motive; katsuki's place for after class study sesh hopefully some munch, i'm fucking starving
“yknow your flat smells like wet concrete and leftover kebab.”
you’ve known this since first year — back when you still tried to match his pace and ended up winded before you reached the library. you don’t bother anymore. now, you just lag half a step behind, headphones in, volume low, pretending you’re not jogging to keep up.
the sun’s gone down, but the city’s still loud. it always is this time of year — spring has that kind of manic energy where everything’s blooming and breaking down at once. someone’s blasting jungle out of their car a street over. someone else is yelling into their phone on the corner. a fox darts across the road like it’s late for a date.
katsuki doesn’t blink at any of it. just keeps walking, black hoodie pulled tight over his head, tote bag slung over one shoulder, full of god knows what — probably resistors and rage. you don’t ask.
you stuff your hands into the pockets of your too-thin jacket and breathe deep. everything smells like rain and engine oil and wet pavement. you haven’t eaten since breakfast, unless you count a protein bar and two stolen fries off a coworker’s tray. you probably should’ve said no to this. should’ve gone home, microwaved noodles, and stared at your ceiling.
you follow katsuki down a cracked side street, past a half-lit corner shop and a skip full of broken furniture. he buzzes open the door to a skinny brick building that leans like it’s tired of standing. the stairwell smells like damp socks and weed. third floor, no lift. you’re already regretting this.
“you better have snacks,” you mutter as you climb.
“we got ramen and instant coffee. pick your poison.”
you grin a little. it’s easy, like it always is with him. you hate this program, you hate this semester, you’re running on fumes and caffeine pills, but katsuki? katsuki’s solid. katsuki gets it.
he unlocks the flat with a keychain shaped like a tiny dumbbell. you don’t ask.
the first thing that hits you is the warmth.
the second thing is the smell — something sweet and spicy and definitely edible. maybe teriyaki? maybe weed again? could go either way.
you step in and immediately have to dodge a pair of sneakers and a skateboard by the door. the hallway’s narrow, the paint’s peeling a little, and the walls are covered in a mix of ikea prints, beer posters, and whatever ancient wifi password was scratched onto the wall in sharpie.
the whole place hums with life. messy, yes. but lived-in.
katsuki calls out, “yo,” like he lives here — which he does — and kicks off his boots.
a voice from the kitchen responds:
“living room’s free, circuit boy.”
you blink. not because the voice is unfamiliar, but because it’s smooth. like — too smooth for a guy apartment. like a voice from a better-lit life.
you follow katsuki through the flat, passing the kitchen on the way. you glance left and — yeah. that must be him.
sero hanta is in sweatpants and a tank top, hair tied up, half a joint tucked behind his ear. he’s leaning over the counter, stirring something on the stove with a chopstick. the kitchen looks like a warzone. half the drawers are open. there’s soy sauce on the ceiling. you don’t ask.
he looks up and grins like he was expecting you.
“we thought bakugou was making you up. y'know — the girl who actually gets his references? who doesn’t wanna punch him in the face every three minutes? mythical creature type shit.”
katsuki rolls his eyes and shoulders past you, muttering, “ignore him. he’s always like this.”
you don’t respond right away. you’re still looking at sero. he’s… weirdly charismatic. kind of golden, in that long-limbed, half-awake way. his smile looks like it could get him out of parking tickets. his collarbones are showing. you look away.
“you want a bowl?” he asks, nodding at the pot. “udon. not poisoned, i swear.”
katsuki nudges your shoulder with his. “just say yes. otherwise he’ll fuckin' narrate your hunger like it’s a drama.”
katsuki leads you into the living room. it’s bigger than you expect. two sofas, one held together with duct tape. a coffee table covered in mugs and usb sticks. a pile of extension cords in the corner. and, most importantly — the whiteboard wall.
it takes up the whole left side of the room.
floor to ceiling. clean, mostly. a few doodles, some equations already scribbled along the top. a reminder to buy milk. a very well-drawn diagram of a butt. you don’t ask.
you drop your bag and pull your hoodie off, already moving toward it. you feel your brain kick on, finally — it always does when there’s a whiteboard in front of you. it’s like muscle memory. like survival instinct.
