seen from United States
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seen from Yemen
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these are my two favourite frames of him, purely because he looks like a hamster
The look of love
That Pinterest trend but bakudekufied
BAKUDEKU NATION WHERE ARE YOUU
Collab w @okumakimura !! Please go and follow him he's so cool frfr he made Bakugo in this artwork
Reference below 👇🏻
✨Happy New Year ✨
after months of not drawing anything for fun i finally did it.... while i should be studying for 3 tests im gonna have this week ❤️
Art request from @digitaldollipop
I might add some color later but it lowkey look good like this. Sometimes stuff looks good messy yk.
somewhere between the music and him
— one-shot | fluff | pop star fem!reader | 2.4k words
— ft. k.bakugo
— file brief : You’re Mina’s childhood bestie turned pop sensation. Bakugo tagged along “just to be polite.” Yeah. His heart didn’t get the memo.
— cw : soft denial and slight language (Bakugo, basically) || also, let’s all pretend they are 17 lol, thanks.
— author’s note : had this idea for a while, took me forever to execute it how i wanted it lol. hope it makes your heart skip a beat <3
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Mina Ashido and you had been best friends since the first day of first grade.
Instant connection. Ride-or-die from the beginning. And you’d shown up for each other every single time.
You waited outside U.A. the day she took the entrance exam. Then spent two nights at her house, pacing and spiraling, waiting for the results. When the letter finally came, you celebrated like maniacs and helped her prep for classes like it was your job.
You went to the U.A. Sports Festival, cheered your heart out for Mina, and had an absolute blast watching the rest of the participants. You both devoured every snack stand the campus had to offer — and you got to meet a lot of her friends too.
You both cried when U.A. turned into a boarding school. Not just because it meant she’d no longer be a couple of streets away, but because the whole situation that led to it had shaken you both. Still, you helped her pack and texted her almost every day.
And Mina?
Mina was there for every single thing.
Every performance. Every recital. Every competition.
She was there for your first solo, your first win, and the first time you performed for a crowd that wasn’t just parents and teachers.
And when your career took off — really took off — she went to your first concert like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.
It had been a couple of years since that first show.
And now?
You were performing in Musutafu.
Mina would rather hug Endeavor and go on a date with Mineta than miss your concert.
In other words: she was going. No. Matter. What.
You’d given her front-row tickets for her and her friends.
Naturally, she announced it months in advance.
And reminded everyone. Daily. Twice a day.
She blasted your music while they cooked.
While they trained.
At sleepovers.
Honestly? She found any excuse to play your songs everywhere.
Denki and Kirishima had to admit — your music was kind of a banger.
Iida quietly played your slower songs while making dinner.
Shinso, half-asleep, sometimes mouthed your lyrics while getting ready in the morning.
Shoto trained with your songs in his headphones, deadpan as ever.
And the dorm?
Yeah. Everyone had at least one song memorized.
Even Katsuki.
Who — to his horror and absolute rage — had been caught humming one of your songs while cooking.
The hype built up as the concert date got closer. Between training, exams, and barely holding it together, your music stayed on repeat.
When the day came, Mina gathered the girls to get ready hours in advance.
Sparkly outfits. Sparkly makeup. Sparkly hair. It was your brand, after all.
She even made the boys show her their outfits to see if they “passed the vibe.”
And once they arrived at the venue?
It clicked.
You weren’t just Mina’s best friend with a few viral hits.
You were famous.
The stadium buzzed with excitement. Teens everywhere in shirts with your face. Glowsticks. Signs. Fans screaming your name. Whole friend groups dancing to your songs as they waited.
This wasn’t some school auditorium.
This was your stadium.
The group stood front row, courtesy of Mina’s VIP passes.
And even Bakugo — grumpy, arms crossed, visibly unimpressed — couldn’t ignore the way the ground vibrated when your name was shouted.
Then the lights went dim.
The crowd went silent.
And the drums started.
BAM. BAM.
Stage lights flashed like lightning. Dancers moved into position.
BAM. BAM.
Sero and Denki screamed. Kirishima whooped. Mina looked like she might explode.
Except Bakugo.
Who looked… tense. Focused. Like he was holding something back.
Then—
“Hey, Musutafu! How are you tonight?!”
Your voice filled the stadium.
Bakugo felt it in his chest.
There you were.
Your silhouette backlit by stars, floating in a galaxy of stage visuals.
The crowd lost it.
“I think I… just fell in love!”
