Pumpkin Spice & Everything Nice
in which you don’t know much about ground zero, except that he’s a selfish asshole who keeps stealing your coveted pumpkin spice muffin in the morning and eating it. right in front of you. with that stupid smirk on his face
bakugo katsuki x reader
word count: 4.9k genre: fluff, pro hero au, slow burn type: one-shot reader: neutral (no pronouns, neutral terms, neutral clothing) warnings: none
part of the sweater weather collab || prompt #8 from this list
“the fuck was that?” he asks, incredulous but clearly amused. you like the expression he’s giving you right now far better than the arrogant smirks and shit-eating grins that you’re so very used to; he’s fighting back a genuine smile like he’s enjoying your dumb antics.
“i don’t know,” you whine in response. “i panicked.”
“why? jeez, and i was looking forward to seeing you today, too.”
“yeah, that’s why i panicked! how do you think most people would react if they saw some pro hero looking for them?”
ground zero blinks. a little frown forms on his lips, almost a pout. it’s kind of adorable. clearly, he hadn’t thought about that. “kinda figured i wasn’t just some pro hero to you by now.”
The first time it happens, you don’t think much. You get in line at your favorite cafe and note that there’s only one pumpkin spice muffin left (the best pumpkin spice muffins you’ve ever had, the very reason you found this cafe in the first place, and something you look forward to for the scant time they’re offered every year). By the time you get to the front, it’s gone. And you’re disappointed, of course—it’s the first day they’re available and you’ve missed out—but there’s always tomorrow. You’ll just have to be quicker. You don’t even notice the blond hero who’d been two spots in front of you in the line.
The second time it happens, you do notice him, mostly because the barista does. She greets the man by what you’re fairly certain is a hero name—Ground Zero—and doesn’t wait for him to order before starting a medium black coffee for him.
“Wow. She sure likes you,” you remark dryly from behind him. “I was a regular before they even hired her and she only just started spelling my name right.”
“Hero privileges,” he grumbles in response, low and annoyed like talking to you is a chore.
You roll your eyes from behind him. “But common courtesy, apparently, isn’t a privilege the mighty hero Ground Zero will grant me.”
Your words make his lips quirk up just slightly, a tiny smirk that makes you roll your eyes again as you huff and cross your arms. He doesn’t speak, which you’re glad for considering how insufferable the look on his face is, but it’s because the barista has returned with his drink. It’s then that he gruffly orders none other than the last pumpkin spice muffin, and when you make a disappointed noise as he takes his newly bagged pastry the beastly man laughs—just slightly, little more than a huff of air through his nose, but undoubtedly finding your indignation amusing.
The third time it happens he does it on purpose. He doesn’t even hide it; he glances back at you, eyes the pumpkin muffin, and then raises an eyebrow to give you a look you can’t quite decipher. You think, briefly, that maybe he’s offering to let you have it, but instead, when he gets to the front of the line, he simply buys it himself. You’re stuck glaring at the back of his head as the barista gives him his prize, and when he passes you on his way out you hiss, “Very mature.”
He doesn’t respond, or even really look at you; he just gives that little smirk and walks out.
So you decide to arrive five minutes earlier the next day. And you do; except that so does he, coming the opposite direction, the door to the cafe right in between you.
A door which he sprints for when he sees you. You might have considered racing him except that he’s an entire pro hero and apparently absurdly competitive, so he gets there in record time… and then waits for you, smugly, so that he can hold the door open for you to walk in after him. He orders the muffin, gives you that dumb smirk, and leaves no pumpkin spice goodness for you. If you were a different person, you might consider finding another cafe to get your seasonal fix, but to be honest you’re probably as competitive as he is. You’re not about to just let him win like that. Besides, you haven’t found any places nearby with comparable quality.
He beats you again when you come five minutes earlier the following day. You’re beyond pissed now. It’s Friday; you should be looking forward to the weekend, but instead you’ve spent every morning since Monday missing your favorite treat. It’s hell on earth, and the devil is a blond pro hero who takes pleasure in your misery.
You pout as you take your spot behind Ground Zero. He snickers, addressing you for the first time since your initial meeting.
