New Girl
Freshly out of a relationship, you're forced by desperation to move into an apartment with your high school sweetheart, Bakugo Katsuki (who has also recently become single again), and his friends.
Warning: Not suitable for readers under the age of 18, swearing, semi-nudity/nudity, sexual content (but no smut).
“You know what’s funny?” you say, looking at the three men sprawled out on the lounge in front of you. “When I saw your Facebook post about looking for yet another roommate, I thought to myself: damn, these guys are hopeless.”
The one in the middle, a blond with a punk-ish lightning bolt through his fringe, Kaminari, laughs but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The redheaded (and rather more buff) man to his right, Kirishima, chuckles along with him, but he, unlike Kaminari, seems genuinely amused. The electric type now sits forward, growing more serious.
“And why, might I ask, would you think that?” he asks, a deadpan look on his face.
On the other side of him, his left, the man who has thus far been simultaneously silent yet so clearly volatile — Katsuki Bakugo — breaks his stern frown with a grin. His spiky hair presses into the back cushion of the lounge as he makes himself more comfortable.
“Oh, I dunno, I guess it was the tone of it. It was like, uh—” pinching the bridge of your nose, you search your mind for what exactly had given you the hopeless impression— “like, desperate in a way. Almost like you were begging on the street or something.”
“Kaminari made the post,” Bakugo teases.
Very visible from the way he puckers his lips and squints so the edges of his eyes wrinkle, Kaminari is swallowing back a scoff. He glances over at Kirishima, who is still in a haze of amusement at their current situation. Then he’s pulling off his shirt.
Your eyes widen, locking with those of Bakugo at the whim of a nostalgic connection. His eyes sparkle like rubies in the light coming through the window. As he turns to Kaminari, an unimpressed frown re-settles on his ash-blond brows.
“What are you doing?” he huffs.
Kaminari’s shirt is completely gone now, his bare chest way too exposed for a rental interview, even if it is just between old friends.
“Do these look desperate to you? These look homeless? These look like they belong to a beggar?” he says and gestures to his admittedly well-formed pecs.
Again, Bakugo catches your gaze, though this time it was he who glanced at you first. He mutters a short apology, the one word carrying more shame and personal responsibility for his roommate’s action than it, at first utterance, seems to.
Meanwhile, Kirishima is unfazed. He watches Kaminari with Luciferian pride and, with all the suave of a wet towel, informs you that he’s been training Kaminari.
Tapping the bare abs, Kirishima says, “this is my masterpiece. Three years of work sculpted into six gorgeous specimens.”
Bakugo nearly gags, “I hate you both.”
“This is what makes a top fifty hero, princess,” Kaminari nods, very much full of himself.
“What?” Kirishima exclaims with newfound disgust dripping off his tongue, “what did you call her?”
Kaminari looks at Kirishima. He blinks once, amber eyes adding to the set of gems above Bakugo’s scarred cheeks.
“Go put a dollar in the jar,” Kirishima orders.
The jar? The three men squabble amongst themselves for a moment before Kaminari concedes. He drags his feet across the floorboards to the side table where a jar holding about sixty bucks in change sits. There’s a sticky note on the front reading: Douchebag jar.
As their back-and-forth comes to a close, you find yourself remembering how goddamn desperate you are for a place to stay.
You offer up your compliments; you just love the neighbourhood— so close to work!— and they were always the best dormmates in high school. At the same time, you drop your (recently become) ex-boyfriend’s name, pulling a tight-lipped look of sheer depression as you blink back tears.
Kaminari, in the process of putting his shirt back on, reassures you, “it’s okay. Bakugo gets it—” he juts his chin towards the spiky-haired man— “he was dumped, too.”
“It was months ago, Kaminari,” Bakugo scoffs, and he huffs as the memory of his break up seems to flash in his mind.
He becomes increasingly heated as he growls, “I’m over it. I’ve been over it. You both need to get on board!” he starts glaring from roommate-to-roommate-to- (with a strangely shy flick of his eye) you, as he continues, “I don’t want to hear about it again.”
