cw: frat prez!katsuki x fem art sudent!reader, college AU, frat culture, alcohol consumption, suggestive dialogue, reader panic response, katsuki being petty, foreshadowed angst, strong language/frat boy profanity, Mentions of drink spiking awareness (reader expresses fear of being drugged, no actual drugging occurs), this fic will have multiple chapters!
You didn’t wake up this morning planning to go to a frat party.
You woke up planning to cry over your art history paper and maybe eat a bowl of cereal straight from the box. But fate—or more specifically, your extroverted menace of a best friend—had other plans.
“YOU’RE COMING WITH ME,” she said, barging into your dorm room like the Kool-Aid Man with lashes.
“No, I’m not,” you said, barely looking up from your sketchpad.
“Yes, you are. Sigma Vex is throwing the party of the semester tonight and I scored us an invite.”“I don’t even know what that means,” you replied. “Is that a frat or a metal band?”
That’s when she hit you with the kicker:
“Sigma Vex. As in, the frat. The one run by Katsuki Bakugou.”
You blinked. “The scary blond guy from the engineering major?”
“The hot scary blond guy. Yeah.”
She dangled the invite in front of your face like it was a golden ticket to Wonka’s chocolate factory. Only in this case, the factory was filled with alcohol, sweat, questionable decision-making, and people with abs.
So naturally, you said no. Then she hit you with the guilt trip combo pack:
—You never go out.
—You’re gonna die single in a cardigan.
—You owe her for the time she covered for you when you ghosted class.
—And “just come for an hour. You don’t even have to talk to anyone. You can wear black and stand in a corner like a sexy funeral ghost.”
You’re standing in front of your mirror, wearing a bodycon dress that you already regret. Ribbed modal fabric. Soft as sin. Hugs your body like it has a vendetta. Not scandalous—nothing’s spilling out—but you’re not exactly blending in with the wallpaper either.
You pull at the hem. Tug at the neckline. Rethink every decision that led to this moment.
Your stomach is a war zone. You feel like you’re about to be thrown into an arena where hot, drunk gladiators flex for sport and girls get called “shawty” without warning.
Your friend, meanwhile, is in your room with her hair in curlers and a glitter highlighter in one hand. “It’s gonna be fine,” she says. “Sigma Vex isn’t like the creepy frats. They don’t even allow hard drugs. The president’s a total control freak. It’s practically a regulated orgy.”
You nearly drop your eyeliner. “I beg your what?”
She grins. “He has rules. The party ends exactly at 2AM. Pledges clean after. I swear he probably makes them mop in rows. But the house is hot, the guys are hotter, and the drinks are strong.”
You don’t trust this. Or her. But you go.
Because you’re tired of saying no. Tired of playing safe. Tired of wondering what it’s like to be the main character in someone’s story instead of the silent background artist in your own.
So you step into the Uber. Adjust your dress for the tenth time. Take a deep breath.
You’ll just hide in a corner. You’ll sip something fake and sugary. Watch your friend flirt. Go home in an hour. No one’s even going to notice you. At 10:32PM, you walk into the Sigma Vex house, and the party has just begun
The Sigma Vex house doesn’t smell like weed and piss like the other frats.
It smells like cedarwood, expensive cologne, and testosterone. The hallway lights are warm and moody, the alcohol’s not watered down, and the bass is so clean it feels like it’s massaging your organs. Everything is too coordinated. Too put together.
The house hums like a hive. Controlled chaos. All neon lighting, heavy bass, and clean floors that should absolutely not be this clean for a frat house. No drugs, no vomit-stained rugs, no weird stains on the couch (well… not until later). Pledges clean with military precision, and the house parties? Legendary.
This is a party run by a man with a schedule. A mission. A code of conduct.
You’re not supposed to be here. You're very sure of that.
Now, standing here in the corner of the living room clutching a soda in a death grip, you’re watching chaos unfold with terrifying precision. Shirtless guys shouting over pong. Music blasting. People dancing in the dark like they’re in a music video. And not a single illegal substance in sight.
You hug the red Solo cup tighter in your hands—not because you plan to drink it, but because it gives you something to hold. Something to do while you stand awkwardly in the corner of the Sigma Vex living room.
The music is loud. You can feel the bass in your chest like your ribs are its personal drum set. The lights are dim and tinted gold-red, bouncing off bottles and glitter eyeshadow. It smells like sweat, spilt vodka, and expensive cologne that’s fighting for its life.
People are dancing in the middle of the room—no, grinding. Writhing. Some are already pressed so close you wonder if their zippers are about to declare war. There’s a girl literally straddling a guy’s thigh to the beat of a Drake remix. Someone in the kitchen yells “CHUG!” followed by a violent round of coughing and cheering.
You see a game of beer pong in the back. Someone’s making out on the damn couch. Like heavy. His hand’s already under her top and nobody around them cares.
You feel…
Like a deer in a frat-lit headlights.
Like you accidentally walked into the wrong simulation.
Just you, standing awkwardly in a dress that hugs a little too tightly in all the right places, abandoned by your friend who disappeared somewhere upstairs to swap spit with a tall dude in a backwards cap who looks like he says “bro” unironically, who called her “shortcake” three minutes into meeting her.
You're alone, and you're ready to leave. And then—you feel it.
That static prickle across your skin like the air shifted. Like someone just flipped the tension dial in the atmosphere to oh no.
