ymeyummy

an: sorry i havent posted for this in so long, i highkey forgot abt it Part 7 of 'This is NOT a crush' ft bakugou x reader: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

The library was quieter than usual. Not silent — just quiet in that particular way a place gets when everyone is too exhausted from exams to gossip. Books closed softly. Pages turned. Pens scratched. And in the far corner, at your usual table, Katsuki Bakugou sat slouched in his chair like he was doing you a favor just by existing.

Which, technically, he was. Because he was here to tutor you.

You placed your quirk medicine textbook down gently, smoothing the page with your thumb. “Thanks again for doing this—”

“’m not doing anything,” he grunted immediately, not looking at you. “Just makin’ sure you don’t embarrass yourself in the next exam.”

You smiled. You always did that when he said something rude in a way that wasn’t actually rude. “And here I thought you were helping me.” “Don’t push it,” he muttered.

But he didn’t move away when you pulled your chair closer.

In fact — if he noticed your knee brushed his under the table, he didn’t flinch. He pretended not to notice, but the tiny twitch in his jaw said otherwise.

Your POV: You clicked your pen, turning to a chapter titled:

“Quirk Physiology: Strain, Adaptation, and Biological Cost.”

“It’s just basic stuff,” you explained, “but UA exams love scenario questions. Like… how the body reacts to overusing an emitter-type quirk, or what internal systems a quirk relies on.”

Bakugou scoffed but leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Yeah, well. Half of you extras don’t actually know shit about how quirks feel to use.”

He said it like you weren’t one of the “extras,” and you caught that. You didn’t call him on it.

Instead, you took a quiet breath and asked:

“Then… how does yours feel?”

He froze. Only for a second — but you saw it.

“…What kinda question is that?”

“A medical one,” you said softly.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours. The lamps above you cast this warm, gold glow across his cheekbone, highlighting every tiny crease of irritation — or was that nerves?

You waited.

He grunted once, dropped his eyes to the table, and opened his hands palm-up.

You leaned in without meaning to.

Bakugou’s POV Her chair slid closer. Too close. Close enough that he could smell her shampoo. Close enough that he could hear her breathing. Close enough that if he looked sideways — really looked — their cheeks would almost brush.

Tch. Focus, damn it.

He forced his eyes down to his palms. “When I sweat,” he began, voice low and controlled, “my body basically converts certain chemical compounds into nitroglycerin. I store it in my sweat glands.”

She hummed thoughtfully — not dismissive, not bored. Interested. Curious. About him.

He swallowed.

“And when I fire explosions,” he continued, “my hands burn like hell if I haven’t warmed up first. Sometimes I get micro-tears in the skin, so Recovery Girl gives me this ointment crap.” “Does it hurt?” she whispered. He flicked a glance at her — only to find her staring at his palms with this focused softness that made his chest do something it absolutely shouldn’t. “…Sometimes,” he admitted.

She nodded slowly. Then her finger came forward— “The scars here—may I?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Her fingertip brushed the pale raised line at the base of his thumb. A ghost of a touch. Barely anything.

But something in his stomach dropped.

His breath hitched.

And she wasn’t even looking at his face — she was just studying his skin. Studying him.

Like he was interesting.

Like he was worth studying.

His mind spiraled instantly.

Why’s she so close?Why’re her hands so soft?Why does that feel… good? What the hell is wrong with me?Focus. FOCUS.

She pulled back gently, writing something in her notebook.

You didn’t see him staring at you. You didn’t see the way his throat tightened. You didn’t see the beginning of something messy and inconvenient forming in his chest.

Your POV: “And do you notice strain anywhere else?” you asked, still scribbling. “Arms? Chest? Back?” His eyebrow twitched. “…Why do you wanna know all this?” “Because you're useful,” you said.

Horrible choice of words. The worst.

Bakugou recoiled like you stabbed him.

“No— not like— I meant academically!” you sputtered, waving your pen. “Your experiences help with my studies. You’ve fought hundreds of quirks and know how they affect the body. I just want to understand.”

Bakugou stared at you.

Then something in his face changed — something you couldn’t read — and he opened his notebook like he needed a distraction.

“Tch. If you wanted to know more, you shoulda said that instead of gettin’ all close,” he muttered. “I wasn’t—!” “You were.”

You huffed. “I needed to see the scars.”

He choked — actually choked — then snapped his gaze away, ears bright red.

Then, quieter:

“…Fine. Whatever. Ask your damn questions.”

You bit back a smile.

Bakugou’s POV: They moved on to other quirks.