Clearly, your sob story charms absolutely none of them, so you move to more obvious measures. You talk yourself up — yes, you can be a little annoying, but you’re higher in the hero rankings than two of them so you’ve got a secure job, solid pay, you’re good at arts and crafts (Bakugo’s gonna be sick, he hates artsy types), your music taste is immaculate (though you do have a tendency to sing quite literally all the time). This hardly sells them on you.
So, desperate times, and all that.
You admit, “Jiro’s sick of me crashing on her couch, guys. She said if it comes to it, which I see it has, she’ll go on a date with Kaminari if you agree to let me have the room.” Kaminari’s gaze is trained on you.
“How soon can you move in?” he asks, his volume overpowering Bakugo and Kirishima’s protest that this was a low blow, even for you.
Still, they can’t argue with the power Jiro has over Kaminari. And just like that, you’re in.
“Her living with us means absolutely nothing, you know that, right?” Kirishima tells Bakugo the day they’re helping you move in.
You’re over at Jiro’s with Mina and Uraraka, packing another load into the back of the hired truck. The boys, on the other hand, have stayed back to put your bed together. With the instructions no where to be found, they’re following a YouTube tutorial, prying random nuts and bolts from a ziplock bag.
“I didn’t take it to mean anything,” Bakugo huffs, pulling his beer to his lips.
“Good. We were worried you might think she chose to live here because you guys dated in high school,” Kaminari says with a nod. “But you know high school relationships aren’t real if they don’t last past graduation.”
Kirishima’s gaze meets Bakugo’s in a fiery test of red against red. The red of Kirishima’s eyes is vastly calmer, though harbouring a challenge. Bakugo’s is lively and rough— the kind of red one would expect to see in the eyes of the Hardening quirk’s user.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you know that you can’t fall in love with her, yeah? ‘Cos if you guys break up, we still have to live together,” Kirishima adds.
“Or have sex with her!” Kaminari says, pointing at Bakugo, “sex is just as bad as falling in love, except with the risk of a fifth roommate— one who doesn’t pay their share and cries all night.”
“I fuckin’ know! For fuck’s sake, do you think I’m a dumbass?”
“No. I just think you fell in love with her all over again the second she walked through our door,” Kirishima says knowingly.
Language is lost to him as movement fails his tongue and vibration fails his vocal cords. He throws a glare at Kaminari, who shrugs and tosses his hands up in surrender, but Bakugo can’t force Kirishima to stand down as easily. Ever the pillar of strength in masculinity, Kirishima only raises his eyebrows until Bakugo reluctantly reminds them that they need to finish the bed.
Not too long later, the jingle of keys followed by a fit of toothachingly sweet laughter heralds your return. The boys catch the latter half of a conversation— the words he’s hot, and bit of a slob, though, and thank you for your sacrifice— hit their ears.
Fast as his namesake, Kaminari’s head whips around, and he scrambles out of your room to the entryway. There, he finds Jiro kicking off her shoes and swapping them for slippers. You and the other girls are there too, but he’s too single-minded to care about that.
Jiro’s got half her plum hair braided back, with her lopsided bangs hanging over her earpiece. A leather jacket and one of her favourite Deep Dope shirts (he knows it’s one of her favourites because he remembers everything about her) obscure much of her figure. But her miniskirt is tight around her thighs, which grow more muscular every time he sees her.
“Denki~ you’re drooling~” Mina coos, twirling her pointer at him.
Both he, and the victim of his ogling, blush at the same time that Uraraka, Mina, and you erupt into that harmony of girlish laughter. Jiro lightly slaps Mina’s bicep as a warning. They look at each other, a whole conversation happening between them in complete silence.
“How’s the bed going?” you ask.
You bring a suitcase full of clothes in with you, Jiro has your bedding, Mina has your cutlery, and Uraraka floats in half the truck’s contents on her own.
Instead of answering you, Kaminari pulls Jiro into an energetic discussion about an upcoming album launch being hosted by a band she got him into. You roll your eyes and bite your lip.
Luckily, though, Bakugo notices you never got a response. He’s been intently listening since he first heard the keys. Just as Mina heads for the kitchen, he strolls out of your room. His shoulders are lazily hunched, and his bad hand is in his pocket while the other holds his beer.
“Don’t put those in my cutlery drawer!” he hisses at Mina first, then turns to you with a far milder tone, saying, “bed’s nearly done.”
“Do you need some help?” you offer, leaning your suitcase against the couch.
