Sparks, Spice, and Story Bites!

just bakugo katsuki one shots i come up with based on songs i listen to || credits to the owner/s of any and all images/gifs/vids used in this blog || bakugo is not a character of mine so credits to horikoshi for creating this sparky boy <33

[keiki-katsudon]

Shapes in the Stars

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A quiet girl who speaks in starlight and notebook pages finds herself mapping constellations out of feelings she can't say out loud — all while the boy across the room notices more than she thinks.

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The clock on the common room wall read 11:10.

You noticed it the way you noticed most things — quietly, from a corner, while everyone else was loud and busy and entirely unaware of you.

You had a notebook open in your lap. The page was blank.

You'd been sitting there for twenty minutes.

It wasn't your fault. You had sat down fully intending to study for Aizawa-sensei's written exam on Quirk Application Theory, and then Bakugo Katsuki had walked in from training, still damp from the showers, his hair sticking up in seventeen different directions, and your brain had simply... stopped.

He dropped on to the couch across the room. Grabbed the remote. Changed the channel to something loud and actin-heavy without looking at anyone. Classic.

You looked back at your blank notebook page.

Write something, you told yourself. Any word. One word.

The clock ticked to 11:11.

You closed your eyes.

I still wish for you.

The thought arrived before you could stop it. You pressed your lips together and stared at the ceiling.

It had started like this, three months ago: a shooting star you'd spotted through the window of the Heights Alliance dorm, and the involuntary, embarrassing, completely irrational thought — him — before you'd even fully processed what you were wishing for. As if your heart had already decided before your brain had been consulted.

Your Quirk responded to your emotions when you weren't careful. Faint starlight gathered at your fingertips now, thin filaments of luminescence that curled and drifted upward like smoke. You pressed your hand flat against the notebook to smother it.

Not here. Not in front of people.

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Your Quirk was called Stellarform.

The official Registry description read: User can generate, shape, and project concentrated stellar energy from their body. At full output, user manifests luminous wings of condensed starlight. Wings appear as translucent constructs of light — resembling an angel's form — and only manifest during active Quirk use. User can also sculpt stellar energy into freeform shapes mid-air.

What the Registry did not mention was that the light had a mind of its own when you felt something strongly.

What the Registry did not mention was that you had accidentally drawn a perfect replica of Orion's Belt above your breakfast plate last Tuesday while watching Bakugo argue with Kirishima about protein macros, because you were thinking about how the freckle near his jaw and the two near his collarbone formed a constellation.

You had shoved the glowing stars into your palm before anyone saw.

Probably.

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"Oi. Shimizu."

You startled so hard the notebook slid off your knees.

Bakugo was looking at you from across the room. Not mean, exactly — he rarely looked mean at you specifically, which you had spent approximately forty combined hours of your life analyzing — but direct. The kind of direct that felt like being pinned to a display board.

You looked at him.

He looked back.

"You've been staring at the same page for half an hour."

Had you been staring at him? Or at your notebook? You genuinely could not reconstruct the last thirty minutes with any reliability.

I wasn't, you thought. I was studying.

Your mouth did not say this. Your mouth said nothing, because your mouth rarely did. It was the thing you hated most about yourself and had come to a kind of reluctant ceasefire with over seventeen years of life — that your thoughts were enormous and your voice was almost nonexistent, like a symphony playing in a soundproofed room.

Bakugo squinted at you. "You good?"

You nodded.

A small, careful nod. The kind that communicated: Yes, I am fine, please stop looking at me before I accidentally light up this entire room.

He held your gaze for exactly two seconds longer than necessary — you counted — and then turned back to the television.

You breathed.

Your fingertips were glowing again, faint and silver-gold. You curled them into your palm and pressed them against your sternum, feeling the warmth of your own Quirk like a held breath.

Shapes in the stars to invent our connection.

You thought about horoscopes you'd read last week — not because you believed in them, you didn't, you were entirely too sensible for that — and the particular cosmic humor of the fact that your and Bakugo's signs were supposedly deeply incompatible. You thought about how you'd read it anyway, three times.

You thought about how you kept doing things like that. Looking for signs. Counting things. The number of times he'd sat in the common room at the same hour as you — often, actually, often enough that you'd made a mental tally you were not proud of. The fact that he always chose the same couch, and you always chose the same corner. The space between you was almost exactly the same every time, like a measurement someone had planned.

It's a thought that is dangerous.

You knew that.

You were sensible. You were quiet, and you watched people closely, and you were quite good at knowing the difference between a sign and a coincidence. You were not the kind of person who deluded yourself.

And yet.

The common room emptied gradually. Mina and Kaminari left arguing about something. Sero followed. Kirishima said goodnight to Bakugo with a fist bump and disappeared down the hall.

And then it was just the two of you, and the low hum of the television, and the clock on the wall that now read 11:43.

You should go upstairs.

You picked up your pencil. Put it down. Looked at your blank page.

You began, very quietly, to do what you always did when you were trying not to think: you let your Quirk breathe.

Just a little. Just enough.

Starlight unspooled from your fingertips like thread. You guided it gently, barely moving your hand, sculpting tiny shapes in the air in front of you — too small and low for someone across the room to see. A small Ursa Minor. A scattering of points that became the Pleiades. You connected them with invisible lines, building constellations out of light and restless feeling, the way you'd done since you were a child and had nothing else to do with the things you couldn't say out loud.

Shapes in the stars to invent our connection.

You drew a line. A small, careful arc.

"What are those."

You extinguished the light so fast you felt it snap back against your palms like a rubber band.

Bakugo was standing three feet away from you. You had not heard him move. His arms were crossed. He was looking at the empty air where the constellations had been, a crease between his brows that meant he was thinking rather than annoyed, and you were having a small, dignified internal crisis.

You stared up at him.

He stared down at you.

"I saw them," he said, like a simple statement of fact. Not accusatory. "The star things. You do that when you think no one's watching."

Your face was absolutely, catastrophically warm.

You looked back down at your notebook and wrote, in careful small letters, because you were not capable of speech right now and you needed him to understand that you were not ignoring him, only — malfunctioning —

Constellations.

You turned the notebook toward him.

He looked at it. Something in his expression shifted — not soft, exactly, Bakugo was not a soft person, but — curious. A genuine kind of curious.

"Yeah, I know what they are," he said, which was somehow both dismissive and entirely not dismissive at all. He dropped onto the couch cushion beside yours — not across the room, beside yours, six inches of space between you — and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at the air where the light had been. "Do them again."

You blinked.

He glanced at you sideways. "Do them again. I'm not gonna — I'm not making fun of you. I just." He looked away. His jaw worked. "I want to see."

You looked at him for a long moment. He was not looking at you. His ears, you noticed, were slightly pink.

I'll find signs for you and I.

Your Quirk stirred in your chest like something waking up.

You turned your palm upward in your lap. Slowly, carefully, the starlight came. This time you let it rise a little higher — a constellation taking shape in the air between you, no bigger than a book, each point of light small and steady.

You drew Cassiopeia. The shape resolved itself, five stars connected by threads of gold-white luminescence, hovering gently in the space above your knees.

Bakugo didn't say anything. He watched it.

His face in the starlight looked like something you would think about for a long time afterward. The shadows and the light. The way the furrow between his brows had smoothed out. He looked almost — younger, somehow, and less like the person who yelled about protein and more like someone who had walked outside and found something unexpected in the sky.

You let the Cassiopeia dissolve. You drew Scorpius next, the long curve of it, the bright Antares at its heart — and without fully deciding to, you let your wings unfurl.

Just barely. Just the tips of them, translucent light flickering into being behind your shoulders like the edges of something enormous and barely contained — not feathered, nothing so gentle, just light given the shape of flight, crackling softly at the edges the way the sky looks right before a storm breaks and turns beautiful.

You heard him inhale.

"That's your full Quirk," he said. Not a question.

You nodded.

He was looking at you now. At the wings, and then at your face.

"Why don't you use it more," he said. It wasn't quite a question either.

You thought about it. You picked up your pencil and wrote:

It's very visible.

He read it. "Yeah." A pause. "And?"

You looked at him. He looked back.

You wrote, very slowly: I don't like being seen.

You waited for the dismissal. For that's stupid or get over it or the particular flavor of Bakugo-impatience you had witnessed directed at others many times before.

"I think it's the best thing about you."

The wings flared — you couldn't help it, a burst of involuntary starlight scattering tiny motes of luminescence across the common room ceiling like a planetarium, Scorpius and Cassiopeia and fragments of a dozen other constellations blooming above you both, gold and silver and white, the whole room filling gently with light.

You brought your hands to your lap and it all winked out.

The common room was regular and fluorescent again.

You sat in absolute mortification, hands pressed together in your lap, staring straight ahead.

Bakugo made a sound. You looked at him, dreading —

He was looking at the ceiling. His mouth was doing something that was not quite a smile but was not not a smile either.

"Do it again," he said, "and this time don't turn it off."

You looked at him. He looked at you. The clock on the wall, if either of you had been watching it, would have ticked to 11:58.

You weren't watching the clock.

You opened your hands, and the stars came back.

You still wished for him at eleven-eleven, after that.

The difference was: now, sometimes, he was already there.

[keiki-katsudon]

When the Year Turns Quiet

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A New Year's night where the noise fades just enough for the moments that matter to settle in.

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an: to celebrate the new year, here's a little somethin' for u guys <3

The dorms feel different on New Year’s Eve.

Not quieter—Class 1A is incapable of quiet—but softer somehow, like the air itself knows it’s meant to hold something gentle. Lights are strung up along the common room walls, mismatched and uneven, Mina’s doing of course. Someone’s playlist hums in the background, a blend of upbeat pop and songs that make you nostalgic even if you don’t know why.

You linger near the back at first, drink in hand, watching everyone exist together like this isn’t something that could ever be taken away.

Kaminari’s already shouting about how he’s “definitely staying up this year,” Kirishima’s laughing too loud, Uraraka and Mina are arguing over snacks, Todoroki and Yaoyurozu quietly sipping tea on the couch, talking every now and then. It’s warm. Crowded. Alive.

And then there’s Bakugo.

He’s leaned against the far counter, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place—but you know him well enough now to read the details. He hasn’t complained once about the decorations. He hasn’t snapped at anyone. He hasn’t left.

That alone feels significant.

You drift closer without really deciding to, ending up beside him with your shoulder just barely brushing his arm. He glances down at you, eyes sharp as ever, then looks away again.

“… You gonna stand there starin’ all night?” he mutters.

You smile. “You noticed.”

“Tch. Hard not to.”

You don’t move away. Neither does he.

The night stretches on in small moments—group photos you’re pulled into whether you want them or not, half-burnt snacks someone swears are “still edible,” laughter that comes easier as the clock creeps closer to midnight. At some point, the lights get dimmed, the playlist shifts, and the windows fog slightly from the warmth inside.

"Ten!"

Bakugo shifts closer when the countdown starts, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, solid and grounding.

“Nine!”

Everyone shouts in unison.

"Eight!"

You glance up at him.

"Seven!"

He’s not looking at the clock.

"Six!"

He’s looking at you.

“Five!”

Your heart stutters, just a little.

"Four!"

He leans down slightly, voice low so only you can hear it. "Don't get weird about this."

“Three!”

You blink. “About what—”

“Two!”

He reaches out, fingers catching your sleeve—not pulling, not forcing. Just… there.

“One!”

The room erupts.

Cheers. Laughter. Confetti someone definitely wasn’t supposed to have. People hugging, shouting “Happy New Year!” over each other.

Bakugo doesn’t move.

For a second, neither do you.

Then he clears his throat, ears faintly red. “… Happy New Year.”

It’s quiet. Almost awkward. Almost perfect.

“Happy New Year,” you say back.

You think that’s it—that it’ll pass like everything else—but he doesn’t let go of your sleeve right away. His grip is gentle, hesitant in a way he rarely allows himself to be.

“… You did good this year,” he adds, gruff.

You look at him, really look at him. The boy who burns so bright it’s easy to forget how careful he is with the things he values.

“So did you,” you say softly.

He scoffs, but there’s no heat in it. “Yeah. Whatever.”

The party carries on around you, but eventually you slip outside together, drawn by the quiet. The cold air hits your skin, crisp and refreshing. The backyard is still, stars scattered overhead like someone took their time placing them.

You sit on the steps. He sits beside you.

No words at first. Just breathing. Existing.

“… You scared of the new year?” he asks suddenly.

You think about it. “A little.”

He nods. “Good. Means you care.”

Then, after a pause, “I’ll be here. So—don’t freak out.”

You laugh quietly, leaning your shoulder against his. This time, he doesn’t tense. He stays exactly where he is.

Above you, fireworks bloom in the distance—muted pops of color you can barely hear from here. But you don’t look up right away.

You look at him.

And for once, the year turning doesn’t feel loud or overwhelming.

It feels steady.

Like something you’re allowed to grow into—together.

You stay like that longer than you meant to.

