Bakugo Katsuki

Bakugo is more introspective, more wounded. He’s still himself—with his pride and temper—but there’s a quiet sadness that follows him. It’s not about rage anymore, it’s about insecurity. He’s not yelling... he’s holding in things that are silently wearing him down.

Repressed softness: Bakugo doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings without sounding blunt or awkward. No one ever taught him. So his love shows in small gestures: a hand that lingers a second longer, a “did you eat?” asked without eye contact. It’s difficult, but he tries.
Fear of breaking what he loves: He doesn’t want to hurt you. It scares him. Because deep down, he knows there are parts of him still broken, still healing. He thinks if he touches you too much, you’ll break too. So he pulls away... until he can’t anymore and comes back with his eyes low.
Raw honesty: When he speaks to you, it’s with bare truth. Not to hurt, but because he doesn’t know how to dress up what he feels. “I’m not okay.” “I don’t know if I can give you what you deserve.” “I don’t know how to do this.” But when he says it... he says it to you. And that means something.
Hidden vulnerability: He’s the kind of man who cries in the bathroom and comes back saying he just washed his face. He doesn’t want you to see him weak, even though you’re the one person he wishes he could be vulnerable with.
A desire to love gently: What he wants most is to love without hurting. And when you make him feel like you’re not afraid, like you understand him, he unravels—bit by bit. Not all at once. Not with intensity. But with tenderness. In his own way.

You're sitting on the floor, legs crossed, reading something with your brows furrowed like the world depends on that page.

Bakugo lean against the doorframe, watching you.

You glance up, and your eyes soften the moment they meet his.

“You okay?”

Him nod.

Then shake his head.

You close the book and pat the space beside you.

He sit. Him don’t touch you.

But let his shoulder rest against yours. Just barely.

“You smell like cinnamon,” him murmur.

You smile, just a little. “You always say that when you don’t know what else to say.”

“Yeah,” him answer. “Because what I really want to say scares the hell out of me.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

And him don’t move.

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You always smell like cinnamon.

That warm, soft scent that hits him every time you walk by, even if you don’t notice how he hold his breath each time.

You don’t ask for much. Just that Bakugo don’t disappear when things get hard. And him want to be good. Him want to be someone who doesn’t ruin everything he touches.

But he don’t know how.

“I’m not made for soft things,” he say, staring at his hands like they don’t belong to him. Fists. Scars. History.

Still, you take them. Into yours. Quietly. No speech. No “you’re wrong.” Just your touch.

And something in his aches.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Katsuki,” you whisper, your voice like sugar melting in tea. “Just stay. That’s enough.”

You have no idea what that does to him.

Because he’d burn the whole damn world just to deserve you for one more night.

“You’re the only one I let see me like this. Don’t leave.”
“I don’t talk much ‘cause if I start, I might break. And I need you to stay, not fix me.”
“I know I mess up the simple things. But I still show up. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“I’m scared all the time. That I’ll lose you. That I already have, and you’re just too kind to say it.”

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Bakugo Katsuki

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