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

↳ table of contents + ao3 link

previous | next

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]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 💥⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ 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.

TAGLIST: @misteriousgrll, @calebslittlefuckingslut, @the-magician-in-alice, @itwilight444, @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, @bkch1, @istriyohei, @at-a-rax-ia, @bkgktskisblog, @shrimpy-sc, @eyesforbkg, @katszumi, @cerisescintillait, @metalblindbitch, @eirammarie0

Let me know if you want to be added/removed!

[muchmossymess]

more... MORE!!!

[morilikemidori]

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

SYPNOSIS. Friday nights are for true crime documentaries and avoidance, not frat parties and socializing. But when Kendo drags you out for "just one hour," you end up face-to-face with UA’s loudest ego, Katsuki Bakugo. He thinks he can make you the punchline. You decide to make him the example.

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

TAGS: you woke up and chose violence, bakugou fucked around and found out, RIP bakugou's ego, he thought he was the main character, you said 'bet', kendo just wanted you to socialize and you started a war, true crime documentaries, bakugou katsuki gets humbled, social interaction, mineta catching strays as he should, katsuki likes them mean

WC: 7.0K words

The Party

THE THING ABOUT Friday nights in your third year at UA University is that they all blur together into one long exercise in avoidance. Avoidance of people, of noise, of the desperate performative bullshit that passes for socializing when you cram a bunch of twenty-somethings with hero complexes into too-small spaces and add alcohol.

You'd gotten good at avoidance.

Tonight's plan was simple: sweatpants, the leftovers from yesterday's convenience store run, and a true crime documentary that had been sitting in your queue for two weeks. Not exciting. Not aspirational. But it was yours, and it didn't require you to pretend to give a shit about anything or anyone.

You were three minutes into the opening credits—some grainy footage of a crime scene in rural America, the narrator's voice settling into that familiar cadence of detached fascination—when the knock came.

Three sharp raps. Confident. Persistent.

You didn't move.

Another three knocks, louder this time.

"I know you're in there," came the voice through the door. Itsuka Kendo, your next-door neighbor and the human embodiment of sunshine trying to burn through your carefully constructed cloud cover. "I can hear the murder show."

You considered pretending you'd fallen asleep. Considered just... not answering. She'd give up eventually. Probably.

"Don't make me use my quirk on this door. You know I'll do it."

Fuck.

You paused the documentary—the narrator frozen mid-sentence, some detective's face caught in an unfortunate expression—and hauled yourself off your bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you shuffled to the door in your socks, already regretting the decision to answer.

When you pulled it open, Kendo was standing there in a cropped sweater and high-waisted jeans that actually fit her like a normal person, her orange hair pulled back in a high ponytail. She looked... ready. Like someone who had plans that didn't involve dissecting the failures of small-town police departments.

"No," you said immediately.

She didn't even blink. "I haven't said anything yet."

"You're dressed like you're about to drag me somewhere. So: no."

Kendo's smile was patient, which was somehow worse than if she'd argued. She leaned against your doorframe, arms crossed, and gave you the look. The one that said she'd already anticipated every excuse you were about to throw at her.

"There's a party," she started.

"Absolutely fucking not."

"—at Sero's place, off-campus, and before you say no again—"

"No."

"—you've turned down every single thing I've invited you to this semester. Every single one." She held up a hand, ticking off fingers. "The Class A and B mixer. The movie night Tetsutetsu organized. That dinner thing at the izakaya. The—"

"I was busy."

"You were here. Alone. Watching people get murdered on TV."

"I was busy," you repeated, leaning against the doorframe now too, mirroring her stance. "And yeah, I like my murder shows. They're more honest than whatever performative circle-jerk you're trying to drag me to."

Kendo sighed, but it wasn't annoyed. It was that specific flavor of concern that made your teeth itch. Like she thought you were some kind of project. A puzzle to be solved.

"Look," she said, her voice softer now. Dangerous territory. "I'm not trying to fix you or whatever you think this is. I just think... you can't hide in here forever. It's our third year. This is supposed to be—"

"The best time of our lives?" you cut in, your voice flat. "Yeah, I've heard the speech. Make memories, build connections, network for our futures as pro heroes. Blah blah fucking blah."

"I was going to say it's supposed to be the time when you figure out who you want to be," Kendo corrected, unbothered by the interruption. "And I don't know, maybe that includes actually talking to people once in a while."

You stared at her. She stared back.

She was good at this. Too good. Kendo had a way of making you feel like the asshole even when you were the one being reasonable. It was infuriating.

"I talk to people," you said finally.

"You talk to me. And even that's like pulling teeth half the time."

"Maybe I just don't like people."

"Maybe," she agreed, and there was no judgment in it. Just... acknowledgment. "But you also don't let anyone get close enough to find out if they're worth liking."

