▸ ▸ ▸a/n: the beginning.. i do promise more. i am feeling crazyyy
Endo watches from his vantage point, unable to take his eyes away.
It’s been years since something has awakened anything remotely explosive inside him, since he’s felt what he’s feeling now. Hell, it's been a decade since high school.
Your eyes stay locked on Endo’s as the stranger tugs your dress up, and up, and up, his mouth on your neck, your hands on his shoulders keeping you grounded. There’s a ghost of a smile on your face as he ravages you, as he drops his pants, as he lifts one of your legs over his hip.
The look on your face changes as the man pushes against you, into you, his ass muscles tensing and head dropping to your tits. Your head falls back against the dirty wall of the alley, the security light above you illuminating your face, the shine of your eyes almost ethereal as you meet Endo’s again.
Shit.
He’s half a mind to jump over the railing, abandoning his smoking spot on the third floor’s fire escape. But this… Watching?
His pants tighten when the man finally elicits a moan from your pretty mouth, and Endo takes a long drag on his cigarette to compensate.
The man kisses up your neck, your jaw, catches your lips in a messy, wet kiss, but your eyes stay on Endo’s. Even as your hands travel up the man’s neck, into his hair, as he groans deep and low, as he fucks into you desperately, as he pushes a strap from your dress and exposes one of your breasts to the crisp night air, your eyes stay on his.
Endo sucks his lip ring, worries it between his teeth, watches as you tug at his hair roughly to pull his mouth away from yours, as you lean forward to sink your teeth into his neck.
Fuck, Endo thinks, practically feeling your teeth against his skin.
"Fuck," the man curses, the sound of wet skin slapping together intensifying. "Fuck, baby, yeah," he breathes, voice trailing higher and higher with each thrust of his hips against yours.
"You can come inside," you promise, those captivating eyes of yours staring into Endo’s, your voice carrying across the alley and up to him.
"Shit, baby, yeah… God your pussy, your fucking pussy…" he moans, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting one last time before he stills.
Ash falls from the end of Endo’s cigarette.
The man pulls away from you, and you finally break your spell, dropping your eyes to your body to fix your dress— pulling the strap up, tugging the skirt down. Then you’re opening your purse, holding your hand out.
He fixes himself too, the jingle of a belt, a sweaty hand through mussed hair. "How much?"
"Two fifty."
"You said one fifty!"
"You came inside me, bozo."
"You said I could!" He whines. You level a glare with him, and he gives in, slapping the money in your palm and watching you count it. "Are you gonna be working next weekend too?" He sounds hopeful, sounds nervous.
You shrug as you fold the bills and slide them into your purse. "Do you want me to work next weekend, sweetie?"
"H- I," he laughs awkwardly. "Y-yeah, it’d be good to see you again. You’re just, ah, god you’re so beautiful—"
"You should go," you interrupt him, looking left and right. "I’m not actually allowed to do this; that’s what the brothels are for."
"Right! Yes! Okay! Well, I’ll… I’ll uh,"
"Bye," you wave, sending him running with a fake smile.
A minute goes past. You reach into your purse and pull out a cigarette. "Got a light?”
Endo laughs. Head thrown back, eyes to the moon, laughter. “No, I lit the cig I was smoking the entire time that dude fucked you with my mind."
You level him with a look, but there’s humour behind your eyes. "You could have looked away at any moment, but you didn’t. Do you want a turn?"
Mirth glows in his eyes. "You’re full of come."
Your smile widens. "Yeah, I know."
He stares down at you, a used toy.
Glorious.
Endo snuffs what’s left of his cig into the metal step at his ass, grins wide as he leans a little closer to the railing to stare down at you. "You wanna just do it down there?"
A pout forms on your petal lips as you contemplate his question. "Is that your apartment?" You ask, putting the cigarette away and fiddling with your hair as he nods. One look to the left, one to the right, and you’re stepping a little closer, craning your neck to look up at him. "You got ramen?"
Giddiness bubbles up inside him at the prospect of you in his bed. On his couch. Against his dirty kitchen bench. His pretty, dirty, used thing.
⤷ warnings: 18+! making out, mentions of sex, fluff
⤷ word count: 1.6K
⤷ a/n: this is completely, 100%, a comfort fic. making out, fondling, no sex. domestic, slow, cute. hope you like it x
“Open up,” he breathes, amber eyes half lidded, face flushed as he looks down at you.
You comply because of course you do; Kunigami has an air about him, a… soft dominance that you can’t resist.
He runs his thumb along your lower lip, dips it into your mouth with a soft hum of “good girl,” and presses it gently against your tongue. “You’re so beautiful,” he adds, other hand cupping your cheek, grin growing on his face when you nuzzle against him, eyes locked with his.
Then he kisses you.
Frames your face with his large hands and presses his lips to yours, softly melting into you, growing hungrier with every wet smack of your lips against his. You’re pushing his shirt up, silently willing him to tear it off, your cool fingers hungry for the warmth of him, of the heat he radiates even now, on a cold winter morning.
He complies because of course he does; you may be madly in love with this man, but he swears he loves you harder. It takes every inch of self control to keep from manhandling you, despite how much you claim not to care if he’s rough.
He’s only gotten bigger, stronger, broader with age, and there’s no way he’d dream of hurting you. At least, not on a lazy Sunday morning. Not after what he did to you last night.
Once his shirt is gone, you pull him back down to you, humming contentedly when his weight presses against your thinly clothed chest, his heat everywhere when you wrap your arms around his neck, drawing your lips back up to his.
“Are you okay?” He asks after a few slow pecks, leaning up on an elbow, a finger drawing down your throat.
You catch his insinuation, and laugh back in return. “It’s not the first time you’ve gone a little too deep, Ren,” then you’re up on your elbows, too, pressing a chaste kiss to his nose. “Besides, you know I like it.” Which you do; you love it when he fills your mouth, your throat, makes you feel like you’re choking on him.
His blush deepens, and you can’t help but think it’s cute how he acts like this now, considering what you both got up to last night. It’s not the first time you a little rough together, but he generally prefers it when he takes care of you, so the skullfuck was definitely surprising.
“I like you here,” he says, voice a little gravelly, eyes unreadable. Two fingers press into your sternum and he’s pushing you back against his mattress, eyes drinking you in, those fingers ghosting over your skin as if he’s committing you to memory.
“I like me here, too,” you whisper back, eyes fluttering shut as those fingers find your left nipple, dipping under your little camisole to tease at the puckered flesh. A shaky sigh leaves your lips when his fingertips are replaced with his lips, his tongue; your thighs clench together at the familiar roll of need tingling at your clit—
Then he’s gone. Back up on his elbows, looking down at you, deep in thought.
When the silence— and the anxiety— gets too much for you, you open your mouth, “Ren, I—”
“Move in with me,” he blurts, suddenly determined. You’re speechless. “I know it’s only been a few months, but,” he takes a deep breath. “I know you’re it, you’re the one for me. And when I’m travelling for work, I worry about you in that shitty apartment—“
“I happen to like my shitty apartment!”
“— with its shitty reception and leaky bathtub. At least if you’re here, I know everything’s perfect for you, and there’s nothing you need to worry about.” He rattles off, frown on his face contradicting the deep blush in his cheeks.
“But your heating it horrendous,” you mumble, chest giddy with nerves, with happiness. “It’s always cold here,”
He leans down to brush his nose against yours, “I turn the thermostat down so you wanna cuddle me,” it’s a tender whisper, and it’s almost like he’s laying himself bare for you, all walls gone. Vulnerable.
You push up to kiss him, wrap your arms around him and tangle your fingers in his tangerine hair.
Everything he’s said is true: your one-bedroom apartment cowers lamely in the shadow of his three-bedroom, two-bathroom condo that’s fitted with matte black appliances and fixtures, has heated floors, and a fucking butler’s pantry. Sporting heroes get paid ridiculous pay checks, especially when their teams win on the world stage.
“So, you want me to move in so you know I’m here?” You whisper against his lips. “Is that all?”
“Well,” he dips his tongue between your lips and slowly lowers his mouth to yours, before pulling back. “You’re here all the time, anyway?”
“Not the answer I was fishing for,” you laugh at the perplexed look on his face, pull his head down until his cheek is squishing against your lips, then blow a raspberry. “Tell me you love me, meathead.”
“You know I love you,” he chuckles, pinching your nose with his thumb and pointer finger, and levelling you with a stare. “I love you,” he says, “and you can quit your stupid job and go back to school.”
You groan and let go of him, falling back against the deep blue-green sheets on his bed, “you’re too practical to be romantic,”
“Hey, nothing wrong with practical,” he chuckles, brows raised.
“I want romance!” You pout, reaching for a pillow and lopping him in the head with it.
He laughs and dives back in for more kisses, chaste pecks and tickling fingers morphing into a slow make-out session, groping and fondling; then you’re on top of him, grinding against the very prominent erection in his boxers.
“You,” he breathes, distracted. “You didn’t give me an answer— haa…” he hisses with a roll of your hips.
“Ren, of course I’ll move in with you,” you kiss him on the cheek. “Doesn’t mean I wanna stay here alone when you go parading around the planet.”
He pushes himself up on his elbows, almost knocking you in the nose, “you’ll come with me? When I go overseas? You said you couldn’t.”
If he were a puppy, his tail would be wagging.
“Well, I can get an online degree, can’t I? All I need is a laptop and internet access.” Your face feels heated now, because no matter how smooth you’re trying to be about the situation, you’ve always wanted to quit your job and go back to school, and here’s this man— this Adonis— promising to help you fulfil your dreams.
“We can go shopping today,” he smiles, tucking some stray hair behind your ear. “Do up the spare room; make it a home office,”
“Rensuke, you don’t have to do that for me,” you laugh lightly, a little embarrassed.
“Oh,” he deflates a little, big smile fading. “Am i going too fast? Scaring you? I just—“
“No!” You almost smack his chest, horrified with the idea of making him feel like that. “I just don’t want you to waste money on me; I can buy my own computer—“
“Wow,” he drawls almost sarcastically, the fire back in his eyes. “I thought I was overpaid? Shouldn’t matter what I choose to waste my paycheck on, should it?”
You roll your eyes, but smile nonetheless, “well while you’re at it, I’ll take some diamond earrings and a new car.” You joke, sarcasm thick and pressing as you lay yourself on top of him, your ear to his heart.
“Oh? What kind of car?” He asks, rolling you over, pressing a kiss to your cheek, before shimmying down your body.
Your fingers go to his hair, slowly scratch at his scalp, “I’ve always wanted something fancy, like… a Jag or Ferrari or something,” you muse as he groans, the pads of his fingers digging into your thighs. “But I’d probably be better off getting a family car, wouldn’t I? A beemer? A Lexus?”
A tiny part of you prays he missed it with all that groaning, but he springs up, eyes wide. “Family car?”
God, now you’re embarrassed. “I just mean, like, uh… it’d be better for the future?” You almost start to sweat under his stare, but he’s a bad actor, and his face crumples into laughter when he sees the mortification on yours.
“I asked you to move in, not to bear my children,” he jokes, but before you can say anything back, he’s burying his face in the crook of your thighs and prying them apart as you squeak and wriggle in his hold. “I’ve got a whole plan,” he explains between sloppy kisses to your thighs, your clothed mound. “But if you want me to put a baby in you, I’ll skip some steps,”
You’re giggling now, maybe because you’re a little nervous, maybe because you think he might not be joking about having a plan, or maybe because his kisses tickle too much. “You made a whole plan for me? Or is— Ren, stop it— is this some de-default plan where any women will do?” You’re laughing, grabbing his hair, his face, trying to get him out of between your legs.
He just smiles, and it’s warm and it’s golden and it’s him. Your heart blooms like a sunflower in your chest, pointing towards him, reaching for him, for his heat, for his light, for his love.
He crawls back up your body, kisses your neck once, twice, three times, until, “You’ve ruined other women for me,” he breathes against your lips.
“Really?” You kiss him, too, pull back to rest your forehead against his. “So Chigiri’s my competition then?”
“Oh babe,” he wrinkles his nose, does his absolute best not to laugh, “you’re not winning against the princess; I asked him to move in too.”
“Wonderful,” you smirk, “make sure to share him with me.”
“No,” he whines, a little dramatically. “I could never share you, not even with that princess.” The next kiss is passionate, raw, demanding. “You’re mine.”
here’s a sneaky peeky of the ushiatsu/ushitsumu/ushi x atsumu fic ive been slowly hammering away at 😌✨
“This is so cool,” Hinata gushes, hip-knocking Atsumu as they head towards the locker room, shoes scuffing on polished hardwood. “It almost doesn’t feel real.” He chuckles, wiping sweat from the back of his neck with a towel. “We’re here, on Japan’s National Team. Going to the Olympics! I’m playing with Kageyama again! Oh, and with Ushiwaka! It still spins me out how big that man is!”
Atsumu almost feels himself wilt.
Ushijima Wakatoshi.
Hinata keeps talking— probably not even about Ushijima anymore— but Atsumu’s hardly listening, his eyes finding the man in question almost instantly. As thick as Bokuto and taller than Sakusa, Ushijima is hard to miss; built like a Greek statue, and about as animated as one too. He’s a solitary guy, always by himself if he’s not flanked by the other Adlers.
▸ ▸ ▸ a/n: here we go (again!) i really hope you enjoy this the second time around ♡ if you find any instances of reader "blushing" pls let me know! there were so many and i am one woman 😵💫
It's been a semester and a half at UUA, and all of the "young professionals" in the Hero Course have been worked to the bone; both academically and physically.
You glance around the clearing and beyond at the massive fir and cedar and redwoods softly illuminated by the flaming fire not ten feet from your boots, up at the moon shining so vividly amongst the stars in the blackened sky.
Just up the main trail behind you is the mansion of a log cabin the lot of you are staying in, and honestly, you just wanna slip back inside and snuggle up in your futon.
This training camp was supposed to round up the semester by way of bettering the students and letting them enjoy the college experience, all in the seclusion of the most expensive log cabin on the most densely wooded mountain the universtiy could afford.
However… you're not really feeling it.
This first night has everyone gathered around the campfire, Ochako and Mina toasting marshmallows, while everyone else listens with baited breath as All Might tells one of his never-before-heard stories about his early heroic endeavours.
Turns out sometimes being a hero can be disgusting work. He says he smelt like rotten flesh for days afterwards.
You sit between Shouto and Kaminari on your long log seat, Momo on Shouto’s other side and Kyoka on Kaminari’s. It doesn’t bother you that Kaminari and Kyoka are getting cosy beside you, but the other two… that’s a blow you were half expecting. For too long you’d harboured secret feelings for Shouto Todoroki, and the past year he’d made it painfully clear he was into Momo.
You're ecstatic, though; Aizawa brought beer.
“Don’t tell your mom.” He warns you, cracking it open and handing it to you.
“What, like I'm not 22 years old?" You scoff, taking it with a grin and a roll of your eyes.
"Don't need the board knowing I'm actively supplying my students— the next generation of heroes— with contraband."
"Is there heroin in this beer?"
"Your smart mouth's gonna get you in trouble one of these days."
"Or…" You flutter your lashes overdramatically. "Out of it?"
"Get outta my sight." He grunts, nose wrinkled, waving you away.
You decide against returning to your previous spot; sure, no one is kissing or getting handsy, but it’s still awkward on your behalf. Sandwiched between two couples? No thanks.
The only space open is between Bakugo and Sero, so that's where you set your sights.
“Tastes gross.” You mumble, shuffling closer to Sero, butting in on his conversation with Sato.
“What were you expecting?” He laughs, elbowing you gently in the side, nursing his own can.
“Ah, something easier to drink.” You laugh, taking another mouthful with a scowl before noticing the slender bottle in the bigger man's hand. "What's that?"
Sato's eyes widen a smidge before guit takes over. "Hm? Vodka… cranberry?"
"Swap with me!" You huff, accusatory, practically leaning over Sero to get to him.
"Not a chance, grumpy." Sero places his whole hand over your face and pushes you back.
"'m not gr'mpy!" You manage to get out.
Sero and Sato tease you mercilessly, until the conversation somehow shifts to Shouto and Momo across the campfire. Slyly, you eject yourself from their gossip, leaning away from them and glancing over to Bakugo, who’s watching Izuku sit down next to Ochako.
You watch for a bit, too, notice how she builds him a s'more and practically shoves it down his throat. She's got hearts in her eyes, for sure, and he's more than happy to humour her.
Bakugo’s expression— something you can only equate to longing— hurts your heart a little, makes you glance back over to Shouto and Momo.
They're laughing, and he's sat his varsity jacket over her shoulders like some kind of claiming ritual.
“Let’s go for a walk.” You finish your can, crush it, melt it down in your hands with your quirk, and toss it into the fire. “Bakugo.” You say a little louder when he doesn’t move.
“Talkin’ to me, shitface?” He hisses, not even moving to look at you.
“Yes, asshole. Come on.” You stand, hands on hips expectantly. Surprisingly, he stands. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and steps over the log you were sharing with the other two, you follow suit.
“Where are you going?” Aizawa asks, voice just loud enough to stop conversation.
“For a walk, professor.” You sigh. “I promise I’ll protect your precious Katsuki from harm if we happen to cross any.”
“Fuck you, bitch.” Bakugo hisses venomously.
“Okay, don’t get lost! The trees here are thickly packed.” All Might waves, opening a can of soda and taking a long drink.
“Sure, professor. C’mon, idiot.” You mumble, walking past him and into the thick of the trees, following a barely there dirt path.
When you’re far enough away from the fire, the laughing and canoodling, he stops. “Why the fuck are we out here?” He asks gruffly, glancing up at the glowing moon through the trees.
"Just think we needed to get away from it all."
"Speak for your damn self, loser." He scoffs.
"You didn't exactly look like you were having a blast either." You glare, annoyed.