“Where the hell am I gonna put them if not in the cutlery drawer?” Mina interjects with her teeth bared.
“I don’t care where you put them as long as you don’t put them in my goddamn cutlery drawer!” Bakugo spits back before glancing down at your vintage spoon collection and adding, “or anywhere in my kitchen for that matter.”
“Hey!” you exclaim, jutting your bottom lip out.
“It’s a communist kitchen, Bakugo! It belongs to all of us!” Kirishima calls from your room.
“The word is communal, hair-for-brains, how many times do I gotta tell you that?” Bakugo yells back, promptly choosing to ignore the rest of Kirishima’s discourse.
Your pout dispels the annoyance on his face, and he answers your offer from before with: “we’ve got the bed. Won’t be long. Promise.”
Nodding your appreciation for his work with your furniture, you scurry off to help Uraraka. You hardly realise you’ve forgotten to swallow until you pass Mina and she whispers that you’re drooling too, with the same playful accent she directed towards Kaminari.
When, later that night, Bakugo makes dinner, it’s impossible not to open the conversation about high school. You all pretty quickly descend into roasting each other’s cooking abilities. Uraraka’s potato peel pie almost killed half of today’s greatest pro-heroes before their prime.
It’s even harder once you pull out the several packs of beer and cider you bought to express your gratitude for everyone’s help today. Worse still once Kirishima and Mina each pull housewarming gifts (bottles of red wine) out of thin air.
With the addition of alcohol, you guys start forgetting that you’re in an apartment block. Jiro connects her phone to Kaminari’s bluetooth speaker. Her head’s in his lap as he waterfalls pear cider between her lips. Mina pulls you and Uraraka up to dance as she sways her hips along to a nineties hit.
Uraraka slips her hand into yours when Mina ushers Kirishima to join in. She, Uraraka, pulls you close and her mouth draws so close to your ear that you can smell the alcohol she’s been drinking.
“He’s smitten,” she whispers and you can feel the smile breaking out on her face.
“No, he’s not,” you laugh just as quietly.
Sneaking a peek in the direction of the man in question, your eyes lock on to his. He looks away, sipping his beer.
“He helped you move in, built your bed, and made dinner for you,” Uraraka says, stepping away so she can read your expression.
In doing this, she also gives you a solid view of her chest and arms. Uraraka is jacked. She has been since Gunhead got her weirdly obsessed with martial arts. You tell her as much, and she coughs her thanks before returning to the topic at hand.
“On Mum’s, he’s smitten,” she says as a matter of fact, then asks, “are you?”
“I told you earlier that I still think he’s hot. More than he was when we were together, really,” you mumble.
She squeals and erupts into giggles. As she places the last of her fingers down on your arms, your feet lift off the floor. Eyebrows now raised and mouth now closed flat, you poke her chubby cheeks until she finally presses the pads of her fingers together and lowers you back to the ground. You scurry away from the impromptu dance floor.
There’s a ruby gaze boring into your shoulder when you sit down beside Kaminari. Uraraka pulls Jiro up to take your place in a gossip-filled pas de deux. Kaminari keeps her in his line of sight over the horizon of the beer bottle in his hand.
“I need her,” he says as he places the glass down. “Not just as a favour for letting you move in, but, like, legitimately.”
When you don’t say anything in return (too busy avoiding that ruby gaze), he takes it as his sign to continue, stating, “you have to help me. You’ve always been the best at setting people up.”
This steals your attention. Looking at Kaminari in all his heart-eyed, wet-lipped glory, a clock ticks over in your mind. The truth becomes obvious in a way it’s never really appeared to before. Kaminari’s schoolboy crush on Jiro has transformed into something much more profound.
And, it’s true. Matchmaking is your hidden talent. The number of couples you’ve set up in your time is becoming a bit ridiculous. Once, the wedding invitations were stuck on the fridge in the apartment you shared with your ex-boyfriend, now they’re kept safe in a shoebox under your freshly rebuilt bed.
With a sigh, you admit defeat. You get too carried away with the notion of making the perfect match, and it can’t be denied that Kaminari and Jiro would make an excellent pair.
“I’ll do this for you, but you’ll owe me one, okay?” you say and point into his sternum to confirm. He nods. It’s on.