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The song started with a bang — literally. Fireworks lit up the stage, pink and gold and blindingly bright. The crowd screamed as the first beat dropped, and there you were — shining, electric, unstoppable.
Mina looked like she was going to cry from pride.
“THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND!!” she screamed at full volume, grabbing Denki by the shoulders and shaking him.
“She’s insane,” Denki yelled back, already dancing.
Kirishima was jumping in place, eyes wide like a kid at Christmas.
“Bro, this is crazy! I didn’t know she was this famous!”
“She trained like hell for this,” Mina said, grinning through tears. “I knew she’d make it.”
Even Todoroki was nodding to the beat. (Kind of. In Todoroki terms.)
Sero was filming. Iida clapped along. Shinso blinked, stunned. Momo and Uraraka were absolutely glowing watching the visuals. Jiro was screaming the lyrics like they personally wronged her.
And Bakugo?
Bakugo was standing stiff as a damn board, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes locked on you.
It was annoying. Infuriating. How easily you took over a room this size.
How bright you looked under the lights.
How loudly his heart was pounding.
He had come here to be polite. For Mina. To not be the guy who bailed.
He didn’t expect you.
Didn’t expect the way his chest tightened when you laughed between songs.
Didn’t expect to catch himself watching the way your hand moved across the mic stand.
Didn’t expect the ridiculous flutter in his stomach when you pointed into the crowd and winked — even if it wasn’t at him.
He hated this.
Hated how proud he felt.
Like he had a right to be. Like he knew you.
He didn’t knew you. Not really.
Not the pop star version.
Not the one with glitter eyeliner and thousands of fans singing your lyrics back to you.
But part of him… wanted to.
Especially when you sang that song.
The one Mina had on repeat all month.
The one with the soft chorus and the line about choosing someone even when it’s hard.
He didn’t blink once through that entire number.
When the last song ended, you stood in the middle of the stage. Bright smile, eyes glassy with tears.
“I definitely fell in love tonight, guys! This was unreal. I can’t wait to sing with you all again!”
The crowd cheered. You scanned the audience, searching. For Mina. And of course, she was there. Biggest smile, tears falling freely.
She was surrounded by all the people you’d only known from her stories — well, except the ones you met at the Sports Festival — and you laughed when they screamed a little as you waved.
Bakugo didn’t scream.
But his heart skipped a beat.
You waved again, blew a few kisses, and walked off stage, still glowing, the band playing behind you.
The music faded slowly.
People kept cheering.
Some took photos, others buzzed about how amazing the show had been.
Someone poked Bakugo. He turned, ready to snap — but stopped when he saw Mina gesturing while Kirishima leaned in.
“She wants us to go backstage,” Kirishima said, nodding toward Mina. “And I’m going. So if you want in, we have to go now.”
Everyone followed Mina. Bakugo, arms still crossed and mumbling under his breath, followed too. Of course he did.
A glittery blur ran toward Mina — you.
You jumped into her arms.
“Did you see that!? I sold out, Mina!”
She hugged you tighter, sniffling. “I’m so proud of you, you idiot.”
Bakugo watched the scene with an expression no one had ever seen on him before. Something soft. Quiet. Real.
“Oh, sorry!” you said breathlessly as Mina let go. “Hi! It’s so nice to finally meet all of you!” You were smiling, a little sweaty, eyes still shining.
“Dude, that was awesome! Mina didn’t tell us you were this good!” Sero broke the silence.
“Excuse me!? I told you every day!” Mina shot back, glaring.
You laughed, and Bakugo could feel his self-restraint slipping.
How dare you do this to him.
“My team and I are celebrating at the hotel,” you said. “We booked a room to eat and chill — I was hoping you could all come!”
That caught everyone off guard. An after-party?
They were heroes in training, sure. People were starting to recognize them. But this? This was new.
Iida opened his mouth — probably to lecture about curfews and responsibility — but Mina, in a shocking act of speed, beat him to it and accepted for the whole group.
And that’s how Katsuki Bakugo ended up in a van.
Sandwiched between Sero and Kirishima.
You in front of him, talking to Mina and Jiro.
He tried not to stare. He really did.
But he failed.
And you noticed.
The hotel had food waiting. A buffet for you, your team, and guests.
Laughter. Music. Celebration.
He saw you across the room, near the snack table. You spotted him.
And for reasons neither of you could explain, you started walking toward him.
Slow. Hesitant.
Bakugo didn’t move.