You glance up—and that’s when you see him.
Blond. Piercing, scarlet eyes. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a black fitted Sigma Vex shirt like it was custom-sewn to worship his muscles. He’s walking through the crowd like a lion who knows the other animals will move.
The legend. Sigma Vexes frat president. The reason half the campus has a gym membership they don’t use.
You’ve seen him before—at a distance, walking out of the engineering building like he owned the sidewalk—but you’ve never been this close. And now he’s looking at you. Like really looking. Your brain short circuits.
He steps up, casual like he wasn’t just stomping through the house like a general five seconds ago. Hands in his pockets. Piercing eyes trailing over your dress like a scan. Not lewd—calculating. Intrigued.
And then, that voice—low, scratchy, voice smooth like gravel and whiskey, way-too-good-for-this-world voice—slips out of his mouth like it’s got intentions:
“Didn’t think I’d see a pretty little thing like you at one of our parties.”
You swear your soda fizzes louder.
“Um,” you say. Your voice is already doing The Thing—that high-pitched, I-don’t-know-how-to-talk-to-hot-people thing. “Thanks?”
He smirks. “First time here?”
You nod, then stop, then try to explain. “Y-yeah. My friend dragged me. I wasn’t… planning to stay.”
His eyes flick toward the dance floor, like he’s clocking the friend you clearly came with. “Lemme guess. Ditched you?”
“You’ve been standin’ here for fifteen minutes,” he says. “Lookin’ like you’re tryin’ to mentally disassociate from the dubstep remix of ‘Seven Nation Army.’”
You let out a panicked laugh, because—he’s right. You are.
And now Katsuki Bakugou is standing way too close. Not crowding, but definitely not respecting standard “hot stranger” protocol. He leans just a bit toward you, glancing at your sad soda. His grin goes sideways. Ferally amused.
“Lemme get you a real drink,” he offers. “Don’t worry—I’ll pour it myself.”
Your heartbeat jumps. Not because it’s romantic. But because alarm bells go off. Every girl-in-college instinct yells: Stranger! Danger! Drink! Frat house! BAD!
You freeze. “Oh—no, thank you. I’m… good. This is fine.”
You gesture awkwardly to your soda like it’s an award-winning vintage instead of whatever off-brand cola someone handed you when you arrived.
He raises a brow. Just one. “You think I’m tryin’ to drug you?”
You panic. “N-NO! Not like that—I just—I mean I don’t know you and—uh—I’m sorry—”
He chuckles. It’s a low, rough sound, like gravel being dragged across velvet.
“You’re cute when you stammer.”
You squeak. Then—his tone dips, smooth and syrupy, casual but too sharp to be an accident. “Wanna go somewhere quieter? You look like you’re gonna combust if the bass drops again. We can go upstairs.”
Your eyes widen. He doesn’t touch you. Just watches. Calm. Patient. Too patient. Like he knows what he’s doing.
You swallow. The walls are closing in. The lights are too hot. His face is too much. “I-I actually… have a thing tomorrow. Early. So. I’m just—gonna go. Sorry.”
And then. You bolt. Turn and walk away.
Like you just rejected Katsuki Bakugou.
You don’t look back. But Katsuki stands there, still. Jaw tight. Pledges laughing too close to his ear like they’ve just seen their invincible warlord get pantsed by a kitten.
“Yo—did you see that?”
“She rejected him?”
“Bro, the Prez got ghosted in real time!”
“I didn’t know that could happen?!”
A few of them start clapping.
The disrespect is palpable.
Katsuki takes a slow sip of his drink. Doesn’t react. Just locks eyes on your retreating form like he’s uploading your soul into a kill list. His silence only makes it worse.
That’s when Yamada—one of the newer pledges, all cocky smirk and zero brain cells—decides to grow a pair.
“Dude,” he calls out, grinning like an idiot, “if you can’t get in her pants and fuck her in the next three months, you’re officially stepping down from your heartthrob throne.”
Silence. Everyone freezes. You could hear a pong ball drop.
“And we get to take your precious baby for a spin,” he adds. “Two weeks. Full keys. No chaperone.”
A hush falls over the room like someone just mentioned Voldemort.
Sero drops his beer. “Bro. You did not just bring up the Porsche.”
Kirishima looks physically pained. “Yo, that’s—dude, that’s kinda too far.”
“Yeah, man,” Kaminari adds, eyes wide. “You tryna die or something? That car's his literal child.”
They’re talking about the car. The black 911 GT3 Porsche. Custom specs. His dad helped him import it from Germany for his 21st birthday. That thing growls like a beast and costs more than all of Sigma Vex’s pledges combined. Katsuki doesn’t even park it near other cars. He parks it under a cover and wipes down the tires like it's a deity.
Kirishima steps forward. “Kats, bro—come on. Don’t—don’t entertain this. She’s just a girl.”
“She’s just a girl,” Katsuki echoes quietly.
He downs the rest of his drink in one go.
Then he turns toward Yamada with the slow, sharp grin of a predator who was just handed a valid reason to destroy someone—emotionally, spiritually, academically.
“She wants to play shy?” Katsuki says, voice cold now. “Fine. I’ll play too. But three months?”
He scoffs, already calculating.
“I’ll have her begging in two.”
And just like that, the game begins.
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PART 2 IS OUT NOW: Get Even - Chapter 2
Check the full series here: Get Even - MHA AU SERIES
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