#Boku no Hero Academia

[itoshhi]

𝜗𝜚 bakugou katsuki | take it all

❕smut mdni, huge dick katsuki.

there was a distinct size difference between you and your husband bakugou katsuki, yeah, it was pretty obvious and he always liked it. the way his shirts were so long they were past your thighs, the way you shrank under him when he laid on top of you and so much more... but there was something else that mattered more to him than anything else. dude, your husband bakugou katsuki has the biggest cock you've ever seen.

even though you can't take his cock all the way in your mouth, you goddamn love taking as much of it as you can. just the tip? okay, fine, you'll do the best you can. and i'm sure you're not the only one who enjoys it.

your husband bakugou will go crazy while he watching you, you use both hands because his dick doesn't fit in your mouth. every time, he'll think he's never cum this fast before. when he realizes that you're mad because his cock can't fit in your mouth, he'll give you that damn grin and throw his head back. he'll be beside himself with only your wet voice and his quiet growls in the room.

even your two hands aren't enough to hold his cock completely, you can only take half of it with your mouth, this really gets on your nerves as you wonder 'why is it so big'. your husband is so big that you're always too small in this situation.

"take it… all…" he'll say as he grabs your hair and pulls you closer to him. he's always grumpy, and once he gets used to you giving him a blowjob, he'll lose his gentleness in this situation, after all, you're his wife, aren't you? you'll happily try to do as he says while you use both hands and your mouth, you'll try to give him the best blowjob you can, but his cock is really big.

well, make sure your eyes don't burn... good luck!

© itoshhi 2025 {do not copy, translate, steal, modify without permission.}

[dollyfetti]

"we should have brought bread," your boyfriend signs to you with a frown, his eyes on the ducks waddling just a few feet away. you and katsuki had left the house just before sunset to relax by the lake on a wooden bench and enjoy the view as the ducks ran around.

you hum, latching onto his arm. "next time." you mouth to him, pecking his chin.

katsuki exhales, nodding lightly. he wraps his beefy arm around you, pulling you into his warm figure. he feels the breeze whisper against you both, some of your hair blowing into his face. he scrunches up his nose at the ticklish sensation, pushing your hair back down as you grin up at him.

you readjust yourself a bit so you can raise both hands. "the ducks are loud." you tell him, mouthing the words as you sign.

he rolls his eyes, actually thankful he's unable to hear. he knows he can speak to you verbally, he doesn't have to stay quiet. it's an odd thing though... he prefers to not say anything. he's comfortable the way everything is. especially in moments like these, where words aren't even enough to describe what he's feeling.

katsuki turns his head to look back at you, not even a bit surprised that you're already staring at him intently. he can't even fight the little grin that makes its way onto his face. he brings up his fingers, doing the "cmere" movement as you lean forward and he grabs your chin, pulling you into a gentle kiss.

۪ ݁ 𓈒♡ㅤthinking about him rn what if i sob

[sakuraszn]

﹒♡ MY GIRL ft. jock!katsuki bakugo + cheerleader!reader

cw: making out, mentions of hickeys and jealousy.

jock!bakugo and you are the couple everyone either wants to be or is lowkey jealous of. He’s the star athlete—football, basketball, track, doesn’t matter, he dominates. And you? The head cheerleader, flipping and kicking in a skirt that he thinks is way too short but loves at the same time.

He acts like he doesn’t care about school spirit, but let someone talk crazy about your cheer squad, and he’s ready to square up.

jock!bakugo isn’t the type to outright tell you not to wear something, but his hands are always on your waist, tugging down your skirt or pulling your top up when he thinks it’s too revealing.

If a guy even breathes in your direction, he’s throwing an arm over your shoulder, yanking you close. “She’s taken, dumbass.”

You once got asked to be the flyer for a stunt with some of the male cheerleaders, and Katsuki was NOT having it. “You got plenty of girls to throw you in the air, why the fuck does it gotta be some dude?”

jock!bakugo who loves marking you up. The hickeys? Oh, they’re not just for fun. They’re warnings. Little bruises on your collarbone, right above your uniform’s neckline, just enough for people to notice. He’s not subtle, and he doesn’t care.

jock!bakugo has something about game nights that makes him extra needy. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the way you scream his name from the stands, or the way your skirt swishes when you cheer. Either way, he’s dragging you into a storage closet under the bleachers every chance he gets.

“Five minutes, babe,” he growls, pushing you up against the shelves, lips already on your neck.

Five minutes turns into ten, into fifteen. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your thighs, fingers ghosting under your uniform. Your lip gloss is smeared all over his mouth, and his jersey is bunched up from where you’ve been gripping it.