"I was fine."
"Liar!" You accuse, a little louder than you shouldve, getting into his personal space. You take a deep breath, calm your fraying nerves. "You were giving Ochako the goo-goo eyes and she was givin' em to Deku."
“The fuck I was!” He hisses, pushing you back against a tree with a handful of your sweater.
You raise your hands in surrender, glance down at his fist bunched at your chest. “You were! And it’s… okay, but she’s not… she… she loves Deku, right?” You probe, gently. His nostrils flare and you think he’s gonna punch you, but he doesn’t.
“I don’t like her, she’s just… she’s nice, okay?” He admits, stepping back from you; you smooth down your shirt. “Not like you and fucking Halfie.”
Anger flares in your chest and heat emanates from your clenched fists. “Don’t act like I’m some lovesick loser.”
“Aren’t you?” He asks almost softly, crimson eyes narrowing, trying to decipher your expression.
Your heart throbs, and your anger deflates.
“I don’t know.” You whine, run a hand down your face. “Fuck.”
“And what? You think we’re the same, so we can have a heart to fucking heart about it and support each other? What kinda fucking crap is that?” He resumes his hunched standing, kicks a stone.
“No, I…” What were you expecting? “Ugh, I don’t even know.”
You always could be yourself around Bakugo, really let loose. He doesn't take your shit, and you don't take his. You wouldn’t say you’re friends, but you and Eijiro were the only ones not to be frightened off by his explosive exterior, back in high school, and even now at University.
“Let’s just walk then. C’mon.” He’s exasperated, but he’s inviting you to stay with him, so you do.
And hey, no name calling. Things are looking up.
You wind through trees, hot on his heels, until you get to a clearing with a pond; moon and stars shining on its surface. Bakugo sits on a boulder, looks up at the sky. You find your own seat, cross your legs on the grassy edge of the pond.
“I don’t get him, ya know? I mean, you’d be perfect, right? Someone to always train with, an equal.” He’s meeting your gaze when you turn to look at him, confused. “You’re fucking flame resistant, and you’ve shown on multiple occasions that you can melt his shitty ice.”
“So, he should find me sexually attractive?” You raise a brow at him, lean back on your hands.
“You’re not the ugliest person in class.” He rolls his eyes.
“And you’re so charming.” You say melodramatically, falling back into the grass, hands behind your head, eyes finding those stars again.
“I guess if it were me picking outta you and the nerd, I’d rather you.” He shrugs, picking up at stone and throwing it into the water with a plop.
“If you want me to say I’d pick you over Izuku, you’re gonna have to bribe me.” You mumble, and he actually laughs—not full blown laughter, but definitely a throaty chuckle. Bakugo is hot, no doubt, but his attitude sucks ass; this side of him… it’s different. Rare.
You cast a sideways glance at him, admire the bone structure of his face in the moonlight. It accentuates his scowl. He's wearing that orange beanie one of his fangirls decorated him for his 21st birthday; she'd cross stitched the kanji of his hero name on the front with his signature explosion headpiece bordering it.
Honestly, it's really cool, and a lot of the other guys were super jealous, but that's not something you're willing to tell him. It's never a good idea to stroke Bakugo's ego.
You both stay there for a long time, Bakugo tossing stones, you overthinking. What was it about her? What was it with Momo? She may be a femme fatale in every aspect but personality, but the fact that she's a really genuine person only makes you feel worse. She's honestly flawless, and Shouto could only be so lucky.
And you. You need to get over it.
“C’mon, let’s go back.” Bakugo sighs, standing and stretching. When you don’t move, he stands over you, scowling and pouting. “You told Aizawa you’d protect me.”
And you laugh then, at the bizarreness of the situation, at the look on his face, his soft words. He holds his hand out and you take it.
“I suppose I could use a bath.” You sigh, and he pulls you up with a little too much force. You smack right into his chest, palm splayed, and he grabs your hip with his free hand to steady you. “Sorry,” You whisper, unnervingly close to him. He makes a sound from deep in his chest, you cough, step away from him. He glances away.
“This way.” He mumbles, and you realise he hasn’t called you anything offensive for at least half an hour.
Aizawa and All Might are the only people left at the dying fire when you return, and you wonder how long you’ve really been gone.
“Goin’ to bed.” Bakugo mumbles, pushing past you and towards the house. Aizawa and All Might watch him leave, then both sets of eyes are on you.
“Young Shouto asked us to wait up for you.” All Might says, taking a can from the cooler box. Orange soda. For some reason, it makes you angry. If he cared so much, he would have waited himself.
Aizawa can see your mind ticking, yet he stays quiet.
“Well, sorry, then. For making you both wait up.” You mumble, stifle a yawn. “See you at breakfast.”
All Might calls a goodnight, and you’re repeating his sentence in your head like a crazy person as you walk away.
Young Todoroki asked us to wait up for you.
Young Todoroki asked us to wait up for you.
Young Todoroki asked us to wait up for you.
Young Todoroki asked us to wait up for you.
Your chest tightens up and you clench your teeth, an overwhelming sadness washing over you. Your feet crunch on gravel and tears well in your eyes. You sniff, rub your face and make it to the wooden steps of the cabin before collapsing in a heap on them.
You tell yourself it’s the alcohol making you so dramatic. You tell yourself you’re just tired. But nothing works, tears run down your cheeks, slow and fat and full of heartache.
A hard hand lands on your shoulder and you hide your face in your hands. “You’re stronger than this, idiot.” Bakugo grumbles, falling to sit next to you.
“Go… a—away.” You sob helplessly, trying your hardest to stay quiet.
“Fucking hell.” He says under his breath, and he just sits there with you for a while as you cry, let it all out.
He huffs a sigh from his nose, and a hand wraps around your shoulder, forcing you down into his lap. His hand doesn’t leave your arm, he gently rubs it, uses the fingers of his other hand to pry your hands from your face.
“Seriously,” He frowns, and you finally look up at him, eyes wet and puffy. “Use that fucking brain of yours.” He scolds, but he’s not as harsh as he usually is. “He. Ain’t. Worth. It.” He drills into you, poking your forehead with each syllable.
You sit up, wipe your eyes, frown at him. “I can't… I can't help it.”
The front door creaks open, and you both turn to see Ochako standing there with a phone light shining at you, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She gasps when she sees the state of you, and you turn away to hide your face.
“Bakugo, leave her alone.” She gasps, jumping to her own conclusions.
“Wha—” He starts, but you cut him off.
“No, Ochako, it—it’s just me. I…” You take a deep breath, glance over at Bakugo’s offended expression. “I had way too much beer.” You manage, forcing a laugh. “This asshole’s actually helping me.” You say with the best chuckle you can muster, wiping the remains of your tears.
“Oh.” Her eyes jump between you and him, then fall to the floor. “Well, don’t stay up too late, hm?” She smiles tightly, turning and heading back inside. She closes the door softly.
“Fuck.” You breathe, falling back down into his lap. He bristles. “What, the tears stop, and I can’t use your lap anymore?” His hands grab your shoulders, sit you back up.
“Yes.” He glares. “My compassion has limits.”
You roll your eyes. “Well, I’m sorry you had to waste it on me.”
“I didn’t waste it on you, you stinkin’ turd.” He folds his arms, eyes narrowing at you.
For some reason, you have the overwhelming urge to either deck him or kiss him. Your own frown grows on your face, uncomfortable with the idea of the latter. “Go to bed, Bakugo, I’m fine.”
“No, you go. Last time I left your drunk ass alone, you came back cryin’.” But there’s no malice, and it’s confusing because this is Bakugo, the angriest guy you’ve ever met.
And for the second time tonight you’re thinking he’s actually incredibly good looking under that scowl he wears, and he’s… caring? He must see your mind ticking, because he stands up, holds out a hand for you to take, which you do; you’re fascinated by how small your hand is in his, then he lets go, practically pushes you up the steps.
“Go to sleep.” He grinds out, as you tumble up to the door. You glance back at him— arms crossed, scowling pout— and forget why you were crying in the first place.
“G’night, Bakugo.” You smile, gently open the door and slink inside.
+
In the morning you remember. You remember Momo’s hand on Shouto’s knee, the smiles on their faces, the jacket around her shoulders.
It’s entirely too early to be up, but you throw on your running gear and sneak out of the girls' room. There’s a 10k track that Aizawa made you all run yesterday, so you take that.
It’s a cold morning—so cold that you feel it in your lungs— but it doesn’t take long for you to heat up. You could use your quirk, but where’s the normality in that? The track takes you up the mountain, and you breathe in the scenery, stop at the halfway point to overlook the ocean. The sun’s rising against the water, and you can’t hold back a gasp at the sight.
It's gorgeous, and kinda puts into perspective how wide the world is outside of the UUA bubble.
When you get back, almost everyone’s bleary eyed, drinking hot chocolate and coffee and tea around the dying embers of last night’s fire.
Tsuyu calls your nickname. “Come have a hot drink.” She’s sitting next to Momo, who’s sitting with Shouto. Your chest tightens at the sight of them, barely an inch of space between them.
“You really should have woken me!” Iida sighs in disappointment, stealing your attention. He’s between Deku and Ochako, they both wince at the sheer volume of his talking voice so early in the morning. “Putting us all to shame.”
Shouto stands up, heads over to you with an extra mug. “Here,” he holds it out to you. But you’re sweaty, and overwhelmed with the sight of him. His eyes stare into your soul, expression unreadable.
“Thanks, Shou.” You smile, hold up a hand. “I just really need a shower.” You chuckle and turn towards the house. “I’ll be back in a bit!” And jog off.
You think about how it looks, you running away at the campfire, turning down his offer of whatever he was drinking —tea, probably— and running again. All through school you’d been the fire to his ice, but since he’d embraced his fire, he’d stepped away from you; out of your reach completely.
In the house, you gather your clothes, a towel and head towards the communal showers. You really need to stop dwelling on him. His rare smile and handsome face.
The contrast of his hair, his eyes, the strength in his jaw and the way he's filled out with age.
Seriously.
Stop.
Then you do stop. Everyone’s outside, you can use the onsen.
A smile cracks your face. With the bath being the only one on the premises, Aizawa had given the group strict times on when they can and can’t bathe. Girls first, then boys. 7:30-8:00pm and 8:00-8:30pm, respectively.
He didn’t say anything about mornings.
You wash off in the shower, wrap yourself in your towel and head out— shivering— down the pebbled path, to the bamboo encased rock pool, the steam rising high in the cool morning air. Stones and boulders are built up at the far end of the pool, a waterfall flowing from the top.
Just as you’re about to untuck your towel, you hear Bakugo’s rough voice. “Oi! Don’t fucking think about it!” He growls, his head and shoulders emerging from the steam, finger pointing accusingly at you.
You squeal. “Why aren’t you with the group?” And then you’re aware of how much skin you’re showing, cheeks heating in embarrassment.
“I missed out on bathing last night, because of some blubbering idiot.” He growls, but his cheeks are pink, and you don’t miss the way his eyes scan your legs. You feel warmer.
“Right, well,” you take a deep breath. “I missed out, too.” You say boldly, meeting his eyes. His eyebrow quirks when he realises what you mean, but he says nothing. “So, turn around, asshole, or you’re gonna get an eyeful.” You step towards the bath, untuck your towel and hold it in place.
“Wha— you’re fucking wired, you know that?” He hisses, sinks into the steam and turns around. You swiftly drop your towel, step down into the water. It’s hot, almost too hot, but you love it.
“Ah, it’s good.” You moan, leaning against the edge of the pool. You can’t even see Bakugo through the steam.
He says something, but you don’t hear him over the splashing of the waterfall.
“What?” You call, and he says it again. “I can’t hear you.” You mumble, wading closer to him, making sure to keep the water covering your chest.
“I said: you’re going to get us in troub—” he must have been coming closer to you, too, because the sight of you a mere foot away, has him practically shoving his fist in his mouth.
You stare at each other for a long moment, your eyes on his, trying to read what he’s thinking, him maybe doing the same. He looks like he’s thinking, his mind seems to be ticking, but what? How annoying you are? How he managed to get into this situation?
He sighs, turns on his side and sinks to his chin in the murky water. “At least you’re not fucking crying anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “You say that like I cry a lot. I do not cry a lot. It was the beer.” You huff, splashing him with some water. He blinks but doesn’t retaliate.
“You had one fucking beer.” He sneers, the hint of a grin on his face.
"I don't drink a lot!” You say indignantly.
“And it was a light beer.” Now there’s definitely a smile on his face. It’s contagious, and you can’t really remember a time where he’s smiled at you.
“Alright, asshole, leave me alone. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.” You huff, swimming over to the edge, overlooking the forest.
In hindsight, you should be more alert about being naked in the onsen with a man. Man. You glance over your shoulder, the steam lessening with the rising of the sun. He’s under the waterfall, hair flat against the back of his head, water rushing down the very defined muscles of his—
You feel the heat grow across your face, frantically whip around towards the sprawling forest the onsen overlooks.
Oh no, he’s really hot.
You need to get out, you need to remove yourself from the situation and get to safety. Being exposed to that is doing something to your heart, something that generally only happens when you’re alone with Shouto.
Yet… you can't help but glance back again. He’s out of the spray of water, shaking droplets out of his hair. He’s waist deep in the steam, chiseled chest, abs— he opens his eyes, looks straight at you.
You turn back around, bury your face in your forearms which are resting on the edge of the pool. Fuck, you’re hot all over.
And he saw you perving.
“I’m getting out, so don’t fucking move.” He warns, and you can only whimper a broken sound and wave a hand up in the air in response.
There’s splashing from behind you, dripping, then his feet crunching away on the pebble path.
You stay there for a few more minutes before you leave, calming yourself down enough to face the rest of your class. You didn’t know who you wanted to avoid more, Shouto or Bakugo.
+
“First up, is the 10k run.” Aizawa sighs, lazy eyes falling on you. “Considering you already did it, you two can cook breakfast.” Two? No one went with you.
Everyone’s stretching, mumbling about the run, complaining that it’s too early. Then your eyes find Bakugo, who’s standing next to All Might, scribbling in a notepad looking extremely annoyed.
“Ah, professor?” You say softly, approaching Aizawa. He spares you a glance. “I did the 10k by myself.”
“My precious Katsuki woke up even before you and did it. Must have missed him by not even ten minutes.” He mocks your words from the night before, shrugs, yawns.
“Ah, right.” You laugh shakily, looking to your feet and then up to the relatively cloudless sky.
Someone familiar calls your name. “Can I have a word?” You look up and see Shouto a few feet from you, looking a little… stressed? You open your mouth, but Aizawa answers.
“No, you need to go.” He orders. Shouto raises knitted brows. “Did I stutter? Go.” Your mouth is hanging open a little, and you watch as Shouto sends you a look, and jogs off towards the group.
All Might is at the starting line and transforms to call, “Ready, set, GO!” Before abruptly vanishing back into Small Might.
A hand rests on your shoulder. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” Aizawa asks, an eyebrow raised.
“No.” You say too fast. He nods knowingly, removes his hand.
“I’ll take my eggs scrambled. Lots of butter.” He mumbles, walking towards the house. Bakugo’s doing the same, so you follow suit, trotting up the path, up the steps and winding into the kitchen.
Bakugo’s in there alone, staring at his notepad.
“Can you believe our punishment for exercising is cooking for every bastard on site?” He growls, picking up the pad and holding it out to you. It’s a list, each name and how they like their eggs.
“What the hell are ‘cloud eggs’?” You snort, reading Momo’s preference. When you glance up to Bakugo for a response, he’s in the fridge, yanking out milk, cheese, butter, eggs.
“Some fucking asshole likes their whites whipped and then cooked.” He grits out, not even sparing you a glance. Well, at least, he’s not drilling you about perving on him.
“Do you eat the yolk?”
“Yes, idiot.” He sighs, exasperated. “You sit it on the egg white ‘cloud’ and bake it.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“How the hell don’t you?” He hisses back. You sigh, rub the bridge of your nose.
“We probably shouldn’t start on the eggs yet, anyway.” You say, putting the pad down on the bench. “They don’t take long to cook, and the 10k takes around an hour.” He stops to consider your suggestion, picks everything back up and slams the fridge open.
“Won’t even need to start the bacon for another half an hour.” He mutters, placing everything back piece by piece.
“You think Aizawa will be grading this?” You ask, leaning against the kitchen island and folding your arms.
“Doubt it.” He grunts, slamming the fridge door. Then he looks at you, and your heart starts to race. You glance away. “What?” He practically hisses.
“Nothing.” You frown, rolling your eyes.
“If you’ve got something to say, fucking say it.” He mirrors your stance, leaning against the counter across from you.
“I don’t have anything to say, Bakugo.” You growl, annoyed. “Why? Do you have something to say?” He just snarls and glances away from you. “Use your words, Bakugo.” You bait. He sends you a glare then, but his eyes dance down your frame, back up to your face, and to his feet. The small gesture has your heart racing, your body warm.
He clears his throat. “Heard you got a job at Endeavour’s agency lined up for after graduation.” Ah, news had gotten around. “Must be a kick in the guts, huh? Having his dad like you more than he does.”
“Wow, real mature.” You snap, angry. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to talk unless you had something nice to say?”
“No, she taught me not to take shit from anybody.” He grinds out, teeth clenching
“It would have been handy if she’d taught you how to make friends. Y’know, so you wouldn’t have to go through life an angry, bitter, man-child.” You bite back, just as furious.
“I don’t let people disappoint me, what’s so fucking bad about that? At least I didn’t end up a lovesick idiot mourning after a relationship I’ll never have with someone who’ll never notice me.” His words are like ice on a broken tooth, attacking you like an exposed nerve.
It takes you a while to reply, mostly because it’s true.
You take a deep breath and calm yourself. “What does it even matter?” You sigh, tired. “I’m not taking the job at Endeavour’s, so it’s a non-issue.”