That one hit a little too close. You felt the familiar prickle of defensiveness crawl up your spine, the urge to say something cutting, something that would make her back off.

But Kendo wasn't pushing. She was just... there. Steady. Annoying as hell, but steady.

"One hour," she said, switching tactics. Her voice was lighter now, almost teasing. "Come with me for one hour. If you hate it—and you probably will—you can leave. I won't guilt-trip you. I won't follow you. You can come right back here and watch..." she glanced past you at the TV screen, "...whatever the hell Serial Killer: The Untold Story is."

"It's a documentary about systemic failures in investigative procedures," you muttered.

"Riveting."

"It is, actually."

Kendo grinned. "One hour. That's it. You owe me after I covered for you when you bailed on hero ethics last week."

"I didn't bail. I was sick."

"You were hungover."

"Same thing."

She laughed at that, and you hated how it almost made you smile. Almost.

You looked back at your room. At the dim lighting, the unmade bed, the laptop still glowing with the frozen image of some detective's constipated expression. It was comfortable. Safe. Exactly what you wanted.

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

You wanted to stay. You always wanted to stay. And maybe Kendo had a point, even if you'd rather chew glass than admit it out loud. You'd been at UA for almost three years now, and what did you have to show for it? Decent grades, a solid handle on your quirk, and a reputation for being that girl who didn't show up to anything.

Not because you couldn't. Because you didn't want to.

Because it was easier to keep everyone at arm's length than to risk them getting close enough to leave.

Your mom had left. Not by choice, but she'd still left. And everyone else? They'd proven over and over that people didn't stay. They didn't care. Not really. So why bother pretending otherwise?

But Kendo was still standing there, waiting. And she'd used the friendship card, which was a low blow, because Kendo was one of maybe two people in this entire school you actually tolerated.

"One hour," you said finally, your voice resigned.

Kendo's face lit up. "Yes! Okay, go change. You're not wearing that."

You glanced down at your sweatpants and oversized hoodie. "What's wrong with this?"

"Nothing, if you're planning to sleep through the party. Come on. Jeans. A shirt that doesn't look like you stole it from a dead guy. Five minutes."

"This hoodie is perfectly fine—"

"Five minutes," Kendo repeated, already backing toward her own dorm. "I'll meet you in the hall. And I swear to god, if you try to sneak out the back stairwell, I will hunt you down."

She disappeared into her room before you could argue further.

You stood there for a moment, door still open, staring at the empty hallway.

One hour.

You could survive one hour.

You'd survived worse.

Five minutes later—closer to ten, because fuck her timeline—you were standing in front of your mirror, staring at your reflection with the kind of dull resentment usually reserved for jury duty or dental appointments.

You'd changed. Barely. Black jeans that actually fit, a dark green long sleeved shirt that was tighter than your usual oversized armor but not so tight that it felt like you were trying. Combat boots, because if you were going to suffer, you were going to do it in footwear that could double as a weapon.

Your hair was... fine. You'd run a hand through it. That was enough.

Makeup? Absolutely not.

You looked like someone who was going to a party under duress, which was accurate.

Kendo knocked again—of course she did—and you grabbed your phone and keys, shoving them into your pockets.

When you stepped into the hallway, Kendo gave you a once-over and nodded approvingly. "See? You're a functional human being when you try."

"Fuck off."

"There she is."

You fell into step beside her as you headed toward the stairs, already planning your exit strategy. One hour. You'd show your face, stand in a corner, maybe grab a drink to make it look like you were participating, and then you'd bail. Easy.

Kendo was talking—something about who was going to be there, some drama between classmates you didn't care about—but you were only half-listening. Your brain was already three steps ahead, calculating the least painful way to endure the next sixty minutes.

"—and I heard Bakugou's going to be there, so that should be entertaining," Kendo was saying.

You blinked. "Who?"

"Bakugou. You know, from Class A? Loud? Angry? Wins every training exercise by sheer force of will and explosions?"

Oh.

Him.

You didn't know Bakugou Katsuki personally, but you knew of him. Everyone did. He was one of those people who took up space just by existing. The kind of guy who made sure you knew he was in the room, whether you wanted to or not.

You'd seen him around campus—hard to miss, considering he was usually either yelling at someone or blowing something up in training. He had that brand of confidence that bordered on arrogance, the kind that came from being good at everything and knowing it.

You'd never spoken to him. Never had a reason to.

And if tonight went the way you planned, you never would.

"Great," you muttered. "Can't wait."

Kendo shot you a look. "You're going to behave, right?"

"I'm always a fucking delight."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

You stepped outside into the cool October air, and despite everything—the reluctance, the dread, the bone-deep certainty that this was going to be a waste of time—you followed Kendo toward the party.

One hour.

You could do this.

Probably.

The house was exactly what you'd expected: too many people crammed into too little space, music bleeding through the walls before you even reached the front door, and the kind of chaotic energy that made your skin crawl.