“You’re lucky I got a game to play, or I’d be doin’ a lot more than just kissin’ ya.” His voice is low, rough, and he gives your thigh a squeeze before pulling back, looking way too smug about how breathless he’s left you.

jock!bakugo who’s not huge on PDA, but he has his moments. An arm slung over your shoulder in the halls, a hand gripping your hip when you’re talking to someone he doesn’t trust, a quick kiss before he jogs onto the field.

jock!bakugo after a big win? Oh, he’s dramatic as hell. Scoops you up right off the ground, plants a deep kiss on you in front of the entire school. “That was for good luck,” he smirks, wiping your lipstick off his mouth.

If he catches some dude getting a little too friendly? He’s stepping in, pulling you into his lap, leaning in just enough to kiss your jaw as he stares the guy down. “The fuck you need, extra?”

jock!bakugo might be an athlete, but he’s got that protective mentality when it comes to you.

“I don’t fight over girls, but I will fight for mine,” he says, cracking his knuckles after some guy tried getting a little too close to you at a party.

He’s got connections—he’s not afraid to remind people of that. Some upperclassman tried to make a move on you once, and let’s just say… dude transferred schools real quick.

He doesn’t do threats; he does promises. “Keep talkin’ and see what happens.”

jock!bakugo after a game, he’s exhausted but still makes time for you. Showers, throws on some sweats, and pulls you into bed like you’re his damn teddy bear.

“Y’cold? C’mere, dumbass,” he mumbles, pulling you tighter against him, his face buried in your neck.

If he’s feeling cocky, he’ll start pressing kisses down your shoulder, hands slipping under your shirt. “You gonna give me a lil’ reward for winnin’, babe?” His voice is rough, teasing, and he’s already leaving marks where only he can see them.

You’re his biggest supporter, his loudest cheerleader, and he makes sure you know he appreciates it.

“Wouldn’t be half as good without you screamin’ my name from the stands,” he mutters one night, hand on your thigh, thumb tracing circles.

And when you compete in cheer competitions? He’s in the front row, arms crossed, acting all nonchalant. But when you hit your routine perfectly? That little smirk of pride on his face says it all.

“You did good, babe. Knew you would.” And then he’s tilting your chin up, pressing a kiss to your lips like he couldn’t help himself.

At the end of the day, jock!bakugo is all yours, and he makes damn sure everyone knows it.

SAKURASZN © 2025 !

[shibuyablonde]

seven minutes katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

synopsis: As he lies dying, his mind drifts through seven memories.

This is my own take of this piece I saw. Go show them some support.

By the time the blood starts pooling beneath him, Bakugo already knows.

He’s not making it out of this.

The sky above is black smoke and large storm clouds, but his eyes are wide open. His chest feels too tight, too heavy, like his body is holding him down while the last few pieces of his soul try to fight their way out.

The rivet drill is still there, buried deep, pinning him to the earth like an insect on display.

He doesn’t feel it anymore.

Not really. Only the weight.

Seven minutes.

That’s what they say happens when you’re dying. Your brain floods you with the best parts of your life as it crumbles, like a parting gift before the lights go out.

Bakugo doesn’t want to see anything.

He wants to get back up. But he can’t.

So he lies there, stuck in his skin, and lets the minutes drag him under.

Minute 1

It’s not the day All Might saved him from the sludge villain, surprisingly.

It’s before that. Way before.

He’s four years old, sitting on the floor in front of their old TV.

His feet are bare, legs crossed, and his hands are sticky with orange popsicle.

All Might is on the screen, smiling that massive, dumb smile.

“Everything is fine now! Why? Because I am here!”

He can’t read the news crawl at the bottom yet, but he knows the words.

He’s memorized them. He can hear his tiny self chanting along.

His mom is standing behind him, folding laundry.

“You’ll be a great hero someday,” she says, like she doesn’t even think about it. Like it’s already true.

But he hears it.

And he believes her.

Minute 2

His old man is in this one.

Bakugo almost laughs, but it gets caught in the blood bubbling up in his throat.

He’s six, maybe.

There’s a thunderstorm outside. His mom’s at work late.

The lights in the apartment flicker out.

And he panics.

He hides under the table, his tiny hands clenched in his hair, breathing hard. His dad tries to get him out, kneeling on the kitchen floor with a flashlight, but he won’t move.

Finally, his dad crawls under with him.

“You hear that?” he says quietly.

Bakugo just stares at him.

“The thunder. That’s what you sound like when you use your quirk.”

Bakugo sniffs.

His dad presses the flashlight into his hands. “That loud? That strong? That’s you, Katsuki.”

It’s dumb, but it works.

They sit under the table together until the lights come back on.

