To fill the empty spaces | 2
Katsuki has been a single father for five years. After his wife died shorty after giving birth to their son, he's not sure he's ever going to find happiness in mundane things anymore. Cue you, the new, young teacher at his son's kindergarden, who seems to be taking the best care of his little guy.
-Or alternatively, karma is a quirkless bitch that will be biting Katsuki in the ass for his entire life, whether it's in him having a quirkless son, or falling for you, a younger woman, his son's teacher, who lost her quirk as a child before the Overhaul arc.
Tags/CW: MDNI, Dilf!Bakugo, single dad!Bakugo, teacher!reader, first unnoficial date, slowburn, mutual pining, slice of life, fluff, eventual smut, ten year old age gap, VERY awkward Bakugo in this one (save him),
Part 1
The bar isn’t exactly what you expected.
It’s quieter, tucked into a side street you’d only ever passed on the way home from grocery runs. No neon signs or blaring music. Just a low amber glow through the windows, the muffled sound of ice clinking in glasses, and a chalkboard menu out front where someone had doodled Dynamight’s hero name with three hearts next to it.
With the way his mouth twitches at the sight of it, you’re almost certain Kirishima or any friend of his did it.
“Don’t read it,” Dynamight mutters beside you, tugging the door open with too much force for how relaxed the place is. “It’s not important.”
You smile without answering, pulling your coat tighter across your chest before following him inside.
The warmth hits you first. Then the smell—wood polish, whiskey, and something fried that makes your stomach remember you didn’t eat dinner. Inside, a few heads turn. Some familiar pro hero faces, some not. You catch the eye of a woman who nods politely—Hero: Ryukyu, you think—and someone who might’ve been on the cover of a fashion magazine once.
You feel out of place. But then again, you usually do. You’re a quirkless civilian in a bar that regulars Pro Heroes.
“Over here!” Kirishima waves you down like he hadn’t just seen you walk in behind Bakugo. His hair is tied half-up, red and chaotic like a flame behind him. He looks like he’s already had a beer, cheeks flushed. “You made it! And you’re not late!”
“I’m never late,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, brushing off your coat and awkwardly folding it over your arm.
You proved it today, when you showed up on time for Kiko’s birthday.
Bakugo’s hand brushes your back, accidentally as he passes you, a brief, accidental touch that still sends a signal to your brain to keep breathing.
“Here,” he says, sliding into the booth and gesturing at the seat beside him like it’s a command. You hesitate—then Kirishima scoots over and pats the other side. Trapped. Of course. You slip in beside Bakugo, careful not to let your thigh brush his under the table.
“Do you drink?” Kirishima asks you, grinning, completely unaware of the way you’re already trying to regulate your breathing. “Or are we starting slow tonight?”
“I… do,” you say, unsure why that sounds like a confession. “But maybe something small.”
He turns toward the bartender with the confidence of someone who’s ordered for entire battalions. “One small drink for the lady. Something fruity and suspiciously sweet!”
Bakugo scoffs. “Just get her what she asks for, shitty hair.”
You laugh. Quietly. Kirishima just grins again, unbothered. “You nervous?” he asks, leaning toward you, elbow on the table. “You look nervous. Don’t be. Everyone here’s chill. Off-duty hero gatherings are basically just a bunch of old high school kids with back problems and trauma bonding over fries and drinks”
“Wow,” you say, amused. “That’s very comforting.”
“Glad to help,” he replies, flashing a thumbs up.
The drink arrives— a cocktail of peach and mint, sweet enough to feel like candy—and you wrap both hands around it, trying not to let the glass tremble in your hold.
You’re sitting beside Dynamight. Bakugo Katsuki. One of the top pro heroes in the country. He’s wearing a dark sweater with the sleeves pushed up, scars on display, an expensive watch so scratched you wonder if he punches time itself. And he smells like cedarwood and expensive soap. You glance at him. He’s watching the door.
“You okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Bakugo blinks, then turns his head slightly toward you. “Yeah.”
Just that. But the way he says it—like the answer’s real—makes your chest ache a little.
He leans back after a moment, stretching one arm along the back of the booth. It doesn’t quite touch you, but it frames you in his space. Like you’re sitting under something that could, at any second, fold around you completely.
“I wasn’t gonna come,” he says suddenly, eyes still fixed on something ahead of him. “Too tired. Kiko passed out fast. Then Kirishima wouldn’t shut the fuck up.”
“I’m glad you did,” you say quietly, without thinking. You look down at your drink immediately after, flustered. “I mean—he’s persuasive.”
Bakugo grunts.
You don’t talk for a bit. The others—Kirishima and the bunch that joins you quietly, Sero, Mina, Denk as they introduce themselves to you—are loud. Someone’s recounting a rescue gone hilariously wrong. You laugh along with them. Sometimes too late. But you think they don’t mind.