Sero's off-campus rental was one of those old two-story places that had probably been nice once, back before it became a revolving door for hero students who needed somewhere to throw parties without campus security shutting them down. The front yard was already littered with red cups, and you could see silhouettes moving behind the windows—shadows of people who were definitely having more fun than you were about to have.

"Ready?" Kendo asked, her voice bright with anticipation.

"No."

"Perfect."

She opened the door without knocking—because apparently that's what people did at parties, just walked into someone else's space like they owned it—and the noise hit you like a physical thing.

Music. Laughter. Shouting. The bass vibrating through the floor, up your legs, settling somewhere in your chest where it didn't belong. The air was thick with the smell of cheap beer, cologne, perfume, and the distinct undernote of too many bodies in an enclosed space.

Your jaw tightened.

Too many people. Too loud. Too much.

The entryway was packed—people clustered in groups, talking over each other, red cups in hand. You recognized some faces from Class A and B, a few from general studies, others you didn't know and didn't care to. Everyone seemed to be mid-conversation, mid-laugh, mid-performance of whatever role they'd decided to play tonight.

Kendo grabbed your wrist—gentle, but firm enough that you couldn't immediately pull away—and tugged you further inside.

"Come on, let's find—oh! Tetsu!"

And just like that, she was gone.

Not physically—she was still standing next to you—but her attention had shifted completely. Tetsutetsu from Class B was waving from across the room, his wide grin visible even through the crowd, and Kendo was already moving toward him, her hand slipping from your wrist as she got pulled into the orbit of her classmates.

You stood there for a moment, suddenly alone in a sea of people who all seemed to know exactly where they were supposed to be.

This was fine.

You'd expected this.

Kendo was nice, but she wasn't a babysitter, and you didn't need one anyway. You were a grown-ass adult. You could handle a fucking party.

Your eyes scanned the room—automatic, instinctive. Exits first. Always exits first.

Front door behind you. Kitchen to the left, probably a back door through there. Stairs to the right leading up to the second floor, and if this place had the same layout as most houses like this, there'd be a side door or a window you could slip through if things got unbearable.

Good. You had options.

Next: the landscape.

The living room was the epicenter. Couches shoved against the walls to make space, a makeshift dance floor where people were packed together, moving to the beat. Not quite dancing—more like swaying and grinding and pretending they knew what rhythm was. The coffee table had been turned into a bar, bottles of varying quality lined up like soldiers. Someone had strung up shitty string lights that flickered intermittently, casting everything in a dim, gold-ish glow that was probably meant to be atmospheric but just made everyone look slightly jaundiced.

You hated it already.

The social hierarchy was on full display, as it always was at these things.

There were the performers—the ones in the center, laughing too loud, moving too much, making sure everyone could see how much fun they were having. Mina Ashido was in the middle of the dance floor, pink skin glowing under the lights, surrounded by a group that fed off her energy. She was good at this. Being the center. Making people feel like they were part of something.

Then there were the clusters—smaller groups scattered around the edges, people who weren't quite confident enough to be in the center but didn't want to be alone either. They stood in tight circles, cups held like shields, conversations that looked intense but were probably about nothing.

And then there were the desperate ones. The people who moved between groups, trying to find a foothold, laughing a little too hard at jokes that weren't funny, agreeing a little too enthusiastically with opinions they probably didn't share. You could spot them easily. They were the ones who looked like they were working, like socializing was a job they hadn't quite mastered.

You felt a familiar curl of contempt in your chest.

This was all so... performative. Everyone playing their parts, pretending this mattered. Pretending that standing in a crowded room with people they barely knew, drinking shitty alcohol and shouting over music, was somehow meaningful.

It wasn't shyness that kept you out of it. It wasn't social anxiety or fear of judgment.

You just didn't see the fucking point.

These people didn't care about each other. Not really. They cared about being seen, about being part of something, about filling the silence with noise so they didn't have to sit with themselves for five goddamn seconds.

You'd tried it before. The socializing thing. The making friends thing. And every single time, it ended the same way: people left. People got bored. People realized you weren't fun enough, weren't easy enough, weren't worth the effort.

So why bother?

You took a breath, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders. One hour. You just had to survive one hour, and then you could go back to your room and finish your documentary in peace.

You moved toward the kitchen—anywhere with fewer people sounded good right now.

The kitchen was marginally better. Still crowded, but the crowd was thinner, more focused on the task of acquiring alcohol than on performing for each other. The counters were covered in bottles, mixers, half-empty bags of chips. Someone had attempted to make jungle juice in a large cooler, and it looked exactly as toxic as you'd expect.

You grabbed a cup from the stack and surveyed your options.

Beer? Too weak. You'd need four of them to even feel anything, and you didn't plan on being here long enough for that.

Vodka? Reliable.