Minute 3

It’s Deku. Of course, it’s dumb Deku.

But not the way Bakugo expects.

He’s not crying or whining, not the useless little nerd he remembers from when they were kids.

This memory’s recent.

It’s the day Bakugo apologized.

His hands shake when he says it. “I’m sorry.”

For everything.

For being a piece of shit.

For bullying him when they were kids.

For not understanding how hard Deku must’ve had it.

Deku stares at him for a long time. Then he smiles. And Bakugo hates him for it because it makes his chest hurt in a different way.

“It’s okay,” Deku says. “You’ve always been my hero.”

Minute 4

And then there’s you.

It’s stupid how fast you fill up his head.

He didn’t even realize how much space you took until now.

He’s sitting on the dorm balcony at U.A., his back against the wall, picking at the scar on his hand.

You come out and sit beside him without asking. You’re wearing his hoodie because you lost a bet with Kirishima, and he made you put it on. It swamps you. The sleeves are too long. And the hem pools and your thighs.

“Do you always scowl this much when you’re alone?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer.

But you stay.

And when you finally leave, his hoodie is still on you.

He tells himself he doesn’t care.

But he doesn’t ask for it back.

Minute 5

This one is louder, muffled, but there.

There’s music playing.

You’re at the training gym with everyone, but you’re the only one dancing like an idiot during cool-down stretches.

You’re singing along, off-key, way too loud, and your hair is stuck to your forehead because you’ve been sweating your ass off.

“Come on, Bakugo,” you say, grinning at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t dance.”

“Hell no.”

“Coward.”

You challenge him to a spar after that. And you almost win.

He cheats, grabbing your ankle when you flip him.

You laugh when you land on him, breathless and bright, and your fingers poke his ribs.

“Admit it,” you tell him, “you’re having fun.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But he is.

Minute 6

It’s winter.

You hate the cold, much like Bakugo, so you’re bundled up like a snowman, your nose tickled red, your hands shoved deep within your pockets.

He notices you don’t have gloves. He doesn’t say anything at first.

But when you’re not looking, he blasts his palms warm and presses them over your fingers.

You jump in your seat.

Then you laugh.

“Thanks,” you say, leaning into him without asking.

He doesn’t move away.

You fall asleep on his shoulder on the train ride home.

When you wake up, he’s still holding your hand.

Minute 7

The last minute is the worst.

Because he’s still here.

And you’re still here.

You’re screaming his name.

You’re running toward him through the rubble and the smoke and the bodies.

You hit the ground on your knees next to him, hands covered in his blood.

He can’t hear what you’re saying.

But he can feel your fingers on his face.

They’re shaking.

You’re crying. You don't cry, but you are now.

And it’s for him.

He wants to tell you not to. To wipe those shitty tears of your beautiful face.

He wants to tell you he was going to ask you out after the war.

He wants to tell you he was going to walk you home. That he was going to hold your hand without an excuse.

That he was going to kiss you, maybe, if you let him.

But his heart’s not working anymore.

And his mouth won’t move.

So he stares at you instead, memorizing your face for the last time.

You’re the last thing he sees.

And that’s good enough for him.

Because he loved you. And he never got to say it.

But maybe you’ll know anyway.

Seven minutes, and then it’s over.

© 2025 shibuyablonde — All rights reserved. Don't post my work as your own on any other sites.

[kittycat-lobotomy]

Do NOT tap on the glass

[gutpunks]

me n the homies robbing some back alley convenience store for goods

[catmaraudersfan]

😳😍

So uhm… yeah.

[butcher-my-name]

[Part 1] Puppy Quirk Roomate College/Hero Intern AU minicomic

[rueclfer]

piercer boyfriend touya who insists that he'll stay home while you go out with your friends and will stay up (despite your protests) for you to come home and help you get ready for bed.

he's expecting you to get home drunk. messy drunk. he's known you long enough to know that "just two drinks," is never. just. two. drinks.

he couldn't give less of a fuck about you sleeping in your makeup or wearing your outside clothes in bed, but trust that he will be cleaning those semi-healed piercings that he had done for you when you first started seeing each other.

tonight he's having trouble keeping you still.

"i wanna go to bed," you drunkenly mumble, squirming on the seat of the toilet and pulling away from his touch.

"not yet." touya responds, keeping your head steady with a gentle grip on your jaw, and with his other hand, dabbing a wound wash solution soaked q-tip across the shell of your ear.

your eyes trail down to where his hand makes contact with your face. you were an inch away from being able to bite down on the skin between his thumb and index finger and you knew it wouldn't be a proper night out if you didn't mildly annoy touya at least once.