He just stared — guarded, unreadable.
Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the stage high.
Maybe it was the way he hadn’t looked away from you once.
You stopped in front of him.
“…Hi,” you said, a little breathless. Still glowing.
He didn’t respond. His eyes flicked — lips, eyes, lips again.
He was furious. At himself. At the way you made his heart race like you’d just called his name on stage.
At the way you looked at him like you knew him.
“…So,” you said, gently. “You’re Bakugo.”
“You already knew that.”
You smiled, a little shy. “Yeah. Kinda hard not to. Mina talks about you all the time.”
“She talks about you too.”
That caught you off guard.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” His jaw tensed. “Says you’re… bright. Loud. Always moving forward.”
He paused.
“Didn’t think you were real.”
You tilted your head. “And now?”
He inhaled, sharp and low.
You were too real.
The kind of real that settles in your chest and stays there.
“I think you’re worse,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Worse?”
“For my sanity.”
You stared.
A confession, barely a whisper, from the most unconfessing boy alive.
“I—” you tried. Then again. “You’re not what I expected.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What the hell did you expect?”
You shrugged. “Louder. Meaner.”
He snorted. “Give it a minute.”
That made you laugh. A real one, the kind that reached your eyes.
And Bakugo? He wanted to freeze time. Bottle the sound. Burn it into memory.
“I saw you win the Sports Festival,” you said softly. “I was there for Mina. I was kinda reluctantly there — I was starving, honestly — but I saw you. Fight. Win. Argue about the win.” You smiled. “It was… incredible.”
He looked away.
“Don’t say shit like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say back.”
You took a step closer.
“Maybe nothing,” you said gently. “Maybe you don’t have to say anything.”
His breath hitched.
But he didn’t move away.
He watched you like you were a song stuck in his head. Like he’d been hearing your voice long before tonight, and now he finally knew why.
“I don’t do this,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t flirt. I don’t talk to people. I don’t feel like this.”
You tilted your head. “So what is this?”
He scowled.
“I don’t know.”
But his voice cracked.
You leaned in. Close enough to see the shimmer on your cheekbones, the flutter of your lashes.
He couldn’t breathe.
“…Wanna find out?” you whispered.
His hand twitched. Like it wanted to reach for you but didn’t know how.
“…Yeah,” he said, low and hoarse. “Fuck. Yeah.”
You smiled.
And in that moment, Katsuki Bakugo — pro-hero-in-training, angry perfectionist, unshakable storm — felt the ground shift under his feet.
You’d been a voice in his ears for weeks. A rumor in Mina’s stories. A melody stuck in his head.
Now?
You were standing in front of him. Real. Close. Smiling like he was the star.
Maybe he was fucked.
But damn, did it feel good to fall.
Later.
After the lights.
After the music.
After the shared glances, the unsaid words, and the shimmer of something too big to name.
There was no dramatic start.
No fireworks. No grand confession.
Just you. Standing there.
And something inside him refusing to let go ever since.
It wasn’t one moment. It was every moment after that night.
It was the way he texted you the next morning.
(Just a photo of your concert poster downtown, with: “Tch. You left this here.”)
It was the voice notes you sent him between shows — sometimes singing unfinished lyrics, sometimes just rambling about how much you missed sushi or how your backup dancer fell on stage.
It was the noise-cancelling headphones he started wearing “for focus.”
(He was just listening to your songs on loop.)
It was the way you ran the second you heard he was injured after the war.
The way you stayed at the hospital for weeks.
The way he didn’t tell you to leave. Not once.
It was the way you always looked for him in the crowd.
And the way he was always there when you did.
It was you, screaming at their graduation.
It was him, holding up your tour banner at your biggest concert to date.
Matching energy. Different worlds. Same hearts.
You were a singer.
He was a fighter.
Different rhythms. Different lives.
But somehow, when you were together, everything slowed down.
No stage lights. No headlines.
Just you, barefoot in his kitchen, stealing his hoodie and humming your next single while he cooked beside you.
Just him, backstage during your soundcheck, arms crossed, pretending not to care — and failing miserably.
There was never a big announcement.
No flashy soft launch. No press release.
But there were pictures.
In his room. Taped under his desk. Stuffed in the back of his wallet.
No one else got to see.
There was that song you wrote — the one your fandom thought was about fame.
He knew better.
There were late-night calls.
And quiet mornings.
And the unshakable feeling that maybe, just maybe…
…some people don’t need the same life to share the same future.