You poured a generous amount into your cup—more than was probably advisable, but fuck it—and added just enough cranberry juice that it didn't look like you were trying to forget your own name. It tasted like regret and bad decisions, which felt appropriate.

You leaned against the wall near the doorway, positioning yourself so you had a clear view of the living room but weren't technically in it. Close enough to look like you were participating. Far enough away that no one would try to pull you into conversation.

Perfect.

You took a sip. The vodka burned going down, sharp and unpleasant, and you welcomed it.

From here, you could observe without being observed. Watch the patterns, the dynamics, the little performances everyone was putting on.

Kendo was still with Tetsutetsu and a few others from Class B—Kuroiro, Komori, people whose names you knew but whose personalities you'd never bothered to learn. She looked happy. Relaxed. Like she actually wanted to be here.

Good for her.

A group of Class A students were near the makeshift bar, loud and animated. You recognized Kaminari—electric blond hair, that goofy grin that made him look younger than he was. Sero, the host, was next to him, laughing at something. Kirishima was there too, red hair spiked up, his whole demeanor radiating that aggressively friendly energy that some people mistook for depth.

And then—

Your eyes caught on movement near the center of the living room.

Him.

Bakugou Katsuki.

He wasn't hard to spot. Even in a room full of people vying for attention, he commanded it effortlessly. He was standing near the couch, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other holding a drink he didn't seem particularly interested in. His blond hair caught the shitty string lights, and even from across the room, you could see the sharp lines of his face, the permanent scowl that seemed to be his default expression.

He was surrounded, as you'd expected. Kirishima was next to him, saying something that made Kaminari laugh. Mina drifted over, looping her arm through Kirishima's, saying something that made the whole group react.

But Bakugou... Bakugou wasn't really with them. He was adjacent. Present, but separate. Like he didn't need to participate to be the center of gravity.

People looked at him when they talked. Angled themselves toward him. Waited for his reactions.

And he gave them, occasionally. A smirk. A scoff. A comment that you couldn't hear from here but that made people laugh—not with him, exactly, but at whatever poor bastard he'd just verbally destroyed.

You'd seen his type before. The ones who confused cruelty with charisma. Who thought being loud and abrasive was the same as being confident. Who got away with being assholes because they were good at what they did, and people were willing to overlook the asshole part if it meant staying in their orbit.

Magnetic, sure.

But magnets could repel just as easily as they attracted.

You took another sip of your drink, eyes still on him.

He said something—you couldn't hear it, but you saw the way Kaminari's face twisted in exaggerated offense, the way Kirishima tried to play peacemaker, the way Mina rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.

Everyone just... let him be like that.

And maybe that was what bothered you most. Not that he was an asshole—you could respect a good asshole if they owned it. But the fact that everyone around him enabled it. Laughed it off. Treated his cruelty like it was charm.

Your grip tightened on your cup.

You didn't know him. You'd never spoken to him. And if you had any say in it, you never would.

He was everything you'd come here to avoid: loud, performative, desperate for attention even if he'd never admit it.

You looked away, scanning the rest of the room.

The party continued around you. People laughed. People danced. People pretended this mattered.

And you stood against the wall, drink in hand, counting down the minutes until you could leave.

Forty-seven minutes left.

You could do this.

The vodka was helping.

Not enough to make you enjoy being here, but enough to dull the edges. Enough that the noise became background static instead of an assault. Enough that you could breathe without feeling like the walls were closing in.

You'd migrated from the kitchen to the back hallway—a narrow strip of space between the kitchen and what looked like a bathroom. Fewer people passed through here. It was dimmer, quieter, and you could still see into the living room if you angled yourself right.

Perfect.

A couple stumbled past you, giggling and tangled up in each other, and you pressed yourself against the wall to let them through. They didn't even notice you. Too wrapped up in each other, in whatever fantasy they were performing tonight.

You wondered how long it would last. A night? A week? Until one of them got bored or found someone shinier?

You took another drink.

Thirty-one minutes left.

Someone bumped into you—a guy you vaguely recognized from general studies, already drunk, his eyes unfocused.

"Sorry," he slurred, not sounding sorry at all.

You didn't respond. Just shifted further down the hallway, putting more distance between yourself and the main crush of people.

This was fine.

You were fine.

You'd finish your drink, wait out the clock, and then you'd be gone.

And none of these people would even notice.

Twenty-three minutes left.

You'd been nursing the same drink for the past fifteen minutes, the ice long melted, the vodka-cranberry mix now lukewarm and vaguely unpleasant. But it gave your hands something to do, and that was enough.

You'd moved again—this time closer to the living room, but still on the periphery. Close enough that if Kendo looked for you, she'd see you were still here. Far enough that you weren't expected to participate.