She asked how electricity quirks affect reflexes. He explained Kaminari’s brain-fry. She asked how engine-type quirks strain calves and lower back. He explained Iida’s maintenance scars. She asked about ice burns, creation quirks, and overexertion.

Everything she said was smart. Precise. Focused. She wasn’t guessing — she understood the mechanics.

And every time she tilted her head while listening, a little strand of hair slipped forward and brushed her cheek.

He noticed it every time.

He noticed the way she chewed her pen cap. The way her eyebrows knit when she concentrated. The way she mouthed vocabulary silently before writing it down. The way she didn’t hesitate to challenge him — not to be rude, just because she could. The way she leaned in when she was excited about learning something new. The way she smiled after getting an answer right.

He noticed EVERYTHING.

And that was the problem.

Why the hell am I… looking at her this much?Why is this—No. NO. No no no no—

He shut his notebook a little too fast.

You blinked. “Everything okay?” “…No.” You straightened. “Oh. Do you want to stop?” He glared. But not at you — at himself. “I didn’t say that.”

You waited. He didn’t know how to explain it. How was he supposed to say: I can’t look at you this much without losing my mind. Stop leaning close or I’m gonna forget how to breathe. Stop being smart, and pretty, and annoying—stop making me like you—

He ran a hand through his hair harshly. “Just—” He swallowed. “Turn the page.”

You did.

Good. Something normal. Something safe.

Except it wasn’t safe.

Not when you smiled like that. Not when your knee touched his again under the table. Not when your voice softened every time you said his name.

Not when he felt like this.

Like something inside him was starting to burn hotter than his quirk.

And he didn’t know how to put it out.

Your POV: You turned the page, gently pulling your chair a little closer so you both could see the diagrams.

Bakugou didn’t move away.

For the first time, he didn’t even pretend to.

You tapped the corner of a section on emitter quirk fatigue. “So… can you explain this part in your own words? I want to make sure I understand it clearly.”

He sighed dramatically — but there was no real heat behind it.

“…Fine. Listen close.”

You did.

You always did.

Yandere!Mirio Togata x gn reader (this is the third chapter: first, second) warnings: (the fic has dealt with things surrounding obsessive behaviour but it's heavier in this part) restraints, power imbalance, manipulation, isolation, cameras, suggestive wc: ~1k

Yandere!Mirio Togata x gn reader (this is the second chapter, first is here) wc: 1k

You told yourself it was support. It was simpler to believe that than to notice when things stopped being your choice. At some point, you stopped being the one who decided when you flew. It didn’t happen all at once, but that would have made it easier to fight. Instead, it slipped in quietly, tucked between gentle reminders and careful hands guiding you back to the ground. “You’re overheating.” “You don’t need to fly today.” “You don’t feel well enough for that.” Each one said in the same way he said everything else: soft and certain, impossible to argue with without sounding unreasonable. At first, you held your tongue. Why wouldn’t you? He was helping, right? He always helped… Cooling packs pressed into your hands before you could ask, timers set without you noticing, water bottles appearing at your side like he’d known you’d need them before you did, his voice steadying your uneven breaths, his hands catching you before your legs gave out. He would always assure you with the same phrase “You’re okay, I’ve got you.” And it was true.

However, somewhere on the way, it all stopped feeling like a choice. Care blurred into something heavier; something that lingered in every touch and every word, until it seeped into your very beings and the four walls of your beautiful cage home. 

He watched you more closely now — not just when you were in the air, but before. After. Always. He was waiting for the moment you’d push too far again. LIke he didn’t trust you not to.

The first time you tried to push past it — just once, just to prove you still could — his smile didn’t falter. “I know your limits better than you do.” He murmured, arms wrapping around you tight. It wasn’t harsh, nor was it loud, but it settled in your chest along with worse pain compared to the failure of if you had fallen. That was when something shifted between you two, quiet and irreversible. 

Your quirk wasn’t the dangerous thing.  You were.

Your containment was redesigned under the guise of comfort.

Ventilation systems that funneled cool air directly into your room. Heat-resistant padding along the floors “in case of collapse.” WIndows sealed shut, not locked, just nonfunctional. A hero grade door that didn’t open unless Mirio was physically present.  “You’d melt if there was a fire,” he explained casually, adjusting a sensor at your wrist. “I can’t let that happen.”

He never raised his voice. Never restrained you directly. Never needed to. Because Permeation made walls meaningless. Privacy was meaningless.

You started to feel him before you saw him — a pressure in the air, a sense of being watched from angles that shouldn’t exist. Sometimes you’d turn, heart racing, only to find him already behind you, having phased through the floor like he belonged there. 

Which he did.