“What?” He asks, on the annoyed side of surprised. You look over at him, raise your eyebrows for him to elaborate. “He’s the number one hero in Japan, and you’re not going because his son isn’t in love with you?”
“Okay,” you breathe, slam your hand on the counter, turn away from him. “I don’t have to put up with your fucking attitude. I’ll be back in half an hour to help your sorry ass make breakfast.”
“Like fuck.” He growls, grabbing your arm as you try to walk away. “Take the job, it’s huge.” His eyes are borderline wild, and you stare up at him in shock. “If you don’t take that fucking job, I’m telling Icyhot that you love him.”
“The hell you will!” You hiss, mortified.
“I will.” He drops your arm. “Try me.”
“You’re insufferable!” You holler, throwing your arms in the air. “You tell him, and I’m telling Ochako.” You glare. His nostrils flare.
“I don’t like her like that.” He says warningly, still terrifyingly close.
You grin, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “You’re a liar. Yes you do.”
“No, I. Don’t.” He bites out the three syllables, inching closer to you each time, trying to scare you into submission.
“Oh, sure you don’t.” You sing-song, unaffected by his intimidation.
“Tell her then, I don’t fucking care.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, steps back a step. “You’ve got more to lose than me. Hell, even I’d work for Endeavour.” He steps back a few more times, leans his lower back against the counter.
There’s a long silence; you both simmer down some.
“What are you doing after you graduate?” You ask, a little quieter.
He sighs. “I got a few offers, but I don’t know what I wanna do. Probably go to the States for a bit.” He shrugs, your eyes widen.
“USA? Like, leave the country?” The idea sounds crazy to you, but, if anyone could pull it off, it’d be Bakugo.
“Yeah, I got three offers over there; four in Europe. One in Australia.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing.
“Bakugo, that’s amazing.” You smile, in awe and excited for him. He regards you with an unreadable expression, glances to his feet. “You’ll need to take Kirishima with you,” you snort, he looks back up to you expectantly. “As a buffer? Because you’re an asshole and they’re all gonna think you’re a villain.” You laugh at your own joke, and he frowns, picks up the roll of paper towel on the counter behind him, throws it at you.
You just dodge, still laughing.
“You’re an asshole.” He accuses, but there’s no malice.
“You’ll come back with a yankee wife.” Still laughing. “And she’ll call you Kat-suwkeyyyy.”
“Shut up, I’m not marrying a foreigner.” He rolls his eyes.
“But the only Japanese woman you like is going to—” there are tears in your eyes, you’re carrying on so hard. “Marry your… rival!”
“Shut up!” He yells, leaping towards you and putting a hand over your mouth. You try and pull it away— your chest hurts because you can’t stop laughing— but you’re weaker by a mile.
You grab for his face instead, your hands falling to the collar of his shirt, then— in a moment of madness— you lick a wet stripe up the valleys of his fingers.
He blushes, pulls his hand away. You grin at his response, pull him closer to you.
“What? Can’t handle a little rough play?” You ask, licking your lips, voice husky from laughter. His nostrils flare, eyes take in your face as you do the same, cheshire smile on your lips.
Then he kisses you.
Just lips at first, a hard press of his on yours. You stare at him, but his eyes are closed— still scowling— so you do the same. You dig your nails into his chest, push back against him. He takes a breath and you use initiative, run your tongue along his bottom lip, push your body into his.
You can feel his heart beating under your hands, racing along with yours. Then his tongue is moving against your lips, your own tongue, and his hands are on either side of your jaw, holding you in place.
Just as your insides start to melt, and your knees go weak, there’s a sound: someone’s clearing their throat.
You both open your eyes, stare at each other for a millisecond before he jumps away, and you both turn to stare at the source of the noise.
“I really hope there was none of this when you two went for your ‘walk’ last night.” Aizawa deadpans.
Words escape you. You can’t think; what even just happened? You spare a glance to Bakugo, who is ten shades of embarrassed, and then back to your professor.
“She fucking kissed me!” He hollers, the stinky fucking liar.
You gasp, offended. “You kissed me! You dirty little creep!”
Aizawa glares at the two of you. “You were both into it. I’ve been standing here longer than I care to admit.” A grin twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Where are my eggs?” He frowns, staring at the empty countertop.
You both set to work wordlessly, Aizawa sits on a stool at the island and watches with a lazy grin.
“I’ll do the scramble.” You mumble. “You can poach and make the stupid cloud eggs.” He just grunts in response, no argument. He lays the bacon out on a few trays, puts them all in the oven to bake.
Still, Aizawa sits there, shit-eating grin on his face. Says nothing. Just watches.
“Sir…” You mumble, whisking eggs. His eyebrows raise, eyes fall on you. “You’re not gonna… tell anyone. Right?”
He takes a moment to think about it, then he shrugs.
“Eh, if anything, I support this turn of events.” He grins lazily, you and Bakugo both bristle.
“That… it was nothing. Meant jack shit.” Bakugo glares, prepares the pot for poached eggs.
“Agreed.” You snap, narrowing your eyes at the eggs in your pot. “Move over.” You grumble, lighting the hot plate next to the one Bakugo’s using. He shifts, but there’s no way you’re both going to be able to comfortably cook your eggs at the same time.
Still, you’re both too stubborn to voice the realisation. Aizawa chuckles under his breath, sighs and rises from his stool.
“I’m just going to fetch All Might. Don’t do anything suspicious while I’m gone.” He warns, narrowing his eyes at the pair of you.
When he’s out of the room, you turn your glare to Bakugo. “I can’t believe you kissed me, you perv!” You hiss, trying to keep your voice low. “What the hell were you thinking?” Your face is hot, remembering the kiss, but you keep your stare even.
He glances at you. Says nothing.
“Oh, the silent treatment?” You roll your eyes, stirring the eggs gently, careful they don’t burn.
“I’m sorry, okay?” He grits out, glancing at you. “I… don’t know what the hell came over me.” Guilt eats at you when you meet his eyes. You did kiss him back, and you were enjoying it.
“Me too.” You sigh, turn the heat down on the stove. “I mean, it wasn’t terrible.” You try to joke, make light of the situation, but the words leave your mouth in a totally serious way.
Before you can rectify the situation, both professors return, the two of them pulling up a stool to each watch you awkwardly dance around each other in the kitchen.
They make jokes you half heartedly react to, and then breakfast is cooked, eggs in the metal warmers— too many eggs, really— and bacon in there, too. You put bread out by the toaster, along with butter and spreads.
Just as Bakugo lays the plates out on the table, the first three return. Iida, Midoriya, and Shouto. They’re sweating, gasping for water, and All Might throws each of them a bottle from his cooler.
You glance over to Shouto and find him staring at you. He nods his head towards the door, wants you to go with him out the back, by the onsen.
You take a deep breath and steel yourself, find Bakugo’s eyes for a second, and then follow Shouto. When you step out the door, his jacket is unzipped, hair around his face damp from sweat.
It's quiet, the only sound other than him trying to catch his breath and your thumping heart, is the waterfall flowing steadily into the barely steaming onsen. You briefly wonder how your encounter with Bakugo would have been if you'd joined him around this time.
Then you remember Shouto.
“Bit hot out there, huh?” You try and break the ice, but he doesn’t crack a smile, just stares at you, face flushed red and unreadable.
“You’re upset with me.” He murmurs, jumping straight into it.
“No, I’m not.” You shift your weight from your right foot to your left, clasp your hands together behind your back.
“Don’t lie to me.” He frowns softly, takes a step closer to you. “You asked Bakugo to go for a walk with you, not me.”
You take a half step back. “You were… occupied.” And you try not to sound bitter, you really do, but you fail. Miserably. His eyes widen a fraction, and you realise your mistake. “I’m happy for you, Shouto, I promise, it’s just…” Lie, lie. Lie! “I don’t know how to third wheel, and I didn’t want to make it weird.” You smile shakily, pray he believes your lie.
“Well, you failed in that regard.” He sighs, rubbing the sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt.
“Look, I don’t wanna get in your way, ok? It’ll be weirder for her if I’m sticking to you while she’s putting moves on you.” God, what are you even saying? Whatever trash comes out of your mouth, he buys it, sends you a small smile.
He puts a hand on your shoulder, smiles warmly at you. “Don’t give up on us. You’re my best friend.”
Your heart cracks, but you smile at him, anyway. “No doubt, Shou.”
“Let’s go wait for the others.” He suggests with a tilt of his head, walking past you and back into the house.
“I’ll be a minute.” You call, and he looks back at you from the doorway. “My, uh, sister text me.” You slide your phone out of your pocket, hold it up for him to see. He nods and walks away.
You stand there dumbly for a long minute, stare up at the sun shining brilliantly in the cloudless sky. He doesn’t want to lose your friendship, which is nice, but… fuck, you’re a shitty friend.
▸ ▸ ▸ warnings: adult content, 18+! fem!reader x prohero bakugo. exes to lovers, bit of angst, dash of fEELINGS, sprinkle of second base!
▸ ▸ ▸ wc: i literally don’t know, this was written in drafts
▸ ▸ ▸ a/n: probably going to continue with this, but for now, i wanted to christen this blog with a bit of katsuki and im too impatient to leave this sittin in my drafts!! unedited (we die like men, blah blah)
“You’re distracted.” It’s not a question Sero asks, more of a challenge he makes, an eyebrow raised at Katsuki as he puts his plate on the table and lowers himself into his chair.
He knows, fuck, he knows. “Shut up, tapeface.”
“I know you’re a big-shot-top-ten-hero, but she’s out of your league, bro; don’t think too hard on it.” This statement is bait, plain and simple. He knows the glimmer in Sero’s eye, knows the teasing tone. So he won’t rise to it, knows better than to fall into the spider’s trap; still, his eyes find you in the kitchen, laughing with Ochako and Izuku as you plate up your own dinner. “She said she wants a man with a 9-5, someone to be the stability her future family will need; you know how close she is to Iida.”
Iida with his Hero Commission desk job. Katsuki’s eye twitches.
“This looks like an engaging conversation,” Denki chimes in, taking the spot next to Sero.
“Oh, it is,” Sero grins. “We were just discussing Iida’s love life.”
“Iida?”
“Yeah he and—”
Katsuki stands. Loudly. “I need a drink.” Then he stomps off, ignoring the snickering. Well… trying to. Sero and his stupid square teeth are gonna be the bane of his existence tonight, all because you weaselled your way into family dinner.
Since graduating college, Kirishima has been making the hulking effort of trying to keep his little gang of friends together, and over the past few years, it’s been fine. Monthly bar meets turned into drinking nights at houses, which again morphed— because of scheduling and tolerances— into dinner and board games nights. Sometimes not everyone could make it, and that was fine, but when Kirishima started seeing Momo, she began showing interest in the catch-ups as well, then Denki hooked back up with Jirou, and it became this whole thing.
So now Ochako and Deku and you are here by proxy, and if Katsuki complains about it, he’s gonna be labelled the little bitch.
He decides against the kitchen, and instead heads down to where Kirishima and Momo are canoodling in the Man Cave. Eiji’s Man Cave, to be exact. That’s what it says on the big, wooden plaque hanging on the door, anyways. Fucking domestic son of a bitch.
“… because I told you it would make her uncomfortable, and you still— Katsuki!” Momo gasps as she notices him heading down the stairs, her back straightening instantly, those feline eyes of hers widening as if she’d been caught stealing the Declaration of Independence. Kirishima on the other hand, looks relaxed as he sits at his bar, even swings on his bar stool and laughs a little when he meets his friend’s eyes.
“Can’t go in the kitchen, can’t come down here; fuck, where can I go?” Katsuki grumbles, skulking past them to open the bar fridge, taking a bottle of jack and coke by the neck.
“That bad up there?”
“Eijorou.” Momo hisses.
“What?”
“Nah, he’s right; I shoulda just not come.” He slams the fridge door and takes a step towards the bar, pops the lid off the bottle on the edge of the countertop, and takes a swig. “Are you two down here talking shit about me too?”
“Nah, Momo’s worried about Mina.”
“Oh, she’s a no-show?”
“Yeah, apparently she and Jirou—“
“Eijirou!”
“Who’s Kats gonna tell?” The redhead shrugs, and Katsuki isn’t sure if he should be honoured or offended at the face Momo makes as she processes the question.
So, the blonde breaks the silence. “Mina and Jirou?”
“Yeah.” Kirishima nods, clearly seeing the funny side of the situation.
“Damn.”
“Yep.” The redhead swigs his beer.
Momo sighs, fretting. “And now you’re uncomfortable because Ochako invited—“
“Nah, it’s whatever.” Katsuki shrugs. “I can be a big boy when I need to be.”
Kirishima laughs. “Wouldn’t be family dinner without my best friend.”
“That’s my cue to leave.” Momo almost clicks her tongue, but there’s a bit of a cheeky grin beneath that roll of her eyes.
“Aw, baby—”
“Knock, knock…” your voice calls from the top of the stairs, knuckles rap on the dense doorframe.
Katsuki and Kirishima exchange a look, Momo catches it, but calls you down anyway, “We’re here! Come on down.”
Your heels clack on the wooden stairs, and when you finally make it into the basement— according to Katsuki, anyways— your big smile lights up the room. “This is where the cool kids are hiding, huh?”
“Not anymore,” Katsuki grumbles, glare fixed on you.
There’s a moment that hangs heavy in the air when you meet his stare, but to his surprise, you don’t seem affected by him. “Mean,” you grin. “Still so mean, Bakugo.”
“Nah, not really,” Kirishima slides from his seat, wraps an arm around Momo. “Promise he’s a little mellowed out since college.”
Your brows shoot up a little, then you’re chuckling. “I don’t know, I’d have to see it to believe it.” You press, poking the proverbial bear. Katsuki doesn’t have time to snark back, though, because you keep talking. “Dinner’s ready, but it feels weird to start eating without the hosts, y’know?”
“Oh, gosh!” Momo almost jumps out of her skin, wriggling out of Kirishima’s grip to wrap a hand around his thick wrist, tugging him towards the stairs. “No, no, of course; we’re coming up now, c’mon you two.”
But Katsuki gruffly stands his ground, “I’ll be up in a sec; eat without me.” Momo and Kirishima give him a look, but disappear up the stairs anyway. “Still can’t take a hint, huh?” He grumbles, blood pressure rising with each step you take towards the bar, towards him.
“Mm, pretty sure that’s you,”
“You’re still shit at assumptions too; go figure.”
You snort laughter, “Promise I’m good at other things.”
The innuendo isn’t lost on him, nor is the flutter of your lashes, the swing of your hips. He takes a swig of Jack and hates himself for dragging his heavy stare down your body.
Ugh, you’re still his type, too. Or maybe his type is just whatever you are.
“Don’t think Iida will be too impressed about you cornering me in someone else’s basement.” He snips, keeping the bar between you.
Your nose crinkles. “Pass me a drink?” You ask, shimmying up to sit on the stool Kirishima was sitting on. He doesn’t ask what you want, already knows your preference. “Thanks,” you smile when he hands it to you. “Iida and I aren’t like that, by the way; we just live in the same apartment complex.”
“Didn’t ask.” He huffs back.
“Mm, you kinda did though?”
“Go back upstairs.”
“But you’re down here.”
“That’s the reason you need to go back upstairs.”
“But I came here to see you.” The cheekiness in your quips are gone now, eyes on the bottle resting between your hands on the bar in front of you.
He sighs, watching you fiddle with the label on the bottle as he takes another sip. “I’ll come up later.”
Your frown is acidic when you glare back up at him. “It took me a lot of courage to come down here and talk to you, and you’re just gonna push me away?”
A scoff. “Courage?”
Another glare. “Yes, courage. You’re not an easy person to approach, Katsuki.” Katsuki. Your eyes are back on the bottle, fingers peeling the label from the glass slowly, your nervous energy wafting off you in waves now that your bravado is gone. “I’ll always be so stupid when it comes to you, won’t I?”
His heart breaks a little then, because he’s not being honest, and you are. He’s hiding and avoidant, while you’re seeking him out, trying. You were always trying, even back then. Why can’t he just talk to you? What’s so hard about being honest about wanting something; about wanting you?
“I won’t come again, don’t worry.” You mumble, sliding from the stool. “God, you’re such an ass, you know that?”
“Why then?” He snaps, jaw clenching. You blink at him, shocked at his outburst. “Why me? You’re so… so much better than me.” He admits, throat tightening up. Which you are. You’re the full moon at midnight, the sun high in the sky at midday; a beacon of light and love and happiness despite everything you’ve been through. Too good for him; his darkness threatened to swallow you up. “We didn’t make sense then, and we won’t make sense now.”
He’s not looking at you— he can’t— but he knows you haven’t left, can sense you standing there on the other side of the bar. His heart races, fists and teeth clenching, as he breathes slowly through his nose, trying to regulate his emotions, doing his goddamn best to stay in control of himself. You don’t know how much you haunt him, how much he wishes he could touch you, smell you, hear you sing all of those stupid fucking songs you used to sing.
You’re the reason he hates Spotify.
“That’s it?” You ask softly. He can hear how choked up you are, knows you’re trying to keep it together. You’re emotional about everything; the last time he saw you in person you were crying. “We don’t make sense? What makes sense in your head, Katsuki? Who do you wanna be with? And if you say no one, I swear to god, I’m gonna punch you in the face.”
He opens his mouth to yell something back, but there’s a click at the top of the stairs— the door closing. It scares you, has you twisting around, taking a few steps towards the staircase and ducking your head to look up for the noise. He watches you as you stand up straight, as you fix your hair, fold your arms.
“Even they think we need to sort our shit out.” You sound calmer, maybe a little embarrassed, but more put together. Maybe you weren’t gonna cry after all.
