I Want To See More Fanfics About Bakugo And His Pretty S/o Who Looks Like Actual Ass In Pictures. Like,

I want to see more fanfics about Bakugo and his pretty s/o who looks like actual ass in pictures. Like, there are plenty of people who are not photogenic and think we need to address this.

Bakugo : Oi, dumbass, look over here.

S/O : Wut—

Flash

S/O : ...

Bakugo : ...

S/O : Did you just take a picture of me?

Bakugo : The hell is wrong with your face?!

Hehe, I like it

Honestly though, Bakugo would probably get really pissed at the camera.

Bakugo : This thing's a piece of shit.

Bakugo : Damn camera making my s/o look like a horse

Beauty's in the eye of the beholder or whatever, right? So how about Bakugo with a s/o who always looks awful on photos but he manages to capture perfect photos that make them look stunning.

S/O : I hate photos.

Bakugo : Just one princess.

Just saw a dog dad Bakugo thing and if Bakugo had a dog and I went over to his house, I would ALWAYS greet the pooch first. I’d be crouching down, arms wide and a big grin on my face while calling out the cutie and only after five minutes of pets would I look up to Bakugo with the most bland look I could muster before saying “oh, you’re here too” in the most deadpan tone. Then I’d laugh like a fool at his grumpy face because pissing him off is not a hobby but a lifestyle.

Me : *Casually reading bnha posts on tumblr, searching for inspiration*

Tumblr : “Things Bakugo does while fu$&ing you!”

Me : *screeching*

Your Bakugou's fluff is soo good!

M-me?? Tanku sm 🥺

Being a writer is so funny cause I'll just be sitting, stuck in a daydream—as per usual—and I'll think ‟that would be such a cool story‟ or ‟that would be such a cute drabble.‟ Then I sit for a little longer until I realize—oh. I'm a writer. I can write this. Then I don't.

I just want you to know that if class 1-A had to pair up for sit-ups, I would be with Bakugo so I could sit on his feet and rest my arms on his knees. Then I'd rest my cheek on my arms with a smirk and watch the flustered blush on his pretty face deepen each time he rose up—inches from my face. He'd finally be all ‟The hell are you doing?‟ And I'd smile, rising up a little to meet him as he came up from another sit up. He'd act tough but we all know his heart would be skipping like the classic school girl with a fat crush and he'd pout, lips inches from mine. I'd tilt my head to make that space a mere centimeter then, I'd flick my eyes up to his and smile. ‟Your feet smell like ass.‟ And I'd run away as he tried to kill me.