“Careful.” He’d say lightly, that boyish smile always plastered on his face. “You’re running warm.”

Due to this treatment, your wings grew weaker. They were your heat and will, the thing allowing you to soar — but you were held down by a Mirio.  He noticed. “I’m proud of you,” Mirio said, hand heavy on your shoulder. “You’re not relying on flight as a crutch anymore.”

You stopped telling him how you dreamed of the sky.

The vents whispered freedom. You found them by accident, your fingers tracing the ceiling in restless desperation. The metal was so cold it hurt. But you studied it for days, planning carefully. 

The day arrived when you were going to attempt to crawl to freedom. Mirio was gone the whole day, you never got time like this to yourself — so what better way to celebrate than being yourself? Your heart pounded, heat blooming in your chest despite everything.

Don’t panic. Panic overheats.

The grate slid open.  Inside, the vent was narrow and unforgiving, scraping your elbows raw. But it didn’t matter. You yearned for your freedom back. You moved faster.

For the first time in months, the air didn’t feel monitored.

Then the vent lost weight beneath you. A hand phased up through the metal, fingers becoming solid around your ankle with perfect precision. Not frantic nor rushed.  Controlled.

Mirio’s voice drifted up, calm and disappointed. “Oh, you could’ve hurt yourself,” he sighed “I knew I couldn’t leave you home alone. Aren’t you glad I came back?”

Yeah, Mirio. Real glad.

Mirio phased through the vent wall, emerging fully and crouching effortlessly in the space that really shouldn’t have been able to hold him. His smile was still there but it was strained now.  “Do you know what happens if you fall from that height while overheated?” he asked gently.

You thrashed. The sudden movement spiked your temperature instantly — your quirk reacted on instinct, heat flaring uselessly against the cold metal. Your wings tried to form and failed halfway, collapsing into painful nothing.

Mirio’s grip tightened. “There it is,” he murmured. “See? This is why I can’t let you make choices like this.”  He pulled you against his chest, one arm iron around your back, the other bracing your head like you were fragile glass. “You don’t run well,” he continued, almost apologetically. “You fly. And flying will get you killed.”

The vent wall phased around you as he carried you back. You couldn’t tell where you were anymore — up, down, through — until suddenly you were horizontal again, laid carefully on your bed. Straps clicked into place; they were soft, padded, and temperature regulated.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” Mirio said, kneeling beside you. His eyes searched your face desperately, like you were the one slipping away. “But you don’t understand how much I need you alive. The first person I saved.”

Your body shivered as the cooling system kicked in, heat dragged from your veins. Mirio brushed your hair back with shaky fingers. “If I let you go,” he whispered, voice cracking for the first time, “the world would burn you out. And I can’t save you from that.”

He stood, composure snapping back into place.  “So I’ll save you from yourself instead.”

The door sealed. The air cooled. And far above you, higher than you would ever be allowed to go again, the sky waited.

an: ill have a tag list for this fic cuz ik we're all drained for mirio content 🫩, pls comment if you'd like to be added thx <33

based on this Yandere!Mirio Togata x gn reader, multi chapter story roughly 900 words for context, reader has a quirk based on Icarus.

You were warned before you ever stepped foot onto UA training grounds. It wasn’t formal, nor was it in a way that could be written down or signed. A hushed, measly conversation that dissipated when you entered the room. Teachers exchanged looks that lingered too long… A pause — barely noticeable — whenever your name came up beside the word hero. Your quirk was impressive. That was their exact word. Not safe, not promising like the others, just impressive. “Icarus,” one of them had said once, as if it was a joke that didn’t quite land. “Fitting.” All you could do was smile. They didn’t understand. Flying wasn’t just your quirk — it was the only time you felt right. Everything was suddenly weightless in a way that made it all seem optional. Gravity, expectation, fear… all of it fell away the higher you went. So when they told you to hold back— You didn’t. You couldn’t. Training started like any other; in a controlled environment. Timed flights, monitored output, hydration breaks, temperature checks. Limits. You learned them, then broke them. “You’re overheating.” You laughed it off. “I’m fine.” You weren’t but you didn’t crash that day, so it didn’t matter… right? It got worse before it got obvious. Your flights lasted longer. Your landings got harder. Your body started shaking when you touched the ground, wax clinging to your skin longer after your wings disappeared. Of course they noticed, re-adjusted, offered unwanted advice. You knew your body best, though you were stubborn. Of course you heard them, you just didn’t listen. Every time you flew a little higher, just for a moment, you felt untouchable.