Katsuki finishes his drink, walks a few steps to the recycling box and places his bottle in, then heads to the fridge for another. “You up?”
You don’t answer him right away, but when you do, you’re sliding back onto the barstool. “Sure.”
This is good, better. If you were to have had this conversation a couple of years ago, he’s sure it’d be a screaming match.
He pops the lid off his bottle, then yours, rounds the counter to take the seat next to you. “Here,” he mutters, sliding it into your waiting hands.
“Thanks,” you whisper, unable to look at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t wanna fight, I just—“
“No, I know.” He says, probably a little too loudly. “I know; it’s okay.”
Then you sit in silence for a while; drinking and being in each other’s space. Katsuki would be lying if he said he hated the quiet, but he also needs to step up, needs to explain himself to you and lay all of his cards out on the table.
You seemed to have the same idea. “Katsuki—“
“I’m too messed up to make you happy.” He admits, cutting you off. He turns to you, resists the urge to grab onto you; your hand, your thigh, your shoulder. “The sludge villain, the league, Shigaraki, AFO— I don’t want you living your life on eggshells, you know? I have nightmares, paranoia, I’m a fucking asshole. You’re too bright for me, princess.” The pet name slips out, and your bottom lip trembles.
“You told me you didn’t have time for me.” You recall, watery stare locked on him. “You said you were busy, and you needed to focus on your career, and you couldn’t with me around. That I’m annoying.”
“I didn’t say you’re annoying.” He can’t help the way his eyes roll.
You’re adamant. “Yes you did.”
“I said it’s annoying when you cry—“
“I have feelings, Katsuki—“
“I had to push you away, or you’d waste yourself on me.” He spits, running a hand over his face. He can feel the raised scar on his cheek, the scratch of stubble on his jaw. He’s not what he used to be, who he used to be; but you? You’re perfect to him. Lovely. “All of this, all of you… it’s wasted on a guy like me.”
“Kiss me.” You demand, dead serious.
“Hah?” He gawks, spinning his stool to face you.
“Kiss me, and if you still feel like you don’t want me, I’ll leave you alone.” You’re determined; determined, and gorgeous, and ridiculous.
“It’s not that—“
“If you can push me away, I’ll let you. I’ll let you, okay? I promise.” You’re sliding from your stool, hands on his knees, bracing yourself to attack.
He blushes. “S-stupid, I said—“
But you’re already snaking between his legs, already pushing up and knocking your nose against his, your eyes positively sparkling before they flutter closed, before your lips ghost his, and your fingers bunch in his t-shirt. His internal struggle ceases the instant you hum your content against his mouth, his heart prevailing over his brain, selfishness winning out. If this is what you want: broken, desperate, hopeless him; then, that’s what you’re gonna get.
He pulls you impossibly closer, his hands meeting behind your back, pushing at the fabric of your sweater to get to warm skin, to feel your softness against his fingertips. Tongues meet tentatively, before the languidness loses out to desperation and your fingers are in his hair, tugging him closer, pushing your chests together, and his hands are travelling north, unclasping your bra, pushing that sweater up, up, up.
He breaks the kiss, stands and lifts you onto the bar by your thighs, lips finding the skin of your jaw, teeth nipping the thin skin of your neck. “You’re impossible,” he breathes, watching with hungry eyes as your flushed face breaks into the most perfect smile he’s ever seen.
The power you hold over him is ridiculous.
“Katsuki, c’mere,” you whisper, suddenly sultry, siren eyes tempting him through thick lashes.
Hesitation gone, he presses his forehead against yours, grips the hem of that sweater and searches your eyes for any signs of uncertainty before pulling it over your head, bra going with it. You gasp and cover yourself, laughing, before he gently pries your hands away, intertwines your fingers and kisses you again. More slowly this time, more surely; grips your hands and maps out your lips, your jawline, earlobes, the column of your neck.
You squirm as the cotton of his shirt rubs against your chest, as he takes his time relearning your skin, getting used to your taste, revelling in being with you like this.
“‘S is embarrassing…” you whine, unable to move, unable to cover up.
“This is what you signed up for, sweetheart.” He mumbles against your skin, feeling you, tasting you.
Finally.
“But this isn’t really… where, y’know?” You breathe, not wanting to be the voice of reason, but needing to be.
Oh, right, the dinner party.
“Lemme just—“ he lets your fingers go, runs his hands up your sides and presses into the softness of your breasts, watching you watch his fingers as they tease your nipples, as they sink into flesh. You writhe and whimper, and he kisses you quiet, but it’s not enough. He needs to feel you more carnally, wants to draw out all of the sounds he used to, wants to discover more; needs to show you how much he wants you, how much he needs you.
But now’s not the time, and his impatience is a blooming rose in his chest: beautiful but full of thorns.
Your hands find his wrists, stopping him. “This means you’re taking me back, right? I’m not imagining this, am I?” Your eyes shine with unshed tears and he wonders how he was ever strong enough to push you away, to deny you anything.
“If you’re sure you want this, it’s yours.” The sincerity in his voice even shocks him, and your eyes wide at his admission.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” You nod, gripping his face like he might disappear, before wrapping your arms around his neck, resting your head on his chest. “I’m more than sure.”
“Then I’ll be in your care.” He whispers, kissing your hair, soothing his hands down your back and once again desperately admitting you to memory.
He’s not sure just how long he just stands like that, how long he holds you against his chest and pets at your skin, your hair; but soon, there’s a knock at the door, and Kirishima’s calling out a tentative, “Hello?”
You prickle against his skin, terrified eyes stare up at him.
Then its a panicked scramble to get your bra back on, your sweater pulled over your head.
“I’ve been sent down to referee this meeting,” he calls loudly, heavy feet descending the staircase slowly. “Though, it was kinda a hung parliament. You know the rule: we don’t talk about fight club.” He laughs at his own joke, but is silenced by the scene he finally walks in on. You’re both sitting on stools again, nursing your drinks, looking over your shoulders at him, as if you’re surprised to see him in his own den.
“Hey, Eiji,” you smile, face suddenly falling. “Oh, dinner.” You slap Katsuki on the arm gently, as if it’s his fault the two of you aren’t up there. Which… kinda is, kinda isn’t. “Let’s go.” You grab your drink and slide off your stool, but Katsuki stops you, gently pulls the neck of your sweater up to cover your bra strap.
The intimacy would be impossible to miss.
“Th-thanks,” you flush, holding his stare for a moment, before he lets you go, and you’re scurrying past Kirishima like a mouse escaping a cat.
Katsuki waits until he can’t hear your footsteps anymore before actually turning to his friend. “We had an adult conversation.” He admits, trying not to seem too pleased with himself.
Kirishima regards him with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve got lipstick on your fang.” The redhead laughs as Katsuki blushes, as he scrubs at his teeth with his tongue, then a finger. “I was kidding; c’mon, I saved you a seat and forbade anyone to talk about this at the dinner table.”
Katsuki grabs his drink, meets Kirishima at the bottom of the stairs. “You forbade them?”
He shrugs, “Momo did; I just like the word.”
“We kissed.” Katsuki blurts, face hot.
Kirishima’s eyes bug out of his skull, before he claps him on the shoulder, and beams down at him. “You good?”
He he breathes for a moment, calms his hammering heart. “Yeah, perfect.”
I am here to offer College AU!Wakatoshi thoughts. Just the mental picture of his big frame sitting in the lecture hall chairs, or the student desks…
He’s a star at volleyball, but he’s struggling in literature. So maybe he needs a study buddy….
AHHHHHH OKOK TYSM BBY!!!! 🩷✨️
The third time he sighs, you close your textbook.
You know who he is, anyone with eyes and ears is aware of Wakatoshi Ushijima, volleyball jock. You've joked with your girlfriends on more that one occasion that he could "beat your ass like a drum", so seeing him up close is kinda heart pounding.
He's sitting across the table and over two chairs, three different reading materials open around his laptop and notebook; you wonder briefly if he's going incognito, with the college hoodie and his team's cap on his head, and you bite your lip to stifle a huff of amusement.
That tower of a man could never blend in anywhere.
"You stuck with something?" You offer, tilting your head to the side in a bid to catch his eyes.
It works. "Uh, I guess I am." His face flushes slightly, eyes darting to your closed textbook, the highlighter in your hand. "Am I bothering you?"
You blow a raspberry and immediately regret it, but you need to own it now. "Bothering me? No way. I'm just finishing up, so I thought I'd offer a hand." Lies, lies, lies.
He hesitates, and you realise the distance is probably what's keeping him quiet.
"I can come over there," you stand and start to pack up your things.
He says your name and you drop your protractor. "That's your name, yeah?"
"Huh? Yeah, that's-- you know my name? I mean," you shove your last pen into your pencilcase and zip it up. "Do we know each other?"
"We take a couple of classes together; your notes always look nice." He says with that straight face of his.
You slide things into your bag and swing it up onto your shoulder, feigning calm. "Oh, thanks. I actually have an--"
"Instagram, for your notes. I follow you." His focus lands back on his laptop and you take the opportunity to take a breath before rounding the table and taking a seat beside him.
He smiles at you and you bite your lip.
"I, uh," he locks eyes with you, puts his elbow on the table and rests his jaw in his hand. "I'm not really stuck with anything."
▸ ▸ ▸ warnings: 18+! angst, more talking about feelings, fem and male receiving oral, making out, alcohol consumption
▸ ▸ ▸ wc: 6.7k
▸ ▸ ▸ a/n: ahhhhhh omg i love the last scene of this fic so much, i hope you enjoy it too!!
Overthinking has always come easy, but this is just ridiculous.
Thoughts plague you as you wander with the rest of the group through the forest path towards the beach. Chatter flows effortlessly, yet your mind ticks.
Why had Shouto acted like that with you? Did he overhear you in the dorm with the rest of the girls? Did he not like seeing you in your swimsuit? Did Bakugo say something to him? Either way, there was no reason for him to be acting like that towards you.
Your lonely upbringing led to you making friends with most people you came across, but your even matchup with Shouto all those years ago had you gravitating towards each other from the get-go. Your easy, fiery personality melted his cold, icy heart and it wasn’t long before you were study buddies, training partners.
You graduated high school together, entered university together. It wasn’t only huge milestones like those that you shared and bonded through, but simple things like going to movies with friends, bar-hopping; hell, you even organized a surprise birthday party for him at the beginning of year and invited everyone he’d formed friendships with over the years.
Including Momo, which you were kinda (very) bitter about at the time.
A shiver runs over your skin and you wrap your arms around yourself, glancing over at a very animated Denki as he explains the importance of nu-metal to Shouto.
Shouto with his two-toned hair and heterochromic eyes, with his fire and his ice, with his inability to read the room and lack of tact. You’d opened up to him about being an only child and having parents that worked away constantly, and he told you about his mum, why he hated his dad so much. Even so, he’d had his dad design you a suit that could withstand the even hottest flames, despite the fact that he never went out of his way to talk to him.
You were best friends.
It’s not his fault that you were – until yesterday— in love (was it love, really?) with him, and he didn’t feel the same. Not his fault that you felt you needed to distance yourself from him. What was his fault was the accusation that the guy you’d fallen for wasn’t genuine.
And he hadn’t even said anything about it to your face.
Why didn’t he say anything to you?
What you feel for Bakugo isn’t the same as what you felt for Shouto. For him, there was longing; there were schoolgirl fantasies of picket fences and weddings and two spoons for one dessert. Of a family with two kids and a dog and a cheesy adult life together. With Bakugo, it’s different. You want to touch him, hold him, feel him. You’ve fallen for his eyes, the dangerous way he looks at you, and his hands, how they feel on you, the size of yours in his; the way he speaks to you, calms you, treats you like you’re more than a crush. It’s now and it’s real, and you’re exploring it together.
You hold your cold fingers against your burning cheeks as you scan the group for him.
He’s looking at you from where he’s walking, a little bit ahead of you, and you speed up to catch him.
“You okay?” He mumbles, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his boardshorts. You resist the urge to drape yourself against him, the naked skin of his back and chest, swells and dips of his muscled arms. You hum a yes, but your eyes are on the ground. “Right, seems like you’re fucking swell.” His sarcasm is comforting, you knock him with your hip.
“Thinking about you.” Your words leave your lips in a sigh, and he arches a brow at you. It wasn’t a lie, not really. “You’re nice to me.” You smile, holding your forearms behind your back.
“Yeah?” He’s intrigued by your admission, probably more confused than anything. “Why are you thinking about that right now?”
“I told the girls I liked you, and they were confused. Apparently, you’re mean.” You shrug.
“Huh.” He raises his eyebrows, doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t ask why. He’s oddly calm.
“You don’t care that I told them?” You frown.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say anything.” You grumble childishly, he chuckles.
“What the hell do you want me to say?” He asks softly, drapes an arm over your shoulders, pulls you against him.
You’re sure you stop breathing. You look up at him, but he’s looking ahead— or pointedly avoiding your gaze, you’re not sure. It’s strange how natural it feels, and you smile despite yourself, pull your bottom lip between your teeth and take a breath in through your nose.
The air is cool, but you’re warm, heart beating sporadically in your chest as you walk through the woods, tucked under Bakugo’s arm. It’s peaceful, calm—
“Oi,” Eijiro calls, jogging up to fall into step next to you. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell your best friend that you’ve got a girlfriend.” He complains with a whiny sigh. “Unmanly, Kastuki.”
“Want me to tell you when I take a fucking dump too, dumbass?” Bakugo growls, pulls you closer. “It’s none of your fucking business.” He reiterates.
“I’m your best friend.” He complains, sets his eyes on you. They trail down your neck to your chest where your jacket is unzipped “I like your swimsuit.” He winks, and you flinch as Bakugo holds up a palm, sends off an explosion in his direction.
“Bakugo!” You scold, hide against his chest to shield your eyes.
But Eijiro’s ready for it, used to it, it seems. He simply dodges, flashes you a knowing smile. “Be gentle with him, he’s sensitive.” He winks, again.
“Fuck off, fuckface!” Bakugo yells, and with a laugh, Eijiro jogs back to Kaminari and the group of teens watching the interaction. Kyoka flashes you a thumbs up and you roll your eyes with a grin.
After a few moments, you look up at him. “You didn’t correct him when he called me your girlfriend.”
“You already said you’d be mine.” He shrugs. “If you don’t wanna put a damn label on it, we don’t have to.” His red eyes are looking down at you, ready for a response.
“No, I…” You make it out of the trees and onto the sand, see Aizawa in the distance with a huge bonfire ready to light. Bakugo stops walking, holds you close as your classmates walk past, shouts profanities at anyone who stares too long.
Shouto doesn’t look as he passes.
Your stomach knots up, and you snake an arm around Bakugo’s waist, pull yourself closer to him. He’s warm, and it’s comforting, solid and stable.
The sun is setting oranges and pinks and purples and blues in the sky, reflecting like molasses against the serene waves of the water. Higher in the sky, the moon’s already out, stars twinkling as twilight threatens to take over the sunset.
You don’t want to move, just want to stay under his arm, looking at the sky forever.
“D’ya wanna be my girlfriend?” He asks quietly, and when you look at him, he’s blushing, watching the sun set in the distance. You watch him for a minute, revel in the serenity of the moment; then you stretch up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.
“If it means you’re gonna be defending my honour, then yes.” You grin. His eyes flash down to your body, the curves of your torso, your bikini top. He bites his lip.
“Among other things.” He says lowly, voice husky as his free hand comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb drawing along your collarbone, nudging the jacket from your shoulder. “Your swimsuit,” His eyes are watching his fingers trace the orange piping of one of the triangles.
You shiver, and you’re sure nipple beads under his touch; your whole face heats up. “H-happy coincidence.” You whisper, the same twisty, fluttering feeling in your stomach returning.
He hums, lips descend to your neck. “Happy indeed.”
“Oi!” Eijiro yells from a distance. “We’re waiting!”
Bakugo huffs a sigh, kisses your neck gently. “To be continued.” He mumbles, nuzzling your ear with his nose, sending another shiver up your spine. He zips up your jacket—all the way to the top—zipper tickling your chin.
“Okay.” You laugh, step away from him and drag your hand down his arm, linking your fingers. A shy smile grows on your face as you lead him over to the group, Aizawa is staring at the pair of you with a raised eyebrow.
“What’s this? A couple? In my camp? I give you all far too much freedom.” He grumbles, and Bakugo squeezes your hand. Kyoka pokes you in the arm, waggles her eyebrows when you look at her. “We’ve been cut short.” He says, sighing. “We’re heading back tomorrow because of reasons out of my control, so I’ve put on a party for you.”
“A party?” Deku gasps, chatter ensues.
“But!” Aizawa calls over the noise. “I have a speech that you have to listen to before I go.” His eyes briefly shift to you and Bakugo, then to some of the other students. “I understand that youth is… exciting.”
“Sensei, please.” Kaminari groans. “Not the birds and the bees.”
He ignores him. “You’re making friends, dating, being young.” He takes a pause, for the drama, probably. “But for you, life after university doesn’t entail boring office jobs or climbing the corporate ladder, does it?” You glance around, everyone looks as confused as you. “You will be heroes. I know about your job offers. Four of you have offers overseas, the rest of you have at least one offer here.”
You see where this is going. The cool wind on the beach picks up, and you pull your hand from Bakugo’s grip to fold your arms.
“You’re bound to get even more offers come graduation.” He continues, takes a deep breath. “It’s going to be exciting and new, and although the bonds you create here will be lasting, they’ll be… interrupted.” He rubs his face, tucks some hair behind his ear. “What I’m trying to drive home is this: don’t let the bonds you have affect your journey. Don’t take an offer with a lesser company because your best friend is close by, or your girlfriend doesn’t want you to leave the country.”
You feel that last one like a slap in the face.
Suddenly the vague tidbit of gossip about Bakugo heading to the U.S after graduation is in the forefront of your brain.
