chapter 2: ignition
bakugou katsuki x female!reader – street racing au
“damn it… why is it always her?”
the afternoon sun spills through the tall windows of the lecture hall, catching the dust motes that drift lazily in the warm air. you slouch in your seat, books open but largely ignored, tapping a pen against your notebook. calculus, again. you hate calculus. your biochem major screams in protest, but you’re stuck tracing through derivatives like they’re some cruel joke. beside you, denki hums under his breath, tapping along with some song you can’t quite hear. kirishima’s scribbles look messy but somehow make sense to him, and sero is…well, sero is doing something else entirely, probably planning his next prank.
then, inevitably, the door slams open. bakugou strides in, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, his hair a mess that somehow makes him look even more dangerous. eyes scanning the room like he owns it, he smirks — one of those sharp, knowing smirks that feels like a warning.
“idiot,” he mutters under his breath, loud enough that you catch it. “what the hell are you even doing?”
you glance at him, unimpressed, pen tapping faster. “trying not to fail,” you reply flatly. “unlike someone who just strolls in here thinking they’re already top of the class.”
his smirk flickers into a sharp laugh. “top of the class? idiot, i don’t need to be top. that’s boring. i need results, not babysitting numbers on paper.” his gaze flicks over your notes, and for a second it’s almost like he’s evaluating you, seeing if you’re worth the attention.
mina leans over, whispering, “you’re lucky you’re actually kinda smart, you know? bakugou wouldn’t last a second trying your way of thinking.”
you grin. “thanks. i try.”
class drags on, the clock ticking slower than ever, but your mind keeps wandering — to the garage later, to the streets at night, to the thrill of the race. bakugou’s presence hovers in the back of your mind, the way his smirk lingers, the arrogance that somehow fuels the challenge between you.
after class, you head to the biochem lab to finish some work, and bakugou? he disappears with the engineering majors, likely messing with engines and schematics. you can’t help stealing a glance at him when you pass the garage door — there he is, arms flexing as he leans over a car, wrench in hand, jaw tight, muscles bunching as he works. the curve of his biceps under his sleeves catches the light, sharp and defined, and your stomach tightens just a little. his spiky hair falls into his eyes as he grits his teeth over some stubborn part, and for a moment, you imagine leaning over that hood yourself, hands brushing against him accidentally, maybe deliberately. you shove the thought away. focus. lab. chemicals. not him.
as you arrive at your apartment you find mina sitting on the couch with an ice cream tub in hand and her mouth full. “hey, hey, you’re staying in tonight, right?" you nod. "club’s gonna be insane. midnight is a guest dj. we’ll text you what happened, promise. but also,” mina leans closer, eyes bright, “i need your help. your nails. seriously, how do you do them so…perfect?”
you laugh softly, shrugging. “i do them myself. patience, practice, and the right polish.”
“teach me. please. i’ll even pay,” she says with mock desperation. you grin and roll your eyes, agreeing to a little mini nail session.
as the sun sets, candles flicker as you light them around the apartment, casting dancing shadows. you draw a bath, letting the water steam up and fill the room with warmth. vanilla-scented bubbles rise in soft clouds, and you sink in, the water curling around your skin like a gentle weight.
fingers trail lazily over your arms, shoulders, and thighs submerged in the water, and the thought of bakugou creeps in. his smirk, sharp and dangerous, floats into your mind, and suddenly the bath feels hotter. you picture him in the garage, muscles flexing, jaw tight, hands rough but precise, hair sticking up in reckless angles. you imagine him watching, the way his eyes would catch the curve of your shoulder, the line of your neck, the subtle swell of your chest. a shiver curls through your spine at the thought, your pulse quickening, and you scold yourself quietly for thinking about him like that.
miles away, the club pulses with energy. bakugou leans against the bar, jaw tight, eyes scanning but empty, like he’s seeing everything and nothing at once. a girl slides up, pressing close, whispering how irresistible he is. his hand pushes her firmly away. “not interested,” he mutters, tone sharp. her perfume hits him, cloying and sweet, but all he can think of is you. she tries again, leaning in closer, lips brushing his ear, fingers brushing his chest. he steps back, frowning, voice low and clipped: “i said not interested, idiot.” she blinks, frustrated, and stalks off.