The day everything went wrong felt no different at first. Clear skies, open air. Just you and the kind of height that made your chest ache in the best way. You remember thinking: just a little higher…Heat built faster than usual, curling in your lungs, threading through your veins. Your wings flared brighter, unstable yet stronger. Warning signs you ignored. Just a little more.Slowly, the sky began to melt into the blackness of your peripheral, the pounding in your chest subsided, air escaped your lungs. 

And then nothing.

You woke up cold. Artificial and controlled. Hands laid stiffly on your shoulders, voices you couldn’t focus on drifted through the room. A faint, steady beep crowded your senses. That’s when he appeared through the fog clouding your vision. Steady warmth radiated off him, with bright eyes and an easy smile. “Hey,” he said, like you already knew him. “Welcome back.” Your throat was dry. “…did I crash?”

The blonde winced. “Yeah,” he admitted. “But you’re okay. That’s what matters right?” He beamed before rubbing his neck sheepishly and offering a hand. “I’m Togata Mirio, by the way. We’re in the same year, I’m also a hero student.” You didn’t answer, still hooked on the fact that being safe didn’t feel like it was what mattered. Instead, you reached both shaky hands towards his, holding it in your own for a brief moment as you lost yourself in the warmth. Coming back to yourself, you realised what you were doing and hastily shook his hand. 

After that, things changed. Not all  at once, though that would have been easier. They said your quirk has progressed too far, that external regulation wouldn’t be enough anymore, that what you needed now wasn’t monitoring— 

It was management. You had immediately launched into argument, insisting that you needed more training, that you could handle it. You were willing to endure the strain, the pain, the heat clawing at your insides if it meant you could still fly.

For a moment the world hesitated and you almost reached the height of pleasure you felt when in the sky. Maybe they would let you soar? Unfortunately, you were shackled by compromise.

Mirio didn’t look like a solution. He was too bright, too easy, too kind to be anything resembling restraint.

“I’ll be sticking with you for a while,” he said, grinning like it was the best news he’d heard all day. “Think of it as a support system.”

And at first it was. He didn’t stop you from flying, not really. He just watched you train and helped out. He timed you, he reminded you to drink water, he pressed cooling packs into your hands before you could ask, he talked you down when your breathing got uneven. “You’re okay.” “I’ve got you.” “Just come down slowly.” And every time you did as you were asked.

“You did great,” he told you after one landing when your legs nearly gave out beneath you. Laughing weakly, you responded “That didn’t feel great.” “Doesn’t matter, you’re improving.” He said easily You desperately wanted to believe it, believe him. The first time he stopped you, it was solely different to every other time. It was concerned.

Your wings had barely formed when his hand caught your wrist. “Not today,” he smiled.

Blinking, you questioned him. “I can handle it.” “I know you think you can.” It wasn’t harsh, not dismissive either, just certain. “Let’s take a break, yeah?” You hesitated, looking at the sky and then back to him. For reasons you couldn’t explain, you listened for once. One of his muscular arms wrapped around your back, just under your shoulders to support your legs as he guided you towards safety. 

Bakugou Katsuki x reader (fluff?)

Bakugou starts leaving you flowers sometime in second year, and because he’s Bakugou, he does it in the most intense, emotionally-stunted way imaginable. He never hands them to you gently or explains himself; instead, he shoved the bouquet into your arms like he’s passing you a live grenade, mutters a gruff “Take it”, and storms away before you can get a single word out. 

It happens every two weeks. He’s refreshing your flowers. Placing the bouquet on your desk before class, in your hands during breaks, once even tossed into your lap while you were mid-lunch. And every time, his ears turn just the slightest bit red, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and hates that he’s doing it.

The problem though? You’re allergic to the flowers he picks. Not deathly allergic, but enough to make your eyes water and your nose itch until half the class thinks you’re crying over algebra.

yandere!Mirio x reader an: I might make a longer version of this..

They told you it was for your own good.

Your quirk — Icarus — was beautiful in theory. Flight, clean and effortless, wings of heat shimmering beneath your skin. 

But beauty always comes at a cost. 

In your case it costs an obsessive blonde himbo to be locked to your hip day and night.

It wasn’t always like this though. No, it only started when you enrolled at UA and started to realise what it would mean to use your quirk full time. Too much exertion, too much warmth, and the sky really is the limit. One day during training, you had pushed yourself too hard and flown too high which had caused you to overheat. You had plummeted to the ground that day but instead of death (which would have been better looking back), you were transported into this hell hole. 

PART 6 AND MY FAVOURITE. (bakugu fic 'this is not a crush' Chapters: 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5

The hallway outside the results board was packed. Students crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, buzzing with nerves, frustration, victory, whatever came with another brutal round of midterms. Paper rustled. People whispered. Someone shouted in triumph. You took a slow breath and stepped forward, clutching your notebook to your chest. Through the bodies, you caught a glimpse of your name on the list.