The party had hit that point where everyone was just drunk enough to be louder, bolder, messier. Inhibitions were dissolving. Conversations were getting sloppier. Someone had turned the music up even higher, and the bass was now less of a vibration and more of a assault on your eardrums.

You were so close to freedom you could taste it.

Twenty-three minutes. Then you could leave. Go back to your room. Peel off these jeans and sink back into the comfortable isolation of your own space where no one expected anything from you.

You were planning your exit route—front door was still packed, maybe the side door through the kitchen would be easier—when you heard it.

A voice. High-pitched, grating, with that particular whiny quality that made your teeth itch.

Mineta.

Of fucking course.

You didn't like Mineta. Nobody liked Mineta, except maybe other people who shared his specific brand of desperation and lack of self-awareness. He was one of those guys who thought being short and loud and obnoxious was a personality, who treated every interaction with women like a transaction he was owed.

He was standing near the couch now, in the middle of Bakugou's circle, holding court in that way that short guys sometimes did when they were overcompensating. Trying to get laughs. Trying to be seen.

"—I'm just saying," Mineta was saying, his voice carrying over the music, "some people show up to parties just to be miserable. Like, why even come if you're gonna stand in the corner and judge everyone the whole time?"

A few people laughed. Nervous laughter, the kind that said they weren't sure if he was joking or just being an asshole, but they were willing to go along with it.

You should've ignored it.

You meant to ignore it.

But something about the comment—the casual dismissiveness, the assumption that anyone who wasn't performing joy must be doing something wrong—made your jaw tighten.

You weren't even sure if he was talking about you specifically. Could've been. Could've been about anyone. But it didn't matter.

The sentiment was the same.

"Right?" Mineta continued, emboldened by the laughter. "If you're gonna be a buzzkill, just stay home. Stop bringing the vibe down."

More laughter. A little louder now.

You took a sip of your drink. Kept your face neutral.

Let it go. Twenty-three minutes. You could—

"Seriously, there's always that one person who looks like someone pissed in their drink—"

And then Bakugou's voice cut through, sharp and unmistakable.

"If you're gonna stand there looking like someone pissed in your drink, why'd you even show up?"

The laughter that followed was immediate. Louder. The kind of laughter that said oh shit and he's not wrong and god, he's funny all at once.

Your eyes snapped up.

Bakugou was still near the couch, but his posture had shifted. He wasn't looking at Mineta anymore. He was looking at you.

Red eyes. Sharp. Assessing.

He'd clocked you. Somehow, in the chaos of the party, he'd noticed you standing there, and he'd decided you were worth commenting on.

Or maybe not worth it. Maybe that was the point.

The group around him was laughing—Kaminari had his hand over his mouth, Sero was grinning, even Kirishima looked amused despite the slight wince that said he knew this was mean but couldn't help finding it funny.

Mina looked uncomfortable, her smile strained, but she didn't say anything.

Nobody said anything.

Because this was just how Bakugou was, right? Blunt. Honest. He didn't sugarcoat things. If you couldn't handle it, that was your problem.

Except it wasn't honesty.

It was cruelty with a good PR team.

Your fingers tightened around your cup.

The room hadn't gone silent—the music was still pounding, people were still talking—but the people nearby had noticed. You could feel their attention shifting, the subtle turn of heads, the way conversations paused just long enough for people to see what would happen next.

Bakugou was still looking at you, that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like he'd just said something clever. Like he was waiting for you to slink away, embarrassed, so he could move on to the next target.

You should've ignored it.

Should've taken the hit, downed the rest of your drink, and walked out.

But you'd had a shit week. A shit semester, if you were being honest. And you were tired—so fucking tired—of people like him getting away with being assholes because everyone around them was too busy laughing to call them out.

The thing about being the person who didn't care what people thought was that it gave you a specific kind of freedom.

You had nothing to lose.

You weren't trying to impress anyone here. Weren't trying to fit in. Weren't trying to make friends or build a reputation or play the game.

Which meant you could do something most people couldn't.

You could tell the truth.

Your grip on the cup relaxed. You took a breath.

And then, slowly, deliberately, you turned to face him fully.

The movement was small, but it was enough. Enough that the people nearby noticed. Enough that the laughter started to taper off, replaced by a curious, anticipatory silence.

Bakugou's smirk widened slightly. He thought this was going to be entertaining. Thought you were going to stammer, or blush, or try to defend yourself.

You could see it in his eyes—the expectation. The confidence.

He had no idea.

You didn't say anything yet. Just looked at him. Really looked.

Blond hair, sharp features, that permanent scowl that probably thought made him look intimidating. Expensive jacket—brand name, the kind that cost more than most people's monthly rent. The way he stood, loose but commanding, like he owned the space and everyone in it.

He was attractive. Objectively. Undeniably.

And he fucking knew it.

That was the worst part. He knew exactly what he was. Knew people would laugh at his jokes, forgive his cruelty, orbit around him like he was something special.