“Someone’s grouchy.”
“Gee, wonder why,” you drawl, sarcasm dripping like venom from your words.
“Gotta be quicker next time,” is all he says, and though he hasn’t bothered to look back you can hear the obnoxious smirk on his face.
You don’t dignify that with a response, and you try not to stomp your foot like a child as you watch him leave. He doesn’t even have the decency to wait this time; he looks directly at you and takes a huge, crude bite, winking with his mouth full and pushing backward out the door.
When Monday rolls around, you’re even earlier. But he’s caught on. You push back by five-minute increments on Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, and he beats you every time, always going out of his way to taunt you or even just eat the muffin right there while you’re in line. As each day passes, you grow angrier and angrier. You’re pretty sure this is going to be your villain origin story.
You’ve shifted your whole morning routine by an hour by Friday; it’s a struggle to wake up, you nearly miss your alarm and you speed through your morning routine, but it’s worth it because there’s a glimmer of hope as you reach the cafe.
Don’t get it twisted. Ground Zero is still there, annoyingly smug expression and all—the hope comes when you get a look at the display case because there are two muffins standing proud behind the glass. You’ve arrived early enough that they haven’t all been bought, so you’re not as dejected as normal when you take your place behind him in line.
He’s wearing what is clearly workout attire; grey sweatpants and a loose tank that makes you want to scream (not because his arms look good, certainly not, just because he’s annoying) with a pair of wired headphones draped over his shoulders. It’s unusual; normally, he’s in what you’d probably call business casual, presumably commuting to his agency where he changes into his hero uniform.
“You’re early,” he comments. He’s turned backwards in the line so that he can face you.
“So are you.”
“I’m always up at this time. I just saw you at the end of my morning run and decided to beat you again.”
You wrinkle your nose, giving him a glare that could kill. “You’re a real piece of work, Ground Zero.”
He doesn’t even try to stifle his laughter, much to your increasing annoyance. “You sound worse than some of the villains I fight.”
“Maybe I’ll become one, then. I’m angry enough.” You huff. “But not today! Because there’s two, so you can’t ruin my morning.”
You regret saying it immediately because the words make him quirk his eyebrow in a manner that isn’t reassuring. He doesn’t say anything else; he just turns around to face the cashier and greets her like he has every day since your unfortunate meeting.
You figure out what he’s going to do mere seconds before he does it. You watch him gesture at the display, and you’re gasping as he holds up two fingers and orders both muffins.
“You asshole,” you say, less of an accusation and more of a statement of fact. “I fucking hate you.”
The asshole turns to face you, leaning back against the counter with that shit-eating grin on his face and his arms crossed (don’t ogle his fucking arms, you’re better than that, and he’ll definitely notice). “Maybe I wanna see you snap. I think you’d make a great villain.”
“I fucking hate you,” you repeat, having very few other words available in your mind to string into a sentence. “Go rot in hell.”
The barista returns with his drink and two brown paper bags, holding them out for Ground Zero to take the cup and one bag with his right hand and the other with his left. He turns back to you, holding out the single muffin, but you don’t take the bait.
“I bought this for you, you know, but I don’t really wanna do someone who hates me any favors.”
“Spare me, I know you’re lying.”
He makes a tsk sound, shaking his head. “It’s okay, Red Riot’ll appreciate my gift more than you would have anyway.”
“Fuck off,” you groan.
The bark of laughter that he lets out as he leaves definitely doesn’t make your face heat up.
You keep trying the next week, but it’s futile. Ground Zero is just too dedicated to ruining your day. Still, you can’t deny the small part of you that feels warm every time you see him.
Halfway through the week, there’s an incident that reminds you quite suddenly that your annoying cafe companion is a famous pro hero.
It starts like normal. He greets you with his usual smirk. “Morning. You look like shit.”
To be fair, he’s right. You’d worked late last night and are set to work another late night today, so you really only have the energy to flip him off. You’d say that only a pumpkin muffin would cheer you up… but to be honest, only a pumpkin muffin combined with beating your new nemesis would do the job.