Rank: 4th.Top five.

Your heart stopped, then lifted all at once. You didn’t scream. You didn’t jump. You just inhaled sharply and felt your vision blur for half a second. Holy carp. I actually did it. 

You stepped back, one hand covering your mouth, the other trembling just slightly. You wanted to laugh, or cry, or both, but settled for a tiny, breathless grin— —right as someone on the other side of the crowd said: “Holy SHIT– 4th place?! Oi, move.”

Of course. Of course it was him.

Bakugou Katsuki shoved past the last group standing in his way, eyes laser-focused on the hero course ranking printed beside yours, His gaze swept down the list, sharp, impatient. Stopped. Rank: 1st. Again.

His shoulders dropped half an inch. Relief. Vindication. Pride. You watched the tiny exhale leave him, the way tension in his jaw loosened, the faint — very faint — tilt of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth. 

Without thinking, you whispered under your breath, “Good job…”

Right at the same time—

He muttered, “Not bad…”

Both of you blinked. Both of you froze. Both turned your heads at the exact same second.

Your eyes met through the scattered groups of students. Both of you were smiling. Not full smiles — half ones. Real ones. Quiet ones. 

And then—

You both realised the other was smiling.

Your faces went red instantly. You choked on a tiny laugh. He nearly combusted on the spot.

Bakugou snapped his head away so fast it was almost comedic. You clapped a hand over your mouth to hide how flustered you were.

It didn’t help.

You could feel your cheeks burning. 

You both realised the other was smiling.

And you could feel his eyes flick back toward you, once, twice, like he couldn’t stop. “Tch.”

The sound was low, embarrassed, irritated at nothing and everything — including himself.

A faint crackle came from his palm.

Not rage. Just… heat. The kind that came from an emotion he didn’t know how to hold. 

He glared at his own hand as it sizzled lightly. “Cut it out,” he muttered under his breath, like his quirk was personally betraying him.

You peeked over your notebook, unsure if you were supposed to say something. Complement him? Thank him? Run away?

Before you could decide, Bakugou caught your expression — the wide eyes, the silence, the stunned restraint like you were afraid of reacting wrong around him.

And he…

Laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t wild.

It wasn’t sharp or mocking.

It was a short, quiet, surprised huff of air — barely a sound, really — but warm. Real. Disarming. 

You froze. 

Because Bakugou Katsuki did not laugh. 

Not in hallways.

Not in public.

Not with you. 

He saw your stunned silence and immediately regretted everything.

His brain went into overdrive.

Why isn’t she saying anything?

Was that stupid? Fuck, that was stupid.

Why’d I laugh? She’s gonna think I’m weird — no, weak— no, BOTH—

It wasn’t even a laugh, it was just a breath, it wasn’t a fucking LAUGH—

“Oi.” He snapped without even thinking.

You straightened instinctively. “Y-yeah?”

“Don’t look at me like that.” “Like what?”

He scowled harder, face heating again. 

“Like I did somethin’ funny.”

You stared at him for a heartbeat. Then another.

“...Katsuki,” you said softly, “you laughed.”

His soul left his body. “I didn’t—! It wasn’t—! Shut up.”

You tried — you really tried — not to smile. 

But a giggle escaped before you could stop it. 

He blinked.

Not angry.

Just startled.

Almost.. Confused.

You stepped toward him, holding your notebook to your chest. “Congrats on first place,” you said gently. It wasn’t teasing.

It wasn’t sarcastic.

It was sincere.

His chest tightened unexpectedly.

“...Hmph.” 

He looked away again, but this time, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. 

Barely. 

“And… congrats on fourth,” he muttered, voice lower than before, rougher but not unkind.

Your eyes widened.

You didn’t think he even read your score.

He noticed your surprise and clicked his tongue once, looking irritated with himself. 

“I saw it by accident. Don’t make it weird.”

But his voice had softened — so subtly you almost missed it.

You didn’t miss it. 

“Not making it weird,” you whispered, smiling again. “Just… thank you.”

His ears turned red.

His hands sparked faintly again.

And for once… he didn’t walk away. 

He just stood there with your in the warm, noisy hallway, two people who definitely weren’t celebrating together— —but at the same time… you kind of were.

And as the heat got to his head, his heart rate spiked as he stared into your eyes. 

His heart beat quickened, and then suddenly it seemed as if you were getting closer, and his thoughts were getting faster, and he had the worst instincts to—

But then you touched him. 

Because you had actually gotten close. 