“The game is King’s Cup, U.A. rules because, I mean, that’s the only true and honest way to play,” you announce with a glass of wine in one hand and the other thrown out in a shrug as you scoff at the obvious nature of your statement.
“Hear, hear!” Uraraka exclaims seriously, her own drink raised in cheers.
The group has migrated to the table in the dining room. A vase has been emptied and placed in the centre to be the proverbial King’s cup, and around it is a deck of cards, the Jokers still shuffled in somewhere.
Standard King’s Cup rules would have you take these out. But in third year, when your class and class 3-B threw the dorms’ most notorious rager (of the kind that would impress Corey Worthington), the Jokers became emblems of this edition. They haven’t been taken out since, and the deck originally used to play it is still passed down by U.A.’s graduating class every year.
“Remember, if you pick up a Joker, you must announce it and hold on to it until the next Joker is picked up, and then it’s Seven Minutes in freakin’ Heaven, people!” you sing.
At the same time, you point finger guns at each person around the table, starting with Bakugo to your right, and finishing at Kaminari to your left. The former rolls his eyes, while the latter winks and tugs the end of your sleeve down. The two cards you’ve stuffed up there scrape against your skin, but at least no one can see them.
You learnt sleight of hand for a mission when you were just out of school. It frequently comes in clutch.
The group all take a swig to start the game, then paper, scissors, rock to decide who goes first. Bakugo’s so obnoxious about it when he wins, cracking a grin and picking up the card while everyone else is still mid-groan, and while Mina’s still reeling that she lost to Bakugo ‘never-picks-anything-other-than-rock’ Katsuki.
“Eight,” he says casually and turns to you, “you’re my mate.”
Both Mina and Kaminari burst into laughter. The implication isn’t lost on you as your cheeks heat up and you quietly scold Bakugo for not thinking before he spoke. He just keeps grinning down at you with sparkling eyes, too tipsy to put his walls back up.
Clearing your throat, you tell everyone, “slow start, but that’s okay. Eight: mate. Every time either Bakugo or myself drink, so does the other one. My turn.”
Though your hand reaches for the pile of cards around the cup, you don’t pick one up immediately. Instead, you slip both of the cards from your sleeve just as you place your palm down. You take one, and leave the other for Kaminari. Flipping it, you reveal a King to the other players.
“Oh, yay! I get to pick a new rule this early. I have so many good options saved up, let me think…”
As you feint consideration as if you don’t have this planned out already, you put a finger on your chin and glance sideways at Kaminari.
“I’ve got it!” you happily exclaim, spreading your fingers wide and smiling at your co-conspirator, “before drawing a card you have to guess what suit it’s gonna be. If you’re wrong, you have to take off an item of clothing. If you’re right, you choose someone else to take off an item of clothing.”
“There’s fifty-two cards left and only (one, two, three, four…) seven of us!” Jiro squeals in horror, “that’s, like, seven or eight pieces of clothing each!”
“I’m not even wearing that many layers! This is unfair,” Kirishima argues, his pupils mere dots in his eyes.
“Fine. Each sock will count as one, as will each piece of jewellery, but only once you’re down to your panties,” you concede, watching as Jiro, with her fist full of rings, sighs of relief. Kaminari kicks you under the table.
You pour the rest of your glass of wine into the vase and offer an excuse me, sorry to Bakugo as you lean across him to grab the bottle to refill. He helps you balance with a guiding touch to your waist, and your hand drags along his shoulder as you sit back down.
Kaminari chooses a card, the one that was in your sleeve, and follows your rule by guessing the suit. He already knows it’s the King of Hearts, so he guesses correctly and singles Jiro out to get a little colder. She complains, rightly so, but complies, slipping off her miniskirt since she can hide her bottom half under the table.
“As for my rule,” Kaminari starts, remembering what you told him in secret earlier, “I saw something like this on Reddit, but I’m gonna make it my own. If you tell someone to drink, you have to do it in the most intimate way possible.”
“What does that mean?” Uraraka asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, I’m lost,” you add, nodding along, “maybe, Kaminari, you can give us an example?”
The nod that follows is far too eager and you bite your lip to signal that he needs to be more inconspicuous. By the proud way he saunters around the table to Jiro, he obviously hasn’t taken the hint.