Eventually, Kirishima leans in again, this time to offer you a fry. “You know,” he says, loud enough for Bakugo to hear, “I think this might be the first time I’ve seen Bakugo not threaten a bartender in fifteen whole minutes. That’s got to be some kind of record.”
“I don’t threaten,” Bakugo growls, not even looking up.
“Right, right. You politely suggest. With eye contact that causes involuntary urination.”
You choke on your drink.
Bakugo glances at you, annoyed and a little proud. “You think this is funny?”
You nod, still coughing. “Very.”
His lips twitch.
And just like that, the night softens.
The booth grows warmer. The stories get longer. Kirishima sings along to the bar’s playlist—badly. You let yourself have a second drink, something stronger this time, and feel your muscles unclench inch by inch.
Eventually, you realize you’re leaning against the booth just slightly—close enough to feel the heat of Bakugo’s shoulder against yours.
He doesn’t pull away. And totally infatuated by the fact that you are spending time with your favorite hero, neither do you.
You don’t realize how late it’s gotten until Mina announces it—loudly, dramatically, with her arm slung over Denki like she’s just won a medal.
“Last call for the responsible adults who have work in the morning!”
Groans. Laughter. Kirishima insists he’s “basically nocturnal.” Bakugo tells him he’s “basically stupid.”
The group starts peeling off in pairs and trios, and you slip out of the booth last, pulling your coat from the back of the seat. Bakugo’s already on his feet, hands in his pockets, watching you like he’s waiting to see if you can put it on yourself without getting stuck.
You manage. Mostly.
Outside, the cold hits you instantly—crisp and sharper than you prepared for. Your breath fogs on the exhale, and you tug your coat a little tighter.
Bakugo steps out behind you, letting the door swing shut with his heel. The sudden quiet of the street makes the warmth of the bar feel miles away. You can hear the faint hum of traffic somewhere far off. A soft, cool wind rolls through, making you shiver.
You try to pretend you didn’t.
Bakugo does not pretend.
“Tch.” He glances at you, annoyed in that way that isn’t really anger—more like something tugging at him from the inside. He reaches out and, for half a second, pinches the edge of your collar between two fingers, pulling it higher along your neck. Barely a touch. Barely anything.
But your pulse jumps anyway.
“You didn’t dress for shit,” he mutters.
You blink. “I didn’t know we’d be outside.”
“You knew there was weather.”
You laugh under your breath, and his eyes flick down to your mouth like he wasn’t expecting the sound. He looks away immediately—sharp, defensive.
“We’re heading the same direction?” he asks, voice gruff.
You nod, falling into step with him. The walk is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Your hands are tucked into your coat pockets; his are shoved deep into his pants pockets like he’s daring the cold to try him.
At the corner where your routes split, you stop. He stops too, boots scuffing lightly against the pavement.
“This is me,” you say. Your voice puffs out in a small cloud.
“Yeah.”
He’s staring at you. Not intense, not burning—just that unreadable Bakugo brand of focused, like he’s memorizing something without realizing he’s doing it.
“You get home safe,” he says.
“I will.”
“Good.”
A beat passes. He looks like he wants to say something else, then aborts the mission halfway, jaw tight.
You’re the one who speaks first. “Thanks for tonight.”
He scoffs, but there’s something softer underneath. “You’re the one who came out.”
“Still. It was… nice.”
His ears go pink. Immediately, aggressively, he looks away.
“Whatever.”
You smile, a warm little thing that curls under your ribs. “Goodnight, mister Bakugo.”
He exhales—long, slow, visible in the cold air. “Night.”
You turn to go. Take three steps.
Then—
“Hey.”
You stop and look back.
Bakugo nods toward your coat again, eyes narrowed like it’s personally offended him. “Make sure you zip that up before you get sick.”
You swallow, trying not to smile too obviously. Dynamight just told you to zip up your coat like he is your mother on a cold Saturday evening when you wore a skimpy dress to go out for drinks with your college friends.
“Okay.”
He grunts. It might be the closest he gets to affection in public.
And then he walks away, hands still in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind—but he glances back once, just once, to make sure you actually zipped it.
You pretend you don’t notice, but deep down you do. And your chest is warm all the way home.
"Dad, can I ask you something?"
"Sure," Katsuki replies through the sip of coffee he’s already brought to his mouth "anything"
Kiko tilts his head to the side, lips puckering to the side of his face as he's waiting for his father to pick up a plastic cup for watercolor brushes, put it in the cart he's carrying and then kneel to his level. When he does, Kiko presses his lips together, slapping his palms on Katsuki’s knees just slightly, playfully "can you tell me what quirks are?"
Katsuki’s eyes go wide. Okay? What do you even reply to that?
For a second he thinks there should be something like a punishment for parents that haven't got the definition of quirks that's posted on the official Wikipedia page memorized. One that's gruesome and brutal, one that should teach them to know and do better. Katsuki would take it. Begrudgingly, sure, but he would. He'd take anything over trying to explain with his own words what quirks are to his quirkless son. Still, his voice is calm, collected. Hidden panic lies within that shaky breath he takes, to buy a moment in which he can think.
