𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢 ❦

𝟐𝟎 | 𝐬𝐡𝐞/𝐡𝐞𝐫 | 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦

[morilikemidori]

— 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢 ! 🥦

𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄, m.list | ao3 | multifandom | minors dni

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍, currently taking fic requests and ask box is always open to chat as long as you’re respectful. Make sure you read the rules first, though.

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄, twenty, infp, aquarius, she/her, aegoromatic, izukuholic

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ 𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆,

SOMETHING LIKE SPITE, k.bakugo

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊,

HOW THEY GIRLS KISS, BNHA girls

[morilikemidori]

.˚❄️˖࿔ ࣪ 🧊˚ MY MOON, MY MAN | sokka

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sokka x icebender!reader | enemies to lovers story

SYPNOSIS. Princess (__) is everything Sokka hates: pristine, pompous, and utterly insufferable. Sokka is everything Xue despises: loud, unrefined, and tracking mud on her silk. But they both loved Yue. And when the Moon Spirit takes her, grief is the only language they have left.

Forced together on a quest to end a war, the Ice Queen and the warrior discover that the opposite of love isn't hate-it's indifference. And they are anything but indifferent.

TROPES: enemies to lovers, opposites attract, oldest siblings, forced proximity, high maintenance x low maintenance, eternal soulmate 

CHAPTER ONE — THE CURSE AND THE BLESSING (6/13/26)

SYPNOSIS. To the Northern Water Tribe, your sister Yue is a miracle, saved by the Moon Spirit and universally adored. You, the firstborn with hair of glacial ice and a touch that freezes the world around you, are a warning. Raised in the blinding light of her divine blessing, you could have easily chosen resentment. Instead, you chose to become her shield

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[morilikemidori]

.˚❄️˖࿔ ࣪ 🧊˚ MY MOON, MY MAN | sokka

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SYPNOSIS. To the Northern Water Tribe, your sister Yue is a miracle, saved by the Moon Spirit and universally adored. You, the firstborn with hair of glacial ice and a touch that freezes the world around you, are a warning. Raised in the blinding light of her divine blessing, you could have easily chosen resentment. Instead, you chose to become her shield.

sokka x icebender!reader | enemies to lovers story

STORY TAGS: we protect princess yue in this house⁠, good dad arnook, the elders are haters⁠, local toddler ready to freeze the world for her baby sister

❄️🧊─── IN THE NORTHERN WATER TRIBE, the color white was rarely a mystery.

It was woven into the very fabric of their existence—the towering ice walls that had protected Agna Qel'a for millennia, the sacred, ethereal glow of the Moon Spirit as it danced across the frozen canals, and the endless, sweeping tundra that stretched beyond the horizon, keeping the rest of the world at a safe, frigid distance. White was the color of purity. Of divinity. Of survival itself.

But when the firstborn child of Chief Arnook was brought screaming into the world in the dead of winter in 83 AG, the color white suddenly became something else entirely: a harbinger of the unknown.

The royal birthing chambers were supposed to be warm.

Thick, heavy furs lined every surface—polar bear-wolf pelts layered three deep across the stone floors, crushed velvet tapestries depicting the Moon and Ocean Spirits hanging from the walls to trap the heat. Bronze braziers, carefully tended by the most skilled fire-keepers in the tribe, burned hot and steady in each corner of the room, filling the air with the comforting scent of seal oil and medicinal herbs. The head healer had checked the temperature herself twice before the labor began, ensuring everything was perfect for the arrival of the Chief's heir.

Yet the moment the infant drew her first sharp, furious breath—a sound that should have brought relief and joy—a sudden, inexplicable chill swept through the room like a living thing.

It was not gradual. It did not creep. It struck.

The flames in the braziers flickered violently, shrinking down to weak, sputtering blue embers that barely clung to life. The warmth that had filled the room just seconds before was devoured whole, replaced by a biting, bone-deep cold that had no reasonable source. One of the younger attendants gasped audibly as her breath materialized in a visible cloud before her face. Another pulled her parka tighter around her shoulders, confusion and unease flickering across her features.

But it was not the sudden, unnatural cold that made the head healer—a woman who had delivered three generations of Water Tribe children and had seen nearly everything the spirits could throw at a mortal—stop mid-movement, her hands still glowing faintly with healing water, and take an involuntary step backward.

It was the child herself.

The newborn princess possessed the rich brown skin of her ancestors, stretched taut over a pair of round cheeks flushed with the exertion of her arrival. Her tiny fists were clenched tight, her face scrunched in newborn indignation as she wailed her displeasure at being thrust into the world. And her eyes—spirits, her eyes—were so startlingly alert, so piercingly and unnervingly aware, that the healer found herself wondering if the infant was somehow observing her right back

But it was what crowned the child's small, perfect head that stole the breath from every woman in that room.

A thick, startling shock of stark white hair.

Not the soft silver-blonde of an elderly woman whose color had faded with age. Not the pale cream of sun-bleached sealskin. This was white—pure, absolute, and unnatural. It was sharp and unyielding, each strand catching the dim brazier-light and reflecting it back with an almost crystalline quality. And threaded through it, visible only when the light hit it just right, was a cool, bluish undertone that perfectly mirrored the jagged, ancient ice of a glacier's frozen core.

The head healer's mouth opened. Closed. She looked to the Chief, then back to the child, then to the frost that was now visibly crawling across the surface of the healing water basins like delicate, invasive lacework.

"Chief Arnook," she said slowly, her voice carefully neutral in the way of someone who has just witnessed something she does not yet have words for. "Your daughter is... healthy."

Arnook, who had been standing frozen (in every sense of the word) at the foot of the bed, seemed to shake himself out of his stupor. He crossed the room in three long strides, his boots crunching faintly on the thin layer of frost that had somehow formed on the stone floor, and carefully—so carefully—took the squalling infant from the healer's arms.

The moment his large, warm hands cradled her tiny body, the baby stopped crying.

The room seemed to exhale.

Arnook stared down at his daughter, his expression unreadable. He studied her face with the intense focus of a man trying to memorize every detail—the slope of her nose, the shape of her eyes, the way her white hair seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. He ran one calloused thumb gently over the soft crown of her head, and when he pulled his hand back, there was a faint shimmer of frost on his fingertip.

He did not flinch. He did not recoil.

Instead, Chief Arnook smiled.

Within hours, the whispers began.

In a society as isolated, traditional, and deeply superstitious as Agna Qel'a, any deviation from the norm was scrutinized with a hawkish, unforgiving intensity. The Northern Water Tribe had survived for centuries by adhering to rigid structures, ancient customs, and an unwavering belief in the spiritual forces that governed their frozen world. They did not trust change. They did not trust anomalies. And they certainly did not trust a child who had been born looking like winter itself had reached into the womb and claimed her.

The elders gathered in the shadowed alcoves of the palace, their gnarled hands wrapped around cups of steaming sea-prune tea, their voices dropping to hushed, fearful murmurs that echoed off the ice-carved walls.

"It is unnatural," one of the older councilmen muttered, his rheumy eyes fixed on the heavy oak door that led to the royal nursery. "To be born with hair drained of all color... it is a mark. A sign."

"The spirits have touched her," another agreed, pulling his heavy fur-lined parka tighter around his bony shoulders as if the infant's mere existence was making the corridors colder. "But which spirit? And for what purpose?"

"She is a warning," a third elder whispered, her voice thin and reedy with age. "A child born of the deep winter. She carries the frost in her blood—I saw it with my own eyes. The healers said the room froze when she took her first breath."

"An omen," the first councilman repeated, nodding sagely as if he had just delivered a great truth. "The winter is unforgiving. Unpredictable. Dangerous. And now... it sits in the Chief's cradle."

They spoke in circles, weaving superstitions and half-remembered legends into a narrative that suited their fear. They looked for signs of weakness, for evidence of a curse, for a reason to fear the tiny, glittering anomaly that had been thrust into their rigid, carefully ordered hierarchy.

But when a young Chief Arnook finally emerged from the nursery three hours later, holding his swaddled daughter against his chest as if she were made of the finest sea-glass, his expression left absolutely no room for their superstitions.

Arnook was a large man—broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with the kind of quiet, unyielding presence that commanded respect without requiring words. His ceremonial Chief's parka, lined with polar-leopard fur and embroidered with silver thread, made him look even more imposing. But as he stood in the doorway of the nursery, cradling a bundle of pristine white fur against his chest, there was something profoundly gentle in the way he held her.

He looked down at the tiny, perfect face peering up at him from the folds of the blanket—those sharp, impossibly aware blue eyes studying him with an intensity that should have been unnerving in an infant but instead filled him with a fierce, overwhelming pride.

Arnook did not see a curse. He did not see a winter storm, or a dangerous omen, or a fragile anomaly that needed to be hidden away in the shadowed corners of the palace.

Looking down at his daughter, Chief Arnook saw only his entire world.

He lifted his gaze to the gathered elders, his jaw set, his voice ringing through the frozen halls with absolute, unyielding authority.

"Her name," Arnook announced, "is (___)."

The elders went silent.

Arnook pulled the furs higher around her delicate chin, his large, warm hand completely engulfing her tiny form as if he could shield her from their judgment through sheer proximity alone. His next words were not a request. They were a command.

"She is the firstborn of this palace. The heir to the Northern Water Tribe. And she is perfect."

No one dared to argue.

For the first few years of (___)'s life, Chief Arnook was an impenetrable, unyielding shield between his daughter and the cautious, judgmental eyes of the court.

He built a world for her—a warm, insulated bubble of love and safety, entirely separate from the rigid political expectations and whispered superstitions that would eventually come crashing down on her small shoulders. Within the walls of the royal nursery and the private family quarters, the princess was not an omen. She was not a mystery to be solved or a curse to be feared.

She was simply his daughter. And that was enough.

As a toddler, (___) was unnervingly quiet. While other children her age babbled incessantly and stumbled around the palace floors with reckless, joyful abandon, she was observant. She would sit perfectly still for long stretches of time, her wide, calculating eyes tracking every movement in the room with an intensity that unnerved the servants. She rarely cried. She rarely laughed. She simply watched, absorbing everything with the sharp, calculating focus of someone far older than her tiny body suggested.

She already possessed a regal, rigid posture that seemed entirely too old for someone who had only just learned to walk. Even at two years old, she held her chin high, her back straight, her small hands folded neatly in her lap as if she were sitting for a royal portrait rather than playing with wooden toys on a fur rug.

But around her father, that aristocratic stiffness melted away like spring ice under the sun.

Arnook was a doting, fiercely loving father who openly defied the solemn stoicism expected of a Northern Chief the moment he stepped behind closed doors. He would abandon council meetings early—meetings where aging diplomats droned on about fishing quotas and trade negotiations—just to sit cross-legged on the floor of the nursery, letting his three-year-old daughter meticulously weave tiny, glittering ice crystals into his beard while she hummed tunelessly to herself.

He didn't care that when she touched her wooden toys, they sometimes frosted over, the paint cracking and flaking away to reveal a thin layer of ice beneath. He didn't care that the royal nursery was perpetually ten degrees colder than the rest of the palace, forcing the servants to wear extra layers whenever they entered. He didn't care that the water in her bath had to be heated three times before it stayed warm enough for her to sit in.

To Arnook, these were not problems. They were not symptoms of something wrong.

They were simply the unique, beautiful quirks of his extraordinary child.

"Chief," one of the nursemaids had said hesitantly one morning, holding up a wooden duck that had been perfectly encased in a thin shell of ice overnight. "Perhaps we should... consult the healers? Or the elders? Just to ensure the princess is—"

"She is perfect," Arnook had interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. He plucked the frozen duck from the woman's hands, turned it over thoughtfully, and then handed it back to (___), who immediately clutched it to her chest with a delighted giggle. "If she freezes her toys, we will simply get her more toys."

The nursemaid had bowed and said nothing more.

One particularly clear night, when (___) was four years old and stubbornly refusing to sleep despite three separate bedtime songs and two cups of warm seal-milk, Arnook sighed in fond exasperation, wrapped her in his own massive, fur-lined Chief's mantle, and carried her out into the royal courtyards.

The sky above Agna Qel'a was alive.

The aurora borealis swept across the heavens in great, shimmering ribbons of green and violet and blue, casting an ethereal, otherworldly glow over the city of ice. The light danced across the frozen canals, reflected off the towering palace spires, and painted the snow-covered rooftops in shifting, dreamlike hues. It was the kind of night that reminded the people of the North why they endured the cold, the isolation, the endless winter. It was breathtaking.

(___) rested her small chin on her father's broad shoulder, her stark white hair glowing faintly under the starlight, and stared up at the sky with wide, unblinking eyes.

For a long moment, she said nothing. She simply watched.

And then, slowly, she reached one tiny, bare hand out from beneath the heavy furs, her brow furrowing in deep concentration. Her lips pressed together in that way they always did when she was trying—really, genuinely trying—to make something happen.

A heartbeat later, a single, flawless snowflake materialized in the palm of her hand.

It was perfect. Six delicate, symmetrical points, each one impossibly intricate, spinning slowly in the center of her small palm as if caught in an invisible breeze. The aurora's light reflected off its surface, making it shimmer like a tiny, frozen star.

The young princess's eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered joy.

She leaned forward slightly, pursed her lips, and blew the snowflake gently into the crisp night air. It tumbled once, twice, and then dissolved into glittering dust that scattered across the wind.

Arnook chuckled—a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated against her cheek and made her giggle in response. He gently caught her small, terrifyingly cold hand and tucked it back into the warmth of his chest, wrapping the furs more securely around her.

"You know what you are?" Arnook murmured, his voice dropping into that soft, private register he reserved only for her. He pressed a warm kiss to the crown of her icy-white head, breathing in the faint scent of frost and child-soap that always seemed to cling to her.

(___) blinked her piercing gaze up at him, waiting patiently, trustingly, for him to continue.

Arnook's throat tightened. He looked down at his daughter—this tiny, impossibly powerful creature who had been born into a world that did not understand her, who carried a gift (not a curse, never a curse) that terrified grown men, who would one day have to bear the crushing weight of a tribe's expectations—and he felt his heart crack open with a love so fierce it bordered on pain.

"You are my little snowdrop," he told her, his voice thick with emotion.

(___) tilted her head, confused. "What snowdrop?"

Arnook smiled. "A snowdrop is a flower, my heart. A small, delicate white flower that grows in the coldest parts of the world, where nothing else can survive. When the blizzards come and the ice covers everything, when the rest of the world is frozen and dead... the snowdrop pushes through. It blooms in the snow. It thrives in the winter."

She considered this very seriously. "I a flower?"

"You are my flower," Arnook corrected, his voice breaking slightly. He held her tighter, pressing his cheek against the top of her head as if he could somehow absorb her into his very bones and keep her safe there forever. "The elders look at you, and all they see is the snow. They see the cold, the frost, the ice. They see something to be afraid of."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes.

"But they forget about the flower. They forget that the things born in winter are not weak—they are strong. Strong enough to survive when everything else has given up. Strong enough to bloom when the rest of the world is sleeping."

Her small fingers curled around the edge of his parka, her expression solemn and thoughtful in the way only small children could manage.

"The elders are scared?" she asked quietly.

Arnook's jaw tightened. "Yes."

"Of me?"

"Yes."

(___) frowned, her tiny brow furrowing. "Why?"

Arnook hesitated. How did you explain fear to a child? How did you tell a four-year-old that the world would judge her not for who she was, but for what she represented? That people would look at her white hair and her frost-touched hands and see only a threat?

"Because," Arnook said slowly, choosing his words with care, "they do not understand you yet. And people are always afraid of things they do not understand."

"Oh." (___) absorbed this quietly. Then, after a beat: "But you not scared."

It was not a question. It was a statement of absolute fact.

Arnook's chest tightened. "No, my snowdrop. I am not scared."

"Why?"

"Because I know you." He tapped her nose gently, earning a surprised giggle. "I know that you are kind. I know that you are strong. I know that you would never hurt anyone you love. And I know—" His voice dropped to a fierce whisper, a vow spoken directly to the spirits themselves. "—that you are the most beautiful thing this ice has ever made."

(___) beamed at him, her whole face lighting up with unguarded happiness.

Arnook held her close, staring up at the aurora-lit sky, and made a silent promise to the Moon and Ocean watching overhead: I will never let the coldness of this world touch her. I will protect her. I will keep her safe. No matter what it costs me.

"My little snowdrop," he whispered into the quiet night, his voice barely audible over the wind. "I will always keep you safe."

Just one year later, the palace readied itself for the arrival of a second royal child.

And this time, everything went wrong

When the second princess was born, there was no sudden drop in temperature. There was no frost creeping like living lace across the healing basins, no flames shrinking in their braziers, no wild flares of spiritual energy crackling through the air.

In fact, there was almost nothing at all.

The labor had been swift—too swift, the healers would later whisper—and when the infant finally emerged into the world, she did so in absolute, terrifying silence.

She did not cry.

Her tiny chest barely rose beneath the heavy furs the healers frantically wrapped her in. Her lips were faintly blue. Her skin, which should have been flushed pink with the exertion of birth, was pale and waxen. The head healer pressed two fingers to the infant's throat, searching desperately for a pulse, and when she found it, her heart sank.

It was there. But it was weak. Fluttering. Fading.

"Bring the healing waters," the head healer barked, her voice sharp with barely-controlled panic. "Now. Now."

The younger attendants scrambled, filling basin after basin with glowing, spirit-blessed water. The head healer submerged her hands, the blue light intensifying as she called on every ounce of skill and training she possessed, and pressed her palms gently to the infant's fragile chest.

Nothing.

The baby's breathing remained shallow, her heartbeat faint and erratic. She was slipping away before she had even truly arrived.

One of the younger healers, her hands shaking, looked up at the head healer with wide, terrified eyes. "Should we... should we call for the Chief?"

The head healer's jaw clenched. "Not yet."

But even as she said it, she knew. She knew.

This child was dying.

Outside the birthing chambers, tucked into the arms of a stone-faced nursemaid, sat a tiny, white-haired toddler who did not yet understand what death was, but could feel it pressing down on the palace like a physical weight.

(___), not quite two years old and still learning the world through touch and sensation rather than words, squirmed uncomfortably in the woman's grip. The nursemaid held her tighter, murmuring soft reassurances that meant nothing, and the young princess whimpered in frustration.

Something was wrong.

The air felt thick—heavy and oppressive in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. It lacked the crisp, biting energy that usually made (___) feel alive and alert. Instead, it felt stagnant. Dead. Like the palace itself was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.

(___) buried her face in the nursemaid's fur-lined parka and whined, her small hands instinctively gripping the fabric. Frost bloomed beneath her tiny fingers, spreading across the collar in delicate, crystalline patterns.

The nursemaid flinched but said nothing.

That night, driven by a father's absolute, soul-deep desperation, Chief Arnook wrapped his dying second daughter in the warmest furs he could find, cradled her against his chest, and carried her deep into the heart of Agna Qel'a.

To the Spirit Oasis.

No one knows what happened in that sacred place. Arnook never spoke of it—not to his advisors, not to the healers, not even to his wife. But when he returned to the palace hours later, his face drawn and pale, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted, the heavy, suffocating silence that had gripped the royal courts was shattered by the strong, healthy wail of a newborn infant.

But it was not just the child's restored life that sent shockwaves rippling through the Northern Water Tribe.

It was her appearance.

The infant's hair—which had been a shock of traditional, ink-black when she was born—had been entirely, impossibly drained of its color.

In its place was a radiant, luminescent white.

Not the sharp, glacial white of her older sister. This white was soft. Warm. It glowed like moonlight reflecting off calm water, pure and gentle and impossibly beautiful. It was the white of something sacred.

The elders—the very same men who had huddled in shadowed alcoves just one year prior to whisper fearfully about (___)'s unnatural hair—fell to their knees the moment they saw the younger princess.

They wept.

Because this white was not an anomaly. It was not a curse, or an omen, or a warning.

It was a blessing. A divine signature left by the Moon Spirit itself.

"Tui has touched her," one of the elders choked out, his gnarled hands pressed reverently to the floor. "The Moon Spirit gave her life. She is sacred."

Arnook, holding his second daughter close, looked down at her peaceful, sleeping face and felt his heart splinter in two entirely different directions.

He named her Yue. For the moon that had saved her.

From that single night onward, the dichotomy between the two sisters was forever cemented in the minds of the Northern Water Tribe.

They were both princesses of the North. They were born barely a year apart. They both bore crowns of stark, arresting white hair that set them apart from every other child in Agna Qel'a.

But the tribe looked at them and saw entirely different universes.

The visual contrast between the girls as they grew side-by-side in the royal nursery was poetic and absolute.

(___)'s white hair was the color of a blizzard—cool, severe, and threaded with the icy-blue shadow of a glacier's ancient core. It caught the light and reflected it back sharp and unforgiving, like sunlight glinting off a blade. It was a harsh, arresting beauty that made people unconsciously take a step back, as if getting too close might result in frostbite.

Yue's white hair was the color of a full moon reflecting on a calm ocean—pure, warm, and luminously soft. It seemed to glow from within, casting a gentle halo around her cherubic face. It was an inviting, comforting beauty that made people want to step closer, to bask in its light and warmth.

But the social contrast between them was even more profound.

Yue was universally, instantaneously beloved.

To the fiercely traditional and deeply superstitious people of Agna Qel'a, Yue was not just a princess. She was a miracle. A living, breathing blessing walking among them. Courtiers smiled indulgently when she babbled nonsense at them. The palace guards would crouch down to her level and let her "inspect" their spears, laughing when she declared them "very pointy." The elder women would coo over her, stroking her moonlit hair with reverent hands and whispering prayers of gratitude to Tui.

She was the Moon's child. And the Moon's child could do no wrong.

Because (___) and Yue were so close in age—barely thirteen months apart—they were raised together, dressed in matching silk robes, and constantly, constantly compared.

And (___), sharp and observant even as a toddler, noticed everything.

She noticed the way the palace guards would instantly lower their spears and break into warm, genuine smiles when the nursemaids brought Yue into the courtyards for fresh air—but would stiffen almost imperceptibly, their shoulders going rigid and their expressions turning carefully neutral, when (___) toddled past.

She noticed how the elder women would reach out without hesitation to stroke Yue's soft, warm little hands, exclaiming over how precious she was—but would offer the firstborn only polite, tightly-lipped smiles, their hands carefully tucked into their sleeves to avoid physical contact with the older princess whose touch was always strangely, uncomfortably cold.

She noticed how the servants would linger in Yue's presence, finding excuses to stay and play with her, to make her laugh—but would finish their tasks in (___)'s room as quickly as possible and leave without meeting her eyes.

Even as a young child, barely old enough to string full sentences together, the message the tribe sent was loud, painfully clear, and impossible to ignore:

Yue's white hair is a blessing.

(___)'s white hair is a warning.

But rather than breed resentment, bitterness, or jealousy—emotions that would have been entirely justified and heartbreakingly understandable—this stark, undeniable difference only ignited something else in the slightly older sister.

A fierce, overwhelming, all-consuming surge of protective instinct.

(___) did not hate Yue for the love she received. She did not resent her for being the Moon's chosen child, for being universally adored, for being everything she was not.

Instead, (___) loved Yue with the exact same totality that everyone else did.

She loved her fiercely.

Whenever they played together on the thick polar-bear furs of the nursery floor, (___) was hyper-vigilant in a way that seemed far too intense for a toddler. If the room grew too warm and Yue started to fuss, (___) would instinctively, unconsciously chill the air around them until her baby sister settled. If a courtier entered the nursery and spoke too loudly, startling Yue into tears, a two-year-old (___) would immediately place herself squarely between the adult and her sister, fixing them with an icy, unyielding glare so unnervingly cold that grown men would stammer apologies and back out of the room with their heads bowed.

"She's so protective," one of the nursemaids whispered to another, watching as (___) carefully tucked a blanket around a napping Yue with all the seriousness of a seasoned healer. "It's almost... unsettling. She's barely two years old."

"It's because she knows," the other replied quietly, her eyes sad. "She knows the tribe loves Yue more. So she's decided to love her most."

To the tribe, Yue was the Moon—soft, fragile, radiant, and sacred. A treasure meant to be admired, cherished, and protected by all.

And (___)—the girl born of the deep winter, the child whose first breath had frozen a room, the heir whose white hair was a mystery rather than a miracle—silently, solemnly decided that she would be the sweeping, unyielding glacier that stood between her sister and the rest of the world.

Even if it meant she would always stand in shadow.

Even if it meant she would always be feared.

Even if it meant she would freeze herself solid before she let anyone hurt the only person who smiled at her the same way the tribe smiled at everyone else.

My sister, (___) thought, curling protectively around a sleeping Yue on the nursery floor, frost blooming unconsciously across the furs beneath her small hands. My moon. I keep you safe.

And she would.

No matter what it cost her.

Let me know in the replies or asks if you want to be added to the taglist!!

[morilikemidori]

.˚❄️˖࿔ ࣪ 🧊˚ MY MOON, MY MAN | sokka

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sokka x icebender!reader | enemies to lovers story

❄️🧊─── THERE IS A SPECIFIC, SUFFOCATING EXHAUSTION that comes from despising someone with every fiber of your being. It requires an agonizing amount of attention—a full-time occupation of the mind and senses. To truly loathe someone, you must memorize the exact cadence of their footsteps so you can brace yourself for their arrival. You must catalog their every flaw with the ruthless precision of a scholar, arming yourself for the next inevitable argument. You must watch their mouth when they speak—study the shape of it, the curl of their lip, the precise timbre of their voice—so you can meticulously tear apart whatever foolish thing they are about to say before the words have even finished leaving their tongue. It is a terrifying, all-consuming fixation that mimics the mechanics of obsession so perfectly that the proud—and the terrified—often confuse the two.