Taking her chin in his fingers, he tips her head upwards and gets so close that their noses are almost grazing one another. He scans her face from her eyelashes down to her mouth, her lips are covered in an expensive blackberry lipstick. When he finally meets her gaze again, she’s gone all doe-eyed, and a blush blankets the back of his neck.
But he presses on, saying, in his most sensual tone, “take a drink for me, won’t you, Kyoka?” before turning away and returning to his normal voice to tell everyone: “something like that.”
Settling in his seat again, the pair of you share a fist bump under the table as Jiro covers her mouth with her hand and avoids all eye contact with anyone in the group.
Next up, Kirishima guesses his suit will be Diamonds. He picks up the Nine: Rhyme of Clubs and removes his shirt. He starts the rhyme off with the word ‘dart,’ which is awfully easy to rhyme with and goes around the table for some time before anyone gets out. Part, cart, mart, fart (Mina cracks herself up with this one), art, chart, smart, heart, and so on and so forth until you’ve constructed an Odyssey-length poem. In the end, Kirishima loses, drinking for ten seconds straight as punishment for how long the game went.
Uraraka removes her pants when she also guesses Diamonds but her card ends up being the Jack of Hearts. You play a round of Never Have I Ever, Uraraka mortifying the better part of the group when she announces:
“Never have I ever had a wet dream about someone else at this table.”
You wait for Bakugo to take a sip before following his example, hoping that the others will blame the Eight: Mate for your drinking. Luckily, they’re all of them too busy justifying their own drinking and making accusations to pay attention to what you’re doing. Unfortunately, though, Bakugo notices. His eyebrow quirks, but he doesn’t say anything, and you just know he’s holding onto that one for later.
The others are hardly as bad as the game makes its way around the table, quickly shoving you all into the depths of intoxication.
Unlike her two predecessors, Jiro guesses correctly (the Queen of Spades), but is still too embarrassed from the last few rounds to even look at Kaminari. She turns on you, and you slide your shirt off, dumping it in Bakugo’s lap. He moves it only higher on his lap— not away— as he tries his best to be respectful and not look down at you. Every time he does, he gets an eyeful of boob.
Mina then makes Bakugo follow in your footsteps and take his shirt off when she also correctly guesses her suit (Two of Hearts). She picks Bakugo to drink
You’re so distracted by Mina’s giggles that the Eight: Mate escapes your mind. That is, until Bakugo hooks his foot around the far leg of your chair and spins it around so you’re facing each other. He gets up, places a hand beside each of your thighs (the weight mostly on his left), his thumbs rub circles into your skin as salted caramel musk wafts off his bare chest.
There are so many scars all over him. You look fondly on the ones you remember from back when you were dating; a couple training scars, the really vicious scars from the war, and one from where you accidentally stabbed him with stiletto acrylics. But the few you don’t recognise— a burn on his abdomen and a litter of other scars and bruises— leave a foul taste in your mouth.
“Look at me,” he orders gruffly.
Your reddening cheeks puff out, but you reluctantly obey, tilting your head back to view the scar on his face. His hand reaches those hot cheeks of yours, running over them and down along your jaw.
“You’re my mate,” he reminds you with a sultry tone of voice, “drink.”
Then, he picks up your glass and brings it to your lips, helping you to swallow. For a moment, you both forget anyone else is there as you’re too lost in the intimacy of the gesture, but when Mina clears her throat, Bakugo instantly pulls away and sits down.
He makes his guess, takes his card, and is forced to lose his jeans, but you’re too flustered to pay attention. Only when Jiro waves at you while pronouncing your name do you realise it’s your turn again and pick your card. You guess spades, but when you turn the card over and see a Joker, you concede to taking off your bottoms as well.
“Well, I guess I have to wait for the next Joker,” you shrug.
“Wait?” Jiro asks with a wild expression.
“Someone’s not been paying attention,” Kirishima laughs, pointing over your shoulder.
Cluelessly, you whip your head around to see Bakugo holding up the other Joker. Your words from earlier ring in your mind: Seven Minutes in freakin’ Heaven.