There’s a heavy silence, and your stomach is in your throat. You want to look up at Bakugo, gauge his reaction, but you’re frozen.
“Well, just something to think about, I guess.” His tone lightens, and he picks up some bags. “I got takeout. Cooler is full of drinks, but please—for my sanity—don’t drink too much; All Might’s the one who put the deposit down on the cabin and it wasn’t cheap.” He hands a bag to you, one to Kyoka, two to Iida, and trudges off.
There’s a stunned silence, until Bakugo takes the bag from you, opens it and digs some containers out.
“I’m gonna have this one,” he says, holds it out for you to take. “What do you want?” Kaminari and Eijiro flank Kyoka for food and there’s chatter where Iida’s trying to fairly assign containers.
“Uh, the same?” Your voice is small, and he sends you a pointed glare. You cave, tell him your favourite take out dish, and he fishes it out, hands the bag to Deku.
“Come with me.” He grabs your hand, drags you towards the water’s edge. He sits, and you follow suit.
“Look, if you—”
“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, pokes you in the forehead. “I like you, you like me. Don’t fucking listen to him.”
“But—”
“If you don’t wanna do this, we won’t.” He frowns, rests a wrist on a propped-up knee.
“I do!” You argue, pout. He grins, leans over and kisses your lips.
“Then we’re doin’ it.” He takes his container from your hand, replaces it with yours.
You glance down at the food, his hands. “You forgot utensils.” He realises it as you say it, frowns over at you, embarrassed, then bounds up, heads back to the group. You follow him with the food, a little anxious at your classmate’s reactions to the PDA, but mostly everyone is busy, itching to eat something.
Shouto is crouching by the unlit bonfire, left pointer finger pointed at the base as if he wants to light it. He feels your eyes, turns, and you give him a small grin and a wave. He sends you a tight smile and turns away.
“Here,” Bakugo hands you a pair of chopsticks, follows your line of sight.
“He hates me.” You sigh, glance up at him. “Not that you care.”
“I care. I just don’t want the fucker getting between us.” He sends Shouto’s back a glare of his own, and nods towards Deku and Kaminari, who are sitting on a log with Kirishima and Sero; Kyoka’s on a towel in front of them. “Wanna sit with your friends?”
“They’re your friends, too.” You roll your eyes, lead the way over to them.
“Eh, I put up with Eiji for reasons unknown.” He shrugs, but you gasp at the nickname.
“Eiji?”
“Shut up.” He glares, but you just laugh, fall down onto Kyoka’s towel next to her.
“Hey.” You chirp, conversation stops. You get the feeling that if Bakugo wasn’t sitting down on the log next to Kaminari, that you’d be met with a thousand questions.
“Hey?” Kyoka scoffs, eyeing you with a raised brow.
“Yeah, can’t come over here holding hands and expect us not to ask questions.” Eijiro gets up, slides between Kaminari and Bakugo, nudges Bakugo, almost knocks him off the log.
“Fuckin’ shitty—” He grumbles, but you cut him off.
“Ask away.” You shrug, opening your takeaway box and hiding a smile behind it. They jump on you.
“How?” Kirishima.
“Why?” Sero.
“When?” Deku.
“What exactly is it about this guy that you like?” Kirishima asks again, and you feel all eyes on you. All questions directed at you.
“Ah, well,” you did offer for them to ask you. Bakugo’s eating, but you can tell he’s just as interested in your answers as everyone else. “Look at him.” You shrug.
There’s a burst of laughter and Denki and Sero are complaining.
“You can’t do that! You can’t just fall back on looks! He’s looked like that for years.” Denki complains, annoyed.
“Yeah, we wanna know what he did to finally bag you.” Sero grins, and Bakugo bristles.
Finally?
The boys on the log all see your confusion, and they glance at Bakugo, who is busying himself with his food.
“You didn’t tell her?” Eijiro asks, but Bakugo says nothing, shoves a lump of chicken into his mouth and looks out at the water.
“Tell me what?” You’re suspicious now, but it doesn’t outweigh your hunger. You hoe down another mouthful of food.
“He’s liked you since high school, that’s what.” The red head laughs. But it can’t be right, because the whole reason this thing with him started was because—
“I told you I didn’t like her like that.” He says, reading your thoughts as he waves his chopsticks in your direction. “Your imagination is fuckin’ wild.”
Eijiro ignores the interaction between the two of you. “Yeah, remember in our final year’s sport’s festival when you turned into a human torch and your clothes—” Disintegrated.
“Okay, okay, yeah, I don’t want to remember that.” You laugh, whole body heating up in embarrassment.
“You’re making me sound like a fucking pervert, it wasn’t because she was naked that I fucking—you know what? I don’t need—” Bakugo’s getting flustered, and you’re enjoying every second. “Just fucking drop it, or I’ll kill you.”
“Technically, Cementoss cubed her in before anyone could see anything anyway.” Kyoka adds, thumbing in your direction. “But you’re telling me that you knew, and you didn’t tell me?” She glares at Denki then, who jumps in shock at her accusation.
“He said he’d kill me!” He defends dramatically.
Your attention creeps back to your boyfriend—you’ll need to get used to calling him that—and you watch him as he eats, looks out to the ocean, steals a glance at you. You grin at him, and he blushes, rolls his eyes.
The rest of the class find their way to the adjoining logs, towels are laid down for the students that were too slow, as everyone sits down to enjoy the food. When the food’s gone—Iida, Izuku and Bakugo eat thirds—Denki rushes back to the house with Kyoka to get her hero boots—for music, of course—and chatter ensues.
Mostly about you and Bakugo.
Go figure.
“Come for a walk.” Bakugo holds his hand out for you to take, and you grab it. Then you’re slipping off your sandals and walking along the edge of the water, bathed by the last light of the barely there sun.
You chuckle, he glances down at you, brow arched in a silent ‘what?’. “You really like me.” You laugh, poking him in the stomach. “How embarrassing!”
“Wow.” He rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the ghost of a smirk on his face. “Really mature.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” You ask, watching as the water runs up to cover your feet, sand tickling the tops of them.
“Doesn’t fucking matter.” He grumbles, looks up at the stars.
“Katsuki,” You smile, testing his name on your lips as you turn to him, cover your joined hands with your free one. “Kiss me.” You demand gently, propping up on your tippy toes, and licking your lips.
He doesn’t reply, just covers your mouth with his, presses a hand to the back of your neck. You drop his hands and run your fingers through his hair, hum against his lips as his other hand dips under your jacket and runs up your back.
With a surprising push, you tumble the both of you down onto the sand, laughing. You’re straddling him, running your hands down his torso, lips on his throat as he reaches for the lip of your zipper, runs it all the way down until your jacket’s open.
He breathes your name and you stop, push back to meet his eyes. “I, uh,” he starts, staring up at you; he pushes some hair from your face and runs his thumb along your wet bottom lip. “I’m not just… second best, right?” He says it so softly, you’re not sure it’d even come out of his mouth.
“No.” You frown. What? “No way.” You’re torn between being sad for him—it’d take a lot for him to ask—and being offended that he felt you’re ingenuine.
“Fuck, it’s just,” he breathes, drags his hand down his face. “I’m not used to this, and I’ve wanted you for a really fucking long time, so…”
“It’s okay,” You mumble, lean down to kiss his forehead. “I’m here.” His nose. “Touch me.” His lips. You look into his eyes for a brief moment, then his kissing you hungrily, hands in your hair, leaving you breathless.
+
“Okay you two, that’s enough!” Mina yells. You take your lips from Bakugo’s neck and sit up, send her a glare that she probably can’t see. The sun’s completely gone now, moon high up in the sky surrounded by the kind of stars you can only see out by the countryside. It’s nothing like being in the deep smog of the city.
Bakugo gropes your butt over your swimmers. “I’m not done.” He grumbles lowly. You laugh down at him, pinch one of his pretty pink nipples. “Oi—”
“Come on!” She yells, closer. “Geez, I can’t believe I’ve gotta find out about you two from Denki. Denki! I thought we were friends.” She rants, closer. You hop off of Bakugo, dust the sand from your knees and calves.
“I’m sorry, it’s kind of a sudden thing—”
“Why the fuck are you screaming at us to come back?” Bakugo snaps, turning his back to Mina, adjusting his… oh. You laugh and link arms with her, hold your hand out for him to take when he’s ready—which he does. It’s nice to hold his hand. Good to just be touching him.
“We’re about to light the bonfire, and y’know, who better to do it?” Mina sighs, leaning her head against your shoulder.
“Uh, Shouto?” You snort.
“Don’t know where he is. He took off with Momo and they’re not on the beach; Tsu said not to bother with looking for them.” She shrugs as the three of you trudge up the beach, through the soft, dry sand.
“Couldn’t have pretended you couldn’t see us, though? Fucking figures.” Bakugo mumbles, and you squeeze his hand, send him a smile over your shoulder.
“Shut up, stop being such an asshole.” Mina grumbles. A few of your friends cheer upon your arrival.
“Fire time!” Denki announces, bouncing up from the log he was perched by Kyoka on. “Okay, Fire Princess, light us up!” He does a jiggy dance, points dramatically at the fire. Mina jogs over to sit next to Toru, and Bakugo rests his chin on your shoulder.
“C’mon, Fire Princess, we’ve got things to do.” He whispers in your ear.
“Are you ‘things’?” You laugh, raise an eyebrow at him.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. You laugh and shake him off, move closer to the huge mound of logs and sticks and kindling, crouch at the base. Generally, you’d use your hands to shoot the fire, but you’d been training on something you called ‘dragon technique’ lately, and—if it didn’t get out of control—it’d look really fucking sick.
You pick a spot right at the centre of the base, between the logs and sticks, and—like blowing out a candle—you purse your lips and blow, the flames hitting their target with ease. Your friends cheer, and you shoot a look back at Bakugo as you tuck some hair behind your ear.
Like any normal fire without petrol, it takes a while to grow in size, but it doesn’t matter. Bakugo lays his towel out and you drape yourself between his legs, both of you watching the fire grow —and Ochako and Mina dancing in front of it—as Kyoka plays some pop/rock song that she’s been ‘totally obsessed with lately’ from her boots.
“Here!” Kirishima grins, throws you both a drink. You sit up to catch yours, the other one whooshes past your head and into Bakugo’s hand.
It’s beer.
“I don’t know if you drinking is the best idea.” Bakugo says lowly in your ear, reaching over to pluck it out of your hands. “Remember last time?”
“Last time?” Eijiro butts in, looking at you quizzically.
“Ah, don’t worry about it, boring story.” You laugh, toss a look over your shoulder at Bakugo, who’s drinking your beer, Adam’s apple bobbing.
You glance around and find Momo sitting with Mineta and Tokoyami, beers in their hands, no Shouto in sight, which is strange until,
“Can I have a word?” You look up and see Shouto, standing over you and Bakugo. God, he’s so fucking quiet, like a ninja. You feel Bakugo tense behind you, so you pinch his thigh.
“Yeah, of course.” You smile, moving to get up. Before you’re at full height, Bakugo grabs your jacket, pulls you down by the collar to plant a kiss on your lips.
He doesn’t say anything, but you can see the pleading look in his eyes; it shoots into your heart like an arrow.
“Be right back.” You smile, trying to reassure him, then you ruffle his hair and follow after Shouto, who must have walked off the moment Bakugo kissed you.
It’s quiet, besides the music thumping in the background. Serene.
“I’m sorry.” He says quietly, looking up at the moon. You follow his line of sight, take in the glowing orb, shadowy craters scattering its surface. When you don’t say anything, he elaborates. “I didn’t think of your feelings, or Momo’s. I can…” He takes a breath, huffs a sigh. “I can tell you like him, and he can’t keep his hands off of you, so—”
“Alright, alright, that’s enough, you’re making it weird.” You laugh, the weight of the past few days falling off of your shoulders. It's embarrassing how a few simple words could completely diffuse the situation.
“Bakugo seems to really like you, but if he ever hurts you, I’ll kill him.” He says seriously, stopping in his tracks, looking down at you.
“I think I’ll be okay, Shouto.” You smile. You hold out your arms for a hug, but when he steps closer, there’s a loud whistle.
You both look to see Bakugo watching, arms crossed over his chest. “TWO FUCKING FEET APART!” He yells, Kirishima chuckles into a fist next to him.
Shouto retracts his step, shakes his head with a smile. “As long as you don’t hate me.” He rests a hand on top of your head, smiles and takes it off.
“I don’t think I could, to be honest.” You beam up at him. And it’s the truth, he’d always hold a special place in your heart: the first love, the best friend. “C’mon, you need to go thank your girlfriend for making you a better person.” You nod towards the group, see Bakugo sit back on the towel in the distance.
“True, true.” He runs a hand through his hair, turns and begins walking you back to the group. “So, you’ll keep training with me?” He asks, almost a mumble.
“I… I hadn’t thought about stopping that, Shouto.” You say, brows furrowed. You usually spend holidays with the Todoroki’s, with your parents generally gone during them. Gone almost always.
Last year, you even spent Christmas with them.
Endeavour even called you the morning of your birthday.
“Good. Endeavour would be… disappointed.” He says slowly, flicking his hair out of his eyes with a shake of his head.
You snort. “You mean, I wouldn’t be the buffer?” Endeavour treats you well to impress his youngest son; you know this, he knows this, his siblings know this. You elbow him. “I’m not stupid, Shouto.”
“Sorry.” He chuckles nervously, mildly ashamed. “I mean… thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Okay.” He smiles as you walk back up to Bakugo and Kirishima. “Have a good night.” He calls, gives you one last smile, then scans the group for Momo, heads to her.
The sand crushes beneath your feet, gets between your toes. “Hey,” you call with a smile. Bakugo downs the rest of his beer and smashes the can, tosses it beside another one—also reduced to a misshapen tin ball. “Whoa, slow down, sexy; the night is still young.” You laugh, plant yourself in his lap.
“What, you’re not running off into the sunset with the man of your dreams?” He asks gruffly, signature scowl on his face.
You know he means Shouto, but you wrap your arms around Bakugo’s neck regardless. “No, I’m sitting on his lap while he makes listless accusations.”
“Ooh, big words.” His eyebrows disappear into his hairline, hands grab at your naked thighs.
“Big words for a big girl.” You grin back proudly, leaning up to press your lips to his. “Your girl, Mr I-Need-Constant-Validation.” Your hands sprawl over his chest, feeling the hard muscle, as his face flushes pink and he pouts.
“That’s not true.” He scoffs. You laugh and kiss him again, and Kirishima clears his throat. You pull away, embarrassed, and look over to him.
“Just want you to know that I’m still here.” He chuckles bashfully, flashing his razor-sharp teeth at you in a grin.
“Sorry—”
“Maybe you should leave then, idiot.” Bakugo snaps at him, eyes still on you.
“Mean.” You pout. “He’s your bestie.”
“I don’t see yours hovering around.” He says against your lips.
“I’m still here.” He groans, and you kiss again. “Alright, consider me gone.” He shakes his head with a slight laugh, springs up from his spot on the sand, mutters something as he walks away.
Bakugo actually laughs, and it’s so smooth and reassuring that you lean in for another kiss, drape yourself all over him. “I think… we need to ditch this party.” He whispers.
You agree, but deep down you know bonding with the group is important, especially now with graduation looming overhead. “The party just started! And Aizawa got us beer.”
“And vodka.” Kyoka announces her arrival, Bakugo groans. “Hey to you too, asshat.” She smiles, joins you on the towel, hands you a can.
“Thanks.” You smile.
Bakugo lifts you from his lap, places you easily next to Kyoka. “I’ll go get my own drink.” He says, sends your friend a glare, and trudges off.
“I know Denki’s an idiot, but that guy? Hard work.” She laughs, takes a sip. “Probably cranky because he’s up past his bedtime.”
You laugh, watch him as he approaches Momo and Shouto. “Ah, he puts up a front. Once you get past his hard exterior, he’s a softie.” You smile, turning back to her. She snorts. “He is!”
“Oh god, you really like him. Like, a lot.” She accuses, whacking your shoulder.
Yeah. Yeah, you do. It’s kinda scary, and Aizawa’s words ring back through your mind.
“Do you and Denki know what you’re doing after UA?” You ask, changing the subject, curious about what they’d discussed. As a couple.
“Hm? Ah, every time I bring it up, he gets upset.” She sighs, shakes her head.
“Really?” You take your first sip of the vodka, cringe at the sweetness as it hits your tongue.
“Mm.” She nods, lays down and rests her head on your lap. “We had another argument about it when we went back to camp to get my boots.” You smile sympathetically down at her, dust her bangs from her forehead with your fingers. “I actually have a lot of offers, mostly spy work, but still. He… he’s upset about it. Doesn’t want me to go too far.”
“That’s sweet, isn’t it? You sound annoyed.”
“I am annoyed.” She frowns, tries to drink from her can laying down, but it dribbles from the side of her mouth, down your thigh, and you squeak, jolt at the cold.
“Shit!” You yelp, and she chokes on her drink as she laughs, and more splutters over your lap and your jacket as she struggles to sit up. “Kyoka!”
“I’m sorry!” She laughs, wipes tears from her eyes and vodka from her mouth.
“Get up, we’re going in the water.” You say, standing up, wiping at the rivulets running down your legs.
“Oh, no I’m not. It’s cold as fuck.” She frowns, swats your hands away as you try to grab her.
“Yes, you are! Come on, we’re at a beach!” You argue, stand to unzip your jacket, shrug it from your shoulders and let it fall to the towel. “Get up, Kyoka.” You’re pleading, now, hell-bent on getting in the water.
A low whistle travels through the air, just loud enough for you to hear over the music. You look around and see Mineta sitting on a towel not too far away, staring at you. He winks at you, and you bristle, your eye twitches in annoyance. But before you can chew him out, the menacing presence of your new boyfriend fills the air, and his hands are splaying over your stomach, his red eyes glaring at your pervy classmate.