The cold seeps in slowly, biting at your fingers, but Bakugo shifts before you can even think about pulling away. He shrugs off his jacket with a sharp tug and drapes it over your shoulders like it’s nothing—like it hasn’t been warmed by him, like it doesn’t smell faintly of smoke and laundry detergent and something unmistakably Bakugo.

“Don’t say anything,” he mutters immediately, already turning his gaze back to the yard.

You don’t. You just tug it closer around yourself.

“… Thanks,” you say anyway, quieter.

He huffs. “Yeah.”

Fireworks continue in the distance, bursts of color briefly lighting up the sky. Reds. Golds. Blues. Reflections flicker across the dorm windows behind you, but out here it’s dim and calm, like the world narrowed down just enough for the two of you to fit inside it comfortably.

You rest your hands in your lap, watching your breath fog in the air.

“You ever think,” you start slowly, “about where we’ll be this time next year?”

Bakugo hums, low and thoughtful. “All the time.”

That surprises you. You turn to look at him.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. His jaw tightens just slightly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I don’t like not knowin’ stuff. Drives me nuts.” A pause. “… But some things don’t piss me off as much anymore.”

You smile at that, small and fond.

“Like this?” you ask.

He finally glances at you. “Like you.”

Your heart does that stupid thing again—skips, stumbles, settles.

You don’t tease him. Don’t laugh. You just let it sit there between you, honest and unguarded.

“Hey,” you say after a moment. “Bakugo?”

“What.”

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He stiffens—just barely—then exhales through his nose. “… Idiot,” he mutters. But his hand shifts, knuckles brushing against yours on the step. He doesn’t pull away.

You let your fingers curl slightly, not quite holding his hand, but close enough to feel the warmth.

Inside, the party roars back to life—someone yelling about another countdown somewhere else, music getting louder, Mina’s laughter cutting through everything. But out here, time feels slower. Kinder.

Bakugo nudges your knee with his, “We should head back in before they start lookin’ for us.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “In a minute.”

He doesn’t argue.

Instead, he leans back on his hands and tilts his head up toward the stars. You follow his gaze this time, letting yourself really look. The sky stretches endlessly, constellations faint but steady, unchanged no matter how much everything else does.

“… New year,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

You nod. “New year.”

This time, when you stand, he reaches for you without hesitation—not grabbing, not dragging. Just lacing his fingers briefly through yours as you walk back toward the dorm entrance.

It’s subtle. Easy to miss.

But it’s real.

And somehow, that feels like more than enough to start the year with.

You don’t let go right away.

Neither does he.

The door slides open ahead of you, warm light spilling out into the cold, and for a moment you hesitate—caught between the quiet you’ve carved out together and the noise waiting inside. Bakugo feels it. He always does. His grip tightens just slightly, a silent question.

You squeeze back once. Just once.

That’s enough.

Inside, the common room greets you like nothing paused at all. Kaminari’s somehow started another argument, Mina’s trying to corral people for one last photo, Kirishima’s cheering about resolutions he’ll absolutely forget by February. Someone shouts your names when they notice you’ve returned, and a chorus of “Where’d you guys go?” follows immediately.

Bakugo groans. “Told you.”

You laugh, soft, and let your fingers slip from his as you step forward. “We were just outside.”

Mina narrows her eyes instantly, grin sharp and knowing. “Uh-huh. Just outside.”

Bakugo bristles. “Say it and you die.”

She laughs and backs off, hands raised in mock surrender. “Okay! Okay! No commentary!”

You glance back at him, amused, and he shoots you a look that’s half warning, half something else—something that makes your chest feel warm again.

The rest of the night blurs gently.

You sit cross-legged on the floor for a while, back against the couch, listening to Yaoyorozu talk about traditions her family has for the new year. You steal a few of Kaminari’s snacks when he’s not looking. Someone puts on a movie no one actually watches, and eventually people start drifting off—some to their rooms, some to quiet corners with blankets and low voices.

At some point, Bakugo drops down beside you without a word, close enough that your shoulders touch again. It feels natural now. Like the space between you learned its place.

“You tired?” he asks, quieter than before.

“A little,” you admit.

“Good,” he says. “Means you actually did somethin’ today.”

You snort. “What did you do?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t blow anything up. That’s growth.”

You laugh, leaning your head briefly against his shoulder before you can overthink it. He stiffens for half a second—then relaxes, letting you stay.

It’s small. It’s everything.

Eventually, you both stand, heading toward your rooms. No announcement. No spectacle. Just an unspoken agreement. In front of your door, you pause, suddenly unsure.

“Uhm,” you start. “Night.”

He nods. “… Night.”

You take a step into your room.

“So—” he adds, quick, like he almost missed his chance. “Tomorrow. Breakfast. Don’t sleep in.”

You smile. “Bossy.”

“Tch. You like it.”

You do.

In your room, you shrug off his jacket and fold it neatly over the back of your chair, resisting the urge to keep it longer. You change, wash your face, crawl into bed with the faint echo of laughter still ringing in your ears.

As you stare up at the ceiling, the year feels new in a way that doesn’t scare you.

Not because everything is certain.

But because someone steady chose to stand beside you as it changed.

Down the hall, Bakugo lies awake a little longer than he’d admit, staring at the ceiling too, jaw relaxed, thoughts quieter than usual.

And somewhere between the fireworks fading and the dorm settling into sleep, the new year begins—not with noise, but with the promise of showing up again tomorrow.

Together.

[keiki-katsudon]

Sugar and Static

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Bakugo walks into the kitchen expecting nothing more than water and quiet, and instead finds himself pausing—unexpectedly drawn in by you cooking and the way the room seems to settle around you, leaving him calmer than he'd planned to be.

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Bakugo Katsuki only comes into the kitchen for water.

You know that because you hear the door open behind you—the sharp, familiar sound of it—and you don’t turn right away. Training days always leave him restless. Loud. Heavy in a way you can feel even when he’s quiet.

The dorms are calm, late afternoon hush settling into the walls, sunlight spilling through the window and warming your shoulders like it meant to find you. You’re standing on the balls of your feet at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair loosely tied back, focused on the rhythm of what you’re doing.

A bowl floats beside you, stirring itself with careful precision. The spoon dips and lifts exactly how you want it to, responding to the subtle pull of space bending around your fingers. A faint shimmer of dust drifts near the counter—harmless, soft, catching the light before dissolving like it never existed.

You don’t notice him staring.

Not at first.

Then you hear it.

“What the hell…” he mutters.

You pause, just slightly.

You reach up toward the top shelf, fingers stretching. Still too far. Your brows knit together, more annoyed than embarrassed.

“Almost,” you murmur to yourself.

You rise onto your tiptoes again—and this time, you let your quirk answer.

A soft scatter of glittering motes gathers beneath your feet, barely visible unless someone is really looking. The space beneath you compresses, lifts, holds. There’s no strain, no rush. Just a gentle rise, like the air itself decided to be kind.

You grab the jar and let yourself drift back down, landing lightly, gravity polite enough to wait until you’re ready.

You don’t think twice about it.

But you feel him tense behind you.

“You’re staring.”

Bakugo jerks like he’s been caught doing something illegal. His scowl snaps into place immediately, defensive as ever.

“Tch. Wasn’t,” he says, already stomping toward the fridge. He yanks it open harder than necessary. “You’re just… in the way.”

You smile. Not teasing. Not smug. Just soft.

“Want some?” you ask, nodding toward the buns that were cooling off on top of the stove.

He shuts the fridge and finally looks.

The buns have settled into a warm golden color, steam curling upward in gentle ribbons. The heat bends the air just enough that the shapes briefly loop and spiral before fading away.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Sweet buns,” you say. “Trying something new.”

“That sounds stupid.”

You hum, unbothered. “Then don’t try them.”

He scowls, jaw tight.

“…Fine,” he mutters after a beat. “I’ll try one.”

You hand him a plate. Your fingers don’t touch, but the space between them tightens for half a second anyway, like it noticed.

He takes a bite.

His expression softens before he can stop it.

“…It’s not bad,” he admits quietly.

Your smile widens just a fraction.

You turn back to the stove, humming under your breath as the utensils move on their own, obedient and gentle. You guide them with the lightest touch, letting the kitchen settle into its rhythm again.

Bakugo leans against the counter, arms crossed, pretending he’s not watching—the way the light glints off the drifting dust, the way the room feels calmer than it should, like you’ve carved out a pocket of quiet just by existing in it.

He drinks his water slowly.

And for once, standing there with sugar in the air and static humming softly between you, he doesn’t feel like blowing anything up.

[keiki-katsudon]

Where the Wind Stops Fighting

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A quiet moment in the dorm's backyard where Bakugo, intending to train, instead finds himself unexpectedly captivated by the gentle magic of your presence.

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Bakugo Katsuki went out back with a purpose.

The backyard of Heights Alliance was empty more often than not—wide enough to blast craters into the grass without anyone whining, quiet enough that he didn’t have to hear Kaminari’s mouth for at least an hour. He had his gloves on, shoulders already tight, mind set on working until the buzz under his skin settled.

He didn’t expect to stop walking.

He didn’t expect to forget why he’d come out at all.

You were sitting beneath the old tree near the fence line, the one whose branches leaned outward like it had decided the world was worth reaching for. A blanket was spread beneath you, pale fabric catching the sunlight in a way that it made it look softer than it should've been. A small tea set rested neatly to one side—ceramic cup, steam curling lazily upward—and a book lay open in your lap, pages held in place by nothing but the breeze.

Bakugo froze.

You didn't look real.

Not in the sense that you weren't there—you very much were—but in the way a scene looks when it feels too deliberate, too perfectly arranged to be accidental. The wind threaded through the leaves overhead and dipped low, tugging gently at your hair, at the edges of your sleeves, at the corners of the blanket like it was being careful not to disturb you.

Tiny motes of light drifted through the air around you. Not glowing, not flashy—just there. Like dust caught in sunlight, except they moved with intention, spiraling slowly, dancing near your hands and shoulders as if they belonged to your orbit.

You turned a page.

The paper didn't crinkle. It fluttered, light as a breath, settling exactly where it should.

Bakugo swallowed.

"What the hell..." he muttered, more to himself than anything.

Your quirk was… strange.

Not powerful in the way explosions were powerful. Not loud. Not aggressive. It didn’t demand attention.

It invited it.

The air around you felt different—lighter, warmer, like the space itself had softened. Grass near the blanket leaned inward, blades bending as if curious. A flower he could’ve sworn hadn’t been there before peeked up near your knee, petals opening slowly like it had all the time in the world.

You lifted your teacup, and the steam curled into delicate shapes before dissipating—loops and spirals that looked suspiciously intentional. When you sat the cup back down, it landed without a sound.

Bakugo stood there, fists clenched at his sides, feeling like he’d walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see.

He’d planned on detonating the ground.

Instead, his chest felt tight.

You noticed him eventually. You always did.

You looked up from your book, eyes blinking once in mild surprise, then smiled.

Not wide. Not startled. Just… warm.

“Oh,” you said. “Hi, Bakugo.”

Your voice fit the scene too well. Soft, but not weak. Calm, like you weren't bothered by his presence or the fact that he’d clearly been staring.

“What are you doing?” he asked, sharper than he meant to.

You glanced around like the answer wasn’t obvious. “Having tea.”

“… By yourself?”

You tilted your head. “Is that illegal now?”

“Tch.” He looked away, ears warming. “Looks stupid.”

You laughed quietly.

It didn’t echo. It didn’t break the moment. It settled into it, like it belonged there.

Bakugo stayed where he was.

Didn’t move closer. Didn’t leave.

The wind shifted again, tugging at his shirt this time, but it felt… guided. Like it knew better than to be rough. Leaves drifted down from the tree, spinning lazily, landing around the blanket without touching your cup or book.

“How are you doing that?” he asked.

You hummed, eyes returning to the page. “Doing what?”

“All of it,” he snapped, gesturing vaguely. “The wind. The… floaty crap.”

You smiled again, softer this time. “I just ask nicely.”

“That’s not how things work.”

“Seems to be working.”

Bakugo scowled. And yet—he couldn’t argue with the evidence in front of him.

He finally moved, stepping closer despite himself. The grass felt different under his boots—springier, like it wanted to bounce back faster. He stopped a few feet away, towering, arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed.

It didn’t work.

Up close, it was worse.

There was a faint scent in the air—flowers, tea, something sweet and unfamiliar. Light caught on your hair just right, turning it soft around the edges. A small winged thing—too small to be a bird—fluttered near your shoulder before darting off into the leaves above.

Bakugo’s breath hitched.

“… You see that?” he asked.

You nodded like it was normal. “They come around when it’s quiet.”

“Those are real?”

“Depends what you mean by real.”

He didn’t like that answer. He also didn’t hate it.

“You were gonna train, weren’t you?” you asked, closing your book.

Bakugo grunted. “Yeah.”

You patted the blanket beside you. “You can sit. If you want.”