Without the necessary closet, the others stuff Bakugo and yourself into his bedroom. You clasp your hands together, feeling awkward despite the knowledge that he’s been in your room alone all day. Meanwhile, makes himself comfortable on a wheeled chair by his desk, his legs spreading too broadly for a man in just his underwear as he twists from side to side.
“You were cheatin’,” he says and crosses his arms over his chest.
“What?” you sweat. “No, I wasn’t.”
This action of his, the arm crossing, squeezes his already ridiculously large pecs together. They spill over his arms like a woman in a bra a few sizes too small. At the same time, his biceps flex, bulging against his body. The left one is considerably stronger, but the skin on the right is so taut that the weaker muscles are exaggerated, stretching his large scars out and accentuating his ruggedness. You bite your bottom lip.
“I saw you and Kaminari,” Bakugo uses his friend’s actual name in private, “what’re you two idiots doin’?”
A sigh slips past your lips and your arms come up to hold your shoulders, providing some security and coverage against the cool air of his bedroom. Bakugo watches on, his frown deepening. With just the two of you in there, as opposed to the seven in the dining room, it’s quite chilly. As goosebumps start to freckle over your skin, you worry, silently, that the pads of your bra won’t be thick enough to protect the last vestiges of your modesty if the cold reaches your breasts.
“Setting him up with Jiro,” you admit with your tongue poking out between the teeth of your smile.
“Doesn’t he get one free date for lettin’ ya move in?” Bakugo questions, his head almost imperceptibly inched to one side.
You nod, then follow it with a lazy shrug as you reply, “but he wants her. For realsies.”
“For realsies,” Bakugo mocks.
“For realsies.”
Silence washes over the room. In the past, back when you guys dated, it would’ve been comfortable. You probably would’ve reached your leg out and kicked him playfully, then he would’ve latched on and wheeled on over. Then, the silence would’ve continued, soft and sweet and childish, like the whole world was in awe of both of you.
Now, the silence is tense. The cool air seems freezing because there’s nothing else to focus on except how little you’re wearing. He’s rarely self-conscious about this kind of stuff, and for good reason. Being as built as he is, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.
But you, on the other hand; you’re teeming with embarrassment. Bakugo hasn’t seen you this bare in upwards of three years. The last image he had of you like this was when you had less evidence of bones broken in combat (betraying your inexperience at work), and when he could recall every corner of your body with perfect accuracy.
“So… You got broken up with, eh?” you start again after some time.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbles. “It was forever ago.”
With a laugh, you comment, “I don’t think I ever met her.”
His eyes flick up to you, red hot, and he takes note of the considerate look you’re giving him.
“She wasn’t anythin’ special. Not like… Whatever. One year and three days, then she broke up with me ‘cos she found somethin’ better,” he huffs disjointedly.
“Better than fucking Dynamight? I thought there was no such thing!”
You’re being facetious, he knows that, but the way you gasp and play into his egotism is part of the reason he always got along with you. You really do think he’s one of the best, and you aren’t afraid to tell him as much.
“There ain’t.” he nods. “How ‘bout you? What happened with your guy?”
“Two years. I met his whole family. He met mine, and met you guys, obviously. Took his little sister to meet some of her favourite heroes— our old teachers, mostly, and the Phantom Thief (of all people). We moved in together. He uprooted his life for my career. But, um,” you glance down at your hands which have settled into your lap to pick at the edges of your fingernails.
Bakugo waits for you to finish your sentence with no physical sign of impatience. Inside, though, he’s bursting at the seams. For some reason, not unbeknownst to him, but certainly not a reason he cares to admit, he needs to know what happened between you and that fuckwit.
“Two years, you know? Two years and I could never say…” you squeak out, your eyebrows press tightly together and your lip is getting chewed to death. “I swear, Bakugo… I prayed every night that I would fall in love with him.”
“And every night I prayed you wouldn’t,” Bakugo whispers so quietly you almost miss it.
Head whipping up to lock onto that red gaze of his, you let the hold of his stare shackle you in place. There is barely any softness in Bakugo’s body, not even now. His gaze, though completely and utterly entranced, is firm, sharp, solid. Smitten, to him, is a sword pressed against his heart, and you’re its master.
“Well, I guess you’re God’s favourite. He never answered my prayers.”