"Ahh, unc Izuku would know better" He breathes out "but basically quirks are enhanced qualities in our bodies. I can produce nitroglycerine and I can also ignite it into explosions. Unc Eijiro can harden his skin. They manif- appear when you're a kid"
Kiko crooks his lips again in thought. Golden eyes stare into Katsuki’s red ones, and the pouty face his father is making is mirrored in his own, slowly, as his lips drag across his cheeks before he tries to speak again
"So what's enhanced?"
"Ah, well, boosted I guess, you know, I could have normal sweat, but it's not- it's more than normal sweat"
"So enhanced means more" Kiko confirms, then falls back into thought. The nod that Katsuki gives him doesn't go unnoticed —there's something more troubled and rough in his son's expression and it makes his stomach churn.
"Hmm, so, then why don't I have it?"
As Katsuki ponders his son's question, he can't help but feel a pang of sadness. How could he explain to Kiko, his only and very precious son, that he was born without a quirk in a world where quirks were everything?
"Well, Kiko," Katsuki begins, his voice softening as he reaches out to ruffle his son's hair gently, "sometimes quirks just don't show up in certain people. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you, though. You can still be the strongest just the way you are."
Kiko's golden eyes search his father's face, as if trying to decipher the truth behind his words, cocking his head to the side like a puppy, trying his best to process what he had just heard.. And Katsuki— Katsuki holds his breath, waiting for Kiko's response, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Okay, Dad," Kiko finally says with a small smile, blinking into his father’s red eyes, his everlasting innocence and acceptance of things beyond his comprehension melting away Katsuki’s worries for a moment. "I'm still gonna be a hero, though. Just like you."
Katsuki’s heart swells with pride at his son's determination, forgetting his anxiety and that pondering feeling of tightness that boils in the middle of his chest. He can't help but smile back at him, a warmth spreading through his entire body.
"Of course you will, Kiko," he says, voice filled with confidence he's not even sure is real. For Kiko at least, it has to be "You'll be the greatest hero this world has ever seen."
“Greater than you?”
“Ha,” Katsuki laughs. “No one's better than your old man, but you can try.”
“I said I am going to be better than you” Kiko sticks his tongue out to mock his father while closing his eyes. Sometimes, just sometimes, Katsuki can see himself in him. Not as fierce, but definitely as cocky.
Katsuki swallows another sip of coffee just to keep his hands busy, to keep from grabbing his kid and squeezing him too tight. Kiko is still standing there, hands planted on Katsuki’s knees, chest puffed, brows scrunched like he’s solved world hunger and quirks at the same time.
Katsuki taps a knuckle against his son’s forehead—soft, affectionate, a little rough around the edges. “Oi. Don’t stick your tongue out at me unless you wanna lose it.”
Kiko giggles like he’s heard the threat a million times and has zero fear of it. “You can’t take my tongue. Auntie Mina says that’s illegal.”
Katsuki clicks his tongue. “Tch! Damn extras and their laws.”
Kiko imitates the sound immediately—tch—but his comes out too soft, too airy. He tries again. Tch. Better. He beams up at Katsuki like he’s earned a medal.
“Not bad,” Katsuki grunts, pretending not to melt, “but you gotta put some bite in it. Like you mean it.”
Kiko leans forward, squaring his tiny shoulders, and goes “TCH.”
Too loud. Entirely too loud. An old lady three aisles down in the art supply store flinches. Katsuki covers his mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking with the laugh he won’t let out.
“That—” he says, finally wheezing, “was awful, kid”
Kiko gasps like he’s been mortally wounded. “Daaad!”
Katsuki snorts, wiping a hand under his nose as he chuckles. “What? I’m raisin’ you right. My kid’s not gonna go around half–assing shit sounds.”
Kiko opens his mouth to argue, but his face goes serious again. Dead serious. Katsuki knows that look. It’s the same expression he gets right before saying something tiny and innocent that destroys his internal organs.
“Dad,” he says quietly, “if I don’t got a quirk… you don’t think I’m weak, right?”
The question slips out soft. Scared. Almost like Kiko regrets asking the second it leaves his mouth.
Katsuki’s entire chest tightens. Hard. Like something sharp hooked into him from the inside.
He kneels fully this time—both knees on the cold store floor, hands on Kiko’s shoulders. Eye level. Nowhere to look except straight at his son’s big, golden, unbearably honest eyes.
“Listen to me, kid,” he says, voice low, steady, a little rough from holding back too much. “You’re not weak. You’re never weak. I don’t give a shit if you got explosions or zero quirk or ten quirks—you hear me?”
Kiko nods, eyes wide, his bangs sway on his forehead. Katsuki squeezes his shoulders gently.
“You got my stubbornness. That’s already a hazard level on its own.”