He stared at you like you’d lost your mind.

“… No.”

You shrugged, unfazed. “Okay.”

And just like that, you went back to your tea.

Bakugo stood there another long moment.

Then, with a scowl and a muttered curse, he sat down anyway—on the grass, not the blanket, arms still crossed like that somehow preserved his dignity.

The wind eased.

The lights drifted closer, curious but cautious.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t tease him. Didn’t point it out.

That somehow made it worse.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Bakugo listened to the leaves rustle. To the quiet clink of ceramic. To the sound of someone existing without needing to be loud about it.

He didn’t train.

He didn’t explode anything.

He just sat there, staring at the way the world seemed gentler around you.

Awestruck, annoyed, and entirely unwilling to admit that maybe—just maybe—this was the calmest he’d felt all week.

And he hated how much he didn’t want it to end.

[keiki-katsudon]

The Space She Takes Up

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A quiet, unassuming presence slowly claiming Bakugo's attention, your effortless control over your space—and his—makes him realize some things can't be ignored.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bakugo Katsuki didn't notice it all at once.

That would've meant admitting something was wrong.

Instead, it crept in the way dust settled—slow, quiet, impossible to track until it was everywhere.

It started in the common area.

He'd sit longer than usual, arms crossed, jaw tight. The TV would be on, volume low, and Bakugo would glare at it like it personally offended him.

But his eyes always drifted.

A notebook slid across the table without hands.

A pen lifted, spun once, and dropped neatly into place.

A mug hovered just long enough to avoid being knocked over before settling back down.

You never looked up when you did it.

Your quirk didn't announce itself. It didn't flare or crackle. It moved like it belonged there—soft light, controlled, instinctive. Like breathing. Like thinking.

Bakugo told himself it was distracting.

He didn't tell himself the truth.

He started noticing where you were.

Not consciously. He didn't track you. That was stupid. But he knew when your room light stayed on late. He noticed when your shoes weren't by the dorm entrance yet. He could tell you had already passed through the common area just by the way objects were subtly out of place, like the room hadn't quite settled after you.

You laughed quietly. Rarely. When you did, it slipped out like you forgot to stop it.

Bakugo hated that laugh.

Because once he heard it, everything else sounded wrong.

One night, when the others refused to shut up in the common area, he found you sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor of your room, chair spinning lazily behind you like you'd pushed it for no reason other than boredom.

Your ceiling glowed faintly with constellations—stars you'd stuck up yourself, uneven and imperfect. You stared at them like they were real.

"You just gonna stand there and stare or what?" you asked without looking at him.

Bakugo clicked his tongue and stepped inside. "Everyone else is loud."

"That checks out."

You smiled. Just a little.

Bakugo leaned against the wall next to your door, arms crossed, watching as a few scattered items shifted aside on their own—the room making space without being told to.

"How do you do that without thinking?" he asked.

You shrugged, "It's easier when I don't think."

That answer stuck with him longer than it should have.

Days blurred.

Bakugo started walking back to the dorms when you did. Didn't mention it. Didn't acknowledge it. Just happened to be there.

When your shoulder bothered you, your bag floated immediately—but he still held it before it had the chance to. You let him, every time, like you knew he would.

Sometimes you sat in his room, spinning slowly in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it was yours now. Sometimes you didn't use your quirk at all, like you didn't need to.

Bakugo hated that thought.

Because it felt important.

The worst part wasn't that he noticed you.

It was that everything else dulled in comparison.

Laughter felt hollow if it wasn't yours. Noise felt pointless if you weren't nearby. Rooms felt too big when you weren't in them.

He didn't want this.

Didn't want you to be the thing his mind drifted back to when everything finally went quiet.

But you already were.

One night, he found you asleep on the common room couch, curled in on yourself, blanket hovering awkwardly like it hadn't decided where to land.

He adjusted it himself.

Your fingers twitched, catching the fabric, pulling it closer like you knew he was there even in your sleep.

Something twisted in his chest.

He stayed longer than necessary.

It hit him then.

Not loud. Not explosive. Nothing like the things he was used to.

It was quiet.

It was the way you existed beside him without trying to be anything more—and somehow became everything anyway.

You didn't ask for the space you took up in his life.

But you owned it now.

And for the first time, Bakugo Katsuki wasn't sure he wanted it back.

[keiki-katsudon]

Held in the Air Between Us

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

During a quiet study night in the dorm common room, your quirk turns notes into living diagrams—and Bakugo Katsuki, against his will, finds himself paying attention.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The common room has never been this full and this quiet at the same time.

Everyone from Class 1A is here, scattered across couches, chairs, the floor, and any flat surface that can support a textbook. It's the kind of chaos that only happens when everyone has collectively agreed they have to study—even if some are significantly less enthusiastic about it than others.

"I don't get why we need written exams," Kaminari groans from where he's draped upside-down over the couch arm. "We're heroes. I electrocute villains. That should count."

"It does not," Yaomomo replies calmly, sipping tea as she turns a page. "Please try to focus."

"I am focused," he says. "On how miserable I am." he added, voice low enough so only his nose can hear.

You're sitting on the floor in the middle of it all, back straight, legs crisscross applesauce, surrounded by motion.

Not noise—motion.

Above you, diagrams hover in careful formations, layered sketches of combat stances, labeled trajectories of movement, distance arcs showing effective ranges. A translucent mock-up of an urban street floats just overhead, buildings simplified into clean shapes. Small markers glide through it, demonstrating flanking routes and evasive maneuvers.

They shift when you think.

One collapses smoothly into another, reforming into a new scenario—open terrain this time, with elevation changes clearly marked. You adjust it subtly, refining angles, tightening spacing. The air around you hums with quiet intent, like everything is being gently held in place rather than forced.

Midoriya is kneeling nearby, notebook abandoned as he stares openly.

"That's—wow," he mutters. "Is that a simulated engagement pattern?"

You nod. "Hero Training exercise. Urban pursuit, variant C."

He leans closer, eyes shining. "You even accounted for blind spots..."

Across the room, Todoroki watches silently, gaze following the shifting layouts with thoughtful focus. Uraraka is lying on her stomach with her chin in her hands, legs swinging lazily as she watches shapes move overhead.

"That actually makes it easier to remember," she says. "Like it sticks better."

"That's the idea," you reply.

"NERD ALCHEMY," Kaminari announces. "Teach me your ways."

"No," Bakugo says flatly from the coffee table behind you.

You don't turn, but you can feel him there.

Bakugo Katsuki is seated with his elbows on the table, sleeves rolled up, book open but untouched. His presence is sharp and heavy, like gravity with an attitude. He's been quiet for a while no—too quiet, honestly—which usually means he's either deeply focused or choosing to not explode out of pure effort.

Your diagrams shift again, forming a combat scenario featuring a fast-moving opponent. The markers move aggressively, forcing tight reaction windows.

Bakugo clicks his tongue, "That angle's garbage."

You glance back, "Which one?"

"That one," he says, pointing without hesitation. "You'd get clipped if you dodged like that."

The marker pauses.

You adjust the path slightly, rerouting it with a smoother curve.

"... Better," he admits.

The word lands heavier than it should.

You turn back to your work, lip twitching. Above you, the scenario plays out again—this time clean, efficient.

Bakugo leans back, arms crossing. "... You make this crap look easy."

"It's not," you say. "Just... organized."

"Tch."

Despite himself, his eyes follow the movement. You notice when he leans forward again, when his gaze sharpens, tracking timing and spacing. He doesn't comment much, but when he does, it's precise. Useful.

At some point, your floating diagrams expand—new layers phasing in. One breaks apart into individual components, hovering at different heights like a deconstructed lesson. Notes slide into place beside them, written cleanly in your handwriting.

Jirou pauses her reading, "Okay, that's kinda sick."

Mina grins, "You should charge tuition."

"I would way," Midoriya says immediately.

Bakugo snorts. "You'd go broke."

The room settles into a steady rhythm, pages turning, pens scratching, the occasional complaint from Kaminari. Your constructs drift slowly, adjusting as you refine them, sometimes shrinking so others can see better, sometimes expanding when someone asks a question.

Bakugo gets up at one point.

You notice because the air feels different when he moves.

He steps closer, stopping just beside you. You glance up.

"What?" you ask.

He jerks his chin toward one of the diagrams. "Run that again."

You do.

This time, he crouches, eyes level with the floating street map. He watches the engagement play out, jaw tight, thinking. When the scenario ends, he reaches out—

Stops.

You lift the marker closer instead.

He adjusts its position with two fingers, "Here. If you blast forward instead of sideways, you keep momentum."

You incorporate it instantly. The construct responds, flowing into the new configuration.

"... Yeah," you say. "That works."

He adjusts himself, hands dropping back into his pockets, still crouched. "Obviously."

But he doesn't move away.

For a while, you study like that—your quiet control holding the room together, Bakugo's sharp instincts cutting through inefficiencies, the rest of class 1A orbiting around the calm you didn't realize you'd created.

Eventually, Kaminari groans again. "I can't feel my brain."

"That's because you don't use it," Bakugo says without looking away from your diagrams.

You smile, just a little.

Above you, the constructs slowly dim—not disappearing, just resting—suspended, patient, waiting for your next thought.

The quiet doesn't end all at once—it stretches.

Pages keep turning. Someone shifts on the couch. The clock above the TV ticks forward in steady, almost meditative beats. Your constructs remain suspended overhead, like stars waiting for nightfall to happen.

You lean back on your hands, finally letting yourself breathe.

"Break?" Mina asks, already halfway to the kitchen.

"Yes, please," Uraraka says. "My brain needs a snack or something."

A small migration follows—snacks retrieved, cups filled, soft chatter returning in low waves. The study session doesn't dissolve; it simply loosens, becoming something softer.

Bakugo doesn't move.

He's still crouched near you, eyes tracing the faint outlines of the resting diagrams. His book lies forgotten on the coffee table behind you both.

"You're not done," he says.

It's not a question.

You tilt your head, "With studying?"

"With that," he replies, nodding upward. "You don't stop halfway."

You consider it. He's right—you hadn't finished refining the last scenario. It's been hovering in your thoughts, incomplete, like a puzzle waiting to be completed.

"... Yeah," you admit. "One more."

You lift a hand.

The air responds immediately.

The dim constructs brighten, re-forming with renewed clarity. The urban map dissolves, replaced by a wide training field—open space, uneven terrain, scattered cover. This one is more complex. More personal.

Bakugo straightens slightly.

You don't explain as the scenario builds itself. Three moving markers appear—each with distinct patterns. One aggressive. One evasive. One calculating. Their movements overlap, forcing rapid adaptation.

"Multiple opponents," Bakugo mutters.

"Different fighting styles," you confirm.

The scenario begins.

The markers clash, scatter, regroup. One feints. Another presses too hard. The third waits.

Bakugo watches intently, eyes narrowing. When the aggressive marker overextends, he clicks his tongue.

"Idiot," he says. "He's wide open."

You adjust nothing.

A heartbeat later, the calculating marker exploits the opening, intercepting the attack cleanly.

Bakugo's lips curl into a sharp grin before he can stop himself.

"... Hah."

You glance at him, "What?"

"Nothing."

The scenario continues, escalating. You subtly alter the terrain—raising elevation, narrowing sightlines. The evasive marker slips behind cover, vanishing briefly from view.

Bakugo shifts closer again, close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your side.

"Don't chase," he says immediately. "That's a trap."

You follow his advice.

The marker holds position.

Seconds later, the evasive opponent reappears—right where an ambush would have worked if you'd taken the bait.

"... Good," Bakugo says quietly.

You let the scenario play out to its end. When it finally fades, the construct collapse inward, condensing into a single hovering symbol before dissolving completely.

Silence settles between you.

Around the room, the others are half-distracted—snacks in hand, conversation murmuring—but there's a pocket of stillness where you and Bakugo sit.

"You should do that more," he says.

"Study groups?"

"No. That." His eyes flick briefly to where the constructs had been. "You make people think instead of panic."

The words catch you off guard.

You look at him fully now, "Is that... a compliment?"

He scoffs, ears faintly red. "Don't get stupid about it."

You laugh softly.

Bakugo stands, stretching his shoulders. "Move."

You blink, "What?"

He points to the spot beside you. "You're in the way."

You shift without argument, scooting aside. Bakugo drops down on to the floor where you were sitting, legs bent, arms resting on his knees. He grabs his book from the table and opens it with a sharp flick of his thumb.

"... What are you doing?" you ask.

"Studying," he says flatly. "Ain't it obvious?"

You stare at him for a second.

Then slowly, you raise your hand again.

Smaller constructs appear this time—simpler. Diagrams of formulas, timelines, quick-reference notes drifting into view between you. They hover lower, closer, arranged so both of you can see without effort.

Bakugo doesn't comment.

He just starts reading.

Minutes pass. Then more. Occasionally, he points at something and says, "Explain that." You do. Sometimes you correct him. Sometimes he corrects you. Neither of ou makes a big deal out of it.