                    For Princess (___) of the Northern Water Tribe, hatred was a survival mechanism woven into sea-silk and frost. She was born an architect of absolute zero, a girl cursed with white hair and hands that could kill, who kept her volatile, catastrophic power locked beneath watertight sealskin gloves and an impenetrable mask of high-society perfection. Control was not a choice—it was her religion. Perfection was not vanity—it was armor. And Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe was a walking, talking assault on everything she had painstakingly built to keep herself from fracturing.

                    He was a barbarian. Loud, unrefined, and perpetually tracking Earth Kingdom mud onto her priceless silk skirts. He chewed with his mouth open. He smelled of wet polar bear-dog and seal jerky. He had the audacity—the unmitigated gall—to expect her, a princess, a countess in exile, a prodigy of the ancient North, to pitch tents in the dirt as if she were a common scullery maid. He possessed no title, no formal education, no decorum, and absolutely no respect for the fragile, immaculate hierarchy that kept her from shattering into a thousand frozen shards.

                    If the Spirits themselves descended from the heavens and offered her a choice between kissing the Southern peasant or severing her own tongue with a silver blade, (___) would reach for the knife without hesitation. To kiss Sokka would be a degradation of her royal bloodline, a betrayal of every lesson her father ever beat into her about composure and propriety and keeping the monster inside her locked away. She would genuinely rather sever her tongue completely—cut it out, spit it into the snow, and let it freeze there as a testament to her integrity—than ever let it be known that this infuriating, insufferable peasant boy makes her blood burn. 

                    To ever let his calloused, dirt-smudged hands touch her would be an unthinkable kind of poison.

                    Sokka, for his part, found the very air she breathed to be insufferable.

                    If there was anything Sokka hated more than Fire Nation imperialism, it was the blinding, suffocating entitlement of Northern aristocracy—and (___) was its living, breathing embodiment. She was a pampered, demanding primadonna who treated a global war like a personal inconvenience. While he was rationing dried meat, sharpening his boomerang, and mapping out evasion tactics to keep his family alive, she was having a full-scale theatrical meltdown because the humidity threatened her elaborate updo. She looked down her aristocratic nose at him as if he were a stain on her boots, a smudge on her spotless reputation, something to be scraped off and forgotten.

                    He would genuinely rather hurl himself onto a Fire Navy spear—let them run him through and mount his head on a pike—than ever let his lips brush hers. Kissing the Ice Queen would be like kissing a glacier: freezing, fatal, and entirely devoid of warmth. It would be a surrender he could never take back.

                    They were entirely, fundamentally incompatible. Two opposing forces designed by the universe to repel one another with the same magnetic certainty as fire and ice, oil and water, North and South.

                    But there was a ghost walking between them, casting long, silver shadows over their screaming matches and stolen glances and the electric, furious space neither of them dared to cross.

                    They had both loved Yue.

                    And when the Moon Spirit claimed her—when she dissolved into light and left the mortal world behind—it carved out the exact same hollow, ragged shape in both of their chests. Two eldest siblings, crushed under the unbearable weight of their respective duties, drowning in a grief so vast and wordless they possessed no vocabulary to express it. They did not know how to comfort each other. They did not even know if comfort was allowed.

                    So, they fought.

                    They fought because the anger was loud enough to drown out the silence Yue left behind. The proper way to skin a badger-frog, the unbearable scent of her expensive jasmine perfume, the mud he intentionally tracked onto her hems. They fought because bickering over the campfire about the proper way to pitch a tent gave them something to do with their hands, something to focus on besides the empty space where she used to be. They fought because vexation cultivates proximity, and proximity cultivates observation, and observation—when left unchecked, when nurtured by sleepless nights and battle-worn adrenaline and the maddening awareness of someone else's existence—cultivates something far more dangerous than hate.

                    Sokka is the absolute bane of her existence, and yet he occupies every single one of her waking thoughts. (___) glares at his lips while telling him he is an uncultured brute, and finds herself wondering—just for a traitorous, horrifying second—what they would taste like. Sokka finds his eyes tracking the elegant, infuriating line of her throat while calling her a high-maintenance nightmare, and hates himself for noticing the way her pulse jumps when he gets too close.

                    They weren't pushing each other away. They were just looking for an excuse to get closer.

❄️🧊─── DISCLAIMER, I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender, its plot, characters, or world. All rights belong to Michael Dante DiMartino, Bryan Konietzko, and Nickelodeon. However, Princess (___), Duchess, and all original characters, along with deviations from the original storyline, are products of my imagination. 

❄️🧊─── CONTENT WARNINGS: This fanfiction contains mature themes and potentially triggering content, including but not limited to grief & loss (This story deals heavily with the death of Princess Yue and the lasting trauma it leaves on both Sokka and (___). Expect emotional processing, survivor's guilt, and characters learning to heal.), panic attacks& anxiety((___)'s powers are directly tied to her emotional state. There will be scenes depicting panic attacks, dissociation, and trauma responses.) themes of emotional repression ((___)'s coping mechanisms involve extreme perfectionism, people-pleasing, and self-isolation as survival tactics) & canon typical violence. 

❄️🧊─── SLOW BURN ROMANCE: If you're here for immediate romance, this might test your patience. These two will bicker, deny, and catastrophically pine for a LONG time before they get their act together.

❄️🧊─── REGARDING SUKI: Let me be crystal clear: there is NO love triangle in this fic. Suki is a mature, emotionally intelligent queen who will NOT be pitted against (___) for Sokka's affection. This is not a "who will he choose?" story. Suki and Sokka's past relationship will be addressed with the respect it deserves. Her feelings will be acknowledged, but Suki recognizes when someone's heart has moved on—and she handles it with grace, not jealousy. She and (___) will develop a genuine friendship built on mutual respect. Suki is a Kyoshi Warrior with her own path, and she has far better things to do than fight another woman for Sokka's attention. Suki is a girl's girl. She will NOT be villainized, dismissed, or reduced to a petty rival. If that's what you're expecting, this isn't the fic for you. WE LOVE SUKI IN THIS HOUSE. 

❄️🧊 ─── RATING: This story is rated M/Mature (17+) for thematic content, emotional intensity, and romantic/physical intimacy (fade-to-black/no further than foreplay), though there is no explicit sexual content or graphic violence beyond what is canon-typical for ATLA.

❄️🧊 ─── AUTHOR'S NOTE:  I have decided to write a Sokka-centric romance because my boy needs MORE LOVE. Don't get me wrong—no shade to the Zuko truthers out there (because yes, he is fine SHIT. Btw, go check out my Zuko fic if you're new here!), but that fic bandwagon is already overflowing.  It's time to give the Southern Water Tribe's finest warrior his time to shine. 

Just a heads up, (___) will keep her white hair as that ties to her powers and she will still have her brown skin. In the Avatar universe, the Water Tribes are deeply inspired by Inuit and Indigenous cultures, so it just feels a bit problematic to erase that. 

❄️🧊─── CHARACTER INSPO: if you haven't already figured it out yet, YESS, Princess (___) is heavily inspired by the ICONIC queen Elsa from Frozen ٩(⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)و*̣̩⋆̩*. I couldn't spare the opportunity because it's so PERFECT for (___)'s character. And her personality is heavily inspired by all the Diva characters in our media. Heavy on Rarity. Yes, (___) is going to be a DIVA. She is absolutely the type of character that someone like Sokka would despise, lmao. 

❄️🧊─── ADDITIONAL NOTE: (___) will have a brief, mortifying crush on Zuko that evaporates the second she realizes he has the social skills of a startled turtle-duck. It will be hilarious. Sokka will be insufferably jealous.  You're welcome. •⩊• ......And it's also basically a gag to make fun of the Fire and Ice/Water trope that people love to do, lmao. Because (___) would think that it's "soooo poetic" that they happened to meet. 

ALSO Yue will be 15 instead of 16 in this fic. Meanwhile (___) will be 16 years old. I just believe that it would make the most sense if Xue were the older sister. And I don't wanna make them twins because it's just too cliche and for her to have Yue's face and dating Sokka....yeah no. 

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy Princess (___)'s journey.

Let me know in the replies or asks if you want to be added to the taglist!!

[mariiee568]

Someone PLEASE write for adult zuko

he looks too good in the movie

[ashcremated]

shhhh theyre sleeby 🤏🤏

[writingdose]

“oh. oh” in writing is a treasure. I will never stop using it and cherishing it.

[writingdose]

things I won’t let ai take away from human writers

em dash

“not x, not y, but z”

short sentence stacking as a stylistic choice

none of these belong to ai. these are all what human writers have been writing since day one, way before ai was invented. ai was trained to mimic how human writers write — so em dash, not x not y but z and short sentence stacking would never have been used by ai at all if ai hadn’t learned and mimicked them from human writers.

no, you are not “fighting against ai” by accusing every work that has em dash, not x not y but z or short sentence stacking in it as ai-generated, you are helping ai harm the writing community by engaging in witch hunt and scaring human writers away from creating/sharing their works for fear of being wrongly accused of using ai.

speculations, accusations and ai witch hunt harm the writing community as much as ai does, if not more.

[morilikemidori]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 💥⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ SOMETHING LIKE SPITE | k.bakugo

↳ table of contents + ao3 link

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SYPNOSIS. Bakugou spends a grueling week respecting your boundaries, culminating in a single cup of coffee that proves he's actually been paying attention. But just as you're trying to ignore the weird, unfamiliar feeling in your chest, fate steps in and pairs you up for the Hero Ethics midterm. You have three weeks to analyze a moral dilemma, and Bakugou has three weeks to prove he isn't just performing. Let the library study dates begin.

TROPES: College AU, 10 Things I Hate About You inspired, Bet Trope, Enemies to Lovers, OC has a backbone

TAGS: yamada really said let me play matchmaker real quick, the bar is on the floor but bakugo is finally picking it up, kirishima being the best bro as usual, forced proximity my beloved, they both stared at their ceilings over each other, kendo is the MVP of group 7, kaminari counting down the weeks is so menacing, the slow burn is actually burning right now, iced americano large no sugar, 30 percent of your grade relies on your enemy to lovers arc

WC: 6.1K words

The Opening

The thing about giving someone space is that it's harder than it sounds.

Especially when that someone is everywhere.

Monday morning. 7:23 AM.

Bakugou was walking across campus to his first class when he saw you.

You were at one of the outdoor tables near the science building, alone as always, hunched over your laptop with a coffee cup next to you that was probably already cold. Your headphones were on. Your bag was slung over the back of your chair.

You looked exactly like you had every other time he'd seen you.

Tired. Focused. Untouchable.

His feet slowed.

Not stopping. Just... slowing.

Every instinct he had was screaming at him to walk over there. To say something. To try again, because maybe today would be different. Maybe today you'd actually listen.

But he'd made a promise.

To himself. To Kirishima. To the part of his brain that still had some sense of self-preservation.

He'd give you space.

So he kept walking.

Didn't look back.

Didn't let himself think about the fact that you probably hadn't even noticed he was there.

His phone buzzed.

Kirishima: proud of you man

Bakugou: for what

Kirishima: saw you walk past her just now

Kirishima: you didn't stop

Bakugou: ...were you watching me?

Kirishima: I'm in the science building. saw you through the window.

Kirishima: point is: good job. keep it up.

Bakugou shoved his phone back in his pocket without responding.

Good job.

Like he deserved a medal for basic human decency.

For respecting someone's clearly stated boundaries.

The bar was on the floor.

Tuesday. 2:47 PM.

The library.

Bakugou had work to do. Legitimate work. A paper due next week that he actually needed to research.

The fact that he knew you'd be on the third floor, in your usual spot, at this exact time?

Irrelevant.

He took the stairs two at a time, telling himself he was just going to his usual table. The one in the back corner. Far away from you.

He wasn't going to look.

Wasn't going to check if you were there.

Wasn't going to—

You were there.

Of course you were there.

Same table. Same corner. Same oversized hoodie and the same exhausted slump to your shoulders.

Bakugou's hands tightened on his bag strap.

He could sit at his usual table. It had a clear line of sight to yours. He'd be able to see you without it being obvious.

Or he could sit somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere that didn't give him a view of you at all.

The smart choice was obvious.

He sat at a table on the opposite side of the floor.

Facing away from you.

His back to your corner.

He pulled out his laptop. Opened his research. Started reading.

Made it exactly twelve minutes before he turned around.

Just a glance. Just to—

You were gone.

Your table was empty.

Bakugou's chest tightened in a way that was completely irrational and entirely unwelcome.

Where had you—

He spotted you at the water fountain near the stairwell. Refilling your bottle. You looked half-asleep, swaying slightly on your feet like you'd been sitting too long and forgotten how to stand.

As he watched, you finished filling your bottle, capped it, and turned to head back to your table.

Your eyes swept over the floor.

Landed on him.

For a split second, your expression shifted.

Not surprise. Not anger.

Just... recognition.

And maybe—maybe—something that looked like confusion.

Then you looked away and walked back to your table.

Sat down.

Put your headphones back on.

Like nothing had happened.

Bakugou turned back to his laptop.

Stared at the screen without reading a single word.

You'd noticed.

You'd noticed he wasn't in his usual spot.

You'd noticed he was sitting somewhere else.

Somewhere that didn't give him a view of you.

And for just a second, you'd looked... confused.

Like you'd expected him to be watching.

Like the absence of his attention was strange.

Bakugou's jaw clenched.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

Wednesday. 6:15 PM.

Training gym. Off-hours.

Bakugou pushed through the doors to Gym C, his bag slung over his shoulder, ready for his usual evening session.

The space was empty.

Completely empty.

No you.

He stopped in the doorway, scanning the room like you might be hiding behind equipment.

You weren't.

You always trained here on Wednesdays. Always. He'd confirmed it three times over the past two weeks.

But tonight, you weren't here.

Bakugou stood there for a solid thirty seconds, processing.

Then he pulled out his phone.

Opened the note where he'd been tracking your schedule.

Wednesdays: Gym C, 6:00-7:30 PM

It was right there. In his own handwriting.

Except you weren't here.

Which meant either:

A) You'd changed your schedule.

B) You'd skipped training tonight.

Or C) You'd figured out he knew your schedule and deliberately went somewhere else.

Bakugou closed the note.

Deleted it.

The whole thing. Every observation. Every pattern he'd documented.

It felt wrong now.

Invasive.

Like exactly the kind of thing someone who was stalking you would do.

He dropped his bag and started his warm-up.

Alone.

The gym felt bigger without you in it.

Quieter.

He hated that he noticed.

Thursday. 8:32 AM.

Campus coffee shop.

Bakugou was in line, half-awake, waiting for his usual black coffee that would make the morning slightly more tolerable.

The line was long. Thursday mornings always were.

He was scrolling through his phone, barely paying attention, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Iced americano. Large. No sugar."

His head snapped up.

You were three people ahead of him in line.

Same hoodie. Same tired expression. Same everything.

You paid. Moved to the pickup area.

Bakugou's brain went into autopilot.

He could say something. Just a casual greeting. Nothing intense. Just—

No.

Space.

He'd promised.

You grabbed your drink when it was ready.

Turned toward the door.

Walked right past him.

Your eyes flicked to his face for a fraction of a second.

Then away.

No acknowledgment. No reaction.

Just... awareness.

You knew he was there.

You'd seen him.

And you'd chosen not to engage.

The barista called his name.

Bakugou grabbed his coffee and left.

By the time he made it outside, you were already gone.

Friday. 12:47 PM.

Cafeteria.

Bakugou was sitting with Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, and Mina at their usual table near the windows.

Kaminari was in the middle of some story about a training disaster. Mina was laughing. Kirishima was shaking his head.

Bakugou wasn't listening.

His eyes kept drifting to the windows.

To the outdoor tables.

To you.

You were out there again. Alone. Eating something that looked like convenience store food while working on your laptop.

You looked... the same.

Tired. Isolated. Completely absorbed in whatever you were doing.

"—right, Bakugou?"

Bakugou's attention snapped back to the table.

Kaminari was grinning at him. "I said, you've been way less murdery this week. It's weird. Did you finally give up on the impossible girl?"

"She's not impossible," Bakugou said automatically.

"Oh, so you didn't give up."

"I didn't say that."

"You also didn't say you did." Kaminari's grin widened. "What's the plan? More lurking? More getting destroyed in public?"

"There's no plan."

"Bullshit."

"I'm giving her space," Bakugou said, his voice flat. "Like you all said I should."

The table went quiet.

Kirishima looked genuinely surprised. "You're... actually listening to us?"

"Don't sound so shocked."

"I am shocked. You never listen to us."

"I listen when it matters."

Mina leaned forward, her expression curious. "So what, you're just... done? Moving on?"

"I didn't say that either."

"Then what are you doing?" Sero asked.

Bakugou took a sip of his water. "Waiting."

"For what?"

"For an opening."

Kaminari laughed. "Dude, she's not gonna just change her mind. People don't work like that."

"I know."

"Then what's the plan?"

"There is no plan." Bakugou set his cup down harder than necessary. "I'm just... not chasing her anymore. If something happens, it happens. If it doesn't, it doesn't."

It was a lie.

But it sounded convincing enough that his friends seemed to buy it.

Mina was still watching him with that too-knowing expression. "You really like her, huh?"

"I don't even know her."

"That's not what I asked."

Bakugou didn't respond.

Just turned his attention back to his food.

Tried very hard not to look out the window at you.

Failed.

Saturday. 10:15 AM.

Bakugou was in his dorm room, supposedly doing homework.

Actually staring at his laptop screen without reading a single word.

It had been almost a week since the library confrontation.

Almost a week of deliberately not approaching you.

Not sitting next to you in ethics class.

Not showing up at the gym when you'd be there.

Not positioning himself in your line of sight.

Just... existing in the same spaces without forcing interaction.

And it was killing him.

Not because he needed your attention.

But because the absence of it—the complete and total lack of acknowledgment—was somehow worse than your active rejection.

At least when you were telling him to fuck off, you were looking at him.

Now you weren't even doing that.

His phone buzzed.

Kaminari: week 2 check-in

Kaminari: how's operation give her space going?

Bakugou: fine

Kaminari: liar

Kaminari: Kirishima said you've been sulking all week

Bakugou: I don't sulk

Kaminari: you absolutely sulk

Kaminari: also you're running out of time

Kaminari: 6 weeks left

Kaminari: at this rate you're gonna lose the bet without even trying

Bakugou stared at the message.

The bet.

He'd almost forgotten about the actual bet.

About Kaminari's stupid challenge.

About the fact that this whole thing had started because his ego couldn't handle the suggestion that someone wouldn't like him.

It felt like a million years ago.

Now it wasn't about the bet.

It wasn't even about proving he could make you like him.

It was about...

What?

Understanding you?

Proving he was different?

Showing you that not everyone would hurt you?

All of the above?

None of the above?

He didn't know anymore.

Bakugou: I'm not losing

Kaminari: prove it

Kaminari: do something

Kaminari: anything

Bakugou: I'm not doing nothing

Bakugou: I'm waiting for the right moment

Kaminari: the right moment for what?

Bakugou stared at the question.

Didn't have an answer.

Just closed the chat and threw his phone onto his bed.

Sunday. 3:42 PM.

Library. Third floor.

Bakugou told himself he was here to study.

And he was.

He had a textbook open. Notes spread out. Everything he needed to actually be productive.

He just happened to be sitting at a table that gave him a partial view of your corner.

Not direct. Just... peripheral.

He could see the edge of your table. The corner of your laptop screen. The curve of your shoulder when you leaned forward.

That was it.

He wasn't staring.

Wasn't watching.

Just... aware.

You'd been here for two hours. Hadn't moved except to stretch once and refill your water bottle.

Your coffee cup had been empty for at least forty-five minutes.

Bakugou found himself standing up.

Walking to the coffee station on the second floor.

Ordering an iced americano. Large. No sugar.

The barista gave him a weird look—everyone knew he only drank black coffee, hot, no exceptions—but made it anyway.

Bakugou took the cup.

Stared at it.

What the hell was he doing?

He couldn't just walk over and give this to you.

That would be weird.

Pushy.

Exactly the kind of thing he'd promised not to do.

But you needed coffee.

And you clearly weren't going to get it yourself.

And—

He was making excuses.

He knew he was making excuses.

But he walked back up to the third floor anyway.

Approached your table.

Your back was to him. Headphones on. Completely absorbed.

He could just leave it.

Set it down and walk away before you even noticed.

That would be... fine, right?

Not pushy. Just... helpful.

He set the cup down on the edge of your table.

Carefully. Quietly.

Then turned and walked away before you could look up.

Made it three steps before he heard:

"What the fuck?"

He stopped.

Turned around.

You'd pulled off your headphones. Were staring at the coffee cup like it had personally offended you.

Then your eyes lifted.

Met his.

For the first time in a week, you were actually looking at him.

Really looking.

"Did you—" You stopped. Started again. "Why?"

Bakugou shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. "You looked like you needed it."

"I didn't ask for it."

"I know."

"So why—"

"Because your cup's been empty for an hour and you're not gonna get up and refill it yourself." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Don't read into it."

You stared at him.

Then at the coffee.

Then back at him.

"I don't want your fucking charity," you said.

"It's not charity. It's coffee."

"I don't want your coffee."

"Then throw it away." Bakugou turned and walked back to his table. "Or don't. I don't care."

He sat down. Pulled his textbook closer. Pretended to read.

He could feel your eyes on him.

Could practically hear the wheels turning in your head, trying to figure out what angle he was playing.

What he wanted in return.

After a solid minute of silence, he heard the scrape of your chair.

Footsteps.

He didn't look up.

The coffee cup landed on his table with a soft thunk.

"I don't need anything from you," you said.

Your voice was flat. Cold.

But not as cold as it had been before.

Bakugou looked up at you.

You were standing there, arms crossed, that familiar wall firmly in place.

But your eyes...

There was something different in your eyes.

Not warmth. Not even close.

But maybe... curiosity?

Confusion?

Like you were trying to figure him out and coming up empty.

"Noted," Bakugou said.

He picked up the coffee cup.

Took a sip.

It was disgusting. Way too bitter, no sugar, not his preference at all.

He took another sip anyway.

Your jaw tightened.

"You're not gonna give up, are you?" you asked.

"I'm not doing anything."

"Bullshit. This—" You gestured to the coffee. "This is something."

"It's coffee. People buy each other coffee all the time."

"People who are friends buy each other coffee. We're not friends."

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Because you looked like you needed it," Bakugou repeated. "That's it. No ulterior motive. No expectation of gratitude. Just... coffee."

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then shook your head.

"You're exhausting," you said.

But this time, it didn't sound like an insult.

It sounded like resignation.

You walked back to your table.

Sat down.

Put your headphones back on.

Bakugou waited.

Five minutes passed.

Then you stood up.

Walked to the coffee station downstairs.

Came back with your own iced americano.

Set it on your table.

Took a sip.

Went back to work.

You didn't look at him.

Didn't acknowledge him.

But you'd accepted the coffee.

In your own way.

By getting your own.

It was the smallest victory imaginable.

But it felt like progress.

Bakugou turned back to his textbook.

Tried very hard not to smile.

Third Floor Library, 4:17 PM

You stared at your laptop screen without seeing it.

The coffee cup sat next to you, condensation dripping down the sides.

He'd bought you coffee.

Bakugou fucking Katsuki had bought you coffee.

And not just any coffee.

Your coffee.

Iced americano. Large. No sugar.

Exactly how you took it.

Which meant he'd noticed.

Which meant he'd been paying attention.

Which meant—

You took a sip, forcing yourself to focus on the research paper you were supposed to be working on.

It didn't mean anything.

It was just coffee.

People bought each other coffee all the time.

Except you weren't people.

You were you.

And he was the guy you'd explicitly told to leave you alone.

Multiple times.

In multiple ways.

And he'd listened.

For a whole week, he'd actually listened.

No more sitting next to you in class.

No more showing up at the gym.

No more lurking in the library.

He'd given you space.

Exactly like you'd demanded.

And it had been...

Fine.

Good, even.

Exactly what you wanted.

Except.

Except you'd noticed when he stopped.

Noticed when he wasn't in his usual spot in the library.

Noticed when he walked past you in the coffee shop without saying anything.

Noticed the absence of his attention in a way that made you deeply uncomfortable.

Because you weren't supposed to notice.

Weren't supposed to care.

Weren't supposed to feel anything at all about Bakugou Katsuki and his stupid inability to take a hint.

But apparently, somewhere between the party and now, your brain had gotten used to him being there.

Being a presence.

Being... something.

And now that he wasn't—now that he'd actually backed off—

It felt weird.

You hated that it felt weird.

Hated that you'd looked for him this week.

Hated that when you saw him at the coffee shop, part of you had almost been... relieved?

No.

Absolutely not.

You took another sip of coffee.

It was good.

Exactly how you liked it.

Which was irrelevant.

Completely irrelevant.

You weren't going to think about this.

Weren't going to analyze it.

Weren't going to give him the satisfaction of getting in your head.

You'd accepted the coffee—your own coffee, that you'd bought yourself—because you needed caffeine.

Not because of him.