That makes Kiko smile. A tiny one. Bright, crooked, brave.
“And,” Katsuki adds, softer now, thumb brushing Kiko’s collarbone without thinking, “you got this way of takin’ hits and poppin’ back up again like it ain’t nothin’. People with quirks can’t even do that half the time. So don’t ever talk like you’re less.”
Kiko stares at him for a long second, like he’s absorbing every word straight into his tiny bones. Then his chest puffs up again.
“I am stubborn like you,” he declares.
“Yeah. I noticed.”
“And I am gonna be a hero.”
“Yeah.” Katsuki’s throat works around something thick. “I know.”
Kiko grins—wide, gap-toothed, sunshine incarnate—and flings his arms around his father’s neck so suddenly Katsuki has to catch himself against the cart. He freezes. Only for a moment. Then his arms come up, circling his son, holding him tight enough that Kiko squeaks.
“Dad?” Kiko mumbles into his sweater. “Can heroes not breathe?”
Katsuki grunts and releases him half an inch. “Don’t be smart with me.”
Kiko laughs into his shoulder.
And for a moment, just a moment, the world feels exactly right—and Katsuki lets himself have it.
“Alright,” he mutters, clearing his throat as he stands, ruffling Kiko’s spiky hair until it sticks up like a baby porcupine. “Grab your damn watercolors. We’re gettin’ outta here before I start cryin’ or somethin’.”
“You cry?” Kiko gasps.
“Not once in my entire life.”
“That’s a lie. You cried when you came back home after sensei called you.”
Katsuki’s jaw drops. “Hah?!”
Kiko giggles, sprinting down the aisle with the victory of someone who knows his dad is already smiling behind him.
Katsuki watches him go, heart still sore and full in equal measure. Yeah. He thinks. Maybe being quirkless isn’t the tragedy the world thinks it is.
Not if the kid’s built like that.
The hunt for watercolours continues through aisles that provide an enormous amount of choices. Kiko likes none.
And then, their conversation about how Kiko needs the exact tubed watercolours his friend Daichi has, is interrupted by a familiar voice from behind them.
It’s you; as disheveled and ‘off work’ as you can look, in a hoodie, sport shorts, socks that reach to your calves and a pair of beige New Balances —he's seen those before somewhere— and you seem to contemplate between a few red shades of acrylic paint. You look focused, debating which one is the shade you need.
And Bakugo… can’t help himself. He stares.
He can't help but wonder, what had you been doing before coming to the supermarket? Have you been to the gym? Do you even go to the gym and if so, which one? Or were you painting at home and ran out of red so you rushed to the store to grab a new bottle? Do you live nearby?
He tries to look back at the shelf in front of him, scan for the last items on the school list you sent the parents last week. But that feeling—the same uneasy, peculiar flutter that’s been showing up more and more lately—drops into his chest again. It’s annoying. Distracting. He’d take a villain attack over whatever the hell this is.
He wishes Kirishima were here. Stupid, loud Kirishima, who would’ve screamed your name across the entire paint section without hesitation. You would’ve looked over, startled, then smiled—bright and friendly, maybe a little too friendly.
Too friendly because Bakugo doesn’t like this awkward friendliness he’s stuck with. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or his face, or his entire body when you’re around.
But Kirishima’s not here.
Kiko is.
And the thing about Kiko is that he spends way too much time with Kirishima.
So when Kiko spots you, he figures you out instantly. He inhales dramatically—Bakugo doesn’t even have time to stop him—and yells your name loud enough to echo through the aisles. People turn. Stare. But no one is rude about it. It’s a good neighborhood. A kind one. A neighbourhood that won’t pry at Dynamight’s private life.
And you? You don’t just smile politely.
You don’t nod distantly like most teachers would. You brighten entirely.
You practically beam, eyes softening as you recognize Kiko, and you move toward him with this effortless warmth that turns Bakugo’s stomach over on itself, an entire luna park ride.
Normally most teachers would coldly glaze at students off work and mutter a greeting, or at best, smile kindly and ask how they're doing. And you're nothing like that. You're young and you're sweet and you seem to love each child in your class like that.
Why is it so hard for Bakugo to accept that someone can love his child without pitying him for being quiet and quirkless? Why does he have to ponder over that like he’s deranged? Why does he have to dissect that idea like it’s a trap? What kind of father thinks like this?
His breath catches as you get closer, like time has woven into something slow, five ticks of the clock instead of one.
Kiko has left his side by the time reality settles again and that alone is a red flag, a tiny bell in the back of his head that sings loud enough to ‘remember to teach Kiko to never run off like that.’
You meet Kiko halfway nonetheless, bending a little to catch him, and the two of you collide in this ridiculous, wholesome burst of energy that makes your laugh spill out—bright and unfiltered.
“Hi!” you say once, twice, three times, rapid-fire, like greeting him is something your body does before your mind catches up. It’s stupidly cute. Bakugo hates that he notices.