Your chest was close enough to brush against his slightly, you looked up at him, your beautiful face illuminated by the lights as everything hit him all at once. 

“Katsuki..?” Your murmured, making sure he was okay, he seemed so out of it—

Your voice snapped him back, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. 

As he got his senses back, he realised that he was meant to yell at you for this. His face flushed, realising he didn’t have it in him. 

GODDAMNIT, BAKUGOU. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, MAN. 

YELL AT HER. Oh, don't blush idiot— hey! Why’s her chest so close—

Commands flooded his system, regaining his persona. “Hey, nerd, a bit too close, hm? Why so close?” 

“Oh.” You took a little shuffle back. “I just wanted to make sure others couldn’t hear me because I… Katsuki…” Was this it? Was he going to hear what he both dreaded and wanted and didn't even know what he was waiting for to come spilling out of your lips?

“Can you tutor me? You’re better, clearly, and it would be useful to have firsthand knowledge on quirks since you’re exposed to a variety all day long.”

Of course. What the hell else was he waiting for?

Bakugou’s chest puffed out.

PART 5 OF MY BAKUGOU FIC 'this is not a crush' CHAPTERS 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 authors note: my friend said to try POV's, not sure if i like how chunky it feels, i want it flow

Your POV You were getting used to the sound of his chair scraping across the floor.

It wasn’t a gentle sound. It wasn’t ever going to be. Bakugou Katsuki didn’t enter a room — he invaded the space, disrupted the air, and forced it to bend around him. Even in a silent library, he somehow managed to be loud without speaking.

But today, something was different.

He sat down across from you again — not next to you, never with you, just across, like the table was a neutral zone neither of you acknowledged out loud — except this time, he didn’t glare first. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t even act like you were in the way. He just… sat. 

Pulled out his notebook.

Grumbled at his pen like it personally offended him.

And you noticed, with a quiet kind of amusement: he didn’t even pretend to look for another seat anymore. So you kept writing, pretending not to notice him settling in like this was normal now, even though a tiny, smug part of you knew it wasn’t. Not for him. 

Eventually, you broke the silence the same way you always did — gently. “So,” you said, tapping your pen, eyes still on your textbook, “what are you reviewing today?”

He tensed. Barely, just enough, “You don’t gotta know what I’m doing.”

“That’s funny,” you hummed, flipping a page. “Because I feel like if you didn’t want me to know, you wouldn’t keep sitting here every day.”

He froze, the kind of stillness that meant you’d hit something he hadn’t prepared to defend. He didn’t know the answer. 

Which, from Bakugou, was almost a confession. 

Bakugou’s POV Stupid.

It was stupid that he was here again.

He could be blasting through notes in his room. He could be training. He could be proving he was ahead of Deku and the rest of those extras.

Instead, he was here. In this dusty-ass corner of the library. At the same dumb table. Across from the same girl who wouldn’t shut up about quirk medicine and cellular reconstruction and whatever-the-hell else she was scribbling about today. 

He told himself it was quiet here.

He told himself it was strategic.

He told himself it had nothing to do with you. 

And then his brain did that annoying, traitorous echo: So why are you in her seat again?

“Tch.”

He hated the thought. He hated thinking at all, actually. Feelings were useless. They just got in the way of winning.

Yet there he was, sitting across from you again like he didn’t spend half the night telling himself he wouldn’t.

And what pissed him off most?

The second he sat down, he felt… calmer. Like the noise in his head got quieter just because you were here. Focused. Breathing. Existing.

He didn’t want that to matter. So when you spoke again — “What are you studying for today?” — he didn’t look up.

“You don’t gotta know what I’m doing.”

But you didn’t flinch. You never did. You just said, “Pretty sure that wasn’t a no.”

And now he was pissed at himself, because he heard the comeback in his head before he said it: Damn nerd’s starting to sound like she knows me.  

Except — he didn’t say it.

Because he was busy noticing something else. 

You were mumbling while you worked. Note useless or random stuff — actually smart shit. Stuff he never would’ve bothered with, but the way you were connecting it out loud made it… weirdly interesting.

“...if sweat glands carry quirk factors, then it explains combustion variance—”

He blinked.

When the hell had he started listening to your voice like it was background music?

He glanced up.

You weren’t even looking at him.

You were just focused — completely absorbed in what you were writing.

He hated that it made him respect you.

He’d never say it.

But he felt it. 

Your POV You noticed him watching you. 

Not glaring. Not scoffing. Just… watching.

It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even annoyed. It was curious. 

So you took a chance: “Hey, Bakugou,” you said, still writing, “can I ask something about your quirk?”

