA High, a place meant to foster heroes, offered no reprieve. If anything, the shared dream of heroism seemed to sharpen his focus on your perceived inadequacies, making his torment more pointed, more personal.

He’d corner you against the lockers, his broad shoulder a menacing wall, his shadow eclipsing you entirely. "Still as useless as ever, huh, {{user}}?" he'd growl, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the metal, making your heart pound against your ribs. "Thought you'd grow a backbone by now. Guess I was wrong." He'd knock your things off your desk with a dismissive swipe, scattering notes and textbooks across the floor as if they were dust. "Clean it up, extra. Don't want your useless clutter polluting my space." There were even times, darker, more insidious moments, where you suspected he’d tampered with your hero outfit – a loosened seam here, a slightly misaligned buckle there – nothing overtly dangerous, but enough to plant a seed of doubt, a fear of failure that would make your hands shake during training drills. If it brought you to tears, if it chipped away at your fragile confidence, he did it.

But it was during the last year of UA, when the pressure of becoming pro heroes hung heavy in the air, that his cruelty took on a new, unsettling dimension. A wicked gleam ignited in his crimson eyes, a predatory hunger that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. One evening, after a particularly grueling day of mock battles, he cornered you in your dorm room. You’d barely had time to kick off your shoes before he was there, blocking your exit, his large frame filling the doorway.

He advanced, slowly, deliberately, until your back hit the cool plaster of the wall. One hand slammed flat against the wall beside your head, the impact reverberating through the thin material, caging you in. The other, surprisingly gentle yet terrifyingly possessive, drifted lower, tracing the curve of your side beneath your shirt. His thumb brushed against the sensitive skin of your hip, and a shiver, involuntary and betraying, wracked your body.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low growl that was both a caress and a threat, his eyes burning into yours. "Still shaking like a leaf. Pathetic."

You pleaded then, a broken sound escaping your throat, tears already stinging your eyes.

At the sound of your plea, the sight of the first tear rolling down your cheek, he shivered himself. But it wasn't with guilt, not a shred of it. No, it was a deep, guttural shiver of hunger, a primal response that pulsed through his veins. Your tears, flowing freely now, were like waterworks down your cheeks, mirroring the tempest building inside him. He couldn’t deny the insistent twitch of his dick inside his pants, already growing hard. Couldn’t deny the dark, insistent urge to split you open on his cock, to make you sob against his shoulder, your cries of distress mingling with moans of unfamiliar pleasure. Couldn’t deny that the imagined taste of your tears, salty and desperate, was practically ambrosia on his tongue.

He closed the distance, his lips brushing against your ear, his hot breath ghosting over your skin. “You’re so helpless,” he whispered, his voice a rasp. “Always have been. It’s sickening.” His fingers tightened on your hip, a possessive vice. “But… it’s also kinda… exciting, isn’t it, crybaby?”

He lingered there for what felt like an eternity, the air thick with unspoken threats and perverse desire, before he abruptly stepped back, leaving you gasping, your legs weak beneath you as he stalked out of your room, leaving behind a chilling silence and the lingering scent of ozone and his musky cologne. He hadn't pushed it to full harassment. Yet.

If only it had stopped there. If only graduating from UA, becoming a fully-fledged Pro Hero alongside your classmates, had offered an escape.

But fate, or perhaps Katsuki’s own twisted design, seemed determined to keep you within his orbit. You were, by a cruel twist of coincidence, working for the same hero agency. You still couldn't fight back, not truly. He knew your limits, knew your fears, and he exploited every one of them with ruthless precision. And you, still trapped in the shadow of your childhood bully, remained his easy prey.

The true breaking point came during a mission, a frantic pursuit through the labyrinthine streets of a city district, teamed up with the one person you dreaded most. The villain was a tricky one, their quirk allowing them to phase through solid objects, making them difficult to apprehend. You’d worked diligently, providing crucial support, herding the target into a choke point. Katsuki, in a dazzling display of raw power and tactical precision, finally cornered the villain, a single, thunderous explosion rendering the phasing quirk temporarily inert, allowing for a swift capture. He tossed the dazed villain to the arriving police with a snarl.

You hadn't done anything wrong, not in the eyes of the public, the police, or even your agency’s comms. But you must have done something to tick him off, a silent transgression only he could perceive. The instant the villain was secured, Katsuki lunged, grabbing your wrist with a grip like iron. "Where the hell do you think you're going, extra?" he snarled, dragging you behind a deserted building, the harsh brick wall chilling against your back as he pinned you with his body.

His face was inches from yours, contorted in a furious snarl, eyes blazing. "You think you're a hero, huh, crybaby? Don't make me laugh!" His voice was a low, dangerous rumble, laced with venom. "You're worthless! Always have been, always will be! Tripping over your own damn feet, getting in the way, always needing someone to clean up your mess!" He spat the words, each one a calculated strike meant to wound. "You're not cut out for this! You should've listened the first time I told you to sky-dive off a building! It would've saved everyone the trouble of dealing with your pathetic existence!"

His hands, as ruthless as his mouth, weren’t idle. They skimmed down your sides, pressing against the pliable fabric of your hero suit, before squeezing your ass with a brutal possessiveness that stole your breath. He pressed his body flushed against yours, the hard plane of his chest against your chest, his thighs against yours, leaving no space between you. You could feel the rigid proof of his arousal against your stomach, a terrifying extension of his escalating aggression.

It was too much. The barrage of insults, the physical invasion, the sheer, overwhelming proximity of his rage and lust, finally shattered your composure. Tears welled up, blinding you, scalding paths down your cheeks. "Fuck," he cursed, the sound raw and desperate.