Eventually, Kaminari looks over from the couch, squinting. "Are you two... studying together?"

Bakugo doesn't even loo up, "Shut the fuck up."

You smile, eyes returning to the softly glowing notes suspended between you.

The common room hums around you—alive, warm, quietly connected—and for once, everything feels exactly where it's supposed to be.

[keiki-katsudon]

Quiet Orbit

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Denki nearly burns the dorm down, you end up helping Bakugo cook dinner—floating utensils, steady hands, and all—discovering that calm can exist even around explosions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The smell of smoke is the first thing that reaches you when you walk into the common area.

Not the sharp kind that screams disaster—more like the confused, stuttering scent of something that almost became the problem. The dorm's common area is half-chaos, half-recovery; windows cracked open, the faint whir of ventilation humming overhead, and Kaminari slumped dramatically over the counter like a fallen hero.

"I just turned my back for one second," he groans.

"You left oil unattended," Jirou says, still holding a fire extinguisher like she's unsure whether to put it back or not.

"I thought it'd be fine!"

Bakugo Katsuki's voice cuts through everything. "Get out of this goddamn kitchen or I swear to All Might—"

Denki is gone in less than a second.

You watch Bakugo roll his shoulders once, cracking his neck, as if resettling himself. His expression isn't explosive—just tightly controlled, jaw set, red eyes sharp as he surveys the damage. A scorched pan in the sink. Charred countertop edges. The faintest black mark licking up the wall.

"Tch. Idiots," he mutters.

You hover near the doorway to the kitchen, unsure whether to step in or stay out. You hadn't planned on cooking tonight. You'd been halfway through reviewing your notes when the fire alarm went off, and now your notebook is abandoned on your bed inside your room, pages still glowing faintly with the afterimage of floating diagrams you'd been reorganizing mid-air.

Bakugo notices you lingering.

"... What are you staring at?" he snaps, then pauses. His eyes narrow—not angry. Assessing. "You gonna help, or are you just gonna stand there?"

That's Bakugo for welcome.

You step into the kitchen.

"I can help," you say, voice even. "If you want."

He scoffs. "As long as you don't blow shit up."

The corner of your mouth twitches, "Not really my thing."

He grunts, turning back to the stove. "Good."

You walk in, one of the cabinet doors swing open beside you without a sound. A clean pan eases out, suspended as if cradled by invisible hands, gliding gently onto the counter. A wooden spoon follows, then a knife, then a small cluster of spice jars drifting into a neat row.

Bakugo freezes.

Slowly, he looks over his shoulder.

"... You gonna do that the whole time?" he asks.

"Only if it helps," you reply.

The air around your hands hums faintly—not loud, not flashy. Just a steady, controlled presence. Objects respond to it naturally, like they're relieved to be guided instead of dropped or grabbed. A chopping board floating to the counter. Ingredients lift themselves from the fridge, onions hovering patiently, garlic rotating as it peels itself clean.

Bakugo stares for a full second longer than necessary.

Then he turns back to the stove. "Whatever. Just don't get in my way."

You smile.

Cooking with Bakugo is... an experience.

He moves with sharp precision, every motion deliberate. There's no wasted effort—no hesitation. When he chops vegetables, it's fast but exact, knife striking the chopping board in a clean, rhythmic pattern. He seasons by instinct, tasking once, adjusting immediately. There's an intensity to him, but not the volatile kind that everyone expects. This is focused. Controlled.

You adapt around him.

When he reaches for oil, the bottle tilts before his fingers touch it, pouring the exact amount he needs into the pan. When steam rises too quickly, the lid drifts into place without a clang. When three timers are going off at once, they quiet themselves in sequence, like they understand priorities.

Bakugo notices everything.

"You're damn precise," he says after a while.

"Practice," you answer.

"Tch. Figures."

There's a pause. Comfortable. Unexpected.

The dorm has quieted down—most of the others have retreated to their rooms, wisely deciding not to test Bakugo's patience twice in one night. The kitchen lights cast a warm glow, reflecting off stainless steel and polished counters. Outside, the sky has deepened into a dusky blue.

"You always do this?" he asks, not looking at you.

"Do what?"

"All this... floating crap."

You laugh softly, "Only when it makes things easier."

He snorts, "Show off."

But there's no bite to it.

You drift closer, holding a bowl steady at shoulder height while he tosses ingredients into it without breaking stride. The proximity feels natural—close enough that you can sense his heat, the faint crackle beneath his skin that never really turns off.

At one point, he reaches for a spice jar that's hovering just a little too far out of reach.

Without thinking, you adjust it—bringing it closer.

Your hands brush.

It'd brief. Accidental.

Bakugo stills.

The air tightens—not dangerously, just enough that you notice. You pull your hand back, but he doesn't snap. Doesn't yell. He just exhales through his nose and keeps working.

"... Don't do that," he mutters.

"Sorry, I wasn't—"

"Not that," he interrupts, ears faintly red. "Just—warn me next time."

Oh.

You nod, "Okay."

Dinner finishes without incident.

You set the table—plates floating down gently, utensils aligning themselves with quiet clicks. Bakugo serves with gruff efficiency, sliding a plate toward you with his elbow because his hands are full.

You sit across from him.

The food is really good. You tell him as much.

"Obviously," he replies, but there's a hint of satisfaction there.

As you eat, the conversation drifts—light, unforced. He complains about training. You mention studying. He scoffs at the thought of Kaminari almost burning the place down, but less venomously than before.

When the plates are empty, you lift them, easing them into the sink, water turning on by itself.

Bakugo watches, arms crossed. "... You're useful," he says at last.

You raise an eyebrow. "High praise."

"Damn right."

"... Thanks," you say.

The kitchen hums softly around you, clean and calm, and for once, Bakugo Katsuki doesn't feel like a storm—just a steady presence in your orbit.

[keiki-katsudon]

In the Quiet Between Explosions

Part 6

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the late hours and ordinary moments of UA dorm life, you discover that the space between you and Bakugo Katsuki slowly, deliberately closes—one shared silence at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AN: This is a long one. Includes vivid descriptions of a panic attack || how I'd feel if I had one. Warnings: descriptions of anxiety and a panic attack, angst/comfort, swearing, quirk lashing out

It happens on a day that starts too normal.

You wake up on time. No lingering pressure in your chest. No strange stretching when you reach for your phone. Your quirk feels quiet—subdued, tucked neatly beneath your skin like it’s finally behaving.

Breakfast passes without incident. No drifting objects. No warped distances. The chairs feel the right length apart. The ceiling sits where it should. You even laugh at something Mina says and mean it.

You think—briefly—that maybe you were just exhausted before. That you overreacted. That the worst of it burned itself out.

That thought settles in your chest.

That thought is what does it.

In homeroom, you’re copying notes when the room subtly leans.

Not visibly. No tilting walls, no gasps from your classmates—but something feels off, like the distance between your desk and the board has been skewed sideways. Your eyes struggle to focus, like your depth perception is arguing with itself.

You blink hard and press your pen down to ground yourself—

Too hard.

The paper dents beneath the tip. The desk edge feels wrong—too close to your ribs, crowding your space like it shifted while you weren’t looking.

Your breath stutters.

No. Not here.

You straighten immediately, pulling inward with practiced control. Compress. Anchor. Fold the space back where it belongs.

The room snaps into place.

Sharp. Immediate.

Too immediate.

Your heart doesn’t slow.

Your hands tremble faintly as you keep writing, knuckles tight, jaw clenched. The notes blur together. You miss half of what Aizawa says. By the time the bell rings, your chest feels tight—not from exertion, but from holding everything in place.

You stand too fast.

The floor feels a half-step farther away than it should be.

Your stomach drops.

You don’t wait. You don’t look at anyone. You shoulder your bag and leave the room the moment you’re dismissed.

The hallway is loud.

Too loud.

Voices overlap, footsteps echoing and bouncing in ways that don’t make sense. The space between students stretches and shrinks as they move past you, distances shifting unpredictably like your perception can’t decide what’s real.

Someone brushes your shoulder—

And the air buckles.

Not visibly. Not dramatically. But you feel it—like the pressure pops and reforms. A locker door slams shut down the hall with a metallic bang.

You flinch hard enough that someone glances at you.

Your pulse spikes.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You turn a corner too quickly and the corridor suddenly feels longer—longer than it was a second ago. The exit stretches farther away, each step landing wrong, like the floor subtly recoils beneath your feet.

Your stride falters.

Your chest tightens.

You slow. Stop.

The hallway doesn’t.

The space ahead of you pulls outward, stretching thin and elastic, while the walls behind you creep closer. The ceiling feels lower. The air thickens.

Murmurs ripple around you.

“Why does it feel weird in here?”

“Did something just—?”

You panic.

You react without thinking.

Everything snaps back.

Too fast.

The pressure hits you all at once—like the air collapses inward. Your ears ring. Your vision tunnels. You stagger, catching yourself against the wall as a sharp, broken gasp tears out of you.

Too much. That was too much.

You can’t do this here.

You shove yourself forward, half-running now, pushing through the last stretch of hallway and out into the open space of the courtyard

It should help.

It makes it worse.

The moment you step outside, the distance between dorm buildings balloons. The sky feels impossibly high, like it’s been yanked upward. The ground beneath your feet feels unstable—too far away, too thin.

The air ripples faintly, like heat distortion.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“No—no, stop—”

You try to pull it back, but your thoughts are unraveling now, stacking and looping over each other too fast to catch.

You’re losing control. People are going to see. You’re going to hurt someone.

The space reacts instantly.

A bench scrapes across the concrete, sliding an inch—then another. A trash can tips, dragged sideways by nothing visible. The distance between your feet and the ground wavers, making your balance feel wrong, unreal.

Your breath fractures.

You try to inhale and nothing comes. Your chest feels too tight, like the space inside you is collapsing while everything around you stretches endlessly outward.

“I can’t—” The words barely make it out. “I can’t—”

Your vision spots. Sounds warp—voices stretching thin, snapping back too loud. The world feels wrong, wrong, wrong—too close and too far at the same time.

Your quirk surges erratically.

Compression. Expansion. Jagged, uneven pulses you can’t smooth out.

You drop to your knees.

The concrete rushes up faster than expected, jarring painfully through your bones. You slam your hands against the ground, palms flat, like you can anchor yourself to something solid if you just press hard enough.

It doesn’t work.

The space around you thrashes.

Distances flicker violently—ground swelling closer, buildings jerking back, air thickening and thinning in rapid succession. It feels like being crushed and pulled apart at the same time.

Your breathing devolves into short, useless gasps.

I’m panicking. That’s making it worse. That’s making me panic more.

The realization spirals, feeding itself.

You curl in on yourself, fingers digging into the concrete, vision blurring as the world fractures around you—space misbehaving in response to every runaway thought.

You’re not controlling it anymore.

You’re barely holding on.

The world doesn’t stop just because you are.

For a few terrible seconds—maybe longer, you can’t tell—no one intervenes.

Students skirt the edges of the courtyard, slowing, whispering, staring. Not close enough to help. Not far enough to leave you alone. Their presence only feeds the chaos, your quirk reacting to every flicker of attention like a raw nerve.

The space around you pulses again.

A sharp compression slams inward, knocking the air out of your lungs. You choke, shoulders hitching as you gasp uselessly. The ground feels like it surges up toward your face, then drops away, your sense of balance completely shot.

You clutch at the concrete, nails scraping, skin burning.

Stop. Stop. Please stop—

You try to focus on anything solid. The roughness beneath your palms. The cold seeping through the fabric of your uniform. It works for half a heartbeat—then your thoughts catch up, spiraling again.

What if it gets worse? What if you black out? What if you can’t pull it back this time?

The fear detonates.

Space tears outward in a violent swell. The air ripples visibly now, distorting the light around you. A nearby trash can skids hard across the ground and slams into a bench with a clang that makes someone yelp.

Someone shouts your name.

You barely hear it.

Your chest burns. Each breath feels like dragging air through a collapsed tunnel. Your vision darkens at the edges, stars bursting behind your eyes as your heart hammers erratically.

The space compresses again, harsh and uneven, squeezing tight around your torso. You cry out—short, broken, barely a sound—and curl tighter into yourself, forehead nearly touching the ground.

You can’t tell where your body ends and the distortion begins.

The world feels wrong in a way you don’t have words for—scale meaningless, distance unreliable, reality bending around the panic like it’s the only thing that matters.

Someone screams.

That finally cuts through.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!”

The voice is loud. Furious. Explosive in a way that slices cleanly through the distortion like a blade.

Bakugo.

Footsteps pound closer, fast and aggressive. You feel him before you see him—the space reacting to his approach, pulling, tugging, warping like it recognizes something volatile entering the field.

“Oi!” he shouts. “Move outta the way damn extras!”

You hear students scrambling, the sound of shoes skidding on concrete as people jump out of the way.

“I said move, dammit!”

