pleaseee listen to “for lovers” by lamp while looking at timeskip bakugo it will warm ur heart up :(
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bakugo w hearing aids but great vision, and u have glasses but great hearing, so now u gotta stick together NOWWWW
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this song belongs to katsuki bakugou and katsuki bakugou ONLY not taking questions at this time
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In Good Hands — boxer!Katsuki x physical therapist!reader
Bakugo Katsuki had built his life around one principle:his body was a weapon.
Every punch thrown, every dodge, and every movement was calculated, honed, perfected. The ring was the only thing that made sense to him. Noise, sweat, pain—it all processed into something clean and simple.
So when his knee gave out mid-match, a sharp, traitorous pain ripping through his leg as he went down in-front of thousands of fans, it felt less like a injury and more like a betrayal.
The diagnosis was blunt.
“Torn ligament. Surgery. Months of rehab.”
Months.
Bakugo hated that word almost as much as he hated psychical therapy.
He made that hatred well known.
Every psychical therapist assigned to him at the sports rehab clinic lasted maybe three sessions before requesting reassignment. Bakugo pushed too hard, snapped too fast, and refused to be coddled. He growled through stretches, ignored warnings, and nearly walked out more than once.
They all looked at him the same way—like he was volatile, dangerous, something that to be managed instead of understood.
So when the clinic door opened one afternoon, and someone new walked in, he didn’t bother lifting his head.
“Bakugo Katsuki?”
Your voice was calm. Grounded. Not overly cheerful.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
“I’m your new psychical therapist.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Great. let’s get this over with.”
You didn’t flinch.
You stepped closer, clipboard tucked under your arm, eyes scanning him quickly—not judgmental, not fearful. Just observant.
“Sit on the table,” you said. “I want to check your range of motion.”
He complied, mostly because something about your tone didn’t invite a argument
When you knelt in front of him, adjusting his leg with careful hands, he froze.
Not because of pain.
Because your touch was..different.
Firm but considerate. Confident without force. You paused whenever his muscles tensed, waited until his muscles relaxed instead of pushing through it.
“If something hurts,” you said quietly, “tell me pain isn’t a failure. it’s information.”
That sentence lodged itself somewhere deep in his chest.
Most people treated him like pain was something to conquer.
You treated it like something to listen to.
It didn’t take long for bakugo to realize something dangerous.
He didn’t hate sessions with you.
He waited for them
He showed up early. He followed instructions. When other staff tried to step in—assist with stretches, monitor exercises he shut them down immediately.
“Where’s my therapist?”
“She’s with another patient right now,” the receptionist said once.
Bakugo scowled “I’ll wait.”
You noticed it, of course
“You know i’m not the only one qualified to work with you,” you said gently one afternoon as you massaged tension from his thigh, careful to stay clinical.
“Tch. Don’t care”
You glanced up. “Bakugo—“
“You get me,” he interrupted, jaw tight. “The rest of them treat me like i’m gonna explode.”
Your hands stilled
Then, softer, you said, “You don’t scare me.”
That did something to him.
Bakugo didn’t know how to name it, only that it settled low in his chest and stayed there, heavy and warm. People didn’t say things like that to him. Not without flinching afterward. Not without some edge of fear or caution.
You just… stated it. Like a fact.
“You don’t scare me.”
He scoffed, instinctively. “You should.”
You shrugged lightly and returned your focus to his leg. “I work with professional fighters, Bakugo. Pain, anger, frustration—those don’t scare me. What scares me is someone giving up on their body.”
His jaw tightened. “I’d never—”
“I know,” you said, immediately. “That’s the problem.”
Your fingers pressed gently along the muscle just above his knee, mapping tension he hadn’t realized had built up there. He hissed despite himself.
“Too much?” you asked, already easing up.
“…No,” he muttered. “Just—sore.”
You nodded. “Your body’s compensating. You’re guarding the injury even when you don’t need to anymore.”
“Tch. Figures.”
“You don’t trust it yet.”
That hit closer than he liked.
From that day on, Bakugo stopped pretending this was just another appointment.
He watched the clock before sessions. He noticed the sound of your footsteps in the hallway. When you greeted him, he felt something unclench in his chest every time.
Other therapists tried to fill in once or twice.