He lights up before he can stop himself—just a flicker, just for a second—at the tenderness in your voice.
Kiko is already holding your hand, tugging you along, and you’re giggling—actual, genuine giggling—as he pulls you toward the cart, as he babbles about absolutely nothing—something about watercolours, Daichi, and how none of the sets here are good enough. You listen like it’s important. Like he’s important.
Bakugo swallows down a sudden thickness in his throat.
You’re giggling by the time Kiko pulls you fully into Bakugo’s aisle, your hand still in his, your cheeks a little flushed from the surprise reunion. When your eyes finally lift to Bakugo—really look at him—your smile softens even more.
“Hi,” you say again, quieter this time. Warm. Familiar. Like the other night wasn’t still buzzing in the back of his skull.
His chest does something traitorous and fuzzy overall.
He nods. That’s all he manages. Just a nod. At least it’s not the weird stiff wave he’s done before.
“You’re out late,” you add lightly, glancing at the half-empty cart and the crumpled list in his hand. “School supply emergency?”
He grunts. It’s meant to be a casual confirmation, but it comes out closer to ‘I forgot how to socialize, help.’
There was a short time where socialising was easy. Long before Kiko. When his wife was always next to him.
Looking at him now, you wouldn’t know.
You laugh under your breath, the sound small and private. “Let me guess… Daichi’s watercolour set?”
Kiko gasps dramatically, as though you’ve just revealed a dark secret. “YES! He has a special one.”
“And nothing else will do?” you ask, playing along.
Kiko shakes his head so hard his hair flops.
You make a thoughtful face, tapping your chin. “I might know where they keep the individual tubes… the good ones.”
Bakugo raises a brow before he can stop himself. “They’ve got good ones?”
You grin. “Only if you know where to look.”
Of course you do. Of course you’d know this stupid store like the back of your hand.
Kiko beams and squeezes your fingers, and you squeeze back, gentle, easy.
Something tugs in Bakugo’s chest again—annoying, familiar, warm in a way he’s not used to anymore.
Would his wife hate him, if she was alive, if they were simply divorced and not parted by death, for having a crush on a younger woman?
He wishes a divorce was the case of his lack of communication skills and not grief he still doesn’t know what to do with.
He wishes his wife was alive.
He wishes he didn’t care that you’re holding his kid’s hand. And he wishes it didn’t make him feel something.
But he does. And it does.
Is it maybe too early to admit he likes you? At least to himself, in hopes to convince that nasty part of his brain that pushes him not to trust anyone or, desperate to put out the fire of guilt in his stomach that still thinks about his late wife.
An admission like that is hard, though, when he’s convinced himself everything he touches with love falls apart —no one knows how much he blames himself for Kiko’s quirklessness— and it’s even harder when he’s promised himself he won’t fall for the tricks of his faulty heart.
“C’mon,” you say, snapping him out of his thoughts, gesturing with your chin toward the far end of the aisle, where the nicer sets are hidden behind the cheap ones. “I’ll show you.”
Bakugo hesitates—half a second—but Kiko is already dragging you forward, and he follows because what else is he gonna do? Let his kid wander off again? Let you walk ahead without him?
Not happening.
He keeps pace behind the both of you, watching the way you talk to Kiko, how you lean down to hear him better, how you laugh at things other adults would brush off. It’s… comfortable. Too comfortable.
And he hates how much he doesn’t hate it.
Kiko never had a mom. Now he’s holding your hand like it’s natural.
Maybe Kirishima was right. Looking at you and his son, Bakugo thinks he could try to date for once. Just a little.
And it’s a plus that Kiko is graduating Kindergarten this year. Dynamight, wouldn't know what to do with himself if it got out that he’s dating his son’s teacher.
Katsuki Bakugo, however, is freaking out with the idea of asking you out to begin with. Maybe he should reconsider. Maybe you like men your age, men who aren’t widowed with a kid to take care of, that cling onto what ifs and experience a concerning amount of heart arrhythmia. Men who are not pro heroes with minimal time to spare.
Whatever— he will man up and do it. He has to! And in the case you reject him, it’s fine. He’ll understand.
He doesn’t hold grudges anymore.
Bakugo steps forward, catching Kiko just as he reaches for your hand. He tugs him gently back, crouching slightly so his red eyes are level with his son’s golden ones.
“Hold up, Kiko,” he says softly, but there’s that familiar weight to his voice that brooks no argument. “Stay close, alright?”
Kiko looks up at him, golden eyes wide with a whine to them, but still obedient.
“Pick anything you want and I’ll buy them all for you, deal?”
“Deal!”
Bakugo exhales in relief, glancing at you. You’ve stopped a few feet away, paintbrushes in hand, and you’re watching him with that soft, curious tilt to your head that makes his chest tighten in ways he can’t name.
Dammit, his head is ringing.
Okay Katsuki, breathe in through the nose. Breathe out through the mouth. You got this.