Another surge ripples outward as your panic spikes at the noise, at the proximity. The ground bucks under your hands.

“Shit—!” Bakugo skids to a stop, shoes scraping as the air warps sharply in front of him. He recoils a step, eyes snapping to the bench, the distorted air, then finally to you.

On the ground. Shaking. Barely breathing.

His expression changes instantly—not soft, not gentle—but sharp in a different way. Focused. Alarmed.

“Tch—are you kidding me?” he snarls, anger flaring hot and fast.

Your throat tightens. The words hit, even though you know they’re not wrong.

“I—I—” You can’t get them out. Your chest locks up again, breath catching painfully as another compression hits.

Bakugo swears viciously.

“Oi!” he yells, not at you—at everyone else. “Back the hell up! All ya fuckin' asses!”

Someone hesitates.

He whirls on them, eyes blazing. “You wanna blow up?! Move fuckasses!”

That does it.

The crowd scatters, retreating fast. The sudden clearing eases the pressure just a fraction—but the panic is still there, buzzing, raw and out of control.

Bakugo turns back to you, fists clenched so tight his hands tremble.

“Dammit,” he growls. “I told you not to ignore this crap—”

You shake your head weakly, tears blurring your vision. “I—I thought I had it—”

“Yeah, well that's where you're wrong, idiot!” he snaps, voice rough with frustration. “And panicking like this is makin’ it worse!”

He takes a sharp step toward you.

The space lashes out instantly, snapping and compressing like it’s trying to push him back. You flinch, chest tightening further.

“—Shit!” he grits out, staggered for half a step. His shoes scrape against the concrete, but he forces himself forward anyway, jaw tight. The air shudders around him, yet he keeps moving, fists clenched, teeth grinding.

Finally, he reaches you. One hand lands firmly on your shoulder, anchoring you with the sheer weight of his presence. Without thinking, you grab at the sleeve of his uniform, fingers clutching tightly as if it’s the only solid thing in the world.

Bakugo freezes for half a heartbeat, scowling, then forces himself down to his knees, planting one hand beside you on the ground for balance. The space pulses violently again, reacting to both of you, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Okay… okay,” he starts, voice rough and slightly uneven, like he’s trying to think through the words while keeping his own adrenaline in check. “You… you’re not gonna fix all of it at once, got it? Stop… stop trying like that!”

“I—I can’t—” you choke, still trembling, barely clinging to him.

He huffs, frustrated, “Yes, you can! Just… just not like this! Not all at once!”

“Listen,” he says, voice rough, uneven, full of frustration and urgency. “Focus on me. Not the air, not the ground, me. Got it? Look at me, l/n!”

Your tears blur your vision, chest heaving, but your grip on his sleeve tightens. The chaos of your quirk lashes outward one last time before slowly beginning to settle against the weight of his presence.

“I—I can’t—” you choke, voice trembling.

“Yes you fuckin' can!” he snaps, teeth gritted. His hand finds yours on his sleeve, pressing just enough to anchor you without letting go. “Just don’t think about it all at once! Look at me. I'm right here, breathe!”

You flinch, shaking, but lift your gaze to his eyes. The space bucks, lurching under you, and you press your forehead closer to the ground instinctively—but you don’t let go.

“Good. Again,” Bakugo growls, voice rough, slightly hoarse from yelling. “Keep your focus. Don’t—don’t let it wander. Keep… here, with me. I'm right here with you—"

Your lungs draw in air, ragged at first, but the jagged pulses of your quirk soften. The world around you still wavers, edges blurred, but the chaos eases under the steady pressure of him kneeling there, hand gripping yours, eyes locked onto you like a living anchor.

Bakugo doesn’t move his hand. He keeps his gaze locked on you, scowling, voice gruff as he gives stammered orders, trying to make you focus. “Again… don’t think. Don’t fight it. Just… stay with me.” he hisses, voice breaking slightly around the edges, like he’s doing more than yelling—he’s holding you in place, forcing your scattered attention into something real.

You cling to his sleeve like it’s the only lifeline in the world. The space convulses once, twice, then begins to settle into uneven, manageable ripples. Your chest is still tight, but your breaths come in, slow enough to count.

The panic doesn’t vanish.

But it stops escalating.

Bakugo stays kneeling, scowling, hand steady on yours, eyes locked onto you like he’s daring the quirk to try anything stupid. Slowly, hesitantly, the world around you begins to hold its shape.

You stay curled against the ground for a long moment, forehead still low, gripping Bakugo’s sleeve like your entire body is tethered to him. The world is quieter now, less… threatening, but every pulse of air, every flicker of distance still makes your chest tighten reflexively.

Bakugo doesn’t let go. His grip is firm but not crushing, hand resting lightly over yours, anchoring you without forcing anything. His other hand props him steady on the concrete, and he kneels close enough that you can feel the solid weight of him next to you, unmovable.

“Breathe,” he huffs, voice rough, unsteady in a way you wouldn’t expect from him. “Just… one breath. Then another.”

You do, slowly, painfully, each inhalation shaky but real. The space around you reacts, little tremors flickering as if testing your control—but you don’t let it take over. Not yet.

“Yeah,” he says lightly, voice a little tighter, like he’s talking to himself as much as to you. “Good… keep your eyes on me. Don’t—don’t look anywhere else. You get me? Here.”

“I… okay,” you whisper, voice cracked. You blink, trying to focus. The ripples of your quirk still brush against you, subtle but insistent, like an echo of what just happened. You feel every pulse in your chest, every twitch in your limbs—but Bakugo’s presence anchors you, like a wall you can hold onto.

“Stay with me. Don’t move yet,” he orders, “If you let go, it’ll spike again. You got that?”

You nod, almost choking on the lump in your throat. Your fingers tighten slightly on his sleeve. The chaos is still there, teasing at the edges of perception, but it’s manageable now. A whisper of instability rather than the tidal wave from before.

Bakugo exhales sharply, voice dropping lower, closer, less yelling and more… constant presence. “Tch. You’re ridiculous, you know that? Almost gave me a heart attack. Don’t ever think you can handle that alone again, got it?”

You can’t help the small, shaky laugh that escapes, more relief than humor. “I… I thought I could,” you admit, voice small.

“Thought, huh?” he says, though his eyes soften fractionally. “Yeah, well, 'thought' doesn’t cut it when your quirk’s ripping the world apart. Focus, here. Don’t overthink. Just—breathe and stay with me.”

The trembling in your arms eases slightly. The space around you finally calms into uneven, slow-moving ripples. You can feel your own heartbeat again, regular, heavy but not chaotic. Your forehead rises, and you finally look at him, eyes wide but steadying.

Bakugo stays kneeling, chest heaving, scowling as he watches you recover. He doesn’t let go of your hand on his sleeve. He doesn’t step back. He doesn’t speak unless necessary, just… waits, ready for the next flare if it comes.

Minutes pass. Slowly, your body stops shaking so violently. Your lungs expand fully with each breath. The tension in your chest loosens, just a little. The world still feels like it’s breathing beneath you, subtly stretching and compressing—but it’s no longer trying to throw you off entirely.

“You’re not dead,” Bakugo mutters finally, voice rough but quieter now. “Tch… still a mess, but you didn’t break anything.”

You squeeze his sleeve weakly, nodding. “I… thank you,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

He grunts, “Don’t make me have to come down here again, idiot. And next time you feel it going… don’t fight it alone. Got it?”

“Yes,” you murmur, chest still tight but steadily breathing. “I… I’ll try.”

Bakugo exhales sharply through his nose, still scowling. “Tch… don’t think. Just focus. That’s all you can do right now.”

You nod again, letting yourself finally lean into his presence, feeling the chaotic pulse of your quirk fade to something you can manage. For the first time since it started, it feels like maybe… you’re not entirely at its mercy.

Bakugo doesn’t let go of your hand. He doesn’t let you slip back into yourself. He just… stays, and that’s enough.

You cling to his sleeve for another moment, letting the rhythm of your breaths match the steady presence at your side. The chaotic pulses of your quirk have quieted to a faint whisper now, subtle enough that you can almost ignore them—but you don’t. You don’t want to push too far yet.

Bakugo shifts slightly, leaning on one hand and letting the other stay firmly over yours. “Alright,” he mutters, voice rough but measured now. “You’re up. Gonna stand. Can you do it?”

You hesitate, the weight of your panic still pressing against your chest, but you nod. “I… I think so.”

He grunts and pulls gently, but firmly, coaxing you into a seated position first. Your legs tremble beneath you, knees shaky, but the firm grip on his sleeve keeps you anchored.

“Easy,” he snaps as you try to rise. “Don’t rush it—you’re not in class anymore. Just… take it slow.”

You shift, hands still clutching him, and he adjusts, bending slightly so his presence remains a solid anchor. With a deep breath, you push against the ground and finally rise to your knees, then slowly to your feet. Your body feels like it weighs a ton, but he doesn’t let go.

“Tch,” he mutters, straightening just enough to meet your gaze. “Stupid, stubborn, fragile mess of nerves. You almost had me losing it back there.”

“I… I didn’t want anyone to see,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

“Yeah, well, too late,” he says, though the edge in his voice is tempered by a faint, unreadable concern. “You think you can handle your quirk when it lashes out like this on your own? Not gonna happen. Not like this.”

You swallow hard, looking down at your trembling hands. “I… I’ll try not to…”

“Don’t try,” he interrupts sharply. “Just… do what you can. And if it gets too much? You call me. Got it?”

“Yes,” you murmur. Your knees still wobble, but the grip on his sleeve reassures you. The chaotic tug of your quirk has receded into manageable, slow pulses—still there, but not dangerous.

Bakugo grunts again and gestures roughly. “Alright. Walk with me. Slowly. Don’t trip. Don’t freak out. Just… keep with me.”

You obey, fingers still gripping his sleeve as he leads you carefully across the open space. Every step is measured. Every pulse of your quirk is noted and controlled, riding the anchor of his presence like a lifeline.

The hallway to the dorms feels… long, but not impossibly so. Your chest still tightens occasionally with each step, but each time you falter, his hand on yours keeps you tethered.

“Tch,” he mutters under his breath, voice low now, almost private. “Damn thing… stubborn as hell. You’re lucky I don’t—” He stops abruptly, glancing down at you. “Yeah, yeah… stop thinking. Just… focus on me. Every step. Got it?”

You nod, exhausted but steadying, trusting him completely in a way you didn’t expect you could. The world around you hums faintly, the edge of chaos still present, but manageable.

Finally, the door to the dorms comes into view. The familiar walls, the soft lighting, even the faint smell of the common room feel grounding after the violent unpredictability outside. You breathe a little easier.

“Almost there,” he mutters, voice rough, but softer now. “Just… a few more steps. Don’t lose it again.”

You glance up at him, gripping his sleeve tightly, and allow yourself a small, shaky breath of relief. The space around you still thrums faintly, but with Bakugo there, guiding, yelling, and refusing to let you fall apart—you realize… you can survive it.

At least for now.

[keiki-katsudon]

In the Quiet Between Explosions

Part 5

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the late hours and ordinary moments of UA dorm life, you discover that the space between you and Bakugo Katsuki slowly, deliberately closes—one shared silence at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next few days don't spiral into anything dramatic.

They shouldn't—but they do, quietly, in ways that only you seem to notice at first.

It starts small.

You're brushing your teeth one morning, half-asleep, when the sink feels farther away than it should. Not by much—just enough that your arm stretches a fraction longer before your fingers touch porcelain. You blink, frown, and flex your hand.

The space snaps back into place.

"... Great," you mutter.

You chalk it up to lingering exhaustion. Too many late nights, too many thoughts left unresolved. You shove it aside and get dressed, careful not to dwell on the faint pressure humming under your skin.

In the hallway, the air feels... wrong. Wider. The distance between doors seems stretched, like someone pulled the corridor taut. You slow your steps, breathing evenly, grounding yourself the way you were taught.

Control the gap. Anchor the point.

By the time you reach the elevator, everything feels normal again.

At breakfast, you sit across from Uraraka and Midoriya with a cup of coffee, laughing quietly at something Mina said. Your hand reaches for your mug—

And it slides away from you.

Not spills. Not tips.

Slides.

The mug slides across the table like it's being gently nudged by an invisible hand. You freeze, heart thumping hard against your chest.

The movement stops instantly.

No one seems to notice.

Except Bakugo. Of course, he notices.

Bakugo's eyes flick up.

They narrow, sharp and immediate, locking onto your face instead of the table. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't call you out. Just watches, jaw tight, like he's filing it away.

You force yourself to finish breakfast like nothing happened.

Classes pass in a blur. You take notes, answer questions, nod along when appropriate—but the pressure doesn't fade. It builds. The air around you feels too responsive, like it's waiting for instructions you aren't giving.

During a lecture, your desk feels closer than it should be. Your pen presses too hard into the page of your notebook. The margins warp slightly—not visually, but spatially, the lines feeling compressed under your fingers.

You grip your pen, breathing slow.

Don't slip. Not here.

