a college au FEAT. HANTA SERO
“glasses are filled to the rim, finally taking it in, i really needed a night like this.”
“no, i swear to— i swear to god, y/n, are you listening?” denki slurs, pointing a limp finger in your direction which you nearly almost slap away because the guy wasn't even addressing you when this conversation started.
“yes, i’m fucking listening,” you reply offhandedly, not even looking up from the mangled UNO pile on the table.
“BRO— JUST SHUT UP— LIKE, FUCK, like— wait— what was i— shit— what was i even saying....?”
whatever drunken ramble denki was trying to spew into existence dies a violent death under the roar of laughter around the booth. kirishima and mina practically fold in half, slapping the table in sync, wheezing like animals, their laughter so infectious bakugou lets out the ugliest snort you've ever heard into his beer bottle.
fuck, it was a good night.
late-winter. that weird sweet spot where deadlines are still killing you but you’ve decided to stop caring. you’ve all been trudging through days that start in darkness, end in darkness, and are filled with cold fingers, numb ears, rain-soaked smoke breaks. weeks of being too scared to open your bank acoount and too burnt out to read the group chat.
the night felt like a deep breath and the first high of the season.
so good, your probably pissing off the people in the booth next to you, with the amount of times denki's tripped on the way to the bathroom, and the screams and cackles coming from you and mina.
but who fucking cares, not when six of your closest friends are crammed into a sticky, sweaty, booth on the top floor of the student bar, half sunk into ripped faux-leather cushions. the pile of UNO cards has mutated into some unholy stack of bent paper probably phsyically stuck to the tabletop by this point. they've been there for a minute now, after mina crashed out because she had to pick up twenty four cards, and denki, of all people, won.
the pitcher you and kyouka shared is basically empty, just sad indigo residue, half melted ice cubes and leaves.
your shoulders are loose, your head feels light. your stomach hurts from laughing, your face hurts from smiling so much, and your ribs hurt from where bakugou elbowed you for taking the piss out of whatever he said that was grammatically incorrect 10 minutes ago.
you had kicked off your sneakers when you had gotten back from the bathroom an hour ago and realised that, one, they were a teeny bit too small, in the way that they rubbed the heel of your foot terribly uncomfortably, and two, that you guys were not going out to the beer garden anytime soon. "it's so fucking freezing, you want my nipples to fall off", as mina had already declared.
so yeah, your left leg, your sneakerless, sockbound, foot had been creeping up sero's thigh for the last five minutes.
the dumbass you sometimes make out with at functions if the hallway is dark enough.
see the best part about sero is that he's too hot for his own good.
and the worst part about sero, he's not even that hot.
you have objectively hotter friends, you tell yourself that all the time. mina is insanely gorgeous, kirishima looks like he fucking bench-presses planets, bakugou’s got the whole angry-pretty thing going—
he's just tall, and a dumbass, and let's you toke from his joints, and puts you on good music, and is tall, and so fucking funny without even trying. he talks in that smooth, lazy voice, like he's teasing, even when he's not. he always looks like he’s on the verge of laughing at something no one else can see. and there's this permanent half smirk stuck on his stupid mouth, and he smiles with his whole stupid face.
and you’ve known him since like forever, like when he used to walk into telephone poles because he was playing pokémon go on his phone, and when he wasn't as fucking sexy as he is right now.
he’s sitting opposite you, leaned all the way back like he owns the booth, long legs splayed out in the rudest manspread you ever seen. his beanie is crooked. his cheeks are flushed. he’s got that stupid shit-eating grin he gets when he’s a couple drinks and two joints deep.
you tune back in mid conversation.
“bro, what?” he snorts at bakugou, lifting his chin.
“your mad ‘cos i’m fuckin’ right,” bakugou fires back.
“i’m mad ‘cos you're talking out of y’er ass right now." he's snarky with it, using the specific tone of voice he invented purely to ragebait bakugou.
clearly it's working, because the back-and-forth escalates immediately.
“are you fuckin’ stupid? the second movie was fuckin' garbage—”
“no it fuckin' wasn’t.” (yes it was) “the graphics were fucking insane.”
“—insanely garbage. you were stoned off your ass when we watched it. d’you even remember what happened?”
“‘course i do. the villain smoked the shit out of the main character and then—”
“and then you went to the bathroom and never came back,” kyouka cuts in dryly without even glancing up from her drink.
and under all of it, he twitches, just barely, when your toes press higher.
he's trying so hard to keep it casual right now, you can tell. what with the way his ears have gone red, and the way his eyes flick to you every few seconds like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
you love this part of the most. the chase, the game.
because, normally he’s the one doing this to you.
normally he's all heavy stares, half smirks, and that lazy, half-lidded look he gets when he’s deciding whether to ruin your night in the best possible way. sometimes it's a bit more intense, the way his lip will curl, the way he'll bare his teeth at you from across a room. like he'd eat you if he had the chance.
the thought of it makes you squirm, just a teeny bit, but sero's eyes snap to you just at that moment, as if he can tell, like he knows you’re thinking about it.
it's freaky, in a can-this-dude-read-my-fucking-mind kinda way.
but it makes something carnal in your gut shudder.
he holds your gaze a beat too long this time, not smiling, just looking. then he clears his throat and looks back at bakugou like nothing happened.
