Knockout!
A/N: Part I >> Part II >> Part III
When Bakugou and the police had arrived on the scene, the scaly criminal was passed out on the ground.
He had attempted to rob the convenience store with his snake quirk. He had hard red scales and a large lizard tail that split into two; supposedly, he was melee-proof, bullet-proof, and fire-proof to an extent — but, apparently, that wasn’t enough for you.
As Bakugou listened in as you gave your statement to the police, he noted three simple facts that had his eyes uncharacteristically wide.
One, you were quirkless.
Two, you had figured out the area under the villain’s jaw was still soft.
Three, it was a one-hit KO.
Bakugou wasn’t often surprised, but there was a casual way that you held yourself, laughing as you joked about his scales being more for aesthetics than anything useful, that had him staring at you in a curious bewilderment. You were waving your hands with ease as you talked, as though the blood on your knuckles weren’t even there.
He was completely taken aback.
You were wearing gray sweatpants and a hoodie, so he couldn’t tell how muscular you were, but were shorter and smaller than him. Even if you had less than 1% body fat, there was no way a quirkless woman could defeat a villain.
When he pulled back from his thoughts, he realized he had been staring and scowling at you. Unfazed, you waved at him, a friendly but distant smile, and then you walked away. He looked back to the police officers that had been questioning you; one of them was gazing at a sheet of paper in his hands with a huge grin.
As they passed him by, Bakugou said, “Hey, who the hell was that?”
The officer’s smile grew bigger, reminiscent of a certain annoying fanboy he knew. He showed Bakugou the paper: it was an autograph.
“That was [Last, First Name], the youngest two-time Kickboxing World Champion.”
&&
The moment Bakugou arrived to his apartment, he had grabbed a water bottle and beer from the fridge and went straight for his laptop on the living room coffee table.
He didn’t know why, but for the rest of his patrol shift had been a blur of distracted thoughts of you, the Kickboxing World Champion — no, the two-time champion.
Bakugou hadn’t paid much attention to anything other than the war between Pro-Hero and Villain, consumed as he was with the fight to be number one. He was aware of the fact that there were people with quirks who didn’t fall on the hero or the villain side that competed in matches for fame and money, but he didn’t know that there were people without quirks, or with useless quirks, that had their own tournaments, too.
And he had never thought that one of them could get strong enough to beat a villain. Albeit, the snake quirk was shitty, but still.
Then, when he looked you up, he found that he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.
You were absolutely fucking phenomenal.
It was only supposed to be a quick search, just to find out why the police officer had been so giddy to get your signature and what secret talent you had to take down that snake man. The first video he had clicked on was from a few years ago, a fight against another Japanese kickboxer. You rushed forward, fast, faster than he had thought possible for someone without a quirk. The commentator had likened it to lightning, but he thought you were more like wildfire, like the flames latching onto a small branch and engulfing the entire tree in heat not a second later. Though she had pulled her hands up to defend her face, you punched through her defenses and slammed a powerful hit into her jaw. The cameras caught her eyes rolling into the back of her head as her body went slack, arms falling, knees bending too far forward. You went in for the kill and delivered two powerful kicks to the torso. She fell back against the rope.
It had been pretty badass, so he clicked on another one, and then two videos became three, which became a dozen, which then became a long rabbit hole down into fight clips, interviews, your official and unofficial biographies, and even bits and pieces of a documentary.
Of the tidbits he had learned: you had the highest knockout percentage of all the current kickboxers, had three draws and two losses in your entire eighty match career, named Female Fighter of the Year, and — and, goddammit, if you weren’t the sexiest fucking thing he had ever seen. He wished that you had been wearing shorts earlier that day because your goddamn thighs had his blood curling and pants tightening.
By the time Bakugou found a bootlegged version of your first run-through of the World Championships, Kirishima and Ashido had made it home and smushed themselves onto the couch beside him. When they saw you fold your opponent with a KO from your flying knee, Kirishima immediately called over Kaminari, Sero, and pizza. Then, after an unnecessary amount of swearing and complaining, Bakugou hooked his laptop up to the TV, and soon they were all cheering as you slaughtered your way through the rounds.