"don't think about being a little shit right now," he breaks the silence.

you groan, "i still have to take off my makeup. just leave it, i'll clean them in the morning."

"who told you to get 3 piercings within a week?"

"stop it." you pout. "that was when i was blinded by love, i couldn't help it."

touya's focus turns to you, slightly tilting your head up to face him where you see a smirk grow on his lips.

"so it was love at first sight, huh?" he inches closer to you, almost grazing his lips against yours.

"or maybe it was the free piercings?"

a flash of annoyance crosses his face as he rolls his eyes, but the smirk doesn't leave. he closes the gap between you and firmly press his lips against yours. his hand slides down to the column of your neck. it pushes you back against the tank of the toilet, it takes the air out of you, and it leaves you feeling dizzy.

he pulls away and you're breathless for a moment as he presses a quicker and gentler kiss to your forehead and tilt your head to the side, finishing up with your right ear.

"can you help me take off my makeup too? and help me change into jammies?" you quietly murmur as the tip of your ears grow red.

"uh huh. anything else?" he breathes out a chuckle.

"never leave me and love me forever?"

touya would never admit it, but he loves it when you get like this after a few drinks. you're syrupy sweet, clingy, and knows exactly what you want. he can't help but feel a bit weak.

"done and done."

[twistedpartywolf]

lol Shinso in trouble

a somewhat conclusion to this funny demon!aizawa arc

[fushiguruuzzzz]

the night was young, laughter ringing through the room like vibrations of joy, and yet katsuki bakugo just would not kiss you.

of course, he had not bothered to partake in the game of spin the bottle. sitting lazily on the couch nearest the circle of giggling teens, he had barely lifted his eyes from the rim of his cup before grumbling a rough “no.” despite the response being entirely in character for the blond, the immediate denial — almost as if he had been long prepared to deny the opportunity to kiss you — was mildly humiliating. it was a difficult task to conceal the embarrassment coating your face in warmth, but you hoped that those around you were too inebriated to notice. they were, luckily… except for him. all too sober, he almost felt bad, but he believed his reasoning was enough to justify his firm dismissal.

denki nudged him by the shoulder, giving him a look that was promptly ignored. “dude,” he said quietly, almost gritted.

a nasty glare was shot in his direction, one that spoke multitudes. oddly enough, it seemed to soften into something more complex when it dropped to his lap, but his words were brash all the same. “kaminari, shut your trap. now.”

denki ran a hand down his face, groaning. it seemed that everyone in the room had a shared sort of exasperation; they somehow saw right through him in a way you could not. for once, you seemed to be the only one that did not understand him.

your attempts to dismiss it and move on, to put the spotlight elsewhere for but a moment, were flushed away when mina interjected with a “why not?”

red eyes narrowed into slits, his jaw ticking. “because.”

“bakugo!”

“no.”

“c’mon, man!”

he was visibly growing flustered, brows knitting together in barely concealed frustration. fists clenched, the red plastic of his solo cup crumpled enough to make a sound. “I said no. fuck off.”

a series of protests and drunken whines echoed through the muggy room. “just do i-“

“not like this!”

a pause. his face went red. the room fell silent in what was barely a beat, eyes boring saucer shaped holes into the both of you. your lips parted almost as if to speak, but nothing came out save for a single dry croak. everyone looked at you except for katsuki. ever the confrontational, suddenly shying away from a bit of eye contact.

turns out that yes, he had refused to kiss you, but not out of disgust or even a lack of romantic attraction to you. he had refused to kiss you in the dingy confines of this dimly lit room, countless eyes trained on you, putting on a show that would be forgotten by morning. he had planned to do it some other time — properly — because he knew that was what you deserved. not the taste of cheap liquor and erupting cheers, but the gentle embrace of a lover and the bliss of something new.

a/n: why am I writing for mha and katsuki of all people what is wrong with me

[frickingnerd]

dating bakugou, kirishima, denki & sero

pairing: katsuki bakugou x eijirou kirishima x gn!reader x denki kaminari x hanta sero

tags: polyamorous relationship, wholesome fluff, competitive!bakugou, jealous boyfriends, friends to lovers

bakugou, kirishima, kaminari and sero were your friends before they were your boyfriends! all four of them had a huge crush on you, which was obvious to everyone but you!

there was always that worry that once one of them would confess to you and you'd choose your favorite, the group would crumble and friendships would end.

but ultimately, there was no need to choose one of them! all four boys were more than content to share you, as long as it was with each other!

all four guys have quite the jealous side, at least when it comes to other men! if anyone dares to flirt with you or look at you the wrong way, your four boyfriends are ready to scare them away!