he slips his hand into his pocket, phone buzzing, eyes landing on the message he got earlier — your text from the race. suddenly, every pulse of bass, every flicker of neon, every swirl of heat in the room fades. it’s just you. the thought of you alone in your apartment, warm water gliding over your soft skin, fingers tracing over yourself in slow, deliberate motions — it drives him insane. he imagines the way your shoulders arch when the water hits, the curve of your neck as your head tilts back, lips parted slightly, eyes half-closed, flushed from the heat. every motion, every shiver you send through the water, is carved into his mind.
all he can see is you, the way the candlelight would flicker across your skin, soft curves highlighted by steam curling around you. he imagines the subtle swell of your chest, the gentle dip of your waist as you lean back in the tub, fingers trailing over yourself, over every inch of the skin he’s never touched but burns to imagine. his jaw tightens, fists clenching, body tense. he can practically feel the warmth of the water, the scent of your skin mingling with vanilla, the way your hair clings damp to the curve of your neck.
he swallows hard, chest tightening, pulse racing. every sharp inhale makes him think of leaning over you, hand brushing your shoulder, fingers catching a strand of wet hair, lips grazing yours, just to see the way you’d react. he curses the memory of your smirk when you argue back, that fire in your eyes that challenges him, that refuses to let him win without a fight. it makes him ache, makes him crave you, makes him reckless in thought.
“what the hell is wrong with me?” he mutters, voice low, rough, a growl that almost carries through the music. he hates it — hates how every imagined curve of your body, every slick sweep of wet hair, every soft gasp he imagines you making twists him up inside. he hates how he wants you, how he wants to feel you beneath him, in a way he’s not supposed to, in a way that would be dangerous and exhilarating all at once. he almost reaches for his phone, desperate to text, but he doesn’t. he can’t. not yet.
around him, the club pulses, lights flashing, heat and music mixing, but it’s all meaningless. nothing matters but the way he imagines you there, the way you’d look, the way your body would move in the warmth of your bath, steam curling over your skin, fingertips tracing along your curves, lips slightly parted, eyes closed in quiet abandon. every detail of you is sharp in his mind, burning, twisting into a hunger he can’t quench.
he’s shaking his head, trying to push it away, but it’s useless. every laugh from the crowd, every flash of neon, every movement of a stranger only makes him picture you more vividly. he’s slowly becoming obsessed, and he knows it, bitterly, painfully aware of how much you dominate his thoughts without even being here.
kirishima yells something over the music, trying to get him to loosen up, to dance, but bakugou grits his teeth. “shut up, idiot,” he snaps, voice low, not really at kirishima. every flash of movement, every curve in a passing girl, makes him picture you more clearly: the gentle swell of your hips, the curve of your shoulders, the tilt of your head, the soft flush of your skin glistening in bathwater, the way your fingers move lazily over yourself. he shakes his head violently, muttering curses, hating himself for imagining you like that but unable to stop.
mina texts him from her spot on the dance floor, letting him know you stayed in. he curses under his breath, bitter and aching, realizing just how much he wants to be anywhere but here, anywhere but without you. the thought of you lounging in the bath, fingers tracing water over skin, lips parted slightly, sends a fire through him he can’t control.
back at your apartment, you finish your bath, dry off, wrap yourself in a plush towel, and sip tea. the quiet makes your thoughts loud: the arrogance, the smirk, the fire in his eyes during the last race. your pulse picks up at the memory of him bending over the car, biceps flexing, jaw set, hair wild. the thought of him watching you in the bath, imagining him tracing the curve of your shoulder or the line of your neck, makes you flush.
hours later, the two worlds begin to wind down. you curl up with a book, exhausted but content. bakugou leans against a booth, drink forgotten, thoughts still tangled in you, in the curves, in the bath, in the way the candlelight hits you like it’s marking you for him. he imagines you everywhere — in his garage, on the streets, in the soft glow of your apartment, in the quiet heat of your own private moments.
and then, just when the night feels like it might end quietly, your phone buzzes. a new message, no name, just numbers:
“meet me at the old lot. midnight. alone.”
bakugou’s phone buzzes too. his jaw tightens, a low growl escaping, half frustration, half longing, all for you.
the night hangs heavy with anticipation, electric and dangerous. both of you — miles apart yet tied together by thoughts, racing, tension, and a dare neither of you can ignore — are poised on the edge of something inevitable. thank you so much for reading!
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