At the end of it, the Russian fighter fell to the floor despite her best efforts. You reared back, face bloodied, and screamed at the ceiling; the crowd joined in a raucous roar at the youngest Japanese kickboxer to the take the world championship.
Bakugou smirked against his bottle. He had known, obviously, considering your two-time champion reputation, but it was still blood-pumping to watch.
When the host raised your hand and announced you the victor, the others beside him raised their pizzas and howled alongside you and the audience.
&&
“That was, hands down, the manliest thing I’ve ever fucking seen!” Kirishima exclaimed, eyes bright with excitement and adrenaline.
Kaminari had a dazed and awed expression on his face, saying, “I don’t even know if I could get an electric charge fast enough before she punched me.”
Across the room, Ashido spun around on the stool, grabbing a few more slices of pizza on her plate before spinning around to face the group. “Why’d you look her up, anyways, Bakugou?” she asked.
“Yeah, thought you’d be more interested in quirk matches instead,” Sero agreed.
There was a moment of hesitation as he debated on answering; he didn’t want them to think he was some sort of creeper or Deku-level fanboy after just meeting you for the first time today.
“There was an attempted convenience store robbery on my patrol today,” Bakugou said finally. “She was there — knocked out the criminal with a shitty snake quirk in one hit.”
“What!” Kirishima grabbed at his own face in disbelief. “She was there and you didn’t get an autograph? A photo? Dude!”
“I didn’t fucking know her then, dumbass!” Bakugou said, rolling his eyes. “One of the police officers asked for an autograph — figured I’d find out why.”
Kirishima fell back against the couch. “Holy shit, she’s somewhere here in the city.”
“Do you think we’ll run into her?” Kaminari asked.
“We might,” Sero said optimistically. “It’s a pretty big town, but, hey, Bakugou did it once, right?”
“I bet seeing her fight against that villain would’ve been so badass,” Ashido said. “You just see her walk up and you think she’s gonna come out with a flashy
quirk, but then it’s just pow! One punch! And he’s out — Oh!” Ashido blinked, an idea suddenly coming to her mind. “Hey, maybe I can ask Uraraka if she knows [Name]?”
At everyone’s raised brow and confused glance, she explained, “Uraraka still keeps in contact with Gunhead from her internship freshman year, remember? I don’t know — maybe the martial arts world is a small one, whether you have a quirk or not.”
“Dude! That’d be freakin’ epic!” Kaminari grinned. “Send her a text!”
“Sure thing! Can you just, you know, charge up my phone real quick first?”
“There’s a plug right next to you!”
“Oh, come on, Kaminari! It just charges better when you do it!”
As his friends argued and laughed around him, Bakugou played another match on the big screen. He leaned forward, watching you closely, analyzing your form, memorizing your posture, trying to anticipate your foot movement. He was already doing half the shit from his own training and education. A little technique tweaking and addition wouldn’t be difficult at all.
&&
Three days later, Bakugou discovered that it wasn’t the fighting community but the city that was smaller than everyone had thought.
On his Sunday morning jog at the park four miles away from his apartment, he saw you shadowboxing under the trees — so, of course, he stopped to stare.
You were in blue shorts (that he was sure would show the bottom cheeks of your ass if he tilted his head just right), a thin, gray tank top, and you had white wraps around your hands. Without your sweats, he could see close up that every inch of you was lean, honed to kill. His mouth was dry.
You were intensely fighting an invisible opponent, your movements smooth and crisp and with the power of a raging wildfire behind them. There was no wasted action or accidental step. You ducked and swung, dodged and jabbed, rolled and kneed. There wasn’t a compromise between speed and power; you were both explosive and wicked fast — and god, you looked good drenched in sweat, your muscles flexing under the light as your fist twisted out into a punch. He thought he could see the air being blown back.
The bewildered thought hit him again: you were quirkless.