Said nemesis goes keep talking (probably to taunt you about being lazy or slow or something) but you don’t get the chance to hear it. Instead, you get shoved back when a trio of squealing teenage girls rushes over from their table across the cafe and crowds around him.
“Ground Zero!” their apparent leader exclaims, “Ground Zero! We wanted to thank you for saving us yesterday! That villain was so scary but you were so brave!”
The other two give a chorus of agreement, shrill and high-pitched, and it’s painfully obvious that Ground Zero doesn’t want them in his face any more than you do. Serves him right. He’s looking over their heads at you as if you can save him; there’s a quip on your tongue about how he should be doing the rescuing, dashing pro hero that he is, but you decide against saying it while they’re around.
He does rescue you, ultimately, though it takes far too long in your opinion. After a minute too many of the teens shamelessly flirting with a grown man and him uncomfortably trying to get them to leave, one of them stumbles into you, shoving you back violently against one of the rods that hold up the line divider. It’s accidental, but it hurts, and the girl doesn’t even bother to apologize as you hiss out in pain.
“Oi!” Ground Zero snaps, none too happy and dropping what little civility he’d been offering. “That’s enough, fuck off! Don’t you brats have parents? Who the hell taught you manners?”
The chittering pauses for a moment, then the trio bursts into giggles.
He growls and you raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t notice. “There are other patrons here, don’t be fucking rude. If you ain’t gonna apologize then fuck off. If you are, then say you’re sorry and then fuck off. There’s a time and place to talk to pros, don’t just ambush them in a fucking cafe.”
Finally, they seem to get that he’s really pissed. All three give you an apology, and they’re better than you’d expect, seemingly fairly genuine, before they leave.
Ground Zero doesn’t ask you if you’re okay, not verbally at least. He takes his spot in front of you and asks with his eyes, barely turning his head and quirking an eyebrow.
“I‘m fine,” you assure him. Your ribs aren’t hurting much anymore, so that’s certainly the case. And now you have fodder to taunt him with. “Thank you for the save, though. You’re so brave, Ground Zero, rushing to my aid like that. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
He groans. “Christ. Please, you’re not a damn high schooler, I get more than enough of that shit.”
“Really? You don’t want me as your number one fan, fawning over you? That’s good. Stealing my pumpkin muffin every day isn’t a very good way to win me over.”
“I’m not stealing shit. I’m paying for it. Not my fault you’re not fast enough.”
“You’re so immature.”
“It doesn’t have your name on it.”
“Yes it does, right on the bottom. You just swallow it whole and don’t look.”
“Then it’s basically not there.”
You give up on being earlier than him that Friday.
The following Monday, you relish the extra hour of sleep you get. The sun fully rises by the time you’re out of bed and, despite a little voice in your mind telling you it’s unlikely that you’ll get your muffin today, you’re chipper, not necessarily hopeful but not quite as pessimistic as the previous week.
There’s another little voice, significantly quieter, that wants Ground Zero to be there. Only because he’s interesting, not because you like his company or enjoy losing your muffin every damn day.
He doesn’t disappoint when you arrive. It’s strange, though; you remember that previously he’d wear his work clothes (not his hero uniform, but clearly for working). but now he’s in his running gear like the week before, the grey sweats and the tank and the headphones around his neck. He’s seated at a two-person table, too, hunched over with his forearms on the table as he scrolls through his phone.
His head snaps up when you walk through the door, and he doesn’t wait to leap up and scramble to the line, making you throw your arms up in exasperation as he takes his spot right in front of you.
“Are you a child?” you ask.
“You’re late,” is all he says in response.
“Late? Look buddy, we weren’t meeting here. I didn’t ask you to wait for me.”
“Well, thanks to your tardiness, I’ll have to go straight to work in this shit.” He gestures down at his body. “Do you know what my damn sidekicks are gonna say?”
“‘Nice sweats, boss,’” you chirp. “Or something along those lines. I imagine they’re a bunch of kiss-asses.”
“They’re not,” he growls.
“I’m not even late for my standards. I’ve been coming earlier because you’re such a dick. This is the time I’ve been coming here for years.”