Not because some small, stupid part of you appreciated that he'd noticed what you drank.

Not because he'd listened when you told him to back off.

Not because he'd given you space without making a big deal about it.

Not because—

Your phone buzzed.

Kendo: hey! want to grab dinner later?

You stared at the message.

Then at your coffee.

Then at Bakugou's table across the room.

He wasn't looking at you.

Was completely absorbed in whatever he was reading.

Like he'd already forgotten the coffee thing happened.

Like it didn't matter.

Which it didn't.

Obviously.

You: yeah sure

You: 6?

Kendo: perfect!

You put your phone down.

Went back to your paper.

Took another sip of coffee.

And absolutely did not think about the fact that Bakugou Katsuki had remembered how you took your coffee.

Absolutely not.

Monday morning arrived with the kind of aggressive cheerfulness that made you want to commit violence.

The sun was too bright. The birds were too loud. And you'd slept maybe four hours total, which meant your tolerance for bullshit was at an all-time low.

You stumbled into Hero Ethics at 2:57 PM, three minutes before class started, which was later than you usually showed up but still earlier than most people.

The lecture hall was filling up. Students chatting, laughing, settling into their usual spots.

You headed for your table. Middle-left section. Third row.

Alone.

As always.

You dropped into your seat, pulled out your laptop, and put your headphones on before anyone could get the bright idea to try to talk to you.

The weekend had been... fine.

Normal.

You'd done homework. Trained. Avoided people.

Standard operating procedure.

You absolutely had not thought about the coffee thing.

Had not replayed the conversation in your head multiple times.

Had not noticed that Bakugou had kept his distance all weekend, true to his word.

Nope.

None of that.

You were fine.

You opened your laptop and pulled up your notes from last week, determined to focus on literally anything other than—

Someone dropped into the seat next to you.

You didn't look up.

Probably just someone who didn't know this was your spot. They'd figure it out soon enough when you didn't acknowledge their existence.

"Hey."

You knew that voice.

Fuck.

You pulled off one headphone, turning slowly.

Bakugou was sitting next to you.

Not in his usual spot in the back.

Next to you.

In the seat he'd occupied exactly once before, during that disastrous partner discussion two weeks ago.

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice flat.

"Sitting."

"I can see that. Why here?"

He shrugged, pulling out his own laptop. "Felt like a change."

"Bullshit."

"Believe what you want."

You stared at him.

He wasn't looking at you. Was setting up his laptop, pulling up his notes, acting like this was completely normal.

Like he hadn't spent the last week giving you space.

Like he hadn't very deliberately stayed away.

"You sat in the back last week," you said.

"I did."

"So why—"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah, actually. It does."

He finally looked at you, and his expression was maddeningly neutral. "You want me to move?"

Yes.

Obviously yes.

That's what you should say.

But something stopped you.

Maybe it was the fact that he was asking instead of assuming.

Maybe it was the way he'd actually respected your boundaries all week.

Maybe it was the stupid coffee thing that you were absolutely not thinking about.

Or maybe you were just too tired to fight about it.

"Do whatever you want," you said finally, putting your headphone back on. "Just don't expect me to talk to you."

"Wasn't planning on it."

You turned back to your laptop.

Tried to focus on your notes.

Failed.

Because you were acutely aware of him sitting less than a foot away.

The way he typed—fast, aggressive, like he was personally offended by his keyboard.

The way he shifted in his seat, restless energy barely contained.

The way he smelled—weirdly clean, like soap and something sharp you couldn't quite identify.

You hated that you noticed.

Hated that your brain was cataloging details about him instead of focusing on class.

Professor Yamada swept into the room at exactly 3:00, his usual manic energy filling the space.

"Good afternoon, future heroes!" he announced, dropping his bag on the desk with a dramatic flourish. "I hope you all had a restful weekend, because you're about to hate me."

A few nervous laughs scattered through the lecture hall.

You pulled off your headphones, already dreading whatever fresh hell Yamada was about to unleash.

"We're going to talk about something fun today," Yamada continued, pacing at the front of the room. "Group projects!"

Collective groaning.

You felt your stomach drop.

No.

Absolutely not.

"I know, I know," Yamada said, grinning like he was thoroughly enjoying their suffering. "But collaborative work is essential for heroes. You need to learn how to work with people you might not choose. People who have different approaches, different philosophies, different—"

"Can we work alone?" someone called out.

"No!" Yamada's grin widened. "That defeats the entire purpose. This is a group project. Four to five people per group. Worth thirty percent of your final grade."

Fuck.

Thirty percent.

You couldn't afford to tank thirty percent of your grade just because you didn't want to work with people.

"The project," Yamada continued, pulling up a slide on the projector, "is a comprehensive analysis of a major ethical dilemma in hero history. You'll research the incident, analyze the decisions made, present alternative approaches, and defend your conclusions. Think of it as a moral autopsy."

He started listing examples. The Hosu Incident. The Kamino Raid. Various high-profile cases where heroes had to make impossible choices.

"You have three weeks," Yamada said. "Presentations will be in class. Twenty minutes per group. Everyone must participate."

More groaning.

You were mentally calculating how much of the work you could do yourself. Probably all of it, if you were being honest. You'd done it before.

"Now," Yamada said, pulling out his tablet. "I'm going to assign groups randomly."

Your heart sank.

Random groups were the worst.

At least if you could choose, you could pick people who'd stay out of your way.

Random meant you could end up with anyone.

"Group One," Yamada read off his tablet. "Midoriya, Todoroki, Iida, Uraraka."

The announced groups continued. You tuned out, already resigned to whatever fresh hell you were about to be assigned to.

"Group Seven," Yamada said. "Kendo, Monoma, Tsunotori, (L/N)..."

You perked up slightly.

Kendo was tolerable. You could work with Kendo.

"...and we need one more to even out the numbers." Yamada scrolled through his tablet, frowning. "Ah. Bakugou, you're in Group Seven."

No.

No no no no—

You turned to look at Bakugou.

He was already looking at you.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Just stared at each other in mutual... what? Horror? Resignation?

You couldn't quite read his expression.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," you muttered.

Yamada was still talking, explaining the project requirements, the grading rubric, the timeline.

You weren't listening.

Your brain was too busy short-circuiting.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of forced proximity.

Three weeks of having to actually interact with Bakugou Katsuki.

This was a nightmare.

"Alright!" Yamada clapped his hands. "Take the last thirty minutes of class to meet with your groups. Figure out your topic, divide up the work, exchange contact information. Go!"

The lecture hall erupted into noise as people started moving, rearranging chairs, clustering into their assigned groups.

You stayed exactly where you were.

Maybe if you didn't move, this wouldn't be real.

Maybe—

"Hey!"

Kendo appeared at the end of your row, grinning. "Group Seven, let's go! Grab those seats over there."

She pointed to a cluster of desks near the windows where Monoma and Tsunotori were already settling in.

You looked at Bakugou.

He was packing up his laptop.

"You coming?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

"Then why ask?"

He didn't answer. Just stood and headed toward the group.

You took a breath.

This was fine.

It was just a project.

Three weeks.

You could survive three weeks.

Probably.

You grabbed your bag and followed.

The group had claimed a cluster of desks near the windows. Kendo was already in full organizational mode, laptop out, pulling up a shared document.

Monoma was lounging in his chair, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

Tsunotori was smiling, friendly and earnest in a way that made you tired just looking at her.

And Bakugou...

Bakugou had taken the seat directly across from yours.

Of course he had.

"Okay!" Kendo said brightly. "So. Group project. Ethical dilemma. Any initial thoughts on what case we should analyze?"

Silence.

Monoma was scrolling through his phone.

Tsunotori looked eager to contribute but seemed to be waiting for someone else to start.

Bakugou was staring at the desk like it had personally offended him.

And you were seriously considering whether thirty percent of your grade was worth this.

"Come on, guys," Kendo tried again. "We need to at least pick a topic today."

"The Hosu Incident," you said, just to get this over with.

Everyone looked at you.

"The what?" Monoma asked, not looking up from his phone.

"The Hosu Incident. Stain. Multiple hero deaths. Massive ethical clusterfuck involving vigilantism, hero protocols, and whether the ends justify the means." You pulled up your laptop. "It's got enough complexity for a twenty-minute presentation and enough source material that we won't have to make shit up."

Kendo was nodding enthusiastically. "That's actually perfect. Good call."

"I have heard of this case," Tsunotori said, her accent thick but her Japanese clear. "It is very controversial, yes?"

"Very," you confirmed.

Bakugou still hadn't said anything.

You glanced at him.

He was watching you with that unreadable expression again.

"You have an opinion?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

"It's a good choice," he said simply.

You blinked.

No argument? No challenge? Just... agreement?

"Okay then," Kendo said, typing rapidly. "Hosu Incident it is. Now we need to divide up the work."

This was the part you'd been dreading.

Because dividing up work meant collaboration.

Meant having to actually coordinate with people.

Meant trusting that they'd do their part and not leave you scrambling at the last minute.

"I suggest we break it into sections," Kendo continued. "Background and context. Analysis of the ethical dilemma. Alternative approaches. Conclusion and defense."

"I'll take background," Monoma said, finally looking up from his phone. "Seems straightforward enough."

"I can do the alternative approaches," Tsunotori offered.

"I'll handle the conclusion," Kendo said. "Which leaves—"

"The ethical analysis," you and Bakugou said at the same time.

You both stopped.

Looked at each other.

"I'll take it," you said quickly.

"It's too much for one person," Bakugou countered.

"I can handle it."

"I didn't say you couldn't. I said it's too much."

"I work alone."

"It's a group project," he said, his voice frustratingly reasonable. "That's literally the opposite of working alone."

You opened your mouth to argue.

Kendo cut in. "He's right. The ethical analysis is the biggest section. You two should work on it together."

"I don't need—"

"It's not about what you need," Kendo said gently. "It's about what makes sense for the project. The analysis is the core of the presentation. It needs to be solid. And having two people working on it means we can cover more ground."

You wanted to argue.

Wanted to insist that you could do it yourself.

But Kendo was right.

And you hated that she was right.

"Fine," you bit out. "But I'm taking the lead."

Bakugou's jaw tightened slightly. "Fine."

"And we're splitting the research. I'm not doing your half."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"And—"

"Are you done?" he asked, his voice still maddeningly calm.

You glared at him.

He stared back, unflinching.

Kendo was watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement. "Great! So that's settled. We should probably exchange contact information. Set up times to meet."

"I'll make a group chat," Tsunotori offered, already pulling out her phone.

Within minutes, you were added to a chat labeled "Group 7 - Ethics Project."

Your phone buzzed immediately.

Tsunotori: Hello everyone! Looking forward to working together! 😊

Kendo: Same! Let's crush this project!

Monoma: can we not use emojis in the group chat

Kendo: No 😊

You didn't respond.

Just stared at the chat like it had personally betrayed you.

Another buzz.

Bakugou: when do you want to meet to start the analysis

You looked up.

Bakugou was watching you, phone in hand, waiting for a response.

The rest of the group was packing up, class officially over.

You looked back at your phone.

Typed:

You: library. tomorrow. 3pm.

Bakugou: works for me

And that was it.

You were committed.

Three weeks of working with Bakugou Katsuki.

On the most intensive part of the project.

Which meant meeting regularly.

Coordinating.

Actually communicating.

Fuck your life.

Kendo leaned over, grinning. "See? That wasn't so bad."

"It was exactly as bad as I thought it would be," you muttered, shoving your laptop into your bag.

"Oh, come on. Bakugou's not that bad."

"He's—"

You stopped.

Because what was he, exactly?

Annoying? Yes.

Persistent? Absolutely.

But... bad?

You thought about the coffee.

About the way he'd given you space when you asked.

About the way he'd just agreed to your terms without arguing.

"He's fine," you said finally. "This is fine. It's just a project."

"Exactly!" Kendo said. "Just a project. Three weeks. You'll survive."

You slung your bag over your shoulder.

Glanced over at Bakugou.

He was talking to Kirishima, who'd apparently appeared to walk him out.

As if sensing your attention, he looked up.

Your eyes met.

For a moment, neither of you looked away.

Then Kirishima said something that made Bakugou turn back, and the moment was broken.

You left without saying goodbye.

Later That Night — Your Dorm Room, 11:47 PM

You were lying in bed, staring at your ceiling, when your phone buzzed.

You almost ignored it.

But curiosity got the better of you.

Kendo: so

Kendo: you and bakugou huh

You: it's a group project

You: randomly assigned

You: not my choice

Kendo: i know i know

Kendo: but still

Kendo: you two have History

You: we don't have history

You: we have one conversation where i told him he was exhausting and he proved me right

Kendo: and yet here you are

Kendo: working together

Kendo: for three weeks

Kendo: what are the odds

You: fuck off

Kendo: 😊

Kendo: seriously though

Kendo: he's not as bad as you think

You: i don't think about him at all

Kendo: also a lie but ok

Kendo: just

Kendo: give him a chance?

Kendo: he's been actually trying

Kendo: i've noticed

You: noticed what

Kendo: that he's been leaving you alone

Kendo: all last week he didn't sit next to you in class

Kendo: didn't follow you around

Kendo: actually respected your boundaries

Kendo: that's growth

You stared at the messages.

Kendo was right.

He had backed off.

Had given you exactly what you asked for.

And then today, he'd sat next to you again, but he'd asked if you wanted him to move.

Given you the option.

Respected your answer.

You: it's still just a project

You: don't read into it

Kendo: i'm not reading into anything

Kendo: just saying

Kendo: maybe he's not who you think he is

Kendo: or maybe he is

Kendo: but you won't know unless you actually give him a chance to show you

You: this is a group project not a therapy session

Kendo: fine fine

Kendo: but seriously

Kendo: be nice

Kendo: or at least try not to murder him

You: no promises

Kendo: good enough

Kendo: night!

You dropped your phone on your nightstand.

Went back to staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow. 3 PM. Library.

First meeting with Bakugou to work on the analysis section.

Just the two of you.

For however long it took to get through the research.

This was fine.

Totally fine.

You closed your eyes.

Tried to sleep.

Tried very hard not to think about the fact that Bakugou had remembered how you took your coffee.

Or the way he'd looked at you today when Yamada announced the groups.

Or the fact that, despite everything, part of you was almost... curious?

No.

Absolutely not.

This was just a project.

Three weeks.

You could survive three weeks.

Probably.

Class A Dorms, 11:52 PM

Bakugou was also staring at his ceiling.

His phone was on his nightstand, group chat notifications muted.

He'd texted you earlier.

Simple. Direct. Professional.

Asked when you wanted to meet.

You'd responded.

Also simple. Direct. Professional.

Tomorrow. 3 PM. Library.

That was it.

No pleasantries. No small talk.

Just logistics.

Which was fine.

Good, even.

Exactly what he should want.

Except.

Except he'd been assigned to your group.

Which meant three weeks of forced proximity.

Three weeks of actually working with you.

Three weeks of having a legitimate reason to be in your orbit without it being weird or pushy.

It was the opening he'd been waiting for.

And he hadn't even had to engineer it.

His phone buzzed.

Kirishima: dude

Kirishima: you got put in her group

Kirishima: what are the fucking odds

Bakugou: random chance

Kirishima: or fate

Bakugou: don't start

Kirishima: i'm just saying

Kirishima: this is your shot

Kirishima: don't fuck it up

Bakugou: it's a group project

Bakugou: not a date

Kirishima: i know

Kirishima: but still

Kirishima: three weeks of working together

Kirishima: that's three weeks she HAS to talk to you

Kirishima: three weeks to show her you're not whatever she thinks you are

Bakugou: or three weeks for her to confirm that i'm exactly what she thinks i am

Kirishima: ...that's dark man

Kirishima: but also

Kirishima: you're not

Kirishima: you're an asshole sometimes sure

Kirishima: but you're not a bad person

Kirishima: show her that

Bakugou: how

Kirishima: i don't know

Kirishima: just

Kirishima: be yourself

Kirishima: the real you

Kirishima: not the performance

Bakugou stared at the message.

Not the performance.

That's what you'd said at the party.

That's what had started all of this.

The suggestion that everything he was—the confidence, the aggression, the loudness—was just an act.

Just noise.

And maybe it was.

Or maybe it wasn't.

He didn't know anymore.

Bakugou: yeah

Bakugou: i'll try

Kirishima: that's all you can do

Kirishima: good luck man

Kirishima: and seriously

Kirishima: don't fuck this up

Bakugou: noted

He closed the chat.

Went back to staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow. 3 PM. Library.

First real opportunity to show you he wasn't what you thought.

Or to prove you right.

One or the other.

He'd find out which soon enough.

His phone buzzed one more time.

Kaminari: DUDE

Kaminari: YOU'RE IN HER GROUP

Kaminari: THIS IS AMAZING

Kaminari: operation win her over just got a MAJOR boost

Kaminari: don't waste it

Bakugou muted Kaminari's notifications.

Closed his eyes.

Tomorrow.

Three weeks.

He could do this.

He had to do this.

Because this wasn't about the bet anymore.

This was about proving—to you, to himself, to everyone—that he was more than the noise.

More than the performance.

More than what you saw at that party.

And he had three weeks to figure out how.

Starting tomorrow.

3 PM.

Library.

Just the two of you.

Yeah.

This was either going to be the best thing that ever happened to him.

Or it was going to destroy him completely.

Probably both.

Author's Note: The thing I love most about this chapter is the absolute whiplash of giving someone exactly what they asked for (space) and them realizing they actually hate it. Bakugou is genuinely trying to do the right thing here, but the universe (and Present Mic) had other plans.

The coffee scene was so fun to write because it's such a tiny olive branch, but it proves to her that he's not just a loud, oblivious jerk. He pays attention.

Thank you for all the love on the last chapter! What was your favorite moment in this one?

TAGLIST: @misteriousgrll, @calebslittlefuckingslut, @the-magician-in-alice, @warm-gamer1121, @d3ath333, @dxkqta, @sanzuslut2, @exactlypinkbarbarian, @sternensmoothie, @lunaaraineee, @peachystea, @ratpiss01, @oh-buttercup, @1-555-damian, @sleepypurpledandelion, @bunbun812, @illiterate-moth, @gojosatorusno1, @kimchicraverr, @sur-i-ki, @nnxhhz, @vayabenson, @jakessidechick, @cherriesherry, @introm00n, @poptxrts, @hiatuch1, @istriyohei, @at-a-rax-ia, @bkgktskisblog, @shrimpy-sc, @eyesforbkg, @katszumi, @cerisescintillait, @metalblindbitch, @eirammarie0 @bonnie-tz, @hireisy, @qiqivlog, @saekii1, @theacynq69, @daqueensushi, @diangelofan599, @no-user-available-101, @cataracle, @crowwnpiece

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[morilikemidori]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 💥⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ SOMETHING LIKE SPITE | k.bakugo

↳ table of contents + ao3 link

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SYPNOSIS. After a disastrous forced partnership in ethics class and a brutal reality check in the library, Bakugou realizes that breaking down your walls isn't just about winning Kaminari's stupid bet anymore. It's about proving you wrong. But to do that, he has to stop chasing, back off, and wait for a real opening. The clock is ticking.

TROPES: College AU, 10 Things I Hate About You inspired, Bet Trope, Enemies to Lovers, OC has a backbone

TAGS: kirishima is the only one with a working moral compass right now as usual, kaminari instigating in the group chat as usual, you are so immune to his loud boy nonsense, he is literally taking notes on her like the nerd he is, he finally realizes he needs to back off and respect her boundaries, he's down so bad and she hates him lol, angst with a capital A, literally listened to “Therefore I Am” by Billie Ellish while writing this, the song is so reader coded.

WC: 5.2K words

The Ethics of Intervention

Monday morning came too fast and not fast enough.

Bakugou had spent most of Sunday night lying awake, staring at his ceiling, mentally running through every possible approach.

He could just walk up to you. Direct. Honest. No games.

Hi. We got off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?

No. Too soft. You'd see right through it.

He could try the group project angle. Find a class you shared, engineer a situation where you had to work together.

Except you'd already said you worked alone. And knowing you, you'd just do the entire project yourself and put his name on it out of spite.

He could—

His phone buzzed.

Kirishima: please tell me you're not actually going through with this

Bakugou: go to sleep

Kirishima: it's a bad idea

Kirishima: she's going to eat you alive

Bakugou: noted

Kirishima: I'm serious man. just let it go

Bakugou didn't respond.

Just turned his phone face-down and went back to staring at the ceiling.

By the time his alarm went off at 5:30, he'd made a decision.

No more recon. No more lurking. No more "accidentally" being where you were and hoping you'd notice.

If he was going to do this—actually do this—he needed to make contact.

Real contact.

The kind you couldn't ignore.

Hero Ethics Seminar. Monday, 3:00 PM.

Bakugou had checked your schedule—again, not stalking, just strategic planning—and found exactly one class you shared: Professor Yamada's Hero Ethics and Public Responsibility seminar.

It met once a week. Mondays. Three hours of discussing moral philosophy and the responsibilities that came with being a licensed hero.

Bakugou usually sat in the back. You, according to the seating chart he'd memorized, sat in the middle-left section. Alone.

Today, that was going to change.

He showed up early. Ten minutes before class started, which was unusual for him but necessary.

The lecture hall was already half-full. Students scattered across the tiered seating, most of them on their phones or laptops, killing time before class officially began.

He scanned the room.

There.

Middle-left section. Third row from the front.

You were already there, of course. Laptop open, headphones on, typing something with the kind of focused intensity that suggested you were either working ahead on the assignment or deliberately tuning out the world.

Probably both.

Bakugou's jaw tightened.

This was it.

No backing out now.

He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and started down the stairs.

A few people glanced up as he passed. Recognition. Curiosity. The usual.

He ignored them.

His focus was on you.

On the empty seat directly next to you.

He reached your row. Stopped.

You didn't look up.

Of course you didn't.

He stood there for a solid five seconds, waiting to see if you'd notice him on your own.

You didn't.

Fine.

He dropped into the seat next to you—not gently, not trying to be subtle. His bag hit the desk with a solid thunk, loud enough that the girl in front of you glanced back.

You still didn't look up.

Your fingers kept moving across the keyboard. Your expression remained neutral. Focused.

Like he wasn't there.

Bakugou pulled out his own laptop. Opened it. Pretended to be doing something productive while his entire awareness was locked on you.

You were wearing the same oversized hoodie from the gym. Your hair was pulled back in a messy bun. No makeup. The shadows under your eyes were darker than they'd been last week.

You looked tired.

And completely unaware that Bakugou Katsuki—the guy you'd verbally destroyed at a party ten days ago—was sitting less than a foot away from you.

Class started.

Professor Yamada walked in with his usual manic energy, immediately launching into a discussion about the ethics of collateral damage in hero work.

"When does the cost of saving people outweigh the benefit?" he asked the class, pacing at the front of the room. "How do we measure acceptable loss? Who gets to make that call?"

A few hands went up. The usual overachievers who always had opinions.

Bakugou wasn't listening.

He was watching you.

You'd closed whatever you were working on and opened the class notes document. Your headphones were off now, hanging around your neck. You were taking notes—actual notes, not just typing mindlessly—and your expression had shifted into something that might've been interest.

You cared about this.

About the ethics. About the philosophy.

He filed that information away.

Twenty minutes into class, Professor Yamada announced a partner discussion.

"Pair up with the person next to you," he said, already moving between the rows. "I want you to debate the scenario I just outlined. One of you argues for intervention, the other argues for restraint. Ten minutes. Go."

The room erupted into noise as students turned to their neighbors.

Bakugou turned to you.

You were staring at your laptop screen like it held the secrets of the universe.

"We're partners," Bakugou said.

You didn't move.

"For the discussion," he added, when you still didn't respond.

Your fingers stopped typing.

For a moment, you didn't move. Didn't look at him. Just sat there, frozen, like you were deciding whether acknowledging him was worth the energy.

Then, slowly—so slowly it felt deliberate—you turned your head.

Your eyes met his.

And there it was.

Recognition.

Not surprise. Not shock.

Just... recognition. Like you'd known he was there the whole time and had been hoping he'd go away on his own.

"No," you said.

Bakugou blinked. "What?"

"We're not partners."

"Yamada just said—"

"I'll do the discussion solo." You turned back to your laptop. "You can work with someone else."

"There is no one else." He gestured to the empty seats around you. "Everyone's already paired up."

"Then work alone."

"That defeats the purpose of a partner discussion."

"Not my problem."

Your voice was flat. Bored. Like this conversation was already over.

Bakugou felt his jaw clench.

This wasn't how this was supposed to go.

He'd sat next to you. Initiated conversation. Followed the normal social protocol that dictated when a professor said "pair up with the person next to you," you paired up with the person next to you.

But you weren't following protocol.

You were just... shutting him down.

Again.

"Look," he said, keeping his voice level. "I know you don't like me—"

"I don't think about you enough to dislike you."

The words landed like a punch.

Not angry. Not cruel.

Just honest.

And somehow that was worse.

"Great," Bakugou said, his voice tighter now. "Then it should be easy to work with me for ten minutes."

"I don't want to."

"Why?"

You finally looked at him again, and your expression was so neutral it was almost unsettling. "Because I don't."

"That's not a reason."

"It's the only reason you're getting."

Professor Yamada was circulating now, checking in on pairs. He'd reach them in less than a minute.

Bakugou made a split-second decision.