He shut that down immediately.
“No.”
“Bakugo, she’s with another patient—”
“I said no.”
You found out the hard way when you walked in to see him sitting on the table, arms crossed, scowl lethal.
“What happened?” you asked.
“They tried to switch me.”
You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Bakugo…”
“They don’t know my leg,” he snapped. “They don’t know how it feels when it locks up, or where it burns, or when it’s about to give.”
You hesitated.
Then, quieter: “And you think I do?”
He looked away. “…Yeah.”
That honesty—rough and unguarded—made your chest ache.
You set firmer boundaries after that.
“If you’re going to work with me,” you said during the next session, “you have to respect the clinic. That includes other staff.”
He bristled. “I’m not—”
“I know you’re not trying to be difficult,” you interrupted gently. “But I need you to trust the process. Not just me.”
He hated how reasonable you were.
“…Fine,” he grumbled.
But the thing was—he did trust you.
When you guided him through exercises, he followed your cues exactly. When you told him to stop, he stopped, even when every instinct screamed at him to push harder. When you massaged tight muscle, working slow and methodical, he let himself relax instead of bracing for pain.
Sometimes, his eyes slipped shut without him noticing.
You noticed.
“You don’t have to stay tense,” you murmured once. “I’ve got you.”
His breath stuttered.
“…Don’t say stuff like that,” he muttered.
You smiled, soft but unreadable. “Like what?”
“Like you mean it.”
Your hands didn’t stop moving. “I do.”
There were bad days
Days when his knee swelled, when frustration crawled under his skin and made him sharp and restless. On those days, he snapped easier, cursed louder.
You never took it personally.
Instead, you adjusted the session. Slowed things down. Sat beside him instead of in front of him.
“You don’t have to prove anything today,” you told him once after he slammed his fist against the table in anger. “Healing isn’t a test.”
He laughed bitterly. “Everything’s a test.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“Then let this be one you don’t have to pass alone.”
That did something to him too—something softer, more dangerous.
The first time he admitted pain without being asked, it shocked both of you.
“—It hurts,” he said suddenly, halfway through an exercise.
You froze. “Where?”
“Inside. Like… pulling.”
You adjusted immediately, expression focused. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”
Thank you.
No one ever thanked him for admitting weakness.
He watched you carefully after that, noticing how attentive you were, how seriously you took his feedback. How you never dismissed what he felt.
Slowly, painfully, he started to believe you actually understood him.
The boundary finally cracked one evening when the clinic was quiet, lights dimmed for closing.
You were finishing up a massage, hands working tension from his thigh, when he spoke without thinking.
“When I was on the mat,” he said, voice low, “I thought… maybe this was it.”
You paused—not your hands, just your attention. “The injury?”
“…Yeah. Or worse. That I’d never feel right again.”
You finished the motion gently, then sat back.
“That fear doesn’t make you weak,” you said. “It makes you human.”
He scoffed, but there was no bite to it this time.
“Guess I’m bad at being human.”
You smiled at him. “You’re learning.”
When he finally jogged again—really jogged, controlled and steady—he laughed under his breath like he couldn’t believe it.
“I’m doing it,” he said.
You beamed. “You are.”
He looked at you, chest rising fast—not from exertion, but something else.
“You were right,” he said. “About my body. About me.”
Your throat tightened. “I always am,” you teased gently.
The day you cleared him, he lingered.
“So,” he said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “After this… you’re not my therapist anymore.”
“That’s how discharge works,” you said softly.
“…Good,” he muttered. “Then I can ask you out.”
Your heart skipped.
“You could’ve asked anyway,” you said.
He scowled. “Don’t push it.”
You laughed.
And when he stepped back into the ring months later, leg strong, stance solid, he knew something he hadn’t before:
Strength wasn’t just about power.
Sometimes, it was about letting the right person help you stand.
8 months since my last post, sorry ladies 😞
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good bakueveninggggg because bakguo bakugo katsuki katsuki bakugo katsuk baug me love katsuki bakugo
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OH MY GOD, the perfect prompt! (Thanks, @mochiscove)
Katsuki Bakugo
Going out with the class to celebrate another year after graduation means everyone getting drunk and dancing around.