but they're fine seeing you with each other! perhaps it's because they know each other so well and know that they'll always treat you right! plus, there are no secrets in the relationship, so if anything happens between you and one of the boys, everyone will know it!

there's a bit of a competition when it comes to your firsts! it's impossible to have your first kiss with four boys at the same time, so you do have to decide who you want to give your firsts to!

especially bakugou wants to keep all of those firsts to himself! he wants to be the one you reach those milestones with and this competitiveness and clingy behaviour does cause some trouble at the start of your relationship!

while you rarely argue with the boys, it's not uncommon for them to argue with each other! if something causes trouble, they need to talk about it, no matter how uncomfortable it might be!

kirishima is always the voice of reason! while bakugou is often so hot headed that he turns a normal conversation into a full blown argument, kirishima is the one to save the situation and mediate!

kaminari and sero fulfill a more fun role in the relationship! those two are the affectionate flirts, who'll boost your confidence with how eagerly they flirt with you and praise you!

they are also the clingiest! kirishima loves to be affectionate with you, but also gives you all the space you need, while bakugou is only clingy when he knows he has you all alone!

[socialobligation]

Hihi!!! I hope you’re having a good day ! I was wondering if you could please do friends to lovers texts with Bakugou and a weird, energetic reader? i really hope im doing this the right way lol and if im not im really sorry!! TvT

bite first | k. bakugo

you're the weirdest part of his routine, and lately, his favorite.

[dynachan]

I have more evidence to add.

Bakugo the patriot.

[nanasrkives]

navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! the mha EP!

"DO YOU FEEL IT TOO ?" — Bakugo Katsuki

a/n : never knew i had it in me to write something this long bakugo being into shojos gives me life content : fluff fluff fluff. a LOT of pining. 3rd year bakugo. f2l i guess. +12k words. blue spring ride references.

Bakugo Katsuki doesn’t read romance for the fluff.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s about structure. Pacing. The way a story builds tension out of glances instead of battles, silence instead of shouts. That’s what he tells himself. But he knows the truth.

What it really is—what it’s always been—is longing.

That ache in the chest when two people stand an inch apart and say nothing. The sharp inhale before a hand is taken, or not. It’s in the words people don’t say. In the space between panels where everything unsaid lives. He reads it and feels seen in a way that pisses him off more than he can explain.

It started with a volume of Blue Spring Ride left in the common room. Someone had abandoned it between cushions. He picked it up without thinking, without planning to. He read the first chapter standing. The second while pacing. By the third, he was sitting on the floor, the book open in his lap, heart tightening with every page.

Now he has the full set. And more. Stupid shit with pastels and sparkles and characters that cry too much. A box of feelings he can’t name shoved under his desk.

No one knows. No one’s supposed to.

Which is why tonight is a mistake.

Inviting you over to study always is. You’re too comfortable in his space. You sit on the floor like you live there, flipping through the textbook you’re not even reading and every time your knee bumps his, he has to pretend he doesn’t feel it like a static shock to the ribs.

He leaves the room too fast. “I’m getting snacks. Don’t touch my stuff.”

You hum. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But when he gets back, he stops in the doorway like he’s forgotten how to move.

You’re kneeling on the floor, half-turned toward his desk, and in your hands—one of the volumes from the box he swore he’d hidden better. His brain stalls. There’s the blanket, shoved to the side. The cardboard lid askew. The spines of half a dozen shojo mangas catching the light just enough to betray him completely.

You’re holding Blue Spring Ride. Of course you are. He knows the cover by heart. He knows exactly which scene is bookmarked, too. The one he reread three times before closing the book like it might say something out loud if he stared hard enough.

You don’t laugh. Don’t look smug or surprised or ready to tease him. Your fingers hold the book gently, like it’s something fragile. Like it matters.

“I didn’t know you read this kind of stuff,” you say, your voice quiet—not mocking, not even curious, just... soft. Careful.

His feet finally move, but only because he forces them to. He crosses the room with a grunt that lands somewhere between a warning and a deflection, and drops the water bottle onto his desk with more force than necessary.

“I told you to not touch my crap,” he mutters, heat already crawling up the back of his neck.

You lift a pen in your other hand—the one you dropped, apparently—and glance back at the box with a small shrug. “Well, sorry if it was in the way.”

That should make it better. It doesn’t. His chest is tight, heart thudding in the kind of silence that feels louder than yelling. You flip the book open. The page is still folded. Fucking chapter twenty-three. Of course you find it. Of course.

“This part,” you say, eyes scanning the page like you’re revisiting something old and intimate, “this one always hit me.”

His mouth is dry. He can’t decide if he wants to grab the book back or walk out of the room entirely.