And they did.

Every single time.

Your eyes flicked to the people around him. Kirishima, still grinning. Kaminari, looking between you and Bakugou like he was watching a tennis match. Sero, Mina, the others—all of them waiting to see what would happen.

Waiting for the show.

You took another sip of your drink. Let the silence stretch just a little longer.

And then you smiled.

Not a nice smile. Not a friendly one.

The kind of smile that said you just fucked up, and you don't even know it yet.

"If you're gonna stand there looking like someone pissed in your drink, why'd you even show up?"

His words. Hanging in the air.

You turned them over in your mind, examining them. The assumption. The dismissiveness. The lazy cruelty of someone who thought being loud made him right.

You could feel the fuse burning.

You could've let it go.

Should've let it go.

But the thing about fuses is that once they're lit, you can't always stop them.

And honestly?

You didn't fucking want to.

Twenty-three minutes until you could leave.

Fuck it.

You'd make them count.

You took three steps forward.

Not aggressive. Not rushed. Just... deliberate.

Closing the distance between the hallway and the living room, between the shadows and the light, between being a background character and being very much in the scene.

People noticed.

The conversations nearest to you faltered. Heads turned. The laughter that had followed Bakugou's comment was dying out now, replaced by something else. Curiosity. Anticipation.

The kind of attention you usually avoided.

But right now? Right now you were walking straight into it.

Bakugou's smirk was still there, but you could see the flicker of something else underneath. Interest, maybe. Amusement. He thought this was going to be fun. Thought you were going to give him something to work with—a reaction he could twist, a comeback he could demolish.

He had no fucking idea.

You stopped a few feet away from him. Close enough that you didn't have to raise your voice. Close enough that this wasn't a performance for the whole room—even though the whole room was definitely watching now.

The music was still playing, but it felt distant. Background noise.

You could feel Kendo's eyes on you from across the room. Could sense her confusion, maybe concern. But you didn't look at her.

You kept your eyes on Bakugou.

For a long moment, you didn't say anything. Just looked at him. Really, truly looked.

And then, in a voice that was calm—almost conversational, like you were commenting on the weather—you said:

"You think being loud makes you right."

The smirk faltered.

Just for a second. Just a fraction.

But you saw it.

You let the words sit there for a beat. Let them land.

"It doesn't," you continued, your tone still even, still almost friendly. "It just makes you easier to ignore."

Someone nearby—maybe Sero, maybe Kaminari—made a sound. Not quite a laugh, not quite a gasp. Something in between.

Bakugou's jaw tightened.

The smirk was gone now.

You should've stopped there. Should've delivered your line and walked away, left him with that.

But you were tired. So fucking tired. Of people like him. Of the way they moved through the world like they were owed something. Like their cruelty was currency and everyone else should just be grateful for the attention.

So you kept going.

"You know what's funny?" you said, and your voice was still calm, still measured. Not angry. That was important. Anger would give him something to latch onto. Anger would make this a fight.

This wasn't a fight.

This was a vivisection.

"You dress up your cruelty as honesty," you continued. "Like being a dick to people is somehow noble because at least you're not fake. But here's the thing—honesty without compassion is just cruelty you don't want to take responsibility for."

Bakugou's eyes narrowed. His mouth opened—probably to say something cutting, something that would shut you down—but you didn't give him the chance.

"And the audience thing?" You gestured vaguely to the people around him, the ones who were still watching, frozen. "Needing everyone to hear your opinion on everything, every single time? That's not confidence. That's fucking exhausting. For you and everyone else."

Kirishima shifted uncomfortably. You could see it in your peripheral vision—the way he glanced at Bakugou, then at you, like he wanted to say something but didn't know what.

Kaminari's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open.

Mina was very deliberately looking at the floor.

The room had gone quiet now. Not silent—the music was still playing, people in other corners were still talking—but quiet enough that anyone within ten feet could hear every word.

You tilted your head slightly, studying Bakugou like he was a specimen under glass.

"Maybe if you had something actually interesting to say," you said, and your voice was so calm it was almost kind, "you wouldn't have to scream it."

His hands clenched. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his whole body had gone rigid. He was pissed. Genuinely pissed.

Good.

You took a sip of your drink—casual, unhurried—and then delivered the final blow.

"But sure," you said, your tone light, conversational. "Keep performing. I'm sure they'll keep laughing."

You paused.

Let it hang there.

And then, almost as an afterthought:

"As long as you're useful."

The words landed like a slap.

You could see it in his face. The way his expression shifted—from anger to something else. Something rawer.

Because that was the thing about people like Bakugou. They built their entire identity on being needed. Being the best. Being the center.

And you'd just suggested that the moment he stopped being entertaining, the moment he stopped being useful, all those people laughing at his jokes would disappear.

And he knew—somewhere, in a part of himself he probably didn't like to examine—that you were right.