Chimes hit your ears, and the door opens a millisecond later. Mina stands in the way, a devilishly presumptuous expression on her features at first. When she scans the room and finds the pair of you seated at least a metre away from one another, she exclaims loudly that you haven’t so much as touched and slams the door again. Bakugo lets out a string of expletives that shouldn’t be repeated in writing, but when he goes to force his way out, Kirishima and Uraraka are on the other side, holding the door closed.
“C’mon bro!” yells Kirishima. “You gotta at least kiss, you slacker!”
“Yeah! Kiss, kiss, kiss!” Mina adds, starting a chant that grows until the whole lot of them have joined in.
Bakugo turns back around to you, his open-mouthed glare somewhere between furious and horrified. You just look at your hands again with a lighthearted smile.
“Come,” you say with a wave, “let’s just do it. Get it over with.”
This isn’t what you mean to say. And it certainly isn’t what Bakugo wants to hear.
“No.”
“What? Just do it. It’s not like we haven’t kissed before.”
There’s this casual, off-handed tone in your voice like you didn’t imply only seconds ago that you haven’t loved anyone since him. He’s seething, and it shows in the red climbing up his back, over his ears, and across his cheeks.
Sick of this, you stand up and go to him. He tries to dodge, but when you send him a pout he gets stuck in place. The chant is hardly atmospheric.
“Kiss me,” you tell him.
“No.”
“God, Bakugo! You’re being ridiculous. Just kiss me.”
“I said no! I don’t want to kiss you!”
“Oh!” your eyes slim in offense.
Your voices start to overlap as the chanting outside slows to a stop. You can barely tell your words from his as they fly out of your mouth without thought.
“You don’t want to kiss me? Hah, you don’t wanna kiss me!”
“No— I just— fuck! You’re infuriating!”
“You could just kiss me and then we’d be outta here, Bakugo! And then, you wouldn’t have to deal with me!”
“I would have to deal with you, because we live together!”
“Okay, so just kiss me and we can forget this ever happened! Oh, but, sorry! You don’t want to kiss me!”
“No, I don’t! Not— not like this.”
A beat. Bakugo breathes so hard that on the inhale, his chest grazes yours.
“Wh… ‘Not like this?’ what does that mean?” you ask a hundred decibels quieter.
As he finds his words, you’re attempting to control the sides of your lips which seem to be inching ever upwards. Your eyes, now round and sparkly like a doll’s, keep contact with his no matter how hard he tries to look away, even if you have to step out of place to remain in his line of sight.
“I didn’t mean— Like, you just— Uh— What, well, I—”
“What do you mean by that, Bakugo? Like what?”
Bakugo can’t stay here. He can’t keep looking at you in your bra and undies and nothing else. A glance to his window. It hasn’t got a screen on it. You catch this, the hint that the perpetrator is about to run, and shake your head. As you reach out to touch him, coax him to stay, he bolts, grabbing a pair of pants on the way.
He’s blasting out the window before you have the chance to apologise for pushing him too hard.
Everyone leaves by two o’clock. The vibes are deteriorated so drastically that no one can stay any longer. Uraraka and Mina are picked up by Sero who has just finished a shift nearby, while Jiro catches a cab home. Kaminari asks her to stay the night, but she needs to be alone in her own place for once.
You thank them all for their help as they go. Kaminari and Kirishima tell you to get some rest, they’ll wait up for Bakugo. But since you’re the most responsible for his crash out, and since they spent all day moving and building things for you, you force them all to bed.
Making yourself a tea, you sit on the floor in front of the door and wait.
Bakugo comes home an hour later, unlocking the door with the key he always keeps on him, and almost leaps out of his skin when he stumbles over you. It wakes you up, as you’ve fallen asleep and spilled your tea all over your pyjamas in the meantime. He squats down to your level, placing a hand on your cheek and humming when you lean into it with a tired pout.
“I’m sorry,” you utter, but he just shakes his head.
“What are you doin’ on the floor?” he takes the mug from your lap and helps you to your feet. “Go get changed. I’ll make you another tea. I want one anyway.”
You listen to his instructions, sneaking past Kirishima’s room to your own and changing into fresh pyjamas. When you return, Bakugo’s in the kitchen with your mug on the island, freshly steaming. There’s not another mug anywhere.