He clears his throat, almost aggressively, and steps closer, towering over you in sculpted muscle and his not-scary-but-still-very-scary frown, lowering his voice.
“Hey… uh…” He scratches the back of his neck, his eyebrow twitching, pretending it’s casual, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Can we… step over here for a sec?”
You laugh subtly at the space he’s pointing with the tip of his finger. It’s two steps away from Kiko. Literally.
You follow, naturally—one, two—almost smiling, as if this is just another small, everyday moment between acquaintances. But the way he watches you, the way his jaw tightens, says otherwise.
Once you’re out of earshot of Kiko and the hum of the store, he leans against the shelf, crossing his arms.
“Look… I, uh… I wanted to talk to you about Kiko. School stuff, schedules, projects… the usual parent-teacher things.”
You nod, polite, but your eyes are soft, and you tilt your head as if encouraging him to continue.
Bakugo swallows, running a hand through his hair as he scrunches his face. “Thing is… I’d rather… I dunno… see you… like, outside school hours. Just you and me. So I can… talk without, uh, Kiko around.”
You blink, slightly caught off guard, then smile faintly. “Oh… okay.”
He notices the way your smile tilts—gentle, maybe amused, suddenly a little too shy—but it sends a pang through his chest. He shifts, trying to sound practical, like this isn’t him fumbling over his words, like he isn’t thinking about how good it feels to just look at you without classroom walls between you.
“It’s… just… school stuff,” he mutters, though the heat rising to his cheeks betrays him. His head is screaming everlong.
Fuck, Fuck Katsuki, say something right for once. School stuff? Seriously?
Your eyes soften impossibly, and the pause stretches long enough that Bakugo wants to curse at himself out loud. He clears his throat again, harsher this time, trying to wrest control of his thoughts. “Anyway… let me know when you’re free. Maybe we… I dunno… grab a coffee or whatever.”
You tilt your head further, playful but warm. “I think I can make that work, mister Bakugo.”
“Katsu—” oh no fuck it’s too early for that, if he hits you with first name basis right now you’ll be onto him.
Wait, if this is him supposedly asking you on a date, which he is completely failing at, wouldn’t it help if you were into him? Whatever, man, what. ever.
“Bakugo. Just Bakugo,” he announces.
Bakugo notices the subtle way your smile lingers, and his chest tightens in a way he refuses to name. He straightens abruptly, clears his throat again, and gestures back toward Kiko. “Alright. Let’s get the rest of the stuff.”
As Kiko runs back to the shelves, paintbrushes clutched in his small hands, Bakugo’s eyes meet yours just for a moment—a quick, silent acknowledgment. It’s only a second, but it’s loaded. A small, jagged spark of something unspoken lingers between you, and he can’t stop thinking about it on the ride home.
Your first “date” isn’t technically a date. It’s more like—well, as you call it—parent-teacher counseling for what to expect in first grade, especially when the parent in question is a single dad who happens to be a pro hero. The number one hero of Japan, actually.
The very same Dynamight you’d watch video compilations of.
However, Bakugo insisted. He insisted that it was necessary.
And here you are, standing awkwardly in the corner of the small café he picked—nothing fancy, just the kind of place where the walls are lined with mismatched books and the smell of filtered coffee hangs like a warm blanket—after fiddling for a ridiculous amount of time, with a flyaway control stick you had just bought at a conbini, running it over the top of your hair as if that somehow would make you look more composed.
Bakugo —scratch that! internal scream, Dynamight—sits across from you, elbows on the table, hands steepled in a way that would look commanding on anyone else, but on him it’s tense. Almost nervous. He’s scanning a small notebook, which he’s clearly labeled “Kiko’s First Grade: Notes,” though every so often, his gaze flickers up to you, lingering longer than necessary.
“So,” he starts, voice rough but low, like he’s trying to keep casual, “Kiko… he’s smart. Picks up things fast, listens well enough.” He pauses, as if that sentence alone should justify the whole counseling session. “But… I—uh—shit, dammit, sometimes I worry about, y’know, him feeling left out. Or, like, he won’t keep up with the other kids. You think that’s likely?”
You tilt your head, hands gripping your coffe mug too tight “Honestly? Kids adapt faster than we give them credit for,” you say, voice soft, thoughtful. “And Kiko… he’s very observant. He notices things, pays attention. You’re doing more than enough.”
Bakugo hums, a sound somewhere between pride and uncertainty. His jaw ticks. “Yeah… maybe. I just… I dunno. I want to be sure. I can’t exactly just… show up at school and check on him all the time.” His hand flexes on the table. “Duty calls, and—well you know, not all teachers are you.”
You glance at him, after feeling your heart sink to your stomach over his last sentence, and the corner of your mouth quirks up. “I think that’s where I come in.”
He freezes, mid-note, then looks up at you sharply. “Huh?”