“top drawer,” katsuki says, tossing his bag onto the sofa.
you fish them out and uncap a black one, already mapping out the structure of your project — the main components, the time estimates, the failure points. katsuki joins you after a minute, adding boxes and wires, cleaning up your mess. you’ve done this dance a hundred times before. this part’s easy.
ten minutes later, sero walks in with two bowls and flops onto the couch like he’s been about to pass out cold.
he watches you work, head tilted, expression unreadable. not judgmental — more like… curious.
you feel it. not in a bad way. just in that someone new is watching me kind of way.
“you’re intense,” he says, finally.
you glance over. “you’re shirtless.”
“i’m in my house,” he says, mouth full of noodles.
you squint at him. he smiles like it’s a dare.
katsuki doesn’t look up. “ignore him. he’s like a stray cat. if you feed him, he follows you around.”
sero shrugs. “don’t threaten me with a good time.”
and sero finishes his noodles with the kind of grace you expect from the kinda guy who leaves the toilet seat up. he sets the bowl down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“denki should be back soon,” he says casually. “he went on a snack run. said something about craving ‘milk with vibes.’ whatever that means.”
“that means he’s gonna come back with one arizona tea, four types of gum, and like… a watermelon,” katsuki mutters, erasing part of your diagram and rewriting it neater.
you raise a brow. “denki as in denki kaminari?”
“you live with denki fucking kaminari?!”
he squints. “you say that like it’s a threat.”
“you say that like he’s not the reason i almost got banned from the student club two semesters ago.”
from the couch, sero sits up straighter. “wait — no way. you were there that night? the fire escape? the traffic cone?”
you cover your face. “i thought i hallucinated that.”
and you turn just as the door opens.
denki walks in backwards.
hood up, arms full of plastic bags, one headphone still in. he’s mid-story, yelling to no one: “—and i told the guy, if you’re gonna dye your hair neon green, you can’t wear orange, that’s basic color theory—”
you point at him. “you!!”
“holy shit,” he breathes, stepping forward like you’re a unicorn in a campus hoodie. “you’re that girl who made me do tequila shots off a clipboard.”
“you’re the one who dared me to challenge the dj to a dance-off. i fell down the stairs.”
“and i carried you to the vending machines! you asked me if crisps count as medical treatment!”
“they do,” you say, totally serious.
“okay but,” denki says, shaking the plastic bags for emphasis, “tell me you didn’t eat that expired muffin.”
you’re about to answer when katsuki clears his throat so violently it sounds like a threat.
“can you not scream in my goddamn house?”
“bro,” denki says, still looking at you, “you're friends with a legend and you didn’t tell me?”
katsuki looks deeply regretful about his life choices.
you just smirk. “i can’t believe your roommate is the guy whose contacts melted off in the strobe lights.”
“they were cheap lenses!” denki protests.
sero claps once, loud. “new rule — club stories at dinner. circuits now. anddd, y/n i’m assuming you don’t mind sleeping in bakugou’s room when we marry you into this house?”
“i literally just met you.”
“so did denki, and you made him eat floor mints.”
someone else laughs from down the hall — a warm, real kind of laugh — and then there’s a thud, and then—
“yo!” kirishima enters like a full-body exhale. he’s towel-drying his hair, wearing gym shorts and a tank top with a bleach stain shaped like hawaii. “sorry, shower took forever, what’d i miss?”
he grins at you like he’s known you for years.
katsuki, who’s been all scowls and sharp edges this whole time —
but it’s soft. barely there. easy.
he doesn’t look at him, but he says it soft.
you clock it immediately.
your eyebrows rise. your mouth curls slow. you glance at katsuki.
he catches your expression and immediately growls, “don’t.”
you grin wider. “i didn’t say anything.”
“don’t think anything either.”
kirishima plops on the arm of the couch and ruffles katsuki’s hair, laughing. “he always says that. hey, what’s your name? you working on the project with him?”
you tell him. he nods along, bright-eyed. “ah, yeah, heard about you. you’re the one who threatened that TA with a soldering iron?”
katsuki’s already back at the whiteboard, head down like he can ignore this entire interaction into the void.
you step beside him, marker in hand, close enough to bump his arm.
“you’re soft,” you whisper.
“i will throw you out the window.”
“you have a tone when you talk to him.”
you laugh into your sleeve, and somehow — somehow — that’s the moment you realize you might actually have fun this semester.
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