With the end of the routine, you stretched your arms and legs, finally noticing Bakugou. Shit, perhaps he shouldn’t have just stood there staring, but he didn’t know much of regrets or apologies. You raised your hand in a greeting, just like before, a smile on your face that was cordial. He didn’t return it, shoving his hands into his sweatpants pockets and making his way toward you instead.
“[Last, First Name], yeah?” he said.
“I am,” you said. “Were you…wanting an autograph?”
He heard Kirishima’s voice screeching yes in his mind, but he pushed that to the side.
“Fight me,” Bakugou said.
You seemed unfazed. Perhaps you had gotten these offerings before. “I’m flattered, but no thanks,” you said coolly.
Bakugou narrowed his eyes. You were an athlete, a fighter, a world champion title defender. Competition was in your blood. He just needed to figure out how to trigger it.
“I’m not a random civilian,” he announced. “I’m a Pro-Hero.”
— Sort of. He was still in training, but he could kick anyone’s ass, even yours. He expected you to put up a good fight (it’d be disappointing otherwise) but, at the end of the day, he’d still beat you down.
“Hmm.” You crossed your arms over your chest and tilted your head, looking him up and down with an amused half-smile. In response, he glared at you and tilted his chin confidently; his scowl deepened on pure instinct, though he was inwardly pleased that the smile you gave him had color to it, rather than the stiffness of cordiality you had given him before.
“Well, Pro-Hero, I’m not so big-headed to think that I could take even you on,” you remarked. You took a few steps back and said, “Have a good workout,” and then turned and jogged away.
Yards away, you turned and glanced behind you at him, but didn’t stop or turn back again.
“Tch.”
&&
A day later, Ashido had messaged their group chat with news that Uraraka couldn’t help, and while the chat blew up with whines, Bakugou kept to himself that he had seen you again.
He had branched out from videos of your fights to those of your opponents. There were plenty of other powerful kickboxers. There were two other quirkless ones like you, but their faces and abilities were forgetful. The others had useless quirks, and some of them were quite powerful, but no one had the presence you did. It was hard to explain. They were impressive, sure, but there was something about you that drew the eyes and stilled the breath. Anyone could see in your fights that there was battle experience and years of intense training, but there was something else, too, an instinct that others didn’t seem to have, a fluidity that came from just knowing.
Fuck, he really wanted to fight you.
And grab your ass.
It was confusing, but only at first. A couple days later, Kaminari and Sero joked about having thick muscular thighs wrapped around their heads, and suddenly, it made a lot more sense.
And, seeing that Bakugou had gotten his own, personal look at how powerful your thighs actually were, he had to quietly exit that conversation to run to the bathroom for an ice cold shower.
&&
The next week, when Bakugou went back for his jog, he checked to see if you were shadowboxing under the same trees — and, lucky for him, you were.
There was already a heavy sheen of sweat on your body, glistening beneath the cloudy sky. Today, you had on skin-tight leggings that stretched against the intense allure of your thighs, rounding up your firm ass. Your t-shirt had ripped sleeves; every time you punched, the lines against your bicep flexed sharply.
As Bakugou stepped closer, he yelled out, “You ready for that fight?”
When you turned and saw him, your eyebrows rose in surprise. Seeing him stretch his arms and crack his knuckles though, you chuckled and said, “As I remember it, I declined.”
“I won’t use my quirk if that’s why you’re pussying out,” he said.
Rather than address his offer, you asked, “Are you ranked?”
He frowned, unsure of where you were going with this line of questioning. Were you trying to mock him?
“Are you a ranked Pro-Hero?” you asked again when he didn’t answer.
There was a stupid bureaucratic hierarchy and procedure to go through, of which he didn’t feel like explaining. “Doesn’t fucking matter. I’ll be the Number One Pro-Hero soon.”
“So, then, what’s the issue?” You shifted your weight to your left leg, hand on your hip. “Why do you want to fight me so badly? You have a quirk — a useful one, I assume, since you’re a Pro — and you’re gunning for the number one spot. I’m a quirkless kickboxer.”
“A fucking champion one,” he pointed out.
You shrugged. “Yeah, against people with useless quirks.”