“She’s trying so hard to get through to him, though she knows even if he doesn’t say it.” you go on. “But he doesn’t know how to let her in yet. Not because he doesn’t care. Because he doesn’t think he can.”

You don’t say it like you’re talking about the characters. You say it like you’re reading him.

He sinks slowly to the floor beside you—cross-legged, arms folded tight, like he’s trying to hold something in place. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps his gaze fixed on the page as if it might rescue him from the way your voice softens when you speak.

“He’s bein' a fuckin' coward,” he mutters, the words falling out like they’ve been waiting there, unsaid, for too long.

You tilt your head slightly, not pushing, not correcting him, just letting your voice land somewhere softer. “He’s scared. That’s different.”

The pause that follows feels like breathing underwater—slow and thick, full of things neither of you will touch directly. You turn another page, and this time your thumb lingers at the edge of the panel like you’re touching something fragile.

“This moment right here,” you say, quieter now, but still with that strange, steady certainty you always seem to have, “it’s my favorite.”

You don’t point to it, but he knows exactly which one you mean. The close-up of Futaba’s face, words floating just above her expression.

"Beacause I like you" I just want to hear you tell me that

You don’t elaborate. You don’t press. But the weight of it hangs there between you, not heavy, not demanding—just quietly waiting to be understood. And when your shoulder brushes his as you shift slightly to lean back, it stays there. No recoil. No excuse. Just warmth, still and deliberate.

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t move away either.

It doesn’t come up again that night. You go back to studying like nothing happened, like you didn’t just brush fingertips against the deepest thing he’s been hiding since he was fifteen. But something’s changed. You can feel it in the air, in the way he doesn’t complain when you lean your arm against his or when your laugh gets too loud in his room. He doesn’t roll his eyes anymore. He just watches, and he’s quieter than usual, but it’s not the kind of silence that means distance. It’s the kind that listens.

A few days later, you leave a new book on his desk. You don’t say anything. You don’t ask if he read the one before. You don’t press. Just the soft sound of a cover meeting wood and your back turned as you leave his room. When he picks it up later, there’s no note. Just a folded corner two-thirds of the way through, and that’s somehow worse. Or better. He’s not sure yet.

He reads it in one night.

Doesn’t mark it this time. Doesn’t fold anything in return. But when he hands it back, he does it slowly. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but his fingers hold the book like it’s something delicate. Like he’s afraid you’ll notice the way the spine is softer now, or how he paused on that chapter more than once before letting the ending reach him.

You lend him another. He reads that one slower. It becomes a rhythm you never name. The exchange of folded pages and lived-in dialogue. Notes in the margins. Underlined phrases. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re devastating. Sometimes they feel like code. And he starts wondering, around the fourth or fifth book, whether you’ve been saying something in them the whole time, and if maybe, just maybe, you’ve been waiting for him to answer.

He tries to. In his way. A small pencil mark beneath a line that says You don’t have to say it out loud for it to mean something. A sticky note, blank except for a question mark next to a panel where a character walks someone home without saying why.

He doesn’t ask you to meet him outside the gym, but you’re always there. He doesn’t offer to walk you to the dorms, but he always ends up at your side. You don’t say thank you, and he doesn’t tell you he wants to stay longer, but neither of you rushes those steps.

One night, he gives you a book you didn’t lend him. One from his own collection, older, more worn. There’s a quote faintly marked near the end: You were the only thing that made staying feel worth it. He doesn’t say anything as you read it, but when you look up, he’s already watching you like he’s bracing for something to fall.

You don’t ask.

But you don’t forget the page.

And when you hand it back the next week, there’s no new book in your hand.

Just a quiet, expectant pause as you sit beside him.

It should feel normal by now—the silence, the weight of books between you—but something in it hums differently. He knows you’re about to say something, but you don’t. Instead, you shift forward slightly and slide a thin paperback across the carpet between you. He picks it up. Turns it over. It’s familiar, but new. Not one he’s read before. You don’t explain.

He flips it open. Finds a folded page before chapter one.

Sometimes I think if I say it out loud, it’ll become real—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

He reads it three times. Closes the book without a word.

That night, when he walks you home, he doesn’t say anything at your door. You turn like you always do, waiting for a smart comment or a sarcastic farewell. You blink. The hallway light buzzes behind you. He’s standing with one hand in his pocket and the book tucked under his arm like a shield. His face is unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything else. But you swear you heard your name echo all the way down the hall as you close your door.

He reads the line again that night. The one you folded. He flips to it so many times he doesn’t need the crease anymore. The words burn into his skull until they feel like his own. If I say it out loud, it’ll become real—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

The truth is, it already is.

