Pregnant With Love

kacchan I'm hungry

Deku's hand trembled slightly as he reached out, the moonlight spilling through the partially open curtains casting an  glow on Kacchan's slumbering form. Gently, almost hesitantly, he shook Bakugo's shoulder, the urgency of his need doing battle with the guilt of waking him.

"Kacchan," Deku whispered, each syllable soft as a feather drifting to the floor. There was a note of plea in his voice, laced with a quiet desperation that only the darkest hours before dawn could amplify.

The room was still, the silence hanging heavy between the whispered call and the inevitable response. For a moment, there was nothing—no movement, no sound, nothing but the steady rhythm of Bakugo's breathing and the distant hum of the city at night.

"Kacchan," he whispered again, a bit more insistently now, his fingers gripping the fabric of Bakugo's sleeve with a careful pressure.

Bakugo stirred, the lines of his face tight even in sleep, as if bracing against an attack. Then, with the slow, reluctant drawl of consciousness returning, his eyes cracked open, a piercing red gaze cutting through the dimness. His body tensed, prepared for any threat, before registering the figure at his bedside.

"What is it, Deku?" His voice was gruff, tinged with the remnants of dreams and the irritation of being roused from deep sleep. Even half-awake, the familiar nickname carried its own blend of annoyance and affection, a complex cocktail that only those who knew him best could decipher.

Deku's fingers traced a hesitant path across the quilt, drawing invisible lines that led to Bakugo's half-lidded gaze. The shadows of the room seemed to cling to him, making his outline blur into the darkness, leaving only the earnest emerald of his eyes visible and vulnerable in the scant moonlight.

"I'm hungry," he murmured, the words barely more than a rustle against the quietude of the night. His voice, colored with an edge of sheepishness, seemed to curl into itself, as if embarrassed by its own admission.

"Your... hungry?" Bakugo echoed, the disbelief in his tone thick enough to be cut with a knife. He propped himself up on one elbow, scrutinizing Deku with a mixture of confusion and drowsiness—a furrow creasing his brow as he tried to parse the situation through the fog of sleep.

Bakugo's eyes snapped fully open at the realization of the time, his body coiled with a sudden alertness that belied the late hour. He squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand, its crimson digits glaring back at him accusatorily: 02:00 AM. The numbers seemed to mock him, and he felt the last vestiges of sleepiness slip away, replaced by a rising impatience.

"Deku, it's two in the morning," he growled, the words laced with incredulity. His voice carried the weight of someone who expected the laws of common sense to be upheld, even—especially—at this ungodly hour.

Deku, a silhouette edged with moonlight, shifted closer, his presence an insistent warmth against the cool air of the bedroom. "Kacchan," he began, his tone threaded with a plea that was hard to ignore, "it's my cravings." The words were spoken with an earnestness that only someone experiencing the peculiar whims of their own body could muster.

Despite the absurdity of the situation, Bakugo couldn't help but notice the genuine need in Deku's voice. It was not a command, nor a demand; it was a simple, human appeal, one that reached into the part of Bakugo that wanted, above all else, to protect. Even if it meant dragging himself out of bed to satiate midnight hungers that defied reason or convenience.

Bakugo's sigh cut through the silence, a soft exhale that seemed to carry the weight of their complicated world. The moonlight draped over Deku's form in ribbons of silver, highlighting the curve of his cheek and the furrow of his brow. Bakugo watched, the crease between his own eyebrows deepening as he grappled with the reality of the situation.