Because no matter how far your worlds stretched..
He was your anchor.
And you were the spark he never saw coming.
And yeah, he eventually proposed.
Because Bakugo Katsuki didn’t want a life that didn’t have you — fully, irreversibly, completely his — in it.
But that?
That’s a story for another night.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
not even cute enough to get away with that. - mina
© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ don’t copy, don’t translate, don’t feed to AI, don’t be lame.
All For One x Reader (Pre All Might/Nana Shimura- before he messed his face up lol)
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You stopped pretending you were alone.
That was the first thing he took from you—the illusion of privacy. It didn’t matter where you stood or how quiet you moved; there was always the sense of being observed, like your thoughts themselves were reporting back to him.
You learned his patterns without meaning to. The way the air felt heavier before he entered a room. The way doors unlocked themselves when he decided you should pass through. The way conversations died the moment you stepped too close to anyone else.
Not ordered.
Prevented.
At night, you sometimes lay awake and wondered how much of you still existed outside of him. How much of your routine—your breathing, your posture, the careful way you spoke—was chosen, and how much had simply been… shaped.
When the doubt crept in, it was quiet at first.
‘If he watches so closely… why does he never say my name?’
The thought festered. You found yourself moving slower, testing the invisible leash. Lingering in hallways. Letting your gaze drift just a second too long toward a subordinate who looked at you with something like curiosity.
It was corrected immediately.
That evening, you were summoned without explanation.
All For One stood near the window, city lights bleeding through the glass behind him. He didn’t turn when you entered. He didn’t need to.
“You’ve been seeking validation,” he said calmly.
Your stomach dropped. “I—no. I just—”
“You want to be seen,” he continued, as if you hadn’t spoken at all. “And you are mistaking silence for absence.”
He turned then, facing you fully. The pressure of his attention pinned you in place more effectively than any hand ever could.
“You believe,” he said, stepping closer, “that because I do not ask for you, you are optional.”
His fingers reached out—not touching yet. Hovering. The space between you felt charged, deliberate.
“You are mistaken.”
Your breath came shallow. “Then what am I to you?” you whispered.
He closed the distance.
His hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you forward with minimal effort. Not force—expectation. You moved because it never occurred to you not to.
“You are consistency,” he said quietly. “You are stability. You are something that does not betray, does not leave, does not require permission to exist in my space.”
His thumb pressed slightly, just enough to remind you how easily he controlled your balance.
“You are mine,” he finished.
The word settled deep. Heavy. Warm. Terrifyingly comforting.
“I monitor what belongs to me,” he continued, tone almost indulgent now. “I limit access. I correct behavior. I remove distractions.”
His hand slid higher—still chaste, still controlled—but intimate in its certainty.
“When you feel invisible,” he said, “it is because you are safe. Because nothing is allowed near you without my approval.”
Your pulse thudded painfully. “And if I wanted… more?”
The pause was deliberate.
His grip tightened—not enough to hurt. Enough to remind.
“There is no more,” he said. “There is only proximity. And I decide how close you stand.”
Then, softer—dangerously so:
“You do not need to earn my attention. You already have it. Constantly.”
He leaned closer, close enough that his presence eclipsed everything else. The world narrowed until there was only his voice, his hand, his will.
“You belong to no one else,” he murmured. “Not their thoughts. Not their desires. Not their hands.”
A beat.
“Not even your own.”
You should have recoiled.
Instead, you felt the doubt dissolve—replaced by something steadier. Simpler. The relief of being defined so completely that there was nothing left to question.
When he stepped away, your body remembered the shape of his absence.
And when he dismissed you, you realized something chillingly sweet:
You didn’t feel owned.
You felt kept.
The change was subtle enough that, at first, you wondered if you imagined it.
The corridors you were once permitted to walk freely now required accompaniment. Conversations stopped sooner. Eyes slid away from you faster. People no longer addressed you directly—they spoke around you, as if acknowledging you without permission might cost them something.
You understood why the moment it happened.
A subordinate had looked at you for too long.
It wasn’t leering. It wasn’t brave. Just a flicker of curiosity—human, careless. He’d spoken your name once, softly, like testing whether it belonged to him to say.
That night, All For One summoned you.
He didn’t mention the man. He never had to. He stood close enough that you could feel the faint pressure of his presence against your spine, his attention winding tight and patient.
“Tell me,” he said calmly, “did you enjoy being noticed?”
