cw: mild language, light angst with comfort, mutual pining
The music from Y/n’s lone wireless earbud is enough to cover the incessant buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead, but not to block out the eerie sense of silent stillness that otherwise settles over the training gym this time of night.
"What're you doing in here?"
The gruff voice startles Y/n out of their reverie; they know exactly who it belongs to without turning it around.
After their first few weeks at UA, they almost never wore both earbuds at once outside their dorm room. People had an odd habit of sneaking up on you here, they were learning.
"Training," they reply simply, without looking up from the weights they've been lifting but racking them anyway. “My quirk’s not a powerhouse like yours… or Todoroki’s, or even Ashido’s. Some of us have to put in a little extra hustle to earn our keep, y’know?”
It felt like a miracle when their acceptance letter had come in the mail. For weeks, they’d watched and rewatched the little hologram version of All Might announcing that they, Y/n, would be accepted as one of UA’s rare mid-course transfer students.
As the first day of classes drew nearer, Y/n found themself losing sleep, pacing their room, waking up early to go for a jog or practice their quirk technique. But no matter what, nothing they did was enough to feel prepared going in.
Sweat trickles down Y/n's back, soaking through their workout tank and reeling them back to the present moment as they turn to face him.
"Yeah, but the gym's closed and it's damn late. It was time to get your ass outta here half an hour ago."
Bakugo's scarlet gaze is locked right on them, Y/n notices, as if carefully tracking every detail while they take a slow drink from their water bottle.
"Well," the hero in training replies slowly, "I just wanted to get some extra sets in. Overachiever like you, I thought you'd get it."
A crease forms between their classmate's brow and the image of what it would be like to smooth it out with their thumb flashes through Y/n's mind before they can shake it away and focus on what he's saying -- something about sleep being essential to success, they think.
“Yeah, but burning yourself out’s not how you achieve,” Bakugo retorts, stubborn as ever.
Before Y/n can stop it, a sigh escapes them.
“Just-- you ever feel like no matter how hard you work, you’re still behind?” they blurt. “Like, you push and push and still feel like you haven’t moved forward?”
His gaze dips, his jaw tensing as something unreadable flickers over his face, but his answer comes quick: “No.”
Bakugo pauses, glances at his hands a moment before looking back up at them.
“But I know when you feel …when your place isn’t secure, it’s just all the more reason to work your ass off *effectively,* you hear me? Prove you deserve to be here, leave no doubts -- ‘s what I would do.”
Except for the fluorescent buzz, a silence stretches between the few feet that separate them that’s heavy but not uncomfortable. Bakugo rolls his shoulders. Y/n wipes their palms on their shorts. Neither of them pushes the point any further.
"I'm going to hit the showers and then straight to bed anyway," Y/n promises, voice a little softer as they edge towards the doors. Awkwardly, they clear their throat.
When Bakugo escorts them down the hallway, it comes as a bit of a surprise but neither of them comments on it. Y/n finds themself too distracted to, instead wondering--
"Wait a second, what are *you* doing here this late?" they demand, hands on hips.
The laugh he barks out is a little rough, but genuine.
"Making sure you get back to the dorms in one piece, idiot," Bakugo replies as easily as if he were reminding them what class the pair were both in. "I'm gonna grab a drink from the vending machines. Don't make me wait too long showering, got it?"
Y/n blinks, then huffs a small laugh, nodding before they duck into the locker room.
On the walk back, Bakugo sips an electrolyte drink and Y/n tries not to fidget with the strap of their gym bag too much.
At first, his free hand stays firmly tucked in his pocket. Y/n isn’t sure why they notice but soon it’s swinging loosely by his side. And they’re not sure why but when his fingers just barely brush against theirs once, then twice, it sends a flutter through their chest.
It isn't long before he reaches out and slowly, subtly hooks a pinky finger around theirs in silent question.
Holding their breath, Y/n answers by sliding their palm into his. Then they feel a little silly, and exhale. Why hold their breath around the one who made them feel safest?
Their fingers intertwine for the first time like it's the most natural thing in the world, and they stay that way until the sight of the dorms coming into view gently unravels them.
an: I hope this was as fun to read as it was to write -- always big love for explosion guy from me, if it isn't obvious by now. if you enjoyed, feel free to drop a like/comment/reblog. no matter what, thank you for reading !
If you’re into kung fu training scenes (which you should be), this clip might interest you. It’s a scene from the rare Chinese tv series, Drunken Fist (1984)
The series features a boatload of fight scenes and is well worth a watch. Though I’m not sure an English subtitled version exists.
(not exactly in line with canon- gender neutral reader. #27 in the tumblr kiss prompt list, enjoy!)