“Well, maybe you should consider fixing your fucking sleep schedule.”
“Maybe you should consider antagonizing someone new for a change. I’m sure someone out there likes blueberry muffins, go bug them!”
You’ve gravitated towards each other, practically nose-to-nose (though the fucker is looking down at you, ungodly tall as he is), chests all but touching. It’s impossible to miss when his red irises drop to your lips.
Ground Zero doesn’t move. You don’t know what you’d have done if he did; you still feel like you barely know the guy, it’s only been two weeks, but it doesn’t happen so there’s no real reason to ponder it.
What does happen is the barista tentatively calls for him, forcing him to turn around and order. He still gets the pumpkin spice muffin—you’re not surprised—but he doesn’t speak to you on his way out. He doesn’t even taunt you with it.
You decide to make your new normal fifteen minutes earlier than it used to be before meeting Ground Zero. Though it doesn’t occur to you when you decide it, it’s because you intend to spend that extra time with him.
When you arrive, he’s at the table he was the day before, in his expected work clothes rather than his running gear. Again, he leaps up and beats you in line, seemingly past whatever strangeness had taken over him last time.
“Nobody saw my clothes yesterday so I’ve decided to forgive you,” he announces.
“There we go, everything worked out.”
“No thanks to you. You just got lucky.”
“And what would you have done if I hadn’t? Steal my pumpkin muffin—oh, wait.”
“I told you, dumbass.” He’s grinning, teeth sharp. “I can’t steal what you don’t already own. I just beat you every time. Get better.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of being this way?” You’re grinning, too, despite yourself. It probably takes away from your banter, but you can’t help it.
“What, the best?”
“That was dumb.”
He doesn’t get to defend himself, because he’s gotten to the front of the line. He turns to the barista instead of responding.
“Medium black coffee and that pumpkin spice muffin.” He points at the display, waiting for her to start to get the indicated pastry before raising his other hand to jab his thumb at you. “Oh, and whatever they want.”
You blink, genuinely surprised.
“For here or to go?”
“Here.” It comes out as a statement, but you can see the question in Ground Zero’s eyes, and you nod your affirmation. He nods back. “Yeah, here.”
“You’d like your regular, then?” She turns to you, and you nod once again. She goes to start ringing him up, but then you speak.
“Actually, I’d like a bacon egg and avocado breakfast sandwich, too, please.”
It’s one of the most expensive things on the menu, but Ground Zero doesn’t bat an eye as he pays. He just looks around, clearly scoping for a table. Damn pro hero’s salary. You won’t complain if he wants to pay for your coffee more.
He settles on the very table he’d taken to waiting for you at. You eat breakfast together, and you don’t really care that he’s eating your pumpkin spice muffin.
In fact, it becomes the new norm for the remaining week and a half of October. You arrive fifteen minutes before you used to and find him sitting at the same table, whereupon he leaps up to beat you in line as soon as you enter. He pays for your coffee and sandwich, and then you two spend your extra fifteen minutes sitting at that same table, talking. He even takes to walking you most of the way to your office; he has to split off to go to his agency a few blocks before you get there, but it’s still nice. You never forget that he’s still eating your fucking muffin, though—mostly because he spends breakfast taunting you, and because you don’t want to let it go.
It’s on the first of November that the realization hits, and you hesitate at the door.
Is it silly? Petty? To want to just pass by and take the bitter, over-brewed coffee at your office because you’ve definitely lost this strange competition you’ve been engaging in for weeks? You can see Ground Zero inside, waiting at the pick-up spot. You’re definitely overthinking this. You shouldn’t let it stop you from getting the coffee you so require, but you know that now that there are no more muffins it won’t be the same. Maybe he won’t even want to spend time with you anymore.
Isn’t that stupid. You’re nothing without the muffin? Without the meaningless, biteless bickering? You like being around him. You like to think the feeling’s mutual.