“You like your eyes in their sockets, asshat?” He asks, just loud enough for Mineta to hear. He pales, swallows, and nods. “Then keep them off my girlfriend.”
It’s in that moment that you decide Bakugo’s scarier when he doesn’t swear. Its menacing, bone-chilling.
He reaches down for your jacket, kisses your lips on his way back up to standing. “Let’s get outta here.”
“But—”
“Gotta clean you up, don’t we?” He asks huskily, and there’s a glint in his eye that makes your heart stammer, sends your brain into overdrive.
“Y-yeah, we do.”
“Okay, goodbye, have fun getting freaky.” Kyoka says quickly, and you poke your tongue at her, before you’re walking away under his arm, heading towards the forest.
“Hot spring?” You ask, glancing up at him.
“If we make it there.” He grins.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You narrow your eyes playfully, and he shrugs innocently as he takes you away from the forest path. “Bakugo,” you laugh. “Where are you taking me?”
“Just here, against this tree.” He grunts, swinging you around until you’re—laughing— backed up against the trunk of a thick redwood.
“What’s that even mean—” you ask, but he drops to his knees in front of you, and your whole body goes hot. The moon shines brightly through the canopy of the trees, bathing Bakugo in a kind of angelic glow, so incredibly unlike him. How ironic. He licks his lips as his hands reach for the backs of your knees, edges his mouth closer to your sticky thighs. “N—Baku—”
“Shh,” he coos softly, dark eyes staring up at you as you dig your fingers into the bark of the tree, suck your bottom lip between your teeth. His lips ghost over one of your knees and he trails slow—painfully slow—wet kisses up your thigh, licking over the sticky residue left over from Kyoka’s drink.
You manage to keep it relatively together, until a hand goes to your hip, and he licks up so close to the apex of your thighs that you moan, and he growls, hands gripping you tighter.
“Gonna make you feel good.” He promises, voice rough and gravelly as he looks up at you, nose running up your clothed slit.
“Bakugo!” You jolt, but he doesn’t stop, replaces his nose with his lips, tongue. He pulls your hips closer to his face, tongue running along the nylon, drenching it, making it stick to your lips. Then a hand is gone from your hip, and your swimmers are pulled to the side, and his lips kiss your pussy, tongue licks a stripe up your folds, and your fingernails are digging into his scalp as your head thunks against the tree, eyes screwed shut because, “Fuck,” you breathe, gasping.
You can hear him growl, feel the vibration against your clit as he wraps his lips around the bud and sucks.
You barely muffle your cry, as pleasure runs hot through your bones and you go spineless, collapsing into his arms. He doesn’t give you much time to recover, kissing you hard, slippery tongue between your teeth coaxing more moans from you, revving you back up again.
His fingers rub you gently between your thighs, toying with the wetness. “I think we made a bigger mess.”
“Ugh, shut up.” You groan, embarrassed, and he licks his lips before capturing yours again in another hungry kiss. You’re pulled onto his lap, straddling him, and rubs you more surely, teases you with a finger. “Do it,” you urge him, breathless yet again, and he wastes no time
“So wet, baby.” He moans, jerking his hips up with his finger’s thrusts, kissing your cheek, then your neck. Your head falls back, the now familiar pleasure building as he adds another finger.
“Let me… I’ll do you, too.” You breathe heavily, grabbing at the strings of his board shorts, ripping the Velcro open.
When you finally have him in your hands, he groans against your mouth, and you pull away from him to spit on your hand, before giving him a few wet pumps and kissing him again.
“You…” you breathe, and he looks at you, slows his fingers. “Do you want to pu—”
“No,” he chuckles, uses his free hand to push the hair from your face. “Not here.”
“Are you sure, because I—” he kisses you quiet, pushes a third finger into you, and your head falls to his shoulder, whole body on edge again. “Ahh, f—feels good, Katsuki.” You breathe, and he bucks up into your hand, reminding you to do him, too.
“Say it again.” He growls, licks a stripe up your neck, nips at your ear. “My name,” he breathes.
You moan, his fingers hitting that spot again, and again, and again—“Katsu—” and you’re coming again, back arching, whole body going tight, stars spinning behind your eyes as his face nuzzles your chest.
He pulls himself out of your hand, ready to finish himself off, but you’re hungry for him already, pushing him back, taking him between your lips for the second time that day.
He’s groaning—a salty, musky mess—and it makes your head spin, gives you a power you never even dreamed you’d have. You look up at him through your lashes, see his dark eyes drinking you in. He reaches down and pulls your bikini up—breasts springing free—and gropes at your tits, closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the grass in bliss.
You grip a thigh, hold him down with a splayed hand over his chiselled abs, and take him deep once, twice, three times, before coming up for air, eyes watering. He grunts, pushes back up into you, and you do it again. His hands are in your hair, holding you down as he calls your name, and he cums hot and heavy down your throat, cock pulsating between your lips.
You swallow all of him.
“Ah, s-sorry,” he breathes heavily, sitting up to check on you, pushing your hair from your face, and holding you like you’re made of glass.
“Mmm… Hold me,” you smile blissfully, fall against his chest as he chuckles, kisses your hair. “This’d be better in a bed. We could just… fall asleep.” He hums in response, traces patterns on your back, tickling the skin.
“Do you wanna go back to the party?”
“Won't that be… suspicious?” You smile up at him. He kisses you, holds your face with both of his hands, rubs his thumbs along your cheeks.
He’s stirring it back up within you, conditioning you to want him after every deep, sensual kiss. He pulls back, breathless.
“You think I give a fuck what those extras think?” He says, tone betraying the almost grin on his face. You roll our eyes, push away from him and stand up.
“Come on, then.” You whine, fix your bikini top, then the bottoms.
“Babe, you look so good; come back down here.” He bites his bottom lip, and it’s so sexy that your eyes go wide, face blazing as you take him in: half-naked, cock out, sweaty, flushed.
“If I come back down there to you, I’m making you fuck me, so let’s just go.” You cross your arms, pick up your jacket, and turn, heading towards the fire.
“Oi, I said come back here!” He calls, fixing himself up, and following. You break into a run, and you’re laughing as he chases you, dodging trees until you’re on the beach. He’s hot on your heels, so you drop your jacket, make a sprint for the water. “Come here!” He’s yelling, but you’re still laughing as you enter the freezing water, fall against a wave.
When you come back up, he grabs you, pulls you onto his lap and kisses you gently. His hair is wet, flat against his head, and he shakes it out, attempts to fluff it back up.
“Gotcha.” He grins, and you kiss him again, bathed by moonlight, your fingernails in his hair, his hands on your back.
a/n: oh my lord, i thought this would never come to fruition! i wanna thank @kweenkatsuki @kingkatsuki @karikarasuno and especially @54prowl for keeping me sane throughout this! thank you for reading my stuff and screaming about it and helping me through writers block and just being there for me when i was at my most anxious. i adore you all so so much!
“Hell fucking no.” Katsuki laughs. Laughs at the gall, at the sheer audacity. “I don’t need this. Why the fuck would I need this?”
His publicist shares a look with the rep from The Hero Commission. “Bakugo,” she takes a breath, clenches her jaw a little. He’s known Kira for a long time, knows she honestly tries to do what’s best for him, what he needs. “You could be number one.” She states confidently. “And I’m gonna be candid here, because we’re not strangers; I’ve been with you for six long years,” she doesn’t break eye contact with him, if anything she leans into him more. “I’m frustrated. It’s goddamn frustrating watching you sit at six. Six? You’re Dynamight.”
“That’s right!” The rep all but throws his hands up in the air. “Dynamight! You always catch the bad guy! Your merch is one of our best selling lines, you always file your work correctly— and on time!” He stresses, blue eyes as big and bright as All Might’s were. “Your issue is popularity, the polls; you don’t take fan pics, you don’t sign merch—“
“That’s not the point of bein’ a fucking hero—“
“We don’t want you to change, Bakugo, that’s the whole point of this. You don’t have to become a whole different person; in fact, we don’t really expect you to do much, especially during the first few months of the project.” The Project. He wants to snort, to cross his arms and lean back in his chair, show his disinterest; but, shit, he’d be a fucking liar if he didn’t admit sitting at six didn’t drive him up the wall.
“It’ll just start with a chance meeting here, another there, just so social media can get wind of it, and rumours can spread.” Kira relaxes a little, frown lines evening out as she takes in Anderson’s excited vibes. Katsuki huffs a little, meets her eyes. “We’ve had a team working on your story for a while.”
“Story…” he tests the word in his mouth as his brows draw together. “So there’s a script?”
“We have a timeline and set meetings,” Anderson smiles, leaning back in his chair. “Some social media stories we’ll need you to post, more she has to post; but as far as a script goes… it’s more of the direction we need you to go in.”
Katsuki sighs, grabs the surprisingly heavy booklet they presented to him earlier in the meeting. GOLDFISH takes up most of the cover page in giant letters, a corny TOP SECRET stamped in red takes up the rest of it; fucking stupid, dramatic, pretentious Hero Commission shit. He flips through the pages, glosses over the words until he gets to a sub heading titled Chance Meeting One.
They’re lucky he doesn’t peg the fucking book at Anderson.
Subject A bumps into Subject B on the red carpet. Subject B stumbles, Subject A steadies them, asks if they are okay. The two share a look, then get back to business. Paparazzi in the vicinity—
“So, if I’m subject A, who’s the mysterious Subject B?” His voice is dripping in sarcasm as he tosses the book back onto the table. He’s mildly surprised— concerned, even?— when neither of them jump to tell him.
“We can’t… tell you… until you sign the contract.” Kira says quietly, the nerves he’s so accustomed to seeing, creeping back onto her face.
His scowl must deepen astronomically, because she turns to Anderson with her bottom lip between her teeth.
“You’re not the only hero suffering in the popularity polls.” Anderson shrugs, gesturing with his hands. “Kira’s just been meticulous about you getting the boost. In reality, this would be a good deal for all of the top 10 heroes.”
Katsuki feels his eye twitch.
“Shouto, for example, isn’t that great with social cues, tends to shy away from media; he’s already at three, we could get him higher.” Anderson is 100% goading him, and Katsuki knows it, but it’s working.
“Is she a hero?”
“No,” his agent says confidently. “She’s not in the business, not a part of the commission either.”
“She’s well-loved, fawned over. Attractive.” Anderson turns to Kira. “Would you say so?”
“Oh yeah, absolutely. We’d never set you up for failure, Bakugo, I can promise you that.”
“I don’t care what she looks like,” he huffs, slightly agitated. “I just don’t wanna drop in the polls.” He grumbles, glare set on Anderson. “Do they know it’s me?”
“Nope, she just knows you’re a hero.” He answers with a toothy smile.
Katsuki presses on. “Does she know I’m in top 10?”
“Her contract states it’ll be a hero in the top 50.” He shoots back, unblinking.
“Just say yes Bakugo, I promise it’ll be worth it.” Kira interjects, eyes hopeful. “And hey, you might actually really like her.”
Katsuki’s snort of laughter is loud. “Doubt it.” He grabs the book and flicks through the pages again, what’s the harm in taking it home and having a read? “Do I have to decide now?”
“Yes.” They answer together, Anderson steadfast and Kira flat.
“Really?”
“No time like the present.” The rep shrugs, the Cheshire grin on his face only growing with Katsuki’s frustration.
“You’re a real fucking ass you know that?” The hero grumbles, throwing his glare over his shoulder, pretending to be interested in the view of the setting sun from their vantage point on the 47th floor of the Hero Commission.
“The sooner you sign, the sooner we get the ball rolling.” Anderson drums the table like a fucking salesman.
And Katsuki signs the contract.
—
Katsuki still lives in the same apartment he bought when he was a rookie. Granted, back then this place was far too good for him, with its timber floorboards, prime location, and it’s five burner stainless steel natural gas cooktop. The previous owner was selling to move abroad; a retired chef who allowed Katsuki a walkthrough of the place as a ‘favour’ to one of Aizawa’s friends.
She—the chef— must’ve seen something in Katsuki when his eyes roamed the sparkling appliances, the range hood, the dishwasher, the fridge, because she accepted his offer, and he’d moved in the next week. It wasn’t until Eijirou had mentioned a couple months into living there, that his bathroom tiles were pink, that Katsuki had even noticed; that’s just how smitten he was with that fucking kitchen.
Now, years later, he feels shitty looking at his commercial grade kitchen.
When was the last time he cooked? Shit, the only time he even uses his kitchen is when he makes himself an instant coffee before work, or reheats takeout from the night before. He’s so busy at TDA, so busy bagging baddies and fighting crime and filing fucking paperwork that he’s gotta eat and run, with the shitty haired idiot eating into his days off with god damned babysitting duties at his place.
Katsuki sinks into the worn leather of his camel coloured couch, A4 envelope in his hand. He should open it, should find out who exactly this mystery girl is, should prepare. Instead, he sighs, tosses the crisp wad of paper onto the seat next to him, runs a hand down his face.
If even one person finds out he’s doing this, he’s over.
“Fuck,” he mutters, hands drawing down his face, crimson staring into the white of his ceiling, the elaborate cornices joining the muted grey of his walls. Bare walls.
The chef had paintings on the walls, heavy velvet curtains over the windows, colourful rugs, buffets covered in photos, house plants, and so much furniture. But Katsuki— young and pretentious— didn’t get that. He liked how huge the apartment seemed without it all, how high the ceilings felt, how large the rooms were.
Now, as much as he’s loathe to admit it, it feels kinda lonely.
But, he’ll do what he usually does when that nagging emptiness nips at his ankles, when he’s alone and actually feeling it: he’ll head to TDA. He’ll get to work, ignore Deku and that half and half bastard when they tell him they’ve got everything covered, ignore sparky when he teases him about not having a life, ignore pink cheeks when she reminds him for the millionth time he’s not getting paid overtime.
With a heaved sigh, he sits forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. That envelope glares at him from the other side of the two seater lounge, sitting there as if it’s some kind of placeholder, as if the girl herself is going to materialise next to him if he dares to open it.
He doesn’t open it.
—
TDA—The Deku Agency (yeah, stupid fucking name)— is lively in the afternoons. Heroes and rookies mingle with civvies in the foyer, sitting at cozy little tables and ordering overpriced drinks and cakes from the café Deku had installed in the far corner of the lobby in a bid to improve relations between them. The Commission loved it.
Katsuki uses the back door.
He takes the maintenance elevator up to the office floor and wordlessly finds his desk, revels in the pssssssht as he sinks into the bright orange, high-backed ergolux. It’s comfy for an office chair, just the right amount of worn in, without the irritation of squeaky screws his old chair had.
“Don’t you have today off?” Icyhot’s glare is blank, cold soba (probably) noodles suspended between the chopsticks held at lip level.
“None’a your business, half ‘n’ half.” Katsuki glares back heatedly, spinning in his chair to face his monitor. It, too, is… orange. Just like Deku’s is broccoli green, and round cheeks’ is pink, and fucking half ‘n’ half’s is… half red, half icy blue. According to Deku, some computer company brought out a whole range of hero inspired computers in a collab with the Commission and he just had to get one for everyone; with matching chairs.
The colours throw off the serenity the floor could have, with its glossy white floors, floor to ceiling windows, the greenery delicately placed around the space. But, that’s Deku and Pink Cheeks to a tee, and the icyhot asshole just goes along with whatever half-baked plan the two of them conspire.
“Was it expensive?” Todoroki presses, those eyes still staring holes into Katsuki.
“Haah?” He knows he shouldn’t rise to the bait, but he’s tense as it is, so that red glare of his is burning through Shouto in an instant.
“The fine? Property damage, Uraraka thinks, but my money’s on defamation?” He says it with such disinterest, that it almost takes Katsuki off guard.
“It was a meeting, dipshit; about my career. I don’t have any outstanding fines.” He almost snarls, irritation a growling monster in his gut. “Asshole.” He adds, filing away Ochako’s involvement in the back of his mind. He’ll call her out for it later; she’s always the one putting ridiculous ideas in that two-toned space cadet’s head.
“Ah, sorry.” He hears him mumble back, followed by a loud slurp that makes Katsuki’s left eye twitch.
“You should be.” The blonde huffs, irritation mounting at the lack of sincerity in his voice. “Who the hell did you think was suing me?”
“Hm? Didn’t you badmouth Grand on Twitter last week?”
Katsuki actually laughs. “If that asshole wants to go to battle, he’ll need to be ready for fucking war.”
“What was the meeting about, then? Your public image? Are they mad at you?”
Yes and no.
“You’re awfully chatty today.”
“Well, I’m having a meeting next week,” Shouto admits, piquing Katsuki’s interest; he swivels in his chair, watches his friend as he plays with his noodles absentmindedly. “Just… Don’t know what to expect.”
“Oh.” Is all Katsuki can really say. He vaguely remembers Shouto mentioning something about almost slipping in the polls, and although he’s higher than Katsuki, he bets his own agent’s been getting a beat down from the Commission. While they don’t really care who sits at number one, they do care when merch sales drop and social media interaction is low.
“I just hate… all of that extra stuff. All of the unnecessary competition that comes along with this job. Reminds me of… Father.” As if sensing he’s stepped a foot wrong (for once in his life), Shouto mumbles a sorry and turns back towards his computer screen.
Normally, a mention of Shouto’s father leaves a bittersweet taste in Katsuki’s mouth, has him turning cheek to cheer his friend up in his own asshole-y way… but guilt nips at his heels. Guilt that his contract might actually have him surpassing Shouto with a leg-up Katsuki doesn’t technically need. Katsuki isn’t Shouto; he’s a prick on purpose, not out of childhood trauma-induced ignorance. Katsuki knows that the things he says and his shitty actions have god damned consequences.
Todoroki’s just a little weird.