Your squad stands at attention in the training room, watching as Commander Wolffe paces across the floor. Though your group is all volunteers and recruits who want to fight, you follow the same training (when possible) as the clones. This means that their instructors are the same for you- like Commander Wolffe, who teaches basic hand-to-hand fighting. As he finishes his basic safety debrief, he scans each of you, still standing stiff in your blacks. After he makes his mental judgments of your squad, he steps back and raises his voice. “The best way to start learning is experience. Does anyone here have prior training?” He has barely finished his question when your hand shoots into the air, a cocky smile spreading across your face as you volunteer. His eye flashes to you, but he waits to see if anyone else takes his challenge before cocking his finger to you, gesturing to the place on the mats in front of him.
You strut out to the center of the room, standing in front of the Commander. You snap your legs together, arms by your side, and start to bow when you feel his leg immediately crack against the back of yours, taking your knees out from under you. “Lesson one!”, he shouts, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “Formality has no place on a battlefield. Don’t give your enemy any opening to stop you.” From your knees, you look up at him, and he gestures for you to stand again. You get back onto your feet, this time in a ready stance, prepared for his attack. A punch streaks towards your face, and you manage to block it just in time. His eyes flash in approval, and he continues his barrage. The two of you spin around each other, and you watch him, learning his style. The smirk that had faded with the first kick returns, and you start to add in your own strikes between blocks. Things seem easy now- too easy. Too late, you realize that none of your attacks had actually made contact, and now a huge strike from the instructor plows into your stomach, throwing you onto your back. “Lesson Two”, he continues, “Don’t get cocky. You have no idea what reserves of skill or strength your opponent may be hiding. Many of your enemies will have hidden skills- from species adaptations to force sensitivities, you can never understand all the factors of a battle.” He reaches down to help you back up, and as you catch your breath he continues to lecture the others. You interlace your hands behind your head, stretching up to open your lungs and release the tension from the punch. You listen carefully now, soaking in all the information the Commander is sharing with your squadmates. Eventually, he turns back to you and pulls something from his belt. You prepare to block, but instead, he tosses it to you. As you catch it, you see it is a rubber training knife. You look at him, confused, and he just nods at you. You settle into your stance, knife held in front of you, and he walks to stand in front of you. “Lesson Three.”, he shouts, “If your opponent is better armed than you, make it equal or in your favor.”. A slight nod tells you, this time, to attack, and as you do he slips past your arm, grabbing the wrist and pulling the knife from your fingers with hardly any effort. Hand still on your wrist, he spins you, pulling you up against him, his arm across your chest pinning you to his own. The other hand holds the knife up to your throat, and both your breaths heave from the exercise and adrenaline.
He looks at your squad, then takes a deep breath that you can feel moving against your back. “If you aren’t trained to do this, however, and there is no way for you to safely get the weapon away from them, you run. Run like hell. You can always come back to fight another day, but you can't come back if you’re dead.” He seems to forget that he is holding you there, and he continues his lecture to the rest of the group. The dull knife still barely grazes your throat, and though his breath gradually slows as his heart rate decreases, your stays just as fast, though definitely for different reasons now. He finally- finally- dismisses them, and releases his hold. Your skin feels cold now where he had held you, and you can’t seem to meet his eyes. You know that a blush, caused by more than just the heat of sparring, is spread across your face like hot caf soaking into carpet, and you keep your head down as he speaks. “You did good work today, soldier. Thank you for helping in my demonstration for your squadmates. If you’re willing, I could use an assistant in these classes- in groups without skill it can be a lot harder to show examples of techniques.” He stops here, and you realize after a moment that he is waiting for a response. You finally look up at his face, and his usually stern expression has softened, just a fraction. “I- you- uh-”, you stumble over your words as you try desperately to form a coherent response. You finally just shut your mouth long enough to take a deep breath, then try again. “I would love to help you with your classes. Thank you for the offer.” He nods, then instructs- “Meet me here after evening mess. We’ll go over the basics for each class and work together to develop the best way to teach each subject.” You just nod in acceptance, words still jumbled in your head. “Dismissed.”, he instructs, but as you turn to the door the pain of your bruises suddenly return and you stumble a little. He catches you, hands supporting you before you can even register he has moved. “Are you alright? You should have told me you were injured, I wouldn't have kept having you spar.” His arm laces under yours, supporting your weight as you step towards the door. “I’m fine, Commander, really-”, you protest, but you can see he’s not going to let this go. “I’m taking you to the med bay.”, he insists, but you immediately stop him. “I’m not going to the med bay for a little bruising. I have a tube of bacta in my gear by my bunk, that will be more than enough.” You can see him about to argue, but he finally acquiesces, turning towards the barracks. Despite your assurances, he escorts you all the way to your bunk, settling you down carefully before standing back up. “We will reschedule our training”, he asserts, and again you argue. “I’ll be just fine in a few minutes.” As you speak, you lift your shirt to rub bacta onto the dark bruise. He looks away, though from embarrassment or shame you can’t tell. You continue with your explanation- “Even if I’m not 100% better by then, we can just take it easy for one night and then finish up another night.” He seems to realize the truth in your statements, and nods. “I will see you at 1900 hours then, in the training room.” He marches from the room before you can reply, and you smile a little at his retreating back. You lay back on your bed, shirt still hiked up to keep from rubbing away the bacta, and relax.