You watch as Ground Zero is approached by the barista and receives a pair of drinks in a cardboard carrier, watch as asks for what turns out to be a sharpie for him to write on one of the cups, watch as he returns the marker and his hand falls to pick up the little white box you’re just now noticing on the counter and glances around to—
You squeak. He locks eyes with you and his narrow immediately. You have no clue what gets into you, but the look on his face makes you turn heel and rush away from the door.
You know damn well how fast he is, you know that if he wants to catch you he has the damn capability (he’s a pro hero for fuck’s sake), but for whatever reason the sound of the door opening after you only makes you go faster.
“OI! Why the fuck are you running?” He shouts after you.
“I don’t know!”
It hits you how stupid this is, right then, and you halt so suddenly that when you whip around he very nearly runs straight into you. He reacts quickly, dropping the drinks and the package on the metal table right next to you so that his hands are free to fly up to your shoulders, both steadying you and stopping him from bowling you over.
“The fuck was that?” he asks, incredulous but clearly amused. You like the expression he’s giving you right now far better than the arrogant smirks and shit-eating grins that you’re so very used to; he’s fighting back a genuine smile like he’s enjoying your dumb antics.
“I don’t know,” you whine in response. “I panicked.”
“Why? Jeez, and I was looking forward to seeing you today, too.”
“Yeah, that’s why I panicked! How do you think most people would react if they saw some pro hero looking for them?”
Ground Zero blinks. A little frown forms on his lips, almost a pout. It’s kind of adorable. Clearly, he hadn’t thought about that. “Kinda figured I wasn’t just some pro hero to you by now.”
Now it’s your turn to blink in surprise. “Well, I wasn’t even gonna go to the cafe today. I was actually about to leave when you saw me.”
“What? Why?” He sounds panicked now. Your eyebrows knit in confusion momentarily, but his loss of composure helps soothe your nerves.
“Uh, because I spent a month with an asshole purposefully antagonizing me and stealing the pumpkin spice muffins that I look forward to every year right out from under me? Kinda makes going to get coffee a little less refreshing.”
He has the decency to wince at that. “Yeah, alright, I talked to a few of my friends last night about yo—that and they convinced me that maybe I took things a little far, especially ‘cause I realized I was into—I mean they were helping me plan to ask—”
He cuts himself off, eyes widening quickly before narrowing and darting suddenly to the side.
“Huh?”
“It’s nothing,” he mutters gruffly. “Here.”
With that eloquent introduction, he grabs the little white box from the table and shoves it into your chest.
“Wh—” You take it from him, choosing not to comment on his less than polite manner of handing it to you. Whatever is inside is heavier than you’d expected, and hot enough that your chilly fingers are warmed just by holding the bottom. “This is for me?”
“Yeah. I made ‘em this morning, ‘cause I realized I’d prevented you from getting any of those muffins while they were making ‘em, so I talked the old lady into giving me the recipe and I figured you wouldn’t open it right now in front of me yanno I just thought you’d wait until I’m not right here…”
You pause halfway through opening the lid to raise your head and shoot Ground Zero an incredulous look. He’s glancing away again, eyes fixed on some spot to the left of you, face pink and cheeks puffed as his lips pout and he bites the inside of his lip.
“You don’t want to watch me open your present?” You deadpan your response.
“No, it’s yours, you can open it whenever you damn well want.”
“Fine. I wanna do it now. In front of you. Because you’re apparently very embarrassed by the contents.” You pause. “Christ, it’s not some creep shit, is it? You didn’t like, stalk me and these are hundreds of candid photos of me?”
“What? No! The fuck?”
“Just making sure. One can never be too cautious.”
“I wouldn’t fucking do that!”
You hum in response, enjoying his spluttering as you return your attention to the box to find…
Well, now. He’d practically told you before, hadn’t he? The old lady he’d been talking about must be the cafe’s owner, because the four muffins within the package look exactly like the ones he’d been stealing from you. And they’re steaming, still hot.
“Used my quirk to keep ‘em warm,” he grunts in answer to your silent question.
You look up at him, one eyebrow raised. “You can do that?”
He shows you his palms and you watch as they swiftly begin to steam in the cool air just like the muffins.
“Fun.”
“Ya think?”