The silence stretched.

Someone coughed.

Kaminari was staring at you like you'd just pulled a knife. Kirishima looked like he wanted to be literally anywhere else. Sero had his hand over his mouth, eyes darting between you and Bakugou like he was waiting for an explosion.

Mina was still looking at the floor.

And Bakugou—

Bakugou was just staring at you.

His mouth was slightly open, like he'd started to form a response and lost it halfway. His eyes were still narrowed, still angry, but there was something else there now.

Confusion.

Genuine, unfiltered confusion.

Because no one talked to him like this.

No one.

People yelled back at him, sure. Got in his face, tried to match his energy. But that was just playing his game. Fighting on his terms.

You hadn't done that.

You'd been calm. Precise. Almost clinical.

You hadn't tried to out-loud him. Hadn't tried to be meaner or funnier or more cutting.

You'd just... dismantled him. Quietly. Methodically.

Like he wasn't even worth the energy to yell at.

And that was so much worse.

His jaw worked. You could see him trying to find the words, trying to pull together a comeback that would salvage this, that would put him back in control.

But nothing came.

For once—maybe the first time in his life—Bakugou Katsuki didn't have the last word.

You watched him for another moment. Just to make sure he was really stuck. Really speechless.

And then you smiled again.

That same not-nice smile from before.

The one that said I'm done with you.

"Enjoy your party," you said, your voice pleasant. Friendly, even.

You raised your cup in a mock toast.

And then you turned around.

Not quickly. Not like you were running away.

Just... done.

The crowd parted slightly as you moved back toward the hallway. People stepped aside, their eyes tracking you, and you could feel the weight of their stares, the whispered conversations already starting.

Did you see that?

Holy shit.

Who even is she?

You didn't care.

You'd said what you needed to say. Done what you needed to do.

And now you were leaving.

Fuck the one-hour promise.

Fuck this party.

Fuck all of these people and their performative bullshit.

You were done.

You cut through the kitchen, dodging a couple making out against the counter, and headed for the side door you'd clocked earlier. Your hand was already on the doorknob when you heard Kendo calling your name.

"Hey! Wait—are you okay?"

You glanced back.

She was weaving through the crowd, her face concerned, confused. Probably wondering what the hell had just happened. Why you'd just verbally eviscerated one of the most popular guys in Class A in front of half the third-year hero studies.

You could explain.

Should explain.

But you didn't have the energy.

"I'm fine," you called back. "Stayed longer than an hour. We're good."

"But—"

You pushed the door open. The cool night air hit you like a blessing, sharp and clean and quiet.

"I'll text you later," you said, and then you were gone.

Out the door.

Down the steps.

Across the yard.

Away.

You didn't run.

Running would imply you were fleeing. That you were upset, or embarrassed, or affected.

You weren't.

You were just... done.

Your boots hit the sidewalk with steady, even steps. The noise from the party faded behind you—music and laughter and chaos that no longer had anything to do with you.

The October air was cold. Biting. It stung your cheeks and made your eyes water slightly, but you welcomed it.

Better than the suffocating heat of that house. Better than the press of bodies and the weight of attention.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Probably Kendo.

You ignored it.

You'd deal with that later. Answer her questions, assure her you were fine, maybe even admit that you'd gone too far.

But not now.

Now, you just wanted to walk.

You shoved your hands in your pockets and kept moving, your breath fogging in the air in front of you.

The campus was quiet at this hour. Most people were either at parties or holed up in their dorms. The streetlights cast long shadows across the empty pathways, and somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint sound of laughter from another house, another party you weren't at and didn't want to be at.

Your mind was still buzzing.

Replaying the scene. His face. The way his smirk had cracked. The silence that followed your words.

You should feel bad.

That was the normal response, right? To feel guilty after tearing someone apart in public.

But you didn't.

You felt... vindicated.

Like you'd said something that needed to be said. Something that everyone was thinking but no one had the guts to voice.

Because that was the truth about people like Bakugou.

They got away with it because people let them.

And you were so fucking tired of people letting them.

Your phone buzzed again.

This time, you pulled it out.

Kendo: Are you okay??? Where did you go?

Kendo: That was INSANE btw. Like. INSANE.

Kendo: People are still talking about it.

Kendo: Bakugou looks like he's about to murder someone.

You stared at the messages for a long moment.

Then you typed back:

You: I'm fine. Home in 10. Sorry for bailing.

You hit send and shoved the phone back in your pocket.

You'd deal with the fallout tomorrow.

Tonight, you just wanted to be alone.

Back at the party, in the living room that was still buzzing with the aftermath of what had just happened, Bakugou Katsuki stood exactly where you'd left him.

His friends had tried to move on. Tried to laugh it off, make a joke, shift the energy back to normal.

But Bakugou wasn't moving.

He was still staring at the spot where you'd been standing.