Your eyes crack open at the tone echoing through the halls, signifying the beginning of evening mess. You sit up from your bunk, wincing a little at the still-healing bruise, but settle your shirt back down to cover it and stand. Walking to the mess hall, you scan the room for your squad and go over to sit next to them. They all question where you had been all evening, and you brush off their questions with simple answers that don’t reveal too much. You eat quickly, impatient for 1900 hours, and end up having an extra hour of down time. You end up going back to your bunk to prepare, though you still wear your training clothes from earlier. You give yourself one last look, making sure your hair is out of your eyes and your top covers the now even darker bruise. You finally start walking to the training room, stretching out your arms as you go. Wolffe is already there when you open the door, despite it still being ten minutes before the hour, and you can see him in front of a punching bag. He runs a repeated set, sweat dripping down his brow and back, his shirt discarded on the side of the room. You watch him for a moment to pick up the pattern before walking to the bag next to him and kicking off your shoes. You start following his kicks and punches, the two of you beating a shared rhythm into the air. He sees you join him, and a quick smile flits across his face before he refocuses, somehow putting even more power behind each strike. The two of you stay in a comfortable silence, the only sounds the thuds of fist and foot against bag for who knows how long, until he finally stops, relaxing as he finally mutters “one hundred.” and steps back from the bag. You step back with him, panting a little as you realize he had done literally five times as many sets as you, and his breath is scarcely harder than yours. The two of you stare at each other for a moment, both catching your breath, until he finally stands up straight and nods at you. “You’re early”, he states, “That’s a good sign.” You stand up with him, cracking your back a little as you stretch. You aren’t exactly sure how to respond to what he said, so instead you change the subject. “What classes exactly do you teach? New recruits, obviously, but who else?” He thinks for a moment, then lists out a range of ages and experience levels. It seems pretty widespread, but considering what you’ve seen today you definitely think he is more than capable. Wolffe walks to the other side of the room, picking up a datapad and tapping at it until a chart pops up. Each of his classes is listed there, along with a basic rundown of what they are each learning this cycle. You look at it, impressed, and he actually seems to blush a little as you take in each portion of the organized information. You nod at him as you finish, understanding what each course requires. “A lot of this is sparring”, you observe, and he nods. “Once they’ve grasped the basics, I have found the best way for them to learn is by practice. I try to alternate sparring with basic instructional days.”
“Our best bet is probably to spar for them then, so they can see the new techniques from each lesson actually implemented in a fight. What did they learn today?” He explains and demonstrates, with you following along after a moment to ingrain the movement in your mind. He finally turns towards you, and you both drop into your ready stances to practice the move within a fight. He is fast, and you have some trouble keeping up as your abdomen aches from the bruise. You manage to stay on top of it for a while, until a kick catches you right where his punch had earlier and you crumple. He immediately freezes, dropping to his knees next to you and cupping your face in his hands to look into your eyes. “I…I may have overestimated how quickly this bruise would heal.”, you mutter, still trying to regain full use of your lungs through the pain. “Kriff it, verd’ika, why did you come if you were still injured?” He immediately leans you back, picking up the hem of your top to lift it and assess the damage. He winces as he sees the bruise, sucking a breath in through his teeth as he realizes how much pain you must be in. His fingers barely brush across the darkened skin, leaving hot trails where they pass, and a shiver runs up your body from the surprisingly delicate touch. You reach up to cup his hand, still resting on your cheek, and look into his eyes. “I’m fine. I swear.”, you insist, but this time you can see he truly doesn't believe you. “And you asked me to help you”, you continue, “How could I tell my Commander no?” A flash of guilt crosses his face at the title, and he pulls his hand from your stomach, seeming ashamed at his expression of emotion. Seeing this, you reach up to cup his face instead. “My commander.”, you whisper, sitting up to look at him at his own level. “Wolffe, I wouldn’t have come if it had been anyone else.” He finally makes eye contact with you again, and as he sees the emotion there he inhales sharply. He seems almost about to say something, shuffling through words in his mind, but unable to make anything coherent that fits the situation. He finally decides something, and then abruptly decides to stop thinking. He leans in, wrapping his hand around your waist to pull you close, and presses his warm lips to yours. You soften against him, your other hand reaching up to wrap around his neck as you deepen the kiss. The hand you had placed on his cheek to comfort him now moves to his hair, tangling in it as the two of you forget where and who you are, forgetting everything but the sensations of each other.