"Fine," he said. "Don't work with me. Just sit there. I'll do both sides of the discussion myself. But when Yamada comes over here and asks why we're not talking, I'm telling him you refused to participate."

Your eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

For a long moment, you just stared at him.

Calculating. Weighing options.

He could see it in your face—the internal debate. You didn't want to work with him. But you also didn't want to get called out by the professor for not participating.

Your grade mattered more than your pride.

Finally, you sighed. "Fine. But after this, you leave me alone."

"Deal."

It was a lie.

But you didn't need to know that yet.

You pulled your chair slightly closer—not close, just close enough that it looked like you were actually engaging—and pulled up the discussion prompt on your screen.

"You argue for intervention," you said, your voice clipped. "I'll argue for restraint."

"Why do I have to argue for intervention?"

"Because you're the kind of person who thinks force solves everything."

"That's not—"

"Am I wrong?"

Bakugou opened his mouth. Closed it.

Because you weren't wrong.

Not entirely.

"Fine," he said. "I'll argue for intervention."

You pulled up a document and started typing. Not notes for the discussion. Just... something else. Like you were already done with this conversation before it started.

Bakugou leaned forward slightly, trying to see what you were working on.

You angled your screen away. Didn't even look at him.

"The scenario," you said, still not looking at him, "is a hostage situation. Twenty civilians. Three villains. The building is unstable. Intervention risks collapse. Restraint risks the villains escaping with hostages. Argue for intervention."

Your voice was mechanical. Like you were reading from a script.

Bakugou forced himself to focus.

"Intervention is necessary," he started, "because waiting gives the villains more time to fortify their position or harm the hostages. The risk of structural collapse is secondary to the immediate threat to civilian lives."

"Restraint is necessary," you countered immediately, still not looking at him, "because intervention without a clear plan increases the risk of mass casualties. Twenty civilians die if the building collapses. Better to secure the perimeter and negotiate until you have actionable intel."

"Negotiation takes time. Time the hostages don't have."

"Rushing in without a plan is how you get people killed."

"Doing nothing is how you let villains win."

You finally looked at him. "Doing nothing isn't the same as waiting for the right moment."

"And how do you know when the right moment is? How many civilians die while you're waiting to figure it out?"

"Fewer than would die if you went in guns blazing and brought the whole building down."

Your voice was still flat, but there was an edge to it now. Not anger. Just... conviction.

You believed what you were saying.

This wasn't just a class exercise for you.

"You can't save everyone by playing it safe," Bakugou said, leaning forward slightly. "Sometimes you have to take risks."

"And sometimes," you said, your eyes locked on his now, "you have to accept that the risk isn't worth it. That the best thing you can do is minimize damage instead of trying to be the hero."

The words hung between you.

Professor Yamada appeared at the end of your row. "How's it going over here?"

"Fine," you said immediately, not breaking eye contact with Bakugou. "We're done."

"Already? It's only been six minutes."

"We covered the key points."

Yamada raised an eyebrow, looking between the two of you. "Alright. Good initiative. Keep that energy for the rest of the semester."

He moved on to the next pair.

The moment he was gone, you turned back to your laptop and closed the discussion prompt.

"We're done," you said.

"That wasn't ten minutes."

"I don't care."

You put your headphones back on. Pulled up whatever you'd been working on before class. Tuned him out.

Just like that.

Like the conversation had never happened.

Bakugou sat there, staring at the side of your face.

You weren't even pretending to acknowledge him anymore.

Just completely checked out.

His hands clenched into fists under the desk.

This was going exactly as badly as Kirishima had predicted.

Worse, actually.

Because at least at the party, you'd looked at him when you insulted him.

Now you couldn't even be bothered to do that.

For the rest of class, Bakugou tried to focus on the lecture.

Failed.

His entire awareness was locked on you.

On the way you typed. The way you occasionally shifted in your seat, adjusting your posture. The way you chewed on your bottom lip when you were thinking.

You never once looked at him.

Not even a glance.

When class finally ended, you packed up faster than anyone else in the room.

Laptop closed. Bag zipped. Headphones already on.

You were out of your seat and halfway up the stairs before Bakugou could even process that you were leaving.

He grabbed his bag and followed.

Not obviously. Just... happened to leave at the same time. Happened to take the same exit.

You were walking fast. Not running. Just moving with purpose.

Like you had somewhere to be.

Or like you were trying to get away from him.

Probably the second one.

"Hey," he called.

You didn't stop.

Didn't even slow down.

"Hey!" Louder this time.

You turned a corner. Disappeared down a hallway.

Bakugou followed, his irritation mounting.

This was ridiculous.

He wasn't asking for much. Just a conversation. Five minutes. Hell, he'd settle for two.

But you were treating him like he was toxic waste.

He rounded the corner and—

You were gone.

The hallway was empty.

Completely empty.

Bakugou stopped, looking around.

There were three doors along this hallway. Two classrooms. One supply closet.

You'd either ducked into one of them or—

The stairwell door at the end of the hall clicked shut.

Of course.

Bakugou stood there, alone in the empty hallway, his bag slung over one shoulder and his pride somewhere in the gutter.

His phone buzzed.

Kirishima: how'd it go?

Bakugou stared at the message.

Then at the empty hallway.

Then at the stairwell door that you'd disappeared through.

Bakugou: great

It was the most dishonest text he'd ever sent.

Later that night, back in his dorm room, Bakugou sat on his bed with his laptop open, staring at nothing.

The first real interaction.

And it had been a disaster.

You'd barely tolerated him. Had made it abundantly clear that you wanted nothing to do with him. Had literally fled the moment class ended.

He should give up.

Should accept that this was a lost cause.

Should text Kaminari right now and admit defeat before he wasted any more time.

But he couldn't.

Because there'd been a moment.

During the discussion.

When you'd looked at him and said, "Sometimes you have to accept that the risk isn't worth it."

There'd been something in your voice.

Not just conviction.

Something deeper.

Like you were talking about more than a hypothetical hostage situation.

Like you were talking about yourself.

And Bakugou wanted to know what that meant.

Wanted to know what made you so determined to keep everyone at a distance.

Wanted to understand why someone as smart and capable as you would rather be alone than risk letting anyone in.

His phone buzzed again.

Kaminari: day 1 update?

Kaminari: did you sweep her off her feet yet?

Kaminari: or did she destroy you again? 👀

Bakugou ignored the messages.

Opened a new note on his laptop.

Typed:

What I Know:

She values ethics/philosophy

She argues for restraint over action

She works alone by choice

She avoids social situations

She's tired (not sleeping well?)

She'll cooperate if it affects her grade

She runs when directly confronted

He stared at the list.

It wasn't much.

But it was something.

More than he'd had this morning.

He added one more line:

Next Steps:

Don't chase. It makes her run.

Don't corner. She'll shut down.

Find a reason she has to engage.

He closed the laptop.

Eight weeks.

Seven weeks and six days now, technically.

He could do this.

He just needed to be smarter about it.

Less obvious.

More strategic.

He pulled up your student profile one more time.

Looked at your photo.

The eyes.

The neutral expression.

"You're not gonna make this easy, are you?" he muttered to the screen.

Your photo didn't answer.

Obviously.

But if it had, he was pretty sure it would've said no.

He closed the app and turned off his phone.

Tomorrow.

He'd try again tomorrow.

Different approach.

Smarter.

Because Bakugou Katsuki didn't give up.

Even when he probably should.

The library was becoming familiar territory.

Not because Bakugou wanted it to be. But because you were here. Always here. Third floor, back corner, same table by the window.

Like clockwork.

It had been three days since the ethics seminar disaster. Three days of Bakugou trying to figure out his next move while simultaneously pretending he wasn't thinking about you every five minutes.

He'd gone back to observation mode. Not stalking. Observing.

There was a difference.

Probably.

He'd learned a few things:

You showed up to the library every day around 2 PM. Stayed until at least 6, sometimes later. You took breaks every hour—not long ones, just enough to stretch, refill your water bottle, stare out the window like you were trying to remember why you were doing any of this.

You always sat alone.

Always had headphones on.

Always looked like you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders and refusing to let anyone help.

Today was Thursday. 3:47 PM.

Bakugou had been on the third floor for twenty minutes, pretending to study at a table three rows away from yours.

He wasn't studying.

He was planning.

Because the direct approach hadn't worked. The forced partnership hadn't worked. The sitting-next-to-you-and-hoping-you'd-acknowledge-his-existence approach definitely hadn't worked.

So he needed something different.

Something that would make you actually talk to him.

Not because you had to. Not because a professor was watching.

Because you wanted to.

Or at least because you were curious enough to engage.

His phone buzzed.

Kirishima: dude where are you? we're supposed to be training

Bakugou: library

Kirishima: ...why

Bakugou: studying

Kirishima: you finished that assignment two days ago

Bakugou: other assignment

Kirishima: you're doing the thing again aren't you

Bakugou: what thing

Kirishima: the creepy lurking thing

Bakugou: I'm not lurking

Kirishima: you're absolutely lurking

Kirishima: this is sad man. just talk to her

Bakugou: I tried that

Kirishima: try again

Kirishima: or better yet, give up and come train with me

Bakugou muted the conversation.

He wasn't giving up.

He was strategizing.

And if that meant spending another afternoon in the library, pretending to read a textbook he'd already finished, then that's what he'd do.

He glanced over at you.

You were in the same position as always. Hunched over your laptop, one hand holding your head up, the other typing. Your coffee cup was empty—had been for at least an hour—but you hadn't gone to refill it.

You looked exhausted.

More than usual.

The shadows under your eyes were darker. Your shoulders were tense. And every few minutes, you'd stop typing and just... stare at the screen. Like you'd forgotten what you were doing. Or like you were too tired to care.

Something twisted in Bakugou's chest.

An unfamiliar feeling.

Concern.

Which was stupid.

He didn't know you. Didn't owe you anything. And you'd made it abundantly clear you wanted nothing to do with him.

But still.

He found himself standing up.

Grabbing his bag.

Walking toward your table.

His brain was screaming at him to stop. That this was a bad idea. That you'd just shut him down again and he'd look like an idiot.

But his feet kept moving.

He stopped at the edge of your table.

You didn't look up.

Of course you didn't.

He stood there for a solid ten seconds, waiting.

Nothing.

"Hey," he said finally.

Your fingers stopped typing.

For a moment, you didn't move. Didn't acknowledge him.

Then, slowly, you pulled off one headphone.

"What," you said.

Not a question. A statement.

Flat. Tired. Already done with whatever this was.

"You've been here for four hours," Bakugou said.

"And?"

"And you look like shit."

Your eyes finally flicked up to meet his.

There it was again. That neutral expression. The wall.

"Thanks for the observation," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Really needed that today."

"I'm just saying—"

"I don't care what you're saying." You put your headphone back on. "Go away."

Bakugou's jaw clenched.

He should go away.

Should take the hint and leave you alone.

But he didn't.

Instead, he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down.

Your eyes narrowed.

You pulled off both headphones now, setting them on the table with deliberate slowness.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" you asked.

Your voice was still flat, but there was an edge to it now. Sharper.

"Sitting," Bakugou said.

"I can see that. Why?"

"Because we need to talk."

"No, we don't."

"Yeah, we do."

"About what?" You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. "About how you've been lurking around campus for the past two weeks like some kind of stalker? About how you sat next to me in ethics and then chased me down the hallway? About how you're sitting at my table right now even though I explicitly told you to go away?"

Bakugou felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

Because you'd noticed.

All of it.

The library visits. The gym. The coffee shop.

You'd known he was there the whole time.

And you'd ignored him anyway.

"I wasn't stalking you," he said.

"Then what would you call it?"

"Trying to talk to you."

"By following me around and hoping I'd eventually acknowledge your existence?" You shook your head. "That's not talking. That's harassment."

The word landed like a slap.

"I wasn't—" Bakugou stopped. Took a breath. "Look. I know we got off on the wrong foot—"

"We didn't get off on the wrong foot," you interrupted. "You were an asshole at a party. I called you out. End of story."

"It doesn't have to be end of story."

"Yes, it does." You started packing up your laptop. "Because I'm not interested in whatever redemption arc you think you're entitled to. I don't owe you a second chance. I don't owe you my time. And I sure as hell don't owe you a conversation just because you can't handle the fact that someone doesn't like you."

"You don't even know me," Bakugou said, his voice harder now.

"I know enough."

"From one conversation where I made a shitty joke?"

"It wasn't a joke." You zipped your bag with more force than necessary. "And it wasn't one conversation. I've seen you around. I've heard you talk. I know exactly who you are."

"No, you don't."

"Really?" You leaned forward, and for the first time, there was actual emotion in your voice. Not anger, exactly. Just... exhaustion. "You're the guy who thinks being loud makes him right. Who treats cruelty like it's honesty. Who needs an audience for every opinion because without one, you're just noise. You're the guy who gets away with being an asshole because you're good at things, and people are willing to overlook the asshole part if it means staying in your orbit."

Each word was precise. Surgical.

Like you'd been thinking about this. Really thinking about it.

"That's not—" Bakugou started.

"I've met a hundred guys like you," you continued, your voice still flat but somehow more cutting because of it. "Guys who think they're special. Who think the rules don't apply to them because they're talented or ambitious or whatever bullshit they tell themselves. Guys who take up all the space in a room and expect everyone else to just... deal with it."

"I'm not them," Bakugou said, his hands clenched into fists under the table.

"Prove it," you shot back.

"How? You won't even give me a chance to—"

"I don't want to give you a chance!" Your voice was louder now. Not yelling. But loud enough that a few people at nearby tables looked over. "I don't want to get to know you. I don't want to find out if you're secretly nice under all the bullshit. I don't want any of it."

"Why?"

"Because I don't trust people who need an audience!" You were standing now, bag slung over your shoulder. "Because I don't trust people who think cruelty is honesty. Because I've met a hundred guys like you, and every single one of them was exactly who I thought they were."

The words echoed what you'd said before. At the party. In class.

Like they were a mantra.

A shield.

"I'm not them," Bakugou repeated, his voice low. Intense.

"Then prove it to someone who cares."

You turned to leave.

Bakugou stood, his chair scraping against the floor.

"I do care," he said.

You stopped.

Didn't turn around.

Just stood there, back to him, completely still.

For a moment, Bakugou thought you might actually listen. Might actually give him a chance to explain.

Then you said, without turning around:

"That's your problem, not mine."

And you walked away.

This time, Bakugou didn't follow.

He just stood there, watching you disappear down the stairs, his hands still clenched, his chest tight.

Around him, the library was silent except for the ambient noise of keyboards and pages turning.

A few students were still staring.

He ignored them.

Just slowly sat back down in his chair and stared at the empty seat across from him.

The seat you'd been in thirty seconds ago.

His phone was buzzing. Probably Kirishima. Probably Kaminari asking for an update.

He didn't check it.

Just sat there, replaying the conversation in his head.

"I've met a hundred guys like you, and every single one of them was exactly who I thought they were."

The words stung worse than anything you'd said at the party.

Because they weren't just about him.

They were about everyone who'd come before him.

Everyone who'd disappointed you. Hurt you. Proven your assumptions right.

And now he was just another name on that list.

Another guy who'd tried and failed.

Another person you'd shut out.

His laptop was still open in front of him. The note he'd been keeping. The observations. The strategies.

It all felt stupid now.

Childish.

Like he'd been playing some kind of game and you'd just reminded him that you weren't a prize to be won.

You were a person.

A person who'd been hurt enough times that trust wasn't something you gave freely.

If you gave it at all.

And Bakugou had no idea how to navigate that.

No idea how to prove he was different when you wouldn't even let him try.

His phone buzzed again.

This time he checked it.

Kaminari: week 1 check-in! how's operation win her over going?

Kaminari: please tell me you've made SOME progress

Kaminari: ...bakugou?

Kaminari: dude did she murder you

Kaminari: if you're dead blink twice

Bakugou stared at the messages.

Then typed:

Bakugou: she told me to prove myself to someone who cares

Kaminari: ...ouch

Kaminari: okay so not great then

Kaminari: what are you gonna do?

Bakugou looked at the question.

Looked at his laptop. At the notes he'd been taking. At the empty chair across from him.

What was he going to do?

Give up?

Admit defeat?

Text Kaminari right now and end this stupid bet before it destroyed what was left of his pride?

He should.

He really should.

But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn't.

Because you'd looked him in the eye and said you'd met a hundred guys like him.

And something about that—something about being lumped in with everyone who'd ever hurt you—

It pissed him off.

Not at you.

At them.

At whoever had made you build those walls so high.

At whoever had taught you that trust was a weakness.

At whoever had proven, over and over, that people weren't worth the risk.

He wanted to know who they were.

Wanted to know what they'd done.

Wanted to understand why someone as smart and strong and capable as you had decided that being alone was safer than letting anyone in.

And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to be the first person who didn't prove you right.

Bakugou: I'm gonna keep trying

Kaminari: ...seriously?

Kaminari: dude she DESTROYED you. again.

Kaminari: at what point do you accept this is a lost cause?

Bakugou: when she actually gives me a real reason to stop

Kaminari: she literally told you to leave her alone

Bakugou: she told me to prove myself to someone who cares

Bakugou: that's not the same thing

Kaminari: ...i feel like it is tho

[Kirishima has entered the chat]

Kirishima: okay i'm reading back through this and I have CONCERNS

Kirishima: bakugou you need to let this go

Kirishima: she's not interested

Kirishima: she's made that very clear

Kirishima: continuing to pursue her after she's explicitly said no is not okay

Bakugou stared at Kirishima's messages.

He was right.

Kirishima was absolutely right.

You'd said no. Multiple times. In multiple ways.

The ethical thing to do—the right thing to do—was to respect that.

Walk away.

Leave you alone.

Let you have your space and your walls and your carefully constructed isolation.

But something about the way you'd said it...

"I've met a hundred guys like you."

Like you were so sure. So certain. Like you'd already decided who he was before he'd even had a chance to prove otherwise.

And maybe that should've been enough reason to walk away.

But it wasn't.

Bakugou: I'll back off

Kirishima: thank god

Bakugou: for now

Kirishima: BAKUGOU

Bakugou: I'm not gonna harass her

Bakugou: I'm just not giving up

Kirishima: there's a difference between not giving up and not taking no for an answer

Bakugou: I know that

Kirishima: do you?

Bakugou didn't respond.

Just closed the group chat and pulled up his notes again.

What I Know:

She values ethics/philosophy

She argues for restraint over action

She works alone by choice

She avoids social situations

She's tired (not sleeping well?)

She'll cooperate if it affects her grade

She runs when directly confronted

She's been hurt before. Multiple times.

She doesn't trust easily. Or at all.

She thinks I'm like everyone else who hurt her.

He stared at the last line.

Added one more:

Next Steps:

Give her space

Don't chase

Don't force interaction

Wait for an opening

When it comes: be different than what she expects

It wasn't much of a plan.

But it was something.

He closed his laptop.

Packed up his bag.

Left the library without looking back at your empty table.

Outside, the evening air was cold. Sharp. It cleared his head slightly, washing away some of the frustration and confusion and that tight feeling in his chest that he didn't want to examine too closely.

He pulled out his phone.

Looked at your contact information. The student profile photo he'd saved.

Those eyes. That neutral expression.

You'd built walls so high he couldn't see over them.

And maybe that should've been a sign to stop trying.

But Bakugou Katsuki had never walked away from a challenge.

Even when the challenge was proving to someone that not everyone would hurt them.

Even when the someone had explicitly told him to fuck off.

Even when every rational part of his brain was screaming that this was a bad idea and he should just cut his losses and move on.

He pocketed his phone.

Started walking back to the dorms.

Seven weeks and three days left.

He'd give you space.

For now.

But he wasn't done.

Not even close.

Because somewhere underneath all that armor, there was a person who cared about ethics and philosophy and minimizing damage instead of being the hero.

A person who worked alone because it was safer than trusting someone else.

A person who'd been hurt enough times that isolation felt like the only option.

And Bakugou wanted to know her.

The real her.

Not the walls. Not the defense mechanisms.

Her.

Even if she never let him.

Even if this whole thing blew up in his face.

He had to try.

Because the alternative—walking away, proving her right, becoming just another name on the list of people who'd disappointed her—

That was unacceptable.

His phone buzzed one more time.

Kaminari: 7 weeks left btw

Kaminari: tick tock ⏰

Bakugou didn't respond.

Just kept walking.

Seven weeks.

Plenty of time.

Or not nearly enough.

He'd find out which soon enough.

Author's Note: Welcome to Chapter Three, otherwise known as: Bakugou Katsuki Getting Humbled, Part Two. 💀

I had so much fun writing the ethics debate scene because it perfectly mirrors exactly what is happening between them right now. Also, can we get a round of applause for Kirishima being the only person in the Bakusquad with a functioning moral compass? Bakugou is finally starting to realize that his usual approach isn't going to work here, and watching him try to pivot is my favorite thing.

Let me know what you guys thought of the library confrontation!

TAGLIST: @misteriousgrll, @calebslittlefuckingslut, @the-magician-in-alice, @warm-gamer1121, @d3ath333, @dxkqta, @sanzuslut2, @exactlypinkbarbarian, @sternensmoothie, @lunaaraineee, @peachystea, @ratpiss01, @oh-buttercup, @1-555-damian, @sleepypurpledandelion, @bunbun812, @illiterate-moth, @gojosatorusno1, @kimchicraverr, @sur-i-ki, @nnxhhz, @vayabenson, @jakessidechick, @cherriesherry, @introm00n, @poptxrts, @hiatuch1, @istriyohei, @at-a-rax-ia, @bkgktskisblog, @shrimpy-sc, @eyesforbkg, @katszumi, @cerisescintillait, @metalblindbitch, @eirammarie0 @bonnie-tz, @hireisy, @qiqivlog, @saekii1, @theacynq69, @daqueensushi, @diangelofan599, @no-user-available-101, @cataracle

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[morilikemidori]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ DENKI STARTS A BUSINESS

Denki Kaminari had what he considered to be a million-dollar idea.

Well, more like a few-thousand-yen idea, but still. It was genius.

"You're all thinking too small," he announced to his friends at lunch, gesturing dramatically with a chopstick. "We've got these incredible quirks, right? And we're just... sitting on them. Not monetizing. Not capitalizing on our unique skill sets."

Kirishima looked up from his katsudon, intrigued. "What're you getting at, man?"

"Side hustles!" Denki slammed his palm on the table, making Mina's juice box jump. "We should all have side hustles! Sero could run a moving company. Ashido could—I dunno—teach dance classes or something. And me?" He pointed both thumbs at himself, grinning. "I could charge phones!"

There was a beat of silence.

"Kaminari," Sero said slowly, "there are outlets everywhere."

"Yeah, but I'm portable! And fast! Think about it—you're at 2%, you've got an important call coming in, and the nearest outlet is all the way across the room. Boom! Kaminari's Charging Station saves the day!" He pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper covered in terrible drawings and worse math. "I've done the calculations. If I charge, like, twenty phones a day at ¥100 each, that's... uh..."

"Two thousand yen," Momo supplied helpfully, though she looked concerned.

"Exactly! Two thousand yen! Do you know how many energy drinks that is?"

"That's really not a good—" Iida started, hand already chopping through the air.

"I'm doing it," Denki declared, standing up. "This is happening. Kaminari Enterprises launches today!"

By 4 PM, Denki had set up shop in the common room.

The "shop" consisted of a folding table he'd borrowed (stolen) from the storage room, covered with a bedsheet that had cartoon lightning bolts drawn on it in Sharpie. His hand-painted sign read "KAMINARI'S CHARGING STATION" in enthusiastic but wobbly letters, with a price list underneath:

10% charge - ¥100 | 50% charge - ¥500 | Full charge - ¥800  | PREMIUM RUSH SERVICE (+¥200)

"What's premium rush service?" Hagakure asked, her uniform approaching the table.

"I do it while making race car noises," Denki said seriously. "Really gets the electrons moving faster."

"That's not how electricity works."

"You don't know that."

Surprisingly, Kirishima was his first paying customer, slapping down ¥500 with a grin. "Dude, I'm totally supporting this! My phone's been dying all day anyway."

"Excellent choice, sir!" Denki took the phone with a flourish, pressed it between his palms, and let a controlled current flow through. There was a soft buzzing sound, a faint smell of ozone, and—

"Done!" He presented the phone with a bow.

Kirishima checked it, eyes widening. "Whoa! Fifty-three percent! That was like thirty seconds!" Then he sniffed. "Why does it smell weird?"

"That's the smell of success, my friend."

"It smells like burnt rubber."

"Same thing!"

Word spread quickly through the dorms. Denki's table became surprisingly popular—mostly because it was novel, partly because some students actually found it convenient, and definitely because watching Denki's increasingly elaborate charging "rituals" was entertaining.

Koda nervously approached, phone clutched in both hands. Denki gave him the gentlest charge he could manage, complete with soft humming sounds "to keep the device calm."

Tokoyami requested a charge in near-darkness because "the electricity resonates better with the shadows." Denki had no idea what that meant but dimmed the lights and added some mysterious hand gestures that made Dark Shadow cackle.

Mineta tried to pay with a ¥50 coin and a "please bro."

"NEXT!" Denki called out, ignoring him completely.

Things were going great until Bakugo showed up.

He didn't say anything, just walked up to the table, slammed his phone down along with a ¥500 coin, and crossed his arms with an expectant glare.

Denki stared. "Dude. You're actually...?"