As bitter as he his, Katsuki does too. The pressure of becoming number one he inflicts on himself is muffled by the slight dizziness of drink after drink, the bitter taste is better than the pressure in his head. Because everyone seems to be settling, and he’s still trying.
Maybe he’s just overthinking, they’re barely 22, there’s a whole lifetime in front of them. But, again, he’s died before. He has fallen, hard, and had to climb his way up once more, building another himself to be able to get where he is today. Sacrificed everything for the sake of being the best, of proving to everyone that he’s as grand as he brags about.
He’s never dated, never went to those long vacations some invite him to, hasn’t taken a break, never stopped. He just keeps going and keeps going, but it never feels like enough, he never feels satisfied.
There’s always this something missing, that little voice in his ear telling him that he won’t be satisfied unless he stops pushing himself to death once more.
People enjoy life, they’re allowed, but not Katsuki. He still has to build his agency, reach up to the best of the best and become one too. But he’s alone, and the weight of loneliness hits harder when he finds himself unable to call anyone in the middle of the night, when he doubts if his work is even worth it.
Yet, here you are. After a few drinks, he looks at you like you’re glowing. You were caring, at least that’s how other people viewed you. After the war, he saw how you helped others get on their feet, in between tears and sobs you helped people come back to their senses.
That image still haunts you. So much blood, so many lives lost, and your friends… It was suffering, you wish war had never happened, often doubting how needed it was. To see your classmates at the verge of death, Izuku was broken, and Katsuki-
He saw it in you, how you hated it. Specially when you came by when he woke up, asking how he was, smiling in relief, face puffy from all the hours you spent hyperventilating and crying, it was too much, for you, for everyone.
Katsuki always thought you had it in you, that hero trademark. He used to be jealous when Izuku showed it, the will to help, but it made you glow. Not literally, it’s just that Katsuki wasn’t able to tear his eyes away from you after that… And that was a problem.
Because he’s supposed to be number one, he’s supposed to focus on being number one. Yet, late at night, he mourns silently the time missed and all the opportunities he could’ve asked you out. Maybe you’d agree, maybe you would be with him now, building a hero path together.
Seeing you talking to him about what you did that week, his heart flutters. It’s uncomfortable, in the sense of his mind yelling at him to say something, and his chest being tight and feeling all funny.
Another drink down, and he speaks. Voice gruff, laced with fatigue from that day and the rasp from the strong alcohol.
“Don’t…, God- don’t look at me like that, a…just…don’t. my heart’s already unsteady enough.”
His head falling to the table, burying it down with his own hands, face red to the ears and dizzy from the buzz.
And you giggle.
A/N: small situation? Anyways. Spot the Hamilton reference. I have two other Katsuki posts, and one of them is my most liked work even though it’s my lest favorite lol. Writing for Katsuki is complex for me, he IS a complex character and it’s an unusual personality for me to write. Anyways… My requests are open!!
Natan here! ; want more of Bakugo? ; Check my masterlist!
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I don’t know if anybody would wanna read something like this, but I can’t stop thinking about middle school bakugou x loser! reader. I have such a semi-clear storyline laid out for this. I’m also thinking of like, delinquent!reader or like really cool reader again with middle school bakugou. He has a chokehold on me right now ugh..
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not a lot of people talk about this but bakugo was a first grader fighting two 4th graders on his own (in the dub at least), which were 3-4 years older than him. first graders in japan are at least 6 years old, and they’re starting off elementary school (according to google lol).
he was also tearing up (judging by his sniffs), his face was scratched up, and even his nose was slightly bleeding :( maybe he was a bit unsure and scared bc he was just by himself fighting people that, in terms of biological strength, are stronger than him. BUT I LOVE THAT HE STILL DEFENDED HIMSELFFF AND STOOD HIS GROUND
also WHERE WAS HIS OTHER FRIENDS??
ok they did come out in the end. i could see the two students bumping aggressively into bakugo and he was like “hey! >:(” and yk they didn’t like that and started threatening to beat them up. his other friends ran away and hid (deku probably just got to the scene). bakugo can’t just run away bc he knows that’s not what the hero, all might, would do, so he stood his ground and defended himself with his quirk, all by himself :( thankfully he still won though! and they DEF got intimidated by his quirk and how he still kept on going