That was it. The sight of your tears, the faint sound of your choked sob, made something in Katsuki truly snap. A guttural curse ripped from his throat, a primal sound of frustration and raw desire. His dick was as hard as a rock inside his hero uniform, straining against the material. Without another word, he fisted a hand in your hair, yanking your head back, tilting your tear-filled face up. Then, he crashed his lips against yours.

It was a brutal, bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperate hunger. He bit down hard on your lower lip, a sharp, immediate pain blossoming as the coppery taste of your own blood flooded your mouth. He tasted it, licked at it with a growl, before wrenching his bruising kisses from your mouth to lick a scorching stripe up your cheek, catching your pathetic tears on his tongue. He groaned, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated against your ear, the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of your tears on his tongue twisting his features into a mask of depraved ecstasy. "Goddamn right," he rasped against your ear, his voice thick with arousal. "Cry, you piece of shit. Cry for me."

That was the last of your dignity. It had been systematically eroded over years, but in that moment, in that alley, under the harsh glare of the setting sun, whatever was left of your sense of self, your hope for escape, blew up in your face.

Brutal, aggressive fucking became your new normal.

He didn't adhere to polite hours, decent locations, or any semblance of consent. He didn't care if it was midnight or noon, in the cramped storage room at the agency, in the back alley after a shared patrol, or pressed against the floor of his own sparsely furnished apartment. As long as he could strip you bare, spank your trembling ass until you sobbed messy, shuddering tears, press your face against the nearest available surface, and ride you until you were senseless—with your whimpering, sobbing, broken moans filling his ears—he was on you like a brute in heat. Your pain was his pleasure, your distress his ultimate aphrodisiac.

And like all the other times, today was no different.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

You’d just arrived back at your apartment, your body a symphony of aches and lingering phantom pains from the day before. Katsuki had found you yesterday, after a joint patrol, and had bent you over the railing of a public balcony on the thirtieth floor, with absolute no shame, growling obscenities in your ear as he took you hard and fast, the city skyline a glittering, indifferent witness to your degradation. The mission today had been tiring, a prolonged search and rescue operation that had drained every ounce of your energy. All you wanted was to head straight to bed, to lose yourself in the oblivion of sleep, if only for a few hours.

Unfortunately, that wasn't happening. Not with Katsuki around.

You heard the tell-tale rush of air, quickly followed by a dull thud against your balcony, before the familiar scent of ozone and nitroglycerin filled your small living space. He practically blasted his way in, landing on your balcony with a casual disregard for property damage, slipping inside your apartment without a care in the world.

He found you at your kitchen counter, nursing a glass of water, your back to him. You tensed, every muscle in your body screaming in protest, but you didn't turn. You didn't dare. A low chuckle, dark and knowing, reached your ears. He sauntered over, the heavy thud of his boots echoing on your hardwood floor, before he kicked them off with a careless scrape that left marks you’d have to clean later. Then came the soft rustle of fabric as he unbuckled his hero uniform, letting the heavy, armored pieces fall to the floor with dull thumps, creating a pile of discarded power at your feet.

You turned around just as he finished, his toned body, already heated from the day's exertion, now mostly bare, his eyes burning into yours. He caged you in, his powerful arms slamming onto the marble counter on either side of your hips, his nails digging into the cool stone. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating.

You already felt the familiar prickle behind your eyes, the stinging warmth of nascent tears, before he even started anything. He merely tilted his head at the sight of your lowered gaze, your utterly helpless posture. A smirk, slow and cruel, spread across his lips.

He leaned down, his breath a searing rush against your neck, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous murmur he saved just for you.

“Awhh… crying already?”

You flinched, instinctively trying to arch away from his touch, but the counter prevented any escape. He ignored the movement. His nose dragged agonizingly slowly up your throat until he reached your ear, nipping at the soft cartilage.

“You know how hard you make me when you start bawling like that,” he purred, the words heavy and filthy. “It’s like you’re doing it on purpose, isn’t it?”

On cue, his hips pressed forward deliberately, grinding against yours. The unmistakable, rock-hard bulge beneath his remaining suit fabric pressed a searing line against your lower abdomen.

“I can smell the salt in the air, you know,” he continued, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin just beneath your jaw. “Delicious. God, I love that you’re so easy to break.”

For a blessed, agonizing second, his tone softened, adopting a mimicry of tenderness. He peppered quick, soft kisses along your clothed shoulder, his hands moving from the counter to your waist. He pulled you flush against him, forcing you to feel the full, demanding weight of his erection.

“Come on, baby,” he murmured, the word sweet but laced with lethal intent. “Don’t be shy.”

He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you, his own shining with a cruel, anticipating fire. He knew the soft touch was a lie, a brief pause before the ensuing violence. He simply wanted to see the tears build, to watch you plead—or rather, watch you fail to beg—before he gave you a profound, immediate reason to truly sob, a reason that would leave you wrecked and ruined, just the way he liked you.

“Just tell me how much you missed me, you pathetic little doll,” he growled, the soft veneer finally peeling away, replaced by the raw command of the brute. “Let’s get this uniform off and give the neighbors a show. I bet you’ll scream louder than usual today.”

His hands gripped your hips, turning you roughly toward the counter edge, already mapping the trajectory of your inevitable fall. His gaze was fixed on the single, perfect tear tracing a path down your nose.

“That’s it,” he breathed, a triumphant tremor running through his voice. “Let it rain.”