He’s already ruined himself a little for anyone else. You’re in everything now. In the way he thinks. In the way he breathes. In the way he starts to reach for your hand without realizing it and has to curl his fingers into his palm before it gives him away. He stares at the folded page, pencil in hand, and mutters under his breath, “Why the hell would you give me this one?”

He tries to write something in the margins. His pencil hovers over the paper, tip faintly pressed to the edge of the dialogue bubble. But nothing comes. Every word feels like too much or not enough. Eventually, he gives up and just draws a small dash beside it. Not even a full mark—just a pause. A breath. His version of a maybe.

The next time he sees you, you’re already on the floor when he walks in. You glance up, then down at the book in your lap—the one you gave him—and ask, “Did you get to the part I folded?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

You wait, but he doesn’t offer more. Your eyes linger on him like you’re trying to decide whether to push, or just let it sit. “I thought it was... kind of relevant.”

Bakugo snorts, but it’s not sharp. “To what?”

You raise a brow. “You tell me.”

His jaw flexes, and for a second he looks like he might actually say something. But then he mutters, “Dumb line anyway,” and sits down beside you like the conversation didn’t happen.

You don’t call him on it. But your hand stays closer than it used to. Close enough to touch if either of you moves just slightly.

He notices. He doesn’t move.

You're not sure how long you’ve been sitting in silence. Ten minutes. Maybe more. The book is still open on your lap, but neither of you has turned the page in a while. Bakugo’s beside you, legs stretched out, his fingers twitching near his knee like he wants to say something and can’t. The quiet isn’t tense, exactly. It’s just heavy. Like both of you are holding something in your mouths and waiting for the other to make it easier.

You should say it. You know you should. You’ve been sitting with it for weeks now, maybe longer—this soft, aching thing in your chest every time he underlines a sentence or walks you home or says your name like it means something.

So you breathe in, slow. Then you blurt out, “I really like you.”

He doesn’t react at first. Just blinks once, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t expect them to sound like that—so simple. So final.

You keep your voice steady. “I’ve been trying not to say anything because I didn’t want to make things weird. Or make you feel like you had to say something back. But I just—I couldn’t not say it anymore.”

He exhales like he’s been punched. Not loudly. Just enough that his shoulders drop a little and his fingers go still against the floor.

“I thought I was gonna be the one to say it first,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.

Your head turns before you can stop it. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I was gonna. I’ve been meaning to. Every time you gave me a new book or looked at me like—like that.” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “I’d open my mouth and then I’d just... freeze. Like a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“No, I am,” he says, sharper now. Not angry—just embarrassed. “You don’t get it. I’ve never felt like this. Not for anyone. Not like this.” His fingers rake through his hair, rough. “You give me these lines and scenes and looks and I know they mean something and I still—I still choke, damn it.”

You’re quiet for a second, watching him fall apart quietly beside you, the way he always does when he’s feeling too much at once. You shift slightly closer, enough that your knee brushes his, and he doesn’t move away.

“I didn’t give you those books to say something,” you say gently. “I just hoped maybe you’d feel it, too.”

He lets out a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I felt it.”

You swallow. “So what now?”

He finally looks at you. His eyes are darker than usual—focused. Honest in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I want this shit. I want to try. With you.”

Your chest loosens. Just a little

“I’m not gonna be good at it,” he adds quickly. “I’m gonna overthink everything and probably mess up and say the wrong shit—” You reach for his hand.

He stops. And then, very slowly, he lets you hold it.

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” you say. “You just have to mean it.”

“I do.” His voice is rough now. Lower. “I really fuckin’ like you. It’s annoying.”

You laugh into the quiet, and he squeezes your hand once like a question. You squeeze back like an answer.

Neither of you moves for a while. The book is still open, the page folded neatly in the corner, and there’s a line sitting there that neither of you points out.

Then, slowly, his thumb shifts against the side of your hand. You feel it before he speaks, the way his breath changes—like he’s on the edge of saying something else, or doing something reckless. You turn to look at him and find him already watching you, gaze heavy but uncertain.

“Can I—” he starts, then cuts himself off. He doesn’t need to finish it.

You nod.

He leans in carefully, like he doesn’t trust the floor to hold the weight of it. His free hand hovers awkwardly at first before settling lightly against your jaw, fingers warm, unsure. And when he kisses you, it’s soft in a way you weren’t ready for. Gentle. Hesitant.

Nothing practiced. Nothing smooth.

Just quiet. And real.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead brushing yours. You’re still holding hands. Neither of you has let go.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he mumbles, the words almost lost in the space between you.

“I know,” you say, voice just as low. “Me too.”