You snort, rolling your eyes and leaning in to nudge him playfully with your shoulder. “Don’t be gross.”
“I didn’t say shit, that’s all your mind.”
Again, you hum your answer rather than speaking, this time reaching in to pinch off a little bite from the top of one of the muffins and place it into your mouth.
It’s better than you remember. Maybe it’s because of the agonizing wait, or maybe because of the anticipation, or perhaps it’s because a hot pro hero made them just for you and is standing right before you gauging your reaction. Either way, you moan your approval and don’t even regret it when Ground Zero’s obnoxious arrogant smirk makes its triumphant return on his face.
“Good?”
You nod enthusiastically, plucking the muffin from the box and shoving the whole thing back at him so that you can use your free hand to remove the wrapper. There’s a part of you that’s disappointed he’s no longer so flustered, but you’re also no longer particularly focused on him. You toss the wrapper back into the box to see that you’d missed something: a little card, folded in half, with your name on it. You’ll look at that soon; you have a muffin to eat now.
“I don’t think four is enough, though,” you say as you take a real bite of the muffin. “You owe me a full month’s worth of these. How are you good at baking, too? That’s not fair.”
“I’m good at everything.” That earns him a scoff, but you’re smiling. He grabs one of the drinks from the cardboard holder still on the table—your drink, you realize, he’s bought you the one you get every day—from the table and shoves it, too, into your chest. “Here, this too.”
You take it with your free hand, treating yourself to another bite. “This is… really sweet. You remembered my order?”
“Hah?” he sneers. “What, you think I can’t remember your order? Like I haven’t heard it every day for a month?”
“It’s a complicated order. I’m allergic to milk, you know, so if you—”
“I got oat milk, dumbass. You keep trying all those weird alternatives and I figured that’d taste best.”
You frown. “I didn’t even know they had oat milk.”
“It’s new. Not on the menu yet; they’re gonna add it tomorrow.”
“How’d you learn about it, then?”
“The old lady did, while she gave me the muffin recipe. It’s more expensive. She just wants me to spend more money on her.”
You note, though you don’t comment on it, that he’s done exactly that despite his clear disdain.
He’s right, you realize as you take a sip of your coffee; the oat milk is best, better than your previous attempts with almond and coconut and soy, but you resolve not to tell him. As you go to take another bite of your muffin, you realize there’s a phone number written on your cup.
“Uh… I think you got a message.”
“What?”
You turn the cup so that he can see it. “Think it’s the cashier?”
Just like that, he’s flustered again, the bridge of his nose getting a dusting of pink as he snaps his head away and looks back at you through the side of his eye.
“It’s me,” he mumbles, just barely loud enough for you to parse out, though the words don’t make sense.
“What?”
“I did it,” he repeats, glancing down. “It’s my number. For you.”
You open your mouth, gaping slightly for a moment before closing it again. Oh.
He doesn’t wait for you to speak as he reaches into the box and picks out that folded piece of paper to hold out to you. “This, too.”
Raising an eyebrow to look at it, you drop the half-eaten muffin into the box and take the paper from him with your free hand. It’s a request, phrased as a demand. Let me take you out to dinner. Signed with a name: Bakugo Katsuki.
When you glance up, your face is probably as hot as his looks. You’re gaping again, jaw slack, and he’s brought up his free hand to cover his face, crimson gaze peeking through his fingers.
“And the mighty hero Ground Zero has decided to… write his number on a coffee cup and ask me out with a piece of paper instead of. Talking to me. All right. Okay.”
“Kirishima said it’d be romantic,” he says, voice muffled by his large palm.
You’re pretty sure he’s lying.
“Well, I agree with him.” You drop the card back in the box, pulling out your phone to save the number as Muffin Thief ♥️ and send a quick text.
The sound of his phone (an explosion. Of course his text tone is an explosion. It’s probably one of his own) Ground Zero—no, you correct yourself, Bakugo—removes his hand from his face to check it. His eyes widen and he looks up, breaking into that endeared smile he’d been refraining from giving you when he first caught you.
“Yeah, Friday works for me.”
You lean in, unable to resist, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Great. Pick me up at 7.”