Aizawa's gaze passes over you once, lingering for half a second longer than usual. You straighten instinctively, pulling everything inward.

It holds.

Barely.

By the time the final bell rings, your head aches—not from strain but from restraint.

You head back to the dorms early, excusing yourself from dinner prep. The common room is empty when you arrive, bathed in late afternoon light. You drop your bag by the couch and stand in the middle of the room, closing your eyes.

Okay. Fine.

You let go—just a little.

The space around you exhales.

The walls drift a fraction farther away. The ceiling lifts. The room doesn't distort, not visibly, but you feel it breathe, expanding and settling like a living being. The pressure eases from your chest.

You sink onto the couch, exhausted.

"L/n."

You jolt, snapping everything back into place so fast it makes your vision blur.

Bakugo stands near the doorway.

He doesn't look angry.

He looks... concerned?

"What're you doin'?" he asks, voice low.

You hesitate. Then, honestly, "Trying not to mess anything up."

He steps farther into the room, eyes scanning the space like he can still sense the aftermath.

"You've been off."

"So have you," you deflect.

"Tch," he crosses his arms. "Don't change the subject."

You sigh and lean back against the couch. "It's just... leaking, I guess. Usually I have better control."

"Leaking?" His brow furrows.

"Like holding your breath for too long," you explain. "Eventually, something gives."

He's quiet for a moment.

"You push yourself," he says. Not an accusation. A statement.

"You do too."

"Yeah, but I explode," he says bluntly. "You... stretch."

You huff a laugh despite yourself.

He sits across from you this time, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. "You told Aizawa?"

"Not yet."

"You should."

"Yeah, I know."

Silence settles—not awkward, but heavy with thought.

"I can help," he says suddenly.

You blink, "With... spatial physics?"

"No, idiot." He looks away. "With not overthinkin'. If it starts actin' up, don't isolate. That's when shit goes wrong."

You study him, warmth blooming quietly in your chest—not romantic, not flustering. Just steady.

"Okay," you say.

That night, it happens again.

You're in the kitchen, rinsing rice, when the water arcs strangely—pulled inward instead of falling straight down. Your eyes widen, heart racing.

"Damn it-"

Bakugo's already there.

"Don't fight it," he snaps, stepping closer. "Guide it."

You squeeze your eyes shut, breathing slow. The pull softens. The water resumes its natural path.

You sag against the sink, drained.

Bakugo doesn't touch you. Doesn't crowd you.

He just stands there, solid and real.

"See?" he mutters. "You've got it."

You nod, swallowing. "Yeah..."

And over the next few days, it becomes a strange kind of routine.

Your quirk flares in quiet moments—hallways stretching, objects drifting, space compressing when you're tired or distracted. And each time, you learn to catch it faster. To adjust without panic.

Bakugo never makes a big deal out of it.

He just stays nearby.

Sometimes that's all you need—to know someone is there when the world feels like it's slipping just slightly out of place.

[keiki-katsudon]

In the Quiet Between Explosions

Part 4

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5, Part 6)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the late hours and ordinary moments of UA dorm life, you discover that the space between you and Bakugo Katsuki slowly, deliberately closes—one shared silence at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You start noticing the changes in the smallest places.

It's not something Bakugo announces—he never would—but it shows in the way he starts waiting for you without saying he is. In the mornings, there's an empty stool beside him at the counter. In class, his foot hooks around the leg of your chair when he leans back, grounding you without looking. In the evenings when the dorm quiets down, he lingers in the common room just a little longer if you're there too.

You tell yourself not to read into it.

You fail.

Tonight, the dorm is wrapped in rain. It drums against the windows in steady sheets, muffling the usual background noise. Most of class 1A has retreated to their own rooms, content to let the storm close the world in.

You're curled up on one end of the couch in the living room with a blanket and a book you've read three times already. You're not actually reading. You're watching the rain trace uneven paths down the glass windows.

The couch dips.

Bakugo sits down at the opposite end, far enough that it's plausible, close enough that you notice immediately. He smells faintly like soap and something warm—coffee, maybe.

“You're gonna ruin your eyes,” he mutters.

You glance at the book. “It's not even that dark.”

“Still.”

You close it anyway.

Silence stretches between you, filled by rain and the low hum of the lights. The space feels… soft. Like it's been folded carefully, edges tucked in.

“You ever miss it?” you ask quietly.

“Miss what.”

“Before UA,” you say. “Before everything got so big.”

Bakugo snorts, “No.”

You smile, “That was fast.”

“I don't miss bein' weak,” he says flatly. Then, after a moment, “But I miss not thinkin' so damn much.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

The blanket shifts as he reaches over and tugs it closer to the center of the couch, effectively stealing some of your warmth. You don't protest. Instead, you let the space between you compress naturally, your shoulder brushing his arm.

Neither of you move away.

“You're tired,” he says.

“Observant.”

“Tch.”

His arm rests along the back of the couch now, not touching you—but close enough that if you leaned back, you would. The thought makes your heart flutter.

You don't lean back.

Yet.

“You're careful,” he says suddenly.

“With my quirk?”

“With people.”

That makes you look at him.

His gaze fixed on the window, jaw tight, voice lower than usual. Honest in a way that catches you off guard.

“You don't push,” he continues. “You don't demand space. You wait for it to be given.”

You swallow. “Some people don't like being crowded.”

He scoffs softy.

He looks at you then, eyes intense but not angry—something vulnerable flickering behind them.

“I don't like a lotta people,” he says. “But I don't mind you bein' close.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swelling dangerously close to the surface.

Carefully, deliberately, you lean back.

Your shoulder presses into his arm.

He stiffens for half a second—then relaxes.

“Bakugo,” you say quietly.

“What.”

“Is this okay?”

He exhales through his nose, “If it wasn't, I'd move.”

You smile, small and genuine, and let yourself settle there. The rain keeps falling. Time slows.

Eventually, your head tips sideways, resting against his shoulder. It's tentative, like you're giving him an out.

He doesn't take it.

Instead, he shifts slightly, adjusting until you fit more comfortably against him. His arm stays where it is, solid and warm.

“You're cold as shit,” he mutters.

“You're warm, I like it…comfy.”

“Tch.”

The book slips from your fingers, forgotten. Your eyes grow heavy, the steady sound of rain pulling you under. The last thing you register before sleep claims you is Bakugo glancing down at you, expression unreadable—but gentle.

When you wake, the lights are dimmer. The rain has stopped.

And Bakugo Katsuki is still there.

His arm has moved at some point, resting lightly around your shoulders like it's always belonged there. You stay still, afraid to break the moment.

He notices anyway.

“You awake?” he murmurs.

“…yeah.”

“Good.”

He doesn't let go.

“Next time you can't sleep,” he starts quietly, “don't go alone.”

Your heart swells.

“I won't,” you promise.

In the quiet aftermath of the storm, with the world held gently at bay, you realize something important.

Some people don't need to fill space to be close.

Some people just choose you—and stay.

[keiki-katsudon]

In the Quiet Between Explosions

Part 3

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the late hours and ordinary moments of UA dorm life, you discover that the space between you and Bakugo Katsuki slowly, deliberately closes—one shared silence at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days that follow settle into a rhythm you don't realize you're memorizing until it's already become a habit.

You wake up early—not because you have to, but because your body seems to expect it now. Mornings blur together in soft routines, fixing your uniform while the dorm hums to life, exchanging quiet greetings with classmates, catching glimpses of Bakugo at the counter, already alert while everyone else still looks half-asleep.

He doesn't always sit with you.

But he always knows where you are.

In class, you catch him glancing your way, when Aizawa drones on about hero ethics. In hero basics, when someone asks a question about spatial quirks, his attention flicks to you before you can stop yourself from straightening in your seat. It's subtle. Almost nothing.

And yet.

By the end of the week, it's normal for you to end up side by side in the kitchen—chopping, stirring, cleaning without speaking much. You've learned how to move around him without colliding, how to hand him a knife handle-first, how to step back when his temper starts to spark.

He's learned your tells too.

"You're spacing out," he mutters one evening as you stand at the sink, sponge hovering uselessly over a plate.

You blink, "Sorry."

"Tch," he reaches over you to grab the plate, fingers brushing your wrist in the process. This time, neither of you flinch. "Control it."

You swallow, "I am."

He pauses, just for a fraction of a second.

"... I know."

That night, sleep comes easier than it used to—but not immediately.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling once again, thoughts drifting lazily instead of racing. The dorm is quiet. Too quiet. Your quirk hums under your skin like it always does when the world slows down, making the space in your room feel just a little bigger than it should be.

You exhale and rein it in. Closing your eyes to let sleep take you.

A soft knock comes at your door.

Your eyes flutter open.

You sit up, rubbing your eyes, "Yeah?"

The door opens a crack.

Bakugo's voice follows, "You awake?"

"...barely, but yes."

He opens the door the rest of the way, stepping in like it's no big deal—like he hasn't crossed some invisible line. He's not in his uniform anymore, just a t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp like he'd recently showered.

"You're doin' that thing again," he says.

You frown, "What thing?"

He gestures vaguely around your room. "Messin' with the space. I could feel it in the hallway."

Your cheeks warm, "Sorry. I didn't realize."

"Tch," he shuts the door behind him, leaning against it. "Didn't say it was bad."

That makes you look at him.

Bakugo doesn't meet your eyes. His jaw is tight, like he's wrestling with something he'd rather punch than name.

"Couldn't sleep," he says softly. "Thought you might be up."

Your heart stutters.

"...do you want to sit?" you ask.

He scoffs, "I'm not fragile."

Still, he pushes off the door and sits at the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees. The mattress dips slightly, the space between you shrinking in a way that has nothing to do with your quirk.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The silence isn't awkward. It's heavy—but not unpleasant. Like it's holding something carefully.

"You ever think," you say quietly, "about how loud everything is during the day?"

He snorts. "That's life."

"I mean—really loud," you continue.

"Expectations. Training. People watching. It's like there's no room to breathe. "

Bakugo hums in agreement, low and thoughtful. "That's why I like nights."

You glance at him, "Yeah?"

"No idiots," he says. "No distractions."

Your lip twitches. "I'm still here."

He looks at you then, eyes sharp but not angry. Something softer edges his voice, "You're not a distraction," he says.

Your chest tightens.

The words hang between you, fragile.

"You're...different," he adds gruffly. "You don't take up space unless you mean to."

You laugh softly, "That's ironic, coming from you and considering how my quirk is...well, yeah."

He huffs. "Shut up."

But he doesn't move away.

Instead, he shifts slightly closer, shoulder brushing yours. The contact is light—accidental in name only. You're suddenly very aware of how carefully you're breathing, how your quirk stays perfectly still under your skin, like it knows better than to intervene.

"I don't really know what I'm doing," he says after a long pause.

"With what?"

"...this." He gestures between you.

You swallow, "Me neither."

He nods once, like that's enough.

"Good," he mutters. "Means we're on even ground."

You smile.

Minutes pass, maybe more. At some point, Bakugo leans back on his hands, gaze drifting to the ceiling. You do the same, leaning back beside him, the distance between you measured in inches.

Comfortable.

When your eyes finally start to close, you feel him shift.

"Get some sleep," he says quietly.

"You too."

He stands, pausing at the door. For a second, it looks like he might say something else.

Instead, "Night, l/n."

It's the first time he's said your name like that. Soft. Unforced.

Your heart does something reckless.

"Night, Bakugo."

When the door closes, the room feels smaller—but not in a bad way.

For the first time in a long time, you fall asleep without trying to control the space around you.

You don't need to.

He's already close enough.

[keiki-katsudon]

In the Quiet Between Explosions

Part 2

(Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the late hours and ordinary moments of UA dorm life, you discover that the space between you and Bakugo Katsuki slowly, deliberately closes—one shared silence at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You barely remembered making it back to your room.

Sleep took you fast, heavy and dreamless for once—but it didn't last.

************************************************************************

Morning at UA came with noise whether you liked it or not.

Your alarm buzzed angrily on your nightstand, vibrating itself closer to the edge until you slapped at it blindly. You groaned and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling again—only this time, the shadows felt softer.

Your body was relaxed. Your mind wasn't racing.

That alone told you something had shifted.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes. The memory of last night slid back into place with uncomfortable clarity. The kitchen lights, the sound of eggs hitting the pan, Bakugo's hand around your wrist—brief, firm, gone too fast to question.

Your face warmed.

"Get it together," you muttered to yourself, swinging your legs out of bed.

You went through your morning routine on autopilot. When you stepped into the hallway, doors were already opening up and down the floor. Voices overlapped. Laughter echoed. Kaminari sprinted past you, yelling something about being late, Kirishima following with an apologetic wave. You waved back with a small smile.

Normal.

By the time you reached the common room, it was crowded with sleepy students clutching mugs and plates of whatever breakfast they had made. The smell of coffee and toast filled the air. You grabbed a cup of coffee and scanned the room without meaning to.