“Who the hell cares?” he growled. “Fucking fight me!”
You had both your hands on your hips now, gazing at him with pursed lips and a raised brow. He could see the scars on your arms, the faint X against your chin. He glanced down to your thighs again, spread in a stance that was just right for him to fit in between.
He wasn’t sure if that flash of image was from him pinning you down in the ring or in the bed, but he heard Kaminari and Sero howling in approval in his head either way.
“What’s your name?” you asked.
“Bakugou,” he said, “Katsuki.”
Your eyes flicked to his wild hair. “Were you the hero from the other day? The attempted convenience store robbery?”
“Yeah,” he grunted. “What of it?”
“Huh.” You paused, chewing on the inside of your cheeks as you quietly thought to yourself. Then, before he could say anything else, you sighed and said, “Alright, Pro-Hero. But just one fight, got it?”
An excited grin spread across his face, all fanged teeth with zero tenderness. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kick your ass,” he said, “even without my quirk.”
Despite his words, as he brought his hands up in the position to defend to face, he felt a surge of sparking sweat, his body’s instinct to rely on the explosion of his powers. His mind immediately went to igniting the area with light and fire or rushing forward with a burst of flames against his hands. He had to fight against every ingrained strategy in his mind, breaking it down and taking his quirk out of the equation.
Though his hand-to-hand wasn’t anything to laugh at, he realized that he was going to fight with a disadvantage. He had been training harder than anyone to be a hero; every class and training session was focused on honing his quirk usage or applying it in different ways.
But this here was your natural playing field, only fists and experience. There was no boost to your speed or power except through sheer willpower.
He smirked. He expected a good fight, but he expected you to go down swinging.
The two of you looked at each other and nodded, accepting the start of the match. You rushed in, fast, faster than he had remembered. It was one thing to watch it on screen, and something else completely to experience it without relying on his quirk. He was narrowly able to dodge the punch, firing back a quick round with his right fist that you easily avoided.
Your leg flew out, a touch of wildfire reaching for the first branch. He caught it against his abdomen — he could do this in his fucking sleep — and then, the moment his hands dropped, your left fist smashed against his jaw and he fell backwards, face on fire and eyes seeing stars.
&&
He didn’t completely fall, and he didn’t black out.
Bakugou had tilted backwards, stumbling, but he was able to right himself up, gaining enough sense to forcefully tilt himself forward into a crouch to steady himself. He wouldn’t admit it, but the sky was spinning around him.
He couldn’t believe he had fallen for it; he couldn’t believe his body had fallen for it. He had told himself that if that had happened, he would flip you quick, but you had been quicker, grasping the opportunity before he could even register what was in his hands.
Fuck, that was infuriating, embarrassing.
And god, that was hot.
You crouched down to his level. “That usually knocks people out,” you remarked, “but you look like you’re ready to get back up again. As expected of a Pro-Hero.”
Bakugou glared heatedly at you. He didn’t know if he was still seeing stars, but there seemed to be a halo glowing around your head.
“Shut the hell up!” he snarled. “I don’t need your fucking participation trophy speech.”
“Nothing wrong with acknowledging where you excelled, even when you’ve failed.” You paused, and then grinned suddenly, adding a second later, “Miserably, in fact.”
“Fuck off,” he said, but there wasn’t any malice behind his words, not when he saw that you had given him a real smile, one that wasn’t distantly polite but contented, delighted, and entertained. His heart thumped against his chest and his glowering magnified. “Gloat all you fucking want; I’ll wipe that fucking grin off your face right the fuck now. Get up.”
You stayed crouched as he stood up, fists clenched and ready for a rematch.
“Deal was just for the one time,” you said. “You’ll have to catch me in the ring for any more rounds, Bakugou.”
Just as his first instinct in battle was to burst through distance and defenses with a fire behind a right hook, his first instinct in conversation was to glower and shout profanities. But, seeing you sit down and stretch out your long legs, and seeing as how his chest was warmer with your around, he pushed down the urge, much more calmly than he had thought possible.