His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

His hands were shoved in his pockets because if they weren't, he'd probably put them through a wall.

"Dude," Kaminari said carefully, like he was approaching a live explosive. "You good?"

Bakugou didn't respond.

"That was..." Sero trailed off, clearly not sure how to finish that sentence.

"Brutal," Mina supplied quietly.

Kirishima put a hand on Bakugou's shoulder. "Hey, man. She was just—"

"Who the fuck was that?" Bakugou's voice was low. Dangerous.

Kirishima blinked. "What?"

"That girl." Bakugou's eyes were still fixed on the hallway. On the door you'd walked through. "Who the fuck is she?"

His friends exchanged looks.

"I... I don't know," Kirishima admitted. "I've seen her around campus, but I don't think we've ever—"

"Find out."

Kaminari raised his eyebrows. "Dude, are you seriously—"

Bakugou finally turned to look at him, and whatever Kaminari saw in his face made him shut up immediately.

"Find. Out," Bakugou repeated.

And then he grabbed his jacket and walked out.

He didn't storm. Didn't slam the door.

He just left.

Leaving his friends standing there, confused and slightly concerned.

Because Bakugou Katsuki didn't get rattled.

He didn't get thrown off.

And he sure as hell didn't let anyone have the last word.

But tonight, someone had.

And he couldn't stop thinking about your face.

The calm in your voice.

The way you'd looked at him like he was nothing special.

Like he was just... loud.

His hands clenched into fists as he walked.

He didn't know your name.

Didn't know anything about you.

But he was going to.

Because no one—no one—talked to him like that and just walked away.

This wasn't over.

Not even close.

A/N: I have been dying to write a College AU where the Reader actually has a backbone and isn't just blushing at everything Bakugo does. Channeling major Kat Stratford energy for this one because frankly, Bakugo needed to be humbled. I love "10 Things I Hate About You", and putting them in a University setting just felt right for this

This is Chapter 1 of "Something Like Spite." Updates will be coming soon. I hope you enjoyed watching Bakugo lose his composure for once—he’s definitely going to make it his mission to find out who she is.

Taglist: Let me know in the replies or asks if you want to be added to the taglist for Chapter 2!

[aurora-sadprose]

put down that c.ai thing and read y/n fics like god intended.

[polarity-disturbed]

maybe the real treasure was the codependent relationships we formed that led us to do morally questionable things along the way

[brennacedria]

[cccrystalclear]

To my favorite game and gang!

[kokodrawings]

Red Hot-Blooded Habanero

[bakapandy]

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve made any art. Work and life has kept me busy and I just haven’t had the chance to get back to my ipad. But I miss drawing so bad!!!! I will get back to it I promise.

In apology, here is a Shikamaru pen sketch I did at work lol

[doraingrid]

You came through.

[ilovepannacotta]

some hc of the boys

[siratonin]

"I CANT HANDLE THIS" *handles this*

[siratonin]

"I CANT TAKE ANOTHER DAY" *takes another day*

[a-really-bad-decision]

Dragon age origins is like…. You’re nineteen, new in town, and it’s your second day at pizza hut. You don’t even know how to work the register yet and you just watched your manager get carted off by the paramedics. You have no contact info for him, his next of kin, or corporate. The only other employee is the guy who’s been here for two weeks and is a bit of a doofus, and neither of you really know what you’re supposed to do now. You both desperately need this job though, and the doofus at least has a drivers license and *kiiinda* knows how to use the oven so you just. Shrug, and start taking orders and making pizzas and praying to god that the bills are on autopay.

And weirdly enough you’re really good at this: making pizzas and dealing with shitty customers and breaking up fights in the parking lot and pretending to be Duncan’s cousin on the phone so the utility company doesn’t cut off the power. But running a store is a lot of work for two dumb kids, so slowly you start accumulating a bunch of competent weirdos to help out, like the nun who left her convent because god told her to help you make pizzas, and the elderly school teacher who just survived a mass shooting, and the guy the papa johns down the street hired to run you over. And really there’s no way any of this should be working as well as it is - you’re absolutely committing fraud of some kind here - but you’ve managed to dodge the landlord every time he’s stopped by, and the health inspector never shows up to tell you to stop letting your dog hang out behind the counter and you’re all still kinda looking at each other and asking ‘are we allowed to just do this?’ before shrugging again and continuing to make pizzas, until somehow, through a series of unlikely technicalities, your doofus coworker ends up on the ballot for governor.

And after like five months of this the regional manager wanders in out of nowhere and you’re sure he’s about to chew your ass out for this mess, but it turns out he’s pretty chill and honestly kind of impressed with how you managed to keep the place up and running all on your own. So now you’re all thinking ‘thank god, there’s someone here who actually knows how to run a Pizza Hut’ only for him to get hit by a car two days later on the night of the Super Bowl.