Bakugo sat at the counter.

He was already dressed, uniform crisp, posture straight even while leaning forward over his food. He looked exactly the same as always—sharp, intimidating, loud even when silent.

Except—

When his eyes flicked up and landed on you, he didn't look away.

Your step faltered.

For half a second, neither of you moved. Then his gaze narrowed, not annoyed—focused. He jerked his chin slightly toward the counter beside him.

Sit.

Your heart did something stupid.

You hesitated just long enough to make it obvious, then walked over, setting your mug down and sliding onto the stool next to him. The proximity felt different in daylight—less intimate, more dangerous somehow. Like someone might notice.

"Morning," you said softly.

"Mm," he replied, already eating.

Not rude. Just...Bakugo.

You sipped your coffee, aware of every inch of space between you. It wasn't much—maybe a few inches—but your quirk reacted anyway, the air subtly tightening, compressing without your permission.

You forced it back down.

"So," you started, trying for casual talk, "sleep okay?"

He paused, spoon hovering midair.

"Tch," he resumed eating. "Better than usual."

That was it. That was all he gave you.

But it was enough.

The day moved on like it always did—classes, lectures, note-taking. You sat near the middle of the classroom, Bakugo several seats away. He didn't look at you much, but when he did, it felt intentional. Not accidental.

During lunch, you ended up at the same table by coincidence—or something close to it. Kirishima talked animatedly. Mina laughed. Sero and Kaminari complained about homework.

Bakugo listened, arms crossed, eyes sharp, as usual.

At one point, you reached for a bottle of sauce at the same time he did. Your fingers brushed.

This time, neither of you pulled away immediately.

"Watch it," he muttered.

"Sorry," you muttered automatically.

But he didn't look annoyed. If anything, he looked...tense.

By the time classes ended, the sky outside had shifted to orange and gold. The dorms buzzed with activity—some students headed out for groceries with permission slips, others collapsed onto couches, exhausted.

You retreated to your room to change into more comfortable clothes and finish homework, but your focus was shot. Every sentence blurred into the next. Eventually, you gave up and laid on your bed, staring at your ceiling again. A habit starting to form.

A knock came at your door.

Your heart jumped. You sat up too fast.

"Come in," you said loud enough for the person outside your room to hear.

The door opened. Bakugo stood there.

He didn't come in. Didn't lean on the doorframe. Just stood, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight like he was bracing himself for something annoying.

"You busy?" he asked.

You shook your head, "No, uhm…what's up?"

"... Common room," he said. "Shitty hair's makin' dinner. He's gonna burn the damn place down if nobody supervises."

You blinked. "You want me to help?"

"Don't flatter yourself," he snapped. "You're just...competent."

You hid your smile as you grabbed your phone, shoving it into your hoodie pocket, and followed him out.

The kitchen was loud when you arrived—Kirishima laughing, Mina dancing around the stove, Iida yelling about seasoning. Bakugo immediately took over, barking orders and shoving people aside with practiced ease.

You found yourself working next to him without being asked. Chopping vegetables, stirring sauces, passing ingredients back and forth like you'd done this a hundred times.

At some point, your shoulders brushed.

Neither of you moved away.

"Your hands steady?" he asked quietly, low enough that only you could hear.

"Yeah," you replied. "Always."

He nodded, satisfied.

Dinner passed in a blur. Laughter, noise, normalcy. But when people began drifting away afterward, Bakugo lingered near the sink, drying dishes with aggressive focus.

You stayed too.

When the kitchen finally emptied, the quiet returned.

"You gonna make another midnight snack tonight?" he asked, not looking at you.

You laughed softly. "Hopefully not."

"Hm," he glanced over. "If you do—don't eat garbage."

"I'll keep that in mind."

There was a pause. A long one.

"... You don't gotta stay up alone," he said, voice rough. "If you can't sleep."

Your chest tightened.

"I know," you said.

He nodded once, then turned away, like that was all he could handle saying.

As you headed back to your room, you realized something important.

Bakugo Katsuki wasn't loud about things that mattered.

But when he made space for you—when he let you close—it was deliberate.

And you were already falling, one quiet moment at a time.

[keiki-katsudon]

In the Quiet Between Explosions

Part 1

(Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the late hours and ordinary moments of UA dorm life, you discover that the space between you and Bakugo Katsuki slowly, deliberately closes—one shared silence at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

UA's dorms were never truly quiet.

Even late in the evening, there was always something—distant laughter from the common room, the hum of appliances, the soft thud of footsteps overhead. Still, it was quieter than the city, quieter than training fields and alarms and shouted commands.

You liked nights like this.

Your room was dim, curtains half-drawn, desk lamp casting a soft circle of light over scattered notebooks. Homework lay unfinished, forgotten in favor of staring at the ceiling, watching the ceiling fan spin in slow circles.

Sleep wouldn't come.

It rarely did on nights when your thoughts refused to slow down—when they kept looping back to the same person, the same sharp voice, the same presence that filled space whether he meant to or not.

Bakugo Katsuki.

You rolled onto your side, pressing your face into your pillow, hoping that would smother the thought. It didn't. If anything, it made it worse.

The day replayed itself in fragments. The way he barked at Kaminari during training, loud and predictable. The way he scowled at Midoriya, also predictable. The way he'd glanced at you during class—brief, sharp, unreadable—before looking away again.

That part was what stuck.

With a sigh, you sat up and swung your legs over the side of the bed. The dorm hallway outside your door was dark, lit only by the light near the elevator. Your stomach growled quietly, as if it had been waiting for permission.

Midnight snack then.

You pulled on a hoodie and slipped out, careful to close the door softly. The hallway felt different at night—emptier, stretched thin. Your quirk reacted to quiet spaces like this sometimes, the way the air seemed a little more pliable, distances a little longer than they should be.

You kept it reined in out of habit.

The common room was mostly dark when you reached it, the TV off, couches abandoned. The kitchen lights were off too, but you flipped on the smallest overhead light and padded to the fridge.

You opened the fridge and stared.

Milk. Eggs. Leftover curry from someone's disastrous attempt earlier in the week. A container labeled DO NOT TOUCH in aggressive handwriting you recognized immediately.

You smiled despite yourself.

Instead, you grabbed bread and peanut butter, moving quietly as you set everything on the counter. The rhythmic motions—spreading, stacking—helped calm your thoughts. For a few minutes, it was just you, the soft scrape of a knife against bread, and the hum of the refrigerator.

"Oi."

You nearly dropped the knife.

You turned slowly.

Bakugo stood in the doorway, shirt loose, hair a mess like he'd dragged his hands through it one too many times. He looked half-awake and fully irritated, arms crossed as he glared at you like you were the one causing the late hour.

"The hell are you doin' up so late?"

"I—uh," you said, then cleared your throat. "Couldn't sleep. I was just making a snack."

He glanced at the counter. The bread. The peanut butter. His expression twisted.

"That's it?" he scoffed. "You come down here in the middle of the damn night for that?"

You shrugged, suddenly very aware of how close he was, even from across the kitchen. Bakugo always felt closer than he actually was, like he compressed the space around him by just existing.

"Not everyone eats like they're prepping for a war zone," you said lightly.

"Hah," he snorted, stepping into the kitchen. "Weak."

Despite the words, he reached into a cabinet and pulled out a pan. Then another. He moved like he owned the place—which honestly, he kind of did.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"Making food," he said like it was obvious. "You call shit like that a snack?"

"I didn't ask for—"

"Too bad."

He shoved the pan onto the stove and turned it on, cracking eggs with practiced ease. The sound filled the quiet kitchen, warm and domestic in a way that made your chest feel tight.

You leaned against the counter, sandwich forgotten.

"Couldn't sleep either?" you asked.

Bakugo clicked his tongue. "Tch, don't read into it. I just woke up thirsty."

"And decided to cook?"

"Don't push it."

You smiled.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Bakugo cooked like he did everything else—focused, intense, movements sharp but precise. You watched him out of the corner of your eye, wondering how many people ever saw him like this, stripped of noise and fury, just...existing.

"You're starin'" he said without looking at you.

Your face heated instantly, "am not."

"Yeah, you are."

You looked away. "Sorry."

He glanced at you then, eyes narrowing—not angry, just assessing.

"... You always this quiet?"

"Only when I'm tired."

"Hm."

He plated the food and shoved a portion toward you without ceremony. Eggs, toast, seasoned perfectly. You blinked.

"For me?"

"Obviously," he said. "Eat."

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for just a second.

The space between you felt smaller after that.

You sat at the counter together, the kitchen light casting soft shadows. Bakugo ate fast, like he always did, but he didn't rush you. Didn't tell you to hurry up or complain about your slower pace.

"Your quirk," he said suddenly.

You froze. "What about it?"

He shrugged. "You keep it tight. Controlled. Most people with power like that get sloppy."

You hadn't expected that. Praise from Bakugo was rare—and usually loud.

"... Thanks," you said quietly.

He grunted, like that was the end of it.

When the plates were empty, you moved to wash them, but Bakugo stopped you with a hand on your wrist. Your breath caught.

"I got it," he said. "You go back to bed."

"Oh… Okay."

He released you immediately, like he hadn't meant to touch you at all. You hesitated at the doorway.

"Bakugo?"

He looked up. "What?"

"... Thanks. For the food."

He scoffed, turning back to the sink. "Don't get weird about it."

You smiled anyway.

As you walked towards the elevator, sleep finally tugged at you, warm and gentle. Back in the kitchen, Bakugo Katsuki washed dishes at one in the morning—scowling at nothing, pretending the night hadn't shifted just a little around the two of you.

And for once, the distance between you didn't feel so vast.

[keiki-katsudon]

Echoes Between Us

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and Bakugo Katsuki drift around each other like strangers, carrying the weight of familiarity and the sting of distance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You notice it the moment he stops calling your name.

Not out of anger. Not even distance. Just absence—like a habit broken without warning. Bakugo still moves through the day with the same intensity, the same sharp glare, the restless energy you’ve always known. But when it comes to you, there’s a careful restraint now, an invisible line neither of you dares to cross.

You pass each other in the halls, close enough to brush shoulders, and neither of you does. Once, he would’ve complained about your pace, snapped at you to hurry up, or dragged you along without warning. Now he only glances briefly before looking away.

It’s worse than fighting.

When you finally speak, it’s almost accidental, a quiet “hey” as your paths converge near the training grounds. Bakugo’s eyes flick up, meeting yours with that usual edge—but softened in a way that shouldn’t exist, and it hurts.

“Hey,” he mutters, voice low.

You pause, suddenly aware of the distance that stretches between you. The late nights you used to spend talking after practice, the way he used to grin at your jokes, the small, unguarded moments that had made him feel reachable—they’re all gone now. You’re left with the echo of someone you used to know.

“We used to talk,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Bakugo’s gaze flickers, conflicted. “Yeah… we did.”

The weight of the past settles between you, unspoken but heavy. Shared victories, careless laughter, almost-confessions—all memories that feel like they belong to someone else. Now, you’re here, inches apart, unsure how someone so familiar can feel so foreign.

“I don’t know how we got here,” you admit.

His jaw tightens. “Maybe we stopped choosing each other,” he says, voice quiet but sharp, the words cutting deeper than he intends.

You swallow, biting back the urge to argue, to pull him back to what you both had. Instead, you take a step closer. “Or maybe we just don’t know how to fix it.”

Bakugo doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes search yours, like he’s measuring the weight of every word, every silence between you. You feel that familiar pull, the one that made him impossible to ignore before, but it’s tempered by hesitation. By walls neither of you wants to tear down.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I can,” he admits, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it, and for a moment, the mask slips. “I don’t know if I can go back to how things were without messing it up again.”

You nod, your throat tight. “We don’t have to go back. Not all at once. Just… step by step.”

He exhales sharply, a spark of frustration, of longing, escaping in the same breath. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, his hand brushes against yours. Not a grab. Not a push. Just contact—proof that the connection isn’t completely gone.

For the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe that maybe familiarity isn’t lost. Maybe it’s just waiting—for both of you to stop pretending the past didn’t matter, and start choosing each other again.

You walk away a few moments later, but he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t turn his eyes away. And you realize that even in the space between you, there’s still something that won’t let go—something that might, just might, pull you both back.

The halls feel empty, but your chest feels lighter. Not fixed. Not healed. But enough to take the first step toward the other.

And for the first time in a long while, you hope he’ll take the next one too.

[keiki-katsudon]

All the Time It Takes

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bakugo Katsuki shows his love not through grand words, but by committing himself to knowing every part of you, patiently and completely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You notice it in the small things first.

Bakugo never says it outright, never frames it as devotion or effort, but he’s always watching—memorizing how you take your coffee, how your mood shifts when you’re tired, how your shoulders tense before you admit you’re scared. He pretends it’s nothing, that it’s just habit, but you know better.

He stays late after training, sitting beside you on the floor while you stretch, asking blunt questions he claims are “important.” What exhausts you. What motivates you. What makes you shut down. He listens like the answers matter—like they’re blueprints he intends to study.