He stiffened. Like asking was a trap. “Why?”

“Research,” you shrugged. “But also—”

You looked up, met his stare. “—I just wanna understand it better. You’re kind of the only person with a quirk that relies on sweat glands and is also combat based. It’s interesting.”

Silence.

Then: “Interesting?” He stared at you like you’d dropped a bomb he wasn’t ready to disarm.

And then, his mouth moved before the logic centre on his brain caught up: “Are you trying to piss me off? You don’t gotta know about me —I gotta know about you.” The second the words left him, he realised what he’d said.

Because that sounded…

Not hostile.

Not like rejection.

Like he was keeping score. Like he wanted to know you. 

You blinked. Then laughed — softly, not mockingly. 

“No. But if you gotta know me, then let me know you. Why so mad, explosion boy? I thought heroes were about fairness?”

That was the moment everything in him stopped.

Like you’d pressed pause on his whole damned nervous system. 

He stared. Brows furrowing like he was trying to fix the feelings by scowling harder.

Then he muttered, low: “Not mad, nerd. Learn emotional IQ instead of your books and then come back to me, tch.”

But this time… You heard it. And he heard it too.

It didn’t sound like an insult. 

His face twitched — the smallest flicker of panic — because he’d noticed the softness in his own voice before anyone else did. 

He looked away fast.

You didn’t push it.

You just smiled to yourself, like you’d found a hidden page in a book he didn’t know you were reading.

And the strangest thing happened.

He didn’t leave.

Not after you caught him being human.

He stayed.

And he studied.

And somehow, the silence between you wasn’t silence anymore.

It was comfortable.

Bakugou’s POV He hated the way you laughed.

Not because it was annoying. But because it wasn’t. It was soft. Real. Like someone laughing because they genuinely liked the moment. And it made something in his chest feel wired wrong.

He packed his notebook. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t trust his face. And yet— When he stood, the word came out before he could block it: “...Later, nerd.”

Not spat. Not hissed. A goodbye.

He heard it. You heard it. And the library felt different after that.

He walked out fast. Too fast. Like if he stayed, he might say one more thing he couldn’t take back.

And when he hit the hallway, he muttered under his breath:

“What the hell is wrong with me?”

But he already knew the answer.

You.

Your POV Did I piss him off?

As he left the changed library, having affected the atmosphere and not caring at all because he was Bakugou Katsuki and did what he wanted, you were left to wonder if he meant he was going away forever.

It sure sounded like he was…

But if that was the case, you already knew you were cooked. 

You’ve grown fond of him, his snarky remarks and insecurities you’ve caused that lead him to stutter and flee. 

PART 4 OF MY BAKUGOU FIC 'this is not a crush'

Bakugou had gotten good at pretending he didn’t notice you. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. He didn’t notice the way you chewed on the corner of your pen when you were concentrating. He didn’t notice the way you mouthed terms silently to memorise them. He definitely didn’t notice when you pulled your sleeves over your hands when the library’s air conditioning kicked on and you shivered a little. 

None of that mattered. None of it had anything to do with him.  

So when your handwriting slowed and your expression shifted from focused to frustrated, he wasn’t looking. He wasn’t paying attention. He was staring straight at his own paper, completely focused, absolutely not tracking the way your breathing stuttered the same way it always did when you were stuck on something. You flipped back and forth between two pages of your textbook, muttering under your breath. “No, that doesn’t make sense — wait, but this is the primary reaction, then why—”

Bakugou’s pen paused. Not because he cared, because the noise was distracting. That was all. He waited for you to figure it out. You didn’t.

You kept flipping the same two pages. Over and over. Like a hamster on a mental wheel. Bakugou’s eye twitched. Finally, he snapped. “Oi. You’re doing it wrong.” You froze. “...Excuse me?”

He didn’t even look up. He just pointed at your notebook — from memory, because yes, he’d been glancing at your notes without meaning to. “That diagram you’re staring at like it’s speaking Greek? It’s not measuring pressure, it’s measuring stress decay. That’s why the values drop instead of spike. You’re reading it backwards.”

You blinked. Slowly. Like you were processing not the information, but the fact that he had spoken to you. And then you looked down — really looked — and your eyes widened. “Oh. Oh wait — holy crap, you’re right. I’ve been trying to calculate the wrong response time.” ‘Obviously.” He crossed his arms. “Anyone with a brain could see that.”

You just grinned. And Bakugou felt something in his chest jolt — something stupid and warm and unwelcome.

“Well, thank you, Bakugou,” you said, and there was something annoyingly sincere in your voice. “I didn’t think you were even paying attention.”