Fuck, another reason to feel shitty about signing that fucking contract.
After a few moments, Shouto’s slurping starts again, giving Katsuki the green light to get his head out of his ass. He turns back to his own computer, taps the space bar a few times to wake it up, and logs into the portal.
Time to catch up on some incident reports.
—
The Kirishima Household is lovely. Pro Hero Red Riot bought a place out in the ‘burbs when he got married, a semi-renovated two-storey place with a yard. It’s hard to find a place with a yard so close to the city, especially on rookie hero wages. The place has three bedrooms upstairs, with the living and dining, kitchen, and bath and toilet downstairs; Eijirou’s been trying to convince Katsuki to claim the third bedroom as his, even bought him an alarm clock and an All Might sheet set for the bed, but Katsuki chronically takes the couch.
When he comes over the night before the Gala to watch Akari, the father-daughter duo are playing MarioKart. Katsuki shakes his head at them— concealing his grin— and takes his groceries to the kitchen, set on making dinner for the two of them before Ei has to head off to work.
He must be thinking too hard, the anxiety of the Gala etched on his face, because Eijirou is hovering.
The red head’s also giving him the look.
Between serving his little girl dinner— which Katsuki assured him, he could do— getting his shit together for his shift, and making small talk with Katsuki, he keeps staring. It’s the goading look; the one that says: hey man, I know something’s wrong, but you’re just gonna say nothin’ if I ask, so I’m gonna need you to tell me.
Katsuki’s not gonna tell him.
He can’t.
What, just come out with a: yeah, I actually accepted an offer from the Commission to fake date someone in order for my public perception to improve, so I’ll climb the popularity polls. No chance in hell; not even if the place froze over.
Sure, if anyone were to understand, it’d probably be Eijirou. Either him, Deku, or Shouto, but… he just can’t. Especially with Red Riot sitting at number 8.
Katsuki has to usher him out the door at 6pm, has to pretend he’s fine, and that nothing’s bothering him; he even tries to give Ei a reassuring smile as he hops on his motorbike, but thinking back on that moment, it probably only worsens his perception of Katsuki. Since when does he smile and wave him off to work?
Shit.
He settles onto the sofa next to Ei’s mini me after tidying the kitchen and tossing a load of laundry in the wash. A replay of the morning news should relax him a little, should take his mind off this stupid Gala, the stupid red carpet, the stupid fucking contractual dating.
The news anchors are achingly boring, droning on about the finance sector, the stock market; Deku’s into all that shit, pulled Katsuki into investing almost a decade ago. The idiot even told Katsuki not to waste his first hero pay check on stupid stuff… then went ahead and bought some 160,000Y All Might figure that looked achingly out of place on his coffee table in his tiny loft studio apartment.
Then he’s on the news, a flash of blonde and green and orange flying through the sky. He’d apprehended a villain last night, and the news loves reporting on all of the property damage that usually comes along with Katsuki’s quirk; he’s gotten so good at holding back, but since signing the contract, he knows he’s been acting a little more recklessly. And of course, snakey fucking journalists have to jump on that. Reminds him how much he fucking hates the news.
At least the weather girl’s cute.
“Uncle Kats? You okay?” Akari blinks, looking up from her iPad. She’s the spit out of her father’s mouth with those big red eyes and inky black hair, not to mention how much she loves Katsuki. Must run in the Kirishima genes.
“Why d’ya ask, kiddo?”
“I knew it,” she sighs, pulling her feet underneath her as she locks her iPad. “Dad’s got another girlfriend, doesn’t he? You always get weird like this when he’s seeing someone.”
Katsuki snorts laughter. “Always? Your dad has dated two people since you’ve been alive.”
“You’re acting weird!” She argues, arms gesturing wildly.
“You’re ten, you have no idea what weird even is.” He brushes her off, hoping to relive her of her street, but unable to do it nicely. He doesn’t really do nice.
“Dad was staring at you funny, and you were being weird.” She scrunches her little nose up at him, and Katsuki knows he’s not getting out of this conversation without putting a little bit of work in.
“Your dad stares at me funny all the time, squirt; you should’ve seen him when we were in high school.”
“He looked worried.” Akari frowns, because it is strange when Ei’s not being carefree.
Still, he’s gonna pretend he didn’t notice. “Did he?”
“Yeah and you did too!” She accuses, voice rising, annoyed. “Like, right up until now”
“So, because we both look worried, your dad’s dating again.” Its not a question, it’s her conclusion.
“Yeah, because he’s worried you’ll tell me, and you’re worried you have to keep it a secret. You don’t, by the way, I’m double digits now, so you can trust me with your secrets, I promise, Uncle Kats.” She bats those lashes at him, eyes shining with what he can only call mirth. The one thing she seemed to pick up from Katsuki after all these years babysitting.
He sighs, midway between impressed at her reasoning skills, and bummed that he can’t give her the answers she’s looking for. Still, he lets out a low whistle. “Double digits, huh? Sounds like you’re too old to hang out with Uncle Kats at the parlour.”
Seems like redirection still works for pre-teens, because her ruby reds light up like it’s Christmas. “You said you’re too famous to go out in public!”
“Are you arguing with ice cream, squirt?” He fakes a glower, sends her a little glare that can only be taken as playful.
“No way!” She bounces from the couch and practically runs to the landing. “I’m just gonna put my coat and shoes on!” She calls, talking way too fast. But then her little face pokes back around the corner, brows furrowed. “No take-backs.” She glares, wary.
He sighs, rubs a huge scarred hand over his too tired face. “No take backs.” He shrugs, shaking his head.
Akari seems content to leave his sight after that, her fast footfalls trekking up the stairs, her bedroom door slamming open. Meanwhile, he sinks a little into the sofa, annoyed with himself; mostly for acting so obviously emotional in front of a child, but also for promising her ice cream.
Looks like a beanie, face mask, and sunglasses type of night.
—
Eijirou rolls up the driveway a long thirteen hours after he left.
Katsuki’s made Eijirou a decaf tea— he’s gotta sleep today, and all that— and he’s stirring his coffee with a teaspoon as he leans against the countertop in the kitchen, eyes on the front door in anticipation. He needs to talk to him, needs to reassure his best friend that he’s okay, that there’s not really anything wrong.
Tell him what’s going on without explicitly telling him what’s going on.
“Daddy’s home!” He calls, bursting into the house with far too much energy for coming off an overnight shift.
“Dude, she’s asleep.”
“What?” His face falls, eyes darting around the kitchen like Katsuki’s telling lies. “It’s seven am, she’s got school this morning.” He grows more panicked by the second. “The bus gets here at seven-fifty—“
“Eiji, c’mon, all she’s gotta do is get up, get dressed, and eat breakfast.” Katsuki grumbles, rolling his eyes.
“How are you letting her sleep in? I knew it, something’s wrong. You were acting so weird last night, but this is… this is worse.” He dumps his work bag at his feet, puts his hands on his hips and gives him those god damn puppy eyes that are generally reserved for begging Katsuki to go somewhere with him. “You’re harder on her schedule than I am, Katsuki.”
Katsuki sighs, steps over to rinse his teaspoon in the sink. “I took her out for ice cream last night, and we stayed out past her bedtime, so I told her I’d let her sleep in until seven-thirty.” He picks up Eijirou’s tea, hold it out for him to take. “I’m fine, really, it’s just a work thing.”
Eijirou accepts the mug, takes a few steps to sit at his four-seater dining table. “A work thing you can’t tell your best bud about.”
“It’s—“ Katsuki hesitates, taking his coffee with him to joint Eijirou at the table. “The Hero Gala is coming up, and Kira is making me go. You know how I hate doing publicity shit.” Not a lie. It’s true, he has to go to the pretentious fucking Hero Gala, and he hates all that stupid shit, and, yeah maybe there’s something else going on at the Gala, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he doesn’t wanna go.
Eiji’s mouth hangs open. “That’s it?”
“Hah?” Katsuki glares.
“You’re freaking out about the Gala?”
“Do you blame me?”
“No, I— geez, Kats, I actually thought there was something eating at your soul. You looked like you made a deal with a crossroads demon or something.” He shakes his head of whatever thoughts he’s been having and lets out a laugh, takes a sip of his tea.
Eijirou has no idea just how on the money he actually is.
“Nah, I just don’t know what to wear, how to act. You know how I can get with camera flashes.” He sighs, remembering the last press release he went to— all of the cameras and loud noises, and… fuck, it’s uncomfortable, and reminds him of being out in battle. Maybe he actually needs to get onto someone about PTSD like shitty Deku keeps suggesting.
Eijirou lets out a breath, the weight falling off his shoulders. “Well, you’ve always looked good in red; brings out your eyes.”
Katsuki chuckles then. “You’re a biased little shit, Ei.”
“I know.”
—
The Gala is everything Katsuki expects it to be: loud, crowded, and brightly lit. Paparazzi and fans line the streets for blocks leading to the venue, and it makes his nose twitch. He’s not the best with his public image, but tonight he has to at least try. Has to put in some goddamn effort.
Not only for himself, but for TDA, for his… to be girlfriend.
God, it even sounds fucking stupid in his head.
He drove himself, the plan to pull up in the valet cue and open the envelope, prepare then. In hindsight it’s pretty last minute, but knowing a name threatened over overthinking on his part. He’s never really been known for his level head, and in that respect, he’s his worst enemy.
He’d argued with Kira a couple of days ago about a pre-meeting meeting, something to ease his anxiety, somewhere for him to meet this woman and form some kind of fool-proof game plan; but he was shot down.
What if a pap sees them entering the same building before they even meet?
That’ll ruin the meet-cute for the fans, destroy everything the commission worked hard to create. Which is fair, honestly; she’d asked him if he read the plan, reminded him that until they can’t even have phone contact until the third meet just in case anyone catches wind of anything.
Stupid Commission and their goddamn paranoia.
So as Katsuki sits in the cue, venue a beacon of light a couple a blocks away, he opens the centre console of Maserati Gran Turismo and pulls out the envelope, unrolls it and flattens it against his thighs. This is it, no time to mull over the results, because as he idles, the cue slowly rolls forward, bringing him closer to the Gala by the minute.
As calloused fingers carefully pull at the tab, his mind races. He thinks about just how long he’s waited for this moment, how on edge he’s been since he scribbled his signature at the bottom of that contract. As much as he’s loathe to admit it, he needs to do a good job with this, needs to put in the effort, needs to milk it for all its worth.
For some reason, he thinks back to Shouto sitting in his office chair, clearly worried about his own standings in the ranks, looking sorry as hell. He wonders how Shouto’d feel if Anderson were sitting across from him at the table, offering him help he doesn’t quite need, giving him an opportunity he might not be fit to take.
But, shit, that worrying? It’s so unnecessary. Icyhot might not have even wanted to sign the fucking contract. Sometimes Katsuki doesn’t give him the credit he deserves.
He tugs the paper from the envelope and scans the page.
Your name sits there in bold block letters.
But he has no idea who the fuck you are.
Kira’s got his phone and wallet in her bag so he can comfortably walk the carpet, so he can’t even Google who the hell you are. He says your name over and over in his brain, trying to light up electrodes, trying to think of anything that could bring a face to your name.
“Fuck,” he hisses, reading the name again, skimming through the document. There’s nothing there about you, no occupation, no bio, no nothing. “Fuck.” He growls, glancing up to see the venue way closer than he anticipated.
It’s fine. It’s fine because no other person would even think about bumping into Dynamight, not even on accident. This woman is going to knock into him, he’s going to steady her, not glare at her, and then it’ll be over. He can do this.
It’s going to be fine.
By the time he realises he’s shaking his leg, he’s the fourth car in the cue. He remembers the wise words of wisdom Ei shot him as he left his house that morning: you’re gonna look good, bro; just don’t blow anyone up.
He checks his hair in the rear view mirror, makes sure the lapel of his deep, deep red suit jacket is laying nicely against the matte black if his dress shirt, that his black silken tie is sitting centre. He didn’t wanna wear red, but Kira agreed with Ei, insisted it brought out the ruby of his eyes, and would make it easier for the girl to spot him.
For you to spot him.
Fuck, he’s next.
When the limo in front of him drives away, he rolls up until he’s gestured to stop, puts the car in park and presses the handbrake on. At least the anxiety of meeting you and following this script is taking his mind off how much he hates red carpets.
Oh, great, he’s gonna blend into the fucking flooring.
“Dynamight, big fan,” the valet— tall, lanky, cat-like— opens his door, gestures widely for him to exit the car.
“Hey, thanks,” Katsuki nods, points to the button to the left of the steering wheel. “Handbrake’s on; don’t drop the clutch too fast or you’ll stall her.” He explains as he slides out of the seat, stands tall to meet the valet’s eyes. He’s still a couple of inches taller.
“I will be very gentle with her, I promise.” He grins, holding a ticket out for Katsuki as he shoves his hands into his pants pockets, lifts his chin as if assessing the slightly shorter man.
Then— deeming his valet adequate— Katsuki takes the ticket, slides it into his pocket, and nods him a good night.
When Katsuki turns towards the golden— not red, thank god— carpet, it’s as if someone’s just unmuted the television; it’s suddenly way too loud, his name being screamed from all angles, camera flashes blinding him, people crowding him. He’s ushered to the first little black X taped to the carpet by a busy little woman in a black suit, is briefly told to pause and pose for pics, before she hurries off in a blur.
He straightens a little, softens the agitation on his face a bit, but doesn’t smile. Why the hell would he? The paps are all desperately calling a mixture of his last name and his hero name, shouting at him like he’s some kind of prized pony, and he hates it. He hates the showboating, loathes the OTT smiling.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Kira, her dress a tight purple bodice with a midi length circle skirt; she’s got a headset on, just like the other PA’s and Gala staff, and a black satchel bag slung across her torso. She beams when their eyes meet, but gestures for him to keep posing, uses her pointer fingers to elongate the smile on her own face, then loudly mouths smile.
The audacity of her has a smirk sliding onto his face, and he glances at the paps for a bit, before heading towards her.
“You look good!” She beams, dusting absolutely nothing from his shoulders and looking up at him like a proud mama. “Are you ready?” She leans up to ask him, voice more muted than before.
“Yeah, I just—“ he glances around, leans down to her ear. “I don’t know who she is.”
“Huh? Really?” Kira’s eyes almost bug our of her head. “What do you mean?”
“Shit, I—“
“Bakugo Katsuki willingly participating in a photo op? I think my depression is cured.” Katsuki would know that low drawl anywhere, his gut instinct affirmed when he’s met with lazy lavender eyes, and a just as lazy smirk.
“Shinsou?” Katsuki’s eyes widen. Last he heard about mindfreak, he was working the underground, so seeing him here is kind of throwing him off.
“Nice threads; when did hell freeze over?” Shinsou’s purple hair is in a messy bun, showing off a faded undercut, his suit pirate-esque with a too-open white shirt, brown suspenders and matching brown slacks.
“Funny. Who are you here with?” Katsuki snips, looking around for a possible date.
“What, am I not famous enough to work the golden carpet?” He snips in return. “You caught me, I’m here with Denks.” Then he nods behind him, at Kaminari who’s looking in his element in fucking sequins.
It brings a grin to Katsuki’s face, and he holds out his hand for Shinsou to shake. “Good to see you either way.”
“Bakugo,” Kira tugs his jacket sleeve, eyes wide as she nods for him to keep moving. “We gotta get inside.”
“Oh, sorry dude; I know how this makes you antsy.” Shinsou watches him exchange a look with Kira, takes his hand and gives it a shake.
“See you in there?” Katsuki nods.
“Bet.” Shinsou grins, dropping his hand, sauntering off towards Denki.
“You don’t know who she is? So what, you’re just gonna look clunky and hyperaware of every woman coming within a foot of you on a busy red carpet?” Kira is hissing at him as she directs him towards where semi-retired Mt Lady is having an interview with a reporter. “Did you not open the envelope?”
“I did, I just don’t know who the fuck she is, sue me.” Katsuki snips at her, just as annoyed with himself as she is.
“Oh, if this gets out, you’ll be getting sued Bakugo, don’t you worry.” She shakes her head, and points to the X’s plastered in a zig-zag all the way up to the entrance of the building. “Make your way up, hit each black X. Don’t worry about the white or the red, just hit the black ones.”
“There’s like eleven of them.”
“I’ll meet you inside,” she smiles without her eyes. “Don’t overthink it, and be fucking nice.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Go.”
He heads towards the first X when Denki moves on, a pretty reporter in white standing there with a crew and a smartphone wave him over.
“Dynamight!” She tucks a lock of pink hair behind her ear, bounces excitedly in place on the tallest pair of stilettos Katsuki has ever seen.
For all intents and purposes, this could be her. His heart absolutely hammers in his chest and he’s not entirely sure if he’s nervous because he hates the media, or if he’s about to meet the woman he’s gotta ‘fall in love’ with.
“Good to see you, number six! How’s things?” She asks into the bottom of her phone, before holding it out to him.
“Evening,” he greets. “It’s… loud here.” He makes a point to soften his scowl, looks at all of the fans and other people on the other side of the barricade. Be fucking nice, she said. Be fucking nice.
They absolutely roar.
“I don’t think your fans are used to seeing you like this. Who dressed you tonight?” She eyes him up and down, looks like she wants to touch him, but thinks better of it.
“I dressed myself, actually.” He says with a bit of bravado, that shit eating grin splitting his face as he tucks his thumbs under the lapels of his jacket and runs them down.
She laughs, a full-bodied thing that catches Katsuki off guard, has him looking awkwardly between her and the cameraman. “No, I mean who designed what you’re wearing?”
He doesn’t know. And he can’t be rude to this girl just in case she’s her; there’s a split second of internal struggle within him before she interrupts his chain of thought.
“You don’t know, do you Dynamight?”