"Shut up and charge it, Pikachu. My battery's at 15% and I'm not walking all the way to my room."

"Right! Yes! Premium service coming right up!" Denki grabbed the phone with shaking hands—partly from excitement at Bakugo being a customer, partly from legitimate fear—and channeled a careful current through it.

"Forty-seven percent!" he announced. "And might I say, sir, you have excellent taste in phone cases. Very aggressive. Really screams 'I have anger management issues.'"

"What was that?"

"I SAID THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATRONAGE!"

Bakugo snatched his phone and stalked away, but Denki saw him check the battery percentage twice with something that might have been satisfaction.

That's when he knew he'd made it.

By 6 PM, Denki had made ¥3,400.

He was counting his earnings when Iida appeared, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"KAMINARI DENKI!"

Denki shoved the money into his pockets. "Hey, Iida! Buddy! Pal! Want a charge? Class reps get a 50% discount!"

"I have several concerns!" Iida's hand was already chopping. "First, you are operating an unlicensed business on school property! Second, you have not filed the proper paperwork with—"

"There's paperwork for charging phones?"

"—the student council regarding commercial activities! Third, and most importantly, have you verified that your electrical output is calibrated to the correct voltage specifications for various device models? Improper charging could cause battery degradation, potential fires, or—"

"Everything's fine! Look, everyone's happy!" Denki gestured to Mina, who was filming herself with a freshly charged phone. "No fires! Well, except that one time, but the outlet was already kinda—"

"THERE WAS A FIRE?!"

"Small fire! Tiny! Minuscule! More of a... thermal event."

Momo appeared at Iida's shoulder, looking concerned. "Kaminari, I really think you should consider the safety implications. Different phones have different charging requirements, and your quirk isn't exactly known for precision..."

"Hey! I've been super careful! I even made a chart!" He pulled out another crumpled paper covered in phone brands and random numbers that definitely weren't accurate voltage specifications.

"Is that... did you just write 'zappy zap' next to iPhone?" Momo asked faintly.

Before Denki could defend his technical notation system, Jiro walked up and set her phone on the table with ¥100.

"Jiro! My favorite customer who I definitely didn't electrocute that one time in training!"

She raised an eyebrow. "Just charge it, Jamming-Whey. And don't make it weird."

"When have I ever made things weird?"

"Literally always."

He stuck his tongue out at her but took her phone carefully. This time, he made sure to use an even gentler current than usual, hyper-aware that she was watching him. The charge went perfectly—smooth, steady, no burning smells.

"Twenty percent, as requested," he said, handing it back with a genuine smile instead of his usual showmanship.

Jiro checked it, looked mildly impressed, and dropped an extra ¥50 on the table. "Not bad, Kaminari. Don't spend it all on manga."

"No promises!"

After she left, he realized he was still smiling like an idiot and found Sero and Kirishima grinning at him knowingly.

"Shut up."

"Didn't say anything, bro," Kirishima laughed.

The operation continued until about 8 PM, when things took a turn.

Denki was in the middle of charging Aoyama's phone ("Oui, but can you make it sparkle?" "No, but I can make it smell like sparkles?" "...That makes no sense." "¥50 discount?") when Midoriya approached with a notebook and way too many questions.

"Kaminari! This is so interesting! So you're modulating your electrical output based on device capacity? What's your amperage range? Have you noticed any quirk evolution from the precise control this requires? Do different battery chemistries require different approaches? What about—"

"Midoriya," Denki said, smile strained, "I love you man, but I have no idea what most of those words mean."

"Oh! Sorry, I just think it's really cool that you're finding practical applications for your quirk outside of combat! It shows versatility and—"

"Dude. Do you want your phone charged or not?"

"Oh, yes please!"

Denki took the extremely cracked phone (seriously, how was Midoriya's screen always destroyed?) and started charging it. But he'd been at this for hours now, had charged maybe thirty phones, and his concentration was starting to slip.

The charge was going fine until Denki sneezed.

There was a bright spark, a pop, and Midoriya's phone screen went dark.

"Uhhhh….,"

"Did it... did my phone just die?" Midoriya asked, voice small.

"No! No, it's just... resting! Phone's tired! Needs a nap!"

He frantically tried charging it again, but the device remained stubbornly dark.

"Kaminari..."

"I'LL FIX IT! I'll totally fix it! I'll—I'll buy you a new one! I've got like ¥3,000 saved up!"

"A new phone costs way more than that."

"I'LL GET A LOAN!"

Before Midoriya could respond (probably with more concern than anger, because that's just how he was), a deep, tired voice cut through the common room:

"Kaminari."

Everyone froze.

Aizawa stood in the doorway, still in his sleeping bag, looking like the very embodiment of exhausted disappointment.

"Uh... hi, Sensei! Want a charge? Faculty discount is—"

"Shut it down."

"But I was just—"

"Now."

The sleeping bag inched closer threateningly.

Ten minutes later, Denki sat on the common room couch, surrounded by his classmates, while Aizawa lectured him about unauthorized business operations, liability issues, and "the fifteen different ways this violates school policy."

His makeshift charging station was dismantled. His signs were confiscated. His dreams were crushed.

"And you'll be paying for Midoriya's phone repair out of your 'earnings,'" Aizawa finished.

"Yes, Sensei," Denki mumbled.

After Aizawa shuffled away (but not before making Denki clean up the "fire hazard" of power strips he'd duct-taped together), the common room was quiet.

Then Kaminari felt a hand on his shoulder.

"That was the manliest business venture I've ever seen, bro," Kirishima said earnestly.

"You made ¥3,000 in four hours," Sero added. "That's honestly impressive."

"And you only broke one phone," Mina chimed in. "Could've been worse!"

"I broke Midoriya's phone," Denki groaned. "The nicest guy in class."

"It's okay, Kaminari!" Midoriya said quickly. "It was already pretty broken! And honestly, this gives me an excuse to get one with a better camera for hero analysis notes!"

"Still. I'm sorry, man." Denki pulled out his wadded-up bills. "Here. For the repair."

"Are you sure? That was your—"

"My ill-gotten gains from my illegal enterprise? Yeah, it's cool. Least I can do."

After Midoriya left with the money (and about a dozen more apologies from Denki), Jiro sat down next to him.

"You know, for what it's worth... it was a pretty good idea. You just maybe needed to think it through more."

"Story of my life," Denki sighed.

"And get proper equipment," Momo added. "And insurance. And the correct permits. And safety certifications. And—"

"Momo, you're killing me here."

She smiled apologetically.

Bakugo walked past, tossed a energy drink at Denki's head (which he barely caught), and grunted, "Charge wasn't shit, Pikachu."

From Bakugo, that was basically a glowing five-star review.

Later that night, Denki lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Sure, his business had been shut down. Sure, he'd lost all his profits to a phone repair. Sure, Aizawa had given him cleaning duty for a week.

But also... it had kind of worked? People had actually paid for his service. He'd made his friends happy. He'd even impressed Bakugo, sort of.

His phone buzzed with a text from Jiro: next time maybe just charge stuff for free and don't make it weird

He grinned and typed back: where's the fun in that?

Another text, this time a group message from Kirishima: KAMINARI'S CHARGING STATION APPRECIATION CHAT with about a dozen photos of people using their newly charged phones.

Denki's grin widened.

Maybe Kaminari Enterprises was shut down for now. But there'd be other ideas. Other schemes. Other ways to use his quirk creatively and probably get in trouble.

After all, he was Denki Kaminari.

And his ideas were electric.

[morilikemidori]

🕯️🐦‍⬛.𖥔 ݁ ˖꩜ MIDNIGHT POETRY WITH TOKOYAMI | f.tokoyami

SYPNOSIS. In which a midnight wander through the dorms leads to an unexpected sanctuary, shared loneliness, and the realization that darkness is much warmer when you have someone to share it with.

Fumikage Tokoyami x Goth!Reader

TAGS: he is so dramatic and we love him for it, two lonely souls finding each other in the dark, bonding over gothic poetry, soft bird boy, just two goths finding comfort in each other, he really just stood by the window reciting poe, we love a respectful king

WC: 2.1K words

To One in Paradise The moon hung gravid and luminous over UA Academy's Gothic spires, casting shadows that writhed and danced like living things upon the ancient stonework. You had always found a peculiar comfort in the darkness—that velvet embrace of night when the world grew quiet and the boundaries between reality and reverie became deliciously blurred. It was during these hallowed hours, when your classmates surrendered to slumber's gentle tyranny, that you felt most authentically yourself.

Tonight, as on so many nights before, your footsteps echoed through the empty corridors of Heights Alliance, a symphony of solitude that sang to something deep within your soul. The others thought you peculiar for your nocturnal wanderings, but you paid their whispered concerns no mind. There was a beauty in the midnight hours that daylight could never comprehend—a secret language spoken only by shadows and starlight.

It was on this particular evening, as October's dying breath gave way to November's cold kiss, that you first heard it: a voice, low and melodious, drifting through the darkened halls like smoke from a dying candle. The sound arrested you mid-step, your heart suddenly percussion against your ribs. Poetry. Someone was reciting poetry in the dead of night.

"And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams, Are where thy grey eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams—"

The voice was unlike any you had encountered before—simultaneously youthful and ancient, possessing a gravitas that belied the speaker's years. It resonated with the timbre of distant thunder, of ravens' calls, of secrets whispered in cathedral shadows. Without conscious thought, you found yourself drawn toward it, a moth to flame, a ship to siren song.

The words led you down corridors you rarely traversed, past the common areas and into the older wing of the dormitory—that section which housed those students who preferred solitude to society, silence to celebration. Your quirk hummed beneath your skin, responding to the emotion threaded through those recited verses, and you wondered if the speaker could sense your approach as keenly as you sensed their presence.

The voice grew stronger, richer, as you rounded a corner to find yourself before a door left ever so slightly ajar. Amber light spilled through the narrow opening, painting a golden slice across the darkened floor. You hesitated, propriety warring with curiosity, but the next stanza drew you forward as inexorably as gravity draws the falling star.

"In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams—"

Your fingers, possessed of their own volition, pressed gently against the door. It swung open with a whisper, revealing a room that might have been torn from the pages of some Gothic romance. Books lined every available surface, their spines worn with repeated handling, their pages marked with careful annotations. Candles—actual candles, despite the fire safety regulations—cast dancing shadows across walls decorated with artwork that celebrated darkness rather than fled from it. Ravens featured prominently, as did nocturnal landscapes painted in shades of midnight blue and silver.

And there, silhouetted against the window where moonlight streamed through like milk, stood Fumikage Tokoyami.

You had known him, of course, in that superficial manner in which classmates know one another. You had trained together, fought alongside one another against villains both simulated and terrifyingly real. But you had never truly seen him until this moment, when he stood unaware of observation, his bird-like head tilted toward the moon, his voice caressing poetry as though each word were sacred.

He wore no costume, no pretense—simply dark sleeping clothes that emphasized the lean strength of his form. Dark Shadow coiled around him like living smoke, moving in time with the cadence of his words, and you realized that the quirk was not merely listening but feeling the poetry, responding to its emotional resonance.

The sight stole your breath.

"The beauty of the night is wasted on those who fear it," he murmured, his voice no longer reciting but speaking—and speaking, you realized with a start, to you. He had known you were there. Perhaps had known from the moment you'd begun your approach. "Yet you, I think, do not fear the darkness. Do you?"

He turned then, slowly, with the fluid grace of shadow itself, and his crimson eyes found yours across the candlelit space. There was no accusation in that gaze, no irritation at the intrusion. Instead, you detected something that might have been... loneliness? Hope? A desperate hunger for connection that he had learned to bury beneath layers of stoic dignity?

"I—" Your voice emerged uncertain, barely more than a whisper. "I heard poetry. Poe, wasn't it?"

"'To One in Paradise,'" he confirmed, and something in his posture shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. He had not expected you to recognize the verse. "You know his work?"

"I've always found beauty in melancholy," you admitted, stepping fully into the room though no explicit invitation had been offered. The door closed behind you with a soft click that seemed to seal you both away from the mundane world beyond. "There's an honesty in darkness that daylight often lacks."

For a long moment, Tokoyami said nothing. He simply regarded you with those penetrating eyes, and you felt certain he was seeing past surface and skin, down into the marrow of who you truly were. Dark Shadow shifted, rising slightly, and you could have sworn the entity was studying you as well, two intelligences weighing and measuring the stranger who had stumbled into their sanctuary.

"Most find me off-putting," Tokoyami finally said, his voice carefully neutral, though you detected the ghost of old wounds beneath the words. "The aesthetic of darkness that brings me comfort causes others disquiet. They smile and nod and maintain polite distance, but they do not understand. They do not wish to understand."

"Then they are fools," you replied with perhaps more vehemence than the moment warranted. "There is nothing shameful in embracing what calls to your soul, even if—especially if—others lack the courage to appreciate it."

His eyes widened fractionally, surprise flickering across features usually schooled to careful neutrality. "You speak as one who has also known judgment."

"We all wear masks," you said softly, moving deeper into the room, drawn by the books and art, by the evidence of a rich interior life carefully hidden from casual observers. "Some of us simply choose masks that others find... unsettling."

"And what mask do you wear?" The question emerged quiet but intense, laden with genuine curiosity rather than mere politeness.

You paused before a shelf of poetry collections—Poe, yes, but also Byron, Shelley, Keats, and numerous volumes of Japanese verse translated into English. Your fingers traced the spine of a particularly worn copy of The Raven. "The mask of someone content with superficial connections. The mask of someone who doesn't hunger for conversations that matter, for connections that transcend the mundane. The mask of someone who doesn't spend every group gathering feeling profoundly, irrevocably alone despite being surrounded by people."

The silence that followed your confession felt sacred somehow, weighted with significance. When you dared to glance at Tokoyami, you found him watching you with an expression of such unguarded wonder that your heart performed an elaborate acrobatic feat within your chest.

"I had not thought," he began slowly, carefully, as though each word must be selected with the utmost precision, "that there existed another who felt as I do. Who understood this particular species of solitude."

"The loneliness of being surrounded by people who cannot see you," you murmured. "Yes. I understand it well."

Dark Shadow, who had been observing this exchange with what appeared to be avid interest, suddenly surged forward. The entity stopped mere inches from you, close enough that you could feel the strange energy that comprised its form—not quite physical, not quite ephemeral, but something hovering between states of being.

"You're not scared," Dark Shadow observed, voice echoing strangely as though speaking from a great distance despite its proximity. "Nobody gets this close without flinching. Nobody except Fumikage."

"Should I be frightened?" you asked the quirk directly, meeting what you assumed were its eyes—the brightest points in its amorphous form.

"Most are," it replied simply.

"Most," you said, allowing a slight smile to curve your lips, "have not spent their lives dancing with their own shadows. Your darkness does not frighten me, Dark Shadow. It feels... familiar. Almost comforting."

The quirk made a sound that might have been surprise or pleasure—it was difficult to differentiate—before retreating back to Tokoyami's side. Your classmate stood utterly still, staring at you as though you had just performed some impossible miracle rather than simply treating his quirk with basic respect and courtesy.

"Would you..." He hesitated, uncharacteristic uncertainty threading through his voice. "That is to say, if you are not otherwise engaged, would you perhaps wish to remain? I have tea—nothing fancy, simply herbal blends—and more poetry, if such things appeal to you. I understand if you would prefer to return to your own quarters, but I confess I find myself hoping..."

He trailed off, but you understood perfectly what he could not quite articulate. The desperate hope of the perpetually lonely that perhaps, just perhaps, they had finally encountered someone who spoke their language, who understood their particular dialect of existence.

"I would like that very much," you said softly. "If you don't mind the company."

"Mind?" Something that was almost a laugh escaped him—a sound of pure, unbridled relief. "I fear you misunderstand. Your company is not merely acceptable. It is..." He paused, searching for words adequate to the moment. "It is what I have been unconsciously seeking every time I stood at that window and recited verse to the uncaring night."

The confession hung between you, vulnerable and honest, and you felt something shift in that moment—some fundamental reordering of the universe that meant things could never quite return to how they had been. You had stumbled into Fumikage Tokoyami's carefully constructed sanctuary, and in doing so, you had apparently stumbled into something far more significant than either of you had anticipated.

"Then I shall stay," you declared, settling yourself into one of the plush chairs he indicated—deep burgundy velvet that felt like sin against your skin. "And you shall read to me, and we shall speak of beautiful, melancholy things, and for once, we shall neither of us be alone."

Tokoyami moved with surprising grace to prepare tea, Dark Shadow assisting by manipulating candles to provide better light. As he worked, you noticed the careful precision of his movements, the ritualistic quality with which he performed even this simple domestic task. Everything about him spoke of someone who had learned to find meaning in small moments, beauty in minor ceremonies—because these things were his, chosen by him, authentic to who he was rather than who others expected him to be.

"Do you know 'Annabel Lee'?" you asked as he handed you a delicate cup filled with fragrant tea that smelled of chamomile and something darker, more mysterious.

His eyes brightened with unmistakable delight. "It is among my favorites. Though I must warn you, once I begin, I tend to become rather... immersed in the performance."

"I would expect nothing less," you assured him.

And so, as midnight deepened toward that darkest hour before dawn, Fumikage Tokoyami read to you of love and loss, of beauty and sorrow, of all the exquisite darkness that existed in the human heart. His voice transformed the familiar words into something new and revelatory, each line delivered with such passion and precision that you felt them resonating in your bones.

You watched him as he read, noting the way emotion played across his features, how Dark Shadow swayed and shifted with the cadence of the verse. There was something profoundly intimate about witnessing this—about being permitted into this private world where he shed all pretense and simply existed as his truest self.

When he finished, silence settled over the room like snowfall—gentle, complete, sacred.

"That was extraordinary," you breathed, and meant it with every fiber of your being.

"The credit belongs to Poe," he demurred, but you could see the pleasure your praise brought him.

"The words belong to Poe," you corrected. "But you gave them life. You made them breathe. That is no small thing, Tokoyami."

He set aside the book, his movements careful and deliberate, before meeting your gaze once more. "Please," he said quietly. "When we are alone—when we are here, in this space—call me Fumikage. I find I wish to hear my name from your lips, spoken without the barriers of formality."

The request felt significant, weighted with meaning beyond the simple syllables. "Fumikage," you repeated, tasting the name, letting it settle on your tongue like wine. "And you must call me by my given name as well. Fair is fair, after all."

"Fair is fair," he agreed, and when he spoke your name, it sounded like poetry itself.

A/N: I have been dying to write something soft, atmospheric, and a little bit Gothic for our favorite bird boy. Tokoyami doesn’t get nearly enough love, and I really wanted to explore the quiet, poetic side of his personality.

[morilikemidori]

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ 𓏲 ˖. 💌 ⸝⸝. HOW THEY KISS YOU | bnha girls | minors dni

SYPNOSIS. They spend their lives saving the world, but with you, they finally get to let their guard down. 

FEATURING, Ochaco Uraraka, Momo Yaoyorozu, Tsuyu Asui, Mina Ashido, Kyoka Jiro, Toru Hagakure, Nejire Hado

TAGS: timeskip au, s/o is female, suggestive content (18+),

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ochaco.uraraka 🍡

Ochaco kisses like gravity itself has shifted—sweetly, warmly, and with the power to make you feel weightless.

There's always this moment before she kisses you where she gets this look on her face—determined but soft, like she's making an important decision. Her cheeks flush that pretty pink that matches her hero costume, and she bites her lip (which is incredibly distracting), working up the courage even though you've kissed hundreds of times before. Because Ochaco never takes this for granted, never assumes, always treats each kiss like it's something special.

"Come here," she'll say softly, and there's that slight accent that gets stronger when she's emotional, when she's feeling things deeply. Her hands come up to cup your face, and her palms are warm, slightly rough from training but gentle in their touch. She stands on her tiptoes (even though she hates being reminded of her height), and then her lips are on yours and suddenly nothing else matters.

Ochako's kisses are sweet and genuine, just like her. There's no pretense, no games—just honest affection that she pours into every press of her lips. She kisses you like you're precious, like you're important, like you matter more than anything else in her world. Her lips are soft and taste faintly of the strawberry chapstick she always carries, and they move against yours with enthusiastic tenderness.

When she deepens the kiss, when her tongue slides against yours, there's sometimes this flutter in your stomach—literal weightlessness as her quirk activates unconsciously. Your feet leave the ground just slightly, and she makes this embarrassed sound against your lips, immediately releasing her quirk and bringing you back down.

"Sorry, sorry!" she gasps, pulling back just enough to speak, face burning red. "I didn't mean to—you just make me feel so much that I—"

You kiss her again to stop her apology, and she melts into it, smiling against your lips. Because the truth is, you love when she does that, love the physical manifestation of how much you affect her, love floating in her arms like you're defying the laws of physics just by loving each other.

When Ochako really gets into kissing you, when her initial shyness gives way to confidence, she's devastating. Her kisses become more assured, more passionate. Her tongue strokes against yours with increasing boldness, and her hands slide from your face into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as she pulls you closer. She makes these soft, breathy sounds that make your heart race, little sighs and hums that tell you exactly how much she's enjoying this.

She's stronger than people give her credit for—all that training, all those hours perfecting her fighting style—and she uses that strength to hold you close, to press against you until there's no space between your bodies. When you run your hands down her sides, she shivers and kisses you deeper, her tongue dancing with yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin.

Sometimes when she's really lost in the moment, she'll activate her quirk on purpose, making you both float as she kisses you breathless. There's something incredibly romantic about it—kissing while suspended in air, gravity holding no power over you, nothing existing except the two of you and the feeling of her lips on yours. She'll spin you both slowly, her arms wrapped around your neck, her smile bright and beautiful when she pulls back to look at you.

"I love you," she whispers, and there's wonder in her voice, like she still can't quite believe she gets to say that, gets to have this, gets to have you. "I love you so much."

And then she's kissing you again, floating or grounded, it doesn't matter—because with Ochaco, you're always weightless, always falling, always caught in the gravity of her affection. Her kisses are like coming home, like safety and warmth and the kind of love that makes you believe in heroes all over again.

When you finally touch back down to earth (literally and figuratively), she's grinning that beautiful smile that scrunches her nose, eyes bright with happiness, cheeks flushed, and she looks at you like you hung the moon and stars just for her. And you'd do it too, if she asked. You'd do anything for Ochaco Uraraka and her gravity-defying kisses.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖momo.yaoyorozu 🥀

Momo kisses like everything she does—with elegance, precision, and an intensity that takes your breath away.

There's a certain refinement to the way Momo approaches intimacy. She's been trained in etiquette, in proper behavior, in maintaining composure at all times. But when she kisses you, all that careful control becomes something else entirely—not restraint, but rather a focused, deliberate passion that's somehow more intense for being so precisely applied.

She'll take your hand first, always. Her fingers intertwine with yours, and you can feel the slight calluses from training, the strength in her grip despite the delicacy of her touch. She steps closer, and there's confidence in the movement, in the way she tilts her head to look down at you (or up, depending on your height), her dark eyes holding yours with unwavering focus.

"May I?" she asks, because Momo is nothing if not polite, even in this. Especially in this. And there's something incredibly attractive about the way she asks permission, the way she makes you feel respected and desired in equal measure.

When you nod, her free hand comes up to rest at the side of your neck, thumb brushing along your jawline, and then she closes the distance with measured grace. The first touch of her lips is soft, controlled, testing. She's learning you, understanding what you like, cataloging your responses with that brilliant mind of hers.

But don't mistake control for lack of passion. Momo feels everything deeply, perhaps too deeply, and when she kisses you, all that carefully contained emotion begins to surface. Her lips part against yours, and her tongue slides out to trace the seam of your mouth with deliberate slowness, a request couched in elegant execution.

When you open for her, the kiss transforms. Her tongue slides against yours with purposeful strokes, each movement calculated for maximum effect. She's studied this, you realize—not from books or videos, but from every time she's kissed you before, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you press closer, what makes your fingers tighten in her hair. Momo is a quick learner, and she applies that considerable intellect to kissing you absolutely senseless.

Her hand at your neck is steady, fingers pressing against your pulse point where she can feel your heartbeat quicken. It grounds her, connects her to your physical response, and you feel her smile against your lips—satisfaction in knowing she affects you this way. The hand holding yours tightens, pulls you closer, and suddenly you're pressed against her tall, athletic frame, feeling every curve, every breath.

There's something incredibly sensual about the way Momo kisses. It's not rushed or frantic, but it is intense—thoroughly, completely, overwhelmingly intense. She kisses like she creates: with absolute focus and attention to detail. Every stroke of her tongue is deliberate, every shift of her lips purposeful. She's composing a masterpiece, and you're the canvas.

When she breaks the kiss to trail her lips along your jaw, down your neck, her breath is warm against your skin. "You're exquisite," she murmurs, and her voice has dropped to something lower, richer, almost husky with want. "Absolutely exquisite."

And then her mouth is on your pulse point, lips and tongue working in combination that makes your knees weak. She's precise even in this, knowing exactly where to kiss, where to apply pressure, where to use teeth just gently enough to make you gasp. When she returns to your lips, she's smiling—that rare, genuine smile that transforms her entire face—and she kisses you deeper, harder, with more passion than before.

Momo's control is exquisite, but it's not absolute. When you do something she particularly enjoys—bite her bottom lip, tangle your fingers in her long dark hair, press against her just right—that composure cracks. Her breath hitches, her grip tightens, and suddenly the kiss is more urgent, more desperate. Her tongue strokes against yours with increasing fervor, and you can feel the want radiating from her, the need she usually keeps so carefully contained.