but eventually, the nic fiends of your group get twitchy.
kyouka's the first to crack, surprisingly. she taps your knee with her lighter trying to be discreet as possible, but it's all in vain.
denki's a bloodhound when it comes to smoke breaks.
before kyouka can even open her mouth to hint at the idea of going outside he's already—
"smoke break? yes? yes! EXCELLENT IDEA."
and halfway into his hoodie, climbing over a protesting eijirou who nearly eats the table trying to save his drink.
sero's gaze finds you again.
and tap kyouka on the back, half-heartedly murmuring something about hitting the bathroom first.
which is when you hear sero himself dramatically exclaim how he's been dying for a piss, and pushing himself upright.
it makes you laugh under your breath, these guys definitely know what's up. sometimes you wish he'd be less obvious.
he catches you in the hallway by the stairwell. you can hear his footsteps behind you, the sharp slapping of his sneakers against the linoleum floor. he thinks he's slick.
“bathroom’s that way,” you say lightly without turning around, nodding down the opposite end of the corridor.
sero hums like he’s considering it.
“yeah,” he replies, dragging the word out, not moving. “funny. thought you were going this way.”
you stop at the stairwell landing and turn slowly.
he’s closer than he needs to be.
close enough that if you leaned forward an inch you’d bump into him. close enough that you can see the faint flush creeping up his neck into his ears.
his back hits the wall like he planned it, one hand braced beside your head, blocking your path without fully committing to it. casual. allegedly.
his ears are still red, if you asked, he'd blame the alcohol. but his eyes are not casual at all. they drop, just for a second, to your chest.
he licks his lips like he doesn’t realise he’s doing it.
“you sure you don’t need the toilet?” you tilt your head, sweet and fake. “you sounded real urgent back there.”
“i need something,” he says, voice a little lower now. a little breathier. “just not that.”
you let out a soft, unimpressed hum and take half a step closer, invading his space on purpose this time. your shoulder almost brushes his chest.
his eyes flick down again. he swallows. “yeah.”
he smells like beer and weed and that stupid cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear.
“you’re not subtle,” you say, leaning one hip against the stair railing like you’re bored.
“i’m very subtle,” he shoots back immediately.
“you’ve looked at my chest three times since you got here.”
that earns you a breathy laugh, the kind he tries to swallow but can’t. he pushes off the wall slightly, stepping closer instead of retreating.
“you think you’re funny?” he asks, eyes narrowing just a little.
“nah,” he says, head tilting as he studies you. “you think you’ve got me figured out.”
you shrug. “you’re not that complicated, hanta.”
his jaw tightens just slightly. “oh yeah?”
god the tension is killing you. you swear you can feel it in your teeth. in your fingertips. in the space between your bodies that keeps shrinking without either of you admitting it.
“oh yeah?” you echo, lifting your chin. “is that all you’ve got? i thought you were smoother than that.”
“and you’ve always got something smart to say,” he chuckles, but it’s thinner now. less relaxed.
“i didn’t say that,” you hum. then you let your eyes drag over him, slow and intentional. “but if the shoe fits—”
his mouth moves against yours with zero hesitation, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he deepens it. his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you flush against him, your bodies lining up so easily it’s almost embarrassing.
you grab at the front of his hoodie and drag him closer, because if he’s going to pretend he’s not desperate, you’re going to make it impossible.
you giggle against his mouth, because you can’t help it, the whole thing is ridiculous. he nips at your tongue in retaliation.
“don’t laugh,” he mutters against your lips.
“make me,” you breathe back
then his other hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as he tilts your head for a better angle.
and you both melt into it.
that's the problem. he knows you so well. he knows exactly what you like. where to press. how hard to bite. how long to drag it out before you start squirming.
you kinda hate it. hate that's him, hate the smug little exhale he lets out when his hand brushes that sensitive spot just below your collarbone and your whole body shudders. not subtle. not cool.
you can feel the grin against your mouth. feel the satisfaction in the way he deepens the kiss again, slower now, more deliberate. like he’s proving a point.
“thought i was easy,” he murmurs, voice rough.
he plays you like a fucking fiddle. his fingers, his mouth, fuck him and his smart mouth. and his stupid sexy eyes. and his hair that is so soft, and thick, and begging you to pull on it. and that sexy ass sound he lets out when you do.
a low, involuntary groan that vibrates through you and straight to your stomach.
you tug again just to hear it.
“you’re so annoying,” he breathes, but he’s smiling into your mouth.
“you’re obsessed with me.”
you kiss him harder in response, fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his head back just enough to look at him. his lips are swollen. his eyes darker than before. pupils blown wide. ears still red.
and you like that way too much.
his hands slide down your sides, fingers flexing like he’s debating how far to push this in a stairwell.
you kiss him one more time, slower. deeper. less frantic but somehow worse.
“fuck,” you mumble against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. “i actually do need the bathroom.”
he stares at you in disbelief for a full five seconds. before he breaks. and wheezes out a laugh. “you’re unbelievable.”
he gives your waist one last squeeze before stepping back, though he doesn’t go far.
“don’t fall in,” he says. he's not funny.
you start walking backwards toward the bathroom, pointing at him.
“don’t roll up without me.”
he grins, slow and dangerous.