Your mouth went dry. “I didn’t—do anything.”
“I didn’t ask what you did,” he replied. “I asked what you felt.”
Silence stretched. He let it. He always did.
“I felt…” You hesitated, then whispered, “…confused.”
His hand settled at the back of your neck. Not squeezing. Anchoring.
“Confusion,” he said thoughtfully, “is what happens when boundaries are tested.”
His thumb brushed once—slow, deliberate—just under your jaw. Suggestive not in action, but in implication.
“You are not meant to wonder who is allowed to see you,” he continued. “That decision is not yours.”
Your knees weakened slightly. He noticed.
“I remove uncertainty,” he said, guiding you backward until the edge of a desk pressed into the backs of your legs. “That is how I care for what is mine.”
Your breath stuttered. “What happens to people who forget that?”
The pause was long enough to feel like an answer.
“They are corrected,” he said finally. “Or removed.”
You didn’t ask what had happened to the man.
You didn’t need to.
Instead, you whispered, “And me?”
His hand slid from your neck to your waist, fingers spreading with quiet authority.
“You,” he said, “are reminded.”
He leaned in—not to kiss, not to touch further—but close enough that the space between you felt intentional, controlled, aching with restraint.
“You are watched because you are valued,” he murmured. “Restricted because you are desired. Isolated because no one else is worthy of the confusion you inspire.”
Your heart pounded. The fear tangled with something darker, deeper—relief curling low in your stomach.
“I will not have you doubting your place,” he continued softly. “If that means narrowing your world until only my voice remains… so be it.”
When he finally stepped back, the room felt wrong without him—too large, too empty.
The next day, you noticed it fully.
No one lingered near you.
No one met your eyes.
No one spoke your name.
Only him.
And when the loneliness set in—sharp and immediate—you realized, with a slow, frightening clarity, that it only hurt because he hadn’t spoken yet.
Because you were waiting.
Waiting to be reminded.
The silence was deliberate.
That was how you knew it was punishment.
He didn’t summon you. Didn’t correct you. Didn’t remind you. The systems still responded to you, the doors still opened, the world still bent—but his voice was gone.
You lasted two days.
By the third, the absence gnawed at you so sharply it felt physical. Your thoughts looped uselessly, every action suddenly weightless without his attention anchoring it. You caught yourself pausing mid-step, waiting for a presence that didn’t come.
When you finally broke protocol—stepping into a corridor you knew was no longer yours—the air changed instantly.
He was there before you reached the end.
“You are restless again,” All For One said, not unkindly.
Your knees nearly gave out at the sound of him.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed. “I won’t—”
He raised a hand. Silence fell.
“I removed myself,” he said calmly, “to see whether you would drift… or return.”
He approached slowly, studying you like a system under stress. When he stopped in front of you, his hand lifted your chin—familiar now. Expected.
“You didn’t seek others,” he observed. “You didn’t rebel.”
His thumb brushed your lower lip—not crossing any line, yet unmistakably intimate.
“You sought me.”
Your voice broke. “I didn’t know who I was without you.”
That was the moment his control tightened.
“There it is,” he murmured.
He drew you in, not roughly, not urgently—decisively. Then, he guided you away, it wasn’t to a public room, or an office, or anywhere meant for strategy.
It was private. Shielded. Chosen.
Time blurred after that.
You remember his presence never leaving—not even when it should have. His attention wrapped around you completely, unwavering, consuming. Whatever line existed before dissolved quietly, intentionally, without spectacle.
There were no commands.
No negotiations.
Only closeness so absolute it erased doubt.
When it concluded—when you lay there, senses heavy, mind quiet—you realized something that terrified you more than anything before:
He hadn’t left.
All For One remained beside you, seated close enough that you could feel him without looking. His hand rested against you—not claiming now, but keeping. As if stepping away simply… hadn’t occurred to him.
“You are quieter,” he said after a while.
“I don’t feel lost anymore,” you admitted.
“Good,” he replied. “That was never acceptable.”
You turned your head slightly. “Why didn’t you go?”
A pause.
“Because possession,” he said slowly, “is not satisfied by distance.”
His hand tightened just enough to remind you where you were anchored.
“You belong at my side,” he continued. “And I find I have no interest in leaving what is mine unattended.”
The words didn’t frighten you.
They settled over you like a promise.
And when you closed your eyes, wrapped in the certainty of his presence, you understood fully—finally—that resistance had never been taken from you.
You had given it up.
Willingly.