“Tch. Whatever.”
He didn’t want to leave, though. Bakugou glanced down at you as you reached for your toes. You hadn’t said anything, so perhaps it was fine that he stuck around. He sat down across from you and started his own stretches; out of the corner of his eyes, he saw you look at him curiously.
“You’re not the first one to challenge me,” you told him. “You’re the first Pro-Hero to do so, and you’re definitely the most aggressive about it.”
“Everyone else is just a useless extra,” he retorted. “No surprise that they half-ass everything.”
Your smile grew across your face until you let out a laugh. “Well, I guess that’s one way of thinking about it.”
He reached for his left foot, feeling the soft burn in his hamstring as he stretched his leg out. As you smoothed our your muscles, you stared at him, eyes roaming the edge of his wild hair to his calloused hands. The back of his neck was turning red, and the knowledge that it was bright and deep against the sunlight set off his aggravation.
“What?” he snapped.
You smirked. “Are you my newest fanboy?”
His eye visibly twitched. “Hell no. I’m not a fucking fanboy.”
“Pretty sure you didn’t know me a week ago,” you pointed out. “Now you know my name, my career, and where I do my Sunday workouts. You tell me if that fits the requirements for a fanboy?”
“I do my damn research,” he argued. There was no way in hell he was a fanboy; that was Deku’s shit. That was Deku-level, and he’d sooner slit his throat than be on Deku’s fucking level.
“Uh huh,” you said. “So, then, what’s the research for?”
Bakugou looked back to you, checking your expression; it was light and airy, invested in the conversation without being condescending or mocking.
“Your dumb wikipedia said you trained in kickboxing, Muay Thai, and Kyokushin Karate.”
You nodded. “Indeed it does.”
“Teach me,” he said, voice gruff and low. He couldn’t maintain eye contact with you, partially because he would’ve been caught staring at the beads of sweat sliding down your neck and partially because he didn’t know how to humbly ask for help.
“Why?” you asked. “Isn’t your quirk enough, Pro-Hero?”
“Specializing in hand-to-hand wouldn’t be the shittiest of things,” he grumbled.
“Hmm. Yeah, that makes sense.”
You stood up, dusting the dirt off the back of your thighs. Bakugou followed the skin of your calves up to your knees that disappeared under the fabric; then, realizing that he couldn’t slyly sit and stare at you from the ground, he stood up, too.
“Unfortunately for you, newest Pro-Hero fan, I am not a teacher. If you’re for real, though, I can point you to a few gyms I like —”
“Then, let me buy you dinner.”
“What?”
That seemed to have caught you by surprise. Fucking finally.
Bakugou shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes already darting away from your face. As soon as he stared at the tree off to the side, he forced his eyes back to you. You were taken aback, mouth slightly agape as you processed what he was saying right after his demand for a fight.
“Sorry? Is this some sort of trick?” you said. “Aren’t you younger than me?”
“By four fucking years. Why the hell does that even matter?”
“So, are my only two choices to fight you again or date you?” You tried to hide the smile, but your lip twitched.
“If you wanna say no, then just friggin’ say it,” he barked, his stare turning into an irritated, red glare — both from the stain of his eyes and the light dusting on his cheeks. “Don’t beat around the goddamn bush or give me some sort of pity bullshit about how it’s not me, it’s you. I ain’t a damn kid.”
Abruptly, you stepped closer to him; he stiffened. Your face wasn’t extremely close, but he could smell the sweat and the woodsy shampoo on you. He could see the color swirling in your eyes, the pink on your cheeks and neck and chest from your intense workout. You were short, much shorter than him, and yet there was still the odd feeling that he was looking up at you, despite the downward craning of his neck.
“Hmm.” You narrowed your eyes, a smile playing on your lips. Whatever you were searching for on his face, you seemed to have found it. He didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing, but before he could figure it out, you pulled away.
The air around him hummed quietly without your presence, and his fingers buzzed with another lost opportunity.
“Ask me again in two months, Bakugou Katsuki.”
You jogged off, once again leaving him staring at your fading back.