“I help,” you explain gently, lifting the flyaway control stick and twirling it absentmindedly. “With school stuff, projects, helping him get comfortable. He’s got a lot of trust in you, obviously, but… I’m here too. As a preschool teacher of course— it’s my duty… So you, uhm, well, all yall parents, don’t have to feel like you’re carrying everything alone.”
All yall? You’re talking to Dynamight and you just said all yall?
Bakugo’s red eyes flick down, then back to you, unguarded for just a second. Fortunately for you, he doesn’t seem to dwell on your horrible choice of words. But that brief vulnerability hits him like a jolt. He clears his throat, trying to hide it with a cough, and mutters, “Yeah… thanks.”
You notice the way he tenses again, like he’s just realized he’s not supposed to be saying something so simple. Or maybe so soft. Maybe both.
The conversation drifts to school schedules, art projects, Kiko’s lunch routine—but underneath it all, there’s a subtle rhythm forming between you. Slow. Quiet. A steady, careful tension that neither of you is quite willing to name aloud. And when he finally glances at you it’s like he’s measuring the space between you, as if wondering just how close he’s allowed to get before this “teacher-parent counseling” crosses some invisible line.
The conversation lulls for a moment, leaving just the hum of the café and the occasional clink of a cup. You’re still fiddling with your coffee mug and Bakugo can’t stop noticing.
Noticing the way the soft strands of your hait catch the light. The way your eyes flick up to meet his when you speak, hesitant but confident. The way your lips purse slightly when you think.
He clears his throat. “Uh… so— about Kiko’s… uh… art project,” he stammers, eyes darting to the notebook, then back to you, and immediately regrets it.
He should be talking about school stuff, right? But your presence—warm, bright, entirely too distracting—is making it impossible to focus on anything but you.
You smile faintly, tilting your head. “Yeah?”
Bakugo swallows, flexing his fingers against the table. “Right, uh… I figured we could… I dunno… maybe plan it together? Make sure he has what he needs. I don’t have as much help lately and he refuses to let my mother help him when he has to draw something.”
You nod, a small, encouraging gesture, but your hand brushes against the notebook as you lean forward slightly. It’s accidental, probably, but Bakugo notices the spark it sends through his chest.
He curses under his breath—quietly, so no one can hear—because he can’t tell if it’s just the touch, or just you being you. Either way, it’s unbearable. In the best possible way.
You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and Bakugo nearly chokes on the lump forming in his throat. “You make it… look too damn easy,” he blurts before he can stop himself. “Being… y'know… all… calm and stuff.”
You blink at him, startled, then tilt your head again, this time amused. “Calm? Me? I call you four times a day to ask about your son’s allergies.”
Bakugo shrugs, ears warming. “Yeah. Calm. Not like… loud or annoying. Or—whatever. You get it.”
You giggle, and it’s soft. Careful. It eases your thoughts about being anxiety on two legs and it’s as light as a feather brushing over his tension. And suddenly, the room feels smaller. Warmer. More intimate. Like somehow the world has shrunk down to this table, two awkward adults in entirely different life stages, and the soft murmur of the café.
He clears his throat again, looking anywhere but at you. “So maybe we could… like… meet again? Just… talk n' shit?”
Your eyes soften, and you smile. “I think I could do that.”
Bakugo’s chest tightens. That simple, innocent answer sends heat crawling up his neck. He’s supposed to be discussing school projects, not feeling like a teenager with a crush all over again—but here he is, heart hammering, hands fidgeting against the table, trying to sound like a grown-up.
The pause stretches. Neither of you speaks, yet neither of you moves. And in that silence, Bakugo realizes something terrifying and exhilarating all at once: he wants to see you again. And again. And then some more. Not just about Kiko. Not just for school.
He actually wants to see you all the time.
He swallows hard, shifts in his seat, and mutters almost under his breath, “You make shitty things better, hope you know that.”
You glance up, eyes softening even more, and he wants—wants desperately—to reach across the table, brush the hair from your face, see if you feel the same flutter he does. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he sits there, stiff and red-faced, smiling faintly, because this awkward fumbling, entirely too personal tension surprisingly doesn’t feel scary. It’s a good feeling. Not entirely serene yet. Not even the kind of good he always thought he had to earn. But it’s the kind of good he doesn’t have to apologise for allowing himself to have.
Bakugo clears his throat, shifting in his seat again like he’s trying to act casual—which, of course, he’s failing at spectacularly. His hands flex against the table, tapping once, twice, before he finally meets your eyes, sharp and red, but with something underneath that he can’t quite hide.
“So,” he begins, voice rougher than usual. “with Kiko’s first grade is coming up.” He pauses, flicking his gaze toward the notebook, then back to you. “I was thinking…”
You blink, curious, “Thinking about…?”
Bakugo gulps, visibly fighting the urge to spit it out too bluntly. “I—uh… I was wondering if… you’d be willing to tutor him sometimes? When school starts?”
You blink, surprised. “Tutor him?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, ears turning pink. “Not that he needs it. Kiko’s smart. But, since he dots on you, it’d be helpful.”