“Don’t be sorry. I’ve missed your dumb antics,” Bakugo says and passes you the tea.
“I’ve missed you, too, B.”
You jump up onto the bench and sit there with your legs swinging close to him. You’re both quiet for a while. Long enough for you to assume that the conversation is over and you’ll never move forward from the place you’re in right now. Then he clears his throat with that cough he does whenever he wants to say something smart or profound or, God forbid, kind, but is too shy to bring it up out of no where. You ask him what’s on his mind.
“I used to love it when you sat on my desk at school,” he responds cautiously.
When you smile at him, he finds himself persuaded to go on.
“I don’t know why. I think it was just that… I’d never had trouble makin’ friends before. People in junior high used to naturally gravitate towards me because I had the best quirk. Which, by the way, still stands, but, you know, everyone had decent quirks at U.A.”
“Oh, come on, Bakugo, give us more credit than that,” you laugh into your cup.
“Fine. Everyone had cool quirks—”
“Thank you,” you interject.
“— which meant they didn’t care about mine, and instead they cared about my flamin’ pile o’ shit personality,” he smirks at himself, but there’s some pain there, “I was abrasive and angry, and I was havin’ a hard time makin’ friends for the first time in my life.
“So when you sat on my desk— the girl who could make friends with anyone because, fuckin’ Hell, you could never shut up—”
“Hey!”
“See! You won’t stop interrupting me.” he laughs and you roll your eyes. “As I was saying, I liked when ya sat on my desk, ‘cos you wouldn’t shut up and ya kept askin’ me questions, involving me.”
A blush paints your ears as you add, “you were so antisocial. It stressed me out that you had no one and didn’t seem to want to make any friends. I had to fix it.”
“You’re such a control freak.”
“Says you, Bakugo.”
Both of you laugh, and continue talking about school and the things you used to get up to as a couple. Skipping class, sneaking out, training together late into the night so that you’d both end up as some of the greatest heroes the world had ever seen. He wanted to be number one, you were happy just to be someone. Tangible glory was his ambition, yours was all about the feeling of success— the adrenaline, the power— you could never be happy at the top, because then there would be nothing to strive for.
“Hey,” he frowns, “I’ve been meaning to ask. When’d ya stop callin’ me Katsuki?”
“Dunno. Sometime after we broke up, I guess,” you shrug.
“Well. Breaking up never changed who you are to me. So, I kinda hoped it wouldn’t change who I am to you.”
As a matchmaker, you were always awake to your suitability as a couple. Even outside of your careers. He was the kind of guy to go to bed early, wake up before the sun to hit the gym, clean his whole house every Saturday morning without fail, all the while ignoring his social obligations. You were the kind of person to sleep when you weren’t able to stay awake any longer, wake up whenever your body told you to, leave a mess everywhere, all the while collecting friends like Pokémon.
When you finish your tea, he pops it in the dishwasher, and you walk towards your rooms quietly. They’re just across the hall from each other. You scratch the back of your neck in common awkwardness as Bakugo walks on your tail with his hands in his pockets. Stopping at the door, you both turn to look at the other with a straight lipped smile.
“Good night, Katsuki,” you say, tapping his forearm.
“G’night,” he nods.
You pivot around to your door, taking the handle with the satisfaction of restoring your friendly relationship with Katsuki after three years in Limbo.
But then, you feel his rough hand clasp your free arm and spin you back around into his embrace, his lips smashing into yours. His front, still bare from earlier, presses against your breasts as he cradles your body, littering it with shy, hungry touches as your arms wrap around his neck. You come up onto your tip-toes, and he lowers himself slightly, never letting your lips escape more than a centimetre from his own.
Within seconds, you’re lifted up off the floor, giving you the high ground to explore his mouth with your tongue, relearning all the small details that once were an extension of your own body. He places you back down, kissing softer now, savouring every taste of your skincare routine as you cherish the salty-sweetness of his natural scent. You have to hold back a whine when he pulls away, his hands settling on your hips and his ruby eyes locking hard and concentrated on yours.
“I meant somethin’ like that,” he says and lets you go, immediately retreating into his room with a firm sense of achievement.
When his door clicks shut, you stand there, astonished. A breath comes out as your eyes widen and flicker between sight and a blurred repetition of the scene that just encompassed you.