“Am I gonna get in trouble from my agent if I don’t?” He looks behind himself, through the crowd for the purple dress, but it’s nowhere to be seen.
“No! No way! Just tweet it later!” She laughs, patting him lightly on his upper arm.
He laughs, almost bitterly. “Right, twitter, sure.” He suppresses an eye roll, lifts his hand to wave at the crowd, the camera, then her. “Enjoy your night.”
“We love you, Dynamight!” She cheers, setting the fans off again, the noise absolutely deafening him; and he’s used to loud, used to explosive. But not like this. At least when he’s detonating, he’s full of adrenaline, not fucking nerves.
The second, third, and fourth X interviews are all more of the same; more questions about his look, about how he’s unusually chatty, about how he actually showed up. It’s hard to be fucking nice, but it does take his mind off the reason he decided to show up tonight.
Until someone’s knocking into him, and he’s instinctively wrapping an arm around their waist to stop them from falling flat on their ass. There’s a collective gasp in the immediate vicinity, but all Katsuki can see is you. You in your shimmery peach gown, eyes bright and wide, face flushed and lips parted in awe.
And he recognises you immediately; sees you almost every morning when he’s got an office shift, sometimes even nights. Ochako’s a stickler for the news, watches the same channel every day like clockwork to keep an eye on the stock market when Deku can’t; and he’s always liked the addition of you, keeps an ear out for your sing-song voice under the guise of needing to know what kind of sky he’s gonna be flinging his body into if he has to fight that day.
“Weather girl?” He breathes, finally putting a face to the name.
You just kinda gawk at him, a special kind of shock that he can only describe as wonder.
“D-Dynamight? Can you help me up?” You blink, not quite knowing what to do with your hands while he has you suspended mid-fall.
As if breaking his trance, he curses a quick, “oh, shit,” before helping you back to your feet.
“Thanks,” you smile a little awkwardly. “And sorry. For, you know, knocking into you.”
“No, uh, harm done.” He mutters back, all of the bravado he’s built up over the course of the carpet walk going down the drain as he watches you worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “You okay?”
You process his question without breaking eye contact with him, then you nod once, real slow. “Yeah,” you say, smile growing on your face. “Yeah, I think I am. Nice to meet you.”
He can’t help but mirror your smile. “Likewise.”
—
There’s a photo and an accompanying video going ‘viral’ when Katsuki wakes up in the morning. He knows this because not one, not two, not three, but seven different people send him links to varying posts, with people going a little nutso over his little meeting with you.
Kira’s happy too; she was all smiles for the rest of the night, texting on her phone, disappearing to relay things with Anderson before giving Katsuki his personal items back out of her satchel, and knocking off for the night. He didn’t plan to stay, but he did; had a few bourbons and hung out with Shinsou and Denki and their little gang until daybreak.
Shinsou’s sent him a few messages— he’s a double texter— and Katsuki touches base with him before delving into the world of social media, just to see how successful Meeting One was.
He’s fucking trending.
As much as he’s loathe to search his hashtag, he clicks into it; he scrolls through candid and posed photos of him in his red and black ensemble, people’s text posts commenting on how they would let him “eat them alive” among other—more intense—things, and pictures of you.
He looks at those the longest, studies the lines and curves of your face, compares how you look when you’re at ease versus when you smile brightly. You’re pretty in a… normal way. He’s kinda blown away that they didn’t pick some overly glamorous pop idol, that they found someone that’s practically his type.
Fuck, it makes him a gross type of nervous, though. The way that he’s not going to hate this makes it worse and better, and he’s conflicted because this might not be as bad as he anticipated, and he’s not sure if he likes that or not.
His social media deep dive takes him to your page, and he lays in his bed for what feels like hours scrolling through your content. You’re the weather girl for the nation’s most watched breakfast program, Good Morning Japan, and you’re clearly the show’s sweetheart. There’s photos of you with fluffy animals, on boats, at the beach, with celebrities. Katsuki feels like a dunce for not knowing your name when he read it on the paper.
One of the top posts in your hashtag is a photo of you in a bikini and a sarong, feet ankle deep in the shallow waters of Furuzamami Beach.
Fuck, you’re hot.
He throws his phone towards the end of the bed and begins his morning routine; Deku’s given him the office shift this week, and he intends to make the most out of it.
—
“Hey,” Katsuki pants, breathless.
“Katsuki, bro, the weather girl from channel 5?” Eijirou’s voice is smug as all as it rings through his AirPods. “She’s cute!”
“Eijirou, I will hang up on you.” He threatens, taking the museum stairs two at a time. He’s on his afternoon run through the city, pushing himself a little further than usual because of… reasons. The best part about being on office shift, is he finishes his shift as soon as paperwork is caught up on. And Katsuki is efficient as fuck.
“Akari keeps asking me when you’re over next, by the way. She said that you promised to take her to the parlour again.”
“Oh.” Yeah he did do that. Had her pretend she was feeling sick so he could slip from the grasp of some fans.
“Yeah, you’re bribing my daughter with ice cream again, aren’t you?”
“When’s your next overnighter?”
“Oh, I’m on days for the month,” he sighs, content on the other end of the line. “Tamaki’s taking my nights so I can spend more time with Aki; I’ve also got tomorrow off for the Maru’s anniversary visit.”
“That’s… nice of him.” Ah, yeah, it's the anniversary tomorrow; Eijirou’s taking it a little easier with each passing year, but the death of his wife is a painful cross to bear.
“Yeah I know, he’s a good guy. Anyways, just wanted to know if you wanted company tonight? I’m making breakfast for dinner.”
“Oh, your favourite.”
“Yeah, can’t go past it, am I right?”
“I’ll come around for a bit, but I’ve got a big day tomorrow, so I can’t sleep over.” By big day, he means he’s meeting you again, and he needs the night to himself to overthink the whole thing.
“You got a whole room there, though.”
“Ei, as much as I love you and Aki, I love my bed more.”
“Okay, that’s fair.” There's some shuffling on his end, paperwork probably, then he perks back up. “How long have you been feeding me decaf tea?”
“What?”
“I have decaf tea in my cupboard at home.”
“Ei, I give you decaf every time.”
“Oh.”
“See you tonight; do you need me to bring anything?”
“Nah, I’m all organised.”
There’s a pause where Katsuki contemplates bringing up the anniversary, but thinks better of it. “Be over around six.”
—
He’s not all organised.
If Katsuki could pretend to be surprised, he would, but, “You forgot the eggs? For breakfast for dinner? No eggs?”
“Dude, don’t do this, Akari’s already given me shit for it.”
“It’s fine,” Katsuki suppresses a grin. “I’ll run down and get some. Aki, want anything from the corner store?”
“Chocolate milk!” She yells from her room upstairs.
“Hey, get beers, too.” Eijirou says offhandedly.
This makes Katsuki pause. “Ei.”
“Kats.” He says in response, not meeting his gaze.
“Ugh, fine.” He grunts, sliding his shoes back on and toying with the black facemask in his pocket. “You can thank Maru for my leniency.” He says, glare hot on his friend. Eijirou just grins back as he fixes his stupid ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron behind his back, and Katsuki pulls on his beanie and mask, setting out for the walk.
He knows he wants to settle down a little further from the city. Ideally, even further than this. Sure, it’s a quiet neighbourhood, safe, where the houses have yards, and there’s grass, and trees, but… Katsuki needs more space. Privacy.
His relationship with the spotlight is rocky at best, and there’s this nagging in the back of Katsuki’s brain that warns him off all of this social media shit, the trending, the paparazzi, the overzealous fans.
The bell jingles as he enters the corner shop; it’s later than rush hour, but earlier than the typical teenaged late night snack visit, so the place is quiet.
He grabs the eggs from the shelf and heads down the aisle to the fridges, set on pulling the door open and grabbing a six pack of Sapporos.
“Oh!” A woman gasps, about to grab the handle as he reaches for it. “Sorry!” Her apology slips from her lips, and he feels his face flush a little under his mask.
It’s his fault, he’s been in his own head all afternoon. “No, I—”
It’s you.
You seem to make the realisation just as he does, your eyes widening and a gasp leaving your lips. And you both stare, his own eyes glued yours as if he were stuck in some kind of trance, as if you had him under some kind of spell.
You blink first, and he forces himself to look away for a second, so he can catch his bearings.
“I’m sorry Bakugo, I wasn’t paying attention.” You’re wearing a facemask as well, but your smile pushes your cheeks up to crinkle your eyes.
“Nah, neither was I,” he admits. “You live around here?”
“Me? No, I’m cat-sitting for a friend.” You laugh. “Gosh, this is surreal, isn’t it? Imagine running into you here of all places.”
“Yeah, both of us buying beers,” he does his best to joke— which sounds fucking stupid, by the way— but you laugh a little more, glance around the shop before leaning closer to him.
“Feels like we shouldn’t be talking yet, doesn’t it?” Your eyes almost sparkle under the harsh fluorescent lighting, and he can’t help but stare. “I just wanna say thanks, though— for catching me at the Gala. I wasn’t going to trip so hard, but you were standing there like some grumpy Adonis, and I—” you lean up to whisper in his ear. “I got nervous and actually tripped.”
“Lucky I got good reflexes, huh?” He quips back, suddenly feeling super nervous— which is weird as hell.
“The best— Oh, I better let you get back to your night.” You take a step back, open the door and grab a bottle of wine, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor when you crouch down to grab a 6-pack of beers. “These ones?”
He nods, points to the pink knee-length rain boots you’re wearing. “They’re cute,” he can’t help but snicker. “All part of the weather girl uniform, I guess?”
You hand him the beers with a laugh as you stand. “I happen to think they suit me,” you say in defence, pointing and tapping a toe dramatically.
“You’d be right,” he says a little too gently, clearing his throat when you look up at him with surprise through your lashes. “I, uh,” he starts, those damn nerves not going away. “See you around.”
“Y-yeah, sure.” You nod. “I’m gonna check out the ice cream, bye!” Then in a flash of tan coat and pink boots, you’re heading back towards the frozen section, and he’s shaking his head, eggs in one hand and beers in the other.
He tries not to stare too much, tries not to dwell on the lightness of his heart, or how god damn likeable you are. Instead he hastily grabs a chocolate milk, heads to the checkout, pays for the goods, and leaves.
—
There’s an undercurrent of sorrow that he can feel Eijirou trying to push down all evening. It doesn’t quite seep into Akari— she was only a baby when her mum passed— but Eiji’s frayed edges scratch at Katsuki, and deep into the night they’re both tipsy, sitting on the back porch nursing beers after Akari heads to bed.
They don’t need to talk— far past silence being uncomfortable— but when Eijirou’s shoulders start to shake, Katsuki wraps an arm around him, pulls his head to his chest, and lets him sob.
He stays on the couch, still not ready to christen those All Might bedsheets.
—
The second “official” meeting is supposed to happen while he’s on duty. He read through the file this time, so he’s prepared; maybe even a little… over prepared.
It’s morning, and you’re supposed to be at a certain famous bakery, sampling the goods in an advertising bid between the cafe and your work; weather on location, or something ridiculous. Then, he’s supposed to enter, and he’s supposed to look at you like ‘oh, you’re from the Gala’, and you’re supposed to look at him the same way.
The Commission didn’t account for Katsuki running into an actual villain.
He wipes his bloodied nose on the back of his glove, watches as Iida drives the crook away in the back of a paddy wagon, then pulls his other glove off with his teeth to look at his watch.
9:15am. The meeting was scheduled for 8:10am.
“All good, Dynamight?” One of the EMT’s waves him over and he inwardly groans.
“It’s just my nose, I’m fine.” He insists, swatting the little green man away.
“Just let me do a couple of observations, dude, it’ll take two minutes.” His pink eyes narrow up at Katsuki, and the grumpy blonde gives in, following him over to a bench and sitting down, letting him work his paramedic magic on him.
His phone vibrates in the pocket of his tac pants, and his watch tells him it’s Kira. He taps a few buttons on his watch, connects it effortlessly to the earpiece in his left ear. “Hey,”
“Bakugo, what happened? Anderson is pissed.” She hisses through the earpiece.
“I am currently with…” He glances down at the short man crouching around his med-pack, reads his name badge. “Midori— Really? Your name is the colour of your skin?”
“Bakugo.” Kira presses.
“That’s my Japanese name, my real name’s Timothy.” Midori sasses back, pink glare venomous.
“Timothy, huh?” Katsuki tests the name on his tongue, gauges Midori’s reaction to the pronunciation; the other man seems to soften a little.
“Bakugo.”
“Just use Timothy—“
“Bakugo, focus!” Kira borderline barks in his ear.
“Right, yeah, sorry, I’m here.” Katsuki sighs, looking up at the puffy white- grey clouds overhead.
“We have to reschedule for tomorrow,” Kira sighs, probably doing that thing where she pushes her glasses up and pinches the bridge of her nose. “She’s heading to the coast, though, so you’re gonna have to—“
Kira wants him to what?
His semi-sunny disposition sours. “I can’t do that.”
“Bakugo.”
“Kira,” he starts, feeling his blood pressure rise along with the octave of his voice. He glances down at Mido—Timothy, tries to control his volume. “I’m on patrol shifts this week, I can’t do that.”
He can’t let Izuku or Shouto or Ochako down. That, and he can’t think of a good excuse to be heading to the coast.
“No, you’re right. It’d be better if she could meet you halfway or something.” Kira sighs, conceding a little.
He drops his chin, focuses that glare of his at the pavement next to Timothy. “Not half way—”
“Oh, ouch, are you okay?” Pink rain boots step into his vision, and when he looks up, you’re smiling down at him. He just… stares stupidly up at you, feels something warm and wet drip over his lip as your eyes widen. “You’re bleeding, Bakugo.”
“Shit,” he turns away from you, swipes at the wetness of his upper lip, knowing he’s probably just spreading it.
“Here,” you gently bully his hand away from his face, dab at him with something damp and smelling of coconut. It takes a moment for him to register that you’re sitting next to him, wiping at him like a nurse while the god damn EMT is kneeling at his feet, and Kira is screaming for his attention in his ear.
Without even thinking, he ends that call, silences his earphones on his smartwatch.
“You’ve got your work boots on,” he starts, wary. “You on the clock?”
“Oh, I had a thing a few blocks away, and heard my new favourite hero apprehended some bad guy in the same district.” Your focus isn’t on him, you’re in your handbag, fussing around with wet wipes and a little plastic bag and a handkerchief.
“So, you came for a walk?” He asks, staring. Staring because seeing you on social media is vastly different to seeing you in person, and so close. He could count your lashes, could reach out and test the softness of your skin, your glossy lips—
“Yep.” You grin, looking up and meeting his eyes.
It’s a spark— the same one from the corner store— and it pulls deep in his chest, your beauty and charm and the peace you bring almost overwhelming, yet entirely endearing—
“Hey— sorry, I know this is a wrong place, wrong time type thing,” Timothy stands up, fishes his phone out of his pocket, your spell broken as you both look up at him. “But I’m a huge fan,”
“Of me?” You chirp, surprised. And it takes Katsuki a moment, because usually it’s him being approached with nervous apprehension.
“Yeah, who else?”
You send a sideways glance to Katsuki, “uh, the actual top ten hero in our midst?”
“The top ten hero doesn’t look good in a swimsuit.” Katsuki says under his breath, and you giggle while Timothy pales.
“I’m sure you do,” you whisper back to him, before standing up. “Alright, sure, a selfie?” You ask, all of your attention on Timothy, who smiles at you, his pink irises akin to sparkling hearts; and much to his horror, Katsuki feels like he wants to steal you away from him.
“S-sounds good to me,” Timothy stammers, just as enamoured as Katsuki feels.
“‘Kay,” you agree, smile big and bright and Katsuki has to look away or he might get giddy by proxy. Timothy’s cheeks flush when you stand close—too close, probably— and you direct him into taking a few pics, before making him show you each of them, your nose scrunching as you scrutinise each one.
“Why does my nose look like that?” You frown at the EMT, a little wounded kitty.
“You look great though! You don’t mind if I post it to social media?” He asks, and Katsuki resists an eye roll.
“Of course not! Make sure to tag me so I can follow you back.”
Katsuki stands, hands on his hips. “Perfect, are you done? We’re busy.” He means to say that he’s busy, and he also means to glare at both of you, but it just doesn’t pan out that way. So, he runs with it, throws caution to the wind, and offers his hand to you.
All to quickly, he’s got anxiety nibbling at his heels— the fear of rejection, of ‘am i doing too much too quickly?’ of ‘should I be going off script just because you are?’. It sets in, and almost sends him spiralling. Almost, is the key, though, because before that little beast can sink its teeth into him, you’re taking his hand, practically skipping to his side, and beaming that too-brilliant smile up at him.
“I know a cafe,” you say, waving that pesky EMT off and almost pulling him away from the little crowd Katsuki’s pretending not to notice.
“I bet you do,” he can’t help but look at you— and it feels so schoolboy, and too soon, and off script— and he can’t help but get swept away in the ease at which you flow.
“We can share a parfait,” you lean into him with a little smile, whisper it like a secret. Your arm links around his then, and you lean against his bicep, look up at him through your lashes like a Disney branded cherub.
“Bet you’ll eat the cherry,” he snickers, trying to gain the upper hand, trying to gauge whether or not you’re getting swept up in him, too, because this… this thing isn’t natural, isn’t created from a want, but a need, a contract—
“Silly,” you pull away a bit and pout, “we’ll get two cherries.” And, fuck, you’re pretty. Pretty in all of the ways he loves, like the Commission have his tastes on file. You’re kind where he’s mean, and fun where he’s serious, edges soft where his are hard.
The seed of doubt’s been planted, though, because he can feel himself closing up, shutting down. Even though he’d love to stay in this flirtatious little moment with you, soak up all that attention you’re showering him with, he needs to be realistic— is wired to do so.