You study him, and he can’t help but squirm under your gaze. You’re quiet for a moment, and it’s that pause—the one where the world seems to shrink around the table—that makes his chest tighten.
“Oh, you mean like after school?” you ask gently, almost teasing, though your eyes stay soft.
He nods quickly, as if the motion will make it sound more casual than it feels. “Yeah. After school. And keeping an eye on him, making sure he doesn’t slack off. Or forget anything. Shitty hair, I can’t trust him, and my childhood friend is a professor at UA, I’d hate to burden him. I'll be paying you of course.”
You smile, the kind of smile that’s warm, bright, and just a little mischievous. “I think I could do that too.”
Bakugo swallows hard, caught off guard by the way your words make the air feel heavier, warmer. “Right… good,” he mutters, voice rough, almost dismissive, but there’s a flush creeping up his neck anyway. “Cool. What the hell! That works. Thank you!”
You laugh softly, and it’s like a spark. He wants to curse at how much it makes his chest ache, how easily it makes him lose focus. He’s supposed to be a pro hero. Supposed to be a grown-up. Thirty-something. But here he is, fumbling over something as simple as asking someone to spend more time with him—and not Kiko, him.
And the worst—best—part? He knows exactly why he asked.
He wants you there. Not just for Kiko. Not just for school. He doesn’t even have the guts to tell you he considers this an official date. But he doesn’t say that.
Instead, he flexes his fingers against the table again, shoving the notebook slightly toward you as if to underline his “totally professional, school-related” intentions. “Think about it again, will yah?”
“I’ll think about it, just-Bakugo.” you reply softly, but your eyes linger on his a moment too long, and his chest hammers in a way that makes him almost forget to be a responsible adult.
Bakugo nods once—quick, almost jerky, he considers your flirting line. “Good.”
But he stays leaned forward, elbows planted, gaze locked on you like he’s waiting for something else. Something he hasn’t figured out how to ask yet.
It hits you with a weird, fluttering force: he’s nervous. The number one hero. The man who drops villains with one explosion and a glare. Nervous.
You shift in your seat, your knee almost bumping his under the table, and his breath stutters—only for a second, but you catch it. He yanks his gaze away, chewing the inside of his cheek like his mouth is trying to stop him from saying something stupid.
The air between you shifts—soft, warm, full of things neither of you are ready to name.
“So,” you say lightly, trying to save him, “this was really nice.”
His head snaps back toward you too fast, like he’d been waiting—hoping—for you to say something close to that. His brows tug together, determined to flirt back now. “Yeah? Yeah, it was. Just don’t go off and tell your friends Dynamight took you out and talks weird and is nervous about his son. I ain’t talking weird.”
“You weren't weird.”
He scoffs under his breath. “Hah, if you say so, teach.”
You laugh—quiet, a little shaky, but real.
And he stares at you for a beat too long, eyes softening the way they do when he watches Kiko draw or fall asleep on the couch watching Pokémon. It’s subtle, almost shy, which is a ridiculous word to use for someone like him—but right now, it fits.
Then he shifts again, fingers tapping the table once like he’s steadying himself.
“There’s… one more thing,” he mutters.
You feel your pulse pick up. “What’s that?”
Bakugo’s jaw works for a moment. He looks at the notebook. The table. Anywhere but at your face.
And then he forces himself to look at you.
“You don’t gotta answer right now,” he starts, voice lower, slower—like he’s afraid if he says it too loud, he’ll scare the whole moment off. “But—most of my patrols are at the fucking crack of dawn…”
You wait. And he hates how patient you look. It makes his chest tight.
“So I figured…” he continues, dragging in a breath, “if you wanted—we could… y’know. Keep meeting, like this,” The tips of his ears burn. “If yah wanna. My nights are free, or whatever.”
Your heart does a very unprofessional little somersault.
You open your mouth, but he’s already backpedaling—fast.
“Not a date,” he blurts. “I mean—unless—you don’t—fuck, forget it. Just—think about that too.”
You stare. Not only Dy-na-might considers today an official date, he’s asking you on a second one!
What happens now? Do you faint? Do you call your mom and screech at her until she tells you to wake up and suddenly, when you open your eyes you’re in your teenage bedroom? Because this surely feels like a surrealist dream! Never in your twenty something years would you have considered that you’d be out on a date with Dynamight, let alone being asked on a second one?
Gosh. Why didn’t you dress better today?
Mental note! The second he leaves, you go shopping!
Bakugo, slightly bitter by the time you've taken to respond, swears under his breath. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
But you smile. And it’s soft. And warm. And it's also just a little bit brave. Everything a contrast to your internal panic. “I’d love to go on a date, Bakugo.”
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work // I colored and edited the picture of Bakugo and Kiko in the header, please don't steal it and use as your own!
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
Dividers by @/cursed-carmine
(taglist in a seperate reblog bc it's too long)