You stay there, close and steady, the kiss lingering somewhere between your mouths and your heartbeat. It’s not perfect. But it’s yours.

You don’t talk much after that.

Not because there’s nothing to say—just because for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there’s nothing left to prove. The air between you is still full, still warm, but it’s not buzzing anymore. It’s just steady. Like the moment has stopped needing to be chased.

The book lies forgotten on the carpet between you, half-folded against the blanket. He’s stretched out now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other still within reach. You’re lying beside him, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the soft shift of his breathing.

Every so often, he glances at you. Not intensely. Just long enough to check if you’re still there and you are. “Is it weird,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “that it doesn’t feel different?”

Bakugo’s brow furrows faintly, and for a second, you think maybe he took it the wrong way. But then he exhales and turns his head toward you. “Nah,” he says. “It just means we didn’t fuck it up.”

You smile at the ceiling.

“Not yet,” he adds, because he can’t help himself. “Still time.”

You elbow him lightly, and he huffs out a sound that’s too close to a laugh for him to argue it.

It’s peaceful like that for a while. Not exactly sleepy, but the kind of soft that feels like it could lead there. A shared quiet. Familiar and unhurried.

He rolls onto his side at some point, propping his head up on his arm, eyes half-lidded. He looks like he’s about to say something. Then doesn’t. Then tries again.

“You were right, y’know,” he murmurs. “Back then.”

You blink over at him. “About what”

“When you said she can feel it, even if he doesn’t say it” His voice is rough, not from emotion—just from exhaustion. Like something in him finally gave up resisting. “I didn’t say it. But you still knew.”

“I didn’t need you to,” you say. “I just wanted you to feel it, too.”

He reaches over and brushes his fingers against yours. It’s barely a touch, but it says more than anything he could put into words. “I did,” he says quietly. “I do.” And then he lets the silence come back. This time, it settles between you like a blanket.

Not heavy. Just warm.

BONUS :

Your daughter has no chill.

Not when it comes to bedtime stories. Not when it comes to anything, really. She’s all knees and curls and a voice too big for her body, bouncing on the mattress like she hasn’t already stalled for twenty minutes.

“Not the one with the dragon hero,” she says with a groan. “That one’s boring. I want the kiss one!”

Bakugo raises an eyebrow from where he’s sitting at the edge of her bed. “The what now?”

She throws herself dramatically onto the pillows, limbs flailing like it’s the end of the world. “The kiss one! With the guy and the girl and the charm and the love stuff!”

From the hallway, you call out, “My Love Story!!, sweetheart. Volume five.”

“Tch.” Bakugo mutters something under his breath—probably about corruption or sentimental brain rot—but he reaches for the shelf without protest. The cover is faded from too much handling, spine softened like it’s been loved for years. It has. It’s the same one you used to pass back and forth, long before either of you thought about bedtime routines or toothbrush arguments or which sippy cup color would cause a meltdown.

He flips it open and frowns. “Where even is the part with the charm?”

“She says it’s near the middle,” you say, appearing in the doorway with a knowing smile. “She has it memorized.”

“Of course she does.” He doesn’t hide the pride in his voice as he sits back down and adjusts the blanket around her. “Spoiled brat.”

“She’s your brat you know,” you remind him, folding your arms as you lean against the frame.

“Unlucky kid.”

She kicks at his side half-heartedly, already settled against his shoulder, thumb in her mouth, other hand gripping the edge of the book.

He reads, voice lower than usual. Calmer. Every line slow and steady, like the words are still sinking into him after all these years. When he gets to the charm scene—the one she always waits for—she gasps, loud and delighted, and points.

“That’s the part! That’s when he says he likes her!”

Bakugo pauses. Just for a second.

And then he nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch the two of them: your daughter, curled against his side, and Bakugo Katsuki—gruff, impatient, still pretending he doesn’t like romance—reading a love story with the same kind of care he used to hold his feelings for you.

Later, when the house is quiet and her room is dark, he finds you at the shelf.

You’ve pulled out Blue Spring Ride. You don’t open it. Just hold it, fingers resting over the soft crease of a long-folded page. “I used to think this was where everything started,” you say.

He stands beside you, close enough to feel. “Wasn’t it?” You glance at him. “Maybe it was where we figured it out.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, without ceremony, he slips the book from your hands and slides it back into place. You don’t miss the way his fingers brush yours.

“I love you,” he says, almost absently, like it’s a habit now. Like it’s something you’re meant to hear at the end of a long day, right between goodnight and I’m home.

You smile. “Yeah. I love you too.” He kisses your temple.

And in the quiet that follows, you both know it was never just about the stories you folded into pages. It was always this. The soft part. The part that stayed.

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