"Please," she'll whisper against your lips, and there's something incredibly vulnerable about hearing Momo Yaoyorozu—confident, capable, brilliant Momo—asking for something, needing something. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

And you don't. You kiss her until she's breathless, until her perfect posture falters and she's leaning into you for support, until those dark eyes are hazy with desire and her lips are swollen and her hair is mussed from your fingers. You kiss her until the elegant, refined Momo gives way to something more raw, more real, more utterly devastating.

When you finally part, she takes a moment to compose herself, smoothing down her hair with trembling fingers, straightening her clothes. But she can't quite hide the flush on her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes, the small smile that plays at her lips. And she doesn't want to—because with you, she doesn't have to be perfect. She can just be Momo, and that's enough.

"Again?" she asks, and there's hope and heat in those dark eyes. And you pull her close and kiss her again, because kissing Momo Yaoyorozu is an art form, and you intend to spend a lifetime perfecting it.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖tsuyu.asui 🪷

Tsuyu kisses like the first rainfall after a drought.

Tsu doesn't do pretense. She doesn't play games, doesn't hide behind false modesty or manufactured shyness. When she wants to kiss you, she tells you directly, in that straightforward way of hers that's become so endearing. "I want to kiss you now, ribbit," she'll say, and it's not a question, but there's always a pause where she waits for your response, respects your consent even as she states her desire plainly.

When you smile and nod, she closes the distance with unhurried purpose. Tsu never rushes anything—she's patient, methodical, thorough. Her large hands come up to rest on your shoulders, and there's strength in that grip, power contained in those deceptively delicate-looking fingers. Then she leans in, and her lips meet yours with warm pressure.

The first thing you notice is how soft her lips are. The second thing you notice is her tongue.

Tsu's quirk affects more than just her appearance, and her tongue is long, prehensile, incredibly versatile—and she knows exactly how to use it. When the kiss deepens, when her lips part and her tongue slides out to meet yours, it's an experience unlike any other. The length of it, the dexterity, the way she can wrap around your tongue and stroke it with muscular precision—it's overwhelming in the best possible way.

She makes this soft "ribbit" sound when she kisses, a quirk (no pun intended) that's entirely unconscious and absolutely adorable. It vibrates through the kiss, adds another layer of sensation that makes your head spin. Her tongue explores your mouth thoroughly, reaching places others couldn't, tasting you with clear enjoyment, and all the while she's making these quiet amphibian sounds that shouldn't be hot but absolutely are.

Tsu's kisses are wet—not unpleasantly so, but noticeably. Her quirk means she's always slightly damp, and there's something primal about the slickness of her tongue as it slides against yours, the moisture of her lips, the way she tastes like fresh rain and something uniquely Tsuyu. She kisses like a storm rolling in, intense and natural and impossible to resist.

Her hands aren't idle during this. They slide from your shoulders down your arms, and you feel the slight suction of her fingertips—another quirk trait, the ability to stick to surfaces—leaving tingling sensations in their wake. When she presses her palms flat against your back and pulls you close, you feel that subtle adhesion, the way she's literally sticking to you, claiming you as hers.

"You taste good, ribbit," she says matter-of-factly when she pulls back, her large eyes studying your face with that characteristic directness. "Like home."

And then she's kissing you again, her long tongue delving deeper, stroking along yours with deliberate, thorough movements. There's no technique borrowed from movies or romance novels—Tsu kisses purely on instinct, doing what feels good, what makes you gasp, what makes her ribbit with satisfaction. And her instincts are excellent.

When things get more heated, Tsu's composure remains largely intact. She doesn't become frantic or desperate; instead, her methodical nature applies itself to taking you apart piece by piece. Her tongue does things that should be impossible, wrapping around yours, stroking the roof of your mouth, exploring every inch of available space with thorough attention. Her hands grip you tighter, the suction of her fingertips increasing slightly, and you're effectively pinned against her, held in place by quirk and desire as she kisses you breathless.

She'll pull back occasionally to check in, to make sure you're okay, to gauge your reaction with those perceptive eyes. "Good?" she asks, and when you nod frantically, desperate for her to continue, she smiles—that wide, genuine smile—and murmurs, "Good, ribbit," before diving back in.

There's something grounding about kissing Tsuyu. She's so honest, so present, so entirely herself that it makes you feel safe to be entirely yourself too. Her kisses don't demand anything except your genuine response. She doesn't need you to perform or pretend—she just needs you to be there, with her, in the moment, genuine and real.

When you finally part for real, lips swollen and breathing heavy, she rests her forehead against yours and ribbits softly, contentedly. Her hands are still stuck to your back, and she makes no move to release them, enjoying the closeness, the connection. "I love you," she says simply, because Tsu doesn't complicate things with flowery language or dramatic declarations. She just tells you the truth, plain and simple and perfect.

Tsuyu Asui kisses like the most honest thing in the world, and in a society full of facades and performances, that honesty is the most refreshing thing you've ever tasted.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ mina.ashido 🌸

There's never any warning before Mina kisses you.

She doesn't do the slow build-up, the careful approach, the asking permission with words. She just sees you, decides she wants to kiss you, and suddenly she's there, bouncing on her toes, grinning that brilliant smile, pink skin glowing with excitement. "Babe!" she squeals, and then her arms are around your neck and she's pulling you down (or bending down) and kissing you like she hasn't seen you in years instead of hours.

Her enthusiasm is absolutely infectious. Mina kisses with her whole body—pressing against you, arms tight around your neck, one leg sometimes hooking around yours for balance as she stretches up. She's all warmth and energy and joy, and kissing her feels like mainlining pure happiness. Her lips are soft and always taste like whatever fruity lipgloss she's wearing that day—strawberry, cherry, watermelon, pineapple, something sweet and distinctly Mina.

She smiles while she kisses. You can feel it, the way her lips curve against yours, the way she sometimes pulls back just to grin at you before diving back in. "You're so cute," she'll say, or "I missed you so much," or "One more, just one more!" and then she's kissing you again, giggling between pecks, covering your face with quick, affectionate kisses before returning to your lips properly.

When Mina deepens the kiss, when it shifts from playful to passionate, it's like a switch flips. Suddenly all that energy focuses, concentrates, becomes laser-targeted on making you lose your mind. Her tongue slides against yours with surprising skill, and she kisses like she dances—with rhythm, with enthusiasm, with moves that shouldn't work but absolutely do.

Her hands are everywhere. In your hair, on your shoulders, sliding down your chest, cupping your face—she can't stay still, can't stop touching you. Every touch is warm (her quirk keeps her body temperature slightly elevated), and you can feel that warmth seeping into your skin, making you feel flushed and dizzy and desperately wanting more.

"Is this okay?" she asks breathlessly between kisses, and without waiting for an answer, "Can I—?" and her tongue is stroking yours again, deeper this time, more insistent. She makes these happy sounds when she kisses—little hums and sighs and occasionally full-on delighted giggles when you do something she particularly enjoys.

Mina is vocal during kissing. She tells you exactly what she likes, what feels good, what she wants. "Yes, like that!" or "More, please more!" or just your name, gasped against your lips with such affection it makes your heart squeeze. There's no shame in her desire, no embarrassment about wanting you so obviously, so completely.

When things get really heated, when you're both breathless and grabbing at each other with increasing desperation, you have to be a little careful. Mina's quirk responds to her emotions, and when she's really aroused, really excited, her skin starts producing very dilute acid. It's not enough to hurt—she has too much control for that—but you can feel it, a slight tingle where her hands rest on your skin, a small burn that's more pleasant than painful, that marks you as thoroughly as any hickey.

She notices when it happens, always pulls back with wide golden eyes, worried. "Sorry! Did I—are you—?"

"I'm fine," you assure her, pulling her back, and the relief and desire that floods her face is beautiful. She kisses you harder then, more carefully, channeling all that energy into the kiss itself rather than her quirk. Her tongue does absolutely sinful things, stroking and swirling and doing this flicking thing that makes your knees buckle.

Mina kisses like dancing, like music, like the best party you've ever been to. She kisses like joy personified, and being the focus of that joy, being the person she wants to kiss like this, is intoxicating. When she finally pulls back, she's grinning breathlessly, pink skin flushed darker with pleasure, golden eyes sparkling with mischief and affection.

"Love you!" she chirps, and kisses you one more time, quick and sweet. "Best kisser ever, by the way. Just so you know. I'm keeping you forever, no take-backs!"

And you wouldn't want to take it back anyway, because kissing Mina Ashido is like bottled sunshine, and who would ever want to let that go?

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ kyoka.jiro 🎸

Getting Jiro to kiss you the first few times requires patience. She's not good with vulnerability, doesn't like feeling exposed, tends to hide behind sarcasm and deflection when emotions run too high. She'll roll her eyes at romantic gestures, scoff at cheesy lines, maintain that cool, slightly aloof exterior that keeps people at a distance.

But when she finally lets those walls down, when she decides she trusts you enough to show you the passionate, feeling person underneath the defensive exterior—god, it's worth the wait.

Her approach is hesitant at first, uncharacteristically uncertain. Her fingers, usually so confident on her instruments, fidget with the hem of her shirt or the ends of her hair jacks. "This is stupid," she mutters, not meeting your eyes. "I don't know why I'm so nervous. We've kissed before. This is dumb."

You take her hand, and she finally looks up, and there's vulnerability in those dark eyes that makes your chest tight. "Shut up," she says, but there's no heat in it, and then she's pulling you down by your collar and kissing you like she's afraid if she thinks about it too long she'll lose her nerve.

The first touch is a bit awkward—noses bump, angles are wrong—but then Jiro adjusts with that same precision she applies to her music, and suddenly everything clicks into place. Her lips move against yours with increasing confidence, and you realize she's been paying attention, learning, understanding the rhythm of kissing you just like she'd learn a new song.

When she deepens the kiss, her tongue sliding against yours, she makes this soft sound—pleasure and relief mixed—and her hands slide up to cup your face. Her earphone jacks, which usually hang at her sides, curl around you, wrapping loosely around your arms, your waist, adding another point of connection. They're incredibly sensitive, you've learned, and she shivers when you carefully touch them, running your fingers along their length.

Jiro's quirk adds a unique dimension to kissing. Those jacks can conduct sound, and when she's really into it, when she's losing herself in the sensation, they start picking up the rhythm of your heartbeat, the sound of your breathing, and somehow feeding it back, amplifying the experience. It's hard to explain—like kissing with surround sound, like every sense is heightened, like you can literally feel the resonance between you.

"Is this—" she gasps against your lips, pulling back just slightly, and her cheeks are flushed, her carefully maintained cool completely shattered. "Is this okay? The jack thing, I mean. It's not weird?"

"It's perfect," you tell her, and kiss her again, and she melts into it with a relieved sigh.

When Kyoka really gets going, when her initial shyness gives way to genuine passion. She kisses like she plays guitar—with rhythm and skill and an intensity that builds and builds until you're both left shaking. Her tongue strokes against yours in tempo, sometimes slow and deep like a bass line, sometimes quick and teasing like a riff. She's creative with it, trying different patterns, different pressures, paying attention to what makes you moan, what makes you grip her tighter.

Her hands slide from your face into your hair, and she pulls—not hard, but firm enough to make you gasp, to angle your head exactly where she wants it. There's control there, confidence growing with every passing second, and the realization that she can affect you like this clearly thrills her.

Her jacks wrap tighter around you, and you can feel them vibrating slightly—not sound exactly, but sensation, adding a buzz that makes everything more intense. When you run your tongue along hers in a particular way she likes, the vibration increases, and she makes this choked sound of pleasure that goes straight through you.

"Fuck," she gasps when she breaks for air, and her carefully cultivated punk image is completely demolished—lips swollen, hair mussed, eyes dark and wanting. "You're—that was—"

She can't even finish the sentence before she's kissing you again, more urgently this time, like she needs it, needs you, needs this connection that goes deeper than sound or touch or anything she can explain. Her tongue delves deep, stroking against yours with increasing desperation, and her jacks are definitely vibrating now, sending pleasant shivers across your skin wherever they touch.

When things get really intense, Jiro loses all her carefully maintained composure. She's pressing against you, hands grabbing, jacks wrapped tight around you like she's afraid you'll disappear. She's making sounds—breathy moans and gasps and your name, broken and wanting—and it's the most beautiful music you've ever heard.

Finally pulling apart, she rests her forehead against yours, breathing hard, a small smile playing at her lips. "You're pretty good at that," she says, trying for casual and completely failing. "For a dork."

"Yeah?" you tease, and she laughs, genuine and bright, and kisses you again, softer this time, sweeter, her jacks loosening to a comfortable embrace rather than a desperate grip.

Kyoka Jiro kisses like a symphoy and you'd happily spend forever learning every note.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ toru.hagakure 🔎

Toru Hagakure kisses like the best secret you've ever kept.

Dating someone you can't see presents unique challenges, but Toru has never let her invisibility stop her from living life to the fullest. If anything, it makes her more bold, more mischievous, more determined to make her presence known in ways that don't rely on visibility. And when it comes to kissing, she's developed an art form all her own.

You never see her coming. That's part of the fun, part of the game she loves to play. You'll be standing somewhere, minding your own business, and suddenly there are hands on your shoulders, a giggling voice in your ear, and then lips pressing against yours before you can even react.

"Surprise!" she laughs against your mouth, and you can hear the grin in her voice even if you can't see it. "Did I get you? I totally got you!"

Her kisses always start with laughter. Toru is sunshine personified, all energy and joy and mischief, and that bubbling happiness carries into every physical interaction. She kisses you and giggles at the same time, delighted by your surprise, by your willing participation, by the fact that she can affect you so completely even when you can't see her.

The invisibility adds a unique dimension to kissing. You have to rely on other senses—touch, sound, taste. You feel her lips against yours, soft and warm and enthusiastic. You hear her breathing, the small sounds she makes, the whispered words between kisses. You taste her lip gloss (she wears it religiously, says it helps people know where her mouth is, though you suspect she just likes the flavors).

"Close your eyes," she whispers, and when you do, suddenly it's not about the invisibility anymore. You're both just two people kissing, and the lack of visual input somehow makes everything else more intense. Every touch of her lips registers more strongly. Every slide of her tongue sends sharper sensations through your system. Every brush of her fingers against your skin makes you shiver.

Toru's hands are constantly moving when she kisses, and you have to track them by touch alone. They cup your face, slide into your hair, trail down your neck and across your shoulders. She's tactile, needs to touch and be touched, uses her hands to communicate presence and affection in ways her invisible body can't. When she frames your face with both palms, you know she's looking at you even though you can't see her eyes, and somehow that makes it more intimate, more real.

"You're so pretty," she murmurs between kisses. "I love your face. I love looking at you. Sometimes I just watch you and you don't even know I'm there and you make these faces when you're thinking and it's so cute I could die."

"That's a little creepy," you tease, and she gasps in mock offense.

"It's not creepy! It's romantic! I'm being romantic!" She bites your bottom lip in retaliation, gentle but firm, and then soothes it with her tongue. "Take it back or I'll stop kissing you."

"No you won't."

"You're right, I won't." And she's kissing you again, deeper now, her tongue sliding against yours with practiced ease. "I like kissing you too much."

When Toru really gets into kissing, when the playfulness settles into something more heated, her presence becomes overwhelming despite—or perhaps because of—her invisibility. You feel her everywhere. Her body presses against yours, and you map her shape by touch alone—the curve of her waist, the soft warmth of her chest, the way she fits perfectly against you. Her legs tangle with yours, and you feel the smooth skin of her thighs, the flexing of muscles as she rises on her toes or pulls you down to her level.

Her breathing gets heavier, audible in the quiet of the room, and you use the sound to orient yourself, to know where her mouth is before you capture it again. When you kiss her neck, you have to find it by touch, trailing your lips along invisible skin until she gasps and you know you've found the right spot. She makes the best sounds—breathy moans and surprised gasps and your name, whispered like a prayer.

"There," she breathes when you find a particularly sensitive spot. "Right there, yes, oh my god—"

Her invisibility means she can be bold in ways others might not. She'll kiss you in public, and no one knows except the two of you. She'll press against you in crowded spaces, her lips finding yours in stolen moments where you're surrounded by people but completely alone in your bubble of secret affection. It's thrilling, this private intimacy in public spaces, and Toru loves pushing those boundaries.

But there's vulnerability too. Sometimes, in quiet moments after passionate kissing, she'll press her forehead to yours and whisper, "Do you wish you could see me?"

And you tell her the truth—that you see her in every smile you hear in her voice, in every enthusiastic gesture you feel, in every moment of joy she brings into your life. That she's the most visible person you know, invisibility be damned.

When she kisses you after you say things like that, it's different. Slower, deeper, more emotional. Her lips move against yours with tender reverence, and her hands hold your face like you're precious, like you're the one who's rare and special and magical. Her tongue slides against yours in long, sweet strokes that speak of gratitude and love and bone-deep affection.

"I love you," she whispers, and you feel tears on her cheeks even though you can't see them. "I love you so much. Thank you for seeing me. Really seeing me."

And you kiss her again, tasting salt and sweetness, feeling her smile return, hearing her giggle as the melancholy passes and joy reasserts itself because that's who Toru is—resilient, happy, determined to find brightness even in invisibility.

Later, she'll ambush you again with surprise kisses. She'll leave lip gloss prints on your cheek. She'll whisper teasing comments during class and then kiss you breathless in empty hallways. She'll make you laugh and gasp and occasionally walk into walls because you're trying to kiss her while walking and spatial awareness is difficult when your girlfriend is invisible.

Loving her teaches you that the most important things—joy, affection, connection—have never needed to be seen to be real.

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ nejire.hado 🌀

Nejire doesn't approach anything casually, and kissing is no exception.

She asks a million questions first. "Is now a good time? Should I use chapstick first? Do you prefer soft or firm pressure? What about tongue—do you like tongue right away or should we work up to it? Oh, but I guess we've kissed before so you know what I like but do you think I know what you like? Should I ask more questions or is that killing the mood?"

"Nejire," you laugh, cupping her face to stop the flood of words. "Just kiss me."

"Okay!" she beams, and then she does, and it's like being hit by a wave of pure enthusiasm.

Nejire kisses with total commitment. Her arms wrap around your neck, pulling you close, and her lips press against yours with firm, warm pressure. She hums happily into the kiss, this pleased, melodic sound that makes you smile against her lips. When you smile, she pulls back just enough to grin at you, her periwinkle hair floating around her face in that perpetual spiral, eyes bright with joy.

"That was nice!" she announces. "Let's do it again!"

And she does, and this time it's deeper, more exploratory. Her tongue slides against your lips, and when you part for her, she makes this delighted sound of discovery, like she's finding something wonderful and new even though you've kissed like this before. Her tongue strokes against yours with curious enthusiasm, testing different pressures, different movements, cataloging what makes you sigh, what makes you press closer.

Her quirk, the wave motion, responds to her emotions. When she's really happy, really excited, you can feel this pleasant vibration radiating from her—not strong enough to move you, but enough to feel like humming energy against your skin. It's like kissing someone while standing next to a purring cat, this constant pleasant buzz that makes everything more intense.

"Is this good?" she asks, pulling back to study your face with those wide, expressive eyes. "You look flushed. Is that good flushed or bad flushed? Should I do something different? What if I—"

You kiss her again to stop the questions, and she melts into it with a giggle. "Okay, okay, less talking, more kissing. I can do that!"

And she does, with remarkable focus once she gets going. Nejire might seem scattered, but when she's interested in something, she gives it her complete attention. And right now, she's very interested in kissing you absolutely senseless. Her tongue does complicated things—swirls and flicks and long, dragging strokes that make your toes curl. She's creative with it, trying new techniques, seeing what works, what makes you moan, what makes your fingers tighten in her floating hair.

Her hands aren't idle either. They roam across your shoulders, down your arms, along your sides, exploring with the same curiosity she brings to everything. When she finds a spot that makes you shiver—the sensitive skin just below your ear, the dip of your collarbone—she focuses there, kissing and licking and occasionally using teeth, delighted by your reactions.

"You're so responsive!" she says happily against your neck. "I love how you react to me. It's like a science experiment but way more fun and also I get to kiss you which is the best!"

Even in the middle of making out, Nejire can't help but comment, observe, process out loud. But somehow it's not annoying—it's endearing, quintessentially her, and you wouldn't change it for anything. Besides, between the commentary, she's kissing you so thoroughly, so enthusiastically, that you can barely think straight.

When things get really heated, when her breathing quickens and her cheeks flush and that vibration from her quirk intensifies, Nejire becomes almost aggressive in her enthusiasm. She presses closer, kisses harder, her tongue stroking against yours with increasing urgency. Her hair floats more wildly around both of you, creating this bubble of spiraling periwinkle that feels private, intimate, like you're in your own world.

"I love you," she says between kisses, and then immediately, "Did you know your lips get exactly 3.7% fuller when we've been kissing for more than five minutes? I timed it! Well, estimated. It's hard to time things when your brain feels fuzzy. You make my brain feel fuzzy. Is that normal? That's probably normal. Oh, that thing you just did with your tongue—do that again!"

You do, and she makes this beautiful sound of pleasure, high and sweet, and kisses you so hard you stumble backward. She follows, never breaking contact, until you're pressed against a wall and she's pressed against you and there's no space left between your bodies. Her hands frame your face, and she kisses you deeply, thoroughly, with surprising skill hidden beneath all that scattered energy.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Nejire's eyes are sparkling, her smile radiant, her hair a wild spiral around her flushed face. "Again?" she asks hopefully, already leaning in, and you laugh and kiss her again because how could you ever say no to Nejire Hado?

Author's Note: You guys loved the boys so much, I had to write the girls too! Thanks to @amyisgay123. They each have such distinct personalities, and writing how their quirks would influence their affection was REALLY fun (Ochaco making you float? Yes, please. I feel like that’s already canon. Toru being a menace? Absolutely.

Let me know which girl's style was your favorite!

[alisonsmain]

your daughter gets a flower from a boy and your husband, katsuki, isn’t a big fan of that…

“mama! look!” your daughter tells you as she held up the flower.

you had just picked up your daughter after leaving work early. while you and your husband were both pro-heroes, you were doing light work as you were pregnant with your second child. katsuki had insisted that you did light work until the baby was born.

“that’s beautiful sweetie. where did you get it?” you asked.

“yuji gave it to me!” she answered happily.

yuji was in koika’s class. the two were close just as you and katsuki were when you were children. you smiled at your daughter before holding her hand.

“you should show your dad the flower when he gets home,” you tell her.

“okay!”

katsuki was tired from a long day at work. all he wanted was to eat, shower, and sleep. so when he came home to see his little girl running up to him, telling him that a boy in her class had given her a flower, his mind went blank for a moment.

"hi honey. dinner's ready," you greeted your husband as he stared at koika. for a moment, you could've sworn a vein almost popped out of his forehead. "koika, can you set the table please?"

"yes mommy."

the moment koika was out of sight, katsuki looked over at you.

"bedroom. now," katsuki ordered, not wanting to yell in front of his daughter.

you followed him over before closing the door behind you. you leaned against it, ready to watch your husband have a fit.

“why the hell is that little brat giving my daughter a flower?!” katsuki asked angrily. “she’s way too young to be in love!”

“how do you think my father felt when you gave me flowers when we were kids and asked me to sleep over your house?” you asked.

katsuki glared over at you before grumbling to himself about how young your daughter was to be in love. he began to take off his costume so he could wash up and eat.

“katsuki, he’s a good kid. besides, what’s the difference between what you did as a kid compared to what yuji is doing to koika now?” you asked as you walked over and helped him out of his hero costume.

“because when we were kids, i already knew i wanted to marry you. what if this brat has other girls he likes? i don’t want my daughter getting hurt,” katsuki tells you. you let out a chuckle before giving your husband a kiss.

“i love you. but you know you can’t be mad at yuji for doing what you did to me as kids,” you tell him. katsuki continued with his angry pouted look as he got ready for bed.

the next day, katsuki came home with two large bouquets of flowers. you stared at your husband as he handed one to you.

“if my daughter is going to get flowers from some brat, then she’s gonna learn that she needs these kinds of flowers to win her heart. of course, i needed to get my lovely wife a bouquet as well for just being the best wife and mother to my children,” katsuki mumbles.

you smile at katsuki, leaning in to kiss him gently on the lips.

“well i love my flowers. and i know koika will too,” you tell him.

"damn right."

"and who knows, maybe yuji likes her so much that he'll get her a bouquet as well," you joke.

"don't joke like that," katsuki glared over.

"oh shut up. you look hot when you're over protective."

"is that you talking or the hormones talking?" katsuki asked.

"does it matter?"

"nope," katsuki smirked before kissing you once more. "now if you excuse me, i need to show our daughter that if she's going to get flowers from someone, they better be this big or extravagant."

[cupidkats]

𝓲 𝔀𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝓽𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝔂𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝓹𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝓵𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝓷𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 ﹕ ⠀ izuku midoriya, katsuki bakugou, eijirou kirishima, shouto todoroki, denki kaminari, hitoshi shinsou.

smau. profanity & sarcasm. pranks. nervous! izuku. mention of proposing. (bad) attempt at gaslighting. fortnite mention. shinsou is a LIAR.