When you ask him why he bothers, he scoffs. “If I’m gonna do this,” he says, eyes sharp and certain, “I’m not half-assing it.”

And that’s Bakugo Katsuki’s version of love.

He learns your silences as carefully as your words. Learns when to push and when to stand still. Learns that you don’t need saving—you need understanding. There are nights he walks with you back to the dorms without a word, just close enough that your arms brush, like proximity itself is a promise.

It isn’t rushed. It isn’t loud. It’s built slowly, deliberately, through time spent and attention given.

And one evening, when he laces his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you realize this is how he shows it—by choosing you, again and again, for as long as it takes to know you by heart.

[keiki-katsudon]

Going in Circles

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bakugo Katsuki and l/n y/n are caught in the loop of almosts—arguments that sound like confessions, silences that mean too much, and feelings neither of them knows how to end without breaking something.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They always ended up back here.

Training grounds emptied, the sky dimming to that tired orange that clung to U.A. at the end of long days. Bakugo sat on the concrete steps with his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. You stood a few steps away, arms folded, weight shifting from heel to toe as if deciding whether to stay or leave.

Neither moved.

"You gonna keep hovering," Bakugo muttered, "or say what you came to say?"

You huffed a quiet laugh. "You always say that."

"Because you always do it."

That was how it went. The same opening line. The same irritation that hid something softer underneath. You stepped closer anyway, because you always did.

"I just wanted to check if you were okay," you said.

Bakugo clicked his tongue, "I'm fine."

"See?" You sighed. "That. You shut me out, then get pissed when I stop trying."

"I get pissed when you don't say what you mean."

"I am saying what I mean."

You stare at each other, the air thick with everything unsaid. This was the part where you went in circles—him pushing, you holding your ground, neither of you brave enough to call it what it really was.

Bakugo stood suddenly, shoes scraping against concrete. You didn't miss the way his hands curled into fists, faint sparks threatening before he forced them back.

"Then why do you keep coming back?" he snapped. "If I'm such a pain to deal with, why don't you just stop?"

Your chest tightened. You took another step forward, close enough now that you could feel the heat he always seemed to carry. "You know why."

He scoffed, turning his face away. "Don't act like this is my fault."

"I'm not," you said, softer now. "I'm saying we're stuck. You push me away, I try harder. I give you space, you get angry. It's like no matter what we do, we end up right here."

Silence streched between you. The campus lights flickered on in the distance, reminders that time didn't wait for either of you to figure things out.

Bakugo dragged a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted, voice low, stripped of its usual edge. "Every time I've got it under control... you show up, and everything goes sideways."

Your throat burned. "You think it's any diffrent for me?"

He turned back to you then, eyes sharp but conflicted. For a moment, it felt like the argument would restart—raised voices, harsh words, repeat. The familiar loop.

Instead, he reached out and grabbed the sleeve of your uniform. Not hard. Not pulling. Just enough to stop you from stepping back. "Don't disappear," he said queitly. "Even when I screw this up."

Your breath hitched. You placed your hand over his, grounding both of you. "Then stop giving me reasons to think you want me gone."

He didn't answer. Bakugo Katsuki never did things cleanly, never found the right words when they mattered most. But he didn't let go either.

You stayed there with him as the sky darkened completely, caught in the same cycle you'd been running for weeks. Still uncertain, still unfinished.

But this time, the circle felt thinner—like one honest step might finally break it.

[keiki-katsudon]

Soft Sparks, Loud Silences

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What starts as an awkward festival encounter slowly turns into a series of quiet moments where Bakugo Katsuki finds himself unexpectedly drawn to the soft glow of your quirk—and the silence you begin to share.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The festival buzzed around you, vibrant and loud with laughter, smells of grilled food, and music spilling from stages and booths. You stood just outside the main pathway, fingers twisting in front of you, a slow ribbon of light floating above your knuckles -- your quirk leaking out in a small spiral of magic.

"I'll be right back!" Yaoyorozu smiled as she turned away from your side. "Oh—and do wait here! I just remembered something I have to go grab."

"Momo—wait, what—" you started, but she was already lost in the crowd.

A beat of silence.

And then —"Tch, you gotta be kidding me."

Your head snapped toward the voice. Bakugo Katsuki stood a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes narrowing in recognition. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

You felt your quirk twitch at your fingertips again — small particles of light forming as you looked up at him. "...hi."

He grunted, barely nodding. "Figures, those damn extras set this up, didn't they?"

You blinked, "Wait... they set this up?"

Bakugo rolled his eyes. "Dumbasses probably think it's funny. Dunce face said I 'should mope through the whole festival,' and next thing I know, Tape elbow's dragging me over here. Should've known they were pulling some bullshit."

You opened your mouth to respond but found nothing immediately worth saying. Another spiral of pale streaks of your quirk unfurled lazily from your fingers, flickering like soft neon smoke. It hovered briefly between you two before vanishing.

Bakugo eyed the drifting light, "That your quirk?"

You nodded, "It kind of... reacts when I get nervous."

He scoffed, "So, all the time?"

You stiffened lightly.

He raised a brow, "Not a dig, just sayin', you're always real twitchy."

You looked away, feeling heat creep up your neck. Another flicker trailed from your palm, this time turing into a geometric pattern in the air before you dismissed it with a flick.

"Thanks," you said, not quite sarcastic, not quite sincere.

Silence.

You stood beside a food stall, awkwardly shifting your weight from one foot to another. Bakugo glanced at you, then back at the crowd. His expression remained tight — not irritated exactly, but far from relaxed.

"Why'd you even come?" he asked finally.

You turned toward him, surpirsed he spoke. "The girls dragged me out, said I stay in my dorm too much."

"Huh," he muttered. "..same."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Tch, you think I wanna spend all day at this stupid festival?"

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

His eyes darted to you, but you weren't mocking him — you just smiled, small and genuine. "No, I guess not."

Another moment of silence. This time, it felt a little less suffocating.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bakugo crossed his arms and looked at the night sky. "That quirk you got—what is it exactly?"

You titled your head. "It's...kind of like telekinesis? But also object conjuration, elemental manipulation, enchantments.."

"You've got too many damn options."

"Yeah," you laughed quietly. "It gets overwhelming. I focus better when I have specific tasks though. Otherwise, it...leaks in a way."

You raised a hand and, almost subconsciously, made a floating cube of soft light hover above your palm. It rotated slowly, pulsing faintly.

Bakugo squinted at it. "That all for show, or can it do something?"

You flicked your wrist and the cube zoomed into the air and exploded into dozens of harmless little stars. One landed in his hair before fading.

"Mostly for show," you admitted. "Unless I mean it."

He huffed. "Kinda flashy."

You shrugged, "I don't blow things up."

He snorted—sort of. "You'd probably be better at it than half the class."

You glanced at him, surprised again. "Was...that a compliment?"

"No," he said immediately.

But you noticed the faint twitch of his lips — just barely a smirk.

The crowd moved around you both, but you and Bakugo stayed stil. Occasionally you'd summon a small flicker of light or a shifting shimmer when the silence returned, and to your surprise, Bakugo didn't seem annoyed by it. He just watched, sometimes seeming a little curious.

You conjured a glowing orb and let it spin gently above your hand, watching the light reflect in his eyes.

He caught you staring and raised a brow, "What?"

"...you're being nicer than I thought."

"Don't get used to it."

You bit your lip to hide your grin, "Sure."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, the others started circling back. You could hear Mina's laughter bouncing over the crowd and Kaminari's voice shouting something about fried squid.

"Oh—hey!" Mina called as she jogged over. "Sorry! I hope we didn't leave you two alone for too long."

Bakugo shot her a glare. "You did this on purpose."

Sero slid in beside her, grinning like a devil, "Us? Nahhh."

You folded your arms but didn't look annoyed, "Wasn't so bad."

Mina leaned closer, glancing between the two of you. "Wait, did you guys actually talk?"

"Not really," Bakugo said at the same time you said "A little."

You blinked at each other.

Kirishima laughed, "Well, we got some progress!"

later

As the group moved to another section of the festival you lingered at the back. Bakugo fell in step beside you, hands still in his pockets, still scowling at anything and everything.

But as the crowd passed under a string of floating lanterns, you reached up and conjured a little orb of light — one that hovered above you both like a quiet star.

"...Don't tell anyone I didn't hate it," he muttered.

You smiled "Don't worry, I'll keep your reputation intact."

And for the first time, he didn't bark a retort.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

monday - between heroics and homeroom

The bell rang, ending Hero Basic Training. Students funneled back into the 1-A classroom, drenched in sweat and still laughing over sparring matches.

You slipped in behind the crowd, towel draped over your shoulders, a subtle shimmer weaving around your fingers, small specks of your quirk hovering like soap bubbles with a faint glow. A nervous habit. You were still thinking about how badly you botched your redirect maneuver against Iida.

"Your momentum control sucks," came Bakugo's voice behind you.

You flinched.

He passed you, not even looking your way as he dropped into his seat in front of you.

"...thanks," you respond dryly, settling in your seat behind his.

He leaned back, and turned his head slightly as to see you in the corner of his eye, grabbing his water bottle. "Didn't say it to be nice. You're twitchy mid-air. Overthinking."

You raised a brow, "And you're suddenly a coach?"

"Figure if I have to watch you flail around, I might as well say something useful."

You blinked—then smiled a little. A small orb of light shimmering above your palm and pulsed gently before you popped it like a bubble.

Bakugo watched it but said nothing more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tuesday

During the ten-minute break between classes, most of the class was buzzing about something Mina and Kaminari were showing on their phones. You weren't paying attention—you were focused on a delicate construct you were conjuring just above your desk; a star-shaped lattice of magic that rotated gently mid-air.

It helped you think.

Bakugo walked by, carrying a notebook. He slowed as he passed your desk.

"That supposed to do something?" he muttered.

"It's just...for focus," you replied, eyes still on the structure.

He paused, then suddenly reached out and poked it.

The structure destabilized instantly. The whole thing fizzled with a pop and left a sprinkle of harmless sparkles in the air.

You stared at him, "Seriously?"

He raised a brow, unimpressed. "If it pops that easily, it wasn't worth much."

You tried to look annoyed, but he caught the faint upward twitch at the corner of your mouth.

He huffed and continued to his desk.

You conjured a new one—twice as stable—and this time, it hovered just ouf of his reach.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

wednesday

It rained that day. The lunch bell had rung, and most of the class had scattered. You stayed behind to clean your desk after a minor ink explosion courtesy of a floating pen you accidentally launched mid-fidget.

Bakugo hadn't gone to the cafeteria either. He was sitting at his desk, reading through his notes with the usual intensity like he wanted to incinerate the page with sheer willpower. The silence was oddly comfortable. You weren't talking, but you weren't alone.

Your quirk flared lightly as you conjured a tea cup out of thin air—not real porcelain, just magical glass made from focused light. It spun slowly, then faded before it touched the desk.

Bakugo didn't look up.

But after a while, he said, "You always do that when you're alone?"

You hesitated, "...not always. Just when it's quiet. Helps me not think so loud."

He didn't answer, but after a few minutes, he pulled out a protein bar and tossed it onto your desk.

"Eat. You missed lunch."

You stared at it, unsure how to respond. "You...didn't even ask if I wanted it."

"Didn't have to," he muttered, not looking at you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

thursday

Class was noisy. Too noisy. The AC had gone out, and everyone was cranky. You were sitting with your sleeves rolled up, forehead resting against your arm as you twirled a small silver thread of magic between your fingers—cooling spell, minor, but enough to give you some relief.

"Quit doing that. It's distracting."

You glanced over. Bakugo was beside you—his desk had been reassigned for the day thanks to some seating chart switch. He was frowning at your floating thread.

You sighed. "It helps. The heat is awful."

"Tch," he leaned back in his chair, reached into his bag, and tossed you a spare sports cooling towel. "You'll drain yourself over dumb shit."

You stared, "You carry two cooling towels?"

He looked away, "I sweat more than most of you extras. Obviously."

You blinked, then took it.

"Thanks," you said softly.

He clicked his tongue, "Just don't pass out. We've got training later."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

friday

Last class of the week. Everyone was drained. Even Bakugo looked tired, one leg bouncing under the desk as Present Mic rambled about communication tactics.

You sat quietly, sketching small spell diagrams in the corner of your notes, letting a trail of glittery sigils hover like lazy fireflies over the page. One floated toward Bakugo's desk. You moved to dispel it—but he didn't swat it away.

Instead, he watched it.

Let it hover.

Then finally looked at you.

You expected a glare, a snarl, maybe some snarky comment.

Instead, "You've got good control," he said.

You blinked, "I...thanks."

"You keep doing that and you'll be better than half these idiots before graduation."

You didn't know what to say.

So you just gave a small smile. A real one this time.

And when the final bell rang, he didn't rush out first like he usually did. He lingered—just long enough to walk out beside you.