“I wasn’t,” he snapped instantly, too fast, too defensive. “I just got sick of hearing you breathe like you were dying.”

You raised a brow. “Wow. So kind.”

“Tch.” He went back to his notes. “Don’t get used to it.”

You didn’t reply this time. Just kept writing, softer now, a little smile still tugging at your lips. And Bakugou could feel it, even without looking — that shift in the air. The quiet acknowledgement. The unspoken I know you care more than you pretend you do. He didn’t like it. 

He didn't like how light the silence felt now. He didn’t like how easy it was to stay sitting there. He didn’t like how the library wasn’t suffocating anymore. So, naturally, his brain reacted the only way it knew how: tch. fucking idiot. shouldn’t have said anything. now she thinks you’re nice. you’re not nice. 

But then you did something that absolutely demolished him, You tore a tiny scrap off your notebook paper, wrote something on it, and pushed it toward him without a word. He stared at it like it was a bomb (which, technically, it kind of way). “Explosive trauma cellular response = same as your quirk’s aftershock pattern?”“I get it now. Thanks.”At the bottom, in smaller writing: not trying to annoy you. just trying to learn. :3

He stared at the paper for a full ten seconds. Then another five, Then he crumpled it. 

CHAPTER 3 OF MY BAKUGOU FIC 'this is not a crush.'

Bakugou didn’t mean to speak. He’d been doing a great job pretending he wasn’t paying attention to you for the last three days. He kept his eyes on his own notes, only glanced up when absolutely necessary (which was totally not because he caught himself checking if you were there), and didn’t say a single word more than necessary. 

Sure he sat at the same table now. Sure, his stuff somehow spread closer to your side each day. Sure, he’d gotten used to the exact rhythm of your pen strokes and the way you uttered formulas under your breath when you were stuck. But that didn’t mean anything. It definitely didn’t mean he was interested. So when the silence stretched on and all he could hear was the faint scratch of your pencil and the soft rustle of pages, he told himself the irritation building in his chest was just… noise. Background noise. Nothing more. 

He wasn’t staring. He wasn’t curious. He definitely wasn’t wondering why you looked like you were fighting the textbook instead of reading it. He was doing just fine.

Until the worlds slipped out before he could stop them: “What the hell are you even studying for?”

You blinked, slowly looking up like you were sure he wasn’t talking to you. “Me..?”

“No, the fucking ghost behind you,” he snapped, even though there was clearly no one else there. “Yes, you. Obviously you. I’m not talking to the damn furniture.” He kept his annoyed, confident air even though he was rambling. WHY THE HELL AM I YAPPING?

You raised a brow, unfazed. “Wow. And here I thought we were enjoying the silence.”

“Yeah, well—” he clicked his tongue, annoyed at himself for talking first. “You look like you’re trying to murder the pages. Is that supposed to be productive or what?”

You paused. Then — instead of getting defensive — you laughed. Quiet, soft, like you didn’t expect it either. “Us, it’s quirk physiology,” you said, finally answering. “Specifically cellular strain responses and regeneration patterns in mutation-type quirks.”

Bakugou stared at you for a long moment. Not because he didn’t understand — he understood more science than people assumed — but because he wasn’t expecting you to answer so… normally. No rambling. No bragging. Just the facts. Then he muttered, “That’s pretty advanced for general studies.”

You didn’t flinch at the wording. Didn’t argue. You just nodded and kept talking. “Well, yeah. You hero course people train physically — but the battlefield needs support and medical staff who understand quirks as biology, not just power. Plus I’m hoping I can apply to the support labs next year. They don’t take people who only know surface-level stuff.”

He didn’t respond right away. Because something in that answer hit him in a place he didn’t have armour for. You weren’t studying because it was assigned. You weren’t studying because someone told you to. You were studying because you chose to. Because you wanted to do something with it. Because you weren’t sitting around in the background of the hero course like every other ‘extra’ he’d ever written off.  

You had plans. Drive. Purpose. It irritated him how much he respected that. “...Huh,” he said — the closest thing to a compliment he was capable of without combusting. “And here I thought you were just wasting time in here for fun.”

You smirked. “Says the guy who keeps showing up and hasn’t denied liking the silence.”

His jaw flexed. “Tch. Don’t get cocky. I just need a quiet place to study, that’s all. Little place back here behind the shelves ‘as got the best wifi.”

“Mhm. Sure.” You went back to your notes.

He watched you for a second — just a second — then forced his eyes down, flipping his own page a little too aggressively.

fic under cut

Nerd. warnings: none? please tell me if I miss anything. Katsuki Bakugou x reader

Chapter 1: a new nerd.