[morilikemidori]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 💥⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ SOMETHING LIKE SPITE | k.bakugo

↳ table of contents + ao3 link

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SYPNOSIS. The aftermath of the party leaves Bakugou reeling. Unable to shake the memory of your dismissal, he spirals into a week of obsessive "reconnaissance" (aka stalking) trying to figure you out. When his friends finally call him out on his misery, Kaminari proposes a solution that might just be the worst idea in history: a bet.

TROPES: College AU, 10 Things I Hate About You inspired, Bet Trope, Enemies to Lovers, OC has a backbone

TAGS: bakusquad being supportive but also roasting him, kirishima is the voice of reason, kaminari is chaotic evil, bakugo katsuki has never been rejected in his life and it shows, he is spiraling, DOWN horrendous, downright stalker behavior, if this wasn't fiction i would call the police, scary dog privilege is the only reason he hasn't been reported, sero almost died for this 😔, aizawa is tired, kaminari definitely started this bet just to watch the world burn, you remain unbothered as usual, quirk is a metaphor for your heart (🙂‍↕️), she ordered black coffee and he fell in love instantly, kaminari denki is the villain of this story actually (still love my boy though), kirishima is the only one sharing a brain cell with logic, mina is just here for the tea, men will literally enter a high stakes bet instead of going to therapy

WC: 9.7K words

Bet On It

Monday morning hit like a sledgehammer wrapped in bureaucracy.

Bakugou Katsuki had been awake since five—earlier than usual, which was saying something—staring at his ceiling and mentally cataloging every reason why the past three days had been absolute shit.

The party was Friday.

It was now Monday.

Seventy-two hours.

And he was still thinking about it.

Still replaying the moment in his head like some kind of fucked-up highlight reel he couldn't turn off. Your face. Your voice. The way you'd looked at him like he was background noise you'd already learned to tune out.

"You think being loud makes you right. It just makes you easier to ignore."

He'd heard worse. Had people scream at him, curse him out, throw actual punches. He'd been called every name in the book and a few that probably weren't even in print yet.

But no one—no one—had ever looked at him the way you did.

Like he wasn't worth the energy to hate.

Like he was just... tiresome.

His alarm went off at 5:30. He didn't need it. He was already up, already dressed in his training gear, already lacing his boots with more aggression than the task required.

He needed to move. Needed to hit something. Needed to do literally anything that wasn't lying in bed thinking about some girl whose name he didn't even fucking know.

The fact that he didn't know your name was eating at him.

He knew everyone. Or at least, everyone knew him. That was how it worked. He was Bakugou Katsuki—top of the class, one of the strongest quirk users in their year, future number one hero. People paid attention. People cared.

But you didn't.

And that was the problem.

By the time he made it to the Class A common room, the sun was barely up. The space was empty, silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of someone's alarm going off on one of the upper floors.

He made coffee. Black. No sugar. The bitter burn was grounding, familiar.

He sat on the couch, mug in hand, and stared at nothing.

His phone was on the table in front of him. He'd been checking it more than usual the past few days—scrolling through social media, the Class A group chat, anywhere that might give him information.

Because people were still talking about the party.

Of course they were.

It wasn't every day that someone verbally dismantled Bakugou Katsuki in front of half the third-year hero studies and walked away without a scratch.

The comments ranged from amused to shocked to a few that were uncomfortably close to impressed.

Mina (Saturday, 11:47 PM): okay but that girl ATE him alive and I kind of respect it????

Sero (Saturday, 11:52 PM): Bakugou's been real quiet since then 👀

Kaminari (Sunday, 2:14 AM): i still can't believe she just LEFT. didn't even wait to see his reaction. BRUTAL.

Bakugou had read every message. Hadn't responded to a single one.

Because what the hell was he supposed to say?

Yeah, some random girl I don't know completely owned me and now I can't stop thinking about her?

Fuck that.

His jaw clenched. He took another sip of coffee, the heat scalding his tongue.

He wasn't supposed to care. That was the whole point of his entire personality—he didn't give a shit what people thought. He knew he was good. Knew he was going to be the best. Other people's opinions were just noise.

But this wasn't about opinions.

This was about the fact that someone had looked him in the eye and decided he wasn't worth their time.

And he couldn't let that go.

The door to the common room opened. Bakugou didn't look up.

"Morning," came Kirishima's voice, cautious. Testing the waters.

Bakugou grunted in response.

Kirishima crossed to the kitchen, poured himself some coffee, and sat on the opposite end of the couch. Far enough away that it didn't feel confrontational. Close enough that Bakugou knew he was there on purpose.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Then:

"You okay, man?"

Bakugou's grip tightened on his mug. "Fine."

"You've been kinda... off. Since Friday."

"I'm fine," Bakugou repeated, his voice flat.

Kirishima nodded slowly, like he didn't believe that for a second but wasn't stupid enough to push. "Okay. Cool. Just checking."

Silence again.

Bakugou could feel Kirishima's eyes on him. That concerned, overly-earnest look that Kirishima always had when he thought one of his friends was going through something.

"Don't," Bakugou said.

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you're about to do. Don't."

Kirishima held up his hands in surrender. "Wasn't gonna do anything."

"Bullshit."

Kirishima grinned despite himself. "Alright, fine. I was gonna ask if you wanted to talk about—"

"No."

"—but clearly you don't, so I'll just sit here and drink my coffee like a good friend."

"You're an annoying friend."

"Yeah, but I'm your annoying friend."

Bakugou didn't respond to that. Just drank his coffee and tried to ignore the fact that Kirishima was probably right.

Training started at seven.

Aizawa's Tactical Combat Strategies class was always first thing Monday mornings, which meant everyone showed up still half-asleep and resentful of the early hour.

Everyone except Bakugou.

He was the first one in the locker room, the first one changed, the first one out on the training field.

The air was crisp, cold enough that his breath fogged slightly. The sky was overcast, threatening rain but not quite delivering. Perfect.

He started his warm-up routine—stretches, footwork drills, a few small-scale explosions to get his quirk firing properly. His movements were sharp, precise, controlled.

On the surface.

Underneath, he was vibrating with the kind of pent-up aggression that usually only surfaced mid-fight.

The rest of the class trickled in over the next ten minutes. Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, Mina. Todoroki, Midoriya, Iida. The usual suspects, all in various states of wakefulness.

Aizawa appeared last, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. His capture weapon hung loose around his shoulders, and his expression was the standard level of "done with everything."

"Pair up," he said, his voice flat. "Combat drills. Quirk use allowed but keep it controlled. I don't want to file any incident reports today."

The class shuffled into pairs. Bakugou usually ended up with Kirishima or Midoriya—people who could actually take a hit and give one back.

Today, he got Sero.

Sero, to his credit, didn't look thrilled about it.

"Uh, hey man," Sero said, stretching his arms. "Let's keep it clean, yeah? I've got a quiz in hero law later and I'd like to be conscious for it."

Bakugou didn't respond. Just rolled his shoulders and settled into a fighting stance.

Aizawa blew the whistle.

Bakugou moved.

It wasn't a fight.

It was an execution.

Sero barely got his tape out before Bakugou was on him, closing the distance in a burst of explosive speed. Palm strike to the ribs—pulled, but hard enough to knock the air out. Sero stumbled back, tried to fire tape to create distance, but Bakugou twisted out of range and came in low, sweeping his leg.

Sero hit the ground.

"Shit—okay, okay—" Sero started, but Bakugou didn't let up.

He wasn't being malicious. Wasn't trying to hurt him. But he wasn't holding back the way he normally would in a practice match either.

Every movement was harder than it needed to be. Faster. More aggressive.

Sero managed to get his tape around Bakugou's wrist, tried to yank him off balance, but Bakugou just let off a controlled explosion that burned through the tape like it was paper.

"Dude—"

Another palm strike. Sero blocked, barely, and tried to counter with a sweep of his own.

Bakugou saw it coming a mile away. Dodged. Countered. Sero hit the ground again, harder this time.

"Bakugou, ease up!" Kirishima called from across the field, mid-match with Kaminari.

Bakugou ignored him.

Sero was back on his feet, hands up, breathing hard. "Okay, what the hell, man? This is supposed to be a drill—"

Bakugou came at him again.

This time, Sero actually looked pissed. He fired tape in three directions at once—ceiling, floor, walls—trying to create a web that would trap Bakugou in place.

Bakugou blasted through it.

Literally.

Explosions tore through the tape, and he was moving before the smoke even cleared, closing the distance, palm already glowing with heat—

"Bakugou."

Aizawa's voice cut through the noise like a blade.

Bakugou froze.

His hand was inches from Sero's face, an explosion primed and ready. Sero was on the ground, one arm up defensively, eyes wide.

The entire field had gone quiet.

Bakugou looked around. Everyone was staring. Kirishima looked worried. Kaminari looked alarmed. Even Midoriya—who was used to Bakugou's aggression—looked concerned.

Aizawa was standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

"Match is over," Aizawa said flatly. "Sero wins by default due to excessive force."

"That's bullshit—" Bakugou started.

"It's a drill," Aizawa interrupted, his voice sharp now. "Not a death match. Control your quirk or sit out."

Bakugou's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

He let the explosion in his palm fizzle out. Stepped back. Offered Sero a hand up without looking at him.

Sero took it, still breathing hard, and gave Bakugou a look that was equal parts confused and wary. "You good?"

"Fine," Bakugou bit out.

"You sure? Because that was—"

"I said I'm fine."

Sero held up his hands and backed off.

Aizawa watched the exchange, then turned to address the rest of the class. "Switch partners. Next round in two minutes."

Bakugou walked to the edge of the field, hands shoved in his pockets, and tried to get his breathing under control.

He could feel eyes on him. Hear the whispers.

What's his problem?

He's always aggressive, but that was—

Think he's okay?

He wasn't okay.

He was pissed. At himself. At Sero. At the entire fucking situation.

But mostly, he was pissed because he knew exactly why he'd gone too hard.

Because he was thinking about you.

About the way you'd looked at him. The way you'd dismissed him. The way you'd walked away like he was nothing.

And it was eating him alive.

The rest of the session passed in a blur.

Bakugou rotated through partners—Kirishima, then Kaminari, then Todoroki. He dialed it back, kept his hits controlled, his explosions measured. Did exactly what Aizawa wanted.

But his head wasn't in it.

His head was three days ago, standing in a crowded living room, listening to a girl he didn't know tell him exactly who he was.

And the worst part?

She'd been right.

Not about everything. But about enough.

About the cruelty disguised as honesty. About needing an audience. About performing.

He'd built his entire identity on being the best, the loudest, the most undeniable person in any room.

And you'd looked at that and called it exhausting.

Called him exhausting.

And then left.

By the time Aizawa dismissed them, Bakugou's hands were shaking. Not from exertion. From the effort of keeping himself in check.

He was the first one off the field. Didn't wait for Kirishima or anyone else. Just headed straight for the locker room, changed, and left.

He needed to be alone.

Needed to think.

Needed to figure out what the hell he was going to do about this.

Because he couldn't let it go.

Couldn't let you go.

Not until he understood why.

Why you'd looked at him like that.

Why you'd walked away.

Why, three days later, he still couldn't get your face out of his head.

Back in his dorm room, door locked, Bakugou sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his hands.

They were still shaking.

He clenched them into fists.

Get it together, he told himself. It's just some girl. Just some random girl who said some shit at a party. It doesn't matter.

But it did.

It mattered because no one had ever made him feel like this before.

Small. Dismissible. Ignorable.

And he hated it.

Hated that you had that power over him.

Hated that he'd given you that power without even realizing it.

His phone buzzed.

Group chat. Kirishima.

Kirishima: You sure you're good? That training session was intense.

Kaminari: Yeah dude you almost took Sero's head off

Sero: I'm fine btw. Thanks for asking.

Kaminari: we know you're fine. Bakugou's the one acting weird.

Bakugou stared at the messages.

He should respond. Say something dismissive. Tell them to fuck off and mind their own business.

But he didn't.

Because they were right.

He was acting weird.

And he didn't know how to stop.

He tossed his phone onto the bed and leaned back, closing his eyes.

Your voice echoed in his head.

"Keep performing. They'll laugh as long as you're useful."

His chest tightened.

He needed to know your name.

Needed to find you.

Needed to prove—to you, to himself, to everyone—that you were wrong about him.

That he was more than just noise.

More than just performance.

That he was worth knowing.

Even if you didn't think so.

Especially because you didn't think so.

He opened his eyes.

Made a decision.

He was going to find you.

And he was going to make you see him.

Really see him.

Whatever it took.

Lunch period at UA University was organized chaos.

The massive dining hall was separated into unofficial territories—Class A claimed the tables near the windows, Class B had the corner by the serving stations, support students dominated the center, and everyone else filled in the gaps. It wasn't an official rule, just one of those unspoken social contracts that developed over time.

Bakugou sat at his usual spot, tray in front of him, food untouched.

He'd made it through morning classes on autopilot. Hero ethics, quirk theory, some bullshit elective about media relations that he'd only signed up for because it fit his schedule. He'd taken notes, answered when called on, and hadn't blown up at anyone.

A personal record, considering the past three days.

But now, sitting here surrounded by the noise of hundreds of students all talking at once, he couldn't focus on anything except the problem he'd been trying to solve since Friday night.

He needed information.

And he was done pretending he didn't.

Kirishima was across from him, halfway through some story about a training mishap that morning. Kaminari was next to him, laughing at all the wrong parts. Sero was scrolling through his phone, occasionally showing Mina something that made her either laugh or groan.

Normal. Easy. The kind of lunch period they'd had a hundred times before.

Except Bakugou wasn't listening to any of it.

He was staring at his rice like it had personally offended him, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the table in a pattern that was just this side of aggressive.

"—and then he just face-planted into the wall. I'm talking full speed, no brakes, just smack—Bakugou, you listening?"

Bakugou's eyes flicked up. "What?"

Kirishima blinked. "I asked if you were listening."

"No."

"Cool. Cool cool cool." Kirishima exchanged a look with Kaminari. "You've been weird all day, man. Actually, you've been weird since—"

"That girl from the party," Bakugou interrupted, his voice flat. "The mouthy one. Did you find out who she was?"

The table went quiet.

Not silent—there was still the noise of the dining hall around them, the clatter of trays and the hum of conversation—but their little section of it had gone very, very still.

Kirishima's eyebrows shot up. Mina's mouth fell open slightly. Sero stopped mid-scroll.

Kaminari grinned. "Oh, now you want to know?"

Bakugou's glare could've melted steel. "Did you or didn't you?"

"I mean, yeah, obviously." Kaminari pulled out his phone, swiping through screens with the kind of confidence that said he'd been waiting for this moment. "Dude, I looked her up like two seconds after you stormed out of the party. You literally demanded we find out who she was."

"I didn't demand—"

"You absolutely did," Sero cut in. "You looked like you were gonna commit murder if we didn't give you a name."

Bakugou's jaw clenched. "Just show me."

Kaminari turned his phone around, displaying what looked like a student profile page. The kind that was technically private but everyone knew how to access if they had the right app and zero respect for boundaries.

There you were.

Your student ID photo stared back at him—neutral expression, no smile, eyes that looked like you were already annoyed at having to sit for the picture. Your hair was pulled back, and you weren't wearing any makeup. You looked... exactly like someone who didn't give a shit about student photos.

Bakugou's eyes scanned the information next to the image.

Name: [Your Full Name]

Year: Third

Class: 3-B (Hero Studies)

Quirk: Forcefield Generation

He stopped there, reading the description more carefully.

Forcefield Generation: User can generate a field of force, which can be used for a variety of effects. Most commonly, user generates near-indestructible fields around herself or other targets. By generating additional force behind force shields, user can convert defense into offense—shields can be propelled forward as battering rams at devastating speed. User is capable of generating and manipulating multiple force fields simultaneously.

The description went on, detailing the versatility of the quirk. Defensive barriers strong enough to absorb explosions. Offensive applications that could turn shields into slicing weapons. The ability to create close-to-body armor that increased durability significantly. Telekinetic applications. Automatic defense mechanisms that didn't require conscious activation.

It was a damn good quirk.

Strong. Versatile. The kind of quirk that could go head-to-head with his own and actually stand a chance.

Of course you had a good quirk. Of course you did.

"She's in 3-B," Kaminari said, leaning back in his chair. "But she's not really with them, if you know what I mean. Like, she's technically in their class, but I don't think I've ever seen her at any of their group things."

"She's a loner," Mina added, her voice thoughtful. "I've tried talking to her a few times—you know, girl solidarity and all that—but she's... hard to read. Not mean, exactly. Just... closed off."

"She's kind of a bitch," Kaminari said, too casually.

Mina's head whipped toward him. "She's selective. And honest. There's a difference."

"Selective is just a nice way of saying she thinks she's too good for everyone."

"Or maybe she just doesn't waste time on people who aren't worth it," Mina shot back, her tone sharper now. "Not everyone needs to be friends with everyone, Denki."

Kaminari held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'm just saying what I've heard."

Bakugou tuned them out, still staring at the profile.

Your quirk name. Your class. The few details listed under "Additional Information" that were mostly blank except for a note that said Frequently absent from optional social events.

That tracked.

"What else?" Bakugou asked, his voice cutting through Mina and Kaminari's argument.

Kirishima shifted uncomfortably. "What do you mean?"

"What else do you know about her?"

The table exchanged looks again. The kind of looks that said they were trying to figure out how much to tell him without setting him off.

Sero spoke first. "She's smart. Like, really smart. Top tier in combat strategy. I've seen her in a few joint training exercises—she doesn't showboat, doesn't try to prove anything, but she's good. Her quirk is nuts."

"She turned down three different study groups this semester," Kaminari added. "I know because one of them was mine. I asked if she wanted to join for hero law and she just looked at me and said, 'I study alone.' Not rude, just... matter-of-fact."

"She skips most of the social stuff," Mina said. "Mixers, parties, even some of the optional seminars. I think the only reason she showed up to Sero's party was because Kendo dragged her."

Bakugou filed that information away. Kendo. Class B. That made sense.

"Does she have friends?" he asked.

Mina hesitated. "I mean... Kendo, I think? They're neighbors in the dorms. But even that seems more like Kendo being persistent than anything else. I don't think I've ever seen her with a group."

"She eats lunch alone," Sero offered. "Always. Either in the library or outside if the weather's good. Never here."

Bakugou looked around the dining hall, at the hundreds of students packed into tables, talking and laughing and existing in each other's spaces.

And you were never here.

By choice.

"Why?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else.

"Why what?" Kirishima asked carefully.

"Why does she avoid people?"

Kirishima shrugged. "Some people just don't like crowds, man. Doesn't mean there's some deep reason."

But Bakugou didn't buy that.

People didn't build walls that high without a reason.

People didn't shut themselves off that completely unless they were protecting something.

Or protecting from something.

"What's her deal?" Bakugou pressed. "Family? Background?"

Kaminari scrolled further down the profile, but there wasn't much. "Doesn't say. Parents aren't listed—could mean they're not heroes, could mean she doesn't want it public. No siblings on record. Nothing about her background before UA."

"She keeps to herself," Mina said softly. "And honestly? I respect it. Not everyone needs to perform their whole life for people to validate them."

The comment landed a little too close to home.

Bakugou's fingers tightened around his chopsticks.

"She called you exhausting," Sero said, not unkindly. "At the party. And... I mean, she wasn't entirely wrong."

"Sero—" Kirishima started, a warning in his voice.

"I'm just saying!" Sero held up his hands. "Look, Bakugou, you're my boy. But you do take up a lot of space. And some people don't want that. Doesn't make them bad. Just means they're not compatible with your energy."

Bakugou wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Sero he was full of shit, that he didn't "take up space," that people liked his energy.

But the words stuck in his throat.

Because Sero was right.

And you had been right.

He did take up space. Did demand attention. Did perform, even when he told himself he didn't.

And you'd looked at all of that and decided it wasn't worth your time.

"She's got a reputation," Kaminari said, breaking the silence. "People either respect her or avoid her. There's not a lot of in-between."

"What kind of reputation?" Bakugou asked.

"The kind where people know not to fuck with her. She doesn't start shit, but she doesn't take it either. There was this guy in general studies last year—tried to hit on her, got pushy when she said no. She didn't yell, didn't make a scene. Just looked at him and said something that made him turn white and walk away. No one knows what she said, but he transferred out of her hero ethics class the next week."

Bakugou felt something twist in his chest.

Not jealousy. Not exactly.

More like... recognition.

You weren't just cold. You were careful.

Guarded.

The kind of guarded that came from experience.

"She doesn't let people in," Mina said quietly. "I don't think it's because she's mean or thinks she's better than everyone. I think she just... doesn't trust easily."

"Or at all," Sero muttered.

Bakugou stared at the profile photo again.

Your face. Neutral. Unreadable.

A wall.

And walls were built for a reason.

He'd spent three days thinking you were just some asshole who got off on tearing people down. Someone who enjoyed making him feel small.

But that wasn't it.

You weren't performing cruelty.

You were performing nothing.

Because nothing was safer than letting people see who you really were.

"Why do you care?" Kirishima asked, his voice gentle but pointed. "I mean, she clearly doesn't want anything to do with you. Why not just... let it go?"

Bakugou looked up at his friend.

Kirishima's expression was open, concerned. Not judging. Just asking.

Why did he care?

He could've let it go. Could've written you off as some bitter loner who wasn't worth his time.

But he couldn't.

Because you were the first person who'd ever looked at him and seen through all the noise.

The first person who'd called him out not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely didn't care enough to lie.

And that was... rare.

Uncomfortable.

But rare.

"I don't know," Bakugou said finally, his voice low.

It was the most honest thing he'd said in days.

Kaminari grinned, that stupid mischievous grin that meant he was about to say something idiotic. "You like her."

"I don't even know her."

"Exactly. Which is why you're sitting here asking us for her entire life story like some kind of stalker."

"I'm not—"

"You literally made me look her up."

"You did that on your own."

"Because you threatened me!"

"I didn't threaten you."

"You said, and I quote, 'Find out who she is or I'll make sure you fail every practical exam this semester.'"

Bakugou scowled. "That's not a threat. That's motivation."

"That's literally a threat," Sero said, fighting a smile.

"Whatever." Bakugou shoved his tray away, appetite gone. "I just want to know who I'm dealing with."

"Why?" Mina asked, her eyes sharp. "What are you planning?"

"Nothing."

"Bakugou."

"I said nothing."

But the way he said it—too quick, too defensive—made it very clear it was not nothing.

Kirishima leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Dude. Be real with me. What's going on?"

Bakugou was quiet for a long moment.

He could lie. Brush it off. Tell them to mind their own business and move on.

But these were his friends. The people who'd put up with his shit for three years and somehow still chose to sit with him at lunch.

They deserved something closer to the truth.

"She got in my head," Bakugou admitted, his voice rough. "And I need to get her out."

Kaminari's grin widened. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious! You're gonna try to talk to her again, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"She's gonna destroy you."

"She already did," Sero pointed out helpfully.

Bakugou shot him a glare. "Thanks for the reminder."

"Just being honest."

Mina was watching him carefully, her expression thoughtful. "You know she's not going to make this easy, right? She doesn't seem like the type who forgives easily. Or at all."

"I'm not asking for forgiveness."

"Then what are you asking for?"

Bakugou didn't have an answer for that.

Because he didn't know.

He just knew he couldn't let this go.

Couldn't let you go.

Not until he understood why you'd looked at him like that.

Why you'd walked away.

Why, even now, three days later, he couldn't stop thinking about your face.

"I'm gonna talk to her," he said finally.

Kirishima winced. "That's... probably a bad idea."

"Noted."

"She's gonna shut you down."

"Probably."

"And you're still gonna do it."

"Yeah."

Kirishima sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright. Your funeral, man."

Kaminari pulled up a calendar on his phone. "So when are we placing bets on how badly this goes?"

"I hate all of you," Bakugou muttered.

But he didn't leave.

And when Kaminari sent the profile photo to the group chat with the caption our boy's got a death wish, Bakugou didn't even tell him to delete it.

He just saved the photo to his own phone.

Your name.

Your quirk.

Your face.

Now he had information.

Now he could make a plan.

Now he just had to figure out how the hell to approach someone who very clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

Easy.

Right?

He looked at your photo one more time.

Those eyes. That neutral expression.

That wall.

Yeah.

This was going to be a disaster.

But he was doing it anyway.

The thing about obsession is that it starts small.

A passing thought. A lingering question. The kind of thing you tell yourself you'll forget about in a day or two.

And then it doesn't go away.

It festers. Grows. Becomes the thing you think about when you're supposed to be thinking about literally anything else.

Bakugou told himself he wasn't obsessed.

He was just... gathering intel.

Strategizing.

It's what any good hero would do when faced with an unknown variable. You studied the target. Learned their patterns. Figured out their weaknesses.

That's all this was.

Strategic reconnaissance.

The fact that he'd memorized your class schedule within twenty-four hours of getting your name was irrelevant.

Day One: The Library

Tuesday afternoon, 2:47 PM.

Bakugou pushed through the library doors with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he had every reason to be there. Which he did. He had a paper due next week. The library was a perfectly normal place for him to be.

The fact that he knew you'd be here—tucked into your usual corner on the third floor, headphones on, working through whatever assignment you'd decided was worth your time—was just a coincidence.

He'd asked around. Subtly. Or what passed for subtle when you were Bakugou Katsuki.

"Where does she usually study?" he'd asked Kendo that morning, catching her between classes.

Kendo had given him a look that was equal parts suspicious and amused. "Why?"

"Just answer the question."

"Library. Third floor. Back corner, away from everyone. She likes the table by the window."

"Thanks."

"Bakugou—"

But he was already walking away.

Now, standing on the third floor of the library, he scanned the space.

It was quieter up here. Fewer people. The third floor was where serious students came to actually work, not socialize. The lighting was softer, more focused, and the tables were spaced farther apart.

And there you were.

Back corner. Window table. Exactly where Kendo said you'd be.

You were hunched over a textbook, one hand holding your head up, the other scribbling notes on a laptop. Your headphones were the over-ear kind, the ones that blocked out the world completely. There was a coffee cup next to you—iced, mostly melted—and your bag was slung over the back of your chair.

You looked... focused.

Completely absorbed in whatever you were doing.

Bakugou felt something tighten in his chest.

He'd come here with a plan. Sort of. Walk past your table. Make eye contact. Maybe nod. Acknowledge your existence in a way that was casual but deliberate.

Nothing major.

Just... a reminder that he existed.

He adjusted the strap of his bag and started walking.

His footsteps were deliberate but not loud. Confident. He passed the first row of tables, then the second. A few students glanced up as he walked by—recognition flickering in their eyes, the usual double-takes—but he ignored them.

His focus was on you.

He was three feet from your table when he slowed his pace slightly. Not obvious. Just enough that if you looked up, you'd see him.

You didn't look up.

He walked past.

Slowly.

You didn't move.

He stopped a few feet beyond your table, pretending to scan the shelves like he was looking for a book. Gave it a solid ten seconds. Glanced back over his shoulder.

You were still writing. Still completely absorbed.

His jaw tightened.

Fine.

He grabbed a random book off the shelf—didn't even look at the title—and walked back the way he came. Past your table again. Closer this time.

You didn't look up.

Didn't even twitch.

It was like he was invisible.

No—worse.

It was like he didn't even register as something worth noticing.

Bakugou made it to the stairwell before he realized he was gripping the book hard enough to leave dents in the cover.

He looked down at it.

Advanced Theories in Botanical Quirk Applications.

He didn't even take biology.

He shoved the book onto a return cart and left the library, his mood significantly worse than when he'd entered.

Day Two: The Training Gym

Wednesday evening, 6:23 PM.

The off-hours gym was one of UA's best-kept secrets. Most students used the main training facilities during scheduled times, but if you knew where to look, there were smaller gyms scattered around campus that were open 24/7 for students who wanted extra practice.

Bakugou used them often. Late at night, usually, when he didn't want to deal with people or distractions.

But tonight, he was here for a different reason.

Because according to Sero—who'd mentioned it casually during lunch, probably not realizing Bakugou was listening—you trained here.

"She's always in Gym C after her last class," Sero had said, scrolling through his phone. "I've seen her a few times when I'm heading to the main building. Girl's dedicated. Always solo."

Bakugou had filed that information away.

And now, at 6:23 PM on a Wednesday, he was pushing open the doors to Gym C.

The space was smaller than the main facilities but well-equipped. Padded floors, reinforced walls designed to handle quirk usage, training dummies scattered around the perimeter. The lighting was harsh, industrial, and the air smelled like sweat and rubber.

And there you were.

Center of the room.

Running drills.

He stopped in the doorway, watching.

You were using your quirk—forcefield generation, he remembered—and the way you moved was... efficient. Precise. No wasted motion.

You generated a barrier in front of you, then propelled it forward like a battering ram. It slammed into a training dummy with enough force that the dummy rocked back on its base. Then you pulled the barrier back, reshaped it into a dome around yourself, and held it for a count of ten before letting it dissolve.

Offense. Defense. Control.

Over and over.

You weren't showing off. Weren't trying to be flashy. You were just... drilling. Repetition. Muscle memory.

It was the kind of training that separated good heroes from great ones.

And you were doing it alone.

Bakugou felt a flicker of something that might've been respect.

He stepped fully into the gym, letting the door close behind him with a soft thunk.

You didn't stop.

Didn't even glance over.

Just kept drilling.

Bakugou crossed to the other side of the gym, dropped his bag, and started his own warm-up. Stretches. Footwork. Small controlled explosions to get his quirk firing properly.

He kept you in his peripheral vision.

You were still going. Barrier up. Propel. Retract. Dome. Dissolve. Repeat.

Your breathing was controlled. Steady. You weren't even breaking a sweat yet.

Bakugou moved into his own drills. Explosions at varying intensities. Mobility exercises. Combinations that required split-second timing.

Ten minutes passed.

You were still drilling.

He was aware of you in a way that was becoming irritatingly familiar. The sound of your barriers forming—a low hum, almost musical. The controlled exhale every time you propelled one forward. The way you adjusted your stance slightly between repetitions, correcting for balance.

You were good.

Really good.

And you were completely ignoring him.

Not in the way someone ignores a person they're aware of but choosing not to engage with.

In the way someone ignores background noise.

Twenty minutes.

Bakugou was halfway through a set of explosive push-ups when he heard you stop.

He glanced over.

You were packing up.

Grabbing your water bottle. Slinging your bag over your shoulder. Pulling your hair back into a tighter ponytail.

You walked toward the door.

You were going to walk right past him.

Bakugou straightened, wiping sweat from his forehead.

You were three feet away.

Two feet.

He opened his mouth—wasn't even sure what he was going to say, just something—

You walked past him without a single glance.

Didn't slow down. Didn't acknowledge him. Just walked straight to the door, pushed it open, and left.

The door swung shut behind you.

Bakugou stood there, hands still raised from his last rep, staring at the closed door.

His hands clenched into fists.

The small explosions that sparked from his palms were entirely involuntary.

Day Three: The Coffee Shop

Thursday morning, 8:15 AM.

The campus coffee shop was always packed before nine. Students cramming in caffeine before their first classes, forming lines that stretched to the door.

Bakugou usually avoided it. Too crowded. Too loud. Too many people trying to talk to him when all he wanted was his coffee.

But today, he was here.

Because you were here.

He'd seen you walk in five minutes ago—spotted you from across the quad as he was heading to his own class. You'd been wearing the same oversized hoodie from the gym, headphones around your neck, that permanent look of mild irritation on your face.

He'd changed direction without thinking about it.

Now he was standing in line, three people behind you, watching the back of your head like it held the answers to questions he hadn't figured out how to ask yet.

You were looking at your phone. Scrolling through something with the kind of casual disinterest that suggested you weren't actually reading, just keeping your hands busy.

The line moved forward.

Two people between you now.

Bakugou shifted his weight, trying to figure out what the hell his plan was here.

Talk to you? Say what?

Hey, remember me? The guy you verbally destroyed four days ago? Want to grab coffee?

Yeah, that would go over great.

One person between you now.

You still hadn't looked up from your phone.

The person in front of you ordered and moved aside. You stepped up to the counter.

"Iced americano," you said to the barista. Your voice was flat, efficient. "Large. No sugar."

Of course you took your coffee black.

The barista rang you up. You paid with your phone, grabbed your receipt, and moved to the pickup area.

Bakugou stepped up to the counter.

"What can I get you?" the barista asked, clearly exhausted already.

"Black coffee. Medium."

He paid, grabbed his receipt, and moved to the pickup area.

Right next to you.

You were still on your phone. Some kind of news article, he could see from the angle. Something about hero rankings.

He could say something.

Should say something.

This was an opening. Casual. Low-pressure.

He opened his mouth.

"Iced americano!" the barista called.

You pocketed your phone, grabbed your drink, and walked out.

Without looking at him once.

Bakugou stood there, receipt crumpled in his fist, watching you disappear through the door.

"Black coffee, medium!"

He grabbed his drink and left.

Day Four: The Cafeteria

Friday lunch, 12:34 PM.

Bakugou wasn't in the cafeteria.

He was walking past the cafeteria, on his way to meet Kirishima at the training grounds, when he saw you through the windows.

You were at one of the outdoor tables. Alone, as always. Eating something that looked like it came from the convenience store—probably a rice ball or a sandwich. Your laptop was open in front of you, and you were typing with one hand while eating with the other.

Efficient.

He stopped walking.

Stood there like an idiot, staring through the window at you.

You looked... the same. Tired, maybe. There were shadows under your eyes that suggested you hadn't been sleeping well. But your expression was neutral. Focused.

Completely unaware that he was watching.

His phone buzzed.

Kirishima: where are you?? we're gonna be late

Bakugou looked at the message, then back at you.

You'd stopped typing. Were just staring at your screen now, your sandwich halfway to your mouth.

Something about your expression shifted. Just for a second.

You looked... sad.

Not upset. Not angry.

Just... worn down.

And then it was gone. You blinked, took a bite of your sandwich, and went back to typing.

Bakugou's chest tightened.

Bakugou: be there in 5

He turned and walked away.

But he couldn't stop thinking about that look.

Day Five: The Libray (Again)

Saturday morning, 10:02 AM.

Bakugou was in the library again.

Not because he had work to do. He'd finished his paper two days ago.

He was here because you were here.

Same table. Same corner. Same headphones.

He'd walked past you three times in the last hour.

You hadn't looked up once.

Not once.

He was standing in the stacks now, pretending to browse, but really just watching you from between the shelves.

This was pathetic.

He knew it was pathetic.

But he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Because the thing that was driving him insane wasn't that you were ignoring him.

It was that you genuinely didn't seem to know he existed.

He was used to reactions. That was the foundation of his entire presence. People reacted to him. Always.

Anger. Admiration. Fear. Attraction. Annoyance. Respect.

Something.

But you gave him nothing.

You weren't playing hard to get. Weren't trying to make a point.

You just... didn't care.

And that was so much worse than anything you'd said at the party.

Because at the party, you'd at least seen him.

You'd looked him in the eye and told him exactly what you thought of him.

Now?

Now he was just part of the scenery.

Forgettable.

Invisible.

His hands clenched.

A small explosion sparked between his fingers—barely controlled, the heat singing the spine of the book he was holding.

He needed to stop.

Needed to let this go.

This was insane. Pathetic. He had better things to do than stalk some girl who clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

He should walk away.

Right now.

Just leave. Forget about you. Move on with his life.

But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn't.

Because you'd gotten under his skin in a way no one ever had.

And he needed to know why.

Needed to understand what made you so determined to be alone.

Needed to crack open that armor and see if there was anything underneath.

Or if you were just as empty as you seemed.

He left the library before he could do something stupid.

Like actually talk to you.

By the time Sunday rolled around, Bakugou was in a worse mood than he'd been all week.

Five days.

Five days of "accidentally" being where you were.

Five days of you not noticing him.

Five days of slowly losing his mind.

And the worst part?

He still didn't have a plan.

Didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to approach you. Didn't know what the hell he was even trying to accomplish.

All he knew was that he couldn't let this go.

Which is how he ended up back in the Class A common room on Sunday afternoon, doing homework he'd already finished, waiting for Kirishima and Kaminari to show up for their usual gaming session.

Because if he spent one more second alone with his thoughts, he was going to lose it.

The door opened.

Kaminari walked in first, controller already in hand. "Yo! Ready to get absolutely destroyed in—"

He stopped.

Stared at Bakugou.

"Dude. You look like shit."

"Thanks," Bakugou said flatly.

Kirishima came in behind him, took one look at Bakugou, and winced. "Rough week?"

"Fine."

"You sure? Because you've got that look."

"What look?"

"The 'I'm about to murder someone' look."

"That's just my face."

"No, this is different. This is—" Kirishima stopped, realization dawning. "Oh. Oh no."

"What?"

"You've been thinking about her, haven't you?"

Bakugou's silence was answer enough.

Kaminari's eyes lit up. "Wait. The girl from the party? You're still on that?"

"I'm not—"

"Holy shit, you are! Dude, it's been like a week!"

"Five days," Bakugou corrected, then immediately regretted it.

Kaminari's grin was absolutely insufferable. "Oh my god. You've been counting."

"Fuck off."

"You're obsessed!"

"I'm not obsessed."

"You literally just told me exactly how many days it's been."

Bakugou didn't have a response to that.

Because Kaminari was right.

And that was the most infuriating part of all.

Kaminari was still grinning like he'd just won the lottery.

"This is amazing," he said, dropping onto the couch next to Bakugou with zero regard for personal space. "Bakugou Katsuki, brought low by a girl who won't even look at him. It's poetic. It's beautiful. It's—"

"It's nothing," Bakugou cut in, his voice flat. "Drop it."

"Oh, I'm not dropping this. This is the best thing that's happened all semester."

Kirishima settled into the armchair across from them, looking significantly less amused. "Denki, maybe we should—"

"No, no, hear me out." Kaminari turned to face Bakugou fully, his expression shifting from teasing to something that looked almost sincere. Almost. "You've been miserable all week. Like, more miserable than usual. And it's all because some girl told you the truth and then had the audacity to not care about your existence."

"I'm not miserable."

"You threw a training dummy through a wall on Wednesday."

"That was unrelated."

"You've been eating lunch alone."

"I like being alone."

"You literally never eat alone. You're always with us." Kaminari gestured between himself and Kirishima. "But this week? You've been avoiding everyone. Holing up in the library, showing up to the gym at weird hours—"

Bakugou's jaw tightened. "How do you—"

"Sero saw you at Gym C. Three times. And you never use Gym C."

Fuck.

Kirishima was watching him now, his expression shifting from concerned to understanding. "You've been trying to run into her."

It wasn't a question.

Bakugou didn't answer.

"Dude," Kirishima said, and there was something like pity in his voice that made Bakugou want to explode something. "That's... that's not healthy."

"I'm not—" Bakugou stopped, because what the hell was he supposed to say? That he hadn't been essentially stalking you for the past five days? That he hadn't memorized your schedule and engineered "coincidental" meetings that you didn't even notice?

He couldn't say that.

Because it would be a lie.

And Kirishima would know.

"I just wanted to talk to her," Bakugou said finally, the words coming out rougher than he intended. "Clear the air. Make sure she didn't think—"

"That you're an asshole?" Kaminari supplied helpfully.

"—that I'm just some loud jackass who goes around insulting people for fun."

"But you do insult people for fun."

"That's different."

"How?"

Bakugou didn't have an answer for that either.

The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy.

Kaminari was still watching him with that insufferable grin, like he could see straight through every defense Bakugou had built up over the years. Kirishima looked worried, which was somehow worse.

Bakugou grabbed his textbook—the one he'd already finished reading—and flipped it open to a random page, pretending to be absorbed in whatever was written there.

He wasn't reading.

Couldn't focus.

Because Kaminari was right.

He had been miserable all week.

And it was entirely because of you.

Because you'd looked at him like he was nothing.

And then you'd proceeded to treat him like nothing.

And he couldn't fucking handle it.

"You know what I think?" Kaminari said, breaking the silence.

"No, and I don't care."

"I think you should just ask her out."

Bakugou's head snapped up. "What?"

"I'm serious!" Kaminari was fully grinning now, leaning back into the couch like he'd just solved world hunger. "Just go up to her and ask her out. Worst she can say is no, right?"

"She'll definitely say no," Kirishima muttered.

"Exactly! So then Bakugou can move on with his life and stop moping around like some heartbroken protagonist in a romance anime."

"I'm not moping."

"You're absolutely moping."

"And I'm not asking her out." Bakugou slammed his textbook shut, the sound echoing through the common room. "Because I don't want to date her. I just want to—"

"To what?" Kaminari asked, eyebrows raised. "Talk to her? You've had five days to do that. Get her to notice you? Clearly not working. Prove you're not an asshole? Hate to break it to you, man, but that ship has sailed."

Bakugou's hands clenched into fists.

Small sparks crackled between his fingers.

Kaminari, to his credit, didn't even flinch.

"I'm just saying," Kaminari continued, "you're going about this all wrong. You can't just lurk around campus hoping she'll magically start caring about you. That's not how people work."

"I wasn't lurking—"

"You were absolutely lurking."

"What would you suggest, then?" Bakugou bit out. "Since you're apparently an expert on this shit."

Kaminari's grin widened. "I'd suggest you accept a challenge."

Bakugou narrowed his eyes. "What kind of challenge?"

"A bet."

"Absolutely not."

"Hear me out—"

"No."

"Bakugou—"

"I said no."

But Kaminari was already sitting up straighter, his eyes bright with the kind of chaotic energy that usually preceded terrible decisions. "I bet you can't even get her to go on one date with you."

The words hung in the air.

Kirishima's eyes went wide. "Denki—"

"One date," Kaminari repeated, his voice louder now, more confident. "Hell, I bet you couldn't get her to like you even if you tried."

Something in Bakugou's chest tightened.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said, his voice low. Dangerous.

"Don't I?" Kaminari leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Dude, she looked you in the eye and told you you're exhausting. She's spent the last week treating you like furniture. You really think you could get someone like that to actually like you?"

"Denki, stop," Kirishima said, his voice sharp now. Warning.

But it was too late.

Because Kaminari had found the one thing guaranteed to hook Bakugou's ego.

A challenge.

"The hell I can't," Bakugou heard himself say.

Kaminari's grin was victorious. "Prove it."

"Guys, this is a bad idea—" Kirishima started.

"I'm serious," Kaminari interrupted, turning to Kirishima. "You saw her at the party. You've heard what people say about her. She doesn't let anyone in. She doesn't trust people. She doesn't want to be liked. And Bakugou here thinks he can just waltz up and change her mind?"

"I didn't say that—"

"So prove me wrong." Kaminari turned back to Bakugou, and there was something almost challenging in his expression now. Like he was daring Bakugou to back down. "Make her like you. Actually like you. Not tolerate you, not be polite to you—genuinely like you."

Bakugou's jaw clenched.

He should say no.

Should tell Kaminari to fuck off and mind his own business.

Should recognize this for what it was: a stupid bet that would only make everything worse.

But his pride wouldn't let him.

Because the suggestion that he couldn't do something—that there was someone out there who was immune to his efforts, who would reject him no matter what he did—

That was unacceptable.

"Fine," Bakugou said.

Kirishima's head dropped into his hands. "Oh no."

"Fine?" Kaminari repeated, like he couldn't quite believe Bakugou had taken the bait.

"You want a bet? Let's make it a real one." Bakugou leaned forward, his eyes locked on Kaminari's. "End of the semester. Eight weeks. I'll make her like me."

"Define 'like,'" Kirishima said weakly, like he was already trying to damage control.

"Genuinely," Bakugou said. "Not just tolerating my presence. Actually choosing to spend time with me. Wanting to."

Kaminari's grin was splitting his face now. "And if you lose?"

Bakugou's jaw worked. "What do you want?"

"I want you to admit, out loud, in front of everyone—" Kaminari gestured vaguely to the common room, to the doors, to the entire campus beyond, "—that you're not irresistible. That there are people in this world who don't want anything to do with you. That your personality is, in fact, kind of exhausting."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because they were true.

Or at least, they might be.

And the thought of having to admit that—publicly, in front of everyone—

His pride recoiled.

"And if I win?" Bakugou asked.

Kaminari shrugged. "Whatever you want. I'll do your homework for a month. I'll be your personal servant. Hell, I'll dye my hair whatever color you want. Doesn't matter. Because you're not gonna win."

"Guys, seriously—" Kirishima tried again.

"Deal," Bakugou said.

The word came out before he could stop it.

Before he could think.

Before he could recognize what a monumental mistake he was making.

Kaminari stuck out his hand, still grinning like an idiot. "Deal."

Bakugou shook it.

And just like that, it was done.

Kirishima groaned, running both hands through his hair. "You're both idiots."

"He started it," Bakugou muttered.

"And you took the bait like a fucking fish." Kirishima looked at Bakugou, and his expression was somewhere between exasperated and genuinely concerned. "Dude. She's not a challenge to be won. She's a person. A person who made it very clear she doesn't want anything to do with you."

"Then I'll change her mind."

"That's not how people work!"

"It's how everything works." Bakugou stood, grabbing his bag. "You put in the effort, you get the results. Simple."

"She's not a training exercise—"

"I know that."

"Do you?" Kirishima stood too, his voice sharper than usual. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're treating this like some kind of conquest. Like she's a problem you can solve if you just try hard enough."

Bakugou stopped.

Turned to look at his friend.

Kirishima was serious now. The easy-going, supportive energy that usually defined him was gone, replaced by something harder. More honest.

"I'm not trying to conquer her," Bakugou said slowly. "I'm trying to prove—"

"What? That you're not an asshole? That you can make anyone like you if you want to?" Kirishima shook his head. "That's not what this is about. And you know it."

"Then what is it about?"

Kirishima was quiet for a moment.

Then: "You tell me."

Bakugou didn't have an answer.

Because he didn't know.

Didn't know why you'd gotten under his skin the way you had.

Didn't know why he couldn't just let this go.

Didn't know why the thought of you continuing to ignore him for the rest of the semester made something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

All he knew was that he'd taken the bet.

And he didn't back down from bets.

"Eight weeks," Kaminari said, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "That's all you've got. Better start planning your approach, Romeo."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious! You're gonna need a strategy. Flowers? Love letters? Grand gestures?"

"I said shut up."

"Oh! What if you—"

"Denki, I swear to god—"

Kaminari laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. I'll stop. But seriously, dude. Good luck. You're gonna need it."

Bakugou didn't respond.

Just grabbed his bag and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Kirishima called after him.

"Out."

"Bakugou—"

But he was already gone.

The door swung shut behind him, leaving Kirishima and Kaminari alone in the common room.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Kirishima sighed. "This is going to end badly."

"Probably," Kaminari agreed, sounding far too cheerful about it.

"He's going to get hurt."

"Maybe."

"And you're okay with that?"

Kaminari was quiet for a moment, his usual grin fading into something more thoughtful. "Honestly? I think he needs this."

Kirishima turned to stare at him. "Needs to get rejected?"

"Needs to try for something he can't just force his way through." Kaminari leaned back into the couch, looking up at the ceiling. "Bakugou's used to winning. At everything. Training, grades, competitions—he just bulldozes through obstacles until they're not obstacles anymore. But people don't work like that."

"So you're using some poor girl as a life lesson?"

"I'm giving Bakugou a reality check." Kaminari's expression was surprisingly serious now. "And who knows? Maybe he'll actually learn something. Maybe he'll figure out that being the best at everything doesn't mean people owe you their time or attention."

"Or maybe he'll just get his heart broken and become even more unbearable."

"That's also a possibility."

Kirishima shook his head. "You're terrible."

"I'm realistic." Kaminari picked up his controller, already moving on to the next thing. "Besides, it's not like I forced him to take the bet. He did that all on his own."

"Because you goaded him into it."

"Because his ego wouldn't let him walk away." Kaminari looked at Kirishima, and his expression was oddly knowing. "This was always going to happen. I just sped up the timeline."

Kirishima wanted to argue.

Wanted to say that this was cruel, that Bakugou didn't deserve to be manipulated like this, that the girl—you—definitely didn't deserve to be the unwitting prize in some stupid bet.

But he couldn't.

Because Kaminari was right.

Bakugou had been spiraling since the party.

And if this bet gave him a framework, a goal, something concrete to work toward—

Maybe it would help.

Or maybe it would blow up in all their faces.

Either way, it was too late to stop it now.

Outside, walking across campus with no particular destination in mind, Bakugou replayed the conversation in his head.

I bet you can't even get her to go on one date with you.

The hell I can't.

He'd taken the bet.

Actually taken it.

Like an idiot.

His phone buzzed.

Kaminari: 8 weeks starts now btw. clock's ticking ⏰

Kaminari: i'm gonna enjoy watching this crash and burn

Bakugou shoved his phone back in his pocket without responding.

Eight weeks.

He could do this.

He'd faced worse challenges. Tougher opponents. Impossible odds.

This was just one person.

One stubborn, guarded, infuriatingly indifferent person who'd made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with him.

How hard could it be?

He thought about your face at the party. The calm in your voice. The way you'd looked at him like he was just noise.

"Keep performing. They'll laugh as long as you're useful."

His hands clenched.

Yeah.

This was going to be a disaster.

But he'd never backed down from a challenge in his life.

And he wasn't about to start now.

Even if the challenge was getting someone to like him.

Someone who'd already decided he wasn't worth the effort.

Someone who, for the first time in his life, made him feel like he had something to prove.

Not to Kaminari.

Not to his friends.

To you.

And maybe—though he'd never admit it out loud—to himself.

He pulled out his phone and opened your student profile again.

Stared at your photo.

Those eyes. That neutral expression.

Eight weeks.

He could do this.

He had to do this.

Because the alternative—admitting defeat, admitting that there was someone out there who genuinely didn't want anything to do with him—

That was unacceptable.

Bakugou Katsuki didn't lose.

Not at training.

Not at tests.

And sure as hell not at this.

He just needed a plan.

A real one.

Not more stalking. Not more "accidental" meetings.

Something that would actually get your attention.

Something that would make you see him.

Really see him.

Not the performance.

Not the noise.

Him.

He stared at your photo for another long moment.

Then he closed the app and pocketed his phone.

Eight weeks.

Starting now.

Let's see who breaks first.

A/N: And there it is. The Bet. The trope to end all tropes. 🚩

I really wanted to emphasize that Bakugo isn't taking this bet because he wants to hurt you, but because his ego literally cannot handle the concept of someone being indifferent to him. He thinks this is a game he can win. Also, Kaminari is absolutely the chaotic villain of this story for suggesting this, but we thank him for his service because the angst when you find out is going to be DELICIOUS.

Next chapter, Bakugo actually has to talk to